The PuppetMaster by Andrew L. MacNair Page A

“Perhaps I won’t leave. Maybe I will just live in Varanasi forever and always be known as Bhim.”
    She looked genuinely shocked. “You would do that? Never return to your homeland? Never take your true name again. What is that by the way, your real name?”
    I felt my shield going up. “It is Martin Scott, Jatana-Sukshmi, but you shouldn’t call me that. I prefer Bhim.”
    “Cool. Bhimaji it will be. But I for one would be very bored hanging in this stale, old city. Too few places to dance. Too many dead bodies, not enough live ones.”
    I laughed for the first time. She was on the mark with that. Varanasi was known for many things. Night-clubbing wasn’t one of them.
    “Mumbai has the tops, you know. The Blue Fox has a back-spinning DJ that cranks out the hippest cuts until three in the morning? Max styled. And on the weekends they have live bands. You should hear them. Maybe we can meet there some time.” I wasn’t keen on the path this conversation was taking. Religion, now dancing? Politics might be next. I wanted to talk about Sanskrit poets. How Kalidasa, described the morning sun splintering into gold and turquoise as it passed through the tails of peacocks. I wanted to tell her of snows glistening like pearls along the mountain paths, and the symphony of bees as they sipped the nectar of lotuses. She wanted to dance . . . to techno.
    Maumed brought Sukshmi a cocktail concocted from no less than eight ingredients with the implausible name, Blue Mongoose. I sipped the smoothie and winced as the screech of the microphone jack pierced the air, and knew—with a clairvoyance Sahr would have been proud of—what was to follow. A simplistic, synthesized beat cranked through a bass that would knock a lighter man off his stool. I gripped the edge of the bar and waited uneasily through the two seconds it took for her say, “Come on, Bhimaji. Let’s show these flat-footed clowns how to really dance.” I was jerked from the relative comfort of my stool onto the parquet floor like a goat being lead to sacrifice.
    Three agonizing songs later—if they can be referred to that way—and we were once again seated in front of Maumed. I was dripping with perspiration and shaking from some undetermined palsy. Our bartender set a fresh smoothie in front of me accompanied by a wink.
    Sukshmi tapped the straw of her Blue Whatchamacallit, and said, “You dance well, Bhim. A bit stiff with your arms, but your feet really boogie.” I looked at those feet and then at the eyes behind the tinted glasses, searching for a shred of truth in what she was saying.
    “Thank you, Sukshmi, but to be honest, I love my exercise, but really don’t dance much anymore, especially to . . . what did you say the name of this group is?”
    “Randy Dogs.”
    “Of course, Randy Dogs. I prefer the older tunes, a different genre.”
    “Like hip-hop?”
    “No, like classic rock.” I saw the disappointment behind the lenses. She had enough manners not to say “Ick.” I continued. “I used to dance a lot. Really. The Eagles, The Band, Allman Brothers, those sorts of groups, the ones that harmonized and had really good guitar players. Too few of them these days.”
    “You are far too young for those groups. They are prehistoric. So, why did you stop? You should still dance, Bhimaji. It cleanses the soul better than baths in that filthy river.” Her chin jutted in the general direction of the Ganges a few hundred meters to the east.
    With a sigh I answered, “I just stopped, that’s all. It was like a lot of things I decided not to do anymore.”
    “Like using the name Martin? And what other things did you decide to stop?” It was one of those probing questions I usually avoided in some clever way, fearing a discussion of my past, but there had been a subtle shift in her voice, a tone of tenderness. As I spun on my stool to face her, I saw that she had removed her glasses and was peering at me with an expression of curious concern. Her eyes