Chase Baker and the God Boy

Chapter 2

2

We make our way through the central market, past the cheap tourist

eateries, past the gypsies begging for coin in the name of Christ, past the

Iranian leather merchants, and over a narrow side street that houses grocery

stores owned and operated by West Africans who spend their afternoons drinking

away their beer inventory. Coming to a street called Via Guelfa that runs perpendicular

to the side street, I instruct Dr. Singh to go right, which he does. Ahead is a

small café that’s mostly patronized by students and faculty of the nearby

America University. It’s a smart place to sit and talk. Dr. Singh seems like

one smart dude.

We take an empty table outside. He

orders tea and I order an espresso. I sit and ponder where this character came

from until the drinks arrive, soaking up a late afternoon that is neither too

hot nor too cool, the creative bustle that’s always made Florence so attractive

to creative types for a thousand years going on all around us.

“You must be pondering many, many

questions, Mr. Baker,” Dr. Singh says after a time, taking a small, careful sip

of his hot tea. “Not the least of which is who am I and why have I sought you

out?”

“Be a good place to start,” I say,

drinking down my espresso in one swift pull. Chase Baker, man of international adventure

and espresso junkie. “But first, I want to know how you pulled off that little

stunt back there. After fighting more wars than I have fingers on my right

hand, Calum’s sort of off his rocker if you know what I mean. I’m pretty sure

he was about to clean the piazza cobbles by using me as a dish rag.”

He sips more tea.

“My family name is Singh,” he says.

“Which in India means I am a Sikh. Sikhs are warriors by tradition.”

“But you’re American. Talk like one

anyway.”

“Indeed. Born in Varanasi but

raised in Manhattan. My father taught biophysics at New York University. However,

my family ties are strong, and it’s because of those ties that I have learned

the practice of what you might recognize as the evil eye.”

“That’s how you tamed the savage

beast? The evil eye? Isn’t that just a myth?”

He laughs gently. “It’s not really

evil, and it’s not as mysterious or mythical as all that. You see, my

background is psychoanalysis and psychotherapy. It’s actually a hypnotic

maneuver that doesn’t take all that much skill once you learn the technique.”

He presses his lips into a grin,

but my built in truth detector tells me immediately this man isn’t happy. Not

by a long shot.

“Dr. Singh,” I say after a beat,

“what is it you want from me?”

He reaches into the pocket on his

long, button-down shirt, pulls out a photograph. He sets the photo down on the

table for me to see. Initially, the full-color image doesn’t register in my

still slightly buzzed brain. But very quickly it takes shape. When I realize what

I’m looking at, I feel my pulse pick up speed.

“Mr. Baker,” he says, “I would like

to introduce you to my beautiful five-year-old son, Rajesh.”

To say the boy is abnormally

constructed is an understatement of gargantuan proportions. This boy doesn’t

possess a single set of arms. Instead, he was born with one set of arms that protrude

from his shoulders like any normal person, but also two more sets that emerge

from his mid and lower torso, respectively. He looks almost like a human spider,

or maybe a scorpion.

What’s even more remarkable about

the boy is that he is dressed in the princely clothing of the traditional

Indian aristocracy—a Nehru jacket covered in gold stitching, matching

pajama-like pants, and a Sikh turban inlaid with the identical gold stitching.

He’s also sporting matching earrings made of brilliant green jade. In the

photo, he’s smiling like not a thing is wrong or out of synch with both his

spiritual and physical world.

Me, I’m exhaling, wishing I had a

stiff drink to wash all this down with. “What caused this, Dr. Singh? How can

something like this happen?”

“Rajesh was born five years ago

with a birth defect which can occur when two or more embryos gestating in the

mother’s womb die, leaving only one survivor. In such circumstances, the living

sibling inherits the underdeveloped remains of the once co-joined embryos. This

parasitic embryo manifests itself in the form of additional limbs that are

attached to the torso. The condition is a one in a million occurrence, or so my

extensive research reveals. But then, thirty-four babies are born every minute

in India. The law of odds dictates that not every one of them will be perfect.

Or, looking at the situation another way, perhaps Rajesh is the ultimate

manifestation of perfection.”

My eyes on the photo. Glued to it.

…I prefer the imperfection of

just two arms…

“Is the condition painful?”

Shakes his head slowly,

deliberately. He’s been asked this question a thousand and one times prior. “No

pain. However…I say this with great sadness…children like Rajesh do not live

long. Multiple limbs place undue strain on the heart and circulatory system.

Structurally speaking, there are spinal problems, muscle weakness, excessive

fatigue.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Singh. You must be

broken-hearted. But what gives? Why are you showing me this?”

“You see, Mr. Baker, in my country

a child born with one or more limbs can initially be considered an outcast,

which at one time, Rajesh was. His mother and I were forced to shield him from

the outside world or else face unimaginable ridicule.”

“People are assholes.”

His eyes light up.

“Excuse my French, Doc.”

He appears to be suddenly aghast. A

man who’s clearly not used to being one of the guys.

“But then something else happened

to Rajesh,” he goes on. “News of his condition leaked to a nearby collection of

Jain Dharma, who did not consider him a freak of nature, but instead, something

extraordinary. They consider him a living god. ”

“Jain Dharma?”

“Purists who walk the earth without

clothing, and depend entirely upon handouts for their very existence. They

assume the five major vows.” Raising the fingers on his hand, dropping one

finger per vow. “Non-violence, non-stealing, honesty, chastity, and

non-attachment.”

“They’re always naked? Sounds like

some of my girlfriends at the Elbow.”

“Yes. Always naked. The

representative symbol of Jainism is something that might shock you as a

westerner, Mr. Baker.”

“Try me.”

Extending his index finger, he runs

it through the condensation that’s collected on the tabletop, sketching out the

symbol. The sketch he produces makes me slightly nauseous considering the extended

family I lost in World War II, not to mention six million Jews exterminated

over their religious beliefs.

“The swastika,” I say.

“The ultimate symbol of peace.

Stolen by the Nazis….bastardized. Nearly ruined.”

“The naked swastika guys see Rajesh

as a God.” It’s a question.

“The reincarnation of the Hindu God,

Brahma, in fact. What this means is, Rajesh has gone from causing shame to his

family and village to being revered by all who lay their eyes upon him. For

this reason, I’ve had to deal with a very new and very different concern over

keeping him away from public gatherings. Until recently that is, when his

existence could be shielded no longer.”

I steal another glance at the picture.

“He doesn’t seem entirely unhappy.”

“Indeed, he is famous now. And

wealthy, for Indian standards. Even your New York Times and USA Today has picked up on Rajesh’s story. Wherever he goes, he attracts huge crowds of

worshippers. Many people come from miles around to receive just a quick glimpse

of him. The hungry come to be fed. The sad come to be happy again. The sick and

the infirmed come to be healed. He lays one or more of his hands on them, and

they experience something out of this world.”

“But, of course, it’s just an

illusion,” I say. “Mind over matter. He’s not really a God. He just plays one on

TV, right?”

He nods. “Under normal

circumstances, I might agree with you. After all, I was educated in the states…at

Harvard, and I am in possession of multiple psychology-related degrees, as I

mentioned. We have little room for hocus pocus, religion, or mysticism in my

working world. It is a field pertaining to the nuances and chemical reactions

inside the greatest mystery known to mankind…the human brain.” He pauses to

take a breath. “But something is different with Rajesh. His condition is not

just physical, Mr. Baker. It is, let’s say, out of this world.”

“You saved my life, Doc, and now

you’ve my attention.”

He lifts up his tea again. This

time when he does, his hand is trembling as if in his revealing the sacred

truth about Rajesh, he has bared his very soul. He sets the cup down without

drinking.

He says, “Rajesh has indeed healed

people, Mr. Baker. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. He has healed the infirmed,

made the blind see again. He has even…” His voice trails off as if what he’s

about to say is too painful for words. Or too unbelievable maybe.

“Go on,” I say.

He stares into his tea for a while.

Until he raises his head, peers into my eyes with his big brown eyes.

“With his touch, he has given new

life to the dead,” he says.

My mind races with the

possibilities. I’ve been to India. With my dad when we were sandhogs for some

of the archeologists working along the northern border with Nepal. I know

first-hand that India is a land of reincarnation. Where death is celebrated as

much as life. I’ve witnessed men and women who are transported to what will be

the site of their burial by fire along the banks of the Ganges days, sometimes

weeks, before their hearts cease to beat. This is not a callous or even morbid

act. It is instead a celebration. People do not die in that vast, congested

land, so much as they are reborn. Flesh and blood dies and burns. Souls live

on.

But I’ve never before heard of a

child, regardless of how many limbs he was born with or how much he mimics the legendary

appearance of Brahma or Kali, raising someone from the dead. That act was

reserved for one historical man and one man only.

Jesus of Nazareth.

It’s precisely how I put it to Dr. Iqbal

Lamba Singh.

“You are correct about that,” he

says. “But did you know that evidence exists of Jesus’s travels in Nepal and India?

Between his twenty-fifth and thirtieth year, there is a strong possibility that

he studied with the Jainists, became indoctrinated in their belief system, and

at the same time, became a master of Indian mysticism. Something he applied with

great success and also great tragedy to his ministry once back in Jerusalem.”

“If that’s true, then Jesus did not

raise Lazarus, or even himself, because of his connection to a Hebrew God. He

acted on behalf of Brahma.”

“Just like Rajesh. Like the

historical Jesus, I have seen him heal the blind by applying an eyepatch of mud

created of loose earth mixed with his own saliva. I’ve seen him cure a malignant

tumor just by laying his hands upon it. I have seen him create many loaves of

bread from one single loaf. You just don’t forget such instances, Mr. Baker.”

“Have you seen the kid turn water

into booze?” I smile. “Now, there’s something I’d like to see.”

The man just stares at me, like my

comment is entirely inappropriate. And I suppose it is. In any case, I find

myself biting down on my bottom lip. Something I always do when nervous, or my

interest is entirely piqued, which it most definitely is.

“So what’s the end all to this, Dr.

Singh? Why did you rescue me from my lovely afternoon of drinking beer and

playing cards if you wanna call it that? Why are you telling me all this?”

“Mr. Baker, I have read your books

and also read about your exploits in Egypt and the sss Jungle. I know what

you are capable of both as an investigator and as a man who fears nothing.”

Raising my hands, making a time-out

T.

“I am most definitely not fearless,

Dr. Singh,” I say. “Christ, I don’t even like to fly…Damn, sorry about the

Christ reference.”

He issues the subtlest of smiles. A

man not without a sense of humor, but also a man who takes pride in his dignity.

“It is okay. I do not consider my

boy the modern Christ. Instead, I consider him the gifted flesh of his very

mortal parent’s flesh, and they love and miss him so very much.”

My truth detector lights up. “What

do you mean they miss him?”

“In answer to your question of why

you are here with me now,” he says, “Rajesh is missing. Gone. Kidnaped by those

who wish to abuse his power for their own dark purposes.”

“Who precisely?”

“The Thuggee and their

black-hearted God, Kali.”