THE STERADIAN TRAIL: BOOK #0 OF THE INFINITY CYCLE (6 page)

11

D
ivya arrived for breakfast decked in a pair of charcoal grey jeans and an amber top, her face dazzling with a dab of Ponds Dreamflower talc. Her father Chander had gone to work before she got up and her mother wouldn’t eat until everyone else in the house had eaten, so she sat down at the table by herself.

Meenakshi had made mor kali for breakfast – a gluey meal made by cooking rice flour in buttermilk with just a dash of coconut oil, a dish the cooks in the hostel mess couldn’t make if their life depended on it. Divya wolfed it down and Meenakshi let her eat in peace. But she flew off the handle as soon as the last morsel slithered its way down the throat.

Divya knew opportunity when she saw one and how to seize it. She wanted to do a good job on the write-up for Joshua and had spent much of the previous evening in the library and online, poring over journal papers to get the hang of writing formally with all the bells and whistles of a research paper. She wanted to keep up the momentum today and start typing things in LaTeX. She tried explaining it to her mother but she just wouldn’t listen.

‘Only last night you said you’ll surely help me tomorrow. God promise, you said. God promise,’ Meenakshi growled.

‘No Ma, you’re mistaken,’ Divya said sounding as earnest as possible. ‘I didn’t mean yesterday’s tomorrow, which is today; I meant today’s tomorrow, which is . . . tomorrow, meaning, the day before day after tomorrow. Think logically.’

Meenakshi gave Divya a laser-eyed stare. But the girl just burst into a laugh. ‘I promise I’ll help you tomorrow, Ma. I mean the tomorrow that is twenty-four hours from now. No room for logical ambiguity there, right? I know it’s for my own good. I’m going to be a great cook by the time Vanathi wakes up from her coma and starts getting beaten up by her husband again.’

Meenakshi was fuming now. So Divya switched to a pleading tone. ‘Come on, Ma. Please try to understand.’

‘It’s not just cooking. What about
Sri Ramajayam
? This is a holy month and today is a particularly good day. I was thinking we should at least get it started today. We’ve been delaying it far too long.’

‘As far as that goes, there is no
we
, Ma. Only
me
, which is you, Meenakshi Chander.’

‘It was your engagement, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah, but I didn’t make the vow. You did,’ Divya said.

Divya was barely into her first semester when her parents fixed her marriage with Venus who was in his second year at that time – sophomore year as Joshua would’ve said. The wheels were set in motion right after the Divya’s entrance exam results were out in the open, heralding her spectacular success – ninth rank on an All-India basis. The domestic machinery worked overtime at both ends and brought things to fruition in a matter of weeks before Divya and Venus even realized what their parents were up to. By the time the two of them got wind of it, it was already fait accompli. Not that it was something they had a serious objection to.

Divya and Venus had known each other since they were kids. Their families had been friends for as long as they could remember. Chander and Venus’ father Sampath started their careers together at the same branch and became good friends over the years. Meenakshi and Venus’ mother Vandana had grown up together on the same street in Nanganallur. When Meenakshi got married to Chander she got to know Sampath, a most eligible bachelor at that time. She had him introduced to Vandana’s family and facilitated all their communications, culminating in holy matrimony in a matter of weeks – dowry free, which was quite an achievement during those days when marriages were more about matrimoney than matrimony as the gag went. The friendship between the two families grew from strength to strength over the years and Divya’s engagement to Venus almost seemed like a natural next step in the progression of things, a logical corollary – but for one little fact.

Though Tamil Brahmins both, Venus was an Iyengar whereas Divya was an Iyer. The difference? Venus’ family were Vaishnavites who believed in the primacy of Vishnu, while Divya’s family were Smarthas who believed in the primacy of Shiva, though both families had no qualms worshipping the other God. That was the practical side of the matter. On the philosophical side, Venus’ ancestors had sworn allegiance to the school of Qualified Non-Dualism, Vishishta Advaitha, while Divya’s forebears had reposed faith in the school of Absolute Non-Dualism, Advaitha, both of which disagreed with each other and with the other school of Dualism or Dvaitha. Though the debate between the three schools was never quite resolved in a thousand years, it no longer caused a firestorm in the country as it once did; there wasn’t much room for such philosophical hair-splitting in modern public discourse. In fact, like most brahmins of this age, the two families did not know or care much about Dvaitha or Vishista Advaitha. But what they did know and cared about was that one didn’t marry into a family on the other side of the divide. So the match between Divya and Venus kicked up a major row with some self-appointed custodians of family tradition looking askance at the proposal at both ends, driving childhood friends Meenakshi and Vandana to despair.

Vandana at least had her brother Sadagopan to champion things at her end. But Meenakshi did not have anybody; even her own brothers turned against her. Meenakshi was shrewd enough to surmise that what drove her relatives was not Dvaitha or Advaitha but Divya. In some corner of their hearts, they were all envious of her little girl’s accomplishments vis-a-vis their children – Divya was featured in many newspapers for winning the gold at the math Olympiad in Buenos Aires – and it came to the fore now. Their vile manoeuvres – sly comments, sarcastic allusions, curious phone calls from people who hadn’t called in years, rumour-mongering, politicking behind the scenes and downright confrontation – sent Meenakshi sulking in spite of her clear knowledge of where they were coming from. As people often did in moments of distress, she turned to the only place she could always count on for succour: her hometown. She hopped into an auto-rickshaw to Nanganallur and made a popular vow at the Hanuman temple there: if the alliance firmed up smoothly, her family would write the chant
Sri Ramajayam
on 1,008 slips of paper and string them together into a garland for the idol. Under normal circumstances, she would have stopped with a promise of 108
Sri Ramajayam
s, but finding the right match for her daughter was no ordinary matter and she started the bid at 1,008. When the chorus in the family got louder and she grew more desperate, she raised the stakes ten times to 10,008 – the Nanganallur Hanuman was a deftly chiselled monolith who stood thirty-two feet tall and had all the strength to bear a bigger garland of words hailing his lord and master Rama.

Whether it was the power of Hanuman or that of their own perseverance, one couldn’t tell, but Meenakshi and Vandana, supported steadfastly by their husbands, managed to prevail over their hidebound relatives and formalize the match at a small function in Vandana’s house. It was a simple but highly significant ceremony. Only close relatives, especially the dissenting ones, had been invited and their voices went missing soon thereafter.

Over a year had passed now since the engagement. But the vow Meenakshi had made to Hanuman still remained unfulfilled and kept pricking her conscience every day. He had delivered His end of the bargain and she had to deliver hers. It didn’t bode well for the family to keep Him waiting for so long. Writing the chant 10,008 times was not a job for one person and Meenakshi could do with some help from her husband and daughter. With the year-end approaching, Chander spent all his waking hours at the bank, often even on Sundays, leaving her at Divya’s mercy.

‘Who asked you to go to Hanuman in the first place?’ Divya crinkled up her face and asked. ‘Defies all logic.’

Meenakshi looked at her daughter aghast.

‘First, Hanuman is not an Iyer like us. He is an Iyengar who is never without his namam on his forehead. Venus and his parents should be the ones writing things like
Sri Ramajayam
or
Hari Narayana
or
Hari Gopala
, not us. You could have just prayed to the Iyer gods. They’re less demanding. We can easily make them happy, cooking some sweet at home and having it for lunch.’

‘Keep quiet, Divvy,’ Meenakshi fumed.

‘Also, Hanuman is a confirmed bachelor for heaven’s sake, a life-long Brahmachari. And here you are begging for his help in a marriage!’

‘But He was the one who got Rama and Sita united.’

‘Maybe. But tell me, what’s the deal with the paper garland? Which genius came up with the idea? Paper wasn’t even invented when the Ramayana happened. . . . But if you still insist on it why don’t we type up
Sri Ramajayam
in a computer? We can print as many copies as we want and string them up. . . . I have another idea if that doesn’t work. Does Hanuman accept
Sri Ramajayam
by email? One small script and the mail can go out a million and eight times.’

‘Shut up, Divvy,’ Meenakshi thundered. ‘Writing
Sri Ramajayam
is a sacred duty, something you do with devotion, with your own hand. . . . You used to fill up dozens of notebooks with
Sri Ramajayam
s when you were small. Don’t know what has happened to you.’

‘I know, Ma,’ Divya giggled. ‘I know. Don’t take everything I say so seriously. I’m very busy now and just don’t have time for things like this.’

‘Why don’t you say that straight and stop there? Already there are so many evil eyes jinxing you two. If you keep insulting gods like this, we’ll end up writing it 100,008 times for your marriage.’

‘Ayyo Amma! Please don’t scare me. I don’t even want to get married if that’s the case.’

Meenakshi laughed, having scored a point over her brilliant daughter at last. ‘Then you’d better help me now.’

‘Not now, Ma. Later. I’ve really got to go to the campus now. I have work to do.’

She picked up the Scooty keys and started searching for her missing Eastpack backpack – a local rip-off of the American brand, an Indian answer in kind to Texmati.

12

W
ith all the lights out, the lab was plunged in semi-darkness with just a little sunlight streaking in through the windows at the far end. As soon as Lakshman stepped in, a smell fouler than his mood wafted up the air and smothered him. Wary of going further in, he stood by the door, wrinkled his nose and looked around. Having just come in from outdoors, his eyes took time to adjust to the darkness and he had to strain a little to see. It took a few seconds for things to come into focus and when they did, his heart nearly stopped.

The lab looked like a mini warzone with the furniture and equipment in complete disarray. It didn’t take Lakshman long to realize what must have happened. A window or two had been left open overnight and a gang of monkeys from the woods had sneaked in and turned the place upside down. The chairs, tables, floor tiles, monitors, CPUs and keyboards had all been indiscriminately doused with urine and decorated with droppings as far as Lakshman could see. Keyboards precariously dangled off the table, and monitors and CPU boxes lay all askew. Three monitors were on the floor, two smashed to bits and the other with a Y-shaped crack on the
screen. Wires had been pulled out and they lay here and there tangled up like serpents. The power surge protector had been fatally damaged, prompting Mahendran to turn off the mains.

‘Who left the windows open?’ Lakshman asked Mahendran.

‘Don’t know, sir.’

‘Why haven’t you gotten it cleaned up yet?’

‘I was waiting for you so you could take a look and decide what to do as the head of the department, sir,’ Mahendran said, as always firm on the protocol.

‘What’s there to do?’ Lakshman sighed. ‘Clean up the place, take inventory of damaged items, repair and salvage whatever possible, properly dispose of the rest. I’ll sign off the paperwork. We need to get the lab going as quickly as possible. There are a lot of students who aren’t even going home for the holidays so they can work on their thesis.’

‘What do we do about the culprit, sir?’

‘What can we do?’ Lakshman sighed again, in despair. ‘We can’t even track him down unless we take everyone’s fingerprints and match them with those on the window . . . Even then it’s all a road to nowhere.’

‘I didn’t mean that, sir. I meant the actual culprit. I’ve caught him, sir.’

‘Really?’ Lakshman said, eyebrows shooting up.

‘Yes sir,’ Mahendran said, beaming proudly. ‘There,’ he pointed under the table near the power surge protector.

Lakshman had missed it earlier in the darkness. He now saw the little one that lay sprawled and jumped. ‘Oh my God! Is it dead?’

‘No sir, it was still breathing when I saw it. I think it touched some live wire, got a shock and fainted.’

‘Has anyone called the veterinarians?’

‘Veterinarians, sir?’ Mahendran asked, puzzled. ‘I thought we should call the police and let them take the culprit into custody for damaging government property. In fact, I have tied his legs to the table with a rope so he won’t suddenly wake up and run away.’

You fool! Lakshman wanted to scream. ‘If the police come here, you and I will be the ones taken into custody first, you know that?’

‘Oh my God!’ Mahendran slapped his forehead. ‘I didn’t think of it, sir. Indian Wildlife Act, 1972.’

‘Call Major Madhavan. He knows what to do. He can get the people from the zoo to take a look. We already have plenty of wild animals to deal with on this campus. We don’t want one more.’

Rishi would have picked up on the innuendo. But it didn’t even make a ping on Mahendran. ‘Yes sir. I’ll get Madhavan immediately,’ he said and made for the phone with urgency.

‘No wait, I’ll call myself. But first please go untie the rope,’ Lakshman said and scrambled to his office.

~

Lakshman could breathe easy only after the vets from the neighbouring Guindy zoo succeeded in reviving the monkey and reuniting him with his fraternity, who like Rama’s troops had laid siege outside the lab windows and were anxiously following the proceedings inside. Only after watching the happy reunion with a cheering crowd of staff and students was Lakshman able to proceed with his original agenda for the day, starting with Joshua.

Since Lakshman had been the chairman of the conference organization committee, he had access to the list of participants who had originally signed up as speakers or presenters during the sessions. He pulled up the file in his computer and ran his eyes over it and then followed it up with a Ctrl-F search for Jeffrey Williams. He tried all variants of the name: Jeff, Will, Bill . . . But there was no trace of the name anywhere.

Next, he scoured the list of speakers who actually showed up for the conference, including the standbys who magnanimously filled in for those who ended up playing hooky. It was in a paper file gathering cobwebs on his bookshelf and he scanned through it thoroughly. Once. Twice. When he drew a blank even there, he could safely conclude that Jeffrey wasn’t participating in the capacity of a speaker or a presenter at the conference. There was of course the possibility that he participated as audience and Lakshman decided to check that next in the attendees’ register.

With the exception of speakers and presenters, no advance registration had been required of the participants. Since time was short, the attendees could walk in and register directly at the venue. Those sign-up sheets were filed together and left languishing in the document archives at the end of the conference. Lakshman called up Velappan Kutty, an administrative assistant who’d helped him with the logistics, and asked him for the attendees listing.

‘It’s very surprising you’re asking for that file now, sir,’ said Velappan Kutty. ‘I don’t even know where it is. Must be somewhere in storage. Do you really need me to go, search and get it, sir?’

‘Yes, please. I need it for something.’

‘I can get it, sir, but it’s going to take time.’

‘How much time?’

‘Don’t know, sir. It could even take an hour or two to search through all the documents.’

‘I need it by this afternoon.’

‘Okay sir, I’ll do my best.’

‘Thank you, Velappan.’

Lakshman moved on to his other affairs, starting with the arrangements for the coronation of Pomonia.

He shot off a few emails to his colleagues, dictated a few memos to his secretary Chamundeeswari and drafted a letter to Pomonia’s office requesting his measurements for the convocation gown. That done, he stepped out of the office to take stock of the lab with Mahendran.

The lab had been cleaned and sanitized and four machines were up and running, but Lakshman could still smell simian excrement filtering through the aroma of Dettol and couldn’t bear staying inside too long. He instructed the students to open the windows but keep a watchful eye for monkeys and stepped out, signalling Mahendran to follow. He was standing outside the door and discussing with Mahendran how to restore the place to its original glory as quickly as possible when Chamundeeswari came shuffling down the corridor.

‘Sir sir sir, urgent phone call for you,’ she said.

‘Fifth Floor?’

‘No sir.’

Lakshman knew there was only one other person on earth who would make such a frantic phone call. He raced back to his office, switched on the fan and sank into his chair. Chamundeeswari put the call through to him.

‘Sorry Josh, I don’t have any breaking news for you yet,’ Lakshman said and told him about the files.

Joshua went mute, clearly disappointed.

‘I’ve asked for the attendees’ register now. It’s there only in hard copy and I’m expecting it to arrive in my office sometime this afternoon.’

‘Oh, okay,’ said Joshua, perking up a little.

‘But my hands are full today, Josh. I have to do a lot of running around and I’m not sure when I’ll be back in my office to search through it. If you want it done fast I suggest you come down here and take a look yourself.’

‘That would be great,’ Joshua said. ‘So can I swing by your office later in the afternoon then?’

‘Sure. You might have to wait a little in case I’m not around. But I’ll let my secretary know before I leave.’

‘Not a problem, Lax,’ said Joshua. ‘See you in the afternoon. Thanks a bunch.’