Maya (19 page)

Penny spoke up. “The whole area is fascinating, Stanley. Kashmir was a crossroads between China and India for at least a thousand years. There are Buddhist monasteries up there that very few people from outside the region have visited. It's dry enough that things could be preserved virtually forever. God knows what you might find. Frescos, old tangkas, clothing, Kalachakra masks.
Texts
, Stanley. Ladakh was where many of the translations were made from Sanskrit into Tibetan and Chinese.”

“She's right,” said the colonel. “I've seen those monasteries. Underground rooms full of silk costumes and dusty idols, shelves stacked with old Tibetan books. However, with all respect to Miss Ainsworth,” he nodded at Penny, “I can assure both of you that the Chinese were not interested in the Aksai Chin because of its cultural history. No, I am afraid they are not looking for paintings or old masks. There is one very simple reason why they attacked us. The road. Examine the map. They now have an unbroken highway all the way down the eastern Soviet frontier, through Ladakh, and along the northern face of the Himalayas the length of Nepal. And why do you suppose they want a road like that? I do not trust them for a moment. If you doubt their intentions, then just look at what has been done to the Tibetan people, in their own country. In their own country. It is despicable. No, the Chinese are ruthless, absolutely ruthless.” He shook his head gloomily, then reached up and adjusted the black turban where it passed over one ear.

The big man pulled himself up from the cushion. He walked across the room and around behind the bar to within a few feet of the pictures on
the wall. “Come here and let me show you something.” We went over to where he stood. “You see this?” He clicked a fingernail against the glass. The photo depicted two Sikh soldiers in tattered battle fatigues posing against a desolate background of endless rock and sky. They could have been standing on the surface of the moon, except that off in the distance, a range of snow-covered mountains cut a jagged line across the horizon. Both men were on crutches, their uniforms in tatters. “These are two of my soldiers who came back from a visit with the Chinese. They were captured, taken prisoner, and forced to parade through the Chinese camps with no boots in freezing cold weather. The purpose was simply to humiliate them in public. They had their turbans stripped off, their hair and beards cut with a pair of sheep shears. Only then were they set free to find their way back to us. As an ‘example,' they had been told. ‘An example of what is done to barbarians.'” He looked at us sharply. “Who, I ask you, are the barbarians?”

His question hung in silence.

Singh's eyes moved from one picture to another, from one memory to the next, finally settling on an object that lay in a narrow wooden cabinet to his left. He reached over and took the thing out. It was a small, delicately crafted prayer wheel. Above its wooden handle the miniature cylinder was fashioned out of what appeared to be bone, yellowed with time and use. Letters of some kind had been etched deeply into its surface, the margins of both top and bottom were studded with small pieces of coral and turquoise. One end of a thin copper chain was fixed above the florid script, a chunk of polished amber dangled from the other. A snap of the colonel's wrist sent the amber twirling round and round in a golden blur; the little barrel spun on its axis. “A memento,” he said, handing it over to me.

I felt the worn handle as it rested against my palm, nestled in my fingers; a perfect fit. I gave it a few twirls and watched the amber pebble swing out, bob and fall inward, coasting to a stop. “It's beautiful. It doesn't seem to belong here, though. I mean, there's something mysterious. As if it came from another world.”

“It did,” Singh replied laconically.

Penny reached over and lifted the prayer wheel out of my hand, gave it a few twirls herself, then gently ran her fingers over the surface of the wood and bone, inspecting the workmanship more closely. “I don't know much about Tibetan things, but this looks very old; almost medieval. It's
had a lot of use. So small, yet so solid and heavy. It really does feel as if it were charged with some kind of supernatural power.” She handed the device over to Colonel Singh and he put it back in its place on the shelf, where it rested among the folds of a faded silk scarf.

I picked up the picture I had noticed earlier and examined the figures where they stood in front of the elephant. “Colonel, who is this woman? Isn't she the same person I see in several other photos here?”

He looked over his shoulder, then turned reluctantly around and took the picture out of my hands. “My wife. She passed away unexpectedly, two years ago. In her sleep. The doctors said it was a heart attack.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

“What can be done? She is gone.
Bas
.”

“How long were you married?” Penny asked.

“Thirty-two years.” He continued gazing at the picture then set it gently back down. “Thirty-two good years. I only wish we could have said goodbye.”

“My grandfather died without any warning.” Penny hesitated, “I don't mean to imply that it's the same, but we were very close.”

Colonel Singh finished his last sip of scotch, then began to revolve the empty glass round and round under his fingers, as though it were a prayer wheel capable of changing the past by granting him this one wish.

“This is a bit different, Miss Ainsworth. We could have had that chance to say goodbye.” His voice was controlled, but underneath there was a note of bitterness. Penny and I exchanged a glance. It was impossible to tell what he meant by this cryptic remark. He took a deep breath and exhaled a protracted, weary sigh.

“My family is from the Punjab. My great-grandfather came to Chandigarh from a small village. I was raised a Sikh, of course, but the truth is my parents were not religious people. I remember my grandfather would take me to Gurudwara when I was a boy. But he died when I was only eight years old, and after that I seldom went. From then on religion was something that came up only on special holidays. At those times we would burn a stick of incense under grandfather's picture of Guru Nanak and recite some prayers. That was all. Our family was wealthy, and I was educated at the best English-medium schools. My father was a career military man, and he pointed me in that direction early on. He taught me to believe only in what I could myself see and touch.” Colonel Singh grabbed a fistful of air out of the space between us and held it clenched in the palm of his
hand. Gradually the fingers relaxed, drifted back to the empty glass and fell to turning it in the same way as before.

“So it is evident that I am not at all religious.” He looked up at us again, “I am not what my father would have called a superstitious man. I have no sense for . . .” He seemed to be searching after the right word. His gaze passed over all the accumulated odds and ends, moving among the books and souvenirs, over the tiger's head above the fire, and back across to the picture of his wife, finally coming to rest on Penny's own green eyes. “For whatever it was, perhaps, that you referred to earlier.”

“Me?”

“Yes, when you spoke of the ‘power' in that little prayer wheel. Such things have always escaped my attention. I really am quite hopeless in this way, and that is the reason I missed the chance—the chance we might otherwise have had—to say goodbye.”

Suddenly I knew where this was leading. “The hermit. You're talking about Kalidas.”

The colonel looked up at me. “I told you his only visitors were Suresh and myself. But there was one other.”

“Your wife.”

“Yes, my wife. We first learned about him from the previous director, as I told you earlier this afternoon. He was already old when I assumed the post here. My wife took pity on him. Not that she necessarily believed the story. To her he was just a lonely old man, barely able to survive out there in the jungle. It wasn't long before she began to visit him. Once in a while at first, then more frequently, especially after he fell and injured his leg. She had Suresh drive her over once every week or so with provisions.” The colonel's face relaxed. “She always made sure to bring him something special, fresh sweets or what have you. He was quite old, even then, and my wife became worried. She began feeding him and mending his clothes. She would sit there with him, for an hour or more sometimes, the two of them silent. But then after some time he began to talk. Not much, you understand. Merely a few words now and again, from what she told me. But that was quite something for a man who had not spoken in so many years. For decades, so far as we knew. And he spoke only to her. Never a word to anyone else. Only to her.” He looked at Penny and smiled. “She was that sort of woman, you see. Very warm. Everyone felt at ease with Jasmeet.” He stared down at his hands. “The old man knew the whole time. He could bloody well have told us.”

Once again no one spoke. A minute or so passed, and Penny finally summoned the courage to ask what both of us had been wondering. “How can you be so certain that he knew?”

“Oh, he knew all right. There can be no question. We were visiting his kuti together the very day she died. We saw him only hours before she went to sleep beside me for the last time. She had prepared a big basket of things for him. At the last minute I decided to ride over with Suresh and her. We made a few stops on the way. I remember checking in with one of my backcountry people, a man doing some tagging on a project with elephants. But that afternoon everything was different. When we drove up he stood in the doorway and waved us away. I had Suresh stop the Land Rover at the edge of the clearing. She walked up to the porch alone, but from what I could make out he seemed terrified. He shook his head and waved his arms like a crazy man. Refused to have anything to do with her. Would not even accept the things she had brought. He drove her away, shouting. After some time my wife set the basket on the porch, and we left him alone in the house. I know she was hurt. She could not understand. Of course neither did I.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I remember too well the last thing she said to me that night, before she went to sleep.” He lifted the picture and held it in both hands. “‘Why do you suppose he turned us away?' she asked me. That was precisely what she said to me. I will always remember those words:
Why do you suppose he turned us away?
I was preoccupied with something. With the elephant project or some other nonsense. So I said to her, ‘Go to sleep, my dear.' Just to get her to quiet down, you understand? ‘Go to sleep, my dear,' I said. ‘He is just a crazy old man. The next time you visit him, he will be the same as always. Now go to sleep.' And that is what she did. She closed her eyes and went to sleep.”

The last charred log crumbled and fell through the grate into a mound of embers. A melancholy hush descended over the house. Even the nocturnal birds outside seemed quieter than before.

“It's late,” the colonel said. “Time for bed. You will discover we rise early here.” He gave us a small bow.

As we followed him down the hallway, I heard soft footsteps in the rooms behind us; Jagjit and Chota Hanuman circled through the house extinguishing the lamps.

15

I
LAY UNDER
the mosquito net watching Penny remove her sari. The shutters had been latched against the possibility of uninvited guests. Moonlight poured between the slats in pale narrow bands, streaming through the darkness and across the walls and floor, illuminating her movements as she unwound the fabric from her body. A faint odor of incense hung in the room, bringing to mind the dank, secret interior of Hindu temples. From outside came the screech of an insomniac bird. Eventually Penny reached the last layer of cloth, peeled it off, folded the sari, and dropped it on top of a pile of clothes in the open bag at her feet. All that remained was the petticoat and a short, tightly fitting blouse. She loosened the silver combs in her hair and let it spill down over her neck and shoulders, then tipped back her head and shook out the tangles. A cool white stripe of moonlight flexed across her stomach.

I thought of the colonel and his grief, and then of Judith, my own lost wife. We had shared so much—the excitement of our first days together, the hastily arranged wedding with our drunken, stoned friends, our endless conversations about art and religion, years of torment and passion. The imprint of her touch was embedded in my flesh like a ceremonial tattoo; the scent of her hair and skin would not be scrubbed away. But she would never know India. How strange that seemed. And how utterly final. She would never know this place. We would not share this room, this night.

Death
, I thought. And in my mind I saw an aging black-and-white photograph of an Indian man and woman standing together, laughing in the sunlight.
Departure
, I said to myself, and remembered the evening I had sat alone in Delhi, knowing I would not return to Judith and she would not come to me. I had copied a Sanskrit verse into my journal. I lay on my back, my head propped against the hard foam pillow, and whispered the words of my English translation:

The nocturnal cloak of the jungle lay heavily against my skin. I inhaled deeply, and the smell entered my nostrils, bending each tiny hair, an ethereal, soundless current flowing like a subterranean river through the moist, hidden cavities of my body. Lungs rise, hesitate, then collapse inward, forcing the spent air back along the same mysterious route. The darkness of the jungle outside and the dark interior of my body are linked by this stream of respiration, joined at the turning point between inhalation and exhalation. Here is the alchemical flask where opposites fuse, inner with outer, life with death, loss with gain, reality with illusion. Samsara with nirvana. Nirvana with the ceaseless repetition of birth and death.