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.Piyush Ojha’s office.“What part of my email did you fail to grasp?” Mr.Ojha had shouted, pounding his fist on his metal desk as he spoke.Jason had tried to explain that all he wanted was some information, a little help finding Sriram’s family, maybe some thoughts about Bangalore World Systems, Mr.Ojha, standing now, damning Sriram, damning them all with a final metallic thump, asking, no demanding, that Jason get out of his bank immediately, assuring him the authorities would be summoned post haste.It went pretty much the way Ketan had predicted.“I wouldn’t call Piyush if I were you,” Ketan had warned him as they sat in the Pizza Corner.“He’s not dangerous, just a bit hysterical when it comes to BWS.”The advice had been good, he just didn’t listen.As he sat in the park, Jason wondered how accurate the rest of Ketan’s advice would prove to be.“Everybody at BWS got screwed when Sriram ran off, some more than others.It’s the core group that have the right to be the most pissed,” Ketan had said, running a paper napkin across his black goatee as he finished his pizza.“Attar Singh you met up in Jaipur.His family invested a lot in BWS.When it failed they blamed him personally.Disowned him.Vowed they’d get even, ruin him like he had ruined them.”“I don’t know.When I talked to him it sounded like he had made peace with it all, moved on.Some Kirsna-merska religious thing.”“Krishnamurti.A philosopher.And I don’t believe it.The rest of us just lost money.Attar lost his family.”“What about Manoj Plakal?” Jason had asked, thinking about the upcoming Happy Hour meeting he had arranged that morning.“Manny? Nice guy, wants to be everybody’s friend.But he was just a bit player.He’s not your problem.”“Who is?”Ketan had tossed the crumpled napkin on the table and looked straight into Jason’s eyes.“There’re two people you need to watch out for in India.The first is a guy up in Rajasthan.Ahmadabad, I think.Name’s Amrish Sharma.”“Taco?” Jason had asked, knowing the answer.If he was surprised, Ketan hadn’t shown it.“When he lost his investment he bankrupted his family.Unlike Attar, Taco’s family forgave him, but it did something to him, up here,” Ketan had said, tapping the side of his head with a hooked index finger.“But unless you go looking for him, he’s not likely to find you.”With his eyes closed tight against the bright white sun, Jason’s mind drifted away from his conversation with Ketan, back to the train station at Ahmadabad.He could still see the man’s face, the look of hatred in his eyes as he attacked, the look changing to terror as he hung in the air over the tracks.Between the pauses and the backtracking it had taken Jason ten minutes to explain the events of thirty seconds, Ketan nodding occasionally, Jason still not sure why.When Jason was finished, Ketan had waited a few moments before continuing his warning.“What did you think of Narvin Kumar?”Jason just smiled.“Listen, I know you stayed with him in Mumbai.He’s a charming guy, but he’s also very dangerous.”“The man is worth millions, Ketan.If it wasn’t for Sriram he might still be waiting for BWS to take off.And according to him, it was Sriram who got him into Bollywood.If anything he owes Sriram.”Ketan shook his head.“You don’t understand.When Sriram left he took….”“I know, I know, I heard all about it,” Jason had said, bored by the same accusations.“He stole their dream.He stole their fortunes.He ruined them.Sorry, Ketan, but it just doesn’t fit with Narvin.”“I guess it depends on what you value,” Ketan had said, standing, pushing his chair in, ready to leave.“Narvin was engaged at the time.A sweet girl, really beautiful.Her name was Vidya.” An hour later Jason was still in the park, relaxing in the shade, writing the postcards he had promised to send to family and friends in Corning, half of whom he was certain couldn’t find India on a map.He had bought the postcards—a variety pack of fifteen—from a kiosk near the park entrance, paying the extra hundred rupees for a five-rupee pen.He flipped through the cards, organizing them, stacking them in order from ones he’d send to ones he’d leave on the bench.The top card was a full-length shot of two barefoot women dressed in bright blue saris, backs to the camera, leading a small, naked toddler down a dusty trail.At first he thought about sending it to the women at the mortgage office, the kind of card that would get tacked up in the break room next to the postcards from Disney World and the typed reminder to keep the microwave clean.There’d be cold comments about the sweat-stained saris, a couple of jokes about future convenience store owners, and the longer he looked at the picture the less he wanted to send it.He’d get one of those peel-off magnetic strips and put it up on his refrigerator instead.The second postcard showed the entire front façade of the Palace of Winds.Jason held the postcard close to his nose, his eyes squinting as he tried to spy a backpack-stealing monkey on one of the red sandstone balconies.Given the angle, Jason realized the picture could have only been taken on the rooftop near where the monkey had sat snacking on a tube of toothpaste.The pink Hello Kitty strap had served as a daily reminder of the encounter but that had disappeared, along with another thief, out the open door of the speeding train.He decided to keep the card.Jason had seen hundreds of cows wandering the streets, but something about the cow on the third postcard seemed to capture the solemnity that the flower garlands and gold-painted horns inferred.So far he had done a good job avoiding the pervasive spirituality—he hadn’t seen the inside of a single temple or mosque, nor had he been pulled into any discussions about religion or faith.Just like at home.For years his only connections to religion were restricted to prayers for completed passes and ninth-inning home runs.But he had almost died—twice—on this trip.The cow postcard would be his reminder to stop ignoring the big questions that crept in late at night.There were trains in the background of the next two postcards.He thought about Rachel’s fictitious one-eyed grandfather and his dying wish that she keep the trains running, a neat, orderly explanation for her obsession.But there was little neat and nothing at all orderly about Rachel.Thanks to her, he’d never be able to look at a train the same way.He put the two postcards with the ones he knew he’d keep.He had a postcard-sized frame for the shot of the sunrise at a beach near Goa, and the one of the chai vendor’s stall would look good next to his coffee maker, the one of the auto-rickshaw perfect for the sun visor of his car.He set aside the postcards of the places he hadn’t seen—the Golden Temple at Amritsar, Victoria Monument in Calcutta, the Himalayas, the carved temples of Puri, the Ganges River at Varanasi, a leaping tiger on an unnamed game reserve—and was left with one final image.The Taj Mahal [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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