The PuppetMaster by Andrew L. MacNair

between us and New Delhi. Sixty-nine people had been murdered, including the most recent, near Lucknow, and during the previous fourteen months the attacks had been the topic over most cups of chai and evening meals. Most considered themselves informed enough to declare the guilty party as Taweel Churi, a terrorist group based out of Pakistan, but operating northern India. An interrogation of the only captured suspect provided intelligence agencies with a name, Sutradharak, The PuppetMaster. Nothing else came from that interrogation but the name and the mysterious death of the prisoner two days later. The media picked up on the title and used it persistently to drive up readership. But no more arrests came. No one knew for certain if Taweel Churi or Sutradharak truly existed, but logic dictated that whoever was responsible had a nasty agenda. Murdering innocent people in a temple was a profanity no one could imagine. Thirty-seven had died in the Sankat Mochan blast in March. Hindus were clamoring for retaliation, though against whom, they were not certain. Muslims walked about in larger groups. Hindus whispered that the mosque leader, Imam Nomani, or more likely the crazed Cabinet Minister Qereshy, were channeling funds to the terrorists. Now, both were under surveillance by the intelligence agencies. Conspiracy theorists whispered at tea stalls, and every cult in every religion in every neighborhood was nervous.
    Blistering heat and a sky devoid of rain added to the tension.
    The only person besides me that didn’t offer opinions was Mejanand Whiton. As far as I could determine Mej didn’t care about anybody but himself. If he did, it certainly wasn’t expressed or shown. I cared about all of the victims in my own quiet way, and certainly felt the agony the loved-ones left behind, but like the pyres at Manikarnika, I sidestepped any opinions.
    Mej had no desire to chat about worldly events. He preferred to fire off truly offensive jokes in a raspy Cockney accent, while chortling non-stop at his own vulgarities. He usually had me smiling or chuckling within minutes. This was one of the reasons I rather enjoyed his company—albeit for very short periods of time--he never asked where I came from or why I lived alone. I reciprocated by not asking anything of him.
    Our association was based on a single passion. Freestyle Frisbee. Mej, like me, even in my self-imposed monasticism, liked to stay in shape, a challenge in the crowded confines of Varanasi. Being creative, we'd discovered a unique way to burn off the calories of rice and butter-based dishes, and together we’d found the only place it could be done--the marigold and henna fields south of the city. Marigolds and carnations adorned every holy object, especially dead bodies and lingum and yoni alters. The henna was made into dye for hair and body art. Fortunately the fields were just a short walk from where I lived. They provided the raw materials for the ritual of Varanasi, and provided us a place to exercise.
    The fields weren’t perfect, being rock-strewn and often covered with thatch, but as sections were rotated in and out, we discovered that we could romp across them for our fun and sweat.
    Mej Whiton was English NRI--Non-Resident Indian-- and that was the extent of what I knew of him. He had a rough East End inflection and a coffee-complexioned features that, to put it nicely, were plain. His pajama pants and loose shirts were always clean, and he seemed to know the ways of Varanasi as well as I did. He spoke fluent Hindi, which I took to be an endowment of his English Indian parents.
    We had met the previous year at a fruit stall in the central market in the Chowk district. I happened upon him one afternoon as he was juggling five sweet-limes, chatting to an expanding audience in his version of English that had no Hs. He hailed me with a friendly ‘ello, mate,’ and after his performance we struck up a conversation where he got me quickly smiling. According