The Yoga of Max's Discontent by Karan Bajaj

up his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I wasa little surprised. I’m used to being called Marcus. Anand is my spiritual name. I don’t use it often.”
    They walked into a small living room filled with pictures of Anand with a slim, dusky Indian woman and three boys.
    Max sat opposite Anand on a cane chair. Soft, vaguely familiar music played in the background. Anand removed his baseball cap to reveal a shiny bald head. He said something.
    Max leaned forward, straining to hear his soft voice and understand his hard-to-place accent.
    â€œDid I send you my address?” repeated Anand.
    â€œIt was on the email footer,” said Max.
    â€œAh, but sometimes even I can’t find my own house here,” he said, dimples lighting up his face again.
    Max smiled. Indeed, the driver had circled around for ages. Again and again they were told to “go straight and take a right,” which Max quickly realized was a euphemism in India for “I don’t know,” perhaps because Indian people hated not to be helpful. Finally he had asked the taxi driver to park in front of a hotel. It had taken him an hour of walking through the maze of streets to find A-18. The streets followed no alphabetic or numerical convention. A Block stood next to M Block, and 18 was next to 232. It was a miracle he’d found it.
    â€œThere is no method here,” said Anand. “People choose whatever house number they want for numerological reasons.”
    â€œHave you lived in India long?” said Max.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIs that your wife in the pictures?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIs she Indian?”
    â€œYes.”
    An uncomfortable silence followed.
    Max shifted in his chair. To fill the space, Max talked about his travels in India, his search for the Brazilian doctor, and the trip up the Himalayas.
    Anand nodded from time to time, but his large eyes remained silent. Max didn’t know if he had followed his account.
    â€œWhere are you from?” said Max after another bout of silence.
    â€œSlovenia.”
    â€œHow long have you been in India?” said Max.
    â€œFifteen years.”
    â€œThose are your boys?” said Max, pointing to the pictures of the three boys on the wall.
    Anand nodded.
    â€œVery beautiful family,” said Max.
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œDo they live here?” said Max.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat do you do?” said Max.
    â€œWeb design.”
    â€œDo you work from home?”
    â€œYes.”
    Max sat back in the hard cane chair. How could a man with such a warm, smiling presence be so shy? The soft beats of the surrounding music changed to a deep, resonant chant. Max was inexplicably drawn to the music. Even though the words were in Hindi, he was sure he’d heard the song before. Anand nodded his head to the rhythm and closed his eyes. Max forced his attention away from the chanting. Two-thirty PM . The driver was waitingoutside. New Delhi airport was six hours away. He could still make it comfortably in time for the flight to London at midnight if he left now. One last try. Max leaned forward.
    â€œWhere did you meet the doctor?”
    Anand opened his eyes. “The Tibetan Himalayas.”
    â€œRecently?”
    â€œTwelve years ago.”
    â€œHave you seen him since?” said Max.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDo you know where he is now?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHow can I find him?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œDo you know anyone who might know?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œSo there is no way to find him?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen why did you think you could help me?” said Max.
    â€œDid I?”
    â€œYou wrote in the email you could be of some help?”
    â€œYes. I told you I saw him in the Tibetan Himalayas,” said Anand.
    â€œThat was twelve years ago.”
    â€œYes.”
    Another false turn. Max’s heart sank. Maybe it was all for the good. Max would be back in New York