“You know what is the meaning of ‘phenomenal distinction’?” Shah asked.
“Something like differentiating between the look of things.”
“Not just look. Also sound, odor, flavor, touch,” Shah said. He waved his hand in the direction of the nightclubs. “Better to leave behind all phenomenal distinctions. Like those.”
Did Shah suspect something? Dwight said, “But that’s the way things are.”
“You mean reality?”
“More or less.”
“No, that is only appearance.”
And Dwight thought: In the idlest conversation in India, wading through platitudes, deep water was never far off. He said, “You are making the usual big distinction between appearance and reality.”
Shah wagged his head, but it didn’t mean yes. He started to speak but had to pause, because the music was deafening. When they had passed that noisy doorway, he resumed, saying, “Both appearance and reality are merely names.”
“That’s a quibble,” Dwight said. “Of course they’re names.”
“But reality is many-sided,” Shah said.
Dwight slowed his pace again, and made a face, and said, “Never heard that one before.”
“Is Jain, also Buddhist concept.” He looked for a reaction on Dwight’s face before adding, “I am eclectic in spiritual matters. My Mahavira was a contemporary of Buddha. Both preached about karma. You know karma.”
“Karma is a kind of luck, eh?”
“Not luck. Karma is deeds. Karma is particles that can build up by wrong action. Especially passion.”
The mention of passion would have made Dwight suspicious, even defensive, except that Indians were always mentioning it. Meat was a cause of it, and so was alcohol and loose women.
“You’re saying karma is matter?”
“Indeed so. It is almost visible. Better not to allow the mind to dwell on worldly thoughts. The world gives false messages, distracts with sounds, odors, flavors. Touching, too, can be harmful, a way of acquiring karmans.”
What was he driving at, and why now? Dwight put it down to this sleazy neighborhood of clubs and bars and obvious lowlife. He said, “Just—do what then?”
“Develop a clear pure mind by not accepting appearances of things. And observe the Three Jewels.” He used his fingers, flipping one upright and then the others. “Right belief. Right knowledge. Right conduct.”
“That’s deep,” Dwight said. “I should tell the partners.”
“It would do them much good.”
“I mean, we could include it in that seminar they want to give about doing business in India.”
Shah nodded, but his nod seemed to mean “maybe.” He said, “Seminar is a practical matter. I have myself created a packet of materials for helping to understand business practices here.”
“A business manual?”
“Let us say guidelines.”
They were still walking. The Taj was ahead, its distinctive entrance, the palms, the perimeter walls that were meant to keep panhandlers away, the big bearded Sikh in his topheavy turban, his gold braid and frock coat, saluting a departing guest.
“Ever been to the States?”
“Not yet.”
“You know what I think?” Dwight said. “You should go to the States, not me. You can run the seminar. They’re holding it at a great hotel in Boston. Wonderful food and hospitality. The weather’s perfect at this time of year. They’ll look after you. And it’s money. The people who attend are all potential clients.”
“I cannot,” Shah said, but what made it unconvincing was his smile, the activity behind his eyes: he was reflecting with pleasure on going to the States. Dwight had seen that look on the faces of other Indians, a glow of anticipation at the very mention of America.
“You’re perfect. You’ve got all the papers lined up.”
“Packet of materials,” Shah said.
“The guidelines! This is a big deal for the firm. They see it as a way of attracting clients, easing them into thinking about outsourcing. We’re not giving away any secrets, just intending to convince them that we know what we’re talking about.”
“The attendees?”
“Yeah. Show them our track record. Sign them up.”
Though he did not say anything just then, Shah had become animated, his face twitching with interest as he’d listened. Dwight could tell when Shah was thinking: his thought process was observable as a subtle throbbing of veins beneath his features.
“How will you manage here?”
“I’ll be fine. You’ve been a great teacher. You’ve given me lots of wisdom. ‘Don’t accept the appearances of things.’ That’s great.”
“It is from Diamond Sutra,” Shah said.
The word “diamond” caught his attention, and he squinted at Shah.
“The idea of fundamental reality is merely name only. Material world is not material. Money is not money. World is not world.”
“Right,” Dwight said uncertainly.
“Words cannot express truth,” Shah said. “That which words express is not truth.”
“You just lost me.” But he thought, Yes, words were not enough.
Now they were at the driveway of the hotel, well lighted, the tall sturdy Sikh doorman opening the door of an expensive car to allow a little man in a dark suit to step out.
“Come to dinner at my home,” Shah said. “It will be a humble meal, but your presence will do us a great honor.”
5
Instead of going up to the Elephanta Suite, Dwight lingered in the lobby, and when he was certain that Shah was on his way home, he signaled for the Sikh to hail him a taxi, and he went to Chowpatty—not the lane, but nearby. He didn’t want anyone to know the address, not even a taxi driver.
Inside, the stairwell reeked of urine and garbage. A rat on the stairs was not startled by his stamping but only crouched and became compact, twitching its whiskers in a way that reminded Dwight of Shah’s active thinking. It was a familiar rat—you got to recognize them, Dwight thought; the stinks, too. Or was it all false? Appearances were meaningless, phenomenal distinctions were misleading, and this great smelly cloud of shit was just an illusion.
Indru’s outer door was made of rusted iron grating like the slammer on a prison cell, for security and for the air, though the air was sour even here on the third-floor landing.
She had heard him. She approached the door holding a circular brass tray with a flame burning in a dish of oil. And while Padmini unlocked the steel door and swung it open and made a namaste with her clasped hands, Indru passed the flame under Dwight’s chin and applied a dot of paste to his forehead.
“You are welcome,” Indru said.
He kicked off his shoes and followed her to the second room. It was open to the alley, the TV sets of the neighbors, the smell of spices and boiled vegetables, the whine of traffic, horns beeping, distant music that always seemed to evoke for Dwight an atmosphere of strangulation.
“Don’t put the light on,” he said. “Just keep that candle.”
“Deepak,” Indru said. “Is how we make pure the air. Shall I wash feet?”
“That would be very nice.”
Somehow Padmini had heard. She brought a basin of warm water and a cloth and set it down before him. Still watching, she backed away as Indru began gently to massage his bare feet in the water.
“Have you eat?”
But he didn’t hear. He was watching her head, her hair, her swinging braid that slipped against his legs like a long tassel as she knelt before him. She was so intent on her task, canted forward, narrow shoulders working, that he could look down to the small of her back, her white dress tightened against her buttocks.
“That’s fine.”
“Not quite finish.”