The Elephant’s Trunk

By Ben Norton

Ambassador Thurell is no friend of Indian billionaire Soufka Oman, and when the ambassador is killed in a suspicious motor vehicle accident, it inadvertently thrusts the Oman clan into direct conflict with his daughter, Tyra Thurell. Headstrong and ambitious, she is not averse to taking huge risks, and when the opportunity to find a treasure cherished by the Omans' Parsi community arises, she pursues it with a vengeance. Her sense of loss and anger are confronted when she meets a young American engineer, Rex Ediger, who questions her ethics and excuses to steal and lie. His best friend, murdered by mercenaries, was the best influence in his life and Rex's attempts to rescue the young woman when she is captured expose his own secrets and grief.

The Elephant's Trunk is the first of five volumes in the Signpost Series in which Tyra faces insurmountable odds while simultaneously searching for the Signpost and combating a ruthless and evil enemy. How will passion to become a CIA field agent force her to decide between moral scruples and her love of country?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: Sep 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781666774726

Ben Norton

Ben Norton is a Canadian international globe-trotter who lives in Central Texas. He draws upon his experiences from his youth, his own spiritual quest, and his life as a professional businessman and educator to enrich the plots and characters of the Signpost series. Having lived extensively in seven countries, he is able to meld past and present realities with current geopolitical tensions and cultural shifts.

Book preview

The Elephant’s Trunk

Ben Norton

The Elephant’s Trunk

Copyright ©

2023

Ben Norton. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers,

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Resource Publications

An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

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paperback isbn: 978-1-6667-7470-2

hardcover isbn: 978-1-6667-7471-9

ebook isbn: 978-1-6667-7472-6

version number 090921

Table of Contents

Title Page

Acknowledgements

The Signpost Series

Chapter 1: The Indian Jungle

Chapter 2: Family Expectations

Chapter 3: Ominous Warning

Chapter 4: Chowkidar Bangji

Chapter 5: California

Chapter 6: Missing Teenager

Chapter 7: Looking for Clues

Chapter 8: The Stanford Whiz Kid

Chapter 9: California

Chapter 10: The Ambassador’s Memorial service

Chapter 11: First Days on the Job

Chapter 12

Chapter 13: R.A.W. (Research and Analysis Wing) —The Indian Intelligence Agency

Chapter 14: Ramesh in the Korku Village

Chapter 15: The Fate of the Panchayats, Village Councillors

Chapter 16

Chapter 17: Shivaji, the Bholin agent

Chapter 18: Three Years Earlier

Chapter 19: The Dastur and the Parsi Edict

Chapter 20: The Parsi and Hindu Lovers

Chapter 21

Chapter 22: Intrigue at the Janpath Bazaar

Chapter 23: The Girl, the Sikh and the Merchant

Chapter 24: Ranjit Singh, the Sikh merchant

Chapter 25: Tyra and the Parsi Council

Chapter 26

Chapter 27: Part Two

Chapter 28

Chapter 29: White Girl for sale!

Chapter 30

Chapter 31: Central Indian Jungle

Chapter 32

Chapter 33: The Oman Siblings

Chapter 34: Positive Identification

Chapter 35: The Brother Thurell

Chapter 36: The Mysterious Letter

Chapter 37: Reunion in California

Chapter 38: Central Indian Jungle

Chapter 39

Chapter 40: New Delhi

Chapter 41

Chapter 42: Lahi, the village in the Deccan jungle.

Chapter 43

Chapter 44: Bangji’s Choices

Chapter 45: Hunting the American woman

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50: Vellore Hospital, South India

Chapter 51: The Sidon Pact

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54: The Sacred Epistle

Chapter 55

Chapter 56: Madurai, South India

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59: The Wedding of the Gods

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62: Koukal Forest and the Sacred Element

Chapter 63: Part Four

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67: Shivaji, the hunter

Chapter 68

Chapter 69: Mumbai Financial District

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72: Hiding in the Nilgiri Hills

Chapter 73: The southernmost tip of India

Chapter 74: Mumbai

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79: New Delhi airport

Chapter 80

Chapter 81: Epilogue

Glossary

To Janice; my faithful mate who keeps encouraging me over the years and gives me the confidence to return again and again to my whimsical dreams and travel the world with me.

To Yeshua, my source of inspiration and wisdom.

Acknowledgements:

Ken Fox for his constant positive attitude as a colleague and friend.

Dana Ryan for her groundbreaking work as the creative writer in our family and her passion for sharing books.

Marge Frantz, my dear friend, who knows as well as I how this book grew from one story to a series and corrected mistakes and edited ideas along the way.

The many students who challenged me and brought me joy when they succeeded and overcame adversity.

Friends from India and Hong Kong who provided grist for the mill.

My hope is that readers not only have fun but identify with the characters’ moral struggles and changes of heart. My prayer is that you will absorb this wisdom into your own lives.

The editors at Resource Publications who brought the concept into life and opened the door to the Signpost Series..

The Signpost Series

Book One—The Elephant’s Trunk

Prologue—One

It happened so fast; her father had no time to react. He braked and swerved to the side of the two-lane highway, but the oncoming headlights centered on his Volvo, didn’t slow and rammed his side of the car full on. Time slowed as the horror unfolded. The roar and jolt of the impact snapped Tyra’s head forward, the seat belt digging into her neck and waist. The piercing whine of the airborne engine was accentuated by shrieking screams amid the frightening, twisting blur. The seat belt, taut, dug painfully into her chest and shoulder, her head snapping back and forth as the car tumbled down the embankment end over end accompanied by the sickening sound of screeching metal. Screams did not stop until she realized they were coming from her.

An awful jarring thud tossed her head one final time, moments before the other vehicle slammed into the family car, embedding itself into the twisted remains. In the darkness, silence and pain, her mind clouded, Tyra struggled to call out. Mom, Dad, are you OK? Something warm was dripping on her. She coughed, the seatbelt choking her windpipe. She called again. Dad, are you OK? Nothing!

Suspended at a weird angle, she tried to undo her seatbelt, but it was jammed, and the front seat pressed against her imprisoned knees. The car resembled a ripped open sardine can, glass everywhere. She could hear moaning nearby. Reaching out in the dark with her left hand she felt the warm ooze close to her face. Tyra’s screams trailed off into sobs. Frantically, she fumbled with the seatbelt latch with no success. She had to think, her head fuzzy and aching. If only she could open the door. She reached for the handle. It wasn’t where it should have been but she groped until she felt the handle and yanked. Jammed! The windows were all shattered so she reached outside and pulled the handle to no avail.

Dawn was breaking and shapes began to take form. Why was there no traffic? She turned to the side, then saw the mass of bloody hair and misshapen head of her father and vomited. Horrified at the spectacle, Tyra turned away to look out the window where she saw her mother lying face down in the pasture. As light began to seep into the wreck, she realized they were tilted on end with another vehicle’s grill part ways inside her father’s window and windshield.

Help me! The sound was barely audible from the other automobile, a new Tesla, inseparably welded to the Thurell car. Tyra joined the weak voice. Help! Help! Somebody help us!

I’m coming! a man’s distant voice came from outside. Help is on its way. She could hear running feet and wheezing from someone approaching.

I’m pinned inside, Tyra yelled. Someone’s alive in the other car too.

An elderly dairyman, alerted to the crash while milking his cows, staggered along the hillside to the steaming pile of metal. Hold on, help is cumin’, I already called 911. He dialed the number again. Hello, I just called and said there was a wreck on Kirker Pass Road. I think there are two still alive. Probably need the jaws of life. I cain’t get no door open and they’s pinned in the wreck.

Tyra lay helpless, shivering with shock, guilt replacing her fear. It was her fault. They always flew but she had insisted they go on a road trip and now look at what she’d done to her folks. She tried again to work and wriggle the belt free. No luck, so she waited, nauseous, hoping beyond hope for her parents. Finally, after an interminable stretch, she heard sirens and emergency crews arriving. Soon, a woman stuck her head in the window and tried to reassure her. Up until then Tyra had kept her composure but the kind voice of the lady brought tears pouring out her eyes as she whimpered. My parents, are they alive?

Just stay still honey. Can you feel your toes and legs?

Yes. My Dad’s in the front seat.

We’ll get you out as soon as possible. Try not to move.

I would if I could, Tyra moaned.

The ambulance attendant handed Tyra a bottle of water attempting to keep her eyes off the gore in front of her. The morning light spared her no mercy and she retched all over herself at the sight of the blood and horrible odor. An EMT covered her with a thermal blanket shielding her from her father as a group of firefighters quickly decided which victim to take out of the wrecks first. Two gingerly climbed onto the front of the Thurell Volvo assessing how the vehicles could be untangled and the woman in the other car extricated. The urgency in their voices indicated she was barely alive and Tyra could hear them calling for oxygen, intubation and medical equipment while others began to carve out a space with the jaws to get her out. The whine of the cutter followed by the hydraulic spreader ripping open the front of the other car suddenly stopped.

She’s gone, let’s get to work on the girl! The young one’s in shock! Hands reached inside and fastened a hard collar on Tyra. The shock and trauma rendered her mute and any further attempt to get her to respond was useless, so they began to work on the frame of the car. Moments later, the jaws began tearing at the rear door beside Tyra and within minutes she was in the arms of a strong, brawny fireman.

Police were on the scene as she floated in and out of consciousness while the gurney was wheeled up to the ambulance.

Who’s the vic? asked the sheriff in charge, pointing to the driver.

Bowie Thurell, sir. Appears to be the wife in the ditch. Rose Thurell. Both deceased.

So much for the aluminum chassis on that Tesla. Looks like a pretzel

Who’s the other victim? asked the sheriff.

No id that we can find. Thirtyish dark woman. My guess is East Indian, maybe Mexican.

Hey sheriff, yelled one of the CSI techs. This automated vehicle has a secondary receiver under the dash.

Pull it and get it to the computer geniuses.

Sir, the male is an American diplomat! the one sifting through her father’s wallet added.

Oh sh…The State Department will be all over this.

Two Weeks Later

After the funeral, Searcy Landon, former CIA field officer and friend of the family, came to help Tyra and her brother Bruce sort through the personal belongings.

I don’t care what you do with the clothes and stuff, Bruce murmured. He was no help and sat in a daze.

We’ll put stuff in a pile, and you can pick through it and the rest we’ll send to a local charity.

I said I don’t care, he barked dismissively.

Suit yourself! Tyra, are there any of your Mom’s things you want to keep?

Her jewelry and the nice shoes. Nothing else fits. Leave Dad’s golf clubs and his leather Bomber jacket for Bruce. He’ll regret it later if we get rid of them.

I will not, he shot back and stomped out of the house, jumped in his car and headed off to grieve somewhere he did not have to be amid all the reminders of his parents.

What about the furniture and kitchen appliances Tyra?

Searcy was knocking around, looking in all the cupboards and at the various expensive furnishings purchased abroad. Why don’t we leave this for another day. I’ll go get some food and we can talk when I get back. Without waiting for a response, she headed out to her SUV.

After the car noise faded Tyra went to search her father’s office. It was meticulously tidy, mementos scattered around the room including numerous trophies of his ambassadorial postings. His extensive library covered two walls from floor to ceiling. She knew what to look for and pulled a dozen books off the bottom shelf near the floor and punched in the safe code. As a little girl she had memorized the six-digit code her father tapped but she had never dared to open the safe. Inside, she found several boxes of American gold coins, an envelope with Treasury Bonds, and a sealed manila envelope marked CLASSIFIED. Near the back were the family passports, booklets of their vaccination histories, a final will and testament, and a booklet with passwords for stock accounts and the two banks Bowie Thurell used. She placed everything in the desk drawers, closed the empty safe, and replaced the books, before hiding the manila envelope and gold coins under her mattress. She would wait until Searcy was asleep before she opened it. Tyra felt like a criminal going through her father’s personals, but she couldn’t forget the foggy memory of the sheriff suggesting the crash might be more than an accident.

1

The Indian Jungle

Part One

Darkness swallowed me and the Jeep as I raced into the night. This was the India I remembered of jungles, small villages, simple folk and my privileged past as the son of medical missionaries. In addition to Telugu, I spoke Hindi and smatterings of the local Korku dialect where I was headed. I had been here twice as a child, the destination which would put me close to the Kendrapur mine. The road to the village, Lahi, was a dead end where I would take off on foot to investigate what Ramesh feared near the mine. Warnings on the US State Department website for tourists came to mind. There were the standard cautions about food, necessity to stick to well-traveled areas and how to contact authorities if one got in trouble. Those messages meant nothing out here. No cell towers, no local police and no bottled water.

Routine US embassy reminders to registered citizens in India were new to me. But then again, I was a minor when I last lived in India and Dad and Mom probably got them all the time. One notice caught my eye while preparing for this wild journey. A memorial service for the previous ambassador would be held next month and US citizens were invited, subject to registering online. A link was at the end of the email. I scarcely remembered the name. Thurell, I thought. Yes, Bowie Thurell. Odd name but catchy. Killed in a car accident with his wife in California. Gifts in memoriam would provide scholarships for Indian students at the Woodstock school in North India. Details for donations followed.

The last time I came to this jungle as a child was for vacation. This trip was no holiday. I only brought one suitcase and a backpack with a bedroll and hoped Ramesh was mistaken. He was convinced there was evil in the forest and had asked for my help. I can’t say why I was even on such a fool’s errand other than my respect for him and his desperate appeal to corroborate his discovery.

The rust colored laterite dust was choking me and the Jeep slid to a stop just short of plowing into a boulder. It took several minutes for the cloud to settle on me and everything in the old mission vehicle. How stupid! It was dumb not to bring tools! Self-sufficiency was all important in the bush and now it would take even longer to get to the village. I discovered it was easier to scoop dirt and debris into the wheel tracks than to unearth the rock, and in twenty minutes I was off again. Darkness, pitch black, palpable and thick as soup blanketed the forest, and the mournful cries of peacocks and jungle chicken urged me on to my destination. I’m not a coward but if you’ve ever spent a night alone in an Indian jungle it can be quite unnerving. I was hoping the old chowkidar, the hired watchman, could let me into the bungalow for a bath and rest. Soon, I saw light from a cooking fire in a hut and turned down a rutted lane.

Weird, I thought! Somehow, I expected change, but the village closely resembled the way I envisioned it, with the two rows of dirt huts topped with leaf and thatch roofs. India, like other emerging economies is a mixture of multiple ethnic groups and cultures woven together. The urban cities are as modern as they come. Skyscrapers, internet, smart phones, uber, malls, fast food, transportation and urgency. But that does not include the forty percent of the one and a half billion who don’t have running water, sewers, or internet and live in a world at least half a century behind those in the crowded megalopoli. It’s common to get fifty miles from any major city and another India emerges with rampant poverty, squalor and famine. That’s not to say vices don’t abound in the urban cesspool. They do. More than a hundred thousand boys and girls are sold into bondage annually. Gang rape is common and slavery in many forms proliferates. In the countryside, the pace slows, bullock carts replace lorries and tongas, and bicycles and feet replace taxis, rail lines and buses.

The long drive had given me time to ponder what lay ahead. Was I chasing a fantasy Ramesh created or was there something frighteningly sinister in the hinterland where evil was growing and festering? He had told me a fantastic story and even though I only had a few weeks to explore before my job started with Norco, I promised I’d do him this favor. I owed him so much and if he was dying the least I could do was to squelch his fear and hope he hadn’t contracted a disease. His story seemed unbelievable, although he was not given to exaggeration or falsehoods. Foreign mercenaries, drones that sprayed chemicals, diseased villagers imprisoned behind electrified fences, government cover-up. What other things had he mentioned? And what could I do if I managed to verify his assertions. The more I thought about it I was convinced we were in over our heads.

2

Family Expectations

Tell them this: These gods, who did not make the heavens and the earth, will perish from the earth and from under the heavens. But God made the earth by his power; he founded the world by his wisdom and stretched out the heavens by his understanding.-The Weeping Prophet, Jeremiah 10:11¬-12

—Ramesh Narayan, the Chemical Engineer

Three weeks before

Mumbai in autumn is normally pleasant, but the day felt like it was still summer, pungent choking odors, high humidity, and loud noise everywhere. Palash trees, commonly called the ‘flame of the forest’, were showing off their orange red feathers and thankfully they shaded a few of the main boulevards. Ramesh joined his waiting friend and considered the Mumbai environment as he rode downtown for his job interview.

After graduating from Stanford with his degree in chemical engineering, Ramesh Narayan could have selected any number of jobs from several multinational corporations. However, he was loyal to the Indian government and planned to repay his scholarship as soon as possible. He had not taken his father’s wealth for granted. He applied for and was awarded a grant conditional on working for the government upon return. Such a decision was surprising, unusual given his father’s vast holdings. Ramesh returned to India with a completely different worldview and felt obliged to repay both his educational expenses and the opportunity given to study abroad. If the job was not challenging or in some remote boondocks he would surrender and grovel to his father and ask for the money to repay the grant. A five-year commitment would repay the government debt and provide the valuable field experience he was lacking. With his new beliefs and value system he intended to build a reputation for integrity as well as outstanding scholarship.

So it was, Ramesh arrived at the Mumbai office of the National Bureau of Mines, a little nervous but confident he could master any challenge offered. He was dressed in a light grey seersucker suit hoping it would not appear ostentatious or too affluent for those who had offered him a position. He was to meet the higher ups and felt a bit overwhelmed with the speed things were moving. As he followed the male secretary into the Minister’s office he wondered, if hired, whether the salary would allow for a vehicle purchase or if the Bureau would provide one.

Good morning, Mr. Narayan, spoke the elegantly attired Minister of Mines. I am so pleased to read your qualifications and commitment to the scholarship that has benefitted you. My name is Khan, Ahmed Khan. I personally wanted to greet you and thank you for serving in my ministry for your first assignment.

He extended his hand to the young man and pointed to a settee. I’m familiar with the wonderful work your father does. We have decided to assign you to a rather remote area until you become accustomed to the Indian way again. This is Dr. Ravi Gopal who is directly responsible for all mining operations. He turned to a sober faced gentleman who extended his hand to Ramesh. Khan continued, Your immediate boss, the Mine Director in Kendrapur reports to him.

Does this mean I’m being offered the job?

Yes, congratulations, Mr. Narayan! I thought someone had already informed you. Today is little more than a formality.

I’m thrilled about starting and I’m sure I’ll adjust rapidly to Central India. My mother’s family came from the Nagpur area.

He checked himself, trying not to bubble over with excitement and seated himself with a large grin. The posting in central India several hundred miles from home enlarged the smile on Ramesh’ face. Distance would give him relief from family pressures and religious badgering he anticipated. He nodded toward the military man staring at him from the corner who stood at attention, apparently disinterested but there was no attempt at introductions, so Ramesh remained quiet. He turned back to the Minister.

My degree was chemical engineering, Sir. I’m curious to find out more details of the job, and how my degree is needed in a manganese mine. I’ve had no courses in mine design or advanced physics.

We selected you from the scholarship graduates because of the degree and your field experience in the silver and manganese mine in Arizona. It was obvious they had done due diligence. You will begin by running some acid and metal residual tests on high grade manganese ore. Dr. Gopal interjected, The quality of ores in that mine are not consistent and we will have to decide if we keep it open or close it. It will depend on the metallurgy assessments.

Sir, I realize this may be somewhat premature, but will I need to purchase a vehicle or does the position provide transportation to someone like me?

All of your transportation needs will be handled by the secretary at the mine. She’s quite capable and there’s no need for you to have a vehicle.

The Minister was a tall, handsome fellow, with a very light complexion, hair parted on the right. Four rings flashed on his fingers, complimenting a very stylish, western suit. Ramesh listened attentively as they discussed the mine, the environment and why they wanted him at the mine. His mind wandered thinking about the location of the mine and the task.

I think the slow pace will either be minimal stress, or it’ll drive me crazy.

I hope there’s stuff to do there. Hope there are good restaurants too.

I’ve missed good Indian food. I can’t imagine working at a mine, the one in Arizona was downright wretched.

Your assignment Mr. Narayan should only be for three or four months and then Dr. Gopal will report to me if a transfer is in order or if there is sufficient work for you to continue at Kendrapur.

Thank you, Sir! I’m looking forward to practical work.

No car could be a real bummer if the town has no social life.

At least Kendrapur is far enough away from Mom. I won’t have to listen to her hassle me every time I come home about getting married.

He excused himself after signing the contract and some payroll papers and found his friend waiting in a nearby parking lot.

Wow, I forgot about the crowds and the number of idols everywhere! There were gods even in the government offices. It’s almost as bad as my parents’ house.

How did the interview go? You don’t seem too excited.

Ramesh was caught up in the sights and sounds. Man, it sure feels like home. The chai stands, the betel nut vendors and the sweets stands all smell so good.

Was the interview that bad? Did you hear me?

Yes, yes, I did. Peeuuw! I’ve got to get this in the wash and take a shower. This shirt smells downright disgusting! I guess I was more nervous than I realized.

So, you did have the interview and it made you sweat! Is that all you have to say?

No, no. Sorry, I’m a bit overwhelmed. It went okay. It wasn’t much of an interview. More like a confirmation to them that I was the correct choice. Everything is stimulating my senses and the interview almost seemed anticlimactic. I’m more concerned about my folks and letting them know I’m no longer Hindu. My mother has gods all over the house.

You haven’t told them? You know they’re going to be furious! So, I assume I shouldn’t tell them I invited you to join our study group.

No, please don’t! I’ll tell them when I feel it’s right or at least will get less resistance. I figure I’d better not tell Mom and Dad how much I love hamburgers. They’re strictly vegetarian. That’ll just invite a fight. I kind of forgot how my diet would change. I’ll miss the American fast-food outlets but maybe I can shed some of this weight.

Not necessarily. I eat vegan at home, but my parents know I go to western restaurants on occasion. Not many Hindus are total vegetarians any more so relax, your parents may not even care. I also got used to burgers, steaks and chops in the States so it’s a treat when I indulge. By the way, don’t eat the local fish, it’s quite polluted. Anyway, our fast food is amazing.

The pair reminisced about their life in the States and were soon at the Narayan villa promising to meet up again before Ramesh left for Kendrapur.

3

Ominous Warning

I recalled the conversation with Ramesh that set me on this goose chase. He had called me in New Delhi as soon as he got back from a daytrip in the jungle near the mine where his new job was located.

Rex, is that you?

Hey bro, how are you?

I’m in a heap of trouble and need advice. I didn’t want to call my folks and don’t know if I should tell my boss or call the cops but there’s something horrible going on here.

Whoa buddy. You’re serious!

Yes, I’m serious! I don’t call people at midnight for no reason.

I’m listening.

I could tell from the outset his fears were real and mounting. He didn’t think he dared alert any authorities, but I figured he was just paranoid and needed to get whatever was bothering him out of his system.

"I was anticipating my first extended weekend, excited to get out and explore. It’s quite pleasant here in the wild. So, I decided to pack a picnic lunch, sign out a company car and catch up on some reading before calling my Mom. After touring the area and investigating several of the side roads I drove into a secluded spot down near a stream and made myself comfortable. I was sitting on the perimeter of a grove of mango trees adjacent to a shola. A baby langur monkey boldly stole some tidbits from my lunch, so I hurriedly gobbled down the rest of my sandwich, took out a guava and decided to begin my book.

Before long, I was absorbed in the tale, so much so that even the chatter of monkeys and crackling leaves in the forest faded. My reactions were too slow when I detected a presence. A slender but powerful hand clenched my throat from behind. His thumb and forefinger were like a vise around my windpipe choking me. A knife was poking me in the side and a knee was rammed into the middle of my back preventing me from turning.``

Does it get better or worse? Rex teased. Obviously, you’re in one piece so what happened then?

Trembling, I was guided deliberately for a hundred yards down a well-worn path, straight into the darkening forest. My captor kept hold of my throat in one hand and the nape of my neck with the knife hand. Once we were well clear of the road, I felt the grip relax. The stranger stopped and asked me in poor Hindi to answer each question clearly and completely.

Where do you live? he began.

At the mine housing, I told him.

Why are you wearing such expensive clothes?

They’re just jeans and a T-shirt.

Rex, I didn’t know if I should be terrified. It seemed like such an odd thing to ask.

Then he said, What do you do for work?

I’m a chemical engineer at the mine.

What’s a chemical engineer?

By then I knew he had to be a peasant. He asked about my work, where I studied, how much I made, what my mother tongue was and more. Pretty soon I could tell we weren’t alone. Suddenly, he shoved me into a clearing where I stumbled and fell.

Who else was there?

Rex, it was like something out of the Walking Dead. A group of horribly deformed men were coming toward me. I froze, my legs turned to stone, the only audible noise was the bleating sound from my own throat. There were nine of them. They just stopped and watched me. I’d pissed myself and although I realized I could outrun them I just sat there horrified.

There was no denying the men he met in the shola were desperately ill and with his own immune problems he worried he might have caught something from them. I listened quietly, knowing Ramesh was not done.

Only two wore shoes and they all appeared to be in the advanced stages of a disease. Three had lost digits and noses. I thought maybe they were lepers. Several limped as they closed in around me. All were emaciated with bulging eyes and to a man they were completely bald.

Do you think they had AIDS?

Rex, I was terrified. I don’t know what they had. Obviously, they needed medical help and the one who abducted me was the only one armed. He carried a rusty butcher knife in his deformed left hand.

So, you haven’t told anyone yet?

No, and I don’t think anyone at the mine would be much help. The men explained why they were there.

Why won’t the mine people help? I asked.

Rex, there’s a suspicious military presence in the area. The sick men told me they were all village headmen. They managed to escape a fenced area and almost all their villagers were dead or dying. They’re captive and before I could offer help, we heard noise. There were men talking and holding barking dogs. Before I could offer assistance the nine men disappeared into the brush, so I hightailed it out of there.

Ramesh, maybe they can get to a hospital.

No way! They already tried to contact government health workers, and nobody came. The villagers they sent never returned. The easiest way their villages can get to help is by the main road through Kendrapur and it’s blocked. Their transistor radios don’t work so I figure they’re electronically jammed. They claimed that if they went through the jungle soldiers intercepted them.

I can’t think of a solution offhand.

I’m going to try and get close to their villages and check it out for myself.

Sounds risky, Ramesh. Maybe I can help and try to get closer. Are you sure you’re not blowing this out of proportion?

Rex, I didn’t make this up. Nobody commands hounds in India except the very wealthy, foreigners or the police.

It’s not that far from where I grew up. My folks took us to see an old missionary lady a couple of times which is close to Kendrapur. Let me take a look from the village I visited years ago and I’ll get back to you. Then we can make a plan, Okay?

I don’t know why I remembered that spot, but our family loved those vacations and when I consulted the map, I realized the mine where Ramesh was stationed was not that far away.

Lahi seemed tranquil and I had not seen any evidence of any military personnel on my way in. Hopefully, Ramesh was mistaken.

4

Chowkidar Bangji

The chowkidar, illiterate and simple, was the only watchman available, but what could those at the mission compound, miles distant, expect. When I called the Baptist mission, I shouldn’t have been surprised to discover there were no remaining missionaries and the local church had sold off almost all properties. The Lahi station was still owned by the church only because there were no interested buyers for a house in such a remote jungle, but they welcomed me to stay if I paid the watchman for his services in addition to a modest fee. The old man’s name was Bangji and kept the keys to the bungalow. The church paid him a small stipend to keep vandals out.

He was just finishing a plate of dahl when I drove down the lane, and it was obvious wildflower daru, the Korkus’ potent alcoholic brew, had dulled his senses. My arrival threw him into confusion. He stumbled out of his hut and began a series of apologies and alibis for his condition, without even knowing who I was or why I was there. It annoyed me to see Bangji bowing and scraping, always referring to me as Sahib, and feigning obeisance any time I requested information. Sadly, the colonial spirit lived on in rural India and undoubtedly my father and other missionaries were partly to blame for encouraging and prolonging that type of behavior. Missionaries from Europe and America perpetuated imperialism and it filtered down to the smallest villages in the countryside. It made building relationships difficult. That’s not to say wealthy Indians didn’t act the same