God’s Code

After transferring from New Delhi to Madras, at the Madras airport, our Indian liaison named Nikola, a slightly plump man with dark skin, spoke fluent but non-standard English. Since my English is neither fluent nor standard, communicating was quite exhausting. By the way, Wang Qiang’s English seems even worse than mine, so I, the slightly better one, had to embarrass myself. We would stay in the port city of Madras for a day before heading to Mahabalipuram by car in the evening of the next day. Nikola asked why we chose Mahabalipuram; Wang Qiang’s reason was that she had seen beautiful photos taken by friends, while I mentioned the ruins that were originally buried under the sea. My reason surprised Nikola; he hesitated before reminding me that because of those ruins, there are some rumors among the local populace, and he hoped we wouldn’t pay them any mind. Of course, I knew what “some” meant in such an official context, so I pressed Nikola for more details. “The inscriptions on the newly exposed stones have been misread by the public, leading some to believe that those who inscribed them over a thousand years ago predicted the recent tsunami, causing unnecessary panic, which is really absurd,” Nikola said. My eyebrows twitched—was it a prophecy? Nikola didn’t elaborate further, perhaps unwilling or not fully informed himself. I wasn’t sure how much truth there was in it; it sounded ridiculous, yet even the government had been alarmed by the rumors. Before understanding the actual situation, I didn’t dwell on it deeply but instead grew more eagerly anticipating Mahabalipuram, to the extent that while sightseeing in Madras, I barely noticed the beautiful port, far less enthusiastic about taking photos than Wang Qiang. Madras had indeed experienced the tsunami, but this port city’s facilities were much sturdier than typical tourist spots, at least I didn’t see any signs of the tsunami. The next day, after having a cheap seafood feast at a seaside restaurant in Madras port, Nikola drove us to Mahabalipuram in a Ford. Wang Qiang was still complaining that we should have stayed another day in Madras. Sitting in the back seat, pretending to nap, I was actually very impatient inside. We checked into the Quality Inn MGM Beach Resort, a near-four-star hotel. Nikola was to guide us around Mahabalipuram the next morning, introduce the local tourism industry, and perhaps give me a press release; after that, his job would be done. If we didn’t have any special needs, we could spend eight days peacefully in this small town. Wang Qiang didn’t want to go clubbing with me; she wanted to sleep early to save energy for the next day. The charm of a city isn’t just about sightseeing, but I wouldn’t tell Wang Qiang, whom I just met. I jotted down the name and address of the hotel, slung on a backpack, and went out. Mahabalipuram isn’t large, and for a traveler like me, the only places worth visiting at night were a few bar streets not far from the hotel and the surrounding neighborhoods, which had many interesting little shops. Although the tourist facilities in Mahabalipuram had recovered, there were still very few tourists; otherwise, the Indian government wouldn’t have invited us. Those bars would be bustling during peak season, but now they were rather quiet, mostly locals drinking inside. Walking on the street, I hardly saw any tourists. Tourists are usually recognizable by their attire. The Prophecy of Mahabalipuram (3) I was walking slowly on the street, planning to find a bar to sit in when my legs got tired. However, at one moment, I suddenly felt something was off. I wasn’t sure if this feeling, which I often experienced, could be considered a sixth sense; every time it appeared, there was definitely something around me worth noticing but had been overlooked by me. I had once discussed this issue with Liang Yingwu; it should be my subconscious noticing something, but my conscious mind hadn’t caught up. The subconscious and the brain are closely related, both belonging to areas humans can barely claim to understand. I carefully scanned my surroundings again, finally focusing on a person walking slightly ahead of me. This person was dressed like a local, and perhaps due to the night, his skin looked quite dark. Here, tourists and women usually catch my attention, and this person had initially been ignored by my senses like many other local men around. But now, a chill ran down my spine. His silhouette looked very much like a friend of mine. That friend was dead. I followed him slowly, keeping a distance. I wanted to walk up quickly to see his face but was also a bit scared. That friend had died right in front of me, a gruesome death. He turned into a bar, and I stood at the entrance, staring at the flickering neon lights, hesitated for three seconds, and then followed him inside. There were only four or five patrons in the bar, but he wasn’t among them. I thought for a moment and asked the bartender if he had seen the person who just came in. The bartender pointed toward the back of the bar. Following his direction, I walked towards a slightly ajar door. Behind the door was an alley, the back door of the bar. Just as I stepped out, I was hit hard in the stomach, and everything spun as I was pinned to the ground. “Who are you, and why are you following me?” the man asked in a low voice in English. My face was pressed into the ground, my lips cut by my teeth, and my stomach still spasming, but I knew I had to quickly explain the situation, or who knows what might happen. I endured the pain and said, “It’s a misunderstanding; your silhouette looked like a friend of mine.” I wanted to explain more, but my English was too poor, and in my panic, I forgot many words. “Friend, what friend?” His tone was dismissive, clearly not believing me. I cursed my damn sixth sense inwardly; it seemed I had run into the underworld. “My friend in China, named Wei Xian, he’s dead; your silhouette looked like him, I was curious…” I struggled to piece together the English words. When I mentioned “Wei Xian,” the hand pressing my neck trembled slightly. “What’s your name?” I suddenly heard familiar Mandarin; was he Chinese? “Na Duo, my name is Na Duo.” The hand gripping my neck loosened, and I struggled to my feet, clutching my stomach and looking up. The man stood in the shadows, with the bar’s light slightly illuminating his right cheek. I took a step back in shock. What was happening? Had the dead come back to life?