Reunion

I was meeting Nishant and Sunita after almost three years, for the first time since we graduated out of college.

We had, of course, kept in touch all this while through the internet and the telephone. It is interesting to observe how these methods of communications ascend and descend in importance as relationships wear on after they’ve lost their purpose. The telephone carries most of the burden for the first few months, while the memories still retain their freshness and one still believes in the immortality of them. Gradually, as memories turn into nostalgias, email takes over.

Our friendship had, in these years, morphed into two phone conversations a year, one for each’s birthday, and the occasional forwarded mail, marked impersonally to a half hundred people, most of whose existences I was unaware of. However, when I learnt I’d be in Delhi this weekend, I decided to catch up with them anyway.

We met on Sunday afternoon in one of the many malls that dot the Delhi landscape. Strangely, these days, it is these crowded public places that are the most preferred for such companionable meets as ours. Nevertheless, the exhilaration I felt and hoped they did too, on meeting old friends was certainly not manufactured.

It was the middle of January and afternoons were the only time when the fog betrayed the existence of a Sun. In these hours, the city basks in a warm laziness; a hazy spectacle whose majesty can never quite be captured by a lens. It also makes multiple layers of warm woolen clothes a necessity; a condition I generally disapprove of since it shows my already bloated self in even poorer light.

And so it was, that the first thing both my friends told me after we’d waved at each other, embraced and smiled warmly and awkwardly, was that I’d pile up a few more kilos. The matter of my weight and general physical appearance has long since ceased to be the cause of anxiety to me, and I responded with a joke I’d repeated and perfected over the years and do not want to reproduce here.

To my eyes, the two of them had remained much the same, barring a marked improvement in the state of Sunita’s bosom; a shortcoming that we had spent many hours ridiculing when we were in college and one that had caused her some heartburn. I thought about sharing my observation with her but the interceding years stopped me from doing so. I satisfied myself by stating that she too appeared to have put on weight and hoped feebly that she’d get the drift. If she did get it, and I personally opine that she did not, she did not show it.

The mischievous glint in Nishant’s eyes was intact.

We’d never planned out an agenda for the reunion and it came back to haunt us now. We stood sheepishly near the entrance to the mall, looking at each other and at the people around us, cracking an odd joke and sharing through our eyes and expressions the common thought that we were making fools of ourselves. Eventually, Nishant suggested we continue doing the same in a café, and we agreed gratefully.

Having spent a few minutes discussing and ordering our drinks, we felt the awkwardness slipping away gradually. We caught up on what each of us had been doing in greater detail than the restrictive nature of long distance communication had ever allowed us to. I found that Nishant was planning to marry the girl he’d been going out with for more than a year now within the next one year. And that Sunita’s quest for a long term relationship had remained incomplete and would probably remain so, for her parents had decided to take matters into their own hands. The mandatory digs about my relationship status were made and my college crushes discussed. I bore it with a dignity that, I thought, befitted a more mature person than the one they were discussing about.

It is always difficult to meet past friends who have not, in the eyes of the world and in their own, fared as well as one has oneself. One measures and fumbles with each syllable; fearful that the odd assertion here and there would be perceived as boastfulness. And one cannot quite go back to being what one was all those years ago, simply because one cannot.

Nishant and Sunita told me about some of their capers after we’d left college (being in the same city, they had met every once in a while), which they thought hilarious and which I found little more than faintly amusing. They were the kind of incidents that appeal only to those that are present while it unfolds. I told them about some of mine which, I am sure, they found as uninteresting.

We talked some future. Nishant told me how he planned to move to the US soon after his marriage. I told them what I thought I would probably end up doing. Sunita cribbed for a while about her job and stated that she’d look for a switch in the near future.

By this time, our first coffees were drunk and more ordered. Talk veered to those days. All the good times spent. The drunken fiascos. The uninvited dinners at marriage parties. The professor everybody feared. The professor with the sleepy eyes and deadpan expression who could never figure out how there were only ten people in the room and thirty on the attendance sheet.

Most of it felt distant and filled me with a sense of weariness. It vexed me that it should be thus. I had had such great times recounting these exact episodes to friends I’d made since, that I had assumed it would give me greater joy to do so with those that were part of them. I realized, then, that it was not they who brought warmth to those memories; it was the me that was with them there. And, therefore, I figured memories are savored better in the absence of those that they are built of.

We spent three hours together, at the end of which, I was more relieved than rueful that it had ended. These were people that did not belong anymore. They were of a different time and place and it was wrong to force them into my now. They were better off being in those two phone conversations and forwarded mails.

I’ve been to Delhi many times since, but have not met them.

Investigation

The detective puffed thoughtfully at his cigarette.

The body lay, tanned and naked, on its left side, in fetal posture, by the bedside. The skin had turned white, creased and patchy. Some stray foliage and weeds had attached themselves in several places; the body had remained underwater for at least two days.

It had belonged to a fairly tall, well endowed woman of around forty. Her sharp, beautiful features were shrouded in long silken strands of hair that, due to her unusual position, descended on the wrong side of the head, barring her aquiline nose that broke through with tragic defiance. Unmistakable evidences of a valiant struggle were visible all over her body.

The blue-crimson blotches around the neck established the cause of death beyond reasonable doubt, although the official word would have to wait until after the autopsy. No formal forensic investigation had been conducted yet, but the detective knew it wouldn’t lead to anything. There would be no fingerprints or footprints and there had been no contact of a sexual nature. As far as clues to the killer’s identity were concerned, the body was clean.

The body had belonged to the detective’s wife.

The detective felt a strange sense of pride for being able to appraise the scene with his usual professional detachment. He had often thought in the past how he would react if ever he had to investigate the murder of someone so close to him. Would he be able to look at the dead body without emotion, without recognition? Would his investigation be devoid of preconceived notions, of bias? They were questions he hoped he wouldn’t ever need to tackle; nevertheless, they filled him with a curious self doubt that he failed to overcome.

Now he knew the answer to those questions.

He had formulated a theory that explained part of the case; it was the unexplained bit that would make the investigation difficult.

She had left for office four days ago and not returned. She had not answered the detective’s phone calls. He had inquired at the office; he’d been informed that she hadn’t shown up for work at all. He had waited for a day before reporting the matter to the police. They had failed to trace her or her whereabouts.

In all probability, she had been ambushed on her way to work; she traveled on various forms of public transport.

Whether there had been more than one person involved, was difficult to ascertain. In any event, she had been carried to a spot, ostensibly close to a water body, where she had been murdered and dumped. There were several places beside the river on the outskirts of the city where this could have been done.

It was beyond this point that the case became more complicated. Why the body had first been dumped in the river and then taken then brought back to the house was impossible to fathom. The murderer(s) had run enormous risk in doing so and there was surely a purpose for it.

Trying to frame him was one alternative. But that seemed out of question. Nobody could expect to make the police believe that the murder had been committed in the house. The state of the body was a dead giveaway. The foliage on the body ruled out the possibility of the body having being dumped inside the bathtub or any such water container inside the house.

Why was it done then? As a challenge to him? Some old criminal he’d helped convict returned for a revenge?

The detective knew this would be the general direction the investigation should logically take. Except that he knew it was not the right direction. And he knew. After all, it was he who had murdered her.

It had taken two cases, three years apart, the latest a year ago, for him to break. The first time, when they’d told him they couldn’t arrest a man for killing his wife because they had nothing on the man beyond stray circumstantial evidence, heavily dependent on conjecture; he had fought tooth and nail. He had spent countless hours reconstructing the crime and collecting the ‘circumstantial’ evidence. There was no way he could let the case fizzle out, without hope, without closure. Everybody knew the man had done it. How could they let a cold blooded murderer like that go unpunished?

He had failed.

It had happened a second time, when he was called in to investigate the brutal murder of a teenage girl by her fifty year old neighbor for having resisted his sexual advances. This time, he’d said nothing. He had joked around about how easy murder had become. Inside, he had snapped.

He started plotting his revenge six months ago. At first, he had considered choosing a random victim; someone he did not know but had decided against it. It would be too unfair.

The detective loved his wife. Dearly. And that is why he chose her. He knew the police would have to classify him as the prime suspect for there was no other choices, however remote. They would know just how painful it must have been for him to do what he had done. But they would not be able to prove a thing.

They would be at his mercy.

In truth, the body had never been anywhere close to the river. He had killed her inside the house in the middle of the night. With his gloved fingers around her neck, he had dragged her down to the floor from the bed, where she had fallen asleep after they had made love. He had looked at her panic stricken, contorted face and felt nothing. Afterwards, he had carried her body to a dilapidated deserted textile mill, which he had chosen after two months of scouring. There, he had left the body in a huge, moss filled tank which he had filled with water a day before. That is where her body had picked up all the foliage. He had let the body stay there for two days. In the meanwhile, he had reported his wife as missing to the police. The police had arrived at his house for clues to her whereabouts and found nothing. That night, after the police were satisfied that there were no clues to be had and their only option was a massive search operation around the city, he had brought the body back home and let it stay in his bathtub.

He was absolutely certain that the weeds on the body would lead the investigators on a wild goose chase.

He had bought himself a new bathtub, of exactly the same make and color as his present one, three months ago, which he had entrusted to one of the many vendors he was acquainted with; they ran odd jobs for him and were crucial sources of information. He had instructed the man to fill the bathtub with water and drain it every once in a while to ensure it lost the telltale signs of newness. These were men whom he trusted and who trusted him. They would never betray him; not for anything. The vendor was the only link that could possibly connect him with the crime; but he knew the police would never get to him.

The night before, he had again moved the body to where it presently was. He had then dismantled his old bathtub and disposed it off inside the textile mill. He had then driven to where the vendor had stowed the new bathtub and brought it back to his house. He had spent the rest of night fitting, filling and draining it a few times to make it look regularly used.

There was no way they were ever going to convict him. But that was not the point.

The detective looked at his handiwork one last time and stepped out on his way to the police station to turn himself in.

The Vision

Disclaimer: I don't think this deserves to be a post, really. But I am doing it anyway so I can remember it if ever I have the opportunity to translate it into visuals.

Through the tiny speck, I can see a whole, new world.

Everything I see is bathed in glorious shades of red and orange, as if the world has grown tired of carrying the weight of a thousand colours and reinvented itself thus. The yellow orange waters of a mighty river tumble down from the red snow capped mountains yonder. Blood red forests loom on the foothills, nearer me, descending into the tall, orange, wildly swaying grass by the riverside, that dissolve, change shape and return with every motion of my eyelids, manipulated, beyond doubt, by the slightest tilt of the eyelashes.

There are other, strange, fantastic shapes on my side of the river. Shapes I’ve never witnessed before, and yet, not out of place. They are born within my eye; created by its unbounded imagination, shorn of its duty to see that which the mind comprehends. It is not my mind's eye. It is my eye without it's mind.

The mike screeches. My eyes turn towards the speaker. The vision vanishes. The speaker taps it twice, in disgust, and resumes speaking.

I look up and behind me towards the yellow bulb on the ceiling and smile. Then I turn around, toward the speaker, and focus again into the tiny yellow speck of the bulb’s reflection in the upper corner of the glass on the left of my specs and recommence my vision.

The Return

She entered the house which she had left more than three years ago. It had been empty for a week; the family was on a trip to the hillside for the summers.

Pallid sunlight percolated through the curtained windows, accentuating, rather than dispersing, the darkness and melancholy inside. She had never approved of curtains. Unnecessary frills. She had had no secrets to keep.

The windows, themselves, were altered. She had insisted on grilled ones; a prudent defence against her toddling grandson’s ever increasing reach. The grills were now gone, making way for fashionable sliding panes.

The floor had been redone; the stone slabs of her time replaced by marble. She knew they had wanted it even whilst she was there but had had to wait. It would have been too slippery for her with the rheumatic arthritis she had carried since she was sixty.

The grandfather clock stood, covered in a coat of dust but resolute as ever, against the freshly repainted wall. It appeared to have long since stopped ticking. Quite considerate of him to let it stay there, she thought. Her rocking chair, which had occupied the centre of the drawing room and from where she could and did watch over all the other rooms, had disappeared. It made the room look more spacious, she conceded.

The kitchen was almost entirely reoriented. The platform was longer, the utensils stacked away inside a cabinet, since built, on the wall. An electric apparatus guarded over the oven instead of the creaky, oil coated exhaust fan she had. A larger refrigerator for a smaller family, she mused, running her hands over the sleek, glossy surface of it.

The room that had been hers now seemed to belong to her grandson. Her bed and her almirah were in their rightful places. The contents of each were, of course, changed. A section of the almirah, locked, contained some of her saris, a photo album and the Bhagwad Gita, preserved with mothballs. The saris were starting to fray at the edges. A wooden shelf had been added on one of the walls and supported a couple of her grandson’s books. The rest were strewn on the bed. Her temple, by the bedside, had been removed. Its position had perhaps been too precarious in the child’s continued presence. Nevertheless, it annoyed her a little.

Her son’s and daughter in law’s room had remained largely untouched except for the temple, shifted there from the other room.

The Gods were as she had left them. The only additions were two framed pictures of her husband and herself. The flowers, hung on and around them, were withered.

Peace

A tired sun, its warmth feebler, its person easier to look at, like a spent, self possessed celebrity, prepares to smile at the camera for the final few moments before turning in for the day, drowning into the far side of the ocean. A single, long red orange stream, glistening and blurred, makes its way from it, through the grey sea, to the beach; unique for each grain of sand. It presents the sun with a tall, sparkling and altogether flawed reflection of itself.

The full moon, having shown up for work early, has spent the last hour, grudging the presence of its brighter counterpart and awaiting the appearance of its entourage of stars. The ocean pays scant heed to its presence yet, aware that the oversight will be made up for later, in the high tides of that night.

It is strange how the mighty, seemingly imperturbable, waters respond to the moon; rising higher as the moon gradually unmasks itself. Lusting for an object so far away, so unattainable and so miniscule. It is the way of the world’s mightiest creations. The Oceans. The Mountains. Man.

The sand stretches forever on either side of me. A great, powerful expanse of granules, united together to defend the land from the ocean’s onslaught. Seated on the sand, close to the ocean, I can feel the tide coming in. The waves, with each passing minute, die nearer me. Soon they will reach my outstretched legs, forcing the shells and the sands into the gap between my toes, before snatching some back again with that tingling feeling of the earth moving beneath me. In time, they will move beyond me.

The failed writer put down his pen, closed his diary and sighed. He looked up into the fading ocean, abandoning his search for a peace that was never his, waiting for a peace that would tonight be his.

Motion

A popular Hindi movie song, which sounded vaguely similar to a popular English number of two decades earlier, crackled out of the car radio. Radios, rather.

For each of the several dozen cars waiting for the lights to turn green contained within itself this ingenious device of modern entertainment and was tuned into the only broadcasting channel available in the city. Recreation in the stressful lives of today is essential. And those who happened to be part of that indistinguishable mass of automobiles were going to get it in generous proportions, whether or not they desired it.

Finally, for what seemed like the loss of billions of rupees, the lights turned green. The world, engulfed in a sometimes screaming, sometimes groaning tirade of melancholy horns, struggled towards its many destinations, swerving, braking and speeding in sudden bursts in the quest for an elusive fissure in the loosely assembled walls of metal that would carry it to the end of its journey faster than the rest of itself. It was as if a mysterious, human, hand bade it to carry its selves thus; a hand so influential as to remain invisible and the carrying out of its orders seem involuntary.

A few meters on, the world encountered an unexpected roadblock. An old man, his faltering sight failing to notice the switching over of the lights and unaware of the approaching mayhem, was stranded halfway from the safety of the foot lanes in either direction. The deafening screech of collective brakes brought the world to a standstill, a hair’s breadth away from the man. The old man looked up, bewildered, but obstinate.

“I…I only have to cross this road…” he stammered, the frantic honking drowning out the rest of his words.

The world watched, enraged and uncomprehending, as the man, shaking his head as memories of the quieter and drowsier world of a bygone era came back to him, completed his journey to the other side at an excruciatingly slow pace.

The world resumed its furious pace.

Present

The opportunity Ramesh had been waiting and working for had finally arrived. Sonia had agreed to a date with him.
He’d done it quite nicely, he felt. Having learnt that she could no accompany the gang to their week long trip to Southern India, he had extricated himself too with convenient excuses that had fooled no one. The friends, after having made numerous slanted comments and observations that friends are expected to make on such occasions, had advised him to not go too far on the first date.

“You’ve got a week dude. Wait till the 2nd or 3rd time.”
“Oh no! I am going to tell her tomorrow itself. I can’t go on like this forever. I need to know if there’s any chance of us getting together. If she does not reciprocate, well, so be it. I don’t give a damn!”

The friends had chuckled quietly then and had had a good laugh later. They had heard that often and from a diverse enough set of mouths to know that what Ramesh meant was exactly the opposite.

And so Ramesh had called up Sonia.

“Hi Sonia! I heard you aren’t going for the trip too?”
“Yeah, really disappointed. I so wanted to go! But have to be here for my cousin’s wedding on Saturday.”
“Yeah, really disappointing. I can’t go either. Mom’s not keeping well”
“Oh, that’s sad. What happened to her?”
“Nothing serious really, one of those viral infections that do the rounds every once in a while. She’ll be alright.”
“Dammit! Why did my cousin have to get married this week?”
“Chill yaar, you sound really dejected.”
“Yes, I am”
“Well then, lets see. How about you and I going out for a bite tomorrow evening? Share the sorrow!”
“Ummm, good idea. Better than watching TV at home. Lets make it 7 at CCD tomorrow, ok?”
“Yeah, sounds great. See you tomorrow then.”

For a strictly middle class boy who had been snubbed by the same girl for being that, this was quite an achievement.

That’s done then. Now what? I suppose I gotta get her a present or something. Would look like a fucking fool if I don’t get her a gift. How can I propose if I don’t have anything to give her? No, must get something. And something really nice and expensive too! She shouldn’t think I thought about money when I was out shopping for her! This should be real cool! What will she think when I say “I love you”? Hey, wait a minute, will I just say that? That’s been beaten to death. No, no! Something more stylish! “I want to be with you”? How much money have I got? Let me check. No, that sounds too cowardly. She’d think I have pissed in my pants. Something a little bold… “I want you”? Nope, that sounds like I got sex on my mind. Well, wouldn’t mind if that happens, hehe! But no, can’t say that. Something refined. Alright, I got four thousand bucks…could spend two thousand, I suppose. Should be enough I should think. But what do I buy her? I never bought anything for a girl. What do I do? Ask someone? Who? “I want to keep taking you out for a bite”? Hmm, that’s an interesting one! Sunil! Yes, Sunil of course. He’ll know what to present! He’s been out with hundreds of girls!

“Hi Sunil! Ramesh here. Listen, I need your help”
“Yes, tell me”
“I want to buy something for, well, a friend of mine”
“Nice. So?”
“I need your help. I don’t know what to buy”
“Ah! Hold on a second Ramesh, is this friend of yours a ‘She’?”
“Yes”
“Aha! This is getting interesting! A ‘special’ friend, yes?”
“No, nothing like that. Yet”
“Yet, huh? Yet! There you go my boy!”
“Fuck you!”
“No, not me kid. You’ve set your sights elsewhere now!”
“Fuck you, ass hole!”
“Haha! Come on dude, you got to admit the truth!”
“Shut up ass hole! So, will you help me out?”
“Of course! How can I not! When do you want to buy it?”
“How about right now? I kind of, want to present it to her tomorrow evening…”
“Oh I see! A date! Our man is going out on a date! Brilliant work buddy! Sure thing, I’ll pick you up at your place in, say, an hour?”
“Yes, an hour should be fine! Thanks man!”
“No probs dude! Oh, I am going to love this!”

Oh dear! He’s going to fuck my happiness for the next two hours! And by tomorrow, every boy and girl in this city will know about this! Dammit! Why did I have to call up that bastard! Shit! I hope Sonia doesn’t come to know of this! That’ll be the end of me. No, can’t let that happen. I need to stop Sunil from broadcasting this! I’ll tell him when he comes. Hey! “You make me want to be a better man. And I so want to become one!” How about that? That should be real cool! Hey, but she will have seen As Good As it Gets. She’ll think I am aping Nicholson. Cheap, she’ll think. Nope, won’t work. What if he starts calling people up right away? He’ll have passed on the news to as many people as he wants by the time he arrives here! Shit! Why didn’t I think of that before! Have to call him immediately!

“Hey Sunil”
“Yes? What happened? I am on my way dude! Don’t get so restless!”
“No no! Not that! I just wanted to tell you to keep this to yourself, ok?”
“Oh dear! That’s a dampener!”
“You haven’t told anyone yet, have you?”
“Naah, not yet. But I was looking forward to.”
“Please don’t yaar. Hold on till tomorrow, yes?”
“Yeah sure. Will do that. Hey, I got to disconnect. Can’t get caught on the phone while driving!”
“Sure. Bye.”

Phew! That was close!

Sunil arrived earlier than he’d promised. He beamed brightly at Ramesh, slapped him on the back a couple of times and said
“Don’t you worry kid! You’ll be fine!”

On the way to wherever they were going, they discussed what could be bought.
“When you get down to it Ramesh, there really aren’t very many things you can gift a girl. At least, in the beginning. It generally has to revolve around attire. Safest bets, those. Dresses, ornaments, those kinds of things. Unless you want to gift here one of those soft toys that they cuddle up with in bed. But hey, you wouldn’t want too much company there, I guess!”

Sunil winked at Ramesh and sniggered. Ramesh started to say something and then decided against it.
“Of course, things change once you get more comfortable with each other. Then you can buy her stuff that’s a lot more…intimate, you know.” Another wink.

Eventually, they decided on a dress.

“I know just the place dude! We’ll buy her a nice, little one. Don’t worry! Oh, I love little ones! They look really nice, haha!” Sunil just couldn’t hold himself back.
“Shut up bastard! Concentrate on the driving!”
“Hey, don’t get upset buddy! Just joking! By the way, what are you going to wear for the big day?”
“I haven’t thought of that yet”
“Not thought of it? C’mon dude! What’s that? You got to be dressed to kill! How many days you known this girl?”
“Close to six months now, why?”
“Six months! She’ll have seen every fucking shirt and pant you own by now! You must get a new pair for yourself!”
“Really? I, I don’t have that kind of money yaar”
“Arey c’mon dude! You stupid? This is a special occasion, right? Don’t be a fucking miser! Its only one time!”
“You really think I should?”
“Of course. I insist on it”
“Alright then. We’ll buy that too”
“Excellent. There’s an awesome place just round the next corner. I’ll take you there”

And thus, Ramesh bought himself a new pair of jeans and a trendy looking T Shirt; both were recommended by Sunil. It cost Ramesh close to 1500 bucks. He had confided the state of his finances and the budget he’d set for himself to Sunil. But Sunil had none of it.

“Arey, I told you na? This is a special occasion! What are you being so stingy for? You mean to say you can’t spend a little extra money? Surely, if we overshoot the budget a little, it is not going to be the end of the world!”

That done, they turned their attention to the actual objective of the excursion.

Sunil picked up a gorgeous looking blue gown and showed it to Ramesh.

“Now this one’s really sexy. What do you think?”

Oh, that’s gorgeous! Incredible! She’ll look like a heroine in that! My God, this fellow’s got taste! But hey, gowns are expensive, aren’t they? How much could it be?

Ramesh turned the gown around, as if to inspect the intricacies of it from all sides. A furtive glance at the label had told him to forget it.
“I am not so sure Sunil. It kind of looks weird. I don’t think she likes gowns so much…never seen her wear one”
“You kidding, right? Man! That’s the best thing I’ve seen this month!”
“Yeah, I know. I am sure it’ll look good. But I don’t think she’s into gowns that much. Why take a risk?”

Sunil had simply shaken his head and moved on.

Goodness! Every dress looks unbelievable! Out of this world! But, I can’t afford them. I simply can’t! Arey, fuck it! Let me buy something. Not the end of the world! I’ll just cut down on some of my other expenses. Yes, that’s right. I’ll just buy what I like! Fuck the prices! I’ll just buy it! Let Sonia know how much I care! Oh, my God! This stupid piece of clothing is worth 7000! I wouldn’t have my servant wearing that! Ludicrous! I can’t possibly buy something so expensive! It’d be stupid of me. Really, one can never cut down on costs actually. Its just one of those ‘for the peace of mind’ things. Nope, doesn’t make sense. Can’t let myself get fooled by all this glitter. Need to…hey, that woman! What the hell does she think she’s buying? She’s buying that fucking rag! Thank God, I don’t have that kind of money to throw around. No, I need to be sensible. Oh dear! I still haven't thought of what to say to her! Think! Think! I won’t go over budget. Too much. Unless, of course, I find something really awesome…Better let Sunil know that. No, no, he’s really kicked about this whole thing. He’ll not like it. I can’t be as blatant as that. Lets see, I’ll just keep saying I don’t like them. Hope Sonia won’t notice. It’ll just fuck the whole thing up. That other day! She just ripped apart that new shirt Shishir was wearing! Was really stupid of her…Yeah well, can’t have everything in this world. Oh, there he’s found out another. Fuck! That’s got ‘Out of you league’ written all over it! No, no won’t do! Fuck, what if she doesn’t like it? It’ll ruin the whole thing! Rather do the shopping with her only…Not a bad idea, actually! But she’ll really start asking for top of the line stuff. And how would I say no then? Foolish of me…God! I hope she says Yes.

After they’d walked out of the third shop, Sunil was exasperated.

“Look here Ramesh. What is this girl of yours? Angelina Jolie? What the fuck do you think she’ll like? Just fucking gift her something!”
“I really want it to be special Sunil. Please don’t get irritated”
“Yeah, alright. Come lets go.”

More of the same. What the hell! Not a single store has anything close to what I can afford! Fucking daylight robbery this! Hey, I suppose I could buy something from that shop near my place. Just around the corner, prices quite reasonable too. I’ll choose something that looks expensive! She won’t be able to tell the difference! Oye, dammit! I forgot to tell Suresh about this! He’s going to kill me! Can’t do much now, will tell him after tomorrow. That’s if she says Yes. What if she says No? Cut the crap! What can I do? Commit suicide? Concentrate on what I am doing now!

At length, Sunil decided to push off.
“Listen Ramesh, I am really sorry about this. But I need to go now. I am meeting some friends at the pub tonight. You carry on!”

In another fifteen minutes, Ramesh had bought a dress. It was a pretty looking tee in shades of yellow and orange; one of those trendy (and tight) ones girls wear these days. It cost Ramesh just under a thousand bucks. He slept happy that night.

The next morning, the first thing he did when he awoke was to check the present.

What’s this? It looks quite different in daylight, doesn’t it? Shit! Shit! Shit! The shades aren’t quite the same? This won’t work! It looks cheap, oh dammit! Dammit! Let me close the window and have a look. There! It still doesn’t look that good! Those fucking cheats! They use all those fancy lights in the store to make the colours look good! Cheats! Oh fuck! What will I do now! Got to think!

He did the thinking through his morning cleansing and freshening activities.

It doesn’t actually look that bad now! I guess I just got put off by that slight change in shade this morning. If I were seeing it for the first time, wouldn’t look so bad! Its alright.

He did not present it to Sonia that evening. Consequently, he did not propose to her either.

The guys were right. I ought to take her out a few more times before I do it

And he did not wear his new clothes either.

I’d look stupid. Wearing those fancy things for a simple meeting over coffee. She will definitely notice. And she’ll probably think I am trying to impress her. Nope, it’d be stupid. Got to wait

Short Story - Rover

“Surely, there’s something we can do?” asked the man at the head of the table in a tone of concerned and helpless rhetoric that distinguishes the Distinguished. “Surely?” he added, just in case the others had missed the point.
The others looked around the table, at each other, and spoke nothing.
“Damn! You mean we have to just accept their demands? Have to?”
Silence.
“How much time have we got?”
“Less than 45 hours now Mr. Prime Minister” said the man to the Prime Minister’s immediate left, the Minister of Defence.
“Can’t we launch a counter offensive of some kind?” asked the Minister of Agriculture, whose presence in the room, given the context and his area of expertise, was largely unexplained.
“No” explained the Director of CBI, with a sigh that made it clear he did not want to have to go through the list of reasons again.
“But why?” the Minister of Agriculture again.
Another sigh.
“They have taken the hostages into an old dilapidated fortress near the city of Jaisalmer in Rajasthan. The fortress sits atop a rocky hill, surrounded by the desert. There is almost no human construction for several miles around the place, barring a stray cluster of temporary huts here and there, which may or may not be inhabited. The view from the fortress can range from anywhere between 3 – 7 kilometers, unrestricted, in almost all directions depending upon the quality of their equipment. Basically, there’s no way, we can get anywhere close to the fortress without them noticing. Satellite surveillance has revealed they have at least five snipers positioned around the fortress, plus almost a dozen others on watch, patrolling the walls. We have no idea how many more they have inside the fortress, but we expect the number to be not less than twenty five.”
“How about an airstrike or something like that?” offered the Minister of Agriculture, refusing to let up before he had established, beyond doubt, the extent of his ineptitude.
“There are 32 hostages inside that place, Sir. And to the best of my knowledge, our objective, in addition to getting them out of there, is also to do so while they are alive.”
Thankfully, the Minister of Agriculture did not speak up again.
“How about at night? Can the fortress not be stormed when it is dark?” asked the Prime Minister.
“We have already thought of that. Tomorrow is a full moon. And we all know just how much brilliant moonlight is in a desert. Anyone wanting to get to the fortress would probably reach closer to it than during daytime, but nowhere close enough to matter. They’d still be spotted at least a few hundred yards away.”
“If we stall for time? Delay it for a couple of days?”
“I don’t think it will work. The moon will still be bright enough. We’d have to stall for more than a week to have a chance. Plus, I don’t think the occurrence of the full moon is a coincidence. They knew what they were doing.”
The Director of CBI looked around the room if everyone had realized the implications of what he’d just said. The grave faces told him they had.
“So what you are really saying is…” the Prime Minister left the sentence hanging.
“Precisely, Mr. Prime Minister. They are not here for the fun and games. They know they are not getting out of there. And it seems stupid for them to sacrifice a couple of dozen of their men to rescue four. It is bad business. And these men are not stupid. For sheer impact, it’ll make for a much bigger success than if they manage to free their friends in jail.”
“So then?”
“It means they are not letting the hostages go, one way or the other.”
“Then why waste time with their demands? They could simply have killed them”“Yes, they could have. I don’t know why they are doing that. Maybe they think we’ll buy into it and accept their demands. Additional perk for them. Or maybe they just want to gain media attention.”
For a full minute, nobody spoke.
“What do we do now?” the Minister of Agriculture spoke first.
“You said the view is unrestricted in almost all directions?” asked the Director of RAW. This was the first time he had entered the discussion.
“Yes”
“Almost?”
The Director of CBI smiled. He knew that the Director of RAW knew as much about the terrain as he did. In fact, more.
“Well, on the south, about a hundred yards from the fortress, there is another rocky hill, almost as high as the one on which the fortress stands.”
“So?”
“Well, it is an obstruction. They can’t see through the hill. They can’t see the other side of it”
“If someone were to approach the fortress from that side, there’s no way they can be seen?”
“No. Unless someone walks out of the fortress and walks to either the west or the east for a couple of hundred yards.”
“And there has not been any such excursion spotted so far, yes?”
“No.”
“Then we can safely assume it won’t in the future either.”
“I don’t know. Probably yes. But really, even if they make it to that hill, there’s still hundred yards of open desert to travel. It is impossible unless no one was looking in that direction. And we know they are.”
“Yes, they are. But they might not if there’s a distraction.”
“What possible distraction could there be? And even if that happens, how much time will they get? It’ll take at least a couple of minutes to cover that distance. Closer to three, given the sand.”
“I am just looking at the possibilities here”
“I know. But it is impossible. And we haven’t even considered how we are going to get a team to that hill.”
“An airdrop?”
“Airdrop is out of question. They’d be expecting that. They’d be able to spot it miles away.”
“It could be done at night. Difficult to spot, even with a full moon.”
“True. But even then, the nearest we can drop is probably fifteen miles. Could be more. In the deserts, that means traveling for at least fifteen hours. The dark comes much later in the deserts. It is at least another twelve hours to darkness. That makes it twenty seven hours to get to that hill. And that’s an almost inhuman estimate. It’ll take closer to thirty five.”
“We have forty four.”
“And what do they do once they get there? Wait for a distraction! What distraction?”
“Could be a couple of planes flying at low altitudes to the north. Close enough for them to get agitated. Not close enough to merit anything more drastic than another threatening phone call to the Government.”
“I suppose it could be done.” The Director of CBI, finally relented.
“But what after that? The team runs across the hundred yards and reaches the fortress. What do they do after that? Attack? They’d never succeed. The moment the terrorists realize the move, they’ll start killing the hostages!” The Minister of Agriculture had finally made what appeared to be a pertinent observation.
“What if they never realize it till the very end?” posed the Director of RAW.
“But how’s that possible?” cried the Prime Minister.
“Something like the movies…” commented the Chief of RAW
“For an operation like that, we cannot send in more than three men. Four at the outside. It is too few. And we’d probably need someone like in the movies. A James Bond, really. They don’t exist in real life.” said the Director of CBI, while trying, unsuccessfully, to suppress a chuckle.
“And we aren’t going to get a second chance here. The plan fails and they’ll kill everybody!” This from the Prime Minister.
“Unlikely”
The Director of RAW seemed oblivious to the fact that most people in the room thought he was out of his mind. He continued “With this sort of operation, it either succeeds completely. Or it is a miserable failure. If it succeeds, all’s well. If it fails, the terrorists won’t need to self destruct. In fact, they’ll think their position is stronger than ever. They’ll obviously raise a hue and cry over it, issue a few more threats. Maybe want a few more things. But I don’t think they’ll kill anyone if they can avoid it. In any case, do we really have a choice?”
“The problem of finding a James Bond still remains…” the Director of CBI was obviously enchanted by his own sense of humor.
“Well, there is a man.”
“A man?”
“Yes. An Ex RAW operative. Went by the code name of Rover. Did a few jobs for us on the other side. Was one the best we’ve ever had.”
“Ex operative?”
“Yes. His service was terminated in 2003.”
“Terminated? What happened?”
The RAW chief, for the first time, looked a little uncomfortable.
“He was divorced in 2002. Apparently, the man was, well, not really much of a man. Anyhow, he seemed to lose it completely after the divorce. Drank too much, talked too much. Then he was reported by one of our operatives for attempted child molestation. Nothing was ever proved, but we thought I unwise to keep him on.”
“Child molestation! Oh my God!” The Prime Minister could scarcely believe what he’d heard.
“That is the only man you could come up with Chief?” The Director of CBI quipped. “An ex operative with a troubled sex life! That’s the James Bond we’ve got! There’s no one else in your entire organization?”
“The man was involved in three rescue operations in three years. High risk jobs in rough terrain. Never reported in the media; you know how it works. He was once stranded in the Himalayan ranges after an emergency drop. He traveled about a hundred and fifty kilometers to the nearest town through the mountains in temperatures well below zero. And he did it in three days on one chocolate bar and a water gourd, half filled.”
“Impressive” conceded the Minister of Defence.
“But do we know where he is now? Or if he’s fit for the job any longer. He’s been inactive for over four years…”
“Yes, he is in Pune. Runs a small departmental store of some sort. I have had a couple of my men take a ‘look’ at him yesterday. He’s alright.”
“So you had all this planned out before the meeting?”
“Yes, Mr. Prime Minister. Time, as we all know, is of essence.”
The five men looked at each other. Nobody seemed keen on making any comments.
“Well, Mr. Prime Minister?”
“Very well. Get him here and start working on the plan”
“That will not be needed Sir. I took the liberty of flying him to Delhi without your permission. He’s been working on the details for the last few hours. I expect him to be ready with it by the time I get back to my office from here.”

The man they called Rover, sat with three other men in a small dark room that contained a table (supporting an extraordinary number of coffee cups at the time) and the requisite number of chairs. A projector beamed an aerial view of the fortress near Jaisalmer, onto a screen on one of the walls. An almost identical map lay wide open on the table.
On his arrival, Rover had asked to be shown the satellite pictures of the area. He had them run the pictures at twenty times the actual speed, thus observing occurrences over a day in just over an hour. The sniper positions and their shifts had been noted. Ditto for the other men on watch on the walls. They had looked for any other activities of interest. They had found none. At no time had anyone other than the guards been out in the open. Spotting hostages was out of the question. It could hardly be expected for the terrorists to allow their captives an early morning stroll in the circumstances.
The entire time, Rover had spoken nothing except for the odd request to rewind or freeze certain frames. At the end of close to five hours, when he said “That should be all”, the other three men in the room were completely aware what progress, if any, had been made. But it was not their job to ask any questions and so they did not.
The Chief of RAW scrutinized the man he’d chosen from amongst the thousands he’d worked with, seated on the other side of the table in his cabin. The years out of service had not affected the slim, athletic build, nor had it tempered the steely gaze. The eyes did not betray the gallons of alcohol pored into his body in those years. His hands, as he picked up the cup of coffee in front of him were as steady as ever. However, his once jet black hair had turned almost completely gray.
“I’ll need two men with me. Both of them need to be outstanding rock climbers. One of them needs to be an explosives expert. We might require him to defuse a bomb or two. The other, a man trained in rescue operations; good with his weapons and good with his hands. Both, obviously, need to be fit men. There’s a bit of traveling to do.”
“You will have them.”
“Excellent. We leave in three hours’ time. That is 19:00 hours. I expect the drop to happen at 19:30 hours. We shall reach our position behind the hill by 05:00 hours. Sunrise is at 05:43 hours; it will still be dark when we get there. You will order the distraction at 06:15. It’ll be light enough for them to see the planes. The guards change shifts at 06:30; after almost six hours they should be at their sleepiest. The ones to replace them would probably still be asleep or just woken up. In any case, there’s a fair chance they won’t be at their keenest. That’s the best we can hope for. I will be positioned on top of the hill with my Sniper. The aerial view shows there are enough rocks at the top to conceal my presence there. I will be on the lookout for the commotion that we expect to occur when they hear the planes. The moment the guards on the south desert their positions, I’ll signal the other two to make their move. They will reach the side of the fortress in a maximum of two minutes, make sure you give me men capable of achieving that. The walls of the fortress have enough aberrations for trained men to be able to climb. They will carry a rope with them which will aid me to climb later.”
Rover stopped and sipped some coffee.
“I have observed the guards’ movements. At intervals of about twenty to thirty minutes, there comes a situation when there’s only the lone sniper on the southern wall. It stays that way for somewhere between thirty to sixty seconds. When that happens, I’ll take out the sniper from my position. The two men will then climb over the wall and ambush the other patroller to reach there. It takes at least another nine minutes for any other guard to reach that spot, by that time, they will have gone inside. Their primary objective is to locate and dismantle and explosive devices the terrorists might have. In seven minutes, I will climb down the mountain and up the rope on the wall. My objective will be to take out the guards on top before locating the hostages and eliminating the others.”
“Climb down the hill, run across the sand and reach the wall in nine minutes? You think you can do it?”
“I have to do it. There is no other way.”
“These guards you will take out at the top, won’t they be missed?” enquired the Chief.
“The satellite surveillance has been unable to spot any transmission devices used by the guards. There seems to be no formal arrangement for communication. If they have to pass on a message, they simply relay it to the patrollers who carry it to the concerned person. Basically, they expect at least one patroller crossing any given point in the wall every two minutes. And they are correct, it does happen that way.”
“And how do you plan to release the hostages and eliminate the other men inside? Or dismantle the bomb?”
“To be honest, I don’t know. We can’t have a specific plan for that. We don’t know how things are inside. We’ll just have to get there and figure it out, improvise. We do have the construction plans of the fortress with us. We should be able to find our way inside that place. That’s the best we can do.”
“Very well Rover. You will get whatever you want from us. I’ll find you your men. You can brief them yourself.”
“Right Sir. And one more thing Chief. I am not doing this for charity. When I come back, I need a job. I know you can’t reinstate me officially. But I am also aware you don’t need to.”
The Chief considered his options very briefly. There was too little time for negotiations. And Rover knew it.
“I’ll do whatever I can Rover. Get on with it now. Good luck”

The trudge through the sands happened without incident. They spoke very little and only in undertones. The almost full moon cast a brilliant glow over the desert, bathing the sands in beautiful shades of white and gray. It was the kind of night that encourages the poetic form of romanticism in those that are thus inclined; but for the three men life was about too many other things to concern themselves with such inanities.
When they reached the hill, it was 04:45 hours. In all that time, all they knew about each other was their code names. The explosives expert had obviously been recruited in times of creative disenchantment by RAW. He was called Bomber. The other man was known as Lottery. Rover hoped it was not a comment on the man’s capabilities. He had risked enquiring about the origination of it; "I win a lot" was the response.

They had made better time than expected. Rover continued to the top of the hill without waiting to rest. Limbs have a curious tendency towards exhaustion only when they are rested; for as long as one keeps going they pose relatively insignificant hindrances.

The Sniper on the southern wall of the fortress was feeling terribly drowsy. He looked at his watch. There was still an hour and a half before he would be relieved. It had been a long cold night staring at a landscape that consisted chiefly of a vertical rocky structure. Through the night, he had kept himself awake noting the movement of the hill’s shadow with respect to the moon until the moon had gradually started to disappear behind the hill. He could only see a little tip of it now, peeking through the top of the rocks. It cast a strange glow around the edges of the hill, as if the hill had some aura of its own. The Sniper smiled to himself for being capable of making such observations in a time such as this. But he quite enjoyed it. “What could be more gratifying than this, when you have only a few hours to live” he thought. And then, the speck of moonlight suddenly disappeared. Too suddenly.
The outline of the man hiding behind the rocks was almost instantaneously picked up by the scope of his rifle. The man had his back towards him. The Sniper took time, adjusting his aim to precision and shot.

Mirage

Dad and Mom had come from a thousand kilometers away to be present at Son’s convocation ceremony in the premier B School. It was, after all, Son’s biggest day in life thus far. On this day, Son would become a part of that rare and elite group of human beings who can justifiably carry ambitions of earning money, respect and recognition in comparable quantities.

The big day woke up to an uncharacteristic early morning buzz around campus. Enthusiastic fathers and mothers from all over, after having barely managed to contain their excitement through the night, were up and about before the clock had struck eight. Bleary eyed sons and daughters, who had long since forgotten what waking up at that hour felt like, were dragged out of beds scarcely an hour after they had gotten into them and were sat down to voluminous breakfasts.

Through breakfast (in the student mess), the teeming mass of intermingling fathers and mothers made every possible attempt to prove how and why their sons and daughters were the worthiest of the lot; conscious efforts made, through cleverly disguised queries posed in disarmingly innocuous manners to friends and friends’ families, to ascertain how popular their progeny were.

Most of the sons and daughters, including Son, finally managed to extricate themselves from the adoring clutches of their parents after what, while it had lasted, had seemed like an unending breakfast, on pretexts of getting dressed for the impending event. That left the fathers and mothers slightly lost and befuddled as regards the next course of action. They hung around the mess and cafeteria for a while, continuing to seek acquaintance and conversation with other parents, until the incessant glorification of their respective offspring by rival fathers and mothers exasperated them. They, then, returned to their guest house rooms.

After lunch, Dad and Mom rushed, together with all the other fathers and mothers, to the convocation hall, desperate to find seating places near where all the action would be. Dad and Mom, by virtue of their having reached the arena an hour before the scheduled start of the ceremony, found seats in the row closest to the stage. A sizeable number was bereft of similar foresight and fortune.

The ceremony began, on time, with the long procession of faculty members followed by the graduating students entering the hall from the end opposite the stage, in the typically orchestrated fashion that gives away the rehearsals done on previous days. Dad and Mom stood up on their toes, continuously shifted their heads to find gaps between the constantly swaying mass of shoulders and bodies that were doing the same, and strained their eyes to take a peek at Son. Those parents who were able to spot their sons and daughters in the crowd announced their success to the rest by screaming their names at the top of their voices, raising their hands in the air and waving frantically at the student to gain attention. The consequent commotion ensured that nobody recognized nobody.

The next hour was spent listening attentively to the inconsequential and utterly disgusting speeches made by the institute’s Director, the Chief Guest and a couple of other important people whom nobody knew. They talked about how the institute was among the best to be found in the country, why the 300 graduating students and some 3000 others before them had the unique distinction of being the best brains on the planet and how they were going to change the way the world did business.

The giving away of the certificate was undertaken in alphabetical order. Each student walked up on stage, walked the few paces it took to travel a distance of ten meters, bowed graciously to the dignitaries, collected their certificate from the chief guest, who mouthed ‘Well Done X’ and promptly forgot X, looked around expectantly for media personnel to click a few times, and on finding none thus inclined, returned to his/her respective seat, beaming away at anything and everything.

While all this happened, the fathers and mothers kept looking in the direction of their respective sons and daughters, noted every movement in microscopic detail and relayed it to their partners in the event that they had not been attentive enough. Every once in a while, a familiar name was announced on stage - a student they had met that morning, and they looked towards the stage, smiled and applauded. Sometimes, they were nudged by occupants of adjacent seats who pointed towards the stage and excitedly mouthed “Our son!” “Our daughter!” On such occasions, they momentarily diverted their gaze towards the stage and, obviously annoyed but too civilized to complain, smiled sheepishly at the parents and said “Nice.”

Dad and Mom’s son’s name being Son, had to wait longer than most others to get on stage. When he finally did, they looked on teary eyed. They listened attentively and glanced around to see if the applause went up a notch for Son. They found the other parents looking completely uninterested in the proceedings on stage, which infuriated them. But the students appeared to be applauding and cheering louder than usual. Perhaps they were. Perhaps they weren’t.

Short Story - Forever

In the year 2018, a group of scientists from all over the world got together in an undisclosed location near the North Pole to commence work on the most ambitious project in human history.
They called the project ‘Forever’. Nobody outside the group knew of the existence of the project. Every person involved in the project had to severe all ties with the outer world. There was no formal mention of the consequences of not doing so; everyone knew. Only once during the entire project, a delinquency was detected. The delinquent was never heard of again.

The idea was simple. They would incubate a specially selected baby in a specially created, totally sterilized environment. It would be born there. It would grow up there. The question was, would it die there? Would it die anywhere? On that question, the scientists were realistic. They did not harbor any illusions of immortality. They only expected that this life would last for a very long time. How long, was to be found out.

It was decided that once every ten years, the group would recruit for new personnel. An anonymous mail would go out to specially screened and shortlisted candidates asking them to appear for an interview at a certain location. The group would send one person to meet these candidates. This is what would be asked of them – “Would you like to be part of the most path-breaking work of science in history? If you do, you will not be allowed to return again. Ever. If you say ‘Yes’ now, you will be briefed on the project. You do not have the option of backing out after that.

Most, it was expected, would back out. The rest would follow the scientists’ representative to the project location.

In the first phase of the project, all the members in the group went through a three year complete body cleansing program. At the end of it, two of them, one man and one woman, found to have the best physiological activity and highest immunity, were selected and mated together. Throughout the pregnancy period, the mother was kept in incubation to eliminate contact with any harmful substances. She had no diet (food, in no form, can be assuredly free of intoxicants); she received artificial laboratory created nutrients. The baby, a boy, was born inside this incubation cell. They named him Boy One.

Boy One was transferred from his mother’s incubation cell to his own after exactly one month. In that period, he underwent a rigorous cleansing program and was checked and rechecked to make sure that no stray ailment had gotten into his system. His sources of energy and nutritious supplements too, like his mother, were not food. This was the way he’d live throughout. A specially processed injection, which would immunize him against all immunizable diseases in a single shot (there was no question of inserting foreign matter into his body multiple times), was administered.

His new home was a 50X50 meter area enclosed on all sides by thick, transparent glass. It had a single airtight door through which human help could enter, if such a necessity should arise. A small window had been carved out, also on the door, through which he could be served water, nutrition and other utilities. At other times, this window would remain closed.

There was no inlet for air inside the room. Oxygen masks with long, flexible tubes to facilitate unrestricted movement were installed at various points. At the other end of the room, a small enclosure, named the Relief Cubicle, had been constructed. Inside it, Boy One was to relieve himself into a pit that opened into a drainage pipe through which scalding hot water ran. For his cleaning up activities, they had provided a form of synthesized, moist, medicated cloth-like material that was claimed to kill injurious microorganisms on contact.

For the first four years, his mother stayed with him. She trained him in the art of survival inside the cell. He did not learn any languages; he did not need to. By the time his mother left him, he had picked up a few words of exasperation she had uttered when he wouldn’t cooperate. That, however, did not matter to the scientists; it was the contamination of the body that was to be guarded, not of the mind.

After he was left alone, Boy One cried himself hoarse for the first few days. The scientists had foreseen this. They scheduled planned visits by his mother to the cell. She would stand outside the cell for ten minutes every two hours (when Boy One was awake) and let him see her. On the first few visits, Boy One would toddle his way up to the glass barricade and wail with renewed ferocity. After a while, when he realized that this would be the closest he’d get to her, he looked forward to her visits. On such occasions, he would greet her with his most dazzling smile and show off any new tricks he’d learnt. As time passed, Boy One’s interest in his mother waned. The visits, too, became less and less frequent. By the time Boy One was ten, the visits stopped altogether.

To fill up the boy’s vacant hours, of which he had ample, his cell had been provided with a generous stock of toys and gadgets. As Boy One grew up, more accessories befitting his mental development were passed on through the window. For a few hours everyday, music was also played for him. The choice of music was made based on the observed mood of Boy One; when he was happy, they played peppy music to sustain the mood, when he was sad they played peppy music to lift his spirits up.

The cell was also fitted with a huge projection screen, high enough to be out of reach of the tallest recorded human being. On this screen, various programs were aired to entertain Boy One. The selection of programs posed some difficulty for the scientists since Boy One couldn’t understand language. The scientists agreed that not teaching him language was an oversight. However, there was not much that could be done to rectify the situation.

They chose cartoons that contained minimal speech. Tom & Jerry figured prominently in the selections. They also chose Charlie Chaplin. This however failed to excite Boy One; it was impossible for him to understand goof ups and satire when he was not aware of the proprieties that society expected and demanded.

When Boy One was a little past twelve, they started airing erotic programs and porn movies for him. Selecting these did not pose a problem; those things rarely ever have any conversation. He saw unknown men and women, undressed just like he was and indulged in strange activities.

On watching them, Boy One was aware of queer sensations in his body for the first time. He noticed his penis change size and orientation. Often, when he awoke, he found a strange sticky substance had oozed out of his penis. All this scared him deeply. He soon learnt to connect these manifestations with the airing of certain programs on the screen. That scared him further and he demonstrated his disinclination to watch more of such things by closing himself inside the Relief Cubicle and screaming at the top of his voice. They had to stop airing erotic movies for a year.

The oozing reduced in frequency almost immediately. However, very soon, Boy One started dreaming such programs. When he awoke, he would find the oozing had occurred again. By this time, Boy One was more perplexed than afraid. He had noticed that the phenomenon did not cause him any perceptible harm; in fact he felt strangely excited and energetic on these occasions. By the end of the year, his perplexity had made way to ecstasy and was having a thoroughly good time.

The problems surfaced in the middle of the fifteenth year just when it looked Boy One couldn’t be happier than he was.

One fine day, he woke up and found the oozing had happened again. The observing scientists were having a quiet laugh amongst themselves when Boy One started screaming. They looked on astonished as he got up, half stumbled and half pranced around the cell, tearing at his hair and kicking everything that came in his haphazard path. The initial outburst subsided after a few minutes, for a few minutes. Boy One then concentrated his efforts towards the projection screen, which he could not reach. He stood right under the screen and resumed his frenzied screaming. That he could not reach the screen infuriated him further and he smashed his head against the glass walls till he bled. He then resorted to picking up his toys, strewn across the room, and hurl them at the screen. Fortunately, the scientists had foreseen the possibility of such a happenstance and installed an unbreakable protective layer over the projection screen.

The trickling blood sent panic waves amongst the scientists. It put the project in serious jeopardy. They had to do something to stop it; they did not know what. They hoped, vainly, that Boy One would eventually tire. An emergency team had been constituted to go into the cell and tend to his injuries when he fell asleep.

But he did not tire.

As the situation grew desperate, it was decided to send in the mother. It went against all established security protocols but there was no other option left to them.

At the sight of his mother, Boy One underwent an extraordinary change. He stopped where he was, the screaming stopped although the mouth still remained open, and he started weeping. The moment his mother entered the cell, he raced to her and they embraced. For some reason, the mother too sensed tears running down her cheeks. They stood that way for several minutes, before the mother extricated herself and guided him to the corner where he slept. There, she put his head in her lap and gently stroked his hair and face. Boy One did not stop weeping. It was two hours before he felt asleep, still weeping.

Almost immediately, the emergency team entered the cell, injected Boy One with sedatives and tended to his injuries. When they exited the cell, he was blissfully asleep. The damage had been effectively controlled for the time being; how much hard the unforeseen injuries and human contact had caused would have to be gauged later.

Boy One woke up after almost forty eight hours. The observation team watched him get up, look around the cell and finding no one, made his way inside the Relief Cubicle. The team was relieved that the frenzy had passed.

They were wrong. Once inside the Relief Cubicle, Boy One resumed screaming. They could hear him banging his fists (they hoped it was fists) into the cubicle walls and stomping with his feet on the floor. In a matter of minutes, the whole team had gathered there. Another entry by the mother was suggested but disapproved. It could not be turned into a regular exercise. They decided to wait for sometime; perhaps Boy One would calm down this time. Their decision was proved correct when the screaming turned to sobbing and eventually petered out in the next half hour.

It was after almost an hour that the observation team sensed something amiss. Boy One had not come out of the cell. They waited another five hours before sending the mother in.

She found Boy One inside the cell lying on the floor. There was no oxygen mask on his face.

Project Forever ended. The findings were never disclosed.

The scientists admitted to not foreseeing several issues. They decided to incubate two samples (a boy and a girl) next time, use softer material for inside of the cell walls so that they wouldn’t hurt themselves and use oxygen inlets for the cell rather than masks.