Meeting Max Read online

  “That would work. Also, you could say sex, Permanand. Sexes means something different.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Rick. I am learning so much. What is good name of person you are looking?”

  “My son’s name is Eric.”

  “Yes, Eric. I know him. He play sitar, I think,” Permanand said with assurance.

  Rick rolled his eyes and smiled. “Just take me to a place where rock groups play music and sell their CDs.”

  “Okay, you go Indianic Ocean. It is good sahib. You will be liking it. My friend, Vijay, works there. Chalo.”

  “Maybe you don’t understand. Why would I want to go to the Indianic Ocean? I’m here in Delhi. There is no ocean here. I just want to go to a place that plays some rock music, not go to an ocean.”

  “Nooo, not Indianic Ocean like water. No sir,” he said with his usual broad smile. “Indianic Ocean is name of popular singing music group. Chalo, we go. They play much music never tried.”

  “I think you mean experimental. Is it far?”

  “Not far.”

  They pulled up to a large nightclub. A large, red neon sign flashed dramatically in Hindi script, as if to say this is the place. Crowds of people pushed their way toward the entrance. Rick couldn’t help but notice how provocatively the girls were dressed. He didn’t see them showing too much, but their bodies just screamed sexy, especially with the red neon sign splashing its color off and on.

  Rick’s eyes were drawn to one girl in particular. She had glossy jet-black hair, which streamed down to her lower back. Her full lips were tinted deep red, and she wore a tight white top that stopped above her navel, showing tan, well-toned flesh between her low cut blue jeans and her top. An Indian man pressed his body against her from behind with his hands in front of her. He tucked half of his fingers into her jeans. She was one of many waiting to get in.

  Permanand had known the right place to take Rick. He parked the auto rickshaw in an alleyway on a dark side street near the club, and they walked to the front entrance. A stocky Indian man with black curly hair, probably Vijay, was in charge. He noticed Permanand immediately and waved to him to come closer. They talked for a few seconds and shook hands. Permanand passed money to Vijay. Rick and Permanand stepped inside.

  “You seem to know many people here,” Rick said

  “Yes, very fine fellows they are,” he said, wagging his head from side to side.

  After Permanand shook hands with a man in charge of the tables, they sat in front of the band. A man was singing in English about desert rain. The song had a nice beat to it courtesy of traditional Indian strings and a percussion instrument, which Permanand explained was a Tabla. The tabla consisted of two small wooden drums and a large metal drum. Played together, they produced bell-like sounds and were a perfect accompaniment to the singer’s wailing tone.

  “Mr. Rick, I am hoping you like the music. Tell me, is there something I can do? Get you something or…”

  “Yes, I’d like to talk to the guy who is singing.”

  “That is certainly no problem. He is my friend from many years, and most probably he will help you. I will introduce him to you when they have a break. His name is Kaushal Patel.”

  At the end of the set, Permanand came back to their table with a burly man. He had light tan skin and wore a tattered, sweaty, red band around his forehead. A full black beard with traces of gray added to his persona. He spoke perfect English.

  “Namaste, Ap kaise haim. How are you?” The man looked Rick straight in the eye.

  “Your friend tells me you would like to talk to me. I hope you liked our music. It is fusion. Lots of improvisation along the way so the audience never hears the same thing twice. My name is Kaushal. It is my pleasure to meet you.”

  Rick held his hands together in front of him as if in prayer and said, “Namaste. I loved your music and your singing. It was beautiful and different from anything I’ve ever heard. Would you like to sit and join me for a drink?”

  “It would be my honor, sir. You are very kind, but we only have twenty minutes between sets and…”

  “Oh, of course. I understand.”

  “Did you want to ask me something special about our music?” Kaushal asked. “I can tell you are an American and our music may seem different to you. We sing in Hindi, Urdu, Malalayem, and English. We have also performed in California.”

  “Well, it’s not about the music, although I thoroughly enjoyed it. You see, I have someone I’m looking for. It’s my son who was given up for adoption when he was a baby. His mother died, and I began a search to find him. I know he’s living in India.”

  “My good sir, it is a terrible thing to lose your child,” Kaushal said, shaking his head. “You must find him, but we have more than one billion people living here. It would be difficult. I think you have taken on too much of a burden.”

  “Yes, difficult, except there is one unique difference which may narrow things down a bit.”

  “Ah, he’s a musician, so you came here?”

  “Not quite. He’s a sound engineer. I know he has done work for many groups in the United State, and came to India to work with a friend.”

  “I see. What is his good name?”

  “Eric, Eric Anderson.”

  “I don’t know that name. I can ask my friend, Ahshan, to see if he knows of him, but he is not here now. He works as an audio recorder when he can. His regular job is teaching a music class for girl students at Delhi University.

  “If you give me your mobile number, I will give it to him and see if he can help you. I’m sorry I cannot sit with you, but I promise you will hear from Ahshan. He is a very good man and an excellent recording engineer. He makes my CD performances sound seamless. He is a perfectionist, as you say.”

  “Thank you, Kaushal, thank you. Namaste.”

  “Namaste,” he answered as he returned to the stage.

  Chapter 11

  The next morning, Rick had tea with Rohit on the patio and told him that he was in India to find his son. He also talked about the relationship he had with Julie and how much he loved her. Rohit listened and spoke sympathetically.

  “Yes, you have to find him. You must find Eric. He is your child. You cannot let things go. You will find him here in India. Many people will help you. We are that way, especially when it comes to a child.”

  “I’m trying, but it’s not easy.” Rick shook his head.

  “Because it is not easy is another reason why you must do it,” Rohit said emphatically. “We must welcome challenges in our lives so we can work to overcome them. Obstacles are presented to us as a gift from God to help make us stronger. Everyone in India will fly to your cause. Maybe he’s making movies and you should go to these places. We create wonderful movies, some serious and funny in the same movie, such as Monsoon Wedding. Have you ever seen it?

  “No, never.”

  “You should do that. Another movie, Mr. and Mrs. Iyar, is about a Hindu Brahmin woman who protects a Muslim man on a bus. It is a good movie also. Your son came to India because there are many movies and exciting music. He was smart to think that way.”

  Rick was aware of the film industry in India and considered it to be part of his search, but only after he explored popular music groups who recorded their music on CDs.

  Rick was not surprised by how passionate Rohit was about him finding Eric. It fitted in with how important family life was in India. Rohit was rough around the edges and steadfast in his opinions, but he was a caring person. The words He is your child. You must find him rang in Rick’s ears.

  Rohit brought another pot of tea to the table. Rick picked up the Hindustan Times, which was lying nearby, and read some of the commentary related to the terrorism that had taken place in Delhi over the past summer. One article said there were five bomb blasts within minutes of each other at various locations, leaving thirty people dead and over one hundred injured. Other bomb attacks had occurred in May in Jaipur, leaving sixty-three dead and over two hundred injured.
/>   More destruction had taken place in Ahmedabad and in the state of Gujarat. The Islamic Indian Mujahideen group, who attacked disbelievers, claimed responsibility for these blasts. They phoned government agencies five minutes before the blasts went off, warning them that they would take place, but never said where.

  Rick was aware of Hindu and Muslim conflicts, but was unsure of the degree it influenced everyday life. He learned there was a strong undercurrent of terrorism in India that most tourists did not see.

  Many countries surrounding India harbored violent terrorist groups: Pakistan, China, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, and Kashmir. Many of the attacks were blamed on the Muslims in general, and many people erroneously assumed all Muslims were radicals. He thought it was unfortunate that many Sikhs were confused with Muslim radicals.

  Rick finished reading the newspaper. He saw nothing but peaceful surroundings, not not a terrorist in sight. Just a quiet tree-lined street outside the wooden fence of the patio. He sipped the last of his tea, enjoyed the calm, and went into the small breakfast area of the kitchen. Even if some parts of Delhi were dangerous, he felt it was unlikely he would be harmed. He was only a tourist.

  Breakfast was always a new experience thanks to different food and different topics of conversation every morning. This morning, Rick, Rohit, Lubna, and the British couple ate paratha bread with fresh butter and aloo sabji, a spicy potato dish. Rick looked inward, as if suddenly aware of the significance of his surroundings.

  Here he was in India, sitting at a breakfast table with an Indian family and a British couple. It was like living in an earlier time, in a Kipling story, perhaps, or something out of Somerset Maugham. In his mind, he left modern times behind and imagined himself in India in the twenties and thirties.

  During breakfast, Rick hesitated to bring up terrorism or why Muslims and Hindus were at odds with each other. He knew it was a sensitive subject. Breakfast was a time for peaceful pleasantries, but he wanted to know the reasons for some of the terrorism. He was surrounded by Rohit, Lubna, Raj, Robert, and Elizabeth, people who could enlighten him. He couldn’t let this collection of good minds go to waste on casual breakfast chatter.

  When the opportunity presented itself, he put down his teacup and asked in a soft tone, “Can anybody tell me why Muslims and Hindus hate each other?”

  Rohit was quick to answer. “I am a Hindu and I do not hate anybody, but that is me. Yes, there is much hatred between Hindus and Muslims. These are faiths that are opposed to each other. Because they have been in close contact for centuries in India, they had many opportunities to clash.”

  Robert tilted his head back and took the last sip of his coffee. “Historically, the Muslims ruled India for over seven hundred years. Maybe they feel they should still rule.”

  “Yes, maybe, my good sir,” Rohit chimed in. “There were a few temples which were converted into mosques during the Muslim rule, and I’m sure the Hindus want them back. Rick, let me tell you, it is the religious differences that are the reasons for the conflict.”

  “Is that how you feel, Lubna?”

  She glanced downward. “Rohit and I respect all human life.”

  “Yes, it is true,” Rohit continued. “We do respect all human life. The problems are a mixture of things. Dividing people based on religion is wrong. Gandhi was right. Dividing the Indian people was not a good thing. It did not have to happen.

  “Gandhi said President Lincoln was right to fight for the unity of the United States and not allow the Confederacy to become a separate nation. Gandhi felt it was a good comparison. Now terrorism will continue, and the terrorists will focus their attacks on the big cities, like Delhi and Bombay. I know it. It’s coming. I don’t hate anybody, and neither does Lubna. We are not like that, but bad things will happen. I know it.”

  “Tell me, Rohit,” Robert began. “Do you think the Hindus are more forgiving of the Muslims than the other way around?”

  “Yes, Hindus are more understanding of human beings in general. We enjoy the world’s largest democracy. That says that we trust the people to make decisions.

  “We don’t blame all Muslims for the violent actions of a few, and we have proven it. Many Muslims have held high posts in Indian government. We have had three Muslim presidents, plus a Muslim Chief of the Indian Air Force, along with the vice president, Mr. Shri Ansari, to name a few, but Pakistan has never had a Hindu at a big post. None, sir. It would be impossible there.”

  The conversation ended after a final round of tea and coffee. After breakfast, Elizabeth and Robert said their goodbyes. They had to leave to head south and needed extra time to clear up some questions about their lost railway tickets.

  Rick left the table with his head spinning. He didn’t know much more than he had before, other than that Rohit and Lubna claimed they had no animosity based on religious differences. Rick felt that, beneath it all, in spite of what he had said, Rohit still harbored anger toward the Muslims.

  Chapter 12

  Permanand picked Rick up the next evening and told him he knew of a few places where he might get information about Eric.

  Their first stop was the New Delhi Film Associates, a company that made art films and even some movies with a sexy Kama Sutra love twist. Sudev Mukerjhee, the musical director, came out to meet them. Rick told Mr. Mukerjhee his story about Eric and asked if he knew an Eric who was a sound engineer from America.

  “No, sir, I do not think I know him, and we do not have an Eric working here, but let me check my files.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sudev was a kind man with watery, soulful eyes. He went to his desk and browsed some papers. “It seems there was an Ehrik here several months ago inquiring about some work, and he was an American, but I just have a notation saying something about his qualifications and a phone number. Do you want to see it?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He handed Rick a paper containing a resume, which was worn and folded over a several times.

  Highly experienced, innovative American sound engineer, recording engineer, mix engineer, mastering engineer with a unique and proven approach to sound recording. I am fluent in English and conversational Hindi.

  There was a penciled note at the bottom: call Ehrik...at Sunstar, and no other information. Eric was spelled a little differently, but that was understandable in a country like India.

  Rick called the inexpensive Hotel Sunstar and asked for Eric Anderson, but got a rather rude reply in bad Hindi English. He hung up and asked Permanand what he thought they should do.

  Within minutes, they were off to the Sunstar, where Permanand spoke to the hotel manager and told him about Rick’s search. The manager looked up into the air with his hand on his chin and thought for a moment. He said he didn’t have any record of an Eric staying there as a guest, and then turned to the desk clerk and spoke a few words in Hindi. The clerk remembered someone by that name who’d visited a female guest on a regular basis. Permanand spoke to the desk clerk and provided some substantial baksheesh, a bribe that encouraged him to go on.

  “He came maybe three or four times a week, sir.”

  “What did he look like?” Rick asked.

  “He had dark hair, was tall, and he had a short brown beard. He was here only three days ago and asked me about the Golden Triangle.”

  “The Golden Triangle? What’s that?”

  “The Golden Triangle consists of three places in India, sir, that makes a triangle on a map—Delhi, Agra, and Jaipur. Delhi is the point on top of the triangle. It is a popular tourist itinerary. I think he was going to Agra, but I do not know for sure.”

  “Do you have more information, anything?”

  “I am sorry. From my remembrances, he sounded like he would most probably be going there soon and I have not seen him since. The woman he was visiting checked out of the hotel only yesterday.”

  “Do you know the name of this woman?”

  He looked at the records of registered guests. “Her name was Victoria Sinclai
r and she was from Los Angeles, but I don’t know more than that.” Rick thanked the man and left.

  “Mr. Rick,” Permanand said, tapping his chest with his finger. “I am here for you always. I can take you Agra, not a problem, sir. Eric mostly wanted to see the Taj Mahal, I think.”

  “How far is Agra from Delhi?”

  “Oh, it is very soon, only two hundred and fifty kilometers. I take you faster than train goes. Three hours, maybe less.”

  “Perm, I can’t believe it would be less than three hours in your little Tuk-tuk.”

  Permanand laughed. “No, sir, I have nice ambassador taxi. You will be liking it, and it is air cooled too.”

  They arranged to meet at Rohit’s place the next morning. Rick was beginning to think this was crazy, looking for Eric in this haphazard way. He could have called the places he was going to in advance and asked the same questions, but in India that would produce few results. The people were different. Little could be done by phone.

  ***

  Permanand arrived in his white Hindustan Ambassador sedan, the ultimate right-hand drive Indian car, built in Kolkata and found everywhere in India. Rick reasoned that Eric would want to be where there were many tourists. These areas would have nightclubs and bands that would need a top notch audio engineer to help make their recordings or set up audio equipment for their stage appearances. These cities would also have lots of music stores, another place to search for Eric’s name.

  The journey to Agra was pleasant. Rick sat in the front seat with Permanand. They drove through the small villages and made a detour only when a cow blocked the road.

  Once, they came to a standstill. Traffic was stopped on both sides of the road. In the middle of the road was a nanny goat who stood motionless as she nursed her two hungry kids. No one in the cars seemed angry. Everyone waited calmly. Drivers who might be normally aggressive sat quietly with tolerant smiles as the mother fed her babies.