Book 4 The Return

Book 4 The Return

Chapter 22 The facebook 419 Chapter 23 The idea 437 Chapter 24 Energy 457 Chapter 25 The crash 477 Chapter 26 Jean-Pierre le caractre non-mineur 497 Chapter 27 The return 513 Chapter 28 The conversation 532

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Chapter 22 The facebook

Illusion finally clicked the mouse twice, and across routers of Arpanod flourishing beyond imagination in version two-dot-oh of the World Wide Web, two bits of friend request was send in bytes of familiarity anonymously into quanta of lost memory. Bytes-and-bits travelled from box-to-box across waves-and-winds of virtual world on wireless-and-wires of sand-and-air; striking a chord visible, sounds of memory invisible. Requests travelled back as acceptances, clicks replied by clicks, connections made on facebook; the Big Apple of the Virtual World. Banner headline in her homepage said, Protagonist Alterego are now friends of Illusion. With virtual emotions, three real people with unknown names and known pseudonyms, looked at pictures of familiar not-so-familiar faces in the book; tears flowed in cables of glass. Anonymousness of real removes awkwardness of virtual; anomaly of unmentionable faces in the book allows familiarity of options of what one wants to see, hiding the naked reality of realness where choices are illusionary when faced with faces in flesh and blood that stirs up memories to find missing quanta of time. Virtual world allows the luxury of confabulation to read books by skipping pages from story of the faces, and soon the sobriquets became friends connected on facebook. They met in illusions chat room and chatted in Web-speak, a language that didnt connect to past in any of the books. Illusions chat room: Illusion hey, protagonist u in NY? like it? Protagonist its a gr8 place, alterego u in europe Alterego i m based in geneva, i travel often Illusion i m in paris Illusion so wht r u guys up to in life Protagonist came to states to be in acads, ended up with wallstreet, crunching fin models, wht abt u Alterego i cross people trapped between borders Illusion i sell fashion It started with pretentious introductions, description and declaration of love for their cities. At first it was once in a while, carefully crafted coincidences of strangers bumping into each other in the virtual world.
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They saw each others status online but hesitated to ping; they denied their own emotions to themselves but the boxes could not transmit the denials through thoughts stuck in cables. The screens reflected it back in words appearing in streams of typed conversations. The hesitation faded slowly as acquaintances of mentionable handles blossomed in shared space of Illusions chat room. Frequency of accidental rendezvous increased, excuses for being awake in middle of the night became lamer, patterns developed in timings of trappings of the chat room and excuses disappeared. The onus of days in crunching models, crossing people and selling fashion was eased by anticipation of nights of illusion, and made heavier by waits of denied sleep. The virtual world was world of nights on different sides of midnight, on different sides of time of the Queen, on different sides of the ocean; waves carried conversations across memory lanes and lost times. The familiarity of passage of time and fading excuses of patterns of night created the boldness to ask about faces in pictures along with faces of which nothing could be asked. Illusions chat room: Protagonist hi, nice pics illusion, seems u had a gr8 time in the riviera Illusion yes, i love the mediterranean Protagonist who is the lovely girl in pics Illusion she is my daughter, Prithvi the Earth There was quietness more piercing than silence of the night on either side of midnight. There was a sound of movement in small steps to breach the walls of time and surmount the distances of cable. There was fear of answers of questions not asked. Alterego she looks like u, she is beautiful Illusion thnks, but looks can deceive, she is a devil, enfant terrible Begotten of Femme Fatale, typed and deleted Protagonist and the tall stylish guy Illusion it is sacrilege in society not to recognize him, he is jeanpierre the god of fashion, my boss Protagonist oh, i have hrd so much about this guy, never looked at his pic, i have a semblance of social life in manhattan, thnks u told me, will be good stuff for my evening conversations with ladies here Crying and laughter resizing windows, sizing of emotions, emoticons of smileys expressed by lips and eyes; smiles of popular culture, emotions of virtual world, expressions in sands.
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Illusion u r nt all tht naive, btw who is the lady in pic, wondering how u like baseball Protagonist she is sarah a colleague frm wrk, it was her sons game, she invited me over Protagonist wht about a-e, i see a certain woman in ur pics of skydiving Alterego she is Sofiya, a frnd Cycles of triangles across cities, questions typed and deleted, answers imagined and doubted. The status on facebook for all of them said single, a word that singularly did not answer questions. ********* Time passed and familiarity extended invites to friends of friends, profiles of women and man in the friends of men and woman were looked through, statuses singularly doubtful across walls of virtual screens and boxes of windows. Doubts aside, people in the world of books took a liking to the friends of friends and community of illusion extended in pictures and postings of what one wanted to see. But within the circle remained the sanctum sanctorum of buried guilt lost memories boiling anger only for the sobriquet of three. The chat room remained the secret abode of Protagonist Alterego Illusion where other faces in pictures were not allowed to enter. Illusions Chat room: Illusion wht painting r u wrking on a-e, i like the pic of last one u did, tourist street, its an exuberance of life, u shd plan to exhibit some time Alterego a landscape now, more nature less crowd, not a public exhibition for me, i m more of a hobbyist Protagonist i wld luv to see ur paintings some day Alterego both of u r welcome, anytime u r travelling to swiss Illusion yeah wld be nice, any plans prot to travel to europe Protagonist not really, not immediately, lots happening at wrk, keeps me busy Illusion same with me, really occupied with prithvi and wrk, she asks so many questions, u will be surprised Protagonist its good, smart children are inquisitive, which class is she? Illusion first grade, international school Alterego she mst be speaking french Illusion she speaks a creole of her own, kids are smarter these days Protagonist i guess they have to encounter a more complicated life
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early on, even for u being a single mother wld not be something u have a template for Illusion true, but once it happens u live thru it, its not that difficult Alterego yea, i suppose, times have changed, there are no templates for anything these days, lives are being reinvented Protagonist u r right Without even realizing, without even treading in zones of fear, without even asking questions which were deleted, the conversations in their secret chat room by mere passage of time started becoming intimate and personal. Questions which were not asked were answered. Illusions chat room: Illusion I was wondering, its strange three of us are single, neither married, and apparently if our status in facebook is to be trusted, nor in a relationship The subject was broached Protagonist is it strange, is it coincidental, or is it simply that birds of same feather flock together, even in a world which is virtual Alterego good one prot, I think the last, we are not good for marrying stuff Illusion perhaps you guys are right, its fundamental to our nature, but still, is that all to it? Questions that dont have answers are irrelevant Protagonist well i dont know, havent thought of it as much, not so bothered, maybe as a sngl mom u had occasions to think of it Alterego for me, i am happy with way things are Illusion dont get the impression that i am sad or desperate, i am happier than wht society likes to believe, a question does not mean sadness or desperation Protagonist ho, ho hold on maam, nobody said u are sad or desperate i think we are the way we are, we like it that way Protagonist its about choices we make, and accept consequences Pause; subject that was breached was promptly sealed; LoC demarcating the limit of intimacy in the world of no proximity. Communications requiring connections cannot be conveyed by typing in windows of chat at least not by the generation to which the chatters of Illusions room belonged. Life of days and chatting of nights went on as usual, till one night the potential reality of virtual becoming real surfaced in the surprise dropped by Illusion. Illusions chat room:
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Illusion hey prot, i have a big show coming up in NY, d u want to come Protagonist when is it? Illusion nxt mnth, we will launch the fall winter 07 collections Protagonist stayed in NY, he was not travelling on those dates, he could come, he hesitated, friendship on the net was going well, he feared a real meeting may not be good for illusion of the chat room. Protagonist i will come Illusion wht abt u a-e, i remember u telling me that u visit UN HQ, u can make a trip Alterego coincidentally i will be in NY nxt mnth, cant avoid the head office for too long Illusion good both of u can come, see the shows, nice clothes and pretty women Illusion we can get together for lunch or dinner Silence between lines typed, emotions reflecting from screens within windows of chat Illusion i suggst u guys also invite ur frnds, will be gr8 if sofiya and sarah come Protagonist k Alterego i will check with sofiya Protagonist of course, jean-pierre will be there? and prithvi? Silence of multiple meanings Illusion yeah shell be travelling with me, well be in NYC for a week before the launch for arrangements, she has her holidays Illusion i will send several invitation cards to both of u, feel free to invite more frnds Illusion this year well have a special show for children, will be inviting families Anticipation of the meeting hurried the questions to save the answers from awkwardness of facing real faces. Protagonist frm the pics it seems jean-pierre likes prithvi Illusion i suppose the way ur pics with kyle suggest u two r gr8 frnds Protagonist well i like him and his mom, its complicated Illusion i have thought about these things, i think i am fine with way things are Protagonist i am not sure, btw skydiving pics of a-e and sofiya looks like they are really fond of each other
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Alterego yeah we are, i still am single Protagonist haha complicated is the word for our lives, does it really need to be like that Illusion i dont know, i guess we thrive like that, i used to love paris but now i m getting stretched, only prithvi manages to surprise me every day Protagonist why dont u relocate to NY, a new city will be exciting Illusion nice thought, i can join creations NA, alterego can come to UN in NY Alterego Haha, we will rock the city Protagonist i m not joking, i seriously feel u guys shd think of it, NYC is a nice place, english speaking, large Indian diaspora in the metro, very cosmo Alterego my bosses here will like that, they dont like me here, i press issues a bit too hard, theyll love to bundle me to a desk job in NY Alterego but i like europe, no intentions of crossing the atlantic Illusion my boss will die of shock if i tell him i want to go, to be frank even i like it here, i like my job, u cant have ever ything, at least i m not that frustu that i want to run away Protagonist well, NY is a gr8 city, i am sure both of u will like it Alterego yeah thats what i hear frm folks, everyone loves NY Illusion magazines vote it as the best place for singles, especially those passed a viable single age Protagonist yes it is, u need to become a newyorker to feel its greatness Illusion anyways, will be there nxt mnth, lets feel its gr8ness, we can then decide on relocating Silence of information, fear of anticipation, prospect of being in New York; irony of the city where identity of the individual is lost in crowds became the prospect of confronting identities hidden or lost in throngs of world and memories of people. ********* Maya was surprised by the sheer happiness that Prithvi displayed since the plane landed at JFK Airport. The homecoming to another mother for the five-year-old, her excitement had no bounds, her laughter and smiles endless. Her energy suggested Maya that she felt a freedom of release from her school and Paris. It worried Maya, but she decided to be happy with her daughter and worry about imaginary worries later. Maya had been in New York before, but it was always airport, hotel and work. Prithvi was a kid who demanded care; there was no scope for
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seeing the city. For the first time mother and daughter were immersing themselves in streets of New York, the gridded streets of Manhattan imposing human order over natural chaos, and on the streets utter chaos jeering mans search for order. The cabs pedestrians sports-cars NY-buses crowds hawkers hustlers tramps fashionable cans overflowing the replete rubbish bins clanking in the complete cantankerous enticing kaleidoscope of New York City. Maya and Prithvi took the hop-on hop-off Gray Line double-decker tourist buses; they walked in by-lanes, they ate at various New York restaurants and street food outlets. First few days of their stay in NYC was a great mother-daughter holiday. Maya was happy, coldness and confusion of the antediluvian daddy question was set aside, two of them felt complete without imaginary answers. New York is a balm even for a five-year-old soul. Despite cities numerous attractions, Maya felt most connected to the Museum at Ellis Island, statue of liberty overseeing it. She felt a solidarity with pictures of migrants standing in queues quarantined for fitness check for being worthy of waking in the dream welcomed by torch of the towering lady. They got down at Battery Park Ferry Terminus. They walked the streets of financial district up to Ground Zero, hole in the Earth where Towers once stood, Prithvi stood there and laughed. New York is not skyscraping buildings or billboards or even the crowds, it is the spirit, the spirit of Prithvi. Zeitgeist of the world, crossing dreams wading through oceans of hope, nurtured and queued in quarantine of Elis Island; New York is facebook of the real world. Maya and Prithvi were staying in the New York Marriott Marquis in Times Square. creations launches were to be held in Marriotts ballroom. It was convenience of being in the same hotel and charm of Times Square that made her choose to stay in the Marquis. Maya and Prithvi had arrived a few days before Jean-Pierre, for preparations and city tour. In evening they went out in Times Square. The Times Square, the stupendous square of time, crossroads of the world, epitome of human civilization, the living breathing spirit of times, in its cleaned sanitized porn-free version, in its Good Place to be with the Family avatar, the melting pot of trans-history identity of humans, multitudes of tourists and residents in backdrop of buildings facaded with large electronic billboards, the crowd, a collage, a painting of humanity, bankers in streets, models on ramps, diplomats of nations, all fused together into an abstraction of art form called the City of New York. The kingdom of god, golden arch, gateway to heaven; welcoming you into the rapture of Ronald; I m lovin it; stock tickers zooming, sex appeal oozing, underwear adverts flickering; Nothing comes between me and my
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Heaven. If there is a Heaven on Earth its here, its here, its here; Neither in Valley of the lake, nor in Valley of the sand, but here in Valley of the times. And in between, standing tall and large, the King of Heavens, the Real One, the God of Times, the Real-Real Thing, Adding Life, Adding Smile, Always Coca-Cola, Opening Happiness; welcoming you to the COKE Side of Life; Enjoy! Howsoever many Towers they destroy, they will rise again; matter is created and destroyed; essence is the energy of time, the Eternal Square of Time, indestructible spirit of the Towers; YES! They will always rise again. ********* And once again everything in New York was New. Shows of creations had become bigger as years passed; prosperity of globalization kept expanding sales, fashion was engulfed by one large postmodernist movement of fusing haute and popular. creations was now for girl on the street. Shows became rock concerts of fashion, popular was the new haute; gigs of rock stars, of boy bands and girl bands, of rappers and hip hoppers, of punks and goths, of dance parties and electronically sounding DJs. Distinctions were lost and found, repackaged and sold, money became haute and haute became popular in illusions of the street. Bubbling in the cultural cauldron, the new generation growing up in the age of confidence, born of parents who created illusions of Arpanod and born by images of Dolly, they were the tribe of Prithvi, still young to have money, yet a source of spending power. Haute for children became popular among children, with parents competing to show off their affections. Fall and winter 2007 collections of creations had Prithvi range for children who rule the earth. creations launch was a multiday affair, every day of the week was a theme; recognizing the influence over wallets of parents, the first day was for children. It was a very different fashion event, no skimpy models, no flowing champagne, but childrens theater, stylish school wear, sports gear for teenagers, toys and strollers for toddlers; the world of designs descended for kids, fashion show for the inheritors premiered, invitees were families and the theme was young. After the show got over, chances for introductions arose, kids, families, singles and complicated relationships of future and past. The brood ran to the play area set up in one corner of the ballroom, with trampolines, slides, toy houses, air hockey, desk football, large consoles of electronic games, and other stuff for fun activities. The adults started to gather in small groups in the central space. In another corner opposite to play area the dinner was being laid in an elaborate buffet.
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Protagonist, seeing Illusion walk out from backstage, emerging from the quiet curtain, walked towards her. She was talking to a group of people who seemed like creations team the queen instructing her officers he hesitated and then continued towards the group, she was engrossed in some conversation, didnt notice him walking towards her. Hi, nice show, I liked the idea of doing skits and dances for children rather than the usual catwalk. He intruded. Suddenly for her people around the earlier conversation ceased to exist, Oh! Hi, Thank you. she said with an expression bordering on smile, struggling to smile, I am really glad you came. How are you? he asked, not knowing whether knowing every bit of her wellbeing through virtual chat counted or not. I am doing fine. A bit on toes to make sure the week goes well. it was an awkward situation, slight hesitancy of reality to get to the comfort of virtual. Lets find whether Alterego turned up? Protagonist offered an alternative to awkwardness. Yes, he should have come. Illusion said, her eyes scanning the hall. There he is. I think that is Sofiya with him. They walked towards Alterego and Sofiya. Hey, how are you? Protagonist was the first to speak. Good, nice show Illusion, He replied continuing the conversation, This is Sofiya. Sofiya these are my friends from facebook, Protagonist and Illusion. He introduced. Where is Sarah? Didnt she come? illusion asked. She is here, must be in the kids area with Kyle, where is Prithvi? I think Jean-Pierre has taken her to the play area. Lets go check whats happening there. They walked towards other end of the hall; there was shouting and screaming, the gathered children creating a ruckus of varying ages. Hey Sarah, meet my friends, Illusion, Alterego, and she is Sofiya, a friend of Alterego. Good to meet you, nice show, its a pretty range of stuff you are launching, it will be a big hit. Where is Brandon? Krishna inquired. He had invited Brandon along with Sarah and Kyle. There he is, among the kids. Sarah said, and then called out, Brandon, can you come over here, meet our host. Brandon walked into the group, another set of introductions followed. Seeing them, Jean-Pierre who was watching children play, walked
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towards the adults. Illusion did the introductions. Thank-you to all of you for coming this evening, Jean-Pierre perspicaciously said in a very conscious French accent playing the part of enigma of creations. I hope you enjoyed the show and liked our new range for children, the Prithvi collection. He continued waxing eloquence, Of course I need not mention that the whole range and idea is executed by our friend here, and the inspiration has been her lovely daughter. Illusion smiled, she liked the praise. Jean-Pierres joining relaxed the air, his style and showmanship covered the complications of introductions. He saw through the awkwardness and steered the conversation to a point where introductions were already left behind. There was laughter facilitated by his preening continental wit which melted away the cold English stiffness struggling in minds to dip into memories into smiling upper lips. Humor unwittingly brought the ease of virtual to crape reality; the group of friends enjoyed their rendezvous in the cloak of consciously woven comfort in the real world outside facebook. Conversations were around fashion trends, about children, about how different the new generation brought up with so much at ease with technology will grow up to be. They zestfully speculated on a future with intelligent clothes. Body is the cloth of soul, attaining bodily intelligence created human identity separate from the soul, what complications of social evolution will wearing an intelligent pair of clothes bring? After few minutes of small talk and fun they separated into smaller groups, Jean-Pierre and Illusion leaving them, having to say hello to other guests. Walking and chatting among guests, Maya saw another familiar face, although much changed after years, but still with the unmistaken twinkle wanting to control entropy of the world, smiling at her, she smiled back, a happy smile, a melancholic smile, an understanding smile. How are you Maya? Iyer asked. Krishna invited me for the show. He said you will like it. Its really great that you came. Maya tried controlling emotions scraping memory holes. Hema, my wife, and this is Moulik, our little one. Iyer introduced her to his family. She is Maya. How is Sejal? Are you in touch? She is doing well. She married a doctor. Both of them have a good practice in Delhi, she informed. I heard you no longer chase robots but stocks. Yes, life always has stories stored for us which turn out to be different than what we imagined.
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Yes, we wish it happens the way we want, but then that is how it is. You carry on! I am aware that being host this is work for you. I see Kalki, will just go over and say hello. He has a hot girl with him. Both of them smiled and parted. A pat on his back connecting past, perplexed memories rearranging to pretend meaning in flashbacks of reflections in rearview mirror of life; Iyer suddenly said, Hey man! Whats up? Kalki turned back in surprise, an unrestrained excitement responded, Wow! Hey! How are you man? Doing good, working with a bank in NY, and you? I am also doing fine, working for UN. Its been a long time. Yes! It has! There was another set of introductions, Sofiya-Iyer, Kalki-Hema, and another set of small talk. That evening buried under the facade of small talk and zestful conversations ran the undercurrent of unspoken words, of longing, of the nostalgic rearview reflection of life. That evening among opulence of New York fashion world, images of public violence, violence of a life left bereft of hope by perceived castist walls, of journeys taking their own turns, turning into a force of destiny not controlled by the travelers, and unknown private violence, persisted as after taste of the party. Yes! It had been a long time! The party was blossoming, families, kids, bankers, corporate executives, fashion editors, models who were not modeling that day, artists, theater people, musicians, Hollywood, politics, all mingled in an event celebrating the future, celebrating children, celebrating the promised inheritance of civilizational mantle, of unheard of prosperity, universal inheritance of dream that created the new world, an heirloom from a generation that changed the world. It was a pleasant New York evening of the new family, children playing among extended families of complicated relations, while adults being introduced to extended complications, children in their own world away from relational equations that complicated their lives, in the play area where there were no complications, no questions asked, but simple friendships and gamboling ruckus over the trampoline. Protagonist Alterego had half an eye on conversations of adults and other half was basking in the game of children. They could not let their eye off the bubbling girl child. They could not wait for their turns to be introduced to Prithvi. The guests were called for dinner, children reluctantly forced away
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from the play area by parents to eat. Another set of introductions, Prithvi say hello to Protagonist and Alterego, they are friends of mom. Hello Protagonist, hello Alterego, she politely obeyed, and then innocently added, What kind of names are these. Are you from cartoon network? I like your names. And after an afterthought of belonging she added, Actually my real name is also not Prithvi, I am the Earth. She hesitated for a moment and then completed, And I also know, mom is the Illusion, and broke out in an uncontrolled infectious laughter. Adults struggled to laugh along with laughter of Prithvi the Earth. The laughter was followed by usual adult-child first conversation in the train of how old are you, which school do you go to, which grade are you in all of which was answered politely by Prithvi in increasing degree of eroding patience till the conversation took a reverse turn. And how old are you? it was her turn to ask. I am thirty-eight years old. A very polite engaging adult reply. Prithvi being more interested in her own joys rather than adult imposters selfishly soaking in their own bliss had a follow up question, far from standard when a child and adults are introduced. Thirty-eight is fairly old. Do you have a son or daughter? They can be my friend. The answer was neither simple nor complicated, also not bliss, but stuttering gibberish conveying nothing. Maya and Hema went to the buffet to help their children, Kyle went along instructed by her mother, others stood in a loose group and chatted. Most guests, except personal friends of the hosts, had had their dinner and started to leave. Jean-Pierre and Maya were relaxed. Business and networking for the day was over; time to spend with friends. Here you are my dear friend, come here let me introduce you to our virtual community of illusion. Jean-Pierre suddenly broke out into a slightly theatrical outpouring seeing Adnan walking towards them. Such important people for me are never virtual. They are very real and very important. We have already met before, how are you? Adnan said joining the group, addressing Sarah and Krishna. Did the European bankers buy the instruments? Yes they did, thanks for the introduction. Sarah said Trust Adnan to be ahead in his game, Jean-Pierre commented, surprised of their earlier acquaintance. Trust you to be ignorant of genius of your guest. Our friend here is the sharpest financial mind in the world; banker par excellence. Adnan countered Jean-Pierre in a light-hearted rebuke. Not exactly, I really dont understand why people are so crazy about
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this mortgage stuff. Krishna said demurely. Why, you dont think they are so valuable? Adnan asked the uncomfortable question. No, thats not what I meant. They of course are very valuable. But they are complicated instruments. I am only saying people should understand them carefully. Krishna defended. I trust the bankers to know their numbers. Adnan brushed off the concern. Yes, of course, Jean-Pierre nodded. This is Alterego, and please dont tell me you have some business going with him too. He introduced. Au contraire, we havent met before. How do you do? Adnan responded warily. The two men prudently exchanged guilefully meaningful smiles of their ostensible first encounter of non-acquaintance; rus rencontre de leur non-connaissance. And our lovely lady here is Sofiya, another friend. She works for another fashion house in Paris. How unfortunate, we need to work on hiring her for creations. Jean-Pierre continued with introductions. Adnan playing along in full French regalia of Jean-Pierres urbane flirtations softly kissed Sofiyas hand. Jean-Pierre, you are absolutely right, its a shame that our friend works for competition. You should ask Maya to fix this situation. Adnan said in a soft seductive voice with an amorous look exploring Sofiyas eyes. The crowd left now was limited, everyone on verge of completing food, more discussions completing dinner, more desirous looks between dealmakers and seducers, more flirtations of models and moneymakers, more games of children and more glances of unanswered questions. But for once, ogles of alcohol did not flow to drown the complications, or to complete conversations, neither was there an after party of seduction of tangoing beauty wealth power. It was a family affair; trimmings of the day ended early; people hugged and kissed each other polite goodbyes. ********* The week passed in usual cycle of fashion shows and after parties of the familial world of creations, the family evening of Prithvi-range launch receded into fondness of memory. The last day of the launches was more relaxed, community of facebook friends met again for lunch. It was a much limited group, the excesses of execs, models, lawyers and dealmakers were weeded out. There was no theme; there was no show, but just friends getting together for lunch. Illusion, Jean-Pierre, Protagonist, Sarah, Alterego, Sofiya , Iyer, Hema,
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and the children, Prithvi, Moulik, and Kyle, all got together like a family separated in the Mela of Kumbh, dipped in the river goddess, sucked in and thrown out on other side of the world in a posh New York restaurant. Overt current of liking fought to push back the undercurrent of complications, helped by joys of children playing like siblings they didnt have. Best part of the day was gifts adults brought for them in their attempts to relive childhood. Prithvi found two good friends in New York, Kyle and Moulik, and two great friends, Protagonist Alterego, who could not control their infectious enthusiasm to turn into a child riding on rollercoaster of life, in the theme park of the world, in the city of New York. Jean-Pierre, Sofiya and Sarah, coincidently and independently, had a similar common feeling, There is more to illusion than postings on the book of faces reveal. But the subjects of their speculation were happy not to speculate. Rollercoaster of the evening that followed the non-familys sociable day out in the theme park of New York was a different story. The theme no longer children, world of fashion and creations reclaimed by adults, the diners waited and cocktails flowed. The models were back, dresses seductive and environment mixed with desire and jealousy in the after party of guest lists and hostesses of the dealmaker of creations. Protagonist noticed big boys of the street, Alterego noticed key diplomats of the nations, illusion was already used to it and didnt notice anything worthy of note in the party celebrating wealth power beauty of creations; celebrating the mysteries of human world and emotions, bankers dealt with diplomats of non-mentionable nations, people with rejected relationships chatted with each other, pangs of jealousy mixed in cocktails of memories; guests leched at hostesses of the dealmaker while his eyes followed her who wasnt his hostess. Clothes were fashionable, dealings immoral, women Aphrodite, music sensual, champagne stimulating and emotions intricate. Majesty of Illusion, faces in book of creations, lewd voyeurism of faces, not virtual but real, real lives creating their own books; intoxicating brew desiring reality of dreams. When guests and hosts returned from the party that evening there was an unknowable aftertaste, but by next morning the hangovers were pushed out to be back to business of life as usual; complicated. ********* Days spent in New York increased the intimacy of conversations in illusions chat room. Its side effect made relationships of the chat participants with non-participants murkier. Protagonist Alterego Illusion were drawn more into the virtual world of their nightly banter taking its tolls of withdrawal from their personal realities of the real world.
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The week of extended non-family had made participants comfortable with now not so secret friends. More their real-world relations and obligations tried to draw them back to reality, more they got sucked into illusions of chat. An alternate life, an alternate world, slowly developed in Illusions chat room. Illusions chat room: Illusion hi prot, how was ur day tdy Protagonist pretty regular, sarah wanted to see a show, broadway stuff, i didnt want to go, frankly dont like broadway too much Illusion was it the show u didnt want to go? or was it sarah u didnt want to go with? Protagonist what the hell does that mean? Illusion come on, i am a woman, i like gossip, tell me wazzup Protagonist nothing really, i just did not want to go, and i dont like relationship counselors Illusion who said i am trying to counsel, my interest is just gossip Illusion alright, lets cut this before prot gets furious, a-e is online, wazzup up a-e Alterego i am in amsterdam, had come to hague, some legal stuff, got free early came to ams, u know i never miss a chance to visit the van goghs Illusion good Protagonist how is ur painting stuff going Alterego going well, like a good hobby, nothing extraordinary Illusion how is sofiya Alterego must be fine, actually i have not met her for quite awhile, she is busy with her work in paris Illusion prot do u see another gossip here Protagonist why the hell dont u marry this boss of urs instead of making fun of other people Alterego good idea, king and queen of fashion will reign happily ever after Illusion to be frank, i actually thought about it once, but got over it, silly stuff Protagonist too much in love with ourselves, all of us, is it? Alterego i dont want to talk about this Alterego how is Prithvi? Illusion just managed to put her to sleep, she really likes all the stuff u guys bought her in NY
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Protagonist she is such a darling, i envy u Illusion no u dont, because u dont know how horrific it can get to raise a devil, she can be very difficult at times Alterego isnt that the fun Illusion yeah it is, on the whole, i am not complaining, with her regular school its much better now, thankfully i have a very good governess for her, Illusion she very fondly remembers u guys, wants to go to NYC again, i dont know how, but she has managed to get an identity of nationality at such young age, she asks so many questions, i have uploaded some new pics and videos of her, have a look Protagonist thats good, wht happened to our discussion about u two relocating to NY Alterego hahaha, to live happily ever after, prot man get out of fairytales Protagonist ok, but think about it, its not that we are dying this side of forty, there will be a bit of life left on the other side too Alterego as they say life begins at forty, few more years to go for the beginning Illusion life ends at forty, we will be so out in few years, havent u seen kids these days Protagonist we will be forever young, i will die a teenager Alterego nice thought to humor urself Illusion prot was born an old man, he will die young Alterego time will tell, any of u been to India recently, i was there for a week last mnth Protagonist where did u go, how is the motherland doing Alterego i was in delhi for a couple of days and in botala for another few days, delhi was mostly work, and botala i just stayed indoors, it was hot, just relaxed Protagonist i was there last year, in patna, cousins wedding, had gr8 fun, met all the family Alterego i hrd nitish is doing a good job in bihar, but jharkand is becoming messier, thats why i did not go out in botala, and of course it was bloody hot Illusion nxt mnth i will be going for two weeks, a week of work and a week off, india fashion week in delhi has become big now, there is a lot of buzz, Protagonist dont tell me about buzz, here on the street, people go crazy in excitement just hearing the word india, its the buzzword!
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Alterego hahah i think those are the ones who have not had the privilege of crossing thru our airports, anyways, yankee-indian love these days is mutual, come to UN, everyone here hates the guts of bushy, only indians like him Protagonist oh yes, last yr it was a big buzz when he visited, nuclear deal and stuff, the guy gave a ego-boost shot to our media, times of india generation was happy on being endorsed by the god Illusion a fairly disliked god i must say, at least here in europe Protagoinist he is equally disliked here in america, i think the street in NY and corridors of ND are only places who like him, i think hillary will be the next president Alterego yes the street shd be happy with him, u guys must be making tons of bonus these days, markets just keep going up Protagonist yeah times are good Illusion yeah even our sales this season has been a record, big hoopla here is tatas jaguar and landrover thing, french newspapers made it a frontpage headline, few journalists wanted me to give some nice soundbites for their india story Protagonist yeah its a big change, suddenly it seems being indian has become an advantage, hype is good for us Alterego yes it is, there are talks in EU for getting something like a US green card, EU wide, mostly to get Indians in here, there is a feeling of being left out Illusion yes, they will call it the blue card, but question is whether we will see it in our lifetimes Alterego come on, it is not so bad, they will have something in place in next five years, i hope they do something about it, immigration system here is a mess, it sucks Reams and reams of conversations were typed night after night. Conversations in general, about life, about relationships, business, politics, all dished out in nightly meals of nostalgia of love longing identity. Three people in different cities, time-zones apart, staring in dark into the light emitted by windows of screens, and behind the lights routes of emotions routing memories. In their real lives a slow transformation was being effected as the spillover. Sarah suddenly was interested in talking about long-term plans but for Protagonist journey was once again the destination. Sofiya was becoming less of a free-flying adventurer but Alterego was getting back to his rootlessness. Jean-Pierre started seeing himself as past-prime and worried about a lonely empty old age but Illusion knew freedom of love was not a treatment for loneliness.
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Illusion will go on typing about her day with Prithvi, her games, her friends, stories of her school, Protagonist Alterego would imagine the stories being told by Earth to her, through undersea connection of cables the waves provided them with the secondhand virtual parenthood experience, which knowing by emotions reflected on screens was real. Joys of a child can be overwhelming even if virtual and secondhand, sessions of nightly chats grew longer, slowly creating a double life for the chatters. Double life has its own baggage; insomnia that shows in office work is less damaging compared to confusion that forces reexamination of ones life and premises. The problem with reexamination is, it brings joys for choices that pass the current criteria of validation, but for those which do not, it cant be reversed, danger is to slip in pangs of guilt and despair. The three friends were adults enough to know that choices had been what they were, reflections are good and sobering, but sorrow or guilt for what cannot be reversed is useless; but underneath consciousness of adults the subconscious identity was slowly splitting by pulls of double lives of day and night. Next to the stories of Prithvi that dominated their chats were stories of the shared motherland. A nostalgic examination of selected narratives of a country in the back of beyond which suddenly decided to shine, not on streets of Mumbai and Delhi but in the columns of Times of New York, Journal of the Street and media Guardian of judges who decided what shined. Times in India reflected the Times Journals Guardians of Europe and America to claim a local shine; echoing chats of illusion longing for virtual shine. Enough years had passed for order and prissiness of streets of U.S and Europe to become familiar rather than escape from hell. Chaos and filth of streets of Mumbai and Delhi became nostalgia rather than hell itself. Three of them occasionally visited India, the airports continued to be a reminder of the reality which was still not shining, nevertheless the stories being told by Times, Journals and Guardians (also le Mondes) had the same secondhand seduction like the virtual parenthood being lived in the chat room. Life continued in the banks, nations and creations during days and in illusions of fatherhood and motherlands during nights. It was in this dislocation and toxic mix of reality and imagination, love and longing, that the IDEA was born in terra firma of the virtual world.

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Chapter 23 The idea

Ayn the Fountain, who had had crossed divides from a godless world to one full of gods, had with vengeance declared the divinity of man in the temple of goddess where she was naked. The old man Green came from her mle to do his tricks; markets increased their span and Dow the Jones soared like the fountain of Ayn. Green God of Greenback presiding over the calypso of caprice, monetary merry-go-round whizzing past globe in whirligigs of increasing speeds, hedging capital in increasing risks, ever raising tickers, illusionary reality of tangible ownership of intangible wealth, exceptionable credibility creating the incredible credulity of Irrational Exuberance. Markets were real but their rise was magical. Property stocks commodities gold oil patriotism paranoia everything rose to record-breaking vertiginous heights of everrising sky. Securitized papers produced on the floor of quants were sold in tons by army of the Bank across the world from municipalities in Norway to pension funds in Japan. Operations were orchestrated by Krishna and Sarah. Prices rose beyond expectations of Krishnas calculations; propulsion of paper provided prosperous impetus to the markets. Once again life nakedly displayed to him his ignorance. The papers were no longer nonliving documents, creation of the Bank, but living creatures having lives of their own; teenagers leaving parents, flying off from the nest to fend for themselves, shocking the world with their subculture of attitude, while parents worry and pray. The price of paper soared in the surrealistically turning wheels of high finance; world and the Street watched with their heads and faces turned skyward in vertigo of dizzy disbelief, but as soon as the eyes turned down again they saw the windfalls for real; realistic feelings of wealth made the illusion of soar a frenzy of opulence; the rise of price was surreal but transactions and wealth became real. Money multiplied in velocity of the Chakra. Buildings and stuff need matter to create, but credit was created in the vacuum of thin air. Man defined god by science of conservation equations, man became god by defying conservation. Matter was bought by money, energy created of nothing, and the miracle of markets cemented the faith of believers. The Gentleman in the picture in room of the Bank struggled to speak, to interrupt the self-congratulation of his boys, he tried hard to warn, but suffered in the pain of silence; unfortunately the dead dont have the privilege of voice, emotions and memories are what they live by, the curse of seeing and listening, utterly unable to intervene.
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He remembered the last time it had all happened. They all had exclaimed, EUREKA! Displacement of GOLD in PAPER, PURITY of MONEY, Specific Density of CREDIBILITY, Money Floating. When credibility sunk, markets crashed, they had come running to him. Where will they run to now? Will there be a place left to run? Nobody bothered to notice the tears of frustration floating in eyes of the picture; what the heck, sometimes pictures do cry; its not the time anyways for such trivial things. After the peremptory congratulations, bonuses were split and the bankers left to share it with their wives and mistresses. Krishna was left alone in spite. He looked into the eyes of Gentleman in the picture and felt his pain, their eyes connected in an apologetic feeling frittering for the Frankenstein they created; acceptance of fallibility of will, supremacy of fate; subprime securitization, safe credit ratings, junk peddlers of the street, hocking dreams, dark times ahead for the religion of markets; feeling of an incredible itch in the remaining bit of his Baton. ********* Illusions chat room: Protagonist the world is going to collapse Protagonist the sky is going to fall Protagonist it will all come down like a house of cards, cascading like dominos when the bubble bursts Illusion hold on!!! prot, u seem to be very agitated, wht happened Protagonist yep i m agitated, the morons just refuse to see Illusion will u tell wht happened Protagonist the prices are all unreal, stock, property everything, it still keeps going up because every fool expects that there is a bigger fool out there, its a ponzi scheme, they just dont learn from history Illusion well i dont know much about these things, but i understand that business cycle of up and down are normal Protagonist no, yes, it is more complicated than that, this one is not a general up-down, it will be a total disaster Alterego why do u say so Protagonist because its not just a business cycle, its more fundamental, curse of absolute power, supranational sovereignty of the yanks has made dollar the currency of credibility, it is abused to create credit, wealth from nothing, from notion of hyperpower, its just a matter of time a kid on the street will declare in innocence that the emperor has no clothes and then the disaster will take the world down in naked shame Illusion wow, i dont get one cent of it, but u have become a poet
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Alterego right ill!! But i am neither a poet nor an economist, but i know if prot says it will all come down, then it will, after all he is the genius here Protagonist i am not in mood for humor and sarcasm, i am genuinely frustrated by the fact that i cant do anything but wait for the disaster to happen, junk cannot be touted as gold forever Illusion but how are us so sure Protagonist because i created this shit that is being peddled as gold, the street will take down the world Alterego well prot i dont understand much, but what i know is, a tragedy that comes unannounced is disaster, but a disaster that is known will happen is an opportunity, so it cant be all that bad Illusion u r right, the other day i was reading about this soros guy, some genius like our prot here, he knows beforehand what will collapse and bets large, made billions like that Protagonist u have a point, let me think of something, u have given me ideas ********* Life went on as usual that summer, Krishna tried hard to admonish his bosses, it was time to reverse, the boom has peaked, but no one heeded his advice. The President was hated for the failing war in Iraq and ever-increasing gas prices despite blood spill of American soldiers to control it. The political logic did not make sense to a society addicted to the guzzling lifestyle. The housing boom peaked, there were irreverent talks of possibility of prices going down; liberal media and political opposition encircling for the big kill. Casualties in Iraq mounted; markets started showing failings; some banks lost value on fears of overexposure to subprime bonds, albatross around their necks; Bombings in Bagdad, crashes on the Street, anger of crowds, all building up for the meltdown. But President and the Street kept their faith; a surge of faith in military and markets, in the war and in stock prices, more troops on ground, reinforcements of more blood spill, deals with sovereign funds, deals with oil money to buy into declining stocks, more money printed, house-price decline arrested, stock markets once again rise, making good the losses of hiccups of skepticism, deals are also made in Iraq, neighbors decide to take a respite from killing their neighbors, surge is successful, oil is pumped again, faith is reinstated. The doomsayers skeptics ignorant communists in liberal garb, all proved wrong; atheists, not knowing gods will, not believing, all left
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gasping in surprise as the military and economic might of the Wall Street and Capitol Hill displayed their vulgar prowess to reclaim the world, to refuel the boom. Krishna was unable to fathom events of that summer, he couldnt make head-or-tail of it, there were no secrets, financial institutions across the world sat on tons of junk, it was all known, oil prices pierced the hundred-dollar mark, but still kept rising like fumes from a burning well, in earlier times increases much milder had created global recessions, but now the world continued gulping gas in gallons, statistics were all published for everyone to see, sovereign and household debts across world had become unsustainable, yet everyone happily borrowed more, the world hated the guts of United States, people on streets of Arabia wanted to kill Americans, yet their Sheikhs kept buying into American stocks, and United States kept fighting unpopular wars on printed dollars, millions lived in homes on verge of default and foreclosure, specter of eviction hanging over their head; Yet! Yet! The stock markets reversed the decline and continued its extemporaneous rise again. Illusions chat room: Protagonist i really cant understand this, it is crazy Illusion wht happened now? Protagonist the markets have started rising again Illusion so u shd be happy Alterego it seems our frnd was short, has lost some money Protagonist no, thankfully i did not bet on my own logic, that is not the issue, question is why the hell is market defying all logic Alterego maybe ur logic is wrong, and the markets are right Protagonist no, gimme a min, need to chk something, brb Illusion i dont know about market logic, but i can tell u one thing, the world has gone crazy, everyone just keeps talking about this share or that, this property or that Illusion models backstage in dressing rooms now-a-days exchange tips on stocks rather than make up Alterego wow!! that is something, bimbo stocks Illusion shut up, u mcp, i am not kidding, and in india it is even crazier Alterego oh, u came back frm india, how was ur trip Illusion gr8 things are changing fast there, it was good for creations to be in india early on, so now we lead the market, everyone else is trying to get a foothold Alterego yes it was a smart move
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Illusion even society is changing fast, hit designer of the week ronit, who was a creations find, openly came to the events with a boyfriend of his, it was cool stuff rather than a scandal Illusion ronit is a good frnd of mine, i felt good about him, poor chap lived a life in closet for long Alterego hahaha, it is like a fashion in the profession of fashion Illusion stop being boorish, chauvinist pig Alterego apology maam!! Alterego prithvi must have liked it in india Illusion she had a great time, she always has a great time in india, nana nani spoiling her. Illusion wht happened to prot, are u there? Protagonist yes i am, just listening, and wondering Illusion dont wonder so hard, its just good for everyone that the market is going up again, why do u want to become a satanic preacher Protagonist ok, ok, tell me more about ur trip to india, have they done anything about the airports Illusion the bad news is that it has become more awful, because they have broken it all over, made it messy, chaotic construction going on, it took me three hours to get out in delhi Protagonist and the good news? Illusion that is that they are finally doing something about it!!!! i liked the boards that they had everywhere, construction in progress please bear with us for a better tomorrow Alterego OMG! always ready to bear, one billion people patiently baring, LoL! Protagonist sorry guys, i need to go, this thing is really bothering me, need to do some research, take a dip in the data Illusion ok, good luck, dont strain too much Krishna had figured out that the rise of was unsustainable, it will crash. He had spent enough time on the Street to have his insights into the real nature of money. There are theories, of value, of supply and demand, interest-rates and velocities, but most fundamental is credibility. A combined social faith that makes paper worth its value, the faith in global system to exist and survive in perpetuity, faith in the might of United States to enforce the system, the value of dollar. In the past monies have collapsed with collapsing faith in sovereignty of the issuer, there had been hyperinflations in the world before in nations in turbulence. But the power of United States is unprecedented in historic context, there had been empires before, larger and bigger in relative power, but never before had a
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state such authority that paper it prints is gold for the world. U.S was fighting wars, against terror, against rogue regimes, for oil, for continuing its supra-sovereign power, for the continuation of its authority to print gold. Wars need money, U.S printed the war, through a chain of economic interconnectivity the paper ended up in markets on the Street, riding on blips via routes from killing fields to factories of doom, from Walmarts of suburbs to manufactories of hinterlands, from despotic regimes of oil to gas stations and banks on streets, ever demanding increased rent-seeking for toils of complicated international travels; for supra-sovereignty of power. Bankers of the Street sold securities de-risking the toil, returning dollars back to streets for buying houses of dreams. Prosperity of civilization, rising markets, created on the premise of a war fought on printed gold, gargantuan racket conceived by supra-consciousness, individual participants playing their parts unaware, a complicated edifice of scattered plots concatenated through the web of chains of credibility. One snap in one weak link, one default in one straddled plot, will bring down the whole cycle in a dramatic motion of reverse spin; it was a matter of time, it was inevitable; the trick was to figure when. Krishna was once again in the zone, one with his source, his life with boxes on the quant floor duplicated, he was in his secret world of research, creating patterns in data, not shared by the Bank, writing algorithms to simulate the crash. He was deep inside data and patterns of markets, not only financial instruments, shares and bonds, but all kind of markets for which data was available, property, gold, commodities, oil, even prices of coke and cakes. He was mapping it to bankers data of international fund movements, dollars and treasury bonds, sale and purchase, foreign-exchange prices. He immersed himself in the illusory world of real numbers floating around in chaotic turbulence, on occasion concentrating at some crystallization point, causing the turbulence to become a storm, random numbers moving in similar direction cascading into extremity to tear the turbulence into a pattern of concentrated rise and fall, before breaking into turbulence again. Krishna the software engineer who had tried becoming Krishna the physicist but became Krishna the banker turned himself one more time in fractals of finance and sensitivities of credibility to become Krishna the Chaotician. Once again the time stopped as days and nights combined in the foodless sleepless pursuit of the pattern, and then finally he saw, he had his insights once more; he saw the fluttering butterflies in movement of monies at points of inflexion on the Chakra of source. Fractals of trajectory turning in the cycles of Karma of stock-market
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capitalism in printed financing of the power of dollar, supra-sovereignty and credibility of the international system, history of free-market business cycles of relentless repeats, busts and bubbles, the myth of perfect markets, chaos of chirping. ********* Illusions chat room: Illusion hey prot, where were u? why didnt u come online? Protagonist i have figured a way to know the timing of crash Alterego congrats, u will soon be rich beyond ur dreams Protagonist it is not that simple Illusion wait, i dont follow Protagonist the world seems random, but it has a method, it is a chaos, but not random Alterego the poet is back Protagonist shut up and listen Protagonist patterns of chaos is in the movement of money, invisible but real, blood flow in veins of the world, it flows in its own pattern in electronic grids of payment systems that connect the banks, it is unseen but if one can see it and decipher it, it tells the real-time story of future Illusion can u see it? Protagonist no, no one does, except the Biggest Brother Illusion dont be literary, i am a simple girl Alterego i get wht u r saying, post-9/11, the US govt. has connected its snoopers in the payment systems of the world to fish out movement of dirty money, they intercept everything Protagonist bang on! the FATF and OFAC filtering is a complicated interconnected layer laid over the payment grids for policing the flow of money, Terrorist Finance Tracking Program (TFTP) tracks all SWIFT transactions and messages, all national payment systems too Protagonist payment system of the bank has a bug, a redundancy bug, invisible and dormant, Ill try not to be too technical, its like this, different computer systems work on different sizes of word length for their languages, to talk to each other they need to translate, in the process some redundant letters lie around, duplicates, i can fetch these and use them to gather information from TFTP, and relay back patterns of movement of money across banks to my box, but i need access to the Biggest Brothers machine Illusion didnt get a cent, all lost in translation , but say u have access, how can u do this thing with redundancy bug of urs, i dont get even a bit of it
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Protagonist u dont need to, but just know that i can, because i wrote the code of the system, it is the chakra of source Alterego hmmm, interesting, u got something here, i have access to the Biggest Brothers machines, i can get u a backdoor entry Illusion its my day of being lost, wht is this now? how the hell do u have access to those machines Alterego because machines only tell where the dirty money is going, it does not follow people or catch them who dabble in blood-tainted money, which is the dirty work i do part-time for the Biggest Brother Illusion i m not sure whether i want to listen more, i dont want more dirty secrets to be spilled here Alterego yes like u conveniently dont see what goes in dealings of ur bosses at creations Illusion wht d u mean? Alterego i mean the deals of the dealmaker Illusion i will not talk about it Protagonist hold on u two Protagonist it is good news a-e that u can arrange access to the Biggest Brother, i can do the rest, wealth will be created like phoenix from fall of the empire Illusion wont it be illegal, they will trace the money and come for u Protagonist yes that is the critical piece that needs to be solved, i can move the money real fast into real gold, in safe heavens, but it leaves a trace, it can be found Alterego i think that can be arranged Protagonist wht do u mean? Alterego if ill helps me in putting a mole on the dealmaker, then soon i will have enough material to make a deal with the Biggest Brother, they will let u walk free, the dealmaker adnan is the key Alterego all we need is some pictures of him and his guests with big boys of the Biggest Brother, and dump of his memory stored in pda he carries Illusion and wht do u propose to do? Alterego give sofiya a job at creations, place her near to adnan, she will do the rest Illusion that is possible, but what if we do all these things and nothing happens, say the market does not crash, sooner they will find out our snooping and we will be in trouble Alterego ill has a point, last time also u said it will go down, but it
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came back up again Protagonist yes that can happen, if the fraud of crude credibility is sustained, last time the markets recovered because arabs with tons of oil money bought in the bank shares, they cant afford the system to crash because then oil prices will crash too, everything is interlinked, and it will go on till the chain is sustained, but it will break some day, it cant be finagled endlessly Alterego if i understand u correctly, then u are chasing a long shot, the trick here is not to wait for the chain to snap but to snap it yourself so that u are sure of the crash Protagonist that cannot be done, how will u do that, how will u ensure a major player in the game defaulting, u just need to wait for a default Alterego dont jump to conclusions, i m not talking about forcing a default, but we can create situations Protagonist wht do u mean????? Alterego once again the key, adnan Illusion ??? Alterego it is adnan who arranges deals with sheikhs and bankers, these are complicated bargain deals with oil money weapons stocks all changing hands between people who legally cannot trade, one of his deals strategically leaked to the right people will block it, it can accelerate your defaults Protagonist i think i am getting what u are saying, wait for patterns to show an inflexion point, and then expose one such deal at the right moment, one delayed payment can bring the whole thing down Alterego adnan is the rosetta stone, i will ask sofiya to get in touch with ill Illusion i really dont know why i am doing this, why i am not logging off, but i will get sofiya in On streets, in gangs around the globe, teenage boys dope and break windows to create their identities in shared bonds of becoming men to face the bad world. In political protests and riots around the world, decent adults become lumpen of the revolution to prove their illusionary identities in spate of violence. Rootless drifters in search of dreams find millstones of conspiracy to create semblance of identity. A shared purpose in immorality is the bond that creates meaning in an otherwise meaningless existence; depending on numbers included in the shared scheme language nominclates the bonding.
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Few is crime, few more is organized crime, even more but less than acceptability is cult and terror, in respectability it is social and business organization for or not for profit, in mass it is religion, and draped in concepts of boundaries and sovereignty it is patriotism. Legality of nomenclature is judged by the biggest and strongest of them all, the creator of law, the first among equals in the bonds of conspiracy, the nation-state. The conspirators of illusions chat room did not feel any remorse of immorality because they were nation-less, above the law of states which arbitrates the morality of individuals, the laws are simply rules of the game, winning is the purpose, rules are for bending, curtseying. It was not about the money, they had already made enough, would continue to do so; it was not driven out of greed, as wrongly presumed by people not in the know of real nature of god and devil and are mesmerized by the illusions of identity, of false sense of wrong and right, of virtue and vice, good and evil; It was simply to have a gig of their own, it was for thrill of the game; It was because it was possible. The conversations in Illusions chat room soon moved from the secondhand parenthood experience and reflected shines of nostalgic homeland, to the real nitty-gritty of virtual conspiracy. The scheme was executed in real and virtual worlds. Protagonist got access to machines tracking fund movements. The Chakra connected to the Biggest Brother and the dormant-redundant alterego bits and cloned bytes came alive in the darkness of invisibility, and travelled to the screen becoming fractals of music. An imagery of symphony played in movement of mathematical patterns; fractals of finance trapped by the Chakra forced to dance in the windows of his computer. Sofiya started working with creations as an organizer for shows. A random-looking allocation placed her in charge of events of the dealmaker. Questions asked-unasked, answers answered-unanswered, relationships existent-nonexistent, were all pushed in the backdrop of more critical and interesting game of preparation, to crop the loot, to be the Schadenfreude Vultures, to have the flight; to be the ransacking Barbarians at the Gate, embezzling the Empire. The bond that had started with connections on facebook, cemented by parenthood and shines, developed into edifice of a bridge across an ancient un-crossable divide, by engineering of conspiracy, opening of forbidden windows, patterns from the Chakra, downloads from creations, sources of forbidden stories. The Biggest Brother was no longer alone in watching. The conspiracies, forbidden stories, dual life of real and virtual, multiplicity of existence, creating meaning of immortality in immorality, all took its toll, relationships of real world suffered further while bridges of
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virtual grew across divides. ********* Monsoons in Mumbai, splashing waves against the promenade of Gateway of India, slight drizzle amidst winds fluttering trees in gardens of the Taj Mahal Hotel, restaurant viewing the freshness of rain, secured in the luxury of classical decoration and liveried waiting, ignoring the water-logged disruptions elsewhere in the city. As soon as Krishna completed ordering the food, Bala asked, So how have you been all this while? Finally became a banker? Not a physicist? Krishna had traveled to Mumbai to set up vehicles, multilayered organizations of shell companies and offshore trusts to move money around, to hide the loot of coming crash. He had called Bala for lunch at the Taj Mahal Hotel where he was staying. On the phone he had just said, I have a business proposition for you. I am doing fine. Yes, ended up becoming a banker. How is your practice going? How are the other guys? He had a long list of questions and limited time for catch-up. Practice is great, the country is booming. Good flow of work from U.S as outsourcing. Bala answered. Raj and others at source are also doing fine. I hope you have not sold off your shares. I mean the company just keeps growing. source is my largest client, I meet the guys often. We all remember you. Even I remember source a lot. Some time I will take few days off in Mumbai. We will do a reunion. Yes we should do that. Everybody is so busy with their own lives. We hardly get to get together, non-work I mean. Bala felt a bit nostalgic, Remember the good time we had going to Gangotri. Yes, it was real fun, it was there when I went again with Raj that I got bitten by the academic bug. Bala smiled, I remember, what a shock it was. Tell me, what happened, why did you leave the school? Its a long story, will tell you some time, but the short of it is that I ended up in the Bank. Ok, as your wish, and what are you up to in the Bank? Several stuff, mostly quant on fixed-income side. Wow! So you do all the incomprehensible models. Drinks were served. After the waiter left, Krishna continued, I have some work for you, personal. I am listening, go on. I need to set up a personal offshore trust in Mauritius.
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Bala suddenly became stiff. The offshore trust was not an issue, most companies do it. Mauritius is the favorite destination to route investments in India; what made him twitchy was the personal part of it. Is there any advantage of routing personal investments through Mauritius? He asked. Well there is, I would rather leave it there. Ok, I dont have any issues, I will do as instructed. You can sign me on as your accountant. Krishna then explained him how he wanted the companies and trusts structured; he sketched out layers of holdings and domiciles of the Prithvi Trust. Bala heard in silence, he knew the scheme was much more complicated, much more stealth, than required for tax planning of personal investments, even for corporate investments. Krishna was drawing a web of holding-companies, subsidiaries, shells and trusts, across tax heavens of the world, in an intricate pattern of interrelated crossholdings. This is not to evade the tax-planning radar, this is to hide from the world completely, he thought, but chose to remain silent, to let his questions linger in his mind, he continued staring at Krishna explaining the structure. You get the paperwork ready for hiring you as my accountant. I will sign it before I leave. Krishna concluded his explanation. This will be a lot of work, I expect you to put in a good number for fees. Business is business, no concession for friends. Both of them smiled. I will. Bala was sober and serious. We will need to meet again. This is complicated stuff. No we will not. This whole thing is confidential. I dont want Raj or anyone else to know about this. No phone calls, no emails. Then how do we communicate? We keep watching each others status on facebook, anyone who needs to talk makes his status as I wanna play in Mumbai rains, you will then get an invite for Illusions chat room, my handle is Protagonist. We talk there. From now on, all our communications will follow this rule. Main course was served, they ate their food; there wasnt much conversation. Bala was perturbed, he wanted to ask a million questions; he wanted to run away. But he did not. He just made a mental note to create the paperwork that keeps his part of work within confines of law, within the very-dark-gray confines of law. He wondered what his old friend and colleague was up to. Its been a long time, times change, people change. They finally finished their lunch and said goodbyes. Make sure you take care, dont get into trouble, Bala concluded before he left.
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It was a quick trip. Krishna was fewer hours in Mumbai than combined up-and-down New-YorkMumbai flight and time spent in airports and taxis. Throughout the flight he kept staring at the screen of his laptop, studying patterns of money movements in international payment systems. Krishna had built the Chakra, he was a quant, but despite his love for numbers and familiarity with international money flow and platforms, he was intrigued, he had not seen anything like this before, not even in the data thrown out by accelerators and telescopes of the school. The global money flow is a world as complicated as mother nature itself, as complicated as nerves controlling humans, as dynamic as flow in arteries and veins of men and women, in fact more, more chaotic, more beauteous, much more mysterious, outcome of thousands of people making small decisions in thousands of places, a system that does not have a day or a night, a flow that is awake to wherever there is sunup in the world, the music of an uncoordinated symphony, much more moving than a perfectly conducted orchestra of the most masterly written concerto; rules of returns surviving the economic selection, non-divinity of money but greed to evolve further; is it conscious? Next day Krishna was at work tired, his body was traveling across time zones, his mind dancing in fractals. His colleagues had started noticing a change in him, he was constantly fatigued, had become less social, he no longer showed excitement at impressive co-relations the quants mined out from the world of data moving in time, he was no longer excited about rising markets calculating his increasing bonus. The biggest change, he even became loath to engage in his most satisfying activity, of intellectual discourse with fellow quants on some nuance of sophisticated mathematics of money, or helping a young fellow stuck somewhere in equations of high finance. The quants had noticed the change, but boys in the boardroom manacled by greed were so blinded by the rise that they didnt have time to deal with the disengagement of their star, creator of the work of art that soared around the world. The only one from boardroom who noticed was Sarah. Sarah continued to sell subprime-bundled securities. The clientele had widened to include churches and charities. She was congratulated in review meetings by Krishna along with other colleagues, but she found something slipping between them. Krishna no longer was concerned about stability and family, he no longer seemed to be attracted to her, he continued being a good friend to Kyle, but something about it had become pretentious. Sarah encountered him at lunch in the Banks huge cafeteria. Where were you this weekend? I tried calling, but your phone was switched off. Sarah asked, coming towards his table with her food tray.
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I traveled to Mumbai on spurt. Some college friends were doing a reunion. They called me and I went. Strange, who goes all the way to Mumbai and be back in two days. He laughed, I do, just did, live life by the moment. I felt like going, guys were having fun, so I went. They chatted eating their meals. Finally, Sarah determined to broach the topic troubling her, spoke, Krishna, what is wrong? Nothing, what do you mean. Dont pretend. It is obvious. You are troubled, whats up? Nothing really, just a bit worried about mortgage securities defaulting. You know, risks have increased. Krishna, it is not work. If you dont want to tell, its fine, but dont pretend. Sarah, why shall I pretend to you? Friends are for sharing troubles, not for hiding. Perhaps you want to pretend because it is something you dont want to share. She took a bite and let silence linger. Krishna did not reply. Maybe something to do with another relationship, she spoke again. Why do you think so? Because I feel you are pulling away from me, avoiding me. I am sorry if I made you feel like that, but believe me, it is not you or any other woman. I am just a bit tired, worried about the Bank. Ok, I will let it be there, just take care whatever it is. Seeing the question slip away Sarah knew the answer, she wanted Krishna badly, she wanted to marry again, she to her desperation realized that the ship had sailed away from the shore; she couldnt figure out what it was; she didnt know of the secret nightly chats, however she had a feeling it was somehow connected to the Illusion of creations who she had met during the New York fashion week. Krishna never mentioned anything about his online friend anymore, other than an innocuous connection on facebook. ********* In an innocuous-looking caf in the largess of Paris, Sofiya and Kalki sat in a quiet corner, there was excitement of meeting after a long time, and an anxiousness of secret uncertainties. Slowly sipping his coffee, glancing around the caf, scrutinizing the environs only by movement of eyes, Kalki said, its good, you have moved close to Adnan. Sofiya nodded slightly, yes, she had moved close to Adnan, she was among her main hostesses in after parties of creation.
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It was some time back when Kalki had called and said coldly, We are ready to move you undercover, just send a job application to creations for the role of event organizer. Things will be taken care inside creations, you move close to one of its bosses, Adnan. Your brief till I contact you next time is to embed yourself in his circles and parties. Make him fall in love with you, trust you. It was a very professional tone, not betraying any emotion, or was it not betraying a lack of emotion, she had thought after the call. It was her choice, it was she who wanted to get into the game, she had been preparing for various roles since Kalki had promised her a birth in the world of spying, but what came was a surprise, she hadnt expected it to be like that, it was the consequence of her choice, she just acknowledged the instruction. Kalki had hung up saying, We will no longer be in regular touch. We have to be careful. I will organize a meeting or call you at an appropriate time for further instructions. She did not hear from him for a while. She had managed to maneuver herself into places where she was supposed to be. She was in Adnans parties, she guessed, guests were a bunch of very powerful people, it was written all over in their demeanor, she didnt know who they were, they were not public faces. You were there in the Milan with him, how was his day? Kalki questioned. Kalki had suddenly called her and instructed to come over to a working-class caf in midtown Paris in the afternoon, Take the metro, dont drive, was the only other curt comment. I spent most of my time on the boat. He had some meetings in the city in the morning. I wasnt there. In the evening he called me onshore, we went to a nightclub, he had some guests. How many? How many men, how many women? How did he introduce them you? Two men and two women, the women looked like escorts. How do you know? he had become a very different man, cold emotionless questioning. Professional intuition, she answered sarcastically. Ok, and the men? There were only first-name introductions, seemed like artificial names. Adnan just said they were friends, he said the same about the women. Ok, good, now you need to move to the next steps. The boss, the handler, continued, Have you slept with him? She wasnt expecting this to happen, the question came as a bolt of
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thunder, an introspection of reality, an insight of changed relationship, Yes, it was a cold stunted answer, there was silence as both sipped on their coffees, Are you jealous? she completed. No, an equally cold reply followed, I am glad, you are good at your job. Yes, job. Start making reports, names you hear, conversations you overhear, number of guests, men women, their nationalities if you can make out, their accents, skin colors, heights, clothes, complete descriptions of all his parties, make him take you to all of them, make him feel proud to show you off, make him feel young, get into his innermost circles, get pictures if you can, find out the passwords of his laptop and PDA, know anything and everything. Kalki was slightly excited, speaking fast. He controlled himself and continued, And be careful. Yes boss. Sofiya said austerely. There are a few other things, Kalki was serious again, speaking slowly, This will be our last meeting for a long time. We will not call. If you have some update or I have something to say, we will just make our facebook status as I love Milan. You will then get an invite to Illusions chat room. This will be the only way we will communicate. I love Milan, ok, She accorded. Kalki paid the bill and they left. He drove and she took the metro back. The days passed, and after every after party of creations, virtual names declared their love for Milan, information was passed in nightly chats of illusion, slowly he started seeing the emerging picture from feeds of Sofiya, finally Adnans world was unlocking itself in a pattern that all the hardening and cynicism of Kalkis multiple lives was still not prepared to take, with every bit of additional information the entangled web of global deal making was revealing itself in multitudes of dark deceptive conspiracies. He didnt know whether it was information being fed canned with things he didnt want to know, improbable immoral connections, evidence of conspiracies, invisible deals, or it was his imagination not knowing of a particular closeness between the dealmaker and information hunter, which once again started his internal agitation. His soul restarted its flights to no mans land in between his divides. He longed for the drug, he controlled his longings; he channeled himself more to his paintings. The immigrants noticed his decreased enthusiasm for their cause; it was blamed on acceptance of helplessness of floaters in ether against might of the states controlling entries on borders of real. His handlers in circles of espionage he crossed were getting wary with reduction in feed of information. There were groups of people in secret who weighed risks and benefits of taking him out of the field or taking him
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out. He knew too much, there was suspicion of double triple multiple crossings, the crosses were tolerated till he fed fodder to the machine of intelligence, but information now dropped. Fortunately for Kalki the question was parked to let time answer, and he continued being an agent for nations, His handlers not knowing anything about information he was now collecting. With every feed from Sofiya Kalki grew powerful, he was building the power of silence which could buy rule of the world. With every feed of Sofiya he knew she was closing to the source; it was building a violence inside him that could destroy the world. Kalki maintained balance in channeling his silence and violence in multicolor paintings increasing in use of red and black. He maintained balance by maintaining a semblance of normalcy in work of Nations. He continued trickling information reduced in quantity but of increased quality to maintain his relevance for securing his life and liberty with intelligence of nations. He maintained balance by keeping his drawers locked with dopes of information, by controlling his wayward hands which struggled to break free from his torso to open closed drawers. ********* Mayas life also changed after the duality-non-duality of real-andvirtual hit her in full force. Prithvi continued to be the shining smiling beauty of her life. Their trip to New York had freed her of the possessing spirits. Identity is creation of consciousness; the daddy question was solved by Prithvi herself, she had met her foster fathers, Protagonist Alterego in NY, the meeting confirmed they were real, rest was the work of imagination and lack of further encounters; release of the spirit from a solved question created a vacuum filled by not-one-but-two answers, she said she had two daddies, it wasnt imagination, the gifts that came in couriers from NY and Geneva were real. Her friendship and excitement for Jean-Pierre decreased, for no reasons of identity and patriotism, but for the sheer fact that real cannot be imagined by will, and someone who came to meet her often did not have the charm and interest of imagination. But more than Prithvis growing disinterest in him natural as she grew up and found friends of her own age Jean-Pierre was bogged down by an evasive Mayas coldness and increasingly professional behavior. The god of youth became a collateral casualty of the conspiracy of chat room, his age grew for the first time since he was an adolescent, it grew fast to make up for the lost time. But old age instead of killing ego generally enhances it, he was the god, age or no age, they will come to him begging, he was not the one to declare love to god or fellow human, or an illusion, or Maya, his self-love was overwhelming overpowering enough not
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to have such petty emotions. Maya meanwhile hid her emotions of love, confusion and sympathy behind the draping professionalism blinding her from her rapidly aging boss. Business of the day needs to be run, with rising markets sales of creations continued increasing, not revealing the inertia that made it rise in-spite despite because of the tired sleepy disinterested Global Brand Custodian of creations brands, whose life had split to rise in the nights of illusion. ********* Illusions chat room: Protagonist bala has done a good job, prithvi trust is ready, we can stash away billions invisibly Protagonist i have devised complicated trades on behalf of companies created by bala, i will put margins from my source shares, these are in millions, leverage them to make trades in billions, will be triggered before the crash and settled after the dust settles. Alterego what happens if trades u make are with people who perish in the crash, who will u settle with? Protagonist that is the trick, counterparties will all be banks, they cannot fail, they hold the jugular of society, the Biggest Brother will settle the trades, and will let us walk free Illusion if i understand correctly u r saying government will end up paying u for shorting the markets Protagonist it is technical, the government will bail out the banks and banks will honor their trades using the money they get from the government, world will survive everyone will win, minor bruises compared to unprecedented prosperity that capitalism has brought, art is perfected by its minor faults that is the beauty of it all Illusion i think it is ur bloody poetry and romanticizing that has sucked us in this unholy venture of urs Protagonist i think it is our quest to know the true nature of things that make us take the path of adventure and risk Alterego hold on mr byron, not so fast, we might still end up being behind u know wht Protagonist well i think i might welcome that specific journey too, although hypothetical at this point, u can nevertheless not deny, it will add to wholesomeness of experience of life Alterego ur sense of irony and pun makes me shiver, anyways it will not come to that, sofiya is doing good work, she is getting real close to the big source of divine revelation Illusion yes thats right, there is a big creations event in dubai, and
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adnan has a big secret guest list for the after party, i think this is the big one, oil, wealth, bank, weapons, terror, nations, boys from everywhere will be there Alterego yes my sources also tell me something big is cooking, the Biggest Brother is involved, we get an inside scoop on this one, lay hand on adnans pda, we will have enough ammunition to shit scare the respectability of global system Protagonist i have to tell u, the feed from chakra also is throwing up pretty ugly stuff, under the very nose of the Biggest Brother, dirty money being moved, permissions of promiscuity of conspiracies Alterego yes it never was wht it appeared to be, wht are ur patterns predicting about the fall Protagonist there is still turbulence, nothing crystallizing, i think the rise will sustain for some more time, but when it does not, we will be prepared, but for now it is patience Illusion goodbye guys for now, hope to crack the code in dubai this time, ttyl Protagonist ok bfn, take care u two Krishna logged off from the chat and tried to sleep, but his mind was flittering in thoughts while his body turned in postures struggling to find slumber. Half dreaming and half awake he thought about the conspiracy, he thought why are things the way they are, why were his securities still selling, did not the theory say Lemons dont sell, what happened to the efficiency of information economics, the advantage of powerful, of the insider, why even they are not able to see. He wondered of the aftermath of coming crash. Will the Biggest Brother save the world from itself? He pondered about the morality of his plans, about the Illusiveness of happiness. Buddhas mistake, foregoing attachment is foregoing sorrow, a state of neutrality in which happiness is also sacrificed; is a state of joy detached of goals possible? Happiness and sorrow are sides of the same coin; you take both or burn both in the pyre of detached neutrality. Is there a possibility of hedging for happiness? Being hedonist in success and philosopher in failure? What is the cost of this option? Anxieties of philosophical self-doubt, pangs of material living? Smarts does gigs, nature and size depends on opportunities presented, usefulness or destructiveness, goodness or evilness, is decided in a historical retrospect, far removed from motivations of smartness and semblance of forces that create circumstances. Wisdom debates the nature and causation of events of history, from differential influences of supermen at one end to fatalistic determinism of integrating multitude of wills at other, while the truth gets lost somewhere in between.
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Autocorrelation in patterns, statistics of correlations, probability of statistics, normal distribution of idea energy crash; game of life is the trick of translator broker of information; rise and fall is the destiny of Karma, the wheel moves, men have illusions of being the movers. Smartness is to guess the moves of destiny. Destiny of Chakra is to track ahead of Karma. Struggling with closed woken eyes, wanting time to pass fast, desirous of knowing the end, for cards of life to show their colors; patience is the most underrated virtue; life drifts in fates fatigue, a web of determination and freewill, supported in its drift only by patience. He wondered what dark forces within him were motivating his actions greed selfish-gene kick-ofthe-kill power money means end; But to what END? Krishna popped in a sedative pill to sleep, he was to be back at work in the morning, he needed his rest; his bodys ability to suppress external chemical instruction in its own rhythm completely free of his conscious control was a humbling realization of his helplessness. Thoughts poured in his mind defying chemical reactions of the pill inside his brain. Casualty of duel of thoughts and chemicals was logic and congruence; he wandered in an imaginary world not knowing whether he was thinking or dreaming. He thought about motivations of men, in deciding upon actions, in his own reflections. He started comprehending types of people. People started to get divided into categories, real and not innocent shallow immature faithful fanatic intelligent smart not trifling talk and adjectives to brand those around him, but real men. From types of people around him his thoughts wondered to his own type. How often had he dreaded drudgery of daily and mundane, hoped for drastic and melodramatic, but when it strikes, cultural inadequacy bites you in the face, you become frozen in stress. The traits of guilt shame appropriate in social context is deep, howsoever hard you try, declare them finally vanquished, they have a habit of surfacing again at most unexpected of times. Your heart then pounds in complete contradiction of whatever logic conscious self can generate. At the end we continue to be creatures of deep and hidden layers of programming, sociocultural bio-genetical. In the end the lyrical actuality of rhapsodic rationality is not what it appears to be.

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Chapter 24 Energy
The after-party parley was stressed. Not the habitual cheerfulness of company of comely women being enjoyed by hidden layers of visible power. Guests were the same but the air was tense. Adnan was trying hard to hold on to order and perspective. Sofiya was hanging around making increasingly small talk and hearing growingly large talk. It was a private lounge in Burj al Arab. From the top floor the view of lights of Dubai reflected the wealth of desert booming in skyrocketing oil prices and real estate. The evening earlier was a regular fashion show of creations. Maya had felt the tension Adnan was carrying, she had pretended not to notice; the show had gone on as usual but soon after dinner Adnan moved out with a group men and Sofiya to the private lounge. To Mayas surprise, the regular hostesses that accompanied Adnan in his after parties to entertain his guests were dismissed early, only Sofiya went along with him. Jean-Pierre looked tired and left after dinner. It wasnt the usual chirpiness of after parties. The ballroom was forebodingly empty by midnight. Maya retired wondering what was making her bosses so visibly tense and nervous, her mind speculated on conversations that Sofiya would overhear with Adnans guests, she tried to sleep; she was disturbed by an unknown fear. Sofiya was the only woman in the room among half-a-dozenodd middle-aged men of European and Arab descent. She wondered what made Adnan retain her during what seemed like a very serious conversation. She was running errands, serving drinks, trying to make herself useful. She suspected Adnans intention of having her there was to have feminine presence for the slowdown of degeneration, of the situation, into a manly brawl. She was already a confidante of Adnan, was introduced around as his girlfriend, was trusted enough to hang out serving drinks and making small talks to keep the larger conversation on rails. Invisible and inaudible to the guests were seeing-and-hearing bugs sewed in a neat camouflage in her purse, a piece of equipment supplied to her by Kalki. The anxiety in the air mixed with the sobriety of multiple drinks and the weight of stakes played. Angry accusations of defaulted promises, lost payments, oil futures, weapons, war, terror, were words which were invisibly spoken. Sofiyas visible visage was the maiden hostess among creatures of power hungrily quarrelling over prize of the kill; her inner self was concentrating on the proceedings in shock. A very angry frustrated white man, pinstriped suit, top executive from corporate world, most probably a banker, was talking, Look gentlemen, I
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need to get payments for settlement otherwise the bank will go down. It was your bet to short oil, prices did not fall. We need to settle. He said querulously, looking in disgust at the Arab in dark-colored jacket with face wrinkled in frowns. Before the Arab could speak in his defense, Adnan spoke to Sofiya who was walking towards them with refill of drinks from the Bar at other end of the lounge, Thank you so much sweetheart, will you wait for us at the Bar. Clearly, the conversation was going into territories where no one could be trusted, moreover others sitting around the table in opulent leather couches were jittery of her presence. She smiled and walked back towards the bar conveniently forgetting to pick up her purse from the side table where it lied idly listening seeing the unseen unheard. As soon as she was an earshot away the Arab defended himself in riposte, I was committed delivery based on the generals promise. Is it my fault that you guys continue to make a mess of Iraq? Production there is nowhere near promised levels. Dont blame Iraq, another white gentleman, who was addressed as the general by the Arab, refuted. His style and demeanor suggested he was a high-ranking official in the U.S Army in Iraq. We misjudged the prices. Its the Chinese gulping oil that has taken it so high. You dont try to get out of this general. The Arab retorted back, his voice slightly raised and agitated, With blame it on China excuse. Where are all the pumping wells that you promised? Invisible words heard by inaudible ears; ill-starred speculation in oil futures on promises of increased supplies from wells in Iraq were foiled in heavy loss because prices failed to drop, payments were in default. It was a precarious situation; the specter of waiting flick at edge of the precipice was haunting the conversation. Gentlemen, there is no point in quarreling. Fact is we are all in this together. We can keep blaming each other for what went wrong, but we need to deliver the oil or settle trade. Adnan interceded. Yes. The first white guy agreed, Right now we need to put eighthundredmillion bucks on the table, else all of us will go down taking the world with us. Where the hell do we get eight-hundred million in liquid money? The wells are not pumping. There can be possibilities. Another Arab, with a beard and the only person not in a western-style suit but a Thawb and Shemagh, said. What do you suggest? The earlier Arab asked. I can get the Iranians to supply at prices we quoted for delivery. We can, will, make it look like its Iraqi production. We will smuggle the crude to Basra. The bearded Arab was serious and staring into the eyes of his
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listeners, he had a mesmerizingly terrorizing glance. The general will look good, he gets nearer to his targets for Iraqi production, and we save ourselves from default. The question is: what pound of flesh the Iranians will demand? A silent listener in the group asked. The bearded Arab replied; Today afternoon, Adnan and I, we met a person from Iranian intelligence authorized to deal, he has a list of demands. Adnan nodded, he was quiet during most of the conversation. His role was more to keep the balance, create trust for everyone to believe each others representations. And what is it? The general asked. Basic stuff, we should be able to do. The Arab continued in his same stern menacing tone. We will arrange for crude to cross the border. Payment will be in hard currency deposited in offshore secret accounts. They want to use the proceeds to procure sanctioned stuff, mostly military, list of weaponries. We need to arrange delivery. They are OK from wherever it comes, East Europe, Russia. Getting the oil in Iraq, I can arrange. The general said, But what about the rest. Payments can be made wherever they want. The banker added. Trick is the arms sale. I can get some people in East Europe to supply. Our friend needs to make commitment that U.S Intel will let it pass. Adnan said looking towards another white man who was quietest in the room. Ok, let me know the details, we will not snoop. He finally said to divert the multiple glances that were staring at him to hear an answer. But I also need to earn my living. We need the Iranians to tame their dogs in Iraq. I also need the sheikh to commit that he will deliver the Qaida guys in Iraq. The man continued with an air of high authority. Gentleman, source of this problem is that Iraq is in a mess. We cannot pump out enough. If we, I, get commitments that bloodshed there stops, we all are happy. We can decide overlooking a few sanctioned trades, price for peace. I can get the deal going. Iranians are more interested in building up than to fight. Sheikh can get information on al Qaida in Iraq. The general takes them out, and with Shia hooligans controlled, peace will return, everybody looks good. We go on with prosperity-creating economic activities. Adnan summed up. Others in the room were silent, conversation was moving towards making commitments, How sure are you that the Iranians will comply? The white man asked Adnan.
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I have got a promise from the plenipotentiary. They will get Shia militias to stop fighting. It works for them. They want to get a friendly government in Iraq after U.S reduces its presence. Only condition is, we dont insist on surrender of arms. The militia will hide arms. Iranians are hardened and leery. Another thing they want is, for me to pledge the deal with my life. I will do it. I trust all of us keeping our words. Adnan spoke raising his glass slightly, Shall we then say, all of us are in agreement? The imbroglio was broken. There were nods in assent, Yes, OK, and I dont think we have alternatives, And Also, This works best for all. In the art of reciprocal back scratching and devious deal making, it was acquiesced to deliver oil and to supply a cache of weapons, in lieu of payments to make good loss of speculation made on promise made ineffective by the militating impertinence of markets and an unending war; the deal for peace and prosperity was made under the radar of sanctions and morality. Deal done, tensions eased, drinks flowed again, not to create the burdensome soberness but for the relaxation of promise reached. Adnan asked Sofiya to join in. He breathed in relief and continued drinking after the cabal left. Sofiya comforted him. He badly needed the reassurance of world turning normally. Sofiya sensed the gravity of situation that makes the giant of such games tremble. She tried soothing conversation pretending to divert his attention to more relaxing things, but shock of the corner he had fixed himself in, and wangled out of, made him speak. Relaxed by the drink and caressing of Sofiya, gates of his minds innermost dungeons opened in tte--tte. Forbidden words were let past in sultry-tasting voice and recorded in forbidden parts of memories in head and hidden in seams of leather. Sofiya helped him to the room. He crashed into the bed for awakening into a less-dangerous more-orderly predictable tomorrow. He dreamed that he had not locked his PDA, he dreamed secrets hidden deep within memory of sands stirred, he had a nightmare of leaking names accountnumbers sums from the hourglass, sand leaking from one cone to another; patterns of conic sections, deals of creations; the eavesdropped stories of sand travelled through cables of glass wireless-and-wires to breach one and to settle in another unspeakable world. ********* Back in Paris after the Dubai launches Maya noticed the snowballing change refashioning Jean-Pierre. He had considerably aged in short passage of time. His interest in work dwindled; he was visibly bothered. Jean-Pierre suddenly started feeling insecure and alone; while creations
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grew in size its founder found himself old and in search of love. His godly aloofness of self-love was dented by the motley elusiveness of Maya. He longed for the illusion of real love. The relationship equation between the boss and protge changed to diametrically opposite. Maya became the mystery and Jean-Pierre in pursuit of confusion. Even Prithvi was growing up into distance from her old best friend towards imaginary fathers across oceans; the fascination for fantastic breeding contempt for familiar. His work slacked; his output of designs declined with fast-growing reverse-aging purchasing power of consumer behavior. Maya slowly took charge as the de facto creative director. Her sensibility resonated more with sensitivities of the new-age customers of creations. Increased sales made Jean-Pierre richer; increasing wealth receding him into a former god; gods on earth changing guard. Adnans pecuniary hardships and badly tangled deals in forbidden worlds were adding further injury to his grief. The mess was spilling over into creations financial condition, but invisible because of the continual growth in sales. Boom was the savior of a delicate situation, personal and professional for Jean-Pierre. He became more dependent on Maya to run his empire. He became more human and real in his conversations with her while she withdrew more to her secret online world. To get her attention, to win her trust, to come close to her, and to soothe his own soul, Jean-Pierre started to leak secrets of Adnans guests, the dirty deals, unholy alliances, opportunistic promises; all of it was silently noted and fed in the chat room during the nights. ********* Meanwhile in New York, Krishna was busy studying patterns thrown back to him by Chakra. He was getting more intrigued as velocity of lines moving around, depicting global fund flows, steadily climbed skywards. Markets continued their unprecedented rise. People around the world in historic amnesia believed it will continue forever. Economists from the towers of ivory haloed it as a reflection of the changed world, few of them talked about moderating and stabilization, but bust was a dirty word, a forbidden taboo. The dissent in discourse was more about politics, a movement against the war, which earlier was muted and restricted to liberal circles, was building up in U.S and Europe, spilling over in general public discussions. Obama the hope was riding the tide; the skillful surfer with his surfboard of oratory synchronized his steadfast climb with the rising wave. Lives in un-owned un-earned houses had whetted appetites of masses in the land of dreams (where wishes were once granted by bloody selection of the
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invisible hand), to demand visible fulfillments granted by hope, to selection of those who got out-selected by hand of the market. In an action-reaction political sequence, while the markets rose to zenith of capitalism, socialism crept in like seeping thoughts of utopian illusion, in market places and town halls, exploding the crowds in orotund cries of Yes We Can. The specter of a left-leaning liberal government the Europeanization of America was already a conversation in rooms of the Street. A shrill fear ran in spines of analysis, imagining changes of assumptions in spreadsheets of valuation. The relief, Hillary still leading, system is powerful enough to moderate the worst. And markets continued to rise. Patterns in Krishnas computer grew further in size and velocity. Conspiracy of darkness on either side of midnight thickened further in chats of nights. Strings in relationship of Krishna and Sarah grew accentually strained. Images of Prithvi and her imagined life, fueled by stories relayed in chat, made him more withdrawn from Kyle. His enthusiasm for securitized sophistication of instruments of quants completely dropped. Sarah sensed a strain of guilt when Krishna saw reports of deals made by churches and municipalities, pension-funds and charities; hidden expression of the man unwittingly releasing a curse on the world, nor deciphered, neither understood. She tried hard to salvage the situation, she repented not being more open to her emotions and agree to propositions made in happier times, she was glad she did not heed to emotions then, cooling down and breaking up was less painful. Question she couldnt answer was: whether course of things would have been dissimilar if her decision was different? Was she right about un-sustainability? Or it became unsustainable because she hedged for sustainability? They were bankers, they placed bets for a living; they knew that bets reflexively affect prices. Causation of events and emotions in markets and life is complicated to separate, at the end what matters is what happened, the fact was that Krishna had gravitated to a world invisible and forbidden to her. And fact of the market was that it kept rising in defiance of logic. ********* Illusions chat room: Illusion wht does ur chakra say? Protagonist it says the doom is nearing Illusion world thinks differently, markets are rising, even creation sales are rising for no effort of ours Protagonist i know, it is unreal, it is a bubble which will burst soon,
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maybe six mnths Protagonist we need to be ready, obama got the nomination, he is leading the polls, its sending shivers on the street Illusion do u think he can really win? i doubt yanks will elect a black man Protagonist i dont know, but there is a big dislike here for bush and cheney with iraq and afghanistan in a mess, but who knows Alterego wht happens if surge in Iraq wrks and bush suddenly looks good Protagonist that needs to happen and more importantly, the economy needs to survive till election, i dont think it will, war will be a nonissue, dems will blame bush and chaney for the mess, street will panic further, it will all create a domino effect Alterego i dont like wht u r saying, this guy is bad for everyone, i dont want him to win, he has all fucked-up liberal notions about the world, not good for India, he will reverse bushs good work and then sing all the old songs of proliferation and Kashmir Protagonist i know, he is also a protectionist, frets a lot about outsourcing, but still i dont think he can do any major damage Alterego wht d u mean? Protagonist come on now, u know, liberal or conservative, way modern governments work, it does not make much of a difference who wins Alterego i think i kno wht u mean, Ive seen them cloning in photocopies of each other in India Protagonist exactly, that is the point, overall he seems to be a decent guy, would be good PR for america around the world Alterego yes the soft power shit Illusion ok lets not get too deep into american politics, focus on job at hand Illusion was all the info i sent u useful a-e? Alterego yes very useful, i have information from various sources now, a clean look behind curtains of power, i clearly see conspiracies that will shame even gods Alterego we are ready now, sofiya managed to get some secret files, its a holocaust in there, u can kill the president and go scot-free Illusion i get the same feeling lately frm my boss, he is tattling tidbits, i dont know all details, but the whole business is bad Protagonist wht is it? Alterego no, dont ask, its bad, knowing it is even worse, u will not
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live ur full life Protagonist hmmm then how do we use it Alterego leave that to me Protagonist ok, hope u know wht u r doing Alterego yes! we trust u with ur part, u trust me with mine Protagonist of course we trust u Protagonist how is prithvi Illusion oh! she is doing fine, cooking her own small conspiracies of growing up Protagonist good, i really want to meet her again Alterego no, no contact till this is over, in fact we need to cut down on chat, only in critical moments, this is getting dangerous Illusion wht about sofiya? Alterego she doesnt know the whole story, still she will be in danger, i will arrange for her safety, she will disappear into a new identity, i will arrange it Illusion wht about u? will it be safe for u? ur relationship with Sofiya? Alterego i will arrange for my safety, to walk out as a price for silence, sofiya will be past for us, no more contacts after this ends, we will arrange a large sum for her to live a good life Illusion i am afraid, we are staking too much Protagonist no, we are playing high stakes, its an all or none game Protagonist i had a breakup with sarah, if u can call it that Illusion ??? wht happened? Protagonist we grew out of each other Illusion Jean-Pierre and i had a breakup Alterego good, we all will continue being single, that is destined Alterego prot how sure u r of the crash, wht happens if it does not happen Protagonist yes it may not happen, if the government sees the obvious, and cools down things in a controlled manner, but the party is too gr8 for anyone to break Alterego wht if the party is real, and ur speculation wrong Protagonist yes there is a chance of that, there is huge money lying around the world, oil wealth, boom in asia etc., this money can come in when things start going bad and prevent a crash Protagonist main problem is banks and institutions dabbling in
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subprime risk, if they are bailed out by governments, or sovereign funds of asia and ME, collapse might not happen, it can be stabilized Alterego so whts plan B Protagonist nothing, life will go on as usual, i will leave the bank in few years, collect my bonus and go, i suggest both of u do the same, slowly move away from creations and intelligence, bury the secret forever, we will miss the big game but no harm done to anyone Alterego hmm ok i have a plan B, a lot of money tainted in blood goes into markets, adnans disk has trails of it, if a push is required i can disclose it to certain people in a way that many of these deals will collapse, someone will default in a big payment Protagonist that will not be making money of the crash but engineering the crash Alterego insider trading with hacked information is more illegal than informing proper authority of illegal activities Protagonist ok, if there is a large default, push will create the domino of collapse, everything is to be timed properly Alterego yes i will do that, we are set Alterego we will have to discontinue our chats, if anything critical put ur facebook status as lonely and sad, illusion will open her chat room that night, also no more sending gifts to prithvi, nothing that relates us to each other Alterego just let me know a few days in advance when is ur chakra ready for the push, some accounts with heavy monies around the world will be frozen, payments supposed to be made out of them will default Alterego better still, we dont need to talk, just make ur facebook status I love Wall Street, i will initiate actions at my end, and make it Sad and Lonely when u think we are ready to deal with the biggest brother Protagonist ok, alea iacta est what is caesars will be rendered to caesar Alterego bloody poet u r, anyways goodnight, remember, no more chats, or any kind of contact unless it is really necessary, the Biggest Brother snoops around every where Illusion ok, best of luck, goodnight ********* Kalki was tensed, his mind pondering over the next steps, it was a delicate affair, everything had to be handled with assiduity, a matter of life and death, biggest gig if pulled off in victory, lifetime of imprisonment if it fails, he was worried, he kept his focus, he kept his thoughts organized, he made a mental list of stuff to do, prioritized his actions, he was not only responsible of his own security but of his friends, and of Sofiya.
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Kalki called Sofiya, there was a surprised answer, I thought we were not supposed to call, she said wondering, What happened? Nothing to worry, but we need to take precautions. Kalki started instructing her straight away. She felt saddened; he didnt even ask how she was. You need to get away from Paris as soon as possible. Go to Russia, call creations from there, tell them you are resigning, make some excuse, your mother is sick, and you got a good job. Call Adnan and say you will not be coming back, you have reconciled with your boyfriend in Russia and you are madly in love with him. Settle this stuff in a weeks time, disappear in Russia and conceal your whereabouts. I have created a numbered account for you in Geneva. Its got some money now; you can access it from Russia, from anywhere to get funds. Just lie low for some time, possibly a few months, maybe more. I will transfer a big amount, a really big amount in your account after several months, arrange for you to have a different identity. You will then be a rich free woman with a new life. Forget your past, restart, wherever in the world you want to be. Is that all? Why are you so cold? Will you not even meet to say goodbye? Kalki could feel a slight sob, irritation in her voice. I am sorry, but this is how it needs to be, it is for your own safety, then after a few minutes of silence he said. Ok, on your way to Russia take a flight from Geneva. Take a train to Geneva. We will meet at the airport. She felt a saddened finality of the proposed meeting, she was not sure whether she wanted to meet, Ok, will we ever meet after that again? she could not resist asking. I dont know, we still have lives left to live, I dont know of future, but surely not for several years, it is too unsafe, trust me. He did not want to talk further and said, I will hang up now, see you in Geneva next week. And he disconnected the phone, hearing the disconnected tone she let her tears fall. Kalki pored again over the information he had collated from various sources and transferred by Sofiya. His head probing, spinning in disbelief, somehow he had been able to suspend reality of what was in front of his eyes screaming to be acknowledged in all its nakedness of ruthless ethics of power and violent manipulation of history, and attended Illusions chat sessions and his daily course of life. But he was no longer able to push back stories screaming to be heard, he was back staring into the abyss of conspiracies pointed to by the words and figures of dealmakers data. History was no longer imagined by gods; it became a collusive deal struck between darkest forces within men by communion of vested interests in the quagmire of conspiracies religion state ideology patriotism faith devotion facades meant to hide the horror of corruption, of power and immorality, of lust of wealth; gullible masses following the creed of faith in dedication till death.
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He reflected his own life. He felt infuriated. He felt sad. He felt the pain of manipulation, violence of dedication. Kalki was not able to resist his urges, more he read more his hands were pushed towards the locked drawer, his head spinning, his eyes seeing the pattern, his heart feeling the pain, the death the violence mobs riots assassinations wars terror planes crashing into buildings. The locker opened; a syringe and the drug. He saw pictures, he heard whispers of conspiracies, he felt his shame, he felt used and humiliated, an animal, a gladiator in circus of the world, handled by men of power, directed to mayhem and betrayal. He didnt feel the needle prick, one hand injected another; the drug flowed in veins to his brain in boiling pith and his body split once again in explosion fanning vanes of vision. His head seeing pictures, his heart longing for love, his eyes crying in shame of guilt and pain, his limbs shivering in anger and humiliation. Emotions mixed and flowed with drugs in vain. He stood in front of his canvass painting in large strokes of black and red. His life flashing in chaotic red and black, entangled with revelations of stories stored and transferred in memories of sand; slipping in hourglass from one cone to another; mixing life both ways in sinister shadowy secrets of dark. Disembodied divides of his doped-up immigrant mind structured and well-preserved, his source of stability, what he knew and what he did not want to know were all breached like a breaking dam drowning the land in a catastrophic flood, his divides had been breached before, there had been times when he wanted to know things he did not know, he had felt the pain of not knowing before, pain of thought, but this was different, a complete blowup, mix-up of two liquids harmless separately but explosive when commingling; he suddenly knew all he did not want to know, all he had known he no longer knew. His body split in ethereal explosion of mixing memories, known and unknown. His limbs, his torso, his head all flew in violence within his apartment; cadence and calisthenics of cycle of chemicals circling in his blood. His legs walked out in cold dark snowy streets of Geneva to secretive banks with lockers buried in secrets from past; dungeons of resting places for deals of carnages not imagined by gods. His legs carried two separate sealed packets, manila envelopes to be delivered and locked in two separate secret lockers. His hands were painting in strokes of red and black, right with red and left with black, on the canvas a backdrop of white. His hands painted the bloodshot eyes of Kali straining the pristine silence of canvas in violent loud strokes of black and red. His eyes saw the violence, energy, dark mines of Botala where dust is gold, Wells of desert where water is gold; His eyes saw gold, in solid, in liquid, in black on the
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palette. His heart was beating in rhythm of the drums of Dussehra, filling the room with pulsating rhythmic beats of loudness, of violent denial of love and love of violence; his heart in final breach, creating melting divides, telling him all he had refused to know. He was helpless but to listen to voices of explosion in his head; his ears listened nothing but increasing loudness of the drums of Dussehra; his ears hearing the poetry of violence in loudness of the beating His torso lied still in bed with his baton in furious erection of the pumping blood. His torso carried the hurricane of chemicals twisting in his veins. His head was in the museum in Amsterdam. His head was in the body of the artist, feeling the pain of expression. His mouth had a smile which stared into the eyes of Kali painted on the canvas. His eyes had a smile that couldnt be deciphered by glare of the mouth of Kali staring from the canvas. His nose smelt the rotting corpses of history; his nose smelling the pain of broken love. The world drowned in sound of the drums of Dussehra, dum dum dum-duma-dum dum, loud pulsating, rhythmic and repeating, drowning all vision drowning all sound save the stench of violence. His legs instructed the banker of secret vaults, on receiving which instruction, in what cipher, by what means, which packet in which locker, needed to be delivered to whom. Bankers of the sepulchers, hidden deep in the Alps of Switzerland, were trusted by the legs of Kalki, like legs of many before, to safe keep their darkest secret; of conspiracies, of history. His hands continued painting the face of Kali, who was black, her tongue hanging out licking blood dripping in red. His hands held the paintbrush and knife to stroke black and red on the backdrop of white. His eyes connected with eyes of illusion of unmentionable names, his eyes struggled to pull out from eyes of the spy who loved to betray, spilling in sands of time. His heart continued to beat the drum of Dussehra in violence and anger. His heart feared for what he knew from the sands of time. His ears heard cries of the crash. His ears heard the screams of torture; if they knew what they had heard. His torso lying in bed, longing for death, his baton collapsing in sadness of waste, chest laid with fear of disenchanting destiny, not to die but to reconnect in flown-away parts of his body again. His head was in the brothel in body of the artist, his heart wanted to present its love;
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His lips smiled at the tongue of Kali, his tongue hanged out pushing against hers; Her mouth smeared in redness of still-wet paint, his nose smelling blood; The world drowned in sound of the drums of Dussehra, dum dum dum-duma-dum dum, loud pulsating, rhythmic and repeating, drowning all vision drowning all sound save the fear of love. Mission of the legs done it returned, hands had painted the face resting with brush and knife, eyes now connected with the eyes of kali letting go its other connections and struggles. Ear irritated of drumming of the drums, fearful of the intensions of head; Torso in pain struggling to die, reliving to reconnect the body parts back again, head drowned in the thoughts of gift of love. His mouth stared at Kali, her tongue hung out; her nose smelt wholeness, his body reconnected again. The world drowned in sound of the drums of Dussehra, dum dum dum-duma-dum dum, loud pulsating, rhythmic and repeating, drowning all vision drowning all sound save the ecstasy of beat. He saw the tongue of Kali which did not talk but drank, color of his life, neither white nor black; Color of life red bared forever, painting sheep black-and-white. Bla Bla Black Man, have you any dope? Yes sir yes sir, three lockers full; One for the Biggest Brother, one for my friends, and one for the mottled Mahisa lurking down the lane Dolly Kali white-and-black; anti-immigrant adverts, snowy peace of Switzerland, sheep white kicking out black; White Nights, Black Swans, Dothey-Exist? Kali death time Kaal personified energy Shakti feminine spirit in its destructive form, high on sucked blood of Raktvija dancing the dance of destruction, could not be stopped before the universe is obliterated but for prostrating Shiva. Beating the drums of Dussehra he knew the answer to question asked in the museum in Amsterdam; He knew the time had come for his gift of love, for uprootment of the cause of pain, his left hand held out his tongue from his mouth and his right hand hacked it with the knife it held. In climax of private violence for painless public silence Kalki sliced off his tongue.
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In the strike of knife Kalki slashed his tongue which bled in his hand and blood filled his mouth and overflowed to smear the face of Kali on canvas where the backdrop of white became invisible in the flow of red. His nose smelled silence; mucous blood in his mouth became blandly tasteless. Mouth wide open percolated with pale palette of bright blood engulfing seas and skies, planets and stars, the universe floating within his palate where tongue used to be, drowning in the darkness of drudge; Asura Medhira swallowing space; silence of cosmic creation; snapped strings of divine tambura; he finally found his peace. Choking suffocating gasping Kalki came back to his senses in silent strangulating pain; he stuffed cotton in his mouth and drove to ER of the local hospital. The intern was shocked to see the red cotton stuffed in the mouth of a silent man, with a piece of sulk red meat in his hand, its electrocuted expression telling the story of a flaccid cut tongue. Doctors cleaned the wound and applied disinfectants, the cut tongue clotted and bleeding stopped. He was injected with painkiller for relieving the nonexistent pain. He had to fill in forms, he wrote the cause of cut an accident, the doctor guessed there was more to it but he couldnt press for an answer from the silenced quenched quiet mouth. Kalki didnt feel remorse or sadness for his action, his loss. Next day he walked into the office a voiceless man, a soundless shock for everyone, answers to all questions was the card he carried in peaceful patience. Cut off the Tongue Accidently. Apologies; Cant Speak. The whole office was astound demanding explanation, but like the doctor, was faced with a tongue-less silent bland tasteless mime, which replied in closed smiles not revealing answers to questions asked. ********* In a few days the taciturn shock subsided. Kalki was transferred to a desk job which did not require many interactions. His replacement informed the refugees and immigrant communities, with whom Kalki worked, about the accident. On the prearranged day he went to meet Sofiya for the last time at Geneva Airport, he found the airport to be serene instead of chaotic interaction of nations, its peace, coexistence of love of fellow humans travelling in the world, an expression of essential unity of humankind. Sofiya was shocked, her eyes stared in disbelief as he showed her the card, she wanted to talk, she wanted to talk forever before the flight was announced and he was lost, but he could no longer talk, he smiled, an expression of love, joy of meeting, sadness of parting, all captured in a silent smile. She had tears in her eyes when they kissed a tongue-less silent bland tasteless goodbye.
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His handlers from intelligences appeared in shock, meeting them he mooted the mute point; they were shown the same explanation. They were left with no choice but to write-off their prime asset in Europe. A terse tongue-less agent is no agent, and with the loss of tongue Kalki was released from circles of espionage. Remnants of his social life also disappeared; he had nothing to speak; no small talk to make. Kalki enrolled in a sign-language course to learn communication, although he could speak enough to get through essentials of life like buying tickets etc., but he preferred silence to the guttural of gruff noises in alien sounding language spilling out of his throat, its meaning conveyed only after several repetitions. Within weeks he was in perfect and complete silence learning language of signs. Essentials of his office life carried on emails; he was not surprised to realize how less a hindrance is an inept lack of speech in the desk job of stoically pushing files through the labyrinth of Nations. He didnt miss his work with immigrants; already tired of pushing people across borders his peace was the solace of pushing passages of periphrasis in silence. There were no conversations during anodyne lonely lunches eating insipid rasp food. The awkward tasteless terse silence also avoided Rebecca. He was glad to be out of his multiple existences. He spent his time painting. Color again returned to his canvass in beautiful melancholy of red yellow green blue black white. His paintings no longer violent, he no longer wanting to destroy the canvasses when finished, his techniques improved, his paintings approached impressions and expressions of a professional artist; he was glad he fell, the sum total of experience more than the whole, more fulfilling and complete; consistency of personality, total internal reflection, black body radiation, absoluteness of black-and-white, grays of life. Art became his new source of life, he wrote stories of humanity in colors of his paintings; for the first time of various attempts to paint in life he was satisfied with his work. A silent satisfaction devoid of taste; and the piece of Cut Tongue silently locked away in a Locker in the Banks of Switzerland. ********* It was a fund-raising dinner hosted by volunteers action group Indian Americans for Obama. Krishna had no real interest, at least not a passionate interest, in politics of America, for that matter politics of anywhere, but he still went to the dinner. It was more for networking, to get the right connections. The sponsors and guests stood chatting before speeches and the sit-down dinner started, gossip ran about largess of sums raised, discussions focused on subtle intricacies of political positions, but for Krishna best part was to meet many of his past acquaintances and friends.
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Hello! So! Long time. A familiar voice suddenly greeted Krishna, it was Vinod. Hi, how are you? I read all the great stuff you have been doing. Krishna greeted back. Great stuff? Me? Or you? The Street is making world go faster. Whats your take? Will it crash? I dont want to talk about it, its crazy. Krishna avoided the burning topic and came back to topic of the moment. Good to see so many Indians actively involved with politics. Yes, they are the next generation. They have opinions this way or that. I dont understand, for me its all the same; till they elect a government that lets me do my business. I suppose, the first generation does not come to U.S because of an attraction to politics. You leave home because you did not feel much for politics anyway, thats what makes you come here. But I thought you would be more on the Republican side. Well! To tell you a secret, I come because its plain simple good business. I went to the McCain dinner for Indian Americans too. And to be fair, my campaign contributions to both guys are equal, a debt I owe to this country. To be a good citizen, a participative citizen, participating above my taxes for the opportunities given to me, exactly the same amounts to both, not an ounce less nor an ounce more, to either, a pound of flesh without spilling a drop of Christian blood. Bla Bla Brown Clone, have you any dough? Yes sir yes sir, three accounts full; One for the Biggest Brother, one for my family, and one for the naughty boys running down the lane Krishna smiled at his thought of stupidly rhyming simile in response to Vinods poetic evocation of a Venetian reality. I didnt know you had a Shakespearean streak in you, Krishna laughed. Yes, like you had the academic bug, but I dont let mine distract me too much. Anyways, what are your reasons for coming? I think, same as you, more to meet old friends. I mean I still have not changed my passport so I cant vote anyway, but its good to know the politicos. Yes, I suppose so; the vote really does not matter. Dont pretend that you ever voted back home. Would you have voted even if you had a passport? Perhaps not, but I have noticed an interesting difference in nonvoting here and back home. Krishna contemplated on other side of democracy, the hidden side, the patterns and analysis of nonvoting side. Back home it
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is generally more prosperous people who do not vote. Here it is the reverse. Interesting observation, is that true? Maybe its about who feels her vote will make a difference, I dont know. But tell me one thing; do you really feel that nothing much will change if Obama gets into office? Oh Yes! I have seen enough, the modern-day politics has evolved. It is a consensus of prevailing sense. Can a politician or an economist really tell me the difference between conservatism of Reagan Thatcher and liberalism of Clinton Blair which replaced it? And I really dont want to know, till good sense prevails and they let me do my business as usual. As they say, Money has no odor. Vinod replied sagaciously. In the modern liberal democracies of our nation-states it is not the change of policy or anything substantial but the continuity of change that makes the exercise of elections relevant, democracies have their Hoovers and Greenspans of the world across governments who ensure the inherent strength of states to sustain in continuity buried in facade of changing governments. Suddenly some announcements were made; organizers requesting the house to get in order, for guests to take their seats. Candidate Obama arrived, stood up to speak; a language Krishna immediately recognized amidst crowd of clones, from IIT, from source, from the school engineers doctors lawyers academicians bankers businessmen politicians amidst next generation, voice of hope, hope of the clones, from the god of clones, it was not the hope of policy, it was not the promise of change that Krishna heard, but the hope of opportunity, hope of dreams, the promise of rising for what you are, and not what you were born; the promise of America; aphorism of America. Obama the Hope continued with his prepared speech of all good stuff he had to say about Indian Americans and India, usual stuff rambled at usual meetings, to be reported next day in Times of India, to be ogled by a generation waiting in never-ending lines, spending nights in queues outside the embassy and consulates of The Great United States of America; Waiting in hope, hope of the visa; YES WE CAN! There were other speeches, a lot of clapping, and a lot more money raised, drinks and snacks were served, and floor was left open for networking of small and large talk before the dinner started. Jefferson the Father who owned Hope created the Trilogy of Life Liberty and Pursuit, Washington the General, by his grandeur of office created a Nation out of Colonies of Old, And Franklin and others Fathered a Federation of dreams,
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Lincoln the Lawyer created a Bloody Messy Argument for the Freedom of Hope, And the Manifest Destiny created from Coast to Coast the United States. Edisons Wrights Rockefellars Morgans Railroads Immigrants, Inventors Industrialists Robbers Barons all toiled in dogged pursuits creating happiness of empires, Roosevelt the Elder waited till Infamy to fight the Mahisa and a True Man created the Mushroom, Kennedy the Catholic Hoped for the Heavens and was killed because Hope was not to be Free, Nixon of Watergate Wedged the Evil Empire by Climbing the Great Wall and Ending a Fleeing War, Reagan the Actor unleashed the Terminator to Freeze the Cooling War, and Bush the Senior Declared a New World Order, Peace and Prosperity for all and for soaring of Bills Baton, and Bushy the junior defroze the war frying it in the fire of oil, And amidst all this Finally Hope ran away, landing in the land of dreams, to create its own pursuit. Man created The United States of America, Who needs a God? God created man, man created religion, religion created God. AND the evening ended with Hope evoking the mandatory; God Bless America. Krishna on his way back from gabfest thought, why only America, why not world, because identity of state has hijacked soul of its biggest rival, identity of religion, yes, god is captive of power, of men who create, run, states, his blessings allowed only by their mandates, he smiled at his thought, he switched on T.V after he reached home, he flicked from one news channel to another, he was assimilating world in his thoughts, he had become news addict, television, Internet, anything, everything, he was scanning world in information overload provided by networks of Arpanod, he was looking for clues, he was looking for patterns, is world as it always was, has it changed, is he wrong in his assumptions of coming crash, is instead what is coming real end of history, is he misguided, has technology, globalization, really changed things fundamentally this time, is it for real, information streamed into his consciousness, Bush Obama Hillary McCain, Sarkozy Blair Brown, Greenspan Paulson Chaney Rumsfeld, Collin black man, Condi black woman, Gates not of Windows but of Wars, Putin, Russians once again flexing their muscle, mullahs making bombs, discussions on politics, speculation of post-American world, resumption of Great Powers era of preworld-war Europe with rise of rest, circumvent shameful change to international understanding, for apparent fair recognition of historical unfairness, nuclear deal signed, prolific bargaining,
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backdoor entry ticket to what should be rightful front-door entry, even more shameful, drama, theatrics, relic of communism pulling rug from below government, rug kept in place by horses traded on floor of house, surge in desert, uncanny unreal peace, guerrillas from erstwhile jungles of solitude, mutating into mess of drones, car bombs in mountains of Hindu Kush, blood spilled on both side, failing to mutate, remaining innocent, spate of public violence, Benazir, another assassination of another family heir, heat of South Asia, general, Musharraf, finally falls from his multiple games of deception, Zardari, widower instead of widow, but accounts in same banks, much more greedy, much more corrupt, not handicapped by foreign birth, Mr. ten percent, swelling secret amounts, indo-pak hyphenation de-hyphenation, continuing of never-ending story, promise of darkness in promised land, grand arrival of ancient civilization, grandeur of Olympic games, dazzling world in awe of future, not far away from games, plateau of peace, land of Buddha, young men, monks, rounded up killed, by state, totalitarian state, absolute power, absolute perfection, absolute corruption, by future respected by world, in once serene valley, riots, bloodshed, still trying to settle old partition, Maoists in hills of north, in jungles of center, to east military junta, new capital, not so new repression, continual vocabulary reversion, visitations of separatists secessionists insurgents militants terrorists Jihadist, freedom-fighters, no end to jargon of violence, land of Karma burning in rage as ever, million mutinies continue raging amidst flowering of million dawns, amidst religious riots, amidst airconditioned malls, telescopes in space, global cooperation in scientific endeavor, moon mars, nothing is far off in front of human will, accelerators underneath, matter antimatter god-particle ghost-particle, all will collide to sign off their homage to human will on X-ray plates, hurricanes, earthquakes, earth continues to shake, wind continues to blow, world is waiting in excitement, for black god, for forty-fourth President, prosperity of times, never before poverty seemed to be in reaches of removal, equality of race, gender, rule rather than exception, houses owned by working classes across world, have-nots having homes, global communities across Internet finding voices, expressions of unexpressed suppressed souls, diseases, wrath of gods, being controlled by power of science, art, culture, fashion, entertainment, flourishing in openness, interaction of global society, humankind moving in hope towards dream of liberal prosperous future, but green god, who spanned from temple of Ayn, is talking of recession, heresy, black gold crude liquid is sold for above hundred dollar, biggest of blasphemies, house prices have refused to rise further, actually falling in some places, curse of god to fall, to burn, hubris of human will, he read somewhere, it was international year of earth, language, potato, dialogue of cultures, he felt sarcasm of sublime connections, he imagined, somewhere on earth, in potato fields, masses of incomprehensible languages, defecating in open, thats culture you shriek to have dialogue
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with, not pretensions of dialogue of theologies, he had become paranoid, alternating between reading news, studying patterns thrown into his computer by Chakra, outside he saw summer of Two-thousand Eight falling slowly into colors of autumn, at least one thing, he thought, is normal, leaves continue to fall in predictable cycle, but then he read hoarse warnings of global warming, nature no longer natural, he was confused, struggling hard, to envision future, distant future, immediate one, his imagination fluctuated like swinging pendulum, extreme pessimism of coming great depression, another cycle of history, of violence, this time in higher manifestation, game armed with mushroom-making bombs, he shivered to think of such world, but he could not cast it aside as imagination, with water food oil, scarcity of resources on limited planet, undwindlingly multiplying human population, it is very-real possibility, extreme optimism of technology-led utopia, globalized liberalism, yes it could very well be true that he was wrong about impending crash, red herring, it is very much possible that despite banks faultily getting into trouble, house prices flauntingly going down, culture of profligacy based on over-borrowing, that humankind has finally found panacea of its ills, markets will correct but will not crash, historic prosperity will continue its journey towards end, hiccups, potholes on way being minor, civilization breaking out of normal cycle in clash-less oneness of humankind, comparative advantage of clones unrestricted by fluctuating floats of currency, no doubt things have changed, world has become so apparently unrecognizable from time he was playing in streets of Botala, things are progressing, it is not if but when, present colossal-looking problems will be solved by advancement of technology, water will soon be energy, diseases will be corrected in genes, but as he looked deeper he found patterns, patterns reflecting rigidity of cycle, world spun, so did history, circuits of revolution higher, larger, superconductivity, increased energy levels of hypocrisy, but in same cycle of mindless mayhem, nevertheless, besides news of labs, telescopes looking back in time sent to space, large colliders accelerating time underneath mountains, were news of violence, rioting for food, killing for identity, across world, in political brinkmanship of nationstates, dialogues rhetoric, doves hawks, real proxy wars, symmetrical unsymmetrical revelries, of state non-state actors, all pinned back his hope in normality of times in which he lived, seeing world through lenses of simplistic stupidity, of journalistic simplicity, obstructed unobstructed, original-not-original, speculative-non-speculative, he felt familiar comfort of world turning on its axis, revolving in its orbit, he could feel future being pulled in different directions in increasing force creating fault lines, foreseeing splits, species of Homo Sapiens splitting in non-natural evolution into alternate futures of Homo Divinus Homo Devilus, clone-not-clone, does-she-doesnt-she; wonder where will were we wander be between nonsensical metaphors.
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Chapter 25 The crash

The signals of party getting over started to arrive. The one-way upward movement in markets had given way to volatile fluctuations ever since the news of real worth of subprime securities started leaking. The holders of paper shivered around the world. Banks were finding it detractingly difficult to keep away from losses of declining house prices and defaulting mortgages. The patterns in Krishnas computer indicated a drop but not a crash; money continued its flow from oil to markets. Despite the hammering taken by the banks the economy flourished around the globe, a hungry world glugging down energy of liquid gold. The banks were in respite of equity sales to sovereign funds and sheikhs of Arabia. Finances of the world hung in delicate balance. With ending party and surfacing dirty reality from underneath the banking system, chorus of doom started to pick steam. Markets were surviving by a thin lifeline. The specter of public and private debt financed by printing paper secured by supra-sovereignty of dollar and spent on profligacy collapsing in default was becoming real. But the power of hyperpower was also real; it stopped a downright collapse, markets continued in a volatile unstable equilibrium, waiting for signals to break out in a crash or to stabilize in security of the Biggest Brothers invisible hand holding the bottom; Laissez-faire of the intervening invisible hand to jump-start the rise again. Obama the hope had clenched the nomination, and was coming condescendingly closer to the White House. The stage was set for doom, a final push was required. There is a massive speculation on oil going down, but it did not, settlement is coming next week, if any of the big boys default, that will be it, Krishna thought engrossed deep in patterns of Chakra, lines concentrating in violent velocity of fluttering catastrophe, waiting for the butterflys flight. A pre-agreed status change on facebook of Protagonist declared I love Wall Street indicating commencement of the game. Alterego emailed instructions with pre-agreed passwords to the bank in Geneva; a certain packet was delivered to a certain arm of the Biggest Brother. The butterfly fluttered its wings in the beautiful alpine valley beside the lake and fountain. There were quiet and peaceful raids in deserts of Arabia, documents supplying arms to people killing Americans were seized, cold invisible freezing of accounts in banks holding funds, deals of the dealmaker collapsed, payments for undelivered arms were not delivered, speculators of oil defaulted; chains of counterparties actuated to Brothers of
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Lehman in the building beside the Bank. Storm cooked in pot of the Street concretized, epicentered, and served. Lehman Brothers, an icon of Wall Street, pinstriped bankers, conscious keepers of capitalism, but in the epidemic of greed and bonuses of rising markets amidst declarations of new world order, like most other institutions on the Street had dabbled heavily in subprime and energy speculation. They were on the edge, managing commitments by the day, by the hour, credits in the market was drying down fast, there was paranoia, no one knew who was how deep in filth. Monday, the start of fresh trading week on the Street, Krishna woke up early in darkness, to check movements in the chakra when banks in Europe and Middle East opened. He saw in the feed a massive flood of funds to head offices in New York from branches of the Wall Street banks around the world. He saw defaulting payment orders from within banks and other Wall Street institutions. Fractal on his screen at the verge of breaking, turbulence at the edge of collapsing in a streamline of decline; he knew the time had come; skeletons in the closets finally flushed. Krishna with clicking buttons instigated the complicated short-selling trades he had constructed. The futures market operate across the clock around the world twenty-four by seven, in a split second he had massive short positions, heavily leveraged, on shares of most banks and other companies he thought will be worst affected by the crash. How many times was his trade leveraged? One ten hundred thousand million countless? It did not matter because it was a lever long enough to wobble the planet. Krishna glued into the television set broadcasting financial channel and waited. There were rumors flowing around, journalists were getting noncommittal assurances of things being well and in control from CEOs and CFOs of the Street. Krishna knew all was not well, he waited keenly watching. Television sets were also stared at in offices of creations and United Nations across Atlantic in an older side of the world. The day passed in rumors becoming hotter, market was declining, Lehman and other banks took a heavy beating; circuit breakers stopped trading in individual bank shares. Elsewhere there were frantic meetings and conference calls, the big boys were discussing desperate sales, immediate credit lines, anything possible to save the large domino-like default. On the calls were Treasury Secretary and Fed Chairman. Droplets of perspiration whetting shining baldness betrayed fears of expiation for exposition of exuberance away from T.V cameras in air-conditioned rooms. It was Eighth of September. Krishna had sold stocks in forty-day forwards on several-times margin he had negotiated with traders on the
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Street. The dice was rolled, the hand played, die cast, if on fortieth day from that Monday share prices end up higher, he will lose everything he had, he will lose his fortune from source created by splitting life in two of time zones. He will be involved in a serious conspiracy that can end him in jail without having a penny in return. He will be a bankrupted criminal. He would have severely endangered and completely disrupted lives of his facebook friends. Krishna felt a panicky fear run through his veins, he had bet against the power and wisdom of the mightiest state and the greatest society in human civilization, he felt meek and small. Did he get it right? Was the U.S.A going to tumble from its apex? What if his equations of chaos were wrong? What if the coming defaults are checked well in time? What if the U.S Government and Federal Reserve deicide to hold the market and credibility is restored before disaster strikes? He felt like a sadist scavenger, he felt bad for hoping the worst, alone in his room he furiously scratched his violently screaming baton; the pain of termites, fear of shame. He sat quietly feeling the beats of his heartbeat in his office room staring at screen of the television, breaking news after news, banks in trouble, government and fed trying to help, conference calls, secret meetings, leaked rumors, news floated on tickers breaking the bottom, newsreaders asking disturbing questions, panicked faces with no answers occupying major part of the screen. The day and days following passed in anxiety, the gradual slipping of situation from control of the bankers, attempted structuring of rescues by the government and fed. The week passed with rumors of banks from Korea to UK coming in for a buyout of Lehman Brothers, but till the weekend there was no deal, markets closed the week few hundred points down in nervousness of anticipation. There were hectic activities in corridors of high finance on the Street, and in corridors of hyperpower on the Hill. The day became night and night became day. Old boys popped in pills to control their blood pressure and soothe their hearts, continuing negotiations, frantic effort to save the world. The weekend passed without a Deal. New York Times declared on Sunday the imminent bankruptcy of one of the biggest financing houses of Wall Street, a leading icon of American capitalism. On Monday exactly a week after Krishna had placed his bets, Lehman Brothers filed for the largest bankruptcy in history of Limited Liability Capitalism. Karma of illusion is to crash, gravity is destiny, its nemesis is to fall, higher up it goes farther down will it come, what followed Lehmans filing for bankruptcy was carnage of high drama, Nonviolent Public Violence of gigantic proportions, not of identities but of greed, but equally mindless
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shameless logicless violence, global pyre of wealth, men and women on streets of world, on streets of lesser mortals, watched in absolute horror, their savings nourished in toil of sweat, nurtured to fructify into pleasant retirement of healthy old age, burning down to ashes in stupefaction, stocks melted away from one circuit to another in historical falls people governments politicians banks bankers panicked around world, emperor stood in full stumbling nakedness, but emperor remained sovereign, in twisting irony, failure of system created flight of money around world in securities of guarantor, signaling plea to only sovereign, to save it from its own misdeeds, madness, world begged emperor to get dressed, save it from its own nakedness, Henry Treasury ran from one white building to another, his baldness reflecting nakedness of his employer, he ran to save world by saving capitalism of United States of America, he ran to cover shame of hyperpower, he ran to preserve order, days passed in increased drama, onepage memo was send to Commanding Heights of Hill to authorize state to save itself, it was election year, government trapped lame duck, chance of slam-dunk was not missed, paper was returned, another carnage in markets, downsized banks lined up for failure, begging for pork-barrels, Henry engineered breathing space, more-detailed paper was presented, presidential race was stopped and continued as usual, debate was called off and held, party of government fluttered, headless chickens in roosting homes, candidate desperate to show people that he can be savior of situation soon realized situation was beyond saving, counterproductive contrivance, Hope relishing in building power of final punch, mostprosperous decade of history becoming lost times of misdeeds of politics and power, Washington needed change he declared in hall after hall, proof was there, it was broken, billions and trillions became numbers which lost relevance as trust was printed on paper, injected in veins of capitalism, markets continued to crash, people around world came out in streets to watch horrors of Wall Street, greed of bankers and their customers came home to roost in avalanche of foreclosures, reproach of retrenchments, headlines no longer shied from recession, going ahead declaring depression, new dark ages rising from ashes of street, descending on world, with every passing day Krishna noted on his ticker his million becoming millions, millions becoming billions, seeing beyond obvious became smartness rather than crime, stopping blood money to fuel wealth of unscrupulous rich became favor rather than immoral, his emotions resonant with another in anticipation, hope of victory marching to White House, disaster became political weapon rather than pain of lost jobs, foreclosed houses, vultures moved in for kill of dying world, Krishna watched his billions travel from accounts to accounts, shells to shells, trusts to trusts, country to country, complicated trail of electronic numbers, over skies, underneath seas, to settle in Prithvi Trust in ocean of India, stock markets lost third of their value by time Krishna settled on his trades of forward contracts,
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counterparty all held good because billions printed, pumped by government, bringing back semblance of economic order, credit flowed for banks to honor their payments, book losses, signal was send across Atlantic with changed status on facebook declaring Sad and Lonely, banker in Geneva was again instructed to deliver another package, another arm of Biggest Brother received proposition for DEAL to bury sepulchral secret. ********* Illusions chat room: Protagonist the money is moved Illusion wht about the trail, possible investigation Protagonist a-es plan worked Protagonist i was visited by an intelligence type in hat and overcoat he said u seem to have some friends who want us to ignore some tracks of possible insider trading, but we suggest u get out of the market quickly, it will get difficult for SEC to ignore things due to the excessive public outcry that will happen, he cannot do much once administration changes Protagonist i will relocate back to India nxt mnth, all the money will be transferred, i will be away from the street, i think the big boys will take care of hushing things, the sales will look like an intelligent speculation on what was obvious Protagonist a-e thnks for the setup, i dont know how u did it, wht are ur plans? Alterego i had an accident, i lost my speech, so cannot continue much in my job, will relocate to india Alterego i had been doing some paintings lately, will do an exhibition Protagonist wht happened ??? accident? lost speech? everything fine!! Illusion ??? Alterego accidently cut my tongue, speech is not very clear, everything fine now, anyways i found speaking a useless waste , forget abt it, wht ur plan ill? Illusion even i am planning to relocate, to delhi, start my own fashion house Protagonist good, so everything is set, we now have to do our last bit of quietly walking out, away from the heat and shouts of the impending meltdown, lie low for few years, disappear in vastness of India Protagonist but before that we need to meet, i need to finish some paperwork for channeling the money, all of us are trustee and beneficiary of the prithvi trust Protagonist lets meet in mumbai, i will arrange for documents to be
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signed Alterego the meeting shd look co-incidental Protagonist we meet in mumbai one mnth frm now, work on ur relocation back to india Illusion we will be safe back home, political connections will help Protagonist yea itll ok, need to go, busy with wrap-up stuff, bye Alterego ok bye, ill please delete the chat room, well no longer need it Illusion ok will do, bye ********* The Elevation, Election of the Most Powerful Man of the World, the Emperor Savior Arbitrator Protector, The President of The United States of America, was the most watched television event that November. Obama the Hope was clearly leading, but will Americans actually vote in a Black Man to the White House? Question upmost in everybodys mind; will history be created? Or bigotry will prevail at final moments? While the candidates waited in anxious tense anticipation, the six-pack Joes and pitbull Janes took a break of plumbing their lives of leaking holes of the street and chaperoning their savings from suckering games of the hill, and went out to stand in queues to cast their rights in the ritual of democracy; Krishna busied himself in the buried paperwork of packing. The election of U.S President is a trick of time zones, Krishna not unfamiliar of such trickery watched making of history from morning in East coast till night in the West. Screens of television sets showed maps of the States fast becoming blue one after another. It was clear by late evening that history was made. Late in the night McCain conceded defeat in a gracious speech. Crowds gathered in Chicago and millions of sleepy-eyes wakingeyes afternoon-eyes around the globe glued to television sets to become wet-eyes, history and hope walked hand in hand onto the stage. A tear drop appeared in an eye, tears wet a million eyes; it was poignant; it was truly a new world; Ocular Black Beauty; Americas Real Choice; And And Also not only Americans drink it! It was not a revolution, it was not the change, millions still perished in hunger and penury, America still remained the blatant abuser of its default sovereignty of hyperpower, in name of ideals the states interest continued to be perpetrately propagated, the curse of state on mankind continued its garroting grip of the fiend plague; but it was still hope. The President elect of a state, Emperor of the Globe, spoke magnanimous words from the lectern, the world watched. The shame and pride of power, of the state, reflected in patriotism of the speech; Hope ended with a God Bless America, the doubts wonders questions of possibilities dreams power was unequivocally answered by queuing
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inculcation of schools and churches of the United Collection of Interests. But the world still felt blessed, not by god, but by love of fellow human; tears continued wetting a million eyes in hope around time zones of the globe. A black-white man in a white house lifting the black mans burden of whiteness of his kingdom and blackness of the empire; the Idea of America, contradictions of America, American exceptionalism and greatness, a religious fervor of patriotism that provides the cloak of respectability to abuse power; a xenophobic belief in divine rights, nonsense profusely propagated from the paradox of underbelly of its wealth and liberalism. In Ouathom, there was the Queen of England, Emperor of India; Jewel of her crown. In Current and in Real, President of a Country, Emperor of the World; Taxidermy, AND when God decides to Bless Only his Own Kingdom; the Sacrament is Blood of the Empire, The Blessings of God to last as many years as the Roman Order; the future of Pax Americana Its a moving moment, historical moment, Iyer said. Krishna was at Iyers apartment to see the final results, through the evening they were glued to T.V for results to be clear; waiting for the acceptances. Yes it is, but I dont envy the guy. He has some tough times ahead. Krishna sympathized with the newly elected President. Do you think this cataclysm is really as bad as some people are saying, Great Depression? Iyer was worried. No it wont be that bad, because governments today are much more powerful. Instant news keeps the pressure on. They will figure out a way to control it. Most probably they will put in an absurdly high stimulus package. Krishna opined. So, more dollars will be printed? Iyer tried fathoming a large stimulus, Will the bailouts not create more problems in future? I dont know of the future. But now the guy will have no choice. Across the world they will have to pump money in the system. It is choking, though it wont be that bad in Asia. Lets hope for the best. Obama seems to be a decent guy. I hope he is not too tempted to start with his liberal agendas. He will not, but the Street will change. I am sure they will all cry foul and put in some stupid regulations. By the way, did I tell you? I am relocating to Mumbai, planning to start my own Fund. No, you did not! When did this happen? You are running away from the sinking Street?
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I had been thinking of this for some time. The crash just accelerated the process. You know, the action is shifting to India, it will be good there. I suppose so. You establish a fund, and you can give me a job. Iyer was teasing him half-jokingly half-grimly he continued, I am serious man. The way things are going here, soon most of us will not have a job. I will come to Mumbai and work for you. Seems a good idea, time to go, its really late. Krishna left after emptying his can of beer. In coming days the President Elect got down to assemble his team, packing and preparing for the White House. And the Bank was busy in restructuring itself into the new entity merged with other banks. There was a serious gloom, people anxiously waited for the axe of pink slips to fall, but Krishna was not bothered, he calmly got down to wrapping down his life in the land of Dreams to go back to the land of Karma, where soul still raged in violence and anger. He had created his new base in Mumbai. He will stay at his apartment in Bandra. He paid off the last bit of mortgage on his New York apartment, packed his stuff, said his goodbyes in various subdued farewells (not so much for his departure, but more due to the general gloom among bankers and folks on streets), locked his house and took the flight to Mumbai. I hope you find peace, the joy of your life, love. I know you will. Sarah said, hugging him tightly, knowing what will be their last hug. ********* It was a long direct flight; the carrier was a new private airline of India allowed to fly international flights. He felt good about Indian companies growing to become global. He was at the forefront when it had started in IT. He remembered his days of source, his first trips to U.S. The flight cruised over Atlantic, service in the laid-back Business Class was excellent, hostesses young, beautiful charming, new Indian face to the world. The Image of fast-disappearing once-upon-a-time omnipresent Maharaja with Moustache of Air India flashed in his mind. He contrasted the welcoming smile of the lady in red to bow of the Maharaja. The world did change. The erstwhile Maharajas had metamorphosed into the new royalty of India. The princely states which competed for number of shots fired in their greetings at durbar of the Queen with Jewel in her Crown, was replaced by industrial empires competing on how many Jewels of Crumbling Crowns of Global Capitalism they bought. The screen flashed with chairman of the Airline persona and style of royalty (recently bought a Formula One Team and a Scotch House) presiding over an ever-growing liquor empire gulping around world Vijay Malaya welcomed Krishna back to the New India as a personal guest aboard his Airlines from the window
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of screen jutting out from the seats arm rest. The Kingfish of Kingfisher which flied declared his hospitality to his guest aboard the flight. Krishna felt a peerage, he was one of them; he is one of us, wealthy beyond dreams. Krishna was no particular buff of Bollywood, but throughout the flight, movies he watched were Hindi. The shots all in Europe, story global, flavor Indian, the formulas from Bollywood, distributors from Hollywood, music and dancing loud, style and technology cutting edge. He was surprised that he enjoyed the melodrama presented in panoramic style; packaging of age-old formulae in latest look. Among several movies he saw in the long flight, he particularly liked the Amir Khan Starrer Rang De Basanti; how things have changed, how they remained same. He felt an intense nostalgia of returning to the homeland into his new life. He remembered his thoughts when he relocated to U.S for his PhD, it was another relocation to another land, he was making a journey into a yet-another life, into the familiar land changing fast beyond recognition. The plane flew over deserts and oceans, meals and drinks were served, cuisine was excellent, champagne perfect, hostess pleasant. After a fulfilling meal Krishna flattened the seat and tried catching a nap. His thoughts dwelled on events of last weeks, and speculations of future. Is the crash really a history-defining event? Or its just an exaggerated expression of a normal business cycle? He wondered of intellectual prowess of man to figure out answers to questions of future in context of present. Standards of human knowledge, expression and endeavor continually rise, today an advanced article in Nature can compete with Einstein, a wellknown modern painting can compare with Picasso, a lauded postmodernist story can contest with Joyce, question in judging immortality, impact of a work, is not absolute merit which generally and obviously is in progressive direction with passage of time but relative value of breakthrough in its own field of human enterprise. Similar thing can be said of a war or a stock-market crash. Generally speaking, every next crash every next war will be more devastating, question is not of devastation, but impact on future, direction of civilization, the game-changing impact. Where does the crash stand then in this light? If the world continues being the same place five years from now, then the crash is larger but not graver in its historical significance, extenuating individuals culpability. Wondering on nature of the crash and its impact on history of future he drifted into reflecting his personal life, relocation once again, another travel of half-life; destruction of sundry thoughts captured in dispersed bits of memory, putrescence of reminiscence. Krishna slept in sequence of beautiful nostalgic melancholic DREAMS; continuing into dreaming the
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family curse of four generations to be in the heat of Karma; introspection in REM sleep; then the NIGHTMARE; a chase, running, dark-room vault, closure, doomed to an eternity of darkness; then the light, a beautiful lady, smiling hostess in preparation of landing, in Red and Radiant, putting up the window visor, light hitting his eyes; freedom of thought and action, freedom of love, random presentation of situations and outcomes, a fitment into deterministic destiny, reason and wisdom fitting things in to probabilistic schemes, where does this leave the individual, handicap of blindness, frustration and eventual acceptance, finding purpose and motivation for existence, a fitment in the grand scheme encompassing the spectrum of influence and identity; deliverance of all. Mumbai Airport was crowded as usual, bubbling with energy in complete ignorance of the crisis occurring globally, the immigration, luggage, everything continued being a long wait, the situation worsened because of renovation and construction going on in the messy largess, but for once he did not mind the chaos, he was glad to be back. Krishna came out of the airport and took a cab to Bandra. He was expecting Bala to be waiting for him at his apartment. Bala had organized the flat to be cleaned and ready for Krishnas homecoming. The cab speeded through early-morning traffic of Mumbai. The rush-hour avalanche had still not descended on roads. He called Bala to let him know he was on his way. Good, I am already at your apartment, all cleaned and ready, waiting with a nice breakfast. Bala said, his tone had a hidden excitement, a childish excitement, Krishna wondered what he was up to. The door opened with a small fanfare, a sudden loud music, and Krishna knew what the excitement was about, Bala was not alone, there were Raj, Shilpi and Sandeep, waiting to welcome him, Raj was opening a Champagne bottle. He said when the hugs and excitement subdued, Welcome Home! Prodigal Son! Raj continued his maneuvers with the champagne cork. We cant slaughter a Holy Cow, but an occasion worthy of alcohol in breakfast nevertheless. Guffaw echoed in Krishnas old drawing room, where he had his parties, where his life had made its social IPO. They drank the champagne; he sipped the sweet taste of success, of return. Thanks, Bala, to have my apartment ready in such good shape. It doesnt look it was locked for years. You are welcome. We hope to have many more occasions to use your pod. Like the old days, once again we will party. Krishna moved towards the wall with imitation painting hanging, and the chair below it, the van Gogh and Chippendale reminded him of the
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Bank he had left behind, he had one mind to finally remove the artifacts of pretension from his drawing room; but he wont; they are a part of him; they are real. The artificiality of imitation, the inspiration, was all real, he knew he will have occasions in life to buy real van Goghs and old Chippendales, but those two he will never remove; these will be more real than anything he will ever collect. So Krishna, tell us all about it. I have just heard bits and pieces. You left the school, joined the Bank, came back. Whats the deal? Shilpi asked the question everybody wanted to ask; somehow it was less awkward for her. In short thats what happened. But to tell in details will require a Homer. I will tell it some time, better still, will write about it when the story is old. Krishna smiled slyly thinking, if only they knew. For now let me just say it like this, I drifted between parallel worlds, and then drifted back. That sounds like an Odyssey! A drifting Odyssey! Shilpi commented to his response, We will wait for the book then. Krishna wondered how his old friends and colleagues will react if they have the shame of knowledge. We need to do a big party for your welcome. Ill give you a few days to settle down. Shilpi continued; Ignorance is Bliss, Knowledge is Shame. How are the children? Krishna inquired. They must have grown up now. Will I recognize them? Not in a worlds chance, Shilpi said, Teenagers all of them. Living in a world of their own. Sometimes I dont recognize them. With their i-pods, i-phones, i-everything, so different from when we grew up. Raj interjected to complete, And i-sometimesdontunderstand. Better get used to it. Krishna laughed, How is business? He changed the topic. source is going places, we have become really big, I cant imagine what we have achieved, we are a true global company now. I have been tracking source, I know all the great stuff, but how is the recession affecting business? We are affected, of course, but it is not that bad. Relatively speaking we are good, because Europeans and Americans are hit badly, we are gaining share. Actually this recession is good for us in the long run. It forces a rebalancing, increases our advantages, everyone will now look for cost cuts, and we will help. Sandeep added to Rajs comments. Krishna, knew that it was not that bad in India, but seeing their
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reactions after the gloom of his parting conversations in New York was a surprise, These guys are behaving like nothing has happened, for gods sake the world is burning he thought, but made it a point not to think aloud, Good to hear all this, back in States things are pretty bad. So, whats your plan? I will be starting a finance company in Mumbai, an investment fund. Good, great, Raj commented, Good time to start a fund. With the markets so low you can buy stuff cheap and make a killing on recovery. How soon do you think recovery will happen? Bala asked, question pointed both to Krishna and Raj. I dont know. At least in the West it will be long drawn. There are fundamental problems they need to fix. Some countries will start looking like Japan. Krishna answered. Maybe in the West, but I tell you in India we will be back in full steam in a year. Raj added his opinion. Just buy in now and wait. Good to see all your passion and excitement intact. Krishna was genuinely impressed by Rajs energy after all these years. Then you will be surprised to know that I have my own dirty laundry, a minor academic bug. And? I am planning to retire from source. Sandeep will take over. Oh, good, Congratulations Sandeep, Krishna commended Sandeep on his elevation, even Bala was surprised, he heard the news for the first time. Dirty laundry? Academic bug? Retiring? What are you planning to do? Krishna asked Raj. I am working on a book, nothing as great as Theory of Everything or philosophy, just a book about India, some of my reflections, some ideas. I will need to research and develop them. So you see, you have spread the virus around. Shilpi playfully mocked both Raj and Krishna. Its really nice to hear this. Be sure, you will always find a sounding board available in me, whenever you want. Krishna said ignoring Shilpis comment. I will talk to you in detail about this some time, but now I think we need to be going. It was really great for all of you to come, I am moved. We will soon have more of these get-togethers. Bala I will drop by to your office later this morning. Krishna wished them goodbye, the welcome and breakfast ended.
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Next few days Krishna spent his time in Balas office, putting the paperwork in order, plan was to operate from home and Balas office till he gets a place, staff and infrastructure of his own. He will sort out transfer of monies parked in secret accounts all over the world, to Mumbai, all laundered and cleaned in Indian ocean, get funds into official companies registered, slowly move into respectable world of financial investments. Krishna reckoned it will take up to several months when he will be completely ready, may be even up to a year. Bala congratulated Krishna on his successful timing of the market. He did not ask any questions that large sums involved begged to be asked. Krishna appreciated his professionalism. The Prithvi Trust and investment funds will soon be ready for operations. We can transfer the money in tranches through Mauritius. We need to transfer in small trenches. It does not make RBI snoop too much. Complete transfer will take months. Bala explained what Krishna already knew. These are set of documents that need to be signed by all trustees. If you can get that done fast I will move on with next steps. Bala completed the meeting, handing Krishna three sets of identical documents, marked at places by an x in pencil to affix signatures, one set for each of the three trustees of the Prithvi Trust. ********* Protagonist sat in the garden restaurant, slowly sipping his coffee, a portfolio bag with documents lay on the chair next to him. He was wondering how will they react on their meeting. Protagonist Illusion Alterego last met in person in NY fashion week. They pretended to be strangers in a virtual friendship of facebook and chats; it was convenient, dark memories were not allowed to spoil the story. They were now together in extreme riches and illegal conspiracy, they depended on each others trust for their lives, still they had unmentionable names. He stared at the hole in continuum of time in his memories; saw nothing but a dark blankness of an unbreachable divide. His sight and thoughts came back to the restaurant in present when he saw Illusion walking towards his table. An unknown emotion rose in his spine, he stood up to greet her. The breeze blew lightly carrying the freshness of sea. They shook hands, smiled, took their chairs. It was approaching dusk. Sun was preparing to set in its redness across the Arabian Sea, but not visible for them. The nearer sea of Mumbai harbor on their east, also hidden beyond the hotel building, was the backdrop for chirping birds, returning pigeons and bustling tourists around the Gateway of India. Steadily approaching darkness overseeing the swimming pool filled in the canvas of their conversation. They saw Alterego walking towards their table. Both of them stood up and greeted him. He smiled back in silent greeting of splayed fingers. Lights
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were switched on, in streets, in buildings, in the restaurant. The facade of neo-Gothic architecture and Saracenic domes of the iconic hotel lit up in brightness, dusk gave way to night. They congratulated each other, proud congratulations of winning a major game, remorseless shameless celebration of teenage gangs winning street battles. They knew they were rich, wealthy beyond imagination. Exulting champagne ordered as aperitif. Fit for celebration of arrival, crossing the divide from being passive spectators to active players of games of history, and winners. Lights hidden in shrubs and trees made the garden come alive in settling darkness of the night. A crisply uniformed captain brought in the luxuriating bottle of Dom Prignon Vintage, stood beside the lady offering the bottles face to her, Illusion touched the bottle, glanced the label, ritual of excitement, of meeting, looking forward to possibilities; wine serving, an icing required to make the moment classical, not just memorable, to give it the class which the occasion demanded. The captain opened the bottle with a perfected hand pouring in long champagne glasses. He withdrew after setting the bottle in ice bucket wrapped in stainless satin drip cloth. Protagonist picked up his glass and raised, others followed, To us, he toasted. To us, they repeated, the chorus hazed in overlap of crisp soft words of the lady and coarse susurration of the struggling cut tongue. Champagne was sipped, sweet taste of success felt even by a tongue-less sip. First things first, let me get over with the order of business. Protagonist explained the next steps. They will share the money equally, currently parked in the Prithvi Trust. He explained the modus operandi of withdrawal and usage, he shared the documents of trust, Illusion Alterego affixed their signatures. The formal business of day was done. Champagne glasses clinked once again in celebration. Protagonist kept back the papers in his bag. They ordered food, exotic and expensive. They chatted about New York, and Paris. Alterego sat silently replying in smiles, speaking by movement of fingers. His eyes intently watching his friends, intensity of silence sipping silent aroma of the wine, aroma nurtured in aging; taste of silent stories of maturing oak casks in dark cellars. The sudden realization of speechlessness in a speaking person was unnerving for friends; awkwardness of the situation managed by the continuing conversation of speaking participants, without encroaching too much on the miming silence reflecting serenity of the moment the restive calm in anticipation of the storm while conspirators of illusions chat room celebrated their prize in backdrop of glory of the Taj Mahal Hotel.
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Appetizing Oysters and Caviar served as starters. The conversation proceeded in slight pace, in no hurry, in leisurely living of the moment, How have you progressed on relocation? Protagonist asked, pointing the question to neither one in particular. I am working on it. I have got a plan fixed. I have given indications to Jean-Pierre but still need to have a concluding conversation. My guess is I should be back by early next year, all set in Delhi. For the first time after he had cut his tongue to silence Alterego wanted to speak, wanted to share his life, longed for his speech. Partly in sign and partly in an incomprehensible delivery of syllables he explained, he has quit his job, he will be going back to Botala, set up his studio and paint, his gleaming smile convinced them of his happiness of the decision, a happiness bringing back his language, his pronunciation improved as he tried sharing his joys, with his friends, with himself. We will do an exhibition of your paintings next year. Let me handle it, we will do it in Delhi. Illusions enthusiasm of anticipating an imagined future was not dampened by Alteregos struggling speech. The infectious excitement sharpened his words further. Entre of Mince Meat Brain Curry, pice de rsistance served. Alterego felt his tongue growing back in a semaphoric happiness, but words did not complete their journey to fall off from the growing cut-tongue but still incomplete to make sentences. Then what did he hear? Did he start thinking? Was it the reflection? Echo that reverberated in his head originating from base of his tongue root of which could not be cutoff; suddenly his speech froze again. His eyes turned into a staring dark hollowness of fear echoing the gunshots, his hands moved in lightning speed pulling the other two to ground, in that moment neither of his friends (losing balance in suddenness of shots and force of Alteregos grip, falling on ground, glasses spilling expensive luxury on lawn) could comprehend what happened, it was mechanical, their existence surrendering to reactions of a friend, their bodies hit ground hearing more gun shots, images combined to reveal the horror felt by instinct of Alterego, his reaction of self-preservation making three of them lie ducked under the table amidst shower of bullets and shrieks of death. Boys in sneakers, jeans and sweatshirts had walked into the Taj Mahal Hotel. They had knapsacks hung over their shoulders and Kalashnikovs in their hands. Inside the restaurant they opened fire, brutally, indiscriminately, with intent to kill. The restaurant was filled with guests, powerful and mighty, mortal gods who conspired history. In the twist of fate gods disappeared and mortals remained. In curious turn of tale, the conspirers became victims of conspiracy; the smile of silence became loud and violent in an ugly gory
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spray of bullets. Blood and death spilled all over as bullets found their victims, people ran and ducked. The hotel imitating name of the memorial of love became the mausoleum of violence. Protagonist Illusion Alterego being on a corner of the restaurant didnt face the first barrage of bullets, instincts and reflexes worked and they ran into the building along with the shouting screaming crowd. The terrorists had entered from the garden access, they stood there blocking the way and firing their weapons. The crowd ran in opposite direction into the building, rushing into a deathtrap, but a deathtrap is better than death, and people ran. The lobby became a pandemonium as young men with assault rifles slowly walked inside the building, randomly, intermittently firing at people hiding behind furniture. And the welcoming guard at the lobby gate, selected for his built and height, in full Rajputana Regalia, turbaned and mustached, welcoming the World to India, to the hotel made for unwelcomed Indians, standing in attention since ageless years, shot dead, falling, gasping his last bated breath, in his dying moments guessing correctly by anatomical features of his killers, hatred of Jihadist fire raging in their bellies, reflecting in stare of their large blood-shot eyes stoned on indoctrination, them to be the Boys of Does-It-Exist Bastis of the World. Protagonist Illusion Alterego managed to get away from the lobby in to a small conference room on the ground floor. The door was bolted as soon as they were inside. Gunshots and screams of panic and pain came from outside, heavy breathing of running was the sound inside the room. They collected the furniture and blocked the door, stood in silence hearing the sounds, watching each other in shock, disbelieving the turn of events. Divine justice for earthly crimes, corporal punishment for ethereal sins, guilt remorse fear, mixed into the stench of firing in the air. Gun shots became explosions; fire broke out in the hotel, reception and concierge, wooden panels of teak from Burma, witness to history, burnt in violence and terror. Lights went off as the fire spread to the electric wirings. There was a pattern, sound of raging fire followed by screams, then gunfire and explosions. A symphony of violence orchestrated on cell phones played by fanatics drowned the audience trapped in history in a flood of fear and death. Three friends, faces from facebook, stood in silence, in darkness, reflection of flames from the lobby dancing on glass-panel wall, Venetian blinds trying hard to hide the deathly dance of raging fire. Temperature rising. The heat of fire mixed with the fear of death perspired from their trembling bodies. The Jihadists moved on to the upper floors, they left the lobby and entrance exploded and burning; people trapped in rooms without escape for an option-less wait for death or rescue waiting without knowing for
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which. Firing moved on to the corridors of upper floors, where room guests were trapped in deathly luxury of expensive suites. A deathly silence of darkness of dancing flames draped the floors, people hidden in inaudible corners of invisible rooms. Waiting for, they didnt know what, waiting in heat and violence, waiting to be dead or rescued. Three friends trapped in history, in memories of unmentionable names, waited in silence, holding hands in the three-way transmission of fear. Words were rare and in whispers. The silent tongue, nonexistent, cut in anger, happy in silence, longed to speak. Time passed in quanta of fear, time passed slowly in stillness anticipating the worst, it passed in relief of continued life and existence, it passed in hope and patience of rescue. There was suddenly a series of heavy explosion, echoing in corridors of the hotel in fury and loudness of hell, flames breaking out in fire hungry to engulf existence; combusting confabulation. There was an embrace of fear, there was a whisper, there was movement of fingers felt by fingers in connection of hands. Maya are you all right, an unmentionable name was mentioned. A cut tongue which had started growing back in happiness, grew further in fear, a sentence was repeated in the frightened coarseness of language growing back. Maya are you all right, the unspeakable was spoken by the speechless growing tongue. Krishna Kalki, I am afraid, I dont want to die. In fear of death, the bridge which was started by illusion of secondhand fatherhood and nostalgia of left-behind motherland in a virtual world, which was enlarged and cemented by crime of conspiracy, was completed, and the unmentionable divide was crossed in moments of terror and violence; demised names form darkness of memories were serriedly spoken in darkness of history. He did not want to die, he was afraid, he hoped militants were not Fedayeens, he hoped they had a purpose, demands, initial killings were only for effect, yes he knew, they will be taken hostages, they will then put their demands, the government will get them free, he was glad it was the Taj, he knew there would be too many important people for the government not to negotiate, yes, he, they, will be free, yes, that is how it will be, that is how it ought to be, that is how it will end, Yes, he had long ago crossed to the right side of the caste of death. And outside conference room stuck in darkness of history, fire razing lobby, outside Taj Mahal Hotel, seen, felt in real-time through twenty-four hour television, nation, world lived in horror, madness, mayhem caught on, millions glued to their screens, to try to make sense of what was flowing out, channels competing for breaking news, mongering for TRPs, more
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shameful than deadly violence, unprepared government, dragging in shame of helplessness, officers rushing in random, ambushed, shot dead, control room of city police ringing in continual panic, terrorists in police car rampaging across town, media rampaging rumors, within hours of attack surrealistic existence gripping country, reality of chaos, crowds, security, media, also commercial breaks, there was one attack, there were several, tens, even hundreds, there is one group suspected, there are several, tens, even hundreds, bomb blows away taxi, list of places where explosions were heard, hapless administration, hounded by craziness of television, repeating what was seen on T.V, rumors became real, reality became surreal, but back in confines of their security, masterminds, handlers, laughed, yes, they were right, one blow at correct spot, cowardice of infidels will reveal itself, as what it is, stammering headless chicken, they watched in glee, nations anger raged in inferno of news, rumors, they waited in anticipation, edge of precipice was pushed, ground beneath her feet was pulled, deed was done, die cast, they waited for reactions to unfold, true, inconsistency of history has survived several such putsch from within, also outside, but this is different, this is sudden, not sore that develops in wound over period of time, preparing body to fight out infection, long drawn struggle, this is full blow at once to unprepared system, they just needed to wait, for edifice of artificiality of nation to crumble, they just needed to wait, for justifiable anger, to spill over on streets, yes, it will be bad, finally, revenge, finally, redemption, yes, there is no way it can go any way else, it is perfect plan, perfect push to house of cards, spark to pile of explosive, cookie will crumble, mayhem relayed on television, relayed back in form of instructions, fed into killing machines, in trapped buildings of South Mumbai, night passes, day is passing, pell-mell operations are progressing, police, commandoes, slowly machinery of state is turning, chaos in media continues, Barkha reporting, overdoing it multiple times, she is grown older, slightly fat, no longer our lady of love, of men at front, of men in bunkers, but older, bulkier, more in love with her TRPs, what can she do, it is no longer like good old times when she had all air time, now there are hundreds competing for same news breaking, everyone these days has news channel, public has multiple ladies to love, even that Desai fellow has one, Desai fellow spitting fire, no more dil-mange-mores, no more batons of dynamite firing to glory, but gory reality of incompetence, shameful manipulation of accusations, all heard in real time, laughed back into cell phones, conveying instructions, shame of society, shame of nation, soon to spill over on streets, its not even election, its not time when machinery of state turns generally in right direction, this time it will be for real, country will burn, finally obvious will happen, finally what was correctly predicted ages ago will come true, who can challenge such intelligence, such wisdom, such insightful predictions, you just need to wait, see it all unfold in shame on television, day once again turned into night, commandoes, flying in,
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planes requisitioned not-requisitioned, vehicles waiting not-waiting, moving into buildings with hostages no-hostages, night becomes day again, declarations of operations over, more explosion, more speculation, body count of ten, hundred, thousand, any other number you want to say, number that make people listen to you, rather than to switch channel, craving for drug taken in less than normal dose, insufficient chutzpah peddled by rumorous media, drama, orgy, of violence, Of Violent Public Violence, And inside hotel, no hostages taken, no demands made, his worst fears turned out to be true, it was suicide attack, purpose was just death, maximum deaths, inside charred burnt down lobby, inside conference room, three dying souls trapped, in their fear, in sin, in receding hope, in pain of hunger, in thirst of water, drying dying tongues, cut not-cut, tasting disappearing drop of sweat, paleness of skin fading in consciousness, announcing death, abandoning hope, mind struggling to relive memories, languidness of days, nights, continuing in lack of food, water, making it to hallucinate rather than remember, lost memories cannot be remembered, not-lost futures can be hallucinated, Krishna was rubbing Mayas hands, trying to keep her from passing out, he was afraid, he felt smell of death, he felt lack of energy to rub her hands, Kalki lay beside him, all of them slowly receding to peaceful sleep, only sign of life is grip of each others hands, palms joined together, holding each other in residual energy of life, holding in connection of bonding, of common fear, of LOVE, Krishna collected his receding strength, tried to pray, he was not religious man, he did not know too many prayers, he thought of simple chanting Hare Krishna Hymn, supposed to be incanted in Bhakti, in his moment of fear he could not evoke enough devotion, his voice struggled to vocalize, he felt awkwardness of praying to god who shared his name, his psyche was at odds at praying to his namesake god, he could not complete chanting, it was his sin, he will die unredeemed, god has refused him chance, he was reprobated to damnation, his nemesis was destined, day impropriety was made to name him so, he could not muster enough strength to call out his own name, he tried reciting Gayatri Hymn, crux of Vedantic wisdom, he knew it because he was made to memorize it during his Sacred Thread Ceremony, in his moment of fear he could not evoke enough wisdom, to become non-dual with supreme soul, he did not want Moksha, he wanted just to live, he wanted just to not die, it was Karma of Hubris, Death, ultimate answer, end of Drift, he knew he will be redeemed, it did not matter, he could not pray, could not chant his name in evocation of Real One, could not evoke wisdom of Vedas, he did not care, he will be released, he had killed his daemons, he will die in peace, he will wake up from this nightmare of purgatory hell into dream of blissful heaven, he prepared for his death, he was drenched in dearth, he did not want to die, he tried remembering other prayers, but Krishna was never very religious
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man, he could not remember any, suddenly there was explosion, suddenly he was muttering involuntarily, he pressed grip of his hands, he felt life in hands of Maya Kalki, he got whiff of strength, sponged of fear he started to pray: The Only Prayer he had ever known his anthem nationale; Krishna prayed in clear voice blessed with the divine strength so often granted to the dying in last moments of mortal existence; Krishna prayed; Maya Kalki listened: Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high; Where knowledge is free; Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls; Where words come out from the depth of truth; Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection; Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit; Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action--Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake. Long years ago a Tryst was made, and every generation has to redeem the Pledge, in rituals of blood, in darkness of death, in the prayer of Krishna, the soul found utterance, there was death of darkness. India kept its pact with destiny, the state machinery did not turn, but the people refused to be sucked into the inferno of Mumbai. Once again at the edge of abyss the predictions were shattered. Krishna Kalki Maya collapsed in senselessness, they dreamed of an explosion shattering away the door and spattering the furniture blocking entry, and dawned in black, the messengers of Yama the death god came to collect them Decay Degeneration Death of Dreams; why did it all happen this way? Questions may be asked, but Questions which do not have Answers are Irrelevant. Morality ethics right wrong does it matter? Epigram of Epitaph: what a life-sucking soul-fucking waste; deepening the mysteries in source of creations; receding soul death dying; it aint over till tis over; God! Is it!?

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Chapter 26 Jean-Pierre le caractre non-mineur

The predicament of being a minor character in a work of fiction is that the author is not able to allow you enough airtime. But Jean-Pierre was no minor character, he had lived life on his own terms, world revolved around his wishes, he created the sense of taste, wealth and power followed him. He was not going to be upstaged by third-world arrivistes. He will demand his due, his place in the sun, his recognition for creating the seminal world where the field was genially fertile enough for new seeds to grow into the trees of future. He will not let philistine upstarts rise so big as to overshadow the fact that it was his creation; he will reprobate the disrespect; he will be the rock holding divinity of creations; Respect-SelfRespect. It was late and dark, a cold Paris evening, Jean-Pierre was alone in his Factory writing, his mind running in multiple levels, an unbearable agitation that he was trying to calm, to hold his nerves, to create his best piece of art, he was simultaneously and in parallel working on multiple works, a large canvas stood supported by the side wall of his studio on which was emerging a painting of excited strokes, he was arranging the room with avant-garde and classical pieces of furniture and art, hanging in display his best dresses closest to his heart a table was laid with uniform and equipments of a musketeer from the days of rising French empire bought at Sothebys, outbidding tycoons it was his favorite collectible, the musket oiled and cleaned, wrapped in zephyr ready in working condition, the curated uniform preserved and creased, shinning in blue seam, with his camera he was clicking the arranged-rearranged room scattered around with several finished-unfinished designs and paintings, a Stradivarius violin with bow tilting in romantic zest, vibrating over the un-played melancholic strings, he was satisfied with progress of stills of the studio, stuff assiduously arranged to lie around incautiously, photographs projected on a large screen on the opposite wall, he came back to his desk and once again focused on his writing, he was writing fiction, he was trying to capitulate the essence of his art in an expressible language, but skills of his expressions were more visual than lingual, he struggled with his writing in increasing mental agitation; he was writing fiction in first person narrative. He will write his own fiction, he will create his own characters; he will no longer be a minor character. Yes! He will create the best work of his life. Yes! He will write literature, his avenue to plaudit; final self-adulation of the artist; of bloated ambition of creating the art of perfect illusion; of amalgamation of aesthetics of haute and popular. Yes! He will write literature; portraiture to create art; as heinous as Dantes hell, as poignant as Miltons paradise. His swan song, the
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terminating tour de force; his humdinger, harbinger of glory, the artistry of words, tapestry of sentence, magic of prose, sensuality of poetry, mimesis of life; painting Portrait of the Artist as a Dying Man: I have to write this story, whether I like it or not. I just have to write it. And like a man in anticipation of death looming large, facing paucity of time, I have to write this in a hurry. I have to tell you my tale, and I have to tell it fast. I have to tell it before there is nothing left from the blur to retrieve. The voices are rebuking me, killing me, and I can still make out what some of these words are. But meaning, I find no meaning apparent, there might be no meaning and all of this is in vain, but I still need to catch the words and tell you whatever I can figure out, whatever can be filtered out of the blur. Whatever can be told? Jean-Pierre read the paragraph he typed; Words sprouting from seeds hidden deep in his consciousness, germinating into sentences, growing into passages, to have a life of their own, inspiration as revelation, a sensation to be interpreted and perceived by the poet, but unknowable, still in its source; manifested only in poetry. He smiled at his succulent prose, he had already deleted reams of his writings after several failed attempts, on the start of his story he felt a spasm of satisfaction in rereading the typed paragraph, yes, this was it, he finally started his Magnamoil, his great art, his magnum opus which will give context to all his other creations and immortality to the artist, an art work that will combine the forms, paintings, designs, fiction, And Performance, Yes, it will be perfect, fiction will be the thread that will stitch his multifaceted expressiveness in a climaxing whole, fiction will be what people will read to appreciate the greatest of all art forms, life, living, art of his life living; experimentations of passion, energy of exploration; Knowing loving. He imagined the narrator and protagonist of his story, the alterego of author, illusion of fiction; ventriloquism of literature. He felt an intoxication of inspiration; the story started unfolding in his imagination. Yes! The narrator, the enigmatic narrator, is a simple bartender; he continued typing: I work at the Conversation Club. I tend bar. Mix drinks for humanity that pours in looking for potion of life, looking for vents to release the steam built in pressure cooker of existence. My drinks create ducts to connect the mortal world with divine hells and evil heavens of imaginative civilizations, that were, that are, and will be. Bridges between multiple dimensions of reality is made of conversations around my bar, countered and cemented by potions I stir and shake. I am witness to great odes of love, hate, despair, glory. Every day unfolds sagas of existence, of specks of life in the boundless universe. There is no plot here. No scheme of things. No meaning apparent, but chaos and meanings for individuals to find and perceive. If this piece of
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loquacious rambling ever sees the publishers tool, it might turn out to be the most moronic piece of writing saved for posterity. But it still needs to be done, for a hundred reasons, some of which you might know if patient enough to sit through a lot of it. As Jean-Pierres storytelling progressed with the narrators incertitude, he was driven back in memory and catapulted front in future, the remembrance of sands of Morocco mixed with images of his completing greatest human art work, and its reception. He smiled to himself, a smile laden with painful nostalgia, seeing pictures of the young preadolescent boy, timid and placid, rarely talking, very few friends, very conscious of jeers of his peers. In a well-demarcated society of Arabs and Europeans, a filial parentage of French father and Moroccan mother, grounds enough to be on the radar of heckle for both groups, mockery lying low in the liberal society of his parents, but exposing itself through gibe of teenage children, mixed paternity a fair game for bully. Though not realized then, also reason for his tormentation, being a physically weak and emotionally meek young boy, even if lacking an obvious opportunity to tease, like his being a cross-breed, the boys would have found other equally effective issues. He smiled at the irony of it, his life had been a struggle to converse since, to express, his shyness and silence made him listen beyond apparent, his designs always an expression of his listening, his art was his communication. Narrator of his fiction became the focal point of conversations. Yes! The narrator will be a barman, apparently simple, but deeper than his patrons can imagine, an aesthete connoisseur of arts, perceiver of men, philosopher, alchemist; The Artist. Invigorated by pieces of his imagination falling in place he continued typing: Its the millennium man! Advent of the century of human glory and hope! I am supposed to be happy welcoming it. I will be. Long live the humankind. May our civilization be united and glorious! Love be everywhere! No person lives or dies in poverty and despair! Hey buddy! Give me another black double shot on rocks! Life rocks man! Cheers to the millennium! Cheers to the six billion souls accumulated on this iron ball of ours! Cheers to the past and cheers to the future! He was blabbering, he was drunk. He was Krishna. Millennium hit the planet on the shores of a distant island in Pacific. The Sydney harbor and its lotus Opera House flowered in majestic fireworks, people around the world joined in celebrations in welcoming the new epoch, the brave new world, the new world order. And there he was, caricature of hope, the symbol of generation, citizen of the globe, successful beyond comprehension, millionaire, young, most eligible bachelor in town, and alas, in the moment when the most wretched of the earth found hope, his setting dead drunk trying hard to put a facade, raising toasts to the bartender in the
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Conversation Club. Even the most cynical of patrons had taken their day and night out to celebrate. But Krishna was sad on the millennium. He had no reason to be, not at that point, but prophetic in retrospect. It seems he was seeing the millennium ahead. But at that point he was everything one aspired for, celebrates for, but he was sad, rather haunted. He was a warrior whose credo was to fight. Fight with forces outside and forces within, to fight the daemons that followed him. His credo was to fight and not to stop to celebrate victories or mourn defeats, but to move on from battle to battle, face the daemons every day. He remembered his credo, jerked himself up, paid for the drink, wished me a happy millennium, murmured some curses, and left for the night to join the festivities outside, to lose himself in the crowd. Jean-Pierre wondered in amazement at his spontaneous naming of the second protagonist of the story, he felt a pang of sadness as he tried connecting the dots of his thoughts, yes, he had once heard the name, met him in New York, he was a friend in facebook, somebody Maya knew, but he had listened to what was not said, he had known all along that he was more than somebody she knew, was it that, the character a subconscious reflection of his imagination of this real Krishna? But it was more, the joyful images of men and women on sultry beaches of Goa, all hashed up with long hair and rebellious eyes, chanting his name in spirit-full bliss of imagined happiness of universal love. Yes, Krishna was more than name or characterization of a real or imagined persona; it was name of the god he had chanted along with his fellow hippies on long trails and beaches during his libertine spiritual experimentations of the peripatetic vagabond; young adult. Flashes of Goa rekindled sparks, his thoughts wandered into his hippie days, glory of love, of flower power, of sex, drugs and rock and roll, all packaged in a wrap of spirituality trailing across the world of self-discovery, a thrill of nostalgic joy filled into his body, he was transported to the creaking bus leaving Tehran for Afghan border, sitting with his then girlfriend, his first girlfriend, at a time when love still had a meaning outside analysis, outside of a source of aesthetics, a meaning self-contained selfjustified self-evident he had met her in Paris where he had gone to get an education, to find a vocation, to earn a life, where he had found the purpose in wanderings of love and music; where he had become the hippie. Remembrance of the blissful time in his tribulation instantaneously made him agitated, his imagination not in control of his conscious reconstruction, his memories left the linearity of his life to fall in a freefall, time mixed across dimensions, the face of his girlfriend sitting next to him blurred, flashes of his relationships since then, in decaying of love, degenerating affairs, started appearing as his fellow passengers; howsoever
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hard he tried for the picturesque ravines of Hindu Kush and deserts of Mesopotamia flowing outside the window of the bus to be what he remembered, he saw armed men roaming around, he saw people killing in the name of god, in the name of nations, in the name of people, in the name of promised utopias, beauty of the land in his memories of the Flowery Trail of quixotic picaresque wanderings was bloodied; imagination usurped by visuals of television. He jerked himself out of his pleasant-unpleasant thoughts and started typing again, he stayed the course with his narrator, and without realizing abandoned the tricks of storytelling, essential constructs of fiction; he started typing his own thoughts in soliloquies of the storyteller: At last I was left alone to ponder as customary, and face my own daemons in solitude for rest of the night of millennium. There is it seems, a generational theme at every point in dimension of space and time, geography and history. Ours I figure is the crisis of identity. Generation of our parents found themselves ever bridging traditional and modern, they were the great generation, they were the link between struggles that gave us freedom from tyranny, and modernity that will bring us freedom from oppression. Agenda for our generation was to carry on the mantle, build the promised utopia, but in vain, the world changed faster than our parents bargained for. Decades we grew up and the decades we were grownup were historically apart. Epoch of cable T.V, end of history, instant connectivity, instant gratification, fifteen-minute celebrities, overnight success, rose on the horizon like a phoenix from ashes of the wars and destructions, but the era of poverty, backwardness, desperate violent crowds, clash of civilizations, does not seem to set. Technology makes existence multidimensional, without our realizing the time machine is here. Every moment of existence is in a different era, a fact very difficult to comprehend, a fact resulting in the crisis of identity. Jean-Pierre without realizing, without being in control of his conscious self, wandered into thoughts of self-examination, his doubts of meaning, perceptions of existence, simmering life, since the days he had traveled around the world to discover, to comprehend his existence, worlds existence, he struggled to express, reduce to language, words gushed out on the keyboard from the broken dam accumulating them for years: Who am I? A question that has bothered humankind since we became mankind, defining aspects of having a consciousness, never before was this question so intense, so relevant and never before so frivolous, so nonconsequential. History of human knowledge still lost for the answer. But I have become weary of it, taught myself to exist despite doubts, found means of faith to channelize energies into more comprehendible aspects of existence, into desirable achievable pleasures. But for Krishna the daemons were not controlled, he still tried to
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figure the context. For him existence in multidimensional eras was too much of emotional and intellectual confusion to set aside. Indigence, ignorance, non-relevance of knowledge, curse of existence looming large over six billion souls, was crisis enough to mess up his conscience, turn up a disaster. But was it all? Was there not a more practical and real aspect of our crisis? Aspirations of modern world, frustrations of not achieving building up in high-pressured steam of power-plant boilers, fed continually by mass media, a life dominated by desires, success, wealth, power, fame, sex, the list of must-haves, fancy car, big houses, decadent lifestyle, global vacation. And in between, the desire to be relevant, desire to survive beyond death, failure to achieve generates frustration, limited opportunity of overclogged pathways generating anger, realization of what could have, what should have, what is. Psyche of a generation destroyed in expectations, mismatch of chaotic accelerated growth, fed in by shallow over-blowing media, fed on mass-culture of money. Jean-Pierre once again got a grip of his thoughts, controlled his roving ramblings, and maneuvered back his writing into context of the story: But I will be lying, if I told you that the reason for me to live was sorting out some intellectual enquiry, and it would be an equally big lie, saying that Krishnas reason to live was millions he made, makes and will be making. At that point in our lives we had one and only one raison dtre for existence, it was same for both of us, it was love, she was Maya. Both of us lived for that one Maya who occasionally came to our club. We lived for her smile, her radiance. It was Maya because of whom Krishna with all his wealth kept coming to the middleclass pub and it was Maya because of whom I continued at my wretched job of tending bar in dungeon of the Conversation Club. Both of us were madly in love with her, primary occupation of our lives was to wait for her to come to the bar. We smiled to her like nervous kids, she burst out in giggles. Neither Krishna nor I could ever go past the first few lines of polite conversation about lousy weather and lost football matches. We felt weak and helpless by her giggly response. But we waited; waited like lovers of folklores. It was Maya, the most beautiful creation of god that kept us going. Krishna had come to the bar hoping and I was waiting, but she didnt turn up. Maya was not for us to see at turn of the millennium. I confess that all conceptual creations of higher ideals are just manifestations of the basic desire. I heeded a thousand desires and let my heart still beat, but for her, my heart breaks a thousand times. I am still living for Maya to hear me, I am writing this for Maya to read, I exist and I die a thousand deaths for one, for her and for her alone.
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Time for closing the bar approached. There wasnt a single soul in sight. Everyone was out in the City Centre enjoying festivities on the waterfront. I poured my drink. Two double shot of scotch is what I steal of my employers every night. I make up by pouring a bit less whenever someone orders scotch. This way I maintain my little racket undetected. Jean-Pierre leaned back and thought; what forces in his gut made the narrator steal scotch? Does a barman who drinks of his own bar, steal? Has his life been a racket? He was transported back to the deserts of North Africa, in his days of tormentation, he had only one friend, an accomplice in crime of circumstances, another interracial child, but not weak or meek, neither diffident nor docile, a character who bullied back the onslaught of boys by name calling and abusing, making their tease seem mild. Adnans father was a Moroccan and his mother French, a lifetime bond formed between them the day Adnan bashed up a browbeater bullying him. They became each others alterego for life. They had separated, Adnan had gone to Saudi Arabia with his parents, where his father became personal physician to the Royal Family, and JeanPierre migrated to France with his family. While he wandered around the world with locks of long hair, high on grass and love, developing his first set of designs, slowly making a mark in the world of fashion, Adnan was creating his own inroads in families of sheikhs of the Arab world, who were making their transition from camel backs to Mercedes seats riding on oil booms. By the time Jean-Pierre settled out of his hippie life into the vocation of a designer in Paris, Adnan was already doing deals in arms and oil, becoming known for his opulent entertaining entreating. They met after fifteen years of their separate journeys. The coming together created creations. It was Adnans money, Jean-Pierres talent, and their friendships in the world of high and mighty, making the combination an unstoppable force of high fashion and deal making. He thought of creations, thought of Adnan, of all the jigs they had pulled together, they were the backroom gods controlling the purse power taste of the world, an expressional sadness swamped his face, he wondered how could everything suddenly go so wrong, It was not meant to be like that, it was not meant to go down like this. No! He cannot let it end like this, he had dressed the most beautiful people, the richest had eaten out of his hands to cultivate their tastes, he could not let it all go down like that, he will once again create the masterpiece, it will make creations immortal; philosophers stone to rise up again. He started working on his parallel projects with a renewed vigor, his strokes on canvas were less agitated, he painted a perimeter and proceeded inwards, a palette of no apparent shape or object appeared outside the
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outline of self-torso (sketched by tracing his upper body while he stood against the canvas); colors filling the outside of outline. He took more snaps, printed them on the high-resolution photo printer sitting in one corner. He collected the pictures to create a collage of stills of the changing room. The locked-up works of his past confined in his Factory were out like a models moving teasing body changing positions slightly from shot to shot. The musketeers uniform of Napoleons Guards along with the curio gun lying on the center table, was the only artifact that did not change position in his shots, lying still, alluding to the irony of liberalism-creating wars, bearing that comprehended the thoughtful careless movement of the room. He continued his careworn typing: It wasnt entirely his freewill that our friend and hero Krishna tried emulating Krishna. It was the small town; his apparent smartness standing out in the small world of his upbringing, continual social fuel resulting in a bloated ego of grand aspirations. He had ravaged forward in life towards the singular destination of success, ruthlessly creating his world around him, his empire in his own wish, and in process so many were hurt, so many jealous, twisted darkness of pain; adolescence struggling for adulthood. This, what I tell you of Krishna, is in his own words, expressed over long conversations, the story of his life, scattered in bits and pieces, sitting on a lonely bar stool, talking to the barman, on evenings when Conversation Club was not filled up, on evenings when Maya was not there. And in return, I told him in equally dispersed bits and pieces about my own life. My life was nowhere near to the excitement or adventures of Krishna. I had a peaceful quiet withdrawn growing up, a shy child more engrossed in his own internal world of imagination rather than the external world of acceptance. As an adult my day job was of a struggling painter, not successful, not able to complete or sell enough work to free me of my parttime jobs to pay for the rent and grocery. We had become good friends, very unlikely friends, opposite ends of human spectrum. He was rich and successful, I was wretch and struggling. The bond that bound us was intrinsic trouble of our souls, lurking for an expression, an unspoken sharing of crisis, longing for an identity. I wondered about similarity and difference between Krishna and I. The same energy and conflicts channeled into art and business, sensitivity of perception, intense energy of artistic creation, making a day into an odyssey, or a whole life of adventure lived by magical beauty of monetary calculations. Thoughts and dilemmas continue to remain my only permanent palette. Neither the paintings, nor the paraphernalia of settling down, but a bunch of miscellaneous stationery, brushes and paints. And in some mysterious way, not completely understood, even my paintings tried
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capturing my conflicts. It is difficult to understand self. But I need to focus, continue to write till it all stops in an ultimate silence. Although we did not talk about it, our eyes conveyed to each other that we were competitors, Krishna and I, struggling for the affection of Maya. But what Krishna did not know, what I struggled to keep a secret with a deep sense of guilt, was that I was already the victor of our competition. Maya had fallen in love with me. We had started meeting outside the Conversation Club, going on dates, spending hours together. It had all started when one day I had mentioned about my paintings and she expressed a desire to see them. It was my first meeting with Maya outside the club, in my apartment cum studio, a typical struggling-artist shack. She looked at my paintings, an expressive curiosity, not of courtesy, not of sympathy, but of genuine fondness, she said she liked them, at that moment it all started, I felt the flow of electricity passing through my being, I no longer cared that my paintings did not sell, that I was late on rent, that my life was a disaster, because I found eternal happiness. I found the meaning and purpose of existence. I found love. We met often; we frequented bohemian hangouts of the city. We were two lovers lost in our own private world, a world away from conversations of the club. We talked about my paintings, she showered odes on them. We talked about beauty of the sky and seas, about expressions in buildings and pavements of the city. She had the soul of an artist, she saw beauty in everything around her; she had energy and charisma that flowed in her speech, in her smile, in her eyes, in her teasing blinking turning glance. Jean-Pierre felt a surge of happiness describing the narrators dates with Maya. Adnan had introduced him to the Princess of Wales, an opportunity to design for her. There was no looking back after that. Diana loved his dresses, she talked about them; the high-society women took cue and repeated her comments. He was soon dressing big celebrities. He became the darling of society, everyone wanted to be seen with him, he was invited to all important places. He became the enigma that beautified the world. A grinning smile remembering glory crossed his face, he started typing again: She liked to be adored, she liked to be admired. Nothing was blarney for her. She liked to pose for photographs which I didnt tire clicking. Everything was poetry. The effect of her love in my life made my professional fortunes improve, an anonymous art collector with a reputation and war chest took interest in my paintings. I didnt know much about this collector, but he had a very well-developed sense of art, not read opinions of established art critics, but a genuine appreciation. I knew this because prices I got for my paintings were directly proportional to my own likings of my work. Maya was always very happy when I told her of sale of my latest
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painting. I was very happy. My rent was no longer late. I was planning my move to a bigger better apartment. I was succeeding professionally. I was in love. Life was perfect. We talked about love and relationships. I was not very demanding in love. And for her love was the purest emotion, essence of everything beautiful, a spiritual experience. Although she wasnt very religious but her idea of a perfect relationship was a dream wedding and a marriage that consummates after it. She was embarrassed to admit it, of fear of being labeled old-fashioned and of middleclass morality; but for her the strength of love was the wait, a waiting that channels passion in creative expressions of painting and poetry. She used to joke about aesthetics of modern artists, Poetry of today can never match the beauty of earlier eras. Today we dont know the intensity of love, because we know passion first and then try to find love. Love so expressed lacks the taming of passion to channel it for creation. She was waiting for me to propose, we will have a small but artistic wedding, we will wait till then, and then we will forever live in our fairytale world. It was a matter of months. My new apartment will be ready. My paintings had started selling more and more. The bubble of dotcom busted crashing the stock market, but prices of my paintings kept on rising; the initial buying of the anonymous collector had created a buzz, a selfsustaining interest in my work. Thanks to my secret admirer the world woke up to the subtle beauty of my expressions. I became a successful artist. The proposal to Maya will be the culmination. I planned the most apt way of proposing, that which would express the uniqueness of my feelings. Maya will laugh. The best art is channelization of tamed passion. Yes! Jean-Pierres life was perfect. He and Adnan were a duet that led the grand orchestra of creations. He had wetness in his eyes. It was incomprehensible to him why it needed to end like this? Why the juggernaut of collapse rolled over his creations? He was unable to comprehend how it all happened? There is no point in pondering; reality is a fact presented, a fate accompli, not a perception that lets itself to human comprehension. He may not comprehend the world, the world might not comprehend his art, but he will still be the creator, he will create the perfect art. He got back to his prolific parallel works, he had set up sophisticated high-speed cameras in his studio, in collage of his stills he will have shots of motion, not the general comprehensible motion of moving picture, but entrapment of an instance, motion that moves civilizations. He placed the Napoleonic musket on a musket stand and attached a small spring coiling device operated by a wire on the trigger, another set of wires attached to the clicking buttons of the high-speed cameras. Among his stills of the changing room scattered with his work, he will place the shots of musket bullet in flight, explosion in the chamber, bullet
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leaving the barrel, smoke screen accompanying death, and death piercing the smoke to be visible and clear in one last sharp shot; the art of miniature moment, of great detail, the art of technology; ejaculation of the baton. Shots of the musket that liberalized a civilization, created an empire, rushed our world into the epoch of modernity. His stills will capture the full force of Charge of the Guards against raining grapeshots. Satisfied with the arrangement he worked again on his painting, the inside of torso outline was left white of the blank canvas, the rest was painted in a rainbow of colors. Sequence of dreams, tranquility of meaning, all lost, and desire, deep seated longing to catch it, hold it, cling to it like drops of last bit of sand seeping in time through the hourglass, dream of being trapped in darkness unheard, nightmares of the author; bolts of accidental closings; he hurriedly typed again: I dont know whether this is delirium, dream or death, I dont know what I am writing is what happened, the line between real and imagined is blurred, I am trying hard to write as realistically as possible, trying hard to keep away devilish imaginations impounding to corrupt the innocent reality of my story. To find my bearings I look around, to ground myself into reality of the room where I am lying. I am in a hospital, the room looks like an intensive-care unit, an operation theater, my position and presentment with tractions and plasters, tells me the accident was real, yes, the hospital room and accident has set my bearings once again to continue with the story. The crash of stock markets wiped out the wealth of dotcom entrepreneurs. Disaster of 9/11 did the rest, final nail in the coffin of dreams, wealth melted in tumbling tickers and collapsing Towers. But Krishna was happy, I could feel a nihilistic joy of self-destruction in his ironies and satires during our conversations, he was beaming with happiness and joy, the happiness and joy of a lover, I felt sad for him, more his wealth disappeared happier he became. I could not understand him. Jean-Pierre felt the un-realness and irony of his fiction. A crash is real, disappearing wealth cannot be happiness, despite most nihilistic attempts to the contrary, he knew it; he tried hard to feel a sense of art in the beauty of destruction that had left him in such misfortune; what has Adnan done? No, he cannot blame him; they basked in success when his bets proved to be correct; he cannot blame him for the disaster. How could he or anyone else foresee such a collapse? The god of creations left naked in aftermath of the storm, prospect of a life overturned, bankrupt, he struggled to raise his spirits to perceive his circumstance, the richness of his art. He struggled against the moral bankruptcy staring in the face of ruin of his world, his creations. His face pursed, impatience gripped him pulling towards the climax, increasing the speed of his typing; culmination of the
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storytelling of art: It was Yesterday night, Krishna was excessively happy. I figured he was a man of the world after all. The markets had finally started reviving after a long downward spell. Stocks had risen significantly through last week. It was real happiness, a sober happiness of relief that contrasted his forced, nihilistic, satirical, self-deceiving postulations. He ordered his drink, we waited for Maya. Jean-Pierre got up and walked towards the perfected setting of the unfinished canvas, accurately aimed musket and ready to click cameras, the first rays of light outside was welcomed by chirping birds: Maya, my Maya, radiating with an unknown joy, bubbling with happiness, entered the bar, Krishna and I looked and heard in awe and love, she flowed in the chirping music of dawn. You have not told him, have you, good, because I want to tell him myself, oh you will be so happy, this is the happiest day of my life, you remember I told you, the essence of love, the one for you, the love of lives, a bond that transcends your present birth, that comes from past and goes to future, a bond that sustains in multiple births, oh I am so happy today, Krishna and I have decided to get married, here is the wedding card, we used one of your paintings to design the card, you will be the best man, no you will give the bride away, oh we had been so happy since we realized we are in love, it had been the best years of my life, and silly fellow that he is, he took so much time to propose, while I had waited for it all along, it took the destruction of his wealth to give him enough strength, he was worried about rejection, how can I ever reject him, no, not in this life, and never in any lives. I dont remember what else was said, I dont remember how I reacted, I dont know whether I let my feelings show; from bits and pieces of banshee wail fast receding from my consciousness, in a final attempt to complete the story, I will reconstruct the best available memory of what happened next. Jean-Pierre stood with his back resting on unfinished canvas, his upper torso fitting inside the traced outline, his eyes staring into the loaded barrel of the musket, properly powdered, ready to fire, in his hand he held the remote that controlled trigger of the musket and shutters of the cameras, it was all perfectly set, in mathematical precession, the angle aperture speed focus timing intensity synchronization the whole room waited anxiously for the final stoke, culmination of the artist, he saw the golden sand of moving dunes, dry winds slowly carving a painting on earth. The crash had caused all prices to slide. The real-estate bubble in Dubai melted away leaving large loans on developers waiting in specters of default, added to the disruption of weapons and oil sales it left Adnan in a tricky situation of being the link connecting the circular defaults of oil, weapons and property around Middle East. He had borrowed large sums
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on security of creations, to buy days of survival. creations sales and stock price also dropped affected by recession following the crash in seasons collection of busting bubbles and pricked egos. Adnans deals pushed the balance over the edge. creations was at the verge of insolvency, its god bankrupt; Daedalus-craft Icarus-fall. The angry possibility of sinking into annihilation creates an art that can only point to forces that had such power of destruction and creation, but can an observer really comprehend the full meaning of such forces, a power only to be felt in aesthetical sublimities of art: I mustered enough courage and comprehension to be part of the conversation, to protect my unrequited secret, to die with it. But why didnt you tell me before? You said you have been in love for some time now, was our friendship so feeble? I smiled a smile which tried faking the pretension of being hurt, to hide the deep bleeding wound of the news. I am sorry. But I had a secret. Thats why I did not tell you. But now I can reveal the secret to you. You have already become a famous artist. I didnt want you to guess that Krishna was the anonymous collector buying your paintings. He is rich of them now. Their prices have risen with your fame. Jean-Pierres furor poeticus pressed the button, he heard a blinding explosion; he imagined the multiple clicks and flashes of the cameras; Intercession of Crucifixion; Erasure of the Artist: I dont remember how much I drank after the young happy lovers left the bar, I dont remember whether I locked the club before I left that night, I dont remember whether the traffic light was red or green when I was crossing the street, I dont remember whether it was a lorry or a car or just a wind, but I remember seeing myself rushed somewhere in a wailing vehicle, I fathom it to be an ambulance, I see men and women cloaked in green, masked in deathly silence of monosyllabic talks, working over me with equipments, not the equipments of a painter, not of a butcher. Then what? I see around and guess they are wraiths of surgeons trying to resuscitate me; BUT am I already DEAD? Bullet hole in center of his brow, the edges of temple in violent red, trying to fold the ventricle in defiance of bones, in an attempt to close the bleeding wound, unable to stop the leaking life, the bullet stabbing through the skull to emerge on the canvas, piercing signature of the artist, holistic hologram ejecting guts, and then jutting out on lee side of the painting, to disappear into the dazed wall of the studio. Jean-Pierre slowly slid down, tracing straining staining treacle of fresh blood in white blankness inside of his torsos outline on the canvass spattered with brain gut and gore. Red blood gray hair black death white bone gray matter; his eyes and lips in a life of their own, in colors far removed from the reddened grizzled context of his face and the canvas, grisly smiling their last smile of deletion.
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Is it possible to create a design, a dress, independent of identity of the designer and wearer? The only painting, only art, identity of which is universal, independent of the artist or appreciator, is Death; stuttering his voice spoke the last line of his fiction, driveling words frothing in wheezing wheelying pool of blood: BUT WHY, BUT MAYA, BUT, I LOVE YOU, WHY? ********* Next morning the fashion world woke up in shock as newspapers presented the final art of the artist on front pages; a head blown off on canvas; a gut-wrenching painting for public consumption of private violence. Silver gray hair, thick-rimmed black spectacles, splattered in redness of blood. The tabloids talked about emotional crash of broken love, the respectable dailies dished out financial strains of economic crash; throes of sullied death and passion. The International Herald Tribune: Celebrity fashion designer commits suicide amidst rumors of professional and personal troubles. Obituary: NYT Paris bureau, 15th January 2010: Celebrity fashion designer and CEO of the major fashion house creations, Jean-Pierre committed suicide yesterday night in his city-center apartment in Paris. He was found dead today morning by his housekeeper who called the police. Known for his panache and flamboyance, Jean-Pierre indecorously filmed the entire sequence of his death by a bullet shot from the 19th-century French musket in high-speed photography. He was dressed in the uniform of Napoleonic Guards. His apartment was littered with an eclectic collection from his oeuvre, his recent paintings, photographs, dresses and other objets dart. His death comes amidst financial troubles and rumors of relationship ruptures. Jean-Pierre like in life has created a controversy in death by committing suicide and luridly packaging it in stylish pretension of art. Sources in police department who saw the prints said, The whole gruesome sequence was shot by multiple high-speed cameras, minute details from movement of the bullet to the bleeding dead body has been captured. Jean-Pierre died in the macabre studio within his apartment, which he jokingly used to call the Paris Factory among his friends and colleagues, alluding to Andy Warhols similarly named studio in New York. No one was allowed inside his studio and he was known to joke, One day I may muster courage enough to let people peep into my most personal creations. There were several unfinished paintings hung on the wall and lying on the floor. On one of the walls there was a poster of Warhol, whom JeanPierre considered his inspiration, and next to it was a Warhols print of
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Coca-Cola bottles, titled below it in epigraph, God of Our Times. JeanPierre had shot himself with his back and head against a canvas in which the outline of upper human body was sketched. The outside of sketch was painted in modernist pattern, but bulk of the canvas was covered by blood. People who witnessed the scene before the body was removed say that he had a smile on his face and had his eyes open. The caption on his last canvas read the Artist is the Art. Among other things found in his studio were still-life shots of his apartment, series of sketches and prints of short stories written by him. He was not known for writing fiction. Jean-Pierre was known for his progressive work and experimental designs. His ambition was amalgamation of high aesthetics and popular culture. He had been a trendsetter of fashion cycles and was venerated for his insightful understanding of contemporary cultural sensibilities. He had been a hippie in his younger days and is known to have said, My spiritual experimentations to find meaning in the madness of India has created a storehouse of inspirations, which is source of all my creations. Jean -Pierre had left his hippie life after he became a disciple of the spiritual guru Maharishi Mahesh Yogi (who died in February 2008 in Netherlands) to learn transcendental meditation. He settled down in Paris to give vent to his inspirations. He founded the fashion house creations with his childhood friend and longtime partner, and another controversial personality, Adnan. In his lifetime Jean-Pierre had designed for celebrities like Princess Diana, whose patronage was the key in social acceptance of his avant-garde and sometimes rebellious designs. In recent years he had worked for the first ladies Michelle Obama and Carla Bruni. People in the industry are speculating on reasons for Jean-Pierres extreme step. It is well known that creations is in deep financial trouble, and on the verge of bankruptcy. Sources aware of the situation tell us that there was a nonpublic face of creations which was handled mostly by Adnan, active in financial speculations in stocks, oils and real estate. The recent downturn, especially the collapse in Dubai, has hit creations hard. It is said that creations has heavily leveraged exposures in assets in Dubai, and has lost a lot of money. There are rumors of some phony and illegal dealings. Bankruptcy proceedings can bring out the worms from well-concealed cans of creations. This, people say, was the prime motive for Jean-Pierres action. Adnan, who is known for his celebrity parties and as an interlocker of global arms deals, was unavailable for comments when we tried contacting him. Recently it was rumored that Adnan was working for Western Governments as a backchannel interlocutor with Iranian regime, on negotiations related to Iranian nuclear program and Western sanctions. Added to the financial woes, there are speculations of personal troubles. Jean-Pierres personal life, his relationships and his sexuality had always been a matter of colorful controversies. It added to his enigmatic
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persona and carried the effect on creations brands. At various times in his life he had been speculated to be of alternate sexual orientation or in relationship with some or other person, which often included celebrities. But recently all this was focused on his relationship with creations executive and his right hand, Maya. It was rumored a few years ago that Maya, who is a single mother and a force in the fashion industry in her own right, and Jean-Pierre were planning to marry. But the affair died down without culminating in a long-term bond. People close to Jean-Pierre however maintain that he never got out of it. Maya who had left creations about a year ago now lives in her native country India and has her own fashion house in New Delhi. Incidentally, she was rescued from the verge of death in the 26/11 attacks in Mumbai in November 2008 by Special Forces Commandos of Indian Security Forces from the Taj Mahal Hotel. Sources in Police department say that Maya was also the name of one of the characters in manuscripts of short stories they reclaimed from spectacle of the tragedy. Maya was unavailable for comments when we tried contacting her. Jean-Pierre is not survived by any immediate or official family. His wealth largely consisted of his shares in creations, even his apartment was held by the company. Sources in know of the situation told us that JeanPierre in his will has assigned all his shares in creations (almost worthless now) to Adnan. His only other property was his work of last days, the pictures, paintings and designs, copyright of which is not held by creations but was still with Jean-Pierre. Given the circumstance of his death, these last pieces of his work can be of substantial value, although subjective. In his will he has given all these to Prithvi, the daughter of Maya. This twist in his will has added fuel to the rumor that Jean-Pierre is the natural father of Prithvi. People most affected by his death are employees of creations. There is a gloom of uncertainty. A spokesperson for employees said today, We want an early settlement of financial troubles in whatever form it comes. Jean-Pierres death and Mayas leaving the company has left creations largely leaderless. Although creations stocks are currently worthless the market is citing it as the Enron of fashion its brands continue to have substantial intrinsic value. The crisis has come in a time when luxury goods industry is in deep recession, revenues have retarded worldwide and it will not be easy to find buyers willing to pay value for these depreciated assets. There are rumors that some Indian investment house is interested in picking up creations brands, assets and operations, on a bargain. Incidentally, India along with China is the only major economy where luxury goods sales have shown a positive trend last year. Given troubles of the company, Adnan will have to close a deal soon otherwise the residual value will also wither away in disintegration.
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Chapter 27 The return

The night continued in darkness of dancing flames and silence of explosions and gunshots inside the small conference room of Taj Mahal Hotel; disembodied destiny dismounted its lofty saddles harnessing dreams standing still in the culminating calypso of violence. Outside there was panic, a city under siege, helpless administration trying hard to make sense and react to contain the situation. And media in circus of breaking rumors and creating sound bites. It was not time of the election, it was not the exception when wheels of the Indian state turns generally in the right direction; it was not the time when government was prepared. Palpable heartbeats pounded all over the country in television. The siege of Mumbai 26/11 was broadcast live. Next day terrorists were cornered in identified buildings, they were no longer loose on streets but fortified in Mumbai hotels and apartments, prepared to kill as many as possible. There was no agenda, no demand, the mission was plain and simple, maximum number of dead before the fedayeen dies himself. Finally the commandos reached, delayed in labyrinth of administrations unpreparedness. The final battles started, groups of men in black uniforms stormed the hotel. Inside the conference room, the friends in fear and tears, fear of death and tears of surmounting the divide, forgetting the unforgettable, in bonds of friendship and love constructed in drapery of gore and death; holding hands, hugging each other, trying to relive a lifetime of wasted time in anticipation of the end, in the pain of burning memories and dancing flames, silence and stillness broken by sudden shrugging of random explosions. The government was panicking, Mumbai was happening, it will be contained, it will soon be a tragedy of past, but flames of passion were raging in communities around the country, there had been riots on smaller provocations, violent mobs killing helpless crowds is the color that paints liberalism of this land. The spirit of BOMBAY, the spirit of New York, spirit of all the cities large enough for men to drown their identities in teeming crowds of the megalopolis, became the spirit of an ancient land, spirit of an ancient NATION, not discovered, neither invented, but in existence from beyond memory of history, the spirit that does not burn in imagined identities, spirit of the nation of humankind, species of Homo Sapiens. The day continued, battle continued, waiting in invisible corners continued, the exacerbation of commercial competition on television
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brought a normalcy to the event, a competition like usual flavored with commercial breaks and advertising tickers. People went to work like another normal day; earning daily bread triumphed over communal display of violent outbursts. Politicians, sensing the extreme discontent for their kind on all sides of the divides, kept away, and the tempers didnt fray. A changed country didnt react to the mindless violence with more violence. The vaccination of history of countless years, clubbed with the blessings of being a mortal power not a superpower let alone a hyperpower along with the prophylaxis of incompetent state, and Karma of the land to accept fatalistic fate, no wars were declared, no riots broke out. No you are with us or against us speeches about smoking out the perpetrators were made. Just a regrettably sad realization of the tyranny of times engulfed the country glued to T.V sets or going by their work, leaving the matters of destiny to Karma. Inside the hotel, dying friends of facebook, a similar fatalistic acceptance of destiny, realizing the hollowness of their earlier evenings celebration of arriving in category of mortals who imagined they imagine history, futility of wealth created in conspiracy of a crashing world, helplessness of humans in face of fiction imagined by gods. Hours passed, it was already more than two days in hiding, no food no water, only the shared fear, love and memories to sustain them. Maya Krishna Kalki became languish, thoughts of getting out to make a dash for safety of the emergency services were taking shape in their mind, they got desperate in thirst and hunger, but lack of food and water had created such weakness that they could not stand or walk, let alone run. Maya Kalki fainted, Krishna was in delirium, on the verge of passing out, languidly mumbling his prayers, he didnt know whether it was a dream or real, when he heard the knocking door declaring itself to be a commando, asking them to come out. He lay still, almost passed-out; the voice said they will force open the door and asked them to move away. A mild explosion, door gave way, it was pushed open, men in black uniforms stormed the room with guns pointed at three of them, a quick search was made, when the commandos were assured they were victims and not terrorists, guns were put away. Quick, stretchers, we have three here, all of them unconscious, a commando called to his colleagues bending over and checking on Krishna Kalki Maya. Stretchers appeared, three of them were strapped to be carried away to the ambulance waiting outside, This one seems to be slightly in his senses, is murmuring something, one of the commandoes observed as the stretchers were being dispatched with their loads.
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Krishna felt the jerk of being carried away and muttered in incomprehensible broken words, Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake. In curious tale of turn, the hostages became patients pushed into the waiting ambulance. Saline drips were injected, ambulance rushed towards the nearest hospital, Krishna slowly relaxed in realization of resurrection, of being alive, of being safe; judgment was passed; he will wake up in heaven. With a tiring glance of his eyes he saw Maya Kalki lying beside him in the rushing vehicle, in memory past of another ululating ambulance rushing with the three of them together, after culmination of a different Public Violence. ********* Next year, ending weeks of winter declaring the coming of a historical spring, the new President of The United States of America was inaugurated. An end to an era, beginning of another, was once again seen on television across the world. The President of U.S was sworn in, throne of the world changed hands; a transition similar to the millennial transition in heavens took place on earth. The god declared an epoch of reconciliations, repeated all Promises of the Promised Land, eloquently painted the rhetoric of sweat and toil, dreams of utopia; And of curse, the mandatory; God Bless America; The New President of America, the Emperor of the World; the God is dead, shouting on streets, long live the God. Several months later, in heat of the Indian summer, there was another general election, with phases that reminded the world that India had still not changed, still not become what its elite pretended it to be. It was still not a shining example of liberal democracy peacefully developing into prosperity, creating the utopian society like a Bollywood happy ending. It continued to remain a vast un-administrable land, overcrowded with poverty, ignorance and violence, a super-large cauldron of boiling identities, ready to spill out in form of blood at slightest provocation. A state where conducting an election means an exercise like war, troop mobilization and movement, men in senior uniforms strategizing over maps, their officers on ground moving troops from phase to phase; to keep the peace of timeouts of bloody games, to conduct an election. Incompetent state, chaotically violent country, inability to state a simultaneous general election, hope of multitudes in poverty, wisdom of a polity bargained into a position of shared power and loot; the Miracle happens; once again the Karmic Miracle of the Indian General Election. Another General Election, state machinery turned generally in the right direction, a violence-free fairly-independent competitively contested exercise of democracy, reaffirming again the faith, promise of India was holding, another peaceful continuation of government in most wretched
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and violent parts of the world, of the most crowded and poor part of humanity; the world stands up in applause. And despite incompetency of the government, despite barefaced belligerence and moral corruption of the political class, despite the mayhem of Mumbai and elsewhere, Congress party won the election in a surprise victory; a shocking victory. The Aam Admi voted into doles of free employment, direct transfers, subsidies to pacify the violence into the Push of Non-Mushroom-Making Buttons on the voting machines; And Manmohan the Sardar once again stood in-front of the President to take oath. Cyclicity of sarcasm of history, the President of India, symbolic of her politics, Head of the state, an award of loyalty, an orderly arrangement ensuring crowning the prince or orderly, a repeat of gimmick from history, when another President in name of the country had sworn another prince orderly. The Prime Minister meek apolitical uncharismatic non-ambitious symbolizing the twist of Karma that creates the best of worst situations, the product of immaturity of democracy, of lust of power and sycophancy that creates an unelected leader of the largest democracy; to become the envy of nations. It was not the ethos, neither democracy, nor greatness and maturity of masses, but an accident of history, an unavailability of the Prince creating a waiting vacuum, to be safeguarded and preserved by the President and Prime Minister of the state. The twist of destiny that made the professor of economics, architect of the Indian journey into openness, releasing the energy of economy of a billion people to march towards prosperity, to become once again Prime Minister of the country; twist of another five years of waiting, it was her destiny, she was granted another term of rule of best-available well-suited non-ambitious pair of hands, armor of unambition, prize of loyalty, ascendency to the highest position. Determinism of destiny, secret hand of Karma, euphuism of enlightened ignorant poor masses, these can all be argued, but what was certain was the outcome. The Congress party successfully shredded away the buffoons of left-and-right to gain a stable position, making the government of economist Prime Minister in false pretensions of the Philosopher King set for another innings of five years. The economy and middle classes sighed a sigh of relief, stock markets started soaring back again, ignoring the ravaging aftermath of the great crash, signaling the balance of states slowly shifting eastwards. But elsewhere in the world, history did not take a favorable turn, the destructive consequences of the crash continued; countries stood at brink of collapse. Property prices in Dubai melted away in flames of falling oil.
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The chain of reactions led to the last creation of god of creations; the ultimate art, an expression of private violence. With creations in financial troubles, the owners of Prithvi Trust were already in discussions for funding arrangements, but the news of JeanPierres suicide came as a shock to Maya and expedited the process. Krishna came out of his meditating mode gestating in the ashrams of Himalayas, and triggered the use of parked funds. creations was on the block, a deal was made with Adnan; the money was used by Adnan to settle his commitments. ********* The Child is father of the man, in society of men, in the age of Prithvi, the Children became parents of the mother in returnation. In love of the motherland, the clones of IIT descended on India, and the gene that was cloned was Prithvi; Clones of Cogito cloning the thoughts of reason, implanting the Idea of India into psyche of a non-nation, idea of future in the land of past, inception of a dream amidst the plurality of nightmares; inculcating the desire for the sea; the Idea of India nation state community congregation conjuration. Standing staring awestruck Krishna was infused with the surge of Salmans Bharat-Mata Salam: a dream we all agreed to dream; it was a mass fantasy shared in varying degrees by Bengali and Punjabi, Madrasi and Jat, and would periodically need the sanctification and renewal which can only be provided by rituals of blood. India, the new myth - a collective fiction in which anything was possible, a fable rivaled only by the two other mighty fantasies: money and God. And And Also Love. Almost a year and a half after he was rescued from flames of terror in the Taj Mahal Hotel, Krishna stood inside the new terminal, T3, of Indira Gandhi International Airport. He looked around in disbelief. Can you believe it? Is it true? Is it real? Is it possible? An airport in India, where there is dignity of human space, where the air is not a stench, where queues do not serpentine forever, shops restaurants and bars overflow with new-found opulence; he stood and stared at the lofty terminus building. Low ceiling of the corridor reminded him of slightly claustrophobic aftertaste remaining from his earlier travels, the continuing construction in post-inauguration chaos made it hold fast to the timelessness of Karmic beauty; a poignant beauty, pleasant beauty; the paradoxical beauty. Krishna was returning from his trip to Mauritius and Dubai, tying the last loose ends of Prithvi Trust and finalizing the final formalities of acquisition of creations. In the last one-and-a-half years he had moved all the money into legitimate businesses; all traces of illegitimate vehicles erased. His investment companies sealed the deal with creations to buy its
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brands, assets and operations; creations worldwide was now owned by Krishna and his co-conspirators. After cleaning all trails and completing all paperwork, creations was scheduled for a new launch. Though significant operations were retained in Paris, the headquarters was shifted to New Delhi; today was the big day; the launch of new creations. Krishna continued his reflections, yes there was the world outside slums of Delhi and Mumbai continue teeming with poverty, the spillover visible in the new airport in numerous porters and randomly walking human beings general helping hands with eyes gleaming in expectation of a tip, and the chaos of traffic which continued in madness, reverberating inside the terminal in rowdy altercations. But still the fact was that an undeniable miracle had happened, every bit of the new airports architecture shouted arrival final and not-so-final arrival of a country. Krishna smiled as he cleared immigration with ease and speed, and walked out, yes, he was being nave, an airport mattered to people like him who travelled, but it was nothing but a fancy for millions in the hinterland, he smiled at his own naivet of excitement for the new terminal, his proud nationalist feelings shining in reflection of the airport. He sat in the waiting hotel car send to pick him. The car zoomed out, Krishna turned back to have a final glance of the artistic facade of the receding terminal. The other Italian had fixed a society by repairing windows! Why ours cant build a nation by building airports? Krishna thought. Yes! Its possible; despite Maoist Mutinies of hunger and discord flying in the hinterland not willing to land in modernity of the airport, he was justifiably proud. The hotel cab speeded over the numerous old-and-new flyovers that had uplifted the overburdened infrastructure of the city to give it a facelift for the upcoming Common Wealth Games. Krishna remembered his excitement as a young boy, when another Games (the Asian Games), had created the revolution of television, and had started the conversion of New Delhi from a colonial capital to the global megalopolis. Krishna wondered, whether it was his personal excitement of once again meeting Maya Kalki, the end of secrecy, back into legitimate corporate life unscratched, inauguration of new creations, big show planned for the evening, or was it really that New Delhi had changed so much without his noticing, that he felt like being in a modern global city, crisscross of roads layered above each other, expensive cars speeding over them. Whatever it was, it felt like a homecoming to a changed world, a better world; a prouder world. Yes! The lung-searing pollution of foul-stinking cancerous contagion of corruption of the politico, by the politico for the politico still stenched the air, infrastructure created for the Games was reeking in kickbacks, melting in shame in torment of monsoon rains, but the gloomy side of New India, continuing side of darkness, was not visible
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in the sunny brightness of New Delhi wind breezing over a country still waiting to explode, to degenerate into billion particles of hounding corruption, mindless violence, killing poverty. Things happen nothing happens; things change nothing changes; nothing is one thing, one thing changes. Common Wealth Games, a worm house of all that is worst, still some goodness. Organizational pieces falling in place, evolution, versioning, next generation, Move On. And outside the airport, tempest of past, ugly specter of caste, the never-ending reality of Karma continues to haunt the land in murderously proud pronouncements of Khaps; blood feuds, honor killings. And amidst public private violence, still rapes in darkness of alleys in Delhi and elsewhere, young children continue to witness what does not exist. Poor and working class in tatters, always lurching with their debased dissonance in the background, unfiltered jarring caterwauls of cheap music system, not the clarity and perfection of a Bose pair; acerbic repugnant odor of garbage all over the place, going straight into your head, wreaking havoc with the routed connections of neural networks, making you imagine a perverse inversion of time and space, vaccination of history venting out steam in sundry riots; ensuring the boiling of Karma. Krishna checked in into the Taj Palace Hotel, room tariffs were higher than what he would have expected in a similar hotel in New York or Paris. The hotel was a part of pockets of dollar economy in the vast ocean of rupee world. During last several months in Krishnas travelling and work, he had been so preoccupied with straightening his affairs that he had hardly noticed the world around him, his anxiousness of cleaning the lingering trail was more than in actual operation of shorting the market, it had been like a game, but he felt the maximum anxiety in completing the last run, the final run, winning run; The Home Run. When the final bit of paper was signed, suddenly Krishna noticed a world change around him. He was reflecting his own changed situation in life, his own personal changes, in his observation of things around him. He was reborn in a new world. In his luxurious suite he prepared tea and tried to rest. It was not his body that required rest, the flying luxury of exclusive first-class cabin of A380 of Emirates Dubai-Delhi flight was more relaxing than tiring. It was his excitement that he wanted to calm. He had not met Maya Kalki since they were released from their convalescence after the rescue from terror attack in Mumbai. It was his idea to have separate lives till he moves all the money and completely purges the trail; today the rendezvous had come, and in what style, ownership of creations, nothing less; Maya would be CEO of the company and run it, he
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will just be an investor, he will watch her do wonders. He thought of his other investments, markets in India had rebounded significantly. His wealth was increasing. It wasnt only the acquiring of immense wealth that had changed his life; the conspiracy, the crash and then the experience of terror in Taj Mahal Hotel changed him in more ways. He had found his peace, although he was not able to reconcile why he illegally shorted the market, but it was not the guilt that bothered him, he didnt feel immorality of his actions, it was the obvious thing to do, what bothered him was the circumstance he found himself in, along with Maya Kalki, the way pieces of the puzzle fitted together. Was it all predestined from even before they had met during festivals of Delhi University? Even before an academic challenge was thrown in Botala? Was this the meaning of talisman they had proudly hung together simultaneousness of their births with genesis of the postmodern world? Lunar landing had heralded the incipience of postmodern world, a new epoch, a new beginning for calendars of future, panacea and power of technology, rocket science of physics, finance and literature. Was the soar, crash, everything, predestined? These reflections had made Krishna religious, first time in his successes he felt his helplessness against the forces of destiny, despite his long-standing cynicism he could not explain his life in any other way, other than a plaything of Karma. He felt the illusion of source, his thesis in the school, the Bank, his wealth and creations, but he did not feel perplexed, he felt happy and content in his illusions, there were no daemons left to torment him, he was at peace, he found his peace in prayers to the real Krishna, meditations to his being, reflections of his life in recitals of Gita. His investments and money were working for themselves. Krishna devoted time to religion and philanthropy. Now with last bits taken care of, he was mentally planning a future of social work and spirituality. He spend time in ashrams of sants and yoga gurus, mediation centers of mendicants and mystics; he spent his time discussing the nuances of renunciation in Advaita and Bhakti in discourses of Gita. In his typical Krishna fashion, worshipper of the Crackit Code, he read all possible commentaries he got hold of on Bhagwad Gita, his mind viewing his life in light of the commentaries. But he wasnt ambitious of reaching answers, he was not indulging in exercise to find truth, he had long ago left his quest for answers; he was not frustrated that every action of his can be argued to be in correct or wrong; it was the process that intrigued him; process of reflecting his life and time in Shlokas of the timeless ancient text; the process of Nishkama Karma; meaning-purpose-destination is overrated.
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His life was peace, self-actualization god-realization, except the little bit of his baton that remained to etch him away from spiritual perfection. No longer able to calm his excitement, Krishna left the room to go down to coffee shop of the hotel, where they had planned to meet. The grand opening and party was in the same hotel. An imposing Banquet was arranged for the occasion. In the lobby he saw Maya, she was talking to a hotel manager, discussing last-minute preparations for the show, seeing him coming out of the elevator Maya rushed towards him, they hugged and kissed, the year and a half seemed like an eternity. Maya finished her conversation with the hotel manager and an executive of new creations, who was overseeing the preparations. They moved to the coffee shop. Kalki has also checked in a while ago, he will be coming down in ten minutes. Maya said, as they settled down in their chairs. Despite the moving events of their lives, Krishna was surprised that Maya didnt change much, her charm and energy continued to be as enchanting as it had been when she was presenting her first show in LSR college fest, her aging, if anything, added to her charisma, her captivating eyes twinkled with mystery deepened over the period of time. When Maya returned from Paris, India wholeheartedly embraced her as the queen of fashion, a position which had waited for her like a rightful throne. No sooner Maya opened her own fashion house, Bollywood and business, politics and power, glitterati of all kinds buzzed like bees around her, she became the conscience keeper of cultural taste of growing wealth and aspirations of a global generation of Indians. She had learnt her lessons well from her mentor; a public enigma was carefully crafted and created around her, a personal branding that would have made Jean-Pierre proud of his protge. Maya leveraged her relationships with wealthy and powerful families of the country, inherited from her parents and created during her days in creations, to establish and brand her business. The halo of her persona made becoming her client a must-have accessory for the new glitterati of an arriving young confident rich brash nation. She was glad she was back, not only for her new-found status and success, but also for the genuine friendships, her family, her society. She had become a leading force in the industry in India within a short time of starting on her own, but today was the big day for her, today was the entry into global arena, Krishna had arranged that creations brands and operations were acquired by Mayas company, they were going global. Maya was happy, creations was saved from a total disintegration due to their intervention, she was determined to keep up to the legacy of Jean-Pierre. I must thank you for arranging everything, for creations to be bought by us. Maya said.
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It was the most obvious thing to do. It was in such a financial mess. We got it cheap. Krishna replied, downplaying the importance of his achievement, he knew how much it mattered to Maya to save creations. There he comes, Krishna pointed towards Kalki who was smilingly walking towards them. The three of them hugged and kissed in a moment of meeting, blissful joy. Did you receive my packages properly? Kalki asked Maya about his paintings he had sent for the evenings show. The show to celebrate the relaunch of creations was set also on the Forty-first anniversary of human landing on Moon, Science Fiction was theme for the evening; Kalki had created a series of large canvasses for exhibition in the opening. Yes, we did, they are beautiful, you will soon be selling your paintings like Picasso, fetching in millions. Maya said, once again settling down on her chair. Kalki knew it was an exaggeration, although his skills had considerably improved and quality of his work kept enhancing, he was still far from being an established or famous professional painter. But he did not mind, because he didnt need to sell his paintings for a living, his share of the booty had left him a rich man to pursue a life based on choices, independent of money and monetary considerations. He had held a few exhibitions; he was well appreciated by the critics and general audiences alike. One review had said, His paintings seem to depict the inner struggles of a human individual and society, presented in melancholic strokes of soulful colors. The expression was there, but the violence of red and black was hidden, the colors were in language of the viewers of his painting, to understand and appreciate; madness of chaos of the undecipherable violent strokes of blood and coal was buried beneath, veiled behind the blue of sky and water, and yellow and green of the world and its subjects, all pained in backdrop of white left blank prominently at places to let other colors stand in context. After quitting his job with the government, Kalki had returned to Botala, where he opened up his studio and pursued his interest in painting. Along with it he continued a limited involvement in public life. Kalki reconciled his differences with his mentor and godfather. RDS introduced him to Nitish who was part of the national alliance of NDA. Kalki was impressed by Nitish and his work of reviving the dead state of Bihar, his ancestral homeland; he spent considerable time in political mobilization in Bihar. With his organizational skills and experience he was an asset to the alliance, but he quietly refused any official role for himself, either in the state government or in the party machinery. Politics and public life were a
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part-time vocation for him, while he focused on his paintings. Krishna noticed Kalkis clear speech, Kalki had made his peace with the world and himself; his tongue had grown back completely since they last met except a part tip of the last bit. His language was back with him, except an accent of melancholy that the lack of pointed tip created. How is Prithvi? Kalki asked Maya. She is the happiest to come back. Maya replied. Prithvi was enrolled in New Delhi International School, the new address of next-gen inheritors, and to Mayas surprise took her relocation exceptionally well. Maya had some initial inhibition before coming back, about being an unwedded mother in New Delhi, but she was surprised at ease of acceptance of the single mother and her child in a changed Delhi society, she became the toast of the liberal elite for her choice of motherhood without a man. Krishna Kalki Maya chatted about developments in their lives since they parted from the hospital in Mumbai. It was a repetition of what they already knew, for although they had not met they did talk on phone. Krishna gave them a summary of way things stood, the parent company in which three of them were equal shareholders, and investments and fashion businesses held by the parent company. Things are all settled now, I am glad we have a closure. Krishna concluded his summary. Yes, everyone is glad, hope nothing goes wrong again. Last time we were in a Taj restaurant destiny had other things in mind. Kalki said with light sarcasm, slight mock on Krishnas conclusive tenor. They drank their coffee. Maya briefed them on plans for the evening. Krishna Kalki had noticed teasers in media anticipating the mega launch of new creations; they trusted Maya to put a great show. We have a very high-power guest list for today evening, a whos who of the country. All of them will be here tonight. Maya declared with a sense of pride. ********* The swarm of wealth, glamour and power settled around the ramp and stage of the banquet hall of Taj Palace Hotel, the hall was decorated in tableau of futuristic themes of space and science fiction. Posters of astronauts walking on the moon and Indias own moon vehicle Chandrayaan was hung in a spread covering the walls. Formal inauguration was scheduled after the fashion show. A festive sit-down dinner and cocktails were on the card. The premier guests shamans of social order leadership of the nation, were expected later for the inauguration and banquet.
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Models walked down to the beat of electronic music in a range of futuristic garb, high-tech clothing and gadgets, mixed with avant-garde design. Designs displayed were not the ones to be sold, they were still years ahead in future, but purpose was branding creations as the cutting-edge name in fashion trends. Media was buzzing around, clicking cameras flashed in psychedelic sequence whenever a fresh ramp walker appeared. Atmosphere mesmerized into teleportation to future. Maya Krishna Kalki sat among guests, proudly noting the bewilderment of electrified audience trying to comprehend the aesthetics of space age. For the viewers it was like nothing they had seen before, yet they perceived an inherent continuity with their own accepted sensibilities, although in the fast-moving catwalk of carefully calibrated movement, it was difficult to distinguish elements that were drastically trendsetting experimentations and those which created continuity; in context of the show it was appealing. Maya knew she had taken a risk; she was happy and relieved seeing people wearing expressions of astonishment and appreciation. The scintillating show ended and lights were back on, people dispersed into groups of mutual affinities chatting shop. Maya was shrouded with congratulations. She was accustomed to the routine, but she felt a special satisfaction; culmination of her lifes work; a eulogy and tribute to her mentor. This was her freedom; her dreams promised by the waves, of distant shores and seas. She knew, from beyond somewhere, Sunday was seeing her, Jean-Pierre was seeing her; they were equally proud. Krishna Kalki Maya mixed with the crowds, welcoming guests, conducting mutual introductions, opening doors to opportunities of collaboration. They were the new drivers of the old engine. Krishna found the group with Raj, Vinod and gang. He walked towards them, Vinod and Iyer engaged in a deep conversation on the economy, others listening, waiting for gems of executable wisdom to drop. But we need to hear from the great man himself. Vinod turned the conversation as soon as he saw Krishna walking towards them. How did you manage to know the market so well that you bet it short before the crash? He asked. The public perception carefully crafted was, Krishna the academic genius forecasted the markets correctly and in turn ended up making a big fortune. Everyone wanted to hear his story. Krishna smiled at them in an appearance of modesty shying the truth behind his timing of the market; hiding the invisible itch in his remaining bit of baton. I think I just got lucky as far as the timing was concerned, but regarding the actual crash, most economists knew that such high asset values were not sustainable. He said reticently.
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A Black Swan event, Iyer said smiling, in continuation of his comments on markets earlier in the group, of inevitability of large rises and falls. Iyer had survived the collapse of the Street and continued his work as a quant. However, focus of his work had shifted to building strategies which will create large upsides on unforeseen events. So you suggest betting on doom? Sandeep asked, still not following Iyers thesis. No, I suggest betting on uncertainty, betting on the fact that we dont know. It can be a boom or a doom. Iyer explained. Ok, but you are still betting against the normal behavior of the world, its steady movement? Vinod asked to clarify. To an extent, yes, given the pace of change, in technology, politics, demography, economy, everything for that matter, I believe we can expect an era of large volatility and frequent positive or negative shocks. The world will no longer be Business as Usual, outliers will be common. Iyer continued with his exposition of the theory becoming popular among Streeters post the destructive aftermath of collapse; predilections of Black Swans with Long Fat Tails. Discussions meandered from stock prices to real estate, to emerging market investments, My advice is to invest in India, just look at source. We increased revenues by thirty percent despite the recession. Vinod gave his opinion. Sandeep taking the cue, beaming with pride, embarked on a monologue of how source was going great guns. You are right about India, but its not a foregone conclusion. There are fundamental difficulties that need to be overcome before our future is certainly bright. Raj sounded a cautious note to the exuberance. Raj had left source to become a public intellectual and then joined the government after publishing a successful book on problems and solutions for the Indian economy. Everybody was interested to hear his perspectives; an insider. I think education will be the key. Bala added his two bit, and smiled, knowing full well that the bait will plunge the conversation into nostalgia of IIT, something which he had started liking as an outsider in the group. Krishna excused himself to talk to other guests. Rest of the group traveled down memory lanes amidst stories that continued becoming more spiced with passage of time. He heard streams of laughter along mentions of fanatical days of finding the Theory of Everything and building machines to control entropy. Oh yes! Yes, I remember, explosion in the lab, so you were the guy who did that experiment. Krishna heard Sam the Telecom laughing, remembering Iyers experiment. He is still trying to control entropy. Difference is they call it volatility
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on the Street. Vinod added. Media was swooning over Maya, everyone struggling to catch sound bites from the undisputed queen of global fashion. Krishna seeing the hullabaloo thought, If only they know source of new creations, only if they could peek backwards in darkness to get a glance of conspiracies that create miracles. He tried justifying things in a yet-another dimension of silent sophisticated self-argumentation. Maya broke free of media questioning to welcome other guests. She chatted with her erstwhile colleagues and friends. In the group were also several international executives of creations among well-known Indian and foreign designers. They were glad that creations was saved from disintegration and Maya was at the helm of affairs again. She was the pillar that provided the confidence of certainty in an uncertain world. Its been ages since I saw something this creative, it was wonderful. Ronit congratulated Maya. Ronit had created a reputation for himself as the leading designer from India, his collection of fusion of ethnic and western was a rage in fashion circles. Maya was happy for her old friend, he no longer lived his life in a closet; he flaunted his boyfriend, the young underwear model with a perfectly chiseled body and an attractively handsome face. After Maya thanked him, Vidya added; Coming from Ronit the compliment sounds even better. We all know his standards of judgment. Maya had retained Vidya to head creations India operations. Vidya headed the business side and Shilpi, who was instrumental in designing the relaunch show, headed the designs side. Maya had plans to elevate both of them into global roles. She introduced the global executives and designers to Vidya and Shilpi. All of them knew they were Together the new team of new creations. The conversation was hovering around nuances of eastern and western tastes when Maya noticed Sejal and Abhinav in the crowd, she excused herself. I am really glad that you reconciled with Krishna and Kalki. Sejal who had assiduously avoided all these years mention of these names, not knowing the reason why closest friends of her best friend had suddenly become strangers, and even more shockingly, out of nowhere they appeared reconciled amidst gunshots in Mumbai, and next she hears of them is they own the most prestigious fashion house of the world. She was fascinated by the secret world of Maya. Long story, perhaps someday I will tell you. Maya replied with a mischievous smile. Sejal added to the smile and mystery. Come to think of it, must be some story, three of you are still single! They exchanged glances which
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only intimate girlfriends can share or understand. Maya moved to the Bollywood crowd, the Khans and Bachchans enjoying the attention showered to them, seeing Maya they congratulated her. Memories of another show flashed in her mind, when the Indian beauties had created a sensation by winning the international pageants. Aishwarya had married Abhishek, troubled days of Bachchan senior was a story of distant past, of which he had climbed out asking million-dollar questions. The Khans competing to cling on to times, in an attempt of not letting it slip from their grip. She knew it was an illusion; its good they make best out of it till it lasts. Maya saw Priyanka, her husband Robert along with Rahul, chatting with Prannoy and Barkha in another part of the hall. She approached the group, routine of hellos and congratulations followed. Whats the deal on creations acquisition? Barkha asked, not able to resist her journalistic curiosity urging for the scoop. Some time else, this is not an interview time. Maya smiled at her old friend. How are you? I read so many good things about you these days. Maya asked Rahul. I have been busy, travelling and politics. I am glad here I can at least be a bit chilled, not completely drowned by the Party. He smiled perspicuously. Maya wanted to ask more questions, find out more about him, his transition, his taking up the Family mantle, but she felt an awkwardness, she did not know what to talk to him, how to talk to him, was he an old friend, or was he the prince of destiny, the Prime Minister in waiting; instead she chatted with Priyanka about their kids, about old days. Kalki quickly completed his conversation with Sashi (who had also relocated back from UN to become an official with the Foreign Ministry) as soon as he saw Nitish and RDS chatting; he went to greet them. Nitish Kumar, Kurma the engineer had become Karma the politician, and in grave yards around town of Botala, in pyre grounds in floodplains of Ganga, in Bad Lands of Bihar, In heavens of freedom, in imagination of gods, he quickeningly raised the dead across all divides; Jesus the Christ, Gautama the Buddha, Krishna the Real One; into the heaven of freedom, in imagination of man; Miracle! First time in the living memory of men. Sir, you must convince Kalki to take up public office, people of our state will be grateful. Nitish mentioned to RDS as soon as Kalki was within an earshot distance. Kalki laughed, Nitish Ji, your efforts are futile, I am not made for this. Kalki replied to the request asked to his mentor.
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Well, we will all like it, but it is for him to decide. RDS added, The country needs people like him to be in politics, although I should share some blame for his cynicism. With the party out of power, and RDS out of favor, his heydays were past. RDS was living a semi-retired life; reflecting and philosophizing. Kalki chatted for a while with his old acquaintances. He had changed so much that he could not remember himself from those days, full of rebellious energy, wanting to change the world. It all seemed like an old illusion. He saw Krishna waving to him, to come up to the entrance where he was headed with Maya. Kalki knew that the chief guests were coming. The VVIP guests, who had skipped the fashion show, started to arrive. The hustle of the room and the sudden presence of mechanically cloned glances of men in safari suits, indicated arrival of the leaders. Maya Krishna Kalki moved towards the entrance door to welcome the Gods. Opposition leader L.K. Advani was the first to arrive, he recognized Kalki from his home-ministry days. He congratulated the trio and was led to seating by them. The Prime Minister Dr. Manmohan Singh and Congress president Sonia Gandhi arrived one after another. Sonia smiled at Maya as she welcomed her. The three top leaders, chief guests, sat at the designated table. The banquet hall was dotted with white-cambrictopped round tables laid out for luxuriant sit-down dinner. Official ceremonies of inauguration of new creations commenced; guests settled down in their respective places, properly marked. The most important table was occupied by guests of honor and their hosts. Maya Krishna Kalki, Advani, Manmohan and Sonia were sitting together. The table had an air of transition of generations. Maya got up and walked up to the stage, she made a short remark thanking the chief guests and everyone else for coming. She then invited the Prime Minister to unveil the logo of new creations and declare it inaugurated. The Prime Minister walked up to the stage, and on Mayas direction pushed a button which started the lifting motion of a large curtain, release of decorative smoke with a hissing sound from underneath the stage, lights dimmed with a rhythmic music increasing in volume, curtains finally folded up to reveal a large cardboard wall with embedded logo of new creations. The smoke, thickly icy multicolor smoke, rising in crisscrossing lines of flashing laser, rose around the emblem to settle down above the crowd, in an haloing encompassing mushroom of the cavalierly hanging crown; vainglorious glory of gratified vanity in the heavenly grandeur of Rome. It had the same running impatience, no use of capital letters, no article preceding, no period succeeding, slanting away forward in haste, only apparent change, word new added, and a tag-word worldwide. new creations worldwide was inaugurated; Finis coronat opus at ground zero. Lights brightened once again, music stopped and smoke diffused.
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Maya asked the PM to speak a few words of encouragement. Dr. Manmohan Singh waxed eloquence in his soft voice, congratulating the three young people on their achievement of creating a global business in such short time. Maya Krishna Kalki exchanged glances hiding the secrets of not-so-young people. I salute their aspirations. Today is Forty-first anniversary of mans landing on Moon, which I am told is also the birthday of our hosts. A fit and fascinating coincidence, the lunar landing symbolizes ingenuity of humans. If we aspire hard enough, and dedicate ourselves to our goals, we can reach the skies. This is the spirit we require in our young people, who will create the modern India, a country free of the curses of poverty and ignorance, a country which will claim its rightful position as the representative of an ancient civilization and timeless wisdom in the community of nations. The Prime Minister talked about entrepreneurship, how the energy of Indias young generation and freedom of creation in an open society will lead the country on a path of prosperity. He wished best for the new company and concluded his short speech. It was a lavish sit-down dinner, a multicourse gourmet prepared by best chefs of the world. The banquet was grand like a state dinner. Guests on tables represented the power that controls society and powers to be. It was a mix of ages, old tycoons and politicians mingled with rising stars unapologetic successful freewheeling youngsters, most apparent at the main table where the three chief guests chatted with their hosts between servings of food and beverages. Liveried bearers waited in attention around the table. To his surprise Krishna didnt feel any awkwardness or anxiety in presence of such power; instead he conversed effortlessly and noticed the same ease in Maya Kalki. So Maya, can we now conclude that the best suits will no longer be Italian? Sonia tried bringing in humor to soften the stiffness that accompanies social meetings of arch rivals. Advani not wanting to be left behind, added amidst light laughter of the table, They will still make better suits in Italy. These people should dress the world in Saris and Kurtas. Why not? Manmohan joined, It can be like Indian food and movies, Indian clothes can also become part of the global culture. Sure we will. Maya humbly replied, With all your blessings we will make the best suits, and also dress the world in Saris and Kurtas. We have just begun. They affably chatted about trends in global culture and international fusion. Conversation drifted to economy, conditions in Europe, challenges
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in India, then back to cultural changes, social trends and technologies. Krishna watched in astonishment the mutual comfort of amiable chatting along with the classy dinner, he imagined the session of parliament a week away, they will be at each others throats calling names in most unparliamentarily language. That will be another side of the show, for public consumption, for media circus, but this is where opposites come together, where the cordial harmony is created for the world to run, for wheels of history to turn. Parliament of India continued being the House for nonviolent violence of unparliamentarily abuses and counter-abuses of no-business-done in frivolity and sloganeering of prorogued identities. He realized, finally they had become the ultimate insiders, mortal gods, inhabitants of the commanding heights. Advani Ji, we must work together to get the Womens Bill passed in this session. Sonia used the occasion to get a commitment for her legacydefining project. Yes, we are equally committed to it Sonia Ji. Advani replied, We need to cooperate also in the state legislatures to get the business of governance conduced smoothly. Last rounds were being served; conversation about foreign policy, Krishna asked the PM about his recent successful participation in G8/20 conference. There had been good press about Manmohans contributions. A broad glee crossed the Sardars face in satisfying smile of participating on the high table of shamefully extended bargain. In some ways the crash and subsequent erosion of American Supremacy is good for us, realignment of power will create space for us. It has increased our relative prestige in international forums. Crash is Good, recalibrates premises, repairs the system, great wars of history, explosions in physics lab, explosions of entropy, World at the verge of change, Napoleonic Europe, ascent of America, wars and peaces, Rise of the rest, Bricks of BRIC. Meandering further on foreign policy, everyone on the table dutifully expressed bemoaning concerns about situation in Pakistan, need for liberal democracies to take root in developing countries, and then further proofs of patriotism was presented in the criticism of long-term sustenance of Chinese Totalitarian Model, which unfortunately some other countries are now trying to copy, but they are all mistaken, because Indian model of freedom, our impartial judiciary and luminous rule-of-law is the long-race winner. Yes! The trickery of Karma was alive as ever, Ironies of Karma, alive and kicking; In sophistication of the richly laid-out dinner, the chaos, violence and filth was offered as an evidence of advancement of the society, the creepy delays of judge-made laws and corrupt justices of high jurisprudence were presented as the rule of law, in defense of the
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unpardonable hunger and poverty, against a country waking up in Kumbhakarnas capabilities, the bte-noir of educated Indians, teasing away to great prosperity and power, mockingly looking down on all our imagined greatness. A million mutinies continued to rage in red corridors, in peripheral states, in drought-hit villages, in illegal mines, in sanitation-less slums. A million breaking dawns continued to shine in multiplexes, in malls of the cities, in cell-phone cable Internet communications reaching the unreachable corners of remotest villages, in businesses globally blazing trails. In an ancient land teeming with millions of youngsters (waiting for their turns on the fork of road of life that parted ways to two alternate worlds), the tango of panacean Durga and malignant Mahisa continued its derisory destitute dance. Krishna was lost in his thoughts when he heard the Prime Minister say in reply to some question, Education is the key. We need to drastically improve our primary education. We need better institutes of higher learning. We need many more schools, many more IITs. Everyone religiously reiterated. Yes! We need to Clone them to Our Side before they become the Clones of Mahisa. The order of evening ended; other guests have their chances to sneak into vision of gods to make small comments of hoping remembrance; gabbling geese flocked for ingratiatory Darshan full of piss and vinegar, which continued for some more time and then the VVIPs left. Krishna felt a sense of completed transition, a passing of moral spirit from one set of gods, who were old enough to retire in confidence and safety of the baton, to other set, the inheritors, who had become old enough to discard dreams of grandeur and aggressions of utopian visions; to be grounded in skepticism of experience. Earth continued spinning in confidence of things changing and remaining same, in safe transition of the flame of moral spirit, from Sonia Manmohan Advani, to Maya Krishna Kalki; million flowers blossoming, million thorns growing; in defiance of language million oxymora blooming.

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Chapter 28 The conversation

The party became relaxed once the chief guests left. Soon other guests also left, only ones remaining were the organizers hosts models. The relief and outpour of tiredness of preparations loosened the remaining people in celebration and excitement. Maya remembered her times when she was among operational organizers, a foot soldier rather than the host who sat at dinner with chief guests; she resonated in enthusiasm of the spunky youngsters who had toiled for weeks to make it a perfect launch. When last of the guests said goodbye the ensemble group gathered around Maya requesting her to come along to the nightclub for their after party. Maya obliged, and with Krishna Kalki joined the merry-making young people. Krishna had some reservations, he felt out of place, but Mayas pleading for old times sake made both him and Kalki come along. The nightclub was in basement of the Hotel. Krishna didnt recognize the loud music playing; cadence of pulsating electronic music, repeated rhythmic bass beats alternated by shrill metallic screeches. Krishna looked around, the club was filled with exuberant youngsters; he felt odd amidst unfamiliar music and outlandish clothes; he stared at a bunch of gothic boys and girls coolly hanging out in loud attitude and black attire in a corner; deviant denizens of the night donned in dark overalls with pimples of shining metal spikes, reminding him of spikes in the mythical weapon of Krishna; Cutting Edges of Chakra; Spikes Draping Darkness. It was all alien to Krishna. He went to the bar and bought a beer for himself, stood at the edge of dancing area, trying to comprehend the new world he suddenly found himself in. The psychedelic flashes of laser mingled with glow sticks of ecstatically jumping ravers, tracing multiple color patterns in air following beats of loud music; everyone was in trance. Krishna felt old; he had never felt old before, a sudden realization of the generational shift that had happened while he was running to keep pace with the world, dawned on him. He looked at Maya; he was surprised to see her dancing along with her young team, jumping with them, as young and energetic as them. Thats why she is Maya, she is timeless. Kalki was standing with a can of beer few paces away from him, although he was not dancing, Krishna felt that he too wasnt so much out of place. Kalki could feel the pulse of the music; his body felt a nostalgic longing for drugs which made him lose his identity into jumping crowds in beats of music. Krishna was lost in reflecting his thoughts in raving lights and loud sound when Maya came up to him. Why dont you dance? she asked. She grasped by look of Krishnas expression that her question got drowned in loudness of the music. She raised her voice, Come! Lets dance! She invited, almost shouting.
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I dont think I can, I am too old for this. I dont know the music at all. Krishna resisted, conversation made in loud voices trying to communicate amidst the stormy trance of laser and beats. No you are not. Its just a state of mind. You used to be the moonwalker, remember. She cajoled him. Krishna remembered his days, when he was the star of parties, his dance steps that had made him popular, I might still do a turn if we have music from our days, but what kind of music is this? This is some variety of hardcore electronic, more like trance and techno. Maya was smiling, To be frank, even I dont follow it that well, I just know of it, I dont bother much. They were shouting in each others ears, only possible way of communicating, Shall I get you a drink, Krishna asked, trying to avoid being dragged into dancing. Maya decided not to wheedle him further and consented to his offer. They moved towards the bar where music was a little less loud and people could talk without shouting. You know, on one hand I feel old, but at the same time, I also feel happy and excited seeing the energy of these young people. This place is so full of attitude that says I give a damn to the world, I live my own life, it reminds me of our own times, our music was different, but at a deeper level werent we the same? Krishna said passing a beer to her; mien remix remade. Maya smiled, I guess so, but I tend to agree that you have finally become old, she teased him. Yes you need to be pretty old to dabble in philosophy in such an exciting party. Kalki joined them at the Bar, Maya asked, Are you also feeling the generation gap like Krishna? Oh! No! I feel young seeing so many hot sexy young women around, Kalki laughed. Although I must admit, if I hit on any of them, she will say, You are a nice uncle. The three of them laughed together, Let me confess something, I could be as lost as you guys, but its my business to know where popular culture is heading, so I try being aware. Maya said. I feel like celebrating whole night, get drunk on our success and celebrate our birthday. Lets go to my house, we will play our age, drink and chat, get sloshed on success and nostalgia. I promise Krishna I will play music which he has heard before. She invited them for their own private personal after party. Anyways, all these years we have really not sat down and talked without any pressing thing to do. ********* They completed their drinks and left for Mayas home. The chauffer
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pulled in the shining silver luxury sedan, a new Jaguar (still made in Britain but now an Indian brand), emblem of the beast at front of the bonnet, impatient in stride of its jump, posterior legs rooted in past, anterior waving flailing at edge of the giant leap into future, pulling into the driveway of a large Vasant Vihar house. The house was a two-storied bungalow, built in contemporary style, sharp and geometrical. The exterior wall color was off-white, window panels were metallic black with dark glasses. Krishna Kalki were impressed. Through the grilled porch with few idling wickerwork chairs they walked into a spacious lobby lined with luxurious leather couches and modernistic furniture. A staircase rose from end of the lobby to the upper floor. Hearing noises, Prithvi came running down the stairs, full of her nineyear-old energy and enthusiasm, dressed in a pair of shorts and T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Maya was slightly irritated seeing her, Why are you awake so late in the night? Because I wanted to know how did your inauguration go? She said while running to hug her mother. Ok, well, it was great. Maya tried continuing with pretense of her irritation. Prithvi seeing the two men entering the drawing room and settling down on the comfortable sofa, immediately recognized them and shouted in bewildered joy, I knew you two will come here today, Krishna and Kalki uncle. All the adults, including Maya was surprised by Prithvis instant recognition of the men, although she had met them several years ago in New York, and she had their pictures in her i-phone album, and she fondly remembered birthday gifts received in courier year after year, still it was a feat for the nine-year-old to recognize them. Krishna Kalki were overjoyed; days of secondhand seduction of parenthood lived in the virtual world of illusions chat room, suddenly bloomed into reality. Both of them hugged Prithvi by turn, she became busy flaunting her i-phone, showing them her pictures from Paris, New Delhi and New York. It was pure joy and astonishment, the Joy of a childs innocence, and astonishment of ease of her using the gadget. Despite efforts, Maya could not let herself hijack the joys of forty-one year old children and a nine year old grownup, she let them chat and play for a while. She watched with pleasure as the three of them exchanged their cell phones and compared its features. The box, no longer a box nor white, a black pad with faces in memories of sand, routers invisible and testicle-less, a screen of touch no longer windows, but light in multicolor emitted in music, electronic and incomprehensible.
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For Prithvi it wasnt meeting strangers, she had lived an imagined world with her two adult friends ever since New York, and despite Mayas jealous glances she didnt hesitate to splurge in stories of her school and friends. A continuous firing of blissful conversation, missed moments being relived, moments that make life worth living, You know Krishna uncle, I came first in the class test last week, and also in the drawing test. And Kalki uncle I know you are a very good painter, will you teach me? Followed by, Very good, well done, but tell me what do you want to become when you grow up? I will become an astronaut. I will go to the moon. I know mas and your birthday is today. It is already twelve oclock, already twenty first July. Happy Birthday! I know the first man went to moon today. Wow, who tells you all this, you are so smart. No, No, I will actually become the prime minister of the world that is why my name is Prithvi. She blushed at her own audacity. Well if I dont, I will become a model for creations, a super-model! Maya laughed, Krishna Kalki didnt know how to react; time stood still in astonished bliss. They had expected a child whom they met in New York, but passage of years had made Prithvi into a personality that left both of them bewildered. Finally after letting the fun go on for several minutes, Maya drew the line, Now come on, enough of fun, children are not supposed to be awake this late in the night. Come I will put you to sleep. Prithvi reluctantly went along; she started music in her phone, Krishna immediately recognized, similar to what blared in the nightclub awhile ago. Goodnight Kalki and Krishna uncle, please get me an i-pad for my birthday this year. She climbed up the stairs cajoled by her mother. Krishna Kalki could not remove their eyes from the empty staircase after the mother and daughter disappeared into one of the rooms. Maya tucked Prithvi into her bed, kissed her goodnight, Sweet dreams baby. She switched off the light, closed the door and walked back downstairs. I envy you, Krishna said, as Maya walked to the small bar at one corner of the room and collected a bottle with three glasses. Because you have spent some time with her, which is fun, but you have no clue what a devil she is. I shiver to think what will happen once she is a teen. Already she can be very difficult at times. Maya took out the vintage bottle of Blue Label Scotch whisky, Crystal decanter of King George V edition, eloquent sparkling whisky glasses, and ice bucket with metal outer rim embellished in detailed patina carvings. She prepared three drinks with ice-cubes plopped in and passed on the glasses,
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Forty-one years! We have become old. She took a remote from a side table next to the sofa and switched on the T.V, putting on a news channel in muted sound, with another remote she dimmed the lights of the lobby and drawing room; age of life, still acts left in stage of the world, for men and woman merely players, fleeting carelessly the golden time. Once the drinks were in everyones hand she raised the toast, To us. To new creations, Kalki clinked his glass with hers. To the new world of Prithvi, Krishna pitched into the music of cheering glasses. The complementing sweet sound of crystal against crystal completed raising of the toast, first sip of the deep smooth smoked savor flavor of the rich restrained sophistication lingering on to the intense multilayered spicy aftertaste of the initial explosion, resonating on icecooled palate, an impatient painting eager for expression in the breath and words preparing for spilling over; the conversation began. It started with reflections on the day, before it zoomed back further in the rearview mirror of memories. It was a coup to get both Sonia and Advani on the same table. It will be talk of the town when it wakes up today. Maya was happy about the way the evening had preceded. Did you notice how cordially they chatted with each other? Krishna took a sip of scotch, rolled it in his mouth, waited for a few seconds and then let it pass down his throat, took a deep breath with his eyes twinkling in appreciation of the drink. The essence of our politics is Italian. He said and started smiling. I know that smile of yours. Krishna at his sarcastic best, now come out of it, tell us the punch line. Maya pleaded as she remembered the smile from a distant past, when its appearance on Krishnas face made everyone attentive in anticipation of his satire. Kalki too immediately recognized the smile, Oh! Now come on. Ok, if you guys insist so much. Krishna continued with his Sermon of the Mount without being able to resist his glee. The essence of our politics is Roman. It is an eternal struggle between a Fascista Parivar and a Cosa Nostra Family. And he burst out in laughter, happy at his own satire, as if he had created the punch line of the century. He controlled his laughter and sipped his drink; Pantalone del bisognosi. Yes! Kalki said, The pathology of politics of all politicians across spectrums is the same. But thats also true for everyone, also nonpolitician, pathology of power, Krishna added; urinalysis van assoulta korruptemacht.
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Come on now, you should not be that harsh. Maya chided them. After all, our governments and politicians have done better than most of the developing world, we can be proud of our achievements. Yes, even I have made peace with the system, despite its faults it works. And we dont know of a better way. Kalki added, as if his turnaround of opinion was an ultimate evidence of the utility of crumbling corrupt edifice of pretension of a system wrapped in the facade of democracy. We have become the sympathizers of a rotten system. We grew up to become the people we had hated, the people against whom we had taken the streets, pelted stones and burnt vehicles. We have become the system now. We are equally loathsome. Krishna was no longer laughing; his seriousness and vitriolic tone disturbed Maya Kalki. They felt an outburst of a deep seated hidden even from him guilt. He felt an agitation within him, an irritable itch in the last-remaining bit of his baton. We wanted to become like Gatsby. Kalki added, But, ended up becoming like Tom and Daisy. They were careless people Tom and Daisy, they smashed up things and creatures and retreated back in their money, or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean the mess they had made. Generations grow up imagining the love, passionate purity of Gatsby, living by their inner voices, they either die young or fall to become like Tom and Daisy; substance of the legend, rendition of Gatsby, is Death. It is more complicated than that. The world is not black-and-white. Yes, we loathed our parents generation. We blamed them for masquerading away the hard-fought freedom, of destroying the hope born at the midnight. But think of it now, they didnt do all that bad. Maya tried calming the spirits of agitated Krishna, My dad won a war for the country; he was ready to die to safeguard her freedom. Mine was a symbol of hope for his fellowmen trapped in clutches of poverty and caste; this country gave him the entrepreneurial opportunity to create a mining empire, create employment, and create prosperity. Kalki added, in a tone of atonement for his past anger against everything he had known. Seeing his friends defending the past of their country and families, Krishna found it funny, he relaxed, not to be left behind in the general happiness of reconciliation he added, And mine built a steel plant, and a whole new city. Acquitting himself he acquiesced to the proposition of world being shades of gray, his guilt once again rightfully buried in dungeons of his consciousness; Ideal of Continual Democracy, Tyranny of Reckless
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Meritocracy; leap of faith exonerating self. Mention of the city immediately plunged Krishna Kalki into images of Botala, in the comfort zone of pleasant childhood memories. On the muted television screen, the news channel showed visuals of teenage boys pelting stones on armed security personnel on the streets of Srinagar; the valley of paradise continued to burn in vale of tears. I am afraid when Prithvi is growing up, she will blame us for everything that is bad in the world. But I hope someday she will realize that we did our bit to make it run, like generations before and generations to come. Maya reflected in a somber mood; the men watching stone-pelting youth on the screen. Suddenly Kalki spoke, his eyes bright and wide with excitement, his self transported in memory, But did things really change? We got stoned on grass and broke the windows. We got high on life and crashed the world. Krishna Kalki started laughing as flashes of the dark night in St. Xaviers back yard, echo of breaking windows piercing the silence followed by shouts of the stout watchman, and two young boys running floating in time, flashed in their memories. Maya suddenly felt left out of context of the deep secret that surfaced. Now you need to tell me all about it, you cant have secrets here. She said inquisitively. Maya eagerly waited for the story to come out, a story not even mentioned to ones own memory, a story hidden deep in bonds of secrets; a story that had created a bond of friendship. A dense Scottish mist wet in nostalgia descended around them, sounds of accordions and bagpipes playing, turning to music, slowly filled the room. Maya refilled the glasses while Krishna narrated the tale, when he and Kalki had first met, battle of wits, the academic competition, his first-time stoning and breaking of windows; forming a friendship. Krishna Kalki collected their refilled glasses and sang in tune of the pipers melody enjoying the mist; When the hurly burly is done, and the battles are lost and won, thou shalt be the queen o the world, o Maya. And they broke out in laughter on their instant same and simultaneous improvisation of Shakespeare remembered from high-school days. The mist distilled to dewdrops turning into tears in Mayas eyes, she watched the two inseparable friends remember their bond of friendship. She didnt say anything, but the silent meaning of floating tears conveyed to the singing men, What could have broken such a bond? What pain would it have been? Lady Macbeth staring stain straining thoughts; what stone, what
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dagger, what illusion, can break bond of such broken windows? Fell swoop such friendship? Suddenly a silence descended in the room, they held hands and exchanged glances, Maya wiped her tears, and said after letting the silence pass, to skip a part of memory and get back to the conversation, But what did you guys do in life after University. Tell me all about it? Tell me in details about your journeys and I will then tell you mine. The conversation once again was back on track, in deepening of the night, in refills of scotch; in strolls down the memory lanes. ********* Elsewhere, in Ouathom, in Wiowin, there was another conversation. Well-dressed elderly people had gathered in a conference room that looked like boardroom of the Bank. Mahogany furniture and famous paintings walled and dotted the room, amidst paintings was picture of the Gentleman, similar to the Gentleman of the Bank, in similar old-style suit, a Noble man from an earlier age; he was their father, they were his children; history myth fiction fact old cuckold. At the head of a large table sat a lady in the chair, in a peach-color suit, her blonde hair and Scandinavian looks was complemented by an academic glance from behind the thick glasses. On both her sides sat gentlemen in black suits, white shirts, gray hair and thick specs. Bundles of printed papers and several hard-bound books lay on the table. It was already late evening outside, but the higher latitudes made the dusk still lit by the nightly sun dropping down the horizon. They were the mantle keepers of civilizational wisdom. They were the Clone Gods. They were discussing literature; Ethics Politics Aesthetics of Literature, Logic of Language, Epistemology of Expression, Metaphysics of the Artist; Styles of fiction; surveying history and future of imagination; of violence and peace. A voodoo-like silence and an air of magical spell gripped the room, lady in the chair spoke, Gentlemen, tis time again, when well conjure ghosts alive and dead, from future and past, to come to an opinion. What needs to be done need be done! The lady and gentlemen all nodded their heads in strains of lifting the divine burden of Clonal Conscience. They decorously genuflected before their heavenly father the Gentleman in the picture; Dynamite bestowingly hung over the mantel and post-blessings the proceedings of the evening began as willed by his ordinance: Thrice the brinded cat hath mewd. Thrice and once, the hedge-pig whind. Harpier cries:tis time! tis time!
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Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble. The spell is cast and we shalt decide on the prize tonight. The gentleman on left began, The Story Teller of London, the living ghost, once again comes to haunt us, he conjures stories of darkness of midnight, and the world waits in pronouncement of our spell. He then left the discussion open, Lets deliberate and deliberate some more, on literary structures of all Bull Bytes; Where Fair is Foul and Foul is Fair ********* Meanwhile back in New Delhi, the three friends continued their travels in memories, they narrated their stories of the time when they had become strangers, stories of magical reality of living, alternate journeys of an individual life, living and perceiving the reality and magic of time. Krishna couldnt believe what he narrated, what he heard, it was a stream of magic; he couldnt believe that things happened as they were being told, but he couldnt remember it in any other way. The Bofors, the dynamite that brought down a government and created the generation which were its children, the Mandal that painted their skin in colors of their castes forever, the riots, the assassinations, source, Windows, the IPO, the school, the thesis, the Bank, the conspiracy and crash, all passed in front of him like a cult film, getting entangled with stories of Kalki Maya, date with the bomb, the valley of violence, valley of peace, immigrants, intelligence, the clothes, the loves, stories of waves and seas. They continued sharing speaking listening asking questions, tying loose ends. Packet Switching from one to another, three of them, Clones of each other; congruence of triangles; Drinks were made, glasses bottomed up, night passed and conversation continued. Are you in touch with Sarah? Yes, she is in my facebook. She survived the crash. The Bank has done pretty well this year. She got promoted and another hefty bonus. What happened to Sofiya? She got back to Russia and disappeared with a handsome bank account. But I heard she got bored with living off money in few months. Now works for Russian intelligence, an under-cover agent in the States. And Adnan? Oh, he collected the residual value from sale of creations and got on the lam. With his hidden secret information he blackmailed governments into giving him immunity from prosecution. He now lives his old age in Monaco, hobnobs with the Royal family there. *********
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In the conference room the decorum was disturbed and things got heated. Lady in the chair was afraid it might blow up. She looked at the picture of the Gentleman and thought, After all we are all Children of the Dynamite. She intervened to calm the tempers. She took a deep breath and spoke to divert the conversation, for everyone to relax, Oh, I envy the science guys, their job is so much simpler, no controversies, no uncertainties, no contrary opinions. Yes those guys have it good. Its a robust tool to judge, fallibility, to decide the relative merit of energy and mass, wave and particle. Yes, damn! But how does one falsify literature. The gentlemen on left and right laughed, Do you really think so maam! A hundred years of relativity and they still wrangle whether equations of matter and energy are math or physics. Like we squabble: whether the stories of children is pulp or literature. The distinctions are good, we need to keep in mind its not the pulp of base human feelings but aesthetics of an Ideal Direction that we seek, not useless teasers of math but robust results of physics which we want. Our father realized the difference and properly willed us to beware of the treacherous ides; to separate chaff from grains of wisdom. Lady in the chair reminded them of the Will of the Dynamite. And, we always thought it was because his wife ran away with her lover. The gentlemen laughed and were once again relaxed. But what can us and our brethren do? Has not the world since time of our father dissolved divides between pulp and literature, math and physics? asked the gentleman on left. We need to be careful of complications, and not do the blunder of hope our brothers of peace did last year, concurred the gentleman in right. What hellish hope created the ignobility of audacity of peace last year? Everyone at the table nodded in sympathy of shame; Theirs is the messiest business. Poor chaps were haunted by the ghost of great soul of the Mahatma. They had to create his children to atone their deeds. And remember the bulldog, the war didnt let them cast their spell and politics made us do the needful. Yes, but peace is not literature, literature is not physics. O times are tough for all of us. Even the guys in economics are lamenting their choices that led to the crash. ********* Oblivion of the laughter of history in the conference room elsewhere,
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Maya Krishna Kalki continued their conversation over refilled glasses of scotch. Amidst pleasant memories of her loves, and tearful recall of breakups, Maya told stories of her relationships, her pursuit to find love and freedom, its contradictions. At one time I really wanted to marry and settle down. I was tired. She said remembering her proposing to Jean-Pierre. I think we all are doomed or destined, as you may, to live and die single. Krishnas voice inebriated, slurring a bit, Kalki laughed, he now had a partner with not-cut tongue who stuttered. I loved him. He was a mentor friend philosopher guide. It was a tragedy, very sad that it had to end like this. Maya was saddened, But it was good that we didnt marry. It would have been a disaster. Oh! What a life we had had! We should write a book about it. We are the same, clones of each other; we think alike, our thoughts are like packets which if switched in our heads will still have a coherent stream. They were drunk, they just laughed; no one bothered what they meant. They just teased each other amidst their laughter. In rhythm of their conversation, to rhyme the story of their lives, Krishna assumed the license of a poet and started creating words pushing the frontiers of language. Yes I will do it; the style Prosetry, literature Ficreal, work Phautuler. It will be a journey from window of Botala to heart of Bigappala, ending in conversations in Center of Delhi, built in English. He couldnt control his smirking grin, An Alice in Wonderland for adult readers. Kalki not wanting to be left behind in the poetic mood added to the amateurish attempts, Botala, the bottle filled with rhyme, to drink on life; producing coal, energy for living, and steel to build the globe Steps of Chakra, movements of concerto, Identity of castes, Past, present, pride, anger, submission, shame, sadness, relief Haute climaxes in the movement of wires, in the clothes, and popular culture in languages of the children, Apaches gather around fire to flame Myths of the Fall; Bedouins halt in caravanserais to jinni the Nights of Scheherazade. Conversation is the bridge, transversal between parallels, connection of the journeys, Every word creates a context, etymology of combinations, contemporary and legacy, Nostalgia floating in memories of time,
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Fables of Krishna Kalki Maya, storytelling of gods over sips of scotch, Reason passion beauty, everything does not have a theory, neither a book, nor nothing Theories are imagined, books are real, nothing no thing Fiction is true not known, history is not true known Life is an open book, anyone can read, you need to decipher it, understand it Amortals, emerging adults, adolescent teenagers, discovering life afresh in memories, turning of another decade, peaks of past peeking into future, breasts snagged but could still pique the world with a lesson or two, violence of van Gough, parts to cut, violence public state non-state private violent nonviolent natural pacts of destiny, in Hindi in English also in French, play of mutual seduction, beauty created by god, women, clothes created by women, souls changing bodies, Idiots of IIT, trick of making money, floodplains of Bihar, the underbelly in Bhojpuri, the chattering of sound bites, culture devoid of reason, midlife crisis, creation poem, time dilation in age of generations. A story repeating in higher energy orbits of the same circuitry, of the wheels of Karma, multilevel games, ever-increasing stakes, ever-present next level, an infinite loop, trapped between self-reflections of parallel mirrors, In an instance, in a flash, a memory is remembered of an elongated time, squeezed into a moment, the fusion of Krishna Kalki Maya, in mirrors and violence of reflection, the whole spectrum of human feelings, emotions, grandeur of a historic impact, frustrations of self-doubt, time compression, memory dilation. And amidst backdrop of conversations, history continues to turn in silent big events: Man created god in his own image, men became violent of her nudity. In the West women cross men in workforce and in India middle class exceed the poor. Senate hearings back with banking bonuses; Greed is Good; it keeps the world turning; Greed of Mahisa, Hubris of God; kindly of man; oh, the humanity! An American obsession with closure, human compensation for acts of nature, misunderstanding the nature of the world, events of men, hubrisinduced social malice makes man think that will is the causation of everything; the calamity of such gigantic proportions obviously attracts ambulance chasing of equally large dispositions. And they are building a new school in ruins of Nalanda, in the land of Buddha; the contribution of zero, once again to rise in glory of its nothingness. It will be a successful book. Kalki was laughing at Krishnas histrionics, When Krishna will speak, world will lend him their ears. He continued orating the persiflage, Friends, citizens, countrymen, I come
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here to bury Krishna, not to praise him. Good that people do are buried with them, so let it be with Krishna. He broke out in a fit of laughter, the other two joined. Yes! It will be magical streaming of ficreal in prosetry. Literature of Arpanod and Dolly created by packet switching and cloning, surviving in perpetuity of posterity, Krishna was high; he was not able to find words in his slipping slurring speech, A symphony of movements in human thought, expressions in art and science, a post-post-all combination, and as the Yanks say, Winning the Super Bowl! An epic novel, flowing energy in quantized space-time. Punctuated by Pronunciation, Garnished by Grammar, Vernaculed by Vocabulary; Interspersed by Constructs, Clauses of Sprinkling Strum; Trim and Proper. Toil of Love, labor of Passion, kindling Lust for Life. They were happy, they were laughing, the laughter drowning the conversation, They could have died at that moment; Moksha Purpose of Life is to Live; Time-pass Alternate Journeys of a book, of language, of art, a mode of expression, journeys of the writer and reader, perception of context perceived and expressed, and perceived again, journeys in alternate worlds, similar and dissimilar, Violence is fundamental creation destruction protection expression a function of context. A people and language lacking the concept of time, same word for yesterday and tomorrow, insight of wisdom of ages; the thought of writing a book chronicling the journeys seeding in his self; Krishna felt a tidal surge of Joyous emotion: This race and this country and this life produced me, I shall express myself as I am, I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defense the only arms I allow myself to usesilence, exile, and cunning. And I will also say it at the threat of pain of life yielded by a power to judge my mind. And And Also this Language. To express the truism of expression, Joys of life, choice of words, voice of art streaming trimming reaming aiming limning inging; Bell Tolling; History-sheeting Her Tongue. ********* Meanwhile, elsewhere, gentlemen and the lady of the dynamite continued their conversation; it sounded like literature but was gibberish to hear. Talking of wars and politics, I hear the count haunt us again this
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year. Oh! What about the count? Writing reams and reams of boring unending tiring repetitions and that too not in an ideal direction. Creating a frivolous drama of czarist high society; Disposition of the dynamite; source and creations of violence. Yes! And what about the Irishman? Yes! What about him? Who did he think he was? God or What? Challenging our brethren for a hundred years. Contortionist writing an Ullyody of impalpable riddles; Joyous sneering; nightmare of history waking up from the verbiage of burlesque travesty. Seeing the fighting erupting again on matters of past, lady in the chair calmed them to focus on the task at hand, Look gentlemen, there are still killers out there who want the Storyteller dead, if we dont decide soon, we might end up creating a child of many, like the peace guys created the children of one. We will then have to find an upstart with technology of packet switching and cloning, creating the genre of magical streaming. They all laughed heartily again and got back to more deliberation; belaboring tantric scatology; gut-spasming contraction of pyloric sphincter; Fetish of Will. I dont have anything personal. But isnt the Storyteller from London, too popular, too predictable? Clichd Kitsch; tropes of trite platitude of Bollywood Masala. Oh Yes! He is! Agree! He has told a lot of pulp lately. But a man needs to earn his living. Considering the fact that an individual work of art has its own merits separate from the artist and politics; when the Midnight occurred it was neither popular nor predictable. And did not our father mention; the greatest benefit on ourkind during the preceding year? We outgrew his inheritance, became so big that a lifetime is now required, it can no longer fit in the planetary annus of horribilis mirabilis. But then why the hell did he poke the hornets nest, stirred such tempest, we cant afford any further troubles, especially when our friends across the bridge have cartooned such terror. He shouldnt have on his own sought a famous blast, and we would have done the needful; its all much ado about nothing. Yes! Didnt we spell solitude correct for one hundred years? The Bolivian, or was it Colombian, grandee was easy, not much controversy, not much power to threaten, also Spanish was our connection, serves all the purpose, made us look good; wasnt that as you Like it? And Yankees! What about the Yankees in general? Oh! They! What do they know of literature? They only know the
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genre of money, fiction is not frivolous, and they dont read anyway, neither do they translate enough. The Yanks are too isolated and too insular in their restraining ignorance, they don't really participate in the big dialogues of literature." Ghosts all, dead and alive, and among them they were a real stream; Magical Streaming, monkey striking, typing Shakespeare; their deliberations continued amidst heating and cooling; amidst ghosts of past-and-future. Currency of literature is credibility, bound by praise and acceptance of cultural programming, groomed slowly over generations, consistency is greatness, practice its essence; And for them tonight, to be or not to be was the question; to cross or not to cross the bridge. ********* Back in New Delhi, it was already approaching dawn, rounds of drinks drowned in mist of Scotland had already loosened tongues, trampled inhibitions; the raillery was trampling on sensitive grounds. Krishna the genius, best served when drunk. Maya was laughing. We will all go buy an island in the ocean and live and die there, clones of each other, we will call it The Earldom of English Seas. And we will make Prithvi the Queen of the New Empire of Planet Earth, of the humankind. In the thickening mist of Scotland, Kalki raised his glass in salutation to the new Queen, The Past is dead, long live the Prithvi, Eastern Western Canon fusing in firing of English Cannon; Repertoire Englica. Suddenly Krishna stopped laughing, and asked Maya in a surprisingly clear voice, Tell me, of all the people, who you loved the most? They realized the gravity of the question, laughing silenced; the snoot-green scrotum-tightening sea of self-sprouting self-combustive Vanity. Maya gave a staring glance to Krishnas brazenness, I tried finding true love. I found it in Prithvi. Who is her father? Prologue Epilogue Conversation; climax-anticlimax Krishna couldnt believe he asked the question, suddenly he was sober, he was wishing somehow time reverses and he rectifies the mistake by taking back the gaffe of his drunken interrogation. He felt a shivering embarrassment; he wished he hadnt committed the atheistic apostasy; his shame was the last bit of vanity remaining; Kalki sat in terrified silence and watched Krishna Maya. Maya no longer laughing, everyone sober, the effect of alcohol drank over duration of the night suddenly wore off, she turned her face slightly, her glance following it, her eyes stopped, settled in contact with Krishnas, after a split moment, a relieving patronizing smile filled up her face.
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You chauvinist pig, I always knew, you have been mustering courage all these years to ask this question. She started laughing again, her laughter brought a welcome note that relaxed the men, Maya continued, You will never know. A man never knows. Ignorance is shame, out of shame of ignorance man created patriarchy; He was no longer ashamed. Knowledge is acknowledgement of ignorance; Knowledge is the bliss of fear frustration shame. At that moment, Krishna saw his last daemon sitting next to them, In the moment of insight of illusion and imagination, the last daemon, who was the first, who survived the holocaust of the crash, Ashwatthama, who am-the-shame, suddenly blew up, he was released of his eternal condemnation of immortality of his shame, the vengeance of the children, and the micro-form baton, shrunk to its last bit in the third war of daemons, disappeared into the annals of illusion and imagination; his shame became one with Krishna; the last bit of Kalkis tongue grew up again. He lost his sex, he got back his language, they conquered their shame, and at that moment, they knew; she was her mother, she was her daughter; the tree knows her matriarch is the Earth. Shame of small things is God of large things; And Also, God of small things is Shame of large things. Grandiloquence of all things; the death of shame; one small realization for man, one big revolution for humankind; shame is the source of ego and pride, shame is the seed of consciousness, shame ignites identity and sprouts the calculi of violence. They smiled Buddhas smile, they smiled at happiness of the reunion; they smiled at their futile efforts to feel their souls shame-wounded of their sins, they smiled at life in gratuitous acknowledgement of blessings of bliss; nirvana is imagined; intoxication is real; real is chemical. They were once again drunk and happy friends, most difficult of divides was breached, the Blue Label bottle was poured till the last drop, they found the morning light seeping inside the room tiring their senses and demanding rest, Maya got up and said, I am going to sleep. You can use the guest rooms to sleep. it was eight oclock in morning, the moment of lunar landing approaching; moment of their simultaneous births. Why dont we sleep together on this couch here, Kalki said laughing at his suggestive statement. Maya laughed and said I am in no mood for your adolescent boy talks. And I dont care whether you sleep on the couch or in the guest room. I am going to my bed. Krishna joined the laughter, Come to think of it, it is not at all a bad idea. He continued laughing, Life would have been a different story if that day I had just joined the party. Salacious steaganography; Quantum of satire, Moment of bliss, Breach of all divides, Fuck of the final frontier;
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Epitaph of Epigram And they started laughing aloud, laughter filled in the house, Prithvi woke up and started laughing along with them, the laughter grew louder and louder, it was heard in the streets of New Delhi where people were getting ready for their day, it was heard in the closing nightclubs where gothic teenagers were returning from their night, it was heard across the real world, it was heard across the virtual world. Maya kissed Kalki Krishna goodnight, lips hands eyes connected; concatenation of eternal bliss hugging each other. An explosion of bright blinding light, they blew up in oneness, split into quanta of energies, spread over the universe in quanta of time, they collapsed in specs in memories of sand. Trinity of Krishna Kalki Maya, epoch of explosion, nonviolent silent private, vaporized into scentiminutes, collapsed in peace, imagining imagination of humans, imagining the peace of Prithvi yet not imagined by gods, melting away in Memory of Time. People individuals talking, crowd city humming, country map geography, earth sphere rotating, planets stars revolving, galaxies space universe, scale unimagined, scope endless. People individuals talking, a speck of speck, Seeding Desire; Big Bang; BLOWN AWAY. Elsewhere in the world it was various stages of dark and dawn, while the creatures of night great-grandchildren of midnight were partying, the general populace was sleeping; while the creatures of night were chatting on facebook, people were dreaming in their sleep; while the creatures of night were dancing in darting discreteness of laser, people slept in serene continuity of slumber. Prithvi woken-up was laughing, she led the creatures of night, children of time across time zones, in a rumble of laughter which became a roar; the children of time zones laughed; face in the book, music in electronic, and time digital, laughed in a roar of mockery on book with the face, music which was manual, and time analogous; denizens of the night laughed on citizens of the day. The great-grandchildren laughed on grandchildren while the children watched stunned. The sound made people wake up every where to see the morning break, to find the world was different from when they had slept. The laughter was heard in the conference room where gentlemen and the lady were deliberating and discussing literature, the howling madness of the rhapsody made them panic in fear; in bewilderment they voted on a decision. Culture of post-structural deconstruction, formalism of feminist gay Marxist, historicism of phenomenology psychoanalysis ethnicity, structuralism and semiotics of a lot of Bull Bytes; Philosophy is dead, who
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needs a theory in the Post-philosophy world; Postcolonial is dead, long live the realist of realism; God is Dead, Long Live Prithvi. Once Upon A Time History Or Myth, Was It Or Was It Not, that evening in Stockholm, they paid the price for attaining the illusion of Maya? Pravishwa! Pangs of rejection, bouts of longing, flowering of love, wilting of blossom; A Portrait of the Artist as a Thinking Man; Delusion of DISILLUSION; Mushroom-creating Button, Holocaust; Chaos of Karma, Mathematics of Destiny; Palindrome of Wisdom, Bite the Bull Bit; the critique of pure inspiration; Questions that dont have Answers; Audacity of Hubris; Twist The Cap To Refreshness, Open Happiness; Effusing Epiphanies! We are like that only, YO! Oxymoron? SINGULARITY? QUESTIONS ***************************

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Praveer Roy was born in Patna in 1973 and raised in Bokaro Steel City, where he attended the St. Xaviers School, completing his Junior College in Science. Praveer graduated from Delhi University. He is a Chartered Accountant of India and is qualified to be a Certified Public Accountant in the U.S.A. Praveer did his MBA from Indian School of Business, Hyderabad, in its Founding Class. In his professional life Praveer has worked for various companies in varied industries and roles in India, Middle East, U.S.A. and Europe. Voracious reader and amateur philosopher, Praveer is an ardent traveller and an adventure enthusiast. He is actively involved in advising startup businesses and NGOs. Currently Praveer is on sabbatical from Capgemini Consulting, where in his last role he was advising Global Financial Services clients. Praveer stays in Mumbai and can be reached at: praveerroy@gmail.com

A conversation with the Sun on the rocks of Pondicherry Photo credit: Raj Basu Ray Mandelbrot Womb Cover Credit: Vishaal Rajvanshi, Jigserv