The PuppetMaster (32 page)

They hadn't anticipated that. But perhaps I'd underestimated Jatanaka Devamukti's understanding of the machinations of the world, because it was he that came up with the best solution for presenting our findings. He announced that he would see that our work was published in the Ayurvedic medical journals first. That was, after all, where it had come from. He then laid out the second part of the strategy.

Fifty-One

Jitka dropped a small bomb on us at lunch. It was an announcement both of us should have seen coming, but raw passion seems to affect one’s vision. I was gazing at the curves of Uli's neck, thinking, how could I be so fortunate? when it hit.

We had ordered chicken kebabs with currants and carrot pilaf and were listening to the hollow bubbling of hookahs in the next stall, when Jitka announced, “Svester, I am flying home Tuesday. While you love pigeons went to the market yesterday, I went to a computer cafe and purchased my ticket. Cheap, non-stop to Coopenhagen. You wait to the last minute und they drop that price right down.”

Uli, I could tell, was set to argue, but then thought better of it. “This is something you are sure of, Jit?”

“Ya, I am. Last week a two-ton bull couldn't have moved me from your side. But now it is different.”

Suddenly I felt bad. Varanasi was a long way to hitchhike to have a stranger wedge himself between you and your sister. “Jitka, I don't want you to leave because of me. I've taken too much of your time together. It's not right.”

Uli frowned, but Jitka laughed, a deep belly laugh. “Und here I was just thinking how you were so smart, Mr. Knucklehead. It is because of you that I can leave.”

“Excuse me?”

She reached out and touched Uli's face with her palm. “Mein Gott, look at this girl. The sweetest eyes in the entire universe, and for half a year they've been filled with nothing but sadness. Now look at them. The hurt is gone. Goodbye. Farvel. Auf wiedersehen. What do you see there now? Happiness like Christmas to a five-year-old. Did I do that? No, Mr. Knucklehead, you did. I'm going because I want to und I can. It has been four months of travelling, and I am ready for feather beds, real toilets, frikadeller und pandekager.”

I looked to Uli who silently mouthed, “Meatballs and pancakes.”

“My Uli has never been so happy, Bhim.” I was grateful I wasn't Knucklehead this go-round. “Und it is because of you. All of it. I must hand it to you, you must have some big, stiff schlanger there. Whew.”

“Jitka!” Uli grabbed the palm from her cheek and bit it.

“You two need time to learn about each other, und I see that it is good learning. Me? I'm going back to Tönder to find a well hung Danish boy who loves his mother, studies physics, and knows how to cook.”

“And you will, Jitka. I have no doubt,” I laughed. “But we've still got three days. Let's make the best of them. What airport do you fly out of?”

“Indira Gandhi in Delhi on Tuesday night.”

Uli squeezed my hand. “Bhim, can we see her off? All of us take the train together?”

I thought for a moment and was hard-pressed to come up with enough reasons we couldn't. The research team had a blueprint to reveal its discovery. There was little I could do in regards to Soma's death, the investigation, or the cave-in. It had been a long time since I'd left Varanasi on anything other than short excursions. The idea of time outside the city felt agreeable.

“I guess so. Sure, why not? We can take the train over on Monday night, get first-class sleepers and arrive on Tuesday midday. If we aren't too tired we can see some of the Delhi sites and get to the airport with plenty of time. I might even purchase a new laptop.”

Thinking of the computer inspired me to do some research on a certain mining company later that afternoon.

Right now we had a date to hear Adam.

We enjoyed two servings of coconut pudding with three spoons, but afterwards, as we were slipping on our sandals, Uli's earlier quote came back. 'It proves once more how dangerous it is to be good.' A tingling apprehension passed through me.

I told both of them that I wanted us to stay close on the Ghats. Uli stood and put her hand lightly on the opal that hung over my heart. “Schnuki, I am always going to be close. By the way . . . the bunks on the trains, are they big enough for my tall man und his big, stiff schlanger?” I started laughing so hard I choked.

“Just barely, Premika. But we make do.”

“Und will there be enough room for this long-legged Danish girl?”

I kissed her. “Just barely, but I'm sure we'll make do with that too.”

“So where does it go, our love train?”

“What do you mean? From here? Well, we'll go through Jaunpur, Sultanpur, Lucknow, Sitapur, Shajahanpur,”

“There are a lot of pores here.”

“Puras, anyway, we’ll roll along the Ramganga River to one of my favorite spots on the Kolkuta-Delhi line.

“And what place is that, Mein Schatzki?”

“Okay, can you translate that one for me?”

She tapped the opal again. “It means ‘my treasure.’ Und the city?”

“Ah . . . Bareilly Junction. There’s an exquisite temple near the station and a long ride over the bridge when you leave.”

“A long bridge ride. Mmm . . . you, me, und our bouncy friend on a long bridge clicking und clacking along. Sounds exciting.”

I looked beyond her mischievous eyes to a flurry of movement outside. Later I would ask what the source of my foreboding had been, the commotion beyond the window or something else?

Fifty-Two

“Mein Gott, look at how many people there are. More than a thousand! Und, there is my favorite pair, Petey and Shawn. Too bad those boys are touched with the lavender, I might enjoy a three-way yoga session with them.” Jitka, stuffed with kebabs and armed with the knowledge that she could now exit Varanasi, was in a positively scary mood.

“Sure, after a visit to the barber, bath house, tailor, and perfumery, they might be ready for you,” I quipped.

“No tailors, I like their loincloths.”

The three of us stood at the top of the embankment surveying the crowd, and Jitka had it right, there were easily more than a thousand people--probably twice that--stretched across the steps, up to the temples, and down to the water's edge. Except for cremations, the rituals at this part of the river had halted; it was too crowded for waders or boat passengers to get to the water’s edge. Flocks of barefoot children still scurried about, widows begged with tin cups, and purveyors with baskets of food balanced on their heads still called to the crowd, but it had changed dramatically.

I smiled when I saw the battery-cooled hat of Marley Chapin bobbing through the sea of dark heads.

The crowd was noticeably segregated. Large contingents of college students and intellectuals, many dressed in Western clothes, gathered on the south edge below us. A few carried hand-painted banners. ‘Believe The Simple Plan.' 'Compassion, Science, and Common Sense.' 'Let the Energy In and Hatred Out.' To the north, there was a small but powerful assembly of Brahmin and Christian priests. Behind them the complacent followers of Imam Nomani stood next to the very unpredictable disciples of Qereshy. It was a fleeting alignment of different faiths. Unusual to say the least. Actually, it was unheard of. Qereshy’s group waved signs scrawled in Urdu. “Butcher infidels that mock Islam. Death to Non-Believers--Allah's retribution is swift.

Above the Scindia Ghat, a less ideological group had assembled--a large cadre of police with bamboo lathis and holstered sidearms. The scene felt more like a Napoleonic battlefield than a place of sanctity, and it chilled me enough to suggest the three of us withdraw to the safety of the villa. A part of me wanted to hear Adam's words, another said, “Leave Bhim. Now!” Uli, however, was adamant about staying, so we formed a compromise.

“Listen,” I had to speak loudly. “We are not venturing into that mess. As tour guide, advisor, and general knucklehead, I'm not allowing it.” I think both of them liked my tough guy role, either that or they'd assessed the scene well enough themselves.

Uli placed a hand on my arm. “But we can listen from up there, yes Bhim? Maybe in the shade of those buildings?” She pointed to a ledge thirty meters to our right at the top of a high retaining wall.

Relieved that I wasn't being pressured to take our customary seats next to Adam, I said, “Perfect. You can take turns sitting on my shoulders.” In the noise of the crowd I only half heard Jitka's crude comment at that suggestion. We picked our way across to the mantel and sat with our feet dangling over a fifteen-foot drop.

The river flowed languidly in front of us, reflecting sunlight and streaks of clouds, and had it not been for the crush of humanity below, I would have thought the scene worthy of a few lines of poetry.

Uli whispered, “It’s like that Bhagavad Gita painting where Arjuna and Krishna are standing in the chariot between two armies and everybody is ready to go to war.”

“Let's hope the police will keep any war from happening,” I whispered back.

A microphone crackled and Adam's voice hushed the crowd. He look up at us and smiled with a small nod of understanding.

Microphone in hand, barefoot, and dressed in a white kurta and white pajama pants, he looked like a nouveau poet or a musician. I had come to regard him more like some tailor weaving a broadcloth of truth. He paused and closed his eyes for three breaths, then began, “Brothers and Sisters, Welcome.” There was a pause while translators rendered the greeting into Hindi, Urdu, Punjabi, and Bengali. I marveled at the organization—sound systems, translators, and four tables stacked with booklets set for distribution.

“Gott, he is handsome,” Jitka whispered.

“My name is Adam, and I stand before you this afternoon a single man, a Benarsi like yourselves. I was born eighty-four paces from the ancient flame at the top of these steps, and like all my brothers and sisters, I was born to a mother.” He paused again for the translation.

“At my birth that woman gave me the name Sharmalal Mehdu Dijna. Sharmalal, as is true of every infant, was a marvel of the great energy, an intricate formation of proteins, amino acids, cells and incomprehensibly complex systems. His blood pulsed through arteries like the rivers of our land. His breath flowed like wind to his lungs. His tears, lymph, saliva, digestive juices all sung in perfect harmony. He arrived as a miracle of nature's processes and entered our city as an innocent.

With his first lungful he shared the same molecules every brother and sister has ever breathed. He exhaled into the atmosphere where those molecules passed throughout the world to be shared a million times over.”

Adam paused to nod amiably at the congregation of priests and mullahs.

“And if, at his moment of birth, you had gathered a single cell of Sharmalal's saliva and peered into its tiniest parts, you would have seen an amazing sight, My Friends. Inside the twisted strands of his DNA, inside the mortar that created all the cells of his body, inside the very essence of Sharmlal Dijna, you would have seen the same DNA found in every living creature on earth. You would have seen the same strands of lifecode found in every living organism going back to the beginning of life four and one half billion years ago.”

There was a murmur in the crowd. This had none of the flavor Adam's previous humor-filled speeches. A few shifted uneasily. To the north a grumbling rose, and a single voice shouted something incoherent.

The microphone drowned it out. “You see, Brothers and Sisters, all life is a single, coupled entity. One source, one energy, one force, not separate, not divided, but beautifully diverse in its forms. And who has discovered this unity? Who has proven this connected nature? A million great minds possessed of the best tools humans have, logic and reason. They weren’t misinterpreted prophets from ancient times, or avaricious kings mocking us with promises of domination or hatred. These were the greatest thinkers we have produced. Democritus, Einstein, Kepler, Curie, and a hundred thousand others who shared their knowledge for us.” His arm stretched forward toward the top of the embankment. “Like these lofty temples above, their knowledge has been built stone by stone. It has been tested time and again until we now know it as truth.”

There was a quality to Adam's voice that pulled us, forced us to take account of his words—powerful and confident in its effect. I looked at Uli and Jitka. They were leaning forward, intent on every syllable.

“Imagine a pair of reading glasses with lenses so powerful they would allow us to see the smallest objects. With such glasses these men and women have peered into the core of life; they have seen its very nature and understood the simple, indisputable truth, that we are all connected. And when they looked deeper into the tiniest particles that create life, they saw the energy that shapes us all, and all of this.”

He spread his hands and turned in a full circle, the motion fluid and smooth, like a planetary model.

“We are standing at the crossroads right now, My Friends, each and every one of us. And we stand at what some might say is a cheerless time, fraught with challenges and uncertainties so large we fear to confront them. We ask, ‘which direction do we turn?’ We ask, ‘Is it possible to fix what that has been damaged?’ We see climate changing, oceans warming, extinction of species, increased carbon and methane in our atmosphere, pollution, over-population, starvation, disease, bloodshed, thievery, avarice, hatred, and the annihilation of humanity.” His voice rose with each word. “But it is not these things we need to fix.” He stopped, and the microphone squeaked, followed by a peculiar moment of silence. “No, we must first change how we think as humans. It must be done without laws or scripture telling us to do so. It must come from within, not outside. Change by choice. The human transformation will follow, and with it the ability to solve these problems. It is that simple. We will choose to embrace universal responsibility, to accept compassion, pure science, and common sense in our actions.