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Authors: Andrew L. MacNair
Tags: suspense mystery
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Eleven
“I’m ready to work until my fingers fall off or my eyes give out, Masterji.”
“Good, because that is precisely how much we are going to do, young man. You remember C.G., yes?”
I folded my hands together, bent and touched the tiles somewhere within an acceptable distance of C.G.’s toes. Full contact wasn’t necessary according to custom and definitely out of the question as far as I was concerned. Those were the ugliest appendages east of Delhi. It was, however, the customary gesture of respect for the old professor and Master’s closest friend since childhood. He was also Devi’s perpetual verbal sparring partner. To put it mildly, the boys liked to bicker.
I straightened up, bowed to the bald, brilliant little man and said, “It is a pleasure to see you again, Professor. I pray you have been well.” Rumor had it that a weak heart and kidney stones were paining him considerably.
“Ah, Bhim, my young friend, thank you for asking. What I lack in health these days, I have in happiness. Maladies are close acquaintances of a man of my years, but with my weekly plunges in the river, I am ready to leave the great wheel whenever it is ready to release me. Devi tells me the two of you had a good visit to our secret place yesterday. Please, sit, sit. Tell us your thoughts and show us the photographs you took.” He patted a large rocker next to him. That was a surprise. The mat on the floor was my customary spot. With a small flush of pride, I assumed it was because I was now the technical expert--having the laptop and photographs in my possession. I’d been promoted.
Plugging the computer in, I pressed the start button and the drive began to boot. Master made no effort to hide his contempt for our use of a contraption newer than the plow. I realized that viewing the screen was going to present a small challenge. Being backlit, it needed to be seen at close proximity and at the proper angle. With Devi and C.G. sitting to the sides it wouldn’t work. I hopped up, and without asking, retrieved the ornate tea table and set the computer on it.
“Punditjis,” I said. “I think you will be able to see more clearly if you move behind me.”
In a clear attempt to discredit the evil gadgetry, Masterji snorted as he raised himself. “This machine will not let us see from the side?”
“Of course not, Devi,” C.G. scolded. “You would understand that if you ever graced us with your presence at the university. I use a Sharp active matrix projector and my Acer 3000 for all my lectures now. Students receive their assignments and grades by email. This is the twenty-first century we live in.” I nearly bent again to touch C.G.’s toes again. Score one for the professor.
Devi, not to be bested, fired off his own shot. “That may be, Mr. C.G. Chandragupta, but I wager as soon as we start reading the script we will need an old fashioned pencil and note pad.”
The boys were getting crotchety, so I plugged a one gigabyte flash drive into the USB slot, my personal filing system—neat folders on a memory stick—and clicked open to the first thumbnail. “This,” I announced, “is from the wall on the right as you enter.” Both men moved to stand behind me. That was unusual. Teachers don’t stand while vidyarthis sit.
I blew a sigh of relief; the image was clear. In the upper left there was a small star from the reflection of the flash on wall, but it obscured two letters at most. The rest was quite readable, making me proud that I had captured it so well for our team.
Of the three of us, Chandragupta was the most learned in the ancient Vedic hymns. Like medical specialists, linguists branched into areas of preference. The professor had spent a good portion of his life studying the songs of the Rig Veda, some from as far back as 5000 BC. He was also an expert on the religious treatises of the Upanishads. He would be our quarterback.
Master had devoted himself to the dramas and poetry of
Eleven
“I’m ready to work until my fingers fall off or my eyes give out, Masterji.”
“Good, because that is precisely how much we are going to do, young man. You remember C.G., yes?”
I folded my hands together, bent and touched the tiles somewhere within an acceptable distance of C.G.’s toes. Full contact wasn’t necessary according to custom and definitely out of the question as far as I was concerned. Those were the ugliest appendages east of Delhi. It was, however, the customary gesture of respect for the old professor and Master’s closest friend since childhood. He was also Devi’s perpetual verbal sparring partner. To put it mildly, the boys liked to bicker.
I straightened up, bowed to the bald, brilliant little man and said, “It is a pleasure to see you again, Professor. I pray you have been well.” Rumor had it that a weak heart and kidney stones were paining him considerably.
“Ah, Bhim, my young friend, thank you for asking. What I lack in health these days, I have in happiness. Maladies are close acquaintances of a man of my years, but with my weekly plunges in the river, I am ready to leave the great wheel whenever it is ready to release me. Devi tells me the two of you had a good visit to our secret place yesterday. Please, sit, sit. Tell us your thoughts and show us the photographs you took.” He patted a large rocker next to him. That was a surprise. The mat on the floor was my customary spot. With a small flush of pride, I assumed it was because I was now the technical expert--having the laptop and photographs in my possession. I’d been promoted.
Plugging the computer in, I pressed the start button and the drive began to boot. Master made no effort to hide his contempt for our use of a contraption newer than the plow. I realized that viewing the screen was going to present a small challenge. Being backlit, it needed to be seen at close proximity and at the proper angle. With Devi and C.G. sitting to the sides it wouldn’t work. I hopped up, and without asking, retrieved the ornate tea table and set the computer on it.
“Punditjis,” I said. “I think you will be able to see more clearly if you move behind me.”
In a clear attempt to discredit the evil gadgetry, Masterji snorted as he raised himself. “This machine will not let us see from the side?”
“Of course not, Devi,” C.G. scolded. “You would understand that if you ever graced us with your presence at the university. I use a Sharp active matrix projector and my Acer 3000 for all my lectures now. Students receive their assignments and grades by email. This is the twenty-first century we live in.” I nearly bent again to touch C.G.’s toes again. Score one for the professor.
Devi, not to be bested, fired off his own shot. “That may be, Mr. C.G. Chandragupta, but I wager as soon as we start reading the script we will need an old fashioned pencil and note pad.”
The boys were getting crotchety, so I plugged a one gigabyte flash drive into the USB slot, my personal filing system—neat folders on a memory stick—and clicked open to the first thumbnail. “This,” I announced, “is from the wall on the right as you enter.” Both men moved to stand behind me. That was unusual. Teachers don’t stand while vidyarthis sit.
I blew a sigh of relief; the image was clear. In the upper left there was a small star from the reflection of the flash on wall, but it obscured two letters at most. The rest was quite readable, making me proud that I had captured it so well for our team.
Of the three of us, Chandragupta was the most learned in the ancient Vedic hymns. Like medical specialists, linguists branched into areas of preference. The professor had spent a good portion of his life studying the songs of the Rig Veda, some from as far back as 5000 BC. He was also an expert on the religious treatises of the Upanishads. He would be our quarterback.
Master had devoted himself to the dramas and poetry of
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