Soul Identity Page 19

  The plane landed, and we were the first two off the jetway. We walked up to the first counter in the immigration room.

  The examiner raised his bushy eyebrows as he looked at our forms and swiped our passports through his scanner. “Your first trip to India, sir?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Will I like it here?”

  He wobbled his head back and forth. “A very good welcome to India.”

  I wobbled back. “Thank you.” I looked over at Val. “Did that head wobble mean yes or no?”

  “It meant yes. But it looks silly when you do it.”

  “I kind of like it.” I wobbled again.

  “Watch it or you’re going to insult people here.”

  “Good point.” We went down some stairs and put our bags through a metal detector. “Now why would they look for weapons after we land?” I asked.

  “They’re not looking for weapons. They’re looking for reasons to tax you.”

  “Ah.” The guard handed me my laptop bag, and I smiled at him. “How are you?” I asked.

  The guard wobbled his head. “Very good, sir. Welcome to Hyderabad.”

  I wobbled back, and Val elbowed me in the ribs.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t help it,” I said.

  We passed through customs and into a large hall. Metal barricades lined our path, and hundreds of people stood pressed together on the outside of them. Everybody’s eyes followed us as we walked. I caught the eyes of a man leaning on the barricade. I smiled at him, but he just stared. Same with the next guy, and the next.

  “Why aren’t they smiling back?” I asked.

  “They don’t know they’re supposed to smile,” she said. “Russia is the same way. When I first came to America, I thought everybody was laughing at me.”

  We reached the end of the hall. The sliding doors opened, and we walked outside. We were back on stage behind more metal barricades. All sorts of vehicles filled the road and parking lot behind the hundreds of people jammed tight against the barrier. The air was hot and full of strong, spicy smells.

  Val looked around, and then pointed. “Our ride’s over there.”

  I saw a guy holding a sheet of cardboard that read “Valentina Nikolskaya.” Val waved, and he and the girl next to him waved back.

  “They’re smiling,” I said.

  “Yeah, our guys work with lots of Westerners.” Val gave them each a hug. “Scott, I’d like you to meet Bhanu and Sheela, SchmidtLabs employees.”

  I shook their hands. Bhanu was dark and skinny, maybe five and a half feet tall, wearing a winter coat and ski hat. Sheela was lighter in color, a couple inches shorter, and also wearing a winter coat. “How can you survive in those jackets?” I asked. It was at least eighty degrees outside.

  “We’re not used to the cold weather.” Bhanu shivered. “Don’t worry, it will warm up tomorrow.”

  We crossed the street and dodged the cars, trucks, bikes, and small yellow three-wheeled vehicles. “What are the yellow things called?” I asked.

  “Auto taxis,” Bhanu said. “One step above a rickshaw.”

  Two old ladies and a bunch of young kids came up to us with their hands outstretched. “Bhaiya, bhaiya,” they wailed.

  “What’s bhaiya?” I asked.

  “Older brother. They’re begging for your money,” Sheela said. “Just keep walking.”

  I opened my wallet. “Can they take US money?” I asked.

  Bhanu shook his head. “They can’t exchange it.”

  “We have to give them something,” I said. “Look how skinny they are. Can you lend me some money until I get to a bank?”

  Bhanu handed me some coins. “These are each five rupees.”

  “How much are they worth?”

  “Eleven cents each.”

  “Is that enough?”

  Bhanu nodded. “Plenty. But they may keep pestering you, though. You’re gora. That’s what we call whites.”

  When I passed out the coins, a crowd of beggars surrounded me. I looked back. “A little help here?” I asked.

  Bhanu and Sheela shooed them away.

  “There’s not enough money to help all the beggars in India,” Sheela said.

  We reached the car, a small red hatchback. Val and I squeezed in the back. Bhanu backed up and then shot into a gap in the line of cars exiting the airport parking. “Sheela, give me some money for the parking,” he said. “Scott gave all of mine away.”

  Sheela opened her purse. “Here’s two hundred.” She looked back at Val. “How long will you be here?”

  “We’re leaving very late Wednesday night,” Val said.

  “Then take rest in the morning, and in the afternoon we’ll give you a tour of the city.” She laughed. “When Hans Schmidt said you were coming, we both told him that he just had to let us take care of you.”

  “And Sheela didn’t take no for an answer,” Bhanu said. “Hans Schmidt wanted to hire you a driver, but she told him that we’d do it in our own car.”

  Val squeezed my hand. “I flew over for Bhanu and Sheela’s wedding last year.”

  “Cool,” I said. “Did your parents arrange your marraige?”

  They both laughed. “No, Scott,” Bhanu said. “We are a love marriage.”

  The light ahead of us turned red, and Bhanu beeped his horn and cruised through it. “In the daytime you have to stop at those red lights,” he said.

  “But only if there’s a policeman around,” Sheela said. “Otherwise you beep and keep going.”

  I nodded. “So the traffic light color doesn’t really matter. It’s all in the horn.”

  Bhanu smiled. “You have just received your first Hyderabadi driving lesson.”

  We said goodbye to Bhanu and Sheela at the hotel. When we reached the room, Val closed the door and smiled at me. “Let me give you a very personal welcome to India.”

  I wobbled my head at her, and she started laughing.

  “I read the Kama Sutra when I was a teenager,” I said.

  She came close and tugged my shirt out of my pants. “And?” she whispered.

  I unbuttoned her jeans and tugged them downward. “There’s some positions in there that I’ve been wanting to try,” I said. “What better place than India?”

  Her eyes twinkled. “Show me.”

  twenty-one

  It was noon, and I was lucid enough to get up. Nine and a half hours of time difference made for some serious jet lag. I heard the water running. I swung out of bed and went into the bathroom.

  The shower curtain moved, and Val peeked out. “Ready to see India in the daylight?” she asked.

  “Sure.” I opened my toiletry bag. “Hey, are Bhanu and Sheela Soul Identity members?”

  She stepped out of the shower. “Of course.”

  “Don’t most Hindus already believe in reincarnation?”

  “They do.”

  “I can’t imagine that Soul Identity is that popular in India,” I said.

  “It isn’t,” she said. “Hindus focus on their current lives’ duties, and they don’t seem to search for information on their past and future lives. You don’t need us if you don’t care about the bridges.”

  That made sense. I laid a row of toothpaste on my toothbrush. “Do you think we knew each other in our past lives?”

  “No, I don’t.” She said this with some certainty.

  I pouted at her reflection in the mirror. “Come on, Val. Maybe we were Anthony and Cleopatra. Or Romeo and Juliet.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t believe in reincarnation.”

  I dropped my toothbrush and stared at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

  She shook her head and smiled.

  “Didn’t you tell me that you’re a believer in Soul Identity?”

  “I did, and I am.”

  “And didn’t you tell me that I’d believe soon?”

  “I did, and you will.”

  I crossed my arms. “Didn’t you say that you w
anted to start your own soul line to create a legacy?”

  “I did, and I have.”

  “And now you’re saying that you don’t believe in reincarnation?”

  “That’s right. I don’t.”

  I shook my head. “I’m totally lost. How can you join Soul Identity without believing in reincarnation?”

  She shrugged. “Like I said on our drive to Maryland, religion is something that lies on top of the organization. Believing in reincarnation has nothing to do with the repeating identity.”

  “Bob seems to believe in reincarnation.”

  She nodded. “That’s his church talking. Soul Identity finds a member’s connection, but it’s the church that defines its significance.”

  “So what sort of significance do you give to your soul identity?”

  She smiled. “I see it as a magical time machine. I can write down my philosophies, or even cook up a totally fictional story about my life. I stick these documents in the depositary, and sooner or later, somebody matching my identity will read them and make a decision on what it means to them.”

  “And you don’t think that somebody is you, wrapped up in a new body?” I asked.

  “No. That person will feel a connection to me, and that’s the magical part. But I don’t believe that person will be me.”

  I nodded. “I get it—I think. Soul Identity gives you a way to be relevant far out into the future.”

  Val kissed me. “You do get it.”

  I kissed her back. “But don’t you think it’s cool to imagine that we once were Romeo and Juliet?”

  She smiled. “Only one night together before dying? If our past was connected, I hope it wasn’t in a tragedy.”

  I sat up front with Bhanu as we toured the city. We visited Golkonda, Charminar, and the Birla Temple. The colors, sounds, and smells overwhelmed my Western eyes, ears, and nose. Ladies in bright yellow, orange, and pink saris walked down the sidewalks and browsed the rows of stores and stalls. Cars, trucks, motorcycles, horse-drawn carts, camels, auto taxis, and water buffalo made their way through the streets in a rhythm that was indiscernible to me. Horns beeped, jackhammers stuttered, and donkeys brayed. The smells of sewage and spices assaulted my nose. India was so different from home.

  Bhanu put away his phone. “I just talked to Hans Schmidt. We’re going to meet him for dinner at Bawarchi.”

  “Yay!” Sheela said. “Bawarchi makes the best biryani in Hyderabad.”

  On the way to the restaurant, I pointed out the window. “I’ve seen signs in at least four different alphabets.”

  Bhanu nodded. “Which ones do you recognize?”

  “English in the Roman alphabet, though the spelling is appalling. Look at the signs on this one restaurant. Chaines Food. Chinees Restaurent. Chineese Food Inside.”

  Bhanu smiled. “Indian English. What else?”

  “That sign looks Arabic to me. Isn’t it read right to left?”

  He nodded. “That’s Urdu. It uses an Arabic script. The Muslims in India and Pakistan speak it.”

  “Okay, then this other script has its characters connected by a line across their tops. Lots of square edges and vertical lines.”

  “That’s Hindi. Read it left to right, like English.”

  “So this curvy script must be Telegu. I like it the best,” I said.

  “Why’s that?” Val asked from the back.

  I grinned. “Look at all those curves. It’s a boob language. Like that sign over there. Here’s what I see—big boob, little pair of boobs, small boob, another pair of boobs.”

  Sheela giggled. “That sign says clothing store.”

  “Writing in South India developed on palm leaves,” Bhanu said. “They used lots of curves so the leaves wouldn’t split along the fibers.”

  “I’m glad they didn’t have papyrus,” I said.

  We reached Bawarchi and parked along the street.

  “Let’s sit on the roof,” Sheela said. “There’s no air conditioning, but it’s more real.”

  We climbed two flights of stairs. “Hum panj hai,” Bhanu told the waiter. He looked at us. “I said we are five. Hans Schmidt should be here in a couple of minutes.”

  Sheela smiled. “He’ll be prompt. There is no India time at SchmidtLabs.”

  “India time?” I asked.

  “Five minutes late here, ten minutes late there. We don’t do that at work, no way. Hans Schmidt won’t allow it.”

  The waiter seated us in wrought-iron chairs around a marble topped table. We watched servers carrying platters to the many diners. A plastic canopy overhead protected us from the sun. The satellite radio blaring from the speakers tied to the canopy’s support poles almost drowned out the street noises from below.

  A man came by and placed five metal cups on the table.

  “Doh mineral water lie yay.” Sheela told him. She looked at us. “Will two mineral waters be enough?”

  “Just for Val and me?”

  She shook her head. “For all of us. We don’t drink the local water either.”

  The waiter brought two bottles of water and left them on the table. The packaging on the bottles read “Oxyrich water—with 300% more oxygen.”

  “That’s interesting advertising,” I said. “I didn’t even know I needed more oxygen in my water.”

  “I think Oxyrich does this so we remember them.” Sheela said.

  “Imagine if you guys advertised that way,” I said. “Soul Identity—with three hundred percent more chicken soup.”

  “Chicken soup?” Val asked.

  “It’s good for the soul.” I ducked the napkin Val threw at me.

  “Hans Schmidt is here!” Bhanu said. He waved, and a big man waved back.

  Hans Schmidt stood six and a half feet tall. He had a large chest and solid looking limbs. His blonde hair hung halfway down his back in a ponytail, and he sported a half-gray goatee. He smiled and walked toward us.

  “He’s a big guy,” I said.

  “He’s a big teddy bear,” Val stood up and gave him a Euro-kiss on each cheek. “Hans Schmidt,” she said, “I’d like you to meet Scott Waverly. He’s working with us.”

  My hand disappeared in Hans Schmidt’s massive paw as he shook it up and down. “It’s good to meet you, Scott Waverly.”

  “Call me Scott, Hans,” I said.

  “Call me Hans Schmidt.” He smiled. “Hans sounds like the Hindi word for swan.” He spread his arms and mimed flying. “I’m more of the ugly duckling than a beautiful swan—I use my full name here.”

  He looked over at Bhanu and Sheela. “Hi kids. Did you show our guests a good time?”

  Bhanu and Sheela both smiled back. I saw a lot of affection between the three. “Yes, Hans Schmidt,” Sheela said. “We took them to all the major places.”

  “How long have you lived here?” I asked him.

  “Thirteen years, and I’ve loved every minute of it.” He sat down and beckoned to a waiter. “One jumbo mutton biryani and two Bawarchi special mutton curries.” He winked at me. “Bawarchi’s mutton biryani is great, but it’s even greater when you put extra mutton curry on top.” He kissed his fingertips.

  The waiter wobbled his head and walked away.

  Hans Schmidt turned to Val. “I must say this is a surprise visit,” he said. “Are we still on schedule for the Internet rollout? You’re not changing anything?”

  Val shook her head. “We’re not changing. But Scott and I have some questions about the Y2K work that SchmidtLabs did for Soul Identity ten years ago.”

  “I remember that work,” he said. “If it wasn’t for the money we banked from that contract, the dot com crash would have put us out of business.”

  The waiters brought our food. Hans Schmidt filled his plate with steaming rice and chunks of meat. He smothered it with the mutton curry gravy. “This is the food of the gods,” he declared.

  I followed his lead. I lifted a spoonful of rice and sniffed it. I could smell cinnamon and cloves, and maybe some turmeric and saffr
on. I tasted it. The rice was perfectly cooked: not too soft, and with just the right amount of chili to offset the other spices. “Wow,” I said.

  Val poked me. “I thought that word was reserved for me.”

  I lifted another spoonful. “It was until we came here.” I tasted the mutton. “Oh my God, this is perfect.”

  Hans Schmidt beamed at me, then he turned back to Val. “What do you need to know?” he asked.

  “It’s about the match program,” Val said. “The binaries don’t match the source code we have on file. Why not?”

  He looked startled. “They ought to match,” he said. “We haven’t touched that code for ten years.”

  Val stared at him. “Are you sure, Hans Schmidt? I decompiled the binaries myself, and they were different.”

  He frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Val tapped the marble tabletop with her fingernails. “Only SchmidtLabs and I can change those binaries. I checked your original submission, and they match the current ones. The binaries came from your lab, ten years ago. They don’t match the source you provided. And I want to know why.”

  Hans Schmidt sat for a moment with his mouth open. “I don’t know what to say—I hate the idea of SchmidtLabs looking like we did something tricky,” he said.

  Bhanu and Sheela whispered back and forth. Bhanu cleared his throat. “Hans Schmidt? May I say something?”

  Hans Schmidt nodded.

  “Last time Val was here,” Bhanu said, “she mentioned that it takes thirty seconds to match an identity. After she left, I got to thinking that there had to be better algorithms for doing this search, so I pulled up the code.”

  “Why would you do that?” Hans Schmidt leaned forward in his seat.

  Bhanu gave him an embarrassed smile. “One of my batch mates works for a competitor to Soul Identity, and he was bragging about some new search they’ve put in place—one that takes less than ten seconds to do a match.”

  “Bhanu, you talked about Soul Identity to their competitor?” Hans Schmidt’s tone had become harsh.

  “No, Hans Schmidt,” Bhanu said. “My batch mate was bragging about his new job at WorldWideSouls. I didn’t tell him anything about Soul Identity. He only knows I work for SchmidtLabs. He doesn’t even know I’m a Soul Identity member.”