The PuppetMaster Read Online Free PDF Page A

minutes behind Masterji. My watch, being a few decades newer and of the quartz crystal variety, was a tad more accurate, but rather than contradict him as we idled in the street, I asked my driver, “Bai, what hour is it?” Drivers lived by their watches. His was hanging from a plastic garland at eye level.
    With a wag of the head he pronounced, “It is six fifty-seven, Sahib.” He looked with hesitation at my teacher and added, “I have set the hour this very morning when I went to temple.” That added precision to his claim and a certain religious element that even my teacher couldn't dispute.
    Devi wagged his head in grumpy resignation. “Humph . . . very well.” Then, pitching a bundle onto my lap, he settled onto the narrow seat next to me and leaned forward to point across the young man’s shoulder. “Take us by the Azamgarh Road northeast fourteen kilometers, then six more to the entrance of Imperial Mining. Do you know it, my man?” He then added that he himself knew the route and not to try anything circuitous.
    “Yes, Sir. Indeed.” With a wrench of the throttle the autorick lurched into the Sunday traffic, spilling us backwards and sending two cyclists swerving wildly.
    I lifted my knapsack from the seat to offer more space, and as we were now rolling somewhat cheerfully along, asked, “Master, where are we headed exactly? Soma only said that we are going to a cave somewhere past Sarnath. Do you have a nice day hike planned for us?” I was joking about the hike and fishing for information.
    His eyes locked onto the back of our driver’s head to be sure the man was attending to the road and not our conversation. He lowered his voice to an unnecessary whisper--the coughing of motor caused enough racket to thwart any attempt at eavesdropping. Masterji also spoke in English, which our driver knew less than twenty words of. Turning to me with an odd gleam in his eyes, he said, “There has been a most fortuitous discovery, Bhimaji. It could be quite significant if it is what we think it is.” I waited. That was usually good policy with my teacher; wait until things were explained in his own time and manner. “Only C.G. Chandragupta and I have had the opportunity to view it, and I only from two hasty sketches C.G. made three days ago. That is why I wanted you to accompany me today, so that we might look at it together. You have brought your camera, yes?” I nodded enthusiastically and waited for more.
    He looked at the scenery.
    I was excited now. Chamuk Garuda Chandragupta, shortened wisely to C.G., was one of the greatest Vedic scholars in Uttar Pradesh. He was also my teacher’s closest friend and a renowned professor at Benares Hindu University. I had attended his lectures numerous times and considered him both a mentor and a friend. If these two had looked at something together and become excited, then it wouldn’t take much for me to follow.
    The great language had pulled me into it eight years earlier when I was a third year undergrad at the University of California, Berkeley. I had been plodding through an upper division phonetics course when a perceptive instructor tossed me a small, ragged primer on the grammar. That tattered little book was all it took. I opened the cover, saw the graceful curves of script and the romance began. During that semester I taught myself to form letters and read a few lines. In the two years that followed I signed up for every course the university had to offer—undergraduate, graduate, and then my Masters. Eventually I became adept enough to translate scripture, plays, and my favorite, classical poetry. The university hired me as an assistant professor.
    But Life, as I have said, has a way of altering in tiny, unanticipated ways.
    I was now eight thousand miles away, shrouded in linguistic solitude, and had pushed that previous life where I wanted it, behind me and lost to memory.
    The autorick bounced sharply as we rounded a corner, smacking my elbow against