Season of Sacrifice

by Bharti Kirchner

  TWENTY-ONE

  Two days later, when Maya arrived home in the afternoon, she saw Uma’s handwritten note on the coffee table: See you around 7 p.m., dear.

  The television was on in the living room; the authoritative voice of an anchorwoman announced the local news. Uma, in her hurry, must have forgotten to turn the set off before she left the house. And she had reasons to be in a hurry. A friend had come by to pick her up. Maya had given her mother the gift of a spa treatment to erase the effect of that menacing, rock-throwing mishap: massage, facial, manicure and pedicure, the whole works. Uma would never spend money on herself and Maya knew she would enjoy the pampering, especially when a buddy of hers was getting the same treatment. Later, Uma would troop to the home of a family friend in Redmond for a soirée. The Chaurasias had planned a reception for a visiting violinist from India. Maya was invited, too, and would meet her mother there.

  ‘According to the police report, an elderly man was struck by a hit-and-run white sedan this evening at the corner of Winona and Aurora Avenue. The unidentified man wore a burgundy robe and a bystander stated he was a local spiritual teacher.’ Maya rushed to the television set and turned up the volume. ‘Witnesses report seeing the car hit the man as he attempted to cross Aurora. He was taken to the Harborview Medical Center, where his condition is believed to be critical.’

  Maya stood watching the screen in horror. A burgundy-robed elderly man? Over on Aurora? Guru Padmaraja? A video was now up on the screen, showing the intersection where the accident occurred. Police vehicles and an ambulance had arrived on the scene.

  A ripple of fear ran across the back of Maya’s neck. So many things were happening, so many violent things to people involved with Sylvie.

  She left a message on the Chaurasias’ phone, saying she’d be late for the party, jogged to her car and drove to Harborview, all the while feeling a tightness in her chest. At the front desk, she asked to see the patient, Mr Padmaraja.

  ‘Are you a friend or family?’ the receptionist asked.

  ‘Family,’ she said untruthfully, feeling terrible but she had no choice. She would get nowhere without a blood tie.

  A nurse’s aide came forward, took Maya aside and whispered, ‘The patient is in ICU. You may go there.’

  In the intensive care unit, Maya held her breath as she stepped to the front workstation. The walls were an emotionless white, the floor polished to an unnatural sheen, and the strong smell of cleaning fluid gave off a feeling of sterility. Even the vase of red carnations at the desk provided no feeling of relief.

  ‘I’m here to see Mr Padmaraja, the man who was hit by a car. We’re related.’

  The receptionist peered over her glasses at Maya, looked down at her computer screen, picked up her phone, punched in a number and waited.

  Maya tried not to tap her fingers on the countertop.

  A tall, slender nurse appeared and said in a somber voice, ‘I’m sorry, miss, but Mr Padmaraja passed away a few minutes ago.’

  The words arrested Maya’s response. She stood, staring at the woman.

  ‘Would you like to sit down?’

  Through her sealed throat, Maya thanked the nurse and turned away.

  As she walked to her car, her mind raced and she kept looking over her shoulders. Why hadn’t she thought to ask what would happen to the guru’s body? And had there been any other visitors at the hospital? If so, who?

  In less than half an hour, she reached home and sat alone on the sofa in her living room, hoping the familiar sounds, aromas and objects would help her cope. They didn’t.

  Her fingers fluttered as she punched Samuel’s number into her cellphone. No answer. She stared blankly out the window, uneasiness nibbling at her heart.

  The doorbell chimed. She rose and looked through the peephole: Atticus. Wordlessly, she opened the door and studied him for a second as he stood on her porch. His clothes were creased, shoulders contracted. The usual sour expression had morphed into one of dreadful resignation.

  She steered him into the living room. ‘Ma has gone to a party in Redmond.’

  He slumped on the sofa. She took the high-back chair.

  He stared at her over the globe-shaped bouquet of purple hydrangeas placed on the table between them. Then he slapped his forehead, muttering, ‘My God … My God … My worst fears realized. Our beloved guru … has departed this world. I called the hospital and …’

  ‘I only got back from Harborview five minutes ago,’ Maya said softly.

  Atticus gaped at her.

  Maya conveyed the details of her visit, her voice almost inaudible at times. ‘Aurora Avenue,’ she said in conclusion. ‘There you run into drugs, prostitution, mugging and heavy traffic. You see vandalized businesses. And you meet street people, although they’re the least of the problems. Not exactly the kind of sanctuary a meditation master would seek out. Do you suppose the guru wasn’t on that street for his prayer walk?’

  ‘Now that I think of it, Samuel did mention an appointment a man had made with the guru. Maybe he’d asked the guru to meet him there and asked for his help, acting like a troubled soul.’

  ‘Could it be he figured the police would really believe some old man stepped onto a busy intersection at dusk and the driver didn’t see him until it was too late?’ Maya said. ‘Then, to avoid dealing with their negligence, the driver drove off? Doesn’t it sound plausible, especially in that part of town?’

  ‘It does.’ Grief stiffened Atticus’ face. ‘Damn it. Only later I found out Samuel had to pick up a relative from the airport, so the guru had to go alone. I only wish I’d known about it. I’d have gone with him. Our guru, I hope, will forgive from wherever he is.’

  Atticus went mute, his eyes wild with concern and his forehead etched with strain, as though he was about to be sick. Maya, too, felt queasy. She went into the kitchen, gulped some chilled water and fetched him a tall glass of the same.

  He held the glass. ‘I’m just so overwhelmed, like a five-hundred-pound gorilla is pressing down on me, like I’m coming down with a fever. I’ve never been more unsettled in my life except … when my father died.’ He placed the empty glass on the coffee table, nodded to Maya in thanks and stretched out his legs.

  ‘What I find most disturbing … I might as well share this with you,’ Maya said. ‘It’s been about three weeks since the two self-immolations. We now have two more deaths: Tara Martin, which I believe was a copycat incident, and the guru.’

  Eyes on the floor, Atticus remained quiet, the silence of iron.

  ‘Atticus, I haven’t known you a long time but I’m working on this case on your behalf. After meeting with the guru I’d developed respect for him. And now we’re faced with this tragedy. Can it get any worse? I suppose you’re reluctant to speak out, and I completely understand that, but please … I need your cooperation to do what you’ve assigned me to do. Who knows who’ll get hurt next?’

  Atticus clenched and unclenched his hands, then raised his eyes and gave her a piercing look. ‘OK, it’s difficult for me to talk about this but I’ll tell you what I’ve figured out … what came as a shock to me, and … will be to you, too. Our guru – and I will love and respect him forever – might have been indirectly responsible for Sylvie’s death.’

  Maya started. ‘How so?’

  Atticus clutched at the arm of his chair.

  ‘Atticus?’ Maya softened the excitement in her voice. ‘Please. Why do you think the guru might have been responsible?’

  ‘Indirectly,’ Atticus said pointedly.

  ‘OK. Indirectly.’

  ‘During Sylvie’s last visit to him, he passed her a video to watch. You might be wondering, what’s the big deal?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Well, the deal is this. It was quite common for the guru to distribute videos and magazine articles to us. He wanted his students to deepen their understanding of spiritual matters but this was different. Sylvie told me during our last phone conversation that she’d received a
video from the guru and she would watch it that night. She wouldn’t tell me any more about it and for some reason it niggled me. After Sylvie’s death, I went to visit the guru and got him into a conversation about that video. He eventually gave me the title.’

  ‘I’d like to know it.’

  ‘Burn Give Live is what it’s called. The very title gives me goosebumps.’

  ‘Burn Give Live,’ Maya echoed. ‘It’s shocking that the guru would give a video with such a title to Sylvie. Did you try to get a copy?’

  ‘Yes. After I got home I logged on to the Internet. The video turned out to be a limited-edition product directly related to Tibet’s political and human rights issues, supplied by a small outfit no longer in business. It incites people to engage in political protests to help the cause of Tibet’s freedom even to the point of self-immolation. The guru had wanted Sylvie to watch it alone, secretly and multiple times.’

  ‘Alone, secretly and multiple times? That wasn’t my impression of the guru.’

  ‘Please don’t form a negative impression of him, only look at it from his viewpoint. When Sylvie confided to the guru about her intention to take her own life, at first he tried to talk her out of it. But, ultimately, he couldn’t convince her. She wouldn’t budge. She sat there, shaking her head, and he understood she was serious. Being practical, the guru quickly devised a plan in his mind that’d help the cause of Tibet. He gave the video to Sylvie. In the weeks that followed, she watched it over and over again and I suspect it made a deep groove in her psyche about the situation of her birthplace.’

  Maya sat, disgusted, horrified. A truck roared at a distance, the noise shaking her more than usual. ‘I’m disappointed you didn’t tell me any of this earlier.’ After a pause, she continued, ‘Did you try reaching Sylvie during the last few weeks of her life?’

  ‘Yes, of course, frantically. Something didn’t sound right with her. I must have tried a dozen times but got no answer. It was close to midnight on a weekend when I gave up and went to the grocery store, where I got beaten up by a gang. You know the rest of my horror story.’

  Maya nodded.

  ‘In the following weeks,’ Atticus continued, ‘being in constant pain and discomfort, having no one to take care of my needs, not to mention the reduction of income and temporary loss of mobility, I forced myself to focus on matters other than Sylvie. Then, one morning, I woke up early and checked my iPhone, only to find Sylvie’s text; she’d announced her wish to self-immolate. I was stunned. The message had come a few hours earlier. I barely managed to get myself to the site of her self-immolation. I stayed quiet throughout the ceremony to respect her wishes.’

  ‘You didn’t have to stay quiet.’ Maya locked eyes with Atticus and leaned forward. ‘Not when you were right there and could have helped rescue her. She was young and brilliant, with a lot left to do, with so many malaria sufferers to help, and she had a loving family. You knew something was wrong, yet—’

  ‘You don’t understand.’ The muscles in Atticus’ face twitched. ‘Maybe you will when you’re a little older.’

  Maya shook her head but Atticus wouldn’t allow her to interrupt.

  ‘I didn’t realize how bad things had become for her,’ Atticus resumed. ‘I so regret not acting much sooner, for only selfishly thinking about my own well-being. I’m not saying watching the video had everything to do with Sylvie’s decision or the method she chose, but it was a factor. There was much in her life I didn’t know about and I still don’t.’

  Maya shifted her position, hardly able to accept Atticus’ lack of concern for a woman he’d considered a friend and a spiritual sister. But she guessed his idea of friendship and sisterhood would be vastly different from her own. Still, she needed to better understand Sylvie’s behavior, aware at the same time she wouldn’t get more information by insulting Atticus.

  ‘I’d like to go back to the time before Sylvie’s visit to the guru,’ she said, trying to take the venom out of her voice and changing the direction she’d been going with Atticus. ‘The time when she first started thinking about ending her life. A key question is what really drove her to that decision in the first place?’

  ‘You got me beat.’ Atticus sat back, his gaze at a distant point. ‘During that period, she seemed to drag through her days. All I can think of is she’d suffered a tremendous loss.’

  Maya rolled the facts around in her mind. Sylvie, a sensitive soul, affected by the littlest things. Like if a moth flew into a flame somewhere far away, she’d sense that and breathe harder. She must have been so stung by an incident that she saw no point in going on living.

  The silence between them hung overhead like a sharp blade.

  ‘It seems a bit coincidental that she also changed the method of execution of her suicide,’ Maya said, ‘suddenly becoming a big advocate of Tibet because that was an acceptable way for her to channel her grief. Being a Tibetan adoptee, and given that she was going to kill herself anyway, she made it a horrific public event to draw attention to the Tibetan demand for freedom. Correct?’

  Atticus nodded, a painful admission of sorts.

  Maya looked down at her hands. The bracelet. She saw it now, an ornament of solid gold rolling down from Sylvie’s blazing arm to the street, eventually hitting the pavement with a thud. Sylvie must have wanted to leave the bracelet for her beloved mother, to pass a secret message to her family about the personal nature of what she was about to do.

  ‘How she must have felt, knowing what she’d go through, and yet she set it up just right,’ Maya said. ‘The Chinese foreign minister’s visit came in handy. She burned herself in front of the minister’s residence, making the Tibetan demand more symbolic, more alive, more newsworthy.’

  ‘You got it.’

  Maya, feeling sick, went silent for a moment, then spoke again. ‘It’s painful to have to dig into Sylvie’s past and, as of yet, I haven’t been able to put every puzzle piece in its place. Such as the role played by Anna, as well as Sylvie’s co-conspirator, Sunglasses Man. He stood right behind her, gave her a lit match and a few instructions, then walked away. Who was he and why did he assist her?’

  ‘For the nth plus one time, I didn’t see any Sunglasses Man.’

  ‘Are you sure for the nth plus one time?’

  Atticus looked anemic, his face and lips turning ashen. Maya rose, retreated to the kitchen and stood by the sink, where she stared at a tender basil plant growing on her windowsill. She prepared a mug of spearmint tea and returned to the living room.

  Atticus took a swallow of the tea and sat deeper in the sofa. ‘You mustn’t start seeing our guru in a poor light because of what I disclosed.’

  ‘Let me be honest with you, Atticus. You’re grieving and I respect that. I, too, am grieving the guru’s sudden death. Still, it makes me furious that he would exploit Sylvie in that manner. It’s despicable. It’s a crime.’

  ‘Crime?’ Atticus said mockingly. ‘You must try to think more selflessly. You obviously don’t understand or care about the desperation Tibetans feel. How many more lives will it take? Tibetans constantly ask but never get any answer. They speak about being in the depth of darkness, undergoing a fire torture, with no light or sound, only feeling the intense pain of burning.’

  ‘You’re saying the end justifies the means. As if no regard needs to be paid to the individual’s rights and wishes. In my humble opinion, the individual matters.’

  ‘We make too much out of an individual, the “I, me, selfie” generation. We forget the larger society.’

  ‘What’s society made of if not individual people? Can you harm a person and justify it in the name of the society?’ Maya had far more to say but she held it inside so as not to antagonize Atticus. She stared at the bookcase.

  Atticus went quiet for a moment, as though interrogating his own beliefs, as though traversing a murky gray zone he’d rather leave behind as quickly as possible. ‘We’ll have to continue this debate another time.’ He pushed himself out of the sofa.
‘I have to get in touch with the members of my meditation class, in case they haven’t heard.’

  Maya walked him to the door.

  ‘I’ll call you and Mashima if I hear any more,’ he said, warmth evident in his voice.

  Despite the arguments, she felt less doubtful of him. They’d finally formed a bond; the guru had been the bridge between them. ‘Please keep me in the loop,’ she said softly.

  ‘Righto.’ Atticus sighed. ‘Our center might have to close down. End of an era. End of an important phase of my life. Only hope is our guru has found peace. At least he won’t have to deal with constant police surveillance.’

  Police surveillance. The two words brought Justin to Maya’s mind. Yes, the authorities must have been watching the guru since Sylvie’s death. Now that he’d died, not from natural causes but from a hit-and-run, perhaps Justin would finally admit that there was more to Sylvie’s suicide than he’d believed.

  Maya watched Atticus slowly descend the porch steps, then returned to the living room. Gloom had settled over the sitting area. Even the bright red throw pillows on the sofa appeared dull. The guru’s death had given her another wake-up call. The negligent driving pointed to the possible involvement of a criminal element.

  What should she do next?

  Forget the reception. A visit to a cop might be in order. And, in many ways, cops still meant Justin to her, a guardian of the law and protector, an investigator always kind toward the victim’s family. As a law enforcement officer involved in the Sylvie case, he would have speculations about the ‘accident,’ would he not?

  In the bedroom, Maya changed into a light blue cardigan, a pair of jeans and low-heeled shoes, and smoothed her hair. She scooped up her cellphone, first punched in the Chaurasias’ number and left her regrets, saying she wouldn’t make it to the party. Then she punched in Justin’s number and got his voicemail. How could she wait under such circumstances? He should be home by now. Or would he be spending the evening with Jennifer?

  Maya drew a pink lipstick over her lips, got into her car, drove through the intermittent light rain and rang Justin’s bell. The lights were on. It was a miracle of miracles that he was home this early.