The Breath of God (35 page)

While the host sat them and brought naan and cold bottles of Kingfisher beer, Grant studied Deepraj. Kinley had planned for them to meet this Hindu scholar, just as they'd met the Islamic student in Agra. Based on what he knew from Karma and now Deepraj, Kinley had left the monastery immediately after Grant and Kristin had flown back to the States and had traveled to Varanasi. Jigme had followed shortly afterward. After he'd visited with Deepraj, Kinley must have gone to Agra, where he'd met Razi and planned Grant's trip there.
But what's waiting for us tomorrow morning in Sarnath?
he wondered. He hoped to find Kinley and the texts there.

“Now, Deepraj,” Kristin said, “the books Kinley showed us described Issa first studying the Vedas when he arrived in India, before he continued on his travels and focused on Buddhism.” She tore off a piece of naan slippery with butter and waved it in the air as she spoke. “I understand that the Vedas are the sacred scriptures to the Hindus, but the Issa texts are not entirely clear on what Issa would have learned from them.”

The professor set his glass on the table. “I cannot even begin to summarize a religion as diverse as Hinduism over dinner, but let me give you a few thoughts
to ponder. We don't have a founding date or figure for our religion, but it is certainly among the oldest surviving religions in the world today. In existence for thousands of years, Hinduism has survived occupations by Muslim and Christian rulers because of its adaptability. You see, we do not believe in only one spiritual path. In fact, our religious scriptures, the Vedas, describe multiple paths to God—intellectual, physical, spiritual, emotional. Just as my students all have different learning styles—some are more visual and learn through reading texts, others must hear my lectures to learn, while others must experience the reality of my teachings themselves before they accept them—each person has a different proclivity toward the best path to his or her spiritual center.”

“But,” Grant said, swirling around the Kingfisher in his tall glass, “if there really is just one ultimate truth—call it God or whatever—why wouldn't one spiritual approach or paradigm of beliefs work for everyone?”

“If different nations speak different languages within their borders, why wouldn't God speak in different religious contexts to different cultures?”

A look of confusion passed over Grant's face. “You speak of God in a monotheistic way, like a Christian or a Jew, but doesn't Hinduism recognize literally thousands of deities?” He asked the question rhetorically, pointing to a bronze statue that rested on a shelf near the entrance to the restaurant. The figure had a portly human body, four arms, and an elephant head. Then Grant turned and gestured above the kitchen door to a tapestry made from shimmering red and gold threads that depicted another god who had six arms and a wide human face with a third eye peering out from the center of his forehead.

“Ah, your Western mind-set at work.” Deepraj chuckled. “The world is not so dualistic: what you see as black may really also be white and vice versa.”

“I don't mean to be disrespectful, Professor, but that sounds awfully New Age. In today's world, we can prove scientifically that something is black or white.”

“Can we? Now, I'm not a scientist, but my understanding is that modern physics—quantum mechanics, relativity—rests on the very notion that reality is not always fixed or measurable. Light, for example, can act as a particle or a wave; subatomic particles can behave as if they are in more than one place at the same time; and even time has no absolute value but can speed up or slow down depending on certain variables.”

The food arrived without Grant even having seen a menu. They spooned the steaming items out of shiny metal bowls that kept appearing on their table, one after the other. Grant lost track of the number of courses the owner s wife, a quiet round woman, brought to their table, but he was relieved to find the food fresh, tasty, and most important, thoroughly cooked. The dishes were as colorful as the room décor: carrot and coriander soup, orange peppers and bright green beans in red curry, potatoes in green curry, tandoori chicken cooked to a brick red from the spices in which it had marinated, and longgrain white basmati rice.

After swallowing a mouthful of curry, Grant tried again. “But what does that have to do with Hinduism's view of God?”

“Hinduism is not monotheistic, it's true, but contrary to your impressions from having seen our many temples, or even these representations dedicated to the various Hindu deities”—Deepraj gestured to the elephant-man statue and the colorful tapestry—“we are not polytheistic either, at least not in the sense that the Greeks or Romans were.”

“What are you then?”

“Ah.” Deepraj chuckled. “How do you describe the infinite, the indescribable, that which existed before words, before matter, before the universe?”

“Through analogy and metaphor, I guess,” Kristin said.

“And through mythological tales,” added Grant.

“Right on both counts. Even we Hindus find it easier to visualize God in various manifested forms than as some undefined concept. So while we have the concept of God, or
Brahman
, as the infinite power behind existence itself—an omnipresent but formless and inconceivable presence—we visualize this power and influence by its various manifestations. You see, the cosmological questions of the existence of the universe and our purpose in it are not issues we deal with every day like the joy of birth, the emotional closeness felt between lovers, or the pain of sickness and death. So to express these influences of God, we see the manifestations of Brahman in deities such as Lord Vishnu, who protects and watches over us, or”—Deepraj nodded to the colorful tapestry with its figure whose penetrating third eye seemed to focus on their table—“Shiva, the destroyer, who incidentally is seen as the deity who
rules over the city of Varanasi. Of course, our most popular god, Lord Ganesh”—he now pointed to the bronze elephant-headed statue by the door—“is the god of good fortune and prosperity.”

Grant eyed the figures again, taking a swig of his Kingfisher. At home he usually preferred darker stouts, but tonight in the warm restaurant with the food whose spices accumulated with each successive bite, the cool lager helped to quench the growing fire in his mouth.

“Indeed,” the professor continued, “we have a saying that Hinduism is a religion of one God but many faces.”

“But isn't the danger of this approach,” Grant asked, keeping his tone reasonable so he wouldn't sound like he was trying to debate this man's religion, “that people lose sight of the purpose of these myths and that religious practice becomes merely idol worship, praying to a deity to provide whatever it has control over?”

“True.” The professor stroked his chin. “The excessive focus on rituals designed to influence the gods was one of the reasons the Buddha distanced himself from some of the practices of Hinduism.”

“Much like Martin Luther sparked the Protestant Reformation by speaking out against the excesses of the Catholic Church,” Grant added.

“Wait. You're losing me,” Kristin said. “I thought that Hindus saw the Buddha as one of them, that they absorbed Buddhism into modern-day Hinduism, which is why Buddhism as a separate religion is not heavily practiced in the country of its origin.”

“Yes, a good observation,” Deepraj said. “In fact, Hindus see the Buddha as an incarnation of Vishnu, which leads us back to your original question concerning Jesus.”

Grant frowned in confusion, not sure how the discussion had returned to its origin. Just as he turned to Deepraj to pose his next question, the small restaurant plunged into total darkness.

T
IM GLARED ACROSS the flat's small sitting area to the bathroom at the far end of the room.
Why did I rent this pit?
An extended acidic burp erupted from his mouth. The coming night wasn't going to be pleasant.

His “private bath” was hardly large enough to turn around inside. It didn't even have a separate shower or tub—only a hand-held nozzle attached to the wall and a floor drain in front of the porcelain sink whose layers of brown mold and mildew obscured its original white color. Most disturbing to Tim, though, was the toilet, or lack thereof: a hole in the floor with two indentations on either side to place your feet.

“How the hell am I supposed to take a crap like that?” he mumbled.

He suspected he would be finding out very shortly. At least he'd had the foresight to buy some toilet paper from a small market down one of the mazelike alleyways that surrounded his flat. Eyeing the bucket that sat next to the Indian toilet, he told himself there was no way in hell he was going to forgo the rough paper and wash his ass with his bare hand and water from that thing.

Tim wiped his clammy forehead with the back of his hand. So far his plan was not following his expectations. He'd hoped to grab the Jesus texts in Agra, or at the least discover their precise location. The grab and run with the monk had gone to hell. He knew that covert operations were unpredictable, but he'd handled the Muslim efficiently. Then he'd been only a few yards from disappearing into the shadows of the guest house when Matthews and Misaki ruined his plans. The memory of Matthews's defiant stare made Tim's pale face flush
with anger. Temporarily forgetting about his growing nausea, Tim anticipated the time when he would put a bullet through the grad student's brain.

He snatched his phone from the table by the bed and checked the browser.
Nothing, again
. He hadn't picked up Matthews's cell phone in over a day, which most likely meant he'd turned off his phone or the battery had died. Fortunately, Tim had another option. The latest intelligence he'd received revealed that Misaki had previous ties in Varanasi, a Professor Deepraj Bhatt. Tim wondered whether he held the clue to the texts. He'd spent the past day scouting the university where this professor worked. He'd planned to pay a visit that afternoon, but now with his protesting stomach, he'd be forced to wait until the morning.

Tim knew that no covert op was foolproof, but the uncertainties here ate at him. This was supposed to be his moment of glory.

With little warning, his stomach violently lurched, sending him hurtling to the bathroom. He barely made it to the hole before dropping to his knees and vomiting out his stomach's contents.

Grant froze where he sat.

He could no longer see either of his dinner companions or anything else in the restaurant for that matter. The clatter of cooking in the kitchen ceased along with the quiet chatter among the other patrons. The silence weighed on Grant as much as the darkness. He reached his left hand until he touched Kristin's shoulder and the soft hair that fell around it. Her hand found his and closed around it. With his right hand, he felt around the table for his knife. Blunt, it wouldn't make much of a weapon, but it was the only protection they had.

Finally Kristin broke the silence in a whisper. “Probably just a power outage. Happens randomly a couple of times a day in the city.” Grant felt some relief at Kristin's explanation, but he detected a note of concern in her voice as well.

“Nothing to worry about,” Deepraj added more confidently. “We're quite used to these little interruptions.”

“How long do they last?” Grant called out in the darkness. He felt odd talking to someone he couldn't see. Nothing shone from the single window either. The entire block must have lost power.

“Sometimes three minutes, sometimes three hours,” Deepraj replied.

A small flickering light danced from the kitchen door toward them. The hostess placed a small candle on their table.

Grant relaxed. No sign of anything sinister. No psycho with a buzz cut waiting to jump them in the darkness. Kristin released Grant's hand and then proceeded to recount for the professor the events that had taken place in Agra.

“That is truly horrible.” Deepraj shook his head. “Well, you will be safe here. Varanasi is not an easy city to navigate, and anyway I'm sure that, whoever that man was, he is hiding out from the authorities.”

“Let's hope so,” Grant said, unconvinced.

Deepraj lifted his leather satchel from the floor. From inside, he withdrew a yellowed paperback book. “Have you read this?”

Grant squinted at the cover.
The Bhagavad-Gita
. He had a copy on his bookshelf at home but had never gotten around to reading it. “Been meaning to. It's one of Hinduism's most sacred texts, right?”

Deepraj nodded. “I always keep a copy with me.”

“Wasn't it composed around the time of the Buddha?”

“Probably just after. Some scholars suggest that the text could be four thousand years old, but I think the more probable date is around five hundred years before Christ.”