Chapter Twenty Seven

1

He would have listened to the rest, but he had an appointment to keep.  She had promised to meet him near the gardens, where the man with the boil sold the chrysanthemums.  She would be waiting.  He had to hurry.  He was gone.

2

I keep finding these books on the bus.  A few months ago I was taking the 48 to Green Lake, and as I was about to get off I saw this book sitting on one of the empty seats.  I mentioned the book to the bus driver as I showed him my transfer, and he told me to give him the book.  He said there was a crazy old guy who rode the 48 a lot, some school teacher type who smelled like Night Train.  The guy liked to steal books from libraries, and after he finished them he’d leave them on the bus.

        As I reached down to pick up the book I noticed the title: India’s Transition to a Modern State.  I opened the cover, and sure enough there was a stamp for the Broadview Public Library inside.  The driver said he’d take the book to the lost and found at the base.  He’d once tried to take the books back to the libraries himself, but there were too many of them, from too many different libraries.

3

“Govind Pant Bundele was probably born in Peshwas around 1710.  He was the founder of the city of Sagar, which he created in the midst of lands awarded to him by Majaraja Chhastrasal.  He served as Military General of Peshwas from 1733 to his death in 1761.  He was killed in the battle of Panipat, in which he mistakenly entered the enemy camp under the impression that it was held by the Marathas.  Govind Pant Bundele’s role in the Battle of Panipat has long been a source of controversy among scholars.

        “Whatever his true character as a statesman, it is certain that Govind came from a village named Nevare in Maharashtra, and that he was born with the name Govind Ballal Kher.  His family were honored Brahmins in that village, and his father acted as a Kulkarni, or record keeper, in that place.  Govind would have inherited this post from his father, but his ambition and propensity for wandering would put him at odds with this occupation.”

4

        “There is a bull for every age,” he said to the boy.

        “During the first age the bull stands upon four legs, for this is the age of righteousness.

        “During the second age the bull stands upon three legs, for even though most men of the second age are still righteous, some of them have fallen into evil practices.

        “During the third age the bull stands upon two legs, for this is the present age, and man has drifted far from ceremony and the pursuit of wisdom.

        “During the fourth age the bull has only a single leg to stand upon, and the world of men grows very dark.  It is at the end of this age that the gods return to us, and the race of men is abolished.

        “This is so,” he said, “Because everything that is has been before, and will be again.  Man falls into error, and the gods destroy, so that they may create anew.  Even if the world were ended with the reading of a book, there would be another book for creating the world anew.  Do you understand?”

        “Yes,” said the boy, “I understand.”

5

“As part of the Maratha forces, Govind would have been familiar with French artillery and the vagaries of war on horseback.  Some of this familiarity would have stemmed from his years of tutelage under the esteemed Malharrao Holkar and Antaji Mankeshwar.

        “Scholars are divided over the role Govind played at Panipat.  Some sources indicate that Govind did little to affect the course of events once the fighting was underway.  Other sources condemn his ineptitude, and lay the blame for defeat squarely upon Govind Pant’s shoulders.  Scholars are still debating these two possibilities, and the byzantine nature of power relationships between the Marathas only serves to confuse the issue.  Making Govind responsible for the defeat diminishes the role of others present during the battle, and disregarding him entirely begs the question as to why he was there in the first place.”

6

Later on I saw the crazy old guy who’d left the book.  Can’t explain how I knew it was him.  I just looked at him and I knew.  He was reading another book: Balkan Politics Since the Second World War.  He did look like some kind of school teacher, or some kind of professor.  He smelled like fortified wine and his own piss.  I half expected him to leave the book he was reading on the seat, but instead he took it with him, getting off the bus near Safeco Field.

        As the bus pulled away from the curb I watched him walk up First and disappear around a corner.  He had long white hair and a white beard, and the most striking pair of eyes I had ever seen.  He walked strangely.  He wore a gray tweed jacket over a red cashmere sweater, with a pair of worn out charcoal-colored slacks and – most incongruously – a pair of brown hiking boots.

        For a moment I speculated as to his destination.  Another library, perhaps?  But no, the closest library was in the International District, and he was going the wrong way for that.  Maybe a shelter somewhere.  Lots of those near Pioneer Square.  Maybe a park.

        Who knows where all these people go?  They pass before us and are soon gone.  It is tempting to try to reconstruct their histories, but who really knows?  Maybe the only person who really knows that crazy old man’s story is the crazy old man himself.  And even me – what am I?  Perhaps only a set of impressions that just as quickly pass away.