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they met), would meet (read ‘collide’) by chance. This random collision
would produce more particles that were different from, and often more
in number than, the ‘parent’ particles...who were themselves
‘resurrected’ one or two generations down the line when many of their
genetically-transferred features and traits re-surfaced in their
descendants!
The plane’s landing lights blazed in the noonday sun as the lowered
undercarriage kissed sun-baked asphalt. Puffs of blue smoke spurted
from the huge tires as cruel forces scorched them out of their inertia.
The rumble of wheels vied with the whine of hydraulics as the pilot
applied the brakes hard to the speeding, bouncing machine. The
deceleration snapped his body forward against the seat belt.
He yawned to clear the pressure in his ears, and peeped out of the
window. The tarmac was a grey blur as it flashed past the shuddering
silver bird that had swooped out of the sun and now hurtled towards the
end of the runway. Just as Sudip was certain they were going to
overshoot, it was solidly under control again, and the pilot was giving
her gentle forward thrust, turning her around to smoothly taxi up to the
disembarkation point.
Clearing the press of humanity in the arrival lounge at JFK airport,
he went through Customs (he had only an overnighter and a suitcase)
and drew a deep breath as he inhaled the air of America for the first
time in his life. He flagged down a passing Yellow Cab and gave the
address of his hotel. The driver was a Pakistani, but here, on American
soil, they saw each other as allies drawn from a beleaguered sub-
continent that had been torn apart by historical forces.
They were of the same cultural heritage and in this foreign land
they gravitated towards each other in a kinship that went back to a time
long before Columbus (or even Leif Ericsson, for that matter) had
‘discovered’ America.
Sudip planned to spend a few days sight-seeing in New York before
he reported to the Dean at Boston University’s prestigious Roosevelt
College. Seeing that America had snatched from him the only person
who had ever really mattered in his life, he had decided to migrate
abroad, and the offer from Boston had been the most attractive. Not
that librarians from India were in hot demand anywhere, like computer
programmers and software engineers; quite the contrary, in fact.
The fact that he’d got the opening (six months probation, free ticket
and all expenses paid if they found him unsuitable) was in itself a
miracle of sorts. But it was undeniable that the Indian Diaspora had
made an impression in America, from couture, cuisine, and culture, to
economics, electronics and elegiac literature. The community, hard-
working, thrifty, and single-mindedly ambitious, had all the qualities that
had enabled the pioneers to carve out the greatest nation in the world.
Today, when an Indian applied for a job, his application was given
keener scrutiny than ever before.
4
As the taxi drove him past a park with some pine trees, Sudip fell
into a reverie about the possibility of the existence of parallel
universes...and his personal parallel universe. His mind floated back
over the happenings of the last five years...and those later years he had
never lived, a time he seemed to experience in a state of deep
meditation. In this dream-like state, these later years (and who can say
they were unreal?) had changed him forever.
Once upon a lifetime, Sudip, a chronic bachelor, had run into a
devastatingly-beautiful stranger and had fallen in love with her. A brief
summer of romance followed before she went to the United States,
leaving Sudip to spend the rest of his life alone. He had transcribed the
‘dream’ in his diary, in the third person, omitting the empty years (in
this other universe that existed within his mind) as he waited for the
end.He remembered his diary entry word for word…
“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.
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 said. “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 tinkle 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
5
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 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’ suffix.”
Sudip had always been interested in Egypt. They kept the
discussion going even after dinner, over liquers (he chose a Sikkim
distilleries’ Cherry Brandy, while she settled for a crème de menthe).
8
“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
9
others were full of people, and even this one was available because of a
last-minute cancellation.
“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.”
Her thesis was accepted. Now she could add the letters ‘Dr.’ after
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...”
The rest he hadn’t had the heart to write down. It was fantastic to
think that, in that parallel universe of his mind, he had spent the rest of
his life mooning over her.
Sudip smiled to himself. If she could live without him, he could just
as well live without her! She had not loved him. She was simply a
dream, an intangible, ethereal product of his fevered brain, a maid who
had charmed him briefly and then gone her way.
He had carried on with his life. Shipra Das was a great consolation
during this period. In time, he all but forgot Shireen Wadia. They were
two particles who had collided by random chance and gone off at a
tangent, magnificently ignorant of the fact that they were one and the
same, mindstuff masquerading as starstuff...
Thunder on four wheels! That was what the Indianapolis 500 was all
about! Speed, endurance, guts and glory. The open-wheeled, open-
cockpit, rear-engine cars hurtled round and round a 2.5 mile track,
heavily banked every quarter-mile turn, the crowds howling in support
of their local heroes. Sudip had been mad about racing cars as a boy,
and the Indy 500 had been an event he’d always wanted to watch. A.J.
Foyt had been his boyhood hero. The new champion was Bill Nowalski.
Sudip waited till the chequered flag saw the winner over the
finishing line, then got up to leave. He wanted to catch the first
Greyhound leaving for NY. He bought an ice-cream cone and was
admiring the coloured spirals in it when someone bumped into him. The
treat flew out of his hand to land in a squishy mess at his feet.
He spun around, choking off a cuss-word...and she was gaping at
him in open-mouthed surprise, gasping his name. Talk of chance
collisions! She was thinner, and the chubby roundedness had given way
to the svelte curves of maturity. The laugh-lines around the luscious,
recurved lips, the likes of which he had never seen, were still intact, and
so were the enchanting dimples. She looked leaner, more
sophisticated...she was more beautiful than ever. An old, long-forgotten
feeling lanced through him. It wasn’t just a stab of desire...then he
recalled that she’d run off to America leaving him high and dry. He
composed his features into a polite expression as he formally extended
his hand.
“Shireen!” he acknowledged with a nod.
“Sudip! What are you doing here?” she gasped. She released his
hand and brushed away a lock of hair that had strayed across her
11
She went up to her car. It crouched in wait for them, a sleek, low-
slung, shark-like shape that no wind could ever catch. He whistled in
admiration.
“A Citröen SM2! You must be into big time plant morphologising,”
he joked, impressed. “That baby’s got electrically heated seats,
electrically adjustable height/recline mechanisms, all settings
individually-memorized by the on-board computer,” he enthused,
forgetting his recent pique. “Automatic, hydro-pneumatic, self-levelling
suspension. Anti-lock ABS disc brakes on all wheels, fractured column
technology for the crankshaft; multipoint infinitely-variable fuel
injection, electronic ignition, a six-cylinder engine that performs like a V-
8 but sips gas like a 1,600 cc, a shape that comes close to the classic
paradigms of the Jaguar XKE and the immortal ‘E’ type. At 100 mph,
12
And then they were on the road. Next stop, New York, 1,600 miles
away. He was jubilant. Three whole days and nights...with Shireen! It
was too good to be true. Three days and nights in which the magic that
had once blossomed between them could revive...that awesome,
eternal thing that had blessed them, transformed them—all those
haunted years ago. For him, there was no one like her, nor would there
ever be. She was a twice upon a lifetime experience, unique in her
timeless beauty.
She hadn’t married, and neither had he. They were still free to
carve out their destinies. That was what the Great American Dream was
all about...the chance to mould your life exactly the way you wanted it
to be. Go about it right, and America never failed to deliver...
As she stepped on the gas and felt the automatic transmission shift
smoothly into top, she covertly admired the brooding profile of the only
man she’d ever loved. She knew what her dream was all about. She
would see to it that it came true.
© Subroto Mukerji