1

Copyright

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

Disclaimer

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

certain emotional situations, it may portray circumstances that might seem to
tally with some real-life scenarios, in which case it is clarified that any
purported resemblance to actual characters or situations is entirely
coincidental, and no part of it has anything to do with any living person, any
particular place or any present or past events.
 3

This book is for

My Timeless Muse
Enigmatic…angelic…eternal

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

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

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

 4

TILL HELL FREEZES OVER

Contents Page no.

Title page ............. 1

Dedication ............. x
Preface …………. x
Introduction ............. x
1. Once Upon a Lifetime ............. x
2. A Pillar of the Establishment ............. xx
3. The Volunteer ............. xx
4. The Garden of Dreams ............. xx
5. Another Time, Another Place ............. xx
6. The Last Rainbow ............. xx
7. Journey’s End ............. xx
8. Children of the Light .............. xx
9. Hurry Sundown ............. xxx
10. Half a Billion ............. xxx
11. Solace at Sunset ............. xxx
12. Visitor …………… xxx
13. One Good Turn ……………xxx
14. A Prize too Easy …………. xxx
15. Paradise Island ……………xxx
16. Market Penetration………….……………..xxx
17. Out of the Desert …………… xxx
18. Epilogue

Do you love me because I'm beautiful, or am I beautiful because you love me?
~ Oscar Hammerstein II, lyricist (1895-1960)

Preface
 5

It came to me just as I’d finished reading the second page of Ayn Rand’s ‘Atlas
Shrugged’…the insight about the Dedication. Dedications are written for books, not the
other way around. But this book was. It was written for the dedication! That’s the way
things sometimes pan out in real life, the cart preceding the horse. But (I questioned the
silent inner voice that sometimes answered) was this true in the present case? Why on
earth was I writing a dedication before I’d even started a book? ‘Because’ (answered the
small inner voice, as I knew it would) ‘the dedication already exists, the stories exist…
but the book is yet to be.’

That didn’t make much sense to me till I groped around inside me. And then it was
that I knew they were there again, the stories that had waited for eons, out there in the
great unknown, stories written in the past…and in the future, long ago. Stories that would
(as the others before them) start by gently tapping at the periphery of my mind—tap away
diffidently, hesitantly, then with greater insistence till the tapping became a knocking and
then a violent hammering at the outer edges of consciousness, chipping away at the
perimeter till it crumbled and the stories came pouring through into my mind, fighting
their way out through my fingers via the keyboard onto the computer screen, to finally
embed themselves in infinitesimally tiny patterns of energy on the hard disk.

Life! I had again felt life flow through me into the creation of another Being, this
time an un-living one. Yet, in some curious way, I knew that these invisible inscriptions
on the PC’s innards did have life…they were just as alive as my own children, perhaps
even more so! I did not give them life; I was merely the medium. They came from some
other reality of whose existence I can but surmise.

And so, as always, I dedicate them to my timeless muse, whose subtle alchemy
lured them into tangible existence through the conduit of my clumsy fingers and bemused
mind.

~*~

Introduction
 6

This book is a collection of tales mostly concerning themselves with situations that
deal with the grand emotion. They could be set in your own neighbourhood or in some
distant land or time…but the one thing they have in common is that they all attempt to
explore that magic land of love where it is always spring and where the sun always
shines…for a lucky few, at least. Much of what is to be found within the pages of this book
is inspired by the timeless beauty of my eternal muse.

Love is an emotion that usually gets short shrift in the daily shuffle. I realize that
most of us are obliged to desensitize our finer emotions in trying to cope with the mindless
inanities of our daily lives. It’s not hard to empathize with that, but I continue to be amazed
at the warped priorities of a civilization that spends countless trillions of dollars in
promoting cynical hatred, terrorism and ‘national pride’, despoiling the environment and
dehumanizing major parts of the world in the process…while sneering at the highest
emotion that we, the only inhabitants of this planet who are capable of feeling and
nurturing it. Lest the reader get the impression that I’m putting myself on a pedestal by
distancing myself from these deplorable trends, let me hasten to assure you that I’m just as
culpable of participating in this malaise of global proportions as the next man or woman.
What often rescues me is the fact that my muse always intervenes whenever the effects of
this baleful Weltschmertz threaten to overwhelm me.

The stories in your hands, however, emerged from a frame of mind far removed from
the intense preoccupation with mundane happenings that normally degrades our working
hours. Few of us could have reached the level of spiritual elevation of the Zen masters who
proclaim, “Before enlightenment, chopping wood, carrying water; after enlightenment,
chopping wood, carrying water.” An average person, glancing through the stories at an
inappropriate time, might dismiss their contents as poppycock. Many, however, who have
conjured up a relaxed mood and read them in peace and solitude, have heard an answering
echo in their hearts.

Every male knows that the female of the species is as unpredictable in the matter of
bestowing her favours as is the Indian monsoon. I doubt very much whether the daughters
of Eve divine their own motivations, for the simple reason that these obscure driving forces
evolved ages ago, when life was born in the primordial seas of a very young Earth—over
two billion years ago. Nevertheless, it is wrong to burden the heart with things left unsaid.
It obliterates a possible future, and worse, it tells on the one who suppresses those
unexpressed emotions.

Passion is a pressure-cooker that often explodes violently when unfulfilled. Imagine

the distress of a gentle soul that waits in vain for the three little words! I am of the school
that says ‘go ahead and tell it like it is’; not that it’s some sort of panacea for this most
unsettling of emotions. It just happens to be the recipe I advocate. I do not, however,
guarantee its success in winning a soulmate. The gods hold all the aces…
Love is at once elevating and debilitating. It can make the most articulate of men
tongue-tied. It can reduce a suave, debonair man-of-the-world to a bumbling oaf who’s
 7

always putting his foot in his mouth; much sleep is lost, much mental agony is suffered.
Love—if reciprocated—can be supremely inspiring. It can take a man to heights he’d
never otherwise have scaled. The opposite is also true. If frustrated, it has the potential to
destroy him. Either way, love is strong medicine. It should come with a sticker: ‘Injurious
to health; only for those beyond redemption.’

And yet, it is an unlucky person that never experiences it (are there any such
unfortunates, I wonder?). The Thunderbolt is a gift of the gods, spurned only by fools. It is
an experience so unlike any other that it can only be felt (endured?), never described,
especially through the poor medium of words. There are no words in the country of the
heart. Have I bitten off more than I can chew in trying to map the terrain, in the epilogue?
Perhaps. You decide…

Nevertheless, through the ages, poets and writers of every culture have explored
love’s myriad nuances—and will probably continue to do so far into the Age of the
Cyborgs, Androids and Clones.

I enjoyed the experience of having these stories write their way out of me. I hope you
enjoy reading them!

Subroto Mukerji



“A fool in love makes no sense to me. I only think you are a fool if you do not love.”

~ Sigmund Freud

“I obey only my own instincts and intuition. I know nothing in advance. Often I put down
things which I do not understand myself, secure in the knowledge that later they will
become clear and meaningful to me. I have faith in the man who is writing, who is myself,
the writer.”
~ Henry Miller

“I just write a song and I know it’s going to be all right. I don’t even know what it’s going
to say.”

~ Bob Dylan

Once Upon a Lifetime

 8

The house in Daman and old Mr. Sen were made for each other. Wealthy Parsis of
Bombay had carved out the little settlement near the sea. They had enjoyed it and
departed. Or died off. No one knew for sure. Anyway, who cared? Parsi Colony wasn’t
hot property any more, as it had been when they’d lived here. It was too far from the new
commercial district, and there was no pressure for accommodation in Daman now. Wage
earners of the area had migrated to the industrial town of Silvassa in the adjacent district.
Besides, there was a strong rumour that the government intended to revoke the old lease
and auction off the land to quarry companies who had an eye on its granite substratum.
Even the smugglers, who had coveted a house or two in the once-exclusive enclave,
no longer hankered to live there and flaunt their sudden prosperity. They were so rich
now that most of them had shifted to Bombay where they had interests in huge real estate
developments, and even larger investments in diamonds and the film industry. They
never flaunted their wealth now, and lived low-profile lives, far from the glare of
publicity.
So when Mr. Sen hesitantly enquired from the local property dealers about any
isolated bungalows going cheap, they fought over his custom. They were a beleaguered
lot. Real estate business in Daman had never been worse. They planned to shaft the poor
sucker who’d just walked in. They knew from his accent that he was an out-of-towner,
and wouldn’t realise he’d been had till it was all over. As is the gameplan of real-estate
agents everywhere, they pretended to work themselves into a tizzy showing him a lot of
houses they knew he wouldn’t like, before one of them took him over to Parsi colony.
Mr. Sen and Ratilal Shah, the broker, drove between tall, unkempt hedgerows, past
silent, shuttered bungalows that seemed to be lost in memories of bygone days. The air
was heavy with nostalgia, as the houses, some of them beginning to show distinct signs
of neglect, lay brooding and comatose in the sun. Number 10 was a bargain, pointed out
Ratilal, but Mr. Sen made him keep going till they reached number 21.
“My lucky number”, explained Mr.Sen.
“Why not, Sir, why not?” agreed the broker unctuously as he killed the ignition of
the jeep. He sensed a killing here, too. It had been a long time coming. No one wanted to
live in Parsi Colony anymore. Bungalow 21 occupied the last plot, right next to the sea. It
had four huge bedrooms and verandahs both in the front as well as at the rear, much of
the old furniture was intact, and there was modern sanitation, a working hand-pump, a
servant’s quarter and…a clear view of the Arabian Sea.
Mr. Sen had expected a blue sea, but brown was all he got. He could see a handful
of fishing dhows as they tacked to and fro across the wind, their dirty white sails bulging
as they trawled, purse seining for pomphret and plaice. The sea was simply a muddy,
surfless expanse that rolled away vapidly to the west, mingling with the sky in a distant,
hazy union. Dubai lay just beyond the horizon, which was why the smugglers of Daman
were so rich today.
It was the beach that did it for Mr. Sen, not the sea. The beach…and the pines. The
Parsis, eccentric as hell but fanatically particular about gardening, good design, and the
upkeep of everything that was theirs except their wives, had astounded the locals by
planting pines at the beachhead! The pines made up for the sea. Clinging to the last of the
soil as it surrendered to the sand that extended another fifty yards to the water’s edge, the
conifers had made themselves at home in this unlikeliest of environments, adopting it as
their own.
 9

Now the branches quivered a welcome as they gently fanned their scented air over
the two men on the golden beach. Mr. Sen went into the house with Ratilal and gave him
the advance of 30% by means of a cheque on his current account with The Punjab
National Bank, Bombay, where the proceeds of his provident fund had been deposited
three years earlier. He moved in on 23rd February, two weeks after paying the final
instalment and completing the mutation of the deeds in his favour. He also made a will,
got it witnessed and attested, and left it with his advocate.
The beneficiary was a woman, the lawyer noted with surprise. A woman? But the
old man had never married! Then who…“Well, well, well…what have we here?” he said
aloud, sensing, with the nosiness of his kind, some human failing.
“Women! They’re at the bottom of everything that comes to me; Cherchez le
femme!” he thought happily.
*

Interesting though it is, the career of a graduate in Library Science can never hope
to be an exalted one. Or exciting, either. It’s hardly the Secret Service, or even the
Foreign Service for that matter. Promotions are few and far between, and new openings
are scarce. Few librarians die in harness. They aren’t exactly an overworked lot. Despite
knowing all this, Sudip had insisted on discarding his father’s advice that he give up his
rebellion against authority, for once, and study for the Bar. Or join him in the rice
business. Sudip had been adamant. He wanted to work in a library more than anything
else in the world.
Libraries had always fascinated him. It was as if thousands upon thousands of men
had gathered to speak in a babble of tongues on every subject under the sun. The
collective wisdom of mankind was stored here. Strangers, men one didn’t know, did their
best to reveal their innermost thoughts through their writings. Voices from the past spoke,
through the medium of the written word, of days gone by, of future things, of love, and of
the myriad other matters that engage the human intellect. It was the legacy of the human
race. For Sudip, it was a huge romance, a great adventure. He knew he belonged here.
Sudip Sen had become the deputy librarian at the University of Bombay’s
Moorhouse College at the early age of thirty-six. He was now only a step away from the
topmost rung of the library hierarchy, something that failed to excite him. He was not an
ambitious man. He had risen because he loved his work. He was still a bachelor. The
freedom helped. He went for the odd Sunday matinee show or the races, and enjoyed an
occasional stroll along Juhu beach, munching bhelpuri. He did his yoga exercises every
morning, especially because Bombay’s humidity and atmospheric pollution had
compelled him to give up jogging. He was supremely content with the life he had chosen
for himself.
He glanced at his wristwatch. 7.45 PM. The library closed at 8.00 PM sharp. He
could see, through the glass enclosure where he sat in the center of the hall, the last of the
stragglers as they gathered up their notes. He pressed a buzzer that summoned Mohan
Shetty, his assistant librarian, to take over and make preparations to wind up. Shetty
would tally the cards of issues and returns, enter the figures into the Daily Register, and
reposition all books that had been returned. Sudip took a last look around, and turned to
leave, just as a girl came up to him.
 10

He recognized her as one of the people who had left moments earlier. She looked
flustered.
“It’s raining outside, and I don’t have an umbrella today, Mr…Mr…. you’re the
Librarian, aren’t you, Sir?” she enquired.
“Sen. Sudip Sen.” he volunteered. “I’m the Deputy Librarian, Miss…?”
“Wadia…Shireen Wadia. I’m doing research for my thesis on plant morphology.”
“Really?” murmured Sudip Sen politely. “I’m afraid we’re fresh out of umbrellas,
but…” He left the sentence hanging in the air.
“But…?” she queried back, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. The twinkle got to
him. It was the first time he would remember acknowledging her as another human being
and not just a member of the library.
“Meaning…‘but if you’ll allow me to drop you home, Miss Wadia?’ Of course,
you’ll have to bear in mind that librarians are the second-most dangerous things in the
world, next to werewolves…!” His eyes twinkled back at her.
“Hey!” she thought to herself, “This guy’s human!” But she only laughed. “Don’t I
know that! They’re lethal! But somehow, ever since I got my black belt in karate, they no
longer hold any terrors for me. You’re on, Mr. Sen!”
As he settled her in before going round to his side of his old Fiat and easing himself
a little awkwardly into his seat (for, at 5’ 11”, he found the little car a bit of a squeeze),
he found himself warming to this person who could joke at the end of a hard day. She, on
her part, rather liked the tall, soft-spoken man who had, in so gentlemanly a manner,
spared her the pressure of asking for a favour from a complete stranger.
Sudip was a Delhi man born and bred, and had never been able to adjust to the local
trains in which most Bombayites did their commuting. Though he lived a good 20
kilometers away, he preferred to crawl that distance under his own steam rather than
straphang. Shireen seemed to sympathize with him.
“I suppose you’re not a Bombayite by birth? I can guess, otherwise you’d be going
by local train. You know, I’ve always wanted a car of my own…maybe some day…I
hate local shuttles,” she added wistfully.
“I like driving, and there’s no hurry to get home.”
“You’re not married?” she asked, surprised.
“No!” he laughed. “Which girl would be crazy enough to marry a librarian?…and a
thirty-eight year old one, at that!”
She made no comment. “By the way, you turn left here, then go straight down the
lane. It’s the second-last house on the right.”
He was taken aback. This was a very exclusive address. She sensed his surprise,
woman-like.
“Oh! It’s just that the Wadias were wealthy about a century ago. Then they went
into academics…and now look at the mess they’re in ….oh! …I’m so sorry, I didn’t
mean…it’s not as if Librarians are hard-up academics, like Father and I, that’s a technical
subject…I mean…. they are into academics, but I was referring to teaching and research
and all that kind of stuff…” she covered up desperately, praying he hadn’t misunderstood
her and taken offence.
“Relax, Shireen, it’s OK, I’m with you there…no hard feelings…though I guess
we’re in the same boat. Books and money don’t go so well together, right?”
 11

“Wrong! At least, I hope so! I plan to disprove that…it’s my ambition to write a

book some day that’ll make me lots of money and reclaim the mortgage that Father…
ooops! Damn! That slipped out.” She was mortified at having inadvertently revealed the
exact state of her current finances. Sudip’s heart warmed to her. She was bright, but very
innocent, very…very artless. Very genuine…there was nothing artificial about her.
“I’m sure things will resolve themselves as you go along. I think a cheerful attitude
and love for one’s work…they have a way of making life happier. Things happen,
seemingly by themselves, that demolish obstacles that once appeared insurmountable.”
She was gratified. “You really think so?” she asked animatedly. “Yes, I can see that
you do! But that’s exactly the way I feel, too!”
She had a way of speaking in italics that amused him no end. She was a very
charming and …and, yes…a very lovable girl. “Hey! Wait a minute!” he yelped to
himself, “Now she’s got me doing it, too!” He didn’t quite know what to make of it.
They were good for each other. But he politely declined her invitation to come up
for a cup of tea. “Some other time, Shireen…I just have to push along now.”
“Well…that’s too bad. Thanks awfully, Sudip. You saved me from a rare soaking…
and me prone to sinusitis.” They had been on first-name basis for an hour now. She felt
she’d known this man a long time. She thought about him long after dinner, long after she
had turned in for the night. He was such a nice man…so modest, so well bred…so…so
decent.
She dreamed she had written a best-selling novel on plants that turned into
werewolves, but a librarian always managed to arrive in the nick of time to save the
damsel from ‘a fate worse than death’. Was it just coincidence that he was tall and
handsome and drove an Italian car?
*

It happened again on Friday evening. She was stuck in the library with a
thunderstorm raging outside. She approached him, more confidently this time.
“Hi, Sudip! Guess what? No prizes for guessing right!” she giggled.
He smiled. “No need to tell me…you want an umbrella!” he teased. She pouted in
response. Sudip grinned: “Gotcha! OK, hang on a sec while I wrap up things”. He spoke
briefly to his assistant before they went outside.
It was blowing hard, and sheets of rain came at them like big, warm rubber bullets
as they raced for his car. They were both soaked to the skin by the time he had unlocked
her door. As they drove away, he was grinning.
“Nothing like a little rain to get acquainted with the real woman under the war-
paint!” he teased.
“What war-paint, Sudip?” she asked with the smug satisfaction of a beautiful
woman who used minimal make-up.
He took a closer look at her, glad at the opportunity to study her without having to
stare. It was true! She wasn’t wearing any make-up. There were laugh-lines around the
corners of her wide, generous mouth. That meant that those lovely, highly-kissable,
recurved lips were painted pink by Nature herself—not that he had anything against
lipstick. He rather fancied it, in fact. It also meant that the flawless skin, the pink cheeks,
the small, white, even teeth, were all natural! Then it was equally possible, indeed,
probable, that steel-wire and latex-foam had nothing to do with that swelling bosom,
 12

those shapely, curvaceous hips. He loved her pert little nose and her graceful hands and
feet. Human artifice had nothing to do with her stunning, virgin beauty, her undeniable
…
“Whoa!” He applied mental brakes, surprised at himself. He had never thought
about any girl in quite this way ever before.
As if reading his mind, she teased him triumphantly in order to neutralize the
testosterone-driven thoughts that raced through his male mind: “Is it true, Sudip, that
librarians find their members …tee hee… more acceptable when water-logged?”
It was pure sexual innuendo, artless and spontaneous. Sudip recognized it for what
it was: a sign of warmth, a natural, healthy sexuality, a sense of timing and…yes…by
God…a sense of humour! He was amazed. He had never met a girl even remotely like
her.
“I’ll try and rise to the occasion and confirm that your preliminary postulates are
quite accurate, Shireen!” he shot back.
She screamed with laughter. “Down, Rover…down, boy”, she ragged him some
more. Before they knew it, they were home. As Sudip parked in the driveway, they both
sneezed simultaneously.
“You know what that means?” she asked him seriously. He shook his head.
“It means that someone very important is going to enter our lives soon,” she said.
“My maternal grandmother told me this. She swore it was true.”
“Well, your visitor’ll leave your life just as fast… as a matter of fact, he’ll shuffle
off this mortal coil muy pronto if he doesn’t soak himself in a hot bath and wrap himself
around an omelet and a double brandy pretty darn quick!”
She gave him a mock salute as she hurried off to draw a hot bath for him and fix
him something to eat and drink.
*

She had lent him her late father’s pajamas and an old bathrobe, and she tittered
deliciously at the sight of his hairy shins sticking out from under them. The pajamas were
two sizes too small for him.
“He was only 5’ 6”. Poor man, he hated being short”, she reminisced. She herself
wore a dainty little pink gown with a fluffy blue shortie nightdress underneath. “I’ve got
some goodies in the oven, but they’re going to spend some time in there, so you needn’t
nurse that drink! Help yourself with refills as and when,” she invited.
The brandy warmed him, and he tore his gaze away from her lovely dimpled knees
and looked around contentedly. It was a large, oak-paneled room, with an eight-seater
sofa-set at one end, and a dining table at the other. There was wall-to-wall carpeting,
somewhat frayed but clean, and the walls had bookshelves that stretched from floor to
ceiling. He was impressed.
“Someone sure does a lot of reading around here,” he remarked. She was relieved
he wasn’t intimidated by the books…some people got really turned off by them. Not this
man, though…he lived every day surrounded by a sea of books. Somehow, the thought
comforted her.
As they ate their dinner, she told him that most of the books were her father’s. He
had been an antiquarian and an Egyptologist of some renown, and had done original work
on Ramses the Great. “He told me that every Pharoah named Ramses ensured that the
 13

epithet ‘Great’ formed a suffix to his name. But Ramses II, of course—the Biblical guy
who clashed with Moses—was the Ramses the Great…the only one who really deserved
the ‘Great’ prefix.”
Sudip had always been interested in Egypt. They kept the discussion going even
after dinner, over liqueurs (he chose a Sikkim distilleries’ Cherry Brandy, while she
settled for a crème de menthe). They talked of Amenhotep and Nefartari and Nefertiti
and Howard Carter and the fabulous Valley of the Kings.
Time rolled back and carried them away to a distant past, and when their lips met,
they went with the flow of the centuries. Nature swept them away, unresisting, to a far-
away place beyond the galaxies where an ocean of bliss washed over them and bright
lights exploded again and again in a purple sky.

*
“Your sinusitis has gone!” he teased her over breakfast. “It looks as if my therapy
was successful! You’re blooming, Shireen.” She blushed happily, and fondly ladled more
scrambled eggs on his toast.
“Talk with your mouth full and you’ll choke, friend,” she warned. “I need you alive
for the plans I’ve got in mind for you”.
That scared him. She saw the hunted look and cursed herself inwardly.
“It’s not what you’re thinking,” she reassured him hastily: “we’re simply going to
disappear for the next four days”.
“Disappear?” he asked her blankly, “disappear where?”
‘You’ll know soon enough. Eat up…you’ll need your strength!” she warned.

*
The route to Daman was busy, but after Vapi there was little traffic. The road was
narrow but very well maintained. The scenery also changed. The little Fiat now sped
through a green, peaceful countryside dotted with groves of mango and orange trees. “So
in the 1880’s a bunch of enterprising Parsis carved out this enchanting little getaway from
hot, humid, unsanitary Bombay, complete with seaside bungalows and orchards?” he
asked her.
She nodded. “They were a very fun-loving and enterprising community, inbred
even then, but very outgoing otherwise. Observe what the Tatas did.” It was undeniable.
Parsi enterprise, born of innovation, guts, and vision, was legendary. “And they made for
themselves a little Shangri-la—an escape-route when the pressures of business got too
much too handle.”
‘This I gotta see,” grumbled Sudip, unconvinced. The long drive was telling on his
nerves. Just then, they found themselves in a forest of pines. Sudip braked sharply,
stopped. “Pines!” he exploded. “At sea level! Now I’ve seen everything!”
“I told you…they were very innovative horticulturists… apart from being practical
idealists. At the colony, the pines extend right up to the sand. The sea is only a stone’s
throw away!” She was openly proud of what her people had accomplished.
“It’s impossible!” muttered Sudip, impressed…pines fifty yards from the sea!
“What manner of men were they?” he asked himself, as they rented one of the well-
maintained bungalows, number 21. All the others were full of people, and even this one
was available because of a last-minute cancellation.
 14

“The owners rent out these houses at this time of the year…but if you aren’t Parsi,
the chances are that you’ll get the stock reply: “House Full!” she explained. So that was
why she had come forward to sign the agreement register and make the security deposit
in her name. “No one bothers you, they don’t mix unless you seem inclined to do so…it’s
a very private sort of place.”
*

They bathed in the crystal–clear waters of a blue sea that stretched away to embrace
the distant sky. After sun-drying themselves, they retreated to the aromatic shade of the
pines. It was cool there, and after their picnic lunch, they went into each other’s arms,
their happiness with each other welling up in them. Later, they would talk about anything
that came into their heads, and the craziest thing was that everything made sense;
everything fell into place so beautifully.
It was magic. They were completely engrossed in each other, so much so that one
usually knew what the other was thinking even before it was voiced. Imperceptibly, like a
flower opening, a great love, whose bud had bloomed back in the dim, hushed library,
now blossomed into a mighty thing whose grandeur dazzled and humbled them.
It was bigger than them: much bigger and much, much older, an elemental thing
that knew no boundaries of space or time. It was a Reality self-sustaining and immortal,
deathless. Creation itself pulsed steadily within it, and from it would one day spring their
progeny. They had only read of such a thing in books, and had skipped these portions,
dismissing them as mere hyperbole. Now that they had been given this gift beyond price,
they were awed at its all-encompassing sweep, its force.
Everything looked different, smelt different, tasted differently. They saw beauty
everywhere, and as they ingested it, imbibed its essence, their love grew and grew and
grew till they thought they would burst from the sheer wonder of it.
They would spend the evenings on the rear verandah, watching the moonbeams
reflecting off the sea, framed by the purple velvet of a starry sky that showed under the
eaves of the sloping roof. They lolled about on the huge deck chairs with the folding
cross-arms for resting one’s legs, holding hands and talking. Each felt so close to the
other that it was almost like talking to one’s own self. There was no ‘own self’ anymore,
they realized. Their separateness no longer existed…they were now one Being called
‘Myself’, and they knew it was a part of a Greater Being that was all around them,
indiscernible to all but their finer senses.
They fell deeply in love with each other, something they had never believed was at
all possible. They loved each other’s bodies and as they united on this physical bridge,
their souls fused in a spiritual union they could feel but never describe.

Her thesis had been accepted. Now she could add the prefix ‘Dr.’ to her name. Then
the offer came from Cambridge University, Massachusetts: a three-year grant to do
follow-up work, write a book, perhaps even a lecture tour. It was a rare honour for one so
young. They both knew, with sinking hearts, that the tides of life were pulling them apart.
That night, they made furious, violent love, as if to forestall the impending separation. A
fortnight later, she was gone.
 15

After the initial shock, Sudip discovered a strange thing; he didn’t miss Shireen at
all. She was everywhere! She was inside him and all around him; in every single thing
she’d ever touched, in every place she’d been with him, in every book she’d read or given
him. It gave him strength to bear the separation.
Three years passed. He had been offered a very tempting appointment with an
Australian university but had turned it down. He wasn’t keen on leaving India just when
she was expected back home. He’d torn the letter to shreds remorselessly. Such offers
were never repeated, he knew, but it was important to honour one’s priorities.
Then Harvard offered her a visiting associate professorship. She didn’t dare turn it
down. She needed the money, the fame, if she was to restore the Wadia fortunes. Sudip’s
granduncle died and left him a substantial legacy: an old, sprawling house in Calcutta that
went back to colonial times. It was worth a fortune. A liquor baron made Sudip an offer
he couldn’t refuse; he sold the house to him, and put the money into approved securities
for 72 months in order to beat Capital Gains tax. And thus the years passed.
He was fifty-five now. When the offer came from the Philippines, he took it. The
age of retirement was 65 there, which meant he got to work seven years more than if he
remained in India. He heard from Shireen regularly. She had repaid the mortgage on the
Wadia estate and donated it to an orphanage. Their paths would never cross again in this
lifetime. He didn’t mind: she had left him with a priceless gift. It fortified and sustained
him in his twilight years.

He should have been lonely in the old house by the sea. He wasn’t. This was where
he had spent the most blissful days of his life, spent them with the only person he’d ever
loved…loved for all Eternity, loved through Time itself. It took courage to admit that.
He found her everywhere he looked: in the dawn, in moonbeams, in their initials
carved so long ago into the wood of the deck chairs on the verandah. He saw her in the
little buds that opened in the spring; he heard her laughter in the wind as it keened
through the pines. “Hello, Shireen!” he would say to them, “How are you, Honeybunch?”
And they seemed to reply, “I’m fine. I’m always there, watching over you, Sudip. Take
care…till we meet again.”
Then the book came in the mail. It had been a long time since he’d read anything.
He no longer needed books. The Book of Life itself was open to him, and he read daily
from its endless variety, as the sun of his life slowly sank into the Great Sea. She had
given him that Book…and now again, it was she who had sent him the slim volume that
emerged from its brown paper wrapping.
He put on his glasses and read the title, holding the paperback tightly in hands that
shook slightly. It rattled him to the core, the title: ‘Once upon a lifetime’. He knew,
before he’d even opened it, what it was about. He read the dedication a trifle ruefully: ‘To
Sudip, who taught me that Life was Beautiful, and in so doing, gave me ‘Myself.’ Then he
went to Chapter One:
‘Once upon a lifetime, I fell in love with a man. It happened yesterday…or was it
eons ago?…does it even matter in which lifetime it happened? Will it stun you if I tell
you it happens to me every lifetime…and with the same soul? It doesn’t? That’s very
encouraging. I think we’ll make it to the end of the book together. Only the fact that it
 16

happened—happens—is worth the mention. However, this book is an attempt to describe

the entire experience. Suspend disbelief, dear reader: for only if you are able to believe
will my words register. So here you go…
Once upon a lifetime, friend, a girl now called Shireen Sen neé Wadia fell in love
with a man and bore him a daughter. She was researching for her thesis when she first….’
He knew the rest of the story, of course, so he shut the book. It did not matter who
had written it, Shireen or Sudip…it wouldn’t have come out any differently. Only minor
details like place names and people would change, not the essence of it. And their love
lived on in another human being they had brought into the world. It was a good feeling.
Let others try and understand what love was all about. As far as he was concerned,
life was hardly worth living if this greatest of human experiences was missing. He knelt
on the hard earth and kissed it, kissed the ground her angelic feet had trod, years before?
…yesterday?
He whispered her name again and again—softly…urgently…reverently…

Darkness fell abruptly. He found he could not breathe. There was a sudden roaring
in his ears, like the voice of mighty waters. His spirit rose joyously through him to merge
with that great sea from which all things come, and to which, in time, all things return.

~*~

A Pillar of the Establishment

She had been born Gertrude Burrows, and she hated her name. It was so plain.
Moreover, the unfortunate coincidence of her surname and her buckteeth had given rise
 17

to the obvious (but odious) nickname of ‘Bugs’, after the bunny in the cartoons. But
nature has a way of turning skinny little girls in braces into full-blown women. She was
thirteen when the boys stopped calling her ‘Bugs’. They were confused. They gaped after
her at first, puzzled at the sudden change in the way she walked, her distant, superior
manner, and the intriguing bulges in her frock where before there had been none.
The metamorphosed Gertrude was an irresistible challenge to them. But they were
unsure of themselves, caught on the wrong foot by her precocious womanhood. It took
them time to adjust to her new look. Then the bolder ones started whistling as she passed,
and she knew her way from there. Eve had asserted herself in her, and now she was
woman, and equal to any man: indeed, far above men. Men, she knew instinctively, were
fools, boys who never grew up. They just wanted toys: bigger, costlier, fancier ones that
kept pace with their changing needs, but toys all the same.
And they saw her—as they did women in general—as a mere plaything. They
would pant after her body and the sensual gratification it promised, but they wouldn’t
stop to think if they could afford the fare. She had to play her hand well…her body and
her brains were her only assets. But they were enough, in this world where men-boys
thought they called the shots…
Her father was a wholesale trader in Billingsgate, and from the slush and stink and
obscurity of the fish market she bloomed, a genuine English rose. Born of the swamp,
like her distant cousin, the lotus. It was all so profoundly shocking, this treasure amidst
the garbage, like combing idly through the junk in one’s attic and discovering a
Rembrandt. She was a gem of purest ray serene and well she knew it.
None could, therefore, ever plumb the depths of her desperation. She was in a
hurry: a tearing, cold-blooded hurry. She had to get off the dunghill before the beauty
faded. This was where women scored over men: they were so practical. They seldom
entertained illusions. She had ten years of mileage, at the most, she knew, in which to do
it, and she couldn’t afford to waste them...even if she had to…
It was not as if she lacked the finer human instincts and compulsions. Which girl on
the threshold of womanhood doesn’t dream of love, of finding the man of her dreams and
having three or four babies from him. But she knew—from the muck of Billingsgate as
she was—that finer things had to take a back seat. They were not for her. At least as of
now. No Mozart or Bach concerts, or lazy afternoons by the sea, or a handsome young
man who rowed her in a little red boat across a placid lake and recited Elizabeth Barrett
Browning’s verses to her. She knew what she was worth, with her perfect face and her
peerless body, as unlikely a Venus as never was painted by Botticelli. And she also knew
what was going to be the hardest obstacle to overcome: her origins. She had to cover her
tracks, erase all traces of her past.
She had a sharp, enquiring mind, and she learned fast. Her school report cards
always showed her in the top ten of the class. But what she really relied on was the inner
voice in her mind: would anyone call it the mind of a tramp? But was anyone out of a fish
market who wouldn’t give an arm and a leg and more besides to escape the miasma, the
opprobrium? Especially her, a latter-day Venus, Astarte and Aphrodite all rolled into one.
Who deserved it more than her: the good life, the finer things of the world? Lesser ones of
the earth had got what she craved, and it was a bitter pill to swallow. The horrifying
accident of birth had dropped her into Hades…Who can blame her for wanting more? For
her willingness to stake everything on a bid for freedom? She had never got used to the
 18

dirt or the stench or the vulgarity, and well she knew the hideous future that awaited her
in this stinking hell…
She wasn’t at all surprised when the dance halls didn’t exactly welcome her with
open arms. The theatre was the first place where the stage-struck would-be starlets came,
she knew, and few giddy young things lasted more than a few months of waiting. Shorn
of their pride, parted from their money and their maidenheads, they usually ended up as
barmaids or hookers. They hung around the dockyard bars where the hungry sailors with
money to burn gravitated after long weeks at sea.
She could not go back, and she couldn’t go forward. A kindly innkeeper—a
widower—offered her a meal. She hadn’t eaten for three days, and she fell on the food
ravenously, aware that she was making an exhibition of herself. Later, he let her sleep in
his little bedroom on the top floor, above the kitchen. She was half-asleep when she felt
his hands all over her body, and she knew what was coming next, but she had not the
strength to resist…she remembered she screamed when he…
In a way, it was the turning point for her. She was over the first hurdle and now she
bargained furiously with what she had on offer. She refused to sell herself cheap again. A
cast-iron, solid contract…and no casting couch! It was that simple. And the results
started coming in: a bit part here, a chorus girl role there. Then an agent for a tabloid
spotted her in a tawdry little comedy and almost before she knew it, she was one of the
girls selected for a photo-shoot for a prestigious calendar. A producer of XX-rated horror
movies happened to see a copy of the calendar in a distributor’s office and simply rolled
it up and walked out with it under his arm. The next day, he was on the phone, talking to
his talent scouts…yes, a girl called Helen Rivers. Find her, and damn the cost…she was
just the girl he had in mind for his new production.

She met him at a party where there were a lot of art critics, skinny dancers, stage
and film people, and struggling artists. Her escort tried to hang on to her but finding she
was more keen on the slim, bearded young man with the long, unkempt hair, made a
beeline for the bar, from where a blonde on the lookout for castaways soon snapped him
up. The bearded one was shy, and a little withdrawn, which is perhaps why she warmed
to him. He spoke little about himself, more interested in her views on aesthetics and what
the neo-revolution in art and cinema portended. He did not tell her she was beautiful,
which was a relief, and he seemed genuinely interested in her as a person. She left with
him after the party ended in the small hours of the morning…
It was midday when she awoke. He was sitting in a chair next to her bed, rapidly
sketching her nude body as it lay stretched out in the relaxed abandon of sleep. Charcoal
on handmade paper…the spiral-bound sketchbook of a sculptor! So that accounted for
the calloused hands, the dirt under the fingernails…
Day after night, he sketched her like a man possessed, silently, in a frenzy of
desperate urgency. The poses he suggested were so imaginative, so…so original -- and
yet so logical. They so well underscored the uniqueness of the female body—and
integrated it with the spirit of Woman. He never showed her his studio or anything he’d
created, sidestepping the questions by saying it was all in the future. Even when he made
love to her, it was an act of tentative creation shot through with a deep foreboding. When
 19

he held her, she could feel his readiness to let her go, sense his foreknowledge that she
would soon be taken from him.
He never told her he loved her, he never said anything to try and keep her with him
forever. He seemed to be racing against time, obsessed with the need to capture a sense of
the wonder of her before the vision …the vision of a lifetime… faded. Perhaps he knew
her better than she did herself. She was racing against time, too…
It lasted three months. Then she met Gordon Ballantyne, and the world of her
dreams became sudden, startling reality.

The Rt. Hon’ble Sir Gordon Ballantyne was teeing off. His feet were the correct
(for his six foot two) twenty-six inches apart; he gripped the driver firmly but not tightly,
and his wrists flexed easily as he made the backswing, pivoting gracefully from the waist.
As he swung into the shot, he kept his mind firmly on the photograph in ‘Golf with the
Greats’, the one that showed the time-lapse sequence of Jack Nicklaus’s power-swing.
The strobe light, winking at 1/20,000th of a second had captured, on a single frame,
multiple images of the world’s most famous drive in all its exquisite detail. It helped to
hold that picture in the mind, concentrating on that sweet feeling as titanium met rubber
at 200 miles an hour.
‘Remember the follow-through!’ he reminded himself in that eternity after the
impact, as the little dimpled ball arced away into the blue, ‘…don’t forget the follow-
through!’ He went with the momentum he’d unleashed as his powerful frame uncoiled
itself like a tightly wound spring. The residual energy of his stroke brought the club
swishing overhead, and he braked it gently as it neared the small of his back. The first
hole was a 440-yard drive, and he was certain he had a birdie. Par for the course…a
perfect start…
But then, life itself was all about perfect starts as far as Gordon Ballantyne was
concerned. A peer of the realm, thirty-three, healthy, handsome, married (coming onto a
year now, he thought with surprise…he was one of those rarest of men who thought of
their wives even on the golf course, something he admitted sheepishly only to himself) to
the most beautiful woman in all of England…and madly in love with her. He was
wealthy, too. Not just rich. Wealthy. He owned one of the best collections of art, both
paintings as well as statuary, in the world. Even the Tate gallery, the Louvre, and the
Museum of Modern Art had an eye on some pieces he owned. If he ever wanted to sell…
antiquarians and curators from all over the globe corresponded with him constantly. He
was a discreet buyer, and he paid well.
From Tudor times, the Ballantynes had always kept on the right side of the
Establishment, had steered their way diplomatically through the shoals of court politics,
intrigue, and internecine warfare. Their history before Mathew Ballantyne is obscure.
Francis Drake had been impressed by the young seaman’s courage and resourcefulness
under fire, and had managed to wheedle a privateering concession for him from Elizabeth
Tudor. But when Mathew had tried to press his luck and asked for a position at court, the
Virgin Queen had curtly advised him to stick to seafaring. Mathew took the snub
seriously and set out to sea in right earnest.
 20

For many years thereafter, Mathew Ballantyne looted the ungainly Spanish galleons
as they floundered through the Caribbeans. Then, like Henry Morgan, he pulled out of
buccaneering with his hoard of doubloons and pieces-of-eight and turned respectable,
buying prime property in London and farmlands in Devon. As a token of his ‘gratitude’
for the gold he’d taken from Philip II of Spain, he built a stately country house on fifty
acres of prime land in Devon and christened it Seville Hall. It became a favourite retreat
for noblemen who liked the pleasures of the countryside: pheasant shooting, fox-hunting,
and…wenching. He was a generous and thoughtful host, and ‘Off to Seville’ came to
mean, in the lexicon of the times, setting off for a smashing good time. The fortunes of
the family had never looked back since.
Mathew’s descendants survived the Civil Wars, Oliver Cromwell, the
Restoration…and the Industrial Revolution. They thrived on change even as many old
families, unable to acclimatize to the new order, declined. In fact, it was a standing joke
among the Members of the Lower House that the Ballantynes had never put a foot
wrong…from Elizabeth I to Elizabeth II! Socially, politically, or commercially. They
were pillars of the Establishment.
Old Archibald Ballantyne, Gordon’s great-grandfather, had had the foresight to
invest in welsh coalmines and shipyards. His peers had thought him mad. With all that
rich farmland in Cornwall and Devon, those dairy and stud farms, the accumulated
wealth of a century of trading with the East India Company…but he’d been proved right.
Steel had followed coal, succeeded by factories manufacturing a wider and wider range
of consumer products, everything from chemicals to cosmetics, marzipan to medicines,
electric motors to evening gowns. And the Ballantynes were perfectly positioned for the
age of the motor car.
Gordon’s grandfather, Jerome, had known Charles Rolls slightly (they were at
school together), and he supplied RR with many critical components. Ballantyne &
Company had grown with Rolls-Royce, even following them into aviation. With the
advent of jet flight, after Frank Whittle had invented the jet engine, a huge, untapped
panorama of opportunity opened up for his father, Sir Ernest Ballantyne, DFC, DSO, a
World War II air ace who had flown in Douglas Bader’s legendary Tangmere Wing in
the Battle of Britain, and who’d vanished over the Channel in the early 60’s.
Well into the latter half of the twentieth century the family prospered, covered with
glory and boasting of a Roll of Honour that read like four hundred years of British
history. With their investments in every critical sector of the economy, they stayed afloat
even as the old aristocracy sank beneath the waves of a new entrepreneurship based on
silicon. England looked to the Ballantynes in its hour of need. And to Sir Gordon, the last
of the Ballantynes of Seville Hall…
*

She remembered how she’d first met him. Her agent, Hamish Hamilton, had told
her that a certain large English corporation engaged in marketing cosmetics and
household articles was launching a new, ritzy line of products, and they needed a fresh
face for their proposed advertising campaign. The CEO had interviewed a long line of
candidates personally, but the right person had yet to be found. They were scheduled to
see him late this morning, then drive down for lunch to his country-house.
 21

Hamilton took her to an unostentatious block of offices ten minutes from Piccadilly.
A silent lift smoothly transferred them to the third floor, and they were ushered to a large
oaken door. Small brass letters on it simply proclaimed, in lower case, the legend
—‘ballantyne’. There was little evidence to suggest that this building was the nerve-
centre of a giant corporation. Hamish Hamilton didn’t even knock. He just turned the
doorknob and they walked in. It was a very large, oak-panelled office, kept at about 25ºC
by central air-conditioning. There was a man with his back to them, kneeling in front of a
low cabinet full of some files. He glanced over his shoulder as they approached.
‘Hi, Ham! Grab a chair while I look for something I need…be with you in a sec.”
He was in faded blue jeans, a Yale T-shirt and a pair of rather old sneakers. After a
while, he grunted with satisfaction and straightened up, and as he came towards them she
noticed he was a good six inches taller than her, which meant he was at least six two.
“Gordon! Good to see you, Flash!” Gordon Ballantyne laughed a little self-
consciously at the old school nickname, and pumped his old friend’s hand. Hamish
introduced them: “And this is Miss Helen Rogers…Gordon Ballantyne…‘Flash’ Gordon
to his friends!”
She was still in shock. The man in casuals, whom she’d taken to be the office
assistant, was none other than Sir Gordon Ballantyne, the master of Seville Hall. Why,
the man was a legend! His pedigree went back to Francis Drake and the Spanish Armada.
She was more than a little overcome, in spite of herself. Gordon Ballantyne sensed her
discomfiture and tried his best to play down the casual attire, to reassure them it was not
vanity on his part, no ploy to throw people off balance.
“People expect knights to look like…what do they expect them to look like, I
wonder? Sir Galahad? Bertie Wooster? Churchill? I just wear whatever I feel like
wearing.”
‘You are truly free’, she thought, ‘free to do as you like, to come and go as you
please. You are a very lucky person…your wealth has set you free.’
“Now then! Let’s get down to brass tacks!” She noted the abrupt change in him.
“Ham, could I have a look at Miss Rogers’ dossier, if you don’t mind?”
He studied it carefully, taking his time over her portfolio. Finally, he looked at her
full in the face for the first time. It was a friendly, happy look.
“Looks like you have an assignment, Miss Rogers. If thirty thousand pounds
sterling for a year’s exclusive modeling contract isn’t too little…?”
She was speechless. Thirty thousand pounds! She was a practically unknown face.
The man was making her fortune! He took her silence as disapproval. “Well…forty, then!
But not a penny more till I’ve seen the contact sheets. That OK with you, Ham? Ten
percent of forty means you owe me a lunch!” He winked at his friend.
Hamilton was incoherent. “Jeepers, Flash!…I don’t quite know what to say…”
“Then just shut up, Ham, and give me a minute to change. Lunch at home.”
Home! Seville Hall, all four centuries of it, was simply home to him. She wondered
if he was married, and what his wife was like…

The moment the Bentley drove them through the gates of Seville Hall, she knew it
was the house of her dreams. There was a long driveway that wound through tall,
 22

swaying elms, and then the manor house itself came into view, framed by manicured
lawns. She had seen pictures of it, but the real thing was far better. Gordon Ballantyne
showed them over the grounds and she caught a glimpse of a lake through a grove of
gnarled old oaks.
“That’s it for now, everybody!” he exclaimed at last. “You must be famished. After
lunch, let’s see if we feel like pottering about on the lake for a while…or if you like
horses—which I don’t—but what’s a knight without a horse or two—perhaps we’ll go
see what those old hay-burners are up to today.”
A horse or two! The Ballantyne stables and stud farms boasted of some of the finest
racehorses in Europe, and, if she wasn’t mistaken, ‘Grand Vizier’, who had won the
Derby last year, was a thoroughbred from one of Sir Gordon’s long line-up of champions.
But all she said was “‘Oh, anything…it’s such a nice change, being in the country, after
stuffy old London!”
He shot a keen glance at her but said nothing. Then they went in for lunch. The
food, to her surprise, was good, old fashioned country fare: clear chicken soup, home-
baked bread, lashings of butter from the Ballantyne dairies, a choice of steaks, pies,
vegetables, liver cutlets, puddings, followed by a light red wine from the Quercy district
of France. She couldn’t remember having eaten so well in a long time…
He noticed that she was a good eater, and marveled, for she had a figure better than
he’d ever seen on any woman. Perhaps she’d decided not to follow her diet today, or
perhaps she exercised in a gym. Hamish Hamilton put an end to his musings by looking
pointedly at his watch.
“I don’t know about you two, but I’m an ordinary soul who has to work for his
daily bread. Have to push along, Flash, old boy. Coming, Helen?”
‘Of course! Thanks awfully for everything, Sir Gordon!”
He grinned. “Call me Gordon. Almost everyone does!”
“I will…if you’ll call me Helen, Gordon!”
“Oh alright…Helen, then!” It seemed to please him. He turned to her again: “I say,
Helen…perhaps you’d like to come down sometime and let me show you the lake and the
stables. We have a racetrack here, and it’s fun watching the sorry nags prancing around. I
don’t ride. Bit long in the tooth now for ye olde jousting, y’know!” he joked, with a wink
at Hamish Hamilton.
“Perhaps you could drop by soon…but give me a call before coming down…may I
present my card.” It was a plain ivory one, bearing the famous gold-embossed Ballantyne
coat-of-arms.
He walked them to the Bentley. “Owens will drop you two back. I’ll stay for
another hour or two. There is, alas, method in my madness. There are a few things I need
to look into here. Ham, draw up the draft contract, will you, please…and it’ll be
wonderful if I could have it tomorrow. We’re a bit behind schedule.” Hamilton nodded.
They shook hands. He noticed she had the loveliest, softest hands of any woman he
had ever shaken hands with. It gave him a queer, hollow feeling in the region of his
stomach. As if it was empty. He wondered why. He’d just had a topping lunch…

*
It was a typical spring day in the English countryside that had inspired so many
poets like Wordsworth. There was a dreamlike quality to this floating about on a private
 23

lake and trailing one’s hand in the cool water as one chatted with a pleasant man with
corn-coloured hair who could have been a stable hand but was actually the lord and
master of a vast empire. A nobleman who dressed like a commoner, a blueblood who
walked with kings yet hadn’t lost the common touch. He was that rarest of men, a true
democrat who believed that all were equal and all had a duty to perform.
He was self-deprecating, laughed easily, and it was easy to see that he was almost
embarrassed by his wealth. He never talked about Seville Hall or his famous line of
ancestors that stretched back four hundred years. He had shown her their portraits in
passing as they’d walked down the long, deep-pile carpeted corridor that led from the
drawing room to the small dining room.
‘From ruffed collars to Yale T-shirts,’ she thought. ‘The Ballantynes have come a
long way…and this one is the best of them all.’
They walked, innocently hand in hand, through a soft, sleepy forest, and when he
paused beside the little spring that fed the lake and took her gently in his arms, she did
not resist. He looked a deep enquiry into her large, doe-like eyes, and apparently he read
something there, for he slowly lowered his lips to hers. It was their first kiss—the fabled
‘first kiss’ of lovers—and there was a magical quality to it. He held her tenderly,
possessively, as if she were a Dresden doll blown of fine porcelain that would shatter at
the slightest pressure. She peeped at him for an instant as he was kissing her and noticed
that his eyes were closed. It was a kiss of love, and she knew it. Knew it like the
hammering of her heart that told her so much about herself she’d never known before.
At that moment she realized she would marry this man whether he was a prince or a
pauper. In that enchanted minute, she took her long-cherished plans and dropforged
ideals in her two hands and flung them out of the window. Thoughts like she’d never
thought before tumbled through her mind. This was the man she would marry and no
other. For Richer or for Poorer, for Better or for Worse…to Honour and Obey, in
Sickness and in Health, till Death did them part…
This man would father her children-to-come, and no other. If she did not get him,
she would rather remain unwed…The angels sang softly as they hovered happily over the
golden glade, watching and blessing the lovers as they stood entwined in that first
embrace, lost in the wonder of each other and the miracle that had brought them together
…while the world stopped to see what the fuss was all about.

Gordon Ballantyne hummed a soft little tune as he showered. Apart from that odd
incident when he’d caught ‘Funky’ Smitherson and ‘Bongo’ Gilmore whispering
together, and then stopping guiltily as he drew level, it had been a great morning. He’d
won three-under-par. Colonel Webb had been a trifle reserved, however. Not his usual
cheery, hail-fellow-well-met self. The phone was ringing as he stepped into his bedroom.
It was Pratt, one of his art scouts.
“Crikey, Guv’nor…ain’t you seen the papers yet? Says a sculptor-type committed
suicide last night.”
“Go on, Pratt…what’s that got to do with us?” asked Gordon.
“There’s more, Guv’nor…but not over the phone. We need to meet. It’s urgent!”
 24

Gordon frowned. “It has to be after lunch, Pratt. There’s an important Bill in the
House, and my absence could be misinterpreted…the whip will skin me if I bunk.”
“It’s too important for all that stuff, Boss, believe me. It has to be like now!”
“9 sharp, Piccadilly…I’ll slow down and pick you up at the usual place.” He was
getting into a rare brown study…Pratt would never have insisted if it wasn’t something
serious. The tension affected his appetite and he had only a glass of orange juice and
Marmite on toast, then he was backing the inconspicuous Ford Escort out of the garage…

“And this is the studio ‘Welsher’ Flannigan showed me, Guv’nor,” said Pratt as the
Ford drew up to a dilapidated warehouse about three miles from the docks, in a section
that was in very poor condition and rarely used by merchants and their Clearing agents.
“This here neighbourhood ain’t as nifty as it once was. The warehouses are unsafe for
cargo storage, and go a’ begging…artist types rent ‘em for a song. No one wants their
muck, so there’s little risk of theft, and the flatfeet don’t bother with this dump no more.”
Pratt pulled out a greasy handkerchief and wiped his face nervously, an action not
lost on Gordon. The man’s jumpiness was getting him down.
“Welsher’s even picked the lock for us, Guv. There’s no one about, so you might as
well as go in and take a look-see.” Pratt was so nervous about something in the
warehouse that he preferred to stay put.
This was ominous. That the ever-nosy Pratt did not want to go in with Gordon
meant he’d already seen what was inside…and hadn’t liked the look of it.
“OK…wait here. I’ll be back as quickly as possible.” He switched off the ignition
and pocketed the key. Was it just his imagination, or did he see an anticipatory gleam in
Pratt’s eyes?
As his pupils adjusted to the darkness, he saw the bank of switches on the left of the
door and clicked them on. Mercury vapour lamps on the high ceiling glowed on and built
up to a brilliant incandescence, flooding the place with light. He drew in his breath with a
hiss…
There were a dozen statues in all. They were all of her, and he who’d hewn them
from the raw marble slabs had done the impossible. He’d made her even more beautiful
than her Creator had. In some indefinable way, the statues fairly glowed with the delicate
essence of Woman…and more. The unknown sculptor had snared the very stuff of
Rapture, Immortality, Deathless Love, and Eternal Hope. He had placed her among the
seasons and shown her rising triumphant, everlastingly lovely, eternal… a Goddess
soaring far above the toils of mortal men, tantalizing in her nude abandon. It was a
Temple dedicated to the Goddess of Love…
Gordon Ballantyne knew he was in the presence of the physical manifestation of
divinely inspired genius, and he bowed his head. Then he returned to the car, got in
wordlessly and drove off towards the city. He stopped to drop Pratt, thrusting £500 into
the man’s eager hands. “Good show, Pratt…a small token of my appreciation…”
Pratt hesitated. “Thanks, Guv’nor…I don’t know how to say this…but the woman
of them statues (he discreetly avoided naming her, noted Gordon coolly…and also giving
himself away: he’d seen the contents of the warehouse)…there’re tapes of her all over the
 25

place. She’s younger, but there’s no mistake. They’re very…ummm…intimate video-

tapes, if you’ll pardon my saying so, Guv. Want me to pull ‘em in for you?”
Gordon’s blood ran cold. He knew what Pratt suggested was impracticable. There
was no chance of pulling them in now; they’d have scattered to the ends of the earth. And
some copies must be in the hands of muckrakers in the Opposition by now. With a man
like ‘Welsher’ in the picture, they’d have got hold of them soon enough. Cost would be
no consideration if it meant they could blow him and The Party into oblivion. Whenever
they wanted to. He was done for…
“Just want to have a dekko at one, Pratt: y’know, to get the drift. Do you think you
could manage that?” he asked softly.
“Just happen to have one on me right now, Guv. Thought you’d ask for proof…”
Pratt reached into an inside pocket of his grubby overcoat and handed the package
to Gordon. Then he got off and walked swiftly across the street, dissolving into the
seething tide of humanity that flowed past Piccadilly Circus.

*
He made himself unreachable because he had a lot to do. He made the calls to the
battery of legal advisors. Then he settled down in his darkened study and watched the
tape from start to finish, his face carefully blanked of emotion. When it was over at last,
he slipped the tape into his pocket and switched off the VCR before calling the bank and
asking them to send around a sum of one hundred thousand pounds sterling…cash.
Then he called Owens into his office. His faithful chauffeur of twenty years had
seen him as a boy.
“Owens, I seem to recollect you turning fifty a month ago. I don’t think the office
party was enough. This envelope contains a little something from both of us. Here, take
it.”
The unflappable Owens took it obediently.
Gordon grinned. “Enjoy, Owens! Thanks for your wonderful cooperation. Give it to
the missus, with my regards.” The cover contained fifty thousand pounds.
“And Owens…could you have the Range Rover brought around in an hour’s time? I
will be driving myself.” Owens saluted obediently and left, taciturn to the last.
Then he phoned her. She came on the line breathlessly. “Gordon! Aren’t you
supposed to be debating a Bill or something? Are you alright? How was the game…”
He interrupted her smoothly. “It was too good to be true, Helen. But it’s all over
now. You will have the flat in Coventry Place, and an annuity of a hundred thousand
pounds for life. The Daimler – and Owens – are at your disposal for as long as you want
them. The lawyers will get in touch shortly. Do not try to contact me again.”
She was stunned. “What are you talking about, Gordon, darling?” she whispered.
“Is this a horrible joke of some kind? I don’t think I like it very much. You don’t sound
good at all, so strange and cold. Are you going down with something? Let me call Dr.
Anderson…”
Again, he cut her off. “Helen, you should be ashamed of what you’ve done. You
left that…that genius…for this..?” He pointed at himself. “You dropped him for this
ordinary man with nothing but an old title, money and lands going for him? I wasn’t
 26

worth it, Helen. These things are inconsequential: they don’t last, don’t have real
meaning.” He swallowed.
“That sculptor…he was touched by something Divine. But you didn’t see it. And
you let him die. You never cared about the old name you besmirched…you’ve destroyed
more than a man, Helen. You’ve pulled down the pillars of a temple. Goodbye, Helen…”
He could hear her crying, telling him over and over again that she loved him…He
felt a stab of deep regret at the way things had panned out, for allowing himself to be
trapped and blinded by the Philistines. He steeled his heart and tore the phone-cord from
the wall.
He fetched the Bible from the bookshelf and opened it at random. In times of
trouble, he always sought solace in the Good Book.
His eyes fell upon The Book of Judges, 16: 28—30….
‘And Samson called unto the LORD, and said, O Lord GOD, remember me, I pray
thee, and strengthen me, I pray thee, only this once, O God, that I may be at once
avenged of the Philistines for my two eyes.
And Samson took hold of the two middle pillars upon which the house stood, and
on which it was borne up, of the one with his right hand, and of the other with his left.
And Samson said, Let me die with the Philistines. And he bowed himself with all
his might; and the house fell upon the lords, and upon all the people that were therein.
So the dead which he slew at his Death were more than they which he slew in his life.’

The Range Rover coasted silently up to the door of the warehouse, its engine
switched off and all lights doused. He sat motionless for a minute or two, watching for
movement in the shadows. There was nothing. The coast was clear. He went around to
the tailgate and wrestled a bulky package from it and into the warehouse.
Locking the doors behind him, he got down to assembling the contents of the duffel
bag. The heavy cylinders, so innocuous in their waxy paper wrapping, felt cold as death
as he arranged them in neat bundles of six at the foot of each statue.
He carefully attached the ready-to-use wiring harnesses to each pile and plugged in
the twelve remote electronic detonators. Tiny red jewel lights glowed as he clicked their
switches, confirming that the electric eye of each would respond in unison to a single
pulse of energy.
When all twelve assemblies were done, he rested his cheek for a moment against
the cold marble breast of ‘Spring’, his face calm but his heart broken. She suffered the
familiarity with icy disdain: distant, indifferent.
‘Helen…Helen…’ He murmured her name wistfully, over and over again. He
hoped she’d hate him. It was too high a price…but it was the only way. He couldn’t let
the Philistines make sport of him…and everything he’d stood for. He had to turn the
tables on them.
The angels wept as the last of the Ballantynes reached into his pocket and withdrew
the compact remote control device. His thumb sought and found the soft rubber button.

Then he pushed with all his might at the pillars of the temple.
 27

~*~

The Volunteer

She was starry-eyed, ethereal in her angelic beauty. So utterly heavenly did she look
in her bridal attire that even Indra, king of the gods, might have been sorely tempted to
descend to earth and whisk her away. Her perfect body was draped in the traditional red
Banarsi silk sari embroidered with real gold thread. It had been her mother’s wedding
sari, carefully preserved for three decades. Her sister had applied the make-up with a
restrained hand, aware that her younger sibling didn’t really need it. But convention was
convention, stronger than law, and so the rouge, powder and all the mysterious things
women use to amplify their appeal had appeared on her face.
Someone, probably an aunt, had dipped the star-shaped end of a clove—the
auspicious lavanga spice—in sandalwood paste and touched it repeatedly to her face.
Now her intelligent, queenly forehead was patterned with swirling strands of asterisks,
themselves half-concealed by the huge pearl-and-diamond-studded tikli, or pendant, that
dangled from a fine network of gold chain hooked into her raven-black hair. Her flawless
complexion, all milk and roses, glowed with health and happiness.
Antique gold and diamond jewellery clung, chastened, to her rounded, shapely
form. Never before had they been worn by one who did full justice to their exquisite
workmanship. Women use artifice to intensify their appeal. But such was her loveliness
that it was she who enhanced the magnificence of her ornamentation and not the reverse.
Her peerless beauty was of such surpassing splendor that no amount of make-up or
adornment could possibly augment the sheer perfection of her.
She was seated cross-legged on the little platform-stool which five men manhandled
around her groom-to-be. Round and round they went, seven revolutions in all. Again that
mystic number seven! Seven times had she followed in her groom’s footsteps, circling
the sacred fire, her eyes smarting from acrid smoke that arose from the burning ghee
which the priest had poured upon it as a sacrifice. The pallu of her sari had been knotted
to the end of his dhoti as they had walked, symbolically linked (enchained?) for a
lifetime…
The last ceremony—the shobho-dhrishti, or sacred gaze—was about to be
performed. It would be the first time that the couple would look at each other as husband
and wife, under a sheet held up by four men. Under that figurative roof, man and wife
would look deep into each other’s eyes. It would be a soulful look, intimate and all-
exclusive, that would bind them forever, would render further search for a life-partner
redundant. Their souls would henceforth remain united in wedlock. Or so they said...
The dénouement – the phool-shojjo, the ‘flower-bedecked’ night – would be
performed two days hence. That was when her groom would assert his rights over her
body, vigorously deflower her, and make her his personal possession for life. The guests
would go home after the marriage had been consummated, blessing the couple before
leaving them to enjoy the bliss of wedded life, and to start a family of their own…

*
 28

His lower back ached. Being the tallest of the platform bearers, he was forced to
lean forward from the waist at an uncomfortable angle as he held up his end of the
platform. He shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other as he shuffled along
with the other four men within the tight circle of chattering relatives. The seven pheras—
circumambulations—were the penultimate rite that sanctified the entire ceremony and
rendered it irreversible…as irrevocable as the seven circumambulations around the sacred
fire that had preceded it. He endured the shooting pains in his lumbar vertebrae as he held
steady for the shobho-dhrishti, then finally the ordeal was over. He was breathing rapidly,
and his face was a pale, sweaty mask of pain…

More than three hundred guests had had to be accommodated, and the old mansion
could host but a hundred at most. So the rest had been lodged in nearby guesthouses or in
hotels. He seemed to be everywhere, ensuring that no guest ever faced the slightest
hardship. Even the tiniest of details engaged his attention. From towel and soap to razor
blades, from mattresses to purchasing arrangements, he was always there in the thick of
things, tireless, indefatigable. No one knew when or where he slept. No one remembered
him asking for a bed or for something to eat.
Most of the other volunteers took full advantage of their status to get the best
beddings, or even surreptitious access to the vast baskets of sweets that had been
specially ordered from a famous halwai of Banaras. Not him. He policed the provisions
meant for the guests, to the extent of becoming extremely unpopular with habitual
freeloaders…
When it came to readying the shamianas—huge tented enclosures—for a meal, he
was always there first, getting the area sanitized, arranging the tables and chairs in neat,
orderly rows, ensuring that each batch of guests got fresh banana-leaf platters, that sundry
crockery and cutlery sparkled, that table-cloths were changed with each round of diners.
He was the one who made sure that tea and coffee was available 24 hours a day for his
brethren, famous for their unrestrained fondness for a brew at odd times of the day…or
night. He made himself indispensable, silently and self-effacingly…

The heady aroma of the raat-ki-rani—the enigmatic tuberose, pervaded the magic
night, the night of the grand reception. A gala dinner was being given to taper off the
wedding celebrations. The phool-shojjo itself was a purely family affair. The ladies were
in their element. While the guests sipped whisky, played cards and talked shop as they
relaxed in their rooms, the bedroom for the couple’s first night was being prepared.
Hundreds of long-stemmed roses were cello-taped to the walls, and strings of marigolds
criss-crossed the ceiling.
The huge antique four-poster—a gift from her grandmother—was festooned with
garlands of white and pink roses, and a custom-made foam mattress, sixteen inches in
depth, had been installed. Thousands of rose petals covered the pink satin sheets and
embroidered bedcovers, almost obscuring them. Here too, he was ungrudgingly allowed
to enter, the only male granted admittance to this intimate boudoir, for he had made such
 29

a deep impression on everyone that it was unthinkable that any arrangements could be
considered final till he had had his say. The bed was special. The marriage would be
consummated here, as man and wife slept together for the first time…
He was dressed in a raw-silk sherwani and kurta-pajamas as he ushered the
distinguished guests to their dining places. He scurried about, making sure that there was
no glitch in the proceedings. From kitchen to table service to washing stand to post-
prandial cigars, from Dunhill cigarettes to snuff to paan and paan-masala—served in
antique brass paan-daans to guests on the sprawling lawns by liveried waiters—he
supervised it all. The guests milled about contentedly, and as the evening drew on, the
extent of his silent services began to sink in. They talked of him in hushed voices,
impressed by his zeal…
They praised him before the groom’s father. The old man was a trifle flustered …
he wasn’t quite sure who that particular volunteer was. He’d thought he was from the
girl’s side. Her father, too, in turn, had some very complimentary things to say of him,
but…who exactly was the unknown volunteer? If he was neither one of them, nor a
barati—a member of the groom’s party—then…who could he be? The eldest son was
deputed to make discreet enquiries…

They encircled him menacingly, a mob in an ugly mood.

“Who are you?” they asked of him, and getting no answer, became even more
belligerent.
“What are you doing here?” they enquired, suspiciously. “Tell us of your intentions
before we beat you to a pulp!” threatened one.
“At exactly what time are the robbers expected to strike tonight? There’ll be easy
pickings for them now, thanks to you…” probed another.
He held his peace, and they closed in on him. They pinned his arms and beat him,
pushed him to the ground, tore his clothes and kicked him in the stomach. Some
belaboured him with their fists. Heavy blows rained on him. He told them nothing…
A crowd of onlookers had gathered on the lawn, and her father had called the
police. She heard the din and rushed out with her new husband to see what the
commotion was all about. She had always been bold, and now she shouldered her way
through the crowd that surrounded him as he lay on the grass. She didn’t recognize him at
first. He was dirty, disheveled and someone had shaved his head.
Recognition came…followed by shock, and a great sense of shame. And…
something else. A realization that his…his attachment, his devotion...it really was exactly
as he’d always said it was. So he hadn’t been kidding …
“Sumanto!” she whispered, as she ran and knelt beside him.
“You fools!” she screamed at the mob of guests, “he is a friend, my class-fellow;
always a joker, but very sincere. But this time his ‘joke’ seems to have backfired…get
some antiseptics, ointment…hurry!”
Contrite hands lifted him gently to his feet and helped him inside. Someone
arranged a set of clothes for him. Another attended to his injuries: a doctor, by the look of
things. An ATS injection…antibiotic capsules…even a dose of painkiller was
administered. They led him to a quiet room on the second floor, helped him undress and
 30

slide into bed between the cool, sweet-smelling sheets. To sleep…he was so tired, hurt…
badly bruised…traumatized…
*
He could hear the shrieks of the women as they participated in the usual pre-nuptial
games, ventured lewd double entendrés, and played time-honoured practical jokes on the
hapless groom. They hid the poor fellow’s slippers, and he had to redeem them…for a
price. They haggled over the ransom, wearing his patience thin. It was, after all, his
wedding night, and the last thing he wanted to be doing right now was to be trying to get
his slippers back.
It was a thinly disguised demand for the traditional ‘bribe’, he knew that, a bribe for
a bride! To get them off his back fast, shunt them from his bedroom. So that he could be
left alone with her…at last. Then he could bolt the doors securely, take her in his arms,
dizzily savour her body’s natural bouquet, the yielding softness of her enchanting…
He reached into his pocket for the wad of notes that his elder brother had given him
with a knowing smirk, and hurled it to the floor. Five thousand rupees—to redeem his
own wife!
She glared at the women as they triumphantly pounced on the prize. Her instincts
had already asserted themselves. It was her money that they’d extorted from her husband!
They ragged the groom mercilessly a little longer before they finally retreated and left
him alone with his prize …
*

He was in pain as the huge house gradually fell dark and silent. Somewhere in the
vast drawing room below, an old grandfather clock chimed a single, doleful note. Lost in
their cozy world, a newly wedded pair was discovering a new heaven of experience,
embarking on a voyage of bliss and adventure that no journey they’d later undertake
would ever equal. As they fused into one unit, body and soul, to become a single entity
empowered by society to live together in complete intimacy as sanctioned by law. To
mate…to reinstate themselves through progeny. He could but faintly imagine what all
this meant; it was bliss beyond the powers of his numbed brain to comprehend. To be
married to her…it was an unattainable dream. He was unwed, and now had no intentions
of ever …
*
In the chilly pre-dawn, he watched expressionlessly from his balcony as they got
into the car for the airport, their arms wrapped possessively around each other. The night
of supreme bliss and intimacy had coupled them for life. They were off to Hawaii for
their honeymoon.
A spasm of pain lanced through his stomach and he doubled up, gasping from the
terrible agony of it. The car was halfway down the road by the time he straightened up.
He watched it unblinkingly till it turned the corner and vanished from his sight, taking his
true love from him forever…
*
No one saw the slim, barefoot, shaven-headed figure clad in saffron-robes slip
stealthily from the house and into a strange new universe beyond the one he no longer
wanted. It encompassed everything, including her…He hurried into the future, where he
knew she always waited for him. He would show her what he meant by fidelity. Even if
 31

his was a penance that went from one lifetime to another, spanning eternity...stretching
from forever to forever…
~*~
The Garden of Dreams

It was a beautiful spring day, sunny and inviting. The mountain breeze cooled his
hot, flushed face, caressing it like a loving hand. Fresh and invigorating, it augured well
for the outcome of his quest. Manoj Lahiri had stopped to adjust his rucksack and catch
his breath—it had been a steep climb and he was in a hurry to see the garden again. As
he admired the view of the valley he’d just climbed out of, he was glad he’d made the
decision to take a vacation. The best way of eluding unbearable pain …or an overdose of
happiness …was to literally get away for a while. Like the last time he’d been here, in the
autumn…

Manoj had decided to drive North on the big black motorbike. He knew the road
branched right from Pathankot into the misty, unspoiled green of the Kangra valley,
climbing all the way past Palampur, Jogindernagar, and Macleodganj to Mandi. Then one
either drove across the rope bridge that spanned the turbulent Beas, past the ramshackle
airstrip at Bhuntar, to hit the dirt track that wound through the gorgeous Parvati valley,
climbing steeply into the mountains to Manikaran and its hot-springs and hippies.
Or one chose to keep going along the right bank of the Beas, to Kulu, Manali, the
Rohtang Pass, Lahaul-Spiti and the jagged, snow-clad Zanskar range of mountains that
loomed on the horizon. He’d done all that before, so he decided to turn left this time after
Pathankot and press on to Chamba, the town of a thousand temples. He wasn’t the
temple-going type at all, but he’d wanted to see whether there really were that many. It
was as good an excuse as any for getting away from it all.
He crossed the narrow rope-bridge (just like the one at Bhuntar, like the one
depicted in ‘The Man who would be King’ starring Sean Connery), the wooden slats
clattering under the spoked wheels. It rippled and swayed alarmingly as he negotiated it
cautiously, weaving his way through a convoy of mules going in the opposite direction.
They reacted sharply to the deep bass drumming of the bike’s exhaust, the whites of their
eyes showing as they shied away frantically from the throbbing machine, ramming into
the guy-ropes in their panic…if one should snap…The Sutlej was a narrow, twisting
ribbon of blue-white, tumbling over cruel rocks a thousand feet below…
There were a thousand temples…at least, there must be. Who bothered to count?
They were all over the place: little ones and big ones, ancient ones and shiny new ones,
white ones and red and yellow ones. They represented the gratitude of people whose
prayers had been answered. People whose dreams had materialized into fact…a son born,
a life saved, a business venture that had flourished. The goddess had granted them a
boon, made their wishes come true.
But Manoj’s dream had not come true. Maybe because he’d never asked for a
favour from the goddess. The girl he loved…the only girl in the world for him…she
didn’t know he existed. He tried to be philosophical about it and failed. It was painful,
but he couldn’t help thinking about it...about her…all the time.
It was a serious failing, this inability to come to terms with reality. He hated his
weakness, cross with himself for not being able to stop brooding about her. That had
 32

probably been the reason why he’d lost her. He’d think about how much he loved her…
every waking moment; but he’d never voiced his undying love and admiration, never
displayed his craving for her company. She wanted a strong man, he knew, a man who
could live without her. She was so cussedly paradoxical. Anyone would think a woman
would fall for a man whose body language semaphored its message so loudly and
unequivocally. He couldn’t live without her. Loved her forever, or till hell froze over,
whichever was later…
But Lata was just such a woman, he’d discovered to his chagrin. Some perverse
streak in her made her want a man who would use her and then push her away to arm’s
length. She wanted a man who’d love her, yes…but not too much. A man who’d give her
not only the space she craved but confront her with a vacuum! A vacuum into which
she’d be sucked against her will. It was her way of being turned on.
She didn’t cotton to men who waxed lyrical—or went all mushy—over her
considerable beauty; ‘wimpish’ men, as she put it. She liked the uncertainty of human
relationships, the fleeting, ephemeral quality of it that produced a feeling of living
dangerously. It gave her a feeling of freedom, created the illusion of being in control. It
reinforced her vision of equality—and easygoing camaraderie—between the sexes…
Was she a masochist? Masochists are also sadists…anyway, that’s what the
psychology textbooks said. Manoj hadn’t known all that then. If only Navin hadn’t told
him all the gory details...he often wondered if Navin had been telling the truth about Lata,
it was so incredible. He preferred to retain his image of her, sweet and fresh, enigmatic,
enticingly beautiful. Navin said he’d been Lata’s neighbour since childhood, and had
seen it all happen, told him everything. There hadn’t been anything her in behaviour
during the early stages of their relationship that might have warned Manoj…He didn’t
blame her. Now that he knew what Navin had told him...
It was not her fault that she was like that. She’d had a hard childhood. In fact, you’d
hardly call her childhood a childhood. Watching strange men enter her mother’s room,
and emerging an hour later, spent and disheveled, grudgingly counting out ten-rupee bills
into her mother’s work-worn hands, men who’d pat her familiarly on her ample rump
before taking their leave. But it all went into school fees and other household necessities.
Her father never staggered home before ten, and then usually dead drunk, by which time,
on an average, at least three men had come and gone…
When she’d come of age, the strangers had started eying her speculatively. She had
a ripe body, fuller and more mature than most girls of her age, and she knew now. Knew
what the men came for and why they parted with money for something they transacted so
furtively behind the locked doors of the bedroom. Once, she’d heard her mother’s raised
voice: “You so much as look at her and I’ll kill you”, and the man had laughingly replied
that he had no need to while the going was so good here. Besides, there were plenty of
other fields to plough; there was no dearth of money to invest wherever his fancy took
him.
She’d felt her mother’s tension in her silence at hearing these words. Competition
was fierce, and regulars were worth their weight in gold. It was like a monthly pension.
She couldn’t afford to annoy her steady clientele…
It was too early an age to lose the innocence of childhood, to be forced to learn the
facts of life, to realize that women’s bodies were—had always been—commodities that
men vied for avariciously, fought over, or bought. That men would spend anything, take
 33

any risk, when it came to getting the woman they wanted. Wealthy men and beautiful
women, the two had always mutually attracted each other.
She learnt that money was the all-important thing in life. Without money,
everything else was as ashes: beauty, brains, knowledge, education, family background,
poise, wit, intellect, charm, a sense of humour…it was all useless if money was missing!
Money was the universal lubricant that oiled the rough patches of life, turned rainy days
into sunny ones, exchanged hard beds for soft, springy ones, replaced daal-roti with
caviare and patê de foi gras, opened the doors of high society. It meant you traveled in a
chauffeur-driven car instead of a bus, it meant that rich men lusted after you, went for
you with elegant one-liners, unhurried moves and fast drives, spent vast sums of hard
cash on you in return for favours granted. In a bus, men just groped you and got off.
Money opened up a world of possibilities that the hoi polloi never knew existed; it made
exotic places like Pattaya as familiar as the neighbourhood bania shop…
A rich man was the key to the kingdom. A man’s looks did not matter, as long as he
had money. No woman in her right mind would ever marry a poor, good-looking man.
She’d always go for the rich man, warts and all, even if he was seventy. The money made
the pot-belly, the skin disease, the asthma, the erectile dysfunction, and the bald head
simply disappear. Adonis was dead. It was the Age of Croesus.
Manoj’s thoughts went back to his chance encounter with Navin…

*
The Coffee House was crowded, and Manoj scanned for a vacant table. Finding
none, he decided he’d have to share. There was a corner table with three chairs vacant.
The lone occupant sat sipping his coffee while he quietly flipped the pages of the evening
news… …why, it looked like Navin! They hadn’t met after they’d left college!
“Hi, Navin, how are you?” he asked softly as he went up to the table.
Navin looked up. As recognition dawned, he got to his feet and pumped his hand
enthusiastically.
“Hey! Manoj! Congrats, man, I heard you’d got a First…that’s fantastic! What are
you doing now?” Navin was genuinely glad to see him: they’d been in the same block in
the hostel.
“Nothing! Unemployed! But I’ve got a job interview tomorrow with an export-
import firm …let’s see what happens…”
They talked for an hour over coffee, as old friends will when they meet after a long
time. By the time they stepped outside, it was dusk, and the traffic was heavy. Manoj
didn’t relish having to go home by bus. Navin seemed to sense his hesitation. “Manoj,
can I drop you somewhere? My Dad gave me a car about six months back, after I joined
his company as Deputy General Manager…”
And that was when she swayed out of Madame Chantilly’s, laden with
packages. It was the most exclusive boutique in town…
It was Navin who spotted her. “Hey, Manoj, isn’t that Lata? Remember her? Wow!”
Lata had been in their class.
Manoj nodded. “I do. She’s looking better than ever…” he said a little wistfully.
Navin shot a look in his direction. “I know you always had a soft corner for her…but I
advise you to forget her…and fast!” Something in his tone made Manoj’s skin crawl.
“Why? What’s wrong with her?” he asked in as neutral a tone as he could muster.
 34

“I was her neighbour for many years, friend. There is little I don’t know about her.
So just listen to me and drop her from your mind.” Navin was firm in his insistence.
“Now look here, Navin, you can’t go around making insinuations like this. What
exactly is it about Lata that bugs you?” Manoj was a little desperate. He had no intentions
of letting Navin know how much he cared…
“Well, don’t tell me I didn’t warn you. The gory details are as follows: for starters,
her father drank like a fish, so much so that the family was always broke. So her
mother…well, you know, necessity is the mother of all evil, if you get my meaning…”
“No, I do not, and it’s a dirty lie!” There was a grim set to Manoj’s jaw: he hated to
think the worst of people.
Navin sighed. “I knew it would upset you, but remember, I’m only telling you
because you asked. Her mother took in men to supplement her income…with her father’s
full blessing and perhaps even connivance.” He blurted out the whole story.
“It paid for her education, Manoj; there was no other way. But when she reached
college…” He shrugged.
A chilly hand seemed to grip Manoj’s heart. “Yes, go on…in college?”
“Oh, come on, Manoj, don’t give me that…As if you couldn’t see it…the fancy
clothes, the expensive perfumes, the beauty treatments, the manicures and pedicures, the
cell-phone…” Navin smirked cynically.
“What are you, naïve or blind or something? She had taken up where her mother
had left off…she was into it in a big way, Manoj! Can you imagine a girl in college in
those days with a cell-phone, with calls costing eight rupees a minute? Today, they all
have them…and God alone knows how many are using them as ‘call centers’—if you get
my meaning.” He shook his head sadly.
“But the point is: she went big-time! All very reclusive and exclusive: reserved for
big shots only, I guess. I know all his because…” His eyes defocused, as if at some
memory…
“C’mon, dammit, don’t clam up on me…out with it” Manoj was upset, but he
wanted to hear it through to the bitter end.”
“Well, one day, I was at a friend’s place when a call came through on his cellphone,
and Raj…that was his name…immediately vanished into his bathroom, to emerge a little
later all well-groomed and after-shaved and smelling like Esteé Lauder and Yves St.
Laurent rolled into one…it seemed he’d got an important date. Then, on the spur of the
moment, he asked me if I’d like to come along. Little did I guess what I’d let myself in
for…”

The lift took them smoothly to the sixth floor and soon they were in front of room
number 624. Raj gave the bell a funny combination of rings, some long and some short,
and the door was opened by someone. I followed him in, and only when we were seated
did I take a look at our host…sorry, hostess. It was Lata. She was barefooted, wearing a
clinging gown of purple silk. It was cut low in front, and the two halves gaped open
almost to the level of her navel because the sash was so loose.

“It left little to the imagination. She looked pink and glowing, fresh and oh so
innocent. Had it not been for the circumstances and her attire, Manoj, I’d never have
guessed what she did for a living”. Navin paused for breath.
 35

“I tell you, Manoj, she was a real pro, never even batted an eyelid at seeing me. She
gave no sign of recognition, even when my turn came and throughout what transpired.
Afterwards, she served us beer and pocketed her dough. It was a considerable sum, but
Raj sells automobile tires through eight prime outlets in the city, and it wasn’t even a
day’s earnings for him. He could afford it ...”
He saw the pain in Manoj’s eyes and stopped abruptly. “So that’s why I advise you
to…forget her! Forget everything about her, it’s a waste to time, Manoj. Some things in
life come to you flawed, and there’s nothing you or anyone else can do about it.” Navin
had apparently been as distressed as he was…
Manoj took a bus home. There was a heavy stone on his chest, crushing his heart.

The path into the hills started where the road ended. Manoj parked the bike, locked
it, then hefted his rucksack and set off. The going was steep at first, and he stopped often
to admire the view behind him and catch his breath. Up and up it went, winding and
twisting into the mountains beyond. It was cold, and had it not been for the exercise and
the Para jacket he was wearing, he would have been shivering. He relished the cool,
bracing alpine air as it revived his flagging spirits. A moment ago, he’d been so gloomy.
Now, all of a sudden, he felt cheerful, optimistic…
The path widened and leveled off, meandering though apple orchards. A small
hamlet was approaching. As he got closer, he could see sleepy little cottages with sloping
red roofs, half hidden behind granite boundary walls. The smell of fermenting apple-juice
filled the air. Everyone here brewed their own cider. Then he saw a clearing ahead.
He climbed over a low stone wall and found himself in a glade surrounded by
swaying pines. Someone, apparently in an attempt at gardening, had planted some
flowerbeds, and here he saw nasturtiums, delphiniums, lilies, phlox, candytuft, salvia,
chrysanthemums, and snapdragons. Some of them were his favourite flowers, and he sat
on the grass and admired them. The climate seemed to suit them; he had never seen better
specimens, especially the roses.
One particular bud stood out from the rest. It was magnificent. The deep magenta of
its velvety petals, their inimitable pattern…half-opened, caught in the act of unfurling
shyly to an admiring world…He stretched out a hand to caress it, pluck it. It reminded
him of the Lata he had known, the Lata he still loved.
Then he drew back his hand. The bud belonged where it was, on the rose bush. It
was for all to see, for everyone to enjoy, he reflected. It was public property. He had no
right to think he could pluck it, keep it for himself, to admire, love, and cherish…he
alone, and no one else. It belonged here, beside the road, attracting the eyes of all who
passed, exciting their possessiveness, inviting them to come and admire it, inhale its
heady scent, an eternal symbol of romantic love…
A hand fell softly to his shoulder. Manoj looked up to see an old man, with a
kindly, deeply tanned face. Lined and worn, it nevertheless radiated strength and wisdom.
A profound, all-knowing humour lurked in the twinkling, jet-black, deep-set eyes. “You
like my roses, I see.”
Manoj nodded. “It…it was quite unexpected, finding this garden up here…and I
needed a rest, anyway.”
 36

“Maybe that’s why I planted it here,” chuckled the old man. “Trekkers always want
to sit down for a while when a path levels off. It makes it easier to start again…keep
going. Just like life…when you hit a plateau, it’s nice to take a short break, to divert the
attention to other things, to recharge yourself…as you are doing!”
Manoj resented the old man’s perspicacity. The patriarch smiled indulgently.
“I’ve seen enough of life to know what it’s all about. There is much scope for
happiness: but there is fear, defeat and heartbreak as well…mostly things we create for
ourselves. Hence my garden…my garden of dreams.” He gestured towards the flowers.
“May it help you, too, as it has helped so many others.”
“Your...your garden of dreams? I don’t understand…” said Manoj.
The old man lit a cigarette and stared into the middle distance.
“Once upon a time, a young man unlucky in love came this way. He held in his
hands the fragments of a shattered dream. When he saw this spot, he decided to bury it
here. So he dug up a patch of earth, put the little pieces of his broken dream in it, and
covered it with earth. Then he sprinkled it with tears and went away.” He paused, and he
seemed to be lost in a distant past…
“And then? Then what happened? It sounds as you’re talking about a graveyard of
dreams!” blurted Manoj bitterly.
“Ah! Youth! So impatient, so upset by the little ups and downs of life, always in
such a hurry to arrive…” The old one smiled tolerantly. “Anyway, to return to our story:
someone came along and saw that nothing had sprouted from the little flower bed. So he
transplanted some rose bushes, and sprinkled some flower seeds from his own garden.
And when the young man returned, he found a profusion of roses, a riot of colour…” His
eyes were dreamy, unfocused, as he continued.
“Sometimes, my son, from broken dreams—from the ruins of hope—spring the
blossoms of another dream; a more permanent, lasting one. That is the message of the
garden,” he added simply. “So plant the pieces of your broken dream here…and return in
the spring. Who knows what you’ll find? And one last thing…beware of those who plant,
not flower seeds, but poisonous weeds, in your garden of dreams. There are plenty of
those, too, unfortunately.”
So Manoj planted the tiny pieces of his shattered dream of Lata and their stillborn
love, and he watered them with his honest tears. His step was lighter as he went back
down the mountain, back to the heat, the dust, and the hustle and bustle of life in the
plains. Come spring, when flowers bloomed…he would return.

He shrugged off the rucksack as he paused before his little flower-bed. It was
unrecognizable: a veritable riot of colour. The flowers…they were simply overwhelming
in their profusion, and their bouquet made him a little giddy. Dizzy, sort of…like
whenever he looked at Lata.
She giggled, reading his thoughts, and her fingers gripped his a bit more tightly than
usual. “So that’s your fabled ‘Garden of Dreams’, Manoj? Can’t thank it enough…it gave
you back to me.”
“Say it once more, Lata, please…” begged Manoj, “say it here, right in front of the
flowers. It means a lot to them…”
 37

So she turned to them and solemnly said “I’ve always loved this silly, wonderful
man on my right who’s holding my hand and whose baby I’m carrying. But he never told
me he loved me. Ever. And he listened to another man, who wanted me for himself, who
cooked up evil stories about me so that my man would go away…who hoped to get me
on the rebound.” Lata paused and smiled.
“But his luck ran out the day my man met you all. He came back and found me and
told me he loved me. You know the rest, don’t you?” Her eyes sparkled with happy tears.
“And this time,” whispered Lata, “I’ve come with him to plant my own dream…and
ask a favour. Do you guys think you could rustle up a boy?”
“Plant that dream, Lata,” said a wise old voice behind them, “and bring the boy
with you in the spring.”
They spun around, but there was no one there...

~*~
 38

Another Time, Another Place

It had taken one of his boys the day before, and he just had to finish it himself. It
was a prestige issue for him. The Press, as usual, had got hold of the story and distorted
it, making him out to be a heartless slave-driver who sent men out unarmed at night to be
eaten by wild animals.
Jagat Singh had been one of his best boys, recruited barely a year ago. He had
shown all the qualities a forest guard needed: a good knowledge of flora and fauna,
stamina, excellent eyesight, and well-developed powers of observation. Jagat had
volunteered to keep an eye on the Panipur-Neelganj forest trail where, according to
informers, a band of poachers had commenced operations.
He had left in the afternoon, promising to report back by 9 am the next day. When
noon went by without any sign of Jagat, it had become necessary for the forest officer to
inform him. Divisional Forest Officers rarely, if ever, personally supervised such search
and rescue missions. But Sunil Chanda had taken a great liking to the smiling lad from
the Garhwal hills, and was keen to get at the truth. He decided to lead the search-and-
rescue party himself.
The four-man team had been driven by jeep upto the point nearest the tragedy, a
small clearing dotted with ant-hills, where three hillocks of equal height ran on an east-
west line. Giant teak trees dwarfed them as they clambered out of the vehicle. Sunil
Chanda left strict instructions with the driver to return for them at 5 pm sharp. Then they
had trotted into the jungle, taking a narrow track used by the wild things. It was easy to
negotiate, and they soon settled down to a steady jog.
Each man carried the regulation Lee-Enfield .303 rifle, four clips of ammunition,
knapsack, with outdoor lunch packet, compass, torch, and water canteen. Sunil had never
favoured the .303. It was a vintage weapon with a World War I pedigree (enviable,
agreed), now palmed off by the Government of India on the forest department, while the
army and some para-military forces got the 7.62 mm SLRs. Some crack units were even
being issued the latest 5.56 mm assault rifles that surpassed NATO specifications.
The Lee-Enfield’s suitability for game shooting was questionable at best. It was
chambered for a cartridge that was tailored to Geneva Convention specifications. Nickel-
jacketed solid lead, the bullet passed right through the body of an animal without
expending all its energy on the target. In other words, the bullet lacked stopping power.
Dum-Dum bullets, the ones that mushroomed on impact, were far more effective but
illegal to use.
Sunil preferred to carry his own favourite, a Holland and Holland .375 magnum.
This rifle had stopping power…in spades. As did his sidearm, his treasured .44 magnum
revolver by Smith & Wesson, holstered butt-forward on his left hip. It was the world’s
most powerful handgun.
Getting clearance to keep these firearms, both of prohibited bore, had meant many
hours of lobbying in New Delhi where the mandarins ruled from their ivory towers.
Ultimately, the Old Boy network had come to the rescue and special clearance was given,
even though he had had to retrieve his All India Inter-University shooting medals from
his bank locker, and flaunt his certificates from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Department to
clinch the issue.
 39

Prohibited bore! What a joke! Who was there to prohibit poachers from procuring,
and using, the latest high-powered rifles and landmines, not to mention night-vision
equipment—low-light image intensifiers like the 200 mm telephoto N-Mirotar from Carl
Zeiss, that magnified available light a million times using only a single pen cell. Or even
poisons, sophisticated spring traps, booby traps and even, in one case, a PIAT gun!
Thinking of the PIAT gun, as he jogged along, made his blood boil. He again saw in
his mind’s eye the remains of the rogue tusker they had stumbled upon last year, 30 miles
north of Tanakpur.
Studying the sign on the ground, and the huge, gaping wound, Sunil’s eyes had
widened in amazement. The animal had dropped in its tracks, dead before it hit the
ground. There had been copious bleeding from the actual wound, but there was an even
larger patch of blood-soaked earth where the butchers had hacked away half the massive
head to get at the very last millimeter of tusk.
A projectile of such enormous killing power had to be of extraordinarily large. It
must have exploded inside the unfortunate beast. When the carcass had been further
butchered to facilitate burial, Sunil had shuddered at the size of the ext wound: a child
could easily have climbed through a hole that size.
He asked his men to judge the angle at which the round had been fired, and
extrapolate the line through a 12-foot tall elephant, to the nearest trees. It must be the
work of a PIAT gun, his intuition told him. Sunil had once been deputed on an
undercover assignment, posing as an arms supplier to Indian poachers. The boom in the
illegal animal skins trade had finally persuaded the sluggish authorities to take action.
People who promised him any World War II arms and ammunition he wanted,
including a PIAT gun, had approached him in Naples. He knew that even now, caches of
perfectly preserved Nazi Schmeisser machine–pistols, Luger handguns firing the
legendary 9mm ‘Parabellum’ round, and other relics of the war kept surfacing.
Sunil’s cover withstood their scrutiny—his knowledge of firearms saved him—for
the arms networks eliminated spies unhesitatingly. But he had ‘failed’ to strike a bargain,
and had moved on. The middlemen had reluctantly conceded defeat and let him go.
Sunil’s undercover operation had drawn a blank, though he noted the contacts for passing
on to Intelligence. Others had taken up the mission of uncovering the secret supply route
of weapons that the big poachers used. But not before he had been shown a PIAT gun.
Developed in the closing years of World War II, the PIAT (Projectile, Infantry, Anti
Tank) gun was the first attempt at developing a portable anti-tank infantry weapon. It was
a bulky, spring-operated bomb-launcher, comprising a tube, bomb basket, rubber-padded
stock and butt. A supine gunner fired the rig over a low tripod. It hurled a 2¾ lb
explosive projectile that, assisted by its own propellant, could fly accurately to a range of
110 yards and pierce four inches of super-hard armour plating.
Exploding inside after penetrating the tank’s armour, it usually detonated the tank’s
magazine, blowing it to pieces. The rig, usually good for only one shot because of the
cumbersome procedure needed to reload it, weighed over 34 pounds. After firing a round,
the gunner had to scramble for cover if he missed. At that close range, he became the
prime target for a tank’s cannon and turret-mounted machine gun.
Its effectiveness was limited in actual combat situations, though as a tank ambush
weapon it turned the course of the Normandy landings, stopping the deadly German
armour before it could wreak havoc on the beaches held by the Americans. It had its brief
 40

moment of glory. Then the Americans introduced the shoulder-fired rocket/tube

combination called the Bazooka, and the PIAT gun faded into history.
But it was the granddaddy of elephant guns. He remembered the excited whoops of
his boys as they had climbed a tree and recovered some shards of the projectile. Piecing
them together, he could see that its head had contained explosive chemicals and a
detonator. He shuddered as he imagined it piercing the thick grey hide like a stiletto
through a jelly pudding, exploding inside the beast and reducing the internal organs to a
mass of pulp.
Shrapnel would have spread out, each lava-hot fragment leaving bloody carnage in
its wake as it tumbled over and over on its exit route, transferring kinetic energy to the
target. Death must have come practically instantaneously to the forest giant, but the
unimaginable cruelty of the execution saddened Sunil. It was no way to die for any
creature, man or beast.
It was nearly three in the afternoon when they reached the spot where Jagat Singh
had met his end. He had been sitting on a stump, smoking a native cigarette called a biri,
when he had been taken from behind. How often had Sunil warned his men never to sit
when alone…it was always safer to climb a tree to take a break…but they were men
brought up in remote villages, used to the jungle, and fatalistic, like the poor of India
have always been. If their time was up, it was up, and nothing could intervene. It was
always thus.
Sunil’s shoulders sagged in resignation as he read the story in the scuffed earth…
after killing the man, the carnivore had dragged the corpse into some nearby bushes and
had fed. Now it was left to the rescue team to transfer the pitiful remains onto a canvas
groundsheet (brought for just such an eventuality), and there was not a dry eye among
them.
The two guards walked slowly, carrying the awkward burden between them, while
Sunil brought up the rear, the .375 magnum at the ready, safety catch off and damn the
rules. A man-eater in their territory was bad news—they had secretly hoped that Jagat
had fallen and broken a limb, and was waiting for help to arrive.
But in the jungle, danger and death were harsh realities that went with the job,
something the babus of the bureaucracy, or their Mandarins, would never understand.
They lived in a very different world of air-conditioned offices, eating lunch out of five-
decked Tiffin-carriers, off porcelain plates using cutlery bought abroad, newspapers
spread over desks to serve as tablecloths.
Sunil loathed all of it, the sham, the hypocrisy, the backbiting, the jockeying for
promotions, perks and ‘power’. It was one of the reasons why he avoided staff postings,
why he had never married…it was not the sort of life that would appeal to a woman. He
had never found a woman who shared his love for the wild, so he preferred to go his
single way rather than enter into a marriage doomed right from the very first day.
They reached Jagat Singh’s village, and amid tearful scenes, the remains were
handed over to the mourning family. He had been the sole wage earner. In course of time,
the Ministry (unfazed by scathing comments in the media on the tardy progress in
releasing ex-gratia payments and retirement benefits) would clear the proposal for a
meager pension to his widowed mother. Meanwhile, the local district administration
appointed a professional hunter to eliminate the man-eater.
 41

This worthy (better known locally more for his skill at shooting off his mouth than
his gun) made a few desultory attempts at sitting in a machan over tethered bait and
thereafter lost interest in the job. He valued his hide, and those of the animals he
discreetly poached, and didn’t want to get mixed up for too long with this man-eater
business.
Still, for the sake of keeping up appearances he persevered a little longer, and at last
his efforts seemed to have paid off. It was an excited messenger who rushed into Sunil’s
office with the news that the local shikari had killed the tiger, which was being borne in
procession to the forest office.
Sunil saw at once that it was the wrong animal. It was only about eight feet long
from nose to tail, a young male about three years of age. His tiger was an old male, about
ten feet long, judging by its pugmarks and stride. It killed humans because it could no
longer, for reasons of age or injury, kill and eat its natural prey: the deer, antelope and
wild boar a healthy tiger would eat. One of he guards was about to point this out, but
Sunil motioned him to silence. The press carried jubilant reports, some very critical of the
forest department, as Sunil noted with amusement. A week later, the tiger killed again.
The victim, an elderly lady, against all advice from her terrified neighbors, had
gone a short distance from her hut to cut some grass for her cow (securely tethered inside
the old lady’s rude stonewalled dwelling) and had never returned. No one had heard
anything at all, no scream, not even a shout. Her half-eaten body was recovered the next
day.
This time, the Press really went to town. They lambasted the shikari, the forest
officials, the government, even the poor village folk, for the death of the old woman. This
close to civilization! It was scandalous, screamed the newspapers, that a man-eater should
exist at all. No one appeared to be interested in dealing with the menace, they fulminated.
No one seemed to realize that poorly armed and under-manned wildlife departments are
hardly equipped to exterminate man-eating tigers. It was a highly specialized job. It
called for a specialist, and already one reputation lay in the dust.
The paperwork was piling up on his desk, and, in disgust and desperation, Sunil
applied for a fortnight’s leave. The request was denied tactfully by the Chief
Conservator’s office, and in the classic gesture of mollification they sent him
‘reinforcements’ by way of an experienced naturalist who had served briefly at
Whipsnade and Bronx zoos!
The government would bear all expenses, and the expert would ‘recommend’ a
strategy to improve game populations in both quality as well as numbers, check certain
pests, and, finally, (the crux of the matter!) find a way of getting rid of the man-eater.
Sunil couldn’t help grinning when he read the tall brief for one person to handle, but as
he read the name, the smile faded: Tripta Sen. A woman! ‘Now I’ve seen everything!’ he
thought sardonically.
So now he was DFO, PR man, file-shuffler, man-eater’s nemesis and nursemaid all
rolled into one! In a foul mood, he dictated memoranda to his staff, and then worked out
a two-day surprise tour of new plantations. He also planned to visit Jagat Singh’s village
and find out how his mother was keeping.
Then he stormed out of his office and went to the shooting range for an hour’s
target practice with the .44 magnum to blast the stress out of his system.
 42

All said and done, Sunil Chanda was a contented man. He had his dream job, his
staff was dedicated, and he was single and free. At thirty-six, he was in the prime of his
life. If anyone had told him that he was a very attractive man, in a rangy, craggy, cave-
mannish sort of way, he would have laughed fit to bust. Besides, even if this was true,
looks were of no importance to him. Looks did not matter, in the jungle.
His batch-mates, all married and domesticated, ribbed him about his chronic
bachelorhood whenever they got a chance. But he good-humoredly threw them off his
trail by saying that he had decided to marry and settle down after forty—if anyone would
have him then. Now, at the Divisional Annual get-together, the Chief himself joined in
the fun.
“Hey, Sunil! This is a get-together! A ‘get to get her’! Get it? Ha Ha Ha!! Now
then…see anyone you fancy? A girl you’d like to have…for keeps?” The room was
crowded with officers and their families. There was a burst of laughter, genuine
appreciation of the Chief’s wit.
Sunil smiled tolerantly. “Wasn’t looking for anyone, Sir! I suppose, for me, this is
a ‘Forget-to-get-her’!’ This time, the room exploded with a roar. Sunil was soft-spoken,
laconic…but that didn’t mean he was bad at socializing, many noticed for the first time.
“Touché!” nodded the Chief, pleased at the repartee.
“A man to watch”, he thought to himself. “A deep one. One of those types… ‘Made
For The Service’. The wild brings out the best in them. Could be in my chair one day.”
Many sweet young things had noticed the tall, rangy man with the unmistakable
manner of a man of the outdoors, and had been eying him speculatively. The air of a
caged leopard hung about him, which increased his appeal. Women like nothing better
than to domesticate a man and make him do their bidding. Change him. Improve him.
They could mother a man and smother him to death.
“But not this one,” thought the Chief. “He’s already wedded … to the wild.”
Perfect chap to post that new animal behavior specialist or whatever to, the one
recommended by the Ministry—what was her name? … Yes, Tripta Sen. If she came
away from that assignment without having learned plenty about the jungle—with a man
like Sunil Chanda as her mentor—he’d eat his hat.

It was a glorious day, full of the rich promise of spring. As he took the hairpin bend
in second, revved down the straight and shifted smoothly into top, Sunil breathed deeply
of the sweetness that life had to offer. He loved to drive, and the magnificent 8-cylinder
Buick Eight ’53 Classic with the convertible top down was perfect for the job. It floated
over the road, this beautiful road from Haldwani to Ranikhet and beyond, so perfectly
graded that even mediocre drivers felt as though they were Stirling Moss himself.
The British had bequeathed this tour-de-force of road making to the country they
had ruled for over three hundred years. They had been great road builders, though their
record as empire builders left much to be desired. But the road…that remained: a
testimony to their obsession with perfection. The road did it all, although only a driver as
good as Sunil could extract that extra bit from it, as he was doing now. It was a great way
 43

to start a new assignment. He was to meet up with Tripta Sen at the Pipal Pani Forest
Rest House, and take her over the course from there. It seems she was driving up on her
own to the rendezvous.
With a blare of klaxons, a little sports car—could be a Sunbeam or an MG—drew
alongside. It startled him a little, and the big Buick jinked as he reflexively flung the
steering the other way. For a moment, the deep-throated roar of tuned exhausts
hammered at his eardrums.
Then the tiny coupé had shot past, disappearing round the next bend as she floored
the pedal. Her marveled at the driver’s control over the spirited little two-seater, although
he didn’t much appreciate her way of displaying it.
Moss had often won the Mille Miglia in tiny machines like this Sunbeam or
whatever it was. Fangio or no Juan Manuel Fangio, Sunil rated Stirling Moss as the
greatest racing driver of all time.
Moss would win crucial races time and again, including the incredibly tough Alpine
Rally, winning in underpowered little British jobs without the massive back up of the
works-sponsored cars. Ferrari, Bentley, Alfa Romeo, Maserati, Mercedes…he beat them
all in flimsy little British-made machines like the Sunbeam ‘Alpine’ or the Lotus ‘Élan’
coupé.
He hadn’t seen her face: there was just a dim memory of dark glasses, a pink and
blue polka-dotted silk scarf…and a cheeky little ponytail, bobbing as the slipstream
caught it.
“Trouble for some guy…heap big trouble!” thought Sunil, as he made his way
more sedately than before. For once, he hadn’t kept an eye on the rear-view mirror, and
the unexpectedness of the pass had rattled him a bit.
As he drove on, his admiration gave way to irritation. She’d had no business in
showing-off like that, creeping up on him and then blaring her horns before taking off
like a scalded cat. If he ran across her again, he’d give her a piece of his mind. Lady
drivers! He swore under his breath as he covered the last few miles to the Dak Bungalow
at Chaubatia.

His mood improved over the last stretch to Pipal Pani. The breath-taking scenery
was having its usual effect on him. The sheer pleasure of motoring up into high mountain
country in the powerful 8-cylinder Buick was like a tonic to him. It was a smooth road
with graciously banked hairpin bends, colonnaded by fir trees on either side.
Through gaps in the trees, he could see the plains far below in the hazy distance as
they sweltered in the noonday heat. He was thankful to be where he was. At six thousand
feet, the air was cool and pine-scented and free of dust and industrial pollution. Yes, the
Forest Service was the only life for him.
He was thankful that he’d had the courage to disagree with his father who had
wanted him to join the Civil Service. He had done his Master’s in Botany and taken a
PhD in the ‘Correlation between the life-cycles of Himalayan Lepidoptera and the
development of pest-resistant strains of apples’. The dissertation had earned him a Gold
Medal from the University of Lucknow in addition to the letters after his name.
 44

The topic was a sitter for him; he had combined his love of the outdoors, his
knowledge of insect and plant life, and his intense need to contribute something to
society. The generous grant had not only financed his jaunts into the interior of Garhwal
but also had given him the opportunity to take the photographs that had led to a much-
acclaimed exhibition in Sapru House, New Delhi.
After the exhibition (where all his pictures were sold out), he had received several
offers from magazines, news services and even the WWF to join them as a full timer, but
Sunil Chanda knew where his destiny lay. The money from the sales at the exhibition
went into extra coaching classes for the All India Civil Services (Forest Service)
examination, for his Economics, English Composition and General Knowledge needed
plenty of brushing up. He enrolled himself in the coaching institution of Dr. Naren
Bhattacharya in Lucknow.
Dr. Bhattacharya had been, at seventy-six, just as active as when he had chaired the
state Public Service Commission at the time of his retirement. He was one of those ICS
officers who had chosen to place their knowledge and administrative experience at the
disposal of young people who wanted to join the All India services.
After Independence, the Government of India had revoked the old rule that allowed
retired ICS officers to draw their pensions in Pounds Sterling. £1,000 a month was a
substantial sum, even more so in those days. Dr. Bhattacharya had got his pension
commuted and set up his institute with the proceeds.
As he parked under the portico of the sprawling Pipal Pani Forest Rest House, Sunil
mentally thanked the old bureaucrat, now no more, who had given him such close and
personalized coaching that Sunil had topped in the merit list for the Forest Service. He
preferred to ignore the role his own abilities and scholastic achievements had played in
his selection.
Sunil Chanda was an unassuming person. He was aware that fate had allowed him
to live the life he wanted. If anyone had told him that he deserved much more, he would
have been surprised if not offended.
A flash of yellow caught his eye. Parked at the side of the vegetable garden, under
the shade of the firs, was the yellow convertible that had overtaken him on the road. The
lady driver had been none other than Tripta Sen! His pique returned, so much so that,
quite uncharacteristically, he failed to acknowledge the salutes of the forest guards at the
entrance. He went straight to his suite, shaved, bathed and changed into a fresh pair of
jeans and a cream-colored T-shirt.
They met at dinner. She was dining alone, and it was only good manners that made
him go over to her table. She looked up quizzically as he approached, and gestured to the
chair opposite her. As she ate her soup, he studied her. He had the advantage of knowing
who she was, but she probably had no inkling that he was her mentor-to-be for the next
six months.
He was hardly immune to feminine beauty. Sunil admitted that to himself candidly.
And this one was a looker. Waves of wind-swept, jet-black hair, parted in the middle,
framed an oval face. The eyes were large and serious, with golden flecks in the dark-
brown irises that betrayed a mischievous nature.
‘Intelligent…and mischievous’, thought Sunil.
The wide, generous mouth spoke of a softer side to her. Parenthesized by laugh
lines, the lips themselves were sheer poetry: the upper lip was as full as the lower and
 45

curved back on itself to form a sharp ridge of desire—a rare feature he particularly liked
—and one he had never actually noticed before in a girl. A small black mole near the
upper left corner enhanced the smouldering sensuality of the gorgeous lips.
It all crystallized into a naturally pouting, sultry mouth, the sort that models on
picture-shoots so desperately try to invoke cosmetically. A jaw-line that was aggressively
sensual (great pun not intended, thought Sunil as he observed the devastating beauty of
Tripta Sen) underscored the peerless perfection of her visage. Her small, even teeth were
pearly white, and her ears were small and shell-like, with tiny lobes in each of which
nestled a small diamond set in platinum. They sparkled as they caught the light.
She had a swan-like neck, slim and graceful but entirely proportionate to the width
of her face. Lower down, Sunil could see the beginning of a deep V: her full bosom
swelled and stretched her blouse to its limits. The effect of the unusually large breasts on
so slim a body was a visual oxymoron that bludgeoned the observer’s senses.
Sunil had to reluctantly admit to himself that she was probably the most attractive
woman he had ever seen, an impression that was confirmed later when they got up to
leave. A small waist and flat stomach, with hips that flared just the right amount,
considerably enhanced the overall effect. Her legs, clad in a pair of grey corduroy jeans,
were full and mature. Her thighs were just a fraction too full, but were, nevertheless,
perfectly counter-balanced by well-rounded calves that added exactly the right amount of
linear fill to her leg lines. She wore Kolhapuri chappals on her slim, perfectly shaped feet.
He was relieved to see that the toenails were neatly trimmed, and not, in deference
to the latest fashion, allowed to grow long. Not only did he detest over-grown toenails on
aesthetic considerations, they were also a potential hazard when walking in heavy boots
over rough terrain. Her lovely toenails—more like fingernails, he thought with
astonishment, so delicate were they—were lightly coated a natural shade of pink that
accentuated their beauty.
She was a cool customer, too, he thought, as he noted her casual reception of his
self-introduction. She was underwhelmed by the news that he was to be her boss for the
next six months. No sign of deference to his rank or authority was discernible. If
anything, there was only a cool appraisal, a ‘let’s wait and see’ approach.
‘A spoiled brat’, he thought with distaste, ‘…some rich man’s pretty little daughter
out to prove herself in a man’s world.’ It all smelt suspiciously of a man-eater: ‘…and not
the four-legged variety, either’, thought Sunil. He’d better be on his guard. She was
strong medicine, as his intuition had warned him at the moment she’d overtaken him on
the Chaubatia road.
As they walked under the stars, he chalked out her orientation program: exposure to
—and familiarization with—new plantations and natural cover, training in jungle craft
and reading sign, studying the ecology of the area and establishing the symbiosis of the
various elements within it, learning the rudiments of taking a census of threatened
species, exposure to firearms drill, spotting poacher’s snares and the telltale signs of
poaching activity, and making suggestions for improving the existing wildlife-
management protocols…and trapping the man-eating tiger.
It was a lot to ask of a woman. She took it coolly, almost nonchalantly. ‘There will
be no Papa on whose shoulder to cry on’, he warned her silently, already feeling a little
sorry for her. He decided to make it as tough for her as he could. He wondered if she
would last more than a month.
 46

They sat down for their picnic lunch near a natural spring he remembered flowing
through this area of Garhwal. They had been walking since 6 AM, and both of them were
in need of a rest. So far, she had trudged along without complaint. He discovered that the
powerful legs were as good on a jungle trail as they probably were at jiving. She wore a
no-nonsense khaki safari bush-shirt and matching trousers, and her feet were clad in
deep-cleated, rubber-soled canvas jungle boots.
She wore a bush hat like the ones Indian Army jawans wore…and she carried a
30/06 Winchester bolt-action carbine! This last really surprised him; he had no idea she
owned a rifle. It was a good weapon, he knew, capable to knocking down all but the
biggest of game, and super-accurate in the right hands.
Finishing their lunch, they drank from the spring and filled their water bottles
before pressing on towards Badholia, about 10 kilometers away and at an elevation of
eight thousand feet. She was perspiring lightly, easily, as he was, and he realized, with
some surprise, that she was in superb physical condition.
The going was getting very rough. They often had to hack their way through heavy
cover with machetes, and Sunil worried about snakes as usual—this area had a fairly
good population of Hamadryads, better known as King Cobras—and Sunil was cautious,
leading the way.
When it happened, he was almost prepared for it. A King Cobra is a large,
extremely poisonous snake that, like the African Black Mamba, has little fear of man, and
can be totally unpredictable in encounters. The chances of it slithering away were just as
great as the chances of it launching into an attack, even more so when there was a nest to
guard. The one that had reared up suddenly to a height of four feet in the brush in front of
them did not mean to give way. It swayed from side to side…and then it went for them.
There was no chance to run. It was capable of overtaking them and delivering fatal
bites to both of them. Sunil drew the .44 magnum and fired round after round, aiming as
best he could at the deadly reptile as it came at them with astonishing speed.
One of the shots hit the snake and it disintegrated in a spray of blood and flesh. He
put the big handgun down, breathing heavily, thankful for the hours of range practice he
had put in. As the adrenaline circulated in his system, he felt a bit light-headed.
“Darn good shooting, Mr. Chanda!”
He spun around. He’d quite forgotten about her. She was standing a bit to the right
and behind him, and the 30/06 was poised in her arms. At that moment, Sunil Chanda
wished he had a camera to take her picture.
She stood with her splendid legs firmly braced, the rifle butt to her shoulder.
Sudden movement had knocked the hat to the back of her head, suspended by the
chinstrap, and the late-afternoon sunlight glinted in showers of gold as it ricocheted off
her disheveled hair. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. The rosy lips were slightly
parted, and her magnificent breasts heaved alluringly.
He reloaded the revolver and returned it to its holster, taking his time as he gave his
pulse a chance to stabilize.
“Yeah, thanks, “he acknowledged, “I guess I was half expecting it. This area is
crawling (ha ha!) with Hamadryads”, he explained.
 47

“Not that it gave me any pleasure…killing it, I mean. A forester killing…! It’s just
not done!” he whispered guiltily.
“But you acted in self-defense!” she protested. “It was either kill or be killed,
Sunil,” she asserted unnecessarily. “What choice did you have in the matter?”
“None”, he admitted sadly. “And by the way, you should have run for it. What do
you think you were doing, standing there with that rifle at your shoulder? Maybe you
thought you could hit a moving King Cobra with a single bullet! Could you?”
“You did!” she explained calmly. “What makes you think I couldn’t?”
He had no answer to that so he let it pass. He noted that she had called him by his
first name. It was a first of sorts. He grinned to himself at the way the equations were
changing.
*

As the weeks passed, Sunil put her through her rigorous training without making
any allowances for the fact that she was a woman. She bore it unflinchingly. True, there
were times when she was physically exhausted, but it wasn’t as if he was as fresh as a
daisy, either. Besides, she was much younger, and, with the natural resilience of youth,
recovered quickly.
Sunil, on the other hand, was tiring. He hated to admit it, but it was true. He was
thirty-six going on thirty-seven, which is a bit old for contact sports and jungle jaunts
alike. A trek or a hunt once in a while was fine. But putting a single trainee—especially
one this motivated and fit—through a punishing and highly condensed program was an
ordeal he hadn’t quite anticipated.
The only silver lining was that she was very talented. Her aptitude for the job was
unquestionable. And he thought guiltily that when they’d first met, he had tagged her as a
spoiled brat, a rich man’s little girl out to have a good time at his expense! His face
burned with shame and remorse.
Woman-like, she sensed his inner turmoil. And gently, maternally, she let him off
the hook.
“Good thing I was into jogging and aerobics, eh, Sunil? I’d have been quite a pain
to you otherwise. I never imagined the training would be this strenuous!” she admitted
ruefully.
“But let me tell you one thing…” she continued, warming to her subject: “I think
you have shown marvelous professionalism and dedication. You have treated me just like
you would have treated any other trainee. I would have been very upset if you hadn’t…if
you’d gone and made concessions for me, as a woman, I mean.”
Her eyes softened. “I want you to know how grateful I am to you for that.”
He was mortified. This is what came of living like a hermit. You lost the ability to
size-up complex people. He had meant to crush her. Instead, she was praising him for
doing a thorough job, without divining his real motivations.
There was an honest streak in Sunil. He told her the truth now.
She laughed heartily after he’d finished unburdening himself.
“What an admission, Sunil! I daresay no other man in your position would have
owned up! He’d have swallowed the praise and kept his mouth shut. That was
something…really something!”
 48

He was amazed. He had thought she would be annoyed, that she would lose
whatever little respect she might have had for him. Now she was telling him that the
exact opposite was true. By admitting his real motives, he had cemented their friendship.
Something happened to Sunil Chanda at that moment, something very hard to
describe. He had never believed it could ever happen to him. When it struck, it caught
him completely unawares, as it had done with countless others before him.
It was as if all nature smiled suddenly, as if everything in the boundless universe
fell into its rightful place. He felt as if he had received a gift beyond price, that he had
been singularly honored by some supreme power.
He was not religious, but at this moment he wanted to bend a knee before the gods
that stood for Truth, for Light…and for Beauty.
In short, Sunil Chanda fell in love. He squirreled away the knowledge of it,
somewhere deep in his heart where he thought no one would ever find it.

“You’re quite wrong, of course. I’m not rich,” explained Tripta to Sunil as they
sipped tea back at the Chowpani Dak Bungalow that was now their temporary base.
“Father was a master mechanic in England; he’d settled there before the War, and he
made enough money to give me as good an education as he could afford. Mother, who
was French, died shortly after I was born. Father never remarried. The Sunbeam is part of
his small legacy to me. He died three years ago.” Her eyes were focused at a distant
point on the horizon.
“He always told me I’d have to fight for my rights in a man’s world, that I had to be
twice as good as others if I had to win through. That is why he told me to do what I really
wanted to do with my life. Otherwise, life would be such a lie. And hardly worth living.”
She was unburdening herself to someone after a long time. Time and circumstances
had taught her caution. She knew instinctively that here was a reliable man, good and true
—a man she could trust.
Trust did not come to her naturally. She was constantly on her guard. People, she
felt, were always out to exploit others under the garb of befriending them, whether to
give their own egos a boost, for extracting money or other concessions from them, or for
the grant of sexual favours. A single girl, orphaned and carving out a career for herself,
had to tread warily.
Only when someone had proved his or her mettle under fire, so to speak, did she
relent, for she was human and needed human companionship, no matter how independent
or strong-willed she was.
In Sunil Chanda she had found an honest man, a capable friend and mentor. It
dawned on her that here was a real man, a man worth befriending.
They told each other their life stories. She was deeply touched by his. He had
followed a dream, forsaking the comforts of family life and assured financial security
from a cushy job in the Civil Services. At an age when his batch-mates had grown-up
children, he soldiered on alone, doing his duty, doing what he loved, the only thing he’d
ever wanted to do. They were very similar in their approach to life, she realized.

*
 49

They learnt from each other as they went along. The insights gained into animal
behaviour and physiology, which she had acquired at Whipsnade Zoo were important to
Sunil. His knowledge of the Terai-Bhabar jungles was encyclopedic, and she took
copious notes.
“For a book, maybe, who knows” she laughed when he had asked her one day why
the notebook went everywhere she went. “It’s fun, too, you know, like I’m keeping a
jungle diary!” she added.
He taught her how to navigate by the stars (by the age-old expedient of extending
the spout side of the Big Dipper six equal spaces to find the Pole Star and true North),
how to find East when the night sky was overcast (the growth of moss on tree trunks was
always heavier on the western side).
He taught her the correct technique of using a compass. He taught her how to
magnetize a needle (by stroking it one direction with the round magnet hidden inside the
handle of his hunting knife) and, by suspending it from a thread, fashion a rudimentary
compass.
He taught her how to live off the land—he had learned much about little snares and
traps from observing the activities of poachers. Small mammals and reptiles were
valuable sources of protein for a man lost in the jungle. There were many edible roots and
tubers to be dug up if one knew what one was looking for, and several plants that yielded
moisture when chewed. There were others that cured a host of minor ailments and
injuries much faster, and with fewer side effects, than allopathic medicines.
He taught her to read sign, to decipher the telltale marks in the dirt, marks that were
the alphabet of the jungle, to recognize the pugmarks and hoofprints of the jungle folk,
their calls and their mating habits. They sat up in machans on cold nights, huddled
together under a single blanket, the body heat of both just about able to offset the chill,
watching, listening, and learning.
He showed her where to look for the mudfish that lay aestivating in dried-up mud
pools, and he taught her how to catch fish in shallows without hook and line. He showed
her how one could cook them without utensils.
He demonstrated on a two-pound Mahaseer he caught with his hands. He first
cleaned out the gut and salted the inside before stuffing it with herbs, such as mint, that
were often found growing in wild abundance near submontane streams and rivers. Then
he wrapped the fish in aromatic leaves—he preferred banana leaves if they were available
—and after coating the package heavily with a thick layer of clay from the riverbanks, he
buried it at a depth of about six inches in sand.
Then he built a fire over it. After two hours, when the fire was doused and the
package, now baked into a hard ball of clay, was dug up and cracked open, the skin and
scales of the fish fell away with the clay mould, leaving a steaming, appetizing meal that
was thoroughly cooked and very tasty. As Tripta bit into her share, she could have sworn
she had never tasted anything better in her whole life.
They lolled about on the warm rocks before they decided to go swimming. “I don’t
have a costume, and I don’t want to wet my innerwear” Tripta said, “so I’ll just have to
go skinny-dipping. That means you are out of bounds beyond these rocks, right?”
Sunil nodded. Beyond their little beach, the rocks broke up into irregular formations
that formed small lagoons that were screened from where they now sat. The current’s
 50

force was tamed as it swirled and eddied in these backwaters, and there were cozy little
bays where one could simply stand waist or chest-deep in water and luxuriate in its
invigorating chill.
As she made off for the rocks, it occurred to him that he, too, was, by default,
eligible to swim without clothes, naked and free. He stripped off his clothes and made a
racing dive into the blue-green waters. After he got over the initial shock of plunging into
the cold water, he felt refreshed and swam around for a while before floating lazily on his
back. He was getting drowsy when he heard her scream.
He flipped over on his stomach instantly, galvanized into action, kicking out in a
powerful freestyle stroke that brought him around to her portion of the rocks within a
minute. He failed to spot her. All he could see was a tangle of rocks with the water
lapping at them. The tiny strips of sand that fringed them were bare.
His heart was thudding painfully in his chest. He had no idea where she could be. A
terrible fear took hold of him. He ran up on one of these sandy strips and looked around
frantically for her, his chest heaving with agitation.
Then he heard shrieks of mirth to his left. She had held her breath and submerged
herself! Now she stood up, in shallow waist-deep water, and she was laughing at his
obvious panic and fear for her. He had been suckered! A practical joke!
But there were compensations. She made Venus de Milo herself look frumpish as
she emerged from the water, her body shining wetly. He sucked in his breath sharply at
the sight of her total nudity. There was no shame or guilt in her, and as he admired the
taut perfection of her body, she just as frankly admired his.
She looked him in the eye, smiling. “I’m sorry, but a fit of mischief got the better of
me…tee hee! I could see you floating about on your back, far away, and I bet myself that
if I screamed you’d first swim ashore to get your revolver…but I was wrong…you came
straight here!”
“Just as you wanted me to, you little…” He grinned down at her in exasperation,
but his breathlessness was not entirely on account of his recent exertions. “But now that
I’m here, what can I do …er…did you say skinny-dipping, Tripta?”
She intercepted his glance as it roamed unchecked over her peerless body. He
wondered at his own self-control, although nature was initiating the inevitable reaction…
“Not bad, huh?” Her nipples, too, stiffened involuntarily under his gaze.
“Well, I’ve seen better, but what the hell!” He was determined not to be bested.
“Now, that’s utter calumny and you know it, Mr. Weismuller. You ain’t seen
nothin’ yet.” She turned her back on him and returned to the water, her nose in the air.
He marvelled at the hourglass perfection of her smooth, shapely form as it swayed
in retreat, and found himself following her into the water.
“Hey! Now that you’ve bamboozled me into coming here to ‘rescue’ you, Tripta,
what shall it be? A spanking? No? Then, a hard twist of the ear, perhaps…?” He moved
towards her with studied deliberation.
She squealed and put her hands on his chest to push him away as her thighs
encountered the unyielding rocks behind her.
“Get thee behind me, Satan”, she joked nervously…and an instant later he had spun
her around and clasped her from the back. His arms had encircled her possessively.
“There…I’m behind you…just as you asked!” he confirmed unnecessarily. His
voice had a rough, ragged quality to it.
 51

“Let me go!” she cried, and struggled in his iron grip for a moment in pseudo-
resistance. Then she turned and melted into the circle of his arms, giddily aware of the
hardness of him along her flat belly. There: it was out in the light, a closely guarded
secret that dwelt at the core of him…she’d sensed it for quite some time…he loved her…
wanted her…
She felt an ancient tempo start up in them, pulsing, throbbing. It was a rhythm that
had been in their blood from the dawn of Time, and they were helpless before its siren
song. She gasped as he entered her, and as their bodies fused, it seemed as if all creation
hammered to the same beat with them.
It crushed them and elevated them to a timeless beat that rose to a crescendo… till
the world exploded and the quivering, pulsing fragments scattered all over a distant part
of the universe, millions of light-years away.
It was a beat that gradually settled down and cooled as it drew them back into the
blissful, soothing warmth that was the lot of the fulfilled.

*
Basking in the afterglow and with her defences down, she looked up at him, radiant
and blushing happily. She kissed him again and again and told him all the things she had
been dying to tell him. He was older, and wiser, and human like her, and he understood.
“It’s only the second time I ever…” she admitted. “The first was simply an
experiment, a rebellion, an attempt to understand what it was all about. It meant nothing
at all. I am…I’ve become very restrained. But after the…time you confessed to me that
you had planned a very rough training for me just to get rid of me, I revised my opinion
about you.”
They lay on the sand and talked, until the beat started again and they were sucked
into the maelstrom once more like twigs into a mighty whirlpool…
Later, he kissed her closed eyes as she lay exhausted on the sand. She was weak
from a surfeit of pleasure, fulfilled as never before in her life.
“Tripta, sweetheart! It’s never been that good for me, either…ever before…the rare
times when …the kind of life I lead…” Sunil whispered softly.
She felt drugged, but she opened her eyes anyway. It was worth the effort, if it
meant looking at him.
“Me, neither…it was wonderful…I feel so complete, Sunil! I never expected
anything but the worst when I came here, but I needed the exposure to animals in actual
forest conditions…”
“And which you just got in ample measure!” teased Sunil.
“Naughty!” She bit his ear playfully. “You see”…and it was her turn to confess…“I
didn’t think too highly of your much-vaunted Forest Service, what to speak of the men
who ran it…but now…for one or two persons at least…I’ve changed my mind.”
Sunil smiled, and she thought, for the hundredth time, how his face changed when
he smiled like that. He looked so boyish when the lines of responsibility were smoothed
away. He was a strange man, virile and attractive, but he had chosen this life, this lonely,
hermit-like existence, a life without a woman to call his own.
‘Perhaps he knows himself better than anyone else ‘, she thought. ‘Marriage will
cramp his style. He’s not the marrying kind’, she concluded, as she snuggled up to him.
 52

*
They were motoring along the Ranikhet-Bhowali road in the Buick when Sunil
suddenly braked and reversed. They had just passed a narrow dirt track, and now he
drove down it.
“Where are you taking us?” Tripta asked him, puzzled.
“This road leads to the ashram of a great seer,” he explained. “The chances of
finding him there are not too bright, I reckon…he seems to pop up without warning at all
sorts of places in north India, particularly Allahabad and Varanasi,” he explained. “He’s
said to have attained enlightenment. I met him once with my parents when I was a boy,
and again when I was a youth of twenty. He hadn’t aged at all. They say he has looked
the way he does for hundreds of years. He is said to have overcome the limitations of
space-time.”
He paused a little guiltily. Tripta was looking at him strangely. ‘You never told me
you were religious! Do you seriously believe all that escapist crap, that…that mumbo-
jumbo?”
Sunil did not reply immediately, deep in thought. “There are stranger things, they
say, in the mountains of Garhwal: holy caves where food and water appear instantly for
devotees who spend the night in them. Across the hills, lights are visible, glowing in the
darkness on distant mountainsides where even a chamois couldn’t find a footing. There
are tales of a huge rock that levitates by itself on the night of Shivratri,” He recounted
with wonder.
“I keep an open mind, “he admitted. “Who knows, the magic and the mumbo-
jumbo of today might turn out to be the science of tomorrow? Who am I, with my limited
knowledge, to ridicule reports of phenomena I do not understand?” he reasoned.
“That’s true,” conceded Tripta. “If we were to bump into a cave-man right now,
he’d probably take one look at you and your Smith & Wesson and Buick and think you
were a god from outer space!”
“That’s my girl!” said Sunil approvingly. “Bit tough to learn anything worthwhile
unless one cultivates an open mind.”
They were drawing up to a typical pahari dwelling-cum-temple. As they alighted
from the car, Sunil was optimistic. “Let’s hope he’s here. Somehow, my intuition tells me
he’s in…let’s find out.”
*

The great Baba (as he was called) was very much in residence. Wonder of wonders,
there were no devotees. Apparently, news of his arrival had not had time to spread. His
comings and goings were so uncertain that unless it was confirmed that he was at home,
people did not make the arduous trek to the ashram. It was therefore their immense good
fortune to get a long and undisturbed sitting with him. As usual, he was reclining on
simple jute matting, and he was wrapped in a brown homespun rug, the only ‘garment’ he
was said to ever wear.
He did not seem at all surprised to see them. To Neem Karoli Baba, time and space
had no meaning. He spoke to Sunil casually and matter-of-factly; it was as if he was
taking up a conversation that had been briefly interrupted. It was as if the intervening
twenty years were a mere wink in time. He spoke in Hindi, in the dialect of the common
man:
 53

“So, you got my message as you were going towards Bhowali?” He allowed
himself a smile. “I wanted to meet you…”
So that’s why he had suddenly braked and turned! The sudden thought that had
flashed through his mind as he had driven past the ashram had been too powerful to
ignore. So he replied just as casually. “Yes, Babaji, I heard you call and came.”
“It is good”, nodded Babaji. “I have been keeping track of you.”
Sunil looked at him uncomprehendingly. How could he have possibly done that?
“Don’t be surprised,” aid the seer, “it is not difficult, once you know how…but
leave that. I observe you have done well, and risen in your service. You are highly
regarded. You are a source of pride to your parents, both pious and righteous people. I
told them you would do them proud when you were born, when they had brought you to
me for my blessings!”
“Now listen closely…a time of great testing awaits you. It is an ancient thing; a
karmic fallout, you understand? There is much danger, but there is also scope for much
gain. This woman with you, she will stand by you, she is not unknown to you…the
timeless essence of That is of her. I received the vibrations from her before I perceived
she was with you. Your destiny has brought you together…again! You are indeed
fortunate. May you receive what you have earned.”
“Baba, I do not understand,” pleaded Sunil. “What role can she have to play in my
destiny?” he asked. “How can she be known to me…what exactly do you mean when you
say that ‘destiny has brought us together again’? I only met her four months back! She is
from England, an animal specialist, and she has been sent to me for training. What is my
link with her?”
The sage smiled.
“See, then, what she is to you,” he said, and his hand caressed Sunil’s cheek as
though he was a little child………
He was floating through mist…darkness and light alternated…moons and worlds
spun past…then galaxies…it was a breathtaking ride…to another time, another place…

No thing. Nothing. There was Nothing…at all. No light, no dark, no matter, no

thought. These things were of No thing, but were not yet. It was a nothingness so
complete it was Some Thing. Something was there. It alone was! It was all there was, the
no-thingness. It simply was, and it was also the void. The void was part of it. But was not
it.
And yet it was all things to come, the No-Thingness. It had been—was—every
thing. EveryThing. Every thing that had ever been and every thing that would ever be.
No thing decided to start now. Now…here. Nowhere. It had no address. Remember,
it simply was. It alone was, a No Thing. Where? In every where. Everywhere. And it
decided. Now Here.
Then was Light, and the light banished the Dark. A pair of opposites! Duality Be.
Duality Came. Duality became. Suddenly, there was duality in every thing, in every
where: heat and cold, light and dark, beautiful and ugly, pleasure and pain, love and
hate, small and big.
 54

The Light was of it, and it was no thing and every thing. The Light became a
metaphor for No Thing. Two small blobs of light separated from the glowing, pulsing
ball of Light. They were of it but not it, only part of it, and they felt an affinity for it…and
for each other, for they were both of it. They were both of each other, too. As well as of
No Thing.
They were one and the same, yet were not. They had a place in another Reality
now, new to them. They were two halves of a whole that wanted nothing more than to
unite. Be. Come. Become a unit. Unite. With Unity. But their new reality would not let
them. They had a purpose to fill. To the full. Fulfill. Unity in Diversity. United but untied.
The two blobs of light, bobbing around in the void, saw it all now. Every where
came to be some where. Became somewhere. They were now somewhere. It was some
thing, something that was hard, not soft, warm, not cold, it was No Thing become
something. Like them.
There was light, and air, and soon other blobs of light joined them. They began. A
long journey. Leading back ultimately to No Thing, No Where. In the future. Long ago.
But first they had to do Some Thing. Something very hard to do. They had to cloak
their light. Cover it. There’d been, so far, nobody. No Body at all. Now there were.
Bodies. The body became a garment. For the light. It was irksome at first. Then they got
used to the bodies, to being embodied.
Everybody became Some Body. The first two blobs of light also had bodies, and
they saw they were different from each other. Reality. Duality. Small, large. Soft, hard.
Rounded, angular. Smooth, rough. Gentle, harsh. Mellow, volatile. Tender, cruel. She,
He.
They were two pieces of the same whole, yet their bodies were now different, had
different purposes. They wanted to return. They stayed. Untied. No longer united. There
was Time. Time enough to return. Eons of it. Just a moment in the fabric of space-time.
First they had to understand the duality. They had things to do here. Lessons to
learn. That’s what the bodies were for. Classrooms of the soul. Learn the lessons from
pain and pleasure, rapture and retrospection, survival and surrender…………

The densely packed galactic hub, with its hundreds of millions of stars, was a ball
of solid light. Yet, within the incandescent, homogenous core, dozens of light-years
separated each individual star. But the galactic dimensions, awesome as they were, were
as mere hairsbreadths when projected against the chilling eternity of the void. No human
mind was capable of comprehending the immensity of the cosmic scale. It was ineffable.
The stars thinned out as the arms of the indescribably beautiful spiral galaxy flailed
outwards. And at the outer edge of one of the trailing arms, an insignificant little yellow
star gamely rode the giant Catherine wheel as it whirled on endlessly through space-
time…
For over four billion years now, the little yellow orb and its eight planets had
circled the radiant galactic core, circled it in twenty giant, lazy swings of 225 million
years each. The third one of its planetary family was quite different from the others, a
sparkling blue-white pearl breathtakingly silhouetted against the black velvet of deep
 55

space. For over four billion years, it had been cooling, solidifying, changing. Now its
surface fairly teemed with life.
She watched the entire drama unfold. Not a single development on the blue-white
planet escaped her notice. But to say she watched patiently would be to grossly
miscomprehend her very nature, for patience implies a sense of time. She was outside
space-time, a living being, yet neither alive nor a being in the conventional sense. She
was a thing of thought and light, far beyond geologic or cosmic realities. She was the
unthinkable timelessness that is the warp and weft of Creation.
She was the very essence of truth, light, and beauty. She was happiness, joy and
bliss. She was ethereal, yet more substantial than the densest matter. Nature and ultimate
reality were of the stuff of her. She always was and had always been. The limitless sweep
of Creation was her domain. It was all of her, and she was everywhere, all-pervading,
all- knowing.
So fundamentally was she a part of existence and non-existence that she was
beyond mortal comprehension in her present form. She was past, present and future. She
was Forever. Perpetually poised in the eternal moment, she now shimmered into material
form on the surface of the blue-white planet to keep a promise older than Time itself.

The Earth had cooled long ago, and its climate had stabilized. Lush jungles covered
the surface of the infant planet. Strange, fierce beasts roamed the ancient continents. Man
had emerged from simian obscurity, and was on the verge of embarking on a voyage of
exploration and discovery that would one day give him mastery over the cosmos.
It was a brave new world, where life and death were just concepts that never
crossed the minds of living creatures. Life was lived from moment to moment, and if
sudden death intervened, there was no time for regret. The unending cycle of Creation
turned the wheel of time as the years flew past…

The hunter padded along the jungle path. He was a magnificent specimen of his
kind, tall and lean and bronzed. He had the broad chest and powerful shoulders of the
archer, but his waist and hips were those of a famine wolf. The sinewy legs thrust him
forward in easy bounds, yet only a soft rustle betrayed his passing. He was clad simply in
a deerskin loincloth, and his feet were shod in soft, supple deerskin sandals.
Had he known how to measure his progress, he would have seen that he was
covering ground at a steady fifteen kilometers an hour. This was the hunter’s lope, a
cruising mode. He could maintain the pace for well over eight hours. It took him to game,
and brought him back to his settlement.
A gleaming recurved bow hung loosely from his left hand, and a dagger of
obsidian hung at his waist. A quiver over his right shoulder held about a dozen shafts,
tipped with razor-sharp obsidian arrowheads. He was hunting, and all his senses were at
maximum alert. He knew that it was entirely possible that something, in turn, was
hunting him.
 56

Now, as he moved swiftly down the track, he was tense: a strange, unfamiliar scent
floated to his nostrils. He gripped his bow tightly and slackened his pace slightly.
Whatever it was, it was unlike anything he had ever encountered before, and it filled him
with tension and apprehension.
He rounded a bend in the trail and found himself in a small forest glade near
the banks of a river that flowed through this part of the land. He slowed his pace even
further, and cautiously peered through the bushes towards the riverbanks.
For a moment, he stood rooted to the spot in dismay. Someone was sitting on a
rock, and gazing out over the waves. Even at this distance, he could make out the form
was female. And she was in mortal danger.
On the overhang behind, unknown to her, crouched the biggest longtoothed cat he
had ever seen. Its gaze was riveted on its prey, and there could be no doubt about what
was about to happen next. A thunderous roar would paralyze the victim, followed a split-
second later by the spring. Head crushing blows of massive paws or a fatal bite from
giant canines would do the rest.
The huge bow came up, even as an arrow appeared, in a lightning over-the-shoulder
retrieve, in his right hand. Coolly, he nocked the arrow and began the enormous pull to
full stretch. It was not an ordinary bow, and he did not know anyone who could bring it to
full draw, to the point where the flight-stabilizing duck feathers tickled the right ear. It
had taken him over a year to make it.
The gods who had descended from the sky in fire-breathing eagles had shown him
how. He had built the furnace to melt the metal ores they had given him, had blended
them as directed, and at last had the thin strips he needed.
By night, in the glow of the furnace, he had shaped one of them into a flexible arc,
with the tips curving back sharply. He had fitted the catgut bowstring to it, and made a
dozen arrows, with razor-sharp obsidian arrowheads and duck feathers at the grooved
ends, for stability in flight. Then he had made the three-day journey to the smoking
mountain to consecrate it, to offer it to the fire-gods who had once landed there.
Now the bow was about to be put to a crucial test, for the target was over a hundred
yards away, and likely to spring any second. As he drew, beads of sweat burst out on his
forehead. The enormous effort brought the blood into his face.
He ignored the strain, the bowman’s triceps of his left arm leaping into a knotted
horseshoe of rock-hard muscle. He kept on drawing, breathing deeply. And as he drew,
he prayed to the fire-gods to gift him the second-sight that would show him where the
beast would be at the moment of impact of the shaft. He would have to loose the arrow
before the beast sprang. At this range, it would take the arrow about the same time to
travel the distance as the time it took him to draw a deep breath.
Now the task was nearly done, and the sweat poured off him like rainwater running
off leaves after a shower; the recurved portions had started straightening out at last. His
breathing was very deep and rapid now, yet the arm that held the weapon was steady. He
felt the tickle of duck feathers at his ear that signaled full draw. Had he means to measure
the strain, he would have learnt that he held it at 200 pounds, approximately his own
body weight. No man had ever made such a draw.
But this was of no consequence to him, he waited for the fire god’s signal, and it
came unexpectedly as a deer suddenly exploded out of the greenery, no longer confident
of its camouflage, and dodged away over the clearing. He slackened his fingers and the
 57

shaft was gone. The recoil rocked him. He watched the projectile arc away to the spot the
fire gods had shown him inside his mind. He looked down to see that the beast had
sprung, and was in mid-flight.
Time appeared to slow down…the beast now arched its back as it prepared itself for
the shock of landing on his victim. Then the savage creature screeched and convulsed,
turning in midair, as a tiny tuft of feathers bloomed in its flanks behind the left shoulder.
It became a thing without intent, an aimless compound of fur and flesh, crashing to
earth at the woman’s feet. He marveled that she did not flinch, but gazed steadily at him
as he ran towards her. Then he saw her tense, and his mistake was borne in upon him. It
was inconceivable that he should have forgotten that the longtooths hunted in pairs.
The she-cat was coming at him from the side, in great bounds, snarling her hate. He
put another arrow to the bowstring and drew again, faster this time. He knew he had to
hurry: she was close now, and he prayed to the fire gods to guide the shaft as he released
the bowstring.
The she-cat was sliding on her side across the grass towards him, twitching in her
final agony. The arrow had pierced her heart. He watched as she stretched out, her legs
fully extended, the massive jaws with the huge incisors wide open. Then she relaxed in
death.
She was smiling at him as he went up to her. Strange! It was almost as if he knew
her. He had never seen her before. She stood loosely, her weight on one leg, the eternal
pose of the enchantress. It accentuated the feminity of her shapely legs and her sleek,
rounded hips.
His eyes widened as he approached. She was dazzlingly beautiful.
He noted her wide, generous mouth, with the laugh lines that parenthesized it. The
amazing recurved lips, so much like his bow, were parted ever so slightly to reveal pearly
teeth. Her hair was black as night, falling in heavy waves to her slim shoulders and
cascading over the swell of her ample bosom.
She came up to his shoulder, slim, alluring, paralyzing in her unworldly beauty. Her
creamy skin glowed, as if she habitually bathed in milk. He was tongue-tied. She was the
most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
As he looked down into her uptilted face, into the sparkling, mischievous brown
eyes that seemed to draw him into them, he thought she must be the most beautiful
woman who ever lived. There wafted from her a memory of the magic of spring, of apple
blossoms, of countless wildflowers. She smelt of summer breezes rushing through
pristine forests, of roses and rare spices.
It was the scent of another time…sometime, someplace…another place…where?
Somewhere! ‘That was no answer’ he thought, frustrated. Now. Here. Nowhere. He just
couldn’t remember when or where.
All he knew is that he knew she owned him. He belonged to her. And she to him. It
had been Decided. Before. It felt like coming home… his real home.
She spoke, and her voice was thrilling, musical, vibrating at the very heart of
him. He knew that voice. He had never heard it but he knew it. It was sweeter than the
song of the songbirds, more compelling than the songs of the stars. It inflamed his senses,
turning his knees to water.
 58

“You are indeed a mighty warrior, a great hunter.” She said it as a statement of fact.
“I owe you my life, Rijn.” Laughter lurked deep down in the hypnotic whirlpools of her
eyes. Why?
“How did you know me? Who are you?” he whispered.
“My name is Eterna”, she said simply.
Rijn was puzzled. He had to ask her. “Haven’t we met…before … somewhere? I
somehow… I am sure we have met each other somewhere before. But where...?”
She giggled. It caused his heart to skip a beat.
“Those lines will become very popular in days to come, Rijn! Whenever a man sees
a woman he wants to…talk to! In places men will call ‘pubs’. ”
Then she seemed to sober, to hesitate before going on.
“Perhaps. Perhaps you are… known to me…from beyond this time. During the
Great Sleep, we might have been….” She paused mysteriously. Again, that strange glitter
of mischief in the gold-flecked irises. She went on “…friends!”
“To save me, you endangered your own life. You were brave, but foolish …” She
gestured towards the second cat. That enchanting giggle again! Rijn thought he had never
heard so captivating a sound. Enraptured, he memorized it.
Then she was gone. Rijn shook himself. No, he was wide-awake. Had he dreamt it
all? But what about the two longtooths? They were no dream. Then how…what…?
Long after he lay down to sleep, he thought of his strange encounter with the
celestial Eterna. A woman of beauty and mystery, who had abruptly left him, saying they
would meet again…someday.
Rijn slept, and he dreamed she came to him in the magic moonlight, and she told
him something he would ever remember.
“Listen carefully” (she said in the dream) “Know that I watch over you and guard
you, life after life. From your loins will spring”—she seemed to choke—“a mighty
people, and from amongst them will come legendary warriors and savants. You are
valuable to the ages, and also….” She baulked, then continued “…and also to me.”
“And how will I know you, in later lives? Will you be with me at the hour of death?
Will I ever…?”, and now he stopped, for the ache in his chest, seemingly remembered
from another time, another place, threatened to overwhelm him.
“In a way,” she read his mind. “In some lives, I will come as your partner, or as
your… as your mate. But then, it will not be certain whether the mortal form I assume
will recognize you or not. It might, and it might not. It matters little. The burden of
recognition, of first contact, will always rest with you. What follows…” she shrugged.
“It will be your fate. Your karma. In some unfortunate instances, you will already
have mated before we meet. In every such case, you will be unhappy in wedlock. Again,
it will be your fate,” she explained simply. “In every life, I will come for you at the time
of nedd, and at death. I will help you shed your mortal body. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Eterna, I understand. I live only to see you, be with you.”
“But we are never really separated! I always live in your heart!” she comforted
him.
“Now I must go”, she said softly. “You will always return in one of your
descendants. Remember, I will come to you in times of greatest need, on special
occasions, and always at the hour of death.” Her form was fading.
“I love you, Eterna,” whispered Rijn, the warrior.
 59

The words spanned Time itself and traveled with her across the cosmos. They rang
in her ears down the eons, from one eternity to another. As they had always done. As they
always would.
*

Sunil opened his eyes at Tripta’s nudge. “You’re so funny!” she whispered hotly.
“One moment you’re talking to him and the next you doze off! You were out for a few
seconds…what happened?”
Sunil Chanda shook his head dazedly. “I dreamed I was an ancient hunter, rescuing
a lovely damsel—now, don’t get ideas, but she looked just like you—and…and…it was
as if I had traveled back to a distant past…and karma and rebirth, things like that.
Fantastic stuff…and it’s fading fast…”

Babaji chuckled. “There is no such thing as time, Sunil…it’s all in place already,
everything that ever happened. But we only see it a little bit at a time. Call it ‘the place-
time continuum’ if you will!” he punned, in perfect English. Sunil gawked.

“Yes, I speak English, too. What’s there to be surprised about? Language is nothing
before thought. And how did you like what you saw?” he asked jovially.

“Babaji, it was incredible…” said Sunil simply. “Can it really be that we…that you
can show me other lives?”
“I do not show them to you…I merely change your frame of reference. It is you
who does the seeing...and the experiencing,” the sage answered enigmatically. “Now I
will help you to glimpse slices of other lives you will live…now live...a foretaste of ‘other
times, other places’…” said the ageless one. He again touched Sunil’s cheek tenderly.

Excerpt from the memoirs of Promila Sen:

I’d always taken him for granted, you know. Skin your knee, and there’s Dad to
wipe the tears away and apply some ointment. Need pocket money…why, just ask Dad!
Now he’s gone. It’s hard to believe I’ll never see him again. I took care of the funeral.
My seven-year-old son, Shakti, performed the last rites of fire.
I bought a huge steel trunk and started packing away all of Dad’s stuff. The assorted
memorabilia that he’d inherited from his father, including an old recurved bow and an
antique .44 magnum Smith & Wesson revolver, I left in their glass display cabinets. It
was while I was clearing away the drawers of the desk that I found the Will, which I put
away for later. Then I found the diary.
It was thick, with a lockable pigskin cover, but it was unlocked, so I opened it. On
the inside, Dad had written me a note: ‘For my darling daughter, Promila. You will
understand, sooner or later. Your son, Shakti is blessed; he is under Her protection. After
him, perhaps, my turn will come again. It is an ancient thing. Read and understand.

Love, Dad.”
 60

I turned the diary over and over in my hands. Embossed in letters of gold on the
cover was the legend, ‘Angel Eternal’.
It took me two days to read it all. It started with this poem written by his father:

Time after Time

I carry you always in my heart,
Though the time will come when you’ll depart.
In any case, I knew thee long
Before this body came along;

I knew thee before the worlds were born,

When No Thing thought, and we were torn
Apart from Us, and launched at Earth—
Before the tempest did it’s worst!

I knew thee when the stars were young,

When Things were new and recent sprung.
My heart will learn to love the pain,
Till you and I do meet again.

You were so kind, so sweet, this time,

E’en more than last time, Angel Mine!
That blessed moment when we met
Is throbbing in my soul just yet!

So it will be when again I see

Thee, next time around, ‘cos I love thee!
So be at rest—I’ll do my best
To play the game, and pass the test.

Eons come and eons go,

And where you go, there I follow.
My soul loves thine, no matter what
The outer form I then have got.

To love the unattainable is sorrow,

New today is gone tomorrow!
But the thing inside, that’s ever new,
And that is where I do love you.

How it happened, I cannot say,

Perhaps the answer’ll come some day,
Recovered from the mists of Time,
When first I met Thee, Angel Mine!

……… Sunil Chanda

“I was sixteen when I realized he was in love with another woman. My Dad, I
mean. I thought it rather funny, you know, ha-ha funny, him being fifty and all. He
 61

looked positively antediluvian to me. In retrospect, looking back, he was still youthful, he
hadn’t run to fat, and he still retained a full head of hair with silver side-wings that were
quite captivating.
I know that many women found him attractive and were always treating him to little
home-cooked delicacies, in a maternal, nostalgic sort of way, as if he reminded them of
past boy friends. He took it all very sportingly, even joked about a little. He used to laugh
a lot.
Then came the financial crisis and all the things we took for granted, like the house,
the car, the money, everything was gone. His high-profile friends melted away. For some
reason us kids never understood, Mother had shifted to my room, and Dad slept on the
diwan in the drawing room.
He started reading books on philosophy, religion and cosmology, and all that sort of
thing. He rarely spoke, let alone laughed. Sometimes I would get up in the middle of the
night to have a drink of cold water from the fridge, and find him scribbling away on
fool’s cap paper.
We kids knew they were poems, some of them, or little articles he sent to the press,
socio-anthropological or philosophical stuff, and we thought he had hit that male
menopause thing. We vaguely guessed that he was lonely, that he meditated a lot, that he
had made for himself another world to live in that made him forget the pain, the betrayal,
the ugliness of it all. But we never realized that his dream had come through, had come
true, as he always told us dreams did, if we would only believe they were real.
It’s all mind stuff, he used to say, and we stared at him as if he was mad. How
could money, and cars, and jewellery and a house be mind-stuff? These things were hard,
tangible reality, a reality our friends reveled in. We never realized then that he was right
all along! When Mother rejected him, he let go of them in his mind, stopped wanting
them, and sure enough, the things we used to take for granted, they vanished from our
physical world as well.
Whenever he was really down, or hard-pressed over some particularly big bill, I use
to hear him muttering something that sounded like “Help me, Angel Mine!” I presumed
he was calling for help from one of the female deities of the Hindu pantheon. I never
realized the truth, and even if I’d known it, I’d never have believed it, if I hadn’t…but the
story’s running away from me.
In course of time, I grew up and married the man of my dreams. Dad was
deliriously happy...about as happy as I was, which is saying a lot. It was what he’d
always wanted, that I should find my dream man. I was in love.
I never quite realized or could ever believe that he was, too, crazy mad in love, a
love before which my own sugar-honey love paled the way sunlight negated a candle. He
had been that way a long, long, time. He was always self-effacing, scholarly, reclusive.
Only occasionally did we notice that he was in high spirits on some days. He whistled
very well, and the clear notes would drive me nuts. I’d never learned to whistle, and here
was Dad whistling ‘I was born under a wanderin’ star’ like it was from the original
sound track.
I remember Dad once telling me that he saw the new digitally enhanced version of
‘Paint your wagon’ with Mother the year he married her, and the tune held a special
significance for him. He’d been young, madly in love with his new bride, the world
 62

looked green and every lass was a queen. For him, the tune was a herald of spring, a
hymn to youth and adventure, to beauty and eternal love.
Too bad it didn’t last. Even back then, I was getting a little suspicious of life and
love, the evanescence of it all; it didn’t seem too reliable a way of living, of making it the
foundation of one’s existence, you know what I mean?
Looking back, his whistling that old tune all over the place should have rung a bell.
He looked so happy. Of course he was, he had no reason not to, he was in love. I had
always tried to analyze love, to reduce it to its irreducible components. I found that it had
no simple definition, that it meant different things to different people. Often, these things
were diametrically opposed! It was so confusing! But the poems and articles in the
computer in the computer went from two to sixty-two. We never guessed he was writing
a book!
He had slaved away at the keyboard whenever I allowed him near it. I’d never
expected to get my own computer, our financial situation being somewhat stringent, if
you catch the drift. Dad pulled it off somehow. I think he took on some part-time work to
pay for that old Pentium II. In any event, the good deed returned to him, as you’ll see.
Everyone humored him, even Mother, who only asked him to stick to his ETD, so
that I could maintain my study schedule. No one bothered about the copyright attorney’s
grubby postcard mentioning a date and reference number. And especially no one
bothered when the publisher’s letter came. I think we had sort of written Dad off as a has-
been, like he was an Old Dobbin, over the hill and put out to pasture!
Dad opened the letter, glanced at it briefly, then folded it and put it away in his
pocket. No one wanted those sad little poems, we guessed. Out of deference to his newest
failure, the subject was classified as a ‘no-no’, and was never brought up.
Then one day Mother was again screaming at him because I’d been selected for
admission to a coveted Fine Arts graduate degree program in a prominent Northwestern
United States university, and where the hell was the twenty five thousand dollars going to
come from. And he’d like just coolly pulled out his chequebook and written her a cheque
for 1,250,000 rupees!
Then it all came out; the book was the source of this largesse, the runaway best
seller he’d written under the pseudonym ‘B. Bushman’, the book titled ‘Across the Eons’.
I couldn’t believe it, it was the book to be seen reading in college, a cult book, on
the best seller lists for quite some time now, in its second or third printing, translated into
a dozen languages!
It was a fascinating account of Dad’s life, his personal way of looking at things, and
about someone devastatingly lovely who had inspired him to work like a man possessed.
It was the right book at the right time: it had clicked… and how! There was talk of
making a movie based on it!
But that’s all it was, I assured myself firmly, a string of tall tales written by a
lonely, introspective man that had struck a responsive chord in the hearts of millions of
readers and swept the charts, a dark horse that had come out of nowhere, a last hurrah
that had hit the jackpot!
How he had preserved his anonymity right through it all, I’ll never know. The Press
had never managed to pierce the wall of obscurity he hid behind. I had hugged him, and
he’d ruffled my hair, smiling sadly, folded his chequebook and walked away.
 63

I returned from Washington in the winter of 2029, and found he’d aged. He was
nearly seventy then, and the years had slowed him down a bit. Perhaps Mother’s going
had hit him harder than he cared to show.
It was October, I remember, and I took a week off and we went to Naini Tal, a little
hill station, as they call these places in India. We rowed about lazily on the lake, and he
would point out the places under the weeping willows where his Dad and he used to fish.
He showed me yet again the exact spot, opposite the Governor’s boathouse, where a huge
Mahaseer fish had leapt right out of the water and fallen half across their boat, nearly
capsizing it.
That last night, he didn’t seem sleepy. We sat on the verandah of Grand Hotel that
the Chandas had patronized for generations and talked and talked! We admired the little
reflections that made the lake at night a place of mystery and magic. We listened with
delight to the soft tinkling of distant temple bells, carrying clearly across the waves. It
was past midnight when we turned in. I slept in the bed near the window, but he preferred
the one nearer the bathroom.
I don’t recall what time it was when I awoke; it could have been about three. The
room was flooded with light. Dad was sitting up in bed, holding out his arms to her. She
was dazzling; I mean literally, the light hurt my eyes.
She was asking him if he was ready, in sweet, clear tones. I remember his answer,
in a surprisingly young voice, full of joy and triumph and peace:
“I am ready, Eterna, Angel Mine!”
“Then come to me!” she said, and the light faded as Dad seemed to… I can’t quite
explain it, like he sort of rose up and merged with her. Then his body fell back. I thought
I was dreaming till I switched on the lights and felt for his pulse. There wasn’t any. The
coroner’s report merely said ‘sudden cardiac arrest’.”

Sunil came out of his trance a second time to find Tripta regarding him with a
worried expression on her face. “Are you feeling alright? You dozed off again…?”
Babaji grinned. “Well, Sunil? Did it make any sense…this time?”
“No, Babaji—forgive me—but it didn’t! How could the diary of an unborn girl
reveal a poem I never wrote, and speak of a son I do not have?”
The sage smiled mischievously. “You will write that poem, Sunil. Just as you will
have a son…you cannot see him right now, but he is there. He is her gift to you…” he
added softly, with a sideways glance at Tripta. She blushed prettily.
“It is good the line goes on through you,” he told her “otherwise this man would
have done little ...if anything...to keep it going,” he chuckled.
“In the far distant future, Tripta, as well as the near one—as you understand these
things—you have a major role to play in his life”, the Baba said serenely. “See for
yourselves, the two of you…” Time jumped forward into itself, and into another age…
*

The police hover-cruiser paid scant attention to the old beggar as he limped along,
bent with age. His clothes hung in tatters around him, and he looked like he hadn’t had a
bath in years.
 64

‘He must smell something powerful’ thought the Captain, wrinkling his nose in
disgust. ‘There’s no point in picking him up and taking him in for vagrancy. He’ll stink
up the squad car’.
They’d just be doing him a good turn: a free bed and dinner. No way the state
wanted to lavish its largesse on such social debris. So they just did a remote scan on him
for any hidden hardware, and finding none, moved off.
They never noticed that he ducked into an alley and ran swiftly down a flight of
stairs into a basement. They did not see him open the rusty hatch-cover of an old sewer
and after crawling inside, make his way down a secret tunnel that led from it into an ante-
chamber with an iron portcullis at the other end that lifted at his approach.
He straightened to his full height as hidden SelecEyes identified him by ultra-
sonically scanning his DNA and brain waves. Then a soft chime sounded, and one of the
wall-panellings slid back to reveal a VistaScreen. It showed a subterranean cavern, in
which a factory of some kind was functioning. A plump, red-faced man came hurrying up
to him.
“Valthor! By Neptune, it’s good to see you! We feared the worst! You have been
gone for two weeks! What news do you bring? But here, don’t mind me…you must be
dying to have a bath first, and get into uniform.”
“Wispin! It’s great to see you again! I’ll be with you shortly…” said Valthor as he
went through a side door into his office.
‘Phew! Valthor smells awful!’ Wispin thought, as he pinched his nostrils between
thumb and forefinger. ‘The things he does to get information about that document…!’
Valthor’s daring, his craftiness, and his skill with disguises were legendary. As he
showered and donned his uniform, that of a General of the Contra Air Forces, he was
momentarily overcome by a fit of depression. Yet again, the informant hadn’t made it to
the rendezvous. She was supposed to meet him and pass him information about The
Document. Valthor had waited in the public bomb-shelter till it became too risky to be
seen there any longer.
“She didn’t turn up, Wispin. So much for your intelligence sources! But I’m not
beaten yet. I didn’t set up that secret weapons factory on Mars for nothing. I’ll find some
other way to…”
The MultiVox on his wrist emitted a soft beep and the screen lit up “Valthor! It’s
me, Anaimon!” Anaimon was his chief agent on Mars.
“There’s a woman here who has important information regarding the doc…uh…the
item you seek. You can contact her on…(here he gave a URN, a universal reference
number). You can do it from any public Visichat; but be careful! It may be a trap…” The
picture on the screen faded.
It was the Earth year 10324, and man had reached a pinnacle of technical
knowledge. But that very technology had made men pawns in the hands of a dictator,
Warburn. He had destroyed much of the liberal heritage that was Man’s legacy.
Ideological brainwashing was his forte.
Warburn had stifled the march of the human mind towards frontiers that had been
sensed ever since the near-merger of physics and metaphysics. Single-handedly, he had
brought the evolution of the human race to a standstill…
 65

But in spite of the systematic annihilation of any literature and oral traditions that
spoke of human and democratic values, there was said to remain one last copy of the
most vital document of all. If anything could topple Warburn, it was that sacred script.
Though he hadn’t the faintest notion as to the precise nature of its contents, or even
whether the mythical document existed at all, Valthor had searched for it for nearly
twenty years, ever since he had deserted from the Air Force and joined the Contras.
Could the enemy forces be aware of his obsession with the scroll and be laying a
trap for him? It was entirely possible. But it was a chance he had to take. He disguised
himself as an industrial worker with a severe arm injury, and concealed a small
‘ParalRay’stun gun in the bandages. It was made of a man-made crystalline substance
that was harder but lighter than any Titanium-Vanadium-Tantalum (TVT) alloy.
Moreover, it did not show up on police remote scans.
The Contra forces had a technological edge over the Régime. Many top research
scientists and inventors had joined them, keen as they were on intellectual freedom and
human rights. It made up somewhat for the vast inequality in their numbers.
Overwhelmingly outnumbered by Government forces, the Contras managed to hold their
own on account of this technological superiority. But in order to maintain the pace of
recruitment as well as to press for a conclusion to the hundred-year stalemate, a major
breakthrough was needed.
‘If I can find the scroll…’ thought Valthor wistfully, as he hurried into a Visichat
and keyed in the URN. Instantly the screen lit up, and a hooded figure spoke
“…I have waited very long here, so I will be brief.” The voice was digitally
encrypted. It was impossible to tell whether it was a man’s or a woman’s.
“You will meet me alone at–—(coordinates of a place on Mars followed)—and I
will give you the exact location of the…the item. The RV—the rendezvous—is three
earth days from today. Do not fail me, Valthor!” commanded the hollow voice. Then the
screen went blank.
*

Instead of teleporting down to the surface, Valthor decided to take a chance and
land. In case he had to leave in a hurry, he didn’t want to be subject to the delays inherent
in initiating a teleport sequence…it might mean the difference between capture and
escape…
His tiny two-man SpaceSchooner was a scaled-down version of a full-fledged
starfighter, right down to the miniature LethaRay guns fore and aft. Only the drive unit
was oversized, disproportionate in size to the rest of the craft. It could touch Warp
Twelve within one onboard hour. It boasted of a photon-drive auxiliary unit in case a
long space-trek at near light-speed became necessary. It even had a small but ultra-
powerful BlokShok super-radar jamming device that would conceal its presence in the
skies over the Red Planet.
Seven thousand years ago, man had managed to liberate the water that flowed deep
under the Martian surface. The polar icecaps had grown back and now played a major
role in regulating the planet’s climate. Thereafter, it had taken another five thousand
years to install an atmosphere that freely supported Terran lifeforms.
Mars had huge deposits of valuable ores including iron, uranium, silicon, bauxite,
wolfram, titanium, platinum and strontium. It was criss-crossed with subterranean
 66

waterways that were far more efficient than surface transport for bulk movement of
personnel and materials.
It was not for nothing that Valthor had chosen Mars as the site for his weapons
factory, apart from its proximity to Earth. Labour, raw materials, energy, premises,
patronage…all were available. The government of Mars, though part of a loose
confederation of the four planets (Earth, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn), always maintained a
careful neutrality about events on Earth.
But Valthor also happened to know that Severna (the enigmatic ruler of Mars,
whose face was unknown to any outside her immediate circle) had a soft corner for the
resistance fighters of Earth. There was a reason…
In the early days, when Mars was being developed for colonization, men had again
reverted to the age-old means of recruitment. They had made Mars the prison planet.
Political dissidents, criminals and other outcasts of Earth society were press-ganged into,
or sentenced to, hard labour on Mars. It was what men in the ancient country of England
had done when they had settled the Australian continent.
Mars had a tradition of maverick unconventionality and contempt for Terrans,
analogous to the attitude of the early Australians towards England. It was hardly
surprising, therefore, that the Martian authorities turned a blind eye to Valthor’s activities
as long as he did nothing to destabilize Martian society.

A cool, fresh breeze came off the vast inland sea on Mars as Valthor waited on the
rocky shore for his unknown ally. He was hidden in vegetation behind a large boulder,
from where he could take an occasional peep if his Warn-a-Man failed him. He had to be
able to see who was coming before the person became aware of his presence. It was with
some dismay, therefore, that he realised that a figure had silently teleported to within ten
feet of where he crouched.
He was hardly immune to feminine beauty. Valthor admitted that to himself
candidly. And this one was a looker. Waves of wind-swept, jet-black hair, parted in the
middle, framed an oval face. The eyes were large and serious, with golden flecks in the
dark-brown irises that betrayed a mischievous nature.
‘Intelligent…and mischievous’, thought Valthor.
The wide, generous mouth spoke of a softer side to her. Parenthesized by laugh
lines, the lips themselves were sheer poetry: the upper lip was as full as the lower and
curved back on itself to form a sharp ridge of desire—a rare feature he particularly liked
—and one he had never actually noticed before in a girl. A small black mole near the
upper left corner enhanced the smouldering sensuality of the gorgeous lips.
It all crystallized into a naturally pouting, sultry mouth, the sort that SensaGirls on
Earth invoke cosmetically. A jaw-line that was aggressively sensual underscored the
peerless perfection of her visage. Her small, even teeth were pearly white, and her ears
were small and shell-like, with tiny lobes in each of which nestled a small diamond set in
platinum. They sparkled as they caught the light.
She had a swan-like neck, slim and graceful but entirely proportionate to the width
of her face. Lower down, Valthor could see the beginning of a deep V: her full bosom
swelled and stretched the thin sleeveless vest to its limits. The stiff nipples jutted
 67

rebelliously against the flimsy material. The effect of the unexpectedly large breasts on
so slim a body was a visual oxymoron that bludgeoned the observer’s senses.
Valthor shook his head dazedly. Where…when…had he…but no, it wasn’t
possible, he had never met her before. Then why did he have this strange feeling that they
had met…another time, another place…?
She was smiling at him. He noticed she had lovely dimples in her cheeks: “Valthor!
Greetings from Severna! She asks me to tell you that the scroll you seek is very close to
you, although you do not realize it now”.
As he looked down into her uptilted face, into the sparkling, mischievous brown
eyes that seemed to draw him into them, he thought she must be the most beautiful
woman who ever lived. There wafted from her a memory of the magic of spring, of apple
blossoms, of countless wildflowers. She smelt of summer breezes rushing through
pristine forests, of roses and rare spices.
It was the scent of another time…sometime, someplace…another place…where?
Somewhere!
‘That’s no answer’ he thought, frustrated. Now. Here. Nowhere. He just couldn’t
remember when or where. He was baffled.
She spoke, and her voice was thrilling, musical, vibrating at the very heart of
him. He knew that voice. He had never heard it but he knew it. It was sweeter than the
song of the songbirds, more compelling than the songs of the stars. It inflamed his
senses…
“I’m afraid I do not understand. Are you trying to tell me, er…?”
“Superna. I am Severna’s best friend.”
“As I was saying, Superna, I was given to understand that Severna herself was to
keep this rendezvous? Why a replacement?” he asked suspiciously.
“Because…” she looked up into his face…‘He’s so tall!’ she thought with some
surprise. She had somehow imagined him to be squat and darkly ferocious…“because the
information you seek is so sensitive that she felt that she couldn’t possibly delegate the
task to another.”
“But…” prompted Valthor, puzzled.
She was amused at his impatience “…but, as you can see, she was called away at
the last moment, and there was no one else she could trust this job with, so…”
“I see. Well, please give her Valthor’s thanks…but I need you to be a little more
precise in your instructions,” said Valthor cautiously.
“Then come with me. I will take you to where it is lying.”
Valthor hesitated. He was on his guard…there was a price on his head, back on
Earth. She could be a traitor, for all he knew…
She laughed, reading his mind, woman-like. “Here… my credentials!” she said, and
pulled up a pendant that had so far been concealed in her bosom at the end of a thin
platinum chain.
Valthor sucked in his breath sharply. It was a huge pearl the size of a plum. But it
was not the size that was startling, it was its colour. For the pearl was crimson…the
fabled Red Pearl of Mars! It belonged to Severna: everyone knew that. It was unique.
There was none other like it…unless this one was a fake…He extended his hand.
“Go ahead, Valthor, see if it’s genuine!” There was laughter in her voice. She took
off the chain and gave it to him.
 68

Valthor took the pearl in his hands. It was still warm from its cozy bed in the deep
valley of her bosom. He rubbed it across his teeth, and felt the chalkiness of calcium on
calcium…it seemed to be genuine! He scanned it with the Fakefinder, then nodded,
satisfied.
“Let us go, then,” he said simply.
She smiled. “It was a test. You really are Valthor. You see, I too, had to be sure.
Only a man who feared treachery would part a woman from her jewelry…and proceed to
brush his teeth with it!” She was enjoying it. “Not that I haven’t scanned you!”
Valthor made as if to return the Red Pearl.
She shook her head. “Severna asked me to give it to you. Inside it is a holographic
record of the script you seek. It was taken from one of the early ‘settlers’ and later
implanted in the pearl holo-digitally. Its secret is impossible to access without a digital
player and the correct keyword…”
“Which is…?” he enquired, intrigued.
Superna smiled in delight. “It is your name, Valthor. You, yourself, are the key to
the mystery.” She trilled her laughter, unaware of the storm of emotions it awoke in his
chest.
“Why, Severna?” he placed his hands on her slim shoulders, “why did you use my
name as the code?”
“The name’s Superna” she said coolly.
“Oh no, it isn’t, Severna. Valthor thanks you for coming personally.” Then his lips
crushed down on hers.
“Let me go!” she cried, and struggled in his iron grip for a moment in pseudo-
resistance. Then she turned and melted into the circle of his arms, giddily aware of the
hardness of him along her belly. There: it was out in the light, a closely guarded secret
that dwelt at the core of him…she’d sensed it moments after they’d met…he loved her…
wanted her…it was so weird…she felt this overpowering attraction, too…and he a
complete stranger. Or was he…? Then they were in each other’s arms, pressing closer…
She gasped as he entered her, felt an ancient tempo start up in them, pulsing,
throbbing. It was a rhythm that been in their blood from the dawn of Time, and they were
helpless before its siren song. As their bodies fused and came apart only to fuse again, it
seemed as if all creation hammered to the same beat with them.
The ecstasy…it crushed them and elevated them to a timeless beat that rose to a
crescendo… till the world exploded and the quivering, pulsing fragments scattered all
over a distant part of the universe, light-years away.
It was a beat that gradually settled down and cooled as it drew them back into the
blissful, soothing warmth that was the lot of the fulfilled.

Severna leaned back, satisfied with the way the apparatus had been set-up. She
placed the Red Pearl in the receptacle of the machine and punched some buttons. “Now
that we’ve keyed in your name, Valthor, watch carefully…the script ought to appear in a
few moments…”
 69

Valthor grunted as alphabets materialized in the air in front of them. They were
light gray, then darkened as words began to form. He held his breath as they came into
sharp focus…
Someone had interposed a pre-script, a personal message:

‘Know ye men of a future time that we, too, were once enslaved like you. Then
came a messiah, a champion of human liberty, in the early history of our great country.
His life, and his mighty works, gave us fresh hope, too.
They gave us the courage to dare believe in a future where all men would be
brothers, working shoulder to shoulder as equals towards a common destiny. Only a few
of his words could be saved…may they also inspire you to strive tirelessly till men are
free once more…’
Then the text followed. Severna and Valthor, sitting close together, hand in hand,
read them, fascinated…

Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, 19 November 1863

“Four-score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth

on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated
to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are
engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation or any
nation so conceived and so dedicated can long endure. We are
met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate
a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here
gave their lives that this nation might live. It is altogether fitting
and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we
cannot dedicate — we cannot consecrate — we cannot hallow —
this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here,
have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract.
The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here,
but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living,
rather, to be here dedicated to the unfinished work which they
who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for
us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us —
that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that
cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion —
that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in
vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of
freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for
the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

*
 70

“Abraham Lincoln’s ‘Gettysburg Address’…” Severna said wonderingly, as

Valthor sat lost in admiration. “What a great man he seems to have been. I wish we could
have got to know more about him. This speech…it could be the most stirring delivery
ever made,” she whispered. “It’s bound to turn the tide in your favour, Valthor. I am so
happy for you…us.” She was jubilant.
Valthor tensed… “Wait, Severna…there’s more…”
More words were appearing, words that revealed themselves in the process of
digital replay…
“We the People of the United States, in Order to form a
more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic
Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the
general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to
ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this
Constitution for the United States of America….”

The ancient voice of Liberty, unmuzzled at last, boomed and echoed across the
centuries...
*

Valthor was at peace. It had been a short, hurricane campaign, but they had ousted
Warburn. The message of the Red Pearl had done it. Thousands had deserted Warburn as
they answered the call of liberty, and Warburn’s remaining forces had soon been
encircled…his propaganda machine ran out of steam and collapsed.
“It worked, Severna,” he murmured, as she lay blissfully within the circle of his
possessive arms. “The power of words can never be underestimated.”
“It took voices from the past to reshape the future,” marveled Severna. “Our future,
Valthor” she added, as she eagerly brought her lips to his for the nuptial kiss…

She felt the ancient tempo start up in them, pulsing, throbbing. It was a rhythm that
been in their blood from the dawn of Time, and they were helpless before its siren song.
She gasped as he entered her, and as their bodies pulsed out their love, it seemed as if all
creation hammered to the same beat with them.
The ecstasy…it crushed them and elevated them to a timeless beat that rose to a
crescendo… till the world exploded and their quivering, pulsing fragments scattered all
over a distant part of the universe, light-years away.
It was a beat that gradually settled down and cooled as it drew them back into the
blissful, soothing warmth that was the lot of the fulfilled.
Deep inside them, they sensed the timelessness of it, that it had happened before…
and that it would happen again…and again. The stars twinkled indulgently at them,
knowing the truth of it…

Sunil Chanda shivered in the chill dawn air. Tripta poured him a cup of coffee from
the thermos flask as they watched the sun come up over the jungle from their high
 71

vantage point on the machan. For three straight nights, they had sat up for the tiger over a
tethered live bait, a buffalo calf, but without success.
“It seems he’s developed a taste for human flesh, Honeybaby,” said Sunil. “There’s
only one way to flush him out…”
“You mean, make yourself a bait for him, don’t you?” exclaimed Tripta.
Sunil nodded. “It’s the only way. No one else is going to take the chance…”
“But that doesn’t mean you have to go and commit hara-kiri, Sunil. I won’t let you
do it!” she protested hotly.
“Someone’s got to do it, sweetheart. Why not me? I’m a passable shot, I know these
jungles and I know a little about this tiger by now. I promise I’ll take as few risks as
possible…”
It was impossible to dissuade him, once he’d made up his mind. She knew him well
enough by now to know that Sunil Chanda was not the sort of man to make others take
risks he wouldn’t take himself. But making oneself a live-bait for a man-eater...it was too
much!
Sunil outlined his plan to improve the odds in his favour: he would not give the
tiger the advantage of darkness, for one. Posing as a woodcutter, he hoped to lure the
tiger to him during daylight hours by replicating the sounds a woodcutter would normally
make. He would actually use an axe—one-handed, on a log—the other hand would, of
course, hold his rifle. Out of the tiger’s dozen victims so far, four of them had been
people chopping wood in the forest.
Secondly, he planned to choose the location carefully. It had to be a clearing, with
at least forty or fifty feet of open ground between him and the jungle, to give him an
unobstructed view and a clean arc of fire.
Thirdly, he meant to ensure that a light carpet of dry, crackling leaves was spread
all around him, extending deep into the forest cover. This would make it very difficult for
the tiger to creep up on him silently.
Fourthly, he planned to have a camouflaged barricade (which would be nothing but
the machan recycled in a new role) put up behind him, to avoid being taken by surprise
from the rear.
Tripta had to admit that his plan did not appear to have any obvious loopholes.
Reluctantly, therefore, she gave in.
*

Sunil Chanda’s misgivings started with the storm that sprang up in the afternoon.
He suddenly had a bad feeling about the whole thing. The carpet of dry leaves was being
blown away, robbing him of his improvised early-warning system. As if that wasn’t
enough, the screen fashioned from the machan swayed alarmingly in the gale, straining
against its moorings. It was not safe to stand close to it, for it could come crashing down
on him anytime.
The wind howled through the forest. Trees bent and swayed in the tempest. If the
tiger were creeping up on him now, he would never hear it. Holding the axe in his left
hand, he brought it down sharply on the log in front of him, keeping his rifle ready in his
tight hand.
He started…what was that? It sounded like the crunch of a heavy body on dry
leaves. He slitted his eyes against the wind …it was laden with dust. His eyes were
 72

smarting...streaming. He lowered the axe for a moment to rub a hand across them…just
as there was a rush of movement to his left.
He brought up the rifle as best he could. It was a blurred, bounding form, a striped
thing of gold and yellow…coming fast at him, a swift, deadly, silent executioner…
He fired, and it rolled, roaring hideously, biting at its foreleg where the bullet had
struck. Then it regained its feet and came on again, limping grotesquely. He fired again,
and missed…it was almost on him now. He dropped the rifle and clawed for the Smith &
Wesson…too late…
There was a thunderous report from somewhere behind him…as if from a height…
The carnivore stopped dead in its tracks. A third eye had opened in its forehead, a deep,
hollow, sightless eye, oozing dark red…
The man-eater toppled over on its side and stretched to its fullest length. The huge
mouth yawned, exposing the giant canines, and the pink tongue curled back in a rictus of
death. Then the giant body relaxed as life departed.
“Really, Mr. Chanda! What a time for you to attend to your mascara!” There was an
undercurrent of hysteria in her voice.
“Tripta! Where did you spring from…?” Sunil was flabbergasted, shaking with
relief.
“You didn’t think I was going to let you have all the fun, did you, now, ole’ man?”
she said as she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him fiercely. “So me an’ my
good old 30/06 decided to sit in a tree and watch what happened…lucky you!”
He kissed her gratefully. “You saved my life, Honeybunch. You’re an angel! What
a fantastic shot!” He kissed her as she melted into his arms.
“Where did you learn to shoot like that?” he asked, puzzled. None of the ladies he’d
known would ever touch a gun.
“Oh, guns! Dad was a gun-nut! In his spare time, he was always messing around on
some shooting range or the other…with me in tow, naturally. After a while, I started
picking up a bit here, a bit there…” Tripta explained.
“You shot it plumb between the eyes…from a swaying tree!” Sunil marvelled.
“If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I’d never have believed it! I always said you were
unique, Honeybunch! There’s no one like you, Precious; you know that, don’t you? There
never was, and there never will be, either.”
Sunil hugged her tightly, kissing her passionately. She was…she was life itself to
him.
“Flatterer! There’d better not be…otherwise I’ll tell your son what a philanderer
his father was!”
There were tears in her eyes. It had been a very close thing.

They got married quietly that very month. They couldn’t wait any longer. The
celebrations that had followed the extermination of the man-eater were over at last; Sunil
and Tripta had re-directed the hundred thousand rupees cash reward from the government
to Jagat Singh’s family. Then followed the reception at Lucknow, and the congratulations
of his colleagues.
 73

The Chief was delighted. “I’ve never seen a better pair, ever. No wonder Sunil
waited this long…the crafty fellow! And we thought he’d never marry! Well done for
bagging two tigers, Tripta!” It was the happiest of occasions. Then it was time for their
honeymoon.
After much arguing, they decided to drive up to Devaprayag via Pauri, to the place
beyond the little hamlet of Byasghat where a torrent met the Ganges in a cataclysmic
union. It was at this spot that Sunil had once hooked and landed a sixty-pound mahaseer.
He was keen to share these memories with her, show her where it actually happened.
Like all lovers, having shared their minds and bodies, they now shared their experiences
as they bared their souls to each other.
They motored up into the breathtaking beauty of Garhwal, still relatively free from
tourist traffic. This was rugged country. Byasghat was still a little hole in the ground.
They left the Buick with the village headman and trekked off into the mountains. There
were several camping spots in the area, and the hills were dotted with caves and
subterranean tunnels which Sunil had often wanted to explore.
Remains of civilizations going back to the Stone Age or even earlier had been
found in the area, but the Department of Archaeology continued to be obsessed with the
century-long excavations for the remains of the Indus Valley civilization. It was a galling
reminder of the motivated priorities set by the mandarins in their ivory towers…

They were resting in a cave after seeing the great confluence where Sunil had
caught the mighty fish. Tripta was not surprised at the sandy floor, and the seashells in
the sand. She knew that, millennia ago, the Himalayas had been under the sea. The lovers
lay in each other’s arms on a sandy bed that had been the bottom of an ocean 60 million
years in the past! It was a reminder of the dynamic continuity that was another name for
nature.
They had feasted off roasted partridge that Sunil had shot with the .12 bore. He had
left the .375 Holland & Holland magnum behind. A .12 bore was a far more versatile
weapon if only a single gun was allowed. They’d had to keep weight to a minimum, since
they had to carry it all on their own backs.
Sunil had not allowed Tripta to backpack more than 25 pounds. It was only the
second month of her pregnancy, but there was no point in taking any unnecessary risks.
As a result, his rucksack weighed nearly 80 pounds. Now, more than ever before, he was
glad of the months of hard work, the colossal amount of energy he’d expended on
Tripta’s training assignment. He had become very fit in the process, and it was paying off
now.
He never ceased to marvel at his wife’s qualities…there were worlds within worlds
in her. The more he got to know her, the more he realized how little he knew her. No
sooner did he imagine that he’d got her range—had managed to figure out how her mind
worked—than she went off at a tangent, came up with something that knocked the wind
out of his sails. It was exactly as if he had stepped through into an ‘Alice in Wonderland’
kind of universe, where the unexpected was to be expected.
In fact, when once they had exchanged their personal lists of twenty-five favourite
books, she’d told him that she had “learnt a lot, believe me”, from Lewis Carroll’s book.
 74

To Sunil, however—not exactly the literary type—it was simply a children’s book, an
opium-inspired fantasy. Another thing about her was her allergy to having her picture
taken. He didn’t have a single photograph of her.
“If you truly love me, you don’t need my portrait,” she always insisted.
He had to admit that she was right. He had at least a million ‘photographs’ of her
burned forever into his mind and heart. No album could ever hope to compare with the
chemical memory banks of his brain, with the endless variety of images of this
incomparably beautiful woman, in full colour, supported by audio-visual-sensory inputs.
She had been right, as usual. With Tripta, surprises always lay just around the corner…
She was by far the most utterly fascinating person he had ever met. She was as
comfortable in a ballroom as she was in a tent. She could adjust gracefully to any
situation, supremely adaptable. Her knowledge of things was encyclopedic, and she was
the first woman he’d ever met who was as beautiful inside as she was outside.
He was convinced that she was the most beautiful woman who’d ever lived. That
he, of all people—an obscure forest officer—had married this dazzling beauty, this pearl
beyond price, was a fact that never failed to amaze him.
Making love to her was a mind-blowing experience. She was imaginative,
aggressive, sensual and daring in bed, anticipating his needs and dovetailing them with
her own perfectly. Loving a woman this beautiful and intelligent was the ultimate
experience, Sunil realized. Beauty alone was not enough for complete connubial bliss;
but when one’s partner was on one’s mental wavelength, sex could be a perfect corollary
to love, transforming it into a deeply satisfying and ennobling experience. Love was the
catalyst, the magic ingredient that elevated the physical act to a spiritual level.
Sunil Chanda’s love for his wife transformed him like nothing had ever done
before. He loved her so completely that he couldn’t imagine how he had lived so long
without her. He lived, breathed, and dreamed Tripta; she was that deeply embedded in
him now.
*

She nudged him. “Have you noticed that there’s a draught in this cave, Sunil? That
means that somewhere at the back, there’s an opening that allows cross-ventilation. Let’s
explore, Darling!”
He lit the hurricane lantern, and as they went deeper into the cave, they realized that
it was opening into a vast cavern. There were traces of early human habitation in the form
of old campfires, crude stone hand-tools, bits of debris that included bones of long-
extinct animals that those early men had hunted and eaten.
‘It’s a pre-Stone Age site, Sunil! Hey! What’s that?” Tripta pointed.
In a corner, the skeleton of a man sat on the sandy floor, his back resting against the
rocky wall of the cavern. In his prime, he must have been a mighty hunter, for the
shoulders were wider than average, with long, powerful arms. In life, he had been over
six feet tall.
An obsidian dagger hung at his waist, and there were the recognizable remains of a
quiver with some obsidian arrowheads lying on the ground near him. There was a gaping
wound in the chest, the obvious cause of death.
 75

“Sabre-tooth tiger, probably,” exclaimed Tripta. “A prehistoric hunter, complete

with his weapons.” Her excitement was palpable. “But where’s his bow, Sunil? There are
lots of arrowheads and even the remnants of a quiver…”
Sunil knelt and peered closely at the earth near the ancient hunter. There was an
irregularity, a sort of wave in the pattern of the floor… his fingers probed the dirt
carefully, moving it aside, uncovering something that gleamed dully metallic, an arc of
death.
“A recurved bow?” Tripta yelped in surprise. “But I thought the recurved bow was
invented in medieval times! By archers on horseback on the steppes of what is now the
USSR!” Tripta’s knowledge was astonishing.
“They needed a short, extremely powerful bow that was the answer to large, woolly
beasts such as Yak and Bison…and, of course, its superior penetrating power made
chain-mail and plate-mail armour obsolete.” She examined the weapon. “It’s made from
some unknown metal! Can you identify it, Sunil?”
Sunil shook his head pessimistically. “Something tells me that even chemical
analysis will not reveal its constitution…remember the Iron Pillar that stands in the open
near Delhi’s Qutub Minar? It never rusts or corrodes. No one knows who made it or
when…or even the alloy it’s cast from. Scientists have thrown in the towel,” Sunil
mused.
“This bow—it belonged to a pre-Stone Age man, Tripta. That’s the wonder of it! Do
you really think he could have made it all by himself, without outside intervention? From
a metal that hasn’t rusted for thousands of years in this damp cave?”
“You used the words ‘Outside intervention’ (as usual, she had latched on to the key-
words like a limpet mine to the side of a warship), Sunil. Are you seriously suggesting
that an alien agency gave it to him?” She was incredulous.
“Can’t see what else it could have been, angel. Metalworking was unknown in his
era. If he knew metalworking, he’d have a metal dagger, metal arrowheads—why just the
bow?” He shrugged. “We’ll never know for sure, I suppose.”
He took the bow to the front of the cave, cleaned it up and fitted a bowstring he
braided from three lengths of 100-pound breaking strain nylon monofilament fishing line.
He drew it experimentally…

He ignored the strain, the bowman’s triceps of his left arm leaping into a knotted
horseshoe of rock-hard muscle. He kept on drawing, breathing deeply...Now the task
was nearly done, and the sweat poured off him like rainwater running off leaves after a
shower; the recurved portions had started straightening out at last.
His breathing was very deep and rapid now, yet the arm that held the weapon was
steady. He felt the tickle of duck feathers at his ear that signaled full draw. Had he means
to measure the strain, he would have learnt that he held it at 200 pounds, approximately
his own body weight. No man had ever made such a draw.

“Good heavens, Sunil! You’re sweating like a pig! Is it that hard to draw?” Tripta
was impressed by his effort.
Sunil let go of the bowstring: it twanged emptily. The bow snapped back to shape,
rocking him.
 76

“It is, rather. But it’s a fabulous weapon, honey. I don’t know why, but I’ve become
rather attached to it. I think I’ll keep it.”
“Lets call it a day, darling. I’m tired…”
Sunil was immediately contrite. “Wow, Honeybunch, I’ve been fooling around too
long with this bow! You must be all done in. Let me rub your feet.”
She loved him to rub her feet. Her tiredness always went away when he did that.
Sunil took off her socks, her light canvas shoes, and her jeans. Putting her bare feet in his
lap, he rubbed a herbal-based moisturizer into the smooth skin.
“Mmmmmm…that feels good…so good!” she murmured, as he massaged her soles
and instep. In the flickering light of the lantern, her lovely white-and-pink feet looked so
helpless…he bent his head and kissed them, licking and nibbling the lovely toes, the soft
flesh around the instep and soles…her narrow, shapely heels and ankles...her calves…her
thighs…
She was breathing heavily. Her blouse had somehow unbuttoned itself, and the two
halves had parted to reveal her magnificent breasts. The nipples stood stiffly erect…
“Come here, Mr. Chanda, I want you”, she whispered huskily, parodying the first
telephone call ever made, Alexander Graham Bell’s call to his assistant, Watson. He
looked up at her.
The hell-fire that smouldered fiercely within him shone through his eyes. She
proceeded to show him just how badly she needed him...how much she loved him. He
groaned as she gave him her love as best she could…

They took the boy to Kainchi to obtain the great Baba’s blessings. He smiled at
them fondly, and blessed the child. “He, too, will be fulfilled, but in his own way.” He
sighed. “Karma! Which soul born can escape it? But though his life will not be entirely a
happy one, She will make it all come out right in the end.”
Sunil and Tripta looked at each other in consternation. “Please, Baba! Bless him
and make his bad karma go away,” pleaded Tripta. Sunil looked at her quizzically: ‘Since
when has she started believing in karma?’ he wondered. Then he realized that a mother’s
love demolished all obstacles, was willing to accept anything for the good of her child.
Neem Karoli Baba shook his head sadly. “I will do whatever best I can…but do not
worry…although he will have to face many vicissitudes in life, Her love will sustain him
and protect him.” It was enough for them. Then he turned to Sunil.
“It came to pass, didn’t it? You have been through a difficult phase, but you won in
the end.” Then the Baba stopped smiling.
“But it is not over yet, Sunil” he said seriously. “Unfortunately, there is no such
thing as ‘they lived happily ever after’…everything changes, and everything flows on
eternally. Night follows day, and day follows night. It is the endless Dance of Shiva…the
Eternal Dream.”
He moved a hand tenderly over his head, blessing him. “You will soon face the
greatest test of your life, Sunil. All I can tell you is…have faith in Her love, Her wisdom,
and Her mercy…it is all for your own good, so that your soul may evolve further…
everything that happens is always for the better, in the long run. You will see for
yourself. Do not succumb to despair…go forward with faith and courage…”
 77

A chill of premonition ran down Sunil’s spine. They left the ashram with mixed
feelings, hugging the child.

A quarter of a century had passed. Sunil Chanda, Conservator General of Forests,

Government of India (Retd.) looked out of his bedroom window on the first floor of the
granite cottage he had built in Macleodganj, Himachal Pradesh. He had just returned
from his meeting with his Holiness, the Dalai Lama. A strange peace sat upon him. The
last time he had felt this way had been when he had met Neem Karoli Baba, just before
he had married Tripta.
The thought of her spurred him into action. He packed a few things, and an hour
later he was speeding along the road that joined the new highway that linked Himachal
Pradesh with Garhwal. He spent the night at Lansdowne, then pressed on to Kainchi.
The road was still the same, this road on which they had spent so many happy
hours, all those years ago. Now that was all over. His son, Sudip, was an academic of
sorts, an assistant librarian, posted in Bombay. He hated jungles, wild things, and
especially guns. They had little in common. Sudip had spent all his academic life in
boarding schools and the father and son had grown apart. There was little that could be
done now to heal the breach…
The two men didn’t get along too well. Sudip resented his father’s control and
always insisted on doing things his way, intentionally flouting his authority and rejecting
his advice to practice law, or join the rice trading business Sunil had started. The Terai—
Dehra Dun especially—had become world-famous as a source of the highly prized
Basmati rice, and the opportunities were endless. But Sudip lived in a different world. He
was a loner like his father, and had chosen to go his own way and immerse himself in his
world of books.
Sunil let him go helplessly, missing Tripta more than ever, unable to find any
common ground where he could interact meaningfully with his son. He had done his duty
by giving him the best education he could afford, and the rest was his affair. Sudip had
even reverted to using his mother’s surname of Sen, so great was his sense of alienation
from his own father.
‘It’s true’, thought Sunil sadly. ‘Sometimes, old age can be a trifle lonely.’ His
memories sustained him.
*

Nothing had changed at Kainchi. The trees, the road, the ashram: everything was
still the same as ever. It was as if he had wandered, lost, into some the fabled Shangri la,
where Time did not intrude. A lifetime had passed for Sunil, but the Baba still looked the
same as always. His rotund form, the homespun blanket he wore, his brusque and jovial
manner…Sunil felt a sense of déjà vu. Only this time, he was alone, companionless…
The Baba looked at him with compassion and something akin to respect.
“You have conquered it, I see. It is a manly thing you have done…not many men in
your position could have taken such a heavy blow and survived.” He smiled paternally.
“But She always knows best. It was for your own good, Sunil. You will realize that when
the time comes. I am sure you know that She is ever with you?”
 78

Sunil nodded. The empty years after her little yellow Sunbeam had gone off the
road…he changed the direction of his thoughts, opened the mental album. As the images,
brilliant and undimmed by time, marched across his consciousness one by one, and he
heard her thrilling laugh reverberate through his very being, he knew she lived forever.
He knew they would meet again, knew it with a certainty as obvious as the very act
of his sitting here before the Baba.
“It was a full life you lived, Sunil. Few are so blest. It is all because of Her mercy.
The next time…it will be even better! Believe in her.” Then he grinned mischievously.
“Did you write the poem?”
Sunil nodded. “In my diary, Babaji. It was exactly as you said. It wrote its way out
of me…the pain…”
The Baba nodded sagely. “I know. It will inspire you through other lives, give you
hope in your darkest hours. Your descendants will treasure it. Now go. Perhaps we shall
meet again.” He blessed him. Sunil bowed low and left. The Baba did not like anyone
touching his feet.
As he got into the Jeep station wagon, Sunil couldn’t help recalling that Neem
Karoli Baba had used the past tense when he’d told him that he had lived a full life…

He felt the shadows of his life lengthening as he parked the Jeep at Byasghat and
trekked off into the hills. It was hard going for an old man, but he was undaunted. She
was ever with him, and always gave him the strength to do what had to be done.
It was evening when he reached the cave. It seemed to him as if her footprints were
still on the sandy floor, made all those years ago. He thought he saw the impressions left
by their bodies as they had passionately intertwined in the cosmic dance of creation.
He switched on the torch and walked into the vast cavern beyond the cave.
He still sat there, the primordial hunter, with his back to the cold granite. Sunil
lowered himself stiffly to the floor and took up his position next to the ancient one,
noticing for the first time that they were of an identical skeletal structure.
He knew what was going to happen…
Light! There was so much light in the cavern! She materialized out of it, just as he
had known She would.
She was dazzling, as always. A great love shone from her; he could feel it wash
over him. ‘Tripta…Tripta…’ he murmured, overcome with joy.
Love itself spoke when she asked him if he was ready. He nodded eagerly.
“I am ready, Eterna, Angel Mine!” he jubilated, as he rose and merged with her.

And then he found himself … and Her…in The Great Silence. Duality was no more.
Only a great Singularity. Again. No Thing was waiting for him. Now. Here. Every.
Where. For. Ever. Amen.
The Wheel of Time…he was always on it? There was nothing else to do? All was
over and yet to be? It turned and turned endlessly...eternally? Lifting him higher and
higher?
 79

Everything happened all the time. It all curved back in an infinite arc, back to
Itself. In perpetuity. That was All. There was nothing other than No Thing.
Every thing else was an illusion; it was all a session of re-membering for the blobs
of light. Re-membering—re-joining—the Greater Whole, drawing together, coalescing
with, always flowing back into—and becoming—No Thing. It is all that really happens,
all that has to be remembered, all that really is.

No Thing was Who He Really Was…who She was! They were one and the same
—timeless, forever—always united … all ways, ever and after, amen.

~*~

The Last Rainbow

He liked the ending the best of all, the scene where everyone piled into the old
jalopy and drove off. The camera tracks the car as it grows smaller and smaller, receding
into the distance. It is taking its passengers back to a predictable, everyday world…but—
almost unnoticed by the audience as they rise from their seats to leave the auditorium—it
takes off again! An amazing touch of the surreal…except that, with a flash of sudden
insight, he’d known it was going to happen, a moment before it actually did.
His friend, Dinesh, had protested, bewildered. He had a typical banker’s mind:
unimaginative, blinkered, pedestrian, comfortable only with the predictable. It baulked at
anything unexpected, illogical, especially the creatively paradoxical. The adventure—a
crazy jumble of reality and fantasy—was over. The characters were back in the real
world…so how / why had the car had lifted off now? It was impossible for Arun Ghatak
to explain to him that it was the perfect ending, an inspired touch on the part of the film’s
director.
It was Arun Ghatak’s favoured pastime nowadays. Every evening after dinner, he
would ‘watch’ all his favourite movies in his mind. He relived the great westerns, the
adventures, the biblicals, the historical romances. They didn’t make them that way any
more. There was so much trash coming out of Hollywood nowadays, like that Mad Sax
series, or the ones about the zany adventures of a seemingly mentally retarded secret
agent who had the most improbable sexual escapades.
Having enjoyed ‘Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang’, he smoked a last pipe and went to bed.
His mother had told him that ‘early to bed and early to rise’ made a man healthy, wealthy
and wise. Turning in early certainly gave his stomach enough time to digest his dinner, so
his body was healthy enough. But the last two promises were a lot of bull. Going to bed
early didn’t make one rich or clever. Quite the contrary, in fact. All the achievers he
knew or had read about worked late into the night and rose early.
He was living proof that the old adage didn’t work. He had always gone to bed
early and risen early, but he was neither wealthy nor wise. He was just a middle-aged
bachelor, mired in modest circumstances, who played second fiddle in the sales
department of Whistle, a trendy department store just off Calcutta’s Park Street.
Whistle specialized in retailing foreign makes of men’s and ladies’ apparel. They had
recently acquired an exclusive franchise for a range of exorbitantly priced ladies’ intimate
wear called ‘Patricia’s Passion’ that was currently all the rage in Europe, and the smart
 80

young things in town made a beeline for the store. As a result, the sales turnover had
shown a dramatic upturn.
Not that Mr. Ghatak had anything to do with the ladies’ department. His domain
was the men’s department, where he was the senior supervisor. He prowled the shop floor
all day, keeping a sharp eye on the performance of the counter salesmen and the alertness
of the security guards. Shoplifting had become a serious menace, and had whittled down
profits till the CCTV system and 220° convex mirrors had been installed at strategic
locations. Moreover, in order to cope with the rush, ten new salesgirls had been recruited,
and Mr. Ghatak had noticed how the salesmen had started dressing better than ever. This
batch had many young girls that were in their early twenties, and it was inevitable that,
sooner or later…

*
Mr. Ghatak would never have actually met her had it not been for the fire. Someone
—perhaps a disgruntled employee—had intentionally left a lighted cigarette in one of the
broom cupboards. When flames licked out of the cabinet, the sprinklers had come on
automatically and the fire alarm had gone off. Customers and staff alike stampeded for
the staircases and the lifts. No fire drill had been designed, but Mr. Ghatak decided to
take a last look around. Since his floor was vacant, he ran up the spiral staircase and
peeped into the ladies’ department just to ensure that it had been vacated.
It hadn’t. A figure lay crumpled on the floor, near the central display. Mr. Ghatak
had managed, with considerable difficulty, to carry her down to the ground floor, fireman
fashion. There, old Perkins, the janitor, and Mrs. Dyson, the head seamstress, had
chipped in to help take the semi-conscious girl outside. She wasn’t exactly light, although
it seemed to Mr. Ghatak that she was quite slim. He put it down to a good bone density.
Mrs. Dyson’s smelling salts did their deadly work, and she was soon back on her feet.
“How are you feeling now, Miss?” he asked her. He noticed that her lips were pale
and bloodless. “Oh, I’m alright. A bit wobbly… but otherwise OK. Sorry to have been
such a bother, Mr. Ghatak.” She dimpled prettily. “By the way, I’m Suchitra Bose.” She
stuck out her hand with a friendly smile. With some surprise, Mr. Ghatak found himself
clasping it in his own. It was an unfamiliar sensation for him, for he was not the sort of
man who shook hands with women. In his large, strong hand, it felt like a tiny, fluttering
bird. He could feel the fragile, feminine bones through the fair, silky-smooth skin, and he
thought that a slight squeeze would crush them, they were so delicate. Then he realized
he was still holding her hand in his, and let go of it abruptly.
She smiled at his awkwardness. Mr. Ghatak inwardly acknowledged that she had
the most charming dimples. He got an impression of a pretty girl with a heart-shaped
face, framed by jet-black hair that fell in waves to her slim shoulders. A rounded,
womanly figure and a smooth complexion were her immediately obvious assets.
“I understand I owe my rescue to you, Mr. Ghatak... If you hadn’t come up to
check…” she shrugged, leaving the sentence hanging in the air.
He squirmed with embarrassment. “It was nothing, really; I was just taking a
routine precaution…and spotted you lying there. In any case, all’s well that ends well,
Miss Bose.”
“Oh, do call me Suchitra, Miss Bose sounds so formal!”
 81

He nodded. “Suchitra, then. I think we are getting an extended break while the fire
department and police investigate…so will you join me for an a la carté lunch?”
She was delighted at the offer. “Why, of course, Mr. Ghatak. I’d love that!”
He took her to Badshah’s, where the chicken rolls and Chinese dishes were out of
this world. It was an airy, well-lit place that ran along tiered balconies where you looked
down at the central dining area (which Mr. Ghatak always avoided because it was
invariably crowded). There were potted plants between the tables on the balcony
arrangement, and it was much quieter.
After they had finished their sweet corn soup and the waiter had taken their order,
he settled back to take a closer look at her. Her white teeth were small and even. Her nose
was neat: straight, with flaring, ‘cutaway’ nostrils. A small diamond stud nestled in the
depression above the left nostril, and her small ears were double-pierced to accept tiny
gold rings. She had lovely hands and feet, and she walked with a swing to her shoulders
and a free-flowing stride that he found very appealing in its unconscious challenge to
masculinity. Yet, it had a feline grace that reminded him of a tigress in a jungle. He had
never seen any woman who walked like that.
The colour was back in her lips, and he noticed that they were full and wide,
parenthesized by laugh lines. They were smooth, free from wrinkles, and beautifully
shaped. In repose, they relaxed into a sultry pout that heightened their Freudian appeal.
She favoured an almond shade of lipstick, probably applied over an anti-chap base (those
TV ads one was forced to watch between sitcom episodes: they did wonders for a
bachelor’s general knowledge on subjects like ladies’ make-up!).
She was not self-conscious about touching up her lipstick in front of others. She did
it as naturally as a man would straighten his tie. She attended to it whenever and
wherever she felt like it, using a tiny mirror from her bag to guide her hand. She would
run the lipstick with practiced ease over her pursed lips in two smooth, unbroken strokes,
unmindful of stares of admiration. It was no one’s business but her own, her attitude
seemed to say. He warmed to her. Boldness was a quality he admired greatly.
But if it wasn’t her lips, it was perhaps her eyes that impressed Mr. Ghatak the
most. They were a deep shade of brown that he had rarely encountered, and they were
alive with intelligence! She brimmed with joie de vivre and the heady excitement of
youth. She wasn’t exactly beautiful in the conventional sense, thought Mr. Ghatak, but he
could tell that she was a very lively young woman, and an extremely bright one at that.
She told him about herself. After post-graduate studies (Political Science), she had
joined a secretarial course. Halfway through it, she’d realized that she’d made a mistake.
She wanted to do something a bit more creative, like journalism or public relations, and
this sales job was intended to give her some experience, as well as time to make up her
mind about what she really wanted to do.
He told her about his start as a traveling salesman selling consumer products to
direct marketing chains. From there, he had jumped to static retail operations, and in
twenty years had risen slowly to his present position. He was happy with his job and for a
single person like himself, the pay was adequate. She listened sympathetically, hiding her
surprise at learning he was a bachelor. ‘Arun’s such a simple, uncomplicated sort of
person, so easy to be with,’ she thought to herself. She disliked bossy, overly-macho
men.
*
 82

When ‘Another Time, Another Place’ came to the Excelsior as a morning show, he
asked her if she’d like to see it with him. She was a little doubtful. Not that she felt
uneasy going out with a forty-four year old bachelor; it was simply that she was unsure
whether she’d enjoy such an old motion picture, and she didn’t want to spoil his movie
for him. Though half his age—she was twenty-two—she didn’t feel at all intimidated by
him or self-conscious in his company. As a matter of fact, she enjoyed his taciturnity and
dry sense of humour, and she was not the type who gave too much importance to what
others thought. She had an independent streak in her.
To her surprise, she loved the picture, an adventure-fantasy-supernatural thriller on
the reincarnation theme. The next Saturday, she took him to the matinee of ‘An Angel to
the Rescue’. It was a new release starring the Latino heartthrob Federico Vargas opposite
the steamy former ‘Babewatch’ sensation, Charlene Selektra. It was his turn to be
apprehensive. He didn’t like the current crop of Hollywood films, and the title was
unevocative. He was surprised to find he liked it. It was only when he was knocking the
ash out of his pipe before he turned in that he realized why he’d enjoyed the film so
much. He had enjoyed himself thoroughly…because she was with him. She added a
dimension to his perceptivity that had never existed before.
The weekend movie became a regular feature. Sundays, they would go to the
planetarium or the races. At work, however, they stayed aloof, maintaining a polite
distance on the rare occasions when their paths crossed, at the coffee machine or the
lobby. Theirs was an implicit understanding; the world was a vicious place, they knew.
Tongues wagged. People were petty, small-minded, intolerant of other people’s
happiness because they were unhappy with their own lives and circumstances.
Suchitra and Arun had the entire weekend to catch up with each other’s lives, to
discuss developments, thoughts, ideas or events that had transpired during the week.
Quite unconsciously, she filled a void in his life he never knew existed. He hadn’t
realized he was lonely, didn’t know what he’d been missing. Until he met her…
Like a thief, it crept into his subconscious over a period of many months. That
secret, submerged part of him gave no hint of what was cooking. They were sipping
coffee one Sunday at Firpo’s when it emerged—without warning—into his conscious
mind. It shook him. She noticed his sudden pallor. “Arun! What’s wrong? Don’t you feel
well?” She was worried. “You’ve gone as white as a sheet!”
He shook his head. “Just remembered I’d issued a cheque to the insurance company
and I’ve forgotten to transfer the funds into my current account. It’s going to bounce. I’ll
have to phone the bank tomorrow…it’s never happened before...” he lied. His mind was
in a whirl. He wondered how he’d been so blind all this time. She was beautiful…really
beautiful! She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen!
And he was in love with her! He was impossibly, ridiculously, irresponsibly,
idiotically in love with her. That was the reality he faced. He also confronted another,
opposite—and complementary—reality…the whole thing was absolutely untenable! She
deserved better. He was nearly forty-five. He had no business to… no right…She was so
young, so heart-meltingly beautiful. Her life was just beginning. She bubbled with
expectations about her future. The last thing she needed was a semi-senile, middle-aged
man falling in love with her and tripping her up. She had befriended him because he’d
 83

seemed so harmless, a quaint old bachelor she’d developed an acquaintance with because
he was so easy to be with and with whom she went out now and then.
She merely tolerated him, not loved him, he reminded himself firmly! She laughed
at his jokes, listened politely to his tales of days gone by, and argued hotly with him
about the lessons he perceived he’d learned from life. She usually disagreed with him.
She was (he discovered it tallied with his interpretation of her walk) a very rebellious
person who had strong ideas about how the world ought to be run. She never failed to
voice her abhorrence for a society where men dominated women and subjugated them.
She appreciated the philosophical streak in him, although she didn’t share his taste for the
occult and metaphysical things. Which was hardly surprising; she was barely out of her
teens. She would prefer things that had a meatier, more immediate appeal. He took her
out to dinner and movies, and helped her to kill time. They were friends. That’s all…
These thoughts and many more, raced across his disturbed mind. He’d never met
anyone—man or woman—even the slightest bit like her. He appreciated—treasured—
her uniqueness. She was like a rainbow—multi-hued, exquisite, and exotic: incredibly
fascinating. He sensed many unexplored worlds within her, worlds some lucky young
man would one day venture into, he thought with a pang. Those worlds were closed to
him. Nevertheless, she was affectionate, compassionate, a cornucopia of thought, feeling,
emotion, action, and delicious unpredictability. Though she was impossibly attractive, it
wasn’t her beautiful body that had finally overwhelmed him…it was her beautiful mind!
So that’s why he had fallen in love with her! She couldn’t possibly be romantically
inclined towards him, it was unthinkable. There was only one way out…

If he hadn’t seen the rainbow, Arun Ghatak might never have turned back. He’d left
it all behind for good, and he had no intentions of retracing his footsteps. He had been
through a harrowing experience. The consequences, though inevitable, had devastated
him. He had lost interest in life. The process seemed to be nothing but a series of big
disappointments…but this one had been too big for him to handle. It isn’t funny to
relinquish a dream, to put aside something that’s all-important to you, something that
means more to you than life itself. His existence seemed purposeless now, so he
wandered north, as men often do when they search for the elusive meaning of life.
As he huddled under the giant boulder on the steep track to Manikaran in the
enchanting, heavily-wooded Parvati valley northeast of Kulu, he thought of her and what
she would be doing now…if she was still with the store. She had become the star of
Whistle, outselling all the other saleswomen. And here he was, desperately trying to
forget her, in the drizzle and the cold. Even three years had not dimmed the memory of
her…
Then the sun came out, and as he stepped away from the rock, a rainbow arced over
the valley, bridging it breathtakingly. It came as an omen to him, he thought, and he
soaked up the sight of it till it gradually faded. Half an hour later, he was on a bus to the
plains. From Delhi, he could catch the Kalka Mail…

*
 84

She had moved after her marriage. Her landlady was a bit vague about her present
address. It was somewhere in New Alipore. He could ascertain the exact location from
the New Alipore Resident’s Association. He finally traced it: a small corner plot—P-770.
There was a small, cozy-looking bungalow with a tiny garden and neatly-trimmed shrubs.
There did not seem to be anyone at home. He rang the doorbell, and waited patiently till a
servant-girl, about fifteen years old, opened it. She was about to ask him something when
a baby’s cries sent her scurrying inside.
She was back a minute later, and there was an infant in her arms. “What do you
want?” she asked crossly in chaste Bengali. “There is no one at home now. Come after 2
o’clock, when Madam will return for lunch.”
“How is ‘Madam’?” he asked. “Is she still with the shop that sells ladies clothes?”
The girl looked at him suspiciously. “I know nothing about that. Now, she has a
business that sends fancy leather items to foreign countries.”
“And Sahib…how is he?”
“Sahib has gone abroad. He will return after a week. Why do you ask so many
questions? I have to go now…it is time for Arunima’s feeding bottle.” She glanced down
affectionately at the infant in her arms.
Arun Ghatak craned forward to get a better look. Deep brown, inquisitive eyes in a
small, exquisitely beautiful heart-shaped face framed by jet-black locks gazed steadily
back at him. He extended a tentative forefinger. It was instantly clasped, with surprising
strength, in tiny, delicate fingers. They were startlingly fair, chubby and baby-smooth. He
bent his head and kissed the little hand. At once, the ruby mouth opened and the baby
trilled and gurgled happily. The laugh-lines lasted long after the dimples had subsided.
Arun Ghatak’s heart flipped over and over. The terrible wound in his chest began to
heal. It was as if someone had applied a balm that eased the ache deep inside him. He had
bridged the past to see the future. He had touched it…and he was part of it now. He was
no longer alone. This time, he wouldn’t let it get away. It would endure…this last
rainbow.

~*~
 85

Journey’s End

Ananto Mozumdar knew he’d bought those 20-year government bonds, way back in
1984, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where he’d kept them. The demand
notice for the last balloon installment for the poky little third floor DDA flat had arrived,
and he didn’t have enough in his bank account to meet it. He simply had to find those
bonds! The last date of payment was only a fortnight away. So he reverted to
daydreaming, which was his way of reaching something beyond himself.
Long ago, he had stumbled upon the technique by accident, when he used to
daydream about her. He found that it also triggered off the poems, screenplays, and
stories he wrote. She was obviously the catalyst, which was why he never claimed the
credit for creating his work, only acknowledging that he was the recipient of inspiration.
His tales came to him from another dimension of thought and existence that he had
found...thanks to her. He was simply a medium for the words that winged their way to
him from that other shore. All he had to do was to hammer away at the keyboard as they
wrote their way out of him. That was why he always laid the credit for his output—poor,
average, or indifferent—squarely at her door. Things fought their way out of him because
she had chosen to release it through him. He was less of a writer than a transcriber, an
idea that others took as a fantastic surfeit of modesty. But it wasn’t: it was simply the
truth. He didn’t care whether anyone believed it or not. That’s the way it was.
He closed his eyes and relaxed, turning the problem of the missing bonds over to
his subconscious mind, relaxing his tense trapezius and abdominal muscles. Then he
concentrated at a point between his eyebrows where, he had read, the third eye resided.
The Tibetan mystic, Lobsang Rampa, claimed to have succeeded in opening his third eye,
but Mr. Mozumdar had found his detailed account highly confusing if not totally
implausible.
Mr. Mozumdar had laughed heartily when he’d read that book. But that had been
long ago, in the 20th century. It was another century now, and scientists had uncovered
many mysteries about the mind and the nervous system. Some even claimed to have
found a spot in the brain that, if stimulated, evoked visions of ‘God’ and enabled
conversations with him. One hardly knew the difference between science and religion
any more, thought Ananto Mozumdar; the two appeared to over-lap more and more.
 86

Scientific achievements at the cutting edge of research into the nature of matter and
reality were explained to laymen in the form of mystical expositions studded with
metaphors and unintelligible Zen koans, while religious texts were interspersed with the
symbols and the mundane prose of high-school physics. Many of the old Einsteinian
concepts of time and space had failed to withstand the onslaught of quantum theory and
had crumbled, along with the Newtonian physics they had replaced.
As researchers dug deeper and deeper into the fundamental nature of things with
their tunneling scanning electron microscopes and high-energy particle accelerators, they
came across unexplored worlds within the atom that seemed to exist only on some
illogical whim of an unlikely deity. It was all a huge paradox: the tangible world at the
macroscopic level was based on a microscopic universe whose very existence was
doubtful. It was as if everything was made of nothing! The new god on the block was No
Thing.
If we perceive something as existing, it exists, realized Mr. Mozumdar. If we don’t,
it doesn’t exist. Nothing has any real existence independent of its being perceived. It was
‘perception’ that made something real. It’s all in the mind, as the Buddha had told us.
You see a pretty girl and she exists; don’t see her and what do you have? Zilch! How
science had progressed! From something to nothing! One hardly knew whether one was
coming or going, any more.
Thought and Light were alike inasmuch as they were simply forms of energy and
had no mass. In fact, all mass was merely potential energy. The inescapable conclusion
was that the universe—one’s own self included—was evanescent mindstuff. It was a
gigantic hoax pulled off by a cosmic jokester par excellence. But that’s precisely what
the Upanishads had said, thousands of years ago.
As he drifted off into a reverie, Ananto Mozumdar was unaware that the frequency
of his brain waves had dropped from the wide-awake Delta level of 20 cycles per second
to the Alpha level of 8 cycles per second...the zone where the subconscious mind—the
right half of the brain, intuitive and all-remembering—achieved parity with the prosaic
and practical left side. It extended tentacles of thought into the final repository of all
knowledge and memory—the boundless universe—accessing a reality beyond the reach
of the conscious, conditioned mind.
It went to work on the problem. In his trance-like state, Mr. Mozumdar saw himself
in the loft, pulling out a battered moulded-plastic suitcase and opening it...

The suitcase contained the bonds, alright. But there was something else in it that
pleased Mr. Mozumdar even more. It was an old diary. And in it was the well-preserved
colour photograph of a girl in her early twenties taken against the backdrop of a yacht.
She stood with her weight on one leg and arms on her hips, a pose that accentuated her
womanliness and flawless figure. Her exotically beautiful face was framed by a halo of
raven tresses that eddied around it before falling to her straight shoulders, and laughter
lurked in the depths of the intelligent brown eyes.
She was smiling into the camera, and Mr. Mozumdar’s breath caught in his chest
for the millionth time as he looked at her. The wide, generous lips—wonderfully curved
as the rest of her—were a challenge to the senses, so direct was their timeless appeal. The
 87

nose, with its slim, flaring nostrils, was straight and perfect, bridging the hypnotic eyes
and the paralysingly lovely lips. The jawline, aggressively sensual, was an ideal
framework for the oval face in all its mind-bending perfection.
It was a face that could have launched ten thousand ships and brought a king to his
knees, gibbering like an ape. It was a face that Mr. Mozumdar had known well, back in
the heady days of his youth. He looked at the picture a long time, and the years rolled
back...

It was spring, and he had gone with a group of friends to Naini Tal. One day, out on
the lake, their boat had been bumped by another in which there were about five girls. On
reaching the shore, one of them, clad in a magenta bush-shirt and grey jeans had
unleashed a torrent of invective at him.
Though somewhat taken aback at the extensive vocabulary of this extremely
attractive girl, Ananto had decided he wasn’t going to take it lying down. Not when he
was sure that it hadn’t been his fault.
“Now look here, Miss—I presume it’s Miss because that’s as good as a mile—
which is what I’d rather stay from you...you can’t go about bumping your boat into other
people’s and then abusing them. While I’m truly impressed by your command over the
finer points of invective...in two languages...I’d advise you to exercise caution. The next
person you abuse may not be as accommodating as us gentlemen!”
“Why, you...! You couldn’t be further from being a gentleman even if you tried a
thousand years! By the way, are you threatening me? I’ve a good mind to call the police
and hand you over to them on charges of eve-teasing! Now what do you think of that,
Mr.....?”
“Mozumdar. Ananto Mozumdar”, supplied Ananto smoothly, “Miss...?”
“Chakravarty. Supriya Chakravarty”, she responded reluctantly. The dazzling eyes
flashed daggers at him.
‘Jesus...she’s gorgeous!” marvelled Ananto. Her cheeks flamed rosily and her eyes
flashed like lightning. He watched her hypnotic lips, fascinated, as they changed shape
rapidly, uttering words he never heard. She was a force of nature, beautiful and terrifying.
“And I must remind you, Mr. Mozumdar,” she fulminated, “that this is a decent hill
station and louts like yourself aren’t particularly welcome here. I suggest you either learn
some decent manners or move to Bhim Tal. You’ll find lots of your type there.”
Ananto emerged from his daze. It wasn’t done to squabble with a female.
“I’ll keep your advice in mind, lady,” he murmured politely. “Meanwhile, I have
one small suggestion to make. This lake is ninety feet deep. Either wear life-preservers or
learn to row. The next accident could find you in the water.”
Again the dazzling eyes flashed daggers at him and the jawline thrust out even more
truculently as she opened her mouth to deliver another broadside. But Mr. Mozumdar had
turned on his heel and walked away stiffly. She’d never know the effort he’d had to make
to walk away from her...
*
 88

The Boat House Club in Naini Tal is the equivalent of the Vice-Regal Lodge of
colonial Delhi. Ananto and his friend Sridhar had managed invitations to the Saturday
dance party through a bit of wire-pulling. Ananto’s uncle had once served as the secretary
of the Municipal Committee, and the old munshi still had recollections of his former boss.
He’d put in a word to the Governor’s aide...
Those were the days when people dressed up formally for evening parties. Besides,
Naini Tal is cold in April. Fortunately, both Ananto and Sridhar had brought their suits
along, and it was just as well they had, because dance parties at the BHC were strictly a
‘black tie’ affair. But the big surprise was that Supriya Chakravarty and a friend had also
been invited. There was nothing to be done but to keep out of her way.
Had Ananto but known it, Supriya was as astonished to see him as he’d been on
seeing her. She had other plans, however. As Ananto was sipping his first cocktail, she
came over to him. He braced himself for a repeat performance of the recent son et
lumiere.
“Mr. Mozumdar...no, no, please remain seated!” she said pleasantly as he rose to his
feet politely.
She was looking devastating in a pink kurta-churidar outfit with a mauve cashmere
cardigan. Her hair was parted neatly down the middle and pinned demurely on the sides
behind her tiny, lobeless ears with a pair of blue porcelain butterfly hair-pins. A thin gold
chain emphasized her lovely neck, and the filmy dupatta did nothing to conceal the
rounded swell of her full breasts. Kolhapuri sandals adorned her small feet, and a faint
perfume of exotic wildflowers wafted from her.
He felt weak and dizzy, like the time Abbas slipped him that vicious rabbit punch
when the referee wasn’t looking. She looked good enough to eat. She was—as far as he
was concerned—by far the prettiest girl in the room...which meant ‘the prettiest girl in
Naini Tal’ for all practical purposes, for the elite and the fashionable were all here. This
dance party was the first fixture on the season’s festive calendar, and no one would
intentionally miss out on it.
He realised he was goggling at her like a beached codfish, and cleared his throat
apologetically. “Miss...Chakravarty, isn’t it? Fancy meeting you here! I hope you’ve
forgiven my ineptness at rowing!” He grinned to show he meant no offence. “After a
recent censure from an authority on the subject, I’ve been practicing diligently every
morning. Perhaps you’ll allow me to demonstrate my prowess with the oars sometime,
Miss Chakravarty?”
She laughed prettily, without rancour. It was the music a brook makes as it titters
its way over shingle and gravel to join a river. The tinkling melody of it sent a thrill up
and down his spine. Her small, perfect teeth gleamed whitely through her incredible lips,
magenta coloured for the occasion.
Ananto wondered why nature had broken her rule in the case of human beings. In
every other species, the female was a drab, nondescript creature as compared to the
resplendent male. But woman was a glittering thing, next to which a man looked dull and
colourless...as far as Supriya Chakravarty was concerned, anyway.
“Mr. Mozumdar...” she drew him aside. “I’m afraid I’ve wronged you. Sorry! It was
very rude of me...that day at the jetty. I sometimes wonder why people put up with me!”
‘Because you are the most amazing thing that walks the earth’, he said to himself.
But he only made deprecating noises for her benefit.
 89

“No, no, Miss Chakravarty!” he protested, “You were perfectly within your rights.
It was our job to keep a sharp lookout...for enemy vessels!” He came up with another
disarming grin.
She giggled and his knees went all rubbery, like the time Negi had got him with a
thundering left hook during the semi-finals in the welter-weight category.
“Oh, do call me ‘Supriya’!” she insisted happily. “And let’s make up by dancing to
this number...I just love it!”
He recalled little else of that evening. It passed in a happy daze as he held her
giddily in his arms. They danced on and on. She was very light on her feet, and kept in
step with him so beautifully, so well-matched were they visually, that they got a standing
ovation from the watchers. She was flushed and breathless when they returned to their
seats. “Ananto, I’ve got an idea! Let’s go boating after dinner!” she said enthusiastically.

It was a moonlit night, and Naini Tal Lake is an enchanted place especially on such
nights. The moon floated along with them as Ananto plied the oars, and the faint peals of
temple bells carried softly to their ears like lullabies across the dark waters.
“I wonder how old the lake is,” mused Supriya.
“Oh, probably as old as the end of the last ice age...that’s about ten thousand years,”
replied Ananto. “But it was only ‘discovered’—according to local legend—in the early
nineteenth century by an Englishman hunting a stag.”
“Ten thousand years!” murmured Supriya wonderingly. “A hundred centuries!
That’s a long time, Ananto. I wonder how many lovers have sat on its banks on moonlit
nights, holding hands and watching the moon dancing on the waves...”
“Zillions, I’d expect. Unless, of course, there weren’t any people living here. No
one knows the early history of this place. No archaeological digs have ever been
attempted.”
“Good!” said Supriya firmly. “It would ruin the mystery.” She was silent for a
while, letting the cool breeze fan her flushed cheeks.
“Ananto... I wonder whether we were here, you and I, ten thousand years ago. Do
you think it’s possible?” she asked shyly.
“Sure, why not?” replied Ananto confidently. “They say souls of people we’ve
known always meet up with us again and again, life after life. That’s why some people
are always special to us...even after a brief encounter. It’s as if primal—subconscious—
memory takes over. We may fight it, and we may convince ourselves that it’s just poetic
fancy, but I, for one, think it’s true.”
“You do? Strange...so do I. I think we’ve known each other before, Ananto, I feel
so...so at ease with you. I’m not like this at all, going boating with someone I met just a
day or two before, blurting out all kinds of stuff. Normally, I’d consider it very forward.
Right now, I think it’s so... perfect!”
He shipped the oars and crossed over from his rowing bench to join her on the
padded seat with the ornate back-rest. He caressed her soft, wind-blown hair gently, a
great tenderness welling up in him. His heart had never hammered this way before. He
slipped his arm around her shoulders and hugged her. She did likewise, and rested her
head on his shoulder.
 90

He cupped her face in his hands, admiring the mind-bending perfection of it, seeing
with his heart the lovely soul that lived within the soft, beautiful body in his arms. His
kiss, when it happened, was so spontaneous, so genuinely loving, that she thrilled to its
purity and innocence. She kissed him back just as enthusiastically, running her fingers
through his hair.
The boat drifted down the silvery ribbon the moon had unrolled upon the dark
waters for ten thousand years...
*

She had majored in foreign languages and had studied art. That explained her
relatively senior position in a foreign embassy. He was a science student who had
excelled in draughtsmanship and technical illustrations, which is what he did in the
advertising agency where he worked. She wrote wild and wacky poetry that had been
published abroad. He had done a bit of trekking, hunting, and mountain photography
during his college days.
She liked the pre-Raphaelite schools of painting, and he freaked out on Andy
Warhol and Op Art in general. She read anything and everything, and her taste in books
ranged from classics to the bizarre. He preferred westerns by Zane Grey and Louis
L’Amour and was a sucker for self-help books. Both were fond of continental food,
action movies, and vintage cars. Each found the other fascinating. It was not surprising
that they became friends before they became lovers...

The day they had dreaded was upon them at last; it was time to return to the plains.
Tomorrow they went their separate ways, she to Delhi, he to Bombay. They clung to each
other under the blanket, that last night under the stars at Tiffin Top. They watched Venus
ascend, twinkling her old promise. But the Big Dipper spoilt it all by pointing the way
home. They didn’t want to go.
“Ananto, I didn’t want this to ever end. Do you think we’ll meet again?” she asked.
There was a tremor in her voice. It was quite unlike her, to be so uncertain of the future.
He felt a chilly hand close over his heart. He tried to convey to her a courage he
hardly felt himself. “We’ve got to! But life is so uncertain, Supriya... we’ve met in the
past and we’ll meet again. What’s important is the present; the future is always
tomorrow’s present, never forget. I can’t bear to leave you, either, Supriya!” Ananto
confessed.
“Promise you’ll keep in touch?” she asked through her tears. A terrible premonition
was upon her.
“I promise!” said Ananto, with a lump in his throat. He didn’t earn enough as yet to
ask for her hand. It was implicit; they never even mentioned it, taking it for granted, their
marriage. Beyond the language of words, their hearts had promised themselves to each
other. They made love for the last time, as if their physical union could forestall the
inevitable.
“Journeys end in lovers’ meetings, Honeybaby,” he quoted hopelessly, to comfort
her, and to still the wild doubt in his heart. “We’ll always meet. You must be patient.”
 91

She nodded hopelessly, as girls in love have done for ages. She had to wait for her
man to be ready to support her. Life was no picnic, even if both were earning. The
possibility of parental disapproval hung like a cloud over them. They both came from
conservative families; an inter-caste marriage for love was a rarity, and had to be fought
for, often in the teeth of fierce opposition from elders. Such was the fate of the young in
the India of those days.
*

Mr. Mazumdar took one last, longing look at the photograph and shut the diary with
a heavy heart…for they had never met again. They had written to each other, and kept in
touch over the telephone whenever possible. There was no automatic trunk dialing or
Internet then. Communication between distant cities was an expensive and time-
consuming affair.
Then her father, who was in the Indian Audit & Accounts Service, had been posted
to Brussels. Supriya had gradually abandoned hope of ever seeing Ananto again. Slowly,
as realisation dawned that he had to accept the fact that Supriya would never be his wife,
Ananto too, realised it was a dream he had to let go of.
He recalled a conversation on the eve of their departure, when she’d raised the
subject of will and self-determination in relation to destiny.
“Ananto, do you think we really can control our lives? I read somewhere that if we
want something badly enough, the entire universe conspires to bring it to us.”
“Yes, I’ve read that too,” said Ananto thoughtfully, knowing what was at the back
of her mind. “But I’d like to qualify that with a rider: yes, the universe does conspire to
give us what we want if we want it badly enough...provided it is for the Greater Good!
By ‘Greater Good’ I mean the greater scheme of things, of which everything is a part. If
we want something very badly, but it’s not in consonance with the overall plan, then I
doubt whether we get what we crave. At least, that’s what I think!” he finished sadly.
She was silent for a long time. “So if our getting together isn’t an integral part of
the grand design, we don’t make it? Is that what you are trying to say, Ananto?”
“Yes!” he said simply, aware of her frustration at trying to fit into some greater plan
of which she knew nothing.
She shook her head obstinately. “I refuse to subscribe to such an effete theory. I still
maintain that Hannibal Barca was right: if you can’t find a way, make one. And he took
his elephants over the Alps with him. Don’t be so negative, Ananto!” There was an
undercurrent of something like panic in her voice. Ananto was touched. He hugged her.
“You’re right, as usual, honeybunch! We just have to focus on the problem and
work at solving it, right? After all, what can the universe have against us two getting
married? How could that possibly put a spanner in the Grand Design?”
“That’s more like it, Nantoo! (She called him by his pet-name when she was
especially happy about something). Keep thinking like that and we’ll be cutting the cake
soon!” She was trying to lighten the mood. “And remember...I want to honeymoon here,
in Naini Tal...where it all began.”
Did she think it had been treachery on his part not to have caught up with her? Did
she think she had just been a little diversion for him on a brief holiday to the hills? Did
she feel he was guilty of pusillanimity for not having found her—by hook or by crook—
and married her? Had their love really been durable enough to survive the long
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separation? And did she appreciate the magnitude of the obstacles faced by a mere
technical illustrator in a small advertising company who had to go looking her in a
foreign country and win her hand? Did she see now that some things—no matter how
much we want them—just aren’t fated to be? How did it affect her faith in her ability to
control her own destiny?
These, and a myriad other questions, had spun through his brain for months and
years. He was sure the answers would reveal themselves in the fullness of time. If they
were not meant for each other, then the Grand Design had other uses for them. That was
all there was to it. It was up to them to search for—and find—meaning in their lives in
tune with their real destiny...
Sometimes he wished he’d never met her. At other times, he felt he would never
have really lived if hadn’t. She had illuminated his life like a meteor. Her sparkling wit,
her keen intelligence, her disarming candour, her refreshing originality, her exquisite
loveliness, and her irrepressible zest for life had left their indelible mark on him. She had
sparked off something within him that had transformed his vision of life. Contact with
her unique, effervescent personality had changed him forever. She had brought out the
poet, playwright, art critic, and human being in him. He had long abandoned the
demeaning rat race of the advertising world.
Ananto Mozumdar—known to the world as the eccentric bachelor who had written
the screenplays of a dozen major Bombay art films, the bearded hermit-poet with long,
unkempt locks who went about giving away the money he earned as fast as it came in,
who met the mass-wedding expenses of a hundred indigent couples every year from his
own sources—was just a lamp for the timeless flame that was Supriya Chakravarty. That
was his destiny. That: and the consequences thereof.

He had no idea where she was now, but he knew she was always in his heart. One
day—somewhere, sometime, in some other age—they would meet again. It was a
celestially written certainty that he didn’t doubt for a moment.
He shook his head with disbelief. Had so much time really passed? Why, it was just
like yesterday when he had met Supriya at Naini Tal. Was it possible that a lifetime had
gone by? He had never returned to Naini Tal. He wanted to enshrine the memory of her
forever in his heart, with the hill station as a setting. He had no right to disturb that sacred
sanctuary. Nearly four decades had passed...
‘I must be an old man now!’ thought Ananto with mild surprise. He had never given
much thought to the matter. Time had stopped ever since Supriya had gone from him.
Now, for the first time, he noted the warning signals of advancing years: the failing
vision, the breathlessness when climbing a flight of stairs, the poor sleep and appetite. He
leaned back in the easy chair and felt the cold touch of winter at his door, although it was
spring and the sun shone brightly outside.
Time had got the better of him, he conceded. But he also believed that the hand that
had written every story in the world knew what it was doing. With faith and with love,
Ananto Mozumdar welcomed his new coming of age as he surrendered to the will of that
eternal hand.
 93

‘Next time, may the Fates be easier on Supriya and I...’ he prayed, as he allowed the
years to wash over him and inundate his soul at last.


Captain Anand Mullick of the Corps of Electrical and Mechanical Engineers didn’t
feel like attending the regimental dance at all. He had—after years of scouring second-
hand bookshops—at last found a copy of Louis L’Amour’s long out-of-print classic,
Shalako, and was dying to read it. Besides, he was in a rare bad mood. He’d been boating
on the lake that morning, rowing a light, single-seater scull, when all at once a boat with
three or four girls in it had come from nowhere and hit his light craft, almost capsizing it.
After a heated exchange—an extremely vocal and belligerent girl who seemed to be
their spokesperson had been very rude to him—they had gone their separate ways. It had
left him feeling low, because, as a rule, he wasn’t the type to trade insults with strangers,
what to speak of girls. But that ill-tempered virago in Levi’s and a purple T-shirt had
bugged the chivalry out of him.
But he doubted whether the C.O. would appreciate such an unlikely excuse for
skipping the get-together, which was why they were at Naini Tal in the first place.
Colonel Chanchal was as tolerant of his officers reading anything other than military and
technical books as he was of breach of protocol. With a sigh, Anand rose to his feet,
showered, and carefully donned the neatly pressed uniform that his batman had laid out
on the bed.
The EME regimental centre at Malli Tal, the bus-stand end of the lake, was a
stone’s throw from Government House—the Governor’s lodge—and was acknowledged
as having the best auditorium in the hill resort. That went for the club, too, thought
Anand, as he left the officer’s quarters and strode briskly to the huge indoor badminton
and squash complex that had been converted into a ballroom and grand dining room for
the evening.
Sounds of the regimental brass band playing ‘Colonel Boogie’ came loudly from
the building, which meant that the dance was about to start. He groaned inwardly as he
stepped inside, wishing he was stretched out on his bed with his book. He hated dancing,
though he knew the steps and the gyrations involved in the meaningless ritual. Dancing
didn’t do anything for him. But he joked and exchanged pleasantries with his brother
officers as he slipped smoothly into his assigned role. He was a soldier, and this was
duty...of sorts.
“Anand!” It was Mrs. Chanchal, the C.O.’s wife. “Where have you been? I’ve been
looking all over for you! Come here at once; I’d like you to meet my niece, Sumitra.”
Her vast, tank-like bulk (‘Oughtn’t the C.O. have joined the Armoured Corps?’
thought Anand for the umpteenth time) concealed someone very effectively. Anand
braced himself. Mrs. Chanchal’s match-making efforts had not gone in vain so far.
Almost all the eligible bachelors in his battalion had succumbed to her endeavours.
‘If she’d opened a marriage bureau, she’d have minted money!’ grinned Anand,
amused at her targeting him. This was one bout she was going to lose, however. Anand
had no intentions of marrying before he was promoted to the rank of Major. Two could
 94

not live as cheaply as one, even in the army. Then his grin froze as the girl stepped into
view.

She wasn’t tall, but she was so well set up—so proportionate—that her elfin charm
took his breath away. She was wearing a mauve kurta-churidar outfit, hand embroidered,
and set with sequins that flashed and dazzled as they reflected the bright lights in the
ceiling. Her small, shapely hands fidgeted impatiently with her filmy dupatta. Her
amazingly recurved lips pouted sulkily as she looked down at her perfect little feet clad in
light-blue party slippers decorated with beads. Her hair, cut short in a waif-like hairdo
that caused his shins to ache with the wonder of it, haloed a face that was beyond
description in its impossible beauty.
Since she wasn’t looking at him, obviously resentful of the compulsory
introduction, Anand’s eyes went to the rest of her. He almost wished they hadn’t. He had
seen better figures, but he couldn’t remember when. If nature had wished to make her
curves just that much better, just that little bit more right, she’d have thrown in the towel
in despair. It was the absolute best that she was capable of. Then the girl looked up,
bored, and Anand’s heart doubled its tempo. He couldn’t understand why this was
happening. It had never happened before.
‘I never knew perfect eyebrows could be this perfect!’ he thought wildly. More than
just decorative, they were functional as well, enhancing as they did the beauty of the
lovely brown eyes. ‘Such eyes,’ thought Anand—who was hardly the poetic type—‘must
have triggered off wars between nations and centuries of vendetta among tribes.’ The
eyebrows in question lifted quizzically as the eyes recognized him, and the wondrous lips
parted in a wicked smile to reveal pearly teeth.
Deep in the mysterious whirlpools of her brown pupils, something laughed and
laughed...and laughed! Anand’s heart forgot to beat. She was the stuff that dreams were
made of. She was also the girl of the boating incident that morning...
He didn’t realise he was staring until Mrs. Chanchal’s discreet cough brought him
around.
“Go and have a double scotch, you poor man!” she laughed gaily as she sailed off
triumphantly, leaving them together. She was sure her score was still 100%. The poor
fellow had gone down like a pole-axed steer! As she’d known he would...

*
“Major, you’re one hell of a lousy dancer, you know that?” she giggled.
He shook his head dazedly again. He wished she wouldn’t do that...and smile at him
at the same time. Every time she did, he felt like someone had penetrated his guard with a
one-two combination to the stomach. He felt dizzy, out-of-sorts.
“It’s ‘Captain’, not ‘Major’,” he muttered groggily.
“Hey! Are you okay, ‘Captain not Major’? You look kind of unwell to me!” she
said with genuine concern. They had amicably sorted out the misunderstanding of the
morning, and were standing under the eaves at one end of the long verandah of the club,
enjoying the uninterrupted view of the mile-long lake. He nodded wordlessly.
“I know! Let’s go boating!” she laughed gaily. “That should clear your head!”
 95

It was the music a brook makes as it titters its way over shingle and gravel to join a
river. The tinkling melody of it sent a thrill up and down his spine. Her small, perfect
teeth gleamed whitely through her incredible lips, magenta coloured for the occasion...

It was only a short walk down to the lake. He commandeered a two-seater scull and
cast off, feathering the oars with relish. She was right. The lake was a far better place to
be than that stuffy ballroom.
It was a moonlit night, and Naini Tal Lake is an enchanted place especially on
such nights. The moon floated along with them as Anand plied the oars, and the faint
peals of temple bells carried softly to their ears like lullabies across the dark waters.
“I wonder how old the lake is,” mused Sumitra.
“Oh, probably as old as the end of the last ice age...that’s about ten thousand
years,” replied Anand. “But it was only ‘discovered’—according to local legend—in the
early nineteenth century by an Englishman hunting a stag.”
“Ten thousand years!” murmured Sumitra wonderingly. “A hundred centuries!
That’s a long time, Anand. I wonder how many lovers have sat on its banks on moonlit
nights, holding hands and watching the moon dancing on the waves...”
“Zillions, I’d expect. Unless, of course, there weren’t any people living here. No
one knows the early history of this place. No archaeological digs have ever been
attempted.”
“Good!” said Sumitra firmly. “It would ruin the mystery.” She was silent for a
while, letting the cool breeze fan her flushed cheeks. “Anand... I wonder whether we
were here, you and I, ten thousand years ago. Do you think it’s possible?” she asked
shyly.
“Sure, why not?” replied Anand confidently. “They say souls of people we’ve
known always meet up with us again and again, life after life. That’s why some people
are always special to us...even after a brief encounter. It’s as if primal—subconscious—
memory takes over. We may fight it, and we may convince ourselves that it’s just poetic
fancy, but I, for one, think it’s true.”
“You do? Strange...so do I. I think we’ve known each other before, Anand, I feel
so...so at ease with you. I’m not like this at all, going boating with someone I just met,
blurting out all kinds of stuff. Normally, I’d consider it very forward. Right now, I think
it’s so... perfect!”
He shipped the oars and crossed over from his rowing bench to join her on the
opposite one. He caressed her soft, wind-blown hair gently, a great tenderness welling
up in him. His heart had never hammered this way before. He slipped his arm around her
shoulders and hugged her. She did likewise, and rested her head on his shoulder.
He cupped her face in his hands, admiring the mind-bending perfection of it, seeing
with his heart the lovely soul that lived within the soft, beautiful body in his arms. His
kiss, when it happened, was so spontaneous, so genuinely loving, that she thrilled to its
purity and innocence. She kissed him back just as enthusiastically, running her fingers
through his hair.
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“Journeys end in lovers’ meetings, Honeybaby!” he whispered, and kissed her

again. He was sure he’d said those very words to her, some other time...long ago. And
this was journey’s end...at last. “We’ll always be together,” he said confidently.
“Promise?” she asked through her tears. A terrible happiness was upon her.
“I promise!” said Anand firmly, knowing deep within his heart that he was fated to
redeem an old pledge. They clung to each other, delirious with joy. Déjà vu vanquished
him and inundated his soul. A paean to love and human destiny rang out in his blood.
The final piece of an ancient puzzle fell into place as they swore their vows to each
other. The stars looked down in witness, relieved at the denouement. This time, the Fates
would be kinder to them.
The boat drifted down the silvery ribbon the moon had unrolled upon
the dark waters for ten thousand years...

~*~

‘The mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death’.

~ Jackie Leven
Children of The Light

As Dr. Chandan Bhowmick stepped up to the mike, a hush fell over the hall. The
Press had been waiting eagerly for this moment for the last three days of the International
Conference on Child Development. Dr. Bhowmick, they knew, was a controversial figure
in the field, and there is nothing reporters like better than controversy: it is their very
bread and butter.
So as he opened his address, their pencils hovered expectantly over their pads even
as voice-activated pocket recorders clicked on automatically in their pockets. It was well
known that this mild mannered, slightly stooped and balding figure was a fierce
iconoclast who had rocked the sedate world of Child Development. His revolutionary
hypothesis, that men had failed to become men because civilization had intervened, was
the target of the most savage attacks ever launched against any social anthropologist
since Darwin.
“…and over almost ten years of long and lonely walkabouts in the Great Australian
Outback, in my youth, I collected enough material to gain a faint insight into the true
nature of the Dreamtime legends of the Australasian aborigines.” The voice was soft,
almost apologetic. It was hard to link it with the shattering theories published in his
recent papers to Science and The Royal Society.
He went on unhurriedly, “I have come to the conclusion, tentative yet backed by my
experiences, research and certainly my intuition, that the Dreamtime is nothing if not a
verbal record of a lost age of Man, a Golden Age if you please, when Man was a
superman, in possession of all his faculties.” Dr. Bhowmick paused to take a quick
swallow from the glass of water on the rostrum before resuming his address:
“Not just the five basic senses, mind you, but higher senses and sensibilities. He
was so perfectly attuned to Nature and to the Universe itself that he failed to see any
difference between himself and the rest of creation. His unfettered, untrained, ‘childish’
and unconditioned mind, uncluttered by the dross of civilized society, possessed of its
 97

full potential, roamed the cosmos and mastered it even as he led a simple, nomadic
existence in harmony with the rest of the planet. I will try to explain that this Dreamtime,
Golden Age—call it what you will—is in the Here and Now, very much a part of our
Present, and within reach of anyone with a mind so open as to see it.”
A hubbub of dissent arose in the vast hall, but the voice of the President, as
pleasantly neutral as that of a Wimbledon referee’s, intervened to quell it. Dr. Bhowmick
used the brief interval to pull out a handkerchief and polish his glasses, a patient twinkle
in his eyes. He went on unperturbed:
“Intrigued by the findings of my younger days as a social anthropologist, I returned
to India, my homeland, to see whether the legends and sagas of ancient India had
anything to contribute to my postulates about the hoary past. I found—in a nutshell—that
in the old myths of our people, going back to a time out of mind, an antiquity so hoary
that western scientists will contest the chronology on the grounds that the Earth itself had
not then been created, I found further evidence of this…this promised land, the Promised
Land of the Bible.
I speak of a distant time, long before recorded history. It was a time when men, in
possession of all their faculties—including the higher ones, now alas lost, though still
dormant within us—were privy to the greater experience that we, as human beings, are
rightful heirs. Which would be ours—if only we could shed the conditioning, the
unnecessary baggage, of a ‘civilised’ way of life. We move as in a dream, half awake and
unfulfilled, ignoring a vast universe that lies beyond: The Dreamtime, a long-lost…” Dr.
Bhowmick hesitated for a moment, then continued in a strong voice… “a long-lost
Atlantis of the Mind!”
Pandemonium broke out in the hall. Several prominent scientists leapt to their feet,
shaking their fists at the man at the lectern, mouthing obscenities. Accusations of
‘charlatan!’ and ‘subvertist!’ were yelled at him. Deputies were called in as a small, vocal
group of Dr. Bhowmick’s supporters clashed with his hecklers. The sound of furniture
breaking and fists thudding into bone resounded in the hall as the august deliberations
degenerated into ugly brawling. Armed guards formed cordons around the distinguished
guests and rushed them to the safety of their vehicles.
Dr. Bhowmick had done it again.
Which is what the newspaper headlines screamed the next morning. Entire columns
were devoted to the Outback and legends surrounding the Great Dreaming of the native
Australians. Many editorials were devoted to verbal myths of obscure tribes in South
America, Tibetan lore, the Mahabharata, Elijah’s vision, the saga of Atlantis, the lost
Minoan civilization, and to the theory of cyclic human evolution. Thinkers and savants
from Aristotle, Bruno, and St. Augustine to Lao Tze, Confucius, Sri Aurobindo, Teilhard
de Chardin and Paramhansa Yogananda were reviewed and compared. The warnings of
Max Planck and Oppenheimer were recalled. They had insisted that a new age had
dawned. The only danger, they claimed, lay in not recognizing it for what it was: an age
in which Man had to accept the fact that he was changing, and must come to terms with
his own evolution. Dr. Chandan Bhowmick was amused to find himself in such august
company. He would have been stunned if anyone had told him that one day he would
join their ranks.
As he slowly ate his frugal breakfast of oatmeal porridge, orange juice and coffee,
Bhowmick pondered his next move. He had reached the stage when he had to take a step
 98

further in his research. Money was always a factor. He could no longer depend on the
family estates. The tea plantations were gone, sold to local mafia that made them offers
they dared not refuse. Life had become very cheap in his homeland, and the law was
helpless before constant political interference.
His father, who had so willingly funded his activities, was long dead. The grants
promised by the United Nations Committee on Research into Primal Intelligence had run
into opposition from the rival lobby that had a strong representation in the Secretariat. He
had few supporters, mostly mavericks like himself. All he had were postulates, well
explained but lacking the punch of conclusive evidence. He was stuck, like the last time.
His mind went back over the years, remembering….

It was a sleazy little honky-tonk in downtown Sydney. He had been back from one
of his excursions into the Outback a week earlier, and was resting up before the next one.
If he didn’t locate new sources of funding, it would be his last trip. He hadn’t a clue what
the Dreamtime was. It was hard to get close enough, both metaphorically and literally, to
the Australian natives, to try and learn about it. He did not trust the extant theories,
coming as they did from western scientists, few of whom were willing to explore
metaphysical or psychic avenues of explanation. They were too timid to expose
themselves to ridicule.
He had lived with the Bushmen of the Kalahari. Like the aborigines, they seemed to
have little spoken communication and no written language. But the keyword was
‘seemed’. What ‘seemed’ was not always what ‘was’. Appearances could be deceptive,
especially when dealing with shy, primitive peoples who were reclusive and shunned
outsiders. The aborigines of the Outback made little more than a few birdlike sounds—at
least in his presence. He wondered that they managed to communicate at all! Yet, like the
Bushmen of Africa, who had no long-distance communication aids, they could travel
from all directions, covering vast distances, to assemble at one spot. Modern science had
never unraveled the mystery.
As he sipped his beer and planned his next move, the song in the background
intruded into his thoughts. It was an old favourite of his—‘You Are My Sunshine’—and it
was sung so well that he turned to look at the singer. She was older than her voice
suggested. She was probably around thirty-three, and looked it. After the number, he sent
her a note of appreciation. She did not reply. The next night he was back, and this time he
sent her a request for ‘Ma Cherie Amour’. She sang it extraordinarily well, he thought,
and this time he went up and told her so as she settled down by herself at her small table.
She looked at him appraisingly, noting the deep mahogany of his skin, his foreign
accent, and his shyness. Something—perhaps his sincerity—made her gesture to the chair
opposite, and after a moment’s hesitation, he sat down. Up close, he realized he’d been
wrong. She looked thirty-two but was not more than twenty-eight, just about his own age.
They made small talk as they sized each other up, and she was frankly admiring that he
had come all the way from India to follow a scientific hunch.
She had grown up in a large family of six brothers, none of whom supported their
aged parents. She scraped together a living singing at bars and smaller restaurants along
the southern seaboard, and sent half her modest income home. He finished his drink and
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ordered another round for them, but she refused with a smile; she had to get on with her
‘act’.
Night after night, Bhowmick sat with her as she told him her life story, her dreams
(she wanted to marry and settle down in either Sydney or Melbourne), and her problems.
He was easy to talk to. He listened well and said little. It seemed to Bhowmick that he
had never met a nicer person. She encouraged him to keep searching: ‘Y’know, I have a
feeling you’ll be famous one day. You just have to keep at it, mate. Only those with faith
in themselves ever succeed. I’m going to make it, too, you can bet on that’.
She looked around at her depressing surroundings and giggled. Bhowmick warmed
to her. She was witty, practical, and very talented. Attractive, too, he conceded to
himself. She was sure to make it. He had a gut feeling about it and told her so. She was
surprisingly well read. Apparently she had nursed an ambition to take a degree in Law
before the realities of her situation caught up with her.

For two nights in a row, she did not turn up for work. On the third night of her
absence, Bhowmick accosted the manager. He shrugged indifferently. ‘She’s sick,
cobber, they tell me. Found a replacement, as you can see.’ Bhowmick got her address. It
was on the sixth floor of a red tenement building in a shabby part of town. At his knock, a
weak voice asked him to go away. He had to plead before she would let him in. She
tottered back to bed. Her face was flushed and she was running over 103º temperature.
He could see she was in bad shape. She needed to see a doctor. Fast. Against her protests,
her wrapped her in blankets and bundled her downstairs and into the cab.
The doctor was more suspicious of the slight, brown-skinned man who had brought
the girl than he was concerned about his patient. Bhowmick finally lost his patience and
put fifty dollars before the GP. ‘Look here, doctor, she’s a friend, a fellow human being
in pain. All I’m doing is my duty. If it’s a problem for you, I’ll take her elsewhere.’ The
doctor’s fist closed smoothly around the currency notes: ‘No need to get worked up,
mate. It’s just that I have to be a little careful about… er…strangers who bring white girls
into my clinic.’
He had been about to say ‘blacks’. Bhowmick didn’t mind being called black. The
colour of his skin had never bothered him. He accepted himself as he was on the outside.
Colour was only skin deep. He had always been concerned about what people were like
inside. It had always been a little hobby of his to try and see the person behind the façade,
after stress, provocation or imagined insult peeled away the layers of carefully
programmed urbanity. He was smarter than he made out to be.
The physician prescribed some medicines, gave her an injection, and told
Bhowmick to take her home. ‘A light, low-fat, high protein, high carbohydrate diet with
plenty of fresh fruit juice…and a few days rest before she goes back to work. No
showers, only sponging with warm water. She’s a strong girl; she’ll be fine in about three
or four days. Take her to the beach. Bondi is great this time of year. It’s too early for
tourists, and the kids are studying for their exams. All you’ll see are beachcombers and
gulls.’ Bhowmick nodded gratefully. ‘And check with me on the phone daily, d’you
hear?’ he shouted as Bhowmick lifted her bodily and carried her to the waiting cab.
Though slight of build, he had the strength and deep reserves of stamina that often go
with a wiry frame.
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She was semi-conscious when he deposited her on her bed. She was not hungry, but
he had bought some provisions from the drugstore where he’d stopped to buy medicines,
so he opened a can and heated some chicken soup. She managed to swallow half of it
before she fell fast asleep. She had given him the key to her flat, and he pulled the door to
firmly behind him until he heard the mortise lock click soundly into place before going
downstairs.
He was back early the next morning. She was coming awake, weak and feverish. He
hand-fed her, spoonful by spoonful, then carried her to the bathroom, peeled off her
sweaty clothes and sponged her down. She did not protest, accepting his help without
demur. She watched his face steadily all the time he swabbed her down. Her body was
typically ‘Caucasian, Female’: compact, firm breasts, narrow waist, flat stomach and
long, well-muscled legs.
His mind noted all this absently while it grappled with the immediate crisis. He
knew she had no one in Sydney, or anywhere else for that matter, to care for her. He was
worried. Her skin burned under his fingers as he scrubbed her down gently but
thoroughly with slightly cooler water than what the doctor had recommended. He tried
not to show it, but he was scared. He had never nursed anyone before. Instead of merely
once a day, as advised, he phoned the doctor four or five times daily.
*

Bondi beach, Sydney, at seven in the morning is a peaceful place to be, off-season.
Just the odd beach bum, or a couple taking a quick walk before breakfast. Gentle waves,
blue and crested with little white caps, came rolling in steadily from the south. The water
lapped at their bare toes as the little sand crabs scurried around sifting through the foam
for tiny crustaceans. Gulls wheeled overhead with raucous cries, sometimes darting into
the water to take a morsel of food. They were masters of the air, silhouetted against a
sapphire-blue sky, painted with light.
Light! There was so much of it. Everywhere. It seemed to be all there was.
Everything seemed to be made of Light. Everything. It enveloped them in its magic, a
happy, uplifting golden radiance, as they sat together companionably on the sand.
Strange, how it was sometimes. When words were unnecessary. When you first met
someone…and found you had always known her. They had met three weeks ago. Time
was such a riddle…or was it a hoax?
Neither of them noticed the silence between them. They seemed to be in constant
conversation with each other. Words were unnecessary. There was nothing that needed to
be said aloud. It was so deep a communion that conversation would have been an
intrusion. It was on that day that Chandan Bhowmick clearly saw that he was, in essence,
soul. Not body. So were they all: all souls. Something in him, inside the outer envelope
he called his body, rejoiced at the knowledge. And this insight came to him because of
her, the sheer miracle of her!
It was the last day of her convalescence. She had applied for, and got, a job as a
crooner in the adjoining state, in a suburban town called Murphy’s Bend, and would be
leaving early tomorrow morning. Bhowmick, on his part, was slightly behind schedule
and had to reach Alice Springs by the next evening. His tickets on the afternoon flight
were confirmed. They rose at last and made their way back to the motel, holding hands as
if it was the most natural thing in the world to do. The sea air had made her very hungry
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and she relished the brunch of freshly grilled lobster, salad, and hot toast with lashings of
golden butter, all of it washed down with limejuice laced with Gordon’s.
Bhowmick watched, fascinated, as her body tried frantically to regain all the weight
and strength it had lost. The colour was back in her face, and there was a sparkle in her
eyes he hadn’t seen before. The tired lines around her lovely recurved lips, free of
lipstick, were gone. Her skin glowed with health. Looking at her gave him a full,
contented feeling. He ate sparingly, saying little.
Back in their room, they came together as naturally as the sky and the sea. She was
in his arms without either of them being aware of it. It was so perfect, so right. She said
goodbye to him the way women have always let go of their men: with dignity,
acceptance, and love. It was not her passion but his own that jolted him. He had not
realized how incomplete he was, how badly he needed her.
It was evening when they drew apart. He dressed quietly. There was little to be said.
They were like two ocean liners that passed each other in mid-Atlantic: a brief
experience, deeply stirring. Only memories would remain. That… and the warm glow
that one human being can light in another, a flame that can last a lifetime, a blaze that
always thereafter shows the way, always burns brightly within. He would remember June
Holliday. She had become a permanent part of him…forever. A verse from Longfellow’s
poem, The Theologian’s Tale, ran through his mind:

“Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing;
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,
Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and a silence.”

‘Sir! Your bill!…..Your bill, Dr. Bhowmick’. The waiter was politely insistent.
Chandan Bhowmick returned to the present. It was hard to believe that so many years had
passed since all that happened. It seemed like yesterday. Time was a big fraud. He knew
it for the great illusion that it was. Back then, could he have known what the years held
for him? He had set out on what he had presumed was the last walkabout he would ever
make. But now, the receipt of a hundred thousand Australian dollars from ‘an unknown
admirer’ had miraculously changed everything. This time, he had decided to carry a small
movie camera and adequate photographic equipment.
He traveled alone, a very foolhardy thing to do in the merciless Outback. His only
defence was a Whippet, security agency parlance for a customised .20 bore single (choke)
barrel pump-action shotgun with a six-round magazine. He had got the barrel sawn down
to 15 inches and had the stock replaced with a walnut pistol grip. There was an
aluminium skeleton shoulder stock that could be fitted quickly in case he needed it. He
could draw from the hip holster and hit a tin can at thirty yards within a second. It was far
better than a revolver. Poisonous snakes were the real danger of the Outback, apart from
exposure, hunger and thirst. He wore thick, kangaroo leather boots but carried anti-serum,
too, as a precaution.
Chandan Bhowmick, slight, unassuming, scholarly and even pedantic at times, was,
at heart a man of action. He had learnt as much from books as he had from nature, and
from the Bushmen. He owed them a debt he could never repay. They had been his early
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gurus. They had taught him how to find water even in a desert, the plants that could be
chewed for moisture and food, how to find meat in places where there appeared to be no
living thing. He learnt how to survive under the merciless overhead sun, and how not to
die of hypothermia in the freezing desert nights. He recognised which roots and tubers
were nutritious and which berries could kill in minutes.
The things of the wild, the birds, the reptiles, the bees, the ants…all carried
messages to him about life and death in the harsh and forbidding land he was returning
to. It was like a ticker tape of information that scrolled away constantly before his eyes.
In other words, he was cast in the mould of the early explorers, though if anyone had
suggested it to him, he would have blushed. Of such contradictions are often made those
who are born under the mystic sign of Pisces. Dreamer he was, but he was also a doer,
determined to do what was necessary to make his dreams come true.
He had been a month in the Outback when his luck finally changed. He had
ventured into an area of light scrub cover and rocky outcrops. Traces of rich mineral
deposits were all around him, hurled to the surface by titanic upheavals of past ages.
Then he heard them, the trilling, whistling sounds where there were no birds. The People!
At last! If only he could manage to connect with them somehow.
Unlike the Bushmen, who were as likely to fade away silently as put a poison dart
into you from a blow-gun if they didn’t know you, the aborigines just looked curiously at
him and then moved away at a pace he could not maintain. It was rather daunting to be
cold-shouldered like this. But he had not succeeded in finding a way of winning them
over to his side. They took the gifts—chocolate powder, sweets, tobacco—that he handed
them, then moved off, offering nothing in return.
He topped the rocky outcrop and froze. The tableau before him said it all. The
reason for the flurry of sounds was clear. A small aborigine boy lay on the hard earth,
surrounded by his kind. He was twitching and frothing at the mouth. Snakebite! He ran
over to them. They gave way to him, but ignored him, keening deep in their throats as
they watched the boy die. They were used to sudden death. The land supported them for a
while, and then reclaimed their flesh and blood at will to enrich the soil. It was an old
story.
Bhowmick rummaged in his pack for the anti-venom kit, tightened the tourniquet,
made two crisscross cuts with the sterilized blade, sucked out the poisoned blood near the
wound and quickly spat it out. Then he swabbed the area around the two wicked puncture
marks in the ankle, loosened the tourniquet and injected the antidote. The People looked
on incuriously.
Minutes passed, and the boy did not die. Gradually, his breathing returned to
normal and the faltering heart recovered its normal pace. The circle of onlookers was
huddled together, whispering. They ran to the boy incredulously as his eyes opened and
he called weakly to his father. Then they crowded around Bhowmick, touching him,
seeing him for the first time, accepting him. When they moved off, they looked back
again and again to ensure he was keeping up.
The ground-eating lope the Bushmen had taught Bhowmick was coming back to
him. A month in the Outback had toughened him, stretching his stamina to a level not far
below that of an aborigine. He kept up with them, pausing occasionally to take a picture
or two. He had recorded it all on film; the dying boy, the recovery after the antidote had
been administered, the smiles of acceptance, the mother’s tearful caress, the father’s
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disbelieving stupefaction. They were people, human beings—souls—just like everyone

else, Bhowmick realised with joy. They reminded him so much of his little Kalahari
friends, thousands of miles away, yet so similar in their culture. One day, he might adopt
a line of research to list the close similarities between the two peoples and see whether a
logical explanation could be found for them.
He spent three years living with The People, three years such as a modern man has
rarely lived. He went as they went, hunting, eating and surviving. Their tongue seeped
into his subconscious. He did not try to divine any grammar in it. He just accepted that he
could make his needs understood, and they could tell him what they were thinking. It
appeared to be very basic and survival-oriented. There were no niceties of speech or
thought, and, as far as he could judge, no taboos or legends, and especially, nothing to do
with the Dreamtime. It was just a rumour, he decided. He was wrong.

They were moving west. It took time for the fact to sink in. There was a purpose in
their easy drift now, for a general direction of travel was now discernible to his compass.
It no longer was an aimless wandering, sometimes this way, sometimes another,
following the kangaroos or the birds. A certain excitement was in the air, a sense of
anticipation, like that of a joyous homecoming. As the days passed, the line of direction
grew tighter and tighter till the needle held steady at west-southwest. Bhowmick
consulted his map and found they were headed for Ayers Rock, five hundred miles away.
At their present pace, they would reach it a month hence.
It dawned on him gradually that they were not the only ones moving towards Ayers
Rock. In some subtle way, it was borne in on him that others, too, were converging on it.
Some mysterious command, some message from another dimension perhaps, had
communicated itself to all The People. Now they moved in unison, following some
primordial pattern as old as the stars, possessed of a single aim, driven by forces they
acknowledged but did not understand. It was not instinct, as in salmon. It was the
response to a definite call…from whom?…from where?…for what purpose? They were
now only a day’s journey from the huge monolith that towered up out of the bleak, sun-
baked landscape. There were others on the same trail, and Bhowmick was with them as
The People merged, became one large family. He felt their excitement, a growing joy. It
was obvious in the way they sang as they ran, the little leaps the children made as they
trotted along beside their parents.
It was a moonless night as they huddled together, a conclave of tribes, before the
dark shape that was faintly outlined against the brilliance of the starry night. Was it just
his imagination that the dark mass was beginning to glow…becoming a luminous
formation? It was now translucent, with radiance in its depths, and Bhowmick, a scientist
crouching on the cold earth among a people who had been old when these hills were
being shaped, felt a sense of superstitious awe and…yes, a curious reverence. The same
sort of reverence he had felt for June Holliday. What had made him think of her, now of
all times? He wished she were with him. He missed her desperately. What was the
meaning of it all? What was happening? Why was it happening?
 104

They were in the Light, inside the mountain. That was why The People had always
believed it was a holy place. They were men, but not black or white or brown. Just men.
Made of light. Bhowmick accepted it, knew it was no fantasy. They gave their message,
the one they gave whenever it was needed. There were no words, just a thought-
transference better than any language. The Dreamtime was in the past, they ‘said’. But it
was also in the Now, the one they lived in. If they could find it. Ethereal music, as if of
Angels, played in the background.
The Dreamtime was a beacon to all men who were not yet Men. They still but slept.
The Elders simply passed on the wisdom of ages from where they were now stationed.
They taught them how to awake from their sleep. To the real Life that was here…and
beyond...in the Dreamtime. When they awoke, they would be Men…at last.

The bookshop was crowded, but not because of his book launch. He was supposed
to autograph the first hundred copies of his maiden book, a paperback on Australian lore
entitled ‘Images from Yesterday – The Dreamtime on location.’ No seemed particularly
interested in his unpretentious little photo-essay. The crowd was there to see the
celebrated diva and pop icon Judy Holden who was there to promote her latest album,
‘Mystery Man’. Her last release, ‘Love You So’ had topped the charts for six straight
weeks and raked in a cool $9 million in the first week itself. She was the toast of
Australia and of the world of pop music. She was said to be worth over $20 billion. A
self-made dollar billionaire. Dr. Chandan Bhowmick had never heard of her.
Now, as he stood to one side, feeling a little foolish, he didn’t have the heart to
upbraid his publicity consultant, Ron Wickham, for the gaffé. It would cost him plenty, in
time. Poor sales meant he got lower commission. A ripple ran through the crowd. Judy
Holden had arrived. The jostling crowd was kept at bay by a cordon of police and
security men. The world’s TV channels were here. Strobe guns popped and motor drives
chattered at five frames a second as she entered the store and flashing her dazzling smile,
made for the podium. ‘Mystery Man’ started playing on the house audio hookup, and
people were swaying to the beat. It was the sound of the surf, a rhythm as old as the sea.
The words were simple:

‘Where’d you come from, I don’t know,

Where’d you go, my Mystery Man?
You’ll never know I miss you so,
Can’t carry on like this, just can’t…”

She was even more beautiful than he remembered. She had filled out ever so
slightly. Her sleek, voluptuous figure gave her an enigmatic, timeless appeal. Wealth and
fame had brought her happiness. She was fulfilled. Chandan Bhowmick remembered the
half-dead waif called June Holliday in Sydney, and his chest was tight with joy. She had
made it. His vision blurred at the sweet memory of her…just as she turned and spotted
him.
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Very slowly, as if not to excite attention, she came off the podium. Reporters bore
down on her: ‘Is it true, Miss Holden, that early in your career, you were inspired by
someone who felt you had what it takes. Where is he now? Why have we never heard
from him?’
‘Oh, we’ve all been helped by someone or the other, sometime,’ she replied with a
laugh, ‘no one ever really makes it on their own. But yes…once, there was a dear,
wonderful person, a man who felt…who knew… I would succeed. He accepted it as a
foregone conclusion. I have always treasured the strength and inspiration he gave me. I
also owe him my life,’ she added quietly.
‘Is that the reason why, Miss Holli…I mean, Miss Holden…you never married?’ the
reporter insisted. He had obviously done his homework well, and was preparing to slip
the steel between her ribs. She didn’t flinch.
‘Yes, in a way.’ Her disarming frankness took the wind out of the newshound’s
sails. ‘I’ve had my share of…um…friends, but this one—he was really special.’ She
giggled, the enchanting giggle he had never forgotten! It seemed to echo down endless
centuries to him as he stood there, lost in the crowd. She was close to him now; he could
almost reach out and touch her. He inhaled the warm, tantalising aroma that came off her
like a tender offshore breeze. He was a man of the Outback, and his senses were far
keener than those of a city slicker. But she couldn’t possibly remember he existed, it was
all for publicity. He was happy for her: he wanted nothing from her.
She was almost past him when she stepped smartly sideways and put her arm
around his shoulders. Ron was grinning conspiratorially from ear to ear. He was the best,
no doubt about it!
‘And here he is, boys!’ she yelled happily to the shoving throng of reporters and
cameramen ‘…Mr. Mystery Man himself. Dr. Chandan Bhowmick! From India! Give
him a big hand!’ She waited for the thunderous applause to die down. ‘The real reason
I’m here, by the way—surprise, surprise—is to launch his book…the one on Australian
native peoples. Buy it, folks! It’s fantastic! My l’il album will take care of itself, by the
looks of things. Right now, this is more important to me.’
Then she was kissing him, right in the media spotlight, as the whole world watched.
The strobe lights were going crazy and the TV cameramen were yelling ‘A bit sideways!
Perfect! That’s it! Hold that pose, you two!’ The roar of the crowd drowned out the
speakers in the mall…and Chandan Bhowmick knew instant stardom…and fame. His
little favour of long ago had come home to roost.
She smelt the way she always had, warm and sweet, like early spring. The
expensive Coty perfume didn’t register. He held her gently, as if she was a delicate
porcelain doll. The softness and warmth of her banished all memories of the hardships of
the Outback, the ache of the cold, lonely nights. The magic of her still had the power to
intoxicate him and render him speechless. He just stood there mutely, holding her hand.
The miracle of her! It was an omen… from the Elders. He was sure of it. It was not
coincidence, no chance meeting. There was a hidden purpose that would reveal itself in
due course. Meanwhile, it was June again!

*
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It was such an offbeat book…he didn’t expect miracles. The first print run—a
modest 3,000 copies—was sold out within five days. The next edition, hastily enhanced
with more pictures and text, was gone in a month’s time, all 50,000 copies of it. Orders
continued to pour in from practically everywhere. The next print was half a million
copies. They were gone by Thanksgiving. With Christmas and Easter still to come! It had
the smell of a cult book about it. It debuted in the New York Times Bestsellers list at
No.5. The next week, it was at No.1!

It was one of those rare publishing phenomena, a ‘first’ book that became a NYT
bestseller. It meant instant stardom…and fame. All over again. Wealth was a by-product.
Dr. Bhowmick took it in his stride. He knew the money was not his to spend. There was a
reason why it had come. He waited for the Elders to tell him what to do with it.

He didn’t have to wait long. A large manila envelope from India caught his eye in
the mountain of mail. He turned it over and over in his hands before he opened it. He
felt…he just knew…it was important. Too important not to savour the moment of receipt.
It was from the Indian Institute of Himalayan Consciousness, Rishikesh, in north India. It
was typed on an inexpensive letterhead with a manual typewriter! India was a collector’s
paradise! If you wanted an antique, whether a vintage loo, typewriter, or car, you were
sure to find one in India…in working condition! The Indians never threw anything away.
They couldn’t afford to. They repaired and renewed and rejuvenated and recycled but
never trashed anything if they could help it.
It contained an invitation to come to India and participate in a meditation-for-self-
realisation program; a variety of courses and workshops were available to beginners and
advanced students alike. As an Indian, Dr. Bhowmick was sure to help (which meant they
were lining him up for a donation as well). In fact, he was welcome to do a photo-essay
on the work of the Institute, a worthy outlet for his formidable photographic talent.
Since it was established in very charming surroundings, with running hot and cold
water and all modern conveniences (it continued persuasively), it was also a wonderful
opportunity to relax and enjoy the breathtaking Himalayan views. He was welcome to
bring a companion (which was a tactful way of telling him that he could bring a lady
friend along if he wished). They obviously had television, thought Dr. Bhowmick wryly.
Which is what made him think of June Holliday, as he still referred to her. Dared he ask
her?
He didn’t have to. She dropped in, saw the letter, read it, and said ‘Let’s go! It’s
obviously what you need to do next.’ Her insight amazed him, as did her ability to make
up her mind instantly (as long it had nothing to do with buying a car, a party dress, or a
lipstick!). She brushed aside his diffident objections: what about her dates, her music
recordings?
‘Chandan, I need a break. I’ve been on the road for a long time. The last time I was
on holiday was when we… (she blushed, bit her lip) …when we went to Bondi.’ He
capitulated, and arranged to send a telegraphic confirmation for arrival three weeks
hence, at the commencement of the new six-week program.

*
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The glittering, snow capped mountains with their incredibly jagged outlines
seemed to fill the sky, the higher peaks shrouded in mist. It was impossible to imagine
their stark, brooding immensity without actually seeing them, impossible not to feel
humble before their grandeur. Majestic, aloof, they stood like silent sentinels,
invulnerable, immutable and eternal, forever guarding a land with a sacred mantra from
the dawn of Creation.
It was October, with winter just around the corner, and it was getting very cold.
Rishikesh nestled in the foothills of the world’s mightiest chain of mountains, and
through it passed the roads that went up, up to the holy shrines of Badrinath and
Kedarnath, shrines so ancient that they were part of the mythology and vedic lore of
Indian civilisation. Standing on the balcony of their suite on the third floor of the Institute
for Himalayan Consciousness, looking out at the world’s highest mountain range, June
Holliday shivered slightly. Those mountains! She had seen them before! When? She’d
never been to India before. Not in this lifetime, anyway. Chandan Bhowmick sprang to
her side and wrapped the shawl a little more tightly around her.
‘That’s enough for now, dear. I’d better take you inside before you catch a chill.’
Dr. Bhowmick put an arm around her protectively and led her inside, shutting the doors
leading to the terrace behind him. She looked at him fondly. He hadn’t changed. He was
still as devoted to her as he had always been. Always. It was a powerful word, not to be
used lightly, a word with deep metaphysical connotations. Like ‘forever’.
‘Always have…always will…’ The number by ‘Ace of Base’ played in her mind,
and she hummed it softly under her breath. He was like that. He had always been with
her, life after life, an irrevocable part of the karmic cycle of her soul’s journey. It was
inevitable that their paths should have crossed, though he had had to come all the way to
Australia to catch up with her. She strongly believed in reincarnation. This man was her
destined companion on a long, long trek that would end, some day, on an unknown shore
beyond the stars.
The muted chimes of the gong reverberated through the building. ‘Time to go,
Chandan. The session is beginning.’ She was simply dressed in a sari and shawl, he in
churidars, kurta and a sherwani of homespun wool. They went down in the lift, through
the lobby and into the carpeted hall beyond it. There were already about a dozen people
in the room, sitting cross-legged on the floor. They sat down. June, like most Occidentals
unable to sit cross-legged, sat with her legs tucked under her. At the head of the hall was
a low rug-covered platform, with flowers in vases and incense burning in two ornamental
brass holders.
Presently, a man came through the curtained door at the side of the hall and bowed
low to them before seating himself in the padmasana yogic pose on the deerskin spread
out on the platform. He was Sri Sri ‘Guruji’ Swami Ujjwalananda Giri, the legendary
sage-savant whose books on the Bhakti route to Supreme Consciousness—a mystic
process intuited rather than explained—for attaining the soul’s desire, had sold well even
in the West. He had been a leading economist, scientist and social worker before taking
sanyasa, the total renunciation of the world, the fourth and final stage of life as
prescribed in the shastras, the Hindu scriptures.
He looked at them, and the love shone in his eyes. ‘My children…it is my great
good fortune to address you today. We were fated to meet. I am blessed to have this
opportunity of serving Him by delivering His Word to you. The way to Him is so hard…
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and yet so easy for householders like you. He is attainable by all, if we really, truly want
to…if we always fix our minds on Him, if we do everything with detachment, doing our
best and dedicating our actions to Him. We should never be attached to the fruits of our
actions, for that is not what we are here for. We are here to realize Him. His kingdom is
within us, as Jesus told us it was. We just have to let go mentally of the world, always
doing our best in the physical world but secretly dwelling in His kingdom. He is merciful,
He will always respond. Do your best and leave everything to Him, and He will take over
your life. If you call, He will never fail to answer. He will show you the blessed way to
Him. Then what bliss, what joy, what fulfilment!’
The wise old voice went on: ‘There is no single way to Him, I have come to realize.
All paths are different, yet they are the same, as everything leads to Him. There is only
Him, no other. There is nothing but Him. The rest is illusion, the play of maya. Those
who realize this are well on the way to reaching Him. May you find your own way of
reaching Him. I can but help by inspiring you, by telling you of the paths others took in
reaching the goal, in the hope that it will open your mind to the possibility of finding Him
in your own personal way. You shall certainly succeed…if you want it badly enough.’
Guruji went on to teach them the basic principles of meditation, of breathing exercises
developed by the ancient ages to still the mind and take it to another plane of thought, of
action, of receptivity to the Om sound of the universe.
The next day, they learnt the importance of concentration, a concentration so
effortless yet so complete that advanced yogis became one with Supreme Consciousness.
They could harness all the forces of nature, achieving such harmony with them that they
could do what was regarded as impossible. Once the mind had grasped the Truth,
anything was possible, because the Truth encompassed everything! Physics and
Chemistry became as putty in the hands of the Realised Master, who transcended them to
reach the very Source of all things. If it was not possible to concentrate without an object,
Guruji suggested, then they could meditate on the Himalayas. Nothing summed up the
unity and grandeur of the Supreme better than these symbolic representations of purity
and power…hence the name of their institute.

It was the last day of the program. They felt deeply relaxed, refreshed. Their mental
horizons had expanded. Guruji was no humbug. He was extremely learned in economics,
physics, engineering and mathematics. He drew upon these things, things that belonged
to the world of ordinary men, to deliver his message. He was a towering intellect who felt
he was a little child before the Higher Intelligence that had created Him. His enthusiasm,
his objectivity, his humility, his sense of humour and his childish sense of wonder were
infectious. It was a revelation to them all, a man who could leave wealth and success and
opt for poverty, renouncing everything for his quest.
Guruji had laughed heartily when someone told him this. ‘My child, you’ve got it
the wrong way round! I abandoned useless things, mere baubles, for the incalculable
wealth and bliss of His kingdom! I was the gainer, not the loser. After all, I am basically
an economics man (he was an alumnus of the London School of Economics). I know a
profitable deal when I see one.’ His eyes twinkled merrily. ‘Make no mistake, I got the
best of the bargain!’ then he added seriously ‘and so may you. Remember, He always
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responds when we surrender to His will. This is my personal experience, mind you, not
something from a textbook, something I’ve seen time and again.’
The last meditation session was under way. Chandan Bhowmick tried hard not to let
his mind drift off to the Outback, his mysterious, unfinished quest…for what? What was
the significance of the Dreamtime? How could he play a role in revealing, in a way men
could see and understand, what it stood for? A lesson for all men to learn from, to …’ He
felt a light touch on his shoulder. He opened his eyes. Guruji was sitting next to him!
‘Don’t think of the problem. It cannot be solved that way. Think of the Supreme Power,
pray to it to show you the way…if you ask it of Him, He will never let you down!’
Chandan Bhowmick marveled: Guruji had read his innermost thoughts.
Guruji smiled affectionately. ‘I prayed to Him with all my devotion to help me to
help you. He tells me you are looking for a way for all men to reach a high stage of
evolution, something you caught a glimpse of in a faraway land across the ocean. It is a
very difficult task…but not impossible. Nothing is impossible for Him. He will show you
how. It will be a simple solution, but extremely demonstrative and unchallengeable. You
are blessed. Your years of sacrifice and service to Him are not to go in vain.’
Bhowmick realized with a shock that his life’s quest might look like that to others.
In his saner moments, he’d always felt that his search for the answer to the Dreamtime
mystery was the over-reaction of the chronic bachelor, the obsession of the rabid social
anthropologist.
‘I know, you think you were just doing your job. But don’t you see, to do one’s job,
to answer the call of the heart, to single-mindedly pursue what your innermost being tells
you to…that is listening to one’s soul-voice. That is also worship, a life of Detached
Action: the hallmark of a great karmayogi. I bow before you.’ Guruji bent his head to
Chandan’s feet. ‘In bowing to you, I worship Him, who is in you. Once, long ago, sitting
by the sea with your soul mate, you had a rare insight…there was Light everywhere…the
conviction that all are souls overcame you. Is that anthropology?! Draw sustenance from
that memory. Build on it…on the Light! The Light will help you!’

The rear-engined jet aircraft trailed twin streams of vapour as it arced high over the
ocean, a tiny silver dart lancing through the thin, frozen air of the stratosphere. It was
travelling at just under the speed of sound, hurling itself at a distant continent towards the
sunrise.
Inside the cockpit, the co-pilot sat vigilantly at the controls, his face lit eerily by the
green glow of the radar screen. His eyes scanned the dials constantly, monitoring the
plane’s heartbeat and the autopilot’s ghostly movements as his chief lay slumped in his
own chair, snoring softly. The view through the windscreen was a uniform grey, with the
hazy suggestion of a horizon where the starry blackness ended. There was no sensation of
speed.
Behind him, one of the airhostesses, napping in the redundant navigator’s chair,
muttered incoherently in her sleep. Aft, in the dim, hushed luxury of the passenger cabin,
the occupants slept fitfully, oblivious of the –30ºC cold outside, their cabin a pressurized
haven, its temperature automatically maintained at a soothing 22ºC.
 110

Eleven kilometers below, the smooth, airbrushed blue-black that was the Indian
Ocean gleamed dully in the weak light of a new moon. The plane’s shadow startled a
shark cruising at the surface. It crash-dived in a flurry of foam, momentarily diverted
from its relentless search for food, a sleepless, tireless torpedo. It was the ultimate
predator, faultlessly designed 200 million years ago. It had not survived practically
unchanged all this time for nothing. It waited patiently. One day, the planet would belong
to it…again.
In the First Class section, next to June Holliday, Chandan Bhowmick was dreaming.
He dreamt he was slogging through deep, powdery snow. His heavy clothing, the
crampons on his boots, the snow goggles, they all made it tough going for him, ice axe or
no ice axe. Around him towered majestic mountains, their snowy peaks sharply defined
against a cobalt blue sky. He was not alone. They were with him…the children.
The children? Even in his dream, he was taken aback. What children? Where had
children come from? What were they doing here, with him, at 18,000 feet? Why were
they in their play-clothes in this bitter Himalayan cold? They laughed gaily at his
confusion, amused by the silly grown-up who didn’t understand. They were pointing
ahead, drawing his attention to something.
Chandan Bhowmick turned to see a sight that transfixed him. A conical monolith of
solid ice, a dazzling pyramid of perfect proportions, an epitome of purity, towered above
him. Its dagger-like peak seemed to stab deep into the very heart of the cosmos. He went
down on his knees before it, for even in his dream he realized he was at the base of
Mount Kailash, the holy abode of Shiva. He knelt there in awe and wonder at the glory
before him…and all around him, the children danced and sang, bathed in ethereal light.
Then he awoke.
That he had been blest by a vision never occurred to him. Still less could he have
imagined that it held the key to the mystery of the Dreamtime.

*
They checked into a hotel incognito. Sydney was a big place, but not that big if it
meant evading media scrutiny. Fame had its drawbacks, the most irksome being the
constant glare of publicity. June had worn a gaily-coloured silk scarf she had bought in
Delhi, and covered her eyes with dark glasses, something she usually never wore. Her
beautiful blue eyes were one of her greatest assets. Right now, they were a sure
giveaway.
They now lived together. There was no guilt, because there was no sin…and vice
versa. When two people wanted each other, loved each other this much, how could it be
sin? They were so deeply committed to each other that the question of it being wrong did
not arise. No amount of vows could evoke or consolidate the love and reverence they had
for each other. They could hardly bear to let each other out of sight. They just wanted a
few more days together, to savour their Himalayan experience before the world
intervened and tore them ruthlessly apart. In any case, even going by conventional
morality, no one really bothered about such things any more.
They discussed what they had learnt from Guruji…and from the mountains. Faith,
patience, surrender, humility, gratitude, action without laying claim to the fruits, love,
humour, charity, forgiveness…it was a long list. They had done just those very things in
their lives unconsciously, things prescribed by all the scriptures, and the universe had
 111

repaid them. The formula worked! They analysed, argued, and agreed, the best of mates,
the best of friends. They were the lucky ones of the earth and they knew it.
They looked at each other and wondered at it all. At the sheer immensity of the
scale of things, the interconnectivity of everything…and the underlying pattern, woven
long ago by the hand of the Master Weaver, was revealed to them. In that moment, the
whole tapestry of Creation seemed to glow before their eyes…a glow that grew brighter,
flared up, became a brilliance that dazzled them so that they cowered before its glory and
clung to each other in terror. And deep at the heart of the flame, the children ran and
leaped and laughed and sang, as they seemed to beckon to them to hurry up and join
them.

She remembered another time, years ago. Bondi beach. ‘Light! There was so much
of it. Everywhere. It seemed to be all there was. Everything seemed to be made of Light.
Everything. It enveloped them in its magic, a happy, uplifting golden radiance, as they
sat together companionably on the sand. Strange, how it was sometimes. When words
were unnecessary. When you first met someone…and found you had always known him.
They had met three weeks ago. Time was such a riddle…or was it a hoax?’
Goosebumps came up all over her forearms, and her eyes brimmed with happy
tears, remembering,
*

‘You see it, of course, Chandan? Don’t you?’ June asked him impatiently.
Bhowmick shook his head, puzzled. ‘This is the second time with the children business,
June’’ he said. ‘The first was on the plane, on the way back. I told you about it. What can
it possibly mean?’ he asked, shaken by self-doubt at his inability to pierce the fog.
‘But it’s clear as crystal, darling!’ June was ecstatic. ‘The children! They are the
key…the way to the Light, the road to the Dreamtime for all others to follow.’ She sprang
off the bed and fetched her bible, and opening it to Mark 10.14 she read aloud: ‘Suffer
the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of
God.’ Then she looked up John 1.1: ‘In him was life; and the life was the light of men.
And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.’
She looked at him in exasperation, as every woman who ever lived has looked
ruefully at her woolly-witted man. ‘Don’t you understand? C’mon, let’s add two and two
together, and see what we get. The Kingdom of God, i.e., a world of enlightened,
spiritually advanced beings, is the Light…and the children are as the kingdom of God. So
the children are the Light, or at least the way to it. We start with the children…when we
get hold of some! Q.E.D.!’
She skipped around the room in her exhilaration, clapping her hands. ‘Jesus stresses
on the simplicity, the sheer innocence of children. That’s the key! Apply todayspeak to
‘innocence’—and it reads as total quarantine from ‘teachers’, parental conditioning,
indeed from civilisation itself—and what do we get? Natural Man…in all his pristine
glory, Chandan. Imagine! Rousseau’s ‘Noble Savage’! Alpha Man! Untutored, his brain
unfettered, uncramped by extraneous influences that block the Light—which we accept
here as a metaphor for the Hindu ‘Third Eye of Shiva’. That explains your blessing from
Shiva at Kailash. Right at his doorstep!
 112

‘Alpha Man’, she continued, inspired, ‘is in tune with the cosmos, has the ability to
pierce the veil of maya, sees Nature as his parents, is above false illusion, possessed of all
the higher senses: intuition, telepathy…what have you. The Dawn of the New Men is
coming, Chandan! Alpha Man and Sri Aurobindo’s Omega Man…two sides of the same
coin!’
Beside herself with excitement, she clutched the lapels of his jacket in her fists,
furious at herself for not having seen the answer before. ‘The Dreamtime, Chandan. Your
life’s work! It’s yours for the taking. You’ve done it.’

They adopted them from all over the world, the abandoned waifs no one wanted.
Black, brown, white, yellow, yet all children, and they brought them up in a hermitage
they established in eastern Australia, far from civilisation. They had enormous wealth
between them, and they bought a huge estate and cordoned it off with an electrified
fence, barbed wire and deep moats. Even an army would have found it difficult getting in.
They grew their own food, and had their own livestock and poultry. They just fed the
children, told them they were their parents, and let them run free, letting Nature be their
teacher.
There was no radio, no television, and no books. The sun and the moon and the
stars were all they had. They learned to depend on themselves and the elements for
answers to satisfy their endless curiosity. Their parents never professed to know anything.
They could only be relied upon to teach them to love each other; they never taught
anything else. They had to discover everything on their own. They had the best facilities
at their disposal, the best that modern science could offer, but there was nobody to tell
them what they were for or how they worked. They had no telephone, no musical
instruments. They had to depend on their own minds and heads and hearts to fill the
empty spaces.
They learnt speech, but by the time they were seven they had dispensed with it.
They never seemed to be separate units. One of them would think of a joke…and they all
laughed. They started to teach their parents how things worked, with the patience
normally reserved for the stumbling, inadequate children outside. They lovingly
explained to them the nuances of calculus, trigonometry, and the structure of the atom.
They doted on their parents, but to them they were dear, under-developed oddities. Never
did they make fun of them. They knew that their parents’ sacrifice had made it possible
for them to become what they had become.
They made their minds their laboratories and solved the problems they kept
encountering. They strove and vanquished. Soon, their minds had overcome the weak test
of the physical world and encountered another reality beyond it that was far more
exciting. They leapt to the new challenge with glee, full of wonder and curiosity and love
for everything.

Twenty years had passed. They were old and grey and tired…but few on earth were
as happy as they were. They sat hand in hand under the eucalyptus trees and talked
 113

about what blessings the years had brought them. This was the real pay-off, to look back
on life and feel it had been a great privilege to receive such a grand gift. To have made a
success of it, in material as well as non-material terms. To have achieved something,
helped others.
They were still as deeply in love as they had ever been, but they never had to say
it…it was obvious from their faces. The Children…they were the crowning glory of their
brief lives. The Children were of the Light, immortal, the first of the New Men that would
henceforth walk the planet, cruise the universe. Their Children! It was a matter of great
pride and joy for them.
The Light was ever with them, with this contented pair whose work was done. It
was with them now, expanding, dissolving everything in its golden, soothing radiance. It
was such a comfort to let go, to return to the Light, to allow oneself to be sucked back
into it, to the End…and to the Beginning…of it All.

They buried their parents where they slept, hand in hand under the eucalyptus trees,
at the spot that was bathed in sunshine. They wept for them; they were, after all, their
children. They had not been immortal like them, but they had sacrificed themselves so
that their children could be Things of Light, be Men. But they rejoiced also. They would
meet again. Then they prepared themselves for the next upheaval that was sure to come.
They themselves were in the first flush of their youth. Time was nothing to them.
They were immortal. Not for a long time had the earth seen men and women such as
these. They were the gods the outside world only talked about. They were the perfect
men all could one day become. They no longer had to be bodies. They were
fundamentally agglomerations of Light, clad in bodies by choice, all knowing, all seeing.
One day they conferred amongst themselves. The term is used because it makes
sense to Old Men like you and I. They were One, totally and completely integrated with
each other. They had come to know that the outside world would not allow them to live if
they could help it. The men outside were unenlightened: they had no knowledge of the
Light! Once before, long ago, they had crucified one of them when He had tried to show
them the Way. They looked with deep distaste and hostility at anything and everyone
they did not understand. Men with weapons were coming to forcibly enter their retreat.
The children did not regard the hermitage as their home any more. There was
nowhere that was not home to them. They were Masters of the Universe. Their ‘parents’
were gone, the only Old Men and Women they had ever known and whom they had
loved so dearly. The time had come to break with the Past. There was no other way. It
was time to spread their wings.
*

‘Yes, Sir! I’ll take another look. But it’s no use. We can’t do anything with
Nothing, Sir! No, Sir! That’s not what I meant. Yes, Sir! Quite. Absolutely, Sir. I fully
agree with you. Sorry, Sir, I was not being impertinent, just telling it like it is, Sir!’ He
put down the field telephone and mopped his face with his handkerchief. The Prime
Minister had been in a foul mood over his report. Maj. General Roger Willoughby was a
confused man. He was a soldier who followed orders to a T. His Action Force had
 114

followed the coordinates to the place they had marked on the charts. They found…
emptiness!
There was nothing there. Nothing. Just a grey, indistinct nothingness that was
impervious to tanks, shells, mortars: anything he could throw at it. He had failed in his
mission. But he didn’t have to take this kind of talk from any man. He sat down at the
green baize table in his field headquarters and carefully drafted out his resignation. Let
the old man find some other sucker to solve this one.

The electromagnetic spectrum stretches, theoretically, from Infinity to Infinity. An

item existing in infrared can only be seen in infrared. So it was with Ultraviolet, and all
the other wavelengths within the incomplete comprehension of the Old Men. All matter
was vibration, vibrations of light in its avatar as particle. Make a particle a wave, which
light also was, take it beyond that, to another frequency, and it ‘disappeared’, as far as
other waves not within or adjacent to it were concerned. It was the magic of the Old Men.
It was their everyday, commonplace reality.
They had avoided confrontation by removing themselves a few frequencies away.
They were still there…but not to those at their old frequency. To them, they did not exist.
There was nothing there at all! The Light was all there ever really was; it was the Word
of the old religion, and it was true…only incompletely explained. They were children of
the Light, and well they knew it. They were themselves Light, illuminated, radiant beings
who had mastered the cosmos and had identified themselves with the Greater Light. Now
they would reshape the world, on its behalf, since they were part and parcel of The
Source. New worlds waited to be born, like the New Men who were coming. The
Children of the Light braced themselves to meet the future.

Half way across the globe, at the foot of the Himalayas, an old man sat alone, lost in
deep meditation. He was seated on a deerskin in the lotus pose of the ancient sages,
smiling happily to himself. The lamps had been extinguished, but his form was ablaze
with light.
He was in communion with The Elders, the Old Ones. And with the New Ones he
knew were coming, the long awaited New Men. His work here was over. He left his
physical body for good and became a sphere of luminous energy that beamed itself to the
giant monolith in the wastelands to the east. A new age was in the offing, and further
labours awaited him…as they did the two orbs even now waiting for him in the golden
dawn, companionably together as always, the two whom he knew were called The
Keepers of the Flame. It had been a privilege working with them.

Shadow of the New Men falling

On the screen of future climes,
Hearing other voices calling
 115

From beyond the veil of Time!

~*~

‘The voyage is not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes’.

~ Marcel Proust

Hurry Sundown
It was a bear. A huge, cuddly, ridiculous teddy bear made of synthetic tiger-skin. It
was quite heavy, too. So was the price printed on the tag. But he bought it for her
anyway. He’d actually gone to the book-shop to buy himself a copy of Gabriel Garcia
Marquez’s ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude.’ He’d asked her several times to lend it to
him or borrow a copy for him from one of her friends. She was a great reader and had
many sources for books. But she wasn’t interested in his request. She’d promised, not
once but twice, to lend him her copy of ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’. But she hadn’t. Either
she didn’t remember or she didn’t care. After some time, he stopped asking. Perhaps she
wanted that…
She never gave him anything, not a birthday card, not even a safety pin to
remember her by. Many times he’d thought of asking her for a ‘favour’ to wear, like a
brooch, as knights of old wore the ‘favours’ of their ladies! But prudence dictated silence.
In any event, she refused to accept the teddy and returned it to him. She apologized, but
said she just couldn’t accept the gift. He was bewildered. It hadn’t been such a big thing
for him. He now sensed he’d made a faux pas. His common sense belatedly told him that
a teddy was, in the lexicon of the young, a symbol of love. If accepted, it was a signal
that the feelings were reciprocated. He was crushed, both by the events as well as his
interpretation of her reaction.
She had been instrumental in pulling him out of a major depression in the past, had
befriended him, coaxed and bullied him till he had rallied. It was she who prodded him
back to life, earning his eternal love and loyalty. Now she was withdrawing, tired of him
and his ways. She no longer cared (he realized with resignation) whether or not he
minded her obvious disinterest, her withdrawal. He didn’t figure anywhere in her
calculations. Not any more. Not after she’d rehabilitated him. Provoked him to shed his
inertia, start painting again…
 116

She was his muse, she inspired him. But now she was too busy having a good time
with her friends and shaping her future. He missed her company acutely. The cure had
turned out to be worse than the disease. The withdrawal symptoms were agonizing…

When he’d met her a year earlier, she really hadn’t registered. He’d formed a vague
impression of a girl who dressed quietly, used make-up unobtrusively and was immersed
in her work. The hand-knitted woolen socks she wore with open sandals were rather
incongruous. They made her look a bit dowdy, even old-maidish, he’d concluded
reluctantly. She played herself down, kept a low profile. A survivor…
But she was possessed of a certain native intelligence and spirit, things he valued
higher than mere looks, and he watched with delight as she emerged from her self-
imposed obscurity, came out of her shell. He painted little vignettes for her, extolled her
genuine virtues. She was unreceptive, apparently unused to male admiration of this
intensity. He couldn’t stop, helpless before his grand emotion. She struggled gamely to
retain her composure, to cope with the tide of sincere compliments he sent her way. She
modestly shrugged off his tributes, suspicious of his motives …
The blowback was that his awareness of her snowballed. She grew on him.
Contrary to his first impression, she was emancipated as far as her thought processes
went (he wasn’t aware if it went any further), and she was not exactly averse to cracking
risqué jokes and using four-letter cusswords like a man. He found it stimulating, the
sexually-liberated image she so proudly, innocently, projected, but put it down to the
rebelliousness of youth. He was a good twenty-odd years older than her…
Then spring came, and he asked her whether the season would see her break into a
riot of colour. She replied with balance and composure. Or did she dislike being
anticipated? She was down-to-earth, she claimed, and preferred the pastel, earthy tints
that really suited her personality. He was skeptical. He had seen through her façade, seen
the rage to live she kept hidden deep within her. A cautious one, a canny street-fighter…
He’d pierced the barrier of her disguise, looked past the simple clothes and the
severe bun in which she tied her hair. He saw her with his heart, saw her as she really
was. She was beautiful to his inner eye. Very beautiful. He loved the timeless splendor of
Eve that was in her. She saw what he saw, now. Knew that she was beautiful beneath the
plain-Jane persona she’d adopted as her disguise. Possessed of peerless beauty…
Then her parents were transferred, and she had to live on her own, for the first time
in her life. She was free, more so than she had ever been in her life…

What flower, what woman, doesn’t react to the sun and the seasons, to the magic
touch of spring? She was a woman, an earthy, sensuous woman with all the natural
appetites of the young and unfulfilled, and she responded to the call in her blood. She
exploded in a riot of colour. Not all at once, but very gradually. First, she got her hair
styled, so that it fell in steps, in dark waves of studied confusion around her oval face and
slim shoulders. Then she got herself some trendy clothes that at last did justice to her full,
rounded figure with the mature, alluring curves. She changed before his very eyes…
 117

She had her eyebrows plucked to accentuate the beauty of her lovely brown eyes,
and she turned out to have a natural talent for applying blush-on and lipstick. This last
was fortunate, for to do justice to the sheer sorcery of her high cheek-bones, her wide,
generous, curvaceous lips was not a task for the clumsy. She used lipstick like Rembrandt
van Rijn used his oils. It was perfect for her. She metamorphosed into a femme fatale…
By mid-summer, the transformation was complete. She had gone from larva to pupa
to a glamorous, glittering butterfly that ‘put the entire garrison to the sword’, as he’d
observed admiringly. She came from behind, from the obscurity of the pack, and left
them all tossing helplessly in her wake. The ‘ugly duckling’ had become a swan. He’d
spotted a winner. Perhaps even made one…

Fat lot of good it did him. She’d turned the tables on him. Now that he was in the
queue, a mere supplicant, a sun-worshipper. She doled out her friendship in
condescendingly miniscule doses, making sure he appreciated the favour she was doing
by sparing time for him. The more he told her about himself, the more the distance
between them increased. He had unmasked himself to her as a symbol of supreme trust. It
was a mistake. It robbed him of the element of mystery. Whatever fascination he might
have had for her was diluted. But he was besotted of her, emotionally dependent, and
therefore totally at her mercy. She toyed with him, it seemed. Some days, she was
affectionate and encouraging, and it was during these phases that he was at his best. He
worked like a man possessed…
On other days, however, she derided him, insulted him, and hurt him. He was
helpless before her mockery. She realized her power over him and savaged him at every
opportunity. He had become her punching bag, the outlet for her own little
disappointments and tensions (which he could sense but which she kept carefully hidden
away from him). She no longer confided in him as she had done early on in their
relationship. The more she avoided him, the more eager he became to cultivate her
friendship. She was having the time of her life; men flocked to her, and she had a hectic
social life. He could tell; he was psychic. He didn’t blame men for being attracted to her.
She was a magnet for testosterone…
She threw him a few crumbs occasionally to keep his interest alive, but every now
and then she delivered a broadside that sent him into acute depression. She had the
capacity to inspire him to surpass himself, and this she did in full measure. She was
noncommittal about his output (he sensed intuitively that some of it went down well with
her), rarely acknowledging it, and then, grudgingly. She derided his adulation of her,
taunted him for his gentle, poetic admiration of her timeless beauty and her myriad
positive qualities. She felt he was sycophantic to a fault. She didn’t realize he couldn’t
help it any more than the moth can stay away from the flame. He failed to choke off his
emotions…
She no longer found him interesting. Perhaps his unexpected shift of focus had
unnerved her, put her off. Or maybe she was hard on him to spare him ultimate pain and
disillusionment when she got married. She had hinted to him many times that she was
thinking very seriously of marriage. He burned with a helpless envy of the man who
would win her hand and possess her, body and mind. There was nothing he could about
 118

it. Spring and autumn make poor bedfellows without unlimited cash to sweeten the
mixture. He was penniless now. Despair overwhelmed him. The only woman he had ever
loved…
*

He decided to opt out. Quit. Spell finis. Life had become such a burden, such a
source of misery. He who had never touched a drop now took to alcohol as if brought up
on it. He wanted to do it slowly, gradually, wanted to destroy by degrees the treacherous
brain and the healthy body that had led him into so much unhappiness. He had residual
responsibilities to discharge, and it wouldn’t do to end it all abruptly. Every evening, he
hit the bars, and staggered home when they closed at 11 PM. Behind his back, they called
him ‘The Sundown Kid’…
He caught up with all the authors he had wanted to read but had saved up for later.
He read them as his mind and body slowly disintegrated, James Joyce and James Jones,
Robert Pirsig and Jonathan Bach, Einstein and Aristotle, Adolf Hitler and Lewis Carroll,
Geoffrey Chew and Werner Heisenberg, Don Juan, the Yaqui mystic, and Carlos
Castaneda. He read the Bhagawad Gita and Yogananda continuously; he pored over the
‘Tibetan Book of the Dead’ and the Chinese I Ching. He read every book he could find on
death, karma and reincarnation. He studied Zen and Tao. He had a game-plan, a strategy
that he pursued doggedly to the death (Ha! Ha!). She had once told him that his resilience
was awesome: it wasn’t, really, but his determination was. He had a plan…
He was aiming himself back to her in a colossal cosmic loop, programming himself
to return to her after traversing the void...in his next life. He wanted to spend all eternity
with her, and no other. The next time around, he wanted her to love him unconditionally,
selflessly. He wanted her love to enslave her. He wanted to be the centre of her universe.
He wanted her to know what it meant to love as deeply as he loved her. Know what the
misery of rejection felt like. He wanted her to learn the value of true love. He would
repay every insult, every slight, every put down she had inflicted on him. He would
spurn, decline, deny, mock, wound, humiliate, and crucify. He would teach her a lesson
by enslaving her with her own love…
All his reading, all his meditation, all his consultations with masters of the occult
was geared towards this objective. If his resilience was awesome, his determination to
accomplish something once he’d made up his mind was even more so. He’d go the ends
of the earth to finish something he’d started. But it looked as if he’d have to travel all the
way to eternity and back to get this job done. One by one, he unraveled the arcane
secrets…

The woman was in labour. Her water bag had burst in the car and by the time
they’d wheeled her into the delivery room she was in agony. She sweated and screamed.
Her heavy, bloated body convulsed as the spasms came with increasing frequency. The
baby moved reluctantly down the birth canal. It was happy with its umbilical existence,
the dark comfort and security of his mother’s warm body, the soothing sound of her
heartbeat. It had grown accustomed to the liquid rumbles and flushing of her intestines.
 119

Now powerful muscular contractions were thrusting it out inexorably into a world it
didn’t trust, didn’t need. But it was necessary, it reminded itself, it had things to do...

She was ecstatic. She loved the tiny morsel of life that had emerged from her body,
loved him more than life itself. He was flesh and blood of her, meant more to her than
sun, moon, and a sky full of stars. Her whole life revolved around that of her infant son.
He belonged to her alone! Her husband, the one who’d planted the seed in her, was
relegated into the background, redundant. She’d got what she craved: a son! Got him
legally and within society’s ethical framework, too. Many had loved her, but she knew
instinctively when the right man had come along, how, she didn’t quite understand. She
just knew. And she had allowed his frantic seed to reach the egg pulsing softly in her
womb…
*

How he hated her. He couldn’t stand her stringy hair, her lumpy figure, and the
vacuous smile that she seemed to reserve for him alone. He learned to dodge her in the
morning, to walk past her even when she tried to waylay him. He hated her taste in
clothes, her use of garish make-up, her cloying affection. She became the target for his
ridicule, his taunts, his put downs. He humiliated her at every opportunity, amazed that
she absorbed it bravely and came back for more. She just refused to believe that he
despised her. He loathed her face, her pea brain, her idle chatter, her clumsy attempts to
grab his attention. If she cooked something special for him, he fed it to the dog. He
crucified her in front of her friends. She didn’t punish him…
She told him she loved him more than anyone else in the world. He told her he
hated her, and would she please leave him alone? She waited for him on his doorstep
when he came home evenings just to have a word with him before he disappeared inside.
He found this habit of hers vastly irritating. She slipped little chits for him under the door
that he never acknowledged. She bought him sweets, chocolates, teddy bears and books.
He bartered them for sports gear or other stuff he needed. Really, the female was a pain.
Why couldn’t she be just a bit like the extraordinary woman he adored, he mused,
the only soul in the entire universe whom he really cared about. He was obsessed—
possessed. Why couldn’t that stupid girl next door be just a bit like his mother? His
mother didn’t have to buy him sweets, chocolates, books and teddy bears. Yet he was
besotted of her. His life revolved around her. It was almost as if he’d made up his mind
to be born to her and to dote on her long before he’d been conceived. As for that stupid
girl next door, she was totally emotionally dependent on him and completely at his
mercy, but she didn’t figure anywhere in his calculations.
It was strange, the residual memory in him that drew him to his mother like a moth
to a flame. But on rare occasions, an inner tocsin sounded to warn him that he’d got it all
wrong…that he’d botched it. There was an uneasiness lurking somewhere at the back of
his mind that she’d somehow managed to turn the tables on him: how or why he couldn’t
for the life of him figure out. Sometimes, he’d have even sworn his mother was toying
with him, manipulating him, humouring him. At times like these, he thought he could
hear the gods, laughing…
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~*~

‘Since we are destined to live out our lives in the prison of our minds, our
one duty is to furnish it well.’
-Peter Ustinov, actor, writer and director (1921-2004)

Half a Billion
Horace T. Osgood had never really liked New York. He felt alienated from the
jostling crowds of self-preoccupied achievers who lived in bubble-worlds of their own
creation. They ran themselves off their feet, uncompromisingly focused on their own
lives. They were that way, he knew, because they were insecure; they weren’t quite sure
whether they really existed or not. That’s what the city did to them, it was that big! Yet
these faceless men and women, by the very act of negating their own identities, had
created the ‘Big Apple’, the world’s greatest megapolis. It grew by feeding off their
personae.
But as he left the offices of Arbuthnot, Cruikshank & Associates (who described
themselves as ‘Actuarial Artists’), and emerged on the sidewalk on the corner of 21st and
42nd street, Horace T. Osgood felt like he was walking on air. Now he identified with
them, these unknown, obliterated people who would henceforth feature so prominently in
his life. Now he loved them. After all, he was going to work with them: they were his raw
material, his bread and butter. For Horace T. had finally got his big break.
He had become a Public Opinion Analyst! It was the profession he had always
known he would join some day. Horace had had a hard time in the beginning. He was
from a small town in South Dakota, and had attended a little-known mid-western
university, majoring in Applied Math. The scholarship, and the part-time jobs, had seen
him through. He felt lost in New York. He’d worked as a teacher in a neighbourhood
school before he got the offer from a New York newspaper to join them as a junior
reporter.
He’d risen painfully through the lower ranks, smoothening out his rough edges as
he went. He’d chummed up the cops as he covered the crime beats, then moved up
through ‘street news’, ‘local elections’, ‘national events’ and ‘economic affairs’ before
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writing the ‘society’ column of a major Eastern-seaboard newsmagazine. In his spare

time, he studied Public Accountancy and Economics, Social Anthropology and
Demographics, Political Philosophy and Statistics, preparing himself for a job in a career
that wasn’t born yet. But Horace T. Osgood was one of those men who have learnt to
trust their gut-feelings and are prepared to wait for things to come to them. ‘All in good
time’, he’d often reassure himself.
Now the time had come. Apparently, Arbuthnot, Cruikshank & Associates thought
so, too. Actuaries are people who work out the complex statistical calculation tables that
go into the formulation of insurance, public welfare, gratuity and provident fund
schemes, and Horace T. knew that they need social data like cars need gas. And the more
meaningful the statistical interpretations, the more accurate were their estimates and the
bigger the payoffs. But getting hold of meaningful social data, and then interpreting it,
was getting harder and harder. Things were in a state of flux, to put it mildly.
One moment there was a boom, the next moment—bust! It was a time of sell-outs,
mergers, retrenchments and lay-offs, insider-trading revelations, and multi-national
corporations backtracking on quarterly profit and turnover figures, fudging them and
collapsing when things came out before the SEC. Huge, economically unviable
companies merged and stayed afloat by shedding staff by the thousands. Then would
come a new idea, and tiny, insignificant garage outfits would capture the public
imagination. The stock markets would again take-off for the moon.
The two-party system wasn’t immune to the public mood, either. One term it was
the Democrats, the next time it was the Republicans. One time it was the hawks, the next
time the doves won at the hustings. A seesaw game. There was no stability anywhere;
everything had a fifty-fifty chance of success. Mindless violence and international
terrorism had destabilized things even further.
For Arbuthnot, Cruikshank & Associates, it was not a happy time. They had bucked
the trend to shed staff as their business turnover declined. How would their customers
react if crystal-ball gazers themselves didn’t know where things were headed? It was
embarrassing, to say the least. But odds of 50:50 were not good enough for an actuarial
concern to go on. They had to devise a better way of forecasting trends more accurately.
Things were changing so fast. Society was in transition, and the economy fluctuated
wildly. It fluttered crazily at dizzy heights, then plunged into deep troughs that made the
Marianas Trench look like a rut in a country road. Mere statistics weren’t enough. A man
with the knack for blending impressionistic information—‘intuitive co-relation’ as old
Cruikshank so beautifully put it—with statistics, was needed. It was not a job for a
computer. It was a job for the human mind, for both sides of the brain, the matter-of-fact
left half and the intuitive right half…for a man who could actually calculate his hunches.
And that’s where Horace T. Osgood came in.
To old James Cruikshank, Horace T.’s credentials seemed perfect for the job. The
slim, balding, serious-looking man in glasses was a man who knew the street moods, was
used to feeling the pulse of public opinion at a grass-roots level. He had good academic
qualifications and practical experience of reporting on economic and political matters
over a wide spectrum of social strata. The brief the old man gave Horace T. was simple if
somewhat vague: ‘Stay in the field and find out what’s eating them, Horace. Add two and
two together, my boy, and come up with trends. We have to know which way the ball is
going to bounce.” It was a brief that Horace T. liked. The freedom, the opportunity to
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experiment, to try out his ideas… It was not a job for a mere statistician: it needed a
philosopher or a poet or a psychic to pull it off. Horace was a little of all these. He went
to work in his own way.
*

At the lower-middle level, New York offers amazing horizontal job mobility. He
worked in a delicatessen, he worked in a florist’s, and he was for some time a shoeshine
boy. He even worked as a pimp. He was, at various times, a barman, a cabbie, a
newspaper hawker, and a lift attendant. He worked as an usher, a laundry attendant, an
insurance salesman, a credit card executive, a counter salesman and as a gas-station
attendant.
He frequented the races, he became a big-time barfly, he even visited houses of ill
repute. He was a pro, and he needed to meet with people with their hair down, needed to
hear them talk their innermost thoughts aloud. For a short time, he even flounced around
as a male stripper, riding the Full Monty phenomenon. Women were an important part of
the psychological profile he was sketching…
The excited, vacuous, chattering women at these kitty parties, they were so
animated among their own kind, so explicit in their language. As he shed his clothes to
music and went through his routine of bumps and grinds, he carefully memorized their
conversations. They were so bored, so hungry for a change from their excruciatingly
monotonous lives. They hungered for a love that they couldn’t find anywhere. They
needed a catharsis, a release.
Many became compulsive eaters. They got bloated and went to fat farms to shed the
extra weight. Next spring, they were back again. The ennui, the mindlessness of it all was
killing them. It was like a bug, eating them from the inside, destroying them. Their
husbands had become automatons, their personalities altered by a system that rewarded
work with even more work, a system that gave them ‘rewards’ in the form of money,
privileges and perks they didn’t have the energy or the will to enjoy. They were no good
in bed, either. They had been emasculated by the system. Their wives wilted even as sales
of Viagra tripled.
The desperate ones played around. They had time to kill, and they were hungry for
attention, for affection. They put their anonymity, the unconcerned neighbours whose
names they couldn’t recall, to good use. They became addicted to alcohol, to one-night
stands when their husbands were out of town. They had brief, steamy little affairs with
the horny young college men they picked up from the bars or libraries. They joined dance
and aerobics classes and flirted with the male instructors. They became compulsive
shoppers. Some became shoplifters or part-time hookers. They were desperately
unhappy.
*

The impressions were forming, taking shape. He let them, leaving it to his
subconscious mind to put it all together and see whether it made any sense at all. His
preliminary findings were not encouraging. Society was in the grip of a malaise, a social
disease more deadly than AIDS. It was a cancer of the soul. Lack of a sense of self-worth
had eroded—poisoned—their own lives as well as those of others. Each individual could
not see beyond himself or herself.
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They failed to see they were part of a larger web of life, part of a grand design.
They looked outside their skins for happiness, for control. When they didn’t find it, they
became rudderless, lost their moorings. They had lost their sense of identity with the
human race, lost their feel of life as a process of change and evolution. The I-Ching, the
meditation, the self-improvement gurus…nothing helped. A deep sense of inferiority, a
dark despair, had got them by the throat. They were a lost people, living in a shadowland.
Cruikshank didn’t quite understand what Horace was leading up to. But he sensed
he was on the right track, and didn’t interfere. The problem was acute. Perhaps an
unconventional approach was the only way…

The media were responsible. They built up people selectively to destroy the masses.
They created larger-than-life role models for people to try and emulate. They fuelled
desires that could never be fulfilled. It was hopeless.
How could the man in the street copy the lifestyle of a billionaire rock star? How
could he ever hope to go sailing in the Bahamas on a multi-million dollar yacht with a
bevy of Playgirls to help him enjoy his vacation?
How could any woman hope to become a super-model like Candy Shefford, she of
the hourglass figure and come-hither look that men lusted over? Could she ever have Tad
Britt, the quintessential Hollywood stud, as a lover, the one who confessed he was
‘always lonely’?
The worst culprits were the game shows. The latest spin on the old game was the
‘Become a Brainy Billionaire’ Quiz Contest. You answered a few questions correctly,
moved up through the rounds, and chose higher levels of difficulty to align yourself for
the Bumper Prize. It was shattering to watch a man walk away with half-a-billion dollars
just for answering some asinine questions. Greed, sloth, lust, envy, despair, the Slough of
Despond…they emerged, rejuvenated, from the unwritten pages of the 21st century
edition of The Pilgrim’s Progress to destroy men.
It made a mockery of one’s own life of perseverance, toil, and thrift, and damn John
Bunyan, Benjamin Franklin and Samuel Smiles to hell and back collectively! How was it
possible any more to believe that there was any justice in life, anything worthwhile in
hard work and thrift? From instant coffee to instant orgasms to instant nirvana, people
had got used to the idea of a silicon culture that produced goodies at the touch of a
button. Social values were fast getting eroded.
He sensed the growing dissatisfaction, the turmoil under the surface of the city. It
was like a time bomb, ticking away to Doomsday. He reported it all faithfully to old
Cruikshank...

He had, in his mind and in his gut, identified the source of the problem. No matter
where he went: hotel lobbies, fast-food eateries, ice-cream parlours, bars or restaurants,
the story was the same. People gaping open-mouthed, watching other people walk away
with prize-money they’d never hope to save in a thousand lifetimes. He had stopped
watching the shows themselves long ago. He only watched the people who watched these
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shows. He noted their remarks, saw their horror and their misery mirrored on their faces.
They were watching someone on the television screen who, in minutes, had reduced their
lives to a big joke, a meaningless inconsequence. The game shows had done it! They had
undermined the moral fibre of a once-great nation. They had to be stopped.
No one listened. They turned away, bored, when he asked them whether Congress
ought to introduce legislation to pull the shows off the air. His letters to editors of
newspapers were never published. His Congressman refused to meet him. His parish
priest felt game shows were good things, helped people get away from their average,
workaday existences, let off steam! It was amazing! People didn’t realize what was
happening to them. They were unaware of the menace to the extent that they came out
openly in its favour.
Horace T. didn’t like the sound of it. All his fact collecting was useless if no one
supported him. Why, the last time he’d spoken to Old man Cruikshank about it, all he’d
got in return had been a stony stare and a nod. It was unsettling. Something was very
wrong…but what? Horace T. decided to give the matter a closer look, watch a few
episodes. He had to try and keep an open mind to the problem: the solution just might
walk in by itself. It had happened to him before…

*
When he got back to his street studies, the results stunned him. There was a sharp,
inexplicable drop in social disquiet, urban tension and apathy. The mood was upbeat,
with people genuinely sure that things were getting better. Productivity was up, the ranks
of the unemployed had thinned and the stock markets had stabilized. He couldn’t make
any sense of it. So sudden a turnaround was quite impossible; he needed to support his
statistics with visual data.
He went back to the streets, to the pool parlours, bars and cafeterias where the
common man spent his leisure time, and found himself watching the latest quiz show,
Half a Billion…
“The only man-made object on the Earth that’s visible from the moon is the Great
Wall of China!” said the slim, balding, serious-looking man in glasses. Horace T. was
impressed in spite of himself. ‘Why, this plain, studious-looking guy sure knows his
stuff…!’ he thought.
“Congratulations, Mr. Evriman, that’s exactly right!” boomed the anchorman.
A cheer went up from the television audience. “Ladies and Gentlemen! For
correctly answering that question, Mr. I.B. Evriman wins $250,000,000! But there’s a
chance for him to win more! If he answers the next question correctly, he will win half a
billion dollars! He can walk away with his money right now…but he loses the chance to
double it! If he answers incorrectly, he loses the $250,000,000! Double or quits, Mr.
Evriman?” challenged the inquisitor.
Evriman didn’t hesitate for a moment. “Double!” he confirmed.
“Excellent!” beamed the quizmaster, a former baseball star. “Now that’s what I call
the big risk-taking ability that made America the home of the proud and the brave…the
capacity to go for a home run when the chips are down. Are we ready, Mr. Evriman?”
Evriman nodded.
“Then here you go: ‘Which camel has two humps…the Dromedary or the Bactrian
camel? You have ten seconds, Mr. Evriman…”
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Evriman waited impassively as the clock ticked away and the audience held its
breath. Two seconds, one second left…“Bactrian!” he snapped.
“By all that’s wonderful…! He’s right!! Give Mr. Evriman a big hand, Ladies and
Gentlemen! He’s half a billionaire!”
The audience exploded in cheers. All around him, in the pub, people were
whistling, stomping their feet, the beer slopping over the sides of their mugs as they
celebrated Evriman’s triumph.
It didn’t make any sense. Everyone was cheering…everyone. There wasn’t a single
glum face. What had happened? The mood was inexplicably upbeat. There was
something funny going on, it wasn’t this way before. He probed…
“Er…excuse me, but don’t you think it’s a bit ridiculous” he asked the massively-
built man on his left, “the way everyone’s so excited over Evriman’s winning a prize for
answering a simple, high-school question correctly?”
“Mebbe, mister” said the burly fellow “…but it gives me a kick, I tell you, seeing
him winning. People seem to think if you’ve got muscles, you don’t have no brains. That
big guy, Evriman…he’s kicking the ---- out of the Harvard types!” he gloated.

*
Whether he asked a garage mechanic, a barber, a housewife, a lawyer or a bank
clerk, it was the same story.
“Just because a man’s got dirt under his fingernails don’t mean he ain’t got nuthin’
under his scalp!” said the mechanic.
“That talkative guy, Evriman…goes to show that all hair-stylists aren’t dumb. He’s
got grey-matter, dontcha think, mister?”
“Such a nice, clean-cut man! I’m so glad he won. Looks quite a bit like my Herb,
too, waddya know!”
“People seem to think that a lawyer only knows how to use his savvy to skin his
clients. That solicitor, Evriman…he’s a credit to the profession. His knowledge is simply
unbelievable: and he used it to earn his prize, fair and square!”
The bank clerk was equally enthusiastic. “Evriman may be just a simple, bookish
type…but he wiped out the competition, hey, mister?”

It was looking like snow as he waited outside the rear entrance to the TV studios.
As Horace T. turned up his collar up against the chilly wind that had sprung up, he
wondered what he was going to ask Evriman. ‘How do you do it, sir? Which newspapers
do you read, sir? Is the Encyclopedia Britannica your idea of light reading, sir?’
No, that wasn’t it. He was going to buttonhole him outright…‘How’s it rigged, Mr.
Evriman? What’s your percentage, Sir? Are you aware that it’s a crime to dupe people? Is
The Mob behind it? Is this their latest method of laundering hot money?’
The door opened and a voice said “Goodnight, Mr. Evriman. See you Monday!
Take care!”
Horace T moved forward smoothly. “Mr. Evriman, I’m from the Herald Tribune,
and I just want you to answer a few simple questions (ha! ha!)… Mr. Evriman…?”
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The mist was swirling around the entrance. Mr. Evriman was a hazy outline in the
greyness as he strode on. Horace T. broke into a jog to try and catch up with him.
“What are you so scared of, Mr. Evriman…that I’ll expose you…?” he gasped as he
pursued the shadowy, receding figure.
Evriman’s body was as insubstantial as the mist that swathed it, dissolving into it.
Horace T. started to run. The hazy form stopped, turned towards him, fading before his
very eyes. Horace T. screamed…it was vanishing into nothingness…his own face!
He leaned against a lamppost to catch his breath, steady his thoughts. It came to him
then, from the right half of his whirling brain…the intuitive side…the answer to the
puzzle.
Mr. Evriman was every man’s answer to the malady that was destroying them all.
He wasn’t flesh and blood at all; he was a phantasm, a thought-projection of half a billion
tortured minds. He was the spontaneously created antidote produced by half a billion
interlinked minds to offset the effacement, the negation, of every man in the Big City.
He was every man, realized Horace T. Osgood: Mr. I. B. Evriman…Mr. I Be
Everyman…Mr. Evriman…mister every man…
‘Goodbye, Mr. Evriman! Thanks…a billion!’ yelled Horace T into the swirling
mist. He could have sworn he heard an answering chuckle from out of the darkness.
~*~
Solace at Sunset

It was warm under the golf umbrella as Ranjit dozed, out in the front lawn. The
California sun was particularly hot this year. Perhaps that was why he was dreaming of
India…his homeland. He dreamt he was back in Park Street, central Calcutta’s posh
residential enclave where he lived with his parents, and he was waiting for the tram that
would take him, for 10 paise, to the Metro cinema hall. There was a new James Bond
movie in town…‘Thunderball’. He had yet to miss a Bond movie, and he wasn’t going to
let something like Calcutta’s preposterous public transport system stop him. All his
friends in Economics (Honours) final-year class at St. Xavier’s College had seen it. Now
that his brother had sent the check for $300 from America, he could finally afford to see
the picture. Balcony tickets were prohibitively expensive, at five rupees, but he liked the
crowd there.
After his father, a homeopath, had passed away, the two of them, his mother and
he, had had to scrape to make ends meet. It was fortunate that his elder brother, Dada, six
years his senior, had agreed to go to America when he did. His uncle in Los Angeles,
perhaps to repay some old obligation to the family, had insisted that Sujit Chowdhury
come and join them. Sujit had majored in Physics from UCLA before going on to a good
job with NASA. There were many Bengalis there, and Sujit had adjusted fast, almost
gleefully, to life in the City of the Angels. Now he wanted Ranjit, his younger brother, to
migrate to the States, too. There was no future in India, he cautioned.
So Ranjit had sold the old house, put a major portion of the funds in approved
securities to avoid levy of Capital Gains tax, and migrated. While his mother went to live
with her elder son and his American wife in New York, Ranjit moved in with his elderly
uncle and aunt who had a palatial home in Los Angeles. He spent a month seeing as
much of America as he could, from Niagara Falls to the Grand Canyon to the Everglades
to Disneyland in Los Angeles. Sujit had warned him that there were no halfway
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measures in the States. Either you worked all out or you dropped out. So if he wanted to
take in the sights, there was no time like the present.

He needed a job now, and Ranjit wanted to do it his way. Besides, in America, a
youth of twenty-one was a full-grown man and on his own. He was expected to shift for
himself. He strolled along down Main Street, when his eye caught a notice taped to a
shop window… ‘Help Wanted’. The establishment, called ‘Danny’s Donuts’, claimed
that it served the ‘Best Donuts in the World’. Ranjit got the job in two minutes flat. All
he had to do, from 6 PM to 6 AM, was to serve donuts to people. The pay was princely…
three dollars an hour! He was employed!
A month on the graveyard shift of a donut parlour is a pain for most Americans.
For Ranjit, the $252 he got every Friday, in crisp dollar bills, was a small fortune. In
Indian rupees, it came to over Rs.3000. Coupled with tips, it totted up to over Rs.14,000
per month, far more than the per mensem emoluments of the President of India! He stuck
at it for a year before he tired of it. He went strolling for ‘Help Wanted’ signs again.
There it was! The First United Bank wanted Tellers! He walked in. The questions
they asked him were absurdly easy…and he was even complimented (somewhat
patronizingly, he felt, but he let it pass) on his excellent English. He was hired on the
spot, starting Monday, at $450 a week! He got his appointment letter when he joined on
Monday. He was well rested, and was eager to get on with his new responsibilities. He
found he was to be on probation for six months, after successful completion of which he
would be assigned a permanent posting at any of the branches where there were
vacancies.
A Teller in a bank in America has varied responsibilities, somewhat akin to those
of a bank officer in India. Apart from paying cash over the counter, he is also expected to
receive cash deposits, as do cashiers in Indian banks. He has the discretion of allowing
small cash or credit overdrafts to better customers, although the accountability was solely
his. On the other hand, if he chose to refuse an overdraft, there was a very real possibility
that he would have to furnish cogent reasons to the Branch Manager for turning down the
request. He was supposed to be thoroughly conversant with the currency of the United
States of America, all the way from cents and dimes and quarters and half-dollars right
up to hundred dollar bills. Ranjit’s experience at Danny’s Donuts paid off handsomely
here. Not a cent ever went unaccounted for at his counter.
Unknown to the management of the bank, Ranjit continued to work at Danny’s
Donuts. He was young, and he had come to America to earn money…that’s what the
Great American Dream was all about, wasn’t it? He would rush home, rest for half an
hour, then walk to the next block where Danny would assign him a section to serve.
When he finished, bleary-eyed and exhausted, at 6 AM, he’d rush home, lie down for an
hour, then shower, shave and catch a bus to his branch. It was a year before he left
Danny’s for good. The strain was beginning to tell on him, and as a Teller (no pun), he
had to be mentally alert on the job. Looking back, Ranjit just couldn’t believe he had
slept one hour every night for a whole year. But the stack of hard-earned dollars that had
accumulated in his account had been worth the colossal effort…
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Bennett, the security guard, wore his usual bored expression as the pneumatic
blonde sailed into the main branch of the First United Bank, Lincoln Drive, Los Angeles.
It was eleven in the morning now, and the early morning rush was over. She wore a light
cotton print summer dress, cut low in front to reveal ample cleavage, with the hem eight
inches above her knees. Her legs were sheer poetry, with shapely thighs and calves that
tapered to slim ankles above the open sandals that emphasized her pretty feet. Below her
narrow waist—Bennett was, after all, male, and a trained observer at that—her
sensational posterior telegraphed an unmistakable tom-tom of sexuality as it wiggled to
her walk.
The back of the dress was as scanty as current fashion allowed, exposing an
expanse of suntanned diet flesh that detonated the imagination. It was obvious to all the
male eyes that followed her progress across the vast hall that she had, in deference to the
heat-wave conditions, dispensed with the formalities of innerwear. Every man in the
banking hall knew she wore absolutely nothing beneath the tiny dress that clung to her
like a second skin. Even Bennett allowed his stony gaze to follow her till she reached
Teller Number Six before he reluctantly tore his eyes away. It was obvious that she
belonged to a world of fun and sun and mon with a capital E tacked on at the end. And
men… While the large solitaire that glittered on the ring finger of her left hand
semaphored ‘Private Property: Keep Out”, the rest of her broadcast the exact opposite.
Many a man wished he knew which of the two messages was the real one.
Ranjit Chowdhury looked up as he realized he had a customer. It was mid-week;
the clearing wouldn’t come in till twelve, and he had been boring himself stupid
scanning the mail on the bank’s intranet. They were the usual mix of circular instructions
about procedural changes, personnel and HRD matters, security alerts, fraud
notifications, currency exchange rates, authorized signature cancellations and a couple of
wedding announcements followed by retirement messages and (inevitably) obituaries.
She leaned over the counter as she handed him the check, making sure he enjoyed the
unwritten perks of his job and got a good view. She was a typical ‘California Golden
Girl’, evoking as she did images of Sunkist® Oranges, bikinis on wind-swept beaches,
Bacardi rum, and lots more besides. Even for California, she was a stunner…
But if her intention was to use her considerable oomph to further some hidden
agenda, she had miscalculated. Badly. Teller No. Six was precisely the one she ought to
have avoided. Ranjit was a thorough professional, like practically all expatriate Indians
engaged in an uneven struggle to make good in a country where the dice were weighted,
in so many subtle ways, against them. As he took the check from her, he felt the funny
tingle in his legs that always warned him to be careful. Something was very wrong! But
he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Feigning nonchalance, he started keying in the check references into his
computer, only he did not access the ‘Savings Accounts’ folder but the ‘Frauds Archive’,
automatically updated every day from the bank’s mainframe in Sacramento, Calif. He
didn’t react when the search drew a blank. He was sure something was wrong with the
payment. His intuition had never let him down. Time would tell. He needed to decide
quickly. He pressed sideways with his left knee, and a warning buzz went to Bennett at
the exit. Then the bank’s doors locked themselves, silently and smoothly.
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He took his time in sending the secure LAN network message with the starburst
alert signal that meant ‘fraud in progress’ to the Chief Teller, marking copies to the
Savings Bank Deputy Manager, the Branch Manager, and to Regional Office. That done,
he turned his attention again to the instrument in his hands. It was a bearer check for
eighty thousand dollars made out to one Susan Rutgers, and it was on genuine bank
security stationery, correctly watermarked and bearing an authentic MICR (magnetically
impregnated character recognition) number. The checkbook it belonged to had been
despatched only last week, by US mail, to the account holder.
The signatory was one Prescott Holmes, Jr., who held an account with the bank’s
main branch in Tampa, Florida, and the signature almost tallied with the one on his
screen. Almost! There was a small squiggle, a tiny, superfluous appendix to the flourish
that he felt uneasy about. He knew from experience that flourishes that terminated
signatures were the signatures to the signatures! A pro like Ranjit scrutinized flourishes
very carefully. So this was what had triggered off the signals from his subconscious! He
dragged his feet as he pretended to struggle with the keyboard, and now the blonde was
losing her cool.
“Hey, mister, could you speed it up a bit?” she fumed. “I’m double-parked and
it’s over ten minutes already…don’t you have time-norms for check payments or
something?”
“Please, lady,” pleaded Ranjit with an ingratiating smile, “it’s my first day at this
branch and I still haven’t got the hang of my counter.”
“Well, I can’t hang around here all day while you get the hang of your counter,
buddy, so step on it!” she retaliated, nettled.
“Yes, ma’am…” said Ranjit meekly as he seemed to key in the check particulars
and handed it back to her for her signatures on the obverse. “One more, please, ma’am”
he insisted, and the now visibly agitated woman’s hand trembled as she complied.
“Thanks! Now…hmmmmmm…what’s next? Yes, of course…papers!” He groped
his way through the transaction like a novice as he pressed the buzzer again
unobtrusively with his left knee. The bank’s CCTV cameras had recorded the action, and
her signatures had made her liable for federal prosecution if she was found guilty. The
stage was set. Bennett moved in smoothly, materializing quietly at her left elbow as
Ranjit asked for identification. She was incensed.
“Identification? That’s a goddam bearer check!” she fumed. “Don’t you know
that you never need to see papers when presented with a bearer check, you asshole?”
Ranjit ignored the abusive language. “I gotta have identification now, lady—
recent instructions from Head Office—applicable to all bearer checks over fifty thousand
dollars” he lied smoothly. “Your driving license will do nicely…” He extended his hand.
“Go to hell!” she stormed, “I want my check back! I’ve never been so insulted in
my life! Your bank’s management will hear from my solicitors!” she threatened, but she
abandoned her check and made for the door. To her horror, it was locked solid, and the
large man in the ornate security guard’s uniform was still hovering at her side. She
turned on him, spitting with rage.
“Open the door, General, or all hell’s gonna bust loose around here!” she
screamed, but there were sirens outside and Bennett swiftly opened the doors with his
special key as the LAPD closed in on the blonde. She had collapsed in tears on the sofa
near the entrance, her mascara running down her face and into her deep cleavage.
 130

The First United Bank’s headquarters were in the White Tower, a seventy-five-
floor skyscraper on Sunset Boulevard. On the seventy-fourth floor was the huge, oak-
paneled Conference Room, where the bank’s Board was now in conclave at the monthly
Performance Review Meeting. The General Manager, Clive Royston, was speaking “…
and so, by his alertness and timely warning, Ranjit Chowdhury, the teller in Bay Six,
saved the bank from a fraud of eighty thousand dollars…I gave him a cash award of a
thousand dollars on the spot. It is my request that the Board approve it…Item No. 66 on
the Agenda.”
“Approved!” drawled Marcus Gershwin III, without waiting for the concurrence
of the other three men seated at the table. His great-great-grandfather had founded the
bank not long after the Gold Rush, and the Gershwins still thought of it as their private
property, though it had gone public a century ago. Now he was ruminating on the modus
operandi of the day’s attempted fraud.
“So she was part of a well-organized gang that stole checkbooks in the mail, was
she?” It was a rhetorical question, but everyone nodded vigorously. “Hmmmm! They got
hold of the account holder’s signatures by the simple expedient of writing them a bogus
letter offering a fabulous deal or something—counting on greed to get a reply—then
forged the signatures on checks. Wow!!…Ingenious! Only trouble is, she committed two
Federal offences in the process…and got caught! She’ll get fifteen years in the clink,
with maybe five years off for good behaviour.”
He leaned back expansively in his chair. “Tell me more about this Chowdhury,
Clive. He sounds like a feller whose hunches hit paydirt.” Gershwin’s pet affectation was
his carefully cultivated ‘forty-niner’ image—a jarring theatricality reminiscent of
Broadway takeoffs on Californian gold prospectors.
The Californian Gold Rush of 1849 had begun at Sutter’s Mill and catapulted
many men to fame and fortune that still endured. Levi Strauss was one of them. Marcus
Gershwin III was descended from another. He always wore custom-made Levi’s jeans,
handmade cowboy boots, Stetsons that cost $10,000 apiece, and drove a yellow
Lamborghini Diablo.
It was his pet theory that banks don’t get ahead by mere marketing: an aggressive
flamboyancy that made other banks seem stodgy and out of date was what the First
needed to reestablish its positioning. As Chairman, he felt he needed to saddle the past in
order to ride the future…and put the onus of doing so solely upon himself. Everyone in
the bank wore pinstriped double-breasted suits with white shirts and the distinctive blue-
and-silver First United Bank tie. It was a uniform, a code of dress that had endured for a
hundred years. Everyone, that is, except Marcus Gershwin III. He made sure it got
adequate publicity.
“And one more thing, Clive”, he added as Royston fumbled with his notes, “send
me his dossier tomorrow. He’s an Indian, isn’t he?”
“Sure thing, Boss! Yes, he’s Indian…a green-card holder,” said Clive Royston,
mightily relieved. He had no personal details about this guy Chowdhury with him right
now. Trust the old man to find the chink in his armour. “You got it, Boss! Coming right
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up first thing tomorrow morning!” he confirmed, relieved. It was time to let the old boy
go back to his office for his afternoon siesta.
“And now, may I, on behalf of the Board, propose a vote of thanks to our
Chairman, Mr. Marcus Gershwin III” he intoned solemnly, “for sparing some of his
valuable time to chair this Meeting.” They all jumped to their feet as the old man dressed
like Roy Rogers rose to go.
“See ya, fellers!” waved Marcus Gershwin III as the prospector in him sent him
hurrying back to the sideboard in his plush office across the Conference Room. The
cobwebby bottle of ‘Highland Loch’, ’56 vintage—a gift from the grateful CEO of a
global chain of hotels he’d bailed out of a sudden cash-flow crisis—awaited his
ministrations…as did the statuesque brunette who was his local private secretary. It
promised to be the perfect ending to yet another perfect day.

Three years passed. Ranjit had established an image of a quiet, dedicated,

somewhat introverted but extremely reliable employee. When the time came for
promotions to the officer cadre, he (and his Pakistani roommate, Rashid Ahmad) was at
the top of the list. He was given the privilege of choosing the branch where he’d like to
work. Ranjit, an old-time movie fan, opted for the Hollywood branch…and got it!
Here he opened up a bit, his growing sense of authority and control over his job
making him more outgoing. Some very well known Indian personalities like the tennis
player, Vijay Amritraj, were his customers. The place was choc-a-bloc with celebrities to
whom no one paid any attention—California had thousands of them—but Ranjit made
friends with several famous movie stars, including Yul Brynner and Rock Hudson. When
the time came for his next promotion, Ranjit was among those selected...as Branch
Manager. He had made it, in the Land of Opportunity. There was no looking back.

It was the annual Bengali get-to-together in the Kali Bari attached to the
Ramakrishna Mission in Los Angeles. Mrs. Bose came up to him, with someone in tow.
“Ranjit! You remember the Haldars of Chowringhee, in Calcutta? This is Supriya, their
daughter. You might not remember her, though she says she met you in India, years ago
when you were on the managing committee of the Kali Bari Durga Puja celebrations, at
Calcutta. They moved to the States a couple of years after you did.”
Ranjit could hardly link his hazy memories of a skinny little buck-toothed kid,
fifteen years his junior, to the stunning young woman before him.
“She’s just completed her Masters in Business Management from the famous
Faculty of Management Studies, Delhi University – she’d returned to India to get a feel
of third-world developmental economics; she insists that India is going to be an
economic super-power twenty-five years from now. Some professor of hers by the name
of Dr. Amartya Sen has brainwashed her, it seems! Imagine India ever becoming self-
reliant, leave alone becoming an economically resurgent nation! She’d done her PPE
from Oxford earlier…”
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Ranjit tried not to stare. She came up to his shoulder, petite, curvy and the
freshness of her was like a spring breeze blowing through the stuffy atmosphere of the
crowded hall where the gathering was taking place. The wonderful eyes in the oval face
studied him affectionately …was there something else, something unfathomable and
very female that flitted for an instant through the depths of her hauntingly beautiful
Bengali eyes?
“You wouldn’t know a PPE from the backside of a bus, now, would you now,
Ranjit da?” she giggled as she saw the blank look on his face. “It’s a degree in Politics,
Philosophy and Economics. It’s nothing much…” she shrugged.
“Nothing much! Oxford …and an MBA! What’s left?” said Ranjit appreciatively.
She grimaced. “Well, that’s just what I wanted to talk to you about…but not here.
Could we meet somewhere for an hour, on a weekday? I’ll explain everything.”
“Sure, why not…let’s see, I have a club meeting in the afternoon, Saturday, so
how about 11.30 at Martin’s?” naming a neighborhood fast-food joint that was popular
with the younger crowd.
“Martin’s?” She hesitated. “Don’t you think it’s too punk?”
“OK, the Waldorf Astoria!” joked Ranjit.
“Ranjit da! I’m serious…Martin’s is so noisy you can’t hear yourself think, let
alone talk. Someplace quiet…a Coffee House or suchlike?”
He loved her Oxford accent. It was going to be a big hit out West.
“Got it! ‘Shetty’s Snackery’! It’s run by a Tamilian…you get great South Indian
food, and Madras coffee. How’s that sound?”
“It sounds wonderful! See you there Saturday, 11.30 AM. Don’t be late, because
I won’t be.”
*

“…and after the business was sold following father’s death, mother decided I had
to get as good an education as possible if I was to survive in a man’s world.” She was
far away, lost in a time of sorrow and uncertainty. Ranjit’s heart ached for her; he could
well empathize with her situation…
“And…?” he prompted gently.
“And now…payoff time! Trouble is, I need a foothold, a good start. Pronto! Do
you think you could introduce me to someone in your bank, and …” Her voice trailed
off. Ranjit got the impression that beneath her cool exterior, Supriya was very tense. She
was breathing quickly, and her face was flushed. Ranjit was deeply concerned, but tried
not to show it.
“Look, the First United is going through a phase of rationalization and cost-
cutting.” Her face fell. “But hang on…” He took her hand and squeezed it gently as if to
reassure her. “…a former boss of mine, Richard Stevens, joined City National Bank a
year ago. It’s a heavyweight. I’ll try to get in touch with him and find out if…”
“Oh! Ranjit, I’m so sorry to trouble you…it’s just that…money’s running out
fast, I don’t have much time.” Her palms were moist, and she let go his hand reluctantly.
So his guess had been right. It was very honest of her to open up to him like that.
A strange feeling coursed through him, as if yet again – as in some long-forgotten past –
she had become his responsibility. It stirred and troubled him, and there was guilt in it, as
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if he was being unfaithful to another. But why the ‘again’…? When had it happened
before? What had happened to arouse these mixed feelings?
All he was willing to admit to himself was that here was someone in trouble who
needed a helping hand. If she was ravishing, that wasn’t the cause for his eagerness.
After all, wasn’t he the quintessential happy bachelor? The rest was all his imagination…
Ranjit shook off the sudden attack of déjà vu and reaching into his jacket pocket,
took out his checkbook. She tried to stop him, but he made out a check in her favour for
a thousand dollars.
“Listen, Supriya, this is only a loan. You can repay me whenever…no hurry.” He
pressed it into her reluctant hands.
“Now that that’s over, what say you we go and see a movie? ‘The Reincarnation
of Peter Proud’ is running not far from here. It’s a great movie, I’m told. How ‘bout it?”
He saw the gleam in her eye and felt a warm glow that he was in a position to try
and pass on the favour his brother had done him. Favours were meant to be passed on in
a chain. That’s how they were best repaid, he felt…

On Monday, he asked his secretary to trace Richard Stevens at City National

Bank. Half an hour later, he was speaking with him:
“Dick! How are you? Listen, I’ve got some wonderful news for you. There’s this
stunner from India … yeah, but she’s an American citizen now…and with a PPE from
Oxford! Capped off with a Business Management degree from Delhi University…I
know, it’s not Wharton, but she’s all fired up to join your outfit…our bank? Naah, it’s
too small for her! Kidding!…No, we aren’t taking people right now. Just the reverse, in
fact…and how are you doing there? …No! Phew! Senior Vice President… in just a year?
Congratulations! Looks like you’re on a roll…yeah, sure I’ll send her over to you
tomorrow at 9 AM sharp…gotcha, the fiftieth floor…gee, thanks Richard, I don’t know
what to say. Guess I owe you one. Thanks again!”
He called Supriya and gave her the good news. She was ecstatic. “I knew I could
count on you, Ranjit. I hope I live up to your expectations tomorrow.”
“Just be yourself, Supriya, and take it easy. He’s already swallowed the bait.
They are looking for analysts and branch personnel who have the ability to translate
operational data into trends, identify potential problem areas and suggest remedies. It’s a
cinch …”
“I’ll remember this Ranjit. But one can never be sure…”
“OK, how ‘bout we have a bet…I bet you get the job. Winner gets the right to ask
anything…anything at all…from the loser. Done?”
She didn’t hesitate for even a second: “Done! City National Bank selects me, you
ask, I deliver. They drop me: it’s my turn to ask. Wish me luck.”
Ranjit was touched. She was a good kid. There was no way Richard was going to
let such star-quality material slip through his fingers. They were paying the best for the
best. And he was certain that Supriya was the best of the best.
She called him back at noon. “Ranjit, I hope you’re a gentleman…”
“Only when circumstances compel me…why, what happened?”
She shrieked so loudly into the phone that he was unnerved for a moment.
 134

“I got it! I got the job, Ranjit! Thanks to you! They’ve taken me on as Officer on
Special Duty, to receive training in branch operations concurrently with analytical duties.
I’m being posted immediately to Chicago. These guys move fast! Everything’s ready:
airline tickets, hotel reservations, the works. Even a cash advance for settling in…fifteen
thousand dollars, half of it adjustable from salary over the next six months, interest free.
Now I can buy myself that Mercury Cougar I’ve been eyeing…your thousand dollars is
in the mail…no, too late to protest, it’s been posted…wish me luck.”

The bank paid to-and-fro return fare for employees going on vacation to their
homeland. Ranjit and his mother went to India for a holiday in the spring. But his return
travel bill was for three…he was married!
It had all happened so fast. She had been introduced to him at a party at Juhu,
Bombay. She was the youngest daughter of an important film director, and she was fair
and very beautiful. Ranjit, who didn’t find American women particularly appealing, was
bowled over.
Anita, too, on her part, found him very likeable. He had a wry sense of humour
that had her in splits, he was interested in politics, finance and travel, and he had
developed a passion for baseball in America…something she found very endearing. Most
Indians didn’t go further than cricket. He wasn’t very tall, at 5’9”, but he was well built,
had a warm personality, a quiet confidence, and a mane of thick black hair that he
brushed straight back unpretentiously.
There was something very lovable about Ranjit, and she found herself warming
to him like she’d never responded to a man before. Besides, he exuded that unmistakable
aura of material success that the Indian living in America invariably acquires. Anita, like
most Indian women, found it irresistible. They were drawn to each other like iron filings
to a magnet. Two weeks later – after a whirlwind courtship – they were married at
Calcutta’s Kali Bari temple, and the reception was organized at the swanky Great
Eastern Hotel, Calcutta’s finest. It was a real-life fairy tale for both of them. Dreams
have a way of coming true for some lucky people, they thought. And who was luckier
than them?
*

The big black Lincoln Continental slid smoothly down the driveway and into the
garage. Ranjit switched off the ignition, yawned and stretched hugely, then took up his
briefcase and went inside. It was 9.30 PM, and he was finally home. Man, was he tired.
That last meeting had been just too much…you’d think the company was going to shut
down if they didn’t get the enhanced facilities. He’d had to go over the audit report with
their finance team, pointing out major irregularities that the auditors had commented
upon unfavourably.
He’d made them sign an agreement with the bank (represented by him) that the
enhanced facilities sanctioned by the Regional Manager were conditional on improved
turnover, and not the other way round. Certain financial austerities had to be
implemented with immediate effect. The bank came down very heavily on borrowers
 135

who misused its largesse by indulging in extravagances…especially those involving the

diversion of short-term funds to long-term use.
Then he remembered the golden rule of leaving office matters behind on the
doormat. He shrugged off his office cloak with a conscious effort. As his responsibilities
increased, it was becoming more and more difficult to unwind when he got home. The
bank’s invisible aura of financial control and power clung to him tenaciously, and it took
him longer and longer to relax.
He found that scotch helped. As he reached for the bottle and switched on the TV,
he realized with dismay that he had lost track of what the Los Angeles Dodgers had been
up to for the last month, which was sacrilegious! It was a toss up whether to watch CNN
or the local sports channel. He ended up watching a movie. And was it just his
imagination, or was it for real that the kids weren’t as deliriously happy when he returned
home as they used to be?
Where the hell was Anita? She had left a note saying she had decided to have
dinner at a friend’s place; it was apparently some sort of ladies club get-together, but…
the doorbell! 10 PM was no time for an Indian housewife to return home. ‘American
housewife!’ she corrected him matter of factly, on the defensive! She’d been attending a
hen party! He was miffed not to find her home, waiting for him. There was too much of
India still in him not to expect this, or was it something too much to ask for in America?
They slept in separate bedrooms that night. It was their first major quarrel.
He was back in office the next day at 8 AM sharp. It was 11 AM now, and he was
in a meeting with an important corporate client, when she phoned to apologize. He
fumbled for the right words that would convey his own sense of desolation. The visitor
was grinning when he put the phone down: “Woman trouble, mister? Nothing that a
small break in Vegas won’t cure. Hit the nightspots, mister, that’s my advice to you.
She’ll be plenty contrite when you return! You got nuthin’ to lose! This is America—the
Land of Plenty ----,” he added with a sly wink.

Ranjit loved the spectacular west coast view, all the way from San Diego to San
Francisco. The road followed the contours of the rocky cliffs, with the surf hammering
whitely against the rocks far below, the incredible blue of the Pacific Ocean stretching to
the horizon, the wheeling gulls: it was simply unforgettable. Although he often chose to
drive to ‘Frisco from LA along this scenic motorway, the sheer magic of it never seemed
to pall. He always looked forward to the sunset at Big Sur—it was one of the most
elevating sights he’d ever seen.
He often wondered how it got its funny name. He used to think that, like the sign-
painters back in India, famous for their misspellings, someone had set out to post a sign
that read ‘Big Surf ’— but inadvertently dropped the ‘f ’. He discovered later that it came
from the original Spanish "El Sur Grande", meaning "the Big South".
He even envied the surfcasters at La Jolla as they cast out beyond the big breakers
for Striped Bass or whatever they were after. Someone called Harry Bonner at La Jolla
held about six world records in fishing, including a lunker of a 25½lb Largemouth Bass!
America was all about size, he realized for the umpteenth time: a land of big
opportunities, of wide-open spaces that spawned big men.
 136

Consequently, he wasn’t too surprised that the drive to Nevada across the Mojave
Desert was equally fascinating. The road climbed into rugged mountains, then fell away
sharply to a flat, arid plain. It was inconceivable that anyone would want to do business
here. But at twilight, there, out in the desert, unbelievably, glittered a city of light! The
blaze turned night into day as he drove into the casino town.
Ranjit headed straight for Caesar’s Palace—he’d heard plenty about this famous
casino—to try his luck at the one-armed bandits. He dropped $250 before he tired of
yanking the lever and shifted to roulette. He’d won $2,000 before his winning streak
faded and he dropped $2,500. That’s what Las Vegas was all about…you never had such
a good time losing your money! Then the usual round of the topless bars and striptease
joints that got raunchier and raunchier till the platinum blonde picked him up and he
didn’t remember too much after the point where she took off his shirt and her skirt…
He awoke with the mother of all hangovers hammering away like a pile-driver in
his skull. It took him some time to recall he was in Las Vegas. This must be a hotel he’d
checked into with the licensed blonde. She was gone. So was the $500 he’d left on the
table for her. The contents of his wallet, his credit cards, the traveler’s checks…
everything was intact.
There was no theft in Vegas. Hookers needed licenses to ‘practice’ here. Frequent
‘health’ checks were an important part of the process. The mafia bosses who ran the
operation wanted to ensure that the suckers didn’t stay away just because they were
scared of catching something or losing their money to petty criminals or amateur stick-up
artists. They ensured that the endless river of greenbacks continued to flow straight from
the suckers’ pockets right into the coffers of the Mob. Any unauthorized obstructions
were smoothly eliminated. Ranjit didn’t grudge the Mob their money. They gave full
value in return for it, if the night with the blonde was anything to go by.

Both the children—the girl, who was now six, and the boy, now three—had been
born in Los Angeles, making them American citizens by birth. They owned US
passports, something that neither Ranjit nor Anita had. It was a grand legacy, the
passports opening vistas of opportunity the parents had never imagined. But they needed
looking after, especially after the school bus dropped them back. Anita was always so
busy with her social activities. Ranjit asked his mother to join them. She was reluctant.
She had adjusted well to New York, and Sujit had remarried after Janet left him for an
investment banker she’d met at a poolside party. His new wife, Catherine, was very
happy to learn Indian cooking from her, and didn’t mind her presence at all.
Anita did. She protested that life was hard enough. Having a mother-in-law
breathing down her neck was the last straw. Ranjit put his foot down. It led to their
second major quarrel. She threw a huge tantrum, something she had never done before.
In the middle of it, standing there with the sinking feeling growing in him that something
was very wrong with Anita, or their marriage…or both—his marriage had been going
south of late—a part of Ranjit’s mind focused, for some unknown reason, on the fridge.
He opened it. There was nothing there. It was as bare as old Mother Hubbard’s
cupboard! She hadn’t cooked any dinner for him! He started to laugh and ended up
 137

sobbing. His wife didn’t love him any more! The Great American Dream was turning to
ashes before his very eyes.
When symptoms of psychosis manifested themselves, he took her to a doctor,
who prescribed medication and rest. There was no improvement. She had no appetite
now, and the flesh was melting off her bones. He took her from one specialist to another.
The prognosis was shattering. Atrophy of the liver was in an advanced stage, with
sarcoma-like complications indicated.
It hit him like a sledgehammer. She had terminal cancer of the liver! It was
unbelievable; he spent the day asking himself “Why her? Why us?” There was nothing
to be done; it had spread all through her body, the deadly lymph nodes multiplying
exponentially. The depression fuelled it. It was too late. Nothing helped. She hung on to
life half-heartedly, going steadily downhill. When the pain got really bad one day, she
panicked and insisted Ranjit leave his office and come home, but he was busy with his
Regional Manager and could not be reached. When he returned that night, he found that
his mother had got her admitted to hospital for a transfusion.
She died quietly in India in the spring, when he took her home for the last time.

Six months passed, but Ranjit did not return to America. He got the children
admitted in a school close to the apartment he bought in south Delhi. He did not feel like
going back to Calcutta; there were too many happy memories he wanted to escape from.
It was time to do something for a living…if his life could now be called ‘living.’ It was
only after he’d tried his hand at several ventures before he settled on making pressed
steel components for an automobile accessories manufacturer. He operated out of a
single hall in an obscure, unauthorized colony not far from his place. There were three
workers on hand-presses and two on assembly. A supervisor doubled as deliveryman and
collection agent.
He bought a second-hand, non-air-conditioned Ambassador that had seen better
days and drove around aimlessly in the evening traffic, alone in the tumult, lost in the
vast sea of humanity. It was a far cry from his days as Senior Branch Manager of a
prominent West Coast bank, with the high-profile life-style, Lincoln Continental, Malibu
Heights house et al. Slowly, perhaps intentionally, he was losing the will to live. His
friends tried their best to get him to snap out of it. Nothing worked. Then he had a stroke.
It was a minor one, but it jerked him out of it. He reduced cigarettes to five sticks
a day, went off drinks totally, and took morning walks. He sold the manufacturing
operation and joined a financial consultancy firm, falling back on his previous
experience, which was considerable. His communication with his children improved. He
mustered up the energy to take up his (and Anita’s) social security claim with the
Baltimore, Maryland Head Office of US National Social Security. The paperwork was
mind-boggling. His friends chipped in to help him. Finally, after a year, it came through:
$40,000! It was a windfall!
Then he received an email that staggered him. It was from Supriya! She was
coming to Delhi in the spring. She had traced him through one of the Internet search
engines that had zeroed in on the social security payments to him and Anita!
 138

The tide turned further in his favour. At school, his daughter’s class teacher asked
her if her father, who had lived in Los Angeles, knew so-and-so. Ranjit went to the
school and gave them Supriya’s address, email ID, and phone numbers…for it was
Supriya, of all people, whom the teacher was trying to trace! It turned out that the two
ladies were former schoolmates!
Ranjit had never believed in miracles, but now they were piling up. A letter had
come from his batchmate Rashid Ahmad, now the owner of two Indian food restaurants
in New York, and one in Los Angeles that specialized in Bengali cuisine. Rashid had
heard of Ranjit’s bereavement and subsequent troubles; he had a vast network of
customers, and information from all corners of the home country reached him. He was
brief and to the point. His business had expanded to the point that he was unable to
manage it effectively all by himself. If Ranjit wished to take charge of the Los Angeles
branch on a 50:50 profit sharing basis, he only had to call.
The compass needle was gradually swinging west again.

She was now a Vice President with City National Bank! As Supriya revealed this
to him shyly, Ranjit inwardly marveled at how well she had maintained herself. But she
was appalled at his health and general appearance. There was an unhealthy pallor on his
face…
“Ranjit! What have you done to yourself?” she whispered, agonized. He was a
shadow of his former self. A flood of maternal love, a desire to ease his pain, arose in her
breast. This was the man who had given her a fantastic foothold in America. She owed
him plenty! But…was it just that, she asked herself frankly, or because…she dodged
away from the answer as Ranjit returned from the men’s room.
They were dining at the Taj Palace Hotel, Calcutta. But he was not the type to
allow himself to cringe from memories any more, no matter how painful. The past was
past…it was time to meet the future. They enjoyed the candlelight dinner. Then instead
of going down to the parking lot, he hesitated, then steered her to one of the lavish
terraced rooftop gardens of the hotel.
The setting was perfect. Calcutta’s mild winter was over and spring cast its magic
spell over the landscaped terrace. The lights of the city glittered beneath them like a
carpet of diamonds, there was a big yellow moon hanging low in the sky, and a soft
breeze swept the scent of rose and jasmine over them. It was straight out of Babylon.
Babylon?…a long-forgotten moon, gardens from another time, a lovely woman … an
ancient breeze came whispering out of the past, from a never-land beyond the grave,
raising gooseflesh on his forearms and sending a shiver down his spine.
A lifetime … many lifetimes … had passed since she had promised him
anything…anything at all…if she got the job. Now it was time to cash.
When he gently gathered her into his arms, she did not resist.
“Supriya, you never married. Why?” he whispered tenderly.
She looked up at him, her eyes melting.
“Now, what kind of a question is that? I didn’t marry because I didn’t feel like
marrying anyone. Simple.”
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“But you must have received offers…proposals? You were…still are…” his
voice thickened, and he cleared his throat before going on “…very beautiful. What made
you…?”
“Ranjit! I’m telling you the truth. I never met anyone I wanted to marry after I
…”. She bit her lip, choked off the words that had almost slipped out.
Ranjit held her tighter. She felt so familiar in his arms, as if, only yesterday … it
was like coming home. His heart was bursting with something, a mysterious yet very
familiar some thing from another time, long ago. Something as vital as life itself…
“It was a bad marriage, Supriya. I never had the good sense to see where my real
destiny lay. Help me, Supriya. The kids are innocent, they deserve a good life… but they
need a mother even more. Will you marry me, Supriya?”
“Sorry, Ranjit.” She was harsh in her refusal.
“But…but why?” He was hurt, puzzled.
She smiled secretly in the darkness.
“You need a good governess for the children, Ranjit. A wife is a full-time
commitment. You don’t really need to marry me.”
“But I do!” He was desperate now. “The children…how are they going to manage
in America, without me? I’m not an American citizen, like you. But if you marry me, I
acquire the right to enter America.”
“Not good enough, Ranjit. You’ll have to think of something better. I can’t marry
you…just to get you and the kids into the States.”
“Then I invoke my boon…I want you to marry me.”
“Invoke away till you’re blue in the face. I’ll never marry you.”
Something snapped in him. Perhaps the memory of her almost admitting she had
never married because she never met anyone she wanted to marry…after she…the
memory of something that had once flitted for an instant through the dark depths of her
eyes before it was quickly veiled…
He tilted her face to his and kissed her soft lips very gently, tenderly.
“Indian men are lousy at proposing, Supriya. I want to marry you because…
because I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you, and I went and married
someone who was not fated to spend her life with me; she couldn’t handle the pressure,
couldn’t adjust. I love you, Supriya, I need you…in every way. Let me prove it to you.”
He kissed her again, and this time she kissed him back passionately, clinging to
him hungrily.
“I’ve waited so long for this moment!” she whispered, “I thought it’d never
come. You got married, so I plunged into my work and tried to forget you…but I never
did! You fool, Ranjit! D’you realize I’ve loved you ever since I met you for the first
time…in Calcutta? Yes, yes, YES…I’ll marry you!”
Ranjit was in a happy daze. He was not the first man to learn the truth the hard
way: that women marry primarily for love…real women…and not for things like money
and status. Those inconsequential add-ons follow in the wake of a happy marriage based
on love and mutual respect.
“Man!” he chuckled, “I never realized that ol’ Chowringhee was such a romantic
place! And you in braces and frocks!” he teased.

*
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When she left the next day for Bombay, en route to Chicago, she left without her
passport. That, along with a marriage certificate, was under process at the US embassy in
New Delhi. Supriya only carried a document stating these facts. Her new passport, issued
in her new name, Mrs. Supriya Chowdhury, would follow within two months.
As would her husband and the children. Ranjit would sell the apartment in New
Delhi. Real estate prices in south Delhi had gone through the roof. All said and done, he
would land in America with $100,000, a tidy sum. The interest alone would sustain him
till he got a job, keep his self-respect intact. Rashid bhai’s offer was a great reassurance.
As the Boeing 747 lifted into the setting sun, her thoughts returned to her family.
How she loved and admired her husband! He was truly a good man, a warm human
being with a heart of gold. His well-wishers were legion, and he deserved every bit of
good luck and happiness that came his way. Especially now…
Sunset. It was often the best time of day. Or life. Sometimes, there was much
comfort in it…much solace…solace at sunset.
She did not regret the wasted years. It was never too late to start afresh. It was
never too late for love. In America. Or anywhere else, for that matter. There was still
much time for happiness, for love, before the sun finally set. She smiled through the
joyous tears that coursed down her cheeks.

~*~
Visitor
"Two possibilities exist: Either we are alone in the Universe, or we are not. Both are equally terrifying."
~ Arthur C. Clarke

Who knows how long it had voyaged through the immeasurable emptiness.
Countless eons having passed, such information would have been incomprehensible to it
now. Perhaps it was for the best that it recalled so little of its past. It faintly recollected
that it came from a star system so far away from where it now was that it was pointless
trying to plot its position. In any case, the distant, long-forgotten planet that gave it life
no longer existed. Spared the conflagration that wiped out its race, irreversibly mutated
and unsure about a future outside its world-system, it kept going—the last of its breed,
alone and companionless—through the dark cheerlessness of the void.
It had powers it itself was unaware of. Immunity to the lack of atmosphere and to
extremes of heat and cold appeared to be some of these newly acquired powers. But it
did not know that. If it had known it was otherwise, it wouldn’t be there. Wherever
‘there’ was. It would have come to know even as it perished. But it lived, so it did not
know. An interesting paradox...what it didn’t know didn’t hurt it, because had it known, it
would be dead...and knowledge is immaterial to the dead. At least as far as actions and
consequences affect its state of existence in a material form. Knowledge, in this case,
would have been fatal and nullified its very utility. The matter was, in any case, of little
import to it.
It did not know what living was. It failed to equate—and who can blame it—life
with living. It was alive but not living, a state of being not exactly unknown in the
universe. In order to live, one needs to experience. Interaction with other organisms—
 141

and the need to cope with the demands of such interaction—was totally missing from its
environment. It didn’t know it lived, didn’t even know what experience meant. It was very
smart and also very stupid, as usually are those who are cut-off from everything around
them. But it didn’t know even that. It simply existed, marooned in space. It is moot
whether it realized the full purport of its predicament.
Of the rest of its powers it had no inkling, because powers need occasion to
manifest themselves, and occasion, as everything else, was lacking in the bleak vacuum
through which it journeyed. There was nothing—nothing at all—around it as it drifted
past galaxies and entire galactic systems, through the ineffable nothingness that was now
its home. It had never encountered another living thing during the inexpressibly long
time it had wandered through the dark.
It had lost all sense of time, so it had no concept of existence, life, or death. These
are things that are thrust upon the consciousness when an organism relates to its
environment and understands the relativity of things. Who can say it was immortal? And,
for that matter, who could say that it was not? It was a created entity; it had life, and it
had consciousness. That was all.
It possessed an intelligence of sorts, supported by rudimentary thought-processes.
But it was the intelligence of the amoral, rootless and without foundation. It had no
concept of morality or ethics, for these are by-products of civilisation and culture...things
beyond its grasp. For this reason, it was dangerous to other organisms that functioned
within a structured and codified ethical system.
*
The super-cruise ship ‘Titania’ was built to take a hundred and sixty space tourists
to the far reaches of the known universe at speeds as close to light as dammit. She did
not, of course, achieve this insane velocity all at once. Her cobalt-fed nuclear engines
took her up to 72,000 miles per second before the relatively small photon drive kicked in
and gradually, over a period of three hundred earth days, brought her speed up to 186,000
miles per second...very close to that of light.
On account of the vast time that would have elapsed back on earth while they
rubbernecked along the galaxies, the tourists and crew aboard her had permanently
severed their ties with their home planet. If they ever returned, the earth as they’d known
it would have ceased to exist. Their friends would have died millennia ago, the landscape
and technology would have changed beyond recognition, and language would have
evolved beyond what they were capable of understanding. Einstein’s physics, as far as
Relativity was concerned, had stood the test of its subject matter...time!
The rest of Einstein’s theory of Relativity must also be true, thought Purser First
Class Donald Wheaton as he stood on the panorama deck. Strange things happened to
objects when they went this fast. If time slowed down aboard a spaceship traveling at
close to the speed of light—just as Einstein had said it would—then the other components
of E = MC² must also be true. At such near-luminal velocity, his mass must be
approaching infinity and his volume would be just about nil!
Not that Donald Wheaton felt anything...those were merely readings that a
hypothetical observer would record were he in a position to do so and yet retain his
former state. Wheaton felt as normal as ever. The object in question, he knew, became so
heavy at luminal velocity—relativistically speaking—that its mass was impossible to
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measure. And volume approached zero...at light speed, an object almost shrank out of
existence, so small did it become.
Most of the early cruisers had made the mistake of returning to earth after travelling
through the cosmos and time—and had blasted-off almost immediately in dismay. That
accounted for the myriad UFO sightings reported around the 2950’s on earth. UFOs were
usually nothing but space cruisers that had voyaged through space-time and returned to
find that they could make nothing of what they saw. Space travel had its drawbacks. It
was an irrevocable, no-return trip to the stars, a decision as immutable as its
consequences. The passengers and crew aboard the Titania had decided to undertake the
journey knowing full well that they would spend the rest of their lives aboard; mate,
procreate, educate their offspring as best they could, and die off.
Someday, in a far-distant future, their descendants—those of whom as might
survive the voyage—could disembark on an unknown planet and try to carve out a new
life for themselves. It was no great sacrifice: it was an escape. Earth had become a
stinking, polluted, and charred world where violent death lurked at every corner and
government had all but collapsed. This was a better way of dealing with life. If fulfilment
was at all possible, the Titania was the best bet. She was, to her inhabitants, a space age
Noah’s Ark minus the animals. It was a flight to another frontier, offering as it did the
choice of a better unknown...the more unknown the better.

Only the Captain and the owners knew that the passengers and crew had been
carefully selected for the voyage. Since they were to be bottled up for life, and since the
show must go on, they had to be compatible. And a decent percentage of them had to be
single, so that they could find mates for themselves and reproduce their kind. Romance
was, therefore, hardly discouraged, even between passengers and crew. Offspring were
the whole point of the selection process. Who would steer the ship across the heavens if
everyone died off? Children were their source of joy, the anchor for their lives that gave
meaning to the madness as they hurtled through the void to worlds unknown...

*
Donald Wheaton grinned wickedly as he called Tanya Roberts on her wrist-phone.
“Ahoy, there, Nurse! Reporting an emergency! I repeat...an emergency! Come
fast... to Promenade Number Three. On the double!”
Tanya smiled. What she liked about Don was that he was always so playful. She
liked his cheerful, carefree nature. Not that he was a dope; far from it. He was an
excellent accountant, a great cook, and danced extremely well. He wasn’t exactly a
shrimp, either. He was six four and as brawny a hunk as she’d ever laid eyes upon! She
liked his mind and she liked his body; it was only a matter of time before she said
yes...when he got around to popping the question, that is. He was taking his time, and she
chafed at the delay. But, woman-like, she never pressed him to declare his intentions.
Now, thrilled at the unexpected call, she pretended to be busy as she replied breathlessly:
“Purser First Class Wheaton, could you tell me the exact nature of the emergency?
I’ll see if I can send someone up. I have a patient to attend to...”
Don Wheaton made a choking sound as he replied.
 143

“It’s me chest, nurse. It hurts something terrible and my hands are shaking. My
knees are wobbly, my throat is dry, and my vision is blurred. There’s an ache in the lower
abdomen, and tumescence in nether regions, not to mention slurred speech, a tingling
scalp, a buzzing in my ears and a burning sensation in the soles of my feet. I believe you
are the resident expert on this particular malady...by the way, what is it?”
She toyed with him a little longer. “Purser First Class, it sounds as if you’ve got the
‘flu, nothing that a full course of anti-pyretic and antibiotic injections won’t cure. Two
weeks quarantine, of course, and a nutritious liquid protein diet. Intravenous drip and
daily enemas are de rigueur. You’ll be okay. I’ll tell Doctor Warner to sign the admit-
card. Report to Sick-Bay One within the hour, will you, please?”
She smiled at the mock panic in his voice. “Now look here, nurse, I’m sinking, I tell
you. My breathing is affected. I need mouth-to-mouth respiration now! Get up here
immediately—before they have to stop the ship and bury me in space!”
She faked her response, playing along, inserting a note of resignation into her
voice: “Oh! All right, sailor-boy. But this had better be good and real!”
“It’s real, baby! And it’ll be good...I promise you that!” Don wheezed happily.
She patted her hair into place as she took the lift to the promenade, trying to look as
cool and businesslike as ever. Don had the power to rattle her. She only had to hear his
voice and her palms grew moist. She’d never felt this way before...

It had achieved the speed of 186,000 miles per second over the eons and parsecs
that it had traversed of space-time, and would not have been fazed had it known that its
mass was nearly infinite and that its volume had shrunk to the point that it was
infinitesimally tiny. It was not a living thing: it was experienceless, hence lifeless, so its
current state did not matter to it. It stole through the abyss like a cosmic will-o’-the-wisp,
searching, drifting, gathering speed, gaining on the photons that sped away ahead of it...
Something was coming straight at it, something huge, travelling at very high speed.
It sensed it was very different from the asteroids and other space-matter it had
encountered. They collided at the speed of light...

Captain William Jarvis was leafing through his stamp collection. Some of the rarer
exhibits had been valued at over a hundred thousand earth dollars each. They were
worthless now, but it didn’t gall him. He loved them as they were. The triangle from the
USSR was his favourite. It depicted an ancient statue, long since destroyed, of a Greek
athlete throwing the discus. The crude paper and printing could not obscure the perfection
of physique, the intensity of effort that that warrior of long ago had made, for the discus
was originally a weapon of war...
He was rudely interrupted by the buzz of his wrist-set. It was Bronson, the Chief
Engineer.
“Cap’n! We hit something! Went clean through it. It was nebulous, and coming fast
at us. So fast, we didn’t have time to react. But I’ve not found any damage.”
 144

Jarvis was not overly concerned. Anything that was fast enough not to register on
the super-radar was too fast to hurt.
“It’s okay, Chief. Whatever it was—probably a shower of cosmic rays—it passed
right through us, just as we passed right through it. What did the gravimeter register, by
the way?”
“That’s just it, Cap’n. It didn’t. It simply went haywire for a moment, as if the
impact generated was infinite. Then it settled down at its normal reading.”
“Fine! It was a cosmic shower, going at C speed…like us. Carry on, Chief.”
Bronson was unconvinced, but he let it pass. “Aye aye, Cap’n. Steady as she goes.”

It had experienced, at last! It was so fast, and hence so small, that it had penetrated
the metal hull of the object easily, passing through it as effortlessly as if it had not been
there at all. There was life aboard the thing: unknown, mysterious, terrifying. It felt a
stab of fear and exulted. It was experiencing, coming alive. It caught up rapidly,
propelled by the hunger of eons, learning faster in seconds than ordinary organisms
learn in millennia.
It had come to rest within a soft mass of tissue, an entity possessed of its own
volition. It penetrated the upper regions of its host and was staggered at the enormous
amount of experience, memories, and knowledge it found there. It wanted to stay...but
there was a catch: the premises were occupied. No matter. It wanted to live, and so it
decided to continue in residence...
It had rudimentary thought-processes, for it possessed intellect of sorts. But it was
the intelligence of the amoral: rootless and without foundation. It had no concept of
morality or ethics, for these are by-products of civilisation and culture—things beyond
its grasp. For this reason, it was dangerous to other organisms that functioned within a
structured and codified ethical system.

Tanya Roberts was a little breathless as she went up to Donald Wheaton to check
him out thoroughly. As per the information with her, he was suffering from a sudden
attack of ‘flu. If it really was influenza, it meant quarantining him and administering the
complete treatment. So she was somewhat surprised when the patient took her by the
hand and drew her furtively into a vacant cabin. She had to give him mouth-to-mouth
respiration, as per his own request. She decided to proceed without any further loss of
time. The rest would follow, the dénouement it felt was the right one...it went to work in
right earnest...

“Man Oh man!” whispered a rumpled and highly impressed Donald Wheaton. He

was also profoundly shocked. What he’d thought would be a cozy little snuggle had
exploded into something he hadn’t been able to control.
 145

“Where’d you learn that last one, baby? It was outta this world. I’m flattered...and
very...er...grateful.” Like all men who’d unexpectedly had their way with a girl, he was
somewhat at a loss for words. She’d surprised him, sent him spinning out of control. It
was an unfamiliar situation.
“That’s what you wanted, didn’t you, Don?” she asked anxiously as she dressed. “I
was only doing it because you wanted it...”
He groaned. “Wanted it, honey? Of course I wanted it. But not...” he hesitated. He
was neither promiscuous nor a prude. But it wasn’t quite what he’d...
“...but I didn’t...” he groped for the right words “...didn’t expect it to go quite this
way, honeybaby. It was great. Outasite!! Believe me. But next time, angel, let me do the
leading. I sort of lost you there. For a moment, I even wondered if it was you I was
with...”
“Oh! Don!” she wailed, “I just wanted you to have a good time. I promise never to
do it again!”
Donald Wheaton was alarmed. “Hold on! Not so fast! Aggression on the woman’s
part is okay...later in the relationship. In fact, it’s extremely important. But the first
time?...I dunno. I feel sort of...as if I’d been deprived of a chance to...I feel kind of
cheated, you know. The thrill of conquest and all that. But let it go, Tanya...as I said
before...it was great!”
She left, feeling lousy. It was pathetic, the sudden, inexplicable way she’d changed
her strategy at the last minute. The tryst had been a disaster. He hadn’t said the words
she’d expected to hear. He hadn’t told her he loved her, wanted to marry her...

It had made a bad mistake. Next time, it would not be so ready to please, to do what
others wanted. It would test the waters first. It had a lot to learn...

*
“Scalpel!” grunted Doc Warner, extending his hand without looking at her as he
examined the swabbed area he would slice through. He was about to perform an
appendectomy, and there was no time to be lost. Blood pressure was falling after
anaesthesia, and rupture was imminent. The fact that no two had patients had their
appendix at exactly the same spot further complicated things. He had palpated the
swollen abdomen and had decided where he’d make the first incision. His hand closed
around a pair of forceps.
He was vastly irritated. What was wrong with Nurse Roberts? She always
anticipated the instrument he’d need. Lately, however, she had started handing him the
wrong ones.
“Nurse Roberts, I said ‘scalpel’...and quite clearly, too, I think,” he said testily.
“Now if you’ll be so kind as to please hand me one without any further waste of time...”
She gave it to him meekly, watching as he made a deep incision across the right
underbelly. Blood welled up immediately, and she helped Doc Williams in stanching the
flow, cauterising blood vessels before he cut deeper through the abdominal muscles and
into the peritoneum.
“Watch out! The appendix is inflamed, and just a touch of the blade...”
Doc Warner did not reply, but his hand shook as he made his gambit to isolate the
infected organ. His hand trembled because he was furious; and also because he couldn’t
 146

express it. Not here. And especially not now. Just when he needed all his concentration to
save the patient’s life, here was this nurse giving him instructions...as if it were his first
appendectomy!
*

Captain Jarvis listened to them as they came in, the complaints about Nurse
Roberts. Of late, her behavioural patterns had altered to the extent that she’d managed to
alienate everyone...even that Purser, Wheaton, who, it was well-known, was very keen on
her. He’d placed his apprehensions frankly before Captain Jarvis.
Jarvis had always been tolerant about romantic dalliances between crewmembers,
even if the tryst happened to take place during duty hours. As far as he was concerned, it
was normal and quite condonable. But it was what Wheaton had left unsaid that was
more important. Tanya Roberts had developed behavioural patterns that were
inconsonant with her normal ways. She was crew, and it could be potentially hazardous
for all. The matter needed thorough investigation...

Jarvis and Doc Warner were closeted in conference in the captain’s suite. Jarvis
paced up and down restlessly. “So when you tallied the results of the test, Doc, Tanya
Roberts was the only one who’d got the launch date right?”
Doc Warner nodded. “Which is funny...because she gave the right date. Only we
never left earth on the day appointed for blast off...2nd January. As you very well know...”
he added. Captain Jarvis winced at the memory of the fiasco. “We had to fix a glitch in
one of the fuel chambers and actually lifted off on 23rd February,” he murmured
thoughtfully. “Tanya was with us then, and she couldn’t possibly have forgotten. We all
call it Day One, Cap’n.” He looked up for confirmation. Jarvis nodded thoughtfully.
“In our records, however,” Warner added softly, “Jan 2nd is still the official date for
departure from earth: a clerical entry never amended.”
“She gave the correct answer...only it was the wrong one!” marvelled Jarvis. “Now
why would an active crew-member make a mistake like that? Because...” supplying the
answer to his own question, “it was not on board then!” Warner noted the change in
gender; he was very sensitive to syntax.
“It doesn’t know that lift-off day is Day One to all of us. It couldn’t go around
asking, so it went into our records...and found the answer. Only it was asking the
computer the wrong question: it should have asked ‘when was Day One, the date of
actual lift-off?’ That’s where it slipped up!” whispered Warner, his mind beginning to
adjust to the ramifications of their discovery.
“And her physiognomy...?” asked the Captain of the ship’s doctor.
“She’s Tanya Roberts in body, Cap’n. But in mind—she’s something else now...”
Old Doc Warner shook his head sadly. “You know what you must do, don’t you, Cap’n?”
Jarvis nodded wearily. She was such a beauty. What a waste! He looked up
suddenly. There was a flare of hope in his eyes. He wanted to save her, the Tanya he’d
known.
“Doc! Can you try and pinpoint the date...exactly when, according to you, the
abnormality manifested itself?”
 147

“Easy, Cap’n! Thirty-three days ago. I’ve made a graph showing the possible date
when the aberrational behaviour began, based on interviews, and all the lines diverge at
33 days.”
“Hmmmm! So what happened 33 days ago that could have...” thought Jarvis as he
considered the problem, trying to recall unusual occurrences over the last two months.
There was only one...the encounter with the shower of cosmic rays.
“Doc ... that ‘cosmic ray shower’ we passed through about that time...what if it was
actually something else? ... something alien, alive: unaffected by the hostile conditions of
outer space. Something traveling at close to the speed of light, the ship’s hull porous to its
enormous mass and infinitesimal size...passing through it like a bullet through a hoop...”
He looked hopefully at Doc Warner, willing him to see it. “Tanya Roberts, quite by
accident, is in the way...and it takes up residence in her body. Her own mind can rarely
surface now, submerged under the weight of the other...”
Doc Warner shrugged sympathetically. He knew he’d hit the nail on the head. “We
eliminate her, then?” he asked. Jarvis sighed. “No, we exterminate it. Do we have an
alternative?”
*

She knew she was doomed. Something possessed her, and she knew that casting her
off the ship was the only way of getting rid of it...as men had once jettisoned unlucky
Jonah. But Jonah had survived his ordeal in the whale’s stomach.
Taking the little leather-bound volume off the shelf, she read the story of Jonah.
There were many stories in that book from a time long past. The later ones, mostly set in
a place called Judea, on earth, revolved around the life of a man called the Nazarene. He
preached the gospel of Love. Love conquered everything; love sacrificed, even to the
death. She loved Donald Wheaton, and she was willing to sacrifice her life for him. She
read the story of Golgotha, the ‘place of the skull’, where they killed the Nazarene by
crucifying him. But he forgave them even as they slew him. His death unleashed a wave
of love and divine inspiration that had survived through the ages. His message of love
was eternally relevant.
She did not, therefore, hate the thing that was in her. It had acted in the only way it
knew, had acted as it was programmed to act. It had no knowledge of goodness or truth.
It had not the priceless gift of human emotion, knew none of the finer passions that
motivate beings to surpass their own natures and experience the ecstasy of being. It knew
not love, love that opened your mind and made you gentler, more in tune with your true
nature. She was not flesh but spirit, she knew. She did not fear annihilation, because love
was eternal. Love conquered everything, even time. It was forever.
As she read, so did the thing in her. It was a new experience for it, this concept of
an ultimate good, of a thing called love that triumphed over hate and fear and was an
embodiment of unselfishness and sacrifice. It came to understand the moral
underpinnings of ethics, and its approach to living changed. It saw that it lived...but it was
still not alive. To live, it realised, one had to surrender to love, and let it be the guide. It
had never been exposed to such things, an amoral, non-ethical entity motivated solely by
its own self-interest. It had to make amends...
 148

No one knew when it left, for it chose a time when all were asleep. Even Tanya
Roberts slept on, unaware that she was free. It was wiser now, better equipped to face
the eons ahead. Perhaps its longevity was a blessing, for now it had time enough...and a
purpose. There was a way to live, it now realised. Mere living was not enough. Surely,
somewhere in the vast, empty reaches of the boundless universe, there were beings that
had need of it and its unique powers...
*
“...and when I awoke, I felt different. Lighter, more stable. Then I realised what had
happened. And the most wonderful thing of all is that it left a star-chart in my head.
Every time I close my eyes and concentrate, I know the way...” said Tanya.
“Know the way to where, Tanya?” asked Doc Warner and Captain Jarvis
simultaneously.
“Why, to the planet, of course: the one we’re looking for.” Jarvis and Warner
exchanged a quick glance. It was classified information. “It’s ideal for us,” she went on.
“Very much like earth, with a yellow sun. Its gravity is almost identical to that of earth,
so we’ll weigh about the same there. It’s got beautiful oceans, a temperate climate, lush
forests full of game, and the soil is so rich that minimal effort is needed to grow crops.
There are few predators, and the eco-system is very accommodating. I think we should go
for it. There’s only one hitch...”
“What’s that?” they all asked in unison.
She smiled. “There aren’t any people on it,” she teased, “so all of you who are
looking forward to company are going to be disappointed! We’ll be the only company
we’ll ever have, by the looks of things. Unless, of course, we have another visitor...and
that’s very unlikely,” she grimaced.
“Amen!” they whispered, quite satisfied with the status quo. Tanya smiled happily.
There was a gleam in Donald Wheaton’s eyes she hadn’t seen in a long time. Something
told her she was about to be paged up to Promenade Three again...

~*~
One Good Turn
Badal Roy looked on incuriously as the crimson stream flowed from his arm and into
the plastic bottle. As he clenched and unclenched his fist, the way the nurse from the blood
bank had told him, he wondered how the old man was. He had been in high spirits that
evening, as he matched Badal rum for rum. “Badal!” he had joked, “if you want to keep
your wife happy in your old age, just remember: there’s nothing like rum to get a good
head of steam on!” Rear Admiral (Retd.) Ghoshal had served in the Royal Navy during the
War, and had retired from the Indian Navy many years ago. A short, barrel-chested man
with a sailor’s roll and ready wit, he loved to entertain young people.
His wife Meera, greying but still smart and attractive, was a good sport. “Don’t listen
to him, Badal. That’s his standard excuse for continuing to draw his quota of booze from
the canteen stores department. Such a naughty man, I have never seen.” They had smiled at
each other affectionately, the way old couples do when they have lived a long and happy
life together. Badal had envied them their contentment with each other, which was strange,
because it was not as if he was disenchanted with his wife, Sujata. In fact, conservative and
conventional though she was, she was a good homemaker, solidly practical and
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materialistic, with a stubborn streak that helped her to cope with her domestic problems.
She was also unusually attractive, with a slim figure, sharp features, a clear, fair
complexion, and long auburn hair that glinted gold in the sun.
The Ghoshals were extremely fond of Badal and his pretty wife, not least of all
because their only daughter, Amrita and her husband Tarun Goswami were their closest
friends. When Badal had been posted in Delhi, the two couples were inseparable. Their
tastes in restaurants, music, movies and books coincided. They even owned the same make
of motorcycle. Badal lived in a rented flat not far from the Ghoshals’ large bungalow in the
Bengali-dominated colony of Gitaranjan Park in south Delhi. Even after Badal had taken
charge of the Lucknow branch—he was a bank manager—the couples made it a point to
take their vacations together.
Every few months, the Goswamis would go over to Lucknow to spend an extended
weekend with the Roys. And whenever Badal happened to be in Delhi on official work, he
stayed with the Ghoshals, as he had done this time as well. Only, things had gone wrong…
very wrong. Prime Minister Indira Gandhi had been shot by one of her own guards, and
there was civil commotion as never before seen in Delhi. Law and order had all but broken
down, and curfew had been imposed. Milk and foodstuffs were scarce, and public transport
was suspended. He was marooned in Delhi.
When the old man had collapsed in the bathroom that night, it fell to Badal’s lot to
rush him to hospital. Tarun was away to Bombay on a month-long training program, and
there was no one else in the house who could drive the car. Delhi was burning. Blood
flowed in the streets but blood banks had no stocks. Relatives of riot and burn victims had
cornered every last bottle. And a lot of blood was needed—six bottles of it—if the old man
was to have the operation that would save his life. Four donors were found, but they were
still two bottles short. Badal’s blood matched: B+ was the commonest group and therefore
the scarcest. He was glad to do something for the family that had lavished so much
affection on him and his wife.
But when no source could be found for the sixth and last bottle, Badal decided to
gamble. He asked the nurse if he could give another bottle of blood. She refused outright.
“Sorry, sir, you have donated blood only hours ago. Regulations do not allow it.”
“But nurse, that old man will die if we fall short of blood during the operation. Look
at it this way…if it was your own father, what would you have done?”
The nurse was hesitant. “Sir, you do not seem to realize the…it’s impossible…the
sharp fall in blood pressure, the strain and shock to the heart…anything could happen…”
Her voice trailed off miserably.
“Look, you have nothing to fear. I’m only 33, and I’m very strong. This is a chance
we have to take…if that old man dies, you will regret it all your life…don’t let it happen.”
She seemed to weaken. “Let me take your BP again…pulse…hmmmm…it’s true:
you’re as strong as a horse…but two bottles in 24 hours…! I never heard of such a thing.
Even the professional donors do not sell blood more than once a month!” Then she caved
in: “But I suppose we have no option now.”
So Badal donated another pint and drove home groggily. His reflexes were poor and
he was having difficulty in focusing his eyes. It seemed to take forever to reach the
Ghoshal’s place. He let himself in with the duplicate keys he’d been given, and headed
straight for the fridge. There was a little milk, half a bowl of fruit custard and a dozen eggs.
He poured the contents of four raw eggs into a tumbler of milk, stirred some sugar into it
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as best he could and drank the concoction in one swallow. Then he ate some of the fruit
custard before stripping off all his clothes and falling into his bed. The last thing he
remembered before he drifted away was that he had forgotten to phone Sujata. Then he
slept…and he dreamed…
*

They had left the big, black motorcycle at Jogindernagar and taken the makeshift
cable ropeway—the one that had flatbed railcars—that terminated at the ‘Bee’s neck’, as
the crest was called. Barot with its fabled brown trout fishing, was four hours away from
there. As the railcar ascended steeply, sometimes tilted crazily at over 65°, Badal and his
partner had hung on grimly. There was nothing but their fingernails to prevent them
sliding off—gravity threatened to pull them and their heavy rucksacks into the fast
receding landscape far below. They reckoned their chances of survival were about 50:50.
No wonder they had been made to sign indemnity bonds on Rs.3.25 stamp papers before
being allowed to board the open flatbeds. They had got off shakily at the first stop and
continued their trek on foot. It would throw their schedule out of gear, but it was better to
get to their destination alive and in one piece.

The sun was hot at nine thousand feet. Badal and his partner stopped to remove their
jerseys. The foam-padded straps of the heavy 60-pound rucksacks dug cruelly into their
shoulders as they started the steep and somewhat risky descent into the valley of the Uhl.
Between them, they bore on their backs a two-man tent, waterproof groundsheet, inflatable
air mattresses, sleeping bags, cooking gear, a primus stove, fishing tackle, a .12 bore
shotgun, ammunition, provisions and clothing. At four thousand feet, they came across a
spring gurgling down the rocky slopes. The water was delicious: icy and mineral-
flavoured. Badal had drunk too much, too fast, without waiting to cool down first. His
thirst got the better of him. Within half an hour, his body burned with fever. But he stuck
to the trail till they had checked into the pinewood fishing lodge at Barot in the evening.
He had swallowed half a tablet of Crocin, zipped himself into his sleeping bag and
fallen sleep. When he awoke the next morning, he felt strong and refreshed. The fever was
gone. His partner was visibly relieved. He had been entertaining visions of having to nurse
him with inadequate medical supplies, far from civilization. He was further dumbfounded
when, that afternoon, Badal landed a four-pound Brown Trout, the largest catch of the trip.
He had been prepared to bawl him out for ruining the vacation. Now he wolfed down the
tastiest fish fillets, cooked in melted butter, he’d ever had, and promptly forgave his cousin
for the fright he’d given him.

Memories of the beauty of Barot stayed with them for years, long after they returned
to their humdrum lives in the concrete jungle, dressed in three-piece suits and ties like the
other city-slickers, poring over files and attending staff meetings…

He could hear Amrita—Mitu—calling his name over and over again, but he was
dreaming and did not respond. Mitu—she was such an extraordinary person. He had never
found a girl who was willing to accompany him on his fishing trips and treks. Girls were
more interested in being wined and dined and taken to discos, which was not his kind of
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thing at all. His friends, with the callous disregard of youth for the feelings of others, had
tagged him as the guy who’d rather go fishing than date a girl. They thought him mad.
Badal didn’t mind; there was a time and place for everything. Besides, it was true. He was
mad...about the outdoors.
He could always catch up with girls later on, but his youth would never return. His
legs would not be strong enough, in mid-life, to take him into the wilderness that he could
hardly get enough of. But he had often pondered…if Mitu had been around then, if she had
agreed to go with him, and accepted the inevitable consequences of such a decision—
would he have had the guts to refuse her? Could he have resisted the temptation of
venturing into a trackless wilderness, and share a tent and all sorts of intimacies that go
with camping and living off the land, with a beautiful and fascinating woman?
He was human, and he compared them, Mitu and Sujata. Even those who insisted
that comparisons were odious often succumbed to this universal trait. Mitu was fair and
beautiful in a careless, offhand way…sexily buck-toothed, blousy and voluptuous. She
read anything she could lay her hands on, she was against exercise and children, and she
openly boasted having got herself fitted with a ‘Copper-T’ IUCD. She was bold and frank
about her body’s needs and functions, she was independent to a fault and had even left
poor Tarun behind when she gone off for a three-month vacation to Egypt. She had
returned with a deep tan and an intricately carved onyx scarab beetle charm that she
insisted was an antique. She claimed she had paid for it handsomely in cash and kind (no
one had the temerity to ask her what she had done for ‘kind’). She was a handful. But
notwithstanding her eccentricity, her stolid, dependable engineer husband doted on her.
“Badal…Badal…the way this man snores, I tell you! Badal! Do you know how long
you’ve been asleep? C’mon, now, open your eyes.” She was shaking him by the shoulder.
He opened one eye. “Go away!” he said, and tried to turn over. She wouldn’t let him.
“That’s enough sleep…time for your lunch…yes, you’ve been asleep for 24 hours,
you lazy man! And we learnt about the heroics.” She cradled his head in her lap and
spooned hot chicken soup into his mouth till the tureen was empty. “Appetite!” she said
approvingly, satisfied with his effort. She rose to go. He caught her by the wrist. “The old
man…your Dad…how’s he?”
She hesitated. “Well, the operation went off well…but he’s…he’s still not out of the
woods yet. We’ll know tomorrow, hopefully.” She was subdued. For a moment, Badal felt
the fear come off her like water spraying from under the wheels of a vehicle in the rain.
“Now, Badal, sleep some more…two blood donations in 24 hours, you crazy…! And
Tarun in Bombay…!”
She fell silent. Something warned Badal to hold his tongue. She was tense and over-
wrought. At last she spoke again, haltingly: “I…we…can never forget what you have done
for us, Badal. No matter what we do, we can never repay you. Thank you from all of us!”
She ran from the room, sobbing. It was most uncharacteristic of her to be so emotional.
Badal realized she loved her father deeply, and his sudden illness had unnerved her.
A lovely woman—in tears! Like all men under similar circumstances, Badal felt
disoriented and helpless. Women! Who ever understood them? They were paradoxes
wrapped in oxymorons cocooned in cussedness. They were harsh and soft, gentle and
brutal, sensual yet abstemious, cold as ice yet hotter than a flame, wholesomely earthy yet
maddeningly detached. They were bundles of contradictions—intolerable yet irresistible—
that drove men insane. It was the very source of their power over men. They could be
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faithful to a man while a latent promiscuity lurked just beneath the surface. They were
driven by instincts they themselves did not understand, instincts as old as the earth itself…
They could see through a man as if he was made of glass. Separate the truth from the
lies in the twinkling of an eye. Know, without a word being spoken, that a man was crazy-
mad with love for them. They were trouble with a capital T, they were avoidable yet
indispensable, they were so sweet you felt like hugging and kissing them; and sometimes
they could be so vicious you felt like making tracks for the badlands at the earliest
opportunity.
They were heaven and hell, agony and ecstasy, journey and destination, means and
end, love and hate, inspiration and despair, tension and release, chili peppers and ice
cream, soft pillows and warm beds, hot baths and cool talcum powder, heady perfumes
and smelly depilatories, unpainted toes and garish lipsticks, shaved underarms and
unshaved legs, loose blouses and tight brassieres, scanty panties and thick face packs,
bikini waxes and…he slept.
*

She woke him again for his dinner. She had cooked a light, nutritious meal: mutton
cutlets with French fries, salad, and a somewhat watery payaysh—a Bengali dessert made
from rice, milk, sugar and raisins. Badal was not very fond of traditional Indian cooking:
he loved anything that reminded him of Continental fare, and he ate heartily. He had
bought Sujata a Baby Belling oven, but all she ever baked in it were cakes. She had no
interest in western food. But Badal had to admit that she had mastered Bengali cuisine. Her
call came at 9 PM.
“Badal! How are you? I was so scared….yes, I heard about Mesho’s operation from
Mitu….I’m sure he’ll be alright soon…come home as soon as possible…it’s so lonely
here…yes, I know, there’s Mrs. Mathur, but her in-laws are here and she doesn’t have time
in the evenings…now give the phone to Mitu…Mitu! You must be tired of Badal by now
…Ok, fine, keep him!…”
Mitu was chuckling “Since Tarun’s away, I’m making hay while the sun shines…
he’s going to return at the end of the month…yeah, we’ll try to come over in January after
his leave is credited…Badal’s fine. No, there’s nothing wrong with his appetite, I assure
you: he’s eating us out of house and home! But he’s had a hard day…time I put your
husband to bed…what?! Hahahaha! He hates sleeping alone, he says, so I….” She teased
her friend before they rang off.
She lent Badal a pair of elasticized shorts she took from Tarun’s stock. He took a
shower, got into the shorts and stretched out on the bed. He was still sleepy. Mitu came in
and put a bottle of cold water on the bedside table in case he woke up feeling thirsty…as
his body recouped from the massive loss of blood, he found he needed to drink copious
quantities of water at frequent intervals. He yawned contentedly. Holidays—even enforced
vacations like this one—were a great chance to relax. He hadn’t thought about his portfolio
of non-performing assets—bankers’ jargon for bad and doubtful debts—for days.
He seriously considered making another trip to Kulu. The photo opportunities there
were inexhaustible. He missed his Nikons, particularly the F2AS. It had such a solid feel to
it…like a good gun. The titanium-foil shutter was a marvel of Japanese engineering…he
dreamed he was back under the firs, relaxing with a bottle of beer as he mentally reviewed
the day’s shooting. Three more bottles awaited their turn. They clinked softly as they
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swirled about impatiently in the Beas, in a nylon mesh bag. The icy current chilled them
better than any freezer…
*

He came awake instantly. The luminous hands of his wristwatch read 1.30 PM. He
felt strong, rejuvenated. His body’s recuperative powers never ceased to astonish him; it
was Barot all over again. He’d had enough of sleeping. But that wasn’t what had woken
him…there was someone in his bed! She stirred and brushed against him, soft and warm,
and he caught a whiff of Mitu’s perfume. She saw he was awake, and nudged him. “So,
how are we?”
“What…what are you doing in my bed?” he mumbled.
“Nothing…apart from listening to you snoring.”
“No, Mitu, what I meant was…and you know it…what are you doing in my bed?”
“Oh Badal, I was feeling so lonely and scared…the house was so empty, so…so cold
and silent…and I thought… what if Baba doesn’t recover…” Her voice was taut with
tension.
She turned to him in her agony, running her hand through his hair. “Did I ever tell
you how much I like your hair, Badal…it’s so wiry and thick…” She went into his arms,
and he was uncomfortably aware that his friend was in a dangerously unstable condition,
and utterly miserable. He couldn’t find it in him to push her away. She was normally such
a lively, bubbly soul, and he admired her greatly. He sensed her great need, and he hadn’t
the heart to refuse her. She was one of his closest friends. His strong arms encircled her,
hugged her.
It was pathetic to see her so vulnerable, so obviously in need of connecting with
another human being, badly in need of comforting, of reassurance. Her fingers traced their
way down his profile, down his throat, and moved into the thick tangle of his chest hair,
moving down, down…all the way down. She was so glad it was he, of all the people she
knew…he was such a nice person, able to match her in her variety of interests, a very
interesting guy, a really human person…she knew he’d never let her down. He’d
understand. She felt him rising to the occasion, and she let go of her pain and fear as she
surrendered to her need…. the quantum of solace she sought from him.

“Badal! Guess what? Baba’s made a wonderful recovery! He’s pestering us for rum!”
Mitu had switched on the tube-light and was yelling at the top of her voice. “The doctors
have decided to discharge him from the ICU…c’mon, wake up, for heaven’s sake,
sleepyhead!” Badal rubbed his eyes woozily and looked at his watch. 11 AM! Then he
remembered what had transpired the night before, and a welter of mixed emotions crowded
into him. He’d ruined it. Ruined it but good. He should never have…it had been a great
friendship.
‘But wait, hold on…she’s sounds OK’ he thought to himself. Mitu was indeed back
to her normal breezy, animated self. He’d done it! He’d stepped out of line… and nothing
had been lost. It was as if the night had never happened. What a girl! His admiration
deepened. He leapt out of bed happily. “Here we go…give me twenty minutes.”
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“Drink your tea and get ready fast, while I fix you some breakfast. We have to go and
supervise his shift into an independent room. Oh! Badal, he’s pulled through…thank
goodness!” She was in high spirits.
Badal let go of his guilt. He had no intentions of playing the martyr to himself. He’d
done her a good turn, and…he faced it squarely…enjoyed the experience. It would be
hypocritical to deny that. She had given measure for measure. They were quits. He
whistled as he showered.

He was paying off the cabbie as Sujata reached the gate. “Badal!” Her happiness at
seeing him again was evident. Her eyes shone. “Mitu phoned and told me everything…”
“Everything?” he whispered.
“Yes, everything. I’m so proud of you…you risked your life to save Mesho! Mitu was
practically incoherent in her praise for you. But…it’s great to have you back home.”
Home! There was a lump in his throat as he groped in his pockets for some change to
tip the cabbie with. His fingers encountered something more, something smooth,
intricately carved. He left it alone as he hefted his suitcase. They went inside, their arms
wrapped tightly around each other’s waists. He kissed her, sensing her need of him,
imagining the cold, lonely nights. A great tenderness welled up in them as they came
together.
Invisible waves of love, eternal hope and human fulfilment radiated powerfully from
the scarab talisman as it wove its ancient magic around them.

~*~
A Prize Too Easy

They had left the mountain guns behind, the artillery pieces they had so laboriously
transported to the heights in knocked-down condition. Now the mules that had borne
them were dead and the enemy had the guns. They were running for their lives, unable to
withstand the savage attacks that the foe from the northeast had suddenly launched. As
he watched them advancing—well clad, well fed, and well armed—he was aware that
this encounter would be crucial. He waited for the snow-white uniforms to come closer,
manning the last operational heavy machinegun.
Six hundred yards! Captain Kartik Ghosh opened fire, and the vintage M1917A1 .
30 caliber water-cooled heavy machinegun began its deadly thump-thump-thump-thump,
spraying the advancing enemy with a lethal stream of fire at 350 rounds a minute. It was
the last belt of ammunition. Only 250 rounds!
When the HMG fell silent, his boys were up and running with fixed bayonets,
straight for the enemy, the wind in their hair, the fighting madness on them, the old battle
cry ‘Har Har Mahadev!’ on their lips.
A harsher whump-whump-whump…a hail of metal came at them. The Chinese
heavy machine guns! Rifleman Gurung was plucked away from his side him by a steel
hand. Rifleman Suraj Soren, on his left, died on his feet with half his chest blown away.
Kartik Ghosh ran on, firing from the hip. Two crisp little tugs, one at his shoulder, the
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other at his waist...he ignored them. Something smashed into his leg, and he hobbled on
awkwardly, dragging the limb like a bird with a broken wing, firing the sten machine
carbine. Then he slammed into a brick wall.
He was suddenly very tired. The lassitude! He crumpled to the icy ground, flat on
his back in the snow. The sky was a startling blue, like the skies over Dodi Tal…the trout
had been so hungry that they’d even risen to the cigarette butts he’d flicked into the
crystal-clear waters…
He just wanted to lie there; it was so nice and peaceful in the soft snow. Some
people appeared to have formed a circle around him. They spoke an unfamiliar tongue.
One of the figures lifted his rifle slowly overhead. A thin sliver protruded from the end of
the weapon…wickedly sharp, glinting steely-blue like the sky.
He watched disinterestedly as it descended. It seemed to take forever …

The target was four hundred yards away. Lieutenant Kartik Ghosh adjusted the rear
sight and aligned it with the front sight so that it locked onto the bulls-eye. He checked to
see that the belt of ammunition had been loaded properly into the breech, and that Lance
Naik Mahesh Thapa was poised to feed it smoothly into the HMG. Then he squeezed the
trigger-grip with both hands.
The heavy machinegun shuddered to life, its thud-thud-thud hammering at his
eardrums, the butt jolting his shoulder like a jack-hammer. As it devoured the belt, Kartik
watched the sturdy wooden target slowly come apart under the hail of bullets. Just as
surely as if he had methodically chopped it to pieces with an axe, it broke into pieces.
Major Pathania ordered him to stop firing.
“Good shooting, Lieutenant! But two things you need to keep in mind. For
starters…when the hell are you going to learn to check the coolant?! Try that in the field,
and very soon you’ve got yourself a jammed gun.”
Blimey! In his haste, he had forgotten to ensure whether there was enough coolant
that circulated in the jacket that surrounded the barrel. He checked now. The level was
low, and what little there was had reached boiling point. The liquid-cooled HMG
generated so much heat that the barrel could swell and distort, causing the gun to jam,
unless the coolant was regularly topped-up.
“And secondly…” continued Major Pathania, “you didn’t traverse the gun! Unless
you swivel it in an arc, you won’t get Napoleon’s ‘whiff of grapeshot’ effect. You have to
unlearn all that rifle stuff when you’re firing an HMG…use it like a fire-hose! You got
that, Lieutenant? The word’s ‘spray’! Now, let’s try again.”
This time he swung the barrel moderately from side to side as he squeezed the
trigger grip. The target disintegrated immediately.
“Attaboy, Lieutenant! Never forget to decline or incline the gun as the occasion
demands. Looks like you’ve got the hang of it now. Keep that coolant topped up and fire
another belt. Report for debriefing at 10.00 hours! Good luck!”
In retrospect, the training had been great fun, thought Lieutenant Kartik Ghosh.
Training and retraining, course after course. For this…the acid test! No one had told him
it would be this bad; the lack of sleep, the cold, the snow, the scanty rations, the wireless
whose battery had died in the frigid conditions, the thin clothing that was unequal to the
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task of keeping the icy wind at bay. His feet were freezing. The canvas jungle boots and
two pairs of woolen socks didn’t keep out the cold. He’d rejected the helmet for a
balaclava, but even then, his head felt like a block of ice. His ears were numb, the first
warning of impending frostbite. The jacket was lined with felt. Felt! Even heavy fleece
wouldn’t have been able to keep out the wind that cut through the olive-green material
like a knife.
Olive green! For mountain warfare? In snow, at eighteen thousand feet? The men
stood out starkly in this whiteness like polar bears in a coalmine. The enemy had special,
all-white high-altitude gear: waterproof, insulated boots, wind-proof fleece-lined anoraks
with parkas, insulated innerwear, snow-goggles, high-calorie rations aplenty … and the
element of surprise.
Ghosh and his men couldn’t look forward to anything much…except hunger, thirst,
and the shame of defeat. To falling back inch by inch, giving way reluctantly under the
weight of superior numbers, superior gear. Reaching battalion headquarters with
frostbitten fingers, ears and toes…if they were lucky! But if things continued to go the
way they were going…
He avoided thinking about the final outcome. He’d cross that Rubicon when he
came to it…
*

“Kartik! Kartik! It’s Arpita on the line…hurry!” His mother always got flustered
when girls called him up.
“Now, mother, I’m listening to the commentary! The West Indies-Pakistan match!
Some people have no consideration…tell her I’ve gone to the market, anything you like,
I’m not getting up for anyone, especially that stupid, moony girl.”
“Kartik!” she hissed, quickly clamping her palm down on the mouthpiece. “This is
an open line…what if she heard…that was very rude of you…now take your call. I don’t
know why you…she’s such a sweet girl…”
Kartik went to the instrument but the line was dead. “She’s hung up! That’s not fair,
Mother! Just when Sobers is on a triple century!…blast that female!”
“I happen to know that she has a lovely temperament and a fine sense of humour.
She’s an excellent cook, she got a first in Economics, and she’s a talented painter. I can’t
figure out why you’re so allergic to her, Kartik.”
His mother was pretty upset: he could see that. “If she likes you, Kartik, she can’t
help it. So what if you aren’t interested in her? Humour her. Be gentle with her; respect
her sentiments. It is the mark of a generous soul. Never be cruel, Kartik. Don’t make fun
of her great emotion. I’d be ready to believe you’re a sadist…if I didn’t know you better.”
Her face softened. “What if you were in her place, Kartik? What if it was you dying
to spend just a few moments with her? Then you’d understand!” She paused to take a
deep, impassioned breath. “You have no right to hurt her feelings, my son... Never hurt
anyone’s feelings…it’s a very big sin, son…it attracts bad karma…Please, Kartik: never
do it again!” She was upset!
“Besides, take it from me” she plugged on doggedly, “even if one person on earth
loves you truly, selflessly…count yourself lucky! You’ll find—if you haven’t done so
already—that so-called friends are nothing but self-serving opportunists, Kartik. When
you need someone who really and truly loves you, you’ll find the hall empty.”
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“Oh, Mother!” Kartik was getting fidgety. “Quit this match-making, for once. It’s
making me nervous I’ll find someone when I’m good and ready…besides, there’s always
you!”
She laughed. “I won’t be around forever, Kartik. A man needs a wife to love him
unconditionally and look after him. So watch out! I’d advise you to be choosy…and go
for love every time. Looks don’t last. Love not only lasts, it grows...provided you nurture
it.”
There was a faraway look in her eyes. “Believe me, it’s the rarest commodity on
earth. Avoid the flighty ones, my son…like that Colonel Chhatwal’s daughter, what’s her
name?…Ah, yes, Poonam. She’s a flirt, Kartik. She’ll hurt you…stay away from her.”
“Mother! Poonam’s a good friend, that’s all!” Now he was getting worked up.
“Can’t you see what she’s up to, Kartik? She uses men to fuel her ego…be
careful!”
“And was Father using you, Mother…to fuel his ego? Is that why you left him?” He
was sorry almost before the words had left his mouth. But he was feeling very irritated
now.
“Kartik!” She was furious. “That’s between your Father and me. You have no right
to speak ill of anyone, especially when you don’t know all the facts!”
“Like the fact that he was seeing Major Mehta’s sister-in-law, Mother? Is that why I
can’t speak of him?”
“That’s enough!” He had never seen her so angry. “It’s useless talking to you when
you’re like this. You’ll never find a girl like Arpita, mark my words.” She spun on her
heel and went into her bedroom. He heard the sound of weeping, but he did not go and
comfort her.
*
The next day, Arpita was helping his mother with her kitchen work when Kartik
wandered in to make himself a cup of tea during the drinks interval. On seeing her there,
he was about to turn away when his mother called to him.
“Kartik, Arpita’s preparing some mutton biryani for us!”
Kartik refused to be drawn out. “Well, let her. I hope she knows how to cook it
properly…the rice usually solidifies into clumps by the time the meat has softened, the
way you cook it.” She stared at him mutely, shocked at his ingratitude.
There, he’d done it again. Offended those who loved him. How did he manage it?
What made him behave this way? Who was he really trying to hurt? Who? Why?

It was good, Kartik admitted reluctantly to himself as he helped himself to another

plateful. The happiness in her eyes, however, irritated him, for some reason. He
intentionally left the plateful unfinished and wandered out into the lawn. Arpita followed
him.
“What was wrong with it, Kartik? Didn’t you like it?” She was like a child, fishing
for praise. He didn’t find it in him to oblige her.
“No, it had a funny smell. Are you sure the meat was marinated properly…?
Anyhow, what makes you come over to our place to cook? Don’t you like cooking for
your own folks?”
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It was downright rude of him. Perhaps that would get rid of her. She took a step
back as if he’d slapped her.
“I…I wanted to cook it for you, Kartik. Your mother—Aunty—was telling me just
the other day how much you like mutton biryani, so I decided to…” There were tears in
her eyes. “Kartik…tell me something frankly…have I done something to annoy you?
You are always so rude to me…”
Kartik was unmoved. “What makes you think I even remember anything you say or
do? Do you think I have the time to sit and think about what you said or did?…Sorry,
Arpita, you’re barking up the wrong tree. But go ahead, have it your way if it gives you a
kick. I couldn’t care less.”
She made an effort to check the tears, but they rolled down her cheeks all the same.
“Kartik, you mean a lot to me…but I am what I am…I…uh…I like you a lot, more than
anyone else I’ve ever met—the way a woman likes a man—need I say more?” She was
having difficulty speaking through her sobs.
“I always pray for you, Kartik.” She looked at him with eyes wet with tears. “God
keep you safe, healthy and happy. From the time I open my eyes in the morning till the
moment I fall asleep, you are always in my thoughts. But it’s no use…you don’t want
me. I pray God will not punish you for the way you have treated me. But he usually
does…karma, Kartik. Still, I will pray that it just brushes past you lightly…”
She had run away, sobbing. Later, he came to know she had married Arun
Dasgupta, an insurance agent. And Poonam Chhatwal had eloped with Ronnie Fernandez,
who was the lead guitarist in a hard-rock group that was in town for a fortnight…

*
He thought about all the people whose sentiments he had savaged, people he’d been
intentionally cruel to. Most of all he remembered his mother and Arpita. He thought
about what he could have said and done to comfort them. He wondered why he hadn’t
realized what a gem Arpita was, how rare was her unconditional love for him. He had
never found any girl who loved him for himself. Either they were attracted to his house
and property, or the glamour of his uniform. No one ever came remotely close to showing
him such undemanding affection. And he, fool that he was, had taken it for granted—a
prize too easy—and had spurned it cruelly.
Arpita’s final words echoed in his mind: “I pray God will not punish you for the
way you have treated me. But he usually does…karma, Kartik. Still, I will pray that it
just brushes past you lightly…”
And he could hear his mother telling him “You have no right to hurt her feelings,
my son... Never hurt anyone’s feelings…it’s a very big sin, son…it attracts bad karma…
Please, Kartik: remember my words; never hurt others’ feelings!”

He lay there in the snow and waited for the end, remembering—with a deep and
bitter regret—all the times he had been sadistically cruel to others...and he hated himself
for it! He could never make amends now; that was the most terrible part. It was too late.
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Then the foreign steel went home, and Kartik fell back reluctantly into the greater
scheme of things.

~*~

Paradise Island

It was not the first time he’d dreamed of the Horn, as he dozed in his armchair under
the painting of the lighthouse. It all happened so long ago that his conscious mind had all
but forgotten it. But, buried under layer after layer of later memories, the trip around the
Horn survived—in coruscating detail—in the secret archives of his deeper mind. He was
again a novice sailor, helping out with odd jobs from pumping out the bilges to trimming
the sails, scrambling up the yard-arm with the others and watching the grey sea swaying
and tilting a hundred feet below.
She was a 4,000-ton merchantman under sail, and she had emergency power from a
small auxiliary diesel in case she was ever becalmed. Bound for Peru, avoiding the trade
restrictions imposed by the Panama Canal authorities but risking the terrors of Cape Horn,
she paid her way profitably over the longer distance primarily by virtue of the fact that the
winds that drove her cost nothing. She had rounded the icy archipelago of Tierra del Fuego
with her load of Indian silk, and there had been times when he’d almost regretted the
decision to work his way out west on this ship.
Her return cargo was an open question. Perhaps guanaco wool…or even the soft,
highly-prized fleece of the vicuña. Or maybe they’d take on a cargo of lumber cut from the
rain forests of the interior. It was of little interest to him, for he planned to spend the next
few months travelling through South America, working his way across the land by taking
odd-jobs and selling small news items and general-interest articles on his peregrinations to
the wire-press agencies.
As he scampered around in the rigging, a young lad of twenty, he was glad he hadn’t
listened to the gloomy predictions of his schoolmaster father—who’d once fallen from a
tree and broken his leg—and climbed all the trees in the vicinity of their home in Nagpur,
India. He’d done them all, including the tall eucalyptus that towered to the level of a
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factory chimney. Once or twice, however, it’d been a near thing when he’d almost lost his
grip on the slippery bole. Trees and masts and rigging, they had much in common…and
he’d never suffered from vertigo, either.
He knew that the Cape voyage was dangerous, but he really started believing the
horror stories of the sea that his fellow mariners had told him only when they neared that
wild, wind-blasted tip of South America. The little vessel was but a speck of flotsam lost in
a vast, hostile waterworld that threatened to swamp her at any moment. She was a small
ship, as ships go, and on this mad giant’s roller coaster, in this hellworld of chilly winds
and insane water, she seemed forever to heave and toss about helplessly.
She’d roll sluggishly, gallantly staying afloat against impossible odds, hurled from
crest to trough by giant waves. She’d shoot up a sloping wall of green seawater that she
rode like an express train, yawing and pitching, propelled by titanic forces. She’d hang for
a moment, precariously poised, on the foamy crest of a wave that seemed as high as the
Andes, before plunging with terrifying velocity into a deep chasm that tried its best to
smother her.
But every time, miraculously, she’d recover. Bob up like a cork out of the frothy
confusion, pitching about in the maelstrom, her stern wiggling in triumph as the thwarted
seas poured off her battened decks. Then the waters would take her and fling her up
again…
He lost all sense of time and direction. It was impossible to sleep, and they ate
preserves because nothing ever stayed on the stove long enough to cook. All he seemed to
be doing, day and night, was to pump out the bilges or lend a hand with the rigging.
And then, at last, the day came when they sailed into the relatively calm seas leeward
of land beyond Tierra del Fuego. The seamen crossed themselves and offered prayers of
thanks to the Holy Mother Mary for guarding them, but they soon forgot their hastily made
vows. When the ship docked at Callao, near Lima, they made a beeline for the saloons and
the brothels to celebrate.
*

He spent only three days at Callao, mainly to get his two sets of clothes laundered
and to eat and drink his fill. Then he used the opportunity to send off an article about
Francisco Pizzaro, the Spaniard who had founded the port in 1537. It was from here that
the conquistadores shipped the enormous quantities of Inca gold; Callao’s wealth,
unsurprisingly, attracted the unwelcome attentions of pirates and freelancing warships of
European countries inimical to Spain.
Peru shared a common border with Brazil, and it occurred to him that he had a
golden chance to see the Amazon River. It was a childhood dream of his. The very next
day, he hitchhiked to Huacho, a small port and fish-processing centre some hundred miles
north along the coast. There he found a lonely beach, and captivated by it, decided to relax
for a few days just eating and sleeping and lying around in the sun before striking out for
Brazil.
It was a picture-postcard beach, like the ones at Goa. But there was no hideous
refinery here to spoil the beauty of the place. There were treacherous reefs a mile offshore,
and a hundred years ago, one Ferdinand da Costa had built a lighthouse to warn ships
away. It was a picturesque affair, painted like a barber’s pole, like Tarrytown Light,
immortalized in the famous water-colour by Donald Moss. Apparently it was still in
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working condition, for once a day a small rowboat would ferry across what he presumed
was the lighthouse-keeper’s dinner.
One afternoon, he drowsily opened his eyes to see that an artist had set up easel and
folding chair and was working from the scene. He gave no further thought to the painter till
it was dusk and he rose to leave. The artist, too, was winding up, and he was surprised that
he hadn’t noticed before that it was a woman, her shape unmistakable despite the baggy
dungarees. She had allowed her hair, till now tucked under a floppy hat, to fan out in the
onshore breeze. It was like a spray of molten gold...
She seemed to be having a difficult time with the folding chair, so he went up to help.
He shouldn’t have. She snarled that she was managing quite well, thank you, and he’d
backed off in confusion. She was young and very pretty in a Latin sort of way, and he
rightly guessed that she wanted to be alone.
But the next day, she come up to him as he lay stretched out on his mat and silently
handed him a can of beer from her lunch hamper. He accepted it with a nod, wordlessly. So
she had a conscience, apart from her suspicious nature. He didn’t blame her for the latter.
She had to concentrate on her work, without the unwelcome attentions of beach bums.
Painting was all about mood, he knew; you captured it and your vision flowed onto the
paper. If you lost it, the result was a soulless wash of colour.
He didn’t paint, but he loved art and he’d sketched hands and feet quite well in
school. His art teacher had been pleased, knowing that they were the most difficult things
to draw. He’d studied the works of all the Great Masters in his spare time, sculptors and
painters both, from Michelangelo to Titian, Rodin, Durer’s woodcuts, and of course the
heady stuff of Turner, Degas, and all the other Impressionists before going on to Dali and
the Cubists. Nothing really new had happened since Picasso, he observed regretfully.
He was curious about her painting. What was the perspective she’d chosen, sky or
sea dominant? Or did the horizon divide the scene in half, geometrically? Was it placed
low or high? It would be the basic determinant of the mood and effect that she chose to
capture. What was the treatment she was giving to the lighthouse? Was it distant and
slightly out of focus…? Or had she zoomed into the scene, taking the viewer out to the
little jumble of rocks upon which it stood, bathed in the salty spray of heavy waves that
constantly broke upon the tiny rocky island on which it stood... Paradise Island.
In the event, she asked him to come over and take a look. Since he’d never glanced
her way again and had scrupulously kept to himself after the incident with the chair, she’d
probably decided that he was perfectly harmless. And since they were the only two people
on this usually deserted beach, there was the inevitable tug of human companionship.
A single glance told him that she’d outguessed him. She’d chosen an aerial
perspective! There was no horizon at all! There were pinpoints of light that danced on the
blue-green slurry of the sea, with the menacing grey shadow of the submerged reefs
bisected by the right border. The lighthouse, and therefore the entire scene itself, was tilted
at an angle, as if the artist had seen it from the air, from an aeroplane that was spiraling
earthwards in a dive.
The mood of the painting, unfinished as it was, affected him deeply. He sensed the
intentional placing of the ephemeral lighthouse against the backdrop of the eternal sun that
danced in myriad points of light on the waves. There was the unmistakable attempt to
show the timelessness inherent in the volatility of the present, the beauty that co-existed
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with the ugly. Shafts of sunlight symbolically illuminated the dark shoals of ignorance and
fear…the treacherous reefs submerged within the human mind…
He found he was holding his breath: the picture turned him inside-out. And not
simply for its revolutionary technique that, in successfully integrating impressionism with
neo-impressionism, symbolised the underlying unity in Nature and in its mirror, art. It was
a window into a magical world that exposed a different reality from different angles and
distances. The lighthouse was the focus of the picture, and yet it was slightly blurred, as
though it was in motion. It pulled him into the picture, zooming him into the scene,
spinning out of control...
He was transfixed, mesmerized. He wasn’t a buyer. That was a pastime of the rich.
But this was one painting he just had to have. He was desperate to own it. For some reason
he couldn’t explain, the canvas meant a great deal to him. He knew he could never have it.
It was out of his reach...
*

It was large, about four feet by three feet, and he didn’t have the heart to leave for the
Amazon before he’d seen the finished picture. She worked in oils, but he knew of no one
who used her technique, a combination of knife, brush, fingers, and even the sharp spines
of a local cactus grass to add special effects. She laughed at his questions and shrugged,
saying she used whatever came to mind, instinctively.
The days grew hotter, and she spent most of the day standing at the painting, dressed
only in a skimpy thong and a skimpier top. She said she needed the tan, and in any case, it
was so much more comfortable than wearing dungarees. It went with the beach, and her
curved, flowing lines reminded him of the shoreline. She knotted her tawny hair carelessly
into a tangle of pale gold at the back of her head. He found its casual confusion endearing;
it made him long to undo the heavy coil and heft it in his hands, to let the golden tide pour
through his fingers. Silky soft, sensuous…
He loved the way she stood, with her legs unselfconsciously parted wide like a man,
a stance that better enabled her to work at the canvas without having to stoop, for she was
tall, at least five feet ten. The posture accentuated her marvelous legs, the flare of her well
muscled thighs tapering to shapely knees before flaring again to well-built calves and
plunging to slim ankles and small, incredibly beautiful feet.
These last brought back memories of his schoolboy efforts, and he asked her if he
could sketch her as she worked. She’d shrugged her permission, and he seated himself on
the sand at her side and worked at a small sketchbook he’d bought himself, using only a
2B pencil and a smudging tool.
He showed it to her reluctantly when she asked for it one day. She studied the
drawings carefully, and after she’d turned the last page, she looked up at him with an odd
expression on her face. Was it grudging admiration or surprise that he saw in her eyes?
There seemed to be something more, something that she saw in him that he didn’t know
himself…
*

They became friends, then lovers, responding to each other with the spontaneity of
the young and free. She was a few years older than him, and he was still a virgin. She was
gentle with him as she took his innocence, holding herself in check when he fumbled and
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faltered. Her skill was tempered with compassion, for older women mother a young man
even as they make love to them. He was unaware of the wells of need that lay deep within
him, and she delighted in slaking his thirst. She gave herself to him with joy, celebrating
the ecstasy of a union unburdened by responsibility or love.
It was a pure loving, a pristine, amoral act of union that soared above the murky
conventions of morals and society. As guiltless and untainted in its frank hedonism as the
Act of Creation itself, it was a holy thing. They loved each other with innocent enjoyment,
and wondered at the ecstasy they shared. It was as blameless and as pre-ordained as the
mating of the ocean with the sky, as the flowers that turn their faces to the sun for the
warmth of life and light and accept the attentions of the bees.
Years later, wiser and far more experienced, he realized she’d been the loveliest
woman he’d ever seen. He’d failed to appreciate—in the appalling ignorance of youth—
that she was extraordinarily beautiful. She taught him all he knew of woman. She taught
him with her peerless body, taught him that woman was brutal as well as forgiving,
unexpectedly submissive or unpredictably, deliciously aggressive, practical yet impulsively
wild. She was as mercurial as the sea. The softness of her breasts contrasted with the
hardness of her flat belly and powerful thighs; she kissed with burning ardour but made
love with a cool abandon that left him wondering. He never got to know any personal
details about her except her name: Aria Mancini.
In an inspired moment, during a particularly elevating night of loving, he saw that
woman was a metaphor for Man’s eternal quest for the meaning of life. She was his doom
as well as his deliverance. With her body she made him, and with it she could elevate him
or devastate him. Her pudenda were a creative crucible as well as a carnal coffin, portals to
Paradise or to Hades. She was his Great Lesson, meant to torment him, teach him, try him,
and transform him. He came from her and to her he always returned at eventide, for she
was life as well as death. He could never quite escape her…
Aria Mancini would forever be his wind-swept, sea-kissed angel of Paradise Island.

*
The Great Revoluçion and, later, the social upheaval in politically-volatile Latin
America (not to mention a dormant volcano in Chile that suddenly erupted), took him from
her side before the painting was finished. For nearly three years, he risked his life covering
the wars for news agencies. They needed someone who was so obviously a reporter from a
neutral country that leaders on both sides would not hesitate to grant him interviews. He
was young, tough, and expendable, and they did not hesitate in offering him the
commissions. He made good money and they got their scoops. And if he was killed, his
epitaph would be ‘Oh! What a pity…he was such a promising lad…’
He was in Lima when the Peace Accord was signed, and when it was over, he
decided, on an impulse, to hire a taxi to Huacho and see again the golden beach where he’d
spent so many happy hours. He was older than his years now, for he had seen the appalling
things that men did to men in battle. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach as the car drove
down to the swaying palms that fringed the beach.
He asked the cabbie to let the engine of the battered Volkswagen cool while he took a
stroll along the sands. They were deserted. It was foolish to expect that she’d still be
standing there painting, as if caught in a time-warp. He saw her in the dancing pin-points
of light on the water, he felt her soft hands in the ocean breeze that ruffled his hair. A wave
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of wild longing swept over him…and a terrible foreboding. Then he looked out to sea and
noticed that the lighthouse had a huge crack in its structure. It had suffered some damage,
as if a giant fist from the sea had dealt it a withering blow.
He was in a pensive mood as he returned to the hotel. No one could tell him anything
about the beautiful stranger who had painted seascapes on a remote beach three years ago.
He enquired at a bar if there were any art galleries in the town. They shook their heads
dubiously, but asked him to try his luck in Lima, the Peruvian capital. He was back to
square one.
*
He went straight to the Montezuma Museum of Modern Art, close to the University
of San Marcos. The curator gawked at the foreigner – perhaps because of the Reuters card.
‘Curious!’ he thought, as he was led to a well-lit alcove in the sprawling gallery that
boasted of a few Breughels, Bosch’s, and Pissaros. ‘For a moment, he goggled at me as if I
was Pizarro himself! I wonder why?’ he thought, puzzled.
“Ms. Aria Mancini!” proclaimed the official. “We are fortunate to have many of her
paintings. You, especially, ought to know that! This way, please.”
Why ‘You, especially…’? It was getting curiouser and curiouser.
“There they are, senor!” he exclaimed, “her greatest works. And now—her
masterpiece: ‘Paradise Island’. We were quite unaware, when it came to us from her, that
it was destined to become the treasure it is today. Here it is!”
They had stopped before a large oil painting, beautifully lit to bring out the colours
and brushstrokes. It was complete and finished right down to the very last detail. He
examined it closely, marveling at the distinctive brushwork. There was the blurred
lighthouse with the crack in the superstructure, tilted against the glittering sea, the
vertiginous perspective compelling the viewer to look beyond the immediate...into
unknown seas beyond…
He felt the onshore breeze, the pounding surf...she was in his arms again, soft and
warm and loving, her lips on his. A burning emptiness mushroomed in his chest and quite
consumed him. The curator tiptoed away tactfully. He was a romantic at heart, like all
Spaniards, and he knew the painting meant more than just a work of art to his young,
swarthy visitor. The haunted expression on the visitor’s face...it was a very private thing.
He stood there for a long time, savouring her triumph and the sheer force of her being
that emanated so powerfully from the canvas. He knew he was incomplete—doomed—
without her. His angel of Paradise Island had changed him forever. Then he turned on his
heel and walked slowly through the hushed halls and into the curator’s office.
“Is it not a great piece, Señor?” asked the curator in a melancholy tone, his eyes
averted. “That she should paint in the crack in the structure before it happened…before
that fateful day when her Beechcraft Bonanza plunged into the lighthouse, spinning out of
control…” He crossed himself.
So she had left him forever without telling him of her premonition. A chill gripped
his heart. He had nothing of her to carry him through the rest of his days. He was utterly
alone...
“Aria Mancini! The only child of Arturo Mancini, the cattle baron”, mourned the
curator. “Beautiful, gifted, and headstrong…what a woman!” he added wistfully. He rose
quickly to follow his silent visitor to the door. “Shall I arrange to have it packed…the
painting, I mean, Señor? You will take it now?”
 165

His visitor looked at him blankly, and the curator was tempted to remain silent. But it
is not right to thwart the wishes of the dead, so he spoke.
“ ‘Paradise Island.’ It is for you; you are the man in the painting!”
“…the man in the painting...” he repeatedly dully. It wasn’t making any sense.
“You did not see it, Señor? Come with me!” said the curator, taking him roughly by
the arm and fairly dragging him back to the gallery.
“Look at it from a distance of about twenty feet…do you see it now?”
He gasped. She had mastered neo-impressionism, and the scientifically positioned
medley of coloured dots coalesced, in the shadows of the reef to form a face...his face!
“She left it in her Will to ‘The man in the painting.’ ” He looked crushed.
“No, let it be a lasting monument to her. It is yours, Señor,” said the visitor simply.
Outside, the sun blazed down from a cloudless sky as her strode off across the
square. His heart was strangely at peace. He did not doubt that she would keep him
company, all the years of his life.
~*~

“Nothing that you have not given away will ever be really yours.”
~ C.S. Lewis
Market penetration

When I joined United Fats & Oils, selling soap was a cakewalk (Ha Ha!). All one
had to do was to saunter down one’s beat and condescend to book orders from eager
stockists. 100% cash advance, if you please. This was so because our market-dominant
brands of toilet soap, shampoo, and shaving cream and of course WHAM! – our best-
selling brand of washing soda – outsold all competing brands put together!
In short, UFO dominated the market, enjoying the much-envied monopoly that
salesmen dream of. Take it or leave it was our motto. Protests against occasional hikes in
MRPs and downsizing of dealer margins were ruthlessly crushed. Life at UFO was
Camelot revisited. We were complacent, convinced of our invincibility.
The bad old days of the Wild West are history now. And so are the easy years at
UFO. The distributors had – like the Empire – fought back. They had found – horror of
horrors – alternative sources of supplies: from the unorganized sector. Their demands for
credit terms became outrageous. So now it’s tough. It’s so tough, rawhide is as foam
padding compared to it. But in the meantime, I’d gotten soft-assed. We all had, at UFO.
The monopoly had made me squashier than a well-chewed wad of gum.
The small ones, the village industries, formed a cartel and ganged up on us. They
dived out of the sun, machineguns chattering. Took us by surprise, me boyo. Shot us down
in flames. They’d been growing, but we’d refused to see it. It was bad form to even
acknowledge their presence.
They were an embarrassment, poor cousins whose shadow tainted us, and we
shrugged off any connection with them. Multi-national corporations hate being clubbed
with desi outfits. It stinks of democracy. MNCs are the exact opposite, dynastic
hegemonies. The crude soap-pans in the hinterland were invisible to us as we shoved our
heads into the sand, ostrich-like. It cost us.
We’d been too busy having a ball at the expense of the vast, unwashed millions.
Parties, fashion shows, sponsorship of sports events, beauty contests, dealer ‘seminars’ in
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Honolulu, you name it, I’d done it. Revelled in it. ‘Sales’ was spelt with a capital ‘F’, as in
‘Fun.’ The fat entertainment accounts, the double-martini lunches with distributors, the
occasional nightclub binge followed by sympathetic nods from Patricia, my secretary,
when I’d stagger into office at 11 am with blood-shot eyes.
Late night carousing is an occupational hazard for salesmen. The things you have to
do to sell soap! It all boils down to market penetration and leveraging brand equity. You
have no idea how exhausting it is, this job of pretending so hard to slog at selling
something that sells itself. Pat would wiggle her shapely butt sympathetically as she’d
undulate off to fix coffee for us. Still, there are compensations. Pat was one of them. We
were uncommonly come-pat-table…I mean, compatible. I know I shouldn’t have had that
last schnapps; my spelling’s gone haywire…
It was too good to last. So here I was, jolting along in a bullock-cart, bound for some
godforsaken village called Beernagar in the heart of the dust bowl. The name rustled up a
raging thirst: and you know what you can do with the correct pronunciation of the ruddy
place. It’s the spelling that’s evocative, see? My temper shortened as my throat got drier
than the dust that clogged it. My kingdom for a cold beer...
But a pint of the bitters was as likely to materialize right now as the Hope diamond.
I’d finally run up against the Ultimate Reality of sales and marketing in the post-Mirna era.
The shine had rubbed off the UFO job, but where could one go, after fifteen years of living
off the fat of the land? So we’d had to reinvent ourselves, catch up with what we’d missed.
We had to try and penetrate hitherto-untapped rural markets. Untapped by us, that is.
They’d been here and gone already, like Kilroy. We were choking in the dust of Mirna’s
passage.
The boot was on the other foot. We’d been wrong-footed good and proper. Goliath
faced a David, but this erstwhile midget had been a sleeping giant, a peewee who’d drunk a
magic potion and ballooned into a Titan, downsizing us in the process. It was straight out
of Alice in Wonderland. Our monopoly had crumbled. Now, it was us struggling to break
into a vast market they dominated, the no-longer poor, lowly country cousins.
It was our turn to eat humble pie as we cajoled and bargained our way through
villages where people spoke in rustic dialects we barely understood, but for whom Mirna
was synonymous with soap. They’d never heard of UFO’s slew of products. I was
miserable, but I had to eat. Salesmen eat by selling stuff …no sales, no fodder. Hence the
bullock-cart ride.
Then the axle went. Bust in two, with a sound like a rifle shot. Murphy’s Law.
Nothing for it but to walk. The yokel unyoked his oxen and we trudged on through the
fine, powdery dust, my designer luggage tied with coir rope on bovine backs. It was
depressing. Taking in the country air is fine, but not when it’s mostly dust. My chauffeur-
turned-guide sensed my dismay. He was a tall, finely built man, fair of skin and with a
fierce chestnut moustache. His huge turban made him seem even taller.
‘Don’t worry’, he assured me, ‘Beernagar is only a kos or two away.’
Time passed. I tramped on wearily, wilting in the hot sun. Miles came and went. Up
too fed was I to argue. No sign of either beer or Beernagar. I’d have gladly exchanged all
the dry martinis I’d ever had for a humble tankard of foaming ale. No way was that likely
to happen. My heart sank into my shiny patent leather shoes.
I only had patent pumps. It was part of the UFO dress code. They pinched harder, on
this dusty track, than any compulsive bottom-pincher ever pinched a juicy bottom. I tried
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to distract my mind from my aching feet by dreaming of all the bottoms I ought to have
pinched while the going was good. Too late. We never recognize good times for what they
are till they’ve gone.
Not far now, my rustic friend assures me. The miles come and go. I wonder how far a
kos actually is. Come up with the answer in an inspired moment. It’s not a unit of distance
at all: it’s a measure of the imagination. It’s as far or as close as you think it is, constrained
only by your creativity. I try some creative visualization, like Shakti Gawain tells it.
Visualize a huddle of huts marooned in an expanse of sparkling brown, smoke rising from
cooking fires.
Darned if it doesn’t work! They appear on the horizon. It’s not a mirage; that really is
a village.
‘Beernagar!’ points my guide proudly, his face ruddier than usual in the sunset. I try
to look nonchalant, nod loftily. He grins understandingly.
‘You can bathe at the village well, and I’ll fix dinner and a cot for you.’

I’ll never forget that night under the stars. A canopy of brilliant pinpoints blazes
down at me. I dumbly admire their naked splendour. Never guessed there were so many up
there. City lights must overpower them. The starlight ambles across billions of light-years
of space-time, pitifully slow when it comes to negotiating the immeasurable expanses of
the cosmos.
Some of the stars that unleashed those photons no longer exist. It happened too far
away and too long ago to comprehend. Yet those wave-particles they once emitted have
journeyed for eons across the void to reach my eyes. Mind-boggling stuff, what?
I take the easy way out, imagine they are guardian angels with candles in their hands.
I know one of those angels is mine…trouble is, which one? Will I ever get to meet her, get
to know her well? Really well? The stars wink back at me roguishly. They know we are but
sport for the gods.
A cock, crowing his head off, wakes me up. The last time I met him, it was in the
pages of my book of nursery rhymes, old Cock-a-doodle-do himself, the cock of the walk.
He goes racing under my cot, rampantly on the trail of his harem of chickens. Early bird
and all that rot. It sure was nice dreaming of my angel.
I’m no early bird. It’s not done, getting out of bed before the 8 o’clock news. It’s
5.30 AM now, and I feel like the proverbial worm that got it in the neck. There’s a
headache coming on, nothing that a quick brandy with a bromo-seltzer won’t cure.
Hot tea materializes in a small brass lota. It’s milk with tea-leaves boiled in it, a
symbolic welcome, a mark of acceptance. Why aren’t these rustics wary of strangers? No
one asked any awkward questions last night about where I was from and how long I
planned to stay. All the villages I’ve covered so far gave me short shrift. Not this one.
Deuced odd. And me with ‘Bombay’ splattered all over.
My guide of broken bullock cart axle fame ventures to explain the conundrum of the
warm welcome. Once upon a time, he says, the government sent a surveyor to the village.
No one knew what exactly he was there to survey, nor did anyone ever think of doubting
the important looking document he displayed to the Headman; it was his official identity
card and had his photograph on it. Few of the villagers had ever seen a photograph and
they marveled.
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But even without it, anyone could have guessed that he was an important man. He
carried a briefcase in his left hand, the one on which he wore the wristwatch. Only the
village pradhan had a wristwatch, but it was merely a badge of office, an insignia. It was
an unnecessary affectation, even if it worked, which it probably didn’t. No one needed to
know the exact time of day here. It was entirely irrelevant that no one could tell the time by
looking at a watch. They had no need of such a grand invention, even though they were
awed by one.
One always knew the time here. Time was synonymous with the milestones of life:
when it was time to marry, to plant the crops, to sire sons, to reap the harvest, to thatch the
roofs, to till the soil, to compromise with age and death. One could tell time by an inner
clock, by the way the winds blew one way, then the other, season to season. By the motion
of the sun and moon or rootless clouds scudding across the blue sky did men orient
themselves to routine. Time itself had a timeless quality here. It came and went…but it was
always today.
Still, the wristwatch worn by the official with the briefcase told them that he was a
heavyweight. He was a man with powwaah. Clout. That much was obvious. It was deemed
politic to honour him and make his stay as comfortable and memorable as possible. He
seemed to spend most of his time going from mud-hut to rough-hewn house chatting with
people in their rustic tongue and taking copious notes in his diary. He was hugely popular
with the village urchins, and their mothers grinned indulgently when he’d pick up one of
the brats and carry him around on his broad shoulders.
He was a tall, finely built man from the north, fair of skin and light of hair. The
villagers were fascinated by his light-brown locks; they’d never seen anyone who didn’t
have black hair. His pale complexion and fierce chestnut moustache singled him out, even
after he’d switched to native dress. Many were the young ladies who sighed over him and
peeped shyly from behind their ghunghats as he strode briskly past their windows.
And he was educated, so he was fair game for their curiosity. After some time, when
they’d got used to him, they began consulting him unabashedly over personal matters
ranging from health, childbirth and hygiene to farming techniques and dowry demands.
His very outlandishness bred an easy familiarity, like when one finds oneself
discussing one’s most personal matters with a perfect stranger during a long train journey.
He was alien, and hence outside their system of taboos and rituals. It was quite acceptable
to discuss vital personal problems with a neutral advisor.
The women-folk found in him a wealth of information and knowledge about the
world outside their little village, and these illiterate but effervescent women vied with each
other to corner an exclusive audience. Women are ever the inquisitive ones. Their curiosity
—like their passions—can be more easily awakened than quenched.
The men-folk, too, benefited from his advice on things like blending compost with
NPK fertilizers and minor irrigation. As their crops waxed fatter and greener than ever,
they indulged their womenfolk when they invited the stranger to their homes for a
sequestered meal, while they themselves toiled in the fields. They stood somewhat in awe
of him, and it was deemed a singular honour if he paid a visit to their hearths. He would
make it a point to doff his sandals at the entrance, leaving them there, as a signal that he
was a’visiting and private consultation was under way.
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At last it was time for him to go. The rainy season had yielded to the first cold
breezes of fall; winter was just around the corner. They organised a grand send-off, and
many a gentle eye shed a surreptitious tear as his bullock-cart lurched away, with him
beaming from ear to ear as he lustily waved a last farewell.
The chill of winter fled before a balmy spring with its ageless promise of better times
to come. And the season brought forth its fruit, spawned a surprise, as it were. Brown of
hair and fair of skin were the children born that spring. First one, then another: a veritable
avalanche of brown-haired babes. There was an occasional black-haired infant to relieve
the monotony, but they were predominantly light haired.
There was mild consternation in the village, at first. People recalled that the
government had once sent bulls from the state veterinary centre to cover the local heifers.
Were the children, too, part of a similar dispensation? Who knew for sure? The
government, in its wisdom, knew what was best for them. They but tilled the soil their
ancestors had bequeathed them and bowed before their fate.
The brown-haired stranger had changed bloodlines in the village forever. And like
the new, high-yielding varieties of hybrid cattle, the brown-haired children were sturdier,
better looking, and cried louder. They would grow up to be better farmers, too, if the logic
of superior adaptability could be extended to output, which it usually could.
But the harvest euphoria was on them, and this time there were two bumper crops to
celebrate instead of the usual one. Such minor matters as skin and hair colouration of the
random harvest couldn’t be allowed to cloud the festivities. It was useful to remember that
one strain, crossed with another, usually produced a hardier, more vigorous breed.
Such was the way of Mother Nature, of all living things. He who had scattered his
genes among them so liberally had given himself to them irrevocably. In the unending
struggle for survival, every little bit helped. They accepted the gift of life as stoically as
they accepted the inevitability of death.
‘They call the new ones ‘Bhooras’ or brown ones, and now it is a status symbol to
have a Bhoora in the family,’ explained my companion. “Bhooras are much sought-after as
grooms by neighbouring villages.”
‘The women made no great issue of it, for it is the nature of the female heart to make
a conquest: to possess and be possessed! And thus the earth replenishes itself...”
He spat accurately at a dung-roller beetle as if to emphasise his point, and removed
his turban to stroke his sandy hair.
‘Women! They’re the limit!’ he grinned wickedly. ‘They’ll try anything once!’
I was counting on that. I ran a tentative hand over my bald pate as I rose to my
patent-leather-shod feet. My product was technically superior, better packaged, and
introductory discounts were enticing. Caressing my free samples, briefcase swinging from
my left hand, I swaggered optimistically to the first doorway.
The gold Rolex Oyster Perpetual on my wrist gleamed in anticipation...

~*~
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Out of The Desert

‘You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.’

~ Chris O’Donnell

A merciless sun blazed down from pale, cloudless skies. Powder blue. Remote.
Menacing. Blazed down upon a never-ending, soul-shriveling sea of sand that shifted
uneasily under his boots as he shuffled on through the barrage of mindless heat.
He hated the sand! It absorbed the heat hungrily and became a blast furnace that
cooked the brain and sapped the mind, leaving it only with the instinct to survive, crushing
the lungs, the labouring heart rerouting life juices to secure places deep within the corded
bodymeat.
A scorched, barren solarscape, dehydrated, devoid of life. Empty. Nothing but sand
and sky. A monotonous, sun-blasted abattoir immured by death. “Live!” he told himself.
“You came here on your own; now get out of it on your own.” He had to live! Live to
somehow make it through this incredible nightmare.
The torment...it was a living thing that surrounded him, a hostile force that fed on the
life and energy it drained from his body and mind, mocked him. Tried to make him into an
aimless, stumbling automaton, an animal possessed only of lower sensibilities. Tried to
grind him into the burning sand.
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He resisted. Savagely. Fought back. Fought the flaming dunes and the merciless sun.
Fought the forces that tried to tame him, tried to take him away from himself. He fell often,
face down in the sand, his knees rubbery. But he dug deep into his inner resources and
always found the strength to get up again. Staggered to his feet. Kept going. Fought his
fate, unyielding before the elements that sought to pull him down.
Movement in the sky! Squinted upwards into the blinding glare. Tiny shapes, circling
lazily overhead. Many shapes, slowly spiraling earthwards. Ominous. Harbingers of death.
Sensing carrion. With more gliding in greedily from the east every minute. Buzzards! At
least, that’s what they were called here. Back home, they were known as vultures. Back
home in the East.
The home he had once had…or was it something he had dreamt? He could not say
for sure. It was a hazy recollection. A prison? He must have got away. To this! But there
was nowhere to run now, nowhere to hide. There was no escape. Why? No answer.
He refused to die, refused to become buzzard-meal. He was worth more than that. He
would lick them. But never surrender. Even to the terrible thirst. Or to the hunger that
gnawed at his gut.
Water. He dreamed of water. Imagined a stream flowing past him, cool and
refreshing. He could dive into it anytime he wanted. If he wanted to. The trick was not to
want. Want nothing and you conquer everything! Was he going mad?
He thought of green. Not anything green, just green. As in colour. It soothed him.
Just this thought of a hue. It gave him energy. Kept his mind alive as his body died. He
fought it. This dying bit.
But he had to admit he was dying. Whether he liked it or not. Though he wanted to
live. Wanted to live very badly. But he knew, deep inside himself, that no one beat the
desert. No one. Not even him. There was simply too much of it; too big, too hot, too
parched. In the end, death would come, and it would be green.
Green. So that’s what it meant. The thought of dying was keeping him alive. It was
too easy. Too easy a way out. He wasn’t having any of it. He pushed the green out of his
mind. Thought red. It was like a flame. It added to his torment, but kept him alive by his
hate of it. Saw red. His thickening blood boiled in his veins.
That’s better! Now his hate kept him alive. Kept him going. Hate was hard to kill.
Love was equally hard to kill. Harder? Much, much harder. But Love had died…hard.
Hate had won. Hate survived. It disturbed him. But it kept him alive. For how long?
He wished he had not loved. Had he loved at all? Back then? In the distant past? Now
the hate was all he had. The hate and the heat! He laughed uproariously in his delirium.
Hilarious. What an anagram! The two were born of the same letters, reshuffled. Not
coincidence. Three sides of the same coin: love and heat and hate.
The thought sobered him. He felt his mind was still alive. Still functioning. He
hugged his hate close to his chest as he limped on through the inferno, dying by degrees.
He was too preoccupied to notice the dying. He loved to—and lived to—hate, and he hated
the heat and all the rest of it.
The delirium…he was drifting across the sands…. disembodied. Hating,
hating….
*
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When he came to, he found himself lying beside a gurgling stream. He drank deeply,
for he had a raging thirst, and the stream let him. It had a happy taste, the water of the
stream. Cool. Sparkling. Shot through with bubbles. Of wisdom? Compassion?
It giggled contentedly, cheerfully. His spirits lifted, his mind clearing as his body
revived. Where was he? He took stock of his surroundings.
Smooth hills, rolling voluptuously, rosily tipped with a dawning promise…rich with
the miracle of life. In this ‘here’. The cruel desert was gone. Where? And where was here?
Nowhere! Now Here! Nowhere was Now Here! Everywhere was nowhere. Every Where
was Now Here! He tried to figure it out, baffled. Saw it finally.
Everywhere was now here, the here-and-now! Nothing mattered as long as there was
this sense of Now…Here. Anywhere. Any Where! That was all that really mattered, this
Any Where somewhere, this Now and Here! The rest was illusion, unreal. It did not exist.
And nothing existed without the little stream. No Thing. Any Where. Now Here.
He loved that beautiful, life-giving stream. Became deeply attached to it: …his
stream. But it was not his. It was for all. All who needed it. Needed its powers to
resuscitate. To revive and rejuvenate. It was an eternal thing, flowing from some celestial
source, carefree, untroubled. Free as only running water can be. Always laughing!
Laughing water! Minnehaha!
The name of Hiawatha’s beloved leapt into his mind. Yes, it was a name fit for this
enchanted stream. Minnehaha. He knelt clumsily at the altar of Minnehaha. Bliss! It was
here. Out of the desert! Now Here…at last!
It was content to share itself with him, gave ungrudgingly. As long as he did not try
to own it. This Minnehaha could never be owned. By anyone. Any One. Only shared. For it
was a thing born free…for all thirsty, dying wayfarers. A divine spring that went where it
wanted to go! Knew where it had to go. And it went its sacred way. Forever.
It was a divine consciousness, a pure stream of love and reason and light and
happiness. He saw that now. And it always helped those that believed in its powers. It
meandered away now and then, but it always curved back, unable to stray far from those
that depended on it. Eager to give of its bounty. A perennial fount of boundless affection,
beauty and joy. There had never been another such stream, and there never would be,
because only one was ever needed. It stretched from eternity to eternity.
A doorway opened at the back of his mind. He saw many things. Wondrous things.
Felt he had come home…what was home? He had never had a home. The stream gave that
to him…so this was home: a secret place, deep at the core of him. Where he was at peace
with himself…a deep, abiding peace. It was a restful place, home.
And Now Here, Any Where, was a big place, very beautiful. He saw it all because of
the bubbling stream; it had a way of opening his mind. Making him unreasonably happy.
He was so grateful to the lovely little brook that tittered as it tripped along merrily. There
was no more beautiful and holy a thing in all the known universe, he thought.
It always fulfilled its divine purpose. He knew he would never part from it. It was
embedded in him now…forever. And forever would it be with him, stay with him as long
as he lived, as long as he had need of it. No matter where its next duty lay. The thought
brought solace…and repose. It gave him strength to go on, to beat the fear that suddenly
arose unbidden in his chest.
He squared his shoulders to meet the future that lay beyond this place called Now
Here, Any Where, a future never far from Minnehaha. Never. Ever…
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“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”

~ C.S. Lewis

Epilogue

Better men than me have attempted to define or even explain love—and have faltered.
Love is much more than a giddy sensation. It is certifiable insanity. It is an emotion so
unique, so completely otherworldly as to defy analysis. This might be apparent from the
foregoing pages. Yet as I stand at the crossroads of eternity, I feel I have earned the right to
have a shy at the coconut. I also feel I stand a pretty good chance of surviving the reader’s
criticism if not escaping her wrath altogether at my presumption in attempting so
stupendous a task.

I do have the temerity to rush in where angels fear to tread, however, for have I not
walked with one? Who better qualified than me, then, to attempt the impossible? Have my
frenzied outpourings not taken the reader gently by the hand and wafted her gently down
age-old Lovers’ Lanes of the mind? I know I’m no James Hilton, no Milan Kundera, no
Erich Segal; yet, emboldened by having known a Celestial Being, I’d like to tell it my way,
and dare you to do your worst. It won’t make the slightest difference. I am forever
bedazzled. I am lost – possessed – for all eternity. So here you go…

Love is sharing, love is giving. Love is unconditional, elevating, intoxicating,

inextinguishable...eternal. Love is unselfishness; love is indestructible, surviving in spite of
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everything. Love is a fine madness. It makes a rainy day overflow with sunshine, it means
you are ever thinking of the one you love, you just want to give her all that love locked up
in you, you want to die for her you are so happy. The dividing line between life and death
becomes blurred; you hurdle the stars and straddle eternity. The dusty earth looks so green
and inviting you kneel to kiss it; if life has a strange dreamlike quality to it, you also know
that you’ve never been more wide wake than you are now.

When you hold her in your arms, you are as a god: you are invincible. The world sees
the love in you and is kind to you, for ‘all the world loves a lover’. Everything looks
different, feels different, tastes different. Every little ditty becomes a Beethoven symphony,
every joke is a side-splitter, books reveal themselves anew, a beautiful sentence can move
you to tears, every little restaurant is the Ritz, every path you tread with her is the
enchanted road to Gulmarg. The heart, bursting with love, becomes a temple dedicated to
the worship of Pallas Athene, Astarte, Eros and Aphrodite, ruled by the sacred scripture of
its own rapture.

To one’s now vastly extended sensibilities, the very air seems surcharged with an
overdose of oxygen, loaded with some exotic scent. Every shabby little sideshow is a
Disneyland, every movie is the greatest motion picture ever made, every man is your
brother, no sacrifice is too much, no road too long when she waits at the end of it. Moments
with her stretch to Eternity, Time ceases to exist; nothing else seems to matter anymore.

You feel the whole of Creation is your playground, the stars are well within your
reach, you are immortal, and at par with the gods. For when they have blessed you with the
miracle of her, they will surely give you the strength and the fortitude to suffer the pangs of
love. Your sense of identity is extended into the persona of the other, you become one—
one body, one soul, one mind, revelling in the miracle of creation.

The sheer abandon, the blinding glory of it – the passion, the euphoria, the dementia –
signify arrival at a higher plateau of experience that all true lovers reach, a place where the
gods themselves live, for once envious of mortals. Love takes man outside himself to a
neverland beyond the stars of an everlasting tomorrow, back to Alpha and Omega, back to
the End…and the Beginning of it all. The ages come and go, but love is forever.

Those are some of my musings on the subject of love, triggered by the beauty of my
eternal muse. May the dazzling radiance of Eve, howsoever inadequately mirrored it may
be in these stories, cast its spell over you, too.



The End
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"Analysis destroys wholes. Some things, magic things, are meant to stay whole. If you look at their
pieces, they go away."

~ Robert James Waller