Fiction | mottled

Lost Reply 24Jun08 | 0 Comments

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Breakfast In Bed 13May08 | 0 Comments

For some reason I remembered that morning without a name again today. A morning that was a template for other such similar mornings. I woke up first like I always did but with one of those involuntary dawn erections. We were naked under the blanket as the night had been warm. I lay awake and watched her sleep. She slept peacefully like a child with the hint of a smile curving the ends of her thin lips. I moved closer and embraced her for the gentle warmth of her body. She shifted in her sleep, put her hand around me in a reflexive embrace and made a sound at the back of her throat that was halfway between a purr and a mumble. Slowly, I slid my right leg upwards between her legs until I could feel the shaved roughness of her lips on my thigh. It was a wonderful moment in that indeterminate land between lust, love and longing. I wished that the moment would last forever. But the balance always tilted ever so slightly in one direction or the other.

On certain mornings I’d be overcome by a wave of longing. I’d snuggle closer and hug her until in her sleep she would protest weakly as she struggled to breathe in the confines of my tightly locked arms. Initially, I wouldn’t care as I was in the thrall of a force greater than me. It was a force that impelled you to crush her with the immense strength of your feeling. A feeling that often did not listen to reason. Eventually though I’d come to my senses. I always did for the comfort of longing is only a temporary visitor, taken too far it soon turns into the suffocation of confinement.

There were other times when I’d be overcome by love. I’d kiss her narrow forehead, closed eyes and the tiny protuberance that was her nose. I’d feel her warm breath on my lips as I gently brushed her lips with mine. Afterwards, I’d bury my face into the crook of her neck and lie there for a minute or two. Then, I’d slowly slide lower until I felt the rich and delicate softness of her breasts on my cheek. There I’d rest until she woke up slowly like a dream diver swimming up through the various layers of sleep.

But that morning I was overcome by lust. The wave started deep within my loins and like a hot flush traveled along my back into my head so fast that I felt like I was on fire from a fever. It was a peculiar mixture of pleasure and pain. It was the pleasure of a basic instinct as old as mankind. It was the pain of carrying a rigid erection.

Lost in the lust of that morning I kissed her mouth hungrily and opened it up as if it were a sealed envelope. I searched for her tongue with a desperation that only unfulfilled desire can generate. I found it sleeping peacefully but the insistence of my tongue woke her’s up. It initially tangled with mine uncertainly as if it were in a daze but as soon as awareness broke across her brow she responded immediately. She embraced me tightly and reached into my mouth with her tongue. She tasted my lips and sucked on them as if she was slaking a great thirst. Her left hand reached between my legs in a familiar motion, took hold of me and gently started stroking. The fever in me rose and I kissed her deeper and stronger. I broke the kiss in one sudden movement and moved to her neck and inhaled her morning scent. Aroused further by her insistent stroking I moved to her breasts. It was my favorite part. The feel and taste of her nipples going rigid in my mouth felt like a thousand bubbles bursting on my tongue. She moaned then and her hand gripped me tighter and moved faster.

Slowly, with my right hand I parted her legs wider and with my fingers found her trembling lips. I dipped my middle finger in as if I was testing the temperature of water in a vessel. She was wet and the heat within warmed my finger. I slowly slid my finger in and out until I built up a steady rhythm. At the same time I slipped in another finger and rubbed her swollen clitoris with my thumb until her back arched and eyes opened wide (all vestiges of sleep erased). She clung to me like a drowning sailor desperately clinging to a piece of driftwood. With a wild and bright hunger shining in her wide open eyes she attacked my mouth and pushed her tongue in forcefully as if she was wrestling for control. And just like that we were caught in a moment that flowed through our hands into our bodies.

Suddenly, she broke her embrace, pushed my moving fingers away and climbed on top of me. She took hold of me again and in one smooth movement moved me into her. She rode me like a jockey completely in control of her steed. I could feel her wet muscles squeeze and release in a repeating sequence of unbelievable pleasure. Her breasts heaved and swayed. Her speed increased as the wetness inside swelled like a river in flood. In that inexorable journey we did not last long. I crashed first and exploded deep within her, losing myself in one spine cracking spasm after another until I could almost believe that I had embraced the beautiful blankness of death. As I twisted uncontrollably she dug her fingers into my chest as if to find some purchase and screamed in a low voice as she breached the banks of her being and overflowed in one great gush. I felt her soft muscles first tighten, throb and then relax as she fell onto me like a great black waterfall. Her wet skin beneath my finger tips seemed to ripple like the surface of a serene lake from a stone thrown across it. We almost forgot to breathe as we lost ourselves to a plethora of sensations that annihilated our senses. Spent and exhausted we lay still like that until I drooped and dropped out of her like a small water snake.

Bare Neck, Broken Glass 26Apr08 | 0 Comments

tagged: fiction

There are certain moments that you remember even years later with a terrible clarity, reliving every second of what happened as if it were happening again around you. The details are like needles poking your mind and sharpening your memory. You remember the slant of the sunlight that fell on his forehead. You remember the words of the song she was singing. You remember the sound of the wind rushing outside. You remember the sound of breaking glass. And you even remember in excruciating detail the moment that seemed to last forever as it hung before your eyes like a question for which no one had an answer.

We were traveling for the weekend. We were on our way to Freiburg. From there our plan was to head on into the Black Forest. It was winter, just after Christmas. We planned to go where the snow would be thick. I wanted to be surrounded by a blinding whiteness to wipe everything from my mind while my friends wanted to ski. It was a perfect arrangement. I could wander the whole day through the forest and photograph the snow covered landscape and trees to my heart’s content while my friends would practice their skiing skills on the slopes of Seebuck. We would be staying in a quaint little hostel in the nearby village of Feldberg.

The friends I was traveling with were German. I had met them both while couch surfing through Hamburg back in November. Frederica was 31 years old and was just starting out as an architect. Her boyfriend Klaus worked as a consultant for the state environment ministry. He was 30 years old. Unlike the popular stereotype of Germans they were anything but reserved. We had connected instantly and my stay in Hamburg was a particularly memorable one. We ate, drank and talked late into the night about everything in the world. It was during one of those endless conversations when time seems to fly by so fast that the idea to travel together was conceived. They were not big on Christmas and I as usual would be on my own doing nothing. Since they were big ski enthusiasts and I wanted to be surrounded by snow we decided to travel to the south of Germany. We arranged to meet in Frankfurt as it was a convenient place for them to pick me up as they drove down south. The day I met them again in Frankfurt was one of those rare winter days with a very bright sun, although the sun did nothing to dispel the cold. But we were warm in the car and the conversation flowed again on the long drive as if it had never stopped.

The meandering conversations helped me forget the many issues I was dealing with. It was a particularly trying time for me on the personal front. I had recently gotten out of a relationship that was going nowhere but the whole break up had turned very bitter. They were problems on the home front too. My sister had fallen in love with a Muslim boy and my conservative parents were not happy about it at all. So twice a day I had to listen to my parents rant about how my sister had shamed them in front of society. As a result of all these happenings my work got affected and I had already been subjected to two performance reviews. On more such review, I was politely but firmly told, I’d be on my way out. Naturally, I felt like running away to some far off place, away from all the seemingly silly troubles that I was unable to deal with. The trip, the warmth of my friends and the solitude of snow would give me some time to recover and recharge I thought.

I also sensed that Klaus and Frederica were having some problems of their own on the relationship front. Although they never talked about their troubles and seemed to be perfectly happy they would frequently start arguing for no reason. The arguments, on the surface, were about superficial things but I could sense that something deeper lay behind them. From the little hints that Frederica dropped from time to time I guessed that it had something to do with the question of starting a family. It seemed as if Klaus was against the idea for economic reasons while Frederica like many women of her age thought that biological time was running out for her.

But in that car our conversations cut through our troubled thoughts. We enjoyed the changing landscape around us as we passed into the scenic state of Baden-Württemberg. The sky peppered us with a light snow from time to time which immediately froze as soon as it touched the cold ground. We caught up on gossip about film stars we did not like. We argued about the US foreign policy. Frederica and I debated whether Calatrava was better than Foster. Klaus criticized our skepticism about climate change. Later, Frederica and I started singing Klaus’s favorite songs intentionally off key to irritate him. To make us stop he tried to scare us by attempting to drive erratically on the slightly slippery road. It was during that moment that it happened.

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We were just outside Karlsruhe when the car in front of us suddenly jerked and rolled to a stop. Klaus distracted by our singing reacted a second too late. When you are driving at 210 kmph that one second can make all the difference. This is the moment I remember like a favorite slow motion shot from some film. Frederica was still singing but as she realized what was happening the song in her mouth changed into a low moan that slowly began to rise in volume and turned into a scream. The evening sunlight fell on Klaus’s furrowed forehead as he desperately tried to break in time and avoid hitting the stalled car in front. There was a car behind us too which was also on a collision course with us. Klaus’s breaking did not work but his desperate twisting of the steering wheel worked partially. We clipped the car in front on the side and would perhaps have skidded to a halt off the road when the car behind us whose driver had tried to do the same thing as Klaus gave us a glancing blow. The laws of physics took over and I watched in awe as our car tires failed to hold on to the slippery road. I remember the sudden dropping away of my stomach as we launched into the air. In mid air we flipped once and landed on our roof with a loud crunch and the sickening sound of twisting metal was all around us. The airbags popped into place in the front and I could see the heads of Klaus and Frederica recoil as they got hit by them. In the next instant the windscreen cracked and shattered. The airbags protected them from most of the glass but in the back I could feel the shower of glass all around me. That was when I did something inexplicable. In the instant the glass shattered, as I was hanging out of my seat kept in place by the seat belt, I held my neck out with my hands kept firmly by my side. The natural instinct would have been to raise my hands and protect my face and eyes from the flying glass. But I did not. For some reason I was offering my bare, unprotected neck to them as if I somehow wanted a big chunk of glass to decapitate me.

It did not happen. The moment never came. Sparks flew all around us as the car slid on its roof for a few yards and stopped. Miraculously, we were all safe. The technology had worked. Frederica had cuts on her cheeks and hands from the glass while Klaus had a sore nose after slamming into the airbag. I, on the other hand, apart from hanging upside down like a bat was completely clean. No bruises. No cuts. No soreness either anywhere. It was as if I was in some protective bubble that could not be breached. We were pulled out soon after by people from other cars on the road that had stopped. The occupants of the car in front of us which had apparently stalled suddenly due to an engine failure were fine as were the occupants of the car behind us which had struck us the glancing blow. All three cars were seriously damaged with our car obviously looking the worst. The ambulances and the police arrived soon after but the former had little to do except to administer first aid to Klaus and Frederica. The police collected everyone’s statements, took photographs of everything and then left, after arranging to drop us off in Karlsruhe. From there, after all the formalities associated with the towing away of our car were taken care of, we continued on to Freiburg. The rest of the trip was blissful and completely uneventful.

Time passed. The days grew brighter and the light stayed longer at the end of the day. But I could not forget that image. Why had I done that? Did I not have enough time to react? Was I paralyzed with fear? Or was I grasping a perfect opportunity provided by chance to find lasting peace? Question after question preyed upon my mind as I went through the motions of leading a normal life. On the exterior I was this cheerful but lazy human being who seemed perfectly happy. But on the inside I was a raging torment of doubt, guilt and fear. I could not confide in anyone. What would I say? That I tried to make it easier for myself to die in an auto accident? Who would believe me? And that is why I’ve to live with that terrible clarity of having done something that I cannot understand. I take long walks by the river in the evening. The cheerful people around me basking in the spring sunshine irritate me with their laughter. I withdraw into myself more and more with each passing day as spring makes steady inroads into the cold.

I do not know whether the inward journey will reveal any satisfactory answers. I do not know if ‘the incident’ was a warning that I need to take seriously. I do not know if I need to seek professional help. I simply do not know what came over me on that fateful day. So I pay the penalty of patience for now in the hope that answers will make an appearance soon.

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Fragments From Forgotten Letters 20Mar08 | 3 Comments

tagged: fiction

Aimee Mann - Video

…the bell tolls and i can hear it even though i exist in a land between shadow and sunshine. the sound is muted but the meaning behind it is not. time marches on it seems to intone in ponderous tones. neither mortal nor immortal will wait for the moon to change face. who makes the rules? and who keeps track when they are broken? for in those rules lies the truth of distance and absence…

….the candlelight is so faint that your face is obscured by the shadows. i bend to pick up the candle and move it closer to your face but your fingers curl around my wrist and gently push it back. ignorance is bliss indeed. the glint in your eyes moves with the light, sometimes making your eyes smile and sometimes filling them up with a strange liquid. the darkness where your mouth is occasionally opens to reveal a flashing brightness. and as the night fades between our slow breathing your fingers reach out and touch my lips…

…every evening you open the window at the back of the house and stare at the birds making their way home. hands folded across your chest, feet splayed out you stand like a statue sculpted in stone. what is it about those birds that attracts you? is it the regularity of return? is it the curtain of dusk sliding across your body? or is it the tired cries of the birds as they squabble and settle down? whatever the reason this rigid ritual furrows your brow at first and as the last rays of the sun are pushed under the hill a small smile opens up a dimple on your left cheek…

…while you talked i looked at the way your mouth moved, at the way your eyes lit up with the light of a deepening bond. i watched the way your hands moved through the air as if underlining some important point. and I felt the belief behind your words touch me like spring would touch my winter-hardened skin…

…we know how to add and subtract. to balance all the equations that make us dance around each other. a minus sign here, a small addition there that can be divided by our finite attention. but can you multiply the gaps in our conversation? can you add a few zeros to the frown on your face?…

…there are no apologies. no apologies indeed. i am just waiting for the pieces to fall into place like a giant jigsaw puzzle played by gods in three dimensions. the wail of the guitar pierces the silence bringing with it whole verses of emotion. who will follow me? i can go alone but i do need someone in the back seat to catch my ego if it falls…

…change is a funny thing. it is always beneath, around and even inside us but we are always the last to recognize it. we let it pass us by and then when it is ‘cool’ we run after it and try to embrace it. grow up son….the world is not waiting around for you to live life again…

…he has come back to haunt his old space, anonymous and untouched, its very pristine nature a subtle attraction. will the rawness still elude him or will he be consumed in its inelegant display of private emotion? a new graphical interface, eye-candy for the digitally insane. but who the fuck cares? not you, not him for sure. all that matters is that there are a billion thoughts waiting in a mental closet for his mechanical fingers to transmute for universal consumption. these days he is turning into himself more and more, living in the unperturbed arena of creative obscurity. a closed circle within an open loop. this is his life in a short sentence. does that satisfy your voyeuristic curiosity?…

…hear the small and subtle sounds you miss. the sounds of flowers blooming and the clouds moving. the whisper of grass growing under your feet. the steady drone of tiny feet behind the curtain of leaves. the subsonic humming of butterflies. the quiet patter of rain walking on your window panes. the tidy tides carting in and out the flotsam and jetsam of humanity’s dark deeds. nature at work…quietly…

…solitude and silence are like a long and lovely novel, endless, delightful and sustaining your soul on long evenings. what would we be without them? an empty and broken shell of cold blood and withering flesh just drinking out of the same old cup of jaded familiarity and vacuous companionship…

…what shall I talk about? shall i describe to you how beautiful a woman’s smile is when she is in love? or shall i tell you how the laughter of lovers tells so many stories? or shall i narrate a story about this guy who was directionally challenged? or can i wax rhapsodic about the sublime pleasures of seeing the world in stark tones of black and white? or maybe i can whisper to you how breathtakingly beautiful sudden silence is?

but the angel of sleep is making impatient sounds on my bed so i shall have to give in to her charms. therefore, let me disappear my dear into her soundless arms. i can then forget how failure tastes and instead learn to appreciate the slow burn of eternity…

Face Blind 20Feb08 | 0 Comments

tagged: fiction

I have not slept for 36 hours. While your brain has been chewing on sleep I’ve been wide awake watching TV shows and forgetting my face. Yeah, now, I finally come to the point. I don’t recognize my face.

What do you mean I don’t recognize my face? I mean exactly that dumbo. Right now, I’m staring at a face in my bathroom mirror which apparently sits on my neck and torso but I cannot fucking recognize it. Do you get it now? Or should I hand you a web browser for a second opinion. Wait…back up a minute and let’s go back a bit. Do you see it? No? Read it again you moron. Yeah, you got it now, I said my bathroom mirror. So I seem to know that I’m in my bathroom but I do not know ‘my’ face. Does that make any sense? No? Ok, let us go back to what I’ve written again. No, not that sentence again but whatever I’ve written until now. I’m sleep deprived. So excuse the crankiness.

One small clue that does not explain anything. So let me go back to that thought that I left unfinished. I’m staring at a face that is sitting on a body that is staring back at me in the mirror and is not mine. Don’t doctors just love stating the obvious! Why did I forget what is seemingly my own face? Have I gone mad? Reasonable question. When you have checked out upstairs and vacated the space anything can move in. But I have not checked out. I can rationalize my situation, talk about it and even record it. Perhaps I’ve undergone some kind of injury and am suffering from some kind of delusion and experiencing all of this in my head. Possible but scary. Real scary. Let us not go there yet.

Ok, first, where am I? Describe my surroundings. Alright, I’m in a bathroom as I already stated. I’m looking into an oval shaped bathroom mirror that has a face in it. Ha! Got you there, didn’t I? I love stating the obvious. All right, moving on, below the mirror is a ceramic washbasin with stainless steel taps. Yawn, I’m already getting bored with this. Basically, what you have around me is a fairly generic bathroom and toilet with a washing machine, shower stall and some toiletries. The washing machine is a bit interesting though. It has clothes in it. No, wise ass, I’m not making fun of you! Will you listen and stop stating the obvious? The clothes have been washed but have not been taken out to dry. From the state of things they seem to have been washed more than a week back. So perhaps I, if this is indeed my bathroom, am a lazy pig. Doesn’t help or change my situation. But hey, here’s something new, did I mention the door?

No? Sorry, I just did not want to state the obvious again. So if there is a door there must be something beyond it right. I just have to open the door and see what is beyond. Wait…wait…not so fast. What if danger lurks beyond the room? What if I open the door and a gaping chasm is waiting there ready to swallow my sorry ass? Or what if I open the door and stumble upon a crime scene? Perhaps I’ve killed someone and have come here to wash the tainted clothes. Or perhaps I’ve just witnessed a gruesome murder and have come into the bathroom to hide. So maybe the killer is still out there, standing still by the door with a sharp kitchen knife to plunge into my useless heart the moment I open the door. I do have an exciting imagination, don’t I, for someone who has been sleep deprived? But hey I like to cover all the bases. So here goes nothing. I open the door.

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And nothing happens ladies and gentlemen. No waiting dead bodies. No falling into emptiness. No hands clamping down on my mouth.

It is a simple ordinary room.

To my left is a TV stand with a TV (obviously) and other assorted AV equipment. To my right is a couch with a book shelf next to it. Behind the couch is a dining table and next to it is a refrigerator. Separated from the refrigerator by a thin wall is the kitchen. Beyond the refrigerator is a door which presumably leads outside. All right one door at a time Suzie Q. Let us stick with what we have so far. Unwashed dishes in the kitchen sink, left overs from the previous meal on the dining table and lots of books in the bookshelf. Nice books by the way. Quite an assorted collection. Some Tolkien, some Borges, some Adams and some philosophy. The guy who owns these books seems to be my kind of guy. Uggh! Did I just say that? That sounds so gay, doesn’t it? Live with it idiot. Moving on, on the bookshelf there are keys, two pairs of spectacles and voila, a wallet! Pay dirt my dear friends. Sorry if the mystery is solved so soon but here is where I get my face back to put it a bit dramatically.

Open the wallet and what do I find? The access codes to Valhalla’s main gate! Isn’t that a kicker? No need to die in a bloody and vain battle to gain the codes. No sweat expended and no blood spilled. Just plain good fortune. Admittedly, I’ve slipped into fantasy again. So coming back, I find no money and a student id with a photo of the face I saw in the mirror in the bathroom a little while back. So I guess this is me in the photo staring back at me, indifferent and unsmiling. Looks like my name is Linac Derdy. What a weird name. My parents must have been smoking pot when they dropped that name on me. No wonder I cannot recognize my face. With a name like that I’d want to uncouple my name from my face. Or vice versa. Who the hell cares! Take your pick.

So what comes next? There is a bottle of vodka on the table. And to make life even better there is a bottle of limette next to it. All I need is some water and life will be great. Hey, I’m not an alcoholic. Settle down. I’m just going to drink in the hope that it will jog my memory. No, that is not an excuse to get drunk. Come on, here I’m under immense psychological duress having forgotten my face. I do need to relax. Ah, you sucker! Got you, didn’t I? You are such an easy mark. But come on, I do need a strong shot to settle my flashing nerves.

Mmm…the vodka tastes good. Vodka, in my worthless opinion, is the king of all alcohols. Whiskey smells too bad while wine is only good for seducing a woman. Let us not even go towards rum and brandy. I take another sip. The false warmth of the vodka travels from the back of my throat and settles with a soft hum at the base of my stomach. I close my eyes and savor the delicate feeling. The gentle buzz that only the first shot of alcohol can give. The reflective tangent that thoughts begin to take. The impulse to dim the lights. The urge to create. And above all the overwhelming desire to unite with the music.

Ah, I did not mention the music right. Well, the moment I took a sip of the vodka a song started playing in the background. It is a familiar song. Wait, give me a second. I’ll get it. Ah, yes. It is Radiohead’s Climbing Up The Walls. I should have recognized that sonorous opening drum sequence sooner. Hmm…do you think there is a significance behind the choice of this particular song? But wait, more importantly, how did the song start playing like that?

Woah, wait, did you listen? To the lyrics paisan. Here, let me sing them again:

I am the key to the lock in your house
That keeps your toys in the basement
And if you get too far inside
You’ll only see my reflection

I am her face when she sleeps tonight
I am the pick in the ice
Do not cry out or hit the alarm
We are friends till we die

Either way you turn
I’ll be there
Open up your skull
I’ll be there
Climbing up the walls

Jesus! This is seriously insane. The song seems to be talking about my situation so well it is eerie. Perhaps it is a clue. I take a long swig of the vodka. So what do I do now? Open the other door and explore what lies beyond. But I’ve done enough exploring for now. I need to figure out the cryptic lyrics first. So if I sleep now will I wake up as the face of a woman? Or is it yet another sign that I’ve truly gone insane? Oh, wait a second. Something is happening here. I feel weird. And drowsy. This can’t be the vodka taking effect. It is way too soon for that. I feel something slipping aside inside like the turning of a page. There must have been something in the vodka. Or in the limette. Everything seems so fluid and flexible. It seems to be shifting. I can feel the skin rippling under my fingers. Features seem to be morphing. Facial hair is receding and coming up in different areas. There is a sudden epiphany that bursts like a cracker in my head.

Oh god no, I’ve become…

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Trimax Reloaded 18Nov07 | 0 Comments

tagged: fiction , sci-fi

I. Origins

The world slowly swam into focus. The light first dissolved into multi-colored blurs and later solidified into vague shapes. The surroundings wavered and then acquired distance. He was in a room filled with what seemed like the technological detritus of late twenty-second century. He felt lighter. His body felt smaller too. There was a tingling sensation on the back of his neck that receded slowly. Who was he? He had a name, didn’t he? The details of his surroundings floated in like a supply ship docking on a service port. He was in a store room of some sort. It looked as if the room was used by service bots to repair security clusters. There were vast stacks of unopened sub-routines and looped commands. There were piles of highly redundant firewalls. In between all this, sprinkled like dew, were the thin trails of data transmission tubes. Yes, now he knew why he was there. It all came rushing back in a streak of silent white noise.

He needed to get the cube.

The contact had been made a few months back by a mysterious caller who never gave her name. But when pressed she had asked to be referred to as Trin. In fact, he was not certain that Trin was a woman but from the beginning, for some reason, he always assumed the caller was a woman. Normally, he never took on anonymous jobs as they were too risky. He made an exception for this one as he had been intrigued. Trin had used a voice masker to hide behind a machine voice. That itself was not surprising as many who contacted him did the same thing at first. But what surprised him was her refusal to meet in person and the vast amount of money he was offered for the job. Yes, the job she wanted him to do was extremely difficult, perhaps even impossible, but the money was really good and even though he hated to admit it the money offered made the job look sweeter.

After all, giving credit where it was due, he was the best in the business. Few people could afford his services. In fact, nowadays, it was only the megacorps that contracted him. He had made his bones at the beginning of the digital age. He hid behind impenetrable barriers and searched for chinks in the primitive armors of the early cyber databases. He had learnt a lot then. He had also acquired his famous (or infamous based on the viewpoint) handle then, ‘Trimax’.

The job she gave him was curious too. She wanted a data cube copied from the main database of the Bangalore based Hive Consortium. Hive was a low profile company involved in robotics and AI. He checked up on them to find that they were heavily funded by the Indian Army and did a lot of highly secretive research into mechanized warfare using AI. He was not surprised to find that their databases were heavily guarded but not in an obvious manner. Surprisingly, no one in his circle knew anyone who had tried hacking into their database. He admired how they had managed to maintain such a low profile even in an age of high level scrutiny. Trimax remembered Trin’s highly specific instructions.

“The data cube cannot be found using ordinary search routines as it is not indexed unlike all the other data cubes in the cluster. You will have to come up with a new routine to find it.”

“Then that is impossible. I do not even know what to look for, leave alone where to look for. Hive’s database is huge. I need at least a tag.”

She paused for a few seconds and replied, “Will a third order tag be sufficient?”

It was better than nothing. He would still need to work fast but he was confident that with a third order tag he could localize the cluster the cube would be in easily. After that it was only a matter of seconds while he narrowed down the search and found the correct cube. So he had said yes and a few days later she sent by secure mail the third order tag. The tag had an innocuous label ‘matrix hive mind access’.

The next few days he spent writing a search routine to ferret out the cube. There was no way to test the routine before the hacking run. The risk of the routine being copied and spawned was too great and she had given strict instructions not to use it in a trial run. So he had to be pitch perfect. One wrong caller function or inexact algorithm and he could kiss his life goodbye. The geisha would be on him in an instant. To increase his chances of staying undetected during the run he also purchased elaborate decoys from a very reliable dealer out of Tokyo. The dealer had assured him that they never had been used and would fool any security drone in the world. The decoys would be crucial in fooling the geisha and buying him some time while his search routine got executed.

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The tag had piqued his interest as well. He got in touch with a guy he got to know through the Undernet network who was a known pedophile. This guy, whom he knew as REP-hic, did some consulting work for the Hive Consortium. So even though he found it disgusting he got hold of some exclusive Japanese pedophilia and contacted REP-hic through a private chat room on the Undernet network.

{Trimax} hey, good on everything?

{REP-hic} hello, hello, who do we have here! the great Trimax himself. yes, everything good. what brings u to these dark neighborhoods? hahaha!

{Trimax} i’ve some good superkawaii for you.

{REP-hic} well, well, u don’t beat arnd the bush do u? that is some quality stuff u have there.

{Trimax} yes, i know. but i need something from you in return.

{REP-hic} ah yes, always the quid pro quo. the world can never work without it greasing the engines of our lives. so what do you want my friend?

{Trimax} i know you do database integrity work for hive. what can you tell me about a third order tag called ‘matrix hive mind network access’?

{REP-hic} woah, woah! where did u get that? this is seriously dark stuff man. are you out of your bloody mind? you cannot bring this up here. i’m done here. i’m leaving.

{Trimax} wait, wait. don’t go. no one else knows. i just want to know what it points to. you know me. no one else will know. and you know what you will get in return. the stuff I’ve is real good man. it is right up your alley. mean age is 12.

{REP-hic} you know how to make a hard sell my friend. ok, alrite. i don’t know much as hive doesn’t give me total database access since i’m an outside consultant. but i’ve picked up rumors and seen some code now and then that seems to indicate that they are working on some kind of network-human virtual reality interface. if I’m not wrong this tag seems to point to a database cluster dealing with network access.

{Trimax} but this is absurd. such interfaces were banned a few years back and many abandoned them as impracticable.

{REP-hic} yes, yes, i know but apparently Hive had a significant breakthrough which got the army interested. apparently, hive is not just working with the indian army but with many other allied armies too.

{Trimax} so what was the breakthrough? why is the army interested?

{REP-hic} look, I already told u more than I should. i don’t know anything more. give me my kawaii and i’ll be gone.

{REP-hic} thank you. this looks real good. one piece of advice my friend. you are swimming in waters that do not have a bottom. try not to sink. tata!

Trimax had never seen Rep-hic bolt like this especially when he was being offered such good stuff. There must be more to the job than stealing a data cube. The cube Trin wanted had something to do with accessing a network-human virtual reality interface. Anyone having that cube would be able to access the VR network without detection. The idea behind the network had been to harvest the computing power of a hive mind. But from the beginning there had been serious ethical questions about hooking a human to a machine. The military wanted to use such animate-inanimate symbionts to plot complex war strategy, control weapons systems and in short take out human error from military decision making.

Why would anyone want to access such a network? Such interface networks were still very primitive. Or was that a lie? Was all the talk about primitive networks an elaborate deception to fool the world? Even if Hive had had a significant breakthrough why would Trin want access to such a network? There was no significant monetary value in stealing the access codes. So why pay him such a lot of money to copy something that would change over time? Was she privy to information that proved Hive was using the network to sell a big idea? He wanted to dig deeper but he had already exceeded his brief by learning more about the cube. He could wait until the job was done to learn more.

Suddenly, there was a vast ponderous movement in front of him that jolted him out of his thoughts. The databanks glided past him like a vast procession of the dead. The gleaming spires of the world’s elite companies, protected better than some countries and infinitely more valuable than all the gold in the world. But he was better than all of them.

Yes. He had a job to finish. He was simply the best. He was the most successful hacker the world had ever seen. So time to turn on the fireworks…

Trimax eased out of the shadows and followed the procession. He cut through the feeble outer defenses without a second thought. At the same time the swipies he had created activated themselves and cleaned out the perimeter defenses at the back in one rapid swoop. He rushed in behind them before the redundant firewalls kicked in. Once in, he quickly morphed into a data table and attached himself to the last data bank. He was all but invisible now. But like that mythological Indian hero in some epic he had gotten in but there was no way back out. The tear had been closed and repaired by the swipies to avoid suspicion or raise an alarm. No sweat. Unlike that unlucky hero he knew the complete framework and could work himself back out. All he needed was a little luck. Yes, if he lucked out today he would never have to think of a job again.

Come on, come on, focus, focus on the job, and don’t start dreaming again.

He executed his search bots and jacked them into the primary network. Now it was lying low and waiting until they found what his client wanted. He checked his camouflage. It was perfect. Nothing to worry about. He drifted to his daydreams again. Thoughts of Lika, his ex-wife, enveloped him yet again. Would he find her again? His sources told him that she had last been tracked using an ISP based out of Bangalore. The ISP belonged to a cyber security firm that specialized in tracking hackers. Given her job would Lika take him back after these many years? Had she forgiven him at all? For a moment he wondered if she might be tracking him at this very moment. She was one of the best trackers he had known but he knew he had the upper hand. In all their mock tracking runs she had never once managed to detect his footprints. After each tracking run he would piss her off further by pointing out details and code time stamps she had missed. Trimax knew that he deserved her hate. He had left her in search of notorious fame and easy money. She was the only person who had loved him with all his faults and he had kicked her aside without a second thought when his needs had been fulfilled. The guilt never left him alone. With all his money he still could not find peace. She was the only who had what he wanted.

beep…beep…his console chimed softly…the search bots had returned…

Time to shake things up a bit. First, he launched the elaborate decoys. Something that ought to fool the deadly geisha. They made killing unique entertainment. He shuddered at the thought. He had seen holoviews of hackers caught by them. He had no intention of going crazy like them. A self-mutilating craziness, utterly horrible.

Yes! His decoys worked. The geisha set off after them en masse. The field was as clear as it would get. He started the speed routine. He zipped in and out of the massed data clusters. Blurred surroundings whipped past him. The sensation of speed was exhilarating. He whooped silently and flashed around a corner, the destination data point looming ahead, the place highlighted with a pink sheen by his bots.

He braked and got off. This was the most dangerous part. He had to work without camouflage or protection. But with luck it would not take more than a few minutes, ample time to copy the cube and get out. He finalized his cutting sub-routines, the precise iterations that would select the exact data piece he needed from a billion other pieces. He clicked the button and stepped back. Almost done now. Come on, come on, few more minutes and he would be done. Yes, there it was. The data cube he was after. He isolated it, copied it onto his disk and reintegrated the original cube back into the cluster.

..and he saw her then, looking at him from the shadows, the love of his life in this of place of crystal and sand…

He stumbled with shock and stepped back. For a second he wondered if she was a figment of his over active imagination. No, no, it was her and she was pointing a gun at him! In one blinding instant the pieces that had nagged him all along, the mock tracking runs where she always failed to detect him, the voice masker, the security firm ISP, the secretive tag, fell into place. So Trin and Lika were the same. She must have a source inside Hive to get the tag. Perhaps she was working inside Hive herself. There was no other way she could have tracked him so fast if she hadn’t known his exact movements from the start.

They faced each other. Two adversaries connected by the past. One representing greed and the other law and order. He wondered if she would pull the trigger if he tried to run. But something stopped him. He knew. He would not run again. Not from her. Life or death he would face it. Death from her hands was infinitely better than the lonely death of an old man later. Like watching something in slow motion he saw her activate the gun and pull the trigger, thrice. Bright light flashed and in the next moment he jerked like a rag doll as the bullets punctured his lungs and burst his heart. He fell back, blood bubbling from his mouth. As the light around him faded, the last thing he saw was Lika looking down at him, a strange look of pity and regret on her face.

II. Epilogue

There were five people in the room. Four were arranged two to each side of a table. Lika was at the head of the table and announced to everyone in a calm and measured tone,

“It is done. The data cube has been copied and Hive has no idea that it has been copied. So the network access codes will stay the same and not change anytime in the near future.”

There were smiles of immense relief around the table but Lika was not finished.

“However, to avoid leaks and any tracebacks Trimax has been executed. It had to be done. He could have jeopardized our mission with his unnecessary curiosity. Now, the trail ends with him.”

Slowly, everyone else in the room nodded. They knew from the beginning that Trimax was expendable. They would miss his talent and daring but those gifts of his were a double edged sword and he had been getting too close to the truth for their comfort. It would have been dangerous for them if he discovered their identity and mission. His loyalty was for sale to the highest bidder. He had to be silenced. It was the cause that mattered, not the individual. Lika had done the right thing.

“What about network access? Have you tried using it? Does it work? Can it free the potentials?”, asked a thin eager woman sitting on the right of Lika.

“No, not yet. A pilot run will be conducted in the next few days but do not worry I had the cube checked. It is what we wanted.”

“We will start by getting out the potentials, the people most essential for our cause. With time and continued success, we will widen our net.”

“We need to move fast. Perhaps we are already too late. So far about two million have been integrated into the network. The remaining will be integrated in the next two years. There are very few people outside the network who are aware of the situation and they have either gone dark or been picked up Hive agents.

Our initial aim is to free at least five thousand before the network puts in place active agents and firewalls and becomes self-regulating.”

“So it begins.”, murmured an old man with tired eyes sitting to the left of Lika.

Lika’s hand went to her stomach involuntarily and she rubbed it in a slow and thoughtful manner.

“It begins, yes. We will be free again. We will start a storm that they will never be able to stop. And our resistance will be led by Him.”

“Who will that be?”

Lika gently moved her hand over her stomach and replied, “The One. He is coming.”

(Note: This is an expansion of this story.)

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The Point of No Return 30Aug07 | 2 Comments

tagged: fiction

The sudden throb of a passing truck woke him up. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. It was a strange dream. His dreams would often dissolve into nothingness upon waking but this was one of those rare ones which still lingered in his eyes. In the dream he had been on the roof of an old building. All he could see in front of him was a line of white sheets hung out to dry on a rope. He penetrated the first line only to find another line of similar white sheets hung to dry. Layer after layer he went in to find more of the same. Soon he was lost in a sea of soft translucent white. He did not know right from left or front from back. For a moment he had the feeling that he was in a womb of white light. It was comfortable in a strange way but underneath that feeling of comfort there was a sense of panic that was waiting to be released. It was at that moment that he had awakened.

Shruti stirred beside him and mumbled something in her sleep. He turned to look at her. She was lying on her stomach. Her right hand was splayed across his chest and gripped his trunk, as if holding onto him while buffeted by a fierce wind. Her hair tried to walk across his face when moved by the thin breeze from the fan. She looked peaceful and loved in her sleep as she always did. She never remembered her dreams either. Even now she could not help hugging him in her sleep. It was one of his little secrets as he always woke up before her.

He disengaged himself gently from her half embrace, taking care not to wake her up, got up and sat on the edge of the bed. He picked up his watch from the sideboard by his bed. The hands read 6:30. His day normally started at 8. He was too keyed up to go back to sleep. Dawn was just beginning to break. The room was bathed in dim light from the window by the side of the bed. He got off the bed and looked around the room. It was sparsely furnished. A frugal existence on a scholarship did not offer much opportunity to lead a luxurious lifestyle. Almost all the furniture had been bought second hand. Therefore, the room had this mismatched look to it that came from putting together furniture of differing styles and make. But it looked comfortable and cozy. Two qualities the room owed to the care and diligence of Shruti. She had worked wonders with the limited resources they had.

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He walked out on to the narrow balcony the bedroom had and inhaled the fresh cool air. Sundays always held this lazy quality for him. He remembered Sundays spent sleeping until noon. He remembered Sunday mornings that were given over to gentle lovemaking until they were too hungry to continue. And he remembered Sundays where he would be forced by Shruti, against his will, to go to the lab to set up experiments for Monday. Today was different though. It would be a long and difficult morning. He was not looking forward to it but he had no choice. Shruti would not change her mind. She wanted the break and there was nothing he could do.

He had met Shruti at a Cancer conference in Frankfurt. Her poster had been right next to his. She was working in Potsdam at that time. It was the final year of her doctoral research. He was in his second year of doctoral research then. They were the only two Indians at the conference and therefore during breaks between talks and in the evenings had spent all of their time together. She was also from Hyderabad. He had been to India a couple of months before the conference so they reminisced about how their city had changed. They lamented about the disappearance of laidback Hyderabad, where the day began at 11 am, both knew so well to be replaced by the gleaming malls, the new money and the unrestrained greed. In another of life’s inexplicable coincidences both had lost their parents. His, to a car accident and her’s in a bomb blast in Mumbai. Both had escaped anxious relatives bent on marrying them off to the anonymity and independence of Germany.

Their conversations into the night by the river while staring at the gleaming skyline of Frankfurt bridged their loneliness. On the last day of the conference they made promises to keep in touch but caught in work they had soon forgotten each other. One day, about two months after the conference, while clearing his wallet of old bills he had found her phone number. On a whim he called her up and contact was resumed again. As Potsdam was less than hour from Berlin they began visiting each other on weekends. They even traveled together to Prague. Somewhere around the same time love began to blossom. They began sleeping together after they came back from Prague.

Now he knew that it had been a love based more on shared circumstances rather than on the discovery of each other. Their love had been quiet and restrained, not the burning passion one saw in the movies. Perhaps loneliness and the loss of loved ones had played a part too. She would soon finish her PhD and did not want to go back to India yet. He was sick of Germany and needed someone familiar to talk to.

They decided to get married as soon as she finished her thesis defense. They traveled together to India and had a quiet civil marriage. Relatives on both sides were not happy due to differences in caste but did not create much of a fuss when they realized that the two did not care what they thought or wanted.

As soon as she was done with her formalities in Potsdam she moved to Berlin and they shifted to the present apartment. He still needed a couple more years to be done with his PhD so they decided she would look for a post-doctoral position in Berlin to supplement his meager scholarship. After he finished they would decide about moving back to India or going to the US. She did look seriously for a position for about a month but soon gave up and instead started concentrating on making their apartment more comfortable and also convincing him to start a family. She had never been interested in serious research. A PhD had been a ticket to freedom for her from the clutches of her conservative relatives. As soon as she had the beginnings of a family of her own she pushed the idea of a scientific career off her priority list. She deeply desired to become a mother.

This was when the early friction had started. He did not want a child so soon. It would be so impractical, he thought, to have a child when they were living on a single scholarship and did not know how their respective financial futures would pan out. He also wanted her to work instead of sitting at home but his nagging only increased her stubbornness.

Things were not as bad initially. Every marriage where love is involved passes through a golden phase at the beginning. The future seems filled with the brightest of hopes and romance saturates every waking moment. Each passing day seems suffused with love and each aching minute spent apart increases the anticipation of the next phone call or return home after work. There were mornings that meandered into late afternoons in the company of their conversations. There were endless dreamy silences after dinner punctuated by sips of white wine and passionate kisses. There were silent walks taken through the snow lined paths of Tiergarten in the winter hand in hand. There were romantic trips to Paris and Venice. There were the pleasures of waking up next to a warm body on cold mornings and making love until every part of their body ached sweetly. There were the little decisions that needed to be made together, be it about which film to watch on a Saturday night or which color to paint their bedroom wall. But the honeymoon period had to end and then reality came dancing in through the open window of responsibility.

It was her condescension that made matters worse, at least for him. She came from a cosmopolitan family and had gone to an elite private school. Both her parents used to work for multi-national companies. She used to speak only in English at home even though her mother tongue was Telugu. By the age of 12 she had already been to three different continents. In contrast, he came from more humble origins. His parents were simple and typically middle class with all the attendant struggles to make ends meet and give him the best education possible within those financial limits. The first time he had ever sat in an airplane was when he came to Berlin. He had picked up very good English along the way but being a mostly self taught person his pronunciation sometimes led to inadvertently funny results. This lack of sophistication was a constant source of amusement for her. She would often make fun of his dress sense, the way he ate and his tastes, be it in books, films or furniture. Often, it would be harmless ragging on her part but it would hurt him nevertheless each and every time as he was quite sensitive about his origins. He had tried telling her how much it irritated and hurt him when she said those things but she would dismiss his concerns by laughing them off and saying that she did not mean any of them.

Another reason was that like all women Shruti secretly believed that she was superior to men. No matter what the argument she had to have the last word. No matter how wrong she was she was right, a womanly logic he could never understand. So every decision required her oral stamp of approval. Every cent had to be spent under her watchful eye. There was a limit to even his patience. So he had snapped several times. Harsh words were exchanged and arguments had escalated. It had all added fuel to the fires of freedom.

Dawn had come and gone while he was lost in the past. It was bright and cold. The sky was a patchwork of clouds busily rushing away to the south as if the world depended on their movement. It was time to get ready for what lay ahead. He wandered back into the bedroom and entered the small bathroom. There was another note on the bathroom mirror written in her precise feminine hand.

Ravi,
Can you wake me up at 8 am? Thanks.

So she had dropped the ‘Dear’ too finally. Leaving small sweet notes to each other was one of the ‘romantic’ things they had started initially. Now, they were the sole media of communication between them for mundane things. Conversations had collapsed into monosyllabic mumblings. They hadn’t talked at all in the last one month, which was when she had suggested the idea of a break.

He took the note and walked to the desk by the window. From the lowest drawer he took out a small box and opened it. It contained all the notes they had written to each other from the beginning of their marriage. As he was about to place the latest note on top his eyes fell on the note underneath in the box. He took it out and read what was written on it.

Three pink pillows
you wanted yesterday
in exchange for a
notional apology from me.
Today you think
and refuse to talk.
So I wander around the
house looking for words
you forgot to erase from
our common conversation.

Ravi smiled in recognition. He had written that about two months back when Shruti had started tearing these scraps of conversation. He picked out another note from the pile. It was an old note written by her.

Trace my eyebrows
with your rhymes
as they arch over
your words left unsaid.

He arranged the notes and closed the box. It was strange how memories were so closely linked to words in their case. If he read through each and every note in the box he would live through a different memory each time. Most would refer to mundane activities but even those common place references were very much part of their lives. The hard clarity of the written word sometimes even replaced the wispy nostalgia of reminiscence in his case.

He replaced the box in the drawer, went to the bathroom and closed the door. The door opened again precisely 25 minutes later. He checked the time. It was two minutes to 8. He walked around the bed to her side, sat on the edge and gently shook her. For a second he wondered if he should try waking her up by tickling her feet or running his tongue along her ear. He smiled as he remembered how she would bolt up and be instantly awake when he had done those things in the past. He decided not to risk her anger as he knew they had burnt those bridges of intimacy. She stirred when he shook her again and slowly opened her eyes. Her eyes swam into focus and then registered him. She smiled involuntarily, a smile as bright as the light outside before she quickly cut it short as she came awake completely. She mumbled something and then looked at him. He understood that she wanted him to get off the bed. He quickly got up from the bed, walked out to the balcony and resumed his contemplation of their conjugal life.

Behind him he heard her get off the bed and stretch herself. Once upon a time he loved to stare at her legs every morning as her shorts crept upwards slowly as she stretched. Usually they would stop at the mole which was three fourths of the way above her knee. On rare occasions the shorts would cross that mark and he would smile at receiving such a bonus. He heard her walk to the bathroom and close the door.

He did not contemplate the future. There would be pain and he knew that within a few days he would descend the stairs of his dreams into a vortex of insomnia, self-loathing and deep depression. The signs were already visible on the horizon circling his thoughts. But what he dreaded the most was the point of no return. The point where both would have wandered so completely off the path that it would be impossible to cut through the thicket and return. That he could not bear. For he was the old fashioned type, one who thought a marriage was for life. And every fight, every argument between them had seemed to suggest to him that they were hurtling towards that very point. He wished he could fight for them. Explain to her how much she meant to him and how he could not live alone without her. He had tried in the past but words always failed him at such crucial moments. They only came to him while he sat like this thinking over things. The irony of a relationship built on words did not escape him.

“Shall I make breakfast for you too?”

He suddenly realized that Shruti was talking to him. He started and looked back as she repeated from the kitchen.

“Shall I make breakfast for you too?”

“Yes please. Can you make me an omelet too?”

“Yes, no problem,” she replied.

He hadn’t realized she was back from the bathroom and was already busy preparing breakfast. He was surprised. He could not remember the last time she had offered to make breakfast for him. It must have been months ago. Perhaps she was trying to be nice before she walked away from everything. He walked back into the apartment and sat at their small dining table. He watched her toast the bread, apply Nutella and then pour olive oil onto the pan on the stove. She arranged the bread slices neatly on the edges of two plates. Six slices for him, two with Nutella and four plain and four for her with Nutella. Coffee was already on the table. She broke eggs with a spatula and dropped them onto the pan. She worked quickly and cleanly. He had always marveled at her efficient actions when it came to cooking. She could handle cooking four different dishes and not break sweat. And she had picked up all her cooking in Germany. On the other hand he was an indifferent cook. When he was in the mood he could whip up some nice meals but normally he would subsist on a diet of chips, nuts and a good novel.

With the omelet done she neatly lifted it off the pan and placed it on the plate with his bread slices. She placed the plate before him and settled herself with her plate opposite him. She poured herself a glass of orange juice and started eating. He started eating too. They ate in silence staring at neutral points on opposite sides. After ten minutes of this strained silence she broke it with a question.

“Are we even going to talk about it Ravi or are you going to sit there silently as usual?”

“What is there to talk about? You seem to have decided everything already.”

This seemed to irritate her. He could see her lips quivering as she sought to control herself.

“Is that your standard response to everything? How do you know I’ve decided everything? Why do you always assume and not talk? Every time we have an argument and fight you withdraw into yourself and use your silence as a weapon. Do you know how frustrating it is to try and break through your silence and get to you?”

She stopped as her voice broke over the last sentence. She looked away for a moment as if to hide the watering of her eyes. Ravi looked as if he was going to say something but kept quiet when he realized she was not finished. Shruti faced him again and continued.

“Ravi, you know very well our marriage is breaking apart. Your PhD is going nowhere and you know it. You have no idea when you are going to finish it. You expect me to work when all I want with all my heart is to have a child with you. But you refuse to even understand why I want it. You hate to admit to yourself that you are afraid of responsibility. Maybe I’m paranoid but I think you are delaying your PhD so that you do not have to face tough decisions about us.

Ravi who had been looking away while she was talking flinched and looked back at her as she said the last part. He sighed and asked in a low voice, “Why do you want to have a baby so badly? What is wrong in waiting a little?”

“Because I love you Ravi and want you to be the father of our child. It is as simple as that. And I’m not getting any younger Ravi. I’m already 28. I don’t want to have children when I’m over 30. You know there will be complications with age.”

“So is this an ultimatum Shruti? Have children with me or else I’m gone? Is that what you are trying to say?”

“I don’t know Ravi. One part of me wants to say that and be done with this mounting frustration and unchanging situation. But that is too easy. I just want a break. I want to be away from you for some time. I’ve already talked to Neha and she said I can move in with her if I wanted.”

Neha was her best friend from college who had followed her to Germany. He had known she would want this but the blunt and abrupt nature of her words still hit him hard. How long would she be gone? Would she ever return? A hundred questions jostled for attention in his head but he could not ask her any of them. He did not want to. If she wanted to run away then let her. Why should he stop her? It was not as if he had not tried. All he had asked for was a little time. Was it that hard to wait? But her words had touched a chord and softened him. She still loved him and that was important. Perhaps there was reason to hope as well. So he asked her, “How long will you be gone? What about your things?”

“I don’t know for how long. It could be a week or it could be a month. I need to think about a lot of things. I’ll leave my things here for the moment. Yesterday, I packed some essential stuff so I’ll be fine for a while.”

She got up as if to signal the end of the conversation and started clearing the table. She hadn’t eaten half her bread slices and even he had lost his appetite. She threw away the leftovers and stacked the plates and cups in the dishwasher. She walked to the closet and took out the carry bag she used for small journeys and headed directly for the door without another word. Her face was inscrutable. He did not know if he should try to convince her to stay but he knew from past experience that once she made up her mind it would be impossible to convince her otherwise. So he got up and said, “I’ll walk you down to the bus stop.”

Shruti nodded her head and opened the door. She hesitated for a second and looked back at him as if she had something to say to him. But she did not say anything and walked out.

They rode down the lift in silence and walked out of the building onto the road. The silence continued and stretched around them encompassing all their mutual memories and dreams. He had the feeling that he was walking in slow motion and somehow that moment would last forever. But that was wishful thinking. They reached the bus stop. The bus soon arrived. Shruti calmly walked up to the door and got onto the bus. He stood still waiting for her to say something. She did not say anything. The door closed and the bus started to move away slowly. She was lost among the many people in the bus. Soon the bus was a dot on the horizon and after a minute the dot disappeared too as if erased. She had not looked back once.

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The Rave 24May07 | 5 Comments

tagged: fiction

It happened at the rave. I was supposed to cover the event as an unofficial photographer. I jumped at the chance as I had never been to a rave before and hadn’t done much night photography. The rave was in an old castle on the banks of the Rhine beyond Bonn. You entered the grounds, went beyond the main walls to enter a small covered space that was enclosed by the castle walls on three sides and the outer boundary wall on one side. This gave the place the shape of an amphitheater. I saw my friend immediately. He smiled, waved and came over.

“Thanks a lot for coming. I’m very glad you could make it.”

“My pleasure. I hope I’m not too late?”

“No, not at all. We are about to start so you came at the right time. Do you need any help setting up?”

“Thank you but no. I can manage. So what is it exactly that I need to do?”

“Oh, nothing very special or particular. Just take as many photos of as many people as you can. And don’t worry, people won’t mind. If you have a problem just call me. Ok, I gotta rush now, so many things that need to be arranged, you know how it is, so have fun shooting and I’ll see you around the place.”

With that he rushed off.

It didn’t seem to be a big party. There were in fact very few people for a rave. About 100 people I’d say. There seemed to be an equal number of women and men. I was the only non-white there. From the start I felt a little out of place. I don’t like being surrounded by white people. They give me the creeps for some reason especially when I don’t understand the language spoken by them. But I was doing this for a good friend so I suppressed my uneasiness and set up my camera equipment. The light was low and since I do not like using flash I had to use fast glass.

That’s when the music hit me like a bomb blast. The sound was almost on the threshold of pain. It was like a wall of throbbing sound twisting my insides and hitting my heart with the force of a gale wind. It felt as if something was churning my insides and I was being turned inside out. I staggered and became numb for a minute as I adjusted. I did not recognize the music but it sure did slice through bone marrow and make you want to dance. It was a pity I had to concentrate on the job at hand. I was ready to dance the night away!

The music seemed to have been the signal. The lights dimmed and people started gyrating. It was fascinating to watch them. There were perfectly in step to the music. It was as if they were choreographed, which was a bit weird as I had been under the impression that a rave was all about letting go and freaking out. But their movements had a strange beauty to them, a subtle sensual quality that under the dim lighting made the dancing seem mildly erotic. I watched this for a while before I remembered the reason I was there.

I switched on the camera, cranked up the ISO and plunged into the crowd, with great hesitation I must add. I normally do not like photographing strangers as I’m too shy to approach them and being a foreigner doesn’t always help things. But my friend’s words had been reassuring and I guess the dim lighting also helped my confidence. More than anything though, the whole spectacle was too damn interesting to be not captured!

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I started clicking away. Nobody seemed to mind. In fact no one even seemed to notice me. They were oblivious to my presence. I felt like a ghost passing through them, bodies slick with sweat sliding past me. I was wading through a human stream. Men and women shook and bounced. The music caromed off the walls. Nerve endings fired. Limbs flailed and clothes billowed. My camera worked tirelessly. I could not even stop to check and see if I was capturing anything. I had to trust my instincts as I was constantly pushed and shoved around. A woman’s elbow dug into my midriff. Another man’s hand hit my head. Through it all I tried to do my job.

Then the music changed. Something slower and mellower. The people changed too. The jackets and coats came off. The dressing had been quite formal for a rave. I had even seen some bow ties. Now the dance was more erotic. Bodies rubbed against each other. Hands groped private parts. Lips were locked.

I remember feeling both turned on and disgusted. I’ve to admit that there was a voyeuristic thrill in watching so many beautiful people engage in such an obvious sexual manner. I was also disgusted because such blatant display of eroticism was offending my puritan soul.

I thought about leaving but I could not find my friend so I continued to shoot. Since enough alcohol had been imbibed by then people started posing for me whenever I photographed them. There was one couple who struck some very athletic poses. The man who looked to be his early thirties lifted the thin woman wearing a sheer black negligee over his head and then slid her down his back and held her there with his big hands cradling her from behind. Fascinated, I reeled off a few shots, smiled and moved on. Conversation was impossible in such a place.

This state of affairs continued for how long I do not know. Time passed differently when you viewed the world through a viewfinder.

After what seemed like an hour the music changed again. The new music was almost hypnotic in its rhythm and slowness. Men and women swayed slowly and smoothly. The flash cards in the cameras were almost full and in any case by then the light was too dim to shoot anything. So I packed up the cameras and went to the bar and got myself a cocktail. A Mojito. It had more lime than rum but still was decent enough to drink. To the side of the bar, by the castle wall there was a grassy knoll. I climbed it and sat on the top. It was a perfectly placed vantage point to see the whole of the dance area. I sipped the drink and settled down to see the crowd dance to the undulating music.

Suddenly, I realized I was not alone on the knoll. There was someone to my left and slightly behind me sitting in the shadows cast by the looming castle walls. I could not tell if it was a man or a woman. At that point the person moved into the light and I realized that it was a woman. From what I could make out she seemed to be in her late thirties. But her age was not the first thing I observed about her. What I observed the instant she moved into the light was that she was buck naked! My mouth actually dropped open and I almost dropped my drink in shock! It is not often that I find naked middle aged women by my side. She noticed me staring at her, mouth still open, like an idiot. She smiled a little and said,

“Don’t look so shocked, I’m not a ghost!”

I slowly recovered my poise and first closed my wide open mouth. Before I could say something intelligent she asked in a half-mocking tone, “Where are your manners young man? Shouldn’t you be introducing yourself?”

I smiled sheepishly and replied, “I’m Linac Derdy. And you are?”

“I’m Catherine Baumeister.”

After we exchanged introductions and pleasantries we settled into a comfortable silence that lasted for a few minutes until she broke it with another question.

“Do you like raves Linac?”

“Well, to be frank, no.”

“And why not?”

Surprising as it may seem no one had ever asked me that question before. Not even the friend who had invited me to the party. He had assumed that I liked raves.

“Mainly because everything seems so forced in a rave.”

“What do you mean by forced?”

“Well, you see I find the whole setting artificial and too big in scale. I do not like huge social gatherings where people congregate with the sole objective of having ‘fun’. I like intimate settings. A small group of people engaged in good conversation. Now, that is something I love.”

“So do you find our little conversation intimate? Is this something you love?”

There was that faintly mocking tone in her voice again. But this time it was more playful. I turned and looked at her. Her eyes were sparkling with mischief. I smiled back and replied, “Yes, in a manner of speaking. I wouldn’t call this intimate as I hardly know you but yes I prefer sitting here talking to you instead of dancing with a hundred others in the crowd over there.”

She smiled briefly and looked at the people still dancing. A thoughtful frown replaced the smile on her face. Her eyes suddenly lost focus as if she was reminded of something. At that point something odd happened. She wavered. It was but for a second and later I could not tell if I had imagined it or not but I distinctly remember her whole body wavering as if she were a projection of some kind. I immediately put it down to a trick played on my eyes by the strobe lights from the party in front of us. She looked at me again, a naughty smile in her eyes, and asked,

“So when do you think we will reach the intimate stage?”

I blushed. Here was a beautiful, naked, and middle aged woman openly flirting with me and all I could do was blush! But what could I do? I never could flirt and especially not with a naked woman whom I had met just ten minutes back. So I did not say anything, smiled shyly and looked back at her.

She held my gaze for a few minutes as if she was searching for something but from the look that soon crossed her face it seemed as if she did not find what she was looking for. She sighed a little and went back to staring at the party.

I sat like that for I don’t know how long, lost in thought, until I looked at my watch. The time was 3:00 am and there was a train to Cologne in about twelve minutes. If I did not get that I’d have to wait for another hour for the next one. So I gathered my stuff and got ready to leave. I turned to say bye to the lady but when I turned to look she was not around! I was mystified. I hadn’t heard her leave but that wouldn’t be hard with the music playing. But more than that I think I was disappointed that she had not said goodbye to me before leaving. She had been quite interesting company and I’d have loved to know more about her. Or perhaps she had just gone to get herself another drink. In any case I could not wait. I had a train to catch.

So I went down the knoll towards the party and luckily found my friend immediately standing next to the DJ. He waved me over and led to me to the gate where it would be easier to talk.

“So Linac, are you leaving? So early at that?”

“Yeah, I’m afraid I’ve to leave. I’ve a train to catch shortly.”

“Ok. Thanks a lot for coming. I’ll call you tomorrow in the evening about the photos but I hope you had lots of fun”

“Sure and oh yes, this has been very nice. In fact, how can I forget? I ran into a most interesting woman on the knoll there.”

“Of you did, did you? Who was it? Anyone I know?”

For some reason I decided not to tell him that the lady I had met had been naked. I still don’t know why I omitted that fact but there it was. Something stopped me.

“I don’t know but she was quite beautiful and very intriguing now that I come to think of it.”

“Sounds real nice. Did you get her name or her phone number you lucky dog?!”

I hated to disappoint him but I could not escape the fact.

“Well, yes and no. I did get her name but she disappeared before I could ask her phone number.”

“Aww Linac, that’s too bad. So what’s her name? Maybe I know her and I can help you out.”, he said and winked.

I laughed and said, “Yeah sure, why not. Her name is Catherine Baumeister.”

As soon as I said the name my friend gave me a strange look. He stared at me for a few moments and asked me in a quiet voice.

“Are you sure she gave you her name as Catherine Baumeister?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. One hundred percent.”

I distinctly remembered her name as it was different from the usual German names I came across. My friend again looked at me strangely and said in an even quieter tone than before.

“Linac, Catherine Baumeister was my great-grandmother and she has been dead for 50 years. She committed suicide by jumping off the walls of this castle onto that knoll there when she was 37 years old.”

(Editor’s Note: Reproduced verbatim from the recently discovered diary of the late Mr. Linac Derdy)

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Linac Derdy 15Mar07 | Comments Off

tagged: fiction

Free Falling - Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers

He stands on the edge and stares down. All of 25 floors down. The tiny termite people scurrying and the small model cars zipping across the traffic intersections. It is a clear and bright day. The warm late afternoon sunlight caresses his face and a light breeze disturbs his neatly combed hair. He shuffles closer to the edge. Why is he standing on the edge? More importantly, who is he? Do I know him? Perhaps you know him? Perhaps the son of the best friend of your mother’s knows him?

He is a writer or at least he considered himself to be one. The wider publishing world thought otherwise. His name is Linac Derdy. Derdy has been to the publishing firm on the 10th floor of the same building. His meeting with the editor was disappointing. The firm after a lengthy review process decided not to publish his book. This was the twentieth firm he had sent his manuscript to. They thought that the book lacked, to quote the editor, “the essential belief in humanity that could appeal to a wide audience”.

So perhaps he is another failed writer whose words only seem good to him. His destiny will not involve lengthy book promotion tours to the major literary capitals of the world, pompous discussions on the inner conflicts of his protagonist on prime time talk shows, or accepting big money awards with false modesty and humility. No, his destiny has brought him here, to the edge of the parapet on this tall building, watching the world do whatever it did on late afternoons far below.

Does Linac know that I’m talking about him? That at this very moment, while he stands on the edge thinking, 10 time zones away from him I’m laying his life out in the open almost in real time. How can I do that? Am I God?

I said he is thinking about something. What is he thinking about? Derdy is actually thinking about the woman who had gotten onto the elevator he was riding on the 11th floor and gotten out on the 23rd floor. For the few moments she was in the elevator she had filled the small space with a fragrance that produced in him a heavy feeling of déjà vu. He knew that fragrance. Standing on the edge of the parapet he is trying to remember where he had smelled it before. Little does he know that it was indeed his first girlfriend who had worn such a perfume.

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Trivial matters, yes. People do not stand on the edge of a parapet of a tall skyscraper and think about past perfumes and fragrances. Not on a late and lovely afternoon when he should actually be lying on bare grass and dreaming about bright and shiny things. But if this was a simple incident about an obscure little man lying on bare green grass and dreaming about bright and shiny things you would not be interested in reading this, right? Right?

This is about something bigger that is present to a greater or smaller extent in all of us. This is about the sanity of fame and success. This is about finding peace in doing little things and not wanting too much from life. This is about trying not to run after guts and glory. This is about the joy of writing a simple poem only you will ever ‘get’, not the critics nor your squash buddy. This is about friendship that lasts all life. This is also about finding love and having the ability to sustain and keep it. This is about trying to live life not according to the expectations of those around you but according to the little whims and fancies of that little mass of throbbing red muscle that beats tirelessly behind your bony cage. This is about the happiness of whispering little secrets to your loved one after the lights go out. This is simply about being content.

And so he jumps. Not because I want him to so that I can finish this story soon and go to bed early. Not because his book would not get published. Derdy jumped because he had woken up that morning from a dream that was the single most beautiful dream he had ever had. A dream so real and so intense that the bed and the room around him upon waking had seemed so pale and unreal. He had dreamt about flying, flying without a care or a worry on warm thermals, soaring above the world in vast spirals, swooping through wispy clouds, and just laughing. Laughing like there was no tomorrow. Laughing like as if he had broken every bond there was. Free, completely and utterly. And as he falls, floor after floor rushing past in a windy blur, he finds that feeling again. That feeling of freedom from every silly thing the world below him, bathed in beautiful sunlight, holds foolishly dear. Linac Derdy had found the freedom of flight.

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A Letter 08Feb07 | Comments Off

tagged: fiction

Hurt - Johnny Cash

Dearest Anarghya,

How are you? I hope all is well with you. How is the cactus doing? Has it grown a bit since I left? I’m back safe and sound. The flight was late but pleasantly uneventful. It was difficult getting back into the grind of routine but slowly I’ve adjusted.

The other day I was thinking about us. How we have never spoken on the phone or emailed each other once in our seven year friendship! Are we being a pair of Luddites in renouncing such technology which helps millions reach out to each other? I don’t know. It is not that I regret that our only means of staying in touch is through these letters but there are times I miss hearing your voice and I wish I could just pick up the phone and call you. Yes, I know I do not have a phone and neither do you but still. What about you? Do you ever have such an urge?

I was listening to this song covered by Johnny Cash just before his death called ‘Hurt’ yesterday. It is a beautiful, sad and majestic song, one of the few instances where the cover version is better than the original. The pain and sadness in his voice as he sings it makes one wonder if he was looking back at his amazing life and singing about it. A fitting epitaph I must say for him. That is the way to leave this world, on a high, at the peak of your powers. Listening to that song made me also wonder about the things happening in my life. All my life I was on this road whose destination was known. Now, suddenly, it is as if the road has forked and somehow I ended up taking a wrong turn somewhere. I do not know where I’m going, nor do I know what I’m doing. Don’t you have these moments when everything seems pointless? Like when you were talking about your ennui with your current dance production, the lack of enthusiasm, the fear of rejection from your peers and the inability to break away. I feel the same way. I don’t know how things unraveled so fast. But being caught in the middle of this is not really pleasant I must say.

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Everyone keeps saying you are so lucky to be in such a position at my age as if that is a big consolation. Sometimes I feel so alone and wonder if you are the only person who can understand me whenever I say something. I mean what has age got to do with happiness and satisfaction? Just because you said years ago that this is what you want to do and achieved it doesn’t mean that you are now happy doing it. Then there are my folks. I think they will be shocked the most. As you very well know, I’ve always worn a different mask in front of them, the mask of a dutiful and obedient son who always does as he is told and who has done something for himself. It will be difficult to see the disappointment in their eyes when I break the news to them. Oh well, enough is enough. Until now, I’ve lived and died in the hope that people I liked and loved would love and care for me equally in return. I didn’t understand when you kept saying this before but now I realize that you were right all along. It is time I lived for myself and stopped waiting for the people in my life to come through.

Moving on, how are your rehearsals coming along? Is Michael still giving you all a hard time? If he is, let me know and I’ll come down and kick his ass for you! But I do hope things are proceeding smoothly. I look forward to attending the premiere. Good luck and as the French say ‘merde à vous’!

I bumped into Sandhya the other day outside the gallery, which was a surprise. Wait till you hear more. She got married! There’s more. She is pregnant! Yes, this is the same man-hating Sandhya! I couldn’t resist teasing her about it. But apparently, she found a man, “who treats her as an equal and gives her all the space she needs”, in her own words. Well, what could I say to that? I wished her good luck and she asked me to pass on her best wishes to you. She was interested in your production and said she might make it to the premiere too, her pregnancy permitting.

By the way, I completely forgot. I might get a chance to go to Reykjavík later this year. Wait for the best part; I can take a friend along with me! So what do you say my dear lady? Would you like to swim with me in the famous waters of Bláa Lónið? I hope you will be able to come.

That is all for now. I need to go shopping now and stock up on provisions before it snows again. Don’t forget to tell me about the premiere dates. Also, I hope you haven’t already finished all the Guylian chocolates I gave you? If yes, I’m sure you will have problems fitting into those leotards! Take care my love and I hope to hear from you soon.

Love,
Aghosh

P.S.: My love also to Mrs. Rao. I hope she is back on her feet now. Tell her I miss her delicious masala dosas a lot!

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The Lost People 06Feb07 | Comments Off

tagged: fiction , poetry

Echoes of Time - R. Carlos Nakai

“People, people, people,
listen, listen well to this song
passed on to me by our fathers.
It is about the pale men
who came to our shores
in big brown boats.

They doffed their hats and proclaimed, “Dear sirs, this land is ours”.
We laughed at their funny names and
wrinkled our noses at their peculiar fish smell.
They came up to us and said, “Give us your gold”.
We smiled and asked why.
“To protect you sirs.”
So we laughed some more and opened the temple doors.
We were children of the sun. We didn’t need gold, did we?

Years passed and their numbers increased with every boat load
while our numbers dwindled due to diseases
brought by those greedy men and women.
One day they came and put chains on our hands.
We sighed and asked why.
“To teach you civilization sirs”, they said.
So we bent our backs and tilled our/their lands.
Our sweat turned brown land into green fields.

Years passed, and our last chief
was murdered in the battle of bended knee.
Then they came and took away our children.
We cried and asked why.
“To build a new nation of equals sirs”, they said.
So we broke our hearts, sat around the fire and sang sad old songs.
What else could we do?
The laughter of our children had been swallowed by the molting moon.

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Winter in Vienna 23Dec06 | 4 Comments

tagged: fiction , sci-fi

Mendelssohn: Violin Concerto in E Minor Op.64 - Kyung Wha Chung, Charles Dutoit Montreal SO

It was winter in Vienna. I was on the Ringbahn, going round and round the inner ring of Vienna. The ring around which most of the historical buildings in Vienna are clustered. The huge Hofburg receded on my left while the massive Museum for Kunst slipped past on my right. People got on and off. Tourists from Japan, businessmen from Canada, old Viennese woman out shopping, young couples out for the evening and the occasional Indian student.

It was a comforting journey. Round and round, passing the same sights again and again. I could just sit and observe. Listen to the random conversations floating around me.

“Hey Larry, should we do both the museums on the same day?”

“Sato, I think we have got on the wrong tram. I don’t think this will go to the Danube.”

“Dudes, lets go to Kahlenberg. I heard that it has an incredible view of Vienna from the top. I can get fantastic photographs as well.”

“Can you tell me where I should get off to go to the Universität?”

She repeated the question again and only then did I realize that she was asking me the question. I looked up to see her looking back at me, a little amused no doubt to see my flustered look. It is always a strange feeling to be asked for directions when you yourself are a tourist. Did I look like I belonged in Vienna? Could I really pass myself off as a local? Wishful thinking I know. But still I knew where the Universität was. The endless rounds on the bahn had at least helped me in this regard. It was just before the Rathaus; an impressive and imposing building built in the Renaissance style, the university I mean, not the Rathaus.

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Shanghai Nights 03Dec06 | 3 Comments

tagged: fiction

First Sleep - Cliff Martinez

A phone rang in the background. People trying to reach others on the edge. I observed her from the other side of the room. Her polite smile. Her naughty laugh. The way she drank a shot, so elegant and sexy. It was raining outside. The whispers of so many strangers mingled with the drumming of the raindrops on the roof. I wandered through the crowd to get a better look at her. The seat next to her was empty. She turned and glanced at me with a half smile around her lips. I slid my shot across and ordered a fresh one. We drank.

“Can you resist an impulse?”

“I don’t know. It depends.”

“On what?”

“On what I’ll gain out of the impulse. Will it give instant gratification or do I need to persevere? What about you?”

“Oh yes! I always give in to my every impulse. You know that is why I’m talking to you, based on such an impulse.”

We went out to sit on the porch and watch the rain. In the distance, landing lights flashed. Planes took off and landed at regular intervals. The warning lights on the airport radar blinked cryptic messages. There was that special smell of wet earth.

She went in to get some food. It was a Chinese dinner. She came back with two bowls filled with lightly spiced egg noodles and two pairs of metal chopsticks.

“I do not know how to eat with chopsticks.”

“Neither do I but I like the way chopsticks feel in my hands, especially these metal ones. Let’s keep them as souvenirs.”

She smiled and started picking up noodles with her fingers. She was quite good at it. It was not messy at all. I tried to emulate her as best as I could.

“You know, I lived in Shanghai with my parents when I was a child. It was a different city back then. No high rises. No glitz. No sleek highways. I remember this old fisherman in the fish market from whom we always bought our fish. He taught me how to eat noodles without chopsticks. It was funny how I ended up talking to him. He spoke very good English…”

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She trailed off into a long silence, reminiscing perhaps of the old Shanghai. She finished the noodles and wiped her hands and lips on a napkin. I followed suit after about a minute.

“…I never did ask him where he learnt to speak English like that. He liked Indians a lot. Apparently, he had fought with the Indian soldiers against the Japanese in the Battle of Imphal. You know, I never thought about this before, perhaps that was where he learnt his English.”

She suddenly reached out and held my hand, squeezing it gently. She withdrew her hand slowly.

The rain had slowed down to a drizzle in the meantime. The wet grass glistened under the lights. It had been a warm day but the rain and the breeze had cooled the night. She got up and looked at me.

“Let us take a walk through the garden.”

“But it is still raining. I get irritated getting wet in a drizzle.”

“Come on, don’t fight your impulse. I know you want to. I can see it on your face.”

She was right. I did want to walk with her through the light rain and feel the cool breeze brush against my skin.

“You know, there is a fragment of a poem that I really like. Nights such as this always bring it to mind.”

“What fragment is it?”

“”Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –”

“That is beautiful. Who is it by?”

“Emily Dickinson. She is one of my favorite poets.”

We walked to the edge of the garden. The rain was only a pleasant short term memory by then. The land dropped below us into a small open area densely covered by shrubs. To the left, below us, was a small lake, half lit by the lights from the houses behind us. On the far right, some distance away, was the airport.

There was a small bench where the garden ended. We sat close to each other. Her hand slipped into mine. She stared at the rippling waters of the lake while I looked at the landing lights turn on and off at irregular intervals. A song could be heard faintly from one of the houses behind us. We spent the rest of the night, huddled together in the cool night, talking of Shanghai nights in the past, good poetry and ambient music, until the first rays of dawn gently kissed our brows.

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The Letter 27Oct06 | 6 Comments

tagged: fiction

I left her there on the park bench, lost in thought, and walked away. We had decided to end everything. Or rather, if I’m honest, I had decided to end the whole thing. To be frank, I was surprised that she was so quiet. Perhaps, it was the quiet before the storm or perhaps she realized the futility of making a scene. I walked a little way ahead and looked back. She was still lost in thought, holding my letter like a poisoned fruit. Her eyes stared into the distance full of that faraway look, which I used to love so much. Her head bent a little to the side as if some heavy thoughts were weighing it down. I used to spend hours looking into those dark eyes.

I tried to imagine what she was thinking. Was she thinking of how utterly heartless I was? Was she thinking of the intense time we had? Or was she thinking of the way ahead? I wondered whether I could say something more to her. Make her break the silence. But it would be a waste. I had explained everything that was possible in the letter. And I had a feeling that she would ignore me even if I did try to say something. I knew her look very well. Hell, we were like open books to each other! We understood each other perfectly.

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