Free The Colossus by Ranjini Iyer

paper. Indus Valley . Sub heading: Societies and Clubs . Max’s heart began to race. She glanced at Julian.
    “Read,” he commanded.
    She read aloud.
    “No fewer than six known groups, perhaps many more, were formed by people who had visited the Indus Valley, an advanced civilization. Blah blah. How do I turn the page…okay, got it.” Max pressed the turn button.
    “Go on, go on,” Julian urged. He began to pace.
    “I’m trying,” she said. “Okay, Indus Religions, as the name suggests, was a club whose focus was religion as pertained to the —”
    “Not that one. Go to the end of the page,” Julian said, still pacing.
    “Okay,” Max said, exasperated. “ A group called Umrit was in all probability formed following an expedition in 1935 headed by Dr. Bernard Baston. This author speculates that the club might have been formed to celebrate or record something special they found at the valley.
    “The term Umrit means ‘the nectar of immortality’ in Hindoo mythology. It is a tantalizing idea that what they may have found may have inspired the intriguing name given to the club. Inevitably, the club became legend and stories about an Indus pill of immortality began appearing in newspapers. Baston used the limelight to direct attention to his more important work on the dig. He was eventually awarded a Chancellor’s medal for his work.
    Names of members: founding member Bernard Baston, Andre Georges, Ulrike Johannsen…” Max went down the list. “Honorary members: Abdul Chapar, Fardoon Chapar, and Dr. Samuel Rosen.” Max swallowed hard and looked up at Julian.
    He was looking at her with palms turned upwards, as if expecting her to cry “Eureka” or something.
    “Any current members?” she asked.
    He shook his head. “I checked these names. They’re archeologists and all dead. The two Chapars are the guides mentioned in the diary,” Julian said. “Look at the very end.”
    At the bottom of the page was the symbol of the seal from her grandfather’s diary. Below it was a Swastika—Opa’s lucky symbol had been this group’s symbol, too.
    “This doesn’t tell us anything new,” Max said glumly.
    Julian looked askance at her.
    Max didn’t want to appear like a complete idiot to this crazy cute, brilliant professor. “How about descendants?” she said, working up some enthusiasm. “Like me.”
    Julian looked unimpressed. “They key takeaway here is that since Bernard Baston was awarded the Chancellor’s medal, there might still be papers relevant to the dig.”
    Max looked puzzled.
    “He was German,” he said, impatience creeping into his voice.
    “So?”
    Julian looked positively irritated. “ Ai, yi yi , Ms. Rosen, Germans those days were obsessed with preserving records. Probably still are. And if he won a medal, I bet his records are archived somewhere. A good place to start might be the Archeological Society at the DANK Haus—German American Cultural Center. The chaps there might know something. Let’s go back to my office.”
     
    Back at Julian’s office, Max felt drained. This wasn’t what she did well. Legwork. And research! She had detested doing it for her job at Granger Foods.
    If there had been doubts before, there were absolutely none now: she was a cook and nothing but a cook—heart and soul, every sinew, every cell of her being. She felt a gush of warmth and possessive love for her fumbling little catering company, her demanding clients, her elaborate, labored-over menus, her barely affordable employees.
    Julian got busy investigating the DANK Haus website.
    The reality of her situation suddenly struck Max. Memories of the state of her apartment from the night before flashed in front of her eyes. Followed by an image of Lars being shot.
    This was a huge mistake. She was not qualified to do any of this. Max touched the arms of her chair and got up. It was time to put anend to this madness. She was faced with the very real possibility that Papa had been killed. This was