The PuppetMaster by Andrew L. MacNair Read Free Book Online

it down. Mirabai, Devi’s wife, had prepared the entire meal. She was the only person—man or woman—who could match Sahr with her cooking skills, not something I ever mentioned to my cook, however.
    It was an afternoon of boyish delight. We ignored the heat and ate like rajahs, laughed at the folly of new Hindi films, sang silly tunes, and in sleepy fashion swapped stories of our youth. Rajneesh and I, being closer to that age, listened to Masterji more than we talked. He told us of times when the rajah still roamed the corridors of the great palace across the river. I attempted to engage them with anecdotes of surfing Southern California waves, but the image of ripping across roaring tubes of liquid didn’t come across in Hindi quite as well as I’d hoped. Rajneesh, whose jovial company I was enjoying more and more, pumped me for information about Hollywood, especially of Julia Roberts and Angelina Jolie. I suspected he had recurring dreams about them.
    At one point our driver broached the subject of the terrorist bombings that had gripped everyone along the rail lines. “This man, the one they call Sutradharak, Sirs. Do you think he really exists? He has set off another explosion near Lucknow this week. Some say he is the leader of the Taweel Churi, and others that he is a Kashmiri nationalist; my brother swears he is al-Qaeda. Personally, I think he’s just another religious nut case.”
    I picked up enough local news from the morning paper, but this wasn’t a subject I wished to enter into.
    My teacher, on the other hand, responded instantly. “This PuppetMaster, if that is his accursed name, is a murderous fiend. He leads a pack of evil rodents and is most assuredly an Islamic fanatic. I am certain that he has now scurried with all his rodent pack back to Islamabad where he is boasting to all his neighbors how many righteous Hindus he has killed in our righteous city. If I were not Brahmin, I would curse his name out loud. Let us not speak any more of this abomination.” I sipped my lassi and pondered Devi’s statement that the terrorists had left the region. I doubted it.
     
    Eventually it was time to gather the containers and hike down the slope to the autorick. We climbed in and motored along the dusty strip past the guardhouse. No one emerged with clipboards or assault rifles, though I was pretty certain I saw two circular reflections follow us down the road when I glanced back.
    Once we were airborne again—not a misstatement, as we undoubtedly spent more time off the ground than on it—Masterji turned to me. “Bhim, we will have busy days ahead. C.G. will join us, and together we will form a team.” This image was pleasantly exciting. “Can you change your schedule to spend mornings at my house and put the Bhavabuti play on the shelf for now?” I nodded an affirmation. “We must set things in motion correctly, one step at a time, you see, and speak to no one until we know exactly what we are working with. I will discuss the same with C.G., but he also understands the need for discretion.”
    He peered through the spattered windshield towards the haze of the city. “Discoveries like this bring risk, you see. In this part of the world there are those who would steal anything of value, and I believe what we have seen today is of value. Valuable bring danger.” The words hung in the afternoon heat.
    We delivered Devamukti to his front gate at sunset, and I watched in astonishment as he gifted Rajneesh a fifty-rupee note in magnanimous fashion. At the current exchange it amounted to one dollar and five cents. It was accompanied by a large spoonful of advice on how to spend it. Wanting to assure his safe entry into the house, I waited until he shuffled across the courtyard and through the door. His wife Mirabai greeted him and waved to me.
    As the autorick rolled down Shivanan Avenue, the sky above the spires of the Durga Temple were streaked with apricot and maroon. Across the river, purple and