The Submarine Mare

Twelve miles out of Kolayat, crossing the Great Indian Desert to Pugal, Terry Bozeman had a stroke and fell off the back of his camel. He heard his guides, two dark Sikhs he had met on the train out of Hyderabad, deciding what to do with him. They ran fingers through their beards and, with annoyed glances at Dr. Bozeman, discussed the difficulties of tying a man to a camel’s back. One suggested leaving him and going to fetch a bull cart in Bikaner. The other agreed and, taking off his pleated red turban, unwrapped the cloth. He took off Bozeman’s dark glasses and wrapped the cloth across his face to keep the sand out of his mouth and nose.

Dr. Bozeman tried to tell them to wrap a rope under his arms, so that the camel could drag him across the sand to Bikaner. “Ca...,” was all he managed to say though, and this to the backs of the two men, already distant, disappearing behind a dune.

Bozeman lay in the warm sand, staring at a tamarisk bush. He kept thinking he was asleep, until the wind would shake the frothy pink flowers of the tamarisk, and he would break out in an itchy sweat that fled into the dry air. He could not move his eyes, but the bushes and rocks in the edge of his vision upset him. The seemed to swim and undulate in the sun. Slowly, he thought, they began to move themselves into a formation, like a marching band coalescing into a recognizable shape. Shrub, rock, rock, orchestrated somehow by the tamarisk shivering in the wind. I’ve fallen on one of the radii, he thought to himself. One of the radii of the world.

The idea of death was remote. Bozeman tried to think about it, to pay attention to the grains of sand blowing against him. But it really didn’t matter. His mind was drawn into the lines that spooled themselves out in the sand.

Something else did matter, though. Paul.

“I’m not eating anything,” Paul said, as his mother held out a plate of roast beef. Paul was dressed for going out: jeans, a tight t-shirt, a big puffy jacket.

“Are you going somewhere?” Betty asked him.

“John’s picking me up,” he said.

“Going to a movie?” his father asked, without looking up from his plate.

“No, we’re going out.”

Betty retreated to her seat. “Where are you going?” she asked, in her too-casual voice of worry.

“It’s just a club.”

Bozeman glanced at his son. Paul was a good-looking boy, just turned 18. He had short brown hair, was thin and in good shape from running track. He looked a lot like his father did at that age, and would undoubtably age as poorly as his father. It’s that fair skin, so prone to wrinkles. He and John would be going to Penn State together in four months.

“Why don’t you and John eat dinner with us before you go?” Betty said.

“I’m not hungry.”

The doorbell rang, and Paul answered it. Standing in the doorway, John leaned around Paul. John was a little older than Paul, and also a handsome young man. He had platinum blond hair and a big smile.

“Hi there!” he called to Paul’s parents.

Betty smiled and said, “Hello John.” Steve nodded. The door closed behind the two boys, and Steve heard John’s car pull out of the drive.

There was a long silence at the table. Steve chased his peas around his plate until he lost interest in them, looked up, and encountered Betty’s worried gaze.

“He won't even talk to us,” she said.

“Of course not, we're old and boring.” Terry smiled and squeezed mashed potatoes between his teeth, but Betty looked away, not wanting to be distracted from her worrying.

“I'm just so scared for him sometimes.”

"There's no reason."

"Yes there is." She gave him a firm stare. "Yes, Terry, there is."

“Look, if you're so worried why don't you ask him about it?” Steve stood and picked up his plate. “Then he could tell you himself that there's nothing to worry about.”

Betty stayed at the table, watching Terry clear away the dishes. "All his friends have girlfriends."

"What the hell does that mean? What would he have to do? Get a girl pregnant to get you to stop worrying?"

"You just don't pay attention, do you?"

"You're paranoid." He went into the kitchen with the plates.

As he ran water into the sink, the heat off the water rose against his face. In the yard, the tamarisk bush quivered, and the grass shrank away into sand. The sound of the running water was in his ears, like wind. His stomach was hot and heavy, and he remembered the same feeling that night a few weeks ago. In bed he had heard the front door shut softly. Laughter moved through the house, into Paul’s bedroom. Laughter, movement, whispers. He wanted to wake Betty. “Do you hear that?” he wanted to say, but drifted back into sleep. A few hours later he woke again. He was on top of her, entering her from the edge of sleep.

He put his hands in the sink. It burned, but he left his hands in the hot soapy water. Leaving the dishes in the sink, he went into the dining room. Betty was still sitting at the table, her cheek propped in one hand. Terry ran a line of warm suds across the back of her neck, behind her ear. She lifted her head slowly, enjoying it. Then she turned, smiled at him. He dabbed suds on her cheeks and her forehead.

"Blessings to you, my child." He took her arm and pulled her up. They clambered onto the table, the tablecloth riding up underneath them, uncovering the shiny, reddish wood.

Paul got home sometime in the early morning, and slept until the afternoon. After Paul got up, Terry spent the afternoon in Paul's room, listening to his son practice the piano in the living room and going over his lecture notes for Monday. He was lecturing on the secret worship of the submarine mare during the reign of Asoka.

Asoka’s dharma-police, in pointed bronze caps, patterned silks fluttering, giving glimpses of shining links of iron underneath, smashed the carvings wherever they found them, and engraved Asoka’s markings in the stone.

He caught himself looking at Paul’s bed. It was made, the covers smooth.

The submarine mare was thought to lie in a bottomless lake, at the center of the universe. The mare contains the anger of the Destroyer as a fire in her mouth. Because this fire threatened to consume the universe, Vishnu put the mare in the bottomless lake, where the endless waters could hold the flames in check.

There were clothes on the floor. Boxer shorts? Did Paul wear boxer shorts? A sonatina sputtered and hiccuped on the piano.

At the end of the world the mare will emerge, filling the universe with fire, and the lake will flood and drown the earth. Harihara--the destroyer and the sustainer, the source and the terminus. A universe issuing from one mouth, disappearing into the other. This is a useful metaphor for the Hindu conception of the universe as composed of opposing forces separated by--

Bozeman put his notes down and looked around Paul’s room. Paul's walls were covered with posters: Claudia Eschiffer, Baywatch girls, Superman, Star Trek. His open closet was full of t-shirts, cut-off jeans, strange second-hand clothes, and lots of shoes. On the shelf above were stacks of Men’s Health magazines, some exercise supplement bottles, baseball caps, and old boardgames.

The room had begun to feel hot. Bozeman pulled back the white, translucent curtains. The window was closed and locked. He opened it. A cool, dry breeze blew into the room.

Sand was piling up against his side, strangely cool. How long had the Sikhs been gone? An hour? Several? The grid was growing more distinct, and it seemed to Terry that the desert was draining away in that direction in a gradual, constant flow.

“Do you know where you’re going?” a voice asked.

Bozeman was walking. He froze. “Who are you?”

“The first man to die,” the voice said. “That’s what I’m told, at least.” The man to his left was twice his height. His skin was green, his teeth and eyes red. He wore red silks that hung heavily on him, even in the strong wind. Around his brow was a golden crown. Bozeman looked closer and saw the crown flick out a forked tongue. Not a crown then, a golden snake.

“Yama?”

“How did you know? Come on, let's keep walking. You had somewhere you were going.”

“Yes.”

“They call me Yama. I hope that's right, but I forget things.” His earrings bobbed as he walked. “See, I've already forgotten your name.”

“I hadn't told you yet, I think,” Bozeman said. “It's Terry.”

“And you called me Yama?” He stopped walking and turned to Terry. The snake circling his brow flicked its forked tongue into the air. “I remember now. I came here for a walk around the lake.”

“There's a lake here?”

"Somewhere here." The god looked around, started walking in a different direction. “I think you’re wrong," he called back to Terry. "I think they called me something else.”

"Not Yama?"

"I'm not sure. Something else, I think."

“How did you lose your memory?”

The god walked on, his slippered feet skimming the sand.

“I thought maybe ‘they’ told you.”

“No.”

“And who are ‘they’?” Bozeman asked.

“The other people,” the god said. “Who else is there? Look, all I know is that I’m going to the lake, and right now, I’m standing here talking to you. Now if you want to die, go ahead, but don’t expect me to help you because I have no idea what to do, and like I told you, I’m not Yama.”

There was something standing behind the god. Bozeman had only just noticed it because it was the color of the sand, and stood so close behind him that you could hardly see it.

“What’s that behind you?” Bozeman asked.

“What?” The green-skinned man turned. The thing Bozeman saw was on the god’s back--millions of bodies crawling on his robe. They were obviously far away, but Bozeman reached out and put his hand on them. He felt them, men and women, moving under his fingers.

“What?” Yama spun around. Bozeman jerked his hand away. When Yama saw Bozeman’s frightened look, he seemed embarrassed and turned away.

They walked in silence until they crossed a ridge. There they stood gazing down at a low plain. A gray pool was at it’s center, it’s banks gleaming with salt crystals. Next to the pool, a man was lying in the sand. His eyes were gone, and his skin was gray, stretched tightly over his ribs.

The god walked down the sandy slope, leaving no footprints. He came to the edge of the pool and crouched next to the man. With his fingernail, the god slit the man’s belly. As intent as an infant discovering water, the god dabbled his fingers in the blood. He lifted a finger to his nose, sniffed, then put it in his mouth. The serpent crown slithered off the god's brow onto the sand. It arched its neck to peer into the glistening red gash.

“What’s this?” The god extended his bloodied fingers to Bozeman.

“Blood,” Bozeman said, backing away. “Is he dead?”

The god looked back at the man, fingers still raised. “I don’t know,” he said. He reached through the wound, pulled out a tangled mass of organs.

Bozeman looked away.

“Do you feel that?” The man did not reply. The god laughed uncomfortably.

“You really don’t remember anything,” Bozeman said.

“Do you have that in you?”

“Of course.” Terry felt dizzy, and sat down in the sand, well away from the body. The god came and sat near him. Suddenly, the god clutched his stomach. He pulled open his robe, baring the stone-like green flesh. He slit his stomach and pulled the skin apart. Doubling over, he tried to look inside.

“I can’t see anything,” he said, straightening up. “Would you look and tell me what’s in there?”

Leaning close, Bozeman looked through the opening. It was dark inside. He couldn’t see at first. After a while his eyes adjusted, and there were pinpricks of light.

“Stars,” he said. “I see stars.” He pulled his head out, and saw that the god looked troubled. He stood, walked over to the body again, and then uneasy, looked back at Terry. "Did I kill him?"

Terry was running his fingers through his hair, moving grains of sand along his scalp. "Maybe he was already dead."

Suddenly, Terry saw the man stir. He ran his fingers through his hair and watched as the dead man drug himself through the sand until he was clutching the god's legs. He climbed onto the god's back, and disappeared.

Terry looked at the water. It seemed to be moving. Slowly, his vision went dark on one side and he dropped in the sand. Again he fell into the grid, and saw it converging on the little salt pond. Home was so far away. Paul was so far away. And Betty, and his office, and the vending machine that sometimes had Oreos. All were so far away.

Western University stands on seven hills, a fact that they are quick to point out in their brochures. The inevitable comparisons to Rome are made, and Dr. Bozeman’s picture, in which he bites the leg of his glasses and peers into a large book, appears under the heading of “Distinguished Faculty.”

His students complained that Dr. Bozeman forgot they were there, that he answered his own questions in lecture, and often commented, “Yes, that's right,” on his answers. Once when a failing student had taken off her shirt and bra in his office, he had sat staring out his window until she put her clothes on and left.

There were pictures of Paul all around his office. They were all of a younger Paul, in overalls or little league uniform, proud father crouching next to him, smiling. One wall was devoted to a giant map of India, with his travels marked out in blue ink, the sites he had discovered marked in red. His upcoming expedition, to look for evidence of the submarine mare cult in the Thar desert, was marked with red pushpins and string. The shelves along one wall were full, mostly with his own books. He kept a box of Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies in his desk drawer. He brought them out whenever he worked on his lectures or an article for The India Review, feeding the cookies into his mouth one after another.

It was Monday, office hours after lecture. Bozeman settled at his desk, opening the Aitareya Brahmana and read:

Prajapati approached his daughter; some say she was the sky, others that she was the dawn. He became a stag and approached her, as she had taken the form of a doe. The gods saw him and they said, “Prajapati is now doing what is not done.”

Paul had stopped him at the front door that morning. “Can I take John to the Christmas party?”

A tank-top and cut-off jeans. Paul had started working out. It showed.

They wished for one who would punish them, the father and daughter, but they did not find him in one another. Then they assembled in one place the most fearful forms, and these, assembled, became Rudra, the god of dangerous hands.

“Well, I don’t know. He’s not been invited.”

“Oh come on, Dad,” Paul said. “I know I can bring a date.”

The gods said to him, “Prajapati is now doing what is not done. Pierce him.” “So be it,” he replied, and took up his bow.

“What?”

“Can I bring him?”

Shall we do now what has not been done before? Shall we who speak righteously now speak unrighteously? The Ghandharva in the waters and the wife of the waters--such is our source, our highest birth.

“No,” Bozeman said. “He’s not invited.”

The father and daughter are closely tied like heaven and earth. Let me open my body to him as a wife to her husband. Let us whirl about together like the two wheels of a chariot.

Bozeman put down his book and rubbed his eyes.

Yama had disappeared into the sand. When Bozeman’s faintness passed, he stood up and looked around. There were stairs descending into the sand. He took the stairs down into the darkness until the yellow desert light faded above him. He descended a long time, wondering when the Sikhs would be back with their bull-cart. They would not find him if he were down there, and there would be no search parties. It was dangerous enough being in the Thar Desert, with smugglers running weapons across the border to Pakistan. Just as he decided to start back up to the surface, Bozeman struck a wall. The stairs had ended. Feeling across the wall, he located a doorknob, turned it, and opened the door.

A string quartet was playing Schubert. Ceiling fans turned in the gloomy heights of the room. Bookcases wrapped around it. There were stained glass windows, grids of darkness. It was Taylor Hall--the faculty Christmas party.

Yama waved to him from across the room. He flashed his red smile, and his earrings glinted. He broke away from the group he was talking with, and walked over to Bozeman.

“What the hell is this?” Bozeman asked.

“I was going to ask you.” Yama put his hand on Bozeman’s shoulder. “People keep saying ‘Merry Christmas.’ So is this a Christmas?”

“Did you do this?” Bozeman gestured around him.

“Come on. There’s someone I want you to meet.” Yama put a hand on Bozeman’s back and steered him toward the door. Bozeman saw Betty shaking out her umbrella. She wore her silvery long-sleeved dress that Paul called her ‘Grey Shimmer.’ Paul was next to her. His face seemed to glow against the white cotton of his shirt. Terry felt Yama’s cool breath in his ear. “All memories belong to the dead,” the god whispered, “even yours.”

Bozeman pulled away from Yama and wrapped an arm around Betty’s cool, slick sleeve.

“So you’re sure we won’t get towed?” Betty asked, snapping the umbrella closed and dropping it in the stand near the door. “Maybe I should go back out every so often to make sure.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bozeman said.

“Oh, there's a piano,” Paul said, starting away from the others.

“Wait,” Bozeman said, catching him by the shoulder. “I want to introduce you to Chancellor Greene.” Bozeman brushed past the smiling Yama, wife and son in tow.

Greene was talking with Professor Emelia Hemas, a leggy Sri Lankan botanist in a black vinyl mini. Bozeman had been to one of her seminars. Sitting on the edge of the table, she had spoken of pollination vectors while dangling a pump on the end of her toe.

Bozeman walked up to the two, waiting for a pause in the conversation. Greene turned, still talking to Hemas, looked at Bozeman, and then at Paul.

"Hi Terry!" he said. "Is this your son? Paul, right?" Greene offered his hand. "I'm Tobias."

"Hi," Paul murmured, shaking the wrinkled, blue veined hand briefly. "Nice to meet you." Greene smiled at him without saying anything else, until Paul looked away.

"Oh, and hello Betty." Betty offered a hand which oozed about in Greene’s grip.

“Hello,” she said with a smile full of white teeth that made Bozeman put an arm around her waist.

“Is it okay if I play the piano?” Paul said, half to his father and half to Greene.

“You play?” Greene stepped away from Hemas. “May I listen?”

Paul walked toward the piano with Greene following.

Terry introduced himself and Betty to Dr. Hemas. Betty gave her the same smile and limp handshake she had given the Chancellor.

There was silence while Dr. Hemas stirred her screwdriver with her pinkie, and then made a show of licking it.

“I’m going to go get some food,” Betty finally said. Bozeman nodded. Betty looked at him for a moment and when he made no move to join her, walked by herself toward the buffet table. Paul was playing Fur Elise on the white baby grand. Greene leaned against it, watching him.

“Pretty,” Hemas said, nodding toward Betty, who was lifting sushi rolls to her plate with a pair of plastic tongs.

“Yes,” Bozeman said. “I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he said, and winced at the cliché.

Hemas only smiled.

Bozeman felt a pressure in his intestines. He held it back and heard a rumble.

“What do you teach?” Hemas asked. Her pinkie went into her drink.

“Religion,” Bozeman said. “Mostly of Southeast Asia. I’m leaving for India next week, to look at a site in the Thar Desert.”

“Mmm.”

Paul hit a wrong note. He fumbled around for the right one, gave up, and started back at the beginning of the piece. Though he was obviously concentrating, he looked up from time to time to receive the chancellor's encouraging smile.

“I was at your talk on pollination last week,” Bozeman said to Hemas. He could feel the pressure building again.

“I thought I saw you there,” Hemas cried, a hand going lightly to Bozeman’s arm. “What did you think? Was it boring? I always get so carried away, I forget not everyone has my enthusiasm for plants.”

“Oh no, it was great. I really liked the part about the orchid and the bee.”

“You mean the thread-waist wasp,” Hemas said.

Bozeman thought about saying something about Dr. Hemas’ waist. No wasp’s waist could be thinner than yours.

“Are you interested in plants?” Hemas asked, licking screwdriver from her pinkie.

“Oh yes.” A thread waist, huh? (A quick glance at her waist.) He heard Paul stumble at the same spot and start over again. Was anyone looking at him? Betty stood near the piano, holding her empty plate. Greene was looking over Paul’s shoulder at the boy’s hands. So the wasp tries to mate with the orchid, right?

“They’re so specialized, so perfectly adapted to their environment. They’re not nearly as messy as animals.” She smiled. Her teeth were sharp and yellow. “They even make love without touching.”

The thread-waisted messenger, carrying orchid love letters. “Oh, what a lovely image!” he said aloud. The pressure in him shifted, rumbled through his bowels.

“Sounds like you need something to eat,” Hemas said.

“Yes, I think so,” Bozeman said. “Excuse me.” He walked across the hall toward the buffet table. Well, you’ve got a thread waist, but you’re definitely not a wasp. Betty turned to look at him, the empty plate held at her side. Paul was bent over the keys, still muddling through Fur Elise.

Bozeman turned away from the buffet and toward the door. Hemas was talking with Yama. They were both laughing loudly. Hemas’ finger went into her drink.

Terry pushed through the heavy door. He crossed the sidewalk and climbed the grassy shoulder to where his Volvo was double-parked. He unlocked the car, got in the passenger side, and shut the door.

Paul kept his eyes on the music, tried not to be distracted by Chancellor Greene’s stare. John would still be up, he thought, waiting for him to call.

Betty stood at the buffet, picking through what was left-a bit of crab salad, some pineapple, broken-up tortilla chips.

Outside, in his car, Dr. Bozeman turned on the radio and farted. The pressure in his abdomen gave way a bit. The radio played shimmering piano music, Debussy, Terry thought. He sat there, farting and listening and staring at Taylor Hall, which glowed in the dark between the trees. The stained glass windows were full of light, revealing blocky portraits of alumni and patrons. The piece ended and the announcer's silken voice came on. It wasn't Debussy, then, but Saint-Saens. There were Thin Mints in the glove compartment. Terry munched them and listened as the announcer gave the time. 11:26.

Back inside, Yama and Hemas had joined Greene in watching Paul play. The chancellor had his hand on the boy’s shoulder. The noise of the party wrapped around Terry, making him dizzy, suffocating. Hemas was still talking with Yama, but turned to Bozeman as he walked up.

Terry smiled, swayed a little. Funny, he thought, I haven't drunk anything.

"Hello there," Hemas said.

“Tell me," Terry began, "what did the thread-waisted bee say to the orchid?”

Hemas smiled. “I don’t know. What?”

Greene leaned forward to hear the answer.

What? “You should know,” Bozeman said. Hemas smiled and shook her head. What? “‘We’re having fertility problems.’” Bozeman grinned. “‘Maybe we should adopt.’” Hemas’ mouth opened, but there was no laughter. She smiled and turned back to Yama. Paul was trying to sight-read Joy to the World. The boy played a few notes, looked up at the music, looked back at the keys and played a few more. The chancellor made encouraging remarks. Betty was moving from person to person with her plate. He heard her asking where the trash was.

Yama took Terry's arm, pulled him aside. “What do you think?” The god’s red eyes were fixed on him.

“I don't feel good,” Bozeman said. “I'm ready to go.” He walked over to Betty, took the plate from her and set it on a chair. “Come on, let’s go,” he said in her ear, and walked over to the piano. Paul wouldn’t look up from the keys. “It’s time to go,” Bozeman said to him.

“Hang on,” he said. He lurched through a few more chords of the carol, turned the page and stared at the next bar.

Bozeman swept his hands off the keys with one hand, shut the lid of the piano with the other. “I said let’s go.” Paul's face went red and he rose from the bench.

The three of them left without saying goodbye to anyone. They were all silent for ten miles. A dump truck pulled in front of them. There were no good places to pass, but Bozeman kept inching out into the other lane, huffing and leaning to look around the truck. Paul reached for the radio dial and Bozeman swatted his hand away.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

“You could have been more sociable.” Bozeman started to pass the dumptruck, saw lights ahead and pulled back behind it.

“I didn’t know anyone there! What did you expect me to do?”

“I dunno,” he said, “anything but beat on that piano for an hour.”

“Leave him alone,” Betty said from the back. “He didn’t do anything.”

Bozeman edged over, saw the lane was clear. The old engine roared as he passed the truck. The Volvo didn't have enough power to pass quickly. They were only halfway around the truck when a white shape appeared in the headlights. Eyes shined, and there was the dog. Paul cried out when it thumped against the front fender, covered his eyes when it thumped against the underside of the car.

“Turn around!” he cried, eyes still covered. “Turn around!”

Terry pulled in front of the dump truck, fingers white from gripping the wheel.

“Please turn around,” Paul said.

“Just forget about it.”

“You should at least go back,” Paul cried. “It might be hurt.”

"The only reason to go back would be to bury it."

"Then go back and bury it."

Bozeman yanked the car onto the shoulder. The dumptruck roared past them in the dark. “Look, if I go back, you’re going to bury it.”

“Okay,” Paul said. “Just go back.”

Bozeman yanked the car around.

"Calm down Terry," Betty said. Bozeman saw her face in the rearview mirror, maroon lipstick still shining, curls of brown hair falling farther down on the right than the left. Her eyes met his in the mirror.

"There it is," Paul said.

The dog was on its side in the road. Terry pulled the car onto the shoulder, turned off the ignition, and put on the caution lights. He sat in the driver's seat, not moving, staring out the windshield into the dark.

Paul opened his door and got out. Betty started to get out too, but Terry hit the lock switch, and then flipped the child-lock.

"Terry, unlock my door."

"He's doing this."

“No, he's not,” Betty said.

The trunk of the car opened, then slammed shut. Paul walked around the car with a flashlight in his hand.

"Terry, let me out of the car."

Paul was in the road, shining the flashlight on the dog. He touched it with his foot. Then he moved its head back and forth with one hand.

Betty rolled down her window. "Paul, get in the car," she called. "Paul!"

But Paul crouched next to the dog. Flashlight in his mouth, he got his arms around the dog, under its front legs. He lifted it, that ugly white dog. It had a few spots, black and brown, and sagging teats. There was a bloody line that went down its side, across its belly.

Light appeared over the crest of the hill.

"Paul!" Betty cried. “A car’s coming.”

Paul didn’t seem to hear. Terry got out of the car.

The other car sped down the hill. Paul struggled with the dog, trying to get it out of the road. Suddenly, the car’s lights shone around him. He glanced over his shoulder and lifted the dog higher, so that it didn’t drag the pavement. Something happened, then, to the dog’s body. The bloody line opened up. The dog came apart in Paul’s hands. Paul lifted his arms, let the dog drop. He turned to face the oncoming lights with arms raised, his white shirt streaked red.

After she pulled over, Emelia Hemas got out. "Oh my God," she said. "Oh dear God."

But before all that, as Bozeman sat in his Volvo outside Taylor Hall, munching on Thin Mints, he noticed a pattern. Behind a tree, a line of other trees led away from him into the dark. He turned and saw the lines of the road leading away. He saw the fountain, the paths on the green, a student crossing the campus after dark. And behind each of them, a line of grass, a file of trees, radii of mist. In the field opposite was the tamarisk, quivering in the wind, a puff of silver moonlight.

Bozeman let a Thin Mint drop in his lap. “Where am I?”

Yama was standing outside the car. “Now you know how I feel,” he said.

When the Sikhs came back with their bull cart, they were surprised at how far Bozeman had walked from the tamarisk. They found him near a salt pond, collapsed in the sand and delirious. The one who had unwrapped his turban had a new one, this one purple, and his breath smelled of coriander and strong coffee. They both looked like they had had a bath. These were some of Bozeman’s last impressions.

In Bikaner, they took Dr. Bozeman to the state hospital. They left him on the ground outside the emergency room door, but kept his luggage. After a while, two nurses came and carried him in. He went into a coma that evening, and died at 11:26 that night.