As a soldier, Yutsky didn’t seem the type with whom to share a “woo-woo” experience. But it was enough to know that Yutsky had come into his life.
Chapter Nine
India
July 1973
UPON LEAVING DELHI AIR TERMINAL, MAX WAS SURROUNDED BY porters, beggars, taxi drivers, would-be taxi cab drivers, pickpockets, and fellow travelers decked in a swarm of brightly colored clothing. He had to fight to keep control of his bag and after some stress was able to get a cab to the Ashoka Palace Hotel, one of the three luxury hotels in Delhi.
After a good night’s rest, he was ready to meet with the chief of cultural affairs, Projab Akbar, who was responsible for all foreign film projects shot in India. Upon entering the government center, Max was startled to see forty monkeys dressed in red suits, standing guard outside the main gate. It was just like a scene from the Wicked Witch’s castle in the Wizard of Oz, and these monkeys were no better than the witch’s minions, sweeping down on tourists and grabbing any food or small items they could.
Once past the monkey gauntlet, he made his way into the office of Projab Akbar, a portly man in his fifties. Akbar listened patiently to Max and explained that he would not be able to give permission for the film crew to enter the country unless he had a complete copy of the script—in triplicate—showing all the scenes to be filmed there.
Max tried to explain that there was no script, as they were shooting a documentary film. Projab just laughed.
“Well, then there will be no film,” he said. “You must at least give me the overall storyline, a list of locations, and what will be shown and said in each segment. Unless I have this script by 5:00 p.m. today, there is no way I can process the clearances you require.”
Undaunted, Max stood up.
“Thank you. I will get you a script and be back by 5:00 p.m.”
It was almost noon by the time Max returned to the Ashoka Palace. He knew all the locations and enough of the script to create the document being sought, but he had no typewriter, nor a copier to create the necessary duplicates.
He would have to work fast.
Max explained the nature of the project to the desk clerk, Shiva, who smiled and said that he was a proficient typist with access to one of the hotel’s backoffice typewriters.
By 3:00 p.m. Max had a finished script and thought he was home free. But when he explained that he needed three copies, Shiva informed him that at that time there were no copy machines in Delhi or, to his knowledge, in all of India. He did reassure Max, however, that he had a plan.
***
The taxi threaded its way into Old Delhi, past the cacophony of sounds emanating from the rickshaw drivers, the pedi-cycles, the bicycles, the cows, the horse-drawn carts, the tractors, the wooden trucks, the modern automobiles, the diesel-belching buses, and the countless pedestrians, many carrying huge burdens on their heads.
Suddenly, Shiva signaled the driver to stop in front of a nondescript photography store. Max was a little uncertain but followed his guide through the door. Minutes later it was explained that this shop had an old-fashioned, 8” x 10” camera. They would take pictures of each page of his document and then develop them in the chemicals in the darkroom in the back of the shop.
Within forty minutes, Max would have the three perfect copies, ready to present to the government.
***
Max entered Projab’s office at precisely 4:59. The official was pleased and yet surprised to see him and was even more surprised when Max presented him with the three copies of the “shooting script.”
“I will review this and in two days will contact you to tell you if this will be sufficient for the granting of permission for your crew and equipment to enter India,” he said pleasantly. “If you are approved, you will have a film observer assigned to you.”
With great relief, Max hurried back to his hotel, collected his belongings, and then took a flight to Pakistan, where he was to set up arrangements for filming in Lahore.
He would have to work fast, for he now had to be back in Delhi the following day and would have to condense the two days he had allocated for Pakastani location scouting into one.
Despite the rush, he was happy to sit back on the aircraft and take a breath. He reflected on the amazing serendipity of meeting Maria and Yutsky, and while he felt deeply connected to both of them, he didn’t think it likely he would ever even see either of them again.
It was ironic, really, that he was working on a film entitled In Search of Ancient Mysteries, for his own experience seemed to be evolving into an important journey of personal discovery. He had no idea what was around each corner, and the intrigue both excited and stimulated him.
Max felt alive with possibilities of what the future might hold.
Chapter Ten
Keeper of the Fifteenth Century
July 1973
MAX QUICKLY ASCERTAINED WHAT THERE WAS TO BE FILMED IN Lahore and spent the rest of the day taking in the exotic city with more donkeys and rickshaws than cars or buses on the main thoroughfares.
However, he was anxious to get back to Delhi as quickly as possible, to make certain that his shooting script had been approved, and the crew and equipment would be cleared for entry. So he took the first available flight back to India and settled into his hotel to await word.
The next day Max was delighted to learn from Projab that the film commission had approved the script and had assigned a government film official to ensure that the local laws were observed during filming. He also learned that it was forbidden to film bridges, beggars, or the railway stations, and if they didn’t abide by this law, all film would be confiscated, and the crew would be deported.
One of the locations—the National Museum of India in New Delhi—required permission from the museum director himself, and this letter of authorization had to be presented to Projab the following day.
“To my knowledge he has never granted permission for any crew to film in the National Museum, so I doubt that you will be successful,” he told Max. Something in the way he said it insinuated that he might be able to override the museum director . . . under the right circumstances.
Max had been aware from his very first dealings that money talked and also opened doors. He was reluctant to go that route, however, and was determined to do everything on the up-and-up. So far, he had been successful and had more or less charmed his way through several potentially difficult situations.
He didn’t expect this one to be any different.
Thus armed with his ideas, he set out for the museum. Upon arrival he explained his mission to the guards at the entrance, and they helped guide him past the beggars and street hawkers, taking him to the special entrance reserved for employees and those on official business.
The museum was vast and represented more than twenty centuries of civilization on the great subcontinent of India. Each area was marked by its timeline, and Max was told that the custodians of each period were assigned the title of keeper. He found it amusing that a single human being might be responsible for an entire century of history and civilization.
Everywhere he went he was entranced by the contents of the museum, and as he sat in the anteroom outside the director’s office, he nervously contemplated how he might convince the director to grant permission to film.
“You may go in now,” the cheerful receptionist told Max as she adjusted her sari. A few seconds later Max was sitting in front of a tall, impressive man in his sixties, with a white beard and glasses.
This was V.S. Naipul. He had been the museum director for more than twenty years, and as they spoke Max could tell that he still had the same intellectual curiosity that had made him a formidable scholar on his path to his much-coveted position. His eyes emanated wisdom and knowledge.
“Our policy is not to allow filming of any kind in this museum,” he explained in a matter-of-fact way. “Our antiquities are quite delicate, and we cannot allow any to be moved unnecessarily, as it could create dama
ge that would be impossible to repair.
“Our mission is to preserve our antiquities for the benefit of scholars and the Indian public,” he continued. “Why, then, should we allow you to film?”
Max weighed his words carefully.
“I am not sure that you should allow us to film,” he said frankly. “As I walked through the museum to meet with you today, I noticed how extraordinary and delicate many of the exhibits are.
“I studied literature and anthropology at Yale University and did much research in the rare book library on campus. Like yours, Yale’s policy was not to allow photography of any kind. However, we would on rare occasions make exceptions. I believe that our project, In Search of Ancient Mysteries, may merit such an exception for your museum.”
“And why, exactly? What is so special about your film?” V.S. Naipul pressed.
“Part of the goal of our film is to show the advanced technologies of ancient civilizations,” Max said with total candor and honesty. “Our research indicates that there are ancient Sanskrit texts here in your museum that document the existence of ancient flying machines in India centuries ago. We want to film those texts and interview experts who might be able to confirm that such flying machines actually existed.”
A smile brightened Naipul’s face.
“I am a Sanskrit scholar, and I have read the texts you describe. The knowledge of flying machines in India goes back more than one thousand years. The only texts we have documenting our ancient flying machines here in our museum are from the fifteenth century, but I have personal knowledge of other ancient texts in which there are many references to the design and capabilities of such devices.”
He went on to tell Max that he had studied at Oxford and was always ridiculed by his fellow scholars when he declared that the first flying machines were not developed at Kitty Hawk in the United States, but in India. He confirmed that the museum’s texts contained diagrams, but he said that Max would need the approval of the keeper of the fifteenth century to move and open the texts without damaging them. If such permission were gained, he said he would make an exception to his general policy and permit them to film.
Excitement grew in Max, as he realized that he was on the verge of an important breakthrough. But time was of the essence, since the permissions letter had to be filed the very next day.
The keeper of the fifteenth century was summoned, and when he arrived, he was introduced to Max as “B.N.”
A man in his mid-twenties but prematurely gray, B.N. was soft-spoken and had a very gentle quality. He had studied at Boston University in the United States and had taken many courses in advanced mathematics and anthropology, while pursuing his advanced degree in archaeology.
Coincidentally, he had studied under professors who had also studied with professors at Yale. Max had, in turn, studied under those same professors.
It seemed like an intellectual family reunion.
The museum was closed, and B.N. was free to show Max the entire hall of fifteenth-century exhibits without interruption. The manuscript to be filmed was in good condition, and it wouldn’t be a problem to open the pages that referred to the ancient flying machines in order to reveal the diagrams.
He reassured Max that he would make certain that V.S. would provide the necessary permission letter, which Max would be able to pick up the following afternoon. Then he invited Max to accompany him to his home for dinner.
“I know my family would enjoy meeting you,” he said warmly. Then he added, “We will have to take the train.”
***
It seemed to Max as if everyone in Delhi was at the station. B.N. navigated through the crowds, found his train, and made his way to a compartment that had eight reserved seats. Six other upper-class Brahmins like B.N. were already seated, and he greeted them all as if he knew them from countless commutes.
The less fortunate commuters sat outside the compartment on the floor of the train, and there were even those clinging to the top of the train, holding on for dear life as it lurched forward, stopping and starting every five to ten minutes.
From the compartment window Max could see fields and workers coming home to the small towns along the way. It was like going back in time a century, or perhaps more.
When they exited the train forty minutes later, they were in a small town with dirt streets. There were scores of children riding bicycles and playing Kick the Can and other games. The children were intrigued by Max and his light skin—many rubbed it to see if he was painted this odd white-pink, and underneath there was the browner color of their own bodies.
B.N. joked with the children, and turned to Max to explain.
“Even though we are just twenty miles outside of New Delhi, you are the first white person these children have ever seen. They think it is some kind of trick and that you cannot really be that white.
“Others wonder if you are ill. Our schools are primitive in this town, and except for my family and the other Brahman families, the children of this village are quite isolated. They have no knowledge of the rest of the world. They’ve never even heard of America.”
After a fifteen-minute walk along the dusty but lilac-lined street, B.N. and Max proceeded through the gate to the family compound. The single-story house was sprawling and boasted a large courtyard. There was a vast outside porch area on three sides, with chairs, tables, and sleeping hammocks. Presently it was occupied by more than twenty men.
An equal, or greater, number of women lived in the compound, B.N. explained, but they were all either in the kitchen helping to prepare the food or relaxing in the large gathering rooms inside the dwelling.
B.N. introduced Max to his entire family—his wife and young daughter, his father, and a multitude of other relatives. Each was clothed in simple, white traditional Indian garments, and all wore contented smiles. As Max was asked question after question, in impeccable English, he came to realize that despite the seeming humility of the surroundings, this was a group of powerful and knowledgeable men. They were all professionals, ranging from architects to professors and engineers with the highest levels of education, and many had traveled abroad for their studies and work.
Toward the end of the evening Max was sitting in the open courtyard being served tea by the women, when he entered a dialogue with B.N.’s Uncle Gupta, a slim, fit, fifty-year-old who had lived in England and studied philosophy at Oxford University. He was a true intellect with an advanced degree in architecture from Cambridge University, as well as a degree in economics from the London School of Economics.
At the relatively young age of thirty-five, he had become the administrative director of the University of Delhi. B.N. deferred to him, as did his five brothers, and they always sought out Uncle Gupta’s advice when dealing with matters of career, politics, or economics.
He was the first person with whom Max had enjoyed the opportunity to discuss the intricacies of Spinoza, Whitehead, and his other favorite philosophers since Yale had banned him from studying philosophy.
Max also shared with Uncle Gupta an incident that had happened the previous day, while he was being interviewed by a reporter for the Hindustan Times, the largest English-language newspaper in India.
He hadn’t sought out the interview, but the concierge at his hotel—upon learning of Max’s film project—had considered it newsworthy and called in the reporter. Max had tried to explain to him that he wasn’t even in charge of the film, but the concierge had refused to listen.
“You are such a foolish man,” he said. “It is clear from your aura that you are the person in charge. This film cannot happen without you.” Despite Max’s protests, he had continued.
“I deal with the most powerful men in the world, and I can assure you that you are a very special man. In fact, I can see from your aura that you have no karma at all but are here on a special mission for the benefit of others.”
Gupta laughed when Max reported the conversation but then startled Max with his next comment.
; “I am not sure why he bothered to tell you all this,” Gupta said, “but for what it is worth, it is true. I, too, can read your aura, and there is little doubt that you truly were karma-free at birth and are a man of destiny.
“However, do not let this go to your head. Even with a karma-free birth, you are responsible for your actions while here, and no doubt you have created some karma along the way. I am not an expert in these matters and pay little attention to them since I find this present life challenging and exciting on its own merits. I do not think you need to trouble yourself with such philosophies. Just continue to focus on your work, and you will live a long and productive life.”
After that, Max felt comfortable enough to share with Gupta his experience with Maria. As they continued to discuss the nature of time and space, Max tried to apply what they were theorizing to what he had experienced.
“Does that moment I experienced still exist? Were Maria and I meant to share a lifetime together? For that matter, are we actually sharing such a lifetime as we speak?”
“In a word, yes,” Gupta replied. “Such moments do exist forever, but if you are not with her now, and circumstances do not permit you to be with her in the future, you need not concern yourself with it. The experience you had was a déjà vu of what has already transpired. It is not an indication of a future life and need not be pursued.”
Max was a bit shocked at Gupta’s practical approach but was impressed by his wisdom and sought to ascertain how he felt about other seemingly mystical occurrences.
He considered sharing his near-death experience, and the revelation of the twelve names but instead decided to ask Gupta how he felt about yogis and gurus who were becoming popular in the United States.
“A true yogi can travel anywhere in the universe,” Gupta explained. “I have known such yogis, and they are quite remarkable. They do not publicize their abilities, and they do not try to make money by doing tricks.”
The Twelve Page 9
