Maya by C. W. Huntington Page B

stepped inside and she announced my arrival by hollering up the stairs, her voice loud against the concrete walls: “ Dilli say aap kaa dost aa-gayaa hai !” With one hand she motioned for me to come inside, then closed the doors with a clatter and climbed up the cramped steps. I kicked off my shoes and followed along.
    The second floor rooms were set back from a walkway circling the periphery of an indoor courtyard that rose upward through the center of the building, allowing fresh air and light to enter. A large extended family occupied the bottom level; the clanging of pots and the sound of wet laundry slapping against the floor echoed up from below. My guide led me to a small room that adjoined the kitchen. This would be my quarters for the next few days. It was no more than a concrete cell, a monastic cave with a single small window opening onto a dimly lit alleyway. The air inside was damp and chilly. The only furnishings were a low wooden table, a single chair, and a rope charpoy like the one I had slept on in Agra. A plastic knob by the door controlled the bare electric bulb that dangled over our heads.
    I unpacked my bag and had just finished arranging my Sanskrit and Pali books on the table when Ed walked in. He was accompanied by a man about my age with shaggy blond hair and brown eyes. Both he and Ed wore checkered lungis.
    â€œHey, Stanley.” He clapped me on one shoulder. “Welcome to Kashi. How was the trip?” He gestured in the direction of the other man. “This is Richard.”
    Richard flashed me a smile that made him appear both naïve and trustworthy. He had the kind of face you’d like to point to casually, from across a room, and say, that’s my friend . We exchanged greetings in the Indian fashion, palms raised together at the chest.
    â€œEd’s told me all ’bout you, mahn. You being a Sanskrit scholar an all.” He ducked his chin just a touch. “Very cool.”
    The British accent was unmistakable.
    â€œRichard’s a sitar-wala. We share the rent.” Ed looked around as if he were unsure what to say now that the initial greetings were over. “Okay, then . . . how about we go up top where it’s warm.”
    He turned and led the way up another flight of stairs that opened onto a flat roof.
    It was exceedingly pleasant on the roof, a large open area with views of the city in every direction. We sat together on a cotton dhari, soaking up the bright winter sunlight. The same woman who had answered the door soon reappeared bearing a stainless steel platter on which she had arranged three clay cups of yogurt, a small bunch of bananas, and three glasses of milky chai. Over the next few days I discovered that this woman did everything but clean the floors—an unacceptable task for someone not born a sweeper. For that they hired a boy who came every morning for half an hour and waddled around like a duck, squatting on his haunches and waving a damp cloth over the floor.
    Ed and Richard did pretty much nothing other than practice their instruments and go to lessons. They had been living like this for some eight years, immersed in a world of music and friends and conversation, a world where time was measured only by glasses of chai, all-night concerts, and the slow revolution of seasons. In March, when cool winter days edged toward the intolerable heat of summer, they packed up their instruments and retreated to a hill station somewhere in Himachal Pradesh, returning to the plains in August with the monsoon rains.
    Despite its obvious appeal, this privileged life was—by European or American standards—an austere, ascetic existence. They owned nothing but their instruments and a few pieces of clothing, ate simple vegetarian food prepared over a single-burner kerosene stove, and slept on straw mats rolled out on the floor. Hiring a cook actually saved them money, since—as an Indian woman—she could purchase food in