1

SHORT STORIES

by
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Copyright

The author asserts his moral right over the ownership of the contents this book,
they being his personal intellectual property. No part of the book may be copied,
Xeroxed, quoted, or otherwise reproduced without the express written permission
of the author.

Disclaimer

This book is purely a work of fiction. However, in attempting to describe certain

situations, it may depict circumstances that would seem to tally with some real-life
scenarios, in which case it is clarified that any purported resemblance to actual
characters or situations is entirely coincidental, and no part of it has anything to do
with any living person, any particular place or any present or past events.
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This book is for

My Timeless Muse
Enigmatic…Enchanting…Eternal

“In everyone's life, at some time, our inner

fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by
an encounter with another human being. We
should all be thankful for those people who
rekindle the inner spirit.”

-Albert Schweitzer, philosopher, physician, and musician (1875-1965)

Introduction
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Those who’ve read the marvelous short stories of Chekhov, Guy de Maupassant, Somerset
Maugham, O. Henry or even Asimov’s mind-expanding yarns know it can be pretty
addictive fare, but not even in my wildest dreams had I pictured myself dabbling in this
genre. True, there was the occasional (and cane-powered!) foray into the medium during
my school days, and of course the essay-like tutorials in college, but that’s about as far as
I’d got….not counting, of course, the essay paper in the mandatory (for my generation)
attempt at the civil services, where I’d scribbled out my angst in response to the topic:
‘Politics is the pursuit of public goals for private ends’—an attempt that the UPSC felt was
worth 125 marks out of 150.

All I could remember later about what I’d written was that the piece ended with a quote
from Bertrand Russell that had sprung suddenly to mind at Jodhpur House: ‘Politics
deserves a better name than it has, and has a better name than it deserves’. I have steered
well clear of both bureaucracy and politics since then, being firmly convinced there are
more honourable – albeit less lucrative – ways of making a living. If at all I fancied my
chances as a writer, I felt that someday I might write an adventure novel laced with duels,
heroic odysseys, damsels in distress and lots of gore! If anyone had told me I’d venture
into terrain that most writers were prudent enough to steer clear of and scribble dozens of
offbeat little tales, I’d have laughed. But that’s how it turned out.

Providence plays funny tricks on us. Inscrutable indeed are the mysterious ways in which
she unfolds her gameplan. Thus it came to pass that one fine morning, I opened my
mailbox to find a challenge awaiting me. It read as follows:

“A man wakes up one morning to find that his memory has deserted him.

His entire fifty years of existence has been wiped out from his mind overnight, leaving it
like a blank piece of a paper...

Try writing a short story on this, how the man wakes up and discovers the tragedy, and
then what happens eventually.

The denouement is your call.”

I’ll never know for certain what made her send me this email, but it was like the sound of
the bugle to the old warhorse. It was an open challenge, and I wasn’t at all sure I could
answer it adequately. She was incensed at my diffident reply (in 8-point text). Her
disappointment galvanised me into activity—just as she probably intended. People who
push you out of your comfort zone for your own good are very, very rare. Once upon a
lifetime, I had the good fortune of meeting such a one. All my output is therefore dedicated
to her. Her catalytic influence transformed my worldview.

I know she always has this effect on me—this mysterious companion across the eons. She
came into my life like a meteor and left after her mission was accomplished, just as she
always does…life after life. Across the eternities of spacetime that separate and unite us, I
thank her again for her largesse. Fate was thus at work. A couple of days later, The
Fragrance of a Rose was in her inbox. And then a funny thing happened: I found I
 5

couldn’t stop. About every other weekend, a story worked its way out of me and into the
computer’s hard disk. Tabula Rasa was another variation on the ‘amnesia’ theme.

I think she pretended to be a trifle disconcerted by what she’d triggered off, scouring the
Net doggedly just in case I’d done what is today called a Kaavya Vishwanathan…until she
came across some of the stories, uploaded on www.sulekha.com (where they were
available till recently). Meanwhile, I found the yarns had acquired quite a devoted little
following, judging from readers’ responses. It was pretty encouraging.

On my part, I was unable to recollect having read anything like them before. Be that as it
may, personal experiences must have inspired some of the stories. What other explanation
can there be for the fact that all I had to do was to relax at my computer and let my mind
drift off untended into a phantom zone of timeless existence, and – hey presto! – a
storyline would pop into my head apparently out of nowhere!

All I had to do thereafter was to hammer away furiously at my keyboard as the story wrote
itself out of me. It is for this reason that I wonder whether I can really lay claim to
authorship of these tales, for I actually played little part in their construction apart from
enabling their physical manifestation. I have serious doubts as to whether I actually
created them. I now know that it was her power to open my mind to vistas of forgotten
experiences from other planes of existence that occasioned these outpourings.

Inevitably, therefore, they were conceived within the crucible of a mind temporarily
disconnected from the inner chaos which normally tyrannizes our working hours.
Internally liberated from the clamour and hustle and bustle of daily existence, I found that
I’d unwittingly ventured into an unknown realm that I’d never known existed.

Nevertheless, much of what is to be found within the pages of this book is inevitably
coloured by my own thoughts and experiences, sublimated by exposure to the timeless
magic of my muse. Most of us are obliged to disable our finer sensibilities in trying to cope
with the mindless inanities of our daily lives. But sometimes – just sometimes – we are
miraculously allowed a little latitude in this direction. I cannot adequately express the joy –
the sense of deep fulfilment – that I felt as these tales fought their way out of me.

It is hard to describe the exhilaration of an unfettered mind freewheeling in another

dimension beyond the laws of space and time. I know that many would regard this
statement with suspicion. Never having met my muse, a few might even reject my
explanation outright. To those readers, all I can say is that I cannot come up with any other
way of explaining my means and source of inspiration. Anyway, I enjoyed having these
stories come through me. I hope you enjoy reading them!

Subroto Mukerji
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Contents Page no.

Title page ............. xx

Dedication ............. xx
Introduction ............. xx
1. Sofa So Good ............. xx
2. The Greatest Thing of All ............. xx
3. The Fragrance of a Rose ............. xx
4. The Dirtiest Job in the World ............. xx
5. For Better or for Worse ............. xx
6. Going Home ............. xx
7. Live By the Gun ............. xx
8. Mist in the Valley ............. xx
9. Books and the Eternal Biangle ............ xx
10. Bow-String .............. xx
11. Just Think of It ............. xxx
12. Brief Visit ............. xxx
13. Coffeecats ............. xxx
14. Beyond the Dark ............. xxx
15. Through All Eternity ............. xxx
16. Time Pass ……………. xxx
17. Heartbreaker ……………..xxx
18. Tomorrow Always Comes ………..xxx
19. Xanadu ………………..xxx
20. Unfinished Business ………………….xxx
21. Tabula Rasa ……… …xxx
22. For Heaven’s Sake ………………….xxx
23. The Gourmet ………………….xxx.
24. The Steel Trunk …………………….. xxx

Sofa So Good
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There was only one way of getting rid of it, he decided. So when she went
shopping for the evening groceries, he bought the axe. He was unused to violent effort, and
it took him about an hour to reduce the three wooden sofa-chairs and the main three-seater
to a pile of firewood. He wiped the sweat from his brow triumphantly, and sat on the carpet
cross-legged, waiting for her to return. He felt a sort of fiendish glee in what he’d finally
managed to do. He’d hated it from the moment he’d seen it. So what if her father had given
it to her when they’d gone and got married…that was another colossal blunder that wasn’t
worth thinking about.

They were a mismatch to beat all mismatches. He was easygoing,

unambitious, loved reading science fiction and philosophy, hated Hindi movies and was a
fatalist (or static determinist, if you prefer jargon). He was convinced of the utter oneness
of all matter—if, indeed, there was such a thing as ‘matter’—everlastingly, inextricably
intertwined to form a complete, finished universe. He felt that the reality he apparently
‘saw’ was only a chain of bits and pieces that were revealed serially to his limited
perceptions, like a slit in a piece of cardboard moving along the page of a book.

He was sure that limited perceptions came in the way of his ability to
perceive Reality as a great, frozen wholeness, as the Eastern Masters can often do. He was
certain that there was no ‘individual’ existence. It was an illusion born of the western
classical way of looking at things, a conditioned state of mind. All so-called individuals, all
matter, were but mind-stuff. Everything was One. All were the same—evanescent, ever-
changing manifestations of something beyond his grasp. It wasn’t entirely book-
knowledge; he often intuitively felt that way. But he had no proof.

If anything got her really mad, apart from his spilling cigarette ash all over
the place, it was this mumbo-jumbo he kept spouting. If that wasn’t enough, what about all
that other stuff about Black Holes and event horizons, superluminal connectedness of
things, of matter being fundamentally energy, perhaps even thought? Was he an accountant
or a physicist? No thought, no matter. She agreed. Her argument was simple: no matter—
no moolah—no nothing. No dinner on the table, no provisions in the larder, no school fees,
no school uniforms for the children, no new curtains.

She hated his fascination with his funny concept that physics and
metaphysics were converging. He’d been yapping about it for donkey’s years, and had
even written an incomprehensible poem on it that whistled clean overhead. She was
beginning to think he was nuts. She worried about the children. If they had to get ahead in
life, they needed a father who was a solidly practical man, who restricted his mind solely to
office matters, was a good provider, rose steadily in life and beat inflation by bringing
home heftier and heftier pay-packets every year.

For once, she was speechless when she realized that the heap of kindling
outside was the remains of the sofa. He had outdone himself. She faced him, arms akimbo,
silently demanding an explanation. Just as silently, he took the provisions from her hand,
led her outside, and locked the door.
 8

“We”, he announced gravely “are in the market for a new sofa.” She peered
at him suspiciously. He never drank, so he couldn’t be drunk. Then what had prompted
this…this violence. She felt a chill of fear. Had he gone mad, as she was certain he would,
one day?

He smiled to reassure her. “I’m perfectly sober…and sane. You aren’t going
to believe this, but you are looking at the new Deputy Accountant of Govind Ram
Hirachand & Co. He has two thousand rupees in his pocket—a bonus”, he added airily,
“and he is going to buy us a new sofa…and some saris for you!” The last was to mollify
her for the destruction of the old eyesore.

“You see, there will be visitors now”, he explained to her. “Parties will
come bearing gifts on Diwali, vendors might drop in for sweet-talking me into giving their
business more concessions…why, even the manager himself could come by unannounced!
We couldn’t offer him a seat on that shabby old sofa, could we? What sort of impression
would he get?”

She had to agree with him. She was a bit dazed. He had gone from
Uncertainty Principle or whatever it was called to household matters, all in the span of a
single day. It was not quantum physics; it was a quantum jump into practicality as far as
she was concerned. So she readily accompanied him to the rickshaw stand.

On the way to the furniture market, they argued about what they would
really like to buy. She wanted a grand four-seater with three sofa chairs. He was a bit
doubtful. That would exceed the budget. Wouldn’t a good second-hand one do? She had
some reservations about this, but he explained that very good sofas were available for
about eight hundred rupees. All they needed was a little refurbishing and they were as good
as new. It would work out better and cheaper than buying a brand-new set. She reserved
judgment till they reached the market.

The shopkeeper, Bhatia by name, took them around his warehouse

somewhat reluctantly. He sensed a budget that severely cramped his style. But he went
through the motions of showing them all the expensive stuff in the front before he took
them to the little sub-warehouse at the back. This had all the second-hand furniture that
he’d either lifted from those unable to meet their instalments, or picked up cheap at
auctions. Since this was a sensitive location—all the stocks here were against cash and
were not reflected in his books: in other words, they were ‘black’ or ‘tax-free’ stocks—he
was a little particular whom he brought here. But turnover had been low ever since the
stock-market downturn and the slump in real-estate prices that had followed, and he had
been compelled to relax his customary caution.

The couple seemed to be interested in a four-seater with the three sofa-

chairs. For the life of him he couldn’t remember having seen it before. It had faded chenille
upholstery, and the springs had sagged, but seeing their keenness, he assured them that it
could be made to look new…for only three hundred and fifty rupees. They closed the deal
at a thousand rupees total, with delivery after four days. He took the 50% advance in cash
 9

and rubbed his hands with satisfaction as he watched them leave. All it needed was a lick
of varnish, twenty-five meters of chenille and some springs. He couldn’t even remember
having bought it. It sounded like a profit of at least five hundred to him.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning around, he saw a man of about fifty.
Bhatia was a keen observer. He had to be. He assessed the thin man…expensive gold-
rimmed spectacles of foreign make...slim—almost thin—looks very fit…yoga…spotless
white kurta-pajamas...senior technocrat taking in the Sunday markets for a lark…normally
posted abroad? Looked well heeled…

“Did they take it, the four-seater sofa in faded grey chenille?” asked the thin
man.

Bhatia nodded. “Yes. But why do you ask, sir? Were you also interested in
that set?”
The other gave an enigmatic smile: “Yes…in a manner of speaking. Once.
Long ago. But it doesn’t matter now: it seems to have gone to the right address”, he
murmured cryptically as he strode off, leaving Bhatia scratching his head in puzzlement.

It was Sunday. Shujjo Sen stretched out on the ‘new’ sofa and gave a gentle
burp. Ever since his promotion, his wife had been cooking him his favourite dishes. Her
disposition had changed remarkably. She indulged him his little philosophizing, seeing that
it gave him satisfaction. She didn’t understand it all, but…today the menu had included
‘laou-chingree’—a light gourd chopped and cooked in fine vegetable oil and liberally
sprinkled with fried shrimp.

With the mental elevation that often follows a good meal, Shujjo’s thoughts
gravitated to his new office duties. Expectations always rose with promotions…and he
knew a couple of grey areas that he needed to tackle. The record room was a high priority,
and so was the voucher-filing system. Funny, how the idea of a system just perfect for their
set-up flashed into his mind just now. He jotted the ideas down quickly on a pad before he
lost them.

On Monday, he expanded them into an aide memoiré and sent them to the
manager. Three days later, they were returned…with the Managing Director’s
supplementary remarks and some minor modifications. Shujjo swung into action. He
worried, bullied, and nagged the concerned staff till he got his way. His burst of energy
and initiative took his colleagues by surprise. A fortnight later, he reported full compliance
to the management. Then he went to work on the voucher-filing system. Till now, all
vouchers were simply tied into bundles by weight and dumped in the record room.

Looking for a voucher that was even six months old was currently a
nightmare. Shujjo insisted that all vouchers for a single day be classified, tagged in one
packet, and dated. A month’s vouchers went into a cloth bag, India-inked with the month’s
 10

name. Twelve such bags—the entire year’s lot of vouchers—went into a steel trunk, on
which the year was boldly painted. In future, it would easy to locate any voucher if one
knew the date…and that was the obvious reference point for any voucher hunt.

As usual, he reported compliance to the management and received a terse

acknowledgement. After the initial resistance to Shujjo’s ideas had subsided, it became
apparent to all that a major problem area had been considerably improved. Another small
increment followed…and this time there was no resentment. The systems he had
introduced had made life a lot easier for the harried clerical staff.

It became standard practice for Shujjo to have a hearty Sunday lunch and
take a siesta on the sofa. It was strange how a couple of hours on it liberated his mind,
sending it shooting off in new directions. One day, he got the idea of improving his
qualifications, and a week later he registered for a correspondence course for taking the
Cost and Works Accountancy examinations. He was getting a better insight into human
nature, too. He reflected on the severe dressing down he had had to give that fellow, Nandi.
Nandi had started falling behind in his work, and even though he sat an hour late every
evening, his work was always incomplete. It was a major reason why the Trial Balance
was delayed this week. The General Manager had called for an explanation from Shujjo
and the Accounts Manager. It was no laughing matter.

The next Sunday, Shujjo went to Nandi’s house. It was in a dilapidated

building that had about fifteen other tenants. Nandi lived on the third floor. Ascending the
filthy stairs, covered with garbage and paan streaks, Shujjo finally reached the door to
Nandi’s quarters. An old lady, emaciated and bent, opened the door. On learning who it
was, she scurried inside. Presently, Nandi appeared and invited him in. A small girl
brought him a cup of tea and some stale biscuits. Shujjo was aware that Nandi was very
tense because of his visit, and tried to put him at ease. “Nandi! How are you? I had some
work in the vicinity and decided to drop by…see how you were getting along.”

‘See how I was getting along…! I’ll bet! He’s probably come to fire me’,
thought Nandi, sure that Shujjo had come to give him his pink slip personally. He was
therefore defiant and even somewhat discourteous. Shujjo didn’t mind. Some insight told
him that Nandi had a personal problem that was interfering with his work. But he stuck to
conventionalities and small talk before looking at his watch and rising. Nandi was a little
confused. He hadn’t been fired. Then why had the boss…?

Shujjo went downstairs to the ground level and asked a man who was
standing near the verandah, smoking a biri, whether he knew Nandi, who lived in the same
building. “You mean that quiet fellow, the one whose wife has tuberculosis?” he asked.
Shujjo nodded. “That’s the chap. A friend of yours?”

The man hesitated. “He was…we always played a few hands of rummy
after he returned from office every evening. But ever since his wife’s illness, he’s stopped
mixing with people and…and he’s become depressed.” He shook his head sadly: “And
 11

there was a time when he challenged me that he would become an officer in the accounts
department within a year. It’s very sad. And who are you?”

Shujjo evaded the question: “A well-wisher has sent some money for
Nandi, but I am afraid I am in a hurry. Would it be too much to ask if you could
please…?”

“It’ll be a pleasure. I know he needs it badly…how much is it?”

Shujjo pulled out his wallet and counted out five currency notes of one-
hundred rupee denomination. “That should see him through for a while, Mr…?”

“Majumdar…Biplab Majumdar. I’m the secretary of the building. I’ll see he

gets it. But who shall I say sent it?”

“That’s just it,” said Shujjo, “you don’t! Don’t even describe the unknown
man who handed you the money. By the way, I’ll be back after a fortnight…I hope you
understand that it’s very important to me that Nandi gets the money?”

Majumdar laughed. “I see...anyway, thank you for trusting me. Rest assured
Nandi will get the money.”

“Good! And I thank you for your cooperation and support. Good day, sir.”

Shujjo rang the bell for the peon and asked him to send Nandi in. As one of
his two Deputy Chief Accountants, Nandi was an important member of the accounts
department. Now he came in, with a stack of files in his arms. “The usual tenders,
quotations, and enquiries about the Haldia contract. All the critical areas have been
highlighted, sub-contractor-wise, in the statement attached to the memorandum, the way
you wanted it. And by the way, sir, the trial balance is almost ready…you should get it by
the evening.” He turned to leave.

“Nandi,” said Shujjo Sen softly, “today is Friday…I have never, ever,
received a trial balance by Friday evening!”

Nandi grinned. “I know it’s Friday, sir. And this time, you will, sir.”

Shujjo smiled at his retreating back. All was well in the Nandi household,
then. Indeed, all men were connected by invisible threads of destiny…all men were one.
Shujjo was not religious in the conventional sense, but he sensed a higher intelligence at
work. The signs were unmistakable.
Just that morning, he had received a letter from the Managing Director
informing him that he was replacing Amar Chakraborty as Accounts Manager in
 12

September, when the old man retired. A chauffeur-driven car and company flat came with
the job.

He made up his mind then and there. Nandi was going to step up as Chief
Accountant when he took over as Accounts Manager. The lad was bright and very hard
working. He had the makings of a fine Accounts Manager, some years down the line. They
would not find a better man even if they advertised in the newspapers.

“…and that completes my assessment of our chances of obtaining the

Reserve Bank of India permission for foreign equity participation at a ratio of 60:40. Clyde
and Dunbar have confirmed, through their bankers, that they are ready with the capital. All
we now need is the formal RBI clearance…” Shujjo Sen, as Director, Finance, now went
on to the last item on the agenda.

“Item 22. It deals with the tender we have submitted for the 6,500 crore
Reliance-IndianOil collaboration project at Haldia. Our tender, of Rs.1,278.95 crores,
covers a bid for all civil engineering work connected with construction of the harbour, dry-
docks, jetty, wharf, warehouses, pipelines, internal roads, recreational facilities, shopping
centers and residential quarters for the staff, projected at about 2,000 families. I am
personally confident that not only is our bid the lowest, it will give us a 19.2 % ROI—
return on investment—provided we stay on schedule. Very close monitoring systems—
PERT / CPM, of course—need to be installed and followed meticulously. Our previous
track record at Haldia gives us an edge over all our competitors…except M/s Wallson &
Co. They, too, have previous Haldia experience—and quite a good one at that—but I have
a feeling they have quoted somewhat higher than us.”

“Feelings are all very well, Sen, but only time will tell whether your
assessments were correct or not,” said Hirachand Somnath, the Chairman. “I do not need to
remind you or anyone else in this room as to the crucial importance of this contract to our
company. Not only will the foreign equity participation really benefit us if we secure this
contract, but it will put us in an unassailable position for any future tenders of this nature.
We cannot afford to lose this one. You are aware of the implications of failure, I’m sure of
that.”

Shujjo Sen nodded gravely. He was perfectly aware that the future fortunes
of the company—and of Shujjo Sen himself—had a lot to do with this tender. “We have
done our best. Now let us see if it is good enough.”

Somnath smiled. “Sen, you have yet to let us down. We are banking on
you.”
Shujjo Sen was unfazed. “Hirachand ji, when men decide something must
happen, the gods laugh. We can but do our best. Then whatever happens—there is an
element of chance in life that can never be ignored—we shall have no shame, no regrets. I
leave it at that.”
 13

“Accepted! Good luck, Sen. I understand you are taking a vacation…?”

Shujjo nodded. “…to Haridwar for a short break. I find it a very peaceful
sort of place.”
*

Shujjo crossed the Lakshman Jhoola suspension bridge. He was barefoot,

and clad only in a lungi. In a sling bag on his shoulder he carried a copy of the Bhagawad
Gita and some books on high-energy particle physics, metaphysics, and eastern
philosophies. The more he read them, the more the distinction between individual chunks
of reality, between people and all other things blurred.

At the cutting edge of basic research into the properties of matter and anti-
matter, the texts appeared to dissolve into philosophical discussions on the imponderable
properties of absolute reality…as intuited by Zen masters and proponents of the
Upanishads. Conversely, in order to express their views, scientists were compelled –
outside of mathematical equations – to use the language of these eastern mystics to express
their ideas—usually (like them) in metaphors. It was as if, after five thousand years, man
had come full circle and realized it was all an illusion, a product of perceptions too limited
to grasp the infinite. Many western writers like Richard Bach had also encountered these
paradoxes, as had musicians like Johan Sebastian Bach and Mozart.

The latest scientific experiments, expanding on the Bell theorem, appeared

to show (at least, to him) that all matter had life, was life. Elementary particles appeared to
be interchangeable yet indivisible, and seemed to have ‘awareness’ that enabled them to
access any point in space-time at faster-than-light—superluminal—speed in accordance
with the wishes of a ‘participant’...tele-kinesis? In the end, it all boiled down to
contemplation of That-Which-Was (as David Bohm, Professor of Physics at Birkbeck
College, University of London, called the final intelligence behind it all), too vast and too
obscure to comprehend.

“And the funniest thing” thought Shujjo Sen, as he sat down under the
shade of a tree near the river bank to read “is that we are not separate entities at all. There
are really no ‘particles’—at the sub-atomic level, ‘particles’ like neutrinos and quarks are
mere concepts, practically massless and extremely short-lived. And there is no ‘particle’
that is not intimately connected to all other particles—is all other particles. So much for
worldly love and lust for inanimate objects,” he thought sardonically.

“If the smallest particles, like electrons, display nothing more than mere
‘tendencies to exist’, transient and ever-changing, then does it not mean that we too, at the
macroscopic level, who are said to be made of such particles, are just as ephemeral…and
eternal? Just as identical? Just as indivisibly united?” wondered Shujjo. Now he
understood what the Great Masters from Confucius and Lao Tse to Jesus to Ramakrishna
were saying when they told men to serve their fellow men. For all men were indeed one,
were brothers, and all matter was just a concept of, indeed was, That-Which-Was. The
 14

mind boggled. Five thousand years of scientific study and research had led man in a giant
circle, back to the contemplation of the Infinite.

“That’s quite a collection you have there.” The speaker was a thin, gaunt
man in bathroom slippers and spotless kurta pajamas. “I see you are interested in
metaphysics. That’s a coincidence. So am I.” Shujjo was not keen to interrupt his musings,
but he sensed the man’s need for companionship. “Oh, I read this stuff to pass the time…
it’s so…so different!”

“No, no…you are very interested in ultimate things, anyone can see that.
The juxtaposition of books gives you away. But why do you carry the Gita?” “Because,”
Shujjo explained, “I find some of the passages very close to the state of particle physics as
it stands today. Highly illuminating.”

The thin man nodded. “It is a good answer. I, too, read it now as a book that
gives insights into reality; it supplements research texts on high-energy physics, as do the
Upanishads. Would you say that physics will ever find all the answers, ever come up with
a theory that gives all the answers?”

Shujjo shook his head. “I think man will continue to search for the Infinite
through all eternity. There is no end to it.” The thin man clapped. “Well said! It looks that
way to me, too.”

They talked animatedly for a long time. Their like-mindedness was a

delight to them both. By the time they finished, it was evening, and they had tea together at
a small wayside stall.

“Incidentally, even though we are but a single entity, this particular reality
(there was a humorous twinkle in his eye) demands of us that we have names and
identities. My name is Hiren Chattopadyaya. And you are…not a wandering mendicant
(that twinkle again)…even though clad like one!”

Shujjo laughed. “No, I’m not. I am an accountant by profession. I dress like

this in Haridwar because no one knows me here; I feel so free, and I can be as I like. I am
called Shujjo Sen.”

Was it just his imagination that Chattopadhayaya started when he

mentioned his name? Probably. He must have shifted involuntarily just then. They took
their leave of each other, two transient particles that had collided by chance in an ever-
changing yet ever-the-same cosmos that was the Dance of Shiva.

*
“Ladies and gentlemen; distinguished guests; shareholders…hon’ble
members of the Press: it gives me great pleasure to welcome you to our Annual General
Meeting. The proxies have been accounted for. The annual report has already been
circulated, and with your permission, I will take it as read.” Hirachand Somnath was
 15

addressing the crowded hall. “The award of the Haldia Project’s civil engineering work to
your company is well known by now. It is reflected in the current price of our shares on the
NSE.”

There was a murmur in the auditorium. The share price had gone through
the roof. “What you don’t know can’t hurt you...” he joked, “but I’d like to share some
news you haven’t heard: our proposal for foreign equity participation has been…” —he
paused for effect—“cleared by the Reserve Bank of India. I received a call this afternoon
from the new RBI Governor, Mr. Hiren Chattopadyaya, who took over formally only
yesterday.” He smiled happily. “He was earlier with IBRD. Not many of you may be
familiar with his name.” There were cheers and loud clapping.

Somnath up held his hands for silence, beaming. “As a token of your
Board’s appreciation of your support and encouragement, I am glad to announce that we
have approved a proposal for one bonus share for every ordinary share held by our
investors. I think we deserve to pat ourselves on the back for…” The rest was lost in the
pandemonium that erupted. People were standing on chairs, shouting, clapping, and
whistling. Many of them had become millionaires in the last few moments. At last the
commotion abated.

“It is quite relevant to mention, at this juncture”, continued Somnath

smoothly, “the sterling role played by our Director of Finance, Mr. Shujjo Sen, in these our
landmark achievements. It was he who, practically single-handed, drew up all the tender
documents as well as prepared the FDI proposal submitted to RBI. A vote of thanks is
accompanied by the sanction of 5,000 shares to him, as a token of our appreciation of his
valuable services to the company. There were loud shouts and whistles. It was evident that
Shujjo was a well-known performer. “…And now…a word from Mr. Sen…”

Shujjo was stunned. It was unprecedented. No one spoke at AGMs except

the CMD. Shujjo was bad at public speaking. Besides, he was totally unprepared. So he
just voiced the first thoughts that entered his mind.

“We are hardly gathered here to highlight the work of any single individual,
for we are all one…one team, one family. This company is a living entity nourished by our
labour, and we are mistaken if we think we have an existence apart from it. All are a part
of a greater scheme, infinitely large, never-ending.” He paused, smiling.

“Nevertheless, if you are happy with our progress, it gives us strength to

take on the next range of mountains that lies beyond this place. That is all I have to say.
No, there is one thing more…a wandering mendicant thanks another fellow-particle for
standing by him in the eternal dance!” The crowd was mystified, but finally exploded in
vociferous cheers and hand clapping.

*
The young couple was arguing loudly as they entered the showroom. Bhatia
rubbed his hands in satisfaction. A couple that came in fighting usually bought something
 16

before leaving. It was a way of working out a compromise, of getting it over and done
with. The woman was getting the better of the exchange, he noticed. Not good. Men were
more gullible, more easily coaxed into buying. They said they wanted a sofa set, they
selected one, coughed up the advance and left. The man came up to him.

“Are you the owner? We’re looking for an inexpensive yet fairly large sofa
set.”
Bhatia assured them that he had plenty. But as they walked around the
showroom, their hearts sank. Which was exactly what Bhatia wanted. He wanted them so
overwhelmed by the fancy prices of the merchandise at the front of the store, they’d be
almost grateful when he later showed them cheaper, shoddy stuff at inflated prices. He
took them through the main showroom into a warehouse that lay beyond, and observed
how their eyes lit up at the price tags. “These are all in the range of your budget. Please
take your pick,” he invited. They looked around, and finally showed keen interest in an old
four-seater that had seen better days. Where had it come from? It didn’t even sport a tag.
He couldn’t quite recollect…but no matter, it was apparently his and it was saleable.

“Ah! I notice you like this set. It is very durable. Second-hand, naturally,
but I can make it look like new again. It is of extremely sound construction, unlike the new
furniture you get today. A real bargain!” They haggled over the price till they reached an
amicable settlement. Bhatia pocketed his advance and called his shop assistant to have the
set transferred to the workshop for overhaul. About twenty-five metres of chenille, some
springs and a lick of varnish was all that it needed. The words rang a bell…when and
where had he said precisely that—once before, long ago. It didn’t matter…

There was a tap on his shoulder. An elderly, distinguished-looking man was

standing behind him. “So they took it, did they?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, they did…the old four-seater. Why? Were you interested in it,
too?” he asked regretfully. “No problem. I have some brand-new stock that will suit you
far better than that shabby second-hand set”, he added. This gentleman looked like a
prosperous Chartered Accountant or Company Director. Bhatia had a nose for money. He
could smell it on people who had it or who dealt with it.

“No, no, I was just wondering…but it seems to have gone to the right
address. Thanks a lot, once again, Mr. Bhatia,” he said as he left the shop. Bhatia scratched
his head, puzzled. Now, when and where had he heard precisely those words…once
before…long ago? It didn’t matter. No problem.

~*~

The Greatest Thing of All

 17

He could hardly wait, as he climbed higher into the mountains, sinking into
the powdery snow that lay deep in the drifts beneath the jagged ridges. The sun was going
down, and the cold of the Himalayan night was dreadful, but he pressed on, oblivious to it.
Years of rigorous meditation had so developed his mind that fire and ice were now the
same to him. This victory had given him the incentive to try and make the final jump…to
what? That was what he had to discover. The moon came up, and threw ghostly shadows
across his path as if to unnerve him and turn him back, but he kept going, intuitively
knowing that what he wanted was near at hand. The air was thin at this altitude. Food,
air…how bound the lives of men were to these things. Soon…soon, he would…and there it
was, just as he had seen it in his mind’s eye.
It was halfway up that steep slope, nearly invisible, its presence betrayed by
a little crevice that opened into a space barely large enough for a hibernating bear. It was
enough. He placed the small, square mat on the ground, spread the layer of dry grass over
it, and, finally, covered it with the tiger skin. Then, bending reverently towards the East, he
invoked the blessings of the Great One before assuming the lotus pose on the tiger skin.
His mind flickered, as it probed beyond the boundaries of the senses into another reality,
then quietened as it jumped to a stillness, a vastness, it had never ventured into before. He
lost himself in the final journey, immune to the years as they came and went…and as the
ages passed, he soared through realms he had never explored, unmindful of the fact that
the world he had left behind no longer existed.

Varer checked his weapon for the third time as waited for them in the rocks.
They had followed him into the valley, never suspecting that he lay in wait for them. He
had taken a diagonal route over the peaks and had out-flanked them. They were all
seasoned killers, these men of Vaptor’s, but they were over-confident. That they were
walking into an ambush never occurred to them. They came from regions where the fallout
had been the heaviest, and which was now peopled by a race of sterile mutants, half man
and half beast.
And these creatures on his trail would be the worst that Vaptor had been
able to muster. They had the lowest of the traits of men coupled with the cunning and
bestial ferocity of the predators that had once roamed the plains. To elude them was not an
easy task. It had been a hard and dangerous climb for Varer, tough as he was from years of
training as a militiaman and the privations that had been his lot following his desertion.
Vaptor would never let him live if he could help it. He had to make an example of Varer,
to discourage others from defying his authority, and pre-empt any incipient rebellion from
taking root. The arduous trek, and the additional responsibility of protecting the girl had
told on Varer, but he knew these mountain ranges better than any man now living.
Beside him, the girl shivered in the chill air in spite of the heavy sheepskin
jacket that Varer had given her after his last engagement with the forces of the New
Dispensation, as that madman Slitkin’s hordes were called. He had had the presence of
mind to strip it from the body of one of the guards that had been hauling her off for
questioning. Her crime had been that she had slipped a crust of bread though the bars of the
high window that overlooked the road by simply crawling out on a branch of a Jacul tree
that grew nearby. The searchlight had caught her unawares. By the time she clambered to
the ground, she had been surrounded.
 18

The man inside the cell had been Laron, one of Varer’s oldest friends,
probably bait for just such a rescue attempt. But the wrong prey had sprung the trap. Varer
himself had been drawn to the spot sure enough, but the damn girl had got there before
him, her sympathies going out unthinkingly to the condemned man. Women! He groaned
inwardly in exasperation. He had had to slit the throat of one of the guards and shoot
another before making good his escape, taking her along with him. They wouldn’t even
waste a bullet on her if they ever caught her again. She was dead meat, like him.
He glanced at her as she crouched beside him in the lee of the boulders. In
the pale moonlight, she was a wraith out of the mists of this land of ice, this frozen hell that
was his home and which was now hers, too. Her face was oval-shaped, with alert, dark-
blue eyes above a generous mouth, a strong jaw and a pert nose with well-sculpted,
shapely nostrils. She was not tall, but she had a narrow waist, a flat stomach and long,
sinewy legs that the mountains had toughened till they were almost the equal of his own.
Her silvery-gold hair, cut short just above her shoulders, was now tucked out of sight under
the parka, and her small and well-shaped hands and feet were clad in fur-lined snow gear.
She never laughed and seldom talked. And that was the sum-total of his data on her. He
knew nothing at all about her and her past, but he had sensed an inner strength in her lately
that he would never have thought possible when he had whisked her away into the
highlands after the rescue.
It was encouraging, the way she had taken to the way of the mountains
without a murmur. A straggler in this harsh, unforgiving land could endanger others. Her
strength, he reflected, was yet not equal to the rigours of their life, but she was sure-footed,
daring, and a fast learner. The mountains would either make her strong or they would kill
her, for they were pitiless with the weak. Her beauty would be of no use here…he stopped,
surprised at himself. That he had applied that word to her! He had never consciously
thought of her as beautiful.
Beauty. He rolled it over and over on his tongue, savouring the unfamiliar,
long-forgotten taste of it. Before the Change, if he had met her, who knows what...he thrust
the thought out of his mind savagely. That was all over, finished. Now, they had to survive
and find a way of toppling Slitkin. Then he heard them.
He scanned the slope with the tele-goggles. There were eight in all, and
their numbers had made them careless: that, and the tracks that Varer had purposely left for
them. The footprints passed beneath the rocky outcrop where Varer and the girl were lying
in wait. The squad would never suspect that he, Varer, had laid a trap for them. The
slanting rays of the moon etched them clearly on the slope, and they were laughing as they
followed them unconcernedly. No doubt, they awaited the inevitable denouement with
glee. This time, they would spend a lot of time on the girl before they disposed her of.
Vaptor would have no reason to disbelieve them when they turned in the story that she had
died in the shootout. Their orders only said that Varer’s head was to be produced. There
was no specific mention of the female with him. She would entertain them well…
That was how they had evened the score with Varer for deserting the
militia. His parents had been hung upside down over a fire till their brains had cooked and
their screams had reached a crescendo before gradually dying out. His sister they had
carried, screaming and struggling, into one of the deserted houses and then her …Varer
had listened in rage and helpless frustration till he heard her scream no more, and they had
thrown her ravaged body to the dogs that snarled and fought over the bloody piece of offal.
 19

Time, Space, and Matter held few mysteries for him now. In the ages that he
had been in that all-encompassing communion, he had traveled, in a way he could not
explain, to all there was. Now everything was the same to him, it was he, and he saw little
difference between anything else and what had been him before. A strange vibration in the
vicinity of his physical person touched him suddenly now, a sensation he recognized as
originating from the Other Side, the darker half of the mirror of his earlier reality. It was
powerless to harm him now, but he was keen to locate its source.

A part of him became the mountainside and at once he knew that eight men
walked over him. They were of the Otherness: the waves that emanated from them were
very strong. He also sensed another field strongly opposed to it, just as determined but
weaker in strength in comparison to the previous one. He was content merely to note these
little stirrings, these tiny ripples in the all-encompassing knowingness that was now him.
Totally detached, he wished to study these strange goings on, so close to his physical body
that sat motionless in the cave.

Varer tensed as they came closer. He heard the girl (he did not know why he
still called her that: her name was Taira) softly slip off the safety catch on her grenade-rifle
and he followed suit. The voices of the death-squad carried clearly to him over the expanse
of silvery snow, loud and offensive, with that typical bantering, bullying tone of men
confident of their prize. He lined up the leader in his light-intensifying night-scope and
pressed the button that activated the illuminated auto-focusing rangefinder. 400 meters. He
waited till the group had closed to 200 meters and then gently squeezed the trigger with the
tip of his index finger. In the quiet night, the report was deafening, echoing among the
crags. The recoil jolted his shoulder and the rifle barrel leapt skywards just as Taira also
fired. When he re-aligned the night-sight, two figures lay crumpled in the snow; the others
had ducked into snowdrifts. He held his fire while he decided what to do next.
He had proved his point. This was his territory, and they would need an
army to flush him out. He knew the secret trails and caves, and he had provisions and
equipment in the little shack he had made in the valley beyond this mountain range where
virgin stands of fir and pine stood untouched. No man had ever ventured this far to fell
them, and Varer had taken his choice from the prime timber that was nearest to the spot
where he wished to have the cabin. Suddenly, he felt very cold and tired, and this was
probably what turned his thoughts towards home, as he thought of that crude lean-to. It’s
back was sheer rock, so there had been no need to make a fourth wall, and there was a
natural cellar that he had enlarged and modified to go deep enough into the icy earth to
keep meat fresh for weeks, even months.
After firing a few more rounds, Varer motioned to the girl to back off and
head up the slope and over the ridge. He watched the scene for a few minutes, but when
there was no answering fire, he backed away from his firing position and joined her. A
long trek lay ahead of them. He sighed as they set off. It had been just one more
inconclusive engagement. When would he be part of a real push? When would the day
dawn when Resistance forces would be strong enough to destroy Slitkin? Once or twice,
on the long, cold way home, he thought he heard a sound he could not account for, deep in
the shadows, but there was nothing out there and he put it down to his imagination.
 20

He had witnessed the brief engagement and had observed two men die, yet
he remained dispassionate, merely wanting to observe, not interfering in any way. He
wished to know what could be so important that the groups had fought each other to the
death. He sensed the answer would be more easily forthcoming from the two killers, so he
tracked the man and the girl as they moved though the frigid wasteland.

They found the log cabin half buried under snow, but otherwise it was
exactly as Varer had left it. The firewood and kindling were still stacked in neat piles near
the crude fireplace, and the large, rough bed with its thick mattress of dried moss under a
canvas sheet had never before looked so inviting. There was tinned food and even meat of
mountain goat in the cellar, still eminently edible, with half a bottle of rum he had once
found on one of his victims. They ate ravenously before the roaring fire, in complete
silence.
Varer motioned to the girl to take the bed while he spread a bearskin (the
brute had tried to break into the cabin one day and he had had to shoot it), not well cured
but not offensively malodorous in the frigid climate, on the floor in front of the crude
fireplace. But as the night wore on, he found it was getting colder and colder, and unlike in
an igloo or cave, the cabin had chinks between the logs that admitted the freezing mountain
air. Earlier, he used to sleep on the bed with the bearskin as a blanket. Now that was out.
The rear wall, which was naked rock, emanated a dank chill that cut right through his
garments. Even the sleeping roll made of sheepskin and stuffed with ptarmigan feathers
failed to warm him, for the blood had rushed to his belly to help digest the meat.
He awoke a couple of hours later, his teeth chattering. The girl was a
motionless shape under the canvas; she had fallen into the bed fully dressed and had never
moved since. Unable to sleep any more, Varer got up and put a few more branches on the
fire, and it leapt to life again, finally asserting itself against the cold. Then he wrapped the
sleeping roll around himself and sat on the moss-covered floor hugging his knees to his
chest, his head resting on them as he dozed before the blaze.

He watched the beast-men on the mountain start for their base, leaving
their dead sprawled where they had fallen. One was the troop leader, and without him they
were not sure what to do. The other two, those who had killed, he saw make their way,
after a long march, to a rough shed in the green valley. Here they ate their meal and
prepared to face the demoralizing cold of the gelid night. He well knew what cold was to
those who had not understood how to dispel it. But that called for a long-term effort for
which these two were ill prepared. They were, obviously, little better than the creatures
that had hunted them, possibly even worse.

Varer had just fallen into a doze, chilled, when a touch on his shoulder
made him start. He turned around to see her kneeling beside him. There was something in
her eyes…sympathy? Compassion? Looking him full in the eyes, she wordlessly came into
his arms. But he was turned to stone, speechless from a sudden, overpowering longing. It
was left to her to take his hand and press it to her cheek …
It was well past daybreak when he awoke. He felt transformed, invigorated.
The smell of something cooking on the makeshift stove woke him fully, and the wonder of
 21

the night warmed him. He had quite forgotten the comfort, the joy that a woman could
bestow on a man. And she had given him those in abundance. His response had taken her
by surprise, a dam that had suddenly burst. But why? Why now? He had simply rescued
her from a fate worse than the lingering death that was surely in store for her, had done it
ungrudgingly as one Resistance fighter would do for another. He sipped the hot broth of
some meat seasoned with herbs, and tried to plan his next move. What had happened last
night was gone with the night. A new day meant new challenges. He marshaled his
resources to face them.

In spite of himself, the woman’s response intrigued him. He sensed a higher

purpose there, a driving force that spoke of motivations much beyond those that had made
these two kill. That had been self-defense; but the woman’s gift of herself to the man, her
voluntary surrender in order to give him strength and comfort, was…no, it was not
possible that…but he did not wish to invade the privacy of her mind to find out.

They made their way down the fir-clad slopes, reveling in the warmth that
greeted them as they left the foothills behind and entered the plains. Varer had decided that
it was useless to carry on like this, this business of being pursued from knoll to crag. It
would be better to reach the river and steal a boat to the other shore where, he had heard
rumored, a secret massing of Resistance forces was in the offing. Better to die trying than
to eke out this furtive existence.
They crossed the shattered remnants of human habitation. Everywhere there
were twisted, burnt-out shapes that suggested buildings, vehicles, and machines of war.
There was no sign of life: no birds, no animals, no people, only the rare tree or bush still
struggling to survive in the poisoned air. The smell of death hovered over the charred
wasteland like a dark, noxious cloud. Varer made for the river which, if he remembered
correctly, would be about ten miles from this place...he read the almost obliterated lettering
on a signpost that leaned drunkenly against a crazily-tilted shed—RAB-AL–SHE—KH.
Yes, he was on the right track.
Now they were trudging through the rubble of what had once been a busy
commercial district, humming with commerce. The wharf, where the produce of the rich
farmlands of the hinterland and the manufactures of the factories were loaded onto barges
for the distant capital, was barely a mile away.

Vaptor was nervous, a most unusual emotion for him. He had been cooling
his heels in the large anteroom to The Leader’s office for over an hour. He sweated slightly
in spite of the air-conditioning, aware that the security guards held their machine pistols
with a nonchalance that belied their readiness. They had looked him up and down
insolently when he had entered, then frisked him thoroughly and humiliatingly, him, the
Chief of Internal Security of the New Dispensation. His post held no terrors for them. One
suspicious move, and he, Vaptor, would be a leaking mess on the pile carpet. He ran a
finger around the inside the collar of his tight fitting jacket and mopped the sheen of fear
off his florid face. Then the buzzer jarred him back to the present as he was motioned to
the door that led to Slitkin’s office.
 22

Alexandr Slitkin was the result of a brief liaison between a Russian

diplomat and a Brazilian nightclub topless dancer. He never forgot the fact that his father
had abandoned them when he was six years old. Brought up by his mother, who worked
the bars in Rio to feed him and put him through school and college, Slitkin was a loner, a
brilliant student but a social misfit. He had come to the conclusion that all men were selfish
and women were harpies who preyed on them till the men they exploited turned the tables
on them and victimized them. When he was engaged in a post-graduate program in a
leading management institution, he began doing the bars at night.
Shortly thereafter, the papers started carrying stories of young women,
mostly strippers who doubled as hookers, who ended up in the river with their nylons
wrapped tightly round their necks. The Police had no clues till they found a sorority badge
on the person of one of the victims. Shortly thereafter, Slitkin dropped out of business
school for ‘financial reasons’ and returned to Rio. There he qualified for the police
academy, and within a short time had made an impact by his superior deductive abilities
and an uncanny ability to anticipate the criminal mind. He rose rapidly through the ranks to
become Head of Police.
When the Great Conflagration broke out between the nations, Slitkin was
prepared. He had carefully cultivated men in power, currying favor and building dossiers
on all of them, thanks to his access to Interpol and even FBI records. He had long ago
decided he wanted power; everything else came with it. Taking advantage of his contacts,
the vast funds he had accumulated and his army of followers, he established a huge global
network of spies, couriers, and drug peddlers. Anywhere in the world where men had not
destroyed themselves, if someone bought a grey market item, no matter how small or how
large, it was Slitkin’s black-market chain that delivered the item.
With the collapse of the socio-political structure of the Old Order, Slitkin
emerged as one of three global overlords. His area of control extended from South
America to the Middle East. At the age of fifty-six he was still single, fit (apart from his
drug habit), and unable to rest till he got it all. He seriously meant it when he said the
world was his to rule. His vast empire now knew him as The Leader.
But of late, an underground movement had sprung up to challenge his
authority. As yet, he had not managed to identify the ringleaders. It was his life’s first
failure, and he chafed at it. It was a matter of the deepest concern when he realized that the
other two warlords relished his discomfiture, as they probed for chinks in his armour to
bring him down. Of late, therefore, diplomatic relations between them had been somewhat
strained. He suspected the insurgents had foreign sponsorship, and now this fool Vaptor
had allowed one of the most dangerous traitors to escape the police dragnet.

The Leader was seated at his desk. The harsh light of a table-lamp
illuminated the pile of papers that he had been studying, leaving most of his face in
shadow. It was a thin face, with cruel lips and tiny, glittering eyes that seemed to bore into
Vaptor’s brain. There was no expression in them, and the whole effect was as of a visage
from which the life had long departed, leaving it waxen and mummified. Then Slitkin
spoke. The voice always froze Vaptor’s blood, such was the horror of it... toneless, grating,
like the sound a great oaken door opened after many years.
 23

“I have been going through your dossier. Your performance leaves much to
be desired.”
Vaptor said nothing. He had not been asked to sit, so he remained standing.
“First you let that man…what is his name…yes, ‘Varer’, escape from your
training camp. Second, you had a woman, his accomplice, in your trap: but Varer killed
two guards and escaped with her. And now they have retreated into the mountains,
eliminating two of your men in the process. This is making us look bad. Word gets around,
my dear Vaptor, that we are not infallible, not invincible. By extension thereof, neither am
I. That is undesirable. It is most unsatisfactory. You will appreciate that this cannot be
allowed to continue.”
Beads of perspiration burst out on Vaptor’s forehead, but he held his
tongue. He knew he was closer to death than he had ever been before. He kept his mouth
shut, scared that any utterance at this stage might tilt the balance against him.
Slitkin was speaking again. The beady eyes with the dilated irises (Heroin?
Cocaine? Vaptor’s trained mind automatically registered the evidence of drug abuse)
scorched him with a malevolence that made his skin crawl.
“This man, Varer…I believe he was recruited when you were the Head of
Training. You know this man well. He has besmirched your record by deserting. However,
in view of past valuable services rendered, I am prepared to overlook your lapses one last
time. I give you a final chance to remedy matters. The intelligence reports would have
reached you…the fugitives are somewhere in the delta region and probably heading for the
river. Any fool will see that. Bring me Varer’s head within two days. It must be certified as
authentic, in writing, by two of your peers, as usual. I hardly need to remind you that if the
evidence, and the concomitant certification, is subsequently proved to be unauthentic, your
own life as well as those of your guarantors will be instantly forfeit. Now you can go. I
hope we meet again.”
This was how Slitkin controlled them, binding them to his power by fear,
mutual suspicion, and a need for coordination that ensured the efficiency of the machinery
of the New Dispensation. He would ask the Chiefs of the Departments of Justice and
Citizen’s Welfare to do the certifications; they owed him favors. But first he had to get
Varer and the girl. Arrangements had already been made to that end.
He straightened his shoulders and bowed to the Leader stiffly, from the
waist, like he had been taught at the Police Academy. Then he walked out of the door,
composing his features into a casual expression of polite amusement. The guards grinned
at him insolently; they knew he had been receiving the ‘treatment’. Vaptor looked at them
intently as he left the anteroom, memorizing their faces. If these four ever got transferred
to any of his departments, he thought vindictively, he would personally ensure that those
supercilious smirks were erased very fast from their fat faces.

Now they could smell the river, as the wind carried to them the odors of
human waste, rotting fish and stale cargo. Somewhere along its banks, he hoped to find a
small craft that would carry them downstream and across to the other side. The road sloped
gently down to the docks, deserted, innocent of any sign of life. Now and then, Varer
started at some movement in the shadows of the roofless buildings that they passed, but
 24

there was nothing there, not even a rat. It had to be his nerves. When the alarm bells went
off in his head, he accepted their clamour stoically, knowing it was but inevitable.
Cigarette smoke! Fresh, too. So they had anticipated him, out-flanked him, out-
manoeuvred him. He knew it had been hopeless right from the start. But he would not let
them get him cheaply.
Pretending he hadn’t noticed anything amiss, he slowed his stride, as if tired
and relaxing a wee bit on sighting the destination. All the while, his eyes scanned with
peripheral vision, looking for a suitable…there it was, a solid garage with sheet-metal
doors still on their hinges. He darted into it, dragging the startled Taira with him. A volley
of shots rang out, a fraction of a second too late. The bullets clanged and ricocheted away
as he pulled the doors to and fastened them from inside by drawing the bolts. There was
only one window, and he took up position beside it, wishing he hadn’t made the girl throw
away her weapon; but it had been taxing her strength on their forced march. There was no
saying when they would eat their next meal.
A man clad in battle fatigues sprinted across an alley. Varer loosed off a
short burst from his automatic rifle and had the satisfaction of seeing him stumble and fall.
Another hail of bullets…one came through the window and went into the dirt floor. So
they had a sharpshooter on the rooftop of the opposite building. Varer replied with two
shots at a helmet that appeared momentarily on the balcony opposite. A clatter, as of a
metal object dropped down a flight of stairs, reached his ears.
She touched his sleeve. He turned and looked at her. Her face was serene, as
if she, too, had known this was how it would end.
“Save one bullet for me. Don’t let them get me. Promise?”
Varer nodded. “I promise”, he said simply. Now he was firing very
infrequently, there were very few rounds left in the magazine. Leaving one bullet each for
themselves, there was probably only a couple to spare for the enemy. Now the ambushers
were battering the door with a heavy object. Already the rusted hasps threatened to tear
away from their rivets. The time had come. She stood with her back to the wall and looked
steadfastly into his eyes, as she had done that night in the cabin.
What do you do when you love a girl with eyes like summer skies and lips
like lotus petals? What thoughts pass through your mind as you see her full breasts rise and
fall as she gazes at you steadily, as she memorizes your features for eternity, as her
breathing quickens before it stops forever? And what can you do when you know she was
the only one you ever…and you stand before her with a rifle?
“Hurry! You must do it now! The door…”
Varer looked away and fired from the hip; he could not bring himself to aim
at her heart. At point-blank range, the steel-jacketed bullet went through her like a pickaxe
though tissue paper. She slumped to the floor. Blood splattered the wall behind her and
flowed in bright-red streams from her mouth and nose. Her open eyes were beginning to
cloud over with shock; death would follow within minutes, as her shattered lungs and
traumatized heart pumped all the blood from her body onto the ground.
“Lung shot. Three inches to the right, and far too low”, thought Varer
dispassionately, self-critically. The anguish in him was a narcotic. He felt nothing, apart
from a mild euphoria. “Rotten marksmanship!” It was all he could say aloud before
turning the rifle on himself, but it was smashed from his hands as men burst into the room,
and gun-butts clubbed him to the ground. He dimly heard someone say “Leave the bitch,
 25

she’s done for. Take this scum to the jetty. Vaptor doesn’t like to be kept waiting…” Then
he descended into a cloud of cotton wool and dreamed that a man in yellow robes was
telling him something.
When he came to, he was kicked in the ribs and dragged to a pole that stood
in the center of a concrete platform. His hands were tied to the pole behind his back, and
someone gave him a shot of rum. It was late evening, and the men chattered and laughed as
they built a small fire. When Vaptor came striding up, they leapt to their feet. He addressed
them with mock politeness, in rare good humor.
“Kindly proceed to your barracks, leaving us all by ourselves…for the last
time. Double rations of rum for all you hyenas.” They guffawed, gathered up their
weapons and left. He watched them till they were out of sight, and then turned to face the
doomed man.
“So! You have joined us again, Varer…at last! How eagerly I have waited
for this moment.” He laughed. It was an ugly sound. “I have a little hot entertainment lined
up for you. And then you will tell me all you know.” He drew his knife from his belt and
thrust its blade in the fire.
“Red-hot metal…strange, how it can loosen a man’s tongue”, Vaptor
chortled evilly. “Even the reticent become garrulous as grand-mothers. And so shall you,
Varer, so shall you.”
Varer spat at his feet in reply. Vaptor smiled cherubically. “Good! That’s
very good! I need a man with spirit; it has been quite some time since I had some real fun.”
Varer could see the malice in the pig-eyes. He knew Vaptor was a psychopath who enjoyed
torturing his victims before he killed them. He tested his bonds, straining his bent arms
awkwardly at the rope. It seemed to give slightly as the outward pull took up the slack in
the knots. Vaptor bent over the fire for a few moments to watch the blade as it began to
glow a dull red, and Varer threw himself with desperate ferocity on the ropes. Now he felt
them give slightly. The men who had bound him were incompetent and over-confident.
Vaptor put on a pair of black leather gloves and drew the knife out of the
fire. Chuckling evilly, he slashed sideways through Varer’s clothing, charring it as it sliced
the jacket open like a razor. The blade gleamed bright red…the colour of the girl’s life-
blood as it had spurted from her dying body. Varer had tucked away the memory of it, the
agony of it, deep in a corner of his mind. Now it burst like a star shell in his head, and he
went berserk. He hurled himself against the ropes, and he felt his hands pull free just as
Vaptor brought the knife again to his body. In a flash, Varer twisted the fist that held the
knife, remembering the commando training, turning the wrist into itself, nerveless. Then he
pushed with the full strength of his arms, and the glowing blade sighed as it sank up to the
hilt in Vaptor’s bloated belly.
For a moment, the big man looked at Varer uncomprehendingly, his mouth
wide open in a shout that never came. Then his knees buckled, and he crumpled lifeless to
the ground. Varer stepped over the carcass and gathered up the man’s weapons and
rucksack. Then he walked back in the direction from which he had come. There was no
point in trying to escape, because he could never escape. She had offered a way out, but
that way was closed forever. He dragged his feet as he walked along, staring at the ground,
and it was some time before he realized that someone was softly calling out his name.
She came tripping down the path happily, but stopped uncertainly when he
did not respond.
 26

“It’s me, Taira…aren’t you…aren’t you (she hesitated) happy to see me?”
The sky blue eyes were full of confusion.
“No!” he grated harshly.
“But…but why? I don’t understand!” She was distressed at his unexpected
reaction.
“Because you’re not Taira, that’s why. You’re just a phantom of my mind
sent to torture me. GO AWAY!”
She laughed gaily then, joyfully, understanding his reaction and what it
signified. She grabbed his arm, made him feel the soft warmth of her. “See for yourself!
It’s me, Taira! Flesh and blood! I was dying on the floor, and someone came, who, I don’t
quite recall…and he—he made me well again.”

As life ebbed from the girl, he went into her mind, curious to find out why
she had willingly surrendered it and why the man had killed her so readily. When he found
the reason, it almost overwhelmed him. Even his vast intelligence reeled before the
magnitude and the grandeur of it. It was the Truth that he had sought and never found. It
was the very raison d’être of existence, the primal cause…and he had found it here, of all
places. He had mastered the mysteries of matter, and it was a small thing for him to go
into her tissues, repairing and rejoining as he went, using the universal atoms to make her
whole. He then probed the man’s brain, and when the result was exactly the same, he
decided to do something for them in return, to intervene. His mind straddled the globe…

Varer took Taira in his arms and crushed her to him, letting the delicious
warmth and the miracle of her wash away all the pain and the hurt. Just moments ago, it
had seemed that he was condemned to wander for the rest of his days through a bleak and
haunted moorland. Now she was returned to him, and the sun shone brightly again on a
future giddy with promise.

*
Anton Varer, Minister for Social Security and Welfare of the Realm, smiled
as two tow-headed little boys chased each other across the patio. Their mother, apron
around her narrow waist and a ladle in her hand, came after them, panting. “Anton! Don’t
just sit there grinning! Which way did they go?”
“They went that-a-way”, he said, pointing, and as she moved past him he
grabbed her round the waist and she gasped as he pulled her down onto his lap and kissed
her.
“Let go, you brute!” she protested. “Your sons will tear the place down if I
don’t intervene.”
“How about some quick intervention here first…I can tear the place down
just as fast as they can!”
“Anton!” she scolded in mock severity, her eyes widening as she read his
meaning.
“Yes, ‘Anton!’” he agreed smugly.

*
 27

Later, curled up in his lap, she asked whether Slitkin’s body had ever been
found. “Not as of a piece, but his DNA was all over his office; the building that housed his
headquarters took a direct missile hit. Forget it, baby doll, it’s all over now.”
“And did you ever wonder what happened to the…person who gave me
back to you, who changed things from the way they were?”
“You mean you never guessed, honeybunch, you never knew? He got into
my mind as well,” he admitted, “after I’d…that day when I hurt you, honey, and he…well,
he communicated to me that he owed us something. He said he would live on in our hearts
forever. Apparently we had unwittingly helped him find something of the utmost
importance to him, something he’d spent ages searching for.”

“What thing, Anton?” She was wide-eyed with curiosity.

“He called it ‘The Greatest Thing of All’, sweetie-pie.”

She tried it on her tongue: “ ‘The Greatest Thing of All’. It sounds

wonderful, Anton. But what was it?” she puzzled.

Varer chuckled and kissed her reverently, as The Greatest Thing of All
welled up again in their hearts and overcame them.

~*~

The Fragrance of a Rose

 28

They wheeled him into the correction room and quickly, with professional
ease and competence, connected him to all the wires and tubes that led into the apparatus
that stood beside the bed. He did not resist, but they had strapped him down, just in case,
and as the machine started up with a soft hum, rising to a gentle whine, he closed his eyes,
letting go of it all and thankful to be done with it. When he awoke, he did not recognize
anything, anything at all, and they were pleased, in a very detached sort of way, that
everything had gone well. When all the tests confirmed that his mind was blank, that not a
single shred of memory remained, that it had all been drained off like the oil in an engine,
they proceeded to return the permissible portions as filtered by the instrument.
Memory was simply the result of a chemical process, as man had long ago
discovered, and the chemical memory banks in the brain could be copied, reproduced,
altered, exchanged, or extinguished, just as any chemist could turn lead into gold. This man
was charged with having taken the life of another human being, the second greatest
infringement in the Galactic Confederation. Now, after being deprived of all his original
memories, he was to be given carefully selected ‘memories’, allowed to ‘remember’ only
the good, the pure, the bright, and the beautiful. Nothing else. There was no capital
punishment in the 24th century. This was the therapy prescribed by law.
When he awoke for the second time, Borthwick saw that he was lying on a
simple bed. He had been returned only fragments of his past, but to him his memory was
continuous, without any breaks or gaps. They had cleverly patched pieces of other
memories from their records into his, grafted them so smoothly, that even he was unable to
tell which was originally his and which was not. In fact, he was not in a position to know
this, not having any reference point to go on. He had to be content with what he had.
How did it matter if they weren’t all his? They were all he had now, and
they were in his head, weren’t they, and wasn’t possession nine-tenths of the law? That
meant they were his, no two ways about it. Ersatz or no, they were his from now on. And
who was he to complain, it was a simple, logical, humane answer to …to what?
Something he had done, it didn’t matter now, the air was so fresh, and the
sky was so piercingly blue. He stepped out into the garden, the roses smelt so lovely, he
had never thought flowers could smell like this, heavenly, forgettable…

It was dawn, and Justin Pochard let himself out quietly by the kitchen door,
shutting it softly behind him. It was cool and fresh in the garden at this hour, and on the
special days, such as this one, he always made sure that he got the morning air before
sunrise spoilt it all. Not that he disliked the dawn, with its pinkish tints, it was just that they
clashed with the hues of his roses, and he hated that.
He not only liked them smelling that particular way, that utterly heady way
they smelt only in the misty pre-dawn, he also liked them with their colors, muted as they
were, untouched by any other extraneous influence. For Justin was a rose lover, and a very
finicky one at that. He had been that way for almost the last two hundred years, ever since
he had received the Hero of the United Galaxies Award for services over and beyond the
call of duty.
 29

He was not exactly old, as old men went nowadays, what with all the
research and development into the science of organ transplants, stem-cell technologies, and
fabrication of artificial cells that had taken place in the 23 rd century. In fact, he was in the
prime of life, and with the latest gerontological breakthroughs that had recently been made
at the laboratory level, and which promised to be perfected and commercialized within a
decade, it was not unreasonable for him to expect to live at least another two hundred
years. Besides, he got special privileges, on account of his services to the Galactic Council,
by way of priority access to medical research facilities.
No one grudged him this special treatment, for he had earned them. His job
wasn’t exactly the most demanding function in the entire confederation of three hundred
and sixty-six planetary systems that owed allegiance to the confederation’s supreme body,
the Galactic Council…of which he, Justin Pochard, was the Special Administrator. It was
just a sinecure, he acknowledged inwardly, a reward for meritorious services as the
Admiral-in-Chief of the Star Fleet. He really had no duties at all. The Supreme Council
had elected to create a special post for him, seeing there was really no other avenue left for
promotion.
Now, as he bent and inhaled the forgettable aroma of the bloom before him,
the one he had cross-bred from a hundred others, its blue-black sheen so tantalizingly
perfect to the eye, a sudden chill of fear unaccountably shafted through him. He dreaded
going inside, and, moments later, being quite unable to recollect the fragrance that had so
recently transfixed him.
The sheer blasphemy of it, that he should inhale that giddy scent, unique in
all the known universe, luxuriate in it, fill his lungs with it…and then find, to his dismay,
that it was gone as soon as he had slipped into the house again. The sheer intransigence of
it, the utter impermanence of memory, baffled and infuriated him. It was one area he had—
for all his considerable intellect—been unable to master, a science so exact and so
demanding that it took all of a man’s focused concentration, a lifetime of unrelenting study
and research, to come to working terms with the subject.
The red sun of Vincente, the planet that supported the members of the
Supreme Council and all subordinate systems dedicated to their welfare, was now coming
up over the horizon, and reluctantly, fighting an unreasonable panic, Justin straightened up
and went inside. He fought hard to hold on to the memory of the rose and its scent, but…
there, it was fading fast. He clung to it, but it changed, became shapeless, hueless,
valueless, and in his despair he did not notice Letitia at first.
She was standing there quietly with his glass of mangrapplemon juice,
which is all he had for breakfast, and it was an effort for him to turn his thoughts from the
tragedy of the lost fragrance and take the glass from her hands. She had been weeping, he
noticed: the eyes were red and the eyelids puffy as only a nice cry could do to them. That
handsome starship captain had probably been sent on duty to some distant part of the
confederation. He hoped she was feeling better; women always felt better after a good cry,
it released the happy hormones into their bloodstreams and gave them a boost.
Men felt awful if they wept: the reverse, as is usually the case between the
sexes, was true here as well. Men felt bad after they cried, which was probably why it was
part of the male myth that real men don’t cry. But that was just what he felt like doing
now, for some inexplicable reason. He tried to reason with himself; men don’t cry just
because they can’t remember the way a flower smells. It was ridiculous!
 30

And yet, there was no other possible reason for him to feel so low. Ah well!
We all have our idiosyncrasies, even Galactic Administrators, he rationalized, it was best
to try and forget the incident, like all the other ones... he paused in astonishment…what
other incidents?
The little communicator disc behind his ear buzzed into life, and the wall
became a screen that showed a man in full Galactic Council regalia. He looked a trifle
impatient as he observed “Justin! You haven’t even changed yet! Do you know what the
time is? We are meeting in exactly an hour’s time, I hope you remember?” There was a
subtle irony in the voice that didn’t fail to register on Justin, but he put it down to piqué;
the council didn’t like to be kept waiting.
But it was in a soothing tone that he replied, “No, of course not, how could I
forget? I was just pottering about among my roses…I’ll be ready in a jiffy, Excellency.
Expect me on the dot.” The Chief of the Supreme Council smiled, and now it was his turn
to be placating, conciliatory, almost as if he was apologetic... (But why should he be
apologetic?) “Now, now, Justin, you know me, always ruled by timings—you just go
ahead and get yourself ready, there’s still plenty of time. See you at the Hall.”
Then the screen was opaque again, and the silence was deafening in Justin
Pochard’s ears.

As the defendant was led in, Justin reached the dais and slid smoothly into
his chair. He was ‘just in’ time! (Ha! Ha! What a great pun!) The bailiff had directed
everyone to rise, and now, as he made himself comfortable, everyone in this specially
convened conjunction was allowed to resume their seats.
The Corrective Councilor was speaking: “…and so, in the light of the
powers vested in me by the Galactic Council, I hereby ask the party in custody whether he
wishes to say anything that may have further bearing on the Federal case against him, to
wit, that he, Stuart Borthwick, age 51, had, at 11.23 hours, Galactic Mean Time, on the
twenty-third day of the Galactic Year 56, caused the demise of a woman, Roseanne Horne,
by striking her on the head with a metal object, viz., a vibra-hammer. And whereas it is
understood that said party has, three times before the concerned authorities, confessed of
his own volition to having performed the said act, and whereas it is also understood that by
admitting his afore-mentioned act voluntarily, the said party shall have spared the
Confederation much time and expense, thereby making him eligible for due consideration
at this highest forum in connection with necessary measures that shall perforce follow, in
pursuance of the law, such as it pertains to the act committed by the party in question, or
whether he wishes to withdraw from his position and to reopen the case or face the
consequences as deemed fit by law in the light of earlier admissions which shall then be
now and forever binding on him and which shall set in train the chain of events that will
now follow.”
Somewhat dazed by the torrent of words, ‘the party in question’ shook his
head, at which the Corrective Councilor advised him to say “No” if he agreed and wished
to say nothing, which the man did. The Corrective Councilor now addressed the Council,
adjusting his lapel micro-pinphone just a little bit:
 31

“So be it. The act committed by the party is now taken as admitted three
times, finally and irrevocably, and therefore merits special consideration from the Grand
Committee, vide Rule 47, sub-rules 4 (i) (ii) and (iii), read with rule 56, sub-rule 6 (i), (iv)
and (ix), viz., and I quote…”
The Chief of the Supreme Council cut in smoothly, albeit a little hastily,
“That’s perfectly alright, Councilor, we all know the Rules, so we’ll treat them as read. Let
us proceed to the next stage without delay, if you don’t mind.” He had a meeting with the
Tarluk Delegation, and they were offering a large quantity at Barzalum at bargain prices;
he didn’t want to keep them waiting.
“Very well, Excellency,” continued the Corrective Councilor unflappably,
without breaking stride, “…therefore, in pursuance of the powers vested in me by the
Galactic Council vide their Declaration No. 136 of the 6th day of the present Galactic Year,
which Declaration is deemed to be, and in fact still is, live and in force as of this moment, I
deem it fit to draw the kind attention of the Special Administrator to Rule 73, read with
Rule 86, sub-rules (i), (ii) and (iii), whereby he is empowered exclusively and individually
to propose the commencement of, and the means of final disposal of, the case. The Rule
Book is before the worthy Administrator, and I recommend he read Annexure I very
carefully before perusing the rest of the Rules as per references quoted just now by me, as
relevant to the facts before him.”
As if in a dream, Justin Pochard picked it up and read. For some reason,
they looked new to him, though both the Corrective Councilor as well as the Chief of the
Supreme Council said they all knew it. And as he read the blurring words, he understood
his duty, at last.
The Chief of the Supreme Council was speaking:
“And yes, if the Special Administrator would like to make any request at
this juncture, anything within my…our powers…” He spread his hands accommodatingly.
Justin, his mind in a whirl, pulled himself together.
“If it please the Council, may I forward it to His Excellency in writing?”
“Why, of course, Justin, I’m waiting” (no ‘Special Administrator’, just ‘Justin’—what a
name: ‘Just in’ the line of duty, ‘Just in’ the line of fire, ‘Just in’ case—they went on and
on, the jokes he made about himself).
He tapped it out on the desk communicator to the Chief of the Supreme
Council. “Done!” exclaimed that worthy, magnanimous in his relief. It was such a small,
harmless request, he deserved it; it was the least they could do for him…
“But you know the condition…it will not be available later…?”
“I know…and I agree, said Justin quietly.
“So be it, then”, said the Chief of the Supreme council, as they arose to go.

“Has it been done?” the Chief of the Supreme Council was asking. “It has
been done, Excellency,” confirmed the Corrective Councilor.
“Wonderful! Then we can presume he will be quite fit in a year’s time, as
usual?” he asked with some concern. The Head of Technical Correction rubbed his hands
together with unctuous self-satisfaction:
 32

“There is nothing to worry about, Excellency. He is fit and well-

rejuvenated; he will last at least another thirty or forty such reruns, if necessary, rest
assured.”
The Chief of the Supreme Council sighed with relief. “Excellent! I wouldn’t
want to find another replacement so soon; he has given us commendable service. I shudder
to think what it meant last time, when we had to find—him. The previous one just blew up
in our faces, so to speak. Do everything in your power to keep him happy.”

Now, at last, he understood the reason for his uneasiness, his jitters, why
Letitia had been crying, why he could never remember the rose-smell. How could he?
Every time he got it, they took it away from him, in this over-analyzed, over-rejuvenated,
inbred world they lived in.
Like a clone, it had only some of the strength, the resilience, of the original;
they needed the old, ‘archaic systems’ back, yet it was impossible, logically speaking, to
sustain them, or any other value system in a consortium of galactic agencies comprised of
such diverse civilizations, physiologies, and cultures, to pretend to a workable synthesis.
It was impossible, and they knew it. They needed scapegoats like him,
gullible, peace loving, simple-minded…cannon fodder!
As his mind started to go, Justin Pochard thought about the memories they
were draining from his head. He didn’t trust those memories, anyway, now; he had no idea
to whom they had originally belonged to, they weren’t all his, of this he was reasonably
certain. That was the reason why he had to lose the fragrance of the rose, why he couldn’t
remember it.
They didn’t even have the moral courage to sentence a man to death for
killing another man; they made another man pronounce judgment on his fellow man, the
greatest crime of all; then they stole his memory, and made him take the rap for their dirty
work. But, he had to admit, it was all so very right in one sense, typical of this half-right,
half-wrong system…it was the greatest crime of all.
Then he was screaming as they filled his head with the detritus of that other,
diseased mind. It was his real function; he was judge, criminal, and executioner, all rolled
into one. He had sentenced himself to purgatory for a year, he realized, and he screamed
with the awful terror of it, before he was granted his final wish and it came back to him.
It made it all worthwhile; made him accept the treachery, the ugliness, the
deceit, the pomposity and the selfishness. The padded walls no longer needed to absorb the
awful sounds he made as the horrible images arose in his mind ….for he had it with him,
the antidote to all the evil, all the detritus they could throw at him, the one thing that could
defeat it all.
Where would he be without it, the thing that filled his heart with organ
music, and uplifted his mind, the mind of a sentenced murderer who was not, but who yet
was, he, Justin Pochard. It sustained him, fortified him against everything that he had to
now face, the last Good, the last Truth he clung to…the fragrance of the rose.

*
 33

It was dawn, and Justin Pochard let himself out quietly by the kitchen door,
shutting it softly behind him. It was cool and fresh in the garden at this hour, and on the
special days, such as this one, he always made sure that he got the morning air before
sunrise spoilt it all. Not that he disliked the dawn, with its pinkish tints, it was just that they
clashed with the hues of his roses, and he hated that.
He not only liked them smelling that particular way, that utterly heady way
they smelt only in the misty pre-dawn, he also liked them with their colors, muted as they
were, untouched by any other extraneous influence. For Justin was a rose lover, and a very
finicky one at that. He had been that way for almost two hundred years, ever since they’d
given him the Hero of the United Galaxies Award for services over and beyond the call of
duty…

~*~
 34

The Dirtiest Job In The World

I tried to ignore the leech as it looped along up my leg looking for a way
through the waterproofing to get at my flesh. It’s OK, brother, I thought, you just go for the
blood, the way I do. Only thing is, you’re by far the more respectable of us two. You need
blood because to you it’s food. So you just go right ahead and claim your share.
I have no right to stop you, hope you realize that. I shed blood; it’s my job.
In other words, I’m a paid killer. An assassin. A hitman. Aka dirty drygulcher. I’m in the
muckin’ army, and I’m called a sniper.
I have the world’s dirtiest job. I look through a telescopic sight at a man
hundreds of yards away, follow him in my cross-hairs. I can see the beads of sweat on his
face. I can read his name on his dog-tags. He hasn’t shaved for days, and I can almost
count the individual hairs in his beard. He has a scar on his cheek that’s visible through the
stubble, this goddam Zeiss T-scope is that good.
That bulge in his pocket...could be a letter from his wife or sweetheart. I’m
afraid I’ll have to drill it to pierce his heart. The damn fool’s gone and put it in his breast
pocket. Nothing much will be left of it once the mushroom bullet has had its way.
What’s that you say? Mushroom bullets are illegal? Oh yeah? Says who?
Geneva Convention? Never heard of it. Do me a favour. Just ask those Johnnies who frame
rules to swap places with me for a day. I bet they’ll come running to me to ask how they
can hit a man at five hundreds yards so’s he goes down...and stays down. They’ll want to
live, too, the way I do. I want to live. Real bad. Nothing worse than a sniper who botches
his shot.
Before you know it, the sniper shooters are after you. One burst from a .50
caliber HMG, or maybe even a Bazooka rocket if you’ve been too good at your job and the
enemy just can’t put you away fast enough. Oh, yes, they know all about you. You’ve been
the topic of many a campfire conversation. They want to nail your hide permanently.
The next thing you know, the tree you’re perched in is shedding leaves like
it was Fall. Steel hornets are buzzing around you, shredding everything...and one or two of
them will probably blow you away for keeps.
So I use mushrooms. All snipers do. Its soft lead tip mushrooms on impact,
flattens out and gets a swollen head, if you know what I mean, Dum Dum. No fancy
nickel-plated jobs for us guys. That big fat soft head transfers all the energy to the body,
instead of passing through it like a needle. Try giving an injection with a spike instead of a
hypodermic and you’ll know what I’m talking about.
A hollow-point leaves an exit wound you could put your fist into. All
internal organs ruptured or perforated. Massive hemorrhaging. No field dressing can ever
hope to hold him together. Go ahead, give him mouth-to-mouth till you’re blue in the face.
Won’t work. He’s been blown apart by over two tons of energy and he’s gone. Now go and
tell your Geneva Convention blokes to get stuffed.
That poor fool I’ve in my sights right now, he doesn’t even know he has
only seconds to live. Yeah, I mean that Corporal. You can see his stripes clearly through
the glass. He’s tense but he’s sure he’ll make it. He won’t. Not if I can help it.
I recognize him. He’s dangerous. Only last week, when I got a fellow in his
platoon, he sprayed the bushes close to where I was holed up in some rocks. Close call.
Got some splinters in my shoulder. Took Doc an hour to carve them out. But I’m not
 35

vindictive. I’ve got nothing personal against him. He was just doing his job. As I’m doing
mine.
Suck my forefinger and test the wind. It’s blowing across us, left to right.
Might deflect the bullet slightly over its flight-path of five hundred yards. But it’s a chance
I have to take. I’ll compensate for the drift when I aim. The closer the target is when you
fire, the greater the risk of detection and reprisal. The ratio’s the same as the laws relating
to light fall-off from a candle: inversely proportional to the square of the distance. The
inverse square law: high-school physics. Half the distance closer, four times greater the
risk of reprisal.
The enemy can see too, you know. I don’t smoke. But my rifle does. Even
smokeless powder is no remedy. That telltale puff of smoke is due to gun-oil in the barrel
that’s oxidized by the searing heat of the bullet’s passage. It shows up against the green of
a tree or the grey of rocks, even stands out whitish against the sky. But it’s unavoidable.
Gun barrels have to be cleaned with oil after use, with the help of a ramrod and cotton
wool.
Then there’s the sound of the shot. No way can you dampen that. Don’t talk
me of noise suppressors. I hate those muzzle-energy gobblers that civvies call silencers.
James Bond, the FBI and the KGB can have ‘em. All that secret agent stuff isn’t for us
pros.
Even the guys who got JFK at Dallas never used them. Lee Harvey
Oswald? Hey, mister, don’t you recognize a set-up when you see one? Jack Ruby? Ditto.
The trail was a red herring, petered out in a dead end. One trail cancelled another out. Even
Sherlock Holmes couldn’t have solved it. The real killers got clean away.
Good sniping. But I suppose politics is a war, any way you look at it. You
gotta cover your back. Bad security. That’s what leads me to believe that JFK’s friends got
him bumped off. It isn’t that easy to rub out the President of the USA. He and that little
thing he had going with Marilyn Monroe, it was letting too many skeletons out of
cupboards, and the Big Boys and J. Edgar couldn’t possibly have appreciated that. Learnt a
lot from that shooting, believe me, technically-speaking.
Then there’s muzzle-flash. Cause of the early demise of many a fellow
sniper. Ultra High Velocity cartridges are explosives, buster. When they go off, there’s an
explosion. And detonation means heat and—even worse—light. A long tongue of flame
licks out from the muzzle. No flash eliminator can quite suppress that, just as no lens hood
is ever deep enough to keep all stray rays of light from hitting the front element of a lens
and degrading the image quality.
Muzzle flash is a sniper’s worst health hazard, you see, because light travels
faster then sound. Much faster. For all practical purposes, it’s simultaneous. Happens co-
currently with the shot, as the Sniper’s Manual puts it. That’s very bad. Because if
someone happens to be looking your way when you fire—and guys under a sniper threat
develop an uncanny ability for sensing where a sniper might be holed up—they know
where you are. You’re as good as dead.
Not so for sound. If your target is a decent distance away, they’ll hear the
shot somewhat after their comrade has suddenly, inexplicably, dropped dead. For those
few moments, shock will keep the enemy’s attention focused on their fallen comrade,
wondering why he’s gone down and why he isn’t getting up. Then the boom of the shot
 36

rumbles out of the distance, rolling over them, and they realise he’s been flattened by a
sniper.
They all hit the dirt at once. It’s quite funny sometimes, they way they dive
for cover. They’ll never guess where you were. Angle of penetration exercises to pinpoint
your position don’t work too effectively when you are five hundred yards or more away.
So the secret to a sniper’s longevity is to fire from as far away as possible. And get out
fast. Skedaddle. If he can.
Jawing about long-range stuff is how I got stuck with this lousy detail. It all
started when we got to exchanging yarns about home, and I told them about Arvind’s crazy
idea that we should stop stalking deer and try shooting them at long range. Really long
range stuff, around one thousand yards.
I’d laughed at first. One thousand yards! But then I saw the challenge in it.
It meant pushing our ammo to the limit, for one. Handloading the cartridges very precisely
with over-sized loads, and using lighter bullets. A maximum of 180 grains of lead.
Partitioned Noslers, Normas, or Hornadys.
That light slug usually meant problems with bullet-drift over the longer
distances due to crosswinds, but that couldn’t be helped. We needed range above all else.
You can see where all this is leading so I’ll skip further details. Except the spotting scope.
With our high-power T-scopes, we couldn’t find the deer. Couldn’t see them whitetails.
The magnification brought everything so close that we lost the overall
picture. So we bought the spotter. In the army, I use a pair of standard naval 10x40 Zeiss
binoculars. It’s the only the second reason why I feel amicably inclined towards the
crummy navy. Did you know that a sniper got Horatio Nelson at Trafalgar, the lousy SOB?
The sniper, I mean.
Continuing where I left off, all this talk got around and soon the Major had
heard of it. The unit needed another bushwhacker. So I ‘volunteered’. And see where it’s
got me. Feel a bit like Gary Cooper in ‘Sergeant York’. Shouldn’t have shot my mouth off,
shoulda kept it shut. I’d shot myself in the foot. Ballistic podiatry…
Now I have to deliver in order to survive. Shoot the enemy before they
shoot me. Snipers don’t last long. A sniper who’s been on the detail a year is an old man.
Statistically, his time’s run out. I had been on the job a year now.
So I got after the sarge. Sarge, I said, I’ve been on the job a year now. It’s
the dirtiest job in the world! I’m worn out and need a break in routine. I’ve had to quit
smoking in order to keep my hands from shaking, and it’s murder when someone lights up
near me, even now. The smoke gets in my nose and I can barely control the craving. I
don’t smoke because I want to live. Smoking can kill me. Not from cancer. From lead
poisoning. I don’t like lead coming my way at 3,000 feet per second, so I don’t smoke.
Don’t want my hand to shake and muff the shot. Let me go, sarge, I want to smoke again
just like everyone else, I told him humbly. I even said ‘Please’.
That sarge, he’s a real nice guy, says he’ll do what he can. So when I return
after three days in a tree with the enemy swarming all around me, three days of sitting just
about stock-still and sucking on wads of sun-dried mango-juice so that there are no telltale
jaw movements or crunching sounds or ants crawling all over me, he smiles benignly.
Good news, he says. I’m off the detail!
I nearly go into shock with relief. My nerves are that shot. I swear I nearly
passed out, I was that relieved. Oh, to be with the boys again, lugging 30 kilograms on my
 37

person and clutching a feather-light M16 carbine. Even the job of mortar-man or machine-
gunner was OK right now. To stretch my legs again, to walk, to march, to run under fire...it
sounded as if I’d been recalled to Staff duties.
I blessed my guardian angel as I tore open the envelope that contained my
new orders. I wondered whether I’d been sent to Charlie Company, or whether Delta was
still my unit.
I was relieved to see it was still Delta. Then my grin faded. Guess I should
have expected this. The Major had told me my valuable experience as a sniper would prove
invaluable to the entire regiment. I thought he meant they were thinking of sending me as
an instructor to the College of Combat.
So this is what they meant by harnessing my experience. I was not going to
be with the boys, after all.
I was now a sniper shooter.

I’m alone. Alone in this thick—practically impenetrable—jungle. I’m alone,

on foot, with fifty pounds of provisions and assorted gear on my back. I’ve got the same
old shoe-polish streaks across my face to break up the outlines. I’m still wearing my deer-
hunting gear; don’t trust the standard fatigues the army issues. It’s not my idea of
camouflaged clothing.
The sniper rifle feels as heavy as a howitzer in my hand. I’m tired, footsore,
and very thirsty. But I never stop. Keep moving, take unpredictable detours. My senses are
at full alert all the time.
That bastard got Rifleman Prem Bahadur Thapa just as he was drinking
from his canteen. The bullet went through his throat, so the mouthful he’d swallowed came
pouring out of the hole in his Adam’s apple. And from the huge cavity in the back of his
neck.
There wasn’t much left of his neck, to tell you the truth. The bullet almost
decapitated him. But I’ll skin that skunk yet. I’m studying his habits, and I’ll try to see he
doesn’t rumble to the fact that I’m assigned to get him. Don’t want him to anticipate me
and try to plug me first. I’m his biggest threat.

*
I tried to ignore the leech as it looped along up my leg looking for a way
through the waterproofing to get at my flesh. It’s OK, brother, I thought, you just go for
the blood, the way I do. Only thing is, you’re by far the more respectable of us two. You
need blood because to you it’s food. So you just go right ahead and claim your share. I
have no right to such an honour, hope you realize that. I shed blood because it’s my job.
I’m a paid killer. A hitman. A filthy drygulcher.
But I’m in the muckin’ army, and here they use a...what’s that fancy
word...? Ah, yes... ‘euphemism’... for assassin. Sniper shooter.
I have the world’s dirtiest job. I have to find and execute a man who looks
through a telescopic sight at another man hundreds of yards away in order to rub him out.
Places him bang in the centre of his T-scope’s cross-hairs. He can see the beads of sweat
 38

on his target’s face. He can read his name, embossed on his dog-tags. He can almost
count the individual hairs in his beard, his goddam T-scope is that good.
And I can see him. Sharp and clear. The camouflaging don’t
fool me. I’m a deer hunter. That bulge in his pocket...could be a letter from his wife or
sweetheart. The damn fool’s gone and put it in his breast pocket. Nothing much will be left
of it. The mushroom bullet will see to that.

Goodbye, sniper…

I have to deliver the goods. To survive. By shooting the next sniper before
he shoots me. Sniper shooters don’t last long. It’s sad but it’s true. A man who’s been on
the detail a year is an old man. Statistically, his number’s come up. I had been on the job a
year. So I got after the sergeant.
Sarge, I said, I’ve been on the job a year now. It stinks. I’m plumb worn out
and need a break in routine. Light up once in a while. But I don’t smoke because my hands
shake if I do. And I need the stamina. But I crave nicotine, sarge. I quit smoking because I
want to live.
Smoking kills men. Not from cancer. From lead poisoning. I don’t like lead
coming my way at 3,000 feet per second, so I don’t smoke. Don’t want to stand there
puffing away, making it an easy shot for him. Or miss that sitter ‘cos I’ve got the shakes.
Let me off the hook, sarge, I asked him sincerely. I want to smoke again
just like everyone else. Close my eyes now and then. Wherever I feel like, like the boys.
Even relax once in a while. Pee when I want to. I actually used the P word. ‘Please’. After
all, he’s the sarge.
Please sargey, I said, I need a vacation. I’ve had it. Send me anywhere, give
me any job you want to...anything but sniper shooting. It’s the dirtiest job in the world!

That sarge, he’s a real nice guy. Just smiles and says nothing.

~*~
 39

For Better or for Worse

As was his custom every morning at 7 a.m, Mr. Das sat down with a cup of
tea and opened the day’s paper to the sports page. It was the cricket season, and the Indian
team was, as usual, embroiled in a controversy. No, it wasn’t the off-field behavior of one
of the openers, that incident with the actress in the lobby of a 5-star hotel that the Press had
latched onto; this time, it was an accusation of ball tampering directed against the vice-
captain himself by the English referee.
It appeared that the British weren’t too happy at the way things had turned
out, considering that they had gone to considerable trouble to introduce their sports in all
the countries they’d subjugated in the days of the ‘Empire on Which the Sun Never Set’.
They had taught the Afghans the rudiments of squash, in the aftermath of
the Afghan wars of the nineteenth century, and those hardy frontier riflemen had
dominated the game ever since. The Indians had abandoned their gulli-danda for cricket,
and now England no longer ruled the waves, she waved the rules—on the cricket field!
Those tough little Mahrattas wielded the willow as they did their swords in Shivaji’s time,
square cutting and driving their way contemptuously through world cricket and leaving the
English team floundering in their wake.
And football, boxing, golf…the less said the better, it was scandalous how
coloured peoples had adopted these as their own. The Old Order giveth way to the New,
they probably thought bitterly…and now the British Isles themselves looked like they’d
been annexed by the Punjab. The British Lion, now a myth, as extinct as the beast
mentioned in Shakespeare, licked its wounds and dreamt of another go at world
domination, this time as a side-kick of America.
Like almost all Bengalis, Mr. Das was an armchair historian and
philosopher-intellectual, and now he reluctantly turned to the pages he hated. But news
was news, and it was as he had expected, there really wasn’t anything new in there at all.
The Americans had invented a ‘super-bomb’ that dissipated explosive particles throughout
the atmosphere, particles that exploded at random and almost interminably, creating a sort
of ‘incessant explosion’.
Things were bad again on the Gaza strip; the Palestinians had bombed a
restaurant, and seven Israelis had died. Shortly thereafter, several strikes had been carried
out by the Israeli Air Force against Palestinian camps, and the pictures of the carnage…but
they no longer shocked Mr. Das’s desensitized eyes, the way the photograph of Kim Phuc
in LIFE magazine had, the one that shows her as a small child running naked down the
road, screaming in terror and pain after the napalm bombs had fallen on her tiny, tragically
named village of Trang Bang.
Across-the-border infiltration continued unabated in India, and terrorists
had slain about a dozen pilgrims en route to the holy shrine of Amarnath, deep in the
mountains. They had even struck at Parliament! Was there nothing sacrosanct any more, he
wondered? Then it was time to fetch the milk, and Mr. Das’s day slipped into its usual
automated routine, so comforting, so…so reassuringly boring.
It stayed with him as he slipped out of the office at 1.30 p.m. for his lunch
to the little café off the main road, that feeling that he wasn’t getting anywhere, that he was
allowing his life to drift.
 40

It must have showed, for the seedy little man who came up with a plate of
sandwiches was…well, he was so sympathetic. Mr. Das could see it in his eyes and he
hated that, that someone should pierce his façade and see the carefully camouflaged
dissatisfaction, his desperation at his humdrum existence, the robotic routine of fetching
the milk and reading the newspapers and driving the ancient Morris to office, of being very
bright and animated when the boss was around, and pushing the files down the pipeline, of
lunching off oily, over-seasoned vegetables and beans and cold, lumpy rice, then going
home to face a barrage of questions about his day and trying not to sound like a martyr but
as a Paladin, and worrying about the tuition fees of the kids and whether they could take a
vacation this year, not to his native village again, but a real vacation, just Mrs. Das and he,
maybe to some small hill-station that was off the beaten track and didn’t cost too much.
The kids could spend their holidays at his brother’s farm in the village, he was sure they’d
love that.
The little man in the opposite chair seemed to know all this, and he was
simpatico, as if he’d seen it all before, and as he’d got up to leave he’d had the cheek of
slipping across to Mr. Das a slip of paper with an address on it.
“You should check him out, he’s called the Medicine Man, and he has a
cure for it, the thing that’s got you. But it’s your baby; it’s entirely up to you. The cost of
treatment is given below, so remember to take it along with you”, he had said, departing.
Mr. Das had accepted the slip of paper politely, in spite of himself, in spite of his rule of
never acknowledging the conversations of strangers.
Marooned in his genteel, middle-class mediocrity, he clung to his dignity,
aloof, withdrawn into himself, into his uneasy unexceptionalness. He hadn’t given it
another thought after he’d tucked the scrap of paper into his wallet, but on the way home
he mulled over it and what it could possibly mean.
Certainly, the incident had been a break in routine; it was an aberration in
the utter predictability of his life. He wondered if…no, it couldn’t possibly be a velvet trap,
he was too old for all that stuff now, of unprepossessing appearance, too stolidly
conservative for any lascivious hanky-panky. He was too much in a rut, and obviously
without surplus cash to indulge himself in forbidden pleasures, even if he wanted to, which
he didn’t.
He gave the matter no further thought for the rest of the week, but on
Saturday, when the office closed at 1.30 p.m., he found, to his surprise, that his mind was
wandering back to that scrap of paper. Yes, there it was, in the coin compartment of his
purse, and Mr. Das saw that it mentioned a locality at the outskirts of town.
He soon found himself in a squalid neighborhood, but he followed the
directions given on the slip of paper and took the path with the red-brick boundary wall on
the left, and followed it till he came to the little run-down cottage at the end of a lane, the
one with the antique shingles, the now-gray whitewash of the walls, and an unkempt
garden gone to seed.
With some misgivings, for he hadn’t expected this—whatever had he
expected, he wondered?—he rang the doorbell. Some moments passed, then he heard
someone say “Coming!” and then the door was opened by a man in a faded blue T-shirt,
shorts and bedroom slippers, with steel-rimmed spectacles and a shock of unruly white
hair.
 41

“Come on in, nice of you to drop by, please don’t mind, the place is a bit of
a mess…” he mumbled apologetically as he cleared some old magazines off a sofa and
asked Mr. Das to make himself comfortable, ‘he wouldn’t be a moment’, as he disappeared
into the adjoining room.
Mr. Das looked around him, at the peeling plaster, the dilapidated furniture,
the worn carpet, and he bitterly regretted the crazy impulse that had brought him here. He
felt so utterly vulnerable; this was a world so far from his neat, slightly threadbare, but
carefully maintained, orderly, comforting environment; here, he didn’t know why, he felt
so…so exposed, helpless, out of his depth. In short, Mr. Das was repenting his folly,
roundly, fluently cursing himself for having surrendered to the momentary fit of insanity
that had brought him here.
But before he could succumb to the impulse of just getting up quietly and
leaving, the white-haired man was back, and it came as a shock to Mr. Das that the man
wasn’t old. He just looked old. There was a difference between being old and looking old,
and this man was hardly thirty, if you looked carefully.
He hadn’t changed into more suitable clothes but he had brushed his hair
and now Mr. Das noted with surprise that he actually looked quite intelligent, a man of
letters, eccentric, perhaps, but definitely a cerebral type. He had seated himself opposite
Mr. Das, and he came to the point without wasting time:
“I suppose you came about the treatment? By the way, they call me the
Medicine Man…and you’re…?” Mr. Das ignored the question in his voice “Names? What
do they matter…yes, the ‘treatment’, whatever that means…a little man told me you have
just the thing for my…my situation…”
His words trailed off uncertainly: he wasn’t about to tell this stranger his
innermost, private thoughts, about his…his disenchantment at the unbroken monotony of
his life, no way he was going to do that.
“I see. And did he tell you any of the details?” queried the other, the
Medicine Man. Mr. Das shook his head. The Medicine Man leaned back, looking out of
the window, at the open field that was nothing but a garbage dump, at the crows on the
backs of skinny cattle, a typical suburban scene of neglect and official apathy. He looked at
Mr. Das and there was a question in his eyes, “Before I tell you what it does, I think I’ll
you what it costs. First of all, it shortens your life by fifteen years…”
Mr. Das jerked upright on the sofa: “Shortens my life?” He couldn’t believe
what he had heard. Men went for therapies to extend their lives…and this…this lunatic
was actually suggesting that his treatment deducted fifteen years from one’s life span! The
absurdity of it took his breath away. The whole thing had been a mistake, coming here, a
forgettable aberration.
“I think you’d better tell me about the benefits, before I can decide”, he
said politely, and the white-haired one smiled knowingly. “You know, few men lead the
lives they want to lead. Show me the man who says he’s satisfied with his life and I’ll
show you a liar. That’s what books have done to us, what television has done…shown us
other adventurous lives, full of action, wealth, beautiful women, fast cars, romance, glory:
conquerors, knights in battle, pioneers of space, sultans of the orient, great lovers, kings,
business tycoons who live fairytale lives.”
He shook his head sadly. “And none of it’s for the common man or woman.
Their lives are so ordinary, so dull, so banal, it’s a poison in the soul, they just rot away
 42

inside their bodies, longing, wishing, wanting…but never getting even a moment’s real
fame or glory in their lives, you know what I mean?”
Mr. Das nodded, reluctantly admitting it. It was true. The man in the street
lived a dog’s life: he ate, slept, went to work, slogged like a beast of burden for someone
else, came home through punishing traffic, listened to his spouse’s complaints, scolded the
children, ate his dinner, went to bed, and dropped off to sleep almost immediately.
Such was reality, the common man’s kind of reality. But the Bold and the
Beautiful, they had cornered the flip-side, a slice of life that the plodders on the dusty roads
of obscurity rarely glimpsed, except on TV talk shows or in the tabloids, which was why
the newspaper and smut barons got richer and richer: they fed the public’s craving for
excitement and laughed all the way to the bank.
The Medicine Man removed his glasses and polished them absently on the
corner of a handkerchief. “And as he lives out his miserable life, he wonders if that’s all
there is to it, the sheer meaningless of it, and he prays to gods who promise much and give
nothing, but it doesn’t work, nothing conventional works, and he realizes he has to go out
there and snatch what little happiness he can from life; he knows life is not about to drop it
in his lap. Just a moment of living…real living, a chance to soar just once to the stars—and
I’m not talking about drugs here,” he adds hastily, noting the concern in Mr. Das’s eyes.
“I offer a man a chance to really experience the world of his dreams. And
that’s what I give you, a glimpse...no…an experience...of your dream world, whatever it
may be: the President of the United States of America, General Eisenhower on D-Day,
Genghis Khan, an Arabian sheikh with a harem of lovelies, every night a night of romance
and magic and pleasure, dating the world’s most beautiful women, unchecked hedonism,
illimitable power, uncountable wealth, endless adventure, invulnerability, immortality…
it’s up to you. What your subconscious mind really wants, that you get, get to keep as a
true experience, a permanent memory for a lifetime to counter-balance the poverty of real
existence, that I call ‘un-life’, ‘not living’. It’s yours if you are prepared to pay the cost…
and the price…”
All the way home, Mr. Das wondered whether it was worth it…fifteen years
of one’s life…and for what? Just a transitory experience; a dream-like experience, no
matter how convincing in its verisimilitude, was nevertheless a thing insubstantial, like
mist as compared to water. Still…anything one wanted, anything one wanted to be, it was
within reach…the idea was intriguing, it could not be dismissed out of hand. He would
have to give it some deep thought. He let himself in and his wife immediately wanted to
know where he’d been, and he had to give some long-winded explanation about some
report the boss just had to have today, he was flying out of town early the next morning…
The days and weeks passed in all their humdrum conventionality. The boy
got the chicken pox, and no sooner had he recovered than the girl went down with it. The
electricity tariff had been hiked, and Mr. Das decided to quit smoking…that should
balance things nicely. The country was pouring untold sums into armaments, and taxation
responded accordingly. There were rumors that the unfriendly neighboring countries had
acquired the new cobalt bomb and had, as a consequence, become even more jingoistic.
The Russians were screaming that there was a new American plot to encircle them, and
conducted a series of multi-gigaton atomic blasts in Siberia that shook Europe.
The European Union appealed to America for more military aid, and the
Russians responded by massing their troops on the borders in a show of strength. An
 43

American businessman was kidnapped and murdered after ransom was not paid to his
Argentinean abductors; the United States cut-off aid to the Argentineans and their faltering
economy collapsed. There was bloodshed on the streets of Buenos Aires, it was rumored
that people were even eating their dead comrades, as their football team had done when
their plane had crashed in the Andes decades earlier.
Mr. Das looked at the old Morris and wished he could afford to give it an
overhaul and a lick of paint. The tires weren’t in very good shape, either. But maybe next
year…right now, he had to put away the annual bonus for the children’s school fees; who
knew whether he would be able to save enough in the course of the year, the way the
economy was going. The Stock Market was slipping, and his investments were getting
eroded. The girl went down with the mumps, and a fortnight later, the boy followed suit.
Mr. Das decided to get the tires retreaded and to paint the Morris himself, and spent the
weekends banging out her dents. Then he’d applied the putty and after allowing it to dry,
had sandpapered it before borrowing a spray-gun and giving her four coats of sap-green
Dulux ‘Coronation’ enamel paint and rubbing her down.
She gleamed her delight at her new make-up, and much encouraged, Mr.
Das took her engine down and changed her valves—he hand-ground them himself—all it
took was time, hard work, grinding paste and a suction valve-grinding tool. He changed
her piston rings—a full-scale engine rebore and a new sleeve, or alternatively, a set of
over-size pistons could wait—and she responded gallantly with a burst of power that
would have surprised Lord Nuffield himself.
The time for the annual vacation passed; all leave had been cancelled
because the company was having a difficult time coping with under-cutting by its
competitors. He took a drive in the countryside now and then with his wife, and they’d eat
a small picnic lunch before driving back through the dusk, enjoying the riot of sunset
colors in the sky, and they would sit very close together on the car’s front bench-seat.
She’d pop a boiled sweet now and then into his mouth to keep his energy up. The girl was
falling behind in mathematics and physics and they had to engage a tutor. Mrs. Das
responded bravely to the budgetary deficit by giving cookery lessons to newly-wed girls.

The country had done itself proud; the navy had launched its first nuclear-
powered submarine that could fire the Indian version of the American Poseidon ICBMs,
and the Defence Research and Development Organization had just released the first batch
of ‘Brahma’ all-terrain, all-weather tanks that could touch 140 kilometers an hour over flat
terrain and fire its nuclear ‘Agni’ cruise missiles even while traveling at top speed.
The enemy had responded by acquiring the latest ‘Novgorod’ class nuclear
submarines from the Russians, and the new Korean ‘Ho Chi Minh’ tanks that had anti-
missile missiles and 155 caliber ultra-high velocity armor-piercing guns and heat-seeking
missile capability.
Mr. Das never had to travel by air, so it didn’t worry him unduly that planes
were being hijacked every second day by some terrorist organization or the other all over
the world. The Argentinean crisis had spilt over into most of South America, and Chile,
Brazil, and Ecuador had reneged on loan instalments payable to the World Bank. Aid from
the IBRD, was therefore, a remote possibility this year as well.
 44

The bitch had puppies and the Das’ had a tough time finding homes for
them. They decided to keep the runt of the litter, a cute black-and-white fellow with a
black patch over his left eye. The boy won a prize in the school elocution contest, and his
sister countered by winning the second prize in an open-air painting competition. The
Das’s went to the neighborhood photo studio and got their family photograph taken, the
children proudly clutching their trophies.
The newspapers reported mass movements of populations from the south
into Mexico and Texas. The United States had given a call for a general mobilization, and
the entire border had been electrified and manned by armored divisions with shoot-at-sight
orders. It was anticipated that the neo-Axis forces would make hay while the sun shone and
indulge in a little adventurism.
China was again talking of a new world order where the glory of the
communist way of life would be vindicated; the fall of the erstwhile USSR was a mere
incident, a small experimental failure in the historic sweep of Marxism. Hitler’s ‘Mein
Kampf ’ had recorded a sale of ten million copies over the last decade; the problem was,
there was no one to send the royalty to.
Books on Winston Churchill, Gen. Macarthur, Field Marshal Montgomery,
and biographies of Mao Tse Tung, Lenin, Trotsky, Gen. Pershing, Rommel, Hitler,
Genghis Khan, and Tamerlane broke sales records. But one book outsold them all, a slim
volume called ‘A Survivor’s Guide to the Last War’ by one Prithvi Singh.
Mr. Das noted the facts, but he never got to read anything but the headlines
nowadays. His staff had been curtailed and working hours were longer. Still, he manfully
tried to keep up the Sunday picnic tradition. Mrs. Das seemed so happy with this small
break in her routine...
*

Mr. Das was very thirsty when he came to. The Medicine Man was looking
at him quizzically as he handed over the glass of water.
“They all feel thirsty when they come back,” he said by way of explanation,
“so I was ready for you. By the way, how was it?”
Mr. Das nodded his satisfaction “Pretty good,” he said shortly.
“And did it come up to your expectations?”
“Yes. I am satisfied with the results.”
“Good. I am glad. I wasn’t bluffing, was I? By the way, what did you…er,
do? Where were you?”
“I’d rather not discuss it, if you don’t mind,” said Mr. Das firmly.
The Medicine Man threw up his hands in frustration, “They never want to
discuss it with me, I can’t understand why…as if I’ll take the experience away or sully the
memories or something” he complained. “By the way, you did bring the payment, didn’t
you?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Das said, “it’s right here. Exactly what the little man told
me to bring. It’s practically everything I own, but it was worth it.”
He opened the package and placed the contents on the table: an old metal
letter-opener, a pack of razor blades, a clockwork toy, a small tin of olive oil, six pencil
cells, and a cheap digital wrist-watch. The Medicine Man’s eyes glittered avariciously as
he surveyed the bounty.
 45

“Good! I’m very glad you found the experience to your satisfaction. The
payment is correct and acceptable. Sorry I had to ask for so much, but my experiments are
still on; who knows, I may some day attain my goal of making the experience a permanent
one. Till then, however…” his voice trailed off as he showed Mr. Das to the door.

It was dusk, and now Mr. Das hurried as he traversed the rubble. He’d
better get a move on if he wanted to make it to the relief camp in time to claim his quota of
potato peel soup, and join the evening’s rat-hunting party. It took three men to kill one rat,
they were huge now after being exposed to the radiation, but they were all the protein one
could get.

On the way, Mr. Das found a pitchfork handle; it would make a nice spear
after one end had been sharpened and hardened in a fire. As the light died in the sky, he
was thankful he did not have to look any more at the desolation that stretched to the
horizon on every side.

~*~
 46

Going Home

No one so much as glanced at him as he entered the room where the wake
was in progress. They were too busy staring in morbid fascination at the motionless form
under the white sheet. Death had come to another, but they all felt the icy touch of his
fingers. Terror had them firmly by the throat. The ‘unknown country from whose bourne
no traveller returns’ definitely held no attraction for them. It was one trip that travel agents
didn’t care to promote, he thought with a chuckle. There’s Death, mate...and you can ’ave
’im! It was every man for himself.
‘They’re petrified...practically scared to death, as it were...ha! ha!’ he
thought, hugely amused by the expressions on their faces. They were so regretful. As if
some great and untimely misfortune had befallen the man who lay on the bier in the centre
of the room. They shook their heads and sighed, some wiped away a tear, and some
muttered prayers for the departed soul.
Which was pure and simple humbug; he knew they were secretly relieved
that someone else’s number had come up and not theirs. Not a single one of them really
thought that one day they, too, would join the ranks of the dead. No man believed in his
own death. Animals had no concept of it and man didn’t think it could happen to him, all
the while praying to an unresponsive god. As insurance...just in case. But the grim reaper
spared no one. Everyone slept the Big Sleep sooner or later; that he knew for sure.
People still shuffled past the supine form with a slow and reverent tread, as
if they were afraid that loud footfalls might offend the one who was no more. It was as if
their show of regret was an offering to propitiate Death. They were the quick and he was
the dead. They were the survivors and he hadn’t made it. A vast gulf separated them now.
They spoke in hushed voices, as if normal tones would nudge him out of his
last slumber. It was meant to demonstrate their respect for him, express their regret that he
had been snatched away from their midst. ‘Untimely demise’ were the hackneyed words
they’d used in the obituary. Madness! Every demise was timely! Yet no one wanted to die.
Now or ever. Death made sure they got rid of that notion fast. As he now knew...

Pilot Officer Amar Banerjee cut the afterburner as he leveled off at thirty-
five thousand feet and, satisfied with what the instruments told him, glanced down through
the Perspex canopy. The northeastern part of India was a grayish-green smudge that slowly
unrolled like a panoramic canvas under his speeding jet.
The single-seater MiG 21-SRP3III was an unarmed reconnaissance plane on
a photo-recce mission along the flight corridor that was 10-kilometers within the line of
actual control. As he cruised, staying just below the speed of sound, the high-powered tele-
lenses of the twin video cameras in the fuselage recorded—in stereo—objects larger than
half a metre wide in his ‘photo-shadow’. Later, back at Air Headquarters, the footage
would be digitally enhanced and compared with that shot previously. The smallest
difference could as likely reveal signs of hostile activity as evidence of an elephant herd on
the move. But information—any information, even that concerning sudden movement of
wildlife—could provide strategic clues, warn of threats to the nation from inimical forces...
 47

Banerjee had orders to maintain strict radio silence, so he did not send any
report to base that he had started his photographic run, confident that radar would tell the
story. The aging MiG—something of a curiosity in this age of aircraft with radar-negative
bodies made from composite materials that baffled even the best Doppler sets—had a
prominent radar profile.
There were radar-jamming devices on board the MiG but Banerjee never
used them because he didn’t want Dibrugarh Air Force Base to lose contact with him. It
was comforting to know—as his lone jet left a telltale vapour trail in the icy, rarified
atmosphere eleven kilometers above sea level—that invisible eyes were tracking his
progress.
As he flew on, he recalled a movie he’d seen during his school days, called
‘Malta Story’. In this black-and-white film, Alec Guinness, piloting an unarmed
photoreconnaissance Spitfire, had been jumped by a pair of Messerschmitt 109’s and shot
down over the Mediterranean. Banerjee vividly recalled the scene where 30 mm cannon
shells created havoc in the cockpit, filling it with smoke, dust, and flying shrapnel; the
pilot’s hands sliding slowly off the joystick as life ebbed away; the aircraft nosing over
into a steep dive...while the air controller keeps repeating hopelessly ‘Camera One! Come
in, Camera One!’ into the mike. It falls to the girl who loved Guinness—she was a WAAC
in the control room—to quietly remove his plane’s icon from the plotting board.
A poignant tale well told, but Amar Banerjee had no intentions of emulating
Alec Guinness. He kept a sharp eye on his rear-view mirror. He wasn’t taking any foolish
chances, and if bandits were zeroing in on him, he was sure he’d get the order to scramble
for base much earlier than had the unlucky character played by Guinness, whose controller
delayed giving the permission to abort the mission till it was too late.
But if there were bandits around—perhaps Chinese variants of Russian
fighter airplanes (he’d heard they’d produced their own version of the MiG 23) or even a
US-made F-15 with its 20mm rotary cannon and heat-seeking missiles—he was in serious
trouble. With no armaments to defend himself with, he had to rely on his lighter plane to
outrun interceptors...if he could get an early warning and if he could avoid a crippling burst
of cannon-fire. Interceptors always came out of the sun; it was the blind spot of all pilots,
for it was impossible to look sun-wards. It was up to Dibrugarh to warn him...

For all his caution and readiness, Banerjee was not to know that the radar
set at Dibrugarh Air Force base had suddenly and inexplicably stopped working. It was a
new one—one of the latest imported sets—and the technicians were still unfamiliar with its
working. Ordnance issues of late had shown an alarming tendency to malfunction at
critical moments. It was rumoured that sub-standard parts were being issued for MiG 21’s,
and it was a national scandal that so many of these once-reliable fighter aircraft had
crashed. A committee had been set up six months ago to look into the matter, but no report
had been made public.
Even as the maintenance crew worked frantically to repair the radar, four
sleek, pencil-shaped aircraft rose into the air across the border. Their orders were simple:
cross over to the other side, and locate/neutralize photo-recce planes. Who could ever
prove where the engagement had taken place? There are no markers in the sky. They could
 48

always say that an unidentified aircraft had strayed into their airspace, ignored warning
shots across its nose, and left them with no alternative but to shoot it down...the standard
response.
Pilot Officer Amar Banerjee first realised he was under attack when his
plane shuddered and bullet-holes appeared in his port wing. .50 caliber machine-gun slugs
had stitched a stripe across the aluminium surface. Although the underlying armor plate
had deflected the bullets away from the fuel tanks in the wing, the ailerons had been
damaged and the MiG’s response to the controls had become sluggish.
Banerjee rammed the throttles wide open, kicked hard on the starboard
rudder pedal and pushed the stick as far to the left—and forward—as he dared, tumbling
out of the sky like an autumn leaf. But the attackers were fast and experienced; they peeled
off in pursuit of his plummeting jet and fired several bursts of cannon fire that smashed the
jet engine. The killers sped away from the mortally wounded MiG, no doubt well satisfied
with their day’s outing.
Amar Banerjee had occasionally given death a serious thought; which
fighter pilot hasn’t? But he’d reckoned he was one of the lucky few. He’d led a charmed
life so far, with nary a blown afterburner or an engine flameout. His guns never failed to
respond, the explosive bolts always fired to release his canopy just prior to ejection during
training exercises, and his silk had always opened perfectly, never roman-candling the way
Pilot Officer Ashish Gupta’s chute had. His unlucky batch-mate had plunged to his death
from an otherwise safe bale-out height of 10,000 feet when his parachute had got entangled
in itself...
But this time, Banerjee knew his luck had run out. His engine was kaput, he
had no power to lower the undercarriage with, and his crippled plane was hurtling
earthwards out of control. The thought of baling out crossed his mind. But he wondered if
he could pull-off a belly landing. A MiG 21 cost a lot of money...
‘She’s like a wet kite in a sandstorm!’ he thought, as he struggled to bring
the plunging jet under control. ‘Port ailerons and half the rudder shot away...no power...the
engine’s kayoed...can’t bale out...what would Mom have said?...Amar, is this why you
joined the Air Force...so you could go and trash expensive planes? Didn’t they teach you
anything in flying school, that you had to leave the plane in the air and parachute down?
Remember Dad and the Hawker Hunter, son!...OK, Mom, like Dad, like son...but he was a
real hero, Mom...me, I’m just a jockey...
But I’ll save this kite, Mom, you just wait and see. I’ll tame her and land in
one piece...she’s falling like a stone, the stubby little wings just don’t generate enough
lift...maybe, when I’m down to about 5,000 feet we’ll see a little more of that...ah! yes, I
think she’s showing an inclination to pull out...hydraulics gone, need more strength...to
haul back on the stick... uuuh!...G-forces tearing me apart, must be at least 5 or 6...don’t let
me black out, please, God... help me!...
She’s pulled out of the dive! I don’t believe this!...ground coming up... ...it’s
a paddy field!... I’m going too fast—much, much too fast—400 mph at least...but what the
heck, that’s just half the speed touched by Sqn. Ldr. Andy Green in Richard Nobel’s
Thrust SSC—aw, c’mon, Mom! The World Land Speed record!!
Just hang in there, Banerjee...you can do it! Here we go... Mom,
I’m comin’ home... ’
*
 49

So quiet and peaceful. People whispering to each other; they’re sad.

“He succeeded in bringing it down more or less intact! What a pilot!”

“Vayu Sena medal at least. Posthumous, of course. Such a tragedy!”

“Awful! The impact of the high-speed landing shattered his spine.”

*
Mercifully, as his body lay in state preparatory to cremation, no one could
tell he had died in a plane crash. The bodies of most victims of air mishaps were usually so
badly mangled or burnt as to be beyond recognition. Amar Banerjee looked as if he was
sound asleep, and could waken anytime to wonder what the fuss was all about...
Banerjee had at least been spared defacement, he thought, as he circulated
in the press of mourners. He tried to keep a straight face as he observed the reactions to a
tragedy that had touched them but hadn’t torched them. Death had struck elsewhere; they
had been spared. A sense of thankfulness—that another’s number had been called and not
their own—was uppermost in every heart. This was one game of numbers that no one
thought of winning.

He lost interest in the proceedings, and went out the same way he’d entered:
through the wall. Outside, the stars glittered as provocatively as ever as they challenged
him to reach for his destiny. He had so much material now—lessons and memories—to
cling to. He had to retain them; they were priceless. They were the only things he took with
him, going home from these brief excursions to the Great Classroom.
He had learnt more about death in the last twenty-four hours than he had in
all his twenty-seven years of life. It was wonderful! The Light! It emanated such
love...such real love! It was so peaceful as he went down the tunnel towards the light—no
pain, no sorrow, no hate...only love! And what supreme folly, to think that that piece of
inert, lifeless clay was—had ever been—Amar Banerjee. The real Amar Banerjee had no
name. He was not substance. He was an astral thing, a disembodied time-traveller on an
eons-long search for answers to cosmic questions, a quest that brought him back time and
again, temporarily embodied, to learn the Lessons of the Way.
The Light was much brighter now, and he could see them waiting for him in
it. He spotted, among the throng of well-wishers, those whom he had once called Flt. Lt.
‘Nobby’ Chaddha (disappeared during a sortie over the Indian Ocean), Uncle Abhay (went
down with INS Khukri), 100 metres champ ‘Guitarman’ Buckshee (pranged a Mirage
2000), ‘Puppy’ Sood (Alaknanda, white-water rafting), Jyoti Raina (motorbike skid), Air
Commodore Jitendra Kohli (rum); Neelam Sharma and Anjali Chatterjee (two friends who
drove off into the hills one day and never returned)...Dad and Mom! ...and... and...
someone else, someone very, very special...
 50

They were all there, in the Light, smiling and holding out their arms to him,
nodding encouragement. He let the darkness fall away from him like a cloak and stepped
eagerly into the warm, loving radiance.
He left the dross behind in the shadowy, insubstantial past, a rapidly fading
dream full of questions that begat answers. Where he had played a short stint at being
someone called Amar ...uh...he couldn’t quite remember the rest...there had been so many
names, time out of mind. Who cared? There were no labels here. Only the essence of
everything.

What he was really looking forward to now was the de-briefing.

~*~
 51

Live By The Gun

Over two years had passed since he had first become aware of the deer. As
season followed season, he got to know its tracks well. The deep impressions its heavy
body and out-sized hooves left on softer ground became a well-loved handwriting.
Gradually, its range and feeding habits, the secrets of its favourite water holes and salt
licks revealed themselves to him. It belonged to him and he knew it. It was fated to fall to
him. He dreamed of the day when he would mount its antlered head in the drawing room
of his home, a trophy for other hunters to envy.

It was dawn. He knew, deep in his gut, that the day he had so long awaited
had finally come. The .300 Weatherby magnum fitted with a 4X Bausch & Lomb
telescopic sight nestled in his arms as he sat in the branches of the oak tree, near the
waterhole he had selected. He waited for the deer to come to him.
As the light improved, the jungle came to life around him. He watched it all,
silent and motionless, invisible in his camouflaged hunting fatigues. Like a sniper, he had
used a stick of black hair-dye to paint irregular streaks across his face. The telltale outlines
were gone. He had merged with the overall chiaroscuro. A light application of insect-
repellent on his hands and face kept the mosquitoes at bay.
The soft rustling of dry leaves gave away the little things of the earth as
they scurried about invisibly in the undergrowth. Monkeys chattered in the upper canopy,
and a pair of mynas scolded at him for several minutes before they decided he was
harmless and flew off. A sow and her six piglets came and rooted about noisily under the
tree for some time, gorging themselves on the acorns that lay scattered in profusion under
it. Suddenly, they grunted and were gone.
And then it stepped into view. It was a stag straight out of Landseer’s
‘Monarch of the Glen’. The magnificent head swung from side to side, the nostrils
quivering as they tested the breeze. It was old, well past its prime but still powerful, a
mighty, greathearted animal that had survived the dangers of the jungle for nearly two
decades.
He was already remorseful as he focused the T-scope, bringing the
crosshairs to bear on the bulge of muscle behind the left shoulder. He squeezed the trigger
gently, and the Weatherby roared in response as a tongue of flame and blue-white
smoke licked from the muzzle. The rifle barrel leapt violently skywards and the rubber-
padded butt kicked him viciously in the shoulder. The 220-grain Nosler bullet drilled
through the air at 3,150 feet per second.
He heard the impact of the hollow-point slug. Over 2 tons of energy
knocked the stag over onto his side. But it struggled to its feet gamely and blundered off
through the bushes, sneezing great gouts of crimson gore.
He knew the shot was fatal. He climbed down from the tree carefully—his
legs had gone to sleep and his back was stiff—and followed the trail of blood.
It had never known such pain, such weariness. It was panting heavily, and
with each heaving gasp clotted clumps of bright-red blood burst from its mouth and
nostrils. Perforated and shattered, the failing heart continued to beat spasmodically. The
outsized lungs, straining against impossible odds, frantically pumped oxygen to the dying
body as it sought to escape.
 52

A great blackness descended on it now. It folded its knees and sank to the
earth, the earth it had trod so proudly. The gentle eyes, framed by long, delicate eyelashes,
looked up one last time at the sky. Then a milky film came down over them as life departed
and the magnificent body relaxed in death.
When he came upon it, the bluebottles had already settled on the open eyes
and on the crimson tide that flowed from its nose, mouth, and the grievous wound in its
flanks. He swatted them away as he knelt beside the beautiful thing he had killed and
spoke the words that hunters speak into the ears of the things they slay, words that explain
the reasons for the act of life taking, words that seek absolution, forgiveness …

With the passing of the jungles, logging camps and shantytowns had
sprung up on the banks of the river. He worked at odd jobs, carrying, chopping and
fetching. Then had come the tourist influx into the newly constituted wildlife preserve, and
jungle tourism had need of him. He knew rock-climbing, too, and the rough country was a
second home to him. He was no stranger, either, to the higher ground beyond the foothills
that the brochures referred to as high-altitude Alpine meadows.
He had lived most of his life around the jungles, and as the wilderness
dwindled, he learnt from the wild things and adapted in order to survive. The old way of
life was gone, never to return, and he knew it. The work as a freelance wildlife and
adventure tourism guide was a logical step, seeing the batches of greenhorns through
fortnight after painful fortnight of pretence at outdoor life.
He watched with dismay their clumsy attempts at rappelling down a rope,
pitching a tent or gutting a fish. He stoically bore their familiarity, their backslapping and
their attempts to show him how good they were with a rifle. He endured their talk of their
wealth, their high-society life, and their propensity to try and tip him when they left.
As he grew older, however, even these once-routine assignments became
hard for him. He got a job as a booking clerk in a transport company’s depot. From ten in
the morning till seven in the evening, he entered details of consignments in a register and
issued consignment notes in triplicate. One day, a newspaper reporter, looking for
background material, asked him what it had been like before the logging operations and the
tourist boom. He found such a wealth of information in him that he persuaded him to
accompany him to the city.
And so he became a partner to the newspaper reporter. It was a symbiotic
relationship: the reporter provided the housing and transportation, and he drew upon his
memories to produce a steady stream of anecdotes and jungle lore. One day, the woodsman
was tempted to try his hand at writing a piece on his own. It was a crude attempt, but it had
a rough and ready appeal peculiarly its own.
The words, simple and businesslike, had the authentic ring of an axe on a
forest oak. It was hardly Jack London, Bret Harte or Ernest Hemingway. That would have
been too much to expect. The paper’s editor, however, found it interesting and published it.
A flood of reader’s letters asking for more left him with little alternative but to give the old
man his own column to write…

*
 53

His fingers, so swift to load a rifle and work the bolt, could not cope with
the keyboard of a computer. The editor lent him the services of his stenographer. Now he
spoke his thoughts aloud, telling of a time long ago when the land was covered with vast
forests full of game. He remembered when he had had to stop for a herd of blackbuck
crossing the Bareilly-Haldwani road. It took half an hour for the antelope to do so. The
thunder of their hooves, the dust of their passage: he remembered all of it as vividly as if it
had happened only yesterday. It was hard to believe that the blackbuck was now a
threatened species.
He remembered the time Big Ted Wyndham had asked him to organize a
tiger shikar for him. Ted had hunted the Big Four—Elephant, Rhino, Lion and Kodiak bear
—and only the Tiger was left to round off his Big Five tally. Ted Wyndham was a busy
man—he was a Texas millionaire, and he didn’t intend to sit around on his butt for weeks
waiting for a ‘tigger’. He asked the woodsman to organize a ‘gusher’—a quickie of a
shoot. Big Ted wanted to plug his tigger and be out of the country within a week.
Now, it just so happened that the woodsman knew of a big male that was
over ten feet long if he was an inch, going by the size of his pugmarks. So he tied a
‘katra’—a live bait in the form of a male goat—under a tree in that patch of jungle that the
tiger patrolled every night. Then he ordered saplings to be felled, trimmed, and tied
together to form a machan or shooting platform in the tree at a height of about twenty feet
from the ground.
At five that evening, Ted climbed into the machan with the aid of a rope
ladder that he pulled up after him. He had with him his formidable .500 Express High
Velocity DBBL rifle custom-made for him by Gibbs, the famous English gunsmiths who
sub-contracted for Mantons. There was also a shooting torch, a thermos of coffee, and a
blanket. All he had to do was switch on the torch (clipped to the side of the rifle) when he
heard the tiger kill the goat and pick off the spotlighted beast. Big Ted was worried about
his laundry…he wondered whether it would be dry by the morning. He didn’t want to hang
around unnecessarily. The tiger was a foregone conclusion…
At about 10 PM, the woodsman and his team heard the distant roaring of a
tiger. The .500 Express spoke once, the tiger roared in mortal agony, and then the jungle
fell silent again. It seemed that all was well…Ted had got his tiger. Shortly after dawn, the
woodsman ordered the mahout to bring the elephants around and they swayed off in the
direction of the machan. Arriving there in about an hour’s time, they were surprised to find
that there was no sign of the tiger. Ted’s rifle was lying on the ground under the tree near
the dead goat. There was blood all over the place, but there was no response from the
machan. They feared the worst. To their relief, after many shouts, Ted poked his head
cautiously over the edge.
Asked about the rifle that lay on the ground, the strangely subdued Texan
explained that at about 10 PM he had heard a faint sound and the bleating goat fell silent.
But when he had switched on the torch, the enraged tiger had covered the distance between
goat and tree in a flash. With one enormous bound, he had almost clambered onto the
machan.
For a moment he had clung to the edge by his forepaws, snarling into the
light. He was barely inches from the Texan. It was at this point that he, Ted, had loosed off
a wild shot before dropping his rifle. The bullet had wounded the tiger seriously in the
head—there were blood stains aplenty—and it had fallen heavily to earth and escaped.
 54

The woodsman was dismayed. This was a severe complication. It had

become imperative to follow-up and shoot the beast. A wounded tiger wandering about
loose in Terai jungles was bad news.
There was another complication, equally taxing in its own way. Big Ted
Wyndham refused to descend from the machan! After much pleading, bullying and even
threats, it was revealed that the nocturnal encounter with the tiger had proved his undoing.
He who had shot Cape buffalo, African Lion and Kodiak bear had not bargained for the
ferocity of a Royal Bengal tiger…or its paralyzing, blood-curdling roars, for that matter.
Neither had Big Ted’s sphincter; it had let him down, relaxing its hold on its carminative-
mixture-propelled cargo long enough for him to need to send his trousers urgently to some
very accommodative laundry.
It was only after certain operations of a sanitizing nature had been carried
out, and a fresh set of clothes supplied to him, that the stricken man could be persuaded to
descend and accompany them to camp. He left well before lunch, in a tearing hurry, never
to return to India again.
The hunt for the wounded tiger meant tracking it on elephant back through
grasslands where the reeds grew as high as the howdah. Somewhere in that sea of green
was a wounded tiger…the most dangerous animal on earth. They followed the blood trail
—a streak here, a splash there—guns ready. Suddenly, the lead elephant stopped dead in
its tracks, straining back on its haunches and trumpeting in alarm. And simultaneously, the
tiger leapt onto its head. With great presence of mind, the mahout at once bent low over the
elephant’s neck, giving the woodsman a clear field of fire. The Weatherby thundered
and the tiger fell off…right at the elephant’s feet.
The elephant danced. He danced on and on, pounding that one spot of
ground, stamping the striped terror into the earth. Then it ran, and the second elephant
followed. The two pachyderms fled across the grasslands, panic-stricken, as if a thousand
tigers were after them. The woodsman thought it was an old story. Thus must have the
mastodons run for dear life, with sabre-toothed tigers clinging tenaciously to their heads…
ancient enemies from a long-forgotten past locked in a battle to the death. He saw it all in
his mind’s eye as he clung desperately to the howdah as it rocked and jolted crazily.
Four miles later, the elephants came to a halt under a pipal tree. They were
trembling as if they had high fever. Later in the day, the now pacified animals were
persuaded to take them back to the spot. They baulked and jibbed as they reached the place
of death. But only a few scraps of bone and fur remained of the tiger. The rest had been
pounded into the earth, pulped by three tons of traumatized elephant. Wondrous were the
sights he had seen and remembered.

He felt so out of sorts nowadays. ‘Is it simply age?’ he wondered? The

doctor prescribed some pills, a tonic or two, and told him to take a week off. It didn’t help.
He had never felt this way ever before. He consulted a specialist, and endured a battery of
tests...
After dinner that night, he reached into the dark confines of the top shelf of
his wardrobe and pulled out the hand-tooled leather case that held the Weatherby. The
rifle lay snugly in its velvet bed, wrapped in yards of oily cloth. He unwrapped it lovingly,
 55

admiring the flawless bluing of the free-floating barrel. He ran his fingers along the
chequered Monte Carlo stock, the contoured cheek-piece and sculpted butt. The scent of
old cordite clung to it. The little compartment inside the case still had six rounds left in it.
He put one of the shiny cartridges in the breech and shot the bolt into place.
Releasing the safety catch, he squinted down the open sights, aiming at the
table lamp across the room. It was just like old times…
He saw a stag step cautiously into view… It was a stag straight out of
Landseer’s ‘Monarch of the Glen’. The magnificent head swung from side to side, the
nostrils quivering as they tested the breeze. It was old, well past its prime but still
powerful, a mighty, greathearted animal that had survived the dangers of the jungle for
nearly two decades…
He recalled what the specialist had told him, shaking his head
sympathetically “…you should have come sooner, it’s in an advanced stage now…yes, it’s
like a crab, eats away at your innards…well, I can’t say, but six months, perhaps; could be
more with chemotherapy…”
No, never! No crab was going to get him, not while the Weatherby was
still around! He kissed the smooth muzzle and put it in his mouth, the foresight tickling his
palate. Reaching down with his free hand, he touched the finely milled trigger…
He was already remorseful as he focused the T-scope, bringing the
crosshairs to bear on the bulge of muscle behind the left shoulder …

He spoke the words that hunters speak into the ears of the things they slay,
words that explain the reasons for the act of life taking, words that seek absolution,
forgiveness…

“Live by the gun…” he wished himself happily as he pressed the trigger.

Far away, he thought he heard the Weatherby reply “…and die by it!”

~*~
 56

Mist in the Valley

As he put the jeep at the gentle gradient that started from the Chandi Mandir
army base at the outskirts of Chandigarh, in the Punjab, Captain Udayan Bose, ‘Uday’ to
his family and friends, exulted. The war was over, his unit had been given a fortnight’s
leave, and here he was driving up the lovely road to Kalka, from where the Simla hills
started. The British had made this road nearly two hundred years ago, and their love for
their work, the sheer poetry of their road building, was evident.
It flew, straight as an arrow, to the Kalka turnpike, then curved away into
the hills, following the natural contours as it climbed past Barotiwala and headed towards
Solan, the halfway point on this famous old road to Simla, summer capital of the British
Raj. Beyond Solan, the road got steeper as it ran up against stubborn resistance, which the
English had overcome with dynamite, blasting hairpin bends through the mountains,
keeping the gradient just right, smoothly rising away through the mist and into the clouds.
He was only twenty-eight, footloose and fancy free, and all nature seemed
to smile indulgently on the happy-go-lucky, handsome young soldier as he whistled his
favorite tune, the theme from ‘A Fistful of Dollars’, a melody not easy to whistle unless
one is very happy. Exceeding happy now was Udayan Bose, as only youth can be when
there is free transport of one’s taste at one’s disposal, a long holiday ahead, and, at the end
of the road, a gray old mother, affectionately scolding but hot with her pride at her only
son, all grown up, a man, and a fighting soldier like his late father.
Then there was Tara, his sister, and they would tease each other and joke
about the good old days, the deep bond between them never voiced but always there,
always keenly felt. Yes, a young man, so precious to nature, lighthearted and with the
world at his feet, many girls to miss him but no special one to keep him awake nights, an
open jeep, blue skies with fleecy little clouds adding just the right contrast, the pines on the
hillsides, the winding road seeming to climb to the clouds themselves, the Valhalla trail for
warriors fallen in battle…which soul was so poor, so insensitive, that it could not
understand his elation?
He thought, as he reveled in the power of the jeep as it flattened the terrain,
how right was everything, how perfect, remembering some words he had read in a recent
book called ‘Memories are Made of This’, in which the author had quoted a columnist
called Jason Schneider who wrote on cameras. “Using a Leica is like driving a Ferrari on a
winding road;” Schneider had written, “the sheer excellence of the machinery creates the
overwhelming illusion that one’s modest capabilities had been vastly extended.” Uday
knew what he was attempting to describe: the ecstasy and exhilaration of adventure.
There was a tide, surging in his blood, that drew songs to his lips, made his
feet tap to some inner music of the heart; all of him seemed to beat and throb in time with
nature, he was so pathetically young, it was touching, but this he didn’t know, he thought
of himself as a cool, professional soldier. Only at war, maybe, and that was a grim business
at best, something he hated, deep in his heart of hearts; how he loved that quote from Carl
Sandburg: “Sometime they’ll give a war and nobody will come.” Ha! Ha! What a blow for
the Generals and the politicians, who sent young men out to die for causes they didn’t
pretend to know much about.
The previous night had been spent in revelry in the mess with his friends,
also off on their own vacations, and the heavy brunch of rice and chicken curry, topped off
 57

with two bottles of beer, was beginning to get to him. He checked a yawn as the
Chambaghat turnoff was left behind, and now the road was high in the mountains; the
entire valley lay unrolled to his left as the sturdy little vehicle lurched around the bends.
Uday was drowsy, and he recalled his father telling him, long ago, how he’d been sitting
next to the driver of a three-tonner on the Bareilly-Moradabad road, and the man had dozed
off. If he hadn’t grabbed the steering wheel, the car, already drifting, at speed, would have
gone clean off the road.
For a moment, Uday’s own eyes seemed to lose focus and there was a
momentary blankness…then he had recovered quickly from the wave of sleep that had
taken him unawares, a little shaken by it. It hadn’t been too healthy a spot, either, just some
railings and the misty valley floor thousands of feet below.
He pulled over to the side, took out the canteen of water and splashed water
thoroughly on his face, even soaking his hair, before pouring himself a cup of coffee from
the thermos his batman had thoughtfully packed. There were sandwiches, too, but these he
ignored, he wasn’t hungry, and suddenly his spirits sobered as the euphoria left him
unaccountably. He decided to press on home to Simla without any further delay and give
Mother and Tara the surprise of their lives.
He hadn’t told them he was coming, to that old house with the antique
plumbing that he heard the Americans were willing to pay generously for. Americans!
They were nuts about history, tradition and that sort of thing, dismantling old Saxon castles
and re-assembling them in Connecticut or wherever. Crazy! He had heard that if a castle
was said to be haunted, it fetched double the price, they were so keen on men in ruffed
collars walking around with their heads under their arms, or dragging a ball-and-chain
around at the stroke of the midnight hour.
Uday was keen on westerns, especially ones that had John Wayne in them
(although he felt ‘Chisum’ was going just a little bit too far, John Wayne was in bad shape
from his multiple lung operations after the cancer had hit him, and looked all done in) but
he didn’t mind a chiller now and then. He had seen the ‘Omen’ series and was impressed
by its direction and cinematography, and ‘The Exorcist’ had been almost as good as the
book, quite a feat because portraying the supernatural was easier in print than on celluloid.
It was incredible, an evil spirit having its way with a woman whenever it liked: what did it
take to produce that kind of mind, one like Blatty’s, he wondered? Writing a really
convincing ghost story was probably the most difficult thing of all, he mused.
Though he’d never really believed in ghosts and spirits, Uday, like most
people, had a fascination for them—as if Hollywood and Stephen King didn’t know that
already, he thought cynically. ‘The Omen’ had raked in enough box-office receipts to feed
India for a year. And now this unknown Indian director with the weird name, Manoj Night
Shyamalan or something, had made a movie called ‘The Sixth Sense’ about a boy who
could actually see spirits! And this guy, this formerly unknown Indian fellow, had won
awards and had now roped in Bruce Willis, of all people (what made that moron divorce
his lovely wife Demi Moore, he’d never figure out, the lousy, reed-voiced, celluloid
strongman…any of the guys in Commando training could take out Willis in about five
seconds, he fumed) for his next movie.
The post-prandial stupor had passed, and Uday drove cleanly,
automatically, letting his mind keep itself busy as he drove…this ghost story stuff was just
what the doctor had ordered to prevent him from dozing off at the wheel again. That…that
 58

little incident back there had been most unlike him. The careless didn’t survive long on
mountain roads…especially if they were unlucky enough to attract the unwelcome
attentions of a Churail. Churails, he’d been told, were spirits that looked like beautiful—
very beautiful—women, in white (remember William Wilkie Collins and his book of the
same name, The Woman in White…and what about ‘The Moonstone’, also by him?). Uday
always found that he had a book title or two up his sleeve to match a given situation; it was
a trick of his mind that many appreciated but some deprecated. He shrugged, as if to say
that was how he was made, take it or leave it.
Speaking of Churails, he knew of two cases, personally experienced by
people well known to him, people whom he would trust with his life to tell the truth. The
first concerned an old friend, who worked in an insurance company as a Field Officer. He
had been transferred to Jammu, and one evening, as rode uphill on his motorcycle on the
road to Katra, the roadhead for the holy shrine of Vaishnodevi, he passed a woman in
white. She was alone, and though well dressed and obviously well-to-do, she was
unescorted and on foot. For a moment, he had slowed the motorbike in a sympathetic
reflex, but had kept on his way, even though they had looked each other in the eye. This
was India; one didn’t dream of offering lifts to strange women, and that too on the pillion
of one’s motorcycle. Happily married he was, my unlucky friend, thought Uday, but the
woman’s raw beauty had impressed him.
And as he rode on, he got a queer feeling that he was not alone on the
machine: there was someone on the pillion. But every time he turned around uneasily to
check, he found, of course, that there was no one there. Six kilometers later, he met with a
near-fatal accident that had him hospitalized for several months. “Death rode with me, that
fateful day in the mountains,” his friend used to say with utter conviction, “for her feet
were turned backwards, a fact that registered on me some time after I’d passed her. Even
now, her evil beauty haunts my dreams.” According to him, this was the unmistakable sign
of the Churail, the backwards-turned feet. “When death is near, you can sense it, feel it,
Uday, believe me.”
Uday hoped that wasn’t true. When he met Death, he didn’t want to know
about it; he just wanted to die unawares, with a song on his lips, like a happy warrior. He
wasn’t exactly the spiritual or philosophical type, but now he found himself reflecting on
the fact that Satan so often used things that weren’t his, things that were holy, such as
beauty, which was a holy thing, whether physical or mental. But he couldn’t quite get his
act together, so that the imitation came out flawed, like the beauty with the feet pointing
the wrong way. Could it be, he thought, that all love, all literature, even ghost stories, were
all flawed copies of the original, divine versions?
No matter how much we pontificate about our personal perceptions of these
divine things, wasn’t it true that they were far removed from the real items? Was this the
reason why the Great Masters, who got a glimpse of them, could never speak coherently on
the subject afterwards except through the medium of parables? Their explanations were
unintelligible to others simply because the Divine was only approachable at the intuitive
and not the intellectual level.
As he drove on, Uday recalled the second case. He had reached Jammu, en
route to a pilgrimage to the famous shrine of Vaishnodevi, and decided to hire a taxi upto
Katra. To his lot fell a taxi owner-driven by a man not much older than himself, a
handsome Rajput with a regal air about him. As they drove into the hills, Rajaji (as the
 59

owner of the taxi—real name Parminder Singh Minhas—was so appropriately called)

regaled him with stories of these hills and this treacherous road…tales that made Uday’s
scalp tingle, for the Rajput was a great raconteur. Once, he said, he had stopped to give a
lift to an old woman with a bundle on her back. Rajaji was driving one of his trucks at the
time, and since the cab had a spacious bench seat behind the driver, he felt it would do no
harm to accommodate the old lady who was, apparently, even older than his mother.
But once on the road, he had the sinking feeling that usually accompanies a
realization that one has made a serious error of judgment. As Rajaji drove on, he claimed,
the truck seemed to get heavier and heavier, which was surprising because it was empty at
the time. Out of the corner of his eye, the noticed a movement behind him, and glancing
around, found to his surprise that the old crone was transformed into a very beautiful
young woman in a white ‘suit’ (as they nowadays laconically refer to the traditional female
attire of women in the north, comprising basically a long kurta or long-shirt, and pajamas.)
But the pajamas the woman wore were the ‘chust’ variety, i.e., they were tight fitting,
regarded in this conservative region as being rather unconventional if not downright
forward. Few respectable women wore them in their native village, perhaps keeping a pair
or two for the occasional visit to friends or to the big city.
Rajaji had warrior blood in his veins, but even that ran cold as he realized
the implications of the situation; a glance at her feet had confirmed his worst fears, for they
were pointing backwards. In his philanthropic zeal, he had unwittingly given a lift to a
Churail! The Rajputs are a martial race who prefer to die in battle rather than run away
(Uday knew that: he belonged to a famous regiment—the legendary Rajputana Rifles—
that had twice given the Pakistani Rangers severe chastisement. They were men who could
march at a hundred and forty paces a minute in full battle dress, who literally lived the
regimental motto ‘Death Before Dishonour’).
Rajaji was prepared to die, but he was not prepared to show his fear. He
matter-of-factly asked the woman where she wanted to get off. At seeing his boldness, she
indicated that she wished to get off right there, and, sliding past him to the offside door,
opened it and alighted, with the truck doing fifty kilometers an hour! But not before telling
him that had he shown the slightest sign of fear, she would have killed him.
They became close friends, Uday and the proud warrior who was, in a
special sort of way, his clansman, so much so that Rajaji waited for him at Katra while he
went up to the shrine and returned the following day, spurning lucrative offers for a return
trip from other pilgrims simply because he had given his word to the tall Army Captain
that he would drive him back to Jammu. He did not strike Uday as a braggart or a teller of
tall tales. And from the salutes they received all along the road from sundry drivers, it was
obvious that Rajaji was a well-respected man in the region.
As his jeep moved ever closer towards home, Uday remembered his good
friend Rajaji again with affection, for they corresponded regularly, and Uday remembered
the Rajput’s long letter of appreciation at receiving copies of his photographs that he had
taken of him. Thinking of Rajaji set off a chain reaction in his mind, and he recalled, one
by one, all the dear friends he had made in his life, some still in touch and some now
scattered in the struggle for existence. He recalled sadly that many of his batch-mates had
perished in the war, and he hoped their folks were coping with their loss. It was said that in
the bloody battles of the Marne and at places like Ypres, during the First World War, the
spirits of dead men were often seen marching in broad daylight.
 60

Now his mind went off at a tangent and he recalled the story of one of his
favorite books, ‘The Shepherd’, by Arthur Hailey, where a fighter pilot, lost in fog over the
Channel, his plane low on fuel and with the radar shot to pieces, is guided down to a
deserted airstrip by another fighter that seems to come out of nowhere. On landing he finds
that the aged warplane, whose identification numbers he quotes, had been shot down years
ago. The concerned pilot had perished in the crash, and his defunct squadron had long been
de-commissioned. Chilling…but strangely heart-warming, being guided down by a long-
dead pilot. Stranger things have happened in war, he reflected…it was rumored that even
now, in the Ardennes, the villagers sometimes hear the rumble of phantom Tiger tanks,
with their fearsome .88 caliber high-velocity guns, as they continue to fight the battle-
weary Allies in the Battle of the Bulge, December 1944.
Now Uday found himself on the home stretch, putting the jeep into first
gear as it howled up the steep slope to the old house. He parked under the pines to the left
of the drive, then gathering his bags and the presents he had bought for his mother and
Tara, went up to the door and rang the bell. It took quite some time before it was opened,
and he didn’t recognize the new servant, who silently admitted him into the drawing room.
Dumping his things on the sofa, he heard barking upstairs, which was just old Billy; man,
was the old boy going to jump in his lap, he loved Uday so! Billy came bounding down the
stairs, took one look and vanished under the sofa. Silly dog, didn’t he have a nose or
something, so what if Uday Uncle was in uniform?
Then they were coming down, and he could see that his mother had aged,
she was all bent over, sort of frail-like, it didn’t feel too good to see your dear ones wasting
away with age, why did it have to be this way, why couldn’t people just live throughout
life as they looked in their prime. And Tara, my God, she looked like she’d seen a ghost,
the way she was staring at him. He held out his arms to them and yelled at the top of his
voice “Mother! Tara! I’m home!” But there was no response, and under the sofa, Billy
gave a plaintive whine. His mother looked into his eyes. “You loved us that much, Uday…
that you would come back…all the way…Oh! You poor, sweet boy, just my luck, first
your father, then you…” And Tara, eyes red-rimmed (with weeping?)…
“What the hell’s going on, what’s with all this… what’s the big idea, guys,
some kind of a joke?” he remonstrated. “Now look here, people, I’ve had a long drive and
I’m bushed, I don’t need this crap, so spare me, OK?” No reply.
Then they were holding each other, his mother and Tara, sobbing
desperately, as the old Panditji who had let him in, now stole up cautiously behind him and
sprinkled the Ganges-water on his head, muttering incantations … and he got it, finally.
He’d bought it, back at that turning in the mountains when he’d dozed off,
gone clean off the edge, the jeep smashing the flimsy railings aside like toothpicks in its
vulgar haste to reach the valley floor, with his life flashing before his eyes and all that
ghost story stuff coming up just to warn him…but his wish had been granted, he hadn’t
known a thing, it wasn’t his fault, then, that he’d come back to take one last look at them,
the only people who mattered to him, he’d seen them, and now it was time to go.
Capt.Udayan Bose, late of the Rajputana Rifles, walked out of the house
without a backward glance, down the road and into the misty valley that lay beyond.

~*~
“It is love, not reason, that is stronger than death.”
~THOMAS MANN, The Magic Mountain
 61

Books and the Eternal Biangle

Say what you will, a book is a book is a book. Not just any old book, mind
you, but the one that’s just perfect for the occasion...or for your current obsession. I mean
that in a very personal sense; I have noticed myself bumping into exactly the thing I need
to satisfy my latest intellectual fad (they’ve ranged from the mystery of Easter Island to the
likelihood of angel visitations). I’ve heard it said—and I believe it’s true—that there are no
coincidences in life. If that gives you an idea that I have a mind like a sieve, you could be
right. Almost every thought is finely filtered as it passes through it. There are also those
who wryly observe that the strain is showing. Ha Ha…very funny.
It’s an open mind I have, though some maintain that that’s just another way
of saying that things pass through it smoothly and keep going minus any noticeable drop in
velocity, like a magnum bullet through cheese. Not that it matters: I have to keep feeding it
stuff the way stokers on the Queen Elizabeth II had to shovel coal into her boilers. And so,
as I was saying, I’ve noticed that over the last several years, I’ve run into the perfect book
just when I badly needed it to shore me up.
Take the case of ‘Space, Time & Wormholes’. I didn’t believe I’d ever get
hold of it till I climbed those steep stairs to Marco’s Melody Room merely because I liked
the number they were playing for the public benefit over their extension speakers, down on
the sidewalk. It was a haunting melody, with a wonderful sonorous quality about it,
compelling enough to temporarily divert me from an appointment with my bank manager.
It drew me up the stairs and into the brightly-lit showroom.
It was a CD by a group I’d never heard of, based in the Deep South, but a
band’s lack of fame or sense of geographical propriety has never prevented me from
buying their music if I fancy their stuff. I guess that’s how good bands surface, even if
they’re from Dixieland. They sell because their product is a winner, like Stonewall
Jackson. After I’d bought the CD, I couldn’t help eyeballing the books on the shelves at
the back. Books I cannot resist; ask my bankers.
An accountant (by definition, a primitive, parasitic, and often toxic
lifeform) would have pounced upon my tendency to splurge on the printed word by putting
up a note to the Management pointing out the urgency of plugging leakage of income
under the head ‘miscellaneous (unremunerative) expenditure’. I, on the other hand, being
highly allergic to accountants—as also to other assorted venomous vermin such as
Tarantulas and Puff Adders—do hereby condone the outflow by insisting it be logged
under ‘long-term investments.’
I really didn’t expect to see anything beyond a few John Grishams and Ken
Follets, because books in a music store, I’ve noticed, are like sales girls in a car showroom:
they’re there purely for their decorative value, not for fulfilling any functional imperatives.
The first thing I noticed was dust. Now that’s a good sign as far as I’m concerned. Dusty
books usually mean slow-moving stocks (unlike dusty girls), so hefty discounts are
commonplace (also true for dusty girls).
Closer scrutiny, however, revealed that they weren’t exactly old. They just
needed a swipe or two of the feather duster, this useful accessory obviously being reserved
for the music under retail. There weren’t too many of them anyway, and while there was
the usual pulp fiction by people who seem to churn out a thriller every six weeks (I suspect
 62

it’s the work of a software package that’ll come to light as soon as the Press gets wise to
the trick), I noticed a few serious works on subjects that had intrigued me in the past.
And the Past was my current preoccupation, if you get the drift, since I’d
gone from metaphysical expositions into the nature of Reality (that called for more than a
nodding acquaintance with Einsteinian Relativity and Quantum Mechanics) to the concept
of Time itself. Cosmology had made me aware of the fact that looking across billions of
light-years of space at obscure star systems was equivalent to peeking billions of years into
the past.
This was challenging, because according to many scientists and seers, there
was no such thing as Time and everything that ever happened, is happening, and ever will
happen is happening forever...right now. So where did that leave me apropos those stars I
saw?
Anyway, all this talk of seeing stars brings me around, in my own
roundabout way, to informing you that I finally found Dr. Edwin Stein’s book on time
travel called ‘Space, Time & Wormholes’, a book I’d wanted to buy almost like since Time
began. It was with mixed feelings, however, that I took it from its shelf. The price—three
large digits on the sticker—added up to a lengthy discourse on fiscal discipline that my
bank manager would undoubtedly unburden himself of in due course. His patience was
running low on the subject of my overdrawn account, and of late he’d taken to phoning me
to call on him ‘as soon as was convenient.’
Since I was on my way to meet this shylock before I got sidetracked, I
decided that I could risk it by buying the book. The debit would only appear in next
month’s statement of account, by which time who knew what sundry credits would
materialize to offset it. Having thus quelled my conscience and bought the said article, I
was going through it on my way downstairs when I collided with someone and dropped it.
It seems the person I’d bumped into was similarly engrossed on the way upstairs, and the
law of gravity had done the rest. Both tomes hit the stairs in unison, as did our heads each
other as we bent to retrieve them (our respective books I mean, not our heads).
I tell you, it certainly felt like I’d lost my head (and my initial feeling was
borne out by subsequent events...though I run ahead of my story here). A short-pitched
delivery had once caught me sharply behind the left ear before I could duck, and I was
strongly reminded now of that headless feeling as I straightened up, empathizing with
young Ichabod Crane of Sleepy Hollow. I knew how he must have felt, poor chap. Coping
with maniacs who gallop around the countryside on moonlit nights with their heads tucked
under their arms isn’t my idea of good, clean entertainment, whatever points in favour of
the motion may be tabled by Mr. Washington Irving.
Rearranging the scrambled contents of my cranium, I sought the
correspondent party, who, probably similarly affected, would expect a solatium. Heads
have rolled for less. So I looked up very cautiously indeed, just in case I saw nothing
upwards of the neck. Not that sighting my jousting opponent had any particularly soothing
effect, for I found myself looking deep into the bluest, loveliest, and truly the most
outraged pair of eyes I’d never looked deep into.
Then she snatched up a book and was lost in the surging press of humanity
that flowed past Marco’s Melody Room. I stood rooted on the stairs, light-headed and
heavy-hearted, for with her had departed Dr. Stein’s labour of love, leaving in its stead the
 63

deathless prose of one Jessica Galloway on the earthy subject of ‘Perennials & Potted
Plants’. I wilted unseasonally.

One thing I’ll say on the subject of Bank Managers (a couple of

observations and no more: they’re a sub-species I’ve researched for some years now before
coming to the conclusion that they are a necessary evil, like laxatives), they’re a fairly
tolerable bunch of stiffs when a defaulter walks in to keep an appointment, even if he’s
fifteen minutes late. I mean, like Halle Berry-Bond, they let you live so’s you can die
another day. They’re a bit like stinging nettle; contact with them makes you break out in a
rash and itch all over, but you soon get over it.
A cup of weak tea and a strong lecture later, I found myself back on the
pavement, scratching myself vigorously and wondering how I could recover my book from
the mysterious blue-eyed stranger who had purloined my purchase. I retraced my steps to
Marco’s Melody Room in the hope of getting a lead to her identity. No dice. They had no
idea who she was, she’d paid cash, and she wasn’t a regular. The trail was cold.
I had to use my head in this crisis, addled though it was after its violent
encounter with another of its kind. It ached like Billy-O. I’d heard of hard-headed people,
but this was three much. I needed to pop an Aspirin urgently before my hat size changed
permanently. Then the penny dropped. She must be feeling in need of a pick-me-up as
well: I didn’t think I was that soft in the head, know what I mean? So I headed for Perfect
Pillations on the next block, hoping she’d had the same idea.
The stygian gloom of the old chemist’s shop (my chemistry needed a
significant dose of additives just now, so I ignored the anachronistic word on the faded
sign-board) floated into view, and I caught myself wondering, as I often did on such
occasions, as to why these pill peddlers kept their darned premises so dark. Perhaps it had
something to do with the psychology...no, make that melancholy...of disease. A
melancholic capsule cruncher would buy more medicines than were good for him, thereby
alchemizing into a hypochondriac: the pet fantasy of every pill-pusher.
I’d meant what I’d said about keeping my head in a crisis, but here’s a well-
deserved mention in despatches for my neck. Long grudged its board for the outlay
involved in keeping it in collars and ties, this singularly unappetizing extension had earned
its keep by amply demonstrating its keen attachment for its appendage, surpassing its
design specifications in the process.
But its performance was again due for reappraisal (it being still under
probation), vis-à-vis consistency, for just as I sailed into the gloom at twenty knots sans
radar, I ran hard aground, jolting my timbers from bows to stern. I use the word ‘hard’
because it’s the word that Conrad would have used under the circumstances, though it
didn’t quite suit this latest calamity.
It was, in fact, a soft collision, thank heavens (no thanks to the carpeting—
which was thin and frayed—for not absorbing the shock of contact with terra firma), on
account of the inherent qualities of the object I’d collided with. It seemed to be my day to
meet life head on. And then I wished the carpet was deeper, and that someone would hurry
along and quickly sweep me under it, throbbing cranium and all.
 64

In my delirium, I thought about how authors always refer to ships in the

feminine gender, perhaps because they (ships) can be temperamental at the best of times. I
could appreciate the sentiments of the men who introduced this literary innovation, for as I
lay there trying to ascertain the extent of damage to the superstructure, I realized that my
vessel was berthed alongside a craft whose sleek lines gave it away as being one of the
aforesaid gender.
The word ‘temperamental’ would be le mot juste here, for she was in a
temper, and her mental equilibrium was under severe stress. For the second time within
the span of half an hour, I found myself looking deep into the biggest, loveliest, and simply
the most enraged pair of blue eyes I’d never looked deep into.
Strong medicine they were, well suited to this apothecary’s abattoir, but a
stronger dose awaited me. When I’d bought Dr. Stein’s magnum opus, I knew I was in for
some heavy stuff. My apprehensions were validated now, for the afore-mentioned magnum
opus descended with stunning force on my head, thereby adding a fair number of galaxies
to the known universe.
Now whereas my friends have always maintained that my head performed
two vital functions, viz., it served to keep my ears apart, and also that it found something
useful for my neck to do, let me assure you that I was—pursuant to my interests and
investments in my neck—concomitantly and irrevocably attached to its accessory as well,
both fundamentally as well as sentimentally. Whatever its book value, the rough handling
it was receiving today was a matter of grave concern for me as its proprietor,
notwithstanding the virtuoso performance of my neck.
Since recovering my book was worth the risk of being decapitated, I
stooped quickly and gathered it gratefully to my bosom as I regained my feet. And then I
suppose I must have succumbed to my exertions of the morning, for suddenly the deck
tilted crazily, the stars went out, and I sensed rather than felt myself bite the dust again.
Jack Dempsey couldn’t have put me out any faster, even with a horseshoe concealed in his
right glove.
*

The Reader’s Digest Junior Omnibus, 1958 edition, contained

an article by Paul Gallico, who climbed into the ring with Dempsey so that he could give
his readers a first-hand account of what it felt like to be kayoed by the World Heavyweight
Boxing Champion. He succeeded admirably in his endeavours, and was no doubt amply
recompensed by a generous cheque from the publishers for dutifully sniffing his smelling-
salts. But without at all downsizing Gallico’s feats—both journalistic and pugilistic—I
submit that his compensation was in no way superior to mine.
Take it from me, being kayoed by a non-World Champion also has its plus
points. For, as I came to in the casualty ward of a nearby hospital, the beneficial impact of
books was never clearer to me. To be sure, Gallico received the best of medical attention
after he kissed the canvas, but I cannot see how it could have been better than the care I
was receiving. For the third time that day, you see, I found myself becalmed under azure
eyes the exact colour of summer skies. Poor Gallico, who lacked the gumption to bump
into anything better than a smelly boxing glove...
Captain’s log: Stardate 2004. We are lost, marooned in Deep
Space....Those timeless, dazzling blue eyes are awash in brine, and all misted-up and
 65

worried-like. The peerless brows that frame them are knotted in tension. The loveliest lips
God ever made are hovering inches from my cheek, and teeth like priceless pearls are
chewing the lower of two rosebuds to shreds.
The view from the bridge is spectacular, if you get me, Steve. No Caesar or
Pharaoh ever had it this good. Beat that if you can, Gallico! The fragile starship I’d
bumped into twice, packed a haymaker of a Sunday punch. The softest, gentlest hands in
the universe are stroking my brow tenderly. Enlightenment dawned: a good book is a
knock-out in the right hands. The fog that enshrouded me dissolved abruptly, sundered by
a lusty tropical onshore breeze that seemed to blow from some distant—and no doubt
uninhabited—tropical isle nor’ nor’ west of Pitcairn’s Island.
The more impatient among you will—at this delicate point in my narrative
—threaten to string me up from the mizzen-mast if I don’t come to the point quickly, so
I’d better confess that when we retired to her apartment for a cup of tea, we found we had
common interests aplenty. I had developed a sudden (and permanent) passion for
perennials, and she insisted that space-time had fascinated her for years. She brushed away
my concerns for her health by convincing me via natural means at her disposal that she was
in pretty good shape. With my head spinning as giddily as a gyroscope, I was drawn
inexorably into the vortex of the eternal biangle.
And here’s the bottom-line. With so many books forming a Barrier Reef
between the two of us, we put our heads together (gently) and came up with the perfect
solution: an eBay auction. Blimey! The overdraft adjusted itself from the proceeds thereof!
Besides, who the dickens needs a mouldy old book when there’s superior reading matter
available in the form of bewitching blue eyes?
Though we’ve both lost interest in books, my bank manager—who’s stuck
with his—certainly hasn’t. He’s in a buoyant mood, not having had to go down with his
ship over the irregular overdraft. Having pinched Shylock’s thunder by neatly carving out
his pound of flesh—albeit minus a Portia or a Perfect Pillations to foul his propeller—he
still figures on Lloyd’s Register.
Yet his compass bearing is badly skewed—he’s 180° off course, as a matter
of fact—in thinking that I have an eye for books but no head for figures. For all his petty
triumphs, he’ll never grasp the finer points of a divinely-ordained corporate merger, even if
you slug him over the head with ‘Space, Time & Wormholes’. Or even with his fœtid
General Ledger, for that matter. (Heady thought, that).
But let’s not be too hard on him. Bank Managers are to blue eyes as cacti
are to cornflowers.

~*~
 66

Bow-String

I sat on the trunk of a fallen forest giant, alone with my thoughts. The
shrine shimmered uncertainly in the silvery moonbeams, an ethereal enigma, a will-o’-the
wisp, a phantasm of deep emotion. It was a mirage out of time, an astral blend of deathless
ardour and insubstantial granite that floated translucently on a lake of misty dreams that
sprang from the never-never land of lost tomorrows.
They appeared at last within the enchanted glen, two enraptured shades
drawn from their rest to the place that memorialized their immortal love. They came
tripping into the magic moonlight, silently scattering the stillness, as I’d known they
would, aware of nothing but themselves, rejoicing, as always in their everlasting
togetherness.
The night was alive with joyous spirits from ages past, and I, too, was spirit
with them, swaying to a rhythm that throbbed in unison with the heartbeat of the universe,
joining them as they danced through the night to celebrate their eternal ecstasy and their
timeless passion...

The first time he saw her, she was holding two ice-cream cones that were
melting in the hot sun. He had decided to indulge his itchy shutter-finger by exposing a
few frames at the zoo, all the while hoping he wouldn’t bump into anyone who’d recognize
him. It’s considered ridiculous for well-known wildlife photographers to take pictures of
zoo animals.
People usually got the wrong idea, he knew from experience. He would
cringe inwardly as he saw the understanding dawn in their eyes...the notion that the
pictures in his books were actually carefully composed shots that he’d faked in a botanical
garden. But he had to chance it. A zoo was as good a place as any to keep his eye in.
“Hurry!” she gasped, as she ran up to him. “Reach into my sling-bag and
take out my camera. You seem to know how to handle the rest,” she said, eyeing the two
Nikons slung around his neck. He hesitated, then did as she asked. He didn’t like taking
other people’s pictures just because he was obviously a professional. It happened to him all
the time.
It was just as well for them that they didn’t know how terrified he was of
their little auto-everything cameras. For him, being asked to use a compact camera was like
being asked to drive a car with no steering, no brakes, and no clutch pedal.
“Thanks!” she said as he slipped the compact into her bag after clicking the
picture.
“Here...this one’s for you,” she said, pressing one of the dripping cones into
his reluctant hands. He held it well away from the 80~200 zoom as he bit into it. It was a
strawberry cone, his favourite.
“Aren’t you going to thank me?” she asked, as she watched him demolish
the treat.
“No,” he said with a grin. “It was a pay-off for taking your picture. I earned
it.”
 67

“You call that ‘taking a picture’, with all those expensive cameras draped
around your neck?” she challenged, smiling to take the sting from the words.
He didn’t known why he responded to her dare. Ordinarily, this was where
he said goodbye to strangers and walked away.
“OK, back off towards that tree,” he said, the F5 with the stubby lens on it
coming up smoothly to his eye. “No, not that close. And I don’t want a cheesy grin...this
isn’t going to be a calendar shot,” he said rudely as she posed.
“Just look off to the side a bit...no, not so much...tilt your head to the right
somewhat...chin up slightly...yeah, that’s fine. One hand on your hip, weight on your right
leg, eyes defocused...that’s great...now could you think of something inspiring, like the
upcoming World Disarmament Conference...or perhaps a piece of music: the ‘March of the
Valkyries’ should do nicely,” he suggested, smiling to get her to loosen up.
He backpedalled swiftly, focusing down at her from the top of a low, grassy
knoll. A sudden gust of wind sprang up from nowhere and flung the profusion of her
auburn hair in wild abandon about her flawless face.
The camera chattered briefly in his hands as the motor drive gobbled film at
seven frames a second. It stuttered happily again as her hand came up to sweep the heavy
abundance of glory into some semblance of order.
He sauntered back to her, replacing the cap firmly on the grossly-
overweight lens with the multi-coloured reflections haloing the metallic disc at its centre.
“That’s it?” she asked, surprised. She’d expected a lot of fussy instructions.
“That’s it,” he nodded, spreading his hands apologetically. “No fanfare, no
21-gun salute, no national anthem.”
“Although there should have been,” he added grudgingly.

Sumitra Singh looked at the two pictures in pin-drop silence. She had never
seen portraits like this anywhere, ever before. The largest photo studio in the world, Karsh
& Harding of Madison Avenue, was incapable of producing pictures like the ones she held
in her hands. Their image factory just wasn’t geared to creating originals.
She decided that Ranjit Mullick had used more than just a camera, seen with
more than just his eyes, when he’d taken these pictures. So subtle, so abstract was the
image quality that it was hard to believe they were photographs. The viewer’s first
impression was that they were watercolours.
He had captured the essence of her as she marvelled, entranced at the
wonderland of noise and colour into which she had accidentally stumbled. Forgotten
dreams of unimaginable beauty had escaped from her subconscious mind to swirl in
gleeful abandon around her classic features.
The lake behind her was a lake no longer; it was a sea of memories, an
ocean of doughnut-shaped patterns of celestial light...a surreal backdrop to her Ophelia. He
had painted a portrait with light, with her as the showpiece. It was a magnificent tribute to
her.
He had blown them up 16” x 20” and got them laminated so that she could
hang them up. She stopped looking at them after a while, content to simply hold them in
 68

her hands mutely. Then she peered long and searchingly into his eyes, as if trying to read
something in them.
“That’s about as much as one can do with a 500 millimeter mirror lens
that’s meant for taking pictures of something a little more sedate...like a charging rhino!”
he joked, to throw her off track.
He was grinning disarmingly, intentionally running down his effort,
desperately trying to water down the thing that shone through the pictures.
She wasn’t fooled; he could see that. He cursed himself for having lowered
his guard and agreed to shoot the pictures. The air was so thick it would have needed a
chain-saw to cut through it.
Saved by the bell...her parents entered the drawing room. She introduced
him to them. Her father had gray hair like him, only it was thinning fast: could be twenty
years older than his forty-six. The two men shook hands as they sized each up.
Her mother was looking him over appraisingly, as will all mothers that have
grown-up unmarried daughters still on their hands.
‘Too old for her’ thought the old lady: ‘probably widowed or divorced. Far
too thin to be getting the looking-after a man needs after forty. Still, he’s fairly presentable,
well-mannered, well-educated, and professionally successful. A loner...but seems a nice
enough fellow, though, for all that.’
He smiled secretly to himself. One didn’t need to be psychic to be able to
read the thoughts running through her mind. It was always like that. Only somehow this
time he didn’t feel resentful at all, only a trifle foolish.
He stayed on for lunch. It was non-vegetarian. He was a strict vegetarian, so
he stuck to the curd, rice and pulses. Her mother made fluttering noises of apology over the
banal, neutral conversation, perfectly normal under the circumstances. They were
unbending slightly, her parents. Her father was pleased he played chess. They went into the
garden for a game.
He opened with a classic gambit, the popular Vishwanathan Shuffle. Her
father backed smartly into the Ruy Lopez defence after he’d lost a rook and a knight, then
came back strongly to slaughter two pawns and a bishop.
The game swung this way and that before ending tamely in a draw. A bond
had been established between the two men. War does that, whether it’s fought on a
battlefield or on a square of cardboard.
Mango ice cream followed. He loved it. They talked of the hills, with the
summer coming on. He didn’t feel like going to Naini Tal this year, he said, his voice full
of genuine regret. He’d finally given up on it. It had become so commercialized he
couldn’t stand it any more.
“How about coming with us in June when we drive up to Chail for a
fortnight?” she offered. “Daddy has a little cottage there. We have a guest bedroom, but
we’ve never had a guest before. Please say you’ll come... I’m sure you’ll love the scenery.”
He did not miss the swift glance that was exchanged between the old man
and his wife, a glance that conveyed their well-concealed surprise. It was obvious that the
reason they’d never had a guest was because their daughter didn’t like guests. Till now,
that is.
 69

“Could happen...early days yet; it’s only April. Though I must confess, it
sounds rather tempting. Thanks...but can we give it a rain check?” he asked, keeping a foot
in the door.
She hid her elation well. “Sure. It’s not as if it’s a hotel or something, where
you have to book in advance. You can just inform us a day or two before the trip, and we’ll
work out the details...” she offered.
More meaningful glances passed between the old couple. Continued contact
with him was implicit in the statement. That they were somewhat overwhelmed by the turn
of events to venture to have a say in the matter was obvious. It was time to relinquish
control. They’d had their day. This was their daughter’s scene.
“Well...thanks for lunch and everything, Sir,” he said, shaking hands with
her father as he moved to the door. “Must be off now, but we’ll be in touch...ma’am.” He
bowed politely to her mother as he took his leave of them.
She walked him to his car. “Look, Ranjit...I...the photographs. They are
really something. I can’t...no one ever gave me anything remotely like this before,” she
whispered. They both knew what she meant.
He smiled gently. “I gave you nothing that wasn’t yours to begin with,” he
said softly, and drove away.
She stood there for a long time on the sun-warmed pavement, savouring the
moment before she turned reluctantly to enter the house of her aging parents. It seemed so
unfamiliar now, so inconsistent with her true nature, so...so illogical...a stranger.
She was shocked to realise that she was saying goodbye to the home where
she’d lived all her life. The abode of her parents was hers no longer. She was but passing
through. Now her restless heart chafed at the detention, seeking other horizons...

“No cameras,” said Ranjit firmly.

“No cameras,” she quickly affirmed. She had no intentions of letting him
trash the vacation by rushing around taking pictures of all and sundry; she wanted him to
herself.
“So we leave at first light on the first Saturday of June,” she reminded him
as they licked their cones. The zoo was becoming a habit. She had never thought it to be a
particularly exciting place. Now she didn’t notice the crowds at all. There were shady little
nooks where one could sit and talk, eat a picnic lunch, and let the world go by.
“Ranjit, is it OK, d’you think, to want the good things of life?” she asked.
“No,” he said, “not want them. Wanting means you haven’t got them, and
that’s exactly what your experience will turn out to be. So I think it’s better to just
visualize that they’re already yours, and let them materialize in course of time, ‘Time’
itself being a very dodgy concept, by the way.”
She was interested. “Like there’s no such thing, huh? Just a static moment
of ‘Now’ within which we—and everything else, ‘Past’, ‘Present’ and ‘Future’—exist, is
that it?” she asked.
“Something like that,” he nodded. “Guess it explains why we feel so
comfortable with some people and places...maybe even some concepts. As if we’re already
there, on some other point of the canvas, experiencing it all, knowing it all...right now!”
 70

“That explains déjà vu, too, by the way,” she added, by way of acquiescing
to his viewpoint.
“And reincarnation,” he said. “Do you believe in reincarnation?” he asked
her.
She nodded. “Every Hindu does, I suppose. But with me, it’s always been a
more personal approach. I’ve always felt we were born into each life to accomplish
something, or to meet someone special to share our lives with and grow spiritually,” she
said, looking shyly at him.
He nodded seriously. “A life without a sense of going somewhere, of doing
something worthwhile with it, is what I’d call a life wasted. There’s so much to do, and so
little time in which to do it.”
“Cecil Rhodes’ last words,” she said.
“Why, that’s exactly right!” he said, pleasantly surprised. “Few men have
ever had such a sense of destiny and purpose as Rhodes had. No one knew whether he had
a premonition about his dying young...”
“Like Alexander of Macedonia, perhaps,” he added, as a footnote.
“You obviously have no such premonitions, else you’d be married with
about ten children by now,” she observed slyly.
He smiled good-naturedly, realizing she was probing, and allowed it to
happen.
“What makes you think I ain’t...am not? Married, with a wife and kids, I
mean?” he teased.
“Oh, come on, Ranjit” she protested, punching him hard on the shoulder,
then putting an arm around him and hugging him. Her joy that he was single was hard to
conceal.
They sat in companionable silence for a while. Her took her hand and told
her fortune. “Waiting is getting very tough for an old maid. Too late to find young
man...all the eligible young men have either become VJs, DJs or have been exposed as
gays who model for underwear in gyms and act in ‘B’ grade art films that bomb at the box
office.”
She giggled deliciously.
“But hang on...the best is yet to be. Old safari hunter, having wearied of
downing lions and sundowners on the veldt, has surfaced. Too slow and senile now to
catch faster game, he prefers mellower meat with gray matter...not that surface gloss is
unwelcome...if available.”
She tickled him mercilessly till he begged for mercy.
“Big B’wana surrenders!” he yelled with joy, wriggling in ecstasy in her
hands. “B’wana says him too much sorry for bullshitting memsahib. B’wana say him
wanna marry memsahib...if pretty memsahib will do him the honour...?”
It had popped out, suddenly and unexpectedly shocking for both of them.
The tickling stopped. She was strangely subdued.
“Are you serious, Big B’wana?” she asked hesitantly, holding herself tautly
in check.
He had caught his breath again, and he wasn’t going to back down now.
Something had made him blurt out the words that must have been hovering just beneath
the surface all these weeks.
 71

“Deadly serious. I never married; you know that. I never married because I
never felt like marrying anyone. I was fine by myself. Perfectly OK, you know what I
mean? Now—for the first time in my life—I want to share that OK feeling...with you.”
He glanced at her; her eyes were full. He looked away, his heart pounding.
“I think you and me, we’re the same,” he continued. “You are so self-
sufficient, Sumitra, but you want to share your completeness with someone, too. Do you
want to...will...will you share your life with me, Sumitra?” he asked humbly.
“Yes,” she told him simply, knowing full well it wasn’t the first time
she’d done so.

“It was such a coincidence...accident...meeting you at the zoo,” she

reminisced, as they sat on the garden bench and watched the sunset.
“There’s no such thing as coincidence,” he demurred. “Nothing ever
happens by chance. Everything happens the way it’s meant to happen.”
“You’re a fatalist! ” she squeaked unbelievingly.
“No, fatalism is just superstition. I’m pointing out the marvelous perfection
in everything. Nothing ever happens that we...our souls... don’t want to happen,” he
asserted.
“So it was our souls that brought us together?” she asked wonderingly.
“Of course!” he said emphatically. “What else? None but our souls know
what we really want,” he explained to his soulmate.
She sat, struggling with her deep emotion, blinking back tears of happiness.
This man—whom she’d encountered in the unlikeliest of situations—was telling her that
she was his destiny. She had never felt such depth of feeling for anyone before.
It didn’t come as a surprise when she realized it was Love that welled up in
her. It was the highest—and rarest—of feelings. Love was God in action. She said a short
prayer of thanks, deep in her overflowing heart.

Another Sunday at the zoo. This time they got to talking about what they’d
like to do with the rest of their lives.
“I just want to love you and take good care of you,” she said to him.
“What if I tell you to focus only on yourself? Don’t do anything for me...do
it for yourself.”
“I don’t get you,” she said, puzzled. “If I’m always focused on myself,
wouldn’t that be a horribly selfish way of living life?”
“Naturally. But it depends on what one defines as ‘selfish’. If you are only
concerned with your Self, being the best you’re capable of being, then you can never not
do the best for the other. For—and remember this—the other is nothing but yourself! So if
you really want the best for the other, just do what your Self feels is the best you can
do...and Bingo! You’ve done your Selfish best for your significant other!” he grinned.
“Why, you amazing man, what strange ideas you have. But it sounds as if
they might actually work,” she conceded.
 72

“Oh, they work alright,” he assured her. “Always tried to do just that with
my life...and every time I got it right, I also happened to get the highest results. Not that we
should be concerned with results...for expectation is our worst enemy: it poisons
everything. Just go with the feeling of doing the best you can...for the very reason thereof !
And you’ll always find that you’ve achieved the result that expresses the Highest Truth
about you.”
“Bhagavad Gita,” she nodded happily. “Exactly what Krishna tells Arjun.”
“It works,” he said shortly.
She looked at him, unable to quite pin him down. Every moment with him
was a revelation; he seemed to get better and better day by day, as the Coué formula
promised.
“And you actually find time for photography?” she teased, impressed.
He smiled shyly. “I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone before.
Photography is my way of Being ... and, from Being...Becoming. Photography is my soul
shouting with joy.”
“Oh, I know that!” she smiled. “The two 16 x 20’s say it all.”
He shrugged. “You can’t miss: it’s the ‘action’ part that follows ‘thought’
and ‘word’. Then the triune completes itself, the circle is joined...and the next level opens
up.”
“Whew! I can see what’s in store for me now: the odd word of wisdom,
flung carelessly over the shoulder, as the camera comes up to Big B’wana’s eye!” she
ragged.
She knew he wouldn’t misunderstand. He was such a simple man, so sweet
and adorable. And her teasing was her way of adoring him, of expressing her constant
wonder at the Great Thing—The Greatest Thing of All—that he had caused to gush from
her innermost being and irradiate her entire personality.
If anyone had complimented her by telling her she was glowing, they’d
never know how close to the truth they actually were.

*
It wasn’t exactly a spring-autumn wedding, though they’d cut it mighty
fine. They didn’t care two hoots about that themselves, so neither did her parents.
Her friends were highly amused at her choice, because she had always been
the hard-headed, practical type, and had never shown any inclination to marry, what to
speak of being swept off her feet by a graying wildlife photographer with a philosophical
streak in him.
Their happiness with each other was so obvious, however, that one tended
to overlook the twenty years that separated them...the years united them, actually.
She was not for younger men. They were just too filmi-macho or ‘Bright
Young Man with a Masters in Marketing or Computer Technology’ for her taste. She’d
found the right man for her in Ranjit. They knew they were made for each other.
Life with Ranjit was an amazing adventure, a glorious fulfilment. There was
a solid, no-nonsense part of him that co-existed happily with the artistic, humorous, and
deeply philosophical sides to his nature. He was just as balanced as she was.
For the nth time in her life, she realised that love meant so many things. But
above all, Love set you free. It was a wonderful opportunity to grow, to evolve, to
 73

contribute endlessly to a bond that carried within it the promise of perpetual spiritual
evolution and bliss.
The union was blessed with a daughter. We were a unique threesome,
treating each other as equals. I never had the hang-ups kids usually suffer from. My parents
were the greatest. They even took me to Chail when I was fifteen to show me the lovely
glade where their love had finally succeeded in expressing itself as me.
I swore I’d build a small shrine there someday, to commemorate their
mutual devotion...their total identification with the best in each other. It was too holy a
thing not to be memorialized.

Daybreak. The sun was rising, a golden fireball symbolic of the radiance
and enduring optimism of the two people who had given me life. I stretched my stiff limbs
and came down the sacred hill to my Jeep. There was a fragrance of ancient sandalwood
incense in the air, a lingering perfume that presaged the coming to maturity of primeval
blessings. I knew I did not descend the hill alone.
They were always with me, every step of the way to the golden future they
had laid in store for me. I knew that even now it was on the wing, bringing me closer to
even greater happiness. It was their ultimate prayer. In my heart, the spirits danced on and
on....

~*~

In a perfect union, the man and woman are like a strung bow. Who is to say whether the
string bends the bow, or the bow tightens the string?
-Cyril Connolly, critic and editor (1903-1974)
 74

Just Think of It

The Laundromat was crowded, and the man behind Ben in the queue looked
at his watch impatiently and shifted his weight to his other leg. “Chill, Mister,” said Ben in
a friendly tone, “I think I’m about finished.” Just then, the machine switched itself off with
a loud ‘ping’ and the tumbler slowed to a stop. “Well I’ll be ...!” swore Ben under his
breath, startled. The countdown timer had said there were fifteen seconds still to go.
“Rigged!” he concluded. Shorter cycles meant higher turnover...‘Ha Ha!
Sorry for the pun, but it’s true! The less the number of turns, the more turns at the
machines, sort of like the velocity of circulation of money! Still, it was uncanny, the way
the washing machine had stopped just as soon as he’d said that he thought he was through.
He was still thinking about it as he reached home, even when he went back
to the Sunday paper for a second leisurely read. A catchy heading caught his
eye...‘Crackpot Inventor Cracks Jackpot’. He read on. Apparently, one Jacob Turnstile,
who once claimed to have invented a perpetual motion machine, had won a lottery with his
last ten dollars. When interviewed, all Turnstile would say was that he had gotten sick and
tired of being poor trying to make the world rich, and had shifted focus to himself. He
thought he deserved some compensation for his efforts.
Ben smiled to himself. ‘Perpetual motion, forsooth! Next we’ll hear of
someone who’s discovered a way of materializing things out of thin air: kind of like
‘thought of power = power of thought!’ he thought. He quit thinking about it as he
switched on the TV and watched the Dodgers. He didn’t think they had a hope in hell: the
Yankees were on a roll. ‘C’mon, you guys!’ he yelled, ‘they’ll massacre you if you don’t
get your act together.’
The Dodgers lost pathetically, just they way he’d thought they would. It set
him thinking. He had thought, then he’d said: both with supreme conviction. And lo! It
had come to pass...just like that! It had happened! It had become reality! Naah! Sheer
coincidence!
His eye came to rest on another caption: ‘Thoughts move matter’. Scientists
trying to come up with an improved version of a polygraph had discovered that activity in
the brain was electrical. The human brain, when engaged in ‘mental activity’—which was
just jargon for ‘thinking’—produced electrical energy that deflected the needle of a
measuring instrument. If you chose to see it another way, thought Ben, Thought moves
Matter. It was worth thinking about.
Ben read up on ‘Matter’. He went past the High School definitions, past
descriptions of the atomic world, and ran full tilt into Quantum Mechanics. And here he
had to unlearn all that he’d learned earlier. For the world of subatomic particles was an
unpredictable and paradoxical one, he discovered. Subatomic particles had no discernible
rules; they shot through a window that was opened for them in a screen, but if two
windows were opened, and one was shut after the particles had been ‘fired’, they
invariably went through the open window instead of colliding with the one that had shut
while they were on the way!
They only displayed a ‘tendency’ to exist, because there was no known way
of pinning one down in definite terms. After all, it wasn’t a beetle or a slug: it was an
infinitesimally-tiny packet of energy that was traveling at speeds undreamt of, with some
going even faster than light! Outside the blackboard diagrams, it was one way of
 75

explaining how it was possible for one of them to travel back and forth in space-time, in
perfect accord with the Theory of Relativity.
If anyone tried to measure its velocity, it was impossible to chart its
position. And if its position was determined, its velocity was indeterminate! Observations,
too, varied from observer to observer, no matter the measuring apparatus used in the
experiments, so that it suggested that personal factors influenced whatever observations
were recorded. There seemed to be so much subjectivity involved in the whole process that
it almost appeared as if it was simply what the scientist ‘thought’ was going on...and
nothing more! One Sir James Jeans, in a moment of sheer desperation or lucid insight—the
choice of deciding which state of mind he was operating from was open to individual
interpretation—had even gone so far as to say that the whole universe looked more like a
great thought than a great machine!
That could only mean one thing: these tiny particles could somehow think!
Moreover, they communicated with each other in ways unimaginable...otherwise it was
hard to explain how the experience of a particle at one location was often simultaneously
replicated in another particle in another part of the universe! Superluminal connectivity, it
was called. It supported the mystic belief that everything existed simultaneously...and
everything was inter-connected. Perhaps all of it was nothing but a Single Entity, thought
Ben, inspired as never before.
He was hooked. If the whole universe was nothing but a Thought...why,
then, the mystics were right on! The whole thing was an illusion, a fantasy world populated
by ‘separate’ entities that believed they existed within disparate spaces and time zones. The
world of discernible, audible, and palpable phenomena was nothing but an interpretation of
sensory inputs as perceived by our sense organs...none of which were sensitive enough to
pierce the façade. It was all a gigantic hoax, a continuous steam of phenomena with a
tendency to exist, beamed down as a thought-perception by someone else... Who was All
There Was. Physics and metaphysics converged in Ben.
The poor brain—handicapped by the time lag that was inevitable between
the occurrence of physical phenomena and the receipt of electrical signals from the sensors
in the ears, eyes, skin nose, and tongue—was always out of step with Reality! It presented
the results of its processing (based on previous experience, which itself appeared to be
erroneous) for acceptance by the conscious mind—which unquestioningly noted a reality
that didn’t really exist!
If one accepted that so-called ‘observable’ phenomena were mere
fabrications of the mind—inasmuch as they had very little to do with the actual state of
affairs at the moment of ‘observation’—then the inescapable conclusion was that all
observed phenomena were merely thought creations! In other words, thought Ben, we see
what we think we see!
Taking this reasoning a step further, Ben realised, shocked, that it was
possible that we see what we wish to see...whatever predominates in our thoughts gets
materialized! That accounted for the variety of individual tastes that everyone from
couturiers to caterers, well...catered to. Things of mass consumption were acceptable to
mass-produced, unimaginative minds that thought along near-identical channels. Things of
rare taste were appreciated by the few who had the gray matter to imagine...i.e., think
differently!
 76

No wonder they shunned products that appealed to the lowest common

denominator, for their refined sensibilities craved exposure to things at a higher level. They
lived faster, thought faster, earned faster, learned faster...in the fast lane of life which
existed, logically, at higher frequencies of vibration!
So that was why the thoughts of different people (who functioned at
individual levels of vibration), deflected the needle of a measuring instrument by different
amounts! And why people on the same ‘wave-length’ frequently anticipated each other’s
thoughts...telepathy!
Everything was in constant vibration (or oscillation, if you will), thought
Ben. Why, the whole universe and all that was in it obeyed this law. Everything was in
constant motion, even a rock. Looked at closely enough—at the subatomic level—the rock
was nothing but a mass of swirling particles that appeared to move along certain paths in
constant and violent agitation—particles, moreover, that had only a ‘tendency’ to exist.
Ben wondered whether an influx of energy could disrupt that tendency...destroying the
rock’s tenuous tendency to exist in its present form. If a charge of dynamite could do that,
why not a powerful thought?
He was agog with curiosity now: the Dodgers had faded away into another
reality he didn’t trust very much any more. Pursuing his line of thought, Ben came to the
conclusion that thought, being energy operating at different levels of vibration, produced
what was discernible to our senses as ‘matter’, whose individual manifestations vibrated at
particular frequencies in keeping with their ‘densities’. The ‘denser’ something was felt to
be, the slower was the rate of vibration of its component subatomic particles...and vice-
versa.
‘For a college dropout, I’m not doing too bad a job of dissecting my reality
and deciding what, in my opinion, makes it tick,’ thought Ben to himself, well aware now
that he functioned within an illusion. He wondered whether he should use his new-found
enlightenment and see whether he could influence—if not actually create—matter. Then
he shelved the idea. Life was complicated enough as it was, he thought, without messing
around with reality and matter, things that were best left alone.
And so, at the hour of his greatest trial, Ben backed away from the edge of
the abyss. But destiny will not be denied. He had been chosen...and he would be put to test.

It was all over the morning papers. Every television news channel was
airing live updates from NASA, every hour on the hour. It appeared that an amateur
astronomer called Shoemaker had been long been expecting something like this to happen.
For decades, he had been plotting the paths of large asteroids—those that passed
uncomfortably close to the Earth—and his charts made viewers gasp.
It appeared that many times in the recent past, several large chunks of rock
had narrowly missed the Earth. Shoemaker had plotted the swirling patterns which
represented the orbits of these asteroids in their too-close-for-comfort flybys of planet
Earth, and it was obvious to even the most optimistic observer that it was simply a matter
of time before one of these mile-long rocks, weighing trillions of tons, finally struck the
planet. And now it was coming true, almost as if Shoemaker’s revelations needed concrete
justification. A rock was on a collision course with Earth.
 77

The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to Ben that this was one
heck of a powerful illusion. That meant that there was a colossal amount of energy in it.
The asteroid appeared to be immense, incredibly heavy, and traveling at fantastic speed
straight for Earth. The last one around had wiped out the dinosaurs. If this one connected,
it would be the undoing of Man. It was passing closer and closer with every fly-past. It
couldn’t be more than six or seven months before it hit. There was only one thing to be
done, he thought...

“You think what? Look, mister, if Wally hadn’t sent you, and if the
storyline wasn’t so good, you’d be out on the pavement faster’n you c’n say ‘asteroid’. As
things stand, however, you’re in luck. What with all these digital effects, I think I can make
the movie and premiere it well within six months,” agreed the producer-director. Thought
was a prime mover, thought Ben happily.
Ben kept his inner turmoil to himself. Did it really matter what the
considerations were in deciding to make the movie? All he knew was that it had to hit the
theatres well before the rock hit the Earth.
The next five months were the most suspenseful months of Ben’s (and
Earth’s) life. Wally was making merry. He’d collected a packet for the storyline. As a
former studio hand of Isaiah F. Goldberg, he knew the movie mogul would buy it. It was
right up his alley, seeing he’d cut his teeth on musicals with historical backgrounds, then
anticipated (as well as honed) public taste by making action-packed romances with a
martial arts content. The time was ripe for science fiction that the common man could
relate to. Wally had raked it in. Twenty grand is a lot of vodka.
The movie opened to packed halls, picking up $85 million in the first two
weeks. The pre-release publicity blitz had millions queuing for tickets on opening day.
‘Barry Trotter and the Doggone Bone’ had been buried but good, and ‘Gone with the Wind
II’ had been blown away, too.

“Wally,” asked Ben, “do you have any idea that you are – effectively at
least – the saviour of the human race? You never did understand why it was so important to
get that movie made, did you?”
Wally shook his head. “Nope. And I don’t wanna unnerstand, either. All
that yap about mass-hypnosis, the massed thought-energy making that rock explode, just
because folks saw it happen in the movie and thought about it—believed it—sorry, Ben, I
don’t buy that. It goes clean overhead.”
Ben sighed, and began all over again.
“Look, Wally, thought is energy, right? And energy can make as well as
destroy matter, since Matter is nothing but Thought...see? No? OK, let’s look at it from
another angle. Tell me...what’s an ‘Atom Bomb’?”
Wally brightened up. “Four fingers of rye, three of vodka, and two of rum,”
he said confidently.
~*~
 78

Brief Visit
He was far away and a long time from home, and home was where his heart
was. But life had offered him little choice in the matter. It had taken him so far off the
beaten track that he had almost forgotten what it meant to be with those he loved. And with
those who, in turn, loved him. There had been much to do, all these long years: triumphs,
mistakes, duties, responsibilities, sacrifices, awakenings…so many calls to thought and
action, so many frontiers to cross. He had been to all the wondrous places his karma had
drawn him to. Now it was time to return, to recharge, to savour—for a brief while at least
—the touch of a loving hand, treasure the smile of those who wished him well, and to bask
in the warmth of the love of a genuine welcome…a love betrayed by eyes that glowed at
his arrival.
Time and circumstances had taken their toll. They had changed him
outwardly, and he wondered if they would recognize him now, for his outer shell—such as
it was—had altered beyond recognition, what there was left of it. It was not vanity but
necessity that made him decide to revert—as closely as was possible—to this form of
earlier days. He had mastered many esoteric disciplines during his long and arduous
travels, and it took him but minutes to regress to an earlier likeness of himself. He grayed
his hair a bit, however, and had the hairline recede ever so slightly so as to make the
transition acceptable…for their sake, not for his. His travels had taught him that the Inner
Being was the one that really mattered.
He had reached the stage when he had but to will and it was inevitable that
it was accomplished. Insights into the way things worked in the world had led him to
mastery over his thoughts and actions…and now, to think was to manifest his desire. It had
everything to do with choices, he knew. His Masters had disclosed the secret to him. Now
he had but to choose, thankful in advance that his wish was granted, and his choice was
instantly made manifest. Such was the uncomplicated secret of the way things worked. All
one had to do was to make the right choices. And offer thanks with complete faith and
certitude even as one wished. Yet even this simple way to fulfilment was obscured at lower
levels of understanding.
And so—even as he chose to return home for a visit—he was already on his
way to the place where all was love and peace and sunshine, a place where he knew he
had left his heart for safekeeping…

The morning breeze wafted the smell of Lake Ontario to his nostrils as he
trudged to the end of the lane. 110, Marion Drive was built on about an acre of land. About
a dozen maples bordered the grounds, and as he walked on, a scraggly lawn hove into
view. Winter had been hard on it, but it was showing signs of recovery, with freshly dug-
up flowerbeds flowing all around and through it in an unusual pattern. A sundial, a dirty
birdbath and an overturned child’s tricycle completed the picture.
‘She was always so unconventional,’ he thought, grinning to himself. ‘Her
mother would throw a fit if she ever saw this mess!’ he remarked to himself, enjoying the
family fracas he’d imagined. He knew it had happened. What he thought, happened.
 79

The house itself was not very large, with what looked like a nursery and
nanny’s quarters on the first floor and the main living room, two bedrooms, the living area,
dining room and kitchen on the ground floor. A patio—roughly equivalent to a verandah in
his native country—bracketed the front of the house. He liked the way the ivy covered the
walls with its feathery green fingers, as if cocooning the house and its occupants in a
loving embrace. He commended the ivy for doing that. They were on the same team, he
and the ivy.
He could picture the house in winter—its roof under a blanket of snow—
sealing in the heat, sheltering its inhabitants and warming them with its love and
protection. “You too, house,” he said to it “you’re on the team as well. Good work, guys!”
He was very sensitive to vibrations. This house was built on, with, and of—love. It was
more than a house; it was a home, and it beckoned to him happily as stood there looking at
it in silent approval. It was just the right sort of house for them, he decided.
A wisp of smoke from the chimney meant that someone was already up at
this early hour. A sudden pang of hunger took him by surprise. He hadn’t eaten for a very
long time. Now he felt he could do with an omelette, hot buttered toast with bacon and lots
of coffee. As he opened the gate, a dog started barking from the first floor: deep, booming
claps of sound. Labrador! ‘They are very good with children’, he thought, pleased, ‘gentle,
playful, and excellent guard dogs’. They were all on the same team: the house, the ivy, the
dog…and he. “Good going, matey!” he wished the Labrador—and it fell silent.
He strode up to the door and was reaching for the bellpush when the door
swung open. He stepped back involuntarily, startled. Then they were staring at each other,
soaking up the sight of each other. She had filled out ever so slightly with motherhood, and
her face was more mature. The childish innocence had given way to an adult confidence,
but he was relieved to note that the trials of the years had failed to harden it. It was set in
lines of peace and hope. She looked well loved, well cared for, and fulfilled. No one spoke
or breathed…then she expelled her breath in a long sigh that was more a moan and went
into his outspread arms.
There were unshed tears of joy—a wild, unnamable joy—in her eyes, and
her soft lips quivered as she gazed up at him in rapture. This man who now held her gently
to his chest had rocked her in his strong arms when she was but an infant, even helping her
mother change her nappies and prepare her bottle-feed. She held him out at arm’s length
and there was disbelief, even amusement, in her limpid brown eyes. A puzzled frown
flitted across her delicate features.
“Hey, mister, how do you do it?” she teased her uncle as she rubbed cheeks
with him in glee, squealing girlishly as of old at the rasp of his day-old growth of stubble.
Tabac…another old memory of him came flooding back to her. He always used Tabac!
‘Cologne’, he’d informed her, gently correcting her when she wanted to know which
perfume he used. “Men use cologne, baby!” he’d told her…and she’d always remembered.
Tabac! After all these years…
“You look no older than when I last saw you! Don’t you believe in aging or
something?” she gasped unbelievingly.
“You’re only as old as you feel…and other such trite sayings. Or…you’re
only as old as the beholder thinks you are, young lady!” he retorted, spanking her bottom
smartly by way of telling her she was still a schoolgirl for him.
 80

“Am I dreaming or is this really you?” Chalice whispered happily, clinging

to him. The sweet perfume of her filled his nostrils. Nostalgia, regret at all the time they’d
lost, their different worlds…all was forgotten in that first ecstatic moment of meeting.
He knew they went way back…that she had always been around for him:
friend, helpmeet, support and source of boundless, unconditional love: forever. Always.
Every meeting was but a renewal, a repeat, an encore. It had all been written into the
Master program. Long ago…
“I know, I should have sent you a letter or a telegram,” he murmured
regretfully, “but I didn’t have the address just then, and I was too far away and going too
fast to stop and drop a line. Reckoned you’d understand.”
“Oh, it’s so wonderful you coming up here, you can’t imagine. Just last
evening I was telling Danny about the time you took us to see the old fort…but hey! I
haven’t asked you in. Come on in! We can’t stand on the doormat all day, jabbering about
the old days! Wipe your feet, you men are all alike, Bonzo The Big Black Bad Dog
definitely included!” She was babbling incoherently in her joy.
A large black Labrador bounded down the stairs and she raised a finger to
admonish him, then froze in surprise as he rushed past her, yipping like a puppy, and rolled
over at his feet, wriggling in delight on the carpet and inviting his tummy to be tickled. She
stepped back—mouth still wide open to give a shout of warning that never materialized—
puzzled. “Well, I never…that’s the first time Bonzo’s chummed up to an unknown visitor!
You know each other?” she joked shakily.
“Well, there’s plenty of caveman in me…and Bonzo and I have probably
shared many a campfire together, thousands of years ago!” he replied, with a straight face.
“Gee, I dunno…this is something awesome!” she said uncertainly, “Bonzo
is meant to be a trained watchdog! What if he rolls out the same red carpet if a burglar
happens to come along? Danny’ll fire him on the spot!”
“Don’t worry, honey…dogs know people by scent; they can almost read our
thoughts. They use senses we’ve allowed to fall into disuse,” he reassured her. “Yet we
ourselves sometimes know, by ‘gut feel’ who’s a friend and who’s a foe. Bonzo’s just
better at it. Good boy!” This last for the big dog that trailed along behind him slavishly,
wagging his bushy tail from side to side metronomically.
They went into the living room. “No bags?” she enquired, with raised
eyebrows.
“Whatsamatter, baby, you don’t have a spare toothbrush for me?” he teased.
“Actually, I left my things in a locker at the bus terminal and walked here. Wanted to get a
real feel of the place,” he explained.
“Heck, no issue…you can use Damon’s pajamas. And I’ll tell him to get
some clothes on his way back from work. He works an odd shift…five am to two pm. But
they’re slogging ‘round the clock on some hush-hush project, and sometimes he doesn’t
come home for days.” Damon was an electrical engineer at a new facility that had
international clients.
“Leave it, sweetheart. I’m off tomorrow to Montreal. Gotta attend a writer’s
conference.”
“No way!” she protested. “I’m not going to let you off that easily. Make
that a week and perhaps I’ll consider it! Freshen up, and then a spot of breakfast…if you
feel like it this early in the morning,” she suggested.
 81

“I’ll be back asap. I’m hungry, so make that one large omelette, toas…”
“…mountains of hot buttered toast, bacon, and a pot of coffee!” she
finished for him, laughing and clapping her hands at having scored over him. “As you can
see, I haven’t forgotten!”
He threw back his head and laughed. He couldn’t remember when he’d ever
been happier. Wait a minute: amendment to that last statement—he’d never felt happier,
ever; he’d only felt as happy when he’d met her last, almost twenty years ago. He only felt
as happy each time he met her. Period! Finis.

After breakfast, she took a day off from office and they drove down to Lake
Ontario, an hour’s drive. It was a working day and there weren’t many people around.
They sat on the beach and caught up with each other’s lives. It was not prying but a baring
of hearts between two old friends. They talked about their ups and downs, mistakes and
lessons, tragedies and triumphs, joys and sorrows. It was the stuff of life, and as they
exchanged their memories, each gave comfort and solace to the other. They wept together
and they laughed together, the best of friends, rejoicing in the special chemistry that had
been given them by the ages.
She had packed a picnic lunch, and as the gulls wheeled and circled
overhead with raucous cries, they devoured their ham sandwiches with pickle and lots of
ketchup and mustard. They both loved books, and they discussed their favourite authors
and their works with relish. It was a bond that brought them very close to each other. They
had always shared identical interests: photography, wildlife, fishing, boating…it was so
beautifully arranged genetically that as their voices spoke their hearts completed each
sentence before the speaker had finished. It was a meeting of minds that happens very
rarely in nature; they knew this, and they felt doubly blessed.
They waded in the icy waters of the lake, hand in hand, and they strolled
down the deserted shoreline. They watched the distant ferries chug their way across the
horizon to the other side and compared their own lives to those of the commuters aboard.
“Life’s all about journeys, isn’t it?” she asked him sadly, knowing this visit could not last
forever.
“Something for you,” he said, as if in reply, and opened his fist. It was a
small silver amulet. She looked a silent question at him. “Keep it carefully,” he said. “It’s
from the holy shrine of Badrinath. May it always protect you.”
“But what about you?” she protested feebly. “Don’t you need it?”
He laughed. “Oh, I can always get another, I’m not far from the Himalayas,
remember?” She kissed the amulet and put it away silently in an inside pocket, deeply
touched by his gesture.
“Yes,” returning gently to her question, knowing what made her say it, “we
come and we go. Doesn’t everything? The sun, the seasons…the universe itself? But a
little bit of us always stays behind with those we love. Remember the lines from Richard
Bach? There can’t be hellos if there aren’t any goodbyes.” She threw an arm across his
shoulders, hating the sound of it despite the logic.
“I know what you’re going to say, that in this relativistic scheme of things
we call our reality, nothing can exist in isolation, and there’s no short without tall, no cold
 82

without hot, no joy without sorrow. But still, I hate it. I remember you telling me, when I
was a little girl, about Peter Pan and his Wendy and Tinkerbelle in their Never Never Land
—and I’ve never stopped looking for it!” she admitted, disenchanted with the way things
were arranged. She was ever the rebellious one.
He hugged her to comfort her. “Then always remember what the Gita says:
the man of wisdom stays the same through ups and downs; he treats joy and sorrow with
the same detached equanimity, because he knows they are not real. In Reality—the
Ultimate Reality beyond spacetime (which, by the way, is merely a mental contrivance, an
invention of our minds if you wish, to enable us to cope with our perception of time as a
linear flow of events)—there is no Time, and hence no Past, no Present, and no Future.
There is only an Eternal Moment of Now. That’s where it’s all at, where it’s always been.
There’s no pain, no fear, no judgement, no cold or hot. There is no duality of any sort…
only Love. That’s your Never Never Land! That’s our true abode. That’s the Real Us!”
They sat silently for some time, contemplating the depths of the words.
She drove them home slowly, reluctant to end the day. He had to leave early
the next morning for Montreal. After supper, they sat for a while on the patio, looking at
the fireflies in the hedgerows and already missing each other desperately. He did not trust
himself to speak. There were many things he wanted to tell her but could not. She had to
learn them on her own. There was no way she was going to believe even him—and she
accepted more from him than from any other living person, Damon included.
She did not wake when he let himself out quietly in the early dawn. She had
sobbed herself to sleep and only realised he was gone when Damon rang the doorbell at
eight in the morning. She couldn’t bring herself to change the bedclothes and air the quilt
for days. She kept his room exactly as he’d left it—as long as she could. This time, there
was a terrible finality in the way they’d parted…

Conversations. It was a dinner hosted by Damon on Easter Sunday for their

friends and neighbours in the community. As she nursed her drink, she kept an eagle eye
on the buffet spread, ready to replenish anything that needed topping up. She was thinking
of him, recalling the magic of that idyllic day at the Lake…wishing he were here on this
special occasion.
The buzz of voices melded into a hypnotic drone that made her eyelids
droop. She kept herself awake by recalling their conversation on the beach. Only a week
had elapsed, yet she felt it had taken place years ago. What had happened to her sense of
time? She had to keep pinching herself as a reminder that it had really happened.
The roll of film she’d exposed during their brief time together was lying on
the dresser, developed and printed 5” x 7”—if the cash voucher Damon had handed her
with the sealed packet was to be believed—but she hadn’t found time to take a look at
them. They were too precious to share with anyone else at first viewing. Tonight, after
everyone had left…
“…and Sarah’s had another daughter, her third. Martha says it’s thanks to
all the leeks she consumes….”
 83

“Bijon? Why, he’s retired, didn’t you know? Can’t say he’s unhappy about
it: he says he can finally get down to writing that book about the USAF he’s been planning
to do for years!”
“…went off on a trip into the mountains on a pilgrimage to one of those
ancient shrines—Badri something—and was caught, along with twenty other people, in an
avalanche. Two weeks of intensive combing by the Border Patrol, but…nothing. Six
months ago. Last October, I think it was…”
There was a strange numbness in her body, and her legs felt encased in lead,
but she made her way across the room as casually as she could. “Six months ago? Who are
we talking about here?” she asked brightly. The effort cost her plenty.
She heard his name, but she didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to know. It was
the biggest lie she’d ever heard. He had been here just a week ago, en route to an official
engagement. She had the snaps to prove it. The airlines would scan their ticketing and
boarding records and confirm her story. Everyone stared after her as she raced upstairs and
returned with the packet from the photo processors.
There were several images of the beach, the gulls, the lake…but there were
no images of either of them. Damon scrambled to pick the snaps up; they flew from her
hands as she dashed to the phone. She dialed number after number: no airline had carried
any passenger by that name in the last six months. Customs records showed no such entry.
The official website of the conference he’d said he was attending had no mention of his
name in the list of delegates.
But a search engine revealed a news item that listed the names of casualties
in the avalanche. She read his name but refused to believe it. They had to give her a strong
sedative and put her to bed…

Why? She asked herself again and again. Why? What had been his purpose?
What had he hoped to achieve? Didn’t he appreciate the enormous stress he’d caused her?
Her mind worried at the problem for weeks. When she felt like it again, she returned alone
to Lake Ontario. She chose to sit on the beach at the exact spot where they’d shared their
picnic lunch. It was warm in the sun, and she removed her jacket and used it as a ground
sheet. It kept the damp at bay. She frowned: there seemed to be something in one of the
pockets. She unzipped the inner pocket…an amulet!
The wonder of it all returned to her, but this time there was a deeper
understanding. It was meant to be this way. It was a personal message for her, that’s what
his brief visit had been all about. He was telling her to have faith. That the Reality he’d
spoken about was the real one. Everything fell into place…at last!

He traversed the vast emptiness of the Void, and it was emptiness no

longer: it was full of Light. The Light was everywhere, and all things that were and were
not, were made of Light. The Light was the Truth, and he was part of it. As she was.
Hence, they were part and parcel of each other, inseparable, indivisible. Forever.
 84

The Light was merciful: it had acceded to his request, his Choice, of going
back to reassure her, to give her the message of the timelessness and eternality of things.
Therefore were they together in the Here and Now, that was the only Reality, and he was
happy that she now had the Vision to see that. There was never any reason to wait for
anything or anyone, to want, to miss …

~*~
 85

Coffeecats
If you ask me, there is no lower feeling than being an out-of-work writer
with a yen for coffee but only fifteen rupees in one’s pocket. I’d been there before, and I
knew what to do. I headed straight for the Madras Coffee House, where a cup of genuine
(none of that yucky instant stuff, or the fancy-flavoured, frothy Espresso they serve you at
Barista while neatly scalping you for fifty bucks) brewed coffee costs exactly fifteen
rupees, they don’t kick up a ruckus if you smoke a cigarette or two, and a single
unaccompanied woman doesn’t attract the unwelcome attentions of any of Delhi’s
perennially-prowling, predatory males...for the simple reason that they give the place a
clean avoid. There’s a bouncer, you see, which is a massive point in its favour.

Fifteen bucks may not be the national lottery Bumper Prize, but fifteen
bucks is fifteen bucks to the near-broke, though in CP (Connaught Place, New Delhi to the
uninitiated) especially, it doesn’t get you very far. Maybe a couple of oranges from a
pavement hawker...or the coffee I was telling you about.

Apparently, a fair section of the coffee-swilling populace of Delhi with the

requisite amount of currency in their pockets had got the same idea, for when I reached the
joint, the dimly-lit, rectangular room with its atmosphere of better times that clung to it like
grime—about fifty feet by twenty-two feet, give or take a foot—it was awash with coffee
drinkers. I couldn’t spot a single vacant seat.

Just fool’s luck, mind you, but as I stood there looking helpless, the couple
at the table right next to me got up to leave, and with a sigh of satisfaction, I slid smoothly
into one of the three chairs available, the fourth having been commandeered by a very
vocal group at the adjoining table.

It was inevitable that, sooner or later, one or two people would join me at
my coffee, and I steeled myself to be courteous to them by politely ignoring them or
pretending they didn’t exist (which amounts to the same thing). I sort of dislike quaffing
my coffee with strangers goggling at me and mentally counting the many spoonfuls of
sugar I add to my cup. I’m very defensive about my sweet tooth, I guess, and though I ain’t
The Fly by a long chalk, three or four spoons of white crystalline don’t seem to me as if
I’m heading for diabetes, and the management haven’t objected so far, either, so who’s to
judge? And any wisecracks about my waistline gets you a busted tooth, see? It’s still only
twenty-eight inches, and I’m not in a very exalted frame of mind right now despite that,
which I’m sure you realise by now.

I fished my compact out of my bag with some difficulty—the darn thing

had hidden itself in the folds of the imitation-sandalwood folding fan Rohan had given me
last year when we were seeing each other—and gave my nose a quick pat or two with the
powder-puff, right out there in the hall where I sat. If you’ve seen the loo in the place,
you’d understand why. Then I deftly added a quick swipe of gloss to my lips, anyway the
lipstick was genuine Yardley Kissproof ™ and wouldn’t leave any residual smudges on my
 86

cup for the waiter to fantasize over. Not that I cared tuppence...any man who has the
stamina and forbearance to work as a waiter in a coffee house deserves his kicks, no matter
how kinky.

I was putting the make-up stuff back in my bag when a female sat down at
my table without so much as a by-your-leave...which suited me just fine. She was lean
though well set up, and about fortyish (meaning she was more than ten years my senior).
She didn’t look it, I had to admit, but I’m always glad to concede an advantage in years if
not in looks. Next to dust, Time is a woman’s worst enemy.

She wasn’t too bad looking, actually, but she had this unhealthy pallor that
often goes with too much boiled cauliflower curry and too little sunshine. I think her frame
was meant to be a little meatier, if you get the drift. As things stood, she was heading for
anorexia, which was the real reason why I was actually thoroughly pissed with her the
moment I saw her. I can’t stand people who are thin by cosmic diktat coupled with
fanatical dieting. It’s not fair, see, when there are people like me who can’t workout but
love chocolate fudge and black forest pastries as much as the next woman; but I just have
to glance at confectionary to add five pounds at the hips. Walking past Wenger’s drives me
dotty, homicidal even.

She had bags under her eyes, however, to compensate for the unfair
advantage, but nothing that eight hours of solid sleep and a couple of slices of cucumber
left on her eyes overnight wouldn’t fix. It looked as if she was worried about something,
which is as good a reason for insomnia as any. Otherwise, she was the average fairly well-
to-do New Delhi working woman on the lookout for Mr. Right (oh, yes, us women always
know).

She’d had one or two near misses, I could tell, though I didn’t think the
experience had slowed her down appreciably. On the contrary, they’d probably made her
even more desperate to connect: the pale, shallow indentation where the ring had been on
her ring finger told its own story. Well, I didn’t blame her for wanting to catch her man
quickly: fortyish is cutting it mighty fine, no matter how well one has maintained herself. It
would probably be her last catch, if she managed to pull it off at all. I didn’t rate her
chances too highly, though. Most Indian men prefer more flesh on the bones.

She glanced at her wrist (bony, no bangles, Titan gold-plated day-date

chronometer, about two thousand bucks), and eyed the door impatiently. She ignored me
totally; apparently she hadn’t gotten round to slumming yet. I could sense I was very much
beneath the kind of circles she moved in, which would be upper-middle class suburbia,
probably a flat she shared with her parents, a car, a pet, and some potted petunias. Then she
was waving her handkerchief discreetly, and she half rose to put a languid hand on the
shoulder of another as they touched cheeks in the ritualistic peace greeting globalized by
New Yorkers and smooched the air around each other’s earlobes as insincerely as possible
before sitting down.
 87

I was curious to study what the other half of the twosome looked like, but
she hadn’t noticed me either. The new addition was just as blind as her friend to the
presence of the hoi polloi, which definitely included me. I admit I stared, but it was no
crime since I was obviously made of glass, rendered transparent by my lowly station in life
and attendant penury. Well, that’s always been an advantage for me, in many ways, seeing
that ushers at film festivals never notice me when I sneak past them to poach a seat for
myself in the stalls. And if one of the glitterati asks me, by some hideous case of mistaken
identity, as to what I do for a living, I just say I’m into penury, and they nod their heads
sagely and turn away satisfied, as if they’re sure that it has something to do with
penmanship. Handy word, that...and le mot juste for a writer.

The new arrival was in Delhi after twenty years, she mentioned (and I
overheard, since I couldn’t help but eavesdrop), as the old school and college chums
warmed to the ordeal of catching up with each other’s lives. The second woman was
vaguely female, short, plump, fair of skin, and she wore contact lenses and favoured
Mystique by Dior, a perfume I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing in a coffee house. Don’t
ask me how I know so much about perfumes: I’m good at these things, even though my
rent is overdue and I haven’t used ‘Charlie’ for years.

She was expensively dressed in what appeared to be a second-evening-out

silk sari that had enough gold embroidery embedded in it to sink the Titanic, and the heavy
mangal-sutra around her ample neck, and the four rows of gold bangles on each pudgy arm
would have further ensured that she reached the bottom far ahead of the bows. Her
avoirdupois made me feel better, but her obvious affluence neutralized that, leaving me
feeling all shaken and stirred inside with nowhere to bond.

I could sense my low feeling trying to crouch even lower as I discerned the
beginnings of a headache. Gold did that to me with unfailing regularity, laying me lower
than a Kryptonite-zapped Supergirl. If the gold was on someone else, that is...which it
usually was. The closer it is to me, the worse the effect. I’m mass over volume equals
density, and the good old inverse-square law jolly well applies to me, too. Gold does have
this kind of effect on women who don’t have much of it. Hey! I do have a chain, but it’s
worn so thin that I’m planning to pawn it. I need the cash.

Inevitably, the talk got around to their love lives, the usual technical and
statistical stuff.... Women are so much more comfortable discussing the details of their
amorous activities among their own kind than men are, don’t you think? I like to believe
this is because we are less guilt-ridden about our bodies and their natural functions than
men. We don’t have their hang-ups; we have a more honest and realistic approach to such
things.

The conversation drifted into the rarified atmosphere of finance. The first
woman (Aasha) claimed she wasn’t exactly rich but her young, virile and handsome
husband more than made up for that. Bishan (as he was named) was a great home-lover
who often did the cooking and the dishes, and even took the garbage out.
 88

Sudha (the pudgy one) returned serve with a deft lob to the baseline. The
servants did all the housework in her house. Sudhir was so considerate: he always phoned
whenever he was going to be late at office (which was very frequent: he was Head of
Operations at Mercantile and United Bank), and always sent the car over to pick her up so
that they could go dine at the club and play a few rubbers of bridge. Why, last October,
he’d lost ten thousand rupees cash at Delhi’s Gymkhana Club playing poker, but had
bought her a diamond pendant as a token of his guilt at his extravagance.

Aasha matched the lob with another baseline lob, admitting that Bishan
wasn’t very high in his firm’s hierarchy, but what the heck, he was so young; there was so
much time left to climb the corporate ladder, like Sudhir had done before him. First blood
had been drawn.

Sudha frowned and coloured. Charging the ball, she volleyed to the vacant
forecourt, fast and deadly.

“I know Sudhir is eighteen years my senior, but he’s as active as a man half
his age. Why, he still has all his own hair and teeth, he’s very successful, and he’s so slim
and handsome. After all, he has a daily workout and massage—perks of the job—at the
gym in the Oberoi at Nariman Point. Only Gold Card members are allowed in, you know,
Aasha,” she purred triumphantly.

Aasha returned with a backhanded topspin, coaxing the ball low over the
net. “Of course, Sudha. An older man can sometimes be so much more enjoyable. After
all, he’s more experienced. That’s why they are such wonderful lovers...but often a little
stressed out. Even if he’s rich, a man needs a change of scene now and then to keep him in
top shape! Anyway, why worry about all that stuff. No matter what, you’ve got it made!”

Sudha sniffed, somewhat mollified, content to shuffle out and hit the ball
back ambivalently back to centre-court. She couldn’t get what Aasha meant, but it had a
ring of insincerity to it. Her antennae were quivering, and there was adrenaline on the way.

Aasha moved smoothly into position for the down-the-line backhand

passing shot, her favourite. “Now take my Bishan...he’s three years younger than me! I had
to teach him everything! He is such a buddhu!” She giggled, and blushed incompetently.
Her coyness was designed to be excruciatingly off-putting.

“Can you imagine the embarrassment, Sudha, when we have to fill in

application forms and hotel registers and railway reservations and stuff like that? The
clerks all give you the glad eye, knowing you’re well looked after...if you get my
meaning!” she added with a sly wink as the ball whistled off the catgut.

Sudha failed to address the ball competently, and turned frosty again. “Age
is only a feeling in the mind, Aasha. I’d rather have a mature lover than a wet-behind-the
ears greenhorn to put through his paces, I really would. And being rich has its
compensations...Yes, it’s great to have a rich man around to pick up the tabs. You’ll know
 89

when your turn comes and Bishan makes his pile—which, I hope, will be sooner rather
than later. Which reminds me... let’s order.” She was content with deuce. It rhymes with
‘truce’, too.

“What’ll you have? The treat’s on me!”

“No way, Sudha!” insisted Aasha. “I asked you to meet with me here, and
I’m lifting the check, darling!” It was turning out to be an entertaining rally.

“Oh, well, have it your way,” conceded Sudha. “By the looks of the place,
we could stuff ourselves on a mere hundred bucks.” Good shot! Advantage Sudha!

It was Aasha’s turn to colour, but she served well, practically an ace. “Tasty
grub they serve here, and I remember your love for genuine south-Indian food. I didn’t
pick the place because of the prices on the menu, dear lady.” She always made someone
‘dear’ when that someone was particularly un-dear at the moment. “Besides, south Indian
fare is good for the figure!” She’d put everything she had into that serve. It turned out to be
an ace, the ball thudding dully into the blue canvas backdrop. Deuce again.

The cheek of this nouveau riche gold-digging bitch, she thought to herself,
trying to get snooty with her, when she knew jolly well that during her college days, she’d
have given an arm and a leg for a chance to pig out at the Coffee House. And as for that
rich man she’d hooked, one wondered exactly what bait she’d used. She currently looked
like a lump of lard left over from last night’s sausage-fest, and it wasn’t as if she was
overflowing with gray matter or anything like that, by way of compensation...

Sudha preened inwardly. She was holding her own against the local
champion. Imagine the gall of this skinny, jaded, middle-class hussy, trying to compare
herself with someone higher in the pecking order. She, Sudha, had put her firmly in place.
As if one’s husband’s age or possible infidelities were of any real consequence. In the final
reckoning, all that mattered was one’s bank balance and status in society, a lá the Clintons.
Such a pity: these things were so far beyond Aasha’s reach that she failed to appreciate
their importance.

I could practically read the unspoken thoughts as they hung silently in the
air around the table, like the thought balloons you see in the Sunday supplement funnies. I
could have chopped up the atmosphere with a meat cleaver, it was that thick. It felt great
to have a grandstand seat. The tension between the two women was palpable. Why, I didn’t
wonder. That’s the way it always is, secretly, between women. We never have any real
friends of the same sex: at a cellular level, it’s invariably a scrap to the death, irrespective
of how deep the (discernible) surface layers extend. It’s an ancient oestrogen-driven thing,
and there’s no point in sweeping it under the carpet.

They munched their way sullenly through a masala dosa and a plate of idlis
apiece with commendable dedication, eating delicately with knives and forks, like genteel
folk do. Conversation was, for the nonce, suspended. A wedding band now gleamed on
 90

Aasha’s finger, I observed. I wondered when she’d slipped it on. She’d probably done it
surreptitiously when her friend entered the coffee house.

At last, replete with good food, a comradely warmth of sorts stealing over
them as they contemplated the cups of coffee before them, they appeared to call off the
engagement, tacitly agreeing to a draw. Don’t ask me how I knew: I just did. Aasha got
honourable mention from the Press for lifting the tab, and by way of magnanimity, invited
Sudha over to Delhi again. Sudha responded gallantly by giving her Sudhir’s cellphone
number in case her own handset was switched off and an urgent message had to be
conveyed.

Aasha lingered on, saying she was expecting a colleague, so Sudha upended
her bag, located her make-up kit, repaired the paintwork, carelessly swept the cornucopia
of visual delights that were the contents of her voluminous bag into its open maw, pulled
the zip half closed, got up, wished her friend an airy goodbye, and left the court. I noticed
she waddled as she exited the room, dropping a card as she negotiated the door.

After a few moments, Aasha withdrew her cellphone from her bag and
dialed a number. With a sudden flash of insight, I knew who it was that she was calling. I
admit I was an intentional eavesdropper by now. The human drama always appealed to the
reporter in me. This hunch was pure intuition...and right on target.

“Sudhir? Hi, baby! Aasha! Guess who I had lunch with me just a minute
ago! No?...Well, brace yourself...it was your wife! Why didn’t you ever tell me Sudha is
your wife? Listen, we two go way, way back...Yeah, school and college! Small world, isn’t
it? You could have knocked me down with a feather when she started talking about
you.....Yeah, you said it: ate me out of house and home, too! How do you put up with
her?.....Kitne behude harkatein hai uske...Why, that’s awfully sweet of you, honey, I know
how much I mean to you....Missing you? Darling, of course I’m missing you. I’m simply
dying to see you again, ASAP! To see you ... and love you! Kab miloge? You’re what?
What’s ‘DTFYT’? What kind of daft acronym is that? ...Oh, I see! Ha Ha, I should have
guessed! Naughty naughty! ...... Kya kaha toonein? You’ve what..?! But that’s not just
extravagant, that’s obscenely extravagant! A diamond necklace! ...... D’you know, she
actually boasted about your dropping ten thousand at a poker game, last October. She’ll
never guess where you really lost it, tee hee!”

Never have fifteen rupees—either before or since—given me such excellent

mileage. I paid my bill and left, impulsively picking up the card that was still lying
unnoticed on the doormat where Sudha had dropped it. It was Sudhir’s, of course.

Overwhelmed by weltschmertz, I slowly made my way home, feeling as if

life was passing me by. It was just a game of numbers, like the fabled satta of Mumbai.
Everywhere I turned, Life seemed to be all about cards with numbers on them. When the
one with your number on it came up...
 91

On an impulse, I memorized the digits on Sudhir’s card before tearing it to

shreds. Who knows when or why I might need to go to Mumbai. To clinch a Match Point,
perhaps?

~*~

Re: Coffeecats by Subroto Mukerji (Score: 1)

by suchitra (suchiunderscore7@hotmail.com) on Jul 17, 2003 - 11:44 PM
(User info | Send a Message) http://

Now, that was a well-written story. Apt descriptions, beautiful prose, the works. It
takes some skill to write in the voice of the opposite sex, and I think you did it well.

I liked the transition of the narrator from eavesdropper/voyeur to potential

extortionist. Nice.

The two other women were not as interesting as the narrator! By the way, why not
have the thin and/or good-looking women as the victims of infidelity for a change?

About these lines: "That's the way it always is, secretly, between women. We never
have any real friends of the same sex: at a cellular level, it's invariably a scrap to
the death..."
-->I've had a male friend tell me practically the same thing about men-- that it's all
about strutting about and trying to see who makes more money. I guess these things
happen more often with casual acquaintances and colleagues than with real friends.
Keep writing!

Re: Coffeecats by Subroto Mukerji (Score: 1)

by Vidya on Jul 18, 2003 - 06:32 AM
(User info | Send a Message)
Suchitra, you took the words out of my mouth, as it were ;)

Subroto, I loved the complexities of the story and the way you left it hanging at the
end, adding to the mystery of the narrator. Wanted to mail you as soon as we put
the story up, but you know how I am with email these days :( - anyway, I am glad
Suchitra's comment spurred me to communicate with you this way.

Look forward to reading more from you...

Cheers,
Vidya
 92

Beyond the Dark

When I got home that evening, I could tell that someone had finally moved into the vacant
flat across the hallway. The mess of paper wrappers, empty cardboard containers, the
remains of crates and sundry packaging materials told their own story. While I wasn’t
exactly thrilled at the way all this stuff had been piled in an untidy mess in one corner of
the lobby for the garbage man to take away, it was a relief to know that I was no longer
alone on the thirteenth floor.

I hate thirteen; I’ve always held it’s an unlucky number, a superstition said to owe its
genesis to The Last Supper, where Judas Iscariot was Number Thirteen. But that’s all that
was available in this apartment block – ‘building society’ is the jargon used here – and I’d
jumped at it even if the rent gobbled up more than a third of my salary, because it had 24-
hour security, generator back-up and an intercom system that doubled as a security check
before admitting visitors at the gate. Moreover, my office was only an hour away by local
train.

Still, the thirteenth floor had its compensations; there was a great view of the city and there
were no mosquitoes. It also distanced you from the dust, the filth and the horrible
meaningless of life in the teeming metropolis, and brought me closer to the light, you
know, sunshine. I’ve always been a sunshine person, as in sunshine-lover, odd for an
Indian, I guess, because we as a nation get an overdose of it.

But I was one of the ants that scurry off at seven in the morning on the local train and, after
spending twelve hours sitting in front of a computer screen, return home at dusk. Very
little sun do I get, except when I’m on holiday. Have you noticed that the more we age –
and me all of thirty-one! – the less we get to see the sun? Spaces seem to shrink, at least for
people like me who have to slog our guts out just to stay alive. Running to stay at one spot,
the outstanding fact of life in the 21st century…

It wasn’t always like that, I’ll have you know, for I belong to a backward district in the
north, where we had a little land, and a few cows and stuff like that. Then father died,
mother sold off the little farm and opted for an ashram way of life. I had picked up an
education of sorts largely because I’d always seen it as a way of escaping, and so, here I
was, minus sunshine, of course…or birds, or silence, or green, as in ‘meadows’.

Never thought I’d miss the countryside so much, but I did. I was on my own in the big
city, and I was scared out of my wits at first. It was too much to take in all at once,
initially. The noise, the dirt, the smells, the beggars, the suspicious landlords who eyed you
strangely, the predatory men in their flashy cars with diamond rings on their fingers, no
apparent occupation, and money to burn; the paunchy, corrupt policemen, the traffic snarls,
the pollution, the awful water and power supply…it all took a lot of getting used to.
 93

But it wasn’t an option; there was no fallback position for me. I had to ‘land on my feet
running’, as the smug, self-satisfied manager of the job-agency told me at the interview.
That was another hazard I hadn’t counted on. But after a few desultory attempts at trying to
persuade me to go out with him, however, he’d given up, and now I was due for promotion
to deputy editor at the magazine and my paycheck was more than double what it had been
when I’d joined, two years back. All said and done, I was quite contented. Only ‘quite’, of
course, not ‘absolutely’, you know, because us humans are never really and truly content,
are we? No matter how much we have, we always want more out of life…

Which is a major sore point at this stage because I’m over thirty (that sounds so horribly
old and sort-of shrivelled up and spinster-ish, doesn’t it?), but actually everyone, including
Meenu – who’s normally got a knife into me; she’s my Deputy Chief Editor and about
forty-five, a spinster, 180 pounds at five-feet-one, smokes three packs of Charms a day,
and thinks a manicure is some sort of concoction to cure you of men forever – even Meenu
says I have a good figure (and I a farm girl!), skin, hair … and eyes.

I suppose that last bit about my eyes has something to do with my wearing spectacles,
because haven’t you noticed how spectacles call attention to the eyes and give a girl a
serious, scholarly look? I guess Dorothy Parker got that bit all wrong, ‘cos I’m sure a lot of
men would make passes at me if I wanted them too. But I happen to know (don’t ask me
how – I just know) that men refrain from making passes at girls who wear glasses — that
don’t want passes to be made at them. It’s probably a subliminal kind of thing; body
language or pheromones or hormones or whatever, but it definitely works.

Which makes women funny, not as in ‘laugh’; it was no laughing matter. I was over the
hill, reproductively-speaking. The human female peaks at twenty-five, the perfect age for
child-bearing and all that stuff, you know it’s embedded in all of us at a molecular level,
this overpowering urge to procreate, not so much the act per se, but the effects thereof.
Kids, in short. We crave them. I suppose motherhood satisfies women at some profound,
unplumbed level of the psyche, this proof of functional effectiveness, the fulfilment of the
primordially ordained life-purpose that Nature has scribbled into the program. We need
children more than husbands. Men are like disposable diapers: of little use after use. At
least, that’s the way I looked at it. Who needed men? They were such a mess. Kids? Ah!
That’s different!

Rationalization, of course. Which woman doesn’t need a man? I think they’re as much a
part of the program as kids, only we don’t acknowledge it outright, even to ourselves,
sometimes. I faced up as bravely as I could to the fact that I didn’t have a man in my life,
though it was beginning to get to me in some horrible, sinking-feeling-at-times kind of
way. And given the sort of hours I worked, it was going to stay that way.

Unless, of course, I joined this fad and started hanging out at those coffee shops or all-
night bars my colleague Rita was rhapsodizing about the other day. It seems she bumped
into the love of her life at one of these joints. It didn’t sound OK to me, however, and not
seeing any way out of the situation, I’d taken it out on my keyboard, which perhaps
 94

explains why they’d hauled me off the society beat and put me through subbing before
booting me upstairs as Assistant Editor…Ass Editor, as we jokingly called the position.

There was a close call, though, a couple of years ago, when I’d first come to Bombay on a
sudden impulse, following the ‘Coffeecats’ episode. You’ll find it somewhere in
‘Woman’s World’ – January edition, two years back – just in case you’re curious. I’d
meant to shake him down, that philandering banker hotshot, but I’d chickened out at the
last minute. Blackmail was risky, and too…unethical. To hell with his morals: I didn’t
think I was the one chosen to larn him. Retribution would catch up with him sooner or
later. So I’d stepped across to a hiring agency, and, as if by divine intervention—I was flat
broke at the time—landed this job.

So you could say it was a reward, if you want to look at it that way. I didn’t look at it any
way: I just grabbed it with both hands. And here I am… Ass Editor and all, earning more
than I can spend, three-room flat, a houseful of gadgets, all the books I can read, music
system, PC—all the goodies anyone could possibly want…bored beyond belief, and s**t
scared of the future.

I peered through the spyhole in the front door. There was a distorted wide-angle-lens view
of a tall man with sinister-looking dark glasses and a dog in tow. You can bet I had the
chain on the hook before I opened the door a notch. He bowed politely. “Thought I’d come
over and make your acquaintance, Miss. I’m the person across the lobby from you…” His
voice was deep and cool, like a summer pool.

I was taking no chances. “Then why didn’t you call me up on the intercom first?” I
queried. He smiled, and it was like the sun had broken through the clouds. “Easily
remedied,” he said, stepping back into his flat and dialing me: 1301. The intercom buzzed
behind me but I ignored it and waved him over. He replaced the receiver and came through
the door, his huge Alsatian on a leash.

“Very big dog you’ve got there. Doesn’t bite, I hope?” I asked nervously.
“Who…Goofy? He wouldn’t hurt a fly!” he assured me.
“Well, good thing you keep him on a leash. There’s always a chance…” my voice trailed
off uncertainly.
“You have nothing to fear from Goofy. He’s…” he hesitated, went on “he’s like an alter-
ego. Goes wherever I go. I guess he’s the wife I never had!” He had a booming laugh that
startled me; I don’t hear that many deep baritones in laugh mode these days. It was a novel
experience. I warmed to my visitor…my new neighbour. That’s when déjà vu hit me.
Weird feeling…

I don’t—as a rule—have morning tea on Sundays with strangers who sport Men-in-Black
shades indoors, and who keep oversize Alsatians as pets. It was all so bizarre I almost
pinched myself to see if I was daydreaming. Dali would have loved it; he’d have bent us all
over the place like those soft watches of his, all the while reading Ionesco or Kafka to the
strains of Tchaikovsky. This guy…he had a funny way of looking at you. For one, he
 95

hadn’t raked me with the obligatory split-second head-toe-head scan men always execute
when they meet a young woman for the first time. I find it very diminishing, and this man
hadn’t done it. Then he had this amazing way of looking at – but slightly beyond – your
eyes, at a point four inches deeper, right inside your forehead. He spoke to your brain
direct. Another first for me. Very unusual man.

There was a kind of disjointedness in his movements that reminded you of one of those
Raggedy Ann cloth dolls; a carefree abandon that bespoke a relaxed nature; there was no
tension in him, no coiled spring waiting to unwind abruptly. He was already unwound. He
was like the sea, so deep and powerful it didn’t need to assert itself through clenched jaw-
muscles or hunched shoulders. He wasn’t at all apprehensive of the outcome of our
meeting. “He hasn’t a thing to lose. He’s got it all. Or is it that he’s lost so much, a little bit
more hardly matters?” I wondered, womanlike. I sensed a mystery here, and licked my lips
in anticipation. Us women love secrets…

We talked of the civil war in Russia, the fate of the US Presidency, the decline of
monarchy in post-war Britain, the faint radio signals from somewhere between the
constellations of Pisces and Aries, that SETI had picked up through the Arecibo (Puerto
Rico) radio-telescope…and music. He liked the Bach and Beethoven I played; I was
mortified I’d had the volume on that high. I swore to myself I’d never play it so loudly
again.

As if reading my mind, he said, “It wasn’t loud, actually. I just happen to have
extraordinarily acute hearing, that’s all. It’s as if I was being compen…as if I was given
this gift for some special purpose.”’ “And what might that be?” I enquired archly.
“Eavesdropping?” asked I, eavesdropper extraordinaire.

His deep laugh rumbled out again. “No, nothing so exciting. I’m a piano tuner.”

“A piano tuner?” I asked blankly, as if there were other kinds of tuners I preferred. It was
so far removed from what I’d imagined…what had I imagined he did for a living?
Bodyguard? Undercover agent? Hit man? Boxer? He certainly had the build for it: his arms
and shoulders bulged with muscle under the rather dishy Beau Brummel shirt.

“It’s these shades I wear, I reckon,” he smiled a trifle sadly. “Everyone thinks I’m a Denzil
Washington sort of fellow! It really puts me down, because it’s as if piano tuning wasn’t a
good enough way of earning a living…as if it was something sissy, like tea-tasting or
something.”
He looked so crestfallen that it never occurred to me to ask him why he wore those glasses:
if at all there was a reason—and I had no reason to suppose there was a reason, I reasoned
wildly to myself. And why he spoke into my head and not into my eyes…

As if to lighten the mood — or to prove something — he switched the topic. “I love that
pink sari you’re wearing. It’s one of my favourite colours…on a girl, that is,” he ventured.
Something didn’t sound right.
 96

“It was pink,” I admitted, “but I got it dyed crimson after wearing it just once. How come
you see it as pink?” I asked. Was he colourblind or something?
“Only, the pink still comes through,” he said lightly. ‘Colours. They have a life of their
own. No two individuals…even artists…see exactly the same shade or colour, when
looking at an object. Know why?”

I shook my head dumbly, baffled.

“Because,” he explained, “colour is nothing but a frequency, light (which is – in a quantum

sense – both wave as well as particle) reflected on a certain wave-length, i.e., vibrating at a
particular rate. But our eyes and brains interpret them as per the frequency they think they
are receiving. Are you with me? It’s like music; the beat is what you hear it is, not what the
musicians think they are playing.” It all went over my head. This guy was quite a handful;
awesome, like. But obviously, a very successful piano tuner. That was a Mont Blanc in his
shirt pocket…

He groped on the floor for the end of the leash. Goofy picked it up in his teeth and nudged
it gently into his hand. He came to his feet in one lithe, fluid motion. “Thanks for the tea…
and everything.” He removed the glasses. The eyes were brown, and they were focused at
infinity, light-years through and beyond me…beyond the dark. I knew he really didn’t
need them to see me with. He saw me with his mind…his heart. He slipped them on again.
“Now you know …” he grinned, and I writhed inwardly. He was something incredible...

My heart was thumping madly in my chest as we walked wordlessly to the door.

“Any more questions?” he asked easily, his shoulders squared to answer them.

To hell with kids, I thought wildly; let them come as and when. Right now, there were
more important things on my mind. “This sounds crazy…but…will you m-m-marry me?” I
stammered.

Time stopped. The silence was deafening. Goofy looked at me, then at him. He was
waiting for an answer. So was I. The rays of sunlight danced at the same frequency as they
washed over us as we stood there facing each other across the eternity of that impossible
moment.

His voice seemed to come from far away: “Hey, no fair! That’s a man’s job!” he teased
softly.

“I hadn’t seen you, but I felt your presence from across the hall. Nature compensates…”

He threw back his handsome head, and his sunshine laugh boomed out happily across the
endless spaces inside me, filling them completely at last.

~*~
 97

Through All Eternity

The mule was badly winded by the time they reached the pass. He had led it by the bridle
all the way through the treacherous mountains, barely stopping for rest, for they had but a
day’s lead on their pursuers and could ill afford to dawdle. Now he walked behind, urging
it on through the pass with grunts and jabs of the quirt. She rode silently, her peerless form
sweetly poised sidesaddle. Her glossy topknot reflected the brilliant sunlight as it bobbed
in unison to the mule’s gait. He could not remember having seen so lovely a sight, ever
before.

But that’s what he always told her. “You’re obsessed, you know that?” she had once
pointed out, laughing. His reply had been to pull her into a close embrace and kiss her full,
soft, amazingly shaped lips, resembling nothing so much as the recurved bow used by the
horsemen of the Steppe. He loved her jawline as much as he loved her lips, and he loved
her topknot as much as he loved everything else of her and about her. He loved the way
she talked, her forehead lightly furrowed in concentration and her perfect eyebrows
coming together as if to help link her thought processes.

Her walk mesmerized him. It was as if she was a warrior herself, the way she strode with a
jaunty swing to her wide shoulders. Lovely women aren’t meant to have wide shoulders,
he was told, but he hated narrow shoulders on a girl, it made them somehow so
submissive-looking. This one, she had the straight, honest shoulders of a youth. Mehr-un-
nisa was a princess by birth as well as by nature, and she always walked as if she had just
won a great battle and was reviewing the surrender ceremony. She was a woman worth
risking one’s life for, he thought for the hundredth time, and risked his life he certainly had
in spiriting her away, for her father was a powerful chieftain and would not rest till he had
his head on a pole.

He had stopped cataloguing her assets long ago. There were so many wonders to her, of
her, and in her that a single lifetime was not enough to appreciate them all. Sometimes he
feared that she had taken possession of his very soul, and was an evil spirit. But her wild
beauty and her sparkling mind always blew these dark thoughts out of his medieval head,
and he ended up squarely facing up to the fact that she was the most beautiful—truly
beautiful—woman he’d even seen and that he was madly in love with her. Then there was
always an answering echo at the back of his mind that said “...as you always have been,
you fool, and as you always will be...”

The sound of drumming hooves brought him back to the present; riders with drawn swords
were galloping down the hillsides at them. He snatched his own weapon from its gem-
encrusted scabbard, bringing up his shield protectively as he prepared to defend her with
his life. The horsemen did not attack, however, but formed a cordon around them and
marched them off silently to a camp in the nearby hills.

Their leader questioned him. “Who are you and why do you pass this way?” So he told his
story of love and of their flight from her cruel father. The leader’s eyes softened.
 98

“Ah! The follies of love! But the true fool is the one who hasn’t made them. Love is worth
fighting and dying for!” he asserted.

“Are you familiar with the works of Rumi, stranger?” the leader asked suddenly.

He was, and he recited two stanzas of Rumi’s mystical love poem ‘The Poetry of
Shamsuddin’ that start with the words ‘In the night of dark despair, the bitter stars are your
only friends, as the bird of life folds its wings for eternal flight from your wounded heart...’
The bearded chief nodded, satisfied. “So! You are a well-read man! And you think you
have taken what is rightfully yours! By Allah the Merciful, you shall have your lives and
each other; The Lion swears this before the great angel Gabreel himself. Any foe of
Ibrahim Lodhi is my friend!”

And thus did Zahiruddin Muhammad ‘The Babur’ win young Daulat Khan Lodhi’s
livelong friendship and support, through which—Allah be praised—a mighty land would
one day be his after the fateful battle at Panipat...

Captain William Somerset shut his eyes for a second before opening them again. He was
aware that the turbaned head could pop up any moment from behind the rock he was
watching so closely. That particular Afghan rifleman was a better shot than the others,
which is saying a lot in a land where a boy learns to shoot a rifle well before he equals it in
height. They made their guns and ammunition themselves, he knew, and some excellent
specimens had fallen into British hands during these wars with the Afghans. To Somerset,
they strongly resembled the long-barrelled Kentucky rifles that the Americans had used so
effectively against the Redcoats, as they called the British troops who had fought to retain
England’s hegemony over her colonies in North America.

Somerset had seen thirteen of his men felled by single shots from that particular highland
sniper, and having lost faith in the stopping power of the Lee-Enfield .303 he used, with its
nickel-plated bullets, he had decided to improvise by filing down the noses of the bullets
he used, exposing the soft lead insides. He had even hollowed out the points, extending his
case for increased impact-absorption by arguing to himself that a hollow-point would tend
to increase the mushrooming effect after impact, the lead curling back upon itself like a
banana peel, unfolding like the petals of a flower...

Which reminded him of the rose that Susan Chalmers had been wearing in her hair at the
Saturday dance...it was a magenta rose, fresh and rare, but it paled before the breathtaking
beauty of the woman that wore it. The tall, stunning blonde who was the daughter of
Colonel Chalmers dominated the thoughts of the handsome young Captain these days,
practically to the exclusion of all else, so much so that even here, in the harsh sun, in the
midst of violent death, surrounded by the world’s best guerilla fighters who fought unseen
from cover and picked them off like nine-pins, he failed to get her out of his mind...
 99

The turban popped up and Somerset fired. The rifleman’s head snapped back as if yanked
by an invisible cord. The Afghan made as if to rise, then the rifle fell from nerveless hands
and went clattering down the slope as its owner slumped forward on the rock. There was a
great shout from the rocks above and a wailing, then the enemy faded away, taking the
body with them. When he was sure that there would not be any more shooting, Somerset
sent an orderly over to the foot of the hillock to retrieve the rifle.

It was strange, about Susan. When he’d kissed her on the terrace, after he’d led her outside
for a ‘breath of fresh air’, he almost felt he’d kissed her before...somewhere else...some
other time...it didn’t make any sense at all. They’d met for the first time at the annual
Regimental tent-pegging and polo match, and it was as if he’d recognized her instantly,
knew her from before. Somewhere before...long ago. William Somerset was the son of a
country squire and very down-to-earth and matter-of-fact in many respects, as those born
under the sign of Gemini usually are, and hardly given to flights of fancy. It shocked his
sense of self-knowledge that he should suddenly encounter a side to himself that he’d
never known existed...

Of late, however, he’d had a rival, a ruddy-cheeked, flippant, carefree type of cavalryman
from the 4th Hussars, the sort that (thought William Somerset in an uncharacteristic burst of
animosity against a fellow officer) died with ‘St. George for England!’ on their lips. Even
the Colonel had noticed, through his lone eye—he had lost the other in a skirmish a year
back—the keen attention the young subaltern was paying to his daughter. He rather
favoured Somerset’s chances over those of his rival, if only because he was the older and
more sober of the two, but he couldn’t resist having a little fun at his man’s expense.

“Er...Somerset...how do you rate our chances in the finals? I can see that you’re in good
form, but that new subaltern from the Hussars—what’s his name now, something to do
with chapels—ah, yes, Churchill...he’s quite dashing and very quick on the turns, don’t
you think?”

“Winston Spencer Churchill, Sir. He’s a chip off the old block; Blenheim Castle, the old
school tie and all that stuff, Sir. He’s a blue-blood and he’s the best that ever came out of
Blighty. We couldn’t find a better man till we reached Oxfordshire, Sir,” said Somerset
loyally. Colonel Chalmers was pleased. It was the reply he’d expect from a future son-in-
law.

“Good, good! Carry on, Somerset. I am sure you’ll both give a good account of
yourselves!”

And they had, winning alternate chukkers and drawing the game. Churchill and Somerset
were the top-scorers for their sides, and at the bar, the two men matched each other peg for
peg. Their rivalry off the field was well known, too. As news of their tussle for the fair
hand of the Colonel’s daughter spread, it became a sort of regimental pastime to keep
score. Sometimes Somerset was in the lead, and sometimes Churchill got the better of his
senior. It was very funny and it was very serious. For Somerset, it was a matter of life and
death. For Churchill, it was just a game. He had other horizons to conquer.
 100

Then both their regiments were recalled for rehabilitation, and Winston Churchill decided
to leave the army and become a journalist. He was done with fighting...for the nonce.

He turned up at Somerset’s wedding...as the best man, very rubicund and jolly, a white
carnation stuck jauntily in the lapel of his jacket. After the ceremony, he shook Somerset’s
hand and wished him luck.

“Have to tell you something, old chap. I never really wanted to get in your way, it’s just
typical of me to muck in where there’s a spot of competition. Never laid a finger on her,
either, because I knew she was for you. And I’d have shot the first man who so much as
asked her for a dance. Best of luck, old boy!”

Somerset shook his hand dumbly. How could he explain to Churchill that Susan Chalmers
was life and sunshine and fresh air to him, that she was as much a part of him as his own
body, that he felt drawn irresistibly to her by forces beyond his understanding? So he said
nothing at all and merely posed with him for a photograph before seeing him ride away.

Then they’d gone back inside, he and Susan, and allowed the photographer to set up the
props (an ornate perfume bottle, some frothy silk and lace, and a bust of Aristotle) and
design the composition for their wedding picture. When they went to the studio the next
day, they were handed their Daguerreotype. It showed a tall, serious-looking Englishman
with mutton-chop whiskers standing behind a slim lady, hatless and very blonde, seated in
an ornately carved chair. She looked exquisite, starry-eyed.

In the background, slightly out of focus, was a large painting. It depicted an oriental couple
negotiating a high mountain pass. The woman, who rode a mule sidesaddle, bore a curious
resemblance to the bride in the foreground. Her topknot, burnished by the sun, glistened
like gold.

A tall, serious-faced man with dark stylized whiskers walked behind, urging the tiring
mule to keep going. He was heavily armed. The picture appeared to date back to another
century. Funny, how they hadn’t noticed it when the photographer was composing the
shot...

At twenty-seven, Gautam Deb-Roy was already famous. He was a famous flirt, a famous
party-hopper, and a famous social butterfly. Tall, dark, and debonair, he exuded that
impalpable air of success, an aura of immunity from the laws that govern the lives of
ordinary men that comes from birth to great affluence. For Gautam’s father was Shantanu
Deb-Roy, the legendary film producer, director, and playwright.

Gautam encashed his father’s name and fame shamelessly, a dilettante and social gadfly
whose picture was always among those of the glitterati in the newspaper supplements. He
had never done a day’s work in his life, unless you counted the weekly interviews he gave
 101

to V-TV on the social whirl in the capital, the guest appearances in Talk Shows, and the
onus he often took upon himself of sparing some of his valuable time to judge beauty
contests. He was the city’s most eligible fritterbug, and that meant he had a rich social life,
for many a sweet young thing saw him as a shortcut to instant stardom and success, an
impression he was in no hurry to demolish. He was on a good turf and he knew it.

He had learnt very early in his eventful life that if he happened to bottom out socially and
was minus a date (it could happen to the best of us, he admitted ruefully to himself,
meaning it could happen even to Gautam Deb-Roy) of an evening, the best place for
Happy Hunting—from a bachelor’s point of view—was the International Centre of
Culture. It was the place the Bright Young Things chose when they were cruising to be
picked up by a sophisticated, well-heeled date...“in other words, read ‘someone like
Gautam Deb-Roy’”, he said to himself happily. The chances were that within an hour he’d
be leaving with a curvy young thing in a wispy sari clinging to his arm and twittering about
how much she’d like to see his apartment and re-do it in the latest ethnic chic...

It was just as well, for his own sake, that he met Suchitra Chaki at the fag end of his career
as a playboy. For when he did, his image of The Artist as a Young Man underwent a rapid
transformation. It happened that Friday afternoon...

He parked the white S-Class Merc with the single-digit registration plate in the space
reserved for the Director, coolly handing a five-hundred rupee tip to the startled parking lot
attendant, who gaped after him speechlessly. It was money well spent. Girls always noticed
these little signals that telegraphed wealth and success. If one wished to score, it paid to
heed them. Gautam invariably did. His minor investments had produced winners time and
again...

The receptionist flashed him her best smile as he sauntered into the lobby. She knew what
he was looking for, and had often fantasized that one day he would ask her out. Gautam
noted the come-hither look and was intrigued, in spite of her being much below his usual
standards. One never knew who one’s friends were.

“Anything special on today, Preeti?” he enquired. She flashed him another dazzler. ‘Hey!’
he thought, ‘she’s not a bad-looking chick at all! Must remember to check her out
sometime...’ He filed her away for a rainy day.

“Gee, Mr. Deb-Roy—no; not today!” she whispered apologetically. “But tomorrow, we
have a talk on ‘The Impressionists and their influence on Modern Art’. Would you like an
invitation? It’s entry by invitation only, as usual...” He nodded thoughtfully as he accepted
the card. For all his wild and wicked ways, Gautam Deb-Roy had a genuine interest in art.
It’s just that he didn’t have the resolve to follow through. He was Shantanu Deb-Roy’s
only son, and one arty-farty type in the family was enough...

“Thanks a ton, Preeti. That was really very sweet of you. I think I’ll just browse and see
what comes up.” She knew what he meant and pursed her lips. She’d always thought he
was made for better things than the kind of life he led. He was worth more than this. Her
 102

intuition told her that he was searching for something, and he’d put life on hold until he
found it. Trouble is, life had no ‘pause’ button...time passed. Before one knew it, it was
autumn...

If she could have peeped into his innermost thoughts, she’d have known that she had
intuited the truth. But she never came anywhere close to guessing the desperation and inner
turmoil that were so carefully concealed within. Gautam’s parents had separated when he
was very young. His father had started his career in films as an unknown script-writer-
cum-boom boy-cum-cameraman who had to struggle to make ends meet in a nascent
industry where the few big names called all the shots.

The young aspiring starlet he’d married had dropped him within a year of Gautam’s birth
in favour of a rising star in action films, Jaidev. That worthy, in turn, had enjoyed her
person but never married her, abandoning her for an aging heroine who had reached the
pinnacle and needed the prop of a young star to bolster her sagging career. His mother had
committed suicide. It was a sordid mess.

Gautam’s life rotated between the homes of his grandparents, sundry relatives, and even
some of his father’s colleagues. Practically an orphan, he ran wild, never for a moment
allowing the cynicism to show through, donning a mask of devil-may-care insouciance
with which to face the world. Later, when his father had become a success, he had even
less time for his son, a deficiency he tried to compensate for by giving him expensive toys,
like the Land Rover he presented him on his eighteenth birthday.

Guilt at his inability to give his son the attention he deserved led Shantanu Deb-Roy to
indulge the boy. He turned a blind eye to the fact that Gautam had become a social
butterfly and a wastrel, perhaps rationalizing that his son had the things he himself had
been denied and therefore somehow deserved them. It could have been a vicarious re-
living of his own wretched, penniless youth, when hunger and insecurity had dogged his
footsteps. Through Gautam, Shantanu enjoyed the happiness of carefree, fun-filled youth
he had never experienced personally. If he ever glimpsed his son’s inner dissatisfaction and
growing disenchantment with life, he never did anything about it. He was always so busy...

There was activity in the auditorium. Paintings were being displayed in a semi-circular
arrangement, and a slide-projector was being tested. It was in preparation for the lecture
scheduled for tomorrow, he guessed. A woman was supervising the displays, and he
casually went up to her to check her out.

She was about his age, nearing thirty, and he noticed that despite minimal make-up, she
was very beautiful in an ethereal sort of way. She had a smooth, fair complexion that
glowed with health, and her voice was a clear treble without any of the shrill tones
 103

associated with that range. It was a musical voice, and Gautam wondered if she sang well.
She probably did, and very well, too, he concluded. An urban sophisticate...

“Yes? Can I help you?” she asked in a friendly way. She did not seem to recognize him.
That threw him. He was used to instant recognition in places such as this.

“I’m Gautam Deb-Roy,” he announced.

“Yes...?” she said again, expectantly. She waited for more to follow, eyebrows raised in
anticipation. It was apparent she had never heard of him. That stung his ego a bit. “Gautam
Deb-Roy...you know: Shantanu Deb-Roy...?”

“Oh! From the caterers...? Why didn’t you say so right off? But hang on a sec, aren’t they
‘Roy Chowdhury & Sons’? ....Sunny!” This was addressed to someone out of sight.
“What’s the name of the catering firm?”

“‘Roy Chowdhury & Sons’, Madam,” came the muffled reply from under the dais.

“But then...then...who are you representing...Doordarshan?” She was somewhat confused.

It added to his chagrin.

He was seething now. “I am not representing anybody. I came in to have a look around,
that’s all. I might be able to attend the talk tomorrow...”

She was losing interest. She shrugged. “Do try.” Then she went back to work.

Back in the car, he scanned the invitation card. The talk began at 2.00 PM sharp, and the
speaker was one Suchitra Chaki, D.Litt., Painter, and former art critic for the Boston
Herald. He shuddered. She was probably some over-the-hill prune, a diaspora-discard with
pince-nez, a bulbous nose, mottled skin, varicose veins, wearing nylon pantyhose and large
feet stuffed into high heels, a dress two sizes too small, the whole thing topped by
garnishing of a silicone décolletage as fake as her acquired American East Coast accent.

But he had to attend. Not only did he have to be seen there, he couldn’t afford to lose the
opportunity of picking up an air-headed arty type keen to be seen with him during the
coffee break when the press photographers were busy with their cameras. After the talk,
he’d take her for dinner, then a fast drive for cocktails to that new joint, ‘Milestone 37’, on
NH 8, to loosen her up, then the piêce de résistance at his flat...before dropping her home
with promises to get in touch. It was an old pattern with him...

He was stunned, therefore, when he found the speaker to be the woman whom he’d spoken
to the previous afternoon. She was looking ravishing today in a semi-formal sari, with
diamonds in her shell-like ears and bangles on her wrists. Her oval face was amazing in its
perfection, and her eye-brows would have caused Keats, Byron, or Tennyson to go berserk.
 104

So would have her large, almond-shaped eyes, and her luscious pink lips that parted often
to reveal small, white teeth, for she smiled often as she spoke, and her musical voice was
as devastating as her deep dimples.

Jet-black hair cascaded in heavy waves to her strong, straight shoulders, and the simple
white, sleeveless blouse accentuated her finely muscled arms, narrow waist, rounded,
curvaceous hips, and shapely bosom. She appeared to be tiny...not more than 5’ 2”...and
her feet were shod in a pair of glittering party slippers from which her dainty toes peeped
shyly.

She was so well-formed and proportionate, the georgette sari clung so appealingly to the
indescribable perfection of her form...so sweet and melodious was her voice...the appeal of
her was so completely overwhelming in its charismatic Indian-ness...that Gautam Deb-
Roy, he of a thousand conquests, was spellbound. Then people were clapping as they rose
for ‘coffee’...and he realised that half the talk was over. He hadn’t heard a word of what
she’d said...
*

She was the cynosure of all eyes as she laughed and joked within an intimate circle.
Gautam Deb-Roy, feeling a bit left out, hovered at the sidelines nursing an orange juice.
For once, he wasn’t tempted to go for the whisky. She caught him looking at her and
smiled, and he went over. Now people recognized him, and a flashgun or two went off.

“Gautam! Long time no see, lover!” He groaned inwardly. Of all the times...! It was that
horsy daughter of the south-Indian cosmetics tycoon—what was her name?—and she had
no business to be so familiar with him. Just because he had spent a cozy evening with her
once...she insisted on pursuing him. Couldn’t she see he was busy...?

“And how’s the only son of India’s major film producer and director of ‘Neelaam’ getting
along without us...?” The attempt at territorial marking was obvious, and it was good that
Gautam did not see the smirks and concealed grins behind his back. For all his famous
lineage, he did not exactly have an impeccable reputation. It hadn’t bothered him so far.
Suddenly, it had become terribly important.

“You’re the son of the Shantanu Deb-Roy?” Suchitra Chaki asked him, and he gulped as
he nodded. Somehow, that was not the introduction he wanted...for once in his life.

“And are you into films as well?”

“...er...not exactly...” he croaked. He cleared his throat. “One Deb-Roy in films is enough
for me. I do a bit of theatre, television, and the odd painting or two.”

“You do? That’s interesting.” He had caught her attention at last. “And what exactly do
you paint, Mr. Deb-Roy?” she asked with friendly curiosity.
 105

“Well...um...no fixed agenda. Anything that appeals. Could be a landscape...a

portrait...even a group. Figures interest me.”

A titter went up around him and he paled with mortification. He hadn’t meant it quite like
that, but his reputation was getting in the way. “People in action...” he finished lamely, his
ears burning. More chuckles followed.

“How nice!” She appeared not to have noticed the crowd reaction. “We have to be getting
along,” she said, glancing at her watch. “Ten minutes behind schedule already. But if you
happen to find time, do get in touch, Mr. Deb-Roy. Maybe I can be of help...?”

It was pure professional interest. She was an art scout as well, he remembered. At her
age....!! Some woman!!
*

This time, he was more attentive as she spoke. He hadn’t lied. He did do a spot of painting.
Unknown to Gautam Deb-Roy, that orphaned son of a famous living film personality, his
father’s inimitable genes coursed through his body. It was just that his mind had negated
them. It was his way of destroying his heritage. He owed him...them...nothing. His parents
had never done anything for him. He was solely a hapless by-product of their brief liaison.
He did not feel obliged to honour any name, any heritage.

He had come from nowhere and he was going nowhere...Only, why did he now wish so
badly that he had used the lost years, done something with himself, harnessed the vast
resources at his disposal in a positive manner instead of frittering them away in vapid
pursuits? It had been a sort of self-annihilation, a cry from his tortured, unloved soul to the
uncaring universe that had deprived him of parental love, of meaningful human
relationships...

“...and Manet, even more so than Monet, took the school forward....by postulating that
potential for movement lies undiscovered even in commonplace, stationary objects. Degas,
of course, reveled in the heady, near-undecipherable blur of action as he opened up another
way of seeing the dynamic world around us. By highlighting the beauty of motion, he
inspired a whole new technique of painting and...yes, photography...that lay yet unborn in
the future.” She spoke effortlessly, in her element.

“If Degas forever influenced the way we look at movement—in dance and dancers—and
there are thousands of photographic reminders of ‘Degas’ all around us even today—I can
see Avinash Pasricha grinning from ear to ear in the third row—(laughter), it was Maurice
Utrillo, with his bold and wildly innovative vision, who again changed the way we see
ordinary, everyday objects, thereby inspiring Picasso, and perhaps even Salvadore Dali to
come up with their own visions of reality.” She paused, deep in thought.

“Centuries earlier,” she recalled dreamily, “a man called Vermeer, in what is today modern
Holland, showed us the importance of shallow focus to highlight an object without
resorting to shading or the effects of light-falloff. By sometimes throwing everything out of
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focus—Turner is a prime example—some of the Impressionists taught us the important

lesson that we really see with our hearts! ” She paused for effect. “True, we rely on basic
information collected by our eyes...but that data is processed by the brain and decoded by
the heart! That is why we all see differently, for no two brains or two hearts are exactly
alike.” A small round of applause circulated in the hall.

“Going on hastily from brains and hearts—otherwise Dr. Naresh Caroli, out there in the
middle, is going to ask me to join up at AIIMS—(loud laughter), I’ll proceed directly to
the one who is, arguably, the greatest Impressionist of them all—no! – the boy in the sixth
row – I do not mean David Copperfield!” (more laughter, louder this time)—I’m talking
about Vincent van Gogh! He sold only one painting in his entire life, and had it not been
for his brother, Theo, who supported his younger sibling all his life, our lives would never
have been enriched by an imagery that was so profoundly ahead of its time that even today
we despair of ever replicating his unique vision....”

There was loud and prolonged applause. She took the opportunity to take a sip from the
glass of water on the rostrum.

“Now: are there any questions, before we move on...anybody! Yes?”

A hand had shot up. Gautam Deb-Roy was surprised to find that it was his.

“You said, in effect, that the ‘creative blur’ and out-of-focus effects were gifts the
Impressionists left us. But I think you should have mentioned that they, in turn, owed it to
artists like Pieter Breughel...his ‘Wedding Dance’ is a good example where one can almost
see a blur shaping up as the dancers go round and round, arms linked...why, even the
‘Mona Lisa’ has a background that’s slightly out of focus. Vermeer was as much the
originator of the selective focus as Velasquez was...begging your pardon, ma’am.”

She was silent for a moment. “You are right, Sir. However, I can only apologise that I
ought to have restricted the scope of my discussion to the Impressionists – Vermeer was an
unfortunate but irresistible inclusion – and your point is well taken. Art is undoubtedly a
movement, a flow, stretching seamlessly from antiquity to the present day, as perhaps we
all are, all parts of an endless, closely-linked progression of humanity marching towards an
unknown frontier...I thank you, Sir, for your most valuable intervention.”

She was surprised. Why, the man was not quite the down-and-out gigolo she’d thought he
was. For all his unnerving good looks, there was another—more serious—side to him. It
was a puzzle she meant to unravel at the earliest...

“So this is what you’ve been up to in art!” she remarked sunnily as she surveyed his few
paintings. She had responded to his call the next day to visit his small studio in south
Delhi, and had seen no harm in accepting. After all, she’d as much as made the offer
herself, back there at the talk, during the coffee break. Now, as she moved around them,
 107

she didn’t know quite what to say. They were technically superb...the man was gifted, only
he didn’t see it. But the big disappointment was that they were so...so...flat! They had no
life...

“Well?” enquired Gautam. He was tense. For some reason, her opinion was very important
to him. He held his breath...

“Mr. Deb-Roy...” She searched for the right words. “I don’t know how to tell you this, so
I’ll give you the good news first. I think you have incredible talent. It’s a not a gift you
choose to exploit fully, however, the way it looks to me.”

She pointed at a street scene, dark and full of hungry shadows. “The technical quality...I
wonder where you get that from...is unquestionable. But there’s no life in the pictures.
They’ve got no soul, Mr. Deb-Roy! They’re blueprints...not art. They all are, more’s the
pity. Breathe life into your work, Mr. Deb-Roy! Feel! Feel the dark, the pain, the horror of
shattered dreams, the despair and the tragedy...and inject it into your work. Then...and only
then...will your paintings live...breathe...come alive. Give us living things, Mr. Deb-
Roy...no one wants to look at lifeless cadavers. Why, even Hieronymus Bosch’s cadavers
had more life!”

His shoulders straightened defensively. How could he tell her he painted what he saw...and
felt? The emptiness, the purposelessness...the awful pointlessness of it all...

She noticed the unconscious gesture and her heart softened. She came closer to him and
laid a hand on his arm, inwardly recoiling with surprise at the corded hardness of it.

“Take a change of scene, Mr. Deb-Roy, is my advice to you. Get away from yourself.
Choose to see beauty, not ugliness...I think it’ll bring out the best in you.” How could he
tell her he already had, at last...? That his paintings were just a pastime, a way out—an
excuse to live...

He looked into her eyes and nodded. Something stirred in him, and he stepped back from
her. Her heady woman-perfume was in his nostrils, a scent he seemed to remember ...from
where? It was unsettling. Her hair, her eyes, her lips...where had he seen them
before...where had he known her? When? He knew he had...sometime...someplace...long
ago...

She tried not to show her elation. It had been a risk...she could have destroyed him with her
deliberate brutality. But the chances for that happening were partially neutralized because
she meant nothing to him...nothing at all.

It had been a close call, but it was a chance she’d had to take. What if her criticism had
crushed him, destroyed him...?! It had been a decisive moment...like the ones Henri
Cartier-Bresson saw, freezing them forever with his Leica. It was fortunate that he was
made of sterner stuff. He was unexpectedly tough, resilient. His hardiness was at sharp
variance with his playboy image.
 108

She saw then a rare sight...a spark splutter to life within a man’s soul...and felt a bit like
God. She had relit something long extinguished in the depths of him. Time would tell
whether or not it burst into a flame...

It is very cold at twenty thousand feet in the Himalayas. The air is chilly, and the wind cuts
like a knife through all but the thickest of insulated clothing and fur-lined parkas. The
bearded man appeared to be impervious to the frigid conditions as he watched the sunrise.
The pale rosiness of the sky became a golden torrent that poured over the icy, snow-clad
peaks, so that the auric glitter dazzled him even through the snow-goggles. He was
unaware of his numb hands and feet, of the icicles that had formed in his heavy beard. He
had seen beauty, and he was alive. Alive...for the first time in this life!

For two years, he had wandered in the mountains beyond the Zanskar range, living like a
hermit. He had been advised to take a look at Nicholas Roerich’s paintings, the ones that
hung in the wooden castle at Naggar, in the Kulu valley, but he hadn’t. He did not want to
be influenced by another’s vision; he wanted to see for himself, open his eyes, his mind
and his heart...to really see. As she had asked him to see...

“Gautam!” she’d said, when he’d told her of his plans, “it’s the only way. I’m glad. It’ll
make you or break you. The sight of beauty can do that. If...when you see it...you’re never
the same afterwards. You are not like other men, ever again. You march to another
drummer, you hear another tune, you live in another universe...”

How could he tell her he already did, now! How could he even begin to explain to her
what she had done to him...had always done to him...? He shook his head to clear it. She
misread the gesture.

“You don’t believe me? Then just wait and see. I know it’s going to happen...and I’ll be
waiting...”

‘For what?’ he wondered. It had already happened...but he had to produce the results first.
He would never exist for her...as an artist and as—dare he dream it?—as a man, until he
had proved himself.

He rose to his feet, shivering now as consciousness of his surroundings returned, and
retraced his steps to his tent. He broke camp, shouldered his heavy burden and trudged on
through the icy landscape that was, he realised, so much like his life, only he had never
seen the beauty before, only the ugliness. It was she who had shown him, opened his mind,
his heart...

Strange visions had plagued his sleep. He had seen himself as a prehistoric hunter,
bringing freshly-killed game to his woman and their children as they waited in the cave in
the hills; as a Phoenician sailor on a long voyage; a German warlord who raided a tribe and
carried off a grand prize—a woman he took as his own; as a medieval warrior crossing a
 109

high mountain pass, his woman seated side-saddle on a mule; a British cavalry officer in
the Second Afghan War, wooing and winning a beauty with hair like ripened wheat...

The visions tormented him. Where did they come from? Was he hallucinating? Was this
what they called the narcosis of the peak? In each and every one of the visions, there was
a woman. She was the same woman every time; he was sure of that, even though her hair
colour might vary and her features might be a little different. She looked at him in the same
way, she smelt the same, felt the same, each time he took her in his arms, life after life. Her
body and her mind had the same capacity to take him soaring to heights of rapture and
achievement...

Her strength, her indomitable spirit, her unique, timeless beauty: they were returned to him
again and again...a pang of wild longing knifed through him, but he choked it off before it
could affect his heartbeat, the way it always did. He needed all the oxygen he could ingest,
all the strength he could muster, in this forbidding, gelid world where one false step could
send him plunging to his death. When he returned—if ever he returned—he would paint
them, for the images were burned forever into his consciousness.

Sapru House, at 3 PM on a Sunday, can be as deserted as Pragati Maidan when an

exhibition is not under way. But this Sunday was an exception. The paintings of an
unknown artist had been displayed there, and there was a good turnout. Delhi, for all its
crass hedonistic materialism, had its aesthetes as well. There were many supporters of
artistic causes, people who believed in encouraging struggling artists and designers, even
some canny investors who had made fortunes by investing in the works of once-unknown
painters and photographers.

Shakti Maira, Rajiv Sethi, Sharam Paul and his younger brother Raghu Rai, O.P. Sharma,
Shiv Kumar, Ashok Dilwali, Chitrangada Krishna, Satish Gujral, Avinash Pasricha: their
names were legion, the unknowns who had been discovered by the art-lovers of the
Capital. Delhi had a way of unearthing originals, sooner or later...it taken Maqbool Fida
Hussain to its bosom long before it became fashionable for Bombayites to lionize him. Art
was art, but it was also serious business.

After the inauguration—the traditional lamp having been lit by special invitee and old
friend, sitarist Debu Chaudhury himself, Gautam had sauntered off to the lawns behind the
imposing building to be by himself. He had instructed Vijay Pal, the final-year student of
Fine Arts who had got him the little atelier in Shahpur Jat, and who was managing the
show, to sell any of the paintings...all except one...the one of the couple crossing the
mountain pass. He didn’t have the heart to sell that one, for it seemed to have some special
significance for him...

An hour later, when he returned to the exhibition hall, Vijay Pal waved excitedly as he
spotted him. “Sold five of them, Boss! You’ll never believe the amounts I’ve
negotiated...!”
 110

He handed Gautam the cheques proudly. Gautam didn’t even bother to glance at them.
“Vijay, you haven’t sold the big one...the one I told you not to sell?” he asked anxiously.

“Well...yes and no.” Gautam’s eyebrows shot up in enquiry. “I haven’t exactly sold it...but
a lady insisted she had to have it, and she’s forced a blank cheque on me. It’s drawn on her
account with Chase Manhattan Bank, New York...and she asked me to tell you that you
can fill in whatever sum you fancied! That’s her over there, the one in the pink sari. Quite
a stunner, too!”

A bearded man was approaching her. She had never seen him before. His hair was like a
dark mane around his wide, shawl-covered shoulders, and he wore a spotless white kurta
and churidars. His face—what was visible of it under the bushy beard—was deeply seamed
and tanned, blasted mercilessly by the elements. His hands, strong and supple, were the
colour of mahogany, as if the sun, twenty thousand feet closer, had tried its level best to
scorch them.

He stood tall and erect, balanced lightly on his long legs, squinting at her as if through a
whiteout, the dazzle of a snowstorm...and he was grinning. A mountain man! And he
seemed to know her!

Why, it was him...Gautam! So the ‘G. Roy’ of today—the name on the invitation card—
was none other than the Gautam Deb-Roy of yesteryear, the namby-pamby, shampooed,
shaved, massaged, and coiffed dandy who lived a dissipated life...She could hardly
recognize him now; two-and-a half years in the mountains had changed him so. There was
an air of the eternal snows about him. He looked at another scene, saw another horizon, he
marched to another drummer...

With a slight sense of shock, she realised she was using the very words she had said to him
before he’d left; it had happened as she had presaged. A warmth rose within her and
suffused her entire being...
*

Very few people know that Triveni Kala Sangam, close to Sapru House, has a very cosy,
clean, and artistically-designed cafeteria on the ground floor that spills over onto terraced
spaces enclosed by manicured indoor gardens. It’s a very quiet and private place, which is
why it is so popular with lovers. The doors are open to all, although technically only those
taking art or photography courses there are entitled to use it. The fare is simple but
delicious and—best of all—it’s inexpensive, for struggling artists usually have modest
budgets.

Suchitra and Gautam shared a table and talked. The aroma of hot coffee rose from their
steaming cups, but they were engrossed in their discussion and the brew was cooling under
the ceiling fan. She listened to his account with deep interest: of his struggle to come to
terms with himself in the unforgiving badlands he had ventured into. It was a far cry from
 111

the hot and dusty city, with its madding crowds and raucous traffic. Time passed quickly,
and it was evening before she broached the topic....

“Gautam,” she asked softly, “what inspired them? The images, I mean. They are based in
different historical periods, but I can see the theme is the same: a man haunted by a
woman. How did it happen? And that picture of the twosome crossing the pass...will it
surprise you if I tell you that I have its twin? It’s a genuine Medieval-Indian original, and I
paid an obscene amount to a Greenwich art dealer for it.”

Her shapely brows came together in thought, and his knees weakened reflexively. He
looked at the amazing beauty of Suchitra Chaki, at the profusion of her glossy hair, the
raven confusion that eddied around her lovely oval face, he looked at her amazing lips, into
her deep brown eyes, into her lovely soul, and he was lost...it took him time to recover.

“Suchitra, I know you won’t believe me, but I saw them in dreams, all of them.” She
opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “Don’t scoff, Suchitra. Did you know that
Nicola Tesla ‘dreamt’ all his inventions—right down to the tiniest detail—before he
crafted them? He was a wildly eccentric genius who believed that everything that was to be
invented already existed in another dimension. Anyone with the right kind of mind could
tune in to the blueprints, he said.” Gautam paused in wonder.

“He must have been telling the truth, Suchitra, because all his drawings were engineering
drawings, not just sketches, and allowed machining tolerances no coarser than 25 microns!
He always considered Edison’s way of experimenting ad infinitum ad nauseum a very
wasteful way of working. Tesla’s inventions—almost all of which, by the way, were stolen
by other inventors because he never bothered to patent them—functioned perfectly from
the moment they were switched on. Something like that must have happened to me...”

She didn’t know what to say, so all she said was “Alright, Gautam, I can’t force you to sell
me the picture, but maybe you’ll change your mind when you see the...uh...I won’t call it
the ‘original’...perhaps ‘earlier version’ is a better term. Come to my house tomorrow and
you’ll see.”

And it was as she’d said. Gautam stood in her plush drawing room and gazed in wonder at
the progenitor of his picture. The oil paints had matured and dimmed in luster, and the
varnish had acquired the patina that four centuries had brought in their train, but the impact
remained undimmed by time.

‘Like her eternal beauty!’ he thought, ‘She is lovelier with each passing lifetime. What
karma I must have accumulated to deserve to meet her life after life..!’

But he only said “The perspective’s different. This one is from a viewpoint off to the left
of the track, and slightly to the rear of the figures. Mine is from a lower angle, three-
quarter front view, bringing out the highlights in your ... I mean … her hair, as well as
catchlights in her eyes. Besides, I think the angle of the light enhances the modeling of the
 112

mule’s form as well as those of the human figures, increasing depth and solidity...but both
are a pair, as you said. It’s weird!”

She was unrelenting. “So the verdict is...?” she pressed.

He shrugged. ‘You win. It’s yours. I can’t keep it now, the two pictures are a brace; it
would be criminal to keep them apart.”

She handed him the blank cheque. “Anything you like...”

“Thanks!” he said and tore it to shreds.

“Why?” she asked, annoyed.

“Because I don’t need the money. Nor the picture, for that matter...I’ve got the original!”
he confessed.

That surprised her. “You have? Where?”

“Right here!” he said, and took her into his arms and kissed her.

Her well-remembered body fitted so beautifully to his, as if they were made for each other.
It all came flooding back to them in brilliant detail; time after time, life after life, extending
in either direction through all eternity.

She remembered, because she called him by a name from the past, and as they fused into
one entity, time stopped for a well-deserved breather. After all, eternity is a big place…and
they had all the time in the universe.

~*~
 113

Time Pass

As was his custom, he arrived at the office at 7.30 AM sharp. The parking lot was empty at
that hour, and his chauffeur had no difficulty in guiding the BMW 850 ZLX smoothly into
its reserved slot. He emerged, a slim, spare figure clad in a white khadi bush-shirt, dark
brown cotton trousers and sandals, and walked briskly to his office on the third floor. He
never took the lift. Letting himself in with his own magnetic slash card, he flung open the
doors and went straight to the small, shallow wall-cabinet to the right-hand side of his
simple desk and unlocked it.

He stood gazing intently at the contents for a few minutes, and then he relocked it and sat
down to work. The answering machine had several messages for him, not all of them
important. There was one from the Chamber of Commerce that invited him to attend a
luncheon meeting with the visiting Nigerian delegation, next Saturday. The formal
invitation was in the mail, but they had called to book his time well in advance, knowing
his tight schedule. They were the advance team that was to work out the modalities of the
proposed technology transfer agreement that had been chalked out last month.

There was another from his overseas collaborators, Adair & Robinson Pty., Melbourne.
They needed some more estimates for their proposed joint Letter of Intent to the King of
Brunei about the oil-well conservation and management plan that was in the pipeline (nice
choice of words there, he thought): the fax followed (it was probably lying in the machine
in his secretary’s office).

And so another day had begun. He worked on steadily, tirelessly, issuing clarifications and
reminders, sorting out differences of opinion between departmental heads, sending what
he called ‘I think’ memos to concerned officers that opened up avenues for thought and
action, and attending review meetings.

It was 9 pm when he rose. A different chauffeur waited to take him home. He never asked
any employee to work more than eight hours a day. They were people with heavier family
responsibilities than he; they needed to devote some time to their folks. Not like him, a
bachelor, with a full complement of household staff to care for him. If he didn’t work at
least twelve hours a day, he felt incomplete, as if he had let someone down. He looked
involuntarily at the locked wall-cabinet to his right…

The small group of girls came in, talking loudly among themselves, a welcome cloud of
colour and perfume in the drab, dim interior of the University Coffee House. Vishal
nudged Jitu in the ribs. “There she is, Jitu! I told you she’d come today. Say, she’s looking
really cute, don’t you think? Who’d ever guess she’s going to be doing smelly chemistry
experiments in the Science Faculty in an hour’s time?”
 114

Jitu was silent. After the first glance at her, he did not look her way again. Vishal sensed
his misery. “Look, go and ask her out after class. Money’s no problem: I’ll lend you a
hundred…don’t bother about returning it…my Dad can afford it.”

Jitu shook his head dumbly. “It’s not going to work out, Vishal and you know it. She just
doesn’t find me interesting. We aren’t exactly in the same league, socially, you know. The
only child, the precious daughter of a high-profile bureaucrat doesn’t go out with someone
like me…” His voice trailed off. He recalled, burning with shame, that she had spurned the
birthday gift he’d given her...Vishal had wangled the invitation for him.

It hadn’t been much, just a bunch of roses and a pair of imitation diamond tops. “Zircons
don’t agree with me…uh…Jitu, isn’t it? (She’d had to grope for his name). I guess I prefer
the real thing. Sorry…but I can’t accept them.” He had wished the ground would open and
swallow him up as she thrust them back into his hands. He had remained standing there
foolishly before turning away without a word.

He had slaved on the newspaper route for six months to save the money to buy them for
her. But they had no value for him now, since Mandira Mitra didn’t want them. He loved
her more than he could ever express in words. Why he did so was beyond him. He simply
did.

He had flung the now-valueless tops into the smelly drain that flowed under the large
culvert near his home in the shabby Postal Colony in Shaanbagh. Shaanbagh…the Garden
of Pride! What a ridiculous name! It was a mean and squalid little colony…

Jitu’s father, Nakul Shome, was a postmaster. He had educated his three children with
considerable difficulty, and Indrajit was the last. There was little money left in the kitty
after Roma’s wedding dowry, and he had been unable to raise the funds for an English
Honour’s course for his youngest child. It was a great pity, because Jitu was such a talented
singer and writer…he had a rich, deep voice, and had written many articles for the school
magazine…one had even been published in the newspaper.

So Jitu had joined the T.T.I.—the Technical Training Institute—and was learning how to
operate machine tools. It was said that a good lathe-operator could earn a salary of three
thousand rupees a month after a few years. It was the best the old man could do. Jitu
appreciated that. It’s just that he was young, it was spring, and he had seen this lovely girl
and, fool that he was, had fallen for her, hook, line, and sinker.

It had been love at first sight. Jitu was in the library when she had come up to him and
asked where the reference section was. He had showed her the signboard that pointed to
the secluded room at the back of the hall where the non-issuable reference textbooks were
kept. That was all. And a bolt had hit him square in the chest so that he couldn’t breathe.

Her matchless beauty transfixed him, paralyzed him. She had a round-oval face, with large
intelligent eyes framed by peerless eyebrows. Her wide, generous mouth pouted via lips
that put rose petals to shame. He noted, in the midst of the storm of emotions that had
 115

suddenly arisen in his chest, that they curved up humorously at the corners, parenthesized
by deep laugh-lines. He had no words to describe the flawless Roman nose with the flaring
nostrils of a thoroughbred. Her small, perfect ears peeped out from under waves of jet-
black hair. Her figure was sheer sorcery…he had never seen such grace and symmetry in a
female form before…

Vishal’s voice jerked him out of his reverie…“Hey, Jitu, it’s OK, man. I mean, it’s not the
end of the world, right? There are others…”

Jitu smiled sadly. “A compromise? Sorry, Vishal that’s not my style, either. Ever again. I
think I’ll just concentrate on the lectures and practical classes. My father is going to retire
after three or four years, and I have to be on my own feet by then. There’s no point in
wishful thinking, is there?”

Something died in Jitu at that moment. But something else was born in its place:
something lesser, more desperate, and yet, in its own way, far greater…an excuse to live.

Vishal had to admit that Jitu was right. It was impractical…impossible. Vishal was a born
hedonistic materialist…that was the way he had been brought up. ‘Eat, drink and be merry’
was his motto…‘Give no thought for the morrow; today, and all its pleasures, is all that
matters’. The finer things of the spirit never touched him. It was hard to tell who was the
better off of the two...

Vishal had little to worry about. His father was a prosperous builder and always had
several large construction projects on hand. He had given Vishal a snappy Toyota Corolla
and sealed his social popularity. After his graduation (which was going to take him five
years instead of three, the way he party-ied!), he would join his father’s business and make
money hand over fist. Several girls had an eye on him. He was a good catch. There was no
denying that. No long, tiring hours standing in front of a vibrating, rumbling machine-tool
for him…no heat, no sweat, no fine metal dust swirling about in his face, choking…

The survey team from the Ministry of Defence Scholarship Board was making its rounds.
They were bored, and wanted to get the formality of surveying the TTI over with as soon
as possible. No student from any TTI had ever got a scholarship. They were a sloppy and
unskilled lot. A slim young man on a lathe caught their attention. His marker was
gleaming, and all turnings were going smoothly into a correctly positioned bin. There was
no mess around his lathe. He was working on a die.

They asked him a lot of questions: he answered them all correctly. Yes, he was using
No.42 Die Steel; it was the costliest, but the best, raw material. No, he had got it cheap at a
scrap merchant’s…he’d paid only one-fourth its real market price. No, MS (mild steel) was
a poor alternative because it had only one-tenth the life of DS and if the dimensions of the
replacement die were even 25 microns off, the resultant parts would not be
interchangeable. That way, DS was cheaper in the long run. True, it was hard work; it took
 116

much longer to turn, and wore out many a boron or carbide-tipped tool, but if that was the
price one had to pay for quality…

When the results were out, Jitu’s name was on the list. He had won a two-year
apprenticeship at the famous Ishhapur Rifle Factory in West Bengal. He decided to
specialize in operating jig-boring machines and surface grinders. Within a year, he was
taken off the training and sent to Brno, Czechoslovakia. He was part of a team of fifty
trainees who were to learn the operation of highly sophisticated machines that were
necessary for manufacturing parts for the new 5.56 mm sten machine carbine.

It was going to be the standard issue to infantry divisions of the Indian Army, and had been
jointly developed by the legendary Czech Maschinen-Pistole Werke and the DRDO of the
Indian Ordnance Board.

The Indian team was a big hit with the Czech girls, always looking for a change and
sensing better prospects here than those locally available. Jitu found them somewhat coarse
and obvious. He preferred to exercise his option of attending two-hour free coaching
classes in metallurgy every evening. He learnt the basics of casehardening, sintering,
annealing, tempering, and other varieties of heat-treatment that vastly improved the
durability of machined parts.

He had always been interested in learning about grey-iron and aluminium casting. Now he
got an opportunity to actually do it himself. He noted the similarity between investment
casting and the medieval ‘lost wax’ process that Benvenuto Cellini had used to produce his
masterpieces.

Hungry to learn more, he spent the nights in the press shop, watching the massive 500-ton
to 2000-ton hydraulic presses as they thundered and crashed out the heaviest of parts. The
foremen got used to him after a while, and even taught him how to operate the giant
presses. When he returned to India a year later, he was put in charge of a major machine
shop in the GCF, the famous Gun & Carriage Factory at Jabalpur. Within a year, he was
transferred as Asst. Engineer to the Vehicle Factory.

The first batch of NISSAN ‘Jongas’ (the soon-to-be-famous Jabalpur Ordnance New
Garage Assembly’) 4-wheel drive vehicles had just been received in CKD – completely
knocked down – condition. They were meant to supplement the Jeeps manufactured in
India by Mahindra & Mahindra. The assembly operation was a prelude to full-scale
manufacture of Jongas under the sharp eye of the Japanese collaborators, NISSAN. Vistas
of opportunity opened up for the twenty-seven year old Jitu. His urge to learn was
insatiable.

*
 117

It was a proud day for Kishan Mahindra. The first batch of M&M ‘Tornado’ off-the-road
vehicles had just been launched, and the auto Press had gone wild over it. At half the cost
of the much-vaunted Mitsubishi ‘Pajero’, the Tornado promised—and delivered—
comparable power, performance, and luxury.

It won the ‘Off-Roader of the Year’ as well as ‘Car of the Year’ awards from Automobile
magazine, which rated it as the best in its class. The design and development team had
been led by young Indrajit Shome, now Chief Development Engineer.

Mitsubishi pricked up their ears. They had been beaten at their own game. It was a new
and bitter experience for them. They sent a secret delegation, split up and posing as tourists
coming to India for a vacation, to talk to the young engineer.

He refused. He was studying for his Industrial Engineering Degree…perhaps next year?
But he had to keep himself busy to pass the time, so he enrolled in a degree course in
Industrial Psychology…then for a Certificate Course for practicing as a qualified Lead
Assessor and Auditor for ISO 9000 quality systems…then Post Graduate studies in
Fluidics…then a Post Graduate Diploma in Marketing & Management from a good
American Institute, by correspondence.

The American Institution of Engineers co-opted him as an honorary member. Meanwhile,

he kept doggedly at his routine assignments. He was now Senior Vice President at M&M.
His doctoral thesis on ‘The development of remote electronic controls for managing high-
speed heavy vehicular traffic’ was well under way…

He got a letter from Vishal Sehgal. The construction industry back home was at an all-time
high, the stock markets had been in a bullish phase for over a year now…they were on
velvet…and he had married Mandira Mitra.

Jitu felt pain like he had never felt before. It was incredible, the pain. It was practically
unbearable. His appetite languished and his legs always seemed to be on fire. But he was
happy for his friend.

Deprivation and letting-go had always been Jitu’s lot…he struggled back on course and
plunged even deeper into his work. It helped to pass the time. His life changed its focus
again…but he sent Mandira a wedding gift …

He worked like a man possessed. He was possessed. He was driven to kill time as best he
could. Time had become a great enemy, perhaps the greatest enemy of all. He had to run it
down, force it to come to terms with him, compel it to pay…pay…pay for the lost years,
pay for the loss of the only person he had wanted to share his life with.
 118

Life…it had lost all meaning. It was nothing but a deadly pastime for him now, a time pass.
He was well established now. Work was his weapon for killing time with. 24 hours were
not enough, the world was not enough; he wanted more time to kill, more work to kill it
with: he had to make it pay for…

Like Captain Nemo of the Nautilus, in Jules Verne’s ‘Twenty Thousand Leagues under the
Sea’, he passed time as he waited for Time to come and get him…

Mitsubishi Motors got him at last. They had offered him the equivalent of US $ One
million dollars a year, tax-free. He asked for 1.5…and got it! He reveled in the Japanese
work ethic. Major developments were initiated under his initiative, including the forced-
feed twin-turbo intercooler that revolutionalized the Pajero. Its 2,800 cc diesel engine had
the output of a 3,500 cc.

He introduced fluidics control and monitoring systems to optimize engine performance.

They worked in tandem with electronic controls and often surpassed them in reliability and
accuracy.

High-speed cornering had always been the Pajero’s Achilles’ heel. He developed a
fluidics-hydraulic interface with seamlessly infinite variability that controlled suspension
and torsion-bar rigidity to match road conditions and cornering speeds. The old Pajero was
sluggish compared to the new variant. It was again a world-beater. Ford and GM took
serious note of the developments.

The Automobile Consultancy & Research Organization (ACRON) that he founded at

Poona became a name to conjure with. He was flooded with offers from all over the world.
Consultancy Projects from oilrigs to ocean liners came at him, a veritable flood of
technical problems. He solved them all, taking out several patents in the process. It was all
a huge game, and it worked! It passed time like nothing else…

The stock-market crash and the slump in the building industry did not affect him at all. He
lived a frugal, abstemious life and had invested in gilt-edged securities. He had saved
income tax by making handsome tax-free donations to charities. His favourite ones were
two orphanages in Bombay and Delhi. Besides, he had founded a philanthropic
organization that dispensed financial assistance to widowed women with dependents, on a
case-to-case basis, on merits.

Then the letter came from Vishal’s attorney. Jitu was their legally notified referee in case
of any untoward incident. Vishal and his father had been wiped out in the stock-market
crash. During the boom, they had pledged everything: the houses, the cars, even their
wives’ jewellery to raise more and more funds for speculation.
 119

When the bubble had suddenly burst, they were left penniless. One night, Vishal had taken
his revolver and shot his father dead, then blown out his own brains. Vishal’s wife and two
children were in dire straits.

Jitu wrote back to say that the case would receive serious consideration. Then he picked up
the phone and spoke briefly with the Director of the philanthropic organization...

Mandira Sehgal was shattered. Overnight, she had become a homeless widow. She had
only a hundred rupees left in her purse. It was all the money she owned in the world. Their
house, the car, the furniture, the fittings…everything was pledged to the moneylenders.
She gathered up all the old magazines and newspapers, all the other rubbish, all the small
trinkets she could find, and went to the kabariwallah. He took the old newspapers and
magazines and empty bottles, but he wouldn’t touch the trinkets. She pocketed the sixty
rupees she got from the kabari and walked to the jewellers.

The owner glanced at the lot—mostly gold-plated jewelry—and offered her a hundred
rupees. Then he had second thoughts, apparently: he put on his jeweller’s eyeglass and
closely examined the shiny tops. “But leave these with me…” he said doubtfully. “I will
give you a firm estimate tomorrow. It could be ninety or ninety-five for them,” he declared,
giving her a hundred-rupee note and a receipt for the tops. Mandira went outside, seething.
A mere hundred rupees! Still, it was a windfall right now. And for the second time in her
life, Jitu had given her shoddy imitation tops! What a cheapskate the man was…a poor
loser! A repeat act, and that too for a wedding gift! It just showed what a mean and
vindictive a person he really was.

Whatever he had been—boozer, womanizer, and gambler—Vishal Sehgal had been a

better man. If only he hadn’t taken the easy way out…if only he’d fought back, held his
head up proudly …instead of putting a bullet through it…leaving her stranded like this, to
fight for her own and her children’s lives…without a single person in the world who cared
for her. Her parents had died in a car crash two years back.

She returned to the jeweller’s the next day. “I am sorry…I can only offer you eighty…the
second-hand market is very slow nowadays,” he said regretfully. “But if you’d like to
wait…” he saw the look on her face and quickly modified his offer “OK, OK, ninety…but
that’s my final offer…take it or leave it. Is it acceptable to you, madam? Cash, of course!”

Ninety rupees! Not bad! She didn’t reply, so he took her silence as acquiescence and
counted out nine packets of hundred-rupee notes “…seventy…eighty…ninety thousand…
please count it.”

Mandira shook her head speechlessly as she put the pile of currency notes into her bag.
‘Ninety thousand rupees! From this cutthroat of a jeweler!’ She had thought he’d meant
ninety rupees!
 120

“They are magnificent!” the jeweller exulted. “It’s been a long time since I saw such a set
of diamond tops. Each of the twenty brilliants is flawless, nearly 300 points each!” he
gloated.

‘The diamonds had been real,’ she thought to herself as she hailed an auto rickshaw, ‘…so
he must have bought them for at least three times that amount!’ How she had misjudged
him!

An attorney called on her that evening. An unknown party had forwarded her case to the
Indian Institute of Humanitarian Causes. On examining her ‘proposal’ on merits, it had
been decided to allow her free use of the vacant flat at Greater Kailash Part I, for an initial
period of one year.

To meet her household expenses as well as the educational needs of her two school-going
children, a further sum of Rs. Twenty Thousand per mensem was sanctioned, payable six
months in advance. The first cheque for rupees one hundred and twenty thousand was
enclosed. Would she kindly sign the duplicate copy of the letter in token of having
received the funds and her willingness to accept the said terms?

Mandira signed in a daze. It couldn’t be true. Life wasn’t like that at all. Life was harsh,
brutal, unfair. Then why…who… ‘Who is he, my unknown benefactor…what’s his
interest in me?” he asked.

“Why, ma’am, anyone knows that the Chairman of the Indian Institute of Humanitarian
Causes, an NGO working to protect the rights of financially challenged urban ladies in
distress, is the world-famous engineering consultant, Dr. Indrajit Shome!’ explained the
solicitor. “He has no personal interest in your case…he is simply a philanthropist…a
champion of lost causes.”

She saw the BMW enter the gate and sneaked in behind it, brushing past the guard,
mumbling that she had some urgent business with the boss. He shouted helplessly after her
as she ran inside, so he shut the gate and tried the intercom to Jitu’s office. There was no
response. He kept trying…

Jitu slashed his card, flung the doors wide and went through his daily routine. He unlocked
the thin wall-cabinet and contemplated the contents. Today, he seemed to find an
answering…the lightly-shut doors flew open.

They did not recognize each other at first. There was too much time between them, in spite
of all his efforts at killing it. He saw a middle-aged woman with silver streaks in her hair.
Time had taken its usual toll, fading her once-matchless beauty and leaving nothing in its
place except sorrow and defeat. A great regret arose in his breast that it had to be this way,
but that’s the way it always was. Nothing ever beat time… nothing. It always won in the
end. Even those who gave it a good run for its money…
 121

She saw that there were rimless glasses on his nose and his thinning hair was almost white.
He was leaner than before, but there was the stamp of success, of authority, on his face.
She felt guilty that she had barged in like this just when he was saying a prayer or two
before the day’s work…then she gaped, open-mouthed. Over his shoulder, she had a clear
view of the contents of the cabinet …

There was no idol there, no pictures of gods or goddesses…only a ghost. It was just a
faded birthday snapshot of a young girl, radiant in her youthful beauty, smiling at the
camera. It was the picture of someone she once knew…used to be…it was a portrait of the
girl who used to be called Mandira Mitra.

She looked at him hard and long, for the last time—two spectres that had once met briefly
on the misty trails of time. Long ago…

Their spirits spoke wordlessly to each other, across the years, till there was nothing left to
be said. Then she turned and walked with as much dignity as she could muster towards the
door, and into her new life.

~*~
 122

Heartbreaker

It’s not hard to remember the first time I met her, that cold, wintry day twenty-five years
ago, and I belonged to her from that moment onwards. You know the feeling, like
something you don’t know you’ve been missing out on walks into your life suddenly, and
you say to yourself “This is it, Mister!” She looked at me with polite curiosity out of those
huge, deep-brown eyes full of innocent mischief, and my heart did crazy things within the
confines of my ribcage.

Her flawless complexion, her beautiful heart-shaped face, her graceful limbs, the magic of
her incredible smile that lit up that dingy airport lounge like a thousand electric bulbs, the
wonder of her amazingly musical voice, these things had enslaved me to her forever. I was
as putty in her soft and lovely little hands from that magic moment on.

I lived only for her. As we grew up together, my enslavement deepened. Her every wish
was my command. Every tear from those hypnotically lovely eyes was like a precious
diamond that had trapped a billion rays of sunlight, a king’s ransom that had to be paid for
in full with the heart’s blood. Every laugh was worth a hundred Beethoven concertos;
every frown was like a dark cloud scudding over the landscape of my bemused mind. She
captivated me like no one, no thing ever had before. It was hard to stay away from her, and
I looked forward to every precious moment that I could spend around her.

Right though kindergarten and high school we were inseparable, but she never gave so
much as the slightest hint that I was anything special to her. We were friends, true, but she
had legions of other admirers. Her teachers fawned over her, and she was the most popular
girl in her school. I still remember that fateful day when she went to her high school prom
without me; she had chosen a beau, and I ate my heart out, consumed with jealousy,
knowing she was dancing with someone else.

She graduated summa cum laude and was snapped up by the New York Times. I, too, rose
through the ranks, just an ordinary salesman whose sales somehow got bigger and bigger,
but my life—like that of salesmen everywhere—was nothing but a series of hellos and
goodbyes. A man who works for an oil company with interests all over the world is never
in one place for very long…

But wherever I went, I never forgot her. Whether it was Alaska or Azerbaijan, Brunei or
Baja California, Delhi or…well, you get the picture…I never forgot to get her some little
gift. I sometimes skipped meals to save money to buy her what I knew she craved. She
never ever had to tell me: we always had that special chemistry that whispered in my ear
her heart’s secret desire. So out I’d go into the snow and slush of 34th Street, to that select
store and buy her that rhinestone pendant with the platinum chain. Or fight off the mob of
frantic people all wanting to buy that new-fangled gadget called a ‘Discman’, a portable
CD player she never breathed a word to anyone about. But the disbelief that blazed for an
instant in her inexpressibly beautiful eyes, the stars in her pupils that supernovaed as she
unwrapped her gift and spotted what nestled inside, was worth more to me than all the
annual bonuses I’d ever earned, put together.
 123

My heart was breaking now, as she walked down the aisle and swore her vows to the man
of her dreams. I was alone again and, overcome by cowardice, I slipped out of the church
and went home. I couldn’t face the fact that she was gone from my life for good. It was as
if the earth had swung into a century-long orbit of darkness. I was cold, lonely and afraid. I
didn’t know if I could take the pain of loss. I’d never known such agony, such a feeling of
utter desolation.

And then I saw it. It was propped up on the dresser where I couldn’t miss it. It was a plain
white envelope, and my name was written on it in her exquisitely artistic handwriting.
There seemed to be something substantial inside, and my hands trembled as I tore it open.
It was a bulky greeting card, the type that plays a song when you open it.

The cover page read: “Hey, I hate your ugly, unsmiling mug…” I brushed a tear away with
my sleeve as I opened the card, grinning in anticipation, and read the bold lettering: “…So
SMILE, SOURPUSS !!!” The ugly old lion inside smiled a toothily ferocious ‘hello!’, the
whites of his eyes gleaming craftily.

Activated by the act of opening the card, the wafer-thin battery concealed within the foam-
padded cover turned on the juice, and the card came to life. It played an old song, and as it
sang itself out, everything fell into place perfectly and I knew it was going to be all right. It
was payoff time…and I knew I’d got it right, after all.

I played it over and over to hear the words that switched the sun on again:

“My Heart Belongs to Daddy”…

~*~
 124

Tomorrow Always Comes

It was morning, and Bobby Basu hated getting up mornings. He stretched, hauled himself
reluctantly out of bed, and parted the curtains to admit the sickly daylight. Watery sunshine
entered the room, and he screwed his eyes up against the hateful start of another day...
another soul-deadening day of scrounging for business, racing against deadlines, ten hours
full of dreaded uncertainties. The prospect of facing yet another round of drudgery left him
feeling slightly nauseous. Fighting the urge to draw the curtains and crawl back into bed,
he staggered to the washbasin.

He spotted him through the bathroom window, an old man on the terrace of the flat
opposite his. He was doing something funny: he’d kiss his palms and then blow kisses all
around him, turning like a clockwork toy through all the points of the compass. Then he
saw Bobby staring at him, and smiled. Bobby looked away hastily. He hadn’t meant to
stare, but the old man’s antics had been...well, kind of nutty. But when he looked again, the
old man was gone.

The next morning, he saw him again. This time the old man beckoned to him, spreading
his hands and looking around with evident relish. Bobby didn’t respond: he had just moved
into the new flat, and didn’t know anyone in the condo apart from the caretaker. This
suited him perfectly. He was not the gregarious sort. He was one of those men who didn’t
mind their own company. Civilized society was a system of organized crime where men
ate men through due process of law. It was a jungle, and Bobby was wary.

He’d been ripped off, suckered, shafted far too many times not to know that friends were
rare, and most people were only out to get what they could from him, otherwise why
would they want to waste their time with him? Bobby Basu knew the only person he could
depend upon for anything was himself. If anyone had told him he was just a tiny—albeit a
very tiny—part of a much larger and unimaginably complex organism called Humanity
(and which was just a miniscule component of an infinitely large universe), he would have
shrugged indifferently. This was just the sort of crap they fed you before they skinned you.
Life had made him a sceptic and closed his mind. With his mind, his heart had also closed.
It was as if Bobby was made of stone.

He hadn’t always been that way. When he was twenty-three, he had met a girl who was
quite unlike any other he’d ever met. She was such fun to be with, her observations were
so entertaining, she spoke French like a native, and she was so full of life. They had much
in common. He admired her immensely. He knew she was the girl he wanted to marry, to
have as his life partner. But he held himself back, waiting for the right time to pop the
question. The final examinations for his Chartered Engineer’s degree were just a few
weeks away, and he was focused on his studies.

When he got to meet her again, two months later, he found himself trying to reach out to
someone he didn’t know any more. She had changed, in some subtle, inner way. She had
become another person, older somehow, and more poised. Cool and collected. Aloof,
almost. The heady exuberance of youth had been supplanted by a self-conscious maturity.
 125

She was quieter, more restrained; she sat lower in the water. There was a sense of
fulfilment about her. He sensed a deep satisfaction of body and soul. She talked differently,
sat differently, moved differently. Something...someone...had touched her and changed her.
He could sense the invisible presence of another man. She now belonged to another, and
she was out of his reach—forever. He was too late...too late...

Bobby Basu had shut his mind wearily to the memory of her, picked up the pieces and
carried on with his life. He changed, too. He rarely laughed anymore. He withdrew into his
shell. Life became a succession of hateful chores, a compulsory and unnecessary burden.
The future that once seemed to overflow with promise, now stretched drearily ahead of
him, like an endless desert. He drifted on the sands of life, aimless, going wherever the
winds of fate blew him.

He had never met another girl he wanted to wed. A protective layer of indifference now
encrusted his heart, like the mucus an oyster secretes around a grain of sand to anaesthetize
the irritation...and in so doing produces—quite unwittingly—a priceless pearl. He nudged
the dreary years towards a swift finale, unaware that within him a pearl beyond price was
growing. Men do not rate themselves highly. They are, therefore, hard-pressed to believe
that anything good can arise in their hearts...

The door-bell rang. Bobby rose to answer it. It was Sunday, and he wasn’t expecting the
maid till 10 o’clock. It turned out to be the old man in the opposite flat, the one who did
those funny things on the terrace.

“Good morning!” Deep-set eyes under bushy eyebrows twinkled happily. “Could I borrow
some sugar? I find I’ve run out, and my mornings always start with a hot cuppa!”

Bobby nodded unenthusiastically. “Sure. But why don’t you have tea with me?”
Unsociable as he had become, manners hadn’t deserted him altogether. “I’ve got a kettle
simmering on the stove...”

They went out on the terrace. The orange sun was an inch above the horizon, a huge
nuclear fireball. Birds twittered in the branches of the Gulmohar trees, and pigeons cooed
in the eaves. The potted crotons nodded in silent approval as a cool breeze stirred their
leaves. The old man puffed out his chest, inhaling the fresh morning air in noisy
appreciation, and exhaled ecstatically.

“Life...beautiful Life!” He looked back at the younger man a trifle shyly. “When you’re
my age, you really come to appreciate every new day—there couldn’t be too many left in
the kitty, y’know—especially mornings such as this one. Just look at the sun – a reddish
disc some ninety million miles away, but there wouldn’t be any life on Earth without it!
Ever think of that?” he asked innocently, as if it was a new and original thought.
 126

“Everyone knows that,” Bobby grunted grouchily. He didn’t particularly appreciate early
morning gung ho. It was the time of day when he felt at his lowest ebb.

The aged one smiled. “Everyone knows, yes...but how many feel? ‘When feeling comes
first...” And he recited the poem by e e cummings. Bobby came wide-awake, somewhat
taken aback. It had been one of his favourite poems in those far-off days when she...an
expression of pain flitted across his face.

The old man pounced. “Poignant, isn’t it? Youth is fleeting, but Love is forever, you know
what I mean? It’s all that counts, in the final reckoning.”

Bobby shrugged noncommittally, on guard. He could sense that the old man was acutely
empathetic to his vibrations as he expanded on the theme.

“You don’t you see it? Now look here...I tell you, beyond our individual loves lies a larger
Love that encompasses everything...is everything...because everything is, at bottom
energy, and Love is the supreme form of that energy, its ultimate expression. What do you
think of that?”

“Can’t be bothered with all that tommyrot!” replied Bobby, intentionally rude, as he
steered clear of slippery ground. Besides, it did sound absurd.

“Everything is energy...including light,” continued the old man doggedly, “and Thought is,
at bottom, energy! Energy...call it ‘Thought’ if you will…congeals into matter—as atomic
physicists have already proved—and everything, all matter included, vibrates at different
frequencies, creating different states of energy, right from ‘Thought’—or its manifestation
on the physical plane—‘matter’. We are heading into the murky depths of quantum
physics, here, mind you: the paradoxical states and properties of sub-atomic particles.
Fascinating stuff! The whole material world, at that level, appears to be but a function of
our imagination, almost as if we see what we want to see—thus, of course, providing a
meeting ground for physics and metaphysics.”

“As if the two were mutually exclusive!” he added softly, almost under his breath.

He glanced up to confirm that he had finally snagged Bobby’s attention.

“Now take steam, for instance; it’s water when it’s not ice. But all the molecules are
H2O...! So it is with everything. We are all made of the same raw material – energy – and
the real us isn’t substance at all – in a material sense – but something intangible, more
intangible than even water vapour. We are all made—in the ultimate analysis—of Love,
the ultimate form of energy. So there’s no reason not to love one another. There’s simply
no excuse not to love each other. We’re All One! The Three Musketeers got it right... “All
for One and One for All.” That is what, in effect, almost every Master has preached...and
got crucified, burnt at the stake, or rubbed out by an assassin for his pains...”
 127

A wistful look, an expression of old, half-reconciled pain had flitted across Bobby’s
features for an instant before he consciously erased it. But not before the old man had
noticed it.

“You hurt,” he observed gently, sympathetically. Bobby cringed at his visitor’s

perspicacity. He hadn’t meant to give himself away. He was beginning to resent the
intrusion.

“There is much pain in you. It is an honest pain, and must be faced. ‘Personal loss’—as we
perceive it within our illusory world—can sometimes be very hard to take. But remember
one thing, my friend – there is no such thing as ‘personal loss’ ...it’s only exists in our
minds! Because we all win in the end, my son. Tomorrow always comes!” He capped that
enigmatic statement by telling Bobby a story from St Exupery’s The Little Prince, the one
about two teardrops that happened to meet in mid-river. One belonged to the girl who lost
her lover. The other belonged to the one who got him. It was a strangely moving tale, heart
wrenching in its stark simplicity and pathos.

The old man was silent for a while, lost in his thoughts, and Bobby studied him covertly
out of the corner of his eye. He was nearly bald, and his long, white beard flowed down to
the middle of his chest. Under an old navy dressing gown, frayed at the elbows, he wore a
cotton sleeping suit. His small feet were thrust into an old pair of leather nagra slippers
that had seen better days. A black muffler was slung carelessly around his neck. Bobby
noticed that the hands were gnarled and heavily calloused, though he was unable to guess
what had caused this, for his strange visitor was obviously educated, and couldn’t possibly
have done manual labour of any sort.

“Long ago” the old man said dreamily, “I met a girl I knew was perfect for me. She had
the most musical voice I’d ever heard. And she was chic... stunningly beautiful in a West-
bank-of-Paris sort of way—and what’s smarter than that?” The old man shook his head
wonderingly.

“And she was vivacious...alluring...dazzling. She moved like no one else on this planet,
and she said the most outrageous things I’d ever heard a girl say. She was bold, daring,
sure of the knowledge that she could control her life. I especially loved the way she talked
with her hands, her whole body vibrating to the energy of her words, her feelings. She was
a great communicator, she radiated pure energy...an aura of joy and well-being surrounded
her that drew people to her like a magnet...” His voice trailed off as he slipped into the
past.

He roused himself with an effort. “But she had a fiery temper, too! She simply oozed
passion—and didn’t care two hoots what others thought about it. You could see she loved
every moment of life—and she was hell-bent on getting the most out of it. She loved
herself, and had a very sure sense of who she was and where she was going. She was
independent to a fault and—best of all—she tried her best to conceal the fact that she knew
she was outstanding... such modesty!”
 128

The old man smiled to himself as he pictured his old love, and Bobby marvelled that, once
upon a time, this patriarch with the snowy beard had actually been young and in love.
Funny, though, how he could almost be recounting Bobby’s own experience, so accurately
had the descriptions tallied. It was weird. He got up to refill their empty cups, and the
silence as well.

“It wasn’t hypocrisy” continued the old man softly when Bobby returned, “because she
knew she was better—and by that I mean ‘more evolved’—than her fellows, but genuinely
wanted to relegate that bit of self-knowledge to the background, fact though it was. No one
likes people who are too full of themselves—‘holier than thou’—and she was extremely
sensitive to the feelings of others. For this—and hundreds of other reasons only a heart
understands—I fell deeply in love with her.”

“But her destiny lay elsewhere,” he continued sadly. “I was in a mess when I’d met her,
and she instantly diagnosed what was wrong with me and got down to sorting me out. For
a whole year, she went at me hammer and tongs till she’d put me together again. And then,
her work done, she moved on. She’d outgrown me, and my falling in love with her, my
possessiveness, my emotional dependence: that certainly didn’t help. Once or twice I got
her back for a while, but she had moved on, and, reluctantly, I had to let her go. But she
lives on in my heart...forever.”

The old man looked straight at Bobby and quoted from some obscure poem...
“When—of threescore years and ten,
Fifty’d come and gone again,
And but a dozen were left in hand—
I saw her, fairest in the land.

Since then, I gaze at things in bloom—

A dozen springs give little room—
To glimpse anew that beauty pure
I first saw in my dear Amour.

Unearthly radiance at her core

Celestial light from unknown shore:
Fall faster, darkness, I’m unafraid,
Take me back where I was made.

Other times will dawn anew,

Other grass will sip the dew,
Through every Age I’ll scan the plain
To glimpse her blessed form again.

And as she moves, the angels sing

And to and fro above her wing,
For I do find—as lives unwind—
The scenes repeat again, sublime.

The lark was made her song to sing,

The turtle dove to take to wing,
And I—oft animated earth—
To witness beauty, birth to birth.”
 129

Bobby was struck by the surreal quality of this terrace tea party. He sensed a purpose
behind the visit. Here was an old man who’d come for a cup of sugar and had stayed for a
cup of tea, a man who’d accurately read his face and his mind and, in empathizing with
him, was reciting poetry that hit Bobby where he lived, while telling his fortune as he read
it in the tea leaves, so to speak. Telling him—nay, assuring him—that love endured across
the eons, reassuring him that he would live to love her again, and that he would continue to
evolve, lifetime through lifetime, as he relived that ancient love and saw it for what it
really was: the realisation that All was Love, and that ‘Love’ was but another name for the
Creator.

“Yes, Bobby...” he went on, and Bobby started – he couldn’t recollect giving the old man
his name – “we are re-united with our friends and loved ones life after life. The soul—the
irreducible essence that we are made of—is deathless, immortal, being merely a tiny part
of a Greater Soul. Every life and every love comes to us with challenges as well as
opportunities attached, like the fragrance to the flower. Take it from me, Bobby: lives are
measured—not in terms of time or possessions gained—but in terms of experiences that
show us the way to personal growth and evolution by learning to relate to these events
creatively!”

Bingo! Right on cue, out came another poem:

Though She was gone—

Her fragrance stayed:
Like a sweet memory
In flowers arrayed.

A touch in my mind
Ignited my soul;
O Divine womankind
Who once made me whole.

The power of her smile

Could carry me aloft
Mile after mile
To worlds now long lost.

A universe away,
I look back and see
That very first day
When She and I meet.

It happens again
And again, endlessly;
As oceans of pain
Give solace to me.

Story of his life! A sense of déjà vu momentarily engulfed Bobby. It was as if he’d heard
the words somewhere before, for he knew for a certainty that they were true! He wondered
whether the old man had written the last two poems. They had a half-familiar ring to them,
like a fairy-tale heard from the womb. But what did it all add up to?
 130

Enlightenment—if that was the word that best suited the sudden glimmer of hope within
Bobby’s breast—followed. The old man carried on, in a stronger voice:

“I think we plan out our lives before we are born; we select the people, circumstances,
events, and locales we wish to encounter so that we may see ourselves in relation to
them...the harder and sadder the life, the more rapid the evolution. A life without suffering
and challenges doesn’t do much to bring out our innate qualities, Bobby...or help us to
make the choices that produce growth. Even the so-called failure we dread is actually a
victory, for it paves the path to success. Not always material success—though there’s
nothing wrong with that—but success in finding our own way to becoming the best version
of ourselves...the incentive to keep improving the paradigm endlessly, ad infinitum.
Remember the words of John Wesley when someone asked him his views on money? He
replied ‘Get all you can. Give all you can.’ I suppose it could apply to Love as well.”

The old man mopped his face. He was really working up the steam.

“I have learnt to count my blessings, Bobby, instead of railing against my fate, a fate I
chose for myself before I was born! To appreciate what I have, and strive to develop my
resources, instead of craving for the unattainable...to make the fullest use of the Present
and not to worry about the ‘dead Past’ or the ‘unborn Future’—two concepts which, by the
way, we invented along the way, based on our human experience of Time as a linear
sequence. A totally fictitious construction, of course, because there is no such thing as
Time. There is only a grand moment of Now! Everything that ever was and ever will be
already exists in a multi-layered moment of Now, a pulsing palimpsest of everything that
ever happened, an ever changing yet eternally same ‘Now’...a Divine Dichotomy too subtle
for the unenlightened human mind to comprehend.”

Bobby goggled at him. Where was the discussion heading?

“But...but what, then, of tomorrow?” he asked weakly. “You said tomorrow always comes.
How can it, if there is only the Present?”

The ancient one exulted. “Wonderful! Bravo! You are actually thinking! There is a
Tomorrow, my friend—but I use the word only within the ‘meaning’ of your illusion, the
mirage you choose to call Reality. It is the very tomorrow you create Now! Every
tomorrow you experience is created by you...in the everlasting moment of Now! Get me?”

Bobby nodded uncertainly, noting the sudden shift from ‘we’ to ‘you’. He was being
tutored, lovingly yet firmly; his mythologies were being demolished methodically, one by
one.

“Yes, Bobby,” said the old one, reading his thoughts, “Truth is like that...relentless!
There’s no way of stopping the process until The Truth emerges. I tell you this...there will
be better times, my friend—for tomorrow always comes...Now!” He sat back with an air of
deep satisfaction, as though unburdened of a mighty wisdom.
 131

“Over countless lifetimes, Bobby, you and I shall get all that we crave—including the
mythical her—whom, you’ll ultimately discover, is none other than yourself—and, with all
our experiences resolved into wisdom and enlightenment, shall finally ‘re-tire’, back to the
physical state, to re-experience the wonder of life all over again. Human relationships are
necessary at the embodied level, as learning tools—for it is only in experiencing our
relationship to other things, especially to opposites, that we learn what we really are.
That’s how we know what we can be, and start being what we know ourselves to be! Are
you with me thus far Bobby?”

Bobby nodded. He was intrigued in spite of himself. The old man’s words were getting
through.

The monologue continued. “As there can be no ‘short’ without ‘tall’, no ‘cold’ without
‘hot’, no ‘fear’ without it’s opposite, ‘Love’, so the Duality we live in—though illusory—
plays a crucial role in the process by which we resurrect our true selves. Then we can
choose to quit, after we come to know and realise Who We Are. Then it is that we may—
with all our doubts cleared as we come into Realisation of our True Nature—opt to merge
permanently with the Great Unity. Or we can choose to return...to help others.”

“Just a moment...let’s backtrack a bit. Fear is the opposite of Love? I thought hate was the
opposite of Love!” asked Bobby sceptically.

“Fear gives rise to anger, and it is anger that leads to hate. It is one of the major delusions
that Man is subject to in this world of Duality,” explained the wise one. “In fact, there are
only the two emotions: Fear...and Love! All the rest are but derivatives of these.”

He glanced up at the sun, but it was well above the horizon now and its radiance dazzled
him.

“We climb higher and higher, Bobby”, he continued in a firm voice, “sometimes slipping
back but nevertheless making steady progress, till we reach our goal of perfection. All of us
do, you know, sooner or later...without exception. It’s an integral part of the Master Plan.
There are no losers, only winners. We are never alone, for guardian angels and spirits of
the Great Ones are always there to protect and guide us. We are all important, we are all
equal in the eyes of Love...call it God if you will, for God is Love itself. That, by the way,
also explains the feelings of reverence we have for those whom we love, and important it
is, too, in the scheme of things. For the simple reason that We are One. There’s only one of
Us!” A look of joy suffused the lined and tired face.

“Yes, Bobby…there’s only One of Us, despite the compulsions of the Illusion. Learn to
look right through the Illusion, Bobby. See yourself in everyone and everything. It is the
ego that creates the illusion of separateness...an illusion that’s nevertheless very important
if we are to find the answers as how to go about shattering the Magic Mirror.”

“The...the Magic Mirror?” queried Bobby, puzzled.

 132

“‘The mirror cracked from side to side’ quoted the old one from Tennyson’s ‘The Lady of
Shallot’... “The illusion of duality, Bobby. Love demolishes this illusion by annihilating the
ego. Love is Selfish, for the Self is All There Is. There’s nothing else, you see. Love is
Unconditional, enduring forever; through all eternity...for Love is Who He Is…Who We
Are. That’s why all the sages and Masters, down the centuries and from all parts of your
planet, have asked you—nay, begged you—to serve and love each other, individuated parts
of a single, organic Whole.”

“Your planet, you said? Isn’t it yours, too?” asked Bobby suspiciously.

“More than you’d ever suspect, dear boy!” chuckled the hoary one.

He rose. “Time to go. I hope I didn’t come on too strong. Somehow felt I could share these
thoughts with you profitably.”

Bobby was nonplussed. Amazing things were happening in him, but his visitor appeared
not to notice his preoccupation.

“It was wonderful sharing a morning cup of tea with you,” said the old one as he shuffled
to the door. “I hope you won’t think it presumptuous of me to have prattled on and on
about Life and Love. All I can hope is that you’ll have faith, and carry on—with Love.
‘Give Love a chance’, as some of your recent bards have sung...and love Life as much as it
loves you. Remember the secret...Tomorrow Always Comes! Now! Everything in the
universe is cyclic. ”

He smiled enigmatically. “It never ends, Bobby, the Great Game. It just goes on at higher
and ever higher levels, giving you everything you want from a particular plane. Never be
afraid to love, Bobby. It’s sure to come back to you somewhere along the way...in spades!”
he said, and took his leave.

Bobby saw him to the door in a daze. There was much on his mind. After a few moments,
he remembered that the old man had run out of sugar, but he didn’t see the point of running
after him now. Tomorrow, perhaps, seeing that it Always Came…

Try as he might, he couldn’t sense Time as a measurable quantity, flowing past him—
present to the future—in its familiar linear progression. Everything just was. He wasn’t
hurting any more, thank God. He was quite composed—reconciled. If anything, he was
happy, blissfully free from pain, from sorrow, from worry. He sat serenely in the waiting
room for what could have been an eternity or a moment, trying not to fidget. The results
were to be announced after the evaluation. His turn finally came, and he followed the
staffer into the antechamber.

He looked around, astonished. He was in a vast marble courtyard. Stars twinkled distantly
in the blue-black emptiness beyond the vaulted ceiling that was supported by massive
 133

Doric columns reminiscent of the Parthenon. Strange, how those distant suns seemed such
an intrinsic part of him now, not the cold, remote, winking points of light he used to think
they were. A warm, diffused glow pervaded everything, pleasant and comfortingly neutral.
Everything was parked in neutral: it was neither day nor night, hot or cold, early or late. It
reminded him of Paris in the spring, walking in the park with her, her soft little hand held
gently in his. When Time had stopped...it had seemed to slow down and simply halt at
those times, just like Now.

He realised there was someone else in the room besides him, a strangely familiar figure
that stood with his back to him. Bobby struggled to place him. And then the other turned, a
thick, leather-bound book open in his hands, and at last Bobby knew where he was, and
Who he was facing.

“Hello, Bobby! Long time no see. Let’s see...where were we...? Ah, yes...the timelessness
of love. So what do you think now?” said the Old Man.

Bobby shrugged. “Had a feeling we’d meet again...well, Life may be Love, and Love may
be all there is, but I didn’t get to learn that first-hand, unfortunately. It was you who told
me it was to be experienced. But I never did.” There was neither reproach nor self-pity in
his voice. It was simply an observation.

The Old Man who had once come around asking for a cup of sugar nodded
sympathetically. “I know. But be patient, my son. There’s always tomorrow! You never
gave up on Love as a viable concept, did you? You hung in there, played out your assigned
role. Any comments...a retrospective, if you like?”

“The lark was made her song to sing,

The turtle dove to take to wing,
And I—oft animated earth—
To witness beauty, birth to birth.”
quoted Bobby, a trifle wistfully.

The Old Man grinned delightedly. “Touché! I love that verse, too. It’s true for Us. That’s
exactly the way it happens! OK, coming back to our position on Love...fine, if you want to
do more than just witness, just operate from your Highest Self... it works! You’re better at
it than you think. Now...want to say something about anything else you encountered, back
there in the Magic Mirror? Anything at all.”

Bobby looked down shyly at the spot where his feet ought to have been.

“Nothing much, I guess, except that I feel that a life without love is a life wasted. I ended
up making a lot of money—millions, in fact—but it was just an excuse to make some sense
out my life, a substitute for Love...so I guess I muffed it, my life I mean. I suppose you
could say that I feel that Things, with no one to share them with—without Love—are
worthless. And look where I am now...back to Square One...empty-handed went and came
I, and naked as a baby, so to say. But that’s alright: you can’t have everything in life, can
you?” he rationalised.
 134

The Old Man wasn’t too satisfied with Bobby’s conclusion. “No? And moreover, you
would rank Love as being above material possessions?”

“I most certainly would!” said Bobby, with all the deadly earnestness of one who has never
known complete, unconditional love to spring up in his lover’s breast. “Material things are
just a by-product of Love. I’m certain of that.”

The Old Man nodded thoughtfully. “Are they, now? Could be. But I seem to recall you
telling me that you made millions. Well, let’s see if money is a by-product of love, as you
put it...or if it’s the other way round. But if your experience doesn’t change, the next time
around, you’ll just need to repeat the course. Again and again. Till it does. All the best,
Bobby!”

And the very next moment, Bobby found himself hurtling through the immense
nothingness of the void.

There are many places on earth where spring is a magical time of year, a time when one
feels like going down on one’s knees and thanking the good Lord for the gift of life. Paris
in the springtime is one such place. But the dizzy splendour of his environs—the public
gardens at the Palace of Louis XVI at Versailles—failed to register on Basil Bartholomew,
sunk as he was in the utter depths of misery. For he was a writer suffering from writer’s
block.

For those readers unfamiliar with the symptoms of this strange, unpredictable malady,
suffice it to say that the wellsprings of the soul dry up. The muse takes wing for healthier
climes. The font of inspiration is a font no longer, just a hole in the heart from which no
life-giving inspiration flows. Words do not emerge ecstatically from the source of Life,
dancing with heady abandon, to cascade onto paper in torrents of intoxicating prose. In
fact, there are no words to write. And everyone knows that a writer who cannot write is no
longer a writer. He is crow-bait.

No one knew this better than Suzanne Karolski. Basil had met her when he was at the
height of his fame as an avante garde writer of modern novels. It was love at first sight.
She was tall, blonde and irresistible in an overwhelmingly-obvious Nordic sort of way, and
his blood, a contrasting mix of Puerto-Rican (and they don’t come more mixed than that)
and Brazilian (a good second to Puerto-Rican), had surged within him at the very first
glimpse of her.

She, on her part, had fallen for his fame, his shy reticence, and his undoubted talent.
Moreover, there was no doubt (she made no bones about it) that his newly earned wealth
enhanced his attractions. Each seemed to fulfill the other’s needs, therefore, as likely a
reason for a successful union as any. Or so it had seemed. Except that things had gone
wrong...terribly wrong. His fifth novel had been mercilessly lambasted by the critics, and
 135

had failed to go into a second impression, a first for him. Basil had gone into a hibernation
from which he seemed reluctant to emerge.

Gradually, as he shunned the limelight, and as his novels went off the shelves, he
metamorphosed into that dreaded thing: an ex-writer trapped in the limbo of his own
genius. Suzanne was not amused. She was bored silly. It wasn’t very nice being married to
a fearsomely talented man who spoke little and shut himself away for hours in his library
and listened to Bach.

A writer without his muse is a sorry spectacle. He mopes around all day with a
preoccupied air about him, toying listlessly with dozens of storylines that race through his
head. Not a single one of them sees the light of day. They are scanned unenthusiastically
and allowed to perish unlamented, for depression is, above all, enervating. It saps the
vitality and chokes the inspiration through which creativity flows into glorious fruition.

But worst of all, it has a deleterious effect on others. Depression is life threatening...and it
is highly infectious. Suzanne Karolski wanted out. All she craved was a place in the sun, a
place where there was fun and laughter and big spending and happy little (albeit brief)
romantic liaisons. She was young, beautiful, and desirable. She had a rage to Live. Who
can blame her for quietly walking out of Basil Bartholomew’s life? She wasn’t the first
woman to do walk out of a marriage turned sour, and she wouldn’t be the last.

Basil did not judge her or condemn her. He closed his mind to his failed marriage and
dipped deeper into his misery, as he searched frantically for the elusive factor that gave
meaning to life. Money and fame were not vital ingredients, that much was certain.
Anyway, they hadn’t added real meaning to his life. On the contrary—egg on the faces of
those who felt they were all that one needed to be supremely happy—they had poisoned
his whole life. Something was missing in the equation...but what?

Basil sat humbly at the feet of the great guru, and looked up at him in awe. He knew that
millions of people (including his kind, the rich and the famous) anxiously hung on every
word he uttered. Billions of dollars flowed in a constant stream to support the Foundations
that had been established in his name all over the globe. He traveled incessantly, speaking,
exhorting, cajoling, enlightening those who cared to listen.

They poured into his ashrams: the weary, the unhappy, the neglected, the cast-offs, all the
flotsam and jetsam of a world gone mad. Rich or poor, old or young, they beat a frenzied
path to his door, and none were turned away. By the standards of the West, the man was an
abject failure. He was barefooted, penniless, semi-clad, and lived on the charity of others.
Yet was he richer than the richest man on Earth.

He had an inexhaustible supply of what was, paradoxically, the rarest commodity of all:
Love. You could actually feel the Divine flame of it emanating from him like an energy
field: it was a palpable thing that wrapped him like a cloak. Its soothing waves washed
 136

over all who came to him, giving them comfort and solace. It was self-evident in the joy on
his countenance, the aura that surrounded him, the Light that seemed to go with him
wherever he went.

His mere presence was enough to gladden the sickest heart, to give new hope, new cheer.
He did not denounce anything, judged nothing and no one, demanded no obedience to any
set of rules, treated all as equals, and asked for nothing in return—yet material things
donated by the grateful piled up at his door. He directed that they be distributed among the
needy, the handicapped, the sick, the dying, and the unfortunate ones who lived lives of
quiet desperation.

He spoke often, simple words of deep meaning. The congregation struggled to understand,
to grasp, to capture the timeless wisdom as it left his ruby lips, struggling to assimilate
their essence before the words themselves returned to the Silence from whence they came.
Later, they pondered over their import, giving their rudderless lives new meaning and
direction as they translated them into terms that made sense to them, feeling the ancient
wisdom work its infallible magic within them, transforming their lives, imbuing them with
new courage, dignity, and purpose. And the key to it was Love...

It is an observable truism that you can only give away what you have. None can part with
what they do not have. If you have hate in you, hate is what you have to give to others. If
you have despair, you will pass it on to your fellow men. If you are fearful, fear shall you
distribute along the way. Basil had drunk deep of the Love and Joy that his guru had given
him unstintingly. And so it came to pass that when he finally left the shores of India, he
took with him the lore of Love and Joy that reverberated incessantly within him.

When one is astrally connected to the very Source of Things (learnt Basil), one has an
inexhaustible supply of everything, be it Love, Joy, Truth, or material manifestations of
these, for they are the very stuff of which the Creator is made. And since He realises
Himself through each one of His creations (for we are, in sum, part and parcel of Him,
along with each and every thing—seen or unseen—in the universe, which itself is but of
him) it was borne in on Basil that he had found what he had been searching for.

It was the Elixir of Life, though the myths surrounding this fabled product had named as its
source a secret spring that would reward one who drank from it with eternal life. The
Secret Spring, Basil realized, was within. It was not Without. Those who searched Without
went without.

Love was that fabled elixir, Basil realised, and thanked his guru again from the depths of
his soul, for his guru was that secret spring from which he had quenched his metaphysical
thirst and rediscovered the secret of his immortality. For Love—the gloriously eternal
Love Divine, not its lesser human version that is but a pale shadow of its heavenly
counterpart—is endless, eternal, unconditional, liberating, exhilarating, elevating,
amplifying and inspiring, a gift from The Source to reveal His true nature.
 137

Always residing deep within the immortal soul, in uneasy slumber until summoned forth
by a Master, it never fails to imbue its custodians with the same Divine qualities. And Basil
was filled to the brim with it...

Were it not for the fact that this scribe is directed to add the following postscript, we would
perforce have—on account of the limitations of printing processes, not to mention the
endless labour involved in transcribing accounts of the further adventures of Bobby and his
‘later’ incarnations—had to end this account right here (though the story itself is ‘endless’,
life to life, extending through all eternity). A Higher Power has mercifully thought it fit to
satisfy the reader’s curiosity as to the outcome of Bobby’s quest, and whether he was fated
to find his true love—and divine the true significance of Love—or to repeat the ‘course’
again and again till he finally succeeded.

So for the record be it noted that, in course of time, Bobby aka Basil found himself once
again ‘standing’ in the vast courtyard with the all-pervasive glow, where time stood still,
and where the stars felt so close and wonderfully familiar. Once again did he come face to
face with the one who had come asking for sugar, and once again did he discuss the events
of his life with him. The Old One listened patiently.

“So you say you had a miraculous turnaround towards the end, when you met the hermit-
king?” He chuckled to himself, as if at some secret joke. “The guises I have to adopt in the
course of duty, it doesn’t bear telling about!” he whispered under his breath to no one in
particular.

“What? That was... you?” blurted Bobby, stunned.

“Ah, who else? It’s always me...only the costumes change. Now...coming back to what you
remembered this time...’remembered’ because you literally re-member, i.e., re-join with
the Essence. Anything new there?”

“Hardly!” asserted Bobby confidently. “I stand by my earlier observation...minus Love,

life is a bum trip. But the major development was that I learned that Love is a much wider
term than I’d thought. I found that true love is freedom, All Encompassing. It’s a ‘letting
go’ thing, not a hobbling or suffocating thing. I fell in love with it all, the whole jing-bang
lot: lock, stock, and barrel, so help me God...”

“I did...and thank you!” said the one with the calloused hands.

“And Ahmed Hatif’s words were really freaky...” said Bobby, in a frenzy of recall.

“I gave him those...but repeat them for Our benefit, will you, please?”

So Bobby quoted the immortal verse he’d found in the Aurum Solis:
 138

“When all things that you see,

See you with love,
Then all things that you love,
Soon will you see.”
“Guess that answers my question. And yours. It sort of clinches the issue, doesn’t it,
Bobby? The words mean different things to different people, but to Me they mean that
when we see everything with love, everything we love comes into our lives...as a direct
consequence thereof. Actually, It Is Already There. Go, therefore, and spread the Word.”

“You mean...?” gasped Bobby disbelievingly. “No, I can’t. I’m not there yet...”

“Oh yes you are...and now it’s your turn to share My burden, to take some of the load off
My back. It’s time you earned some callouses, too. Go forth and create the world of your
dreams, Bobby, working with Love, and Joy, and with Reverence for all Life. Make it
happen, Bobby...and you can, you know, because you’ve seen The Way. Be a good
creator, Bobby. Reach out with love...proud of your calloused hands. Be a beacon for
others...and be a source of joy and a comfort to all, my friend.”

“Sure, Boss! If that’s what you want. And one last thing...I found her!”

“Ah! I presume you mean the ‘missing’ half of you...you located her, you say?”

“You bet, Chief. Darned if she wasn’t inside of me all the time, just as you’d hinted. Now I
love myself like never before.”

“It is good. To love One’s Self...it is to love it All, meaning, to love Me.”

“Yeah...that’s the way I feel. And when do we meet again, Creator? I mean, Face to face,
like?” asked Bobby as he turned to go, radiant with his love and reverence and joy.

“Why, tomorrow, of course, Creator! I told you...Tomorrow always comes!”

“Then gimme five!” said Bobby, joyously extending his calloused hand.

~*~
 139

Xanadu

Mr. Bishash came across ‘Xanadu’ in the Oxford dictionary and his life changed. He had
read somewhere that words had power, that they carried ideas within them, concepts that
stretched the mind and opened up new horizons of thought. Xanadu fired Mr. Bishash’s
imagination, but he could never dream what his stumbling across that particular word
would lead him to, linking, as it did, his destiny with those of people he’d never met, and
precipitating consequences he couldn’t even begin to imagine. It took him three years to
make his plans. Then he set them in motion…

If there was one thing people found extraordinary about Mr. Bishash, it was his
extraordinary ordinariness. No one really took him very seriously because of this, even at
the bank where he was the Head Cashier. Head Cashiers are normally a very bossy sort, for
they are joint-custodians of the keys that open the double-locked bank vaults, the other key
being held by the Deputy Manager, who looks after routine branch operations. This joint-
responsibility puts all sorts of notions into their heads, equality of status with Management
being the primary illusion.

Even the most seasoned of Head Cashiers are prone to harbour the delusion created by this
operational requirement. Functional bracketing with the Dy. Manager, at least so far as
cash operations extended—and the authority and responsibilities that go with the job—
tends to give them a sense of self-worth disproportionate to their intrinsic value. Most of
them are invariably elected as the unit Union Representative, a position that often brings
them into direct confrontation (and enables ‘administrative compromises’) with the Branch
Manager himself.

But Mr. Bishash was an exception inasmuch as he did not have an inflated opinion of his
abilities. He believed in planning, perseverance, and patience. He had never forgotten that
he came from a poor family in Asansol district and that he had rarely eaten two square
meals a day before he joined the bank. He was a mere graduate who had to put in twenty
years of hard work to get to where he was, from his days as a temporary worker whose
services were terminated every 89 days, usually followed by another 89-day casual
appointment. If he worked 12 hours a day…

Indian banks had used this unsavoury ruse to sidestep litigation that could follow if a
temporary worker hadn’t been regularised after 90 days of continuous service. They could
thus augment their staff strength without having to take on additional financial and
administrative burdens. The Indefinite Strike of the ‘seventies had compelled the bank
authorities to regularise all temporary employees, Mr. Bishash included. All of a sudden,
he had found himself on the payrolls of one of India’s largest banks. He could hardly
believe his good fortune…
 140

Mr. Bishash cultivated his ordinariness. It was his principal armour against potential
threats: people tended to underestimate him. Apart from the fact that this made the
Manager hesitant to allocate him additional duties, especially those involving recovery of
dues from defaulting borrowers, it also left him free to daydream about retirement. For
Mr. Bishash was keen to shuck his traces. He’d never told anyone this, but he absolutely
hated working in a bank. For all his unprepossessing exterior and unobtrusive demeanour,
Mr. Bishash had a clear vision of the future. He did not intend to retire with the pittance of
a pension that he would be entitled to. He meant to strike out for the wide-open spaces.
This restlessness had gripped him for more than ten years now…

As he climbed the stairs to the imposing entrance to the premises, the guard on duty, Nimai
Chand, did not even spare him a second glance. Mr. Bishash had always believed in
democracy, and unlike other Head Cashiers, he did not intimidate the subordinate staff
before disbursing their quota of uniform allowance, washing allowance, and overtime
wages. It was an inappropriate response—a mistake—in a system that respected the bully
and the despot. Mr. Bishash was not taken seriously because he didn’t go with the system.
Which was okay with him; he didn’t really believe in it. He performed his duties but he
stayed aloof from the conventions the machine tried to impose upon him. He was actually
more than a little relieved that staff members didn’t kow-tow to him. He loathed people
who sucked up to others in order to survive.

By 9.45 AM, Mr. Bishash had laid out all the cash scrolls in the cabins of the eight cashiers
under his charge. He placed the Manager’s ‘A’ scroll—the master Day Book where the
Manager entered all cash payments he had authorised under his own signatures, and in
which the day’s cash summations were posted—on the large, gleaming desk. He was ready
for the Dy BM to make an appearance so that they could open the vault and withdraw the
cash limit for the day’s operations. He was slightly nervous, because today he planned to
make the first move of his Grand Plan.

“What’s in that steel box you’re dragging in, Bishash?” asked the Dy. Manager of him as
they turned their keys and rotated the steel wheel on the vault door that retracted the
massive inner bolts into their receptacles.

“It’s my safe-deposit box, Sir,” he replied casually. “Felt it was high time I got around to
keeping all my important files, legal documents, securities, certificates…all the usual
stuff…in the vault. Just like everyone else…”

Malhotra, the Dy. Manager, nodded. A safe-deposit box was, in many ways, better than
having a locker. Provided, of course, you didn’t need to operate it frequently. Once its lock
was sealed by the Head Cashier, it usually lay unopened for years, its contents secure from
theft and fire. And the charges were nominal for staff members…
 141

“Bishash, my dear fellow!” said Malhotra somewhat ingratiatingly, “I need your

cooperation. I’m afraid I have to officiate as Field Officer for three days. Jindal’s on
leave.” Today was Thursday. “You can double-lock the vault for me. I trust that’s OK with
you. I’m off now, so you’d better keep my keys, too.” They both knew this was absolutely
forbidden. “I’ll be God-alone-knows where at 4 PM—I have to try and locate a couple of
defaulters who have locked their premises and are absconding. I can’t possibly drop
everything and come all the way back to the branch just to close the cash. I need to speak
to the SSP, P.K. Sharma, about the problem. He owes us a favour …”

Bishash nodded as he recalled the incident. It had been a Saturday. The SSP’s daughter
was leaving for Montreal and she’d forgotten that Indian banks closed for public dealings
at 12 noon sharp on Saturdays. 24-hour banking and ATMs were unheard of in India.
She’d suddenly decided that she needed to draw $5,000 in traveller’s cheques. But it was
well past noon then, and all security stationary—whether denominated in Indian Rupees or
Foreign currencies—was deemed as cash and locked in the vault. It was a tricky situation.

Re-opening ‘the cash’—that too at 1 PM—and issuing TCs, was highly irregular. It needed
to be done off the record, and the Head Cashier’s acquiescence and cooperation were a
sine qua non. The transaction would have to be recorded as having been performed during
normal banking hours. Sharma had been very cordial and apologetic…he knew the bankers
were taking a big personal risk on his account. There was the implicit promise of returning
the favour someday…

Mr. Bishash tallied the cash and asked the cash peon, Mangat Ram, to haul the cash trunk
into the vault. He made the entries in denomination-wise registers, then put the bundles
away in their respective almirahs…steel cupboards. Malhotra could cross-initial the entries
tomorrow. Now, if only a Cash Inspector or RBI Cash Auditor didn’t drop by on a surprise
visit…

It was petty exigencies like this that Bishash found irksome about the job. Employees had
to take personal risks because the sanctioned staff-strength had not been supplied by Head
Office. If a replacement had come for Jindal, there would have been no risk…but Sharma’s
case was altogether different. Powerful district officials had to be obliged—and cultivated
—for their help might be needed at any time, say, when an armed police contingent was
urgently needed to accompany a currency chest remittance. They couldn’t just dump
twenty crores in hard cash on a truck and send it to the railway station—and onwards to its
destination—unescorted!

The pressures of work were inexorable: banking was an area where you couldn’t leave
arrears for the following day…at least as far as cash operations went. Which gave him an
idea…
 142

“Mangat Ram! Why don’t you go fetch me a paan? And while you’re at it, see if you can
buy me a cotton vest from the market—‘Apollo’, size 95 cms. Don’t take your sweet time
about it, you hear? I want to leave by 5.30 latest.”

As the cash peon sauntered off, Bishash locked the vault from inside and opened his steel
trunk. The contents were curious: it was fortunate that Malhotra had not had the right to
scan what it held. Bank lockers and safe-deposit boxes were governed by laws relating to
bailee-bailor relationships; Indian bankers were only accountable for the item, not its
contents. They were not supposed to have any idea what the locker or box might contain,
in order to obviate any liability accruing to them on this account.

Had Malhotra checked, he would have found 72 bundles—72,000 pieces of worthless

white paper, of the exact size of Rs.100 denomination notes—stacked neatly inside. It took
Mr. Bishash only ten minutes to exchange them with 72 100-rupee bundles from the
bottom shelf, back row, of the reserve almirah. He had made 72 lacs—7.2 million rupees
—in ten minutes! Then he sealed the lock of his trunk, made the entry in the ‘Vault
Register-Safe Deposit boxes’, and stepping out of the vault, double-locked it with both sets
of keys.

Once Malhotra signed the cash and vault books, the trail would grow colder with each
passing day. Who the hell had the time to count all the 100-rupee notes, especially those in
the rarely-opened reserve almirah? In any case, it was the Branch Manager’s sole
responsibility in cash operations—and something he traditionally ‘delegated’ to his
Deputy. Who’d ask Bishash to attend to it…and initial the entries himself at his
convenience!

Cash was all very well, but Mr. Bishash knew he needed transferable funds if his plan was
to succeed. It had to be transferred from an account that was rarely operated, had a
substantial balance yet was rarely disturbed, and where a large debit would not raise too
many eyebrows. Bishash had already made it known that he had started—in an honorary
capacity—an NGO, as Non-Governmental Organisations were commonly known. The
‘All-India Ground-water Farming & Conservation Board’ was a registered body, and
Bishash had at last used his clout to get all the necessary introductions and
recommendations from the top district officials, most of whom had their official as well as
their personal accounts at the branch.

The paperwork had not presented much of a problem. Besides there being several NGOs
that had accounts with the bank—and their Memoranda and Articles of Association were
on branch records for ready reference—he happened to know a Chartered Accountant who
had cultivated Bishash because he had a penchant for new notes. Bishash had always seen
to it that his payroll went in new currency notes, and now he recalled the favour to get his
NGO registered.
 143

Mr. Bishash decided to reroute the funds he planned to embezzle through an outstation
account. A draft was called for! It would mean filching a leaf from a book of the OC Series
that followed the TL Series and which were meant for issuing drafts for amounts over Ten
Lacs upto One Crore. Mr. Bishash used his access to branch stationary, the rubber stamps
of the Dy. Manager and the Manager (both of whose signatures were needed on a draft of
this heavy an amount) —and a hitherto-unsuspected sang froid. He had learnt how to use
the system against itself…

He was surprised at his coolness at having removed the draft leaf, along with its
interleaved advice, right from under the noses of the staff. It helped to be inconspicuous!
He had issued drafts for years in smaller branches, and it was not much of a problem to
forge the signatures of the two branch officials. He had many specimens of these to refer
to.

The account to be debited stumped him for a while before he hit upon the solution: he
would debit the Branch ‘Inoperative Accounts’ Account! He did not flinch from taking the
risk of making all the vouchers in his own hand and even ‘passing’ them by—again—
forging signatures. They were scrolled and joined the swollen mainstream of Clean Cash
Book vouchers, and, in the rush of work, with its orientation desperately slanted, as
always, towards tallying the CCB the same day, they went through without being
questioned…and the Dy. Manager, who checked CCB vouchers, was on outdoor duty. Mr.
Bishash decided to tick the entries in the CCB himself and confirm having done so to the
hard-pressed Malhotra, who would probably heave a sigh of relief and thank Mr. Bishash
for the favour as he blindly signed the closing vouchers.

A draft for Eight Million Rupees is not a very unusual occurrence in large branches
maintaining corporate and government accounts. Nevertheless, Bishash surreptitiously
removed the incriminating vouchers from the CCB vouchers pouch the next day, and the
transfer scrolls, too, ‘disappeared’ mysteriously. No one bothered to hunt for them for
more than an hour or two, as the flow of work swept the staff off their feet. He had drawn
the draft on a branch office in a distant city, and in due course it was cleared without
incident. Still, Bishash had slept lightly for days, and always at hand was an overnighter
that contained a change of clothes and ten lacs in cash wrapped in old newspapers. He
could up and disappear if things went wrong…

It was listed on Indian Navy charts simply as TP1-233, a rocky island 5 miles across by
fifteen miles in length officially belonging to the Republic of India and lying some
hundred nautical miles off its western coast. No one lived on it, and sea birds and saltwater
iguanas had made it their home. There were one or two small beaches, and clumps of palm
trees that attracted a large variety of insects. There was a single freshwater spring that
culminated in a miniature waterfall atop a small, fern-fringed pool, and there was a tiny
glade of olive trees that some unknown sailor must have planted centuries ago. Apart from
these, there was little to attract the tourist resort developers, who focused on clusters of
volcanic coral islands such as those in the Maldives.
 144

But for precisely these very reasons, it was exactly what Mr. Bishash was looking for. It
was here that he planned to build Xanadu. As he stood on the windswept shore and looked
east towards the mainland, he could imagine the freighter ploughing its way through the
choppy seas towards him, laden with the stones, timber and other materials necessary for
Xanadu’s construction.

The architects had already got the plans and budget cleared from him, and had built a small
but quite adequate concrete hut with modest amenities that would serve as his temporary
residence. Further along the coast, in the lee of the low rise where the structure would
come up, they had put up the pre-fab labour quarters for the construction crew. The time
limit for finishing the building was one year, whereafter penalty clauses could be
invoked…

Kublai Khan might have turned his nose up at it, but to Mr. Bishash, Xanadu was home. It
was a double-storied granite structure with balconies running all around the first floor and
it had a roof-terrace with a rose garden. A pair of dish antennae pointed in different
directions heavenwards, tracking the major network satellites, and a 100 KVA generator
hummed softly in its shed at the end of the garden. Fuel flowed to it on its own, propelled
by gravity, for the 25,000 gallon diesel underground tank was located on a higher gradient
than the genset. Mr. Bishash had paid for five years’ fuel in advance, basing the cost on a
futures-trading deal he had negotiated with the suppliers. Diesel was his major concern,
after food.

Though he augmented his diet with some rather sickly-looking brinjals, ladies’ fingers and
potatoes from his kitchen garden, Mr. Bishash lived mainly on tinned food. It meant he had
to go without fresh bread, vegetables and meat, but there were fish in the sea and he had
always been fond of fishing. He had made sure that at least three sets of rods, reels, and
lures had accompanied his personal baggage, one set being a 12’ fibre-glass surf rod with a
Penn ‘Senator’ surfcasting reel.

In any case, the point of the whole exercise was to say goodbye to the boring, old-
fashioned way of life that he had been living, hardly worth remembering or writing about.
For over fifteen years, the secret side of him had craved seclusion, the more exotic the
location, the better. Life was fleeting, true, and nothing lasted forever except love. For if
thruth be told, Mr. Bishash was, beneath his faded and dog-eared exterior, a romantic
adventurer. He did not want to live the old life any more. He wanted to challenge the
unknown—properly equipped, of course. If that meant change and adaptation, it also
ushered in the prospect of excitement and mortal danger.

When Mr. Bishash bowed out, he meant to bow out in style, not fade away with a
whimper…

*
 145

Mr. Bishash did not miss his fellow men. He was one of those individuals who are
perfectly happy in their own company. It was not that he was anti-social; he just didn’t
need people around him. It was hardly surprising that he hated the bank. There was rarely a
moment when he didn’t have to interact with someone or the other. He revelled in his
isolation now as he gazed at star-studded skies through his 1000 mm ‘Celestron’
catadioptric rooftop telescope.

He had always been keen to study astronomy, but this was the best he could manage now.
A copy of Talbot’s classic handbook for amateur astronomers, ‘The Heavens Declare’, was
a favourite bedside book, rubbing shoulders with Palgrave’s ‘Golden Treasury’. Leaving
the telescope at last, he stretched out again on the easy chair, luxuriating in his mastery
over his own destiny.

He would have been gravely disturbed, therefore, had he known that he had visitors.
Moments earlier, a long, dark, cigar-like shape had surfaced in the little cove at the
opposite end of the island. No men emerged from it, but there was the distant chug of a
diesel engine and once or twice a muffled clang betrayed the opening and shutting of a
steel hatch cover.

For all his painstaking research, it was not possible for Mr. Bishash to know that naval
submarines, both friendly as well as unfriendly, used the island as a mooring point when
they resurfaced to recharge batteries and ventilate their interiors.

He would have been even more disturbed had he had the means of monitoring a series of
coded radio signals that flashed between an object at sea and a certain rocket-launching
base…

Captain Uday Gambhir yawned sleepily as he handed the message to the wireless operator
to encode and transmit. He had been tracking the hostile nuclear sub for days now, and his
old ‘Krushchev II’ class submarine just didn’t have the pep to keep up with the
unidentified N-sub or the firepower to challenge it. And there was no way Gambhir could
keep his opposite number from pinpointing his noisy vessel’s position through sonar and
underwater microphones.

The intruder was a sleek, US-made ‘Kennedy’ class nuclear sub, and it moved through the
depths with supreme arrogance, making no effort to conceal its progress. And no wonder:
it was capable of firing 16 Poseidon ICBMs, each armed with 500 kiloton N-warheads,
from a depth of 200 fathoms; it could launch an anti-sub helicopter, and it also had
conventional high-explosive torpedoes dischargeable from tubes both fore and aft. It was a
deadly strike weapon that neutralised half the Indian Navy’s combined firepower …

He didn’t like the pattern of the N-sub’s peregrinations at all. It seemed to be criss-crossing
the Indian merchant shipping lanes a bit too often for comfort. And come to think of it,
over the last year—ever since the intelligence reports had come in that the US had ‘leased’
 146

a nuclear submarine to the unfriendly neighbour—three Indian oil tankers had vanished
mysteriously in mid-ocean. It had led to a flaming row between the Petroleum, Defence,
and Shipping ministries, but apart from a lot of brouhaha in the Press, nothing had come of
it. The unfriendly nation rolled its collective eyes heavenwards sanctimoniously, being
much pained by the unbrotherly allegations made by its irate neighbour, while its western
allies staunchly defended their right to carry out periodic joint naval exercises in the Indian
Ocean.

What Capt. Gambhir did not know was that his sleepless vigil had not gone in vain. For his
messages were relayed to a certain establishment in the south of India that ostensibly
tracked ISRO satellites and monitored their various remote-sensing platforms. This
organization—better known to the Defence Ministry as ‘the kite flyers’—its official name
being ‘The National Launch Vehicle Tracking & Command Centre’—was the Indian
version of NASA. It not only monitored satellites in orbit and recorded their coded
feedback, it also tracked the MIRVs and ICBMs that India launched now and then, the
rockets that were almost (but not quite) perfect as of now.

Rocketry was a long-gestation and prohibitively expensive undertaking, and a poor

developing country could ill afford setbacks. Each failure led to a lot of griping from the
PMO. Though never officially revealed to the Press, news of these costly errors always
found their way into the papers from foreign sources that were constantly alert to missile
launches anywhere in the world. Woomera and NASA were the two most likely culprits. It
made horrible copy as far as the paranoid Indian ruling party was concerned…

It was strange, therefore, that news of the erratic behaviour of the latest three-stage SLV
was received at the ministry and at the PMO with a certain amount of nonchalance. The
kite-flyers were flummoxed by the phlegmatic message to stand-by for clearance to abort
the mission. They had braced themselves for a barrage of questions about competence and
culpability, and the unprecedented official reception of the bad news was highly
disconcerting…

Uday Gambhir slept like a dead man. He had not had any shut-eye for 72 hours, and when
the orders from naval HQ had asked for him to stand-by for further orders, he had stripped
down to shorts and singlet and crashed on his bunk. He had been asleep for only an hour
now, and it was hardly surprising that Chief Petty Officer Sandeep Arora found it
impossible to rouse him. As a last resort, Arora decided to page him over the ship’s
intercom. The sound of his name booming through the tiny cabin brought Gambhir to his
senses, his training asserting itself even through his catatonic slumber.

“Orders from base, Captain,” the sailor intoned, standing stiffly to attention and looking
straight ahead: his Superior officer was half-naked. “Number One says you are needed at
once, Sir. It’s most urgent, he said, Sir.”
 147

“Be right there, thank you, Arora,” acknowledged Capt. Gambhir drowsily. He heaved
himself to his feet, swearing under his breath.

As he reached his position at the periscope, his second-in-command handed him a wireless
message he’d just decoded. It read: “To Bulldog KII. Vacate area immediately repeat
immediately stop delete repeat delete all ship’s log entries relating to this entire exercise
stop full details at 0300 hrs stop report full compliance asap stop.” It was signed
‘Yardarm.’

‘Yardarm’ was the codename for the hush-hush naval HQ - Special Ops Branch, headed by
Vice Admiral Hemant Rakshit, an old sea dog. When he said ‘immediately’, that’s exactly
what he meant. Gambhir grabbed the mike, and his voice echoed through the ship: “Now
hear this, now hear this! This is your captain. Crashdive! Crashdive! All hands to battle
stations!”

The sub came to life as men rushed to their positions. Hydraulically-operated valves gaped
to let seawater flood the ballast tanks even as the diesels roared at full thrust. She was
diving at an angle of 30° even as her conning tower hatch closed and she fell like a stone
into the depths of the abyss…

It was an ordinary log fire, but it seemed cheerier than any they’d ever seen before. They
were old friends, comrades in arms over many a battle of ballot and bullet, and they
beamed at one another as they clinked glasses. “So it’s over?” asked the squat, phlegmatic
man with the face of a village schoolmaster of the other. The thin, balding man with horn-
rimmed glasses nodded happily.

“Yes. The ICBM was a write-off…I was told it wasn’t responding fully to commands from
the tracking centre, and it seemed such a waste to abort it in the usual way…”

“So you did it your way, right?” marvelled the older man. “I have to hand it to you,
Jagdish. Couldn’t have come up with a neater solution myself...ha ha! And on the spur of
the moment, too!”

The thin man in glasses wallowed in the praise of his pal and boss. ‘Hell, it was nothing!
Anyone could see that that nuisance of a nuclear sub was a sitter… I just happened to have
had an ICBM up, spinning out of control. It failed to respond to abort commands and
crashed on the island…and the sub. They’ve always denied its existence, anyway, so they
can’t protest now!”

“Any civilian casualties, incidentally?” asked his boss anxiously.

“Naaah! Who’d be crazy enough to live on that god-forsaken island? In any case, it’s too
late to think of that now. For all practical purposes, the island’s gone. It’s been nuked!”
 148

The thin man chuckled. “We have radio-active fallout from the sub…no thanks to them!
Our second line of defence—in case they protest in the UN…which they won’t!”

His boss grinned admiringly. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders as they
walked slowly to their waiting limousines, two old men who thoroughly enjoyed their jobs.

~*~
 149

Unfinished Business

Black Elk Salt Flats, Arizona. Eighteen miles of dazzling, rock-hard salt track as flat as a
pool table. Nirvan Sen-Chowdhury squinted through the shaded visor of the helmet
designed for an F-16 pilot and braced himself mentally before he began the ride of a
lifetime. He stood before a car powered by an engine unlike any on earth, a rotary engine
of his own design. It was a street car, low and wide and sleek, the world’s fastest limited-
production car. Meant for the immensely wealthy, it was loaded with every modern
contrivance that aided control, navigation, and entertainment...and it was designed to beat
any other road machine not powered by a jet engine.

“Hi, yo, Silver! Awake!” he said, in memory of the Lone Ranger’s steed, and grinned as
the onboard computer unlocked the car’s doors automatically. The voice-recognition
software responded selectively to his deep baritone, to the exclusion of any other voice on
the planet. He eased himself into the leather bucket seat and spoke the drive-parameter
commands aloud to the polished walnut fascia. “Two up and down runs...eighteen miles
each. Max thrust 50 percent, max rpms 22,000 to 26,000.” Its trip parameters recorded, the
engine came smoothly to life. At least, it must have, he thought, because he heard nothing.
It was the most silent engine he had made so far.

There was no vibration, either, he observed, not even the slightest hint of it. Only the
tachometer readout—hovering at 7,000 rpm—revealed the fact that the engine was ticking
over smoothly. He jabbed the accelerator pedal lightly with his foot, and at last a distant
rumble reached his straining ears as the digits blurred up to 15,000 rpm before returning
smoothly to idling speed. The LED ‘seat belt’ warning blinked redly on the dashboard
readout, so he strapped himself in and shifted the tubby gearshift to ‘D’. “Let’s go!” he
urged the car, stepping on the gas.

Smoke spurted from the tyres, as cruel G-forces of violent acceleration forced him back
into the deep, aromatic leather, and the view in the electronic rear-view video display
zoomed out dizzyingly. Four seconds later, he was traveling at a hundred miles an hour...

Barun Chanda mopped the perspiration from his brow with his sleeve as the car shot across
the line and came to a stop before him. He had recorded the average speed clocked by the
car over two laps, but he didn’t believe his eyes.

Nirvan Sen-Chowdhury got out of the car and grinned at him. “Spit it out, BC! To two
decimal places, as usual!” They were cousins, and Nirvan always called the older man by
the irreverent acronym for a very impolite Punjabi cussword. Barun shook his head
unbelievingly. “Two hundred sixty-three point two one, average, over the eighteen mile
course, Nirvan! And she was well below the redline.” The engine redlined at 45,000 rpm,
an unheard-of limit for a car engine.
 150

But this was no ordinary car engine, for it had no pistons. It was a rotary engine, a distant
descendant of Felix Wankel’s revolutionary prototype that had been half-heartedly
improved over the years by NSU and Mazda until rising development costs and the
challenge from fuel cell technology had diverted research funding. Nirvan Sen-Chowdhury
had bought the patents and global rights for a mere 40 million dollars. The future of the
rotary engine was his to do with as he pleased.

He had more billions than he could shake a stick at. He was a fourth generation American
citizen, and the root stock, the Chandas, had prospered mightily in a land that rewarded
hard-work and vision. His great-grandmother, Shireen, had come to Harvard in the fifties
of the last century to teach, and after becoming a best-selling author, had started a
publishing business she’d enigmatically named ‘Bobbin Lifetime Books’.

Her daughter Suchitra Chanda was a ravishing beauty who had fallen in love with, and
married, one Arjun Sen-Chowdhury, a prominent economist. The two of them had
expanded Bobbin Lifetime into media, satellite telecommunications and a chain of hugely-
profitable hotels and holistic-healing spas across the globe that operated under the trade
name of ‘Lost Horizons’ which had been instrumental in catapulting Bobbin Lifetime into
the FORTUNE 500 list.

Their only son, Nirvan’s father Chandan Sen-Chowdhury, was a brilliant cosmologist and
physicist who was associated with NASA and Cornell. After taking premature retirement,
he had consolidated the Chanda empire, adding a chain of laboratories that were engaged
in fundamental research. Bobbin Holdings—as he had renamed the industrial colossus he
headed—owned and operated the world’s largest privately-owned particle accelerator. A
brilliant scientist, Chandan secretly hoped that, one day, his son Nirvan would carry
forward his research in particle physics.

But to his deep disappointment, Nirvan only seemed to be interested in motorcycles and
cars. He had built up his own collection of vintage Cadillacs, Studebakers, and classic
Jaguars. Brand-new Lamborghinis and Ferraris rubbed shoulders with two-wheeled giants
of the past such as the fearsome Indian Chiefs, Hendersons and Harley-Davidsons. His
heroes were racing daredevils of the past: Stirling Moss, Mike Hailwood, Giacomo
Agostini, Evil Knieval, and the brothers Schumacher. He spent days in the garages taking
down the engines and reassembling them again. Arjun watched helplessly. This was
America, and no one told the young what to do with their lives.

Nirvan had found the key to the elusive problem that had bogged down the rotary engine’s
future: the lack of a perfect seal. In an engine of this type, a triangular rotor revolved at
high speed within a circular cylinder, the spaces between the sides of the rotor and the
cylinder walls replacing the cylinders of a conventional engine. As the rotor revolved, it
replicated the four strokes of a conventional engine: inlet, compression, combustion, and
exhaust.

It was all very light, compact, and ingenious...but there was a hitch. The points where
rotor met cylinder wall were subject to immense heat and friction. The flexible seals could
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not withstand this punishment and soon wore out, leading to loss of compression, power,
and fuel wastage. Nirvana had solved the problem by machining the cylinder walls out of
titanium, and using a composite seal, made partly of the same ablative material as was
used in the tiles that protected the skin of the space shuttle and partly of an oil film
maintained under extremely high-pressure through a device he had patented.

But—as is the nature of inventors—he still wasn’t quite satisfied. His intuition told him he
was missing something, something hugely important that could make the present engine
obsolete even before it had been commercialized. So he did the only thing he knew that
could thrust the idea, full-blown, into his conscious mind: he went on a holiday to India.

He got out of Delhi as fast as he could. It depressed him more than he cared to admit. The
heat, the flies, the atmospheric pollution, the miasma of overflowing garbage dumps, the
all-pervasive corruption, the pavement encroachments, and the desperation of the
submerged and viciously marginalized segments of a society gone rotten—this inhuman
clawing for life in a stinking hellhole—these were more than he could stomach.

Delhi was a microcosm of modern India, a paradoxical mix of ‘too little too late’ and ‘too
much too soon’. It festered in a mind-sapping vacuum created by the jettisoning of old
values in favour of a repulsive and quite ineffective aping of an alien culture. The youth of
the city spoke in ersatz American accents, struggling to imitate the values, the lifestyles,
the very gestures of the screen characters. But the new paradigms they wished to install
were hard to transplant; they stuck in the craw, as it were, semi-assimilated and perfectly
illogical. They looked more foolish than ever doing someone else’s thing. Superficially
satisfying, it actually left them deeply dissatisfied and confused. Nirvan pitied them, for
they had lost their souls.

Land was getting scarce and, therefore, costlier, as people migrated to the city from all
over the country, attracted by its hollow MTV promise of a better life. Neo-rich but semi-
educated rural populations collided with the new urban settlers whose social and
educational backgrounds were totally different, and violence and tension mushroomed
when the latter ignored the locals who had originally owned the land. It was a classic
study in the effects of an uneasy commingling of two vastly different cultures and ways of
life. Frustration and resentment fuelled the rising phenomenon of mindless and savage
urban violence—a regrettable feature of the American landscape that was thoughtlessly
exported by US television channels to all parts of the globe.

The city was a gigantic maze, a quagmire that trapped the thousands of unwary job-
seekers from the impoverished hinterland who answered its siren song every day. It was a
rat race full of cruel rat-traps that caught them at every step, crushed the life out of them
and flung their carcasses on the garbage heaps of apathy. They came burning with hope
and died hopeless, their dreams turning into their worst nightmares. The city spurned
those who lacked money or connections—man, woman, or child—sentencing them to a
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life of joyless labour. It was said that in no other city in the world—Hollywood included
—did so many dreams die so early.

It was a graveyard of the intellect. Only one thing counted in the labyrinth: the ability to
make money. That was the cesspool’s sole yardstick for gauging success. That was the
only pre-condition for being conceded the privilege of living. Those who failed this test
did not really live, in the truest sense of the word. They were reduced to zombies who just
existed, losing lifeblood daily to the human leeches that swarmed all over them in hordes.

Those who survived quickly learnt to worship the bitch goddess of success and became
her high priests, ensuring their continued survival by placating her with the flesh of
unwary victims. It was a desert without a heart, without a soul. It was the urban hell out of
a pessimist’s vision of a distorted future where machines ran everything and men were
mere sport. Except that—in the case of the city—truth was straighter than fiction. It was
run by men who had turned into machines...and who tried to work the same alchemy on
those who were still men. It reminded one of the hapless victims of vampires in ‘B’ grade
Hollywood movies.

Nirvan summed Delhi up as a nightmare of frantic and depraved rapaciousness, a

decomposed club-sandwich of sheer unscrupulousness and immorality that pervaded the
entire body politic as well as society in general. The cheapest commodity was Life; it was
cheaper than a pair of Levi’s. The city was a carnivore, and its metabolism was a dog-eat
dog competitiveness where the winner won by any means, fair or foul, and fabulous
indeed was the booty to those who won, giving the lie to the fiction that India was a poor
country.

Everything and everyone in the city had a price tag. It was a huge marketplace where all
things, from jobs to justice, could be bought...if one had the money. It single-handedly
gave money a bad name; money is power to live the way one wants, but Nirvan saw that
Delhi had altered that definition subtly. Money became the means to a power—the power
to live at the expense of others.

Few and far between were the men who had made it to the top of their businesses or
professions by sheer merit, vision, and hard work, the glorious exceptions that proved the
rule. Under the jungle law of Delhi, in order to make money you had to have lots of it to
begin with, in addition to contacts in the right quarters and a blatant lack of sympathy for
the underprivileged. Crime in high places was an inevitable corollary.

There were few philanthropic organizations in Delhi: the climate was hostile to do-
gooders. Which was the greatest pity, for to be poor in latter-day Delhi was to be cast into
the outer darkness where there was wailing and gnashing of teeth. The chances were that
Delhi would have crushed even the Chandas, well before they had gotten started. To think
that an Arjun Sen-Chowdhury could emerge from a cesspit like Delhi was the height of
optimism...of patriotic fiction. America was the only place where it could have happened.

*
 153

Delhi faded into a bad memory as Nirvan Sen-Chowdhury trekked into the sub-Himalayan
foothills. Even here, things had changed. Detergents polluted once the crystal-clear rivers,
and fish and otter were dying out. Bird-life was being poisoned out of existence by
chemical pesticides, and forests had been denuded by the politician-bureaucrat nexus, so
that the rich topsoil that nourished the meager crops had been all but blown away. The
insidious effects of foreign liquor, drugs, and television programs had taken their toll on
the young. Governments came and went, richer by far than when they first tasted power.
The poor remained poor, hungry and illiterate. But that was acceptable; it was always
meant to be thus.

He hired a guide and went even deeper into the sub-Himalayan hills beyond Pauri
Garhwal, venturing into a region bordering the snowline where, at last, he found what he
was looking for. Traveling through lush high-altitude alpine meadows, he came upon a
beautiful, unspoilt valley through which boiled a pure and tempestuous blue-white torrent
that his guide identified as the Rupmani River. Beyond the hills towered the mighty
Himalayas, brooding on the ages, forever silent and aloof.

According to legend, Lord Shiva had granted a boon to a favoured disciple that he would
be blessed with a daughter of unmatched beauty and purity. One day, the girl had a vision
that Shiva appeared before her to ask her whether she would like to serve his consort,
Parvati, as one of her hand-maidens. She ascended to Mount Kailash with him, but not
before he created a river of incredible loveliness to commemorate her decision.

Nirvana liked the peaceful, heavily-wooded valley so much that he pitched camp there,
spending his days wandering through the forest, drinking deep of their timeless charms.
His mind flew unfettered even as his spirit replenished itself. All the three parts of him—
mind, body, and soul—were at complete peace and harmony with each other. It was that
state of consciousness which, in the ascetic, often leads to Self-Realization.

At this level of being, the mind—aided by the soul—connects with a primordial database
of eternal knowledge from which all great ideas flow. Practical as he was, Nirvan chose to
grapple with the problem of the rotary engine, a decision jarring in its choice considering
the present environs, but hardly an unconscionable one when one reflects that the
subconscious mind invariably gravitates to that with which it is preoccupied.

When the idea first came to him, he almost missed it. He was reconnoitering a sandstone
bluff that had built itself up over millennia. Layer upon layer of sediment had been
deposited, one atop one another, till the eons had crushed them into one composite mass
of sedimentary rock. ‘Layer upon layer’ ...it sank in at last. The whole thing was but a
vertically-assembled conglomerate of lesser plies, but the overall structure functioned as a
single entity.
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The rock was a parable of life itself, for Life is nothing if not an elaborately laminated
assembly of the experiences of all living things! The laminated layers, added up, result in a
Greater Whole that is the sum of its parts—only more so! Of such deep metaphysical
insights are great ideas—fundamentally simple and elegant in concept—often conceived.

He returned to his tent and asked Puran, his guide to strike camp...it was time to go. Puran
understood. The first man who had treated him as an equal was now keen to return to his
home, and his heart was heavy as he did his job. He knew his friend and master had found
what he had come here to find, whatever that was.

Men found different things in the mountains: some found hope, some acquired insight,
some found peace, and some found the strength to face death. The mountains were great
teachers, and no one left their slopes empty-handed. He was glad that the man who looked
like an Indian but spoke like an American had found his Truth.

“A triple...a quadruple sundae...? Nirvan, have you gone plumb loco?” asked Barun
Chanda, pretending to be flummoxed. This was what happened when one went to India,
he complained, a place he’d never visit even if all the gold in Fort Knox was the prize. In
his heart of hearts, he was thrilled...he instinctively knew the idea would work. He saw a
world of immense possibilities opening up before them. His expression was that of one
who was unconvinced; it was one of his self-chosen roles to play the Devil’s Advocate to
Nirvan’s often zany and impracticable brainwaves.

But this one...this one was a winner.

“Now, come off it, BC, you know it’s the answer,” grinned Nirvan. He knew his cousin far
too well to be taken in by his apparent dismay. “We make a rotary engine like
always...only this time, it’s a four-in-one! Just think of it, BC, four rotors sandwiched one
atop the other in a single engine manifold. It’ll be like a four-multiplied-by-four—
effectively, a sixteen cylinder engine! Each of the four composite layers that will go into
the complete engine will have a four-sided rotor! Now that should effect a vast
improvement in induction, compression and exhaust capabilities...because we’ll have a
fourth ‘cylinder’ for clean detonation of the fuel mixture!”

He paused for breath, his eyes shining at the expression on Barun’s face. “Back to the
computers, fellas!” he yelled at his team. “We need virtual engine layouts, detailed
cutaways, tolerances, rotor designs, seal blow-ups, timing electronics, injection equipment
re-design...the works. Sixty days is the deadline!”

A collective cheer of excitement and approval erupted from the design team. Their eyes
glittered. It was a rare moment in automobile history, when a fertile brain had conceived
of an original design that had to be worked out in the computers by them. They were a
team, and they were raring to go. Each and every part had to be designed from scratch,
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each and every machining tolerance needed to be worked out afresh, stresses had to be
calculated. New raw materials and innovative metallurgy would probably be needed.

They looked forward to the exercise; each one was an expert in his or her particular field.
Brilliance needs challenge or it rusts away. This wasn’t India, where a groan would have
greeted the news of the new project. Indians hated originality as much as they loathed
hard work, which was why, in most cases, it had become a haven for mediocrity. But this
was America, a nation built on vision and powered by innovation and hard work.

Susan Chatwick was deeply engrossed in the computer screen in front of her. Under her
adept fingers, the four-sided rotor was taking shape within a circle that represented the
cylinder’s inner circumference. Nirvana stopped for a while to watch, then asked her if
she’d like to see how various shapes of the rotor’s inner edge might fare in the computer.
The rotor was the key to the whole engine.

“Personally, I’d like to see about three or four variants designed and evaluated, before we
decide which the best one is, in terms of all parameters: power, compression, combustion,
exhaust, and so on. Would you like to try and see?” He never ordered his staff around,
which was one reason he was popular. The other one was that he drove himself harder
than anyone else.

Susan flashed him a winning smile. She was an engineering graduate from MIT, and had
chosen automobile engineering as her main elective. Bespectacled, soft spoken, she had a
razor-sharp brain that was just raw enough to tackle cutting-edge projects. Her relative
inexperience was valuable when one went into uncharted territory, as they were doing
now, for she had no pre-conceived notions about the way things had to be and often
adopted unconventional approaches to solving problems that had stymied more
experienced designers.

“Already thought of that, Boss! Look, this one shows a ripple surface; could help in
improving fuel flow all around the chamber. After all, we’re talking about milliseconds of
combustion time here. Now, this one’s slightly convex; could improve the compression
ratio...but dunno about the velocity of gases within the ignition chamber. Let’s see...”

Nirvan was impressed. “How about another version where the side slants about 40% in the
direction of rotation? Could help in boosting compression and improving power
generation characteristics, because as the rotor revolves, the decreasing size of the
chamber will boost compression. Should prove useful for the exhaust side as well...” he
suggested.

“Good thinking, Boss! You’ll see something on those lines by evening. Now...if you’ll
please excuse me: I’ve got a deadline to meet!” Mischief twinkled in her deep blue eyes,
and for a moment, Nirvan was back by the banks of the Rupmani.
 156

“The said deadline is extended by 24 hours. That should give us enough time for a coffee
break!” grinned Nirvan.

Susan pushed herself away from her keyboard and stretched. “Whew! I thought you’d
never ask! It’s a first for me!”

It was true. He had a tradition of impromptu coffee breaks with staff members, not only to
give them a break but to get to know them better and to create the personal equations that
are always vital on such projects. Every Sergeant-Major who’s worth his salt knows this.

“This couldn’t have happened at a better time, actually, Susan,” he said, as they settled
down in the mess over cups of steaming coffee. “You know the rotor’s the key to the
whole engine. With four of them whirling around inside the manifold, we have to get it
perfect the first time. Any unbalance, the slightest vibration...and at 50,000 rpm, you can
imagine how quickly she’ll tear herself apart.”

Susan took a sip from her cup and nodded thoughtfully. “Yes...we aren’t just designing for
the one rotor, are we? We’ve got to take the combined effects of all four into account.
Makes the job much more complicated...but increases the challenge.”

“Which is why people like you chose to work here instead of GM or Subaru, or even
Mazda”, observed Nirvan. “The market needs a new car...and that’s exactly what we’ll
give it! Innovation keeps us ahead, and what we think today we’ll do tomorrow. No
unions, no inter-office memos, no bureaucracy, no pen-pushing...only pure design and
fabrication. I guess that’s why we love our work,” he concluded simply.

She looked him over carefully for the first time. Six foot two, lean and hard, shock of
unruly brown hair, long scar on his right eye-brow...

‘He looks more like a guy from a CAMELS ad than the Chairman of a company,’ she
thought proudly. She had heard of his formidable reputation as a dirt-bike rider and a
National Championship Drag Car racer. But what impressed her even more was that he
came out of there to forge an alliance of dedicated professionals who would follow him to
the ends of the earth to make his vision come true. A gifted engineer, a great PR man, a
natural salesman and public speaker, and...she hesitated before she admitted this last fact
to herself...an extremely attractive man. He was one a hell of a guy to work for...

Had Susan Chatwick had the power to read another’s mind, she would have intercepted a
certain chain of thought, as follows:

‘Smart...real smart! Eyes are like the Rupmani under an open sky...just looking into them
is good for me. Feel relaxed around her...very intelligent but slightly reserved...anticipated
my rotor surface idea, which means she thinks on her feet...her beauty is an obstacle for
her...plays it down...the lenses in those spectacles are unpowered!
 157

Mustn’t rush things, but I have a very powerful hunch that we’ll get along superbly on a
very personal level, too, someday. Great depths in her, a very complete personality,
someone worth sharing one’s feeling of completeness—as well as one’s life—with. Lives
life on her own terms; knows what to do with it, a rare quality. One can only grow, with
such a woman by one’s side...no obligations, only endless opportunities for growth...’

Four months of back-breaking labour passed before the computer simulations were
optimized. As they had anticipated, the multi-rotor and engine manifold designs had taken
the most time to complete. Surprisingly minor modifications were required in the rotor
seal, but more fuel injection assemblies were added to cope with the anticipated load.

Then began the arduous process of fabricating a working prototype, then assembly,
followed by minor impromptu modifications to everything from the air filter to the
mounting brackets...another, even better prototype was bench tested, and finally, the new
rotary engine was ready for a road test. A year had flashed by almost unnoticed.

It was a year during which the friendship between Susan Chatwick and Nirvan Sen-
Chowdhury had ripened into something very hard to describe. It was not the usual man-
woman story, where two people fall in love, sensing and proclaiming a deeply-felt need
for the other. There were no needs to strangle them, only a preference for the other’s
company...when available. It was not a case of two incomplete people who met and
agreed to complement each other, two missing halves coming together in a mutually-
satisfactory bonding of incomplete people who filled each other’s needs. It was a
rendezvous of complete with equally complete.

It was like the meeting of earth and sky: two vast, noble, beautifully self-contained entities
that agree to bond to share each other and rejoice that the union enhanced their own
completeness. They never made any promises to each other, for that would have been an
admission of inadequacy in the other. They never claimed to miss each other: they simply
celebrated their togetherness. There was no barter agreement, as with most bondings: ‘I
give this aspect of myself to you in return for that part of you.’

They were simply two people who found that they liked to share each other’s
completeness, reveling in the feeling of partnership. They sought to see what they could
give to the relationship, not what they could get out of it. There saw no obligations, only
opportunities for individual growth. They were totally selfish in this, seeing that when
they acted in the highest self-interest, it invariably benefited the other, as well the
relationship itself.

As time went on, it became clearer and clearer that it was a good thing they had going
between them. Each moment together was a revelation, each conversation was a new
experience. They grew in spirit, and as their physical selves met on the material plane, the
essence of them – their souls –surged nearer to that objective that every soul has
foreknowledge of but never reveals to the mind. For the higher levels of a relationship are
 158

never on a mental or physical plane, but transcend these to access a zone of Light and pure
emotion which is what the essence of every living thing yearns to reach. It is when this
happens that a union is truly blessed.

The automobile press had got wind of developments—they kept a close track of the
goings-on at the plant in Arizona, near the Black Elk Salt Flats. ‘CarAmerica’ had sent a
reporter down to the Head Office at Phoenix, and Nirvan had no hesitation in agreeing to
give a short interview.

The newsman was savvy to the vagaries of fortune that the RE had had to contend with—
historically speaking—and he was definitely simpatico if a little cautious in his approach.
He was a dirt-bike enthusiast himself, and had a healthy respect for Nirvan’s formidable
reputation with car and motorcycle engines. He came straight to the point:

“The grapevine has it that you’ve developed a new RE that has not one, not two, not even
three, but four rotors! How far is that a fact?”

“It’s a fact,” confirmed Nirvan, but didn’t volunteer any additional information.

“Then you appear to have done something that no one has succeeded in doing before.
Even one rotor is a handful...” he fished.

“We solved the single-rotor problems over two years ago,” stated Nirvan simply.

“But that means ... am I correct in assuming, then, that your pressure seal actually
conforms to ASI standards?” he asked, astonished.

“Exceeds them by a generous margin, actually. Otherwise we wouldn’t have gone out on a
limb for a 4-rotor rig,” he said.

“But you haven’t patented the seal. Why?” the reporter asked.

“Oh, but we have...only it’s registered under ‘oil-drilling equipments’. Thought I’d gain
myself a little breathing space that I needed for the 4 RE…that’s ‘4-Rotor Engine’ to
you,” he grinned.

“Wow!” said the reporter, impressed. “But let me ask you a technical question that I’m
sure our readers will appreciate: what have you done to balance the four rotors? Won’t
they tear the engine apart if the forces generated by high-speed rotation are out of sync?”

“Good question...but that’s classified information, I’m afraid. Suffice it to say that we
found the solution. The rotors are in perfect sync, and perfectly balanced, I assure you.”
 159

“Aw, gee, Mister Sen-Chowdhury...I believe you, I really do. But our readers won’t buy
that. Can’t you give me just a tiny little hint as to how it was done?” he begged.

“Well, if you promise—on your word of honour—not to divulge the secret, I’ll give you a
brief. Done?” The newsman nodded eagerly, so Nirvan went on. “It’s very simple,
really...and at the same time, it’s complex. Rotors rotating in different directions cancel
out each other’s vibrations out. The rest I leave to your imagination!”

“Ingenious! But how would power be transferred if they’re revolving in different

directions?...After all, the torque from four separate rotors has to go to a single gearbox en
route to the drive-shaft. How did you manage to...?”

“Ever heard of co-axial shafts?” asked Nirvan, smiling broadly.

The reporter gaped. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this. That means two gearboxes working
in tandem, synchronized electronically...in effect, you have two twin-rotor engines...”

“…each dedicated to supplying power to its own captive wheel...power transmission

being electronically-controlled, naturally!” grinned Nirvan. He was enjoying this.

“Awesome...simply awesome!” gasped the auto correspondent. “So we get independent

power control on each wheel! But...but that’ll improve high-speed cornering no end, what
to speak of braking by using engine inertia! Supplementing the anti-lock braking system!
And the two gearboxes, being individually more compact, can be tucked away somewhere
fairly remote from the scene of the action!”

“Especially when you’ve developed a new, high-speed flexible shaft...” chuckled Nirvan
merrily. “And internal disc brakes on all wheels!”

“Holy cow! No obstruction to wheel movement, then...anything’s possible: even near-

sideways crabbing into parking lots. I’m overwhelmed...by your achievements as much as
your generosity in making me privy to this information, Mr. Sen-Chowdhury. I won’t leak
any of it...but I’ll tell my readers that I know the gizmo inside out and that I stake my
reputation on its faultless performance. It’s the least I can do...” he gulped.

“You’re welcome!” said Nirvan as he offered his hand and showed his visitor to the door.

If Chief Black Elk had been hunting in the vicinity, he would have been puzzled to see a
large signboard that read ‘Black Elk Salt Flats – Caution! High-speed run TODAY!’ But
since the great chief has been gathered to his forefathers about three centuries ago, let us
invoke his spirit to accompany us to where something called a ‘SuzyC 4RE’ is being
readied for a (two- way) trial run of eighteen miles across the salt flats.
 160

It is a thing of sublime beauty, this SuzyC 4RE, gleaming in the dazzling sunshine and
hugging the ground with its four fat tyres. A tall man, in a war-costume no Indian brave
ever wore, is walking up to it. On his arm is a lovely woman—a fitting complement for
the car—a supple thing of golden sunshine and blue skies. She leans against the tall man
and laughs, and the mighty chief of the Oglala Sioux is reminded forcefully of his youth.
For—echoing across the centuries—he hears again the unforgettable music of his
Minnehaha’s laughter, so like the tinkling of a brook as it races over highland gravel beds
to join the wide and rolling river, majestic in its odyssey to infinity.

He grunts with astonishment as the tall man gets into the car...and seconds later, it is a
rapidly dwindling speck silhouetted against the dazzling whiteness. Being spirit, Black
Elk has no difficulty in riding up alongside it, noting, after a few miles, that a red display
inside the humming projectile reads ‘385.06 mph’. Another reads ‘51,219 rpm’, though
what these figures mean are a mystery to the legendary warrior as he floats along, wraith-
like, beside the iron horse.

But when the car returns, there is much jubilation, and the chief is happy for the men who
now use his lands. They are mighty warriors all, and belong to an age when Man is
reaching his true potential, and realizing his unity with Manitou.

Then the chief turns away with a sigh, for the girl with the golden hair and the man from
the car are locked in a close embrace.

‘It is the way of mortals, and through their love will they, too, attain immortality’.

Black Elk, mighty chief of the Oglala Sioux, had spoken.

~*~
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Tabula Rasa

He had been tracking the herbivore for over an hour now, trying to stay downwind of it. It
was a big one, the biggest he had ever seen, and he quickly ducked his head behind a rock
as it looked up to survey the scene. They were cautious, these horned beasts, very hard to
kill, but the effort was worth it. The flesh was soft and tasty, and there was so much of it,
enough to feed all the others for a week. The hide, cured and tanned, made good footwear,
and the horns and bones had a dozen applications. Now he gripped the weapon in his
hand firmly, deciding the time had come to edge up to it, belly to the ground, and…

He circled behind it, crouching low as he made for the cover of a bush that was within a
few spear-lengths from the broad, meaty back. He stood upright when its head went down
to graze, and ran forward…into the burst of light! One moment, he was rushing the beast,
spear held waist-high to plunge it deep into the animal’s side. The very next second, he
seemed to be at the center of a dazzling flash, and it was all gone, the rocks, the valley, the
grass-eater, he was all alone in a searing whiteness that seemed to tear him apart and take
him away, far away, like a leaf borne aloft on the mighty winds that sometimes roared
through the canyon where he and his people had their caves…

*
Dr. Hector Papandropoulos was not amused. He had just spent £ 6.99 on a book at the
airport bookshop—for he was not the sort of man who believed in sitting around doing
nothing—and, amateur anthropologist though he was, the views of the author of ‘Our Debt
to Early Man’ seemed absolutely preposterous. Even though it wasn’t his field—he was a
professional psychiatrist who specialized in treating cases of acute amnesia in a state
‘correctional facility’—it reeked of the worst kind of sophistry.

The author seemed to have no sense of Homo sapiens; he appeared be an earnest apologist
for Dawn Men, implying that caveman was actually the superior of the two! The agonizing
incompetence of the man, the sheer effrontery of churning out swill like this for a gullible
audience impressed by his PhD, ever willing to lap up the new, the controversial,
howsoever false! Observe the opening paragraphs of the subversive book:

“What differentiated Early Man from his forebears so forcefully was his ability to use
tools. With the development of bi-pedal gait came the freedom to use the hands for
purposes other than locomotion and food gathering. Besides, the posture offered as
little exposure as possible to the sun’s energy-sapping rays, and the crown of wooly
hair proved good insulation against the radiation. Not only did the hands become
immediately ‘idle’ but became, as tools of idle curiosity, the means with which to
explore the world around him. They became more refined, more supple and sensitive,
the better to grasp weapons of war, to engage in primitive agriculture, to hunt for
food, or to caress.

The changeover to a predominantly meat diet heralded the emergence of Cro-Magnon

Man after Neanderthal Man (so named after the discovery of his remains in the
Neanderthal in Germany). The generous burst of rich proteins provided the
 162

nourishment necessary for rapid development of his brain. The average Neanderthal
male had a cranial capacity of over 1,600 cc, more than that of Homo sapiens! Our
remote ancestors were far from the stupid, bestial prototypes portrayed in comic
books and pulp science fiction. The indications semaphored by recent
paleoanthropological and paleoarchaeological discoveries are that these intelligent,
efficient hunters caused serious imbalances in animal populations, and brought about
the extinction of many species. It seems man has changed very little in this respect, at
least, over the millennia.

With larger, more efficient brains, skilled hands, and increasingly complex social
structures came the one development more significant than all the others…
consciousness. The emergence of consciousness led inexorably to sophisticated
communication, effectively distancing Early Man from other Terran life forms and
catapulting him into the fast track of evolutionary development. It was this new ability,
which, perhaps more than all the others, hastened his evolutionary development and
put him firmly on the road to the stars. In a larger sense, therefore, the real history of
man reads concurrently with, and probably is, the history of the development of
human consciousness and its concomitant factor, communication.

It is not, and cannot be, our intention to dwell for long on the fascinating annals of
communication: the limitations of this book will not permit it. Still, we may be
pardoned if we pause briefly to scan the major developments which act as signposts
on the highway of Man’s transition from a nomadic hunter-gather to his transformation
into a sentient being on the threshold of galactic travel… with the cosmos beyond
beckoning alluringly! As we progress through these pages, we shall explore the
significance of our repeated emphasis on this urge for travel beyond our planetary
system, and the need—which I maintain is an atavistic one—to reach out to the stars.
Apart from speech (at which he became increasingly adept with the passage of time),
Early Man learnt to make colored vegetable dyes with which to record the various
facets of his daily life…mostly domestic scenes, animals…”

Why, the man made it out as if Neanderthals or Cro-Magnons were some sort of supermen
in bearskins! The author seemed to be saying that had it not been for them, those shaggy,
bumbling half-men of a quarter of a million years ago, eating raw meat and spearing
mammoths, Modern Man was a lost cause. Consciousness, my foot! Sophisticated
communication! This was too much! No, Hector Papandropoulos was definitely not
amused as he alighted from the cab and made his way to his office.

As the problems and preoccupations of his everyday world closed in on him, he had to
admit that his irritation with the author’s views was just an outlet for his internal
discomfiture, a catharsis to relieve the real cause of his depression. For Dr.
Papandropoulos was unhappy with the way things had been going at the facility lately.
Though he and his staff had worked like dogs, the results on paper were (he had to admit
it, at least to himself) rather unimpressive. Besides, the financial year was coming to a
close and he had still not heard anything from the Directorate about the release of the
annual budget. To say that he was a worried man was the understatement of the year.

He wondered what that juvenile, Andrews, his deputy, had been up to in his absence. He
had noticed in him a marked tendency to exceed his authority, to rush in where angels
feared to tread. Dr. Papandropoulos found his junior somewhat hard to take except in small
dozes. And because of the Rome Conference, he had been forced to leave that…that
 163

Neanderthal alone with the most puzzling case he had ever come across in his entire
career. He scratched his beard in agitation as he entered his office and asked his secretary
to give him time to settle down before asking Dr. Andrews to come over. As his mind
dwelt on the events of the last three years, he realized with surprise that it was time to
apply for an extension: his four-year term was on the home stretch. How time flies! Time!
Now that was a meaty problem.

No, it was no use, his mind returned to the present (were past and present so very
different? Wasn’t it nothing but a continuum that had the ability, often postulated and
sometimes demonstrated in laboratory experiments, to flow either way?) Hopelessly, his
freewheeling mind was sucked back into the vortex of the here-and-now, in particular, to
‘the phenomenon’, as he mentally referred to it.

It was impossible to stay away from it for very long. It was always lurking at the back of
his mind. He vividly recalled that day he had returned from the Helsinki Conference to
admit failure…he, Hector Papandropoulos, had admitted defeat…

*
“It’s hopeless, he simply doesn’t respond”, said Andrews cheerfully.

Dr. Papandropoulos pursed his lips thoughtfully, then spoke, as if to himself:

“Have we tried the treatment? The one where...you know...?” His voice trailed off
hopefully. The other nodded his head slowly, deliberately.

“Everything. We’ve tried everything. It’s hopeless.”

The older man thought for a minute, then shrugged. “Then there’s nothing further that we
can do. Prepare a full report, as usual, Dr. Andrews. Leave nothing out, the full tabula rasa
—‘blank tablet’—symptoms, the treatment, the response, the whole load of rubbish, don’t
give them a chance to get back at us later on for flaws in the paperwork.”

The younger man grinned. He looked very boyish when he did that, a touch of irreverence
about him that had not been erased by the grim job he did. He had been at the Institute all
of two years now.

“It’s ready already…I knew there was no hope, so I made it out after lunch yesterday.” He
produced the slim file for the older man’s inspection. Slightly irritated, for he disliked
being anticipated like this by subordinates, he opened it and read.

There was very little to go upon. Male, mixed blood, could be Eurasian, with some African
blood—heck, that wasn’t difficult, it had been proved that even the Windsors had Negroid
blood in their royal veins—height six foot two, brown eyes, muscular, weight eighty-eight
kilograms, craggy features, prominent jaws, well developed cranium, occiput enlarged,
light brown hair (dirty, uncombed)…wasn’t it the hair that went first: that and the hairy
face—stopped shaving—nails untrimmed, teeth large and strong but slightly worn down,
 164

could be into organic health foods—but why do they always lose interest in their
appearance? Does interest in one’s appearance have to do anything with amnesia? If so,
why? It was an interesting subject for a research scholar, the connection behind poor
grooming and the impact of amnesia.

He read on. Age: about thirty, very powerful arms—hands callused—heavily muscled legs,
no wedding band on ring finger, could well be a professional baseball or football player’s
physique, probably a dock worker or some such thing; remembers nothing: no language
skills, no mathematical/ cooking/ mechanical skills worth the name apart from very basic
ones such as lifting; seems to have no locational disorientation—he’s not looking for
someplace he ought to be right now, probably because he can’t remember where he ought
to be right now, so he accepts being where he is, what else could it be—it’s a difficult case,
maybe even a unique case.

No sign of brain damage, external; no sign of any head-injury, usual small scars
attributable to normal minor injuries sustained in day-to-day living; faint scars left by
adolescent acne, foreskin intact (unusual, but not remarkable; subject was not of Semitic
persuasion, that much was therefore obvious, anyway); eyesight 6/6, reflexes very good,
pulse normal, EEG/ ECG results normal, blood test normal, stool, semen, urine all normal,
ability to withstand hot/cold water shock treatment exceptional; MRI images show very
great agitation in right temporal lobe when shown outdoor scenes, ditto for pictures of
young males and females; normal indoor domestic scenes projected show negligible brain
activity; endocrinal/circulatory/cardio-vascular check-up OK….in short, the man was
young, healthy, probably led an active, outdoor life, unmarried, had no domestic
responsibilities, and was far removed from academics.

All attempts to trace him—television, press, radio, Internet—had failed. It seems he was a
bachelor, a loner, and probably had a low-profile, low-paid, part-time or shift-based job or
jobs where he was not quite, you know, indispensable. Apparently there were no relatives
or friends trying to trace him: nothing at all extraordinary about that nowadays. He pulled
the lobe of his ear, beaten, and then signed his name under his assistant’s with some
reluctance. The remark under the head ‘Recommendation’ was terse: “Institutionalization
till further improvement observed.” On second thought, he deleted the word ‘further’ and
initialed the change.

He awoke at dawn. The light coming through the bars in his windows had woken him. He
lay in the soft bed, and thought back over the events of the last six months. They had found
him, naked and hungry, under a large tree in a park. He could remember nothing. A fat,
early morning jogger had taken one look at him and bolted, screaming. Then he was
surrounded, and one of the men had fired a dart into him, after which he remembered
nothing more till he woke up in the place that smelt funny and where they had poked and
prodded him like some animal.
 165

They made sounds to each other as they worked on him, and he guessed they were
communicating with each other. Then they had herded him into a small, cold room, the
room had moved away, he could sense the movement in the dark, and then they had come
for him and stung him with something and he had slept again. When he woke, he found
they had removed the hair on his face, cut his nails, and put coverings on his body. They
felt so odd, these thin, flimsy things that covered him from neck to ankle—but they were
very soft and warm, and the bed was very comfortable.

The food he did not recognize, it was beyond his experience, but it was hot and tasted not
unpleasant, so that he ate his fill and after a loud burp, went back to sleep. If that was all he
had to do here, it was fine with him.

He was learning, unknown to himself. First some very basic words, like ‘food’ and
‘hungry’, then more complex ones that denoted identity, feelings, even thoughts. The
gestures they made as they talked helped him a lot here, apparently sign language as well
as sounds were very important. It took them some time to discover his progress—it was all
his fault, he had been hearing the sounds they called ‘music’ coming through the boxes
high on the ceiling, and had motioned to the man (with an expressive twist of his wrist, the
way he had seen one of them do while talking on his little black hand instrument to
someone he couldn’t see) who had brought his food to turn up the volume.

A comical expression had crossed the man’s face, he had jabbered excitedly into his
handheld box, and the other men had come running. The first one, the one called Steve,
was telling the others “I tell you he made, like, turn up the goddam sound, twist of wrist
and all, an’ he says ‘louder’! Jeez, it gave me the creeps, like, he’s actually talking, he likes
baroque music, for Chrissake, how ‘bout that?”

There was no looking back after that; he mastered the alphabet in fifteen days, was reading
primers in a month, and within three months was into kindergarten courses. From there, it
was a short (one year) jump to a high school degree, and another two years later,
graduation with paleoanthropology as his main subject (the books in Dr. Hector
Papandropoulos’s collection had a lot to do with that).

The staff of the correctional facility was in awe of him. There was no denying the fact that
he was intelligent. There was a primal, residual memory somewhere, probably buried deep
within the subconscious, but they hadn’t been able to get to it, even with hypnosis. It was
too regressed, so far back that it was out of reach, if it existed at all. He beat them soundly
at cards (and stashed away his winnings) and at arm-wrestling, read the financial dailies,
and bet with such accuracy at the races that they were soon besieging him for tips.

But although the big problem remained—he still hadn’t got his memory back—they
couldn’t possibly keep him after all his academic achievements. Anyway, who wanted to?
Budgets were being slashed all over the place, and one inmate less was a relief. The
Directorate had obtained legal permission for his discharge. He wasn’t a criminal, after all,
just a man with no memory beyond a certain point, but otherwise qualified and able to
support himself, a fact that adequately served the needs of society. It was decided to throw
 166

a big party for him, the night before his ‘release’. They gathered around him, tinkling
glasses with him, with their Joe.
They laughed all over again at the way he had got his name. After the first day, when the
male nurse had whistled as he was sponged down—he was splendidly endowed, it had to
be admitted—someone suggested that they could call him ‘Big Dick’.

But Dr. Papandropoulos had frowned at that, so that the orderly who made the suggestion
had hastily backed down, saying he was ‘only joking’. Joking! ‘Joe King’! So he was
christened Joseph King, and that was the name on the degrees and IDs and credit cards.
Then he shook hands with them all, even with the good Doctor, got into the used Ford he
had bought with part of the money he had won at poker and at the races, and drove away.

The passage of the man who came to be called Joseph King was both a high-watermark as
well as a watershed in Dr. Papandropoulos’s life. He had come when the Doctor’s career
had been at its zenith; his departure seemed to be the point from where the river of his life
went off a continental shelf and plunged into the abyss. His budget was slashed, his
contract was not renewed, and no one seemed to want a sixty-one year old clinical
psychiatrist from an institution well known for its failure rate.

In desperation, he sold his car, his house, and finally even the books in his precious library,
but the bills kept coming without any money from a steady job to meet them with. Five
years passed. There was a global downturn, and jobs had become scarce. Hector
Papandropoulos became a newspaper vendor, selling the dailies at traffic signals. He read
them as he sold them, marveling at the way Joseph King seemed to be in the news all the
time.

Here he was inaugurating his new fuel-cell plant in Canada, there he was at the christening
of his new ocean-going yacht ‘Sea Witch’, a prominent Hollywood actress breaking the
bottle of champagne on her rakish bows. Stocks were plummeting on the global bourses
and he bought selectively, hugely, following some hidden game plan, some secret agenda
known only to him. His purchases were as bizarre as they were disparate: a defunct aero-
engine factory here, a vast tract of desert there, a game reserve in Africa, a sprawling
10,000-acre estate, complete with oil wells, in Texas, a large but mined-out area in
Greenland. It made no sense at all to Dr. Papandropoulos.

He realized he had company. The tinted glass of a long, black limo was rolled just a little
way down, and as Dr. Papandropoulos mechanically handed over the morning edition, a
pair of keen eyes scanned him closely. Then the pile of papers was taken from his hand by
a giant fist and a 100 Dollar bill was thrust into his pocket. The door of the limousine
opened and he was drawn gently inside. Puzzled, taken off guard, he sank into the deep,
soft leather and turned to face his unknown benefactor. He did not recognize the big man
in the flawlessly tailored suit; the crocodile leather shoes, the deep, cultured voice, and the
hand with the extravagant blue-white solitaire in its platinum setting, which was extended
to him in welcome. Then it clicked into place: Joseph King!
 167

“So, Doctor, we meet again.” Neutral, pleasant; there was no condescension here, no
morale-shattering sympathy. “Padding the pension, I see, and getting some fresh air and
exercise at the same time. Not bad.” No, he was not taking a shot at him, just trying to put
him at ease and getting the hawking-in-the-streets bit out of the way, smoothly, urbanely.

Dr. Papandropoulos found his voice with some difficulty.

“Mr. King…I mean, ‘Sir Joseph’, it’s such a surprise….” King had been knighted last
month at Buckingham Palace for ‘his enormous contribution to society.’ But King cut him
off, “Joe will do nicely, thanks, Doctor. Let me tell you, this is a great coincidence. I have
been looking for you all over the place. When they told me you had...had moved, I had
almost given up hope of ever finding you again. Listen, I need you to do something for
me…something I feel only you can do.”

“Anything…er, Mr. King, anything within my power,” agreed the old man.

King laughed shortly. “It’s within your power, all right. In fact, you’re the best man for the
job that I know of.”

Dr. Papandropoulos was curious now, so he said nothing. Funny, how saying nothing often
elicits the most revealing of replies. Don’t tell a woman you love her and she always
knows you do, sometimes before you realize it yourself, and better than if you’d sent her
reams of passionate poetry. Dr. Papandropoulos grimaced at some distant memory.

King was going on persuasively, “You know, Doctor, how life can take the damndest of
turns once in a while? One moment one is down, the next, one is up; one is here now, one
is there the very next moment. Guess you could say it’s a part of the human condition, this
uncertainty…this glorious unpredictability.”

Papandropoulos nodded his agreement, his eyes staring back at his past, his Directorship at
the Institute. How far away were those days seemed now. How quickly a man adapts to a
changed environment, pulls himself together in order to survive.

The car was now speeding past the suburbs, turning through massive iron gates that opened
automatically to it, then rolling down a magnificent driveway lined with ancient elms
towards a Georgian country house. The liveried butler took their things, then ushered them
into a vast lounge. “Lunch first, I think, Doctor. Then we’ll get down to brass tacks. If
you’d like to freshen up, the cloak-room’s on the right.”

Lunch was a silent affair. Papandropoulos had not eaten well for a long time, and the food
was a balm that soaked into his tired body, revitalizing him. Then, in the library, over
brandy and cigars, King got down to the job he had for him.

“Dr. Papandropoulos, I happen to have first-hand knowledge about your expertise in

various branches of psychiatry, as well as your acquaintance with the early stages in
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human development. The point is: did the mind develop along with the body? Or was it
already developed before the body became Homo sapiens? Think, Doctor…I have two
major questions to put to you. Firstly, was the mind so well developed that early in
mankind’s history? And secondly…why has it failed to grow, kept up with the body’s
evolution, so to say? Is it because the mind had been severely challenged, so that it was
almost fully developed soon after the hominids came on the scene? Was it because such a
challenge was never repeated?”

Papandropoulos felt a bit light-headed: was it anything to do with the brandy? What King
was saying militated against his deepest feelings, his ancient prejudice against the badly
defended hypothesis that Early Man had intellect and Consciousness.

King raised his hand placatingly: “I happen to know of your…ah… resistance to the idea
of primordial intelligence. But there are certain facts in my possession that may make you
change your mind. I wonder if you’ve read my book ‘Our Debt to Early Man’ ?”

Papandropoulos was stunned. King had written that book! King was smiling “Yes, I know,
I wrote it under a non de plume. After all, it was a bit radical: far too radical for the oh-so-
comfortable, conservative, predictable world I operate in. Didn’t want to draw any
unnecessary flak. But what I’ve done since then will astonish you. I have enough money to
make me comfortable for the rest of my life. That was merely something I needed to fulfil
an aim, realize a goal…to vindicate our…my convictions with hard-core evidence.”

Papandropoulos gasped at the sheer cheek of the man. Here was a modern, educated,
obviously highly-intelligent man willing to make it his life’s work to prove that cavemen
had brains! What futility, what madness!

King went on: “I know, you are thinking, ‘he’s mad, poor fellow!’ No, my dear Doctor
Papandropoulos, I am not mad. Have you read the relevant passages in my book? Here, I’ll
refresh you memory.” He got up and took down a book from the shelves, opened it to a
page and gave it to Papandropoulos.

“Please read,” he requested, and Dr. Papandropoulos read, reluctantly…

“Experience has taught us not to underestimate the intelligence and ingenuity of Early
Men: starting with nothing, battling the elements and wild animals, they shaped their
lives in a savage world and gradually tamed it, with only prehensile hands and a new,
more powerful brain to show them the way. If unceremoniously thrust into a similar
situation today, how many Homo sapiens (even with the benefit of hindsight, and their
‘modern’ knowledge of things—edifices built on the hard earned experiences and
sacrifices of the first men), would be able to cope with the lethal hazards they found
around them?

Our remote ancestors were pioneers… daring and innovative pathfinders. It is to them
that we owe everything we have today, and we deny our ancestry and our debt if we
adopt a superior attitude, if we regard them as stupid savages, an embarrassing
interlude to be classified as a distinct species and thereby comfortably distanced from
us. It would not surprise me if a Cro-Magnon man, resurrected today through some
Spielbergian legerdemain, and educated decently, ran rings around us in every sphere
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of activity, from the bourses, to boardroom, to the boxing ring. Early Man was bigger,
better, and smarter because he had to be that way to survive….”
“So, doctor, what do you think? Does anything strike you as particularly incongruous
there?” He was watching Papandropoulos closely. The doctor hesitated: “I…it would have
to be the last bit about the Cro-magnon man out-doing modern man. That’s simply too
fantastic idea to give serious consideration to.”

Oh! Oh! There was definitely more of a kick in the brandy than he’d have thought
possible.

“Really?” King was now watching him through slitted eyes, the eyes of a predator, a
hunter. “So you think I’m wrong, do you, my dear Doctor? Then how would you explain
the success of a man without a memory, without the benefit of an upbringing and
acclimatization to a hostile environment he’s suddenly been plunged into, a man such as
I?”

Papandropoulos was emphatic, shaking his head vigorously: “That’s different; you are a
man from our times, with all the benefits of a mind that has seen more than 200,000 years
of evolution, a mind, albeit deprived of transactional memory, but nevertheless in full
retention of structural memory, buried though it may have been in the subconscious.”

“Is that what you really think, Doctor? Then how do you explain this?”, he said, handing
Papandropoulos a bulky envelope. It contained a letter addressed to Sir Joseph King, Kt. of
the Order of the Bath. It read as follows: -

“Dear Sir Joseph,

This is to acknowledge your letter of 23 February, along with the special stainless steel,
vacuum-lockable vessel sent by us at your request, and contents in argon atmosphere, duly
sealed. There is no mistake in the laboratory findings; the DNA sample enclosed was
definitely not a modern one. In fact, we stand by our preliminary report, which mentions
that it pertains to a hominid from the remote past, perhaps 200,000 years before our present
time.

We cannot hope to learn from you the source from which you obtained the specimen, as it
would obviously have an important bearing on future research papers that will, no doubt,
be based on it. The staff here at the Royal Swedish Academy has been sworn to secrecy, as
desired by you.

Kindly note that we shall be only too happy to render any further assistance desired of us,
if at all, in your future endeavors.

Thanking you,
Cordially,

(----------- signed-------------)
 170

ERIC CARLSSON
Director ”
With shaking hands, Papandropoulos perused the documents. He felt dizzy, but he forced
his eyes to focus on the papers. They all supported the authenticity of the DNA sample. He
looked up at King, the unspoken question in his eyes.

King shrugged. “No need to be so surprised, Doctor: the sample came from a living
human, one very much known to you. In fact, it came from me. Yes, me. I’m the man you
have believed for so long could not exist, Doctor. I had to vindicate them…us…we were
not as brutish as you thought. We’re not pretty, no; but there are humans, Homo sapiens,
roaming the streets today who are uglier than I am.”

King laughed harshly. “Yes, dear Doctor, we were the original supermen! Where would
you be without us?” he added triumphantly, as Dr. Papandropoulos’s world collapsed
around him and he slipped faintly to the floor.

The last words he remembered hearing, before he lost consciousness, was a challenge to
himself and to all his ilk…

“I’m going back, Doctor; I found the time warp. The legal documents are ready and you’ll
receive them in due course, I leave my entire estate to you, on the condition that you spend
the rest of your life undoing the great wrong you’ve done me and all my kind. The vessel
needed for the trip is ready, and I shall be gone before you awake.

Goodbye, and don’t ever forget: a bestial ‘caveman’ showed you the way to the truth about
yourself!”

~*~
 171

For Heaven’s Sake

A shinbone is a shinbone to most men, but to Dr. Sudhanshu Mullick, of course, it was a
tibia alongside a fibula. And this one had broken in three places. It was sheer chance that
he happened to be there just then. He’d decided to take the old Austin A40 to the workshop
to have the newest rattle fixed, and he’d seen the crowd at the Municipal Library
intersection and stopped to enquire. It seemed that a truck had hit a cyclist and driven off,
leaving the rider, a boy hardly fourteen years of age, unconscious on the pavement with a
broken leg.

“Concussed...but not too seriously, just the fractured tibia-fibula and some abrasions. Very
lucky lad. It could have been much worse”, he thought as he put a makeshift splint on the
boy’s leg till the ambulance came, and the stretcher-bearers lifted their slight burden into
the back. He followed the ambulance to the hospital and gave his statement to the Police
before briefing the doctor on duty. The boy was still unconscious, so no Pethedrine shot
was required of the doctor as he heaved and pulled the broken pieces into place and
plastered the leg from toe to thigh to immobilize it. Bone-setting was an excruciatingly
clumsy-looking exercise to the untutored eye, thought Dr. Mullick.

Only then did he remember where he was supposed to be going that Sunday. He felt so
fulfilled, treating patients whenever the occasion arose, that Sunday offs were a convention
he’d gladly forego if the town’s Medical Council would let him. But they never would, of
course.

“They’ll call me a spoilsport—their golf and bridge schedules would go down the drain if
they had to open their clinics on holidays!” he chuckled to himself. Then he realised he
wasn’t being quite fair to them. They weren’t seventy-six, like he was. They had families
to spend time with, friends to entertain, and hobbies to pursue. Dr. Mullick was married to
his profession. He’d been that way a long time.

It hadn’t always been that way, of course. Very few people knew that Dr. Mullick had
studied medicine in England, just after the war. His father ran a small pharmacy in
Benaras, and it had been his life’s ambition that his only son should be a doctor. He had
skimped and saved to arrange the boy’s passage. That was all he was able to contribute.
Fortunately, Sudhanshu was brilliant. He had topped the State Matriculation examinations
and won a scholarship to Lucknow University, where he had won the Governor’s Gold
Medal for standing first in the B.Sc. (General) examinations. And that qualified him for the
Rhodes scholarship.

Sudhanshu’s hard life had made him as fit as any sportsman. While his more affluent
companions had been driven to school and college, Sudhanshu had jogged and run,
carrying his heavy satchel of books on his back, saving money his father could ill-afford to
spend. He had grown into a tall and earnest youth, full of stamina and determination. He
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blossomed at college, where it turned out he was a natural sprinter. He had won the 100
and 200 yards dash events in his final year, and had become a local celebrity.
He enjoyed the adulation, but he was inwardly troubled. Sportsmen had no future in post-
Independence India. He needed a scholarship to complete his higher studies. Someone told
him to apply for a Rhodes scholarship. The trouble was, only two candidates were selected
from India every year. He didn’t think he had the ghost of a chance, but he applied
anyway.

The Rhodes scholarship selection board was impressed. An all-rounder was what they
always looked for, and Mullick was a triple gold medalist. They liked his quiet, modest
replies, and his triumph over his humble background warmed the hearts of the interview
committee. He was one of two candidates selected for the prestigious scholarship. He
sailed for England to pursue his studies in medicine at Trinity College, Cambridge.

He’d planned to visit the orphanage today, after he’d got the mysterious rattle attended to.
The mechanic groaned as the battered Austin with 120,000 miles on the odometer wheezed
into the shed.

“Now what’s she got, Doc? Pneumonia?” he griped sourly.

Dr. Mullick grinned good-humouredly. “No, Birju! This time, it’s arthritis! Thought you’d
help me locate the source of the rattle somewhere near the...um...differential...could you
please see if....?”

Birju sighed dramatically and slid under the car. “Forceps!” he yelled, teasing the doctor as
he undid a few nuts, and probed. Doc Mullick smiled. Birju loved her just as much as he
did; he just didn’t show it.

“Crown wheel’s gone, Doc!” he announced happily. “Don’t know whether we can find an
original replacement part for it. Maybe now you’ll retire her and get yourself a Standard
Vanguard or a Morris Oxford.” Dr. Mullick held his peace, and Birju’s shoulders sagged
wearily.

“Bring her around on Thursday, ten o’clock sharp, Doctor Sa’ab”, he said in a voice full of
patient suffering. “By then, hopefully, I’ll have found the part. But take my advice and sell
her. She’s too difficult to maintain.”

Dr. Mullick shook his head stubbornly. He refused to sell the car in spite of generous
offers from classic-car collectors. It was a living fossil, and they winced when he drove the
sedate little lady around all day. She deserved to be in a museum, to be put on a pedestal
and admired.
 173

But how could he sell her? She was his last link with England, and with her. Only last
night that he’d dreamed again of Susan Chataway. When they’d met for the first time...at
Oxford. So long ago. Just yesterday...

A senior at medicine, Dr. Roger Bannister, had stunned the world by running the mile
under four minutes—the ‘impossible’ mile—ably paced by his team-mates Chris
Chataway, Chris Brasher, and his old rival, John Landy. At the Oxbridge gala (that had
turned into a wild, bacchanalian revel), Sudhanshu, still interested in athletics, had been
introduced to Chris Chataway...and his beautiful cousin, Susan.

They had taken to each other immediately. She was tiny—only five feet three—as against
his six foot one, and she was waif-like in her short hairdo that had her thick brown hair
curving back in a dashing sweep that accentuated her classic features. Gamine and well-
rounded, she had a womanly and mature figure. Sudhanshu Mullick thought she was the
loveliest girl he’d ever seen.

As a student of medicine, he’d always wondered what it would feel like if he ever
happened to fall in love. Could he ever fall in love...with a machine whose internal
intricacies were textbook stuff for him? Was it likely that he’d ever see a woman and not
wonder whether her liver was upset, if her kidneys were working properly, or if her
menstrual cycle was irregular? If her uterus was properly aligned? Her fallopian tubes
blocked? Her breasts free of any malignant lumps? When had she last had a
mammography?

The doctor in him looked at the human female form as an intricate mechanism with
hundreds of potential problems. It was a wondrous exercise in diagnostics to tell from a
woman’s urine that she was pregnant. That she was about to have a child! A woman’s
body was a great way to appreciate the miracle of Life. He wondered whether he would
ever come across one and want it for himself...for itself! To fondle, caress, and cherish, to
love and be loved by the mysterious, invisible inmate that resided within.

All his doubts melted the day he met Susan. It happened in a moment, a millisecond that
lasted an eternity. Oh! That bursting feeling in him, the overpowering urge to sing aloud,
the wild surge of his pulse, his heart hammering, his blood pounding in his temples. He
found, to his surprise, that he did not see her as an object, as a ‘case’ in the laboratory.

He felt a pull at something that lived inside him, the thing that was the counterpart of the
spirit within her, and its message was unmistakable. More than any layman, he appreciated
that he had fallen in love with a flesh-and-blood creature that was not flesh-and-blood at
all. She was spirit, as he was. Yet he loved her body, too. It was all so confusing. Love
illuminated, elevated, and inebriated Sudhanshu. Susan saw it and was glad. She had felt it,
too.
*

The children at the orphanage yelled with glee as the old Austin sputtered to a halt. The
doctor had come, which meant sweets and clothes and presents for them. They did not
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know that the orphanage had once been his ancestral home, which he had donated to it
when he’d founded it, thirty years ago. It was called ‘The Chataway Home for Children’,
in memory of Susan Chataway.
Their attraction for each other had blossomed into a great love that had taken them to the
altar. For two years, after his internship was over and he had bagged a small position in a
provincial hospital, they had lived in bliss. He had never believed he could be so happy.
Life had given him much more than he’d asked of it, and he was grateful. He accepted his
good fortune with humility, knowing how few were the men who were truly happy. The
secret was in not wanting. Acceptance, renunciation, and awareness were the keys to
happiness, as he fully realised now.

Love made one free, because it was unselfish, undemanding, ever grateful, and totally
unconditional. Directed as it was towards another, it nevertheless encompassed something
far greater, something Divine. It led one’s mind inexorably to the Creator, for it was the
stuff of which Divine passion was fashioned. It was such a wonder that he often felt it was
impossible. Yet he had been made to see that it was possible.

So Sudhanshu Mullick humbly accepted the gift, knowing full well that nothing was ever
forever...other than love. Nothing lasted for eternity...except Love. It could only be
experienced, never explained. Its impermanence, in the face of death, served only to
underscore its timelessness.

As he drove away, with the goodbyes of the children ringing in his ears, Sudhanshu again
felt the pull of that old love. It was a bitter-sweet sensation in that old, worn-out body as he
sat in that old, worn-out car. New cars became old and fresh young bodies aged, but Love
remained ever youthful, ageless...eternal. As did hearts that loved. Susan Chataway was
gone, but Sudhanshu’s grief was tempered with the wisdom that the years had brought. No
one ever died; Death was such a hoax...because there was no life other than the Eternal
One. He alone was Life; He alone was Love. There was nothing else.

Youth pitied old age...then it itself became old, to be pitied in turn by a new generation. It
was Life and Love that were important, because they were eternal, everlasting. It was never
too late to experience both. It was never too late to love...

The ancient Austin slid gently off the road and ploughed into a field of bright yellow
mustard. Dr. Mullick lay slumped in his seat, unaffected by the pungent scent of crushed
mustard flowers. He appeared to be asleep as his old heart faltered and stuttered to a stop,
just as the engine of the old A40 had done.

The man at Reception was dishevelled and somewhat harried-looking.

“Your name?” he asked brusquely.

 175

“Dr. Sudhanshu Mullick,” said Sudhanshu chirpily. He felt great!

“Hmmmm ...let me see...so many new arrivals today. Aha! Here we are: Mullick,
S...Hmmm...Quite! Right ho! Now please proceed to check-in that little black bag you’re
carrying, at the next counter. They’ll give you your posting. Have a nice day...Ha! Ha! A
very l-o-n-g day it may turn out to be, too!” he added after the retreating shape.

Dr. Mullick met someone called A. Gabriel. He was obviously on his way to a fancy-dress
ball, dressed as he was in a white gown and great, big, white wings stuck on his back. He
looked like a clean-shaven version of Abe Lincoln.

The said A. Gabriel assigned him his duties. They sounded weird to Dr. Mullick. Three
hours of harp practice, three hours of choir practice, and four hours of halleluiahs! Long
hours they kept here...if he hadn’t been a doctor, and used to them, he’d have looked for
another appointment. Only he couldn’t remember having applied for this one. He decided
to play along...

Time passed, in a manner of speaking. It didn’t seem to actually pass; it just hung around
like a congealed jelly pudding and didn’t go anywhere. And neither did you, thought Dr.
Mullick. You just hung around, too. He fidgeted impatiently, and the tenor hovering next
to him in the choir gave him a warning nudge in the ribs...not that he could feel any of his
ribs. As a matter of fact, he couldn’t feel his body at all. He felt as light as air. And he had
a nasty feeling that someone had stuck those A. Gabriel-style wings on his back, too. If it
had mattered, he’d have reached around and checked it out. And come to think of it, he’d
never seen a mirror anywhere, not even in the men’s room...wherever that was!

Time seemed not to pass as it possibly passed (more likely, it just drew up alongside and
kept pace, thought Doc Mullick), getting more piqued by the minute or hour or day or
whatever the unit of time was here. And where the heck was Here?

A. Gabriel materialized. ‘This is not called ‘Here’. Its correct nomenclature is ‘The
HereAfter’” he intoned somberly.

“But there is no ‘After’, here. It’s always, like, ‘Now’... and how!” protested Doc Mullick
peevishly.

“That’s just it. You must learn to live in the Present! It’s a present... from Him! Get it,
Doc? Hmmmm...Now then, let me see, what were...ah...are you?”

“Why, a doctor, of course. And incidentally—I’ve been meaning to ask you this for quite
some...er...time—what are those wails all about? The ones I keep hearing off to one
side...or is it straight down...if there’s an ‘up’ or ‘down’ in ‘HereAfter’, that is!” said Doc.

“Oh, that’s Hell. Those awful sounds are the wails of lost souls...the background
percussion is heels drumming against the ‘ground’. The grinding and swishing noises are
just the sounds of teeth gnashing,” explained A. Gabriel lugubriously.
 176

“I have to go help them! But I can’t do anything for them just standing here, gabbing...if
you’ll pardon the expression, Gabby...I mean, Gabriel, Sir. I have to go down there and do
what has to be done. I’m a doctor, for Chrissake!”

A. Gabriel looked around warily. “Keep your voice down, for Chri...I mean...for Heaven’s
sake! The clouds have ears. And it’s ‘NO!’ You can’t go there. Period.”

“I’ll appeal! I’ll demonstrate! I’ll picket those Pearly Gates I entered through!” threatened
Doc, quite beside himself with ennui.

“Oh! All right, all right! You win!” A. Gabriel caved in angelically. “But just
remember...it’s their punishment!”

“Just gimme my bag and step...er...waft aside”, said Doc.

Doc was hellish busy. Burn cases—many of them as severe as any he’d ever seen—
predominated. For the rest, Hieronymus Bosch was a good starting point of reference.
Doc’s little black bag ran out. He pestered the harried A. Gabriel till he got more supplies.
He worked feverishly, racing against time that never raced but always paced him. He never
slept. Night was as day to him. Funny, the all-encompassing illumination upstairs was
missing here...he toiled on in the twilight gloom that was filled with the unearthly wails
and gnashing of teeth of the condemned.

He was Mercy Incarnate, but he did not know that. He was just a sad old country GP doing
the work he loved—helping to mitigate suffering as best he could. He was tireless,
indefatigable. And gradually, his labours bore fruit. He had managed to turn the tide of
suffering...the wails were getting more and more infrequent, the gnashing was dying
down...

A. Gabriel summoned him urgently. “Doc, I’ve got good news for you. You’ve been
recalled. Clerical error! Your time hadn’t come. A simple typo. One hell of a goof-up!
You’ve gotta go back!” he smirked triumphantly.

“But...but...I can’t!” It was Doc’s turn to wail and gnash his teeth. “There’s so much work
left for me to do here. You must see that! You can’t do this to me!”

“Sorry, Doc. Orders from On High. Back you go. See ya later...!” chortled A. Gabriel.

“Easy with the cardiac massage, he’s comin’ around!” said a voice.

“Oxygen! More oxygen! We have a pulse!” Another voice.

 177

Doc opened his eyes. Cool white sheets. A hospital room! What was he doing in bed?
Where the hell was Gabby? Where had HereAfter disappeared to?

“Phew! You gave us a bad scare, Doc,” said the first voice. “If old Kanhaiya hadn’t come
past in his Jeep just then and rushed you to us...a miracle, no less!”

“Doc...you probably realise...back then...you were...you were—well, you were dead! Do

you remember anything? Anything at all?” asked the second voice.

Doc’s mind went back to the place where he’d been, where he’d been winning the fight
against pain, disease, and human misery.

“Of course I do! I remember everything!”

“You do?” gasped the cardiologist, paling. “What...what was it like?”

Doc smiled, a happy, peaceful smile, as he closed his eyes wearily.

“It was like Heaven!” he whispered.

~*~
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The Gourmet
Pierre Courbertin was restless and more than a little annoyed. He was waiting for Majboot
Singh and he was also beginning to feel hungry, and while he hardly liked to be kept
waiting, he had a far greater aversion to hunger. Men like him were not meant to feel
hungry. Hunger was a degrading experience, a debasing, humiliating fact of life that was
the destiny of the poor and downtrodden, the under-nourished masses, the toilers and the
sweaty-collared.

It was a close relative of overwork and malnutrition, poverty and exploitation, a constant
companion of cheerless lives that looked forward to nothing as eagerly as the blessed
release of death. It was not something that was to be felt by the idle rich of the world. But
he could feel the onset of the first pangs of hunger now, and it was decidedly unsettling.

Courbertin was of the wealthy upper classes that have more money than they know what to
do with. In sorting out his life priorities, after he had inherited the family business of
global shipping, aircraft manufacture and the chain of Export-Import Houses that ran
themselves under professional management, he had decided that he would devote the rest
of his life to exploring—not the higher reaches of finance—but the highest realms of
gastronomic experience. Since that day, he lived but to eat selectively, eat exclusively, eat
luxuriously…eat like few men before him had ever eaten.

He had tried all the gustatory avenues available to the sybarite; none of the hedonistic
solutions to ennui had appealed to him more than the intensely personal pleasure of
sampling exceptionally good non-vegetarian food. An outstanding dish, well cooked and
served, had the power to arouse him spiritually, to inspire him to a passionate
contemplation of life’s immeasurable bounties.

His predilections—and his insatiable appetite for gustatory adventures—had taken him far
beyond the traditional eating-places of the rich, where each item on a menu could feed a
poor family for a year, dishes that cost a king’s ransom and yet left him ever more
dissatisfied.

His awesome wealth, his encyclopedic knowledge of the world’s cuisines and his
unwavering food fixation had made him one of the most famous gourmets of all time, a
lover of extreme cuisine for whom lark’s tongues in honey were pedestrian stuff. His
opinions carried weight, and his observations could make or mar the reputation of many a
Cordon Bléu chef. A good dinner was to him as meditation was to a monk: it stimulated
his inner person and gave him a glimpse of Higher Possibilities.

He roamed far from well-trodden paths, discarding the usual continental conurbations such
as Paris, Vienna and London and traveling to distant lands, sometimes enduring
unconscionable hardships in search of more and yet ever more exotic dishes to tantalize his
taste buds. To satisfy his craving for novel cooking had become as an obsession with him.
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He was human—as he grudgingly admitted to himself in rare moments of introspection

that he allowed to happen in the secret recesses of his mind—and he knew that such
fanatical pursuit of culinary delights was somehow as corrupting as the honest hunger of
the underprivileged, but he hastily swept his misgivings under whatever table he was
dining at and concentrated on testing his palate against the world’s rarest dishes.

His obsession had taken him to Alaska for the Artic Char, Salmon, and King crabs the
Inuit peoples lived off; he had tried Reindeer and even—during a brief famine—eaten wolf
meat. He had devoured the steaming brains of Lion-tailed Macaques, spooning it out of the
skulls after they had been boiled in brine and their bony crowns had been neatly sliced off
with a machete to expose the oyster-like contents.

He had feasted on Llama stew, broiled Andean Condor, roasted Canada goose, minced
Kodiak bear, Puma pies, juicy Lion steaks, Koala cutlets, Kangaroo kabobs, parboiled
Pandas, Dugong sausages, sweet and sour Anaconda in mushroom sauce, Vampire bats
stuffed with apple dumplings and boiled in maple syrup, filleted Piranha fried in butter,
and even Platypus patties. He would have tried Yeti if he could lay his hands on a
specimen.

He had made many discoveries in the process of sampling African Bush meat—from
Okapi sirloin to grilled gazelle liver—but he leaned earnestly towards Bushmaster fillets
fried in raw olive oil, undeterred by the fact that the snake was one of the most venomous
reptiles in the world. He had tasted of Ostrich, Aardvark, Baboon, Mandrill, Opossum,
Crocodile, Rhinoceros, Hippopotamus, Black Mamba, Wildebeest, Zebra, Wart Hog,
Gorilla, Chimpanzee and Giraffe, to name but a few.

At some time or the other, the meat of hundreds of the world’s fauna had lined his
stomach. Now it all seemed to be coming together; an answer lurked somewhere within his
subconscious, the answer to the Final Question: What was the Best Meal in the World?
Secretly, and to his utter surprise, he found himself leaning ever closer towards the flesh of
the primates. But he wasn’t sure enough to make a pronouncement just yet. It always
seemed as if the very next dish could hold the answer.

Yet for all his fame as a titillator of taste buds, no one in his right mind could have accused
Courbertin of gluttony. He was not a dainty nibbler, as was the gourmet of myth, but he
was not a gormandizer, either. He was the epitome of the accomplished epicure. He ate
heartily and well—his well-rounded form was walking testimony to that—but to compare
him with the over-indulgent patricians of Rome in its final years of decline, who had built
vomitoriums to facilitate their passion for incessant gorging, would have been have been
an act of gross injustice. He was too rich to be greedy; a little too fanatical in his quest,
perhaps, but his innocent enthusiasm saved him from decadence.

He felt appetite was elevating (as opposed to hunger, which was humiliating), and he saw
nothing excessive in pursuing its fulfilment. A keen appetite, he felt, was something to be
proud of—it was a sign of good mental and physical health—especially when summoned
up over a dish cooked to perfection. It sharpened the anticipation, whetted the mind, and
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goaded the taste buds into delivering a fair verdict. Le bon appetit instigated by the aroma
of good food was like the Code Napoleon: it promoted impartiality even as it presumed
that the defendant was guilty until proven innocent. No dish, lovingly prepared to
perfection by an inspired cook, ever failed to be exonerated of all charges. On rare
occasions, encomiums and eulogies accompanied the verdict.

The proclamations of Pierre Courbertin—scathing or generous—went straight into the

food columns of international cuisine magazines, and were more sought-after than
knighthoods by restaurateurs. Yet, for all his fascination with fastidious fooding,
Courbertin was a shy sybarite, a man who chose to approach the table in as much
anonymity as was possible for one of the earth’s leading connoisseurs.

So as he waited for Majboot Singh in the foyer of the posh hotel in New Delhi, his
presence failed to elicit little more than the occasional curious glance. He recalled with
keen anticipation—as he pulled back his cuff to peek discreetly at his Rolex—how the
burly sardarji with the huge turquoise ring on his little finger (‘little’ was a misnomer, if
ever there was one, thought Courbertin: the said finger was the size of a decent frankfurter,
and well-suited to the turquoise that was the size of a pigeon’s egg) had promised him the
adventure to end all adventures.
Courbertin had met Majboot Singh at a reception given by the King of Morocco in the
Hôtel de Paradiso, in Paris. The large, bearded, and turbaned Indian towered above the
crowd like a Punjabi Paul Bunyan. They introduced themselves as they sat down next to
each other. It turned out that Singh was an exporter of Indian handicrafts, a business that
took him all over the world.

Like all his opportunistic and extroverted clansmen, he was fond of the good things of life,
for sardarjis are the earthiest of the earth’s earthy. They never allow their minds to soar to
empyrean heights, even if such a feat were at all possible. One can hardly rely on them for
intellectual prowess, but they are uncommonly useful to have on one’s side when it comes
to a mix-up at a dock-front bar. Firmly rooted to the soil, they see little need to over-
exercise their mental muscles, endowed as they are with hearty appetites and exceptional
physiques. It’s hardly surprising that although there’s no such thing as a sardarji
philosopher, there is no dearth of sardarji sofa-fillers.

They are unabashed hedonists, and Majboot’s refreshing candour appealed to the retiring
Frenchman, who began to take a lively interest in his companion’s remarks on the courses
as they came and went. When he had done with checking out the women at the table (all
the time twirling his moustache appreciatively), the Sikh turned to the subject of his other
pet fascination—the menu. The Frenchman was pleasantly surprised to find that despite his
rough-hewn exterior, the brawny man from the Punjab was a true-blue epicure, a man who
knew the foods (and, it must be confessed, the strong spirits) of the world.

Majboot Singh was one-up on Courbertin in that he had tried Fugu…and lived to tell the
tale of its delicate, orange-scented flavour. It is never possible to predict with any degree of
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certainty the toxicity or otherwise of a Fugu, a fish found in Japanese waters and reputed to
be the tastiest in the world. It can also turn out to be the most toxic.

No Fugu eater really knows, as he puts the first morsel in his mouth, whether he will bite
into ecstasy or eternity. Why, just last year, chow-savvy Lee Kew Chen, the uncrowned
king of the Fugu eaters, had keeled over at a fashionable restaurant in Hong Kong and died
in convulsions within seconds of ingesting his first mouthful of Fugu. It had been his
twenty-second encounter, and his last.

Majboot Singh had survived to tell the tale of his first (and—he was determined—his final)
foray into the ranks of the Fugu worshippers. He intended to live long and eat wisely, if too
well. Not for him the dramatic gamble of going at Fugu one time too many, the
gastronomical equivalent of Russian roulette. Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, the celebrated
French gastronome of an earlier century, had described gastronomy as “the intelligent
knowledge of whatever concerns man's nourishment.” Majboot called it ‘the intelligent
man’s way to nourishing entertainment’. Once was quite enough, even for the self-
indulgent sardarji.

Courbertin had journeyed all the way to dusty Delhi because Majboot had promised him
the ultimate epicurean experience. He would never have taken the promise seriously had it
come from anyone else, but the knowledgeable Indian was another matter. A month later,
after receiving the ‘all clear’ from Delhi, Courbertin had flown down to meet Majboot and
take him up on his promise.

Lurking at the back of the Indian’s offer was the hint of a business deal, but Courbertin
didn’t mind. It went with the territory, this culinary courtship for commercial
considerations. It took him all over the globe. If it meant he got to partake of Olympian
fare as well, all the better. The true gourmet is always a realist. He knows there is no such
thing as a free lunch. There are always strings attached.

The titanic bulk of the sardarji lumbered into the foyer. Courbertin saw that he was clad in
T-shirt and jeans. The casual dress accentuated his enormous frame. His huge paunch
sagged over the fashionably wide leather belt, and his brawny arms bulged with muscle. A
massive chest balanced an equally wide, muscular back. Legs like tree trunks did extreme
things to the jeans he wore, a size 56 at least.

Courbertin felt enervated by the waves of energy and power that emanated from the man.
He reminded the Frenchman of prime beef on the hoof. Courbertin himself was but of
medium height, well fleshed out to be sure but somewhat the worse for wear (at fifty-one)
and prone to sciatica. He could hardly be described as being in the prime of life, especially
when juxtaposed with the vital and ebullient Indian who was striding delightedly towards
him, grinning fiercely from behind the profusion of whiskers that obscured most of his
face.

They shook hands enthusiastically and set off immediately, but not before Majboot made a
sheepish confession. He had never sampled the slated dish, either. But he had it on the
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word of a good friend that, on certain days in the year, the restaurant in question served
‘Mutton Mahakarma’, the rarest and tastiest delicacy in the world. It was always a supper
event, and today being one of the appointed days, they were merely going to reconnoitre
the eatery and make their advance payment and reservations for a table at eight tonight.

Seated in the poorly sprung and noisy auto-rickshaw alongside Majboot, hanging on for
dear life to the grab rail, Courbertin wondered what he’d let himself in for this time. He
had weathered many hardships in his quest for the best of the world’s cuisines, but this one
was near the top of the list. The din and confusion of Delhi’s chaotic traffic belaboured his
eardrums. Malodorous vapors tortured his olfactory system, and his eyes watered at the
noxious fumes from auto engines.

The sardarji, to his envy, seemed quite immune to the provocation around him. Blissfully
unaware of the acute distress of his companion, he urged the auto driver to greater speed
with taps on his shoulders, shouting directions over the bedlam in his native Punjabi
tongue.

The auto twisted and gyrated violently through some of the narrowest lanes Courbertin had
ever negotiated in a vehicle, till it finally stopped before a small, faceless single-storied
structure squeezed between two taller buildings from whose balconies young ladies, in
various (and garish) shades of make-up and matching attire, waved uninhibitedly to the
two men who alighted from the three-wheeler. The Frenchman’s heart sank within his
breast even as his burgeoning appetite expired in the squalid surroundings.

As his eyes gradually adjusted to the dim lighting of the interior, however, Courbertin’s
misgivings abated. A limited number of small, well spaced-out dining tables, covered with
plain white tablecloths, waited patiently to seat two to four diners each. The interior of the
restaurant was lavish enough to be called opulent. The lighting was tasteful: diffused, yet
somehow focused in some obscure way as to enable the scanty photons of light to congeal
in puddles of discreet illumination around the tables.

The faint aroma of good cooking lingered in the air. The deep carpeting, the scenes of
bygone feasts that adorned the walls, the décor from an earlier age of kings and conquerors
who filled their huge palaces with the choicest things of the earth…all served to enhance
the ambience. The silent approval of a satisfied clientele seemed to hover benignly over the
room.

Courbertin returned to the present. A small, oily-looking man had emerged from the
gloomy recesses behind the manager’s cabin to enquire as to their business. Majboot
lapsed into rapid-fire Hindi that made no sense to Courbertin. The unctuous one seemed to
be in a state of complete denial, with Majboot just as forcefully insistent, alternately
twirling his moustache and rubbing the gigantic turquoise on his little finger, as if for
inspiration. A thick wad of currency notes was seen to change hands.

At this juncture, the sebaceous one conceded defeat, and asked Majboot to follow him
inside. Courbertin had seen it all before, in the Orient: vociferous denial of available
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reservations, followed by exchange of money, followed by seemingly reluctant acceptance,

as if a favour had been granted. A table was reserved for them for eight that evening.
‘Mutton Mahakarma’ was on the bill of fare.

They emerged into the bright sunshine, blinking their watering eyes. The suffocating heat,
the dust, the awful smells and the pandemonium hit the European like a sledgehammer.
Courbertin rubbed his temples. He had seen his appetite vanish, then revive in the inviting
interior they had just left. Now he saw it depart again as suddenly as it had been
resurrected, leaving in its wake a dull throbbing at the temples. The strain had proved too
much for his nervous system. He needed to lie down and rest in the cool, friendly darkness
of his hotel room.

The massive Indian, made in Punjab and therefore far more durable, appeared totally
unfazed. He saw the stricken Frenchman off at the rickshaw stand, promising to pick him
up at seven-fifteen that evening from the hotel. Strong as an ox and bursting with the juices
and vitality of ten, waving energetically in the hot sun, he stood there like some vast
outcropping of nourishment in a sea of squalid deprivation.

Courbertin felt tired just looking at the beefy expanse of him. So incongruous was the
sardarji’s sanguinary bulk in the midst of grinding poverty and naked starvation that
Courbertin wondered—as his three-wheeled vehicle bore him swiftly homewards—how
many million acre-feet of lush grass had gone into the raising of the prime cattle that had
thereafter featured in the assembly of the redoubtable Sardar Majboot Singh.

Majboot Singh sent an elaborate note of apology stating that he had been called away to
attend to a sudden crisis at his home in Amritsar, so Pierre Courbertin had to be content to
dine alone. He flew home the next evening…to retreat behind a silence so comprehensive
that even the editors of food magazines couldn’t penetrate it. France wondered. It was
unthinkable that their leading expert on what Paris was (well, almost was) all about should
shun his fellow men in so churlish a fashion.

Courbertin failed to respond to the outcry. It was as if he was preoccupied with something
meatier than mere victuals. The more spiteful among his critics speculated whether—after
consuming the tongues of so many of God’s creatures—the cat had finally managed to get
his tongue. Even as the ‘Good Living’ columnists and Talk Show hosts failed to entice him
out of his self-imposed hibernation, the rumour mills were busy churning out theories to
explain the foppish Frenchman’s inexplicable behaviour. Had he become a Buddhist?
Could his over-strained palate have succumbed to the ravages of some mysterious malady?
Did he have carcinoma of the colon?

No one knew what had occasioned this abrupt makeover. Members of his faithful inner
circle, however, were firmly of the opinion that the gourmet had found his Holy Grail and,
having done so, had decided to call it a day, gastronomically speaking. Courbertin never
 184

issued any explanation, nor did he ever emerge into the public eye again till his death, a
year after his visit to India.

Then his valet sold his diary to Paris Match…and the incredible truth was at last revealed.
Courbertin had turned vegetarian after his return from India. Who could ever have guessed
that he did so simply because he found—at the bottom of a bowl of the fabled preparation
that went by the name of Mutton Mahakarma—an artifact as inconsequential as a turquoise
ring?

~*~
 185

The Steel Trunk

He was an old man, and he had lived life. He had seen places, seen greed and
unselfishness, felt lust and revulsion, love and hate. He had seen all the myriad things that
flesh is heir to. He had seen beauty, ugliness, disease, wars, famines, and earthquakes. He
had lived through the fall of dynasties and the rise of new ones.

He had known wealth and poverty, courage and cowardice, altruism and egocentricity. He
had felt the cold brush of death, and he knew what it meant to survive. He had suffered the
heartbreak of betrayal. But he had also warmed his hands before the fire of loyalty. He had
seen it all, and well he knew the demons…and the angels…that dwelt in the hearts of men.
And he chose to love. It was too late to hate.

So, at the end of the trail, here in this little hermitage at the foothills of the Himalayas, all
he had left was love. That, and his last possession: a steel trunk. Apart from his faded
saffron robes (of which he had two), and his bedroll, it was everything he owned. It was
always locked. No one had ever seen it open.

The other inmates of the ashram had always been curious about the secret of the trunk, but
the old man had parried their curiosity by remarking that there was nothing in it anyone
would want. So they presumed it contained something valuable, but they did not venture to
ask him outright about it. They felt that it might be some trinket, perhaps some gold
jewellery that had once graced the form of a loved one.

There might even be love letters inside. Even old men were young once. And youth will
have its share of follies to sustain and entertain old age. Who knows what the old man had
been up to in his youth? Maybe it contained his Will. Or perhaps the deeds of a large estate
somewhere that he had abandoned in favour of relatives…though he never spoke of any.

The old man had not filled the space in the membership form about details of dependents/
next of kin. Apparently he had none. Or maybe he had made so clean a break with the Past
that he preferred not to go into all that. Earthly ties and bondages were one of the things
one left behind when one took sanyasa, the last of the four stages of a man’s life. A
renunciant had no need to retain those shackles. Still, in deference to officialdom, the
query had found its way into the membership form.

Life in the outside world, mused the old man, was a harsh and—it seemed in retrospect—
pointless struggle to accumulate possessions. Things. Of only earthly—hence limited—
value. Lessons were the only baggage on the return journey. Lessons…and memories.
Which might or might not survive the crossing of the River Styx.

The accommodation in the little hermitage was limited, yet the Trust encouraged a certain
number of young monks to join as members. Living with older men gave them a certain
perspective on life and duty, and accelerated their spiritual progress.
 186

So it came to pass that when the old man was asked to share his little cell with a young
novice named Vinay, he did not react. He was neither happy nor sad. Few things, if any,
evoked any reaction from him nowadays. He seemed to be preoccupied with inner matters.
He went about his duties in the hermitage with an absent air, as if he was far away.
Somewhere else. In the past?

Like those before him, Vinay was curious about the steel trunk. What could it possibly
contain? He developed a theory that the old man had been a rich merchant who had stashed
away his assets in the form of company shares, or government bonds, for use in time of
ultimate adversity. The ease with which the old man could shift the trunk when he swept
the floor pointed to the fact that the contents—whatever they were—weren’t at all heavy.

On the rare occasions when Vinay managed to draw him into conversation, he noted that
the old man had a unique way of looking at things that was at sharp variance with the
detached life he led. He spoke with feeling and conviction, and he had a cynical brand of
humour that Vinay found most intriguing. He wondered what caused it.

Yet, overall, he saw that the old man was a contented individual, with neither any inner
canker nor a grudge against anyone. He had, it seemed, learnt to accept life, to meet it as it
came. Some had thought him complacent. He knew better. To struggle against life was to
lose sight of the lessons. It was like focusing on the letters instead of reading a book. He
had learnt not to depend on life, not to expect too much from it. Only lessons.

The old man tried to see what life was trying to teach him, and then arrived at his own
conclusions. He neither judged nor condemned, simply observed. It was all a test, he
seemed to feel: a test of humanity against the demons of the soul. It seemed to Vinay that
the old man was trying to tell him all these things … and something more, something that
reached the tip of his tongue but was never articulated.

It was a severe winter. The old man did not seem to mind, though old men hate cold
weather. It freezes their already cooling blood. Vinay liked the older man’s ways and tried
to model himself after him. Unlike most youths, who shun old age as if it were a
contagious disease, he had developed an affinity, even affection, for him.

He was therefore troubled when the old man told him he was dying. Vinay protested.
Nonsense, he was hale and hearty, he went about his chores as usual, meditated the same
hours. The other shook his head. It was time, he said, to return. He asked Vinay to cast the
contents of the trunk into the Ganges that flowed past the ghats on the slopes below the
hermitage.

The key of the trunk, he said, was on the sacred thread he wore on his body. He had not
abandoned the mark of the Brahmin even as a monk, which he should have done. The old
man had got used to the thread that he had worn since he was a boy, and he couldn’t bring
 187

himself to cast it off now. Besides, though it had never held any particular significance for
him, it was handy as a key chain.

His eyes were open, serene and calm, when he left his body. It was while they rested
before the mid-day meal, around noon, that Vinay realized he was gone. After the burial
(for sanyasis are always buried), Vinay opened the trunk. The key turned in the lock with
some difficulty, and only after a few drops of kerosene had been poured into the keyhole.
The hinges shrieked at the unaccustomed intrusion as he lifted the lid.

The slip of paper inside bore the words ‘My Dearest Possession: the most precious Gift I
ever received.’ Underneath it was an old paper shopping bag, the type with string handles.
Only a single word had survived the ravages of time. Vinay could barely decipher the
faded lettering: ‘Lifespring’…a famous retail chain specializing in…yes…in ladies’ fancy
items…!

An old happiness lived in the trunk. Vinay relocked it carefully, and put it back in its place
before going down to the riverbank. He stood there for a minute, looking out over the
boiling blue-white torrent. Then drawing back his arm, he flung the key as far as he could
into the heaving waters.



©Subroto Mukerji