When Maharth wrote to his fellows in Oxford, in Cambridge, in Zürich, in Singapore, in Beijing, in Paris that his next venture headed him to Antioch, Oregon, some — the educative elite who regarded themselves as archetypical tricksters, someone very important and very funny — sent a novelty umbrella back in return. Watch for rain! A note exclaimed in a truly academic cursive, and Maharth wrote back, equally as illegible, I will remain vigilant.
This loose, carefree exchange reflected Professor Chandrasekhar’s way of life; while his peers shacked up their top schools and held offices that had become second homes, Maharth's suitcase, adorned with worn-out stickers and travel tags from around the world, served as his only address.
He knew what others thought when glimpsing his actions, the impression he had carved into their memories. He was a stone statue of a bird frozen mid-flight, always on the move, always traveling. This exact liminality founded his corporeal image—a man destined to leave, who people remembered longer than they knew.
But Maharth, at least to his attestation, wasn’t a bystander on life’s fringes. Memory was fragile, an artifact on the losing end of time. Forgetting was so easy when it was banal. So, determined to make his existence known in the transient spacetime he inhabited, Maharth burned like a supernova, the start of a star’s collapse. The beginning, the end. ἐγώ εἰμί τὸ Ἄλφα καὶ τὸ Ὦ.
Despite the brevity of Maharth’s stay in Antioch, he was determined to make it unforgettable. In less than a month, Maharth had already made significant strides in familiarizing himself with the local haunts and the Antioch people. One, a gentleman by the name of John Weaver, stuck out to the professor, a presence that weighed on Maharth with a gruff voice of seasoned dark rum and piercing eyes spotlighted by sparks of a summer lawn hidden in dark, mossy green-brown hues. Both tenets of Maharth’s fascination reminded him of a rare and exquisite beauty, an entity that intensified as it ripened undisturbed, nestled within the shadows.
The casual coffee break with John that followed Maharth’s lecture unexpectedly blossomed into an eagerly anticipated event, and the professor marked the date on his calendar as a reminder of the upcoming meeting with the rancher. John’s frequent appearances at his classes heightened this excitement. Although the goal of exploring Antioch’s mythology was the basis, the added benefit of a better understanding of John’s character spurred the sweet dizziness in Maharth’s chest. The hunger in his head. All Maharth knew was that the other man was pious, and that he was generous.
I must know more, he thought his oft-minded phrase.
And so here is he now, driving one-handed in his rental car on a road that his phone’s GPS refuses to show.
Under the hospital’s instructions to avoid unnecessary strain, Maharth’s unused arm rests over the car door, fighting the itch to grab the steering wheel as the car jounces on the rough off-road track. Traveling to the deep part of the woods is quite a journey, and if the hospital staff found out, they would surely scold him. But Maharth would never no-show, not when he’s made a promise to John.
After a stretch of evergreen, the professor spots the tall metal fences, the signs shouting Turn Back and Private Property, No Trespassing. The professor finds humor in this irony, for what is he doing if not a softhearted act of surveillance?
The instructions he received from John are clear enough, and soon, he is rewarded with the contours of a vast compound. People, who Maharth assumes are part-timers on the ranch, help lead him in, and once he parks his ride on a small reservation of gravel, he steps out of the sedan with a wave of his good arm.
“ It was no problem at all, John! The signs helped! ” The professor laughs, clipping his sunglasses on the front collar of his polo shirt. He turns back to the car to open the backseat doors, crawling halfway in until he pops back out, good arm cradling a box of red and white Tuscan wine. He walks up to the porch and greets John again, softer because of their shared proximity.
“ Thank you again for hosting me, John. I know I must be taking a sizable chunk of time out of your busy day. This is a token of my appreciation for your kindness to a newcomer like me. I, erm, didn’t know if you preferred red or white… Only that you like your coffee black. ” Maharth chuckles evenly, eyes crinkling. Steadying his weaker hand, he passes over bottles of Brunello di Montalcino and Querciabella Bàtar, hoping they’re to John’s taste. “ I’ve been looking forward to this, truly. My schedule’s all cleared for no one else but you. Please have me as long as you like. Even only five minutes is fine! ”
