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Book 2 The Journeys

Chapter 8 The wall 141 Chapter 9 White boxes, black screens, Windows red blue yellow green 160 Chapter 10 The IPO 181 Chapter 11 The hinterland 203 Chapter 12 The clothes 226 Chapter 13 Love 245 Chapter 14 The airport 263

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Chapter 8 The wall


It was the summer of Ninety-one, the last summer vacation for Krishna and his batch-mates ahead of start of the final year of IIT for the graduating class of Ninety-two, before the world turns into a sprint for life decisions, applications for graduate schools, Job interviews, and a whole lot of terrorizing acronyms of test taking descends on the students, (GMAT CAT GRE GATE UPSC IES PSURB RRB PO CDS CES SSB And-So-On ANDSOON). Acronyms of Salvation, A-o-S for a clone army born brought-up raised trained practiced for the Single Mission of Test Taking; Exam Writing, Competing, Coming First; Firstest. Krishna was confused, he did not know which ones he wanted to take; he didnt know what to do with his life. He came to IIT because it was the proper thing to do, a matter of family honor, a matter of self-pride, he took Computer Science because he had sufficient scores to be able to take it. It did not matter, when he came out of school he had just seen a computer and he had no idea whether he will like programming. It did not matter that there were no jobs for computer scientists per se. What mattered instead was standing of the stream in the pecking order, rather than content, because IIT was just graduation and everyone branched out into public administration or corporate management; to sell soaps or to control crowds; to do the cleansings of Karma. And for those who continued with postgraduate studies, the streams could be reselected to an extent, based on fresh scores. Discussions in corridors and common rooms were around choices and tests, mixed up with the latest news on Mandal. The Mandal Reports implementation was challenged in the Supreme Court, the agitations had brought down the government; there were discussions all around in media in Parliament in the courts on how to proceed. Should some services (Critical/High Skill) be left alone? What should be the cap? Is fifty percent enough? But for the classmates of Krishna there was a simple hope, a simple wish that the confusion delays it by a year; at least they will have a chance; next year is another year; tomorrow is another day. Krishna, confused and indecisive was being a lackadaisical couch potato at his parents house in Botala. Just letting time slip, procrastinating, trying to avoid conversations around what he has planned, with an overinquisitive Papa. Trying to figure out answers to the question his father was asking. And then letting things be; its still a month of summer left before he gets into the grind; he will cross the bridge when it comes; he continued watching the entertainment of the Great Indian Political Tamasha on Television.
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At turn of the decade Delhi was still a faraway land from the Hill of Washington where a President Declared the New World Order. Delhi was still the land of Masjid and Mandal, of violent general elections, oxymora of withdrawn outside supports, and peaceful transitions of power. But, at the end, it was always peaceful transition of power. India continued to be, the land of the worst form of government except all those that have been tried, because of its peaceful transitions of power. Election was declared after the second Janata experiment collapsed in the familiar pattern of greed and deceit. In a land of million mutinies, logistics required to conduct elections which are violent to ensure transitions which are peaceful is a nightmare. The genius of Karma combined with the politics of Westminster once again came to rescue from the baldness of Chief Election Commissioner Seshan. Foremost in a line of gods presiding over destining of Karma, he swore to make the elections as clean as his scalp, creating the concept of phased election in the summer of Ninety-one. (To ensure peaceful and free election it is conducted spread out in months; troops mobilized, paramilitary forces moved, armies of specially trained election officers deployed); Elections are the rare occasions when wheels of the Indian state turn generally in the right direction. Krishna was following the phases of election on television, it was still Doordarshan and coverage not yet a Bollywood thriller. The Yin and Yang with eyes white and black spinning rotating revolving came from outside, crossed across the inside, and went outside the line of control of the screen; straight-jacketed gentlemen and straight-saried ladies appeared with their straight-faced hands folded in smilingly straitlaced Namskars. Good evening, this is Doordarshan and you are with Nine oclock News, started the graceful lady, color of whose sari was always the color of the rose in her hair. The Prime Minister said to the crowd at a rally in Balia, You have forty days vs. forty years, choice is yours to make. She continued with a smile that did not betray her choice. The leader of BJP said to the crowd at a rally in Ayodhya, issue of Mandir is of faith, appeasement of minorities has to end. She continued with a smile that did not betray whether she was appeased or not. The leader of the Left Front said to the crowd at a rally in Calcutta, proletariats are free to vote but are still oppressed by bourgeoisie. She continued with a smile that did not betray her class. The leader of the Janata party said to the crowd at a rally in Patna, social oppression of Muslims and backward castes can only end by reservations. She continued with a smile that did not betray her caste or religion. The leader of the Congress party said to the crowd at a rally in Amethi, time has come to reject the immoral instability of opportunistic politics and return to the fold of palm. Salma concluded with her palms folded in a smiling namaskar. The concept of caste is alien to Islam. Caste of a Muslim is the genius
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of heat of burning lands and raging masses. Salma was a Muslim of Rajput caste. She was a salaried employee with Doordarshan who had got her job through the tough selection process of tests, auditions and interviews in which thousands had applied. The remuneration was not much, but given the general state of employment she didnt have a choice; a working mother juggling job and family, she didnt have time to have political opinions. Krishna watched in amusement, the colors of India and divides of her people displayed in large election rallies of political parties of all hue and cries. Botala was among the early phases in the multiphase election. It was hot and sunny on the Election Day; an indolent Krishna didnt bother to go; the tyranny of democracy is that you dont vote if you dont know or care for your divide. While Krishna flippantly watched T.V and didnt go out to vote, Gayatri the Wisdom was crossing the strait. In Ouathom, God the Foremost in Propriety, had crossed a strait on a bridge of stones built by monkeys who talked to reclaim his wife. In present and in real, Gayatri the Wisdom crossed the strait in the direction opposite in a boat built by men who did not exist to reclaim her soul; the god had his bow, Gayatri had her vest. For weeks she was in an apartment in suburbs of Chennai, every morning she woke up and prayed, she bathed, cooked, ate and cleaned in clockwork devotion. In the evening she prayed again. Her prayers were answered and the God came visiting. Crowds emerged, there was a jostle, garlands were plenty, people clamored to tap his feats. Gayatri in her devotional prime waited patiently, when he was near she garlanded him, and bowed to touch his feet; the God impressed asked her to get up. She closed her eyes. She saw the slight of bliss, Mergence of soul with supreme. Gayatri the wisdom pushed the button, Rajiv the Lotus was blown away in pieces of destiny to the land of his mother and brother; soul was reclaimed by the claim of revenge in a moment of violence; private and public. ********* The world and India woke up in shock when the news broke of assassination of Rajiv Gandhi by a female Suicide Bomber of LTTE who went by the alias Gayatri. The history of violent deaths in the Family of India continued down its dark alley. There was fear all around. Images of Eighty-four came back to haunt the public psyche; Tamils around the country were panicking and praying. Krishnas father immediately invited the Iyers over. The Iyer home was locked and all members shifted to Krishnas house in stealth. Everyone dissembled there was no addition in the household. None of the Iyers was allowed out of the bedroom, and none of the maids or servants allowed inside. Krishnas mother was in the bedroom with the Iyer family, the door was locked from inside and people
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sat on the bed and chairs put adjacent to it. The maid was told that memsahib is sick and she does not want to be disturbed. South Asia is a land of violent communal rioting. Any event that has the potential for triggering trouble brings disturbing images in heads of the sane. Everyone felt it was better to be safe than take chances. The house was in silence the whole day. Television and radio news played in muted sound. Normal routine was carried without being normal. But unlike by the unmentionable game of eyes, Krishna was not fooled. Botala had witnessed worst riots in Eighty-four, he had seen the violence. The memories came back to him, he saw the faces of father and daughter, but he didnt panic. Krishna had controlled his daemons; he was not afraid, he had no qualms, he had his rules; he had his old hockey stick from the cupboard. Krishna held the stick firmly in his hand. Image of a male with unmentionable name and undecipherable face flashed in his head. That moment his arms knew, his mind knew, his heart knew, his soul knew, it will be over his dead body that a rioter lays an eye over Iyer sister Smita or anyone else of the family. Time passed in slow motion, radio and the T.V kept reporting the assassination. The dead bodies were identified; several people, including bodyguards of Rajiv, had died. The bodies were dispersed in gory parts around the spot. The Police and forensic teams collected the pieces and tried re-creating the incidence. Rajiv was warned several times about the danger. He was warned not to mingle with crowds during his rallies, but he ignored all the warnings. Fed up of the imprudent promiscuous dance of power of Janata experiment, deteriorating law and order, increasing prices and unemployment, and memories of the promise of Rajiv, people made him the god again. His follies were forgiven like his mother before, and in the familial pattern of return, after an exonerating repentance of three years in opposition, Rajiv was heading towards another victory. The radio and the T.V, barely audible, continued with the turmoil. The bodies, split up and charred beyond recognition, were flown to Delhi; people were identified by their shoes. Rajiv was taken to AIIMS, the coroner did some repair, parts of destiny were stitched together to form a whole again. The day passed in anxiousness; Krishna and his father tried to listen what the news did not say. Images of cremation was beamed live, Rajivs widow Sonia, his son Rahul and daughter Priyanka stood at Shakti Sthal where Indira was cremated by Rajiv seven years ago. The pyre was laid and Vedic hymns chanted by the Family priests, Rahul lighted the fire. Tears rode the tide of time and formed droplet of pearls in the eyes of
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his mother and her daughter, and along with them the country cried. The images were moving; Krishnas father felt a heart-rending sadness seeing it on T.V, Krishna was also emotionally disturbed; Intensity of emotions is blurring of nomenclature. These are images and these are moments when sadness is anger, love is passion, and sorrow is violence. Krishna became concerned; he remembered what similar images had done to the psyche of a nation seven years ago; the morning turned to afternoon, afternoon to evening and evening turned to night. Fortunately nothing untoward happened. It was the midst of Election that rare occasion when wheels of the Indian state generally turn in the right direction. The Violence at Sriperumbur could not be prevented, but violence after that did not happen. The paramilitary was already mobilized and prepared. Police did flag marches and constant patrolling throughout the day in cities and towns; all known Tamil pockets of population were monitored. Next day the confidence returned, emotions became named again, the wheel of Karma of public life of India turned normally. The Iyers thanked Krishnas father in a pious moment of solidarity of friends and family. Krishna was relieved that his resolve was not tested; he didnt mention his thoughts of the hockey stick to anybody. The remaining phases of election were immediately rescheduled. In a supreme display of faith in democracy and its institutions, the people who were fervent and the state which was headed by a nonexistent government, finally concluded the General Election of Ninety-one in another peaceful transition of power. ********* Congress won the election. The workers, leaders and MPs of the party threatened self-immolation if Sonia was not made the Prime Minister. Sonia, the widow of Rajiv, an Italian who had fallen in love in English over a cup of coffee served in a caf in London, had worn a sari and circled the fire; got wedded to a pilot but married destiny. She had sobbed in private disgust when her husband joined politics after the death of his brother. She had wept in private fear when her husband became the Prime Minister after the death of his mother. She was crying in private sorrow after her husband was engulfed by the circling fire of fate. Sonia, who had become a Gandhi by marriage like her mother-in-law before, was in mourning and refused to entertain the immolation-inducing clones of Congress Ingratiating sycophants of the grand old party of India declining to become the Second Widow to be the Only Man in the Cabinet.
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Clone leaders of AICC met in the horrifying prospect of a goddessless world. The egalitarian utopia of democratic society dreams of people as equal ruled by the first among equals. The reality of cloning is: the carbon imprint of genetic material does not permit a first among clones. The recurring joker of political life of Modern India, the genius of Karma, again came to rescue. Birth certificates were checked, medical histories scanned. The oldest and sickest man in the room was sitting in the corner; a feeble body, bald head, wrinkled face, pout lips and eyes closed in slumber or in meditation. The CWC released a public statement selecting P.V. Narsimha Rao as their leader; Age brings wisdom, the statement said in public; Age becomes death, the CWC members knew in private. Selection of Prime Minister was just the beginning. Massive mismanagement of the economy in last few years, and the legacy of commanding heights glorious in their icy barrenness of last many years, topped by the assassination created a Crisis; an indebted government was at the brink of financial default. Power is a notion, Money is paper; credibility is the currency that makes it real; credibility is imagined, but defaults are real. I promise to pay the bearer, was beginning to sound suspect; foreign-exchange reserves plummeted to below two weeks of import, creditors lined up in vulturous formations led by downgrades of sovereign ratings. Exactly Forty and Four years after the Midnight, India stood face to face with the possibility of another tryst with another midnight. Editorials around the world repeated the quotes of doomsday seers of past and present in an orgy of I-told-you-sos. The aberration of history, a nation which is not a nation, a democracy which is illiterate and poor; masses which piously fast in psyche of nonviolence and feast on riots of vengeance and violence; its finally going to correct; Million Mutinies will bloom in one Spectacular Collapse; another theory, another oxymoron created by the genius of Karma, Unity in Diversity, will become scientific in the glory of falsifiability of the collapsing Experiment of India. It was from the brink of failed state that Manmohan the Sardar received the call routed through the magical routers which made him Manmohan the Finance Minister, made India keep its tryst and make its pact; the pact of destiny to rise like a phoenix and soar to the Glorious Past of Future. The Journey started in a cargo plane flying from Delhi to London; on the tarmac of runway an army of ants carrying the burden of bricks of gold, lined in disciplined disbelief, moving in a neat row one after another into the hold; the airport dazzling in the shine of sun brought down on earth, tons of shining metal radiating a blinding light, spreading a depressive heat,
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moved and stacked in piles to salvage a nation. The plane flew with cargo hold of family silver, and PVN old and sick at the verge of retiring made his private pact; the pact with death to rise and shine again; to reverse the direction of age; to survive to close his eyes in slumber or meditation while Karma or Manmohan did their tricks. Narashima, half-beast half-man God, half-slumber half-meditation Man, shielded the Sardar from the heat of gold generated in pyre of accusations; Manmohan the Baby Prahalad secure in the coolness of calm prayed and worked in dedicated devotion. Gold went in one direction loaded on a plane; dollars came in the opposite direction loaded in bytes of bits travelling on wires-and-wireless; dollar which was cheap but could not be bought became the dollar which was expensive of which there was abundance. Led by assassination and crisis and driven by the pacts, India broke the shackles of her walls to march towards the future century of dreams; of White Boxes Black Screens and Chariots of Routers, dreamed before the Howitzers of Dynamite had blown it away. ********* After the vacation and destiny-defining events of the country Krishna was back at IIT. While the politics of numbers at Parliament Street changed faces in North Block, the grading of exams changed semesters at Hauz Khas. Unlike changing governments of the time who horse-tradingly scraped through the majority mark, Krishna made his peaceful transitions in astonishingly exemplary grades. The intensity of his private violence was channeled into voracious veracity of academic energy. His life revolved around silicon chips and computer programs. The circuits of sand and languages of syntax became his being. He became the IIT type which girls on one side of a divide at an unmentionable college for women called a nerd. The guide of his energy and anchor for his soul were the rules he wrote; his Magna Carta: pact of the daemons. Approaching Graduation, the excellence of his grades landed him in a position of choices: he could get offers from MIT to continue on a PhD, he can opt to do a graduate degree from best business schools of the country or abroad, he will have job offers from most admired Indian and multinational corporations. Krishna had dreamt of doing a PhD at MIT in physics. Krishna at Botala, before he joined the clones of JEE, had dreamt of synthesizing relativity and quanta, he had seen visions of discrete quantum of time; fear and sense of shame and honor had made him join the clones. The aborted attempt at sexual intercourse (which has an unmentionable synonym) with a female (who has an unmentionable name)
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had made him make his pact and write his rules; Destiny is imagination, Journey real; Knowledge is imagination, Success real. Credo of the warrior is to fight, not to celebrate victories and not to mourn defeats, but to move from battle to battle; AND not to ask questions like To Be or Not To Be; questions that dont have answers are Not Relevant. BUT there was this troubling question, not irrelevant, that neededdemanded an answer: What Next? What after IIT? He no longer had the luxury of vacation in Botala to just let time slip; let things Be. ********* In those days IIT-dorm rooms didnt have a T.V; the only T.V was in the common room. Krishna was neither interested in seeing the running around trees of Chitrahar, silly soaps of Hum Log, or stories from Salma of We the People. Nor was he interested in the Sunday evening films, when the common room was most crowded. Despite his aversion to Doordarshan and Hindi movies, he was devotedly found in the common room on Friday evenings after the News, when the visible face of a whole new generation of gods breaking in dawn at the horizon, a face with locks of still-Eighties-style hair and thick-dark-black beard announced, Good evening, I am Prannoy Roy and you are watching The World This Week. Watching The World This Week was a religion with Krishna. He had not missed a single episode since the series started; it was his window through which he witnessed the turning of history. The wall in Berlin had collapsed. A crowd scaling a barrier had become the mob surmounting the Iron Curtain; Wheels of state had failed to turn; Wheels of history started turning. It was the week of Christmas of Ninety-one, in a time before Christmas stopped being a festival of Christians celebrating the birth of Jesus, but became the secular festival of Globalized Commerce. But even in those days India celebrated Christmas. There were few Christian students in IIT but the whole dorm lit and treed to welcome the baby Jesus. There were many explanations for the inclusiveness of the Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs in the festivity, like: the nature of our society, the love felt for fellow human beings, and what the heck we get a chance to celebrate. And Also in the tribal areas behind the hills of Botala, a severe dilemma, the caste of outcaste Hindus, Tribals, makes them eligible for state patronization, Joining the flock fetches them incentives ministered by evangelizing church, but then they leave their caste and are no longer scheduled for benefactions. A choice is to be made between the doling of church and state, a difficult choice, because the privation of poverty can do with both and yet remain poor. The genius of Karma, as usual, offers a
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solution again. The Tribals are Hindus of Christian Caste, Jesus the son becomes Christ the avatar worshipped with full paraphernalia of incense and Aarti welcoming the child of Mary in the world on the Christmas Eve. And And Also to distinguish themselves, a proper thing to do, the evangelist pastors, missionaries from abroad, Whites, are Christians of Brahmin caste. While the world celebrated Christmas, in a land where it was still a few weeks away, in the land where it was declared to be the opium of masses, the Soviet Duma passed a resolution of self-dissolution. The empire, the iron curtain of divide, evil from one side utopia from another, vaporized; transition of counterrevolution from Bolshevik monopoly to corruptions Oligarchy. It was the Watershed of History. History is fiction imagined by gods. Watersheds are lines of control demarcating divides. It was time for transition in the life of heavens, among gods who imagined the transition of men. In the Mahamanvantara of Brahma millennia is a moment, the old set prepared to retire. In the Epoch of Devas decade is a day, the new set readied for takeover. On earth, collapse of the wall started the End of History which was imagined, but the war which was cold froze in real. The sole superpower became the hyperpower, globalization of Pax Americana began; a Clash of Civilization will be imagined again. Politics unlike Physics is not Science because its theories cannot be Not-Falsified by Experiments. Theories are imagined, experiments real. Society cannot put societies in labs. The only feasible means of testing imaginations of utopia is to create Public Experiments. The Soviet Union was the greatest social experiment created by man. The collapse was the result; glorious falsification; the theory of Lenin in the end proved to be Science. When the Modern history will be remembered as an age prior to modern, the violence and tyrannies of the twentieth century will be magnificence, not unlike the explosion in IIT lab. The faces of Death Camps and Gulags will be shining metal of exploded cylinders and pistons, not unlike atrocities and depredations of the ravaging ravishing Macedonian armies of Alexander the Great. And there was more on TWTW, riots in the farther-away coast of the still-faraway land of Hollywood and dreams; blackness of anger and redness of destruction. Is it possible? Is it true? They must be exaggerating to solace their own shame; the emperor is also naked. No Prannoy, dont overreport, dont make it sound like nakedness is natural, riots dont happen there; scapegoat for scapegraces. And Also, Nelson Mandela walks free, the last frontier of legalized hatred is breached; Blacks Whites Grays. *********
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That Friday evening, guided by the bearded voice of future, in voiceover of images in The World This Week, Krishna saw the pattern. He saw the essence of Karma. He realized his destiny; he realized the nature of Time; that was and that was to come. It became clear to him that IIT was not an Institution; it is a concept, the crowning glory, Jewel of the crown, its essence, the Education System, Social Indoctrination, the Cloning Process. It is like the great plant at Botala that converts dust into metal, dust collected for beneficiation from the bosom of earth, smelted metal flowing out of its furnaces, beaten into etched shape in its mills; stippled shinning ridged, rebar shipped out to strengthen the structure of the world. The IIT is the superior most institution of the wider system, IIC Indian Institute of Cloning. The factories that produce white-collar warriors of clone armies. Engineering Schools (learn to follow instructions and make machines follow them), Medical Schools (books piled in a pile taller than her height, weighing more than her weight), Law Schools (Rote the written word of a legal tradition which is not written), Chartered Accountants, yes even accountants the lowly of high hierarchy (Come Again, step after step, Exam after Exam), and the general streams preparing for the Public Services (learn the philosophy of Greeks and Constitution of The United States of America), And Also Management Schools the Gurus, superior most of the warrior skills (Crack the case to differentiate the Clones); Blind Test! And Others, Many others, cloning the Psyche with the Keep Walking of a Race Walk; Bhagiraths penance bringing salvation to cursed trapped souls; salvaging generations. They all look different, their clothes and trades are different. It is because in every clone army only the key critical gene is cloned, rest are left to be individuals, thus they all appear different and the secret of cloning remains a secret; but quintessence of cloning is consubstantiality of the gene that is cloned. In IIC the credo is, Life is a Problem, problem is a nut, a problem needs a solution and a nut needs to be cracked; and the gene thats cloned is CRACKIT. But IIC is not the only cloning factory. There is the Family that produces the clones of Congress; and the gene thats cloned is SYCOPHANCY. There is the Sangh that produces the clones of Parivar; and the gene thats cloned is JINGOISM. There still is Marx who produces the clones of his party not-yet completely dead but to everyones relief a fast-dying bunch; and the gene thats cloned is REVOLUTION.
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And just started mushrooming all around in the manure of liberalization, Clones of Business; the gene that is cloned is PROFIT. And the Clones of Glamour; the gene that is cloned is STYLE. And Also Yet to come, the Clones in which the clones of IIT will mutate into, in the VALLEYS, STREETS and SCHOOLS of the WORLD; different genes will be cloned. And And the Clones of MAHISA blood-spilling self-cloning floating in time; the gene that is cloned is POVERTY. And And Also in the commanding heights, higher than the icy deserts, higher than the buildings of Bigappala, as high as Heavens of the GODS the gods themselves; the gene that is cloned is DEAL. The old, new and yet-to-come clone armies marched. Krishna imagined a Future when they are unleashed in Time and the Warriors will descend on the World; that evening Krishna knew what he will be doing after Graduation; the Question was Answered. ********* Krishna was sitting on backseat of the Ambassador car (Indian-made Morris Oxford Vintage, one of the three cars made in pre-liberalization India) with his father. In the front along with driver was the compounder the one in all paramedic of Krishnas grandfather. The car was trailing a minivan; behind them were several other cars, mostly Ambassadors, with family members and other well-wishers. It was the funeral of Krishnas grandfather. Krishna had landed by the morning flight in Patna. After rituals and prayers at home the vehicles proceeded towards bank of the Ganges in Simariya. In Hindu funerals the procession is on foot, (the departed carried on a stretcher held by shoulders of sons and male relatives). But it was his grandfathers wish to be cremated at Simariya Ghat, his ancestral village, where his father and grandfather were cremated, where the family had lived for generations before Krishnas great-grandfather had migrated out to the big world in search of his dreams. Krishnas grandfather had lived a full and satisfying life. Smiling faces of remedied patients, successful children, social recognition. The Chemists in Patna closed shop for an hour as a mark of respect. He was well known and loved for his skills as a doctor and altruism as a person. He had seen patients till the last day of his life and then expired in his sleep. The cavalcade of vehicles was moving east on the highway that ran parallel to the Ganges. Krishnas grandfather lay in the Van in front. The plan was to get down at the family house in the village and then walk in traditional procession to the Ghat. Simariya is around hundred-odd kilometers east of Patna. It was a poignant moment, not sad but melancholic, reflective in conversations of past and future. He was a true Karma Yogi, a life of
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immense discipline and dedication. He lived the verses of Gita. Krishnas father fondly remembered his father. In Krishnas grandparents house there were two sets of religion. His grandmothers piety, a small temple on the first floor, every day Puja offered strictly in accordance with scriptures by duly-appointed Pundits. Krishna has no memory of his grandfather ever stepping in that home temple of his grandmother. Instead there was a small meditating room next to his bedroom where he recited verses from Gita every morning. There were some images of Gods and Goddesses hung on the wall, but not an iota of ritual, not even incense sticks. Krishna has no memory of a pundit ever entering his grandfathers meditation room. Every morning during his summer vacations Krishna woke up by the incantation of Hymns and invocation of OM. As a child visiting his grandparents he always slept in their bedroom, where both his grandparents took turns to tell him the stories of Mahabharata and Ramayana. Krishna did not understand the chanting in Sanskrit but always sat next to his grandfather mesmerized. Krishnas grandmother was a Karma Kanda follower and his grandfather was a Vedanta follower of Advaita tradition. Between their versions of same stories and Hindi interpretations of same Sanskrit texts the subtle philosophy of which the young Krishna did not follow he understood one basic fact early in his life; there are competing versions of truth, alternate possibilities of redemption. For his grandfather the ultimate goal of Moksha was nothing less than the unity of self with supreme, which can be achieved by multiple Yogas, his chosen Yoga was Karma Yoga, a life of dedication and duty; works without attachment to rewards Nishkama Karma. Every morning after his recitations and meditations, he got ready for the clinic joking, My shoes, belt, specs, and stethoscope are the shoes, harness, blinkers and saddle of a horse; once put on, I am all set to pull the carriage. He would then go to his clinic, always teeming with multitudes sick, unhealthy mostly of one disease; the mother of all diseases, the Blight of Poverty; Abject Poverty. His average day was long; he ensured everyone is attended treated. Yes, truly a Karma Yogi, Krishna concurred. I am glad Goly joined the Medical School. He must have felt happy and proud for his granddaughter joining the profession. Both of them smiled, remembering the old family story of engineers and doctors. As a school boy Krishnas grandfather was fascinated by the first car he saw, Ford Model T. The model T which came in any color was black, as black as color of the skin of its khaki-uniformed brown driver. The car was owned by an English ICS officer, the district magistrate. Krishnas grandfather ran after it whenever it came to their village; it was an
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enchanted magic for the children. The car couldnt reach most parts of the road-less village and got stuck in monsoon puddles. The children said the famous joke of their times about the OxFord, and laughed while the driver pulled the car out, towed by an Oxen. The magistrate watched, playing and laughing along with the children. When Krishnas grandfather finished school he wanted to become an engineer to build cars, but the selection was done in a way he had no say. A Puja was offered to the Monkey-god Hanuman, then his father called the youngest girl in the family, a three-year-old cousin, and asked her to pick up a chit from the Aarti vessel, which along with the offerings and burning camphor had two slips of folded paper; one of them said Doctor and other said Engineer. Hanuman and the cousin conspired together for sake of the dying poor and Krishnas grandfather ended up in the medical school. But his love for cars didnt die. As soon as he got established he bought a car (A Fortys Ford picked up in bargain from one of the post-independence home-returning Bara-Sahib Englishman). The day his eldest son was born, he knew he will become an engineer who will build cars. Krishnas father smiled in memory. I have two most vivid images of Babuji from my childhood, one with a stethoscope in his hand above the chest of a lying patient, and another with a spanner in hand lying below his Ford. By the time Krishna was born the Ford was retired and abandoned in the backyard kitchen garden. Krishna recalled it being used for growing cucumber, long melons and other creepers. It was replaced by an Ambassador when Krishna started his summer vacations at grandparents. He returned from UK when his father died. He always wanted me to do further studies in America. Krishnas father remembered. Krishna sensed the conversation steering towards the question his father was positioning to ask. What is this source? Why are you not applying for an MS? You can get into MIT. The subject was finally broached. Why didnt you go? Best way to handle a difficult question is to ask another one. Forget about me, but I am telling you from experience, from consequences of a decision, you should go. Mismanagement at the stateowned Botala Steel Company and contamination of corruption had torpedoed the utopian ideals of priests and temples. Krishna felt a strain of regret in his fathers voice. Well! I dont know, perhaps its the family curse to be in the heat of India. Krishna said evoking stories from even before his fathers birth, even before his grandfathers memories. Stories passed on like a family heirloom. His great-grandfather had started on his Journey to the distant Island of the Queen; he had an appointment as a reader in department of Oriental Studies in one of the London colleges (he was a scholar of Sanskrit
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and Indian Scriptures, a qualified Acharya); his wife and children in his village waiting for him to go and settle there and send tickets for their passage. In Cairo he had taken a break from the continuous rocking of the sea to see the land. The Acharya of Sanskrit stood in awe and amazement as he gazed at the marvel of rising pyramids. He imagined the era when such feats were achieved, another era of temples and priests. While his ancestors, the Rishis of ancient, were creating magic in words of the Vedas the Pharaohs of Egypt created magic in stone. He wondered back till the start of civilization, start of history in word and stone. Did the Pharaohs and the Rishis knew each other? How was it all possible? What made us humans from animals? How did it all start? Is it known? Can it be known? Is trying to know such sacrilege that a Curse befalls on you? At that moment history restarted again; in a still-distant land a Prince was shot dead in Sarajevo. The break out of still to be so called the First World War suspended passenger shipping in Mediterranean. The Acharya had started towards Future from his Village; the curse of the First War made Krishnas great-grandfather Return from Past. Krishnas great-grandfather became a teacher in the princely state of Tekari and died at a not-so-old age, wearing the fine shirt of Egyptian cotton weaved in Manchester, send as a gift by his son (who had thought he had defied the imprecation and was completing his specialization to become a Member of the Royal College of Physicians), leaving behind a family to support and sisters to be betrothed, and blossoming of the ancient curse. Krishnas father did not like him romanticizing an ancient story as the family curse. He was upset about the fact that his son decided to join a completely unknown small company. Krishna had taken up the offer of source during the campus interviews. Neither his father nor anyone of his friends had ever heard of a company called source; even Krishna did not know much about them, it was only during the interviews he had first heard the name. The car was crossing the Bridge over Ganges (Mahatma Gandhi Setu), which took the road north of the river. The longest river bridge in the world, the Longest Crossing; the Bridge connects Patna to Hajipur on the North Bank. From the car they could see the merger of rivers Gandak and Ganges, waters of different shades. Gandak muddier as it descends in the plains very close to Bihar and doesnt have enough floodplains to deposit the silt before it meets Ganges and the river becomes an endless water mass; Bad Lands of Bihar, Wild West of the East; allusive banana plantations in eyots pointing to distant republics and mockingly ruling law. And in between the rivers, the Diaras, villages in the alternating patches of water and land. Annually alternating topography of floodplains of North Bihar, fury of the rivers descending from Himalayas submerging
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hundreds of villages every year, leaving behind a dredging trail of death and destruction along with sprinkle of nourishing alluvial soil for those who survive; to weave dreams in their flourishing crops; till next year when the floods come again to wipe clean the un-harvested fields. The car was rushing on the highway amidst the vast greenery of preharvest fields, and inside was a discussion about the choice of emigration in four generations of a Brahmins family, a very audible visible emotional conversation of immigration of choice, but what was not-audible notvisible not-emotional was hidden buried deep below the flowing green fields, stories of another type of emigration, not an immigration of choice but the emigration of poverty desperation exploitation fear survival. Memories buried under the silt deposited layer by layer in floods year after year. Villages in floodplains of Bihar and adjoining states have lived in the cycles of temper of the river for ages; multitudes are born in bounty of her plenitude and multitudes flee in fury of her servitude. These villages had been source of laborers for India and the world in recent past, past and distant past; after every cycle of flood, the villagers of villages consumed by the changing course of the rivers, devastated are left with nothing but to flee. Thousands leave this land and move in search of life, they are source of the blood-spilling self-cloning floating in time, living in indigence inveterate Mahisa; the kind of emigration that spilled from Bangla to India that made Indira Durga. In Ouathom, the story is a continual cyclical narrative from even before Bangla, even before Pakistan and India, before Model T, before a Sanskrit teacher turned back from Cairo after the declaration of a War, before mass production or steam engine, before even the Queen was made the Emperor of her Jewel in the Crown, a story from the days of the Company Raj, the Company Bahadur John Company, of the days when East India Man ruled the waves and her contractors ruled the lands, of the days when crops were not wheat and paddy but opium and indigo; of the days of which even memories of the fields have faded. Even back then floods were usual and annual, and after every flooding a camp for recruitment of indentures. Overseers and recruiters collecting herds of people, collecting thumb stamps on bunches of paper, and packed in boats going down the river, language of the songs reflecting the pain of receding shores, slowly changing from the Bhojpuri of Birha to Bangla of Baul, till they reach Calcutta; and from there in large ships, Ocean-going ships to Where? Did It Really Happen? The car was zooming ahead maneuvering aside from trucks and other vehicles coming in the opposite direction; multicolored paintings on trucks, Horn Please, OK, Tata, and on fuel tanks in graffito, Queen of Tata drinks Water of Arabia. Once in a while the water is visible, and then the
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river and road meander away of each other, becoming an illusion, and again she becomes visible. In Ouathom, a land of thousand years of solitude, nothing changed, nothing changes, people are born, people grow and people leave, the land of Buddha, the land of Vaishali, Democratic Republic City State, older than Athens, the land of Aryabhatta, the land of Zero, of nothingness, of comprehension of infinite, spreading the thread of thought through time, the land of which Karna was made the king by Duryodhana to make him a Kshatriya again. The motorcade passed the industrial town of Barauni. Zero Mile of the Highway, energy of coal and oil becoming electricity and fuel in the yetnot-sick Thermal Power and Refinery; time came back from dreams of past to the reality of present where villages lived in the perpetual blackouts of shadows of the Plants. After more time whizzing through the beautiful Bihar countryside they reached the village of Simariya, ancestral village of Krishnas family, also of poet Dinkar. Krishna felt proud of the heritage of his village, although it was only the third time he had come here. It was only during special family ceremonies, which require evocation of the Kuldevta, did he come to the village. The family had migrated out to cities since four generations. In their ancestral family home his grandfather lay in peace; the priests offered prayers to the Kuldevta. From an individual perspective, in the vast pantheon of Three Hundred Forty Million Hindu Gods and Goddesses, two are most important. Brahman at the top of the hierarchy (the Supreme, the Nondual, the Everything, the Nothing). And the Kuldevta at the bottom (the practical, the mundane, the foot soldier, the personal family god of every family, a guardian angel if you will), but one that has enough time for you, to take notice, as the area of responsibility is demarcated and focused. Simariya village was the abode of their Kuldevta. The first time Krishna was here was before his memory, his Tonsure Ceremony. The second time which is the first time in memory was his Sacred Thread Ceremony (the second birth of the Twice Born); the moment of joining the ancient Guru Shishya Parampara, a lineage of masters and disciples going back to the patron sage of the family, Rishi Bharadwaj. Krishnas Grandfather became his Guru and gave him the Gurumantra; he had heard blissfully spellbound, his grandfather whispering the essence of the Vedas in his ears; evocation of Gayatri (the Goddess of knowledge), personification of Vedas; Essence of Wisdom. The funeral of his grandfather, his guru, was the third occasion he was in the auspicious Ghats of Simariya. He had an unpleasant feeling in his mind; will this be his last visit? Will he and his Kuldevta abandon each other?
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His father lighted the pyre on banks of the river and clothes of the Atma slowly incinerated to ashes to become one with the land and water. Beside the fire of the pyre a barber tonsured the heads of male members of the family; he will be starting at source with a clean slate. With renewed resolve in the pact, guided by the rules, Krishna came back from his grandfathers funeral to complete his last month in IIT. ********* Momentous events of history passed, heard in the sweet voice of Salma and prophetic pronouncements of Prannoy, and so did the final month of his college, graduation happened. The party of clones was of gigantic proportions. The hierarchy of happiness was decided by reputation of the school admitted to for those who chose to continue with graduate studies, and by salary offered for those who chose to get a job. The divide was once again us and them those who were going to America and those who were doomed. Krishna had excellent grades and all the choices, but he was neither going to America nor was his salary among the highest. In fact, no one had heard of a company called source. But still Krishna was among the happiest that day. He knew he had made the right choice; he knew he had figured out the objective-optimizing algorithm of life and taken the right risks. Alcohol flowed like a river. Everyones objective was to get slosh drunk. Cocktails with rum and fruit punch were mixed in pails and the justgraduated students drank by mugs. There were emotions, there were memories, there were revelations, there was laughter, there was forgiveness and there was intoxication. Krishna had a morning flight to catch the next day, but he did not let that come in way of his final salute, wet with rum and punch, to his alma mater as a student. After the intemperance he retired to his room late night, wavering randomly in the corridors high and drunk. He had done his packing earlier in the day as he had anticipated the course of the evening. He collapsed in his dorm bed for the last time. As he tried sleeping he thought, this is the same bed, intoxicated and half asleep his eyes wet in maudlin murmured, WHY?and passed out. Next morning he was rudely awakened from deep slumber by the shrill sound of alarm. Krishna got up with a bad hangover. He popped in a double dose of headache pills, prepared an extra-black and extra-large coffee. He sipped the coffee slowly and arranged the room. He had a solemn feeling leaving the place he called home for four years. The pills took effect as he finished the coffee. His headache was gone, he just needed a good long cold bath and he would be ready to go. Krishna stood in the shower reflecting on his life at IIT, he washed away the hangover of the previous night and felt fresh; he continued standing in the shower and imagined washing away the hangover of IIT.
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The plane took off and soon was at cruising altitude. Krishna sitting at a window seat saw Delhi shrinking and then melting into green fields. The fields slowly converted into brown soil. The land looked like a map; but maps have borders; he saw no boundaries as the plane cruised crossing bounds of states. From window of the aircraft Krishna could see no borders, but he had seen boundaries all his life. His house was girdled by a hedge. His school was enclosed by pickets. IIT was encircled by a wall. Krishna had lived all his life within secured comforts of fences. There was always the city outside, in Botala, in Delhi, but the city was not his life, campus was. The campus was home with family, the campus was school and IIT with friends and teachers. The love of family, camaraderie of friends, and guidance of teachers were always present in the backdrop even in the most intense moments of his life. His world had been black-and-white, emotions were not deals, love was selfless, good and bad were pretty well defined, the textbooks had elegance of theory, the labs were experiments in exactitude; Questions had Answers. He was now moving into the wide-bad world which was neither white nor black. He felt excited feeling the endlessness of the world and the opportunities it had. He was also afraid; he was getting into new and dangerous territories. He had opted for a newly started and fairly unknown company. He was moving to a new city. He had moved to Delhi before, but he had the comfort of other classmates moving with him; he had the comfort of moving into an institution. source was not an institution. It did not have a campus; it was an office in a building in a locality in an area in a district in the megalopolis called Bombay. He felt tiny imagining the city state country world planet solar-system milky-way galaxies till he could imagine no farther as he zoomed out to smaller scales. The vision was very powerful; he felt his insignificance; he felt vulnerable and enfeebled. Next moment he felt confident, he will not be feeble and tiny, he will create his own space; he will survive and succeed in the bad-wide world; he will fight all the battles. The pilot announced landing. He saw the buildings of Bombay, he saw the sea. It was a beautiful sight. His excitement came back. He was raring to go, he was getting impatient to land in his new life; the buildings became larger as the scale of his vision became bigger. Landing in Bombay in daylight very soon in the descend stops being a pleasant sight, the beauty visible from heights start changing to blisters of burns on a beautiful face as scale becomes larger and slums of Bombay start revealing their freckled details, till it becomes unbearable as the scale approaches life. And then you feel the jerk of touchdown, the runway and
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Bombay Airport; the pustules are left behind as an image from a bad dream. The wall in Berlin collapsed. Bricks in the Wall shattered around. The three way wall between unmentionable names, Protagonist Alterego Illusion, soared to insurmountable heights. Societies of Eastern Europe moved from tyranny to freedom, Africans ended Apartheid, exploitive segregation changed to franchised empowerment; People marched from Bigotry to Inclusion. Multitudes continued migrating from the floodplains of Bihar. From pedestals of fiction, Fukayama the End declared death of Imagination, and in reply from parapets of ivory, Huntington the Clash recreated Civilization. India strided from shackles to liberation; Krishna crossed walls of the campus into the big-real world; a world of freedom struggle opportunities; a world of grays. No more rites of passage, No more growing up, No more graduations, but just pure wall-less adult world of charted-uncharted territories. Finally he was a man in the mans world, no debuts, no crossings, no pretensions; No more Murals, but simply a Man in the Mans world.

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Chapter 9 White boxes, black screens, Windows red blue yellow green
Krishna took the elevator to the ninth floor of BK tower in Bandra Kurla complex. He was wearing a brand-new full-sleeve white shirt, a formal-looking blue tie with minimal pattern, and a pair of perfectly creased gray trousers. His shoes, new black leather shoes, were shining of fresh wax. He carried a folder given to him by the recruiter when he had signed the offer. It had his offer letter, instructions for the first day, address of the hotel and office, contacts of real-estate agents, useful information on Bombay and Bandra. Bandra Kurla complex was the new commercial district of Bombay coming up on lands reclaimed from marshes in the bed of Mithi River. The river itself reduced to a sludge drain by pollution and construction, but the marshes were fast turning into a glittering landscape of steel and glass. Few buildings were complete; the area was largely a jungle of towering cranes and chaotic construction sites. The core however, had started functioning as host for several new-generation companies sprouting in India, cheer-led by liberalization started by the Finance Minister Manmohan Singh. These new companies found it more affordable than the downtown commercial districts. The elevator opened on the ninth floor, Krishna was alone, he walked through the vestibule towards a glass-paneled door, inside was an office reception, modest in size. He walked in; there was an empty desk on maroon-carpeted floor. In the side was a set of sofas and a center table with few magazines. On the wall behind the reception was embossed, in gray shining metal, in rightward slanting running letters, source, and above it in the same metal and texture a rightward pointing arrowhead, a horizontal V. Krishna sat down on the sofa and picked up a magazine. Krishna had landed in Bombay a day before and checked into the Bandra hotel in Bandra, pre-booked by source. He had residual tiredness from the excess of last night. He had the second shower of the day and slept. He had purposefully opted for reaching Bombay on Sunday, so that he is rested and fresh when he starts at source on Monday. Krishna continued to browse through the magazines; these were technology magazines but not known to him. The library at IIT subscribed to none of them. He read the unfamiliar article headings; glimpsing the new world flavoring its difference. He explored the first and last pages for more information; all of them were published from towns in California (San Jose, Palo Alto, Santa Clara). He was slightly confused by the obscure-sounding addresses.
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Krishna like most students coming out of the IITs had fantastic visions imagined and real, read and heard of the Silicon Valley, where everyone wanted to end in life. Krishna like most students of the IIT of Ninety-two did not know the official postal address or names of the towns in the Valley. The receptionist walked in from the other door that led to interior of the office, with a mug of coffee. She saw Krishna sitting on the sofa. Mr. Krishna? She asked. Krishna was glad that he was expected and impressed that the receptionist was briefed. He wondered whether it was because very few outsiders come to the office and its own employees are small in numbers to be on such private details. He let his impression pass, stood up and concurred in introduction. She welcomed him at source and introduced herself. Jose was in her late twenties, she was the receptionist, secretary and petty administrator combined, Krishna noted in his growing impression. Raj had mentioned in the interview about the culture of source, about everyone multitasking. She did not mention her last name and after the first mention of his name, more as a question, she dropped the Mister. Krishnas view of the corporate world was the plant in which his father worked; names started with Mr. or Sri, and ended with Sir, Sahib or Ji. Jose led Krishna to the office inside. It was a large hall with cubicles, Maroon was the theme color. The opposite wall was glass panels that overlooked Bandra side of the building. The Venetian blinds were folded up, Krishna got a view of the sea; he felt nice. Adjacent to the panels were larger cubicles. The hall was sparsely filled up; people were walking in. The plant in Botala had a siren that declared the shift. The whole town heard it several times a day in clockwork. The morning life there was a rush to get inside the gate before the siren sounded. In contrast, source had few people in office well-past nine in the morning. Krishna was the only person who wore a tie. Others were much casually dressed than he had expected. He was imbuing his first impressions of a technology startup when he saw Raj walking into the office. Raj immediately recognized him, they greeted each other. Raj led him to one of the larger cubicles and offered him a chair. Raj was the CEO of source. Raj was the reason why Krishna was there. Rajs passion in telling the story of source during Krishnas interview had made such an impact that Krishna chose the bottom rung of IIT placement pecking order. ********* In Ouathom, Advanced Research Project Agency (ARPA) along with National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) were created when leaders of The United States of America had panicked after Ultimately Seeing Sputnik Reach space. NASAs brief was to go higher than the
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Heavens and ARPAs was to create the Magic which will survive the Mushrooms. Universities were funded to create a network that will endure the holocaust when buttons will be pushed. The boxes were there, they were everywhere. White boxes with black screens. But they were still not harnessed so Routers were created to connect them. Although they still did not have testicles and could not bear the heat, but they were in the land of dreams where sun did not burn and grass was green. With bags of greenbacks of federal funding and protected by the temperate weather of the States, the routers multiplied to harness the boxes in magical streams. Packet Switching was the Revolution which connected the boxes in the ARPAs nodes in a NET, to form the Chariot of Dreams. And Man became God; Goddess ARPANOD was born. Computers everywhere got connected, bits-and-bytes travelled over wires-and-wireless. Connected to each other the boxes rejoiced, but soon they found they have different languages and can understand the bits-andbytes only of their brethren of tongue, and a tribe of translators was required. Raj and Vinod the Sun (the chairman of source), were alums of IIT Delhi, a decade older than Krishna. They graduated and took the route at top of the pecking order in a plane to the States. And drifting through prestigious graduate schools and lucrative masters degrees they landed in the Silicon Valley. The Valley where dust is sand and Sand is Gold; Heaven on Earth! The clones of IIT mutated into clones of the Valley; the gene that was cloned was TECHNOLOGY. It was early years of the decade of Eighties. The society in the States finally came to terms with its generational transition of baby boomers and its subtext of social upheaval. Driven by the energy of family, in style of his Hollywood past, the President unleashed the terminator of technology into the war which was still cold. Vinod started a business to make computers. The machines were in big demand and his company grew fast. Raj who was few years junior to Vinod, in the same drift, ended up in the Valley. Raj was hired by Vinod to write programs for computers that ran the banks their largest customers. Vinod was a visionary, he imagined the profound changes that goddess Arpanod will bring; he imagined the miracle of Internet waiting to happen in all its possibilities. He knew that the revolution will change everything, the complete upside-down turn of human civilization. Barriers would be broken, assumptions will fall, new businesses will be created, old ones will tremble; the gale of creative destruction unleashed will engulf the world. The Blessings of Arpanod was creating a yet-another clone army in the
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Valley. The clones of Entrepreneurs and the gene that was cloned was STARTUP; hers was the New Religion, New Salvation, Temples and Priests, Startups and Entrepreneurs. Vinod was impatient with energy. He wanted to do a hundred things. He started to open businesses. He encouraged his employees to become entrepreneurs. He arranged funds for them. He invested from his own companys ever-growing pile of cash. He mentored them. Raj joined the new clones; Vinod was his God. In a stroke of genius Raj figured that if they open office in India, they can get engineers cheaper; they can cut down the inefficiency of the drift that lands the clones of IIT in the Valley; he can short-circuit the route from Campus to California by taking source to India; thus source was born. Within months source was a profitably running and rapidly growing business. Raj shunted between California and Maharashtra, between day and night, between land of dreams and land of heat, between the dream of glory and the heat of execution. One day he would be hiring in Delhi, on the other meeting a client in New York, on the next conceptualizing the program with Vinod in the Valley, and then back in Bombay instructing the hired engineer in writing the code. ********* Raj had described all this to Krishna in the interview, once he formed a favorable opinion of him. He described the breakneck pace of growth of source. He described how the new industry does not have senior experienced people so the youngsters will grow in their jobs very fast. He described the multiple possibilities of technology and how the creative freedom of source will allow engineers to create commercially successful innovations. And above all, he described the lucrative Employee Stock Options Plan, and how the plan augments exponentially for the best people as they grow. He showed him the vision of future IPO; value of the dream. Krishna was sold even before Raj came to the IPO part. He was offered a decent salary and perks related to frequent foreign travel along with the ESOPs. Once Krishna was comfortable on the chair Raj said, You might want to take off your tie. Krishna got the message. After few minutes of chatting, Raj introduced him around. Sandy, this is our new Colleague Krishna. Sandeep is our Technology manager. Raj was the chief of source and also headed sales. Sandeep was responsible for delivery, all project managers reported to him. Welcome to source. Its an exciting place. You will like it. Sandy welcomed Krishna. You will get to learn latest technologies. We work on the cutting edge. Krishna smiled, having no clue of cutting what. Sandy
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continued, Drop by to my desk once Raj and Jose are done with you. I will get you started. Krishna found it really odd that he Rajed and Josed in the same first name casualness Raj had Sandyed him. He didnt know how to react. I will do that, sir. Thank you, sir. Sandy and Raj started laughing. Drop the pompous pretensions of the British Raj. Its my Raj. Raj Told, Showing the satirically impersonating Victorian highhandedness of his English Raj. Their pretensions were different, from across the Atlantic, not sirs of the empire but truncated first names of Bills and Sandys; pecking order of the hierarchy was not honors from the Queen, but value of their stocks. Krishna discovered that most people in source had simple calling names; Manoj was Monty, Sameer was Sam. Raj seeing him confounded, explained. All our projects are for American clients, it suits them, easier on the tongue than Hyderabadi tongue twisters. Dont worry we will not change your name, Krishna is very familiar there, those ISKON guys have made sure everyone pronounces it Right. But if you want you can be Krish. For Krishna his name was his destiny identity; he did not like the idea of muddling with it. Bala is our Finance Manager, Bala this is Krishna. Raj calls my job Finance Manager, but my work is all and sundry, Bala added. Sandy and Bala reported to Raj, they together constituted a three-member management team. Everything other than sales and direct delivery was handled by Bala. source was a small startup; there was no HR Admin Procurement etc., Bala handled most of these things. I have asked Jose to get the admin stuff completed for you. Make yourself comfortable, walk to my desk if you need any help, no formalities here. I will be travelling from day after for rest of the week. Once again welcome to source. Raj said going back to his cubicle, leaving Krishna with Jose. Jose showed Krishna his workstation: one of the cubicles in the honeycomb of source. He saw the logos on his computer: Intel 486, MSDOS, Windows 3.1. He was impressed; his IIT PC was still 286 and was not installed with Windows; stuff he had read only in magazines. Jose got the joining paperwork signed and gave him his access cards and logins. After settling down Krishna walked to Sandeeps desk; he was still trying to get used to calling him Sandy. Sandy proceeded to explain more details of source. For first few days you will not have a specific role or task. Use this time to know your colleagues and technology platforms we work on. We have around ten teams working on specific subprojects. The team members were fresh engineers from various engineering schools; the team leads were slightly
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senior. The non-tech staff all worked for Bala. We work on multiple platforms, explore them, ask questions, everyone around will be more than willing to help. You need to realize the speed with which things are changing. Its a continual learning game or you become obsolete before you know it. Sandy advised. Lets have a detailed chat later during the week and we will assign you on a project. Finally he added, Before you go, do you have any questions so far? Having found an opportunity and having become an insider, no longer afraid of embarrassment of ignorance, Krishna finally asked the question that had bothered him for some time. Why do you spell source in all running letter? Why is not S capital? Sandy started laughing. Oh that! Rajs wife Shilpi used to work as a designer in U.S with creations. Jean-Pierre designed the name and logo for source. His idea was that it gives you a feel of motion, unlike the stillness of capitalization. Its characteristic of his style; even his own firm is called creations in all running. Krishna had heard these names before but hardly had any idea about them; well, so it is, he thought. Krishna went back to his desk, sat on the chair and switched on the computer. Computers were his passion; he was very comfortable with them, the one on his desk was outwardly similar to the one he had in IIT but immensely more powerful. The computer started, the cursor flashed on the black screen, the familiar black screen on which Krishna had typed commands and programs for four years. Krishna had heard about Windows (the new interface that was becoming popular), but neither the huge boxes of Mainframes of IIT labs nor the white box in his room had Windows. He was eager to see the magic, *win he typed and hit enter. The black screen began to blip, colors started to appear, floating windows were loading in backdrop of a chime. Dingggdingdingdiiiing. He saw colors red blue yellow green. Windows loaded; Krishnas life hit the return key. The white and black of Botala and IIT turned into multicolor of source and Bombay. His mind white box, language black screen, and perceptions windows red blue yellow green; the world is not just gray, he thought. Krishna spent his time that morning exploring Windows of source. He went around introducing himself. The informality relaxed him; he liked most of his colleagues. There were several IITians from all the IITs. They were from all over India, he liked the national integration. A couple of guys invited him over for lunch and they went down and ate at a fast-food joint. In the afternoon Krishna started calling realtors from the induction kit. He fixed appointments through the next day. He was determined to close on a rental soon, and settle down in work full throttle. He left in the evening early; he went around Band Stand in Bandra for a stroll. He sat on the promenade and looked into the horizon beyond the sea. As evening grew the walkway became a lively place. Young people were hanging out,
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joggers and walkers sweating out. Elderly couples sat on benches reflecting memories of old in shine of the moon light in the sea. Krishna walked around for some time soaking in the images and returned to the hotel. On his way back he dined at a wayside Irani joint. Next day he started early, he excused himself from office for his house search. The reality of Bombay struck as Krishna moved like a pigeon from hole to hole in Bandra and adjoining neighborhoods. He had a decent salary, he was single; he had expected that house wouldnt be a problem. The energy released by Manmohans reforms and soaring stock markets was fuelling a real-estate price-rocket in Bombay. Bombay unlike Delhi is environed by water, land is constrained; it is reclaimed from sea and marshes everywhere. The city grows vertical instead of expanding horizontal. The horizontal expansion was happening in the far suburbs where a lot of his colleagues from source lived. He had fixed up appointments till Malad. He took the train, the local, to go there. Thronging crowds of hoi polloi pushed him into the train in Bandra station. Krishna was completely dislocated. It was not that he hadnt seen life or didnt have other shocking experiences in past, but first time in a Bombay Local is a shock of life even for the most ardent adventurers. Its an illusion because it cant be true, humans humans everywhere but not a soul redeemed, just outlines of faceless faces and bodies, in a riot of lines drawn over each other; mechanical movement of getting in and out at stations. It has to be an illusion, or how else can one walk without walking; Krishna didnt realize how he was in the train and how he got out. Throngs of crowds pushed everyone in their proper place. Yes! There was a soul, it was the train. The individual Atmas merged with the Parmatma of iron and wheels; but to get to that point of Moksha It required practice and mediation of daily travel; soul of the jam-packed jellyfish horde, floating in the stanchly stenching sweat. Although flats in his budget were bigger and more livable in Malad, Krishna decided to save his soul from being pushed to the horrible prospect of twice-daily dose of Moksha by Karma of the crowds; he took the Rickshaw back to Bandra. Next day at office he shared his experience, his colleagues laughed, he checked who all use the train, looked with misgiving at those who did. The divide in Bombay was town and suburbs. The divide was of four wheels and three. He was shown some flats in Mahim but they were expensive and he didnt want to take the car-taxi every day to office. The administration did not allow auto-rickshaws in Town. The autos of Bombay are the chariot of devil with a wheel less. It zigzags its way through the crazy traffic in a chaotic poetry that lacks rhyme or reason, turning adroitly in maneuvers of obscene angles. But for Krishna it was the boon that saved him from Moksha of the train and didnt burn
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his pocket in the fire of hell. In the logic of three wheels Krishna settled for a one-bedroom apartment in Bandra, whose bedroom was a bed and apartment was a part. After that came shock of the deposit, a fortune. Krishna was confused; he found no rationale in an upfront payment of such enormous security. The realtor and landlord stared at the tenant-to-be in amazement to find out the planet he came from. Next day his colleagues laughed at him again. An advance was arranged from source, and finally Krishna packed his stuff, checked out of the hotel and moved in to the place which now was his home. ********* Time passed and Krishna emerged out of the shocks of Bombay unscathed. In a matter of days, the house, the crowd, the traffic all became normal for him. Every day morning in an auto-rickshaw he zigzagged out of Bandra West, crossed over the railway line to come to the Highway that led farther North to the suburbs, near Mahim Creek. Mahim Creek is a depleting brackish blackish water mass that separates the islands of Bombay Town with its suburbs. The highway runs south to Dadar, Worli, and finally to downtown, where every night the diamonds of the Queens Necklace shines. But that was not Krishnas Bombay, Krishnas Bombay was north on the Highway. A bit ahead of the Mahim Creek, east of the Highway was the newly-being-developed reclaimed land, the Bandra Kurla Complex (BKC). And if, instead of turning east, you went straight north on the main road, it led to the Airport and the suburbs of Andheri and farther. And in between the Airport and BKC, the slums of Dharavi, the ugliness visible from air before landing in Bombay; and who lives there? Mahisa? No Not He; Not Again. Krishna was excited about source and new breakthroughs that were promising to change the world in the magazines which were now familiar to him. After a few weeks of random walk in the garden of technology, facilitated by trainings and self-learning, Krishna was well on his path of Glory. He started on the project for the Bank as a junior developer in the team. Every day he learned, every day he coded and then he coded some more. He pushed himself hard and harder and coded more than anyone else could code. The team lead was impressed and impressions traveled higher, the impression came back from the heights and took the form of a ten-year visa multiple to the land of dreams. The Windows of Bill and Gates of Moore opened to the garden of greens. Krishna traveled to the City of the Bank, sat with the bankers and understood their business in English, he drew his understanding in symbols
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in a window of power in points, when the bankers liked his drawings he flew back and wrote it again in Machine-speak. The Machine-speak was compiled through windows into memories of sand and a castle emerged on the screen. He flew again to the Bank where it was tested for its safety and style, he flew back and rebuild, and the castle was ready to store money which was no longer paper but blips. Energy of source drove his life, the drive and energy made him code. And in his flying to and fro, Marine Drive was farther than Street of the Bank. Time flew faster than the planes he rode. The new divide for him was the world outside and source. His energy and drive transformed into an impregnable forest thicker than the chaos of Bombay shielding his source. Dense forests, even denser than the jungles of solitude, grew around the arboreal Vanvas of Krishna, secluding him from the world in forest of the source. Nothing came in and nothing went out. The horns cracked and the bull crashed in a scandal of shame, the roof of the stock market blew and fell all over Bombay, but not a piece could drop on source. Crowds gathered around and above, sledgehammers were used, the structure fell to shake the country, but it could not shake source. Riots rocked Bombay but nothing was seen from inside the forest. Blasts happened all around and splinters and bodies flew but nothing could fly to source. And even when he traveled, he was with source, his new toy the pad claiming thought made his windows fly with him, he did not feel pain of the airport, the forest shielded him from the never-ending queues, security was a formality he just did, immigration was a wall that did not exist, his stopovers were in countries he did not bother to know, he did not notice the herd in the class of cattle, he did not observe the colors and clothes of people around, he was in the City which he did not see, for him source to the Bank and Back to-and-fro was just a Beam me up Scoty, in which the only thing he saw was forest of the source and clones of trees. Krishna became senior programmer, a team lead for project of the Bank. Botala and Delhi was pushed to memories of past by work created in memories of sand, source became source of his life. Living in a training centrifuge, revolving at increasing speeds, simulating tearing apart G-forces, brain giddying in revolutions, world turning in whirligigs, only source to hold in the vertigo is the centripetal of the baton; source stroking holding baton; G-forces ejaculated. There was no day there was no night, in the flexi hours of source time was not the time. The time was of time-zones jetlags conference-calls travelling in cables laid under the sea, and through satellites positioned over the sky, inducted by source time accelerated approaching light and split into two. Accelerated in imagination in the networks of Arpanod time collided with life and split at source. Day was a day and night became the day,
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Krishna was glad he could work up to sixteen hours every day. And the account with the Bank kept growing, one project became multiple projects, from team lead Krishna became manager for the Bank. ********* Hi, I am Daniel, but I prefer being called Dan. Dan said when they met for the first time. Dan was the IT manager of the Bank, Krishnas client. Hi, I am Krishna and unfortunately I dont prefer being called Krish. Krishna replied with a saccharine smile clarifying the humor of the comment meaning no offense. Dan took a liking for him. He had been dealing with Indians for some time now, but despite pretensions he missed slap-the-back companionship of his American colleagues. In his very first meeting he knew Krishna was different; Slam-dunk! Is that what they call it? Touch! OK, Krish! Good to know that you will handle all our projects in source. We needed a central guy, too many issues happening with delivery. Oh! Dont worry. We take work of the Bank very seriously. I assure you; you will not know of any delivery issues from now on. He was the Client, Customer is the King, and for his Excellency Krishna dropped his Destiny Identity and became Krish. He learned about the ugly sister of cricket, where the bats were more like pipes and the Yankees always won the game because of their stripes. He learned to say grace in Thanks Giving and scare shit in Halloween; Lifts became elevators, cars became trucks, trucks became semis, and Lorries were outlandish beasts. He even reloaded his memory, the Hostel of IIT became a Dorm, Standards in School became Grades, he relearned a language, Apartments no longer were Flat and the course no longer English Basic but Yank-speak one-oh-one. Rubber was no longer an eraser and Colors of windows spelled a u-less. And the Bank was no longer in the City Centre but Downtown. The first floor came down to ground and he corrected his pronunciation of Routes and Routers; a Proper Way to Go. ********* Dan and Krish became good friends, their relationship moved from vendor-client to beer-buddies. When Dan visited source at Bombay, Krish realized like all other cities Bombay had bars and pubs. Krish hadnt become a teetotaler, but had his occasional drink at home with other techies of source. Krish entertained Dan during the visit. Dan not for a second realized, that it was the first time Krish himself experienced the Nightlife of Bombay; Ingratiating Beer Bars with Dancing Girls and Raunchy Bollywood Numbers. Dan didnt need to see or check much in source, what he needed was
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the confidence that Krish provided in abundance. Dan saw what Krish wanted him to see. He didnt see the workarounds Joogads of Chalta-hais done in source to run the Banks go-rounds. He instead saw food, mouthwatering taste-bud-inciting spices of Karma; if for nothing else, than only for food the Banks work will always come to source. Yes! It is Possible; in the land of Hunger Food is the Prime Attraction. Dan went back satisfied that the land of Karma was no longer what he had heard and read about in school, but had become civilized. He saw by his own eyes that they wrote code instead of conjuring it; Krish made sure he saw what he should see and nothing more. The traffic and roads were the only unavoidable pretensions from past, an embarrassment which Krish learned to joke about, and Dan did not mention it to colleagues back home; everyone is entitled to their own Shock of Surprise; and Mahisa was all hidden by forest of the source. But! The airport; what about the Airport? Birth Canal is thinner than the Fetus; Landing Hatch in Apollo Eleven was narrower than Armstrongs Backpack; Engineers at NASA or Karma made the Hatch, God or Evolution made the Canal; things have a Purpose; to appreciate the Gift of Life you need to feel the Pain; and in payoff of all the pain Krish took, the account grew further and the clone army of source grew larger. Similar stories were repeating with other clients of source. The advantages of source were un-ignorable. source was winning projects after projects, its reputation, size, revenues, and cash were all growing in a virtuous cycle. Raj was impressing company after company and increasing the client list. The team of forty soon crossed four hundred. Visas were being produced in hundreds and source supplied engineers to all sorts of businesses. Ones engineers and clients became mutually comfortable; the work was shifted to India. The growth soared; the Bank itself had more than hundred people in source working for it. source soon touched Thousands in headcount. Krish steadily climbed the ladder; he became the account executive for the Bank. His responsibility included sales and profits along with delivery. His account was fastest growing of all source clients. He never asked for a raise but Raj gave him the best increments. His salary grew exponentially but Krish failed to notice. His stock options multiplied but Krish failed to see. Raj pointed out to him, You should change your house and buy a car. What else do people work for? But Krish did not work for money, he did not need a bigger house, he did not want to divorce his three-wheeled affair with the chariot of devil; he lived by his rules, he did not pause, he did not think, he just continued with his journey, and so did time. Is it possible? Was he a machine? Was he not human? Were there no women? Did he not have a life outside forest of the source? No He Did
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Not. Then what made him sustain? How could he live a twice-time life? Where did the energy come from? What was his source? Krishs source and energy was his Baton. Hands and imagination stroking the baton, hands outside, imagination inside, faces jumbled in lines of code, stewardesses of flights, toilet of the airplane, receptionists of Hotels, bathroom of the room, cleaning lady, debugging code, a compilation error, blood flowing in loop, hardness of heat in the processor, needs to be debugged, needs to be restarted, bug killed; Imagination Ejaculated. Program restored, machine recharged, coding re-started. Krish was relaxed, he was satisfied; the colors of his life were colors of the windows where you dont need U. ********* It was not only source on fire; a rumble was growing across the industry. Arpanod was connecting more boxes, Vinods company was trying to make different languages talk, more cables were laid under the seas, more satellites put in space. And also the magazines published in the Valley started talking about a bug. There was whisper and rumor about a millennium collapse at turn of the century when count of time becomes zero; Y2K doomsday scare started to rise. Krish was at the Bank; it was a large boardroom; there was silence and seriousness. The suits were blue with stripes of pin. There were bankers who understood the language of money but did not know the language of machines. There were engineers who did the reverse. The CEO of the Bank himself was present. The boardroom was on top floor of the large building which oversaw the square on one side and the park on another; a park in the center and a square of time. And then, the sea and the City; and also, two large Towers standing opposite to and staring at each other; Higher than Heavens. The view was a panorama in rotation seen through the glass-paneled walls. The furniture was Chippendale, paintings van Gogh, drapery from France, carpets from Prussia. Mahogany expression of ancient wealth was intimidating Krish, who sat calmly on thick leather of unnerving elegance. Raj and Sandy sat next to him, both of them also nervous, concerned of the risk they had taken by letting Krish lead the pitch. There was a portrait of a bald elderly gray-haired gentleman in an oldfashioned suit and moustache, suit blue with stripes pin, moustache white and expression in the eyes of having seen it all. The Gentleman in the picture was equally eager as rest of the attendees to see what was to be said; he stared at the opposite side of the room, a screen on which title slide of the presentation was projected.
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The Bank was custodian of worlds wealth, the citadel of boardroom held its pinnacle. They had seen the rise and collapse of financial systems. They had charily burnt fingers in bubbles and busts. They had equally discounted prophets of booms and dooms. They had gathered to hear about doomsday of Y2K from the young man, a brown man with fair skin who came from India and was an outsider to the room. It was rare for people not from the Old Boys Club to be there, let alone Indians who talked in languages incomprehensible by men and understood only by machines. Krish had rehearsed the moment a thousand times in his mind, all through Bombay, the flight, rest in the hotel and in dreams. He was the youngest person in the room; several of them twice his age. Krish felt a daunting nervousness as the moment to start the presentation arrived, he feared losing grip of his poise, he desperately wanted to anchor himself back into all the preparation he had done, he looked at Raj, but it was of no avail, his demeanor shaking looked around, it saw beyond the glass panel, his eyes stood still connected to the Towers; his will found the strength anchored in sheath of rising illusion He rose slowly and started in a confident tone; people looked in seriousness of lack of expression. His suit, cloudless clime of a starry night of an earlier unpolluted time, somber darkness of the fabric and shining sharpness of the stripe, and like the moons teasing twinkle the pin on the tie of Stars and Stripes; Red, Blue and White. First of all, let me thank everyone to have taken time out from their important schedules for this presentation. I am appreciative of the collective value of time of all the people in this room, which indicates the importance the Bank puts on this project. Let me start with saying that for source this will be an equally important endeavor. In course of the next hour, I will explain how we will ensure that the objectives of the Bank will be completely met by us. After thanking the audience he clicked the remote in his hand to the first slide. Krish had been awake for several nights preparing for the pitch; he had thoroughly researched the competition; it was a very large and prestigious project; will be a game changer for source. But he was up against the best, the biggest players of the industry, doyens and pioneers, everyone wanted the project; it was too critical for the Bank to risk it with an upstart from Bombay. The IT guys in the Bank had some experience of working with Indians, but for the real bankers it was still a faraway land of opinionatedly High-risk Sovereign Ratings, Snake Charmers and Poverty. Used to be a Soviet Satellite, was all they cared to know. Some of the older guys had a different idea; they had seen and heard stories of Pot Smoking in Goa, Sitar of Rock, Ashram of the Yogi. Granted! Music, Drugs and Spirituality are
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not exactly Soviet, Snakes and Poverty. But they are also Not Software Computers and Technology. Krish had struggled preparing the pitch; Dan had helped him. Dan had got used to source; he had started living in his own little Raj. His instructions were instructions from God. There were always, engineers available, day-and-night on his beck-and-call, to get working on his weirdest of requests. He hadnt heard anyone say No in source. A bit of irritation in the beginning because of failed deadlines due to overpromise. But once he knew by practice and experience to what limit he can push the envelope, when a Yes was a Yes and when it could be a No, he utilized it to the hilt. Krish wasnt the only one who changed in the game; Dan could no longer live without his curry, without his Indians running his empire of boxes, without Krish always being a phone-call away. He became so addicted to Karma that he never bothered when Krish presented him with humongous bills of all the extra hours, unbudgeted efforts, slight deviations blooming into big changes. He refused to increase the headcount in IT department of the Bank, instead more work was outsourced to source. The millennium project was Dans responsibility; he did not want anyone else to get it. He knew: convincing the Big Boys in the Boardroom will be difficult. He and Krish needed to play their cards very carefully. Dan understood the pressure points of boys on the top floor; he helped Krish craft the pitch. If you make them believe you are the Yankee boy next door; you are source and you will remain source. The content will take care of itself. I know your rates will be the best. I know you can deliver with quality good enough, may be even better than some of the big players. The issue here is perception. If by end of the presentation they have forgotten that they are talking to an Indian, you will get the DEAL. Tell them what they want to hear, believe it yourself. Be Krish the Account Executive and forget that you ever were Krishna the Cow Herder or whatever it was. And remember your suit, better to bow too low than not to bow enough. You know why the Yankees always win the game? Dans advice made an impact, and a realization that he had always seen through the facade of Krish, he always knew the real Krishna; it was not the curry but business that made both of them tango together. But sometimes even in the land of Capitalism, even on the Street, Perceptions are Stronger than Logic of Dollars; Krish needed to make an Impression. He started talking; his confidence grew as he spoke; in his prefatory remarks he explained the Y2K problem: How the old machines didnt have enough power and to make software efficient only two digits for years were used. Those two digits will become two zeros and all software that uses
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dates will malfunction. The programs for different functions of an organization are connected to each other, so even if dates are not used by a particular program it will get affected as it is connected to one which does. The programs are in turn connected to different companies and platforms like clearing and exchange. Effect of the bug anywhere can blast an application anywhere else. It will Cascade into a Disaster. The Gentleman in the picture was concerned. He remembered the bugs of Wild West, brigands riding horses, blasting trains, came from nowhere, went to anywhere; disappeared with his heisted cash. Krish continued the explanation. He put up a picture of the Banks System landscape. He knew more than anybody in the room about applications in the Bank. His soul had lived like a bite in this maze for last five years; some of the software he was talking about was programmed by him. The knowledge of the outsider about the inside was impressive. Slight expressions started appearing on the faces. Krish continued with his proposals to solve the problems. A mild nod here and a quiet question there, but apart from that people listened intently as slides moved and Krish spoke. He categorized the applications. Those which require minimum tampering: these were easy ones; engineers from Bombay will come over and fix it. Those which will undergo substantial change: codes will be transferred to testing platforms at source, thoroughly analyzed and recoded. He elaborated his strategy for cleansing software of the bug. He explained about tools that source had created to run fool-proof tests, to catch every possible impact of date change of the millennia. Finally he came to the most difficult part; the most complicated and affected applications: these he suggested scrapping and developing fresh replacements in newer and more efficient technologies. The money transfer system was in this last category. It was a very old system which had served the Bank well. It connected the Bank to its peers, federal clearing systems and global fund transfer platforms; Sanctum Sanctorum of the Bank, the vein through which the blood of banking flowed. Changes over a period of time were not well documented; the technology was obsolete and no longer supported by vendors who sold it to the Bank. Other institutions also changing, its ability to communicate with new systems was an issue. There were too many problems; his proposal of replacement was making sense. Krish then showed slides on how all the sub-projects will be executed. He will create an overall umbrella project called Chakra. The wheel will turn in a planned manner to put everything in place for the millennium to pass without a doomsday. He ended the presentation showcasing some of the successful work source had done with the Bank in last five years.
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The audience looked visibly impressed but they didnt give any verbal cues of their thoughts. There were more questions and more answers. Krish didnt waiver for a moment. The meeting ended with Krish thanking everyone again for their time and patience. Hands were shaken and people parted. Krish, Sandy and Raj flew back from the Bank after presenting their proposal. The boys in the room had said they will take more than a week but less than two. All top firms in the industry along with the consultants and accountants were in race for the Y2K overhaul of the Bank. Everyone had their advantages in the game. The big boys had blue machines, and the tiny boy had windows; the accountants were from old boys club of the boys in the room, and the consultants from top schools; Pythia had its base, and Vinod his genie. The advantages of source were: Familiarity with the Banks software; it already had an army of clones sitting on boxes of the Bank. And hyperbole of the game: pricing of purchasing power; Dollar was expensive and Rupee was cheap. But boys in the room were of the old school. They were sure that charming snakes and writing code are different sets of skills, though they knew nothing of either. They had nightmarish visions of cobras crawling in their boxes, and were disturbed by prospects of Ugly Brown People in Bright Red Turbans defiling the Sanctum Santorum of the Bank. To their great surprise that day, Krish neither turned up in a turban nor playing flute, neither charming cows and cowgirls alike, nor beguiling snakes. His suit had stripes as sharp as theirs, and color as blue. He spoke their language in the euphonious accent of East Side in Uptown, and was not even brown; his clothes language skin-color made Krish the facade that hid trickeries of Karma from boys of the Bank. While Krish waited on tenterhooks for selection by the Bank, the result of an election was declared; but it did not cross forest of the source. He waited in anxiousness and waited in expectation; his heart pounded in unison with another he did not know; an old man on other side of the forest, whom he could not see. For Thirteen Days and for Thirteen Nights, their hearts pounded in anticipation, and finally source soared; unknown to him on other side of the forest, unseen the old man fell and the jokers of Janata rose. While In the Bank of old boys the young boy arrived, outside forest of the source the city was usurped by another army of clones. Krish failed to notice or comment on the usurpation, other than a simple set of clicks issued by the Raj; the circular simply said, Find All Bombay and Replace All with Mumbai.
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********* The win at the Bank was biggest event till then in life of the young source. Krish was the hero. It was a multi-technology, multi-application, multi-location, multi-country, multi-vendor, multi-customer, multi-year, and most importantly multimillion dollars by far project; The Chakra. Multivalent Chakra of Karma, multi-everything for multi-billion souls, rotating revolving floating on a Large Ball of Molten Lava. Raj wanted to celebrate; wanted to thank gods for their blessings; the whole team had worked really hard; they deserved a break before everyone got down to executing the Chakra. There were grand parties, grand celebrations. But Raj also wanted a trip, an excursion to the Himalayas with his closest lieutenants and their families. A much-needed vacation for him, Sandy, Bala and Krish; they will hire a minibus from Delhi and go up to Gangotri, beating the heat and spending quality time with colleagues and families. They will go up to source of Ganga and pray to the Goddess and thank her for her blessings. It was time to pause and reflect on the years, the journey covered, the dreams of future. They came out of Delhi Airport, cheerful children chirping in excitement, parents collecting them from not running, a nice airconditioned minibus, comfortable seats, everyone gets in and the road journey starts. Krish had met on occasions the wives and children of Raj, Sandy and Bala, but they were just names, formal introductions from formal gatherings, names which were soon forgotten. Krish made sure to reremember the names to save his embarrassment. The families knew each other very well, source was more than an office, it was an extended world for its founders; Krish was invited into that specialness after the win at the Bank; he had became part of the core of source. Raj and Shilpi had two children, elder was a boy, all of six years old and his sister was three years younger, three years old. Sandy and Bala had one each of similar age. Three still-young couples still sparks left, four young children raring to go, and one Single Man drifting along, all chatting watching the sites of Delhi. The Bus left the airport and took familiar roads towards India Gate, ITO, the Bridge, and onto Highway to the Hills. Delhi changed so much after the games. Raj remembered his days of IIT before Asian Games of Eighty-Two. You would not get a rick from AIIMS to go to IIT. Hauz Khas was back of beyond. Yes, I know. Sandy, who went to IIT Mumbai, not wanting to be left behind added, Same stuff with Powai; people from town came there for boating and safari. Look what has happened now. The two of them went down a trip of nostalgia along conversations of which of the IITs were better, familiar names of alums, their successes in ARPA, NASA, the Valley and elsewhere, all culminating in a crescendo of
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salutation to their Alma Mater and its creator. IITs were the best thing Nehru did. Thats as selfish as it can get. Bala interjected with laughter and irritation. Discounting everything the Old Man did, freedom struggle, nation building, for colleges that do more good to America than India. He continued with Nehrus appraisal. It is largely his legacy that despite tearing contradictions we survive as one nation. Bala was an accountant; he had his own memories of the scary Chartered Accountancy exams and exploitative Articleship. He was the only non-IITian among the four of them; he was slightly irritated to be a left-out spectator of Odes to a Dream. And Also of the fact that science is God-made, ultraportable and same across all lands of men, unlike accountancy which is Manmade; own rules in every country; inconvenience of dichotomy is difficult to migrate. You have a point. Raj conceded. In our batch of hundred students around eighty immigrated. But why fault IIT for that? Sandy intervened. It was the Socialism. We had absolutely nothing to do. He too had relocated from the Valley. Didnt we come back when opportunity came? What about you? I heard you had great grades. Bala asked Krish, trying to get a younger perspective to the conversation. Raj hypnotized me! Krish replied. It turned out good. I get best of both the worlds in source. Raj was full of laughter. Bala you should see this guy when he is in States. He spoke to Bala, who was not the front face of source and rar ely visited the clients or the American operations. Leave him in Midwest Country, even there they will not figure out he is a foreigner. Thats because, Krish added to the all-round laughter in the Bus, If I tell them I am an Indian, they ask Which tribe? The Bus raced through the labyrinth of small towns and villages of Western UP; alongside the road after every little while, shabby buildings This Institute of Engineering and That Institute of Managementthe bottom rung of the great IIC Factory; inside, invisible from the roads, producing in assembly lines, the new generation of clones. They stopped at Chital Grand (resort and Deer Park by Upper Ganga Canal), the water source of an ever-thirsty Delhi. Meal and tea stopovers were time for family conversations because the men did not have the advantage of segregation of properly lined rows of the bus seats. IIT and immigration gave way to being daddies and uncles. They had a multicourse meal and strolled in the park. Krish liked the site of excited children enjoying the trip.
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When the afternoon peaked after their fiesta, adults in the bus ignored voracious games and choral chiming of the children and slept. Sleep of a long journey in rhythm of the vehicle, always a satisfying sleep, and the bus with its travelling siesta and chorus, continued its journey towards their first stopover, Haridwar. They had targeted to reach Haridwar to witness the Evening Aarti. Har Ki Pauri (Steps of the Lord), banks of Ganga, the very place she descends to the plains in Haridwar (Gateway to Heaven), North of which the hills start, Rishikesh (the Tress of the Sage), and she gets entangled in the locks of Shiva who bore the brunt of her descent and saved the world from getting washed away, and farther North the hills become mountains; steepness of the climb towards source. The climb was for tomorrow, today was the Aarti. A crowd of people and priests on the banks, setting sun, color of the sky changes, dusk becoming darker, hundreds of fire burning, swinging floating, the sentiment of somberness, chorus of chanting, ringing of bells, evoking the Goddess, hailing her glory, intense spirituality connecting the crowd, the chorus getting louder, movement of fire getting profounder, singing the coda of Aarti, hail Ganga, Mother, Hail, Hail, HAIL; Ecstasy of Oneness; multitudes of souls connected to the river. It wasnt the first time Krish participated in the evening Aarti at Har Ki Pauri, but every time, always, it had been an out-of-body experience, he failed to describe or pinpoint what it was, but he found others also always had a similar experience. Everyone in the group including the children too small to appreciate spirituality was mesmerized. There was a devotional wetness in eyes of the adults. They had dinner at the Chotiwala (pigtail pointed to Heaven, to what was to come), and then they retired to their hotel. Next morning the bus started climbing. They took a half-an-hour break at Lakshman Jhula in Rishikesh and continued upwards. Krish and the families were no longer just introductions of past. A whole day of travelling together had already created the familiarity required to tread certain topics of conversation. So tell us honestly, do you have a girlfriend? Shilpi asked Krish. Unknown to him, hidden in forest of the source, time was passing fast to reach an age where single is an embarrassment. I think I am in love with source. Krish brushed aside the question. That all men are. Raj is married to her. I am only the second fiddle. Shilpi set the context straight. Ok, well, I dont have my second fiddle. Krish answered. So you are more of an arranged-marriage type. Marriageable age, two possibilities: have a girlfriend or let society find you a wife; first was
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negated, obviously second is the case; a simple conclusion; Elementary! Doctor Watson. No, not exactly, though my parents have been pestering me. Actually, frankly, I have really not thought about it. Krish reflected his confusion. Well, I have some single friends; we can set you up when back at Mumbai. Krish let the invitation hanging, without responding either way. It was already evening when they reached Badrinath (temple of Lord of the Clouds). Next day they offered Puja and spent some time enjoying the mountains. Krish saw children running up and down the slopes, he remembered his own childhood trips, he wondered how long it had been since he visited his parents, Goly had already completed her medical school. For the first time since he joined source he felt the years that had passed; children playing around in the scenic slopes, feminine presence of the wives, the family atmosphere; he allowed the guard of his impregnable forest which he carried with him, down. He didnt bring his Laptop along, his ThinkPad. He suddenly found his soul missing without its Windows. Next day they left for Gangotri, a journey in the clouds. He thought about the proposal from Shilpi, he saw the loving couples sitting in the Bus, he saw the joyful children; he saw Family; Probably a Good Concept. Gangotri used to be the point where Ganges left the glacier to become water from ice and converted into a mountain stream. But over thousands of years since the temple was made the glacier retreated a few kilometers upstream, and source receded higher. The road leads only till Gangotri and after that it was a strenuous trek. Having small children present, the group voted not to go the last mile. They offered their Puja to source in its temple. Then came the question of the dip. No one was ready even to touch the freezing coldness of melting ice in flowing water. Raj was eager to go; he pressurized Krish by challenging his youth into agreeing; hallowing stream, gushing freezing water, Raj went in his shorts, shivering, Krish followed. Krish felt a current, a shock like he had never felt before, feet getting numb, before he knew what happened he sat down in the water holding the chain provided for safety, and took an instantaneous dip. One spec of time, discrete, unconnected from after and before, and he was out in reality, towel covered changing shivering. But to everyones surprise Raj continued in the water, time still in continual, not moving, the heat of source sustaining him, his vision, his passion, entrepreneurial zeal, yes it had just started, there was more to do, miles to go, he saw the bell at the Street, NASDAQ, he saw the culmination of his life in the opening trade, The Bank deal was just a stopover before the steepest part of the climb.
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Shilpi was getting agitatedly nervous, she was pleading to him to come out; she didnt want a sick husband on the way back. Raj finally came out and changed. Krish wondered what can make a man so immune to the freezing pain of the gushing anger of Ganga. Raj, after he was dried up made a pledge with Krish. After the IPO both of us will come here again, and climb up to Gomukh, the Eternal source, and take the Dip there. That night in the Dharamshala (House for Pilgrims), Krish was finding it difficult to sleep, everyone else tired from the travelling had retired in their rooms; he was alone sitting on his bed struggling. Images of the trip wives children family Shilpi has a single lady friend, she will set them up, images of his own childhood, Krishna and Goly running on the slopes in Darjeeling, Kanchunjunga shining in the backdrop, he had left his Laptop behind, cannot even work, and outside the window of his room, silence of the night in sound of the roaring stream, his guards down, his forest left behind, depth of the valley sucking him in towards height of the peak, she has a friend, how does she look like, Chakra was waiting to be started after they got back, it will be a Big Execution, it is a Large Project, it will be his Baby, he cannot imagine her friends face, he has not seen her before, the complete rebuild of the Payments Platform of the Bank, virtual trains that carry money around the world loaded in blips, his head is hurting, daemons shouting trying to come out, trying to violate the Pact, he does not need to imagine her face, he can imagine her body, Breasts, No, the daemons will be silenced, the Pact will be adhered, Rules will be followed, the Chakra will turn, he needs energy, he needs his crosshair, he does not need to be setup; he needs his Baton. That night, next to the temple of source in holy abode of the Mother God, the River Ganga, Krish struggling to sleep stroked his baton, to keep up to the promise of his pact; Daemons Ejaculated. Next day on way back it was clear for the women that the men had left nostalgia, family and dreams hung to the peaks of Himalayas. And in descent it was clear for the men that they were going back to source, where wheels of the Chakra were waiting to turn. And by the time Hills became plains, Plains became villages, Villages became towns, Towns became Delhi, Delhi became the Airport, which became the flight which landed in Mumbai, they had already discussed the complete mental plan for the project, its execution, its staffing, its build, its testing, resources, time, travel; all the details were imagined.

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Chapter 10 The IPO


CHAKRA once again changed Krishs life. His bonus was huge. His stock options multiplied like the numbers and sizes of multies in the deal. He now directly worked with Raj, a completely new division was carved out for him by putting all Financial Sector clients under his umbrella, it was seventy percent of the company; Sandy was left with thirty; Krish superseded him to become the key lieutenant of Raj. Raj indicated after his trip to the Valley, and a chat with Vinod, He is a visionary, he sees this opportunity as our break in the big league, he is already talking about an IPO in NASDAQ, everything hinges on the success of Chakra, If we complete this successfully, you will become a real hero, the shareholders will know, they might ask you to join the board. Krish by accumulation of options was already an important shareholder himself, considering his options exercised and vested. Raj insisted that Krish changed his home; he was now supposed to entertain important people, network with the high and mighty, throw parties. Vinod will be visiting soon; you should host him at your new house. It is important to make the right impressions on god. The large bonus was added to a larger mortgage and Krish catapulted across the road to an apartment he now called home. It had two bedrooms which had beds and cupboards and sofas and room. It had a study, which had a table which had a box (familiar white-and-black), it had a lobby which was large, and it had a kitchen which was well stocked; and it had a large drawing room to entertain guests and gods. Shilpi did the interiors for Krishs house. It was in contemporary style, the colors were mostly white, black and gray. The decorative was from creations (the fashion house she worked with). The lamp shades were in wire mesh, the furniture other than sofa was in metal frames, the sofa was a large black leather couch resting against the backdrop of white walls. In the drawing room there were two items that didnt gel with the theme, the side chair and the painting. These were selected by Krish himself against Shilpis choice. She didnt push much but said, I would have preferred something more contemporary. The painting and the chair were in pretense of boardroom of The Bank. But the van Gogh was print and Chippendale one month old. The Television (Sony Trinitron) was large and flat, and his Car a Sedan of Esteem. Vinod was the star attraction of Krishs housewarming of the new apartment. Management team of source was there, also invited were important business associates, and beautiful ladies escorted by handsome
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gentlemen, friends of Raj and Vinod. In his housewarming at Bandra Krish made the Initial Public Offering of his Social Life, much before source did its on NASDAQ. Vinod the Sun was guest of honor who rang the bell and the party began. Hard Drinks were from Scotland, Wines from France, and Soft Drink was Coke. CocaCola the Real Thing Back, Innocence-less Black, the Real-Real One, Adding Smile Adding Life Once Again; the secret of innocence is that there are no secrets at all. In Mumbai which once was Bombay, Krish crossed the divide of the road from home to home, from corral to abode. Mumbai is unlike any other city Krish had been to. He travelled across time zones where cities were all rich. But even in dreams there were underbellies and dark sides. Their divides, the lines of control, were fault lines of neighborhoods, of black and white, immigrant and local, poor and rich; all sorted out in neat blocks separated by straight streets. But Mumbai is not like this. There are no fault lines. Mumbai instead is a mlange of million macrocosms of microcosms of divides; all mixed up in chaos of Karma; Jhuggi of slums sharing walls with buildings of five stars; but there are always Walls small-and-large, crisscrossing the city in lines large-and-small. Second time after his coming to Bombay, Krish noticed Mumbai. Forest of the source was slowly uprooted by an army of lumberjacks released by his IPO. The parties at Krishss place became frequent; his circle grew outside source to include lumberers who cut down the timber to bring him sites of the city. But Mumbai was different from Bombay he had shut his mind to. It was the city of air-conditioned sedans and apartments with sea-views. Diamonds of the Queen shining in the night, Music in the clubs playing out loud, seductive women dancing amidst showering currency notes. His new divide was inside his car and outside; line of control of firm unbreakable tinted glass. When the windows are closed and A.C on, throngs of plebeians is a movie and poverty a painting. Even source was no longer just a floor but campus with gardens and wall. ********* Krish got busy with ensuring proper turn of the Chakra and his newfound social life. It was a huge project, hundreds of people working around the world, around the clock; he was the master conductor of the mighty orchestra. Blocks of applications started appearing, first series of tests went fine tests of individual parts with simulated data; challenges came after that. Building a standalone application is easier, but the Bank was a complicated animal, the node in the interconnected arterial systems of the
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world. Money is the blood of society that flows through wires-and-wireless of the banking world; flow invisible to the naked eyes but real bits and bytes of flowing biting Money. The most complicated part of the project was the Fund Transfer Platform. Its function was to send and receive monetary electronic instructions. The piece was being written in most sophisticated technologies, but other applications within the Bank and outside, which it needed to connect with, were mostly older; this was posing a problem. How is a 32-bit message understood by a 16-bit application, and vice versa? The solution generally is to make the messages mimic each others structure. But this is mostly tricky and messy. The fund-transfer application was sensitive, security was paramount. The engineers at source were struggling with the problem. If the message was converted to a lower format, some essential security features were lost; if the message was converted to a higher format it had redundant bits. Rest of the project was moving in its momentum. Krish had a good team of engineers and managers. It had its usual quandary, but issues were solved before becoming serious. Everyone was motivated and enjoying building the giant; the wheels turned smoothly except for funds transfer interfacing the world. A problem was source of Krishs life; he needed challenges; he got one. The predicament was a tough nut to crack; he got down to the level of code. The Crackit gene kicked in, he went on a vacation from his social life and disappeared behind the screen. The screen became his temporary divide. For whole week he literally stayed in the office, he kept writing code and testing with dummy data, he was trying hard to lower the format without compromising security and hide the dummy fields when increasing the format. Technology works on logic of eights, a bit is the smallest unit, its the individual letter of an alphabet of two, one or zero, existence or nonexistence, off or on of electricity in sand. Bits form bytes, words of the language. Machine-speak like poetry, has strict rules, creation of sentences and paragraphs happening in words of multiples of eight. Size is a factor of capacity of the hardware; processing power of the chips had doubled to take in bytes of larger bits; bites of legacy are smaller and they cant digest the larger messages. Krish kept trying possibilities; for days nothing worked. Then in flashes of genius he started figuring out the solution. In a blaze of brilliance he changed the message composition of the application; he created clone bits to double the size of the smaller byte, an alterego that lay hidden inside every passage. He then re-wrote the code of the application to ignore the clone bits in the message; and by the magic of cloning Chakra learned to communicate with the world. He wondered if the duplicates are known, he shuddered, it can be used
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by hackers to access the Bank. He made sure no one ever knows. He hid them deep in layers and layers of code; mitochondrial injection in stem cells; creating chimera of clones. In between the Street and source lay the Kingdom of the Queen, the Colours of her Jack was also Red Blue and White, but f or her U was oK; and in that Island not known to Krish, Cloning was the revolution that created carbon imprints of living beings. And Man became God; Goddess DOLLY was born. Krish returned to his normal life again after the critical part of Chakra was fixed and machinery of the system took over; the project progressed on course. ********* The forests gone, Krish aware of the outside world saw the profound changes previewing the future being broadcast on the T.Vs of his hotels and home; panorama of life and times, the revue brought to you live by CNN and CNBC, also BBC and NDTV. Arpanod opened all her boxes and Sumatran the Gene connected them, there was an avalanche prefixed with e and suffixed with com. Companies following source model sprouted becoming trees, clustering to become a forest forming a valley in Bangalore. Eccentrics of doomsday cults shouted about the end, but no one had time to listen to them. Java was not an Island in a far-off land but the program that ran in Amazon, no longer a river with Piranhas, but a box full of books, and a bay with an effix was a place to put up your garage on sale. The miracle created a boom. Cables of light under the sea multiplied and crisscrossed the oceans connecting once-faraway lands, satellites in the sky multiplied increasing the travelling band. Brick and mortar became euphemism for loser, winner was anything virtual. Andy the paranoid kept his promise and doubled the power of Moore, Bill the Gates used it and created more color. What Krish and Raj had all along known was now the norm. The NASDAQ soared; the Economy became New and amidst all this soared Bills Baton. Armies of Y2K killers were recruited trained and deployed around the world from the valley in Bangalore; and in a time trapped in past the jokers of Janata repeated their ugly dance. As 32 changed to 16 and 16 changed to 32, in a game of duplication and deception, in the Samba of Janata, Gowda the humble interchanged to Inder the humbler, and the Plumbers of Parliament shut the taps from which was leaking the tears of Karma. Another phased election was held and the old man Vajpayee (who had fallen when Krish had waited for the bid of Chakra) rose again in a climax of Karma. It was end of history in pestilence of power and governments decided
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to rest. The boys of politics went to the gentlemens club. Jokers of Janata stripped and the President blew on his Cigar; cabaret of clout, nothing new, old Hindi item, Mooniiicaaaa Oh my Daahhliiiig, Power ejaculated. And outside the club, figment took flight, civilization changed, real became virtual and virtual became real, clones had an accent for night and an accent for day. Queens all, Miss India World Universe, Our ladies arrive on the cover; Big Time; Titanic sank in style on Sony Trinitron; a World Large and Flat. The Project completed, turning day-and-night the Chakra went live to move monies around, Champagnes were opened in the Bank and source, everyone was happy and impressed, and the reputation of source soared; a Home Run; Yes! Thats what they call it; merry-go-round of Karma. ********* The next great project in their minds was the IPO. They had promised Krish a seat on the board; the pieces fitted like a puzzle. Krish was made the director responsible for the IPO. Krish had already dislodged Sandy from the sanctum of source by the win of Chakra; the announcement of the IPO dislodged Bala too. It was visible and clear that Krish was now next only to Vinod and Raj in source. The IPO of source became Krishs new Chakra. Vinod and Raj had a long discussion about it, one said that it might not be wise as Krish is an engineer and it will require a lot of financial skills and experience. The other said that rocket of market is not a science, and Krish has the gene to crack it. The other was God and Krish got the job; anyways the economy was new and boys of finance old; god was an engineer who became the financer and financial engineering was born. His professional life changed again. He got down understanding the secrets of money as he had earlier done to understand the code of machines. As a true clone of the Crackit Code he started at basics; texts book of Economics Finance Accounting. His magazines and journals once again changed names and publishers to those which were of and on the Street. His mind became a dichotomy of the textbooks which said something and Journal of the Street which said something else. Money is value; Value is power; Power is enforcement of ownership. In Ouathom there were two schools, one on the right which let markets decide the price of ownership, another on the left where ownership was politicians prize. Ownership is a license and he learned about the Raj where licenses ought to be free but were paid for. And how the world changed, to where the licenses ought to be paid for but were given for free. In Ouathom factories made stuff and sold it to make money, money was made if price was more than the cost. He learned about costs which
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were marginal and profits which were above it. And how the world changed, to marginals nil, profits not there, valuations above everything. In Ouathom there was an army of clones, the gene cloned was credit and debit, they wrote books of accounts where what came in was credit and what went out was debit. He learned about credits and debits of money. And how the world changed to accounting in eyeballs and clicks of machines. What came in were eyeballs and what went out were clicks. Krish understood the new of the economy and once again stood to make the presentation. The room was same but the audience had changed; the boys were Clones of the Economy and gene that was cloned was NEW. General of the Bank sat at head of the table reading Journal of the Street. The van Goghs were still there and real and Chippendales still old. Krish felt nostalgic, finally finding something which was not new. He looked through the panels of glass, his confidence rose as he saw the park was still the same, the square still of time, sea was the same and the lady still stood; and view of the town still had the Towers there. The picture of the Gentleman still hung, his expression was confused. Raj and Vinod were in audience along with bankers of the Street. The screen showed the heading slide of the plan for explosion of source. Krish stood up to speak in a repeat of the story in an alteration of context. He welcomed the audience, looked at the Towers, and audaciously declared. Gentleman we are here to take the first steps to realize the dream of Adam Smith. The curse of capitalism is the broker, the middle man. He is the custodian of information of the seller-and-buyer, and he hides it from the buyer-and-seller. He is tyrant of the market. He is friction in the system, he makes markets inefficient. He resolutely continued. We are fortunate to be born in a generation blessed by the opening of Arpanods box. We are witnessing a Schumpeterian Destruction creating a Frictionless Capitalism, free from tyranny of the broker. Information is accessible, markets efficient. Wealth of Nations will rise to heights unimaginable. After the prelude he showed slides which were all called com-this and dot-that, e-this and i-that. Information on screens, frictionless capitalism, markets free. The hand of Adam invisible, destruction of Schumpeter unleashed, Billions connected around the world; value of dreams. Krish showed models, Krish told numbers, he talked about hits-andclicks, eyes-and-balls, and all soared as the slides slid. To create the infrastructure for utopia he showed a plan, server farms in America and India, source will be on day-and-night in India and America; and night-andday in rest of the world in between. He ended with requirements of funds in millions, for the dreams of
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billions. Schumpeter the Creative and Adam the Hand turned in their graves invisible to the boys in the room. And Gentleman in the Picture remembered the last time such insolence was discussed, they had said, Gold is Metal, Money is Paper, Economy is New, and when New became Old in the Crash they had come flapper to him. He wondered: where will they flipper to now? But Brokers of the Bank applauded the dream. After few minutes the next presentation started, a banker similar in age to Krish stood up. He thanked Krish for his wonderful pitch and began his own. David with the same passion as Krish explained the Banks proposal for the IPO. He laid down the aggressive time lines, schedules for bookbuilding and road shows, details of media and public relation plans. Everything fit like a perfectly made Legos castle. He ended with slides about the Banks reputation and clients. Krish need not be told. He knew the Bank well; he had lived in awe of it, all his working life. What mattered was chemistry; Krish took an instant liking for Dave. He liked his passion, his aggression, his confidence; he saw a reflection of himself. The whole meeting was a mating ritual, a tango of lovers; no one for one instance had doubted that the IPO of source will be done by the Bank. Papers were signed and the team assembled; Krish and Dave were appointed leads from The Bank and source. Everybody in the room wished them luck and thought of their bonuses if IPO hits the targeted valuation. Krish and Dave were confident that they will cross a billion in post-IPO capitalization of source. The gentleman in the picture thought it was high; but what did the Old fogey know of the New? ********* The joint team of the Bank and source was a powerhouse. Krish spent most of his time in the City; there were road-shows analyst-meets pressconferences media-events a whole gamut of spin. Krish was the face of source; he enjoyed his new-found visibility. In his hotel room during the nights he replayed the CD of his CNBC interview repeatedly; he was playing in the Big League. The Bank had always been his client. He was now their client. The reversal of role meant that Krish was no longer in awe of the Bank. He enjoyed the bankers running around his instructions like a team from source; he was on a high, the high of high finance. The parties were in most exotic clubs, the conferences in most expensive hotels. Nothing that The Bank did was ever shy of perfection. They had a reputation to keep and source IPO was no exception. Meanwhile the last bastion of days of the Raj in source, Balas accountants, also joined the Bandwagon of Americanization to live in the days of Dreams. Charter of the Queen became Certified by Public, statutory
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became independent, accountancy became accounting, Accounting Standards became Generally Accepted Accounting Principles; and Accountants of Bala woke up whole nights to fill in the Gaps. The book-building started. Krish was learning the nuances of the game. Conferences were for the world, but the deals were in clubs and the real dealmaker was bottled and sealed in Scotland. Dave skillfully over sips of scotch, played one fund manager against another, Tom says he would like to pick a million share, in one club to Dick, and in the next club to Tom, Dick wants to pick up a million. The game played in backdrop of Journal of the Street declaring End of Economics made the fund managers nervous. No one wanted to miss the boat; time machine to future. Both Tom and Dick said, We will pick up a million and half. Dave replied, I dont have so many, and both upped their bids. Krish learned the Engineering of Book Building. There were ten million shares on the block, which post-IPO will be thirty-three percent of source. The book-build price was settled at Twenty-seven. While Dave and Krish did the rounds of conferences and clubs, boys at the Bank were busy in filings with SEC (prospectus and loads of other paperwork required); books of source re-written in U.S GAAP, pro-forma accounts for future, all made and filed. Every document he came across had a curious warning: Investing in equity is risky and the statements are not a guarantee; Krish smiled in memory of his school days when they had laughed on similar warnings on packets of cigarettes. The subscription opened, there was huge inflow of paperwork, Dave and Krish were glad the issue was substantially oversubscribed, Dave wanted it like that, he wanted to leave value from subscription price to let market blow the fire when trading starts. The bonuses were not on subscription price, but four-week average of the post-IPO value; they will hit the target if price touches thirty. The Big Day finally came; Vinod was invited to press the opening button at NASDAQ; the music started, the Bell Rang; the issue opened trading at thirty-three; the ticker moved up. Krish was a physicist at soul who had not become a physicist because of turns life took, because of his wars with daemons. But seeing the ticker reminded him of his dreams; the upward movement of source stock like a wave, the changes in numbers discrete like quanta of particles; quanta of money moving in quantum of time creating waves of value. Tom and Dick who had got a million each were eager to get their half from the market. Harry who was slightly old, felt left out, and placed orders for his million in a jiffy, and so did everyone else, the only sellers were the
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Venture Funds that held shares in pre-IPO source. They sold because they wanted to see some cash coming in, but whatever little they offered to download was filled with guilt. No one wanted to miss out on the Party that had just begun; the shares on offer were significantly less than what was demanded; the Hand of Adam did the rest, it pushed up the price to thirty-seven by the close of trade. Even Krish and Dave hadnt expected this. source was bigger than a Billion Dollar on the very first day of its listing. Krishs options had vested; he owned around three percent of the post-IPO source. By end of that day value of his holding crossed thirty million dollars; Game Set Match Tournament but the Best was yet to come. Not known to Krish till later that day, the release of another kind of energy in the desert of Thar, at Pokharan, the full-moon smile of Buddha, at the exact moment when the button at NASDAQ was pushed the Shakti of three Nuclear devices were exploded in defiance in face of the world. Next day the trading was slightly subdued, some profit takers sold, the close was at thirty-five. The day after, there were a few more tests of lighter devices and the stock price of source was back at thirty-seven. It hovered around it for couple of weeks, after which it became a pure rising magic when the baseline was lifted by the Pakistani tests which removed the floor from beneath the Indian blasts. The stock closed the month with a high of forty-seven; value of Krishs holding approached fifty million; Bulls Eye. And the Biggest Brother watched the Irrational Exuberance of Explosions in Hopelessness of Sanctions, and Scoldings of Irritating Interest Rates. ********* Raj was elated; he had achieved the dream of his life, it was the beginning of basking in glory of wealth success fame. The media was all around him after the fantastic opening at NASDAQ. Until now he was only on business news and newspapers, but now the mainstream media knew of his greatness, now he was not only recognized and whispered about in the echelons of boardrooms but he had young people asking for autographs on airports and other public places; he had become a celebrity. In all his interviews he never failed to mention about his team and one name in particular. This made the journalists call Krish, everyone wanted to interview the wiz behind the wizard. There were invitations to parties; everyone wanted to be seen with them. The women at the parties got prettier; all of them keen to flirt with him. Raj was married so Krish was the prize. Shilpi kept pestering him into introductions of dates. Krish went out with several of these ladies, dined them in the most expensive gourmet, entertained them, charmed them by telling funny stories of America, and then dropped them to their homes to come back to stroke his Baton.
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He was too much in love with his Baton, he even stopped seeing faces, who needs faces, he needed to know the body, his hands knew his Baton, lying on his bed, wondering about life, source was running in autopilot, his life lacked a challenge, he had won the battle, he had promised not to celebrate victory, what was the new challenge, what was the new journey, marriage family, probably a good concept, and then what, what about love if he did not feel it, and the daemons teasing him from behind the walls of the Pact, he does not mind them, that was the deal, inside the Colosseum they can play their games, hands getting busier in a game of their own, game of the baton, and what about the introductions, possibly the next one will strike lightning, he will fall in love, but till then what, strummer, confusion getting stiffer, stock price of source moved up again this week, too tedious to multiply and find out the value of his holding, a simple multiplication, tiredness of disinterest, hardness of interest; Introductions Ejaculated. Krish was not as excited or happy as Raj after the IPO. He started getting bored with the continual talk of revolutionary changes of technology, rising stock prices, new clients bagged, new projects delivered, new property bought, new car in the market. The hyped-up world of talks of virtual future was getting so much on his nerves that windows of his car could no longer hide abjections of his wealth or stop him from noticing the hoopla of hungry thirsty Mahisa lurking outside. He no longer needed pretense for the Yankees, he had arrived, he had joined the club of most powerful boys in the City; he was one of them; or was he? What he needed was a pretense for himself; a pretense of interest, an interest of normalcy, in routine, in abstractions of banality, in an ordinal existence, an interest in his growing wealth increasing in its virtual value with rising stock prices; to virtually pretend that reality is real; to carry on in the turgid tedium of existence in verisimilitude of life. He had no hobbies, no interests, that is how his life was, that is how he was raised, that was the proper way, since he knew of memory, rank in the class exam was target, then the JEE, it was his resolve that brought him back, he was slipping once, then the IIT, a gasping black hole in memory, dont know what it is, then source, accelerated time, multiplied life, cloned bits, alterego bytes, creating extra capacity in the system, and now success, nothing to do, only way to save from insanity, prevent the explosion of entropy, to hold on to the pact, to keep up the pretense, containment of the Baton; Energy Ejaculated. Krish was practitioner of the art of Crackit, he countenanced in pretense of the intermission, no one noticing the churning inside, he continued with his regular professional and social life. Soon Shilpi ran out of introductions; and time was moving towards an age where single mixed with success was eccentric. *********
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Eccentric has a hallowed connotation and it rhymes less with embarrassment. One solace however, for his increasingly difficult charade, was the inane time-waste of the large flat screen of his Trinitron; beyond which lay a wide world. He lived in this world through the window of television; channels had multiplied with satellites multiplying in heavens. Nature abhors a vacuum, heights of his mental emptiness was encroached by the daemons; the Pincer of Trojan seeping in by outflanking the guards of success. He was procrastinating on the couch, watching T.V, closing and closed eyes, speakers speaking in his ears, decadent Bollywood gossip, who is fucking whom, let them fuck them, change the channel; temerity of tiredness. Prannoy the Revolution had grown bigger, from once a week became 24/7, the channel no longer Doordarshan but Star. God himself, with a beard which was beginning to gray and a no longer Eighties-style hair, said what was heard by Krish. Good evening, this is NDTV and we have Breaking News. We have now official confirmation from our sources in the Defense Ministry that the incident in Kargil is not a regular infiltration attempt but an organized State-sponsored (including Pakistani Army regulars) attack to occupy Indian controlled territory. Thousands of men may be involved Kargil? Where? Heard the name for the first time; knew of Siachen where they fought in ice, and Kashmir where they fought around the Lake. The peaks occupied by the infiltrators are at a vantage point dominating the National Highway One A. The connection from Srinagar to Leh is threatened. Oh! So thats where it is, between the Valley and Glacier, hanging in the clouds. The Pakistani operations have a similar design of what was done by India in Siachen. Move first, move fast, occupy the heights, and then it is difficult for the enemy to dislodge you. Yes correct, makes sense. History of Siachen suggests from the multiple failed attempts of Pakistan to regain ground in last ten years that it is going to be a tough battle for Indian army battalions now preparing to storm the hills to regain the heights. Is it really not possible to fall once you have captured the heights? Yes! Look at the daemons, multiple unsuccessful attempts; pretense of the heights stand firm. Infiltration turned into attack, mujahedeen became regulars, skirmish became war. A Crazy General, Gentleman Officer, Mad Man, Madness of laid down ordnance in Dhaka, Madness of freezing winds in a chopper fleeing from Siachen, madness of death of buddies from the academy hanging from helicopter, MADness of pride of nuclear explosions,
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Madness of Patriotism of Purity. The General yet to be the President holds on to his heights; boys die on both sides; more on the side climbing up; heavy fire, attempts unsuccessful; cant let go, attempts escalate. The earlier live war, in a different land, in a different time, the Storm in the Deserts of Arabia, around burning wells of oil, was seen live in weekly capsules of The World This Week. But this one is different, this is live live, real live, our own live; says who we cant match the Yanks? Mother of all Lives. Wow! Sexy babe, looks damn cool in a bullet-proof vest, but they should design it separately for women, would have been even better if the curves were visible. Barkha the Reporter, Man! She is so damn better than the emotionless visualless liveless Salma, expressions bring in the context; Live is finally Real. She shrugs in the foredrop of an explosion, and in the backdrop the fallen is rising. Yes! Who else? Whose barrels? Who was made by father of the dynamite? And who created a generation; Children of the Dynamite? Shoot and scoot barrels of Bofors rising, long-form Baton in salutation to heavens, dynamite filled in shells, short-form Batons loaded in chambers, finally a generation of disgrace is redeemed in parables of projecting parabolas. Hardening of Baton, Softening of Heights, Gun Rising, Power Flowing, Barrel of the Baton. And Also smaller Batons all around, soldiers with automatic rifles, firing bullets, microform Batons; Batons of all shapes and sizes; power of man, lingam of Shiva, energy of Shakti, divine truth; priapic power. And slowly, batteries and batteries of artillery and rockets, but the crazy General knows, he has the heights, he will not let go easily, preparations for manned assaults. Tide is turning; Tiger is killed; Hilltops being captured. Barkha is with the men in bunkers, with womenless men in their bunker, all excitement, excitement of the kill, excitement of the praise, excitement of the national T.V. She shakes hands and pats backs; a touch of imagination; touch to remember. Another point reclaimed, this is goddamn good, you get to do what you want to do, Kick Paki Butts, and shoot bullet holes, and then the icing on the cake, lovely chick interviews you on National Television. Those were the brave men who just came back after hoisting the tricolor on the point above us over there. Dont go away we will bring you more live shots from Kargil after a short break.
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Its Hot, Humid and dirty outside in Mumbai, television proclaims the solution, Electrolux Refrigerator, Samsung Air-conditioner and Whirlpool Washing Machine; Proved by lovely smiles of sexy models; nice-looking faces and supple curvaceous bodies. Commercials are over, more live shots, not from the hills this time, from hundreds of towns and villages, coffins wrapped in Tricolor, returning in change of clothes of the soul from the clutches of Karma; tears emotions mothers wives children all live from the cities and hinterland alike. Teleportation of time back to the hills, the toughest peaks still remain, the General will not easily let go, cant cross the divide, this time it is the Real Line of Control; line of the Nukes. No option but to bring in the planes. Fire power in the Sky, Mirage in French, laser-guided Batons from Israel; high technology created by the phobia of history. Now what Mr. General? The Biggest Brother panicking, buttons being prepared for the push; finally once again we will have some mushrooms. Another break, same adverts, change channels, good living, cooking and cocktails, not interested, back to the action. The real cocktail, one portion patriotism, one portion passion, one portion pride, cubes of anger, bitter of hatred, and finally a pinch of fear, Shaken not Stirred, cooled by Electrolux, cleansed by Whirlpool, dried by Samsung, served in the vessel of national cheers, wedge of TRP of Television, and remember Dont put Mushrooms; who can resist such temptations? Yeh Dil Mange More! No-No-No Not Coke; Even the Real One has an Alterego. Emotions surging, Batons firing, last point remains, Pakis fleeing, last battle, Tricolor whirling, Victory declared. A Chakra in Blue, Strips of Saffron Green White. Glory, Hail! Mother India; Infiltrators Ejaculated. ********* That summer, Krishna and Raj kept their tryst with serenity of the Gangotri Glacier. They flew to Delhi and drove down to the heights of Himalayas once again. This time it was just the two of them. Krishna was getting quieter in a somber mood as their car kept gaining altitude. Raj thought best to let him be. He thought, realizing that you have a net worth of more than fifty million dollars does require some contemplation. Although not for him, as he had lived this moment again and again all his life, and it did not present anything other than the fact that it was real for reflection. He was taking pictures, enjoying the scenery and letting Krishna be in his thoughts. They talked once in a while when Raj spotted a rare bird or a not-so-rare monkey. Krishna was wondering; is this what he wanted? Raj had lived this moment in his dream, but for him it was never a dream; he had followed
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his rule of the journey and stopped dreaming of destinations, he took life one step a time and whatever was offered he cracked it. Was it not the rule to move from battle to battle? He figured he was not sad, just melancholic that the battle is over; he kept to the rule of not celebrating victory. He needs to find his next battle and let not harebrained thoughts of dreams make him bother. If he cannot, he will wait; life will oblige him with another challenge. Till then he should relax, enjoy the sojourn. The thought cheered him up. Raj was glad. They reached their night halt at Uttarkashi. Next morning was a few-hour drive to Gangotri and then a further several-hour trek to Gomukh; end of the glacier and beginning of the river. They left early with breaking dawn. The splendor of vertical falls and snowcapped peaks reflecting redness of the daybreak in white of the snow, contrasting with the still-dark carpets of green in shadow of the hills, initiated a chain reaction in Krishna. Raj soon realized that his return to cheerfulness yesterday evening was temporary. They visited the temple at Gangotri for a quick Darshan and started on their trek to Gomukh. Krishna was walking slowly in very firm steps, Raj felt that the mountains did not exist for him; he was in some kind of an artistic performance. His walk was like a meditation in movement. The gradient, the boulders, the shrubs, the streams in between, nothing existed; he just walked as if on the plains. Every bit of the surrounding was encroaching into him, assimilating him in majesty of the hills. Raj getting slightly worried asked, Are you OK? Krishna spoke softly, I am completely fine, just thinking of something, dont worry. Raj kept clicking pictures; they stopped at few places where villagers from the hills had put some shacks serving tea, wafers and biscuits. Krishna talked a bit on these stops; he did not want Raj to worry. On a trek in Himalayas you see peaks of the immediate mountains and vales seemingly high and vast, and then suddenly at a turn, the white of a greater peak is exposed from hiding behind the shadow of rising angle overhanging the black of a deeper valley; perspective challenging prospect. Whenever Krishna saw flashes of the mounts of Neel Kanth, Shivling or Bhagirathi, he heard loud voices in his head; the daemons were playing hard; he kept moving. He wondered, was the IPO an immediate peak? Is Neel Kanth hidden in the shadow? He wanted to know the answer; he kept walking. Soon they saw the glacier ahead of them. Raj was thrilled; in their last visit they had not come up to Gomukh, and the excitement was greater. He was crazily capturing the white and gray of the glacier in his Nikon SLR camera. Another fifteen minutes of walk was left; they took their final rest
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for a few moments on a bolder with a view of the vale and started again. Krishna still walked in meditation but his pace invigorated after the sighting. Moving in a ballet-like movement over the ridge he removed his backpack, held it in one hand and pulled out his jacket from another, when the last bit of backpack holding arm was left, the bag glided to the other hand. He removed his jacket and passed it to Raj, and hung the bag sideways on one of his shoulders. Disconcerted, not knowing what to do, Raj tied it on his waist. His surprise had just started, before he could complain he was holding Krishnas bag while he paced ahead of him removing his sweatshirt. They were about twenty meters from the Gomukh point, Krishna dropped his shirt on the track which had widened and flattened approaching the glacier. Soon his belts were out and the jeans went similarly, Raj was trying to catch up with him picking up his stuff on the way. Krishna was nude by the time he reached the water and walked into the freezing source, like the warm bath at his home, still in meditation. The water was hardly knee deep but the current was great. He kneeled down and sat; now the water was waist deep, and then suddenly he was flat and the water was above him. The current simply took a diversion; it didnt bother Krishna. Raj kept all the stuff on a rock by side of the glacier and undressed; he was impressed by Krishna being so calm in the freezing water oozing with great force from under the glacier. He put on his swimming trunks and entered the stream. It was an electric shock, Rajs body twitched in cold pain, seeing Krishna so peaceful he had underestimated the chill. He was gasping shivering moaning; he hurriedly managed to take a dip and ran out of the water to reach for the towel. Krishna was hearing voices, loud voices inside his head; the gladiators were in revolt in the Colosseum. In a reversal of the show they were cheering and booing the crowd. You had your rules now what, journey is important now what, next battle come on fight, it was getting louder and louder; he did not feel the chill of melting ice; his head spinning with reverberation. Raj dressed up and was shouting at him to come out, frantically waving, he was terrified that Krishna had a seizure from cold and was not responding; Krishna simply did not hear his calls amidst cacophony of the daemons. In reversal of fortunes of freezing and furnace it was Krishna this time in water. Raj had achieved his dream. The furnace of energy and desire, his passion that sustained him from freezing in the previous dip was gone. He had lost the zeal of entrepreneur; he was now just a CEO, albeit a very
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wealthy one. But Krishnas body was burning for an answer, he was mocking himself for his success, the daemons were cheering and booing. In that moment of chill and heat Krishna made up his mind; he needs to fix the daemons forever. In source of Ganga, the penance of Bhagirath to free souls of a thousand ancestors, frozen water flowing in illusion, jutting out from barrenness of the glacier, descending on earth to shower blessings of salvation; sobered by the locks of Shiva; howling in anger, rapiding in hunger. And In the Colosseum suddenly there was a silence, the crowds and gladiators all turned towards the royal stand, the emperor descended in the arena with the legion, he cannot tolerate a rebellion of slaves, the world would be shown who is the master. Encased by the phalanx he made his pronouncement. We will have the last fight. The subjects roared in awe. In the iciness of the water his baton trembled, his tongue rattled, he heard the susurration of shivering, n n n n n; in freezing of source his soul defroze; Krish climaxed to become Krishna again. Krishna decided to break his pact with the daemons and face them once again head on for a final time. He broke out of meditation and slowly walked out of the water. Raj was relieved; he dared not ask what happened to him. They rested for a while soaking in the surroundings, had their meal and slept. Krishna was quiet on the drive up, but he was gravely peaceful during the trek back and drive down next day. Raj tried initiating conversation without success. Krishnas replies were short and pointed, whatever little he spoke was in mechanical reaction to Rajs questions, mostly in yeses and nos. They slept over at Uttarkashi. Krishna had a very disturbed night; he finally slept of tiredness of the long steep trek up-and-down Gomukh. He heard the challenge of crowds roaring in cheer for the Emperor in the Colosseum, in the uproar an invisible accent of a wish, suggesting its neutrality. The Gladiators were getting ready, their moment of Glory had come; slaves will free the citizens from tyranny. He did not know what to make of his dream. They started early morning for Delhi. In the return journey the mountains are less majestic; their beauty is soured by the vapid fatigue of a reached destination. At precisely the point near Rishikesh and Haridwar where Ganga hits the plains, Krishna like Buddha in backseat of the sedan spoke, I want to quit source. The ground slipped below wheels of the car as it suddenly sheered around to avoid a sharp fall; Raj couldnt believe what he heard. He let a few moments pass before he reacted, And? was the only thing he said; it
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was his turn for the monosyllabic question. I will go back to studies. I will do a PhD in physics. Krishna having passed the baton of one word answers to Raj spoke in precise full sentence. The initial shock of Raj turned to relief and sadness. Although he did not expect Krishna to be flirting with thoughts of making a big leap to the competition, or posturing for negotiation for a bigger pie, but still he had subconsciously feared the worst. I didnt know you had the academic bug. He replied after several moments of silence. I always knew, I had banished it once, it came back, I locked it again, but it broke the lock; the bugger is a phoenix, Krishna offered an explanation. It was alien to Raj. Have you some plans already of what area you want to pursue? I will formulate The Theory of Everything. Krishna replied neither changing expression nor emotion. Raj was an engineer himself, he was very aware of the Holy Grail of modern physics, of combining quantum and relativistic mechanics to formulate a neat precise theory of working of the universe. He was also aware: it was an illusion chased by eccentrics in ivory towers of biguniversity faculties. Hearing this from Krishna he was completely off-ground, he felt a sense of betrayal, all these years the Krishna he knew was a facade, notions like these dont come in a day; it incubates in your mind for ages. He recalled Krishnas dedication to source and his work; he felt a pain for his friend: It must have been difficult to carry on like that, with such a fantasy in the back of your mind. With this thought he became sympathetic to Krishna. He commented lightly, It must have been tough for you all these years. It will be tougher now to get back to serious academics. Its not business or IT you want to pursue your studies in. Krishna was comforted by Rajs sympathy. Krishna furtively insinuated Raj his childhood fantasy, his getting into the IIT and then source. He now had money and success; he no longer needed to prove anything to anyone. He knew it will be difficult to get admitted to a good school where he can do quality research. He will target admission for the year after next, he will get enough months to do some independent work, he will have more than a year of preparation, he was confident that he can write something that will impress the faculty. He remembered his ideas that burnt in the sacrificial pyre of JEE. He then smiled and added, Some lack of academic experience can always be fixed by an endowment for the fartherment of knowledge. Raj didnt know how to react to all of this. Anyways, we will have a year and a half to transition things, so you plan to quit end of Two197

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thousand. No, actually I intend to quit end of this is year. I will need the whole of next year for tests, preparations, writing articles, research etc. It will be tough to get an admission after so many years of being aloof from academics. I want to apply fully prepared. I want to give it my best shot. You have a plan in mind? Nothing final, but best way seems to get an admission into MS in Mumbai University. Be there for a year. Use the time and resources to prepare the applications. Tentatively the plan looks like: I will be in source and transition everything through this yearend. I will party with the team when the millennium passes for good and Chakra continues to turn unharmed. I will start in my new life on the first day of Two-thousand and target to join school in the U.S by January of Two-thousand-and-One. Krishna himself was surprised how neatly he had figured out the details in their downward ride once the larger decision was made in the glacial waters of Gomukh. It seems you have done all your calculations already. Well! Krish we will miss you. Thanks Raj. I am really done with this Krish business. I want to become Krishna again. ********* Vinod was disgruntled on Krishnas decision, he thought it to be crazy, but he couldnt do much to convince him out of it. A transition plan was prepared; Krishna started handing over his responsibilities to Sandy and Bala. Both of them could not believe their ears when they heard the news. source was abuzz by whispers about the boss who lost it. The coffee corners said in hush tones, I always thought so, he was queer, but I did not realize that he is such a hardcore nerd. There is a pecking order even in the world of nerds. The millennium finally came, Krishna was fairly confident of the Chakra, no major problem was reported by the Bank till now, the platform had stabilized and everything was Business as Usual. But there were still strains of nervousness that evening, he waited in his office in a large control room from where the systems of the Bank were monitored and maintained; screens showed the activity logs from Chakra around the world from branches of the Bank. Everyone was waiting for the millennium to break in Sydney, the first Branch to cross over. A Large T.V screen was showing CNBC in one of the walls of the monitoring room. There were other important news, Millennium celebrations around the world, a messy hijacking, the Foreign Minister himself is in Kandahar, the negotiations have almost come to an end, the hostages will be released, alive to live the millennium dream, on
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another channel the Prime Minister will address the Nation, people are anxiously waiting for the hostages to come back, the Foreign Minister is bringing them back in a special plane, its going to be a happy ending of the nightmarish saga, everyone can go and party with the headache over, but he cant party tonight, no, he will party, he will see the Chakra turning when the time becomes Zero, that will be his high, he does not have time for other news, the channel is switched back to CNBC, only thing he is interested in is the tickers stock-price foreign-exchange oil-gold airplanetimings everything that is a number, his eyes are keenly watching the numbers on bottom and sides of the screen, the numbers are fine, behaving properly. Yes! Thousands and thousands like him had ensured they will behave properly. The refrigerator in the corner was full of beer cans; Raj had made an exception for that day and night for alcohol in office. As the world prepared for celebration the clones of source waited in anticipation. Most people did not have much to do, several were standing outside the monitoring room, they were called in to be on standby in case of incidents that may require instant bug-fix, multiple phones were linked in a very large conference call, people around the world from branches and Head office of the Bank had dialed in. The Opera House bursts in fireworks flowering in radial lines, colored flames flying in the sky, the first test payment fired, a clone clicks his keyboard, a one dollar blip is moved in-and-out of a test account in the Sydney Branch, the dollar going in hits the Chakra, converts from American to Australian, denomination changes, lands in the account in Australia, Chakra sends back the confirmation, payment received, transaction completed successfully, the dollar coming out from Sydney converts from Australian to American, turns around the world riding on the Chakra and lands in the branch of the Street, Chakra sends back the same successful confirmation to the control room of source. All around clappings and huggings, self-congratulations, the phones speaking in a variety of accents, Well done boys! the boys are on a high, the world outside was too busy in celebration, CNN did not know of their existence, beer cans are opened, the world is not to be doomed, the team sits there whole night, mechanically repeating the tests, branch after branch, the massive cloud of millennial euphoria starts swamping country after country, time zone after time zone, more cans are opened, the cloud is tracked on the monitors of source and traced on the screens of CNN. Commercial breaks, clothes from creations, a brand aggressively advertising these days. Isnt it the company that Shilpi works for? Channel changed to CNBC, numbers everywhere still behaving properly. There are colossal celebrations and Rock Shows around the world. Suddenly someone amplifies the volume of the television as he hears
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his favorite song. The idiot box in full volume in the monitoring room sings. We didnt start the fire; it was always burning since the worlds been turning. It was already time for a very drunk afternoon breakfast when the final one dollar test came in and went out from the Honolulu Branch. Krishna left office for the last time, he looked around, felt proud of himself, of his guys, of what they had achieved; time became zero and the world restarted, but the fire kept burning and money kept flowing; he felt a deep sense of pride and nostalgia as he collected his stuff and left with the wetness of his eyes. ********* Krishna renounced his corporate life and abdicated the painful darkness of the suit, strangling knot of the tie and entrapping cleanliness of the immaculately formal white shirt. He crossed the Rubicon to once again become the student. He joined the Mumbai-University course as a placeholder, he had no interest in the classes; he found the faculty not up to his expectations. His purpose was to get to use the university library and labs for creating his proposal for the thesis. He started with brushing up on his basic Physics and Math. He was surprised to find that his abilities, especially speed in handling abstruse mathematical formulations, had abraded significantly. Although it did not matter much, he was not preparing for a Math test of solving pre-solved pre-stated problems, yet he did need the basic sharpness required. He started practicing his Math once again in life. The brush-up was more like a warm-up, simulation before the game, toning of muscles. Bulk of his time went in surveying what has been done since he stopped bothering about theoretical physics and had started chasing other illusions. He got introduced to a plethora of confusion, multi-dimensions of Ms and strings. Models of Making and Breaking Standard Symmetries opened endless Loops of everlasting Quanta Gravity. He was scared, he recomposed, he knew he has started on a long journey, he knew he will see it through; he understood the theorem but refused to be bothered by Gdels Intimidation. He appeared for his tests and continued with his synopsis of proposed direction, but he also continued to be in the world of men, he knew a time will come when he will need to switch off, but that would be during his main thesis, but for now the unanswered questions that kept popping up challenges to him were kept aside. This was going to be a planned assault; the daemons will be killed for once and forever. It will be a protracted war, he ignored the chest thumping going on in the Colosseum of his brain; he knew their time will come, he needed to prepare; he needed to build the music; his bravura will climax at the appropriate time. He cashed out a few million dollars of his stock and paid off his
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mortgage. He prepared for his relocation, mobilizing for the battle of his life. Once in a while he met his old colleagues from source. source continued its breakneck expansion along with other IT companies. Hyderabad became the next destination after Bangalore; companies were setting shops in Pune, Chennai, the Delhi suburbs of NOIDA and Gurgaon. Raj was busy with steering source to its next level of growth; it had already become a true multinational company; it had offices in various countries and thousands of people working abroad. Shilpi became one of the senior executives in creations; she was excited with all the potential the spillover of technology created in the world of fashion and culture. Sandy, after Krishnas leaving, was made the COO of the company; source became a thousand-pound gorilla which moved on his leashes. Bala left source, he saw the stream of companies lining for NASDAQ listing with very little skill available in the market. He bought an accounting firm by offloading some of his stake in source, got into collaboration with a global big-player (yet-not big-four but-still bigfive) and started a GAAP practice. The global accountants needed Indian firms because they could not practice under their own names. Accounting continued to remain man-made with country specific licenses and certifications. Bala hired young Indian accountants and got them trained in GAAP, his practice boomed. He discovered the next goldmine: to do with professional services what source did with technology. Soon his practice had an outsourcing division that did a lot of back-office work for the global big-players. After the millennium settled in its euphoria-less mundane daily life, Y2K now killed, left a whole army idle. New purchases of IT equipments and software declined; everyone was done with their overhauling. The sudden realization made the stock prices come tumbling down. The world once again came back to the sanity of reality from peaks of virtual dreams. Companies went bankrupt in the collapsing artificiality of ie-dot-com, the bubble burst; boom became a doom; the millennium turned. Even source stock prices suffered, coming down significantly from its peak, but the overall model of cost and quality optimization was too strong and it suffered relatively less than its peers based in the States. The top management of source was sad seeing some of their wealth disappear. Krishna did not reflect their pain, he did not bother, he even stopped seeing CNBC; his laptop no longer had the ticker. The time of reckoning came; he waited anxiously after all of his applications were submitted. The school was first reluctant even to talk to him; he was a pretentious plebeian knocking at the cathedral of knowledge intoxicated by wealth and success. His application was read anyhow. Vinod was a member of the board of trustees of the school and one of its prominent alumni and donors. The head of faculty of technology, a
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personal friend of Vinod, put in a good word to the head of faculty of physics. Krishna was granted an interview; his scores of the tests were in high percentile. His synopsis of the proposed direction was insightful, but the professors all knew about the countless failed and dead-end-ending insights, a tabulation of which is the pursuit of Theory of Everything. His grades at IIT were excellent, the interviewers were all very favorably disposed towards IIT students joining the faculty, but in this case there was an eightyear gap from academics; business of physics is not business but serious. Krishnas current status of an MS student in Mumbai University didnt count, it was not the profile the faculty was looking for; he had no publication, research or teaching experience to his credit. The Physics faculty of the school was among best in the world, several Nobel laureates under its roof, a very select few admitted to its highest echelon of the PhD course. There was nothing that separated Krishnas application from other young enthusiasts who wanted a birth there. But there was nothing that made a case for outright rejection either, the ambition of the idea he presented in his paper won him slight admiration, similar to a father seeing his ten years old son struggling with a grownup bicycle and cycling with feet reaching just half pedal. Overall it was a mixed bag which was settled decisively by the hefty endowment he made to the school for faculty of physics to establish a chair for research in Theoretical Physics. Krishna was suave enough to route the endowment through Vinod and Vinod was happy enough to add another accolade to his glory, the school and faculty of Physics were happy enough to receive both, Krishna and the money. Finally time for his leaving came; there was a farewell party at his home the day before. His flight was next day midnight. His old friends and colleagues from source and few new acquaintances from the university were there. The beautiful young people (fixtures in his earlier parties) were missing; it was not the Mumbai high society but an intimate personal group of friends and their families. Shilpi called in to say she will be late; she had her manager visiting from Delhi; she will finish work and come; Is it OK if I bring her along? She has a flight to catch later in the evening. She can go to the airport directly after your party? That evening Krishna saw an Illusion.

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Chapter 11 The hinterland


While Kalki was completing his final-year graduation at Hindu college of Delhi University, the fire of Mandal and Masjid graduated V. P. Singh out of power. The jokers of Janata continued their familiar dance and there was another Prime Minister. Rajiv the lotus veteranized, no longer young and novice, worthy of his grandfathers daughter, pulled the rug from below benches of treasury precipitating another preponed phased election. Kalki wanted to be part of the campaign, part of the action, but RDS refused to entertain him. You focus on completing your graduation. You need to control your impatience. I have other plans for you. Time will come when you will get in action. Not sanctioned by Dharma, Kalki was not in any of the phases; he focused on his exam preparation. For second time in his life he dedicated himself to serious academic work, and proceeded towards a flying-color graduation; shutting his mind to the election going on outside, aware of the confidence RDS had for getting the Parivar into power. In Wiowin a god from the Circle of Espionage said, If you have a trinity of ingredients: an organization, a high-level betrayal, and a cause for which you can find volunteers willing to die: you can always cook a conspiracy to create an assassination. There was an explosion that ended a dream and suspended another; reasons for it? Whodunit? Questions not relevant. RDS was convinced of getting enough seats in the Parliament of Ninety-one to structure some combination for accomplishing the herculean task of achieving power; the dream was squashed by blowing of another. PVN and Manmohan started on the journey of reforms. The Parivar started its renewed offensive to become relevant to power. The political scene was chaotic like the traffic, Socialists became Reformists, Rightists became Swadeshis, Leftists struggled to hold back the quake of falling walls, Jokers shuffled their partners; maneuvering on the streets, jostling for space; and Kalki finally graduated out of Hindu college to the Hindu Collegiums. ********* Janambhoomi was the great Rath envisioned by the Parivar to reach the land of Rama. It was a grand scheme, everything about it was big, it will be national, it will be imposing; it will have thousands from all over the country, from over the world. RDSs idea of Rath Yatra and arrest of Advani was such success that the Parivar unanimously chose him to be the chief organizer of the movement; to lead it to its logical zenith. Rama Raj was the inspiration, RDS was the idea; Kalki was the energy.
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RDS was proud of his protg; he was happily surprised; he had underestimated the vigor and talents of the young man. They sat together and the scheme took shape. There will be a brick from every village, there will be donations from every family, there will be volunteers from every state; it will be a movement of masses, an orchestra of gigantic proportions; conducted by RDS; key notes executed by Kalki. There was a lot of preparation and planning required, there were a lot of details to be taken care of; there was a lot of organizing to be done. Kalki was a ghost, a genie, before a wish was made by RDS it was fulfilled, he was Hanuman of the movement, he was everywhere, he was on the street, he was in meetings of the Parivar, he was at recordings of the audio-videos, he was at fittings of the vehicles which crisscrossed the land with high-tech mass-communication of connecting emotions. He had the pulse of every district, every subdivision, he knew the temperature of every area. And accordingly speakers were dispatched; areas which heated up fast were pacified by the Sadhus, areas which got stubborn were roused by the Sadhvis. It will be simultaneous crests across the country and at the Bhoomi, it would be crescendo of the orchestra being set up; Advani Ji himself will preside over the ovation that will follow. Kalki had become a fulltime Pracharak in the Sangh; he was assigned as an adjutant to RDS. He was a worthy disciple; he learned fast, he was a reflection of RDSs greatness. He had eyes for detail of the social makeup, he had hands for pulse of the public mood; he had feet to execute details into moods. But he was not complete. The only worry RDS had was his oratory skills. Kalki was a good speaker, an elocutionist, but he spoke to himself, he did not connect to the crowds. Whenever Kalki was asked to speak to an audience which had attendees he did not personally know, he would waiver, the protg would become a wimp. Kalki could not connect to the crowds by talking. Kalki connected by action and he connected well with everybody. He connected with seniors of the Parivar by dedication, he connected to the foot soldiers by energy, but when he was asked to connect to the crowds by public speaking requiring reflecting fluidly, sentiments of the masses he fizzled. RDS encouraged him, chided him, guided him, but all was in vain. Kalkis emotions, his thoughts, were simply incapable of maneuvering his speaking to meet the emotions and thoughts of the public. Kalki connected well in closed-door meetings of the Parivar where Politics didnt need the pretense of religion. He was more interested in Ramas Raj than his Bhoomi, although convinced of RDSs route to Raj via Bhoomi. He articulated it well in closed-door meetings, but convincing the public that Bhoomi was the Raj was a connect he struggled to make. Kalkis mind had neat divides, what he knew and what he didnt want to know; the logic of connection simply failed to cross from not-wanting to knowing.
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Lifeblood of politics is connection of crowds cemented by lucid fluidity of oratory. RDS realized his find didnt have it. He fathomed, one cannot be too selfish to ask everything in endowment, somethings should be left to learning, and knowing the dedication of Kalki he was sure, over time he will single-tonguely move masses. But in the present context the tantalizing talking will be done by the battery of Sadhus and Sadhvis; and the rabble-rousing Orations will be provided by the Old Men of Aspirations. Kalki was upset that there was one parameter which disappointed his mentor. He hated his tongue even more for not delivering the expectations of RDS. (Not realizing that his tongue was just an actor, it spoke very well if connected to content, like reciting his favorite poems; but he did not understand the poetry of masses of the Bhoomi.) Kalki overcompensated for his weakness by doubling his efforts elsewhere, in things he was an expert, Execution. He was soon noticed by Gods of the Parivar; Advani Ji himself was heard praising him on a few occasions; there was jealously and respect in the ranks. He was the powerhouse of energy that supplied strength to current of the movement. He was travelling like light, in plains, in trains, in cars, in bullock carts, on feet; and in chariots of gods (the Raths he oversaw fittings of). Bricks were amassed and stored; money was collected and deposited; volunteers were mobilized and gathered. Current became a wave, wave became a tide, and the tsunami headed from all directions to center of the earth; to drown the Holy Land were God himself had chosen to be born. Kalki Bhai, everything taken care of? The Sadhvi asked; eyes flickering in zeal of the Mission. Yes, Uma di. Dont worry. Everything is well. He answered; eyes not betraying the guilt of Attraction. I am surprised. Why dont you address the crowds? You have such potential. The Didi enticed I dont know Uma di, may be I am not that religious. He replied not knowing why. The day passed awaiting the climaxing clockwork. Tomorrow came, crowds gathered, pickets were laid, stage set, pickets for Karsevaks and stage for leaders. Speeches started and orchestra played, there were tridents, there were sticks, there were shovels, there were sledgehammers, all brought for the Puja. The crowds overflowed, pickets disappeared, sound grew and speeches became inaudible, the swarm moved and vision blurred. Kalki was standing on the stage behind RDS and Advani, the crowd sound movement getting to his head, trying to create a perception, but he refused to think. His hands and legs were struggling to break free of his body and act. Kalki was a doer, never a passive spectator. Till now he was
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organizing, it required doing, he had been in his zone, but now he stood in audience waiting for the ovation. He wasnt supposed to be a spectator, he was the performer, but RDS had given him strict instructions for not intermingling with the horde, to always be with Advani Ji; he was too valuable to be let with the crowd and Advani Ji too valuable to be catered by anyone else. Violence sanctioned by Dharma is the only justified violence, this violence was someone elses Dharma; RDS didnt reveal it to be his. His Dharma was organizing; to be the equerry. Kalki failed to comprehend what was happening, no longer Karna who fought the injustice of Karma, but the Real One, whose Dharma was to set the stage to reveal the truth of violence, for it to begin and then enjoy the illusion of Maya from the charioteers seat. Kalki did set the stage, meticulous and faultless, logistics of moving masses, arranging food, disposing sanitation, everything was perfectly done. But he did not reveal the truth or justification, that part of the Real One was taken care of by real gods of the Parivar. He was not Krishna, neither Arjuna, nor Karna; he was Kalki in his own Mahabharata. He failed to comprehend the confusion and refused to think. His head was trying to break out of the skull to become free, to comprehend the smudge he saw over the structure like stars twinkling in a planetarium, to have meaning. He had promised self-control and abstinence, he had promised to act only when justified by Dharma; RDS had not revealed this violence as his; he did not break his pact. The struggle in his mind cracked his head, the conflict and confusion gushed out in radiating energy, it touched the crowds around the structure, it touched the crowds at base of the structure, it touched the crowds on top of the structure; and there was no dispute left. Universe collapsed with the final blow of sledgehammer, the ovation started, God was Regained, Kingdom Established, sweets a minor tokenism of big celebration. Kalki broke out of his meditative trance when RDS impertinently pushed a piece of Laddu on his palate and congratulated him. He ate the sweet, it tasted fine, he heard the comment, it sounded nice; but he didnt know what it was for; he did not think. The Babri Masjid fell and its rubbles flew across the country, PVN closed his eyes in slumber or meditation, Manmohan was busy unshackling the Raj, and rest of the cabinet ran to Janpath praying to the Goddess for Darshan. Goddess in mourning, sage in meditation, obsequious fruit flies flattering to break the penance; eyes closed in meditation or mourning. ********* The country continued its journey on the path of Karma. Away from slumber meditation mourning Kalki was awake, active and enthusiastic in
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doing his job. Kalki was not religious, for him a job was his religion; the logic of a perfectly planned execution was his God. He was a computer with vivid spreadsheets of all voting districts. Those in the fringes of Deep South North East, he did not bother for they were heathens who had not heard of Dharma, those in the heartland, saffron in color, he need not bother because they were Dharmic and sold. Those in the middle were the problem; they were in the no mans zone. He drew his line of control that started in Azamgardh zigzagged across and ended in Bombay. The districts on it were marked as the areas for thrust to move the earth to Glorious Past of Future. These were the districts where statistics missed the addition in periphery; he figured that a bit of subtraction will create an environment for the numbers to move in the main text from the margins. It was not religion, religion is revealed; it was logic, logic is calculated. Tragedy was revealed and violence calculated along the callously zigzagging line, but Kalki saw the beauty of execution. Kalki headed the juggernaut, Rath of the Real One, Phaethon tracing his route amidst allure and ugliness of landscape and poverty of the hinterland; both of which he failed to notice. The violence followed, but he never waited to see. Seeing was not his Dharma, believing was. RDS held to his revelation of Kalkis turn, he was too valuable to be on the street. Kalki faced forward ignoring the trail of madness darkness destruction he left behind; his work was to organize supply activate and continue on the line. Kalki kept moving onward painting the districts in saffron; finally reaching Bombay. Bombay was a tough nut to crack. It was the city of old boys and its religion was gold. Bala the Sainik had been struggling to demark its districts to his dream of backseat driving. But for people, the street of Dalals was next door and Janambhoomi far away. Kalki was granted an audience with Bala the Sainik because he came highly recommended from RDS. Balasaheb had very high respect for RDS, he knew only good can come out of meeting the young man advocated by him, but he could not figure what. He refused to believe that a rookie can crack the puzzle he couldnt solve. Bala the Sainik said, Gold has made this city impotent, Muslims and Hindus alike. They have lost their anger for lust. Only way sense will prevail is a reaction. Kalki paid his respects to Bala and his wisdom, and left. Calls were made to the memories of dust, the calls lead to more calls, and it led to some more, the routers with testicles became active from Botala to Bombay and finally he got a number to call. Rahim Mohammad could not believe it when he heard the voice Ram Nayak, the time was now, the place was here, they could not wait to see each other again. The minutes passed in taxi were longer than journeys of the boys of Does-It-Exist Basti, who couldnt get out to get to Xaviers, who got out and landed in Bombay,
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passing through the gangs of Dhanbad. The clones of Mahisa mutated to become the clones of BHAIS and SAINIKS; the gene that was cloned was VIOLENCE. The old childhood friends hugged and stared, and laughed, their eyes bright, their tongues impatient. Rahim held on and said, First things first. He had organized the best joint money can buy, and it was offered to the memory of times; and over passings of Chillum the conversation began. It seems you did well for yourself after the bloody shootout we ran from in Dhanbad, Nayak said figuring that his friend had also done some climbing up in life. They told each other stories of their journeys away from Botala, away from the mafia of mines. Rahim laughed when he heard that Nayak was a Sainik. It was a day of surprises. But some things one knows by intuition and Rahim knew like him Nayak did not have a religion; so he figured that the Sena must be his Bhaidom of salvation. Rahim himself had run off to Bombay and peddled on streets for few years. There were some hustlers who tried mugging away his earnings of hustling; they got a beating of their life, earning Rahim a reputation. Like always, the reputation travelled up and time travelled forward. Before he knew, he had an audience with God of the Bhais. Dawood Bhai had said, We dont have a religion. We have a conscience. Our God is Gold. Our Reason is Business. We are Bhais from all over of all religions. Everything Dawood said resonated with Rahims own thoughts; he found his God and converted to the order of Brotherhood of Salvation. He became a Bhai climbing ranks of the Company. To their surprise, Nayaks story was very much the same with proper nouns changed. So how is business doing? Nayak asked after narrating his tale passing the Chillum. Damn bad man, this Manmohan Sardar, fucker, an agent of foreign capitalists, doesnt care for Indian poor. He has made the import of Gold free; now DeBhai has nothing to do. Anyways, he is a smart guy, he will figure out, and what about you? Same here man, Balasainik lost the tune some time ago. No bugger in this city cares for language anymore. But he is smart and is catching on the new wave. Yes right, I believe we need to find ways to keep alive. Exactly the point, these paper-wallahs scream about this or that, but tell me, what will a decent guy do when he doesnt have a job? Will he sit and cry, sulking around, or alternatively find other means to let kitchen fry.
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Anyways, forget about bad times, we had some good time at Botala. Oh, yes! We did! Remember Kalki, he was the best, could break bones of three boys alone, what a pity his father got into some money and he was moved to Xaviers life. Yes, and after that the bastard pretended that we did not exist. Except for the time he and his new friend that whitey Krishna needed some grass. I heard he is in the Sangh these days, could not believe, what a messy business, that Ayodhya thing, must be making your blood boil. No man, what do I have to do with this, the politicians can go fuck each other. Oh, yes! I know, but tell me what? Can you get some anger expressed? Rahim was worried; he had never dabbled in politics. He did not care about religion till the price was right and DeBhai approved. In Dubai in his hideout, Dawood wondered on the proposition Rahim had passed to him. His religion was gold. Religion needs a God that is Difficult to Get, Commanding heights said Gold is lust and duty of lust is high, so Gold was difficult to sell and buy. Manmohan made it free and he was left lurching without a God. He was struggling to find another source for sustaining his vast empire built on smuggling. The Bombay underworld was disintegrating. There were buildings and movies, but these were sideshows not big enough to replace the well of drying gold. Some people had been sending feelers to him for a drastically new business which will catapult him to next level of the game; of the not-droughty god. The feelers and the proposition of Rahim seemed to fit. DeBhai took it as an auspicious sign, he gave the nod. There was a Muslim reaction against the demolition, few people died, and then the city burned. Bala the Sainik was happy; they were not impotent after all. Bombay burnt like crazy and in the flames he saw himself closer to his dream of erasing history and renaming the city. Dawood Bhai was happy, he made the bigger Deal, there were Blasts and the city burned some more. He had found his new business; he found his religion, he found god; mother lode of Gold. But Kalki had already left Bombay, he did not see the violence, he did not want to know. ********* Time passed and Kalki continued crisscrossing the country, organizing rallies, protests, movements; recruiting foot soldiers, arranging campaign material. He had access to highest levels of the Parivar; his star rose rapidly
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in the organization. There was talk of giving him a ticket for coming elections; the Parivar needed to project young faces to the rapidly reverseaging electorate. But Kalki simply rebuffed learning the skill of public speaking. RDS finally gave up on his plan for elective public life for Kalki. Everyone has his own gifts, he thought, there are several ways his strengths can be useful for the Parivar. He made a different plan in mind for him. It was a boon for the Parivar that Kalki was not chosen as a candidate; he was left free to organize and manage the campaign at national level. RDS was the central election manager responsible for all India, himself not contesting as he had got a birth in the Upper House; Kalki was his engine of execution. Another phased election came; Kalki was where the election went, he moved with the phases, camped in the field, organized campaigns in cities and villages. Morale of the cadre was high, the Parivar was on upswing. Since the disaster election of Eighty-four, every single election its tally had increased; the ranks and files saw the throne of Delhi approaching within grasp. Meanwhile the Family was in trouble, the Goddess in mourning did not come out, PVN continued in slumber or meditation. And the Left still struggled with their relevance after the global catastrophe of their revolution. The only obstacles were the jokers of Janata like a recurrent cold refusing to go. RDS tried to get some of the jokers on their side, but Pharisees of the Parivar were discountenanced untouchables, any business with them meant loss of minority franchise. Muslims always had been easy ballots to collect for politicians in India, fear and complex are simple to stroke, everybody wanted to convolute a share in booty of the vote-bank. Finally the election concluded, the Family went to its lowest ebb in history of Indian electoral politics, the Parivar consolidated its tally considerably, their highest till now, they were the largest group and staked claim to power, but could not claim glory. The government lasted for Thirteen days; the Family maneuvered to get the jokers back. For those thirteen days, when A.B. Vajpayee became the Prime Minister for the first time, a defunct cabinet was assembled for public eye, everybody knew that the Government will fall in No Confidence; voted out from Floor of the House. In the caucus there was one non-defunct ministry, the minister was RDS. For Thirteen Days and for Thirteen Nights RDS was the Minister for Photocopy, Kalki was his executive. Photocopiers as big as the great cloning factories were brought in darkness of the night to set up a manufactory, and across ministries, in North Block and South, files were moved in stealth to the secret copying plant. For Thirteen Days and for
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Thirteen Nights Kalki did not sleep, did not eat, did not bath, not having eaten didnt need defecating, but he just did one thing, he cloned the history of Independent India as far as memories of the files; on reams of paper file after file was facsimiled. Mitochondrial injection in stem cells, file-copying politician-cloning Goddess Dolly presiding, Copying-Cloning the Gene of Power; histology of CHIMERA And slowly the story emerged, slowly the playing field was leveled, the politics of modern India was changed forever by the equalizing boon of Karma, by the thirteen-day missed heartbeat of the old man, by the magical capability of Kalki; miracle of Photocopy, blessings of Dolly: the Parivar and the Family, the Jokers and the Left, all now held balls of each other tightly in their hands. Photocopying their differences away, mirroring their reflections, imbibing psyche of the files, becoming the clones of each other. The ballcatching juggler-grabbing genius of Karma, that ensured the Deal in Perpetuity for Peaceful Transitions of Power; the DEAL of DESTINY to perpetually propagate the roving merry-go-round of loot-and-lottery. Gowda the Humble was chosen as the Prime Minister; he was the fittest candidate not only because no one needed to listen to him but more importantly he had nothing to say. In Humbleness or in Meditation he kept quiet and the Chakra of Karma turned on. ********* After fall of the thirteen-day government RDS had a conversation with Kalki to reveal him his plans. You have done well, all of us are proud of you, he started. The momentum is there now, Raj is no longer a distant dream. My assessment is: we will have another general election within two years. RDS was a visionary. The Family is withering, the jokers will shame themselves; nothing can stop the Parivar to be in power. We are not here for grabbing authority but for long-term change. It needs to be multipronged in its approach. We need to get our men in officialdom of the system. I have noticed your interests are in execution rather than contesting elections. I suggest you prepare for public-service exams and get into the government. Disassociate yourself with public visibility of being with Sangh and the Parivar. You have anyways been working in the backrooms. I am in process of engineering a coalition that will get us in control soon. We will have you moved in the right places within the Government. You were a good student. I am sure if you work hard you will qualify for government services. I suggest you target the intelligence service. In the world of politics and power, information is the key; it is the most lethal of
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all weapons. Kalki, as always, impressed by the vision wisdom foresight planning of his mentor, for the third time in his life made academics his Dharma. He rote everything from philosophy of the Greeks to constitution of the U.S.A, from Politics of Kant Locke Hobbes to Manifesto of Marx Engels, but he did not wait to ponder, he did not reflect; he did not need to do that because there was no way the tests would know; what was important was to reproduce on paper what had been written and what had been said by so-and-so. The tricky question was the essay; the topics were a surprise; you needed to think rather than rote to write it sitting in the exam. Good thing was that the topics were predictable. In the milieu of rickety combinations making shaky coalitions, its frequent collapse with short-duration governments and multiple general elections, he guessed that a topic related to fragmentation, communalism and regionalism of Indian politics will be there. Kalki sat with RDS and prepared the essay. RDS was a learned Political Scientist, he had his opinions based on philosophy of Dharma, but he was not blinkered, he knew the opposite arguments equally well, he understood and could quote Western Philosophers in similar ease he quoted the Vedas and Dharmic texts. But above all his blessing was to know the mind of the evaluator. He puckered, and disparagingly decried and lamented the Indian intelligentsias enslavement by alien systems of thought, but after the prolegomenon he immediately got back to the task at hand. RDS pretended to be one-by-one proponent of major schools of Modern Western Political Thought, and analyzed the nature of contemporary Indian politics, ending in every edition, criticizing the actions of Hindu Movement. Not for a moment did he let it reflect his own thought; the essay did not include what a sage of Vedas would have thought of the current Kaliyuga. He knew his opponents well; any hint about correct leanings of the candidate could seriously jeopardize his chances. Kalki memorized the essay with intention of reproducing it under the closest available option in the question. In the UPSC exam, as expected there was a related topic in the choices for the essay. Kalki without dropping an I or missing a T reproduced RDSs analysis of Indian Politics using means of social contract and tools of dialectic. Other questions were similarly answered from memory of rote. Kalki was not in the top list to get an IAS or IFS berth, but he got a rank good enough to get him into a decent central government service. Kalki started his life with the Intelligence agencies of India. *********
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As soon as he realized that he had become the Prime Minister and tried speaking, rug was pulled from beneath his feet. Humble fell and humbler rose. Inder the humbler pretending being a gentleman didnt speak in chivalry or in meditation. As soon as he realized that he had become the Prime Minister and tried speaking, rug was pulled from beneath his feet. Three governments and four years later there was another phased election and fortunes of the Parivar finally turned. The thirteen-day office had made the possibility of their government real. It was enough to seduce several factions of Janata jokers in the Parivar fold. The Parivar in turn, in a brilliant political move dropped the contentious agendas. After all, you can no longer destroy a destroyed structure, RDS had said and others agreed. Setting was similar, game was same, but there were new gods, the Sadhus and Sadhvis were packed off to obscure wilderness and the trinity of Bijli Sadak Pani replaced Bhoomi of Rama and his Raj. The gambit paid. People were tired of the jokers, and the Goddess for heavens sake, was mourning in penance with flies hovering around Janpath in respite-less hope. And on top was the icing of information Kalki secretly passed; rest of the Parivar pretended not to notice that their ace executor was missing from action. The second Vajpayee government was sworn in mustering the numbers when vote came on the floor. RDS got a ministerial berth in charge of Internal Security under the Home Ministry of Advani-Ji-Himself. The dream was fulfilled, the Parivar was happy; RDS was content; sweets were a minor tokenism of the great victory. Fulfillment of Dream; Kalki wondered about the celebrations, posters had said the dream was a clean government, nation building, justice and prosperity for all, freedom from rancor that rotted the society. It didnt strike him that the government wasnt even a day old. How was the dream fulfilled? He did not want to think. Kalki was soon deputed away from his regular posting to be an officer on special duty in the Ministry of Security as the right-hand Man of RDS who worked directly under the Home Minister but still-not the Deputy Prime Minister and not-yet aspiring to be the Prime Minister L.K. Advani. ********* Kalki the man with a mission worked continual hours for understanding the convoluted labyrinth of multiple security and intelligence organizations at central and state levels. The department of security in Home Ministry was more like a nodal coordinating agency for these entities. There were ministerial turfs involved; some agencies were under Defense,
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others under Foreign Affairs, few reported directly to the Prime Ministers Office. Studying the system, it became clear to Kalki that there were too much inefficiency of bestriding bureaucracy and bloated bottlenecks. He went to RDS with recommendations for an overhaul of the whole apparatus. We know there are problems, but we cannot do such sweeping changes. I like your ideas, but you need to learn first, become an insider. Let the government settle down. We will slowly start tackling this. Other ministries and state governments are involved. It is a difficult process to convince everyone. Kalki was not disheartened; he took the advice to do best to improve the system from within without getting into confrontation or dislocating changes. Slowly he started learning the complex game of intelligence and security; the complicated web of dark forces and countering warriors, a web that extended beyond borders; it encompassed the whole world; the players in this world as interconnected as in the fast-globalizing world of commerce; a global supply chain of circles of espionage and terror, entangled with oil weapons diplomacy draped in religion and politics; Kalki understood what RDS meant when he had said, You are young, learn first. He went to RDS requesting field assignments. I understand your enthusiasm to be in the action and learn firsthand, but I dont want you to be in a permanent field posting. Whenever we have a chance for a special short-duration assignment, we will send you in the field. RDS did not want his execution engine to be away from him; the compromise was stuck. ********* Project Shakti was Kalkis first major field assignment. He spent the whole week walking the streets of Mumbai; around the airport and inside it. On S-day he took an innocuous cab to Chembur, passing by the RK studios; famous emblem of eternal love, the lady leaning in the hands of her hero secured in his hold. Kalki was to secure the lady, to lean as backwards as she wanted in her zest and tease; confident in the grip of his hand desiring the touch of his lips. Inside the plant he witnessed her getting ready; it was the prom, he was her date; he escorted as they carried her to the vehicle; he sat beside the driver instructing him the route to take. The vehicle passes into the chaos of traffic holy cows and cow dung, chariots of devils, air-conditioned sedans all jostling for space for expression; passing by the Bandra Kurla complex; earth being re-created in concrete steel glass; marshes being reclaimed; buildings mushrooming all around.
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Turn left on the highway towards the airport. Turn Right to the airport. Cargo-entry gate, directly to the runway, everything perfectly arranged, perfectly coordinated. The queen of the prom and her date her escort are on the plane. He feels in love sitting next to her; what does she feel? She does not reveal her emotions in the tease of her eyes; MADness of the proposition, high of a drug, ecstasy of love power hate violence. Flying North, flying East, sea and maps without bounds below, water becomes land, land becomes hills, hills become sand; a landing, not a regular airport, no crowd but only men in uniforms, perfectly primed to welcome the queen. Another vehicle, another short trip; she is lowered in bosom of the earth to reveal her emotions. He will now know; she is also in love. Hatch sealed, party moves to bunker of the club; where the real action is, where the real dancing is. There is a master of ceremonies, famous DJ, plays a lot of Rock. The master calls out the Roll, Army, an officer, a gentleman, a shining uniform wearing panoply of pride, keys in a code, a light flickers. Research, an elderly man, immaculate white apron hiding mind behind, keys in code, light flickers. Security, Kalki in an animated motion of dreams, keys in another code, another light flickers. Then the master himself, more codes, and then Push of the Button. She reveals her emotions, she reveals her love, she reveals her illusion. Earth shook in temblors as the thermo-nuclear device ignited in the testing shaft under the deserts of Pokharan; she revealed her Shakti. Kalki saw the test range folding and rising, creation of Himalayas by the collision of earth, desert settles down in a crater, shaking continues; graphs and readings start calming down. Kalki is rudely woken up from his transitive meditation, people congratulating each other, hugging backslapping, shaking hands. India successfully tested a nuclear bomb and circles of espionage along with the network of satellites woke up in a shock of surprise. The program director congratulated Kalki for successful secrecy and security; he had hid her in Karma of the traffic. The explosion had a profound effect on Kalki, In his mind divides were breached, he could no longer choose not to think, the mission was accomplished, but he kept wondering against his wishes; What does it all mean?
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He tried finding illusion in chaos of his thoughts, he felt like knowing something he didnt want know; he struggled with his mind; he finally managed to keep his feelings aside, and once again sealed the divide. Back in New Delhi he was welcomed as a hero. There were celebrations all around, media was mocking the ignorance and sanctions of the Biggest Brother; the Parivar had fulfilled its promise to stand up in face of the world and declare the arrival of India. Everyone was happy; Till Next Week: Next week another set of shocks, from across the border, made the world and the Biggest Brother cry in horror; the steam of Shakti of the Indian tests leaked out in a fizzle; Pakistan did its own testing and to prove a point tested a device more. South Asia became the riskiest flashpoint for nuclear confrontation; editorials were written about MADness of deterrence, and someone pointed out: neither did the Soviets and Americans kill each other for a thousand year, nor did they share the Line of Control. ********* Kalki soon got down to other serious business of intelligence. His confidence buoyed (by the successful deception of moving nuclear warheads from Bhabha Atomic Research Centre in Mumbai to Pokharan Test site in Thar Desert of Rajasthan), started unearthing the land of million deceptions. He poked the hornets nest not realizing how high deep wide the beehive which he disturbed was. Kalki declared his personal war against the rampant corruption, against the interlinked malodorous nexus of politicians businessmen criminals bureaucrats connected by chains of dealmakers and powerbrokers. He found, in files of intelligence agencies, sleuthing trails that ended cold. He began pursuing them; embarrassing questions were fired in rattle. The news soon reached people who mattered; bosses of the Parivar. They wanted to make sure the crusader is leashed before he follows the trails to discomfiting heights. RDS was filled in with glib whimpers about his pet becoming wild. Politics is a game of chess where pieces and board are neither black nor white, he tried counseling Kalki. But Kalki couldnt understand how the game can be played if your opponent had same color pieces and squares were not segregated. While he chased demeaning trails of minute details hidden within layers of deception, trying to unearth individual names, he failed to appreciate the big picture despite all of RDSs conventional wisdom. Corruption is an Industry, and like other industries it has its levers and numbers market-size percentage-share competitive-positioning comparative-advantage value-creation. If Kalki had studied Business instead
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of Politics he wouldnt have caviled. (Every Lok-Sabhaseat election campaign costs an average of a million dollar, there are around five hundred seats, there are two major political parties and all the rest put together are the third, a simple multiplication of facts makes the spend on each election one-and-a-halfbillion dollars. Given the uncertain times, an election every one-and-a-half years, it makes an annual average of a billion dollar; this is just the organized part, where big players are playing, where politics of elections is involved; if you add all and sundry, from large wealth-hoarding kickbacks of defense deals to petty tax evasions, the gray economy in India becomes larger than the black and white put together. Interlaced in this substratum are the conventions of corruption) Insinuated Kalki simply didnt get the picture he refused to understand the analogy. RDS knew of his stubbornness, he knew his youth was blinding him to the obvious; he didnt want to lose him; once before when he was faced with another weakness of his, he had found a suitable solution to use him; he was sure he will work out something again; he placated the complainants and promised to take care. ********* The getting-hot cold trails of money leading to commanding heights got a temporary respite as they were frozen again when another set of commanding heights became hot. Kalki was send to camp in Northern Kashmir as the on-ground coordinator for all intelligence and security forces involved in the juststarted Kargil war. It was a shocking failure of the system when Indian Army realized that ground beneath the hills was pulled away in wide daylight in front of their eyes. The failure soon became apparent: foreign intelligence agency RAW had reported frequent movement of the General to Northern Areas, sniffers of state government and BSF in POK had reported several winter survival kits and food being stored in remote villages, satellite images had shown augmented military traffic in North, embassies abroad had reported an uneasy calm of rhetoric, foreign office reported too easy negotiations on Lahore Declaration, J&K security apparatus reported fall in terror activities and digging in of militants. It was all there, but these were just routinely logged, if only someone had seen all the information and put it together, the ploy of stratagem was clear: the biggest deception of it all, the biggest gamble of political game of South Asia was well planned, well thought through and perfectly executed. Cover of the nuclear umbrella gave perception of assurance of nonescalation. Surprise factor and quick action will capture the heights, once there, it was impossible to dislodge, Siachen is the shameful proof, highway will be cut, dreaming another chickens neck, Siachen cannot be sustained, there will be a general rebellion, a widespread uprising, chaos and mayhem, demands of Azadi, Freedom, correct and vague amount of rhetoric about
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mushrooms will make the world stand up. Yes! Within four weeks there will be another negotiation, this will not be as easy as Lahore; this will not have the lovely declaration. Yes! Seventy-one will be redeemed. Yes! The General had thought through the whole thing carefully; it was a chink-proof plan which he egged in a tight slap on the face of Indian establishment. It was clear that coordinated effort was required to collect all intelligence with various agencies and pass it to the forces on ground immediately. The Army needed a thorough assessment of the Enemy; it was going to be a difficult uphill battle. The Government needed decisions on stepping up the ante; it was as much of an information game as of bullets and shells. There was an international playoff, hectic diplomacy, buttals and rebuttals, and the media spinning patriotism and frenzy, need the fire to be burning for a long stand, pretension of normalcy to not let the economy panic into a crash, it was a delicate game, best minds were set in Delhi playing it, Cabinet Committee on Security, National Security Adviser, Prime Ministers Office; detailed plan okayed for multipronged counter-offensive, across-board mobilization, authorization for crossing LoC demanded, decision to proceed one step at a time; joint working groups set under the Defense Ministry for proper coordination. Kalki was in the Valley, and hills of Kargil representing Internal Security in the taskforce working directly under the Defense Minister George the Dynamite Ace-of-Jokers IBM-killer Coke-slayer Trainstopper The big brother? The real thing? The real one? Did not the General know who he had pitched against? Kargil was as much a war on hills and mountains in broad glitter of media, as in dark alleys of the Valley. The fear of fight spreading in interiors by dug-in militants was very existent; given the bad situation in the state it may also become a general rebellion; that it was being targeted was clear from the intelligence sources undercover within the Pakistani establishment. The speed with which Kalki combed all information available and prepared lists for detentions and encounters was impressive; and even before slightest visibility of action behind the lines, the possibility was ruthlessly silenced. The first crevice in amour of the Generals iron-clad plan was pierced. And then one by one all the pieces started to fall, and the Generals adventure started looking like a messy abscess in increasing escalation by the Indian side. The Artillery, batteries of Bofors and Multiple Rocket Launchers, started round-the-clock battering of occupied heights, infantry assaults launched, Air Force deployed, laser-guided bombs maneuvered their way into pounding the hidden bunkers buried in crevasses. The world community was calling the Generals bluff in shame, and finally once again he ran licking his wounds; to wait for another day.
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Victory was declared; Indian army unfurled the Tricolor on the icy peaks of high Himalayas. But for Kalki, the divides in his head were breached while LoC on the hills was sealed. His LoC, already weakened by the nuclear blasts couldnt be sealed again. It was in the deep vale of Kashmir, orchestrating encounters, he finally started to see. The story of kickback on coffins was the last nail that permanently perforated his seal. He lay awake the whole night in bafflement; Et tu, George? Then fall, Kalki! ********* Kalki returned a hero to the Ministry. But once back in Delhi, he again started vigorously on cold trails of money leading to the heights. Kalki, who was an asset during campaigns, movements and elections, started turning to a liability. RDS was very upset that despite repeated discourse he was refusing to understand the political nuance between being in power and opposition. It was one of those things with Kalki like public speaking. All these years, RDS had realized that his protg was a difficult case; he either knew something or simply didnt want to know. Despite his best effort he was not able to show Kalki any sense of a possible middle ground. Kalki had made it his mission to eliminate corruption consuming the society. That was what RDS had taught him, Sangh had taught him. This was his chance to fulfill his manifest destiny. RDS started receiving vocal grumbles from important people to tame his animal. For Kalki the cleanup was another campaign; objectives defined, plans calculated, but the real beauty was in execution. However there was one hitch; the enemy he was against (people he had put under the scanner) was smarter than he was. The parallel economy running extraneous to writ of the state funds politics of the country. Elections and campaigns in a vast land are expensive. Government collects taxes, parties do not. Corruption is entrenched in edifice of the system. Kalki always had funds during campaigns, he had never bothered to ask where they came from; he had conveniently believed that the rupee donations mobilized from individual supporters added up; in a convenient lapse of arithmetic he had refused to see the hole and its filling. Corruption is a business; good business is to hedge risk, craft of graft is to grease; so it funded along the Family also the Parivar. Businesses Kalki was raiding (builders land-grabbers profiteers dealmakers petroleumrefiners mine-leasers) were all deep pockets which funded politics on all sides of divides. Kalki failed to understand the rebukes of RDS. He was trying hard to make sense, he was trying hard not to try; his body ached for the medicine
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that had helped his not-trying. He became a fixture of the establishment. Parties of power, beautiful women, gallant galloping heroic stallion who haled the chariot of victory; he had a reputation, ladies flirted with him, gave him signals. He struggled with his pact. Abstemious lack of sex and drugs approaching a decade, combined with unfair reprehend for fair job, tailed his head and burned his body in studs of psychic libido. He couldnt make head or tail of what was happening to him; the only guiding light, his navigating post in pose of pent-up passion was pact of the unmentionable eyes. RDS was a man of solutions; he knew he needed to get Kalki out before he becomes a self-destructive force for the Parivar. He knew his value, every talent has its place; it was a matter of finding it, of putting him where his energy is useful. An election was due again (this time due to the Bharatanatyam of Poese Garden), funds were required for fighting it; pound of flesh was extracted; RDS promised getting Kalki out from harms way; He will be replaced after the Election. Elections are sensitive times, security apparatus need to be in full alert and preparation, RDS didnt want to not have the confidence of Kalki being there taking care of the exigencies. Another phased election, continual monitoring, troop movements, sanitization of cities for polling, tracking activities of the known miscreants, detaining the history-sheeters; it was one long continuous day that lasted for more than a month for Kalki. He had no time to think about money-trail files; elections were more important; its the most sacrosanct of all national events; it is the time when wheels of the state machinery turns generally in the right direction. Next to an Open War, probably its the Only Time when the Government of India is Aware of its Existence. ********* Heat of the Nuclear Blasts and the frenzy of Kargil Victory ensured triumph of the Parivar. A peaceful continuation of power was formalized by the swearing-in at Rashtrapati Bhavan. Vajpayee Government transitioned to Vajpayee Government. Few weeks later RDS had a circumspect conversation with an Indignant Kalki. We are very happy with your work despite our occasional difference of opinion, RDS finally had the solution, I feel that you have the potential to really rise high in the intelligence. I see you one day heading the Indian Intelligence or even the National Security Adviser, Kalki got a feeling that something was up, he had stopped being blind to subtexts in conversations with his mentor, For that we need to plan, to do an allround preparation, Kalki wanted to scream come to the point, To do this I feel, even Advani Ji feels, you need some international exposure, understand the game globally, thats where the real action happens, So
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they want to throw me so far that I am away from their vision, We feel that India needs to improve its global intelligence-collection capabilities. In todays interconnected world we cant rely just on having our men focus on immediate neighbors. Look at terrorism, their networks go far and wide beyond Pakistan, Oh yes, you will not send me to Pakistan, but come on tell me where, We have an opening for an officer in United Nations in Geneva in the Refugee Commission. The floating population of refugees and immigrants around the world is a hot bed for espionage. The UN work will be a cover and you can build some useful information base that will enhance our intelligence. Preemptive security is need of the hour, So that is where, Switzerland, not bad RDS, my respect for you has doubled, how can one refuse Switzerland; how considerate! There is no urgency, you take your time, think through it and then decide. Advani Ji and I are of the opinion that it will be a good move for you career wise, although I will miss you here. It was a week before the millennium, he knew the world will go crazy partying, there was a lot of preparation required to ensure safety in all cities, it is prime time for terror, he needs to assure there are no bombings, whole security apparatus is put on high alert, preparing for the millennium eve, there are files on his desk for review, there is a lot of work that needs to be done, but his mind is not there, he is still trying to comprehend what was meant by RDS, he is being fired, but for what, no it is good, Switzerland is a good place, he does not need to decide now, he needs to focus on work, he can wait till the millennium passes, he needs to ensure the celebrations to be incident free, it is exigent, this is his party, this is his high, he will take care of the Swiss problem next week. Kalki was sitting in his office preoccupied, pondering over RDSs offer, he wasnt sure what he wanted to do; he was at crossroads. The phone rang, there was some emergency, he was immediately summoned for a meeting at the Home Ministers office. He walked through the corridors and entered a conference room adjacent to Advanis office, mood was grim, air serious, he sensed something horrible happening. Advani, RDS and rest of the senior officials associated with Internal Security were there in the room. RDS was apprising; a hijack had been reported of the Indian Airlines Flight Eight-one-four on its way to Delhi from Kathmandu. The hijackers were well armed and threatened to blow the plane midair if Maulana Masood is not released. Maulana Masood was the mastermind of a hundred blasts which had killed a thousand people. A situation room was set up in the Ministry to monitor and act on developments. It was clear that the plane will soon have to land as it will run out of fuel. Instructions were sent out for commandos to be on the ready to storm. Possible landings were Delhi and Jaipur. The situation room was controlled by RDS. He setup two groups
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under him. Kalki led the storming group; its purpose was to prepare for assault when the Prime Minister gives a go. The second group was to negotiate; their purpose was to try controlling the situation without violence, and provide sufficient time if it comes to storming. Kalki was in his zone, it was these moments he lived for. This was his gig, this was his moment. He knew there would be no whispering whine, no stand backs, he will show RDS and the world he was not a reproaching rabble rouser but a state-of-the-art executing machine. The government machinery does not turn fast, this was not an election and administration was not prepared. The sheer force by which Kalki pushed through the system shearing bending breaking making rules, was a phenomenon. He produced private numbers of officers on ground in Delhi and Jaipur; he ignored the chain, spoke directly to the people ready to storm. The commandos were moved about in rapid speed; no one knew who gave the clearance; who authorized air traffic for lifting them from Delhi to Jaipur. No one knew from where an airplane was made available; it all happened in a flash. When the Cabinet Committee on Security met, RDS presented a situation brief, he just said, We are ready on ground to storm. He was once again proud of his Godson. But the hijackers were smarter, they tried taking the plane to Lahore, the plane was not allowed to land, it was low on fuel, it landed in Amritsar. First instruction was to block the flight path; a truck was placed on the runway. Kalki cursed himself for not having the commandos in Amritsar, the Black Cats were soon flying, in twenty minutes they will be in Amritsar, in the meantime the runway is already blocked, the plane cant take off; It will soon be in his grip. The commandos are in Amritsar, he needs a go ahead for storming, the Cabinet Committee decides not to storm. Among the passengers were families and parivars of important people, phones were ringing all day in the ministries; people who go for holidays in Kathmandu are not folks from the hinterland. Media is showing pictures and visuals of the hostages, their family crying on national T.V. The commandos are all set, vehicles need to be moved for refueling, hatches need to be opened; this is enough cover for men of the National Security Guards to enter the plane. They train for this moment all their lives. There would be collateral in storming, the leaders in charge knew about collateral very well, they had come to power riding on the COLLATERAL of a movement. There is no doubt that the correct decisions will be taken, this is not
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going to be the shame and craven of V.P and Mufti, everyone knows what happened in Kashmir after Rubaiya, Vajpayee and Advani are no V.P and Mufti; Thank God! Our leaders today are of a sterner mettle. Kalki was trained to keep his focus on objectives. Deaths are inconsequential. Soul is immortal, it does not die, it changes clothes; violence sanctioned by Dharma is not a sin; the violent is just a means; the deaths are decided by Karma. Kalki knew the truth, his moment had come, he was eager to fly to Amritsar; he knew officers on ground were well-trained professionals; he was constantly talking to them; everyone was sure, it was not a major risk, NSG can handle it. Refueling started, situation room in the Home Ministry was tense; RDS was continually on phone with the Cabinet Committee on Security meeting in PMs office. The hijackers killed a hostage and threw him out of the plane into million T.V screens watching the drama live; they threatened murdering passengers one by one if the obstacle is not removed. To his Lifes Horror!! Kalki was asked to give instructions for removal of the block. He protested; he refused to obey; he was rebelling against the system, he was getting out of control; he was mutinying in the control room at the time of a national crisis. RDS knew well enough not to trust him in such situation. He didnt want to escalate the issue; Kalki was reprieved of his duty. RDS just asked him to leave and took charge himself. The plane took off and left the Indian air space. Kalki left office to go home; slide down from the tipping point. Kalki was disturbed, he could no longer control his actions, he finally broke his pact pact of the unmentionable eyes he rushed to his old dealer and collected a strong dose of dope, not the regular grass of his college days, but injection, he rushed home, the traffic the crowd nothing existed, the world became a white canvas in background embossed with unidentified patterns of black and red. He reached home and switched on the T.V. The Television was covering developments of the hijack live. Correspondents were on ground reporting events by the minute. T.V showed the hijacking, Kalki saw Barkha reporting his life; things were all mixed up, his life, the Parivar, the Nation Drug Hijack. He prepared the injection, airplane flew from Amritsar; he injected his vein, the plane refueled in Dubai. The plane flew over Pakistan and landed in Afghanistan, all live on T.V. The drug flowed in blood and landed in his mind, all real in chemical.
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He had known the cardinal truth all his life, the truth of DEATH: Death is the Destination, Death is the Leveler, Death is the only thing Real; Death is Pure, not corrupted by an Identity. The television proclaimed falsehood of the great lie, everything he knew was False, No-No-No, Death is not the ultimate equalizer; in this Bloody land even bloody fucking death has a caste. A higher caste which can make calls to ministries, which goes to Kathmandu for holidaying, and can spin media to the meaning of death; and the lower caste, that lives in fringes of margins of electoral spreadsheets, and which pelts stones on streets of the Valley in its vernal vanity. The drug was dissolving divides of his mind, images of things not seen suddenly appearing to haunt him, workers and peasants died in riots, Collateral, young boys, teenagers put on list of Encounters. The bastard had a poster of Masood in his room, deserved to die; the face demanding an answer. Barkha reporting, a nation watching, commercial breaks in between, clothes from creations, worn on ramp by sexy-looking models; what will the caste of your death be? Bitch Pretentious Bastard. This mess is now going on for several days, cant continuously show the same thing, there are other news also; Bollywood tattles; softness of power; Fucking Soft State. There are patients on board, one has breathing trouble, has ran out of medicine, is gasping for breath; yes he knew how they gasp. Every fucker in the bloody black mines of Botala had that trouble, they never had any medicine; No-No-No, they had their medicines. Oh lovely Bidi! Relief of asthma of coal dust, sweet taste of pungent tobacco wrapped in Tendu, which finally creates the ultimate relief; Death was their medicine. Bloody nation looking in sympathy; poor chap does not have medicine. Day becoming night, night becoming day; negotiation team lists demands of the body yearning for more; more injection in vein. This is all wrong, simply unreal, this is not how it was supposed to happen, he should have been sitting in the control room monitoring security preparation for the millennium; this is just a bad dream induced by the fucking injection; Nightmarish Phantasms, Hypodermic Hallucinations, Tears flowing in Blood, Molten Lava. Yes! And Masood; what about him? Can you even tell me the name of one person his bombs have killed? The low-caste death does not have a name, it has a number, and what is a trivial fucking few hundred or thousand in the land of a billion Mahisa. He saw the Foreign Minister flying with Masood, he is welcome by his
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men; they fire their Kalashnikovs in air in celebration. Incompetent idiots! They have given a list. Just kill everyone on the list. Ask Barkha to tell her television that there was an escape attempt and encounter; Coward Bastards! Bitch! There is no encounter, Masood flies out Free; Victorious. The General was imbecile, got everyone in such a mess in Kargil, after all these years in the army the fucker did not know that the average soldier is on lower side of the Caste of Death; his plan failed not because of any damn good or bad strategy but because of a simple non-understanding of nature of the decease. Look at Masood, he is so much better informed, bloody fucking smart, he caught the fucking country of a billion by its balls; because he knows the caste of death. He saw the Minister return with hostages, caste of the high-caste death is to be alive. Yes! He knew; he had made his crossing; his was a high-caste death; his was to be alive. Oh! Sweet mountains of Switzerland, green valleys, they dont kill each other there, no fucking Hindoos or fucking Mohammedans there, no more Gentoos of the Gutter, no more demagoguery. Oh! Yes! He will get out from this bad dream of his life; he will go to the United Nations, countries working together for peace; no fucking invectives of India Pakistan there. He saw relief in eyes of the hostages as they came out of Delhi Airport; he saw tears of joy in eyes of the waiting families. Oh! Good thing, pretty people, innocent, did not deserve to die. Yes! Good that he was send home; Karmas justice; no more blood on his hands. This injection is a bloody bad business, makes your head go like a centrifuge, destroys neatness of organization in the mind. There is other news also, its the millennium, parties and rock shows. A song about some fire burning somewhere and Russians in Afghanistan; bloody fucking old song, they fucked them out of there long back; they fucked themselves. No more history of old songs, tomorrow is the millennium; new beginning, restart life, seal the divides again; no more fucking injection; makes the fucking world spin like crazy; No Yes, tomorrow is another day; no more violence, peace white snow in the valleys of Switzerland. Kalki passed out in asphyxiation with his brain split in inflection of dreams of Switzerland and nightmares of terrorist attacks of Masood.

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Chapter 12 The clothes


Maya woke up with shrill sound of the ringing telephone, it was still dark and she wondered what might have happened for the telephone to ring at this time of the morning. She got up and dragged herself half asleep towards edge of the bed to pick up the phone. Maya, this is dad here. Her fathers voice was full of shock; she immediately woke up to her complete sense realizing something was terribly wrong. Yes, what happened? They killed Rajiv in the night, a bomb. What? Where? Who were they? Where are you speaking from? A small place, a bit away from Chennai, we dont know who is behind it. They are bringing the body to Chennai. We are in Chennai. Your mother and I will fly to Delhi along with him. Its bad, I havent seen it, but they say his body was blown to pieces. Look, I need to rush, got several things to do. I will see you later in the day at Janpath. You be with the family, they need all the support. Its an atrocious act. Her father disconnected the phone. Maya sat at frame of the bed in shock and sadness. She remembered the last time she had seen him, some small party of friends and family at Janpath, was Rahuls birthday, they had just said hello to each other. Since her father was posted out of Delhi and she got busy with her university life, the Family had become for her what it was for rest of the country. Rajiv was more of a T.V image than the uncle of her teenage days. Once or twice she did meet Rahul and Priyanka, but that too was rare and limited to formal occasions. As Maya got out of her bed the Family stopped being the television image and again became family friends she had intimately known. She tried controlling her tears while she showered and changed. She dressed up in a light-colored salwar kurta; her actions were mechanical, driven by sheer eagerness to be with them at this moment of madness. She took a cab to Janpath. A crowd had gathered in condolence and aghast, the atmosphere was of incredulity and susceptibility; God had died like a Mortal once again. The police pickets kept crowds outside the house; very few people were allowed entry. The officer called someone after Maya introduced herself, she was allowed in. Inside the house were people dressed in white sitting and standing in random order in a large drawing room. Sonia and children were in the bedroom. Maya went inside to be with her friends. Rahul was struggling to be the
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man of the family, wanting to be the rock of strength to console his mother and sister, but his silence and blank eyes said that he needed as much support in the crisis of craziness. Priyanka was sitting next to her mother and sobbing, Rahul sat on a sofa next to the bed; there were few other ladies sitting in stillness. Seeing Maya walk in, Priyanka got up and hugged her, it was a tight embrace; there was silence, conversation only of wet eyes. Both of them sat next to Rahul, Maya held his hand and squeezed it lightly; acknowledgment without action or words. No one spoke; Rahul was struggling with his emotions and composure. He could no longer be in the bedroom. He stood up and walked out up to a gentleman in the drawing room. How much more time will it take for him to reach here. It was not a question asked for an answer; it was a conversation started to control tears; Gods dont have the luxury of private grief of public violence. Soon the reconstructed parts of destiny arrived; Maya went out and met her parents. His father was not in his regular mess jacket but a white kurta pajama, and her mother in a light-colored sari. Mayas parents joined the group in the drawing room in quiescence. Rajiv was laid in center of the room. Sonia and Priyanka walked out with other ladies. The proceedings from then on were taken over by the Inertia of Journey of the Dead. The family lived in public moments of their grief, silently following instructions of the priest; in mechanical perfection logistics were arranged without anyone knowing who was doing what. The procession started, the conclave came out on the road; Maya stood back from the family which once again became the Family accompanied by illusion of the crowds; with tears hidden behind the Sunglasses of Delhi Heat. ********* Jean-Pierre was a debonair lean tall man, raised cheekbones in a slim face held his deep dark eyes, and in contrast was the coiffure of blond hair, thin and slightly long, falling over to hide his wide forehead. So, why do you want to join creations? He asked the standard interview question for a fresh recruit. Maya started on her well-rehearsed answer about her love for clothes and how great is creations as a fashion house to begin her career. Jean-Pierre listened intently, his fastidious eyes intimidating Maya, his age not apparent from his appearance, from what Maya had heard he was in his mid forties. He was the fast-rising sun of global fashion industry, its new God. He had been in the business for some time, but his designs and collections were treated as avant-garde during exhibitionism of Disco days of Seventies and Eighties. In those days he was an antiestablishment
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designer who focused on design as means of highlighting the shapes they draped, minimalist and complementary to the main theme of human persona rather than an opulent statement separate on its own. Earlier his work was scorned at as idiosyncratic, but with the dying down of baby boomers generational frenzy he had become mainstreamed; creations was the fastest growing fashion house in the world. Despite his elemental style, his designs had elements of abstraction, whether a dress or an accessory, which gave them character of their own; steeply slanting hemlines, suddenly purling lacy mesh, tufts of attitude in an otherwise flowing dress; highlighting skins conversation with the cloth. Maya had seen several of his catalogues, formed an opinion and was ready with prepared answers in praise of his work. The world has changed its direction in last few years, and I think so will fashion. Some of the designs of creations are clearly revolutionary, they peek into the future. Maya said with an expression of slight embarrassment to convey that it was not blandishment. But it wasnt required, flattery even in its most apparent and exposed form is welcome by Gods. Sitting to the left of Jean-Pierre was Vidya, who was introduced as manager of the newly started creations in India; she would be Mayas boss. She herself was a week old in the just-started Indian operations. She was the first employee and they were in process of hiring a team to get going. Vidya had previously worked in an Indian fashion house. She was known for her connections in the industry and her marketing skills. She was in her mid thirties, had been married for a short while to a flamboyant Delhi businessman, but it did not last long. The industry scene in Delhi during the beginning of Nineties was not very exciting. It was a limited market dominated mostly by franchises of Western labels and a clique of Indian designers. The market was mostly glitterati of Delhi feasting in the wealth of socialism. Maya was in two minds about taking up a job or going abroad for a Graduate Diploma in Fashion Marketing. Have you applied at other places? Vidya asked. Another standard interview question; No, my other option was to continue education in this field. But when I heard of creations opening an office in India, I thought if I get a chance to work here it will be good learning. Oh, yes, certainly! Jean-Pierre was getting increasingly impressed by the candidate. He liked people who did their homework and were prepared. But do you think, given the Indian taste for ornamental, there is a market for creations type of designs here? Vidya questioned. Yes, I think there is. There is already an audience which is fairly global, and they do a lot of fashion buying in their travels abroad. That is
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the first segment, but it is small. Second is the burgeoning upper middle class exposed to globalization, and their tastes fast becoming more international. I believe that the market can be really large. There is a big affluent class in our cities. What creations needs to do, is not only have a sales outlet in India but also design. There is enough talent in the country to create fusion, an Indian expression of creations abstraction. It can be really extraordinary. Maya was impressed with her own answering. She tried hiding her glee and waited for follow-up questions to her proposition of fashion fusion. The interview was going on lines she had prepared. She was getting progressively confident that she will be hired. Maya would have been hired anyway, because creations leading shareholder, along with Jean-Pierre, was Adnan, a friend of Mayas father, who had brought her expensive gifts on her birthdays. Jean-Pierre was impressed; he would have hired Maya even if she did not come highly recommended by his friend and partner. The relationship was known to Jean-Pierre and Maya; but Vidya, the third person in the conversation, was not aware of it. She continued with a few more questions. Vidya later told Jean-Pierre her choice from all the interviews they did was Maya. Jean-Pierre was happy; it was Vidya who she will work with. He was glad that Maya didnt require him to do any convincing. He was in New Delhi for the past week, hiring and signing paperwork for starting creations India. He was satisfied; he had put together a good team. He will confidently relax when he takes his flight back to Paris in the weekend. Jean-Pierre was a visionary; he saw times further into the future than any of his compatriots. He knew opening operations in India will be a drain of cash for several years. The country was still back of the behind of Global High Fashion. But when she will arrive, boys from Paris New-York Milan will beehive to New Delhi and Bombay; they will be surprised they had not been invited to the party; the seats will all be taken by creations. He will wait, he will wait for that day, years in future, but this was his game, he had waited with his designs being laughed upon for years, and now he was the one smiling; he will be the one who will smile when the Party comes East. Adnan had told him about the Sikh who was quietly unshackling a giant. Yes! It was Adnans job to know more than newspapers and television ever knew. In his hotel room he saw the guy on T.V, his voice soft and feminine; the second most powerful man in the country. That one interview on T.V reinforced all imagined magic he had in his mind about this ancient land. He was glad he had come, Someday I will like to design turbans for this chap. He was in love with the future; he was a visionary.
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Maya enthralled; her first job with creations. creations, a French Fashion House with wide range of products, from clothes to accessories, was slowly becoming the luxury conglomerate that defined the High Culture of times. Jean-Pierre was the chief designer, he had struggled in earlier decades, but now his name moved emotions in echelons of glamour and style. He was the touchstone against which everyone else in the business, all other designs, was judged. He was the pioneer of trends; the most unearthly of his creations became distinctive in a blink of time. She liked the chemistry with creations. She didnt want to believe that Adnan had anything to do with her selection other than the introduction. The world of her father, Adnan and Jean-Pierre was still a fiction of heights for Maya. For her it was simply a dream come true. She started as a foot soldier in the fashion world; frontline merchandiser and marketer for creations range in India. creations started in Connaught Place in a two-floor establishment. Ground floor was the boutique and first floor was a small office and storage. It was a humble beginning; there was a launch in a five-star hotel, but nothing extraordinary, just a kick-off announcement for the media and gentry to know they have opened shop. Vidya in the press conference said the usual stuff about growing markets etc. They did not have immediate plans to open more retail outlets, maybe another one in Bombay soon, but most sales will continue through secondary boutiques. creations worldwide sees India also as a sourcing destination, she added. What she did not say however, was the well-thought-through marketing plan and war chest available for Branding. In addition to Vidya and Maya the team consisted of few sales people in the boutique, an accountant who also doubled as the storekeeper; and Ronit, who was a fresh designer just graduated from a prestigious fashion school in Delhi. There was not much design work yet in creations India. He was hired to work with the sourcing partners, and to provide support for marketing. He was promised that in due course he will get opportunities for creating his own designs. Maya was responsible for marketing promotions branding etc. The team was led by Vidya who managed the overall operations and was also directly responsible for developing sourcing vendors. She was to mentor Maya and Ronit in their roles. She had preferred a more experienced team but Jean-Pierre said, We will create creations DNA in the organization from day one, fresh people are good. Anyways, the operations will not be much for some years. They will grow in their roles. I will send people from Paris to guide them. The small group became a family; Vidya ensured enough bonding and bonhomie was created. Soon creations became the theme of Mayas life in her voyage beyond school and university.
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********* Clothes were her journey. She fell in love with the feminine form, every curve, every curl, when had the appropriate clothing told a story of art. She fell in love with the masculine form, every cut, every carve, when had the appropriate clothing told a story of art. But her real fascination was nuances of a womens dress along the breast, the perfection of fitting, the hugging of shape, the expression of lifes sensuality. It was with Ronit she shared her journey in the land of clothes and human forms. They became very close friends. He was equally passionate about designs. He was a year elder to Maya. He became her guide in appreciating the human ingenuity in complementing Gods creations. Maya dated men, mostly boys she had known from her Delhi society days of her parents, and Ronits friends. Ronit was always eager to find her a good date. Maya enjoyed the attention and fun of spending romantic evenings with attractive men, but she was not seriously trying to get into a relationship. She was perfectly happy with the way her life was progressing and she wanted the dream to continue. Her love was clothes, and along with Ronit she spent hours talking imagining designing clothes. But in reality the only time they could apply their imagination was girdled by selecting which of creations global ranges to promote in India. The first objective for Jean-Pierre was to establish the brand with its global range. But everyone in the team knew that soon gears will be changed; once creations establishes root in the local market it will alter to stemming mode. Maya enjoyed her work and social life to the hilt, her days passed in promotional shows, liaising with retailers, briefings with agencies, selection of models. And her evenings passed sampling magnificence of Gods creations in his own image. Gods images were helpless against her charm and power of the forbidden fruit. Maya had made her pact with the pill, she will soar free; she had promised the seas she will be the wave that moves the earth; she did not break her pact; she continued popping the pill. Time passed in seasons of autumn and winter collections followed by spring and summer collections. creations sales started picking up. Sourcing business was also constantly growing. Liberalization of the economy released the pent-up demand for luxury goods. Innovative entrepreneurs were springing up factories to source manufacturing for Western fashion houses. The team in creations also grew; the second boutique was opened in Bombay. Explosion of media and advent of Cable Television released new avenues for branding and promotion. The scope of Mayas work kept constantly growing. She was becoming a recognized face in the still-nascent Indian fashion Industry.
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********* Glamour and Wealth flowed in to the ballroom of Taj Mahal Hotel. She was once again the queen; she remembered her Eighteenth birthday when gentry of Delhi had assembled to wish her coming of age. It was a similar party but not the power and its brokers of Delhi, the lineup instead was the bold and beautiful, the rich and famous of Bombay. It was flowering of creations, unlike the small seeding in Delhi, but grand, for the world to see; gods lined to celebrate the arrival; they will know the face behind the faces. The chief attraction of course was the divas, not Maya, even creations was headed by Vidya. But Maya was the essence behind them; she was the drive, it was her show; it was the grand finale of her plan; the celebration of victories; months of days and nights becoming one; her sheer will and drive made destiny conspire to help her; it turned out to be greater than whatever she had imagined, bigger even than her own dreams. Vidya and Maya had come to the ballroom early evening. They were the hosts; guests were trickling in for the event. Vidya was wearing a shining red sari graceful smiling confident; she need not worry how the evening will proceed; confident that Maya will create the illusion everyone will assemble to witness. She walked up to Maya who was inspecting the last minute touch of meticulous arrangements. Maya was wearing a smart suit, bright colored, not formal not casual, but fit for the occasion; fit for her role of master conductor. Everything fine? Vidya asked. Not worried, but more to let her know that she was supported, she was appreciated. Do you have any thing for me to do? Yes, schmoozing, make them all feel special. There will be many of them, you will have a tiring time, Maya smiled. It had all started a year ago, it was her plan; Maya had gone to Vidya with the idea. She liked it, she asked her to do the numbers and write out a proposal, I will discuss it with Jean-Pierre. Maya took a week off from her regular work to create the plan. (Sales, market evolution, general economy, spread of Cable Television, TRPs of channels, segments for creations, evolving tastes, products required to be designed, tactics to launch them, media blitz, the competition, the pageant, photographs of the models, contestants, profiles.) It was a grand conceptualization she created on her computer. Vidya liked the audacity but she was hesitant to send it to Paris for approval. Maya had asked for a budget more than sales forecasted for creations India in the coming year. Even if the campaign is successful, it will take several years to return in revenue. Maya convinced Vidya to send it anyhow. Vidya added a note with all her concerns and forwarded it to JeanPierre. She wanted to look not-stupid in front of her boss.
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She was surprised to see the one line e-mail next morning, Great plan, go ahead, J. No questions asked, no suggestions given. Jean-Pierre and Adnan had a conversation after they went through Mayas presentation. I know the girl since she was a teenager. I tell you, she will go far, she has her fathers genes. Adnan said after the last slide. Yes, he had it too. What a silly scandal. Jean-Pierre reflected the melancholy of out-of-control events. But what do you say of the plan? he asked. I am thinking. If she pulls this one the way she has imagined it, she is in for a surprise. We will pull out more for her. The bonding of friends partners lovers, whatever it may be is real if conversations are conducted without speaking, they smiled at each other in acquiescence visualizing their foot soldier in Delhi; Jean-Pierre typed the e-mail. As soon as the e-mail touched down in Delhi it changed tack to put creations on fire. Maya was excited; her plan was well received and approved. Money was transferred from Paris, recruitments were done; contracts signed with media magazines T.V channels Corporates Bollywood houses; preparations for the big game of creations began. Jean-Pierre sent Jacques to Delhi to help start the design department. Ronit finally got his dream of real designing; fusing stories of east and west with contours of the human body. Jacques was among the lead designers in creations headquarters in Paris, he had been in business for long, he had seen the madness of Sixties, he was the transition of Seventies, he had designed the colors of Eighties, but his age unhampered kept creating the next trend. Passion for the story Jean-Pierre told him, and the excitement of heating experimentation, made him overcome the fear of dying in diarrhea of a loosely leaking stomach, and he agreed to relocate to Delhi. Jacques and Ronit worked on the dresses; it was a pure joy for Maya to watch, Guru and Disciple both looking at illusion; imagining their imagination draping Maya, reflecting her smiles, stitches and pleats sketched, inspirited by the laughter of Maya. But Maya was seldom to be found in the new studio indulging herself and the designers. She was busy with logistics of the events; she wasnt the designer, she was the conductor for whom the world was designed to conduct. The studio started churning out fusions of Indian western, modern ethnic, sensual business, formal casual. Maya orchestrated a public relation campaign. When the advertisement blitz will come, when the events will happen, creations would already be a curiosity. Maya was welcoming guests, the high echelon of pecking order of Bombay glitterati consisted of industrialists and Bollywood stars. She saw the cameras and media waiting in eagerness for the shots of arrival. Barkha
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came up to her, Hey! You are looking pretty, are you going to walk the catwalk too! she joked. Barkha and Maya had become friends during their interaction for creations media promotions. I hope I could, at least I will be free of all the tension. If I do one thing wrong here you will be all over me on live T.V. Maya continued the joke. No, this one is not my event. I will let MTV do the talking. We are here only because you made fashion mainstream news in this country. Barkha complimented her; she knew the stories that go in to make the story that is beamed live. Oh yes! They will do a lot of talking, good talking, they are among the main event sponsors. Music played in the backdrop of a globalizing culture, Money for Nothing and Chicks for Free. And Also, I want my MTV. Barkha moved on. Maya went around greeting key officials of main sponsors. You are too good, we got great mileage. Vineet said. He was the top executive of a sponsoring company. Thank you! Your team did a fantastic job too. Maya returned the compliments. Why dont we get together over coffee, we can discuss the next steps, I have got some plans. Yes, lets do that some time. Ill be busy this week with the launch. Lets meet the week after. Maya had an uncanny knack of sensing attraction hidden behind conversations; she enjoyed it and replied in smiles that didnt hide her knowledge. Yes lets do that, Vineet smiled back. Congratulations! Once again, great job! Sameer said winking at her. He was the media tycoon who along with creations had created the magic. So, did you think of my proposition? He had recently offered Maya a lucrative job in his publishing empire. He had seen her in action; he was impressed by the way she moved the world around her. I have been too busy lately to really think of anything. Maya had bigger dreams than what an Indian media house can carry her to. Will Mr. Bachchan be coming? Sameer asked. No. He has sent in his regrets for not attending. Maya said without offering further explanation. She felt a sad memory for the fallen god. The cameras and clicks flashed and shot in full steam as Bollywood started making its entry; the trinity of Khans trying triple hard to fill in the vacuum of fallen god, and the women trying harder to linger in the limited
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shelf life of the limelight. Mwah! Mwahh! Kisses in the air well-rehearsed, smiles well-meant, media and Bollywood all over each other; Maya excused herself, she let the inertia of glamour control this part of the program. She glanced around, eyes of the admiral standing on the bridge with his telescope scanning the seas, inspecting the order of the fleet, patterning the progression of the battle, patiently preparing for the next set of colors to be raised. She saw Shilpi moving towards entrance of the hall and greeting a man. Shilpi was creations in Bombay; she was the boutique-manager cum designer, and face of the organization in source of wealth. Maya, meet my husband, Raj. Shilpi introduced, Raj, this is Maya. This event is her brainchild. I have heard so much about you, Shilpi is a complete fan, Raj said. Shilpi was the one-woman army of creations in Bombay; she had been instrumental right hand for Maya in orchestrating the whole thing. They had often talked about Raj, their life in U.S before Raj started his software company and they moved to Bombay. Shilpi had worked with creations in the States. It was a destined opportunity when they opened in Bombay. Vidya and Maya were impressed by story of Rajs companys name and logo designed by Jean-Pierre; the second company they knew of, which refused to Spell in Capital; the connection of running letters. More guests walked in. Wealthy men, beautiful wives, round of hellos, flurry of congratulations, chitchat of schools in States, air weaved in secured harmony, glancing in hugs, flying in kisses. Shilpi and Maya excused themselves, start of show approaching. They climbed up the ramp and disappeared backstage. Curtain was the divide that separated the orderly graceful orchestrated world of guests wealth glamour stars kisses with the energy chaos confusion creation of the backstage. Shilpi and Maya crossed the curtain in to a large dressing room with mirrors makeup-desks racks hanger-stands petite-framed-models designers makeup-artists drapers hairdressers clothes accessories all scattered in an apparent confusion; but a little step-back look reveals it to be a self-conducted symphony of creations; a very unisex environment, women changing clothes and getting makeup done in various stages of nudity, no one is bothered, everyone is playing his her own note, everyone striving for her his own small piece of perfection; the amalgamation of art will be carried by the ladies in its entirety only to other side of the divide, on the stage and runway, but here in the dressing room its more a story of words and sentences scattered, rather than a song lyrically embedded in tune with music of the completed composition. The captain descended in engine room of the ship burning coal
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bubbling steam moving piston greasing heat; a deck that does not exist for guests of the luxury liner. Her inspection and her confidence in her crew, invisible to glamour that will cross the stage, its creator reveling in her smile and satisfaction; and on the sofa, the two leading ladies, ready to walk, admiring rest of the lineup. Smell of the dressing room was an array of perfumes and pomades mingling with mild wafting fumes of tobacco. Where had you been? You are on in five minutes. We have to do a touchup before you go onstage. Ronit came screaming to her as soon as he saw Maya. It's all right, I dont need much of makeup; a slight brush-up will do. She calmed him down, Light me a cigarette please. I need one before the show starts. Maya inhaled, exhaling out the world from her mind, focusing just on few minutes in future, rehearsing the opening in between her puffing; the makeup man applying a light layer of foundation, more airbrushing than applying, he is eagerly waiting for her to finish the fag so that he can finish his last bit by putting a fresh layer of gloss over her lips. The guy with the headphone, a small wire-like mouthpiece protruding towards his mouth from his right ear, waving his hand in counting; Ok, Go! he signaled Maya. Once again she crossed across divide of the Great Drape to come upstage; from the world of believe making to the world of make believe; a wireless microphone in her hand, lights dimmed, guests and media all seated, glamour is back where it belongs, on the stage; Its dark except the limelight following in Mayas steps as she walks out from the curtain, slowly moving center stage. Ladies and gentlemen, a very warm welcome to you all, for this commemoration of the journey of Indian women, She started the exordium, This year has been a watershed for us all, a whole generation is inspired by their success, they have made us proud. We have gathered here to celebrate their victories. Celebrate the success of a generation of women who are now at forefront along with men, becoming an equal contributor in nation building. We know there are miles to be covered, but this is a beginning, this is an inspiration. We at creations salute them. Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming, Miss Universe 1994 Sushmita Sen, and Miss World 1994 Aishwarya Rai. An explosion of music and lighting, Sush and Ash cross the divide of curtains, kisses in the air, three-way kisses, twice into twice, six in total, the microphone is passed to star attractions of the day. The two formally declared most beautiful women of the world, no longer in gaze of a pageants competition; no longer required world peace, global empathy, and inter-racial communication; still in gaze of the media
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and nation; required is the praise of Indian women and her achievements; and what better way than to shower a heartfelt thank-you on the third lady on stage. We thank creations and Maya, who had a great role to play in this journey, sponsoring, preparation, everything. We had the worlds best people to work with. Thank you very much; this is as much your victory. And Also time for following endorsement contracts, promoting creations of Maya. Congratulations for the good work they are doing, putting India on the map of fashion, bringing India to the world, and the best of West to India. Thank you very much Ash, thank you very much Sush. Its your modesty that you give us credit. It was not possible but for you two. Thank you and congratulations once again on behalf of a proud nation. Ladies and Gentlemen, the next part of our program is a small show. We have showcased our new India collection of creations. These are designed very much in here, very much by our people. The range is created by Ronit for creations India. We will also be launching our spring-summer collection globally. I am proud to announce, it will be the first full range of Indian designs in the fashion weeks of Paris, Milan, New York and London. The stage darkened again, streaming light highlighting the catwalk, music changed to theme of the show. Models started swaying in, graceful wave slowly becoming rhythm of the tide as one after another they walked up-and-down the runway. The beauty queens descended to the guest area and took seats reserved for them next to Vidya. Maya was once again backstage in the dressing room, she lighted another cigarette. It had all started with her plan; she had seen the numbers of growing T.V viewership and disposable incomes, the magic that lay waiting to happen when numbers were combined in perspective. Her idea was to launch creations India range along with the Miss India beauty Pageant. They will sponsor girls for the competition, they will design for them, train them, create a public relation engine to back them up, and around them promote the new range backed up by extensive media campaigns. She had signed contracts with pageant organizers, sponsors, media partners. Among finalists were several girls from creations. She knew one of hers will be the winner, the girls had really worked hard, they had benefits of trainers from France, doyens of the game; they had benefit of cuttingedge designs created by Jacques and Ronit. Conscientiously selected for their attractiveness and winning attitude, they matched Mayas midnight oil second by second by their own sweat. She did the right conversations at right places; she wasnt surprised
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when both the winners were their girls. But her shock started after that. Not known in their office in New Delhi, Jean-Pierre had unleashed an overwhelmingly powerful engine in preparation for the next round. Miss India contest was least of his worries, the incremental increase in Indian sales was least of his dreams. He had seen visions of letting the obvious happen, seeing the insight of rising tide hiding beyond the horizon, judged by the movement of waves visible on shore, sensing currents hidden beneath the froth. As soon as the winner and the runner-up were declared, to Mayas surprise the baton was passed to the engine prepared in Paris to throttle to Manila and Sun City. The girls had opportunity that other women from India never had; they were backed and trained by the best in the world, designers of almighty creations worked on their wardrobe. creations marketing team orchestrated a global campaign. The wave of Indian liberalization had already made wealthy of the world take notice of the Maharaja of Air India metamorphosing into the welcoming turbaned Sardar. Opportunities for prospecting prosperity gelled well with exotic beauties. There were early movers, the real visionaries, Jean-Pierres of the financial and business world. They were raising funds for investments in India, but on the Street the sell-side boys were finding it difficult to convince the stripes. Potential is there but it sleeps with snakes, was the standard reaction. Beautiful faces on covers of big magazines will make them forget outdated dreams of cobras and charmers. Adnan started his own parallel campaign of conversations in nodes of flowing power and money. The India Story, the pretty faces, was waiting to happen. Dedication diligence and training of the girls paid off to shock the suspense of a swashing society. Both of them came back with the crowns. It was pure exhilaration, Miss Universe and Miss World, charming faces of modern India, across the globe, on magazine covers; step aside Picture Singhs and Snake Charmers. The finale came for the welcome, for the celebration; for the launch of creations India range. Vidya e-mailed Jean-Pierre to block his dates, they needed the biggest brand for the big launch, but to everyones surprise his reply read: I will not be attending, it diverts attention. Jacques please ensure to be completely away from public visibility. All attribution for designs will be Ronits, the Show Mayas and Business Vidyas. Please ask the winning ladies not to talk much about foreign trainers etc., try branding Indian names as far as possible. It has to be creations India, it has to be Indian. Jean-Pierre was an artist, he knew that the difference between great art and good is not so much in creation, but more in deletion; the most heartfelt strokes of a painter, words of a poet, steps of a dancer, notes of a
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musician the expression of deepest emotions if they do not fit with the schema of the overall painting poetry choreography symphony they need to be deleted; essence of emotions of the truly great artist is erasure. Maya finished her cigarette, she sat on the sofa seeing Ronit helping models change clothes as soon as they came backstage in the dressing room, it was a choreographed speed, a ballet movement, designer and model becoming one, and then separating in change of clothes, the model again ready to cross the curtain of illusion, designer busy with another, Maya watched tranquilly from the couch, the cycle of change of clothes, she imagined the walk beyond the curtain, where the model carried the design, the dress in itself incomplete without her, Its the walk that makes it art, the final piece that brings it all together, and finally when she is at head of the ramp, the stopping, the stillness of reflection, boldness of the pose, glance of the eyes, the poise teasing the audience and designer alike, glancing in indication of the turn, the evanescent statuesque stance and then the turn, the moment of culminating training, and then the walk back, swaying into sunset, dress draping the movement, swinging along, complimenting the grace, but the audience dont wait to see her cross the curtain back, because another is already walking towards them, the gaze is already back from hips to face, and in full limelight she wades backstage into dusk, invisible to the world seeing the next design rising, again she becomes one with the designer who is helping her change clothes, getting into the next design, wearing the next rising; strutting back, segueing into the sunrise again. The cycle went on for some time. The audience was enraptured. It was Mayas turn to be onstage again. She puffed through hurriedly, another airbrush of foundation, slight rekindling of lip-glow, repairing the smudge of smoke, whiff of perfume, the headphone man once again, Maya, you are on, hands waving in counting, Go. Thank you ladies and gentleman. She spoke into the microphone as she walked forward, audience applauding the show, lights slowly changing, music slowing down; Let me first thank all the models for the lovely show. Thank you ladies, And now, let me present to you the man behind the magic you saw tonight, the designer of creations India collection, ladies and Gentlemen please welcome, Ronit Pal. Another round of applause, Ronit walks in, it was his moment, the moment of face behind the designs; Thank you Maya, Thank you all, thank you. Thank you Aishwarya and Sushmita. Congratulations to you once again. You have done us proud. Thank you Maya on my behalf and everyone elses, this journey would not have been possible without you. And thank you to the models who wore the designs today, they did them proud.
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Once again an explosion of music, whole stage brightly lit, the final walk, in a chain the models walk in one after another, audience applauding designer and models, models and designer applauding each other and the audience, music and clapping mixed up in the euphoric applause. Ronit bows in acceptance and trails back with the models, the glamour train slowly recedes trudging backstage. After the silence Maya starts again, Ladies and Gentlemen, before we conclude this show today, we have a very special presentation to honor a very special guest. I would request both Sushmita and Aishwarya to come up on the stage for the accolade of our gratitude to inspiration. Ash and Sush climb up the stage, there is a quietness of anticipation, climax of the evening, queens themselves called for presenting. But before I welcome our special guest, I need to make a confession: I grew up having a crush for the Captain, but I always knew it was the Navigator who guided the Ship, To boldly go where no man has gone before, and obviously and aptly, it could only be done by a woman. She continues today for all of us to be an inspiration that guides the Ship to fly beyond imaginations. Ladies and Gentlemen please welcome, Ms. Persis Khambatta. Her grace walked up to the stage and illusion stood up for a standing ovation; wetness of emotions and inspiration; timelessness of beauty of creation. Stage and the hall lit up brightly, Thank you all for coming here today. I hope you enjoyed the show. Drinks and dinner is served, enjoy yourselves. Maya concluded, and the party continued. Guests sampled champagne and scotch, along chitchats. The mood was lax; live cameras were switched off, the pressure of gazing television no longer there; gods and goddesses playing the part of men and women; Maya went around the hall ensuring everyone enjoyed the party. Ash got a respite from media and admirers. She came up to Maya, Thank you for everything. Maya was always mesmerized by her charm and her eyes, her glamour, her perfection. I should thank you. You are looking stunning today, actually as always, Maya replied. I should have been born a man; I could have lived a life loving you. Maya had fallen in love with her the day she had seen the Pepsi advertisement. It was her beauty that triggered her thinking about the grand plan she envisioned and executed. The translucence of their eyes connected in mutual acknowledgment, souls connected in admiration, in realization that they were two sides of the same energy, Aishwarya and Maya, a connection of friendship, respect. Even without live cameras celebrity time is limited, and before long, the private moment was hijacked by a stream of admirers. Maya moved on.
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She was soon talking to Barkha; she was another of Mayas admirations; the girl friends chatted in mutual adoration. Dinner was already laid out and guests were eating. Maya went around the food stalls; she was satisfied with the gourmet lined up. She enquired about the food, everyone seemed to like it. Maya was seeing off the guests as they started leaving. Soon the hall was left with fewer people, mainly staff of creations and other sponsors, media and beauty product companies, and the models. The after party started. It was time to unwind, formality-less unabashed celebration, sweet taste of success, culmination of days and nights of backbreaking hard work to create the show of perfection. They all gathered around the bar and raised a toast to Maya, Ronit presided, To her illusion, the Queen, Maya, Vidya raised her glass, Maya, everyone else in unison with raised glasses, Maya, she felt humbled; a drop of tear rode the tide of time. The after party didnt have any pretense, everyone pretended being back in the university. Alcohol took over the proceedings. Most of them had made up their minds for a binge. It was after months, the energy was finally released; it was well deserved. Sanjay had been avoiding Maya for the whole evening; acquired boldness of the drinks made him come over and congratulate her. Really great show; you are fantastic. He said sipping his scotch. Sanjay was an entrepreneur. He had a successful garment manufacture and export business. He was several years older to Maya. Vidya after a thorough selection process had selected Sanjays firm as the sourcing partner for creations globally. It was a big opportunity for Sanjay; he delivered to everyones satisfaction. The bosses in Paris were impressed by the quality they got for prices that Sanjays factory in NOIDA charged. The final-bit lacework was done on the garments in workshops in France, including attaching the inside label designed and manufactured by creations, Paris; the clothes proudly worn in the clubs of New York and London. It was an arrangement that made everyone happy, wearer of the clothes at one end, and migrant tailors and machine operators in Sanjays factories at the other. The proposition was attractive and orders to Sanjay grew exponentially. He soon had a well-established large business. After his success he pursued what was missing in his life to make it complete. Maya met Sanjay as a procurer for creations. Bosses in Paris wanted to shift more production to cheaper locations. Sanjay and Maya liked each other. Sanjays business was his passion; he had forgotten the clock to create his markets in Europe and America, and factories in Ghaziabad and NOIDA. But things had grown large enough to be run by inertia of hired
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hands, he wanted to share success, he wanted someone to belong to, he wanted family to leave his wealth to. He fell in love with Maya. She admired his acumen with money and abilities with people. He was a perfect host, he bowled over his customers and associates, he went the extra length to oblige them, helped anyone he came across without any calculation of returns, life had taught him that every favor is paid back, and everything was paid back in terms of deals, introductions, oiling the machinery, recommendations to the right places, all added up to his empire which now included manufacturing for big names like Gap and Old Navy; but he felt the gap of a family and longing for daughter of the sea. Maya dated Sanjay; she liked his drive, his self-made success. They were similar people; they knew what they want and endeavored to get it; the simulacrum made love blossom. But soon Maya found out that the similarity was in the drive to get what they wanted, not in what they wanted. Sanjay had made his business, for him it was now time to create a family, a world which he would call his own, a wife whom he will love more than himself more than his business and children who will become the purpose of living; his idea, his perfect dream, was clear. But it did not match with Mayas. Marriage was not on Mayas scheme of things, she was living her dream, preparing to soar to the skies; Sanjay being elder and already soared was impatient to settle down. Sanjay finally proposed; it was dignified style, most expensive restaurant, private performance of the band, solitaire fit for the queen. Maya loved Sanjay like waves love the shore. But the corollary was that howsoever large empires of the shore, waves are not ruled by it; waves are free. The solitaire was locked in and so was the dream. Sanjay worked out an arranged marriage through a matchmaking relative. His wife was a perfect hostess eloquent educated stylish but she was not Maya. The wedding was grand, gifts and jewelry flowed, families were happy; the solitaire sat alone in the locker of a bank. It had been a difficult breakup for both of them. And every time Sanjay saw Maya that evening, he felt guilty of attraction, the guilt of betrayal for his lovely wife back home in Delhi. Thanks Sanjay, be prepared for the boom in orders. The campaign will increase sales like wild fire. Maya aware of the awkwardness kept the conversation to business; she continued sipping her drink, and then dropped the dissimulation, How is your wife? She had been to his wedding, they had promised to be good friends; she had tried hard to feel happy for him, for herself, for her. She is fine, she is expecting. Sanjay replied.
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Congratulations, when is the baby due? Maya felt a mixed emotion of melancholic happiness. Sanjays life will be complete; he will have his dream. Yes! She will also have hers, she did not regret, she tried feeling happy for everyone. Sanjay soon left her and joined other people. The volume of music was turned up, people were dancing on the stage and on the ramp; the room had cigarette smoke everywhere; the after party did not require the formality of ashtrays and confines of the dressing room for smoking; the floor was littered with ashes. It was already late night; the party was hotting up with every passing minute; the DJ played groovy dance numbers; men and women gyrating to his tunes. Music was loud enough and dancing drowned enough for conversations to become meaningless, everyone focused on partying. Someone had grass, joint was passed, music blazed; All that she wants is another baby. The lights were bright and dim in multicolor floating in air filled with fitful laser beaming across in psychedelic flashes. People from Delhi were staying in the same hotel, no one needed to go home, if passed-out someone will help you to the room, damn good thing to party in the same hotel you are staying, saves you a lot of trouble, people are dancing, bodies becoming one in high of the moment, no one is bothered, no one is looking, it is celebration of success, a little indulgence is allowed, people dancing, also kissing, caressing, gyrating; Boisterous Bacchanalia; music is blaring; She is gone tomorrow boy. Shilpi is dancing with Raj, only the guys from Bombay are with partners, Vidya dancing with Sanjay, an expecting wife and a sleeping boyfriend in Delhi; but they are just dancing not sleeping. Ronit surrounded by ashen models, they are over him like flies, he is king of the day, it was all his designs, he is the artist; the designer of creations whose design compliments creations of the creator. It is his day, he is being gracious, taking turns to dance with all of them, taking breaks in between to sip on his drink and puff on his cigarette; the whole atmosphere is of seductive sensuality. Its her turn, Maya is dancing with Ronit. She whispers in his ears, You are enjoying all the attention. He smiles, their bodies touch and part in movement of the steps; dance echoing beats of the music. Maya is letting herself be; something within wants to stop her; he is a very good friend, also a colleague; this business spoils everything. Yes, but its just dancing; he was sensual, he had the sensuality of a woman, she liked it in a man; hands caressing the sensuousness, legs stepping with the song. Maya and Ronit were very close friends, their relationship already beyond colleagues. They shared every detail about each other. Maya told him about the men she dated, he told her about models who wanted to go out with him. There had been occasions when they were hanging out
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together having a drink, when Maya wanted the evening to end differently, when she felt a strong urge to connect with him in more ways than conversations, but Ronit always dropped her home and went away. She appreciated his handling of the situation, avoiding the complications; there normally were men she dated, she did not need complications of being involved with a colleague; it accentuated her admiration and attraction. Maya had let it be like that, till today; No, even today, they were just dancing; but she did not like the way models were around him; she saw Shilpi and Raj oblivious of the world in their dancing and love; she was high, she was longing, she was dancing. There is more drinking, more smoking, more dancing, finally people start retiring to their rooms, Maya pulls Ronit to her room, he is reluctant, but comes along, they kiss, there is something missing, it is not right, he is not responding in a way she knows, they sit on the bed chatting, both of them are very high. Maya asks, Whats wrong? You want to go? Its not what you think, Ronit was slurring, finding it difficult to find words, still trying, to make it sound as indirect as possible, I love you, I am always happy with you, she is waiting for him to come to the point, he is struggling, I love the human body, I love to drape, to design, but I dont feel the love in a normal kind of way. I mean sexually, maybe I am asexual, maybe I am more attracted to the masculine form, Ronit had wetness in his eyes, he was high on events of the evening, he had lived a life in the closet, had never ever talked like this, about this, to anyone, he loved Maya, he knew she will keep his secret, today his designs were presented to the world, today was his day of glory, today he let his innermost design, eccentricity of the greatest designer, come out, he presented his struggle with the love of human form to his closest friend, Maya seeing him quiet with emotions started laughing, partly to cheer him up, partly to ease the awkwardness for herself, alternate sexuality still a closet topic, he relaxed as she hugged him and kissed him slightly on his lips, they caressed each other, they were in love with the ultimate design of it all of the ultimate creator, the human body, unadulterated love of admiration, undiluted by any sexual emotion, they slept together in stoned embrace, her final words that day were accompanied by their mutual laughter, You fucker, you should have told me before, I wouldnt have tried that hard, and I cant stop laughing remembering the desirous expressions of ogling models you had been inciting all evening, they Slept in a Deep Bond of Friendship, of LOVE.

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Chapter 13 Love
After the grand launch, Mayas life in the journey of clothes became a Dialogue of the Breasts. Ronit was the designer, she was the inspiration. He imagined Maya whenever he worked on a new dress, and together they created a whole line of womens clothing, reflecting emotions of the breasts. The Evening Gown formal graceful sensual, breasts supported by the corset, reflecting order of the universe perfection imagined by humans; slight cleavage letting imagination know that order is ostentation; its just the tip of energy that floats within. The Sari classic all encompassing, waves floating in time, patterns of creation, drapery of illusion, breasts within the blouse secrets of Maya; dialogue of real and illusion, hidden deep inside; held taut by straps of the brassiere. The Cocktail Dress flirtatious seductive sheathing, sloping shoulders rising breasts, depth of cleavage inciting hidden adventurous; soaring in straplessness of the brassiere; igniting imagination. The T-shirts freedom to be, freedom to drop delusion, they burned it long back, who needs a bra, bubbling energy raring to go. The Sports Top tightly held, its time to focus, channeled energy to the line of victory, walking Fast Coming First, Firstest. The Tank Top, a world of fabrication created by man, clothes melting into creation of the creator, a conversation of cloth and skin, human and divine. And Mayas favorite, the Business Suit, walking into boardrooms where the question is clear whats brought on the table; within the suit repository of wisdom structured planned numbered presented on screen of the room; the curves highlighted just enough to bring the grace on table to glue the deal. And the Uniforms: Nurses, the compassion carried within make patients believe they are more than diagrams in medical textbooks. Soldiers, boldness of the shape warns the world of consequences of revealing her Shakti. Cabin crews, curve of the smile takes out the tiredness of travel. The Maternity Blouse, nursing feeding facilitating creation; and the Negligee, the nightly bliss of peace sleep inside dreams of free soaring waves; unbothered by burning turning world. And the best, the Bikini; Sun-worshipper; who needs men when you have the sun; who is worshipping whom; even gods are not immune to temptations; seeding desire in furnace of creation.
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And Also not existent in creations range; the extra low cut of the streetwalker; expose of solicitation, respect of history, a profession older than any of mans. Maya was happy, she was glad to be born a woman, to be given the gift of appreciating the beauty of creation in its multiple manifestations. She was enjoying her life amidst the dresses business casual formal evening cocktail one for each occasion, one always there laboriously crafted in rightness to complement the time and context. She introduced collections after collections and the sales of creations steadily climbed up. Time passed by, and along creations Maya too grew in her reputation. It became a cycle where she need not guess what will sell; what sold was what she guessed. Maya was well-liked among the designers and retailers alike. She had developed the uncanny knack for choosing the winning designs; she became the fashion sense of the fashionable; the collective consciousness of expression of culture. Culture is the taste cultivated to acquire a sense of belonging; Maya had a beehive of pursuers handsome successful single men. Love is the emotion required for a sense of completeness Maya felt complete belonging to her Seas and Sky. She remained the freedom of waves even as she soared high. Feminine and feminist are not antonyms. YES! She was happy of reality of her world; it was her real world, not the imagined world of incorrigible Mahisa where clothes are not a dialogue but a monologue; Monologues of the Vagina; Does-It-Exist? ********* It was Sejals wedding, Maya was in a sari; she liked occasions when she got a chance to wear a sari. She came with Ronit who was in an ethnically embroidered Kurta. Maya and Ronit were friends of Sejal and Abhinav; they were happy for them. Ronit had introduced Abhinav to Maya and Maya had introduced Abhinav to Sejal. Abhinav and Sejal connected so well that after a few months of dating they decided to get married, it was a story of archetypical romance; perfect match. They had seen in each other, compatibility, convenience, and everything else that goes into making a great marriage; Beauty. Sejal knew Abhinav had dated Maya, and was once attracted to her. Maya was new for Abhinav, but she had known her since they were crossing into the teenage world. She had laughed at audacity of the doctor, of him imagining he can crape illusion. Understanding and mutual admiration of Maya brought them closer, and soon the relationship grew to no longer needing the connection of Maya. They were mature lovers; young professionals glowing in love. Maya had dated Abhinav. During those days all the weight of anatomy he carried in his mind couldnt get Maya out of him. Maya liked him very
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much; he was the charm of earthliness. Evenings with Abhinav inspired trends of the time; not fanciful designs but understated beauty of functionalism. The women around the world went through another revolution, silent this time, and started playing the games of men instead of burning femininity. They needed clothes that supported the dredge of power and controlled imagination of the powerful. The designs were like a glamorous doctor, high both on utility and desirability. Abhinav fit the bill perfectly; he was chivalrous to the cortex of his cell. His conversations were stimulating; thickness of Grays in his head of understanding anatomy was complemented by twinkle in his eyes for poetry and painting. Abhinav was in love with Maya. He had set up a successful practice gaining a reputation of diligence. He was building his life cell by cell to the magnificence worthy of creation. He needed an anchor of Petri Dish to flourish further; he proposed to Maya. Maya loved him like waves love the shore, and corollary was that there is no lock in between the waves and shores. Love was freedom for Maya, it was Maya for Abhinav. He felt complete with Maya; she was complete with her sea and sky. Abhinav had planned his life well till as far as he can see, but they were not the horizons of Maya. Abhinav could not live in the ambiguity of smiles of seas and skies; he made an effort to get out of illusion; she was left free to soar to her horizons. It was a nice, not very grand but very eloquent and tasteful, wedding; bride and groom were both in attires designed by Ronit: lavish bridal lehanga choli for Sejal and marital band-gala for Abhinav. They looked pretty together; it was one of those moments that bring tears of Joy. Maya met after long years many of her school friends. The girl friends chatted about men, they were all either married or in various stages of relationships, or parents arranging a match; all leading to a happily married ending. Maya didnt know what to say, she just let her old friends guess that Ronit was her date. He was already a known designer and conversations suggested congratulations of the catch; it was a good match, King and Queen in making of Indian fashion. Maya smiled, apparently on the design and elegance of it, invisibly on the irony; Elementary! Doctor Watson! ********* Time turned in circles and tides followed the Moon. Years passed, fashions changed and came back, and men continued to beg and marry out of illusion. Mayas skills made society change clothes while she changed men reflecting the latest trend. But she was losing a bit of herself in every relationship she went
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through; she could not understand why. Why her relationships needed to end; she was perfectly happy, she was an independent woman, and the men she dated were all of contemporary times; why did they not understand that her life was free, it was not destined to be tied in matrimony. She was amused of perception created by cheap romance, that men coy away from commitment; she shied in finding a man who was not afraid of the world to love and to be free. For her the seas and skies were same; love was freedom. She couldnt understand what prevented people to see beauty of the waves. She grew in her stature as conscience keeper of high culture. She became the celebrity of celebrities. She was enjoying her work, her newfound identity and the power it brought. Her kick was the anxious wait designers and models had before the queen pronounced her judgment. Maya liked all the attention, Maya enjoyed her games with men she loved; she stayed on the hilt while Men got married and still not out of illusion contrived coincidences to meet her, get one glimpse of her; but she couldnt understand why. She didnt try too hard and continued with life, changing clothes of creations. There were younger boys, keen to make an impression; there were older men still chasing illusion. But the cyclicality of it all made her tired. Maya started getting bored with men; she found more-meaningful relations with her girlfriends; Sejal continued being her confidante. Single was an embarrassment from which she was saved by the company of Ronit; an arrangement that worked best for both of them. Success brought contemplations. Maya started thinking about life and relationships in different ways. She reflected on lives of her girlfriends successful powerful beautiful but always in a world of men. The parameters of judgments were all set from the world of men. She had reversed the equation, so had her girlfriends, but she still found something missing in the long conversations she had with them. They talked and laughed about men, but each time there was a laughter Maya felt the missing link. She didnt miss men in her life, it was full of them. She did not want to get married, her journey had just started; the world was waiting. But howsoever hard she tried; bit by bit something within her was dithering. With passage of years, the conversations around office and parties were turning into stories of family vacations, and chronicles of growing children. Maya loved kids and Maya loved seas, but she could not connect to stories of parents taking their children to shores; every such conversation took her back to her own beach. Something was missing she was longing to relive her moments of childhood waves something was wrong. Despite fawning interest she
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didnt like the stories of her friends and their families. With passage of time her dates became infrequent; her interactions with men became worldly; they were colleagues, they were associates, sometimes they even continued being friends, but she no longer loved them; and the men learned to create their own illusions to hide emotions. The boom times of nineties and advent of Internet was changing society and culture in more ways than one. Fashion along with the world was going digital, style became functional and functionality became stylish. Minimalist patterns in peaches of non-gaudy colors, pastels of beige and mauve, bolds of white and black; clothes converged to the utopia of unisex genre; men became metrosexual and women climbed ceilings. Shrinking of the world generated energy which showered as wealth in the neighborhoods of rich in Delhi and Mumbai; wealth needs confirmation and creations grew. Vidya continued as India head but Maya handled most operations; merchandising global ranges, creating Indian designs sourcing retail marketing branding promotions. Jean-Pierre gave her a carte blanche. He patiently waited for future travelling East. He didnt care for profits from India. He made enough money for himself and his shareholders by comforting the wealth of London and Paris that the world is turning as it always did. But in here his focus was to create the Brand; when future arrives he wanted creations to be there before; his prescience of coming beehives hanging in fringes. He didnt bother for numbers, only things that were discussed when Maya was in a call with him was events, promotions, endorsements. Maya strived to meet the expectation of speed of burning money to create the multicolor smoke the screen of creations. creations was everywhere, in Bollywood, in fashion shows, in cricket matches, in rock concerts. It was equally there in art exhibitions, book signings, theater premiums, classical performances. Jean-Pierres dream was to make the popular haute and the haute popular; Future Coming presided by the queen bee of creations; the soprano of Prima Donna Assoluta of his Opera; the superlative virtuoso. ********* The millennium launches were a big event for creations worldwide. Never before events and promotions of this scale was done simultaneously to launch multiple ranges. Maya was busy organizing. The concept was visualized by Jean-Pierre over a conference call and he made Maya completely in charge for orchestrating the gig. There was an unlimited flow of funds. The plan was to be everywhere when the party happens, on T.V, in print, at the parties, in the concerts; everyone at countdown of the millennium should see something of creations. Mayas social life disappeared, so did the men. She worked like crazy; this was going to be the moment of her life, the world will stand in ovation.
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She started with creations sponsoring Indian reruns of Friends, and Sex and the City. She had frequent calls with Jean-Pierre discussing the preparations. Maya was mesmerized by his energy, passion and imagination; he was a storehouse of ideas, after the calls she would think of all she had heard of him; she tried to feel what an intimate touch with God would be like. There was heavy media buying from the Christmas Eve onwards, a weeklong dazzling blitz was planned. Maya was at her office watching T.V, seeing advertisements and product placements in shows and serials, the screen suddenly started streaming breaking news in bottom about a hijack. She wanted to watch the news, but continued flipping the remote to see music and entertainment channels where maximum media was bought. She hoped that the hijack business will soon end and it does not distract people from the theme of history transitioning into a new epoch. She was glad when the breaking news streaming at bottom of the screen read about the airplane landing in Amritsar, she was relieved, it will soon end, our commandos are well trained, they will take care, time to focus on her moment, channels again changed to music and entertainment. But even designs of the best-laid plans can go awry, the plane flew off from Amritsar, Maya panicked, she tried keeping her calm, she started making frantic calls to agencies, everyone said that it cannot be arranged so fast, all media is bought weeks in advance, for the news channels it will be even more difficult, She bypassed the buying channels, she started making direct calls, she immediately needed commercial spots, she was willing to give double the going price, money was not a constraint, time was, she knew, party or no party the country will be watching news for the whole week, she had not known this before, her media plan for the millennium glitz was light on news, who watches news on such a grand occasion when the occasion itself is news, it was conspiracy of the devil to deny her her glory, she will not let it go without a fight, she knew people, she will plead beg pay her way into buying slots, She was busy, as busy as crew of the plane, the hijackers, the government machinery negotiating a deal, media reporting the event, and crowds gathering in sympathy, she was busy in squeezing her way into buying slots, shipping videos, placing products, Yes! she has a great collection of business suits, it was winter, the newsreaders can wear it, correspondents on ground can don it, she just needs to push a bit hard, no she will not let it go, she has worked days and nights for this, creations will be visible whatever may be the channel you watch, she has her friends, she can request, they also needed her to get the scoops, it was mutual, it was their time, their turn for the favor, Days continued into night and day again, oh! the Foreign Minister himself is going to Afghanistan, its a pity he is wearing an old-fashioned
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band-gala, if only she could have got Ronit to design quickly, something more befitting for the occasion, and get the Minister to wear it, This is not the time to dream, this is the time to find feasible solutions, this hijacking is a bad business, pretty faces worried about passengers safety is good business, the pretty faces will wear clothes from creations, need to act fast, speed is of the essence, The negotiations are successful, Foreign Minister is returning with hostages, there has only been one casualty, sad, but things have been taken care of in the nick of time, Delhi Airport is crowded with people family media well-wishers and hordes of onlookers, many of them wearing clothes and accessories from creations, the channel cuts in for commercial break, slots are all filled by creations, she pulled it, yes! she did not let the accidental turn of events take her down, she was constantly monitoring the TRPs from her office, it was great, the art of possible is to create opportunity of every adversity, and the timing perfect, it ends in a happy ending just before the party begins, The party begins, the country switches channels, there are concerts shows programs across all cities, she had been invited in several of them, but she chose not to go, it was a virtual orchestra conducted by the invisible maestro sitting in her office, with several phones on her desk, with several screens on the wall; it was the night of visibility of TRPs, She loved it, the party went as per plan and the hijacking finally turned out to be a bonus; it was the invisible coronation of the Queen; she became the creator of public taste and private fantasies; creations of creations are illusions of Maya. When she went home early morning she felt the ponderous burden of something within her breaking; she was tired; she slept; it was not a happy sleep. ********* Sejal was expecting; the date was approaching fast. Maya spent a lot of her time with her as she started on her maternity leave towards end of the last trimester. In joy and anxiety of expectation both Sejal and Abhinav had completely cleansed their memories of Maya which was an illusion from past, the Maya they found with them in preparation of their own moment of creation was a friend, support and a pillar of strength. As time neared, Maya became a regular in their home. Sejal brightened up when she saw Maya. She held her hand and put it on her bloated tummy, Maya felt the kick in deep of her heart. Sharing of moments with Abhinav and Sejal accelerated her withering within and intensified her confusedness. The joys shared rearranged itself in an undecipherable pattern in her dreams. She will wake up tired and start the day, but as soon she reached creations she bubbled with energy again; she visited the expecting parents in
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evenings and bubbled with joy; and she went home in the night and slept in mystification. Sejal was a gynecologist. She read her ultrasounds; she knew it was a boy. Maya and Sejal went shopping in preparation. Even before the child came to the world Maya was developing an identity for him. The smallest of his baby wear needed to be reflection of a personality in style. Maya was an expert, Sejal was glad she was there to help. Sejal and Abhinav had a good practice and large earning, no stone was left unturned, the best baby wear, designer pram, multifunctional crib, everything was bought. Maya selected stuff in exceeding details, sometimes tiring for Sejal to wait. Maya spend her evenings in painstaking perfection of shopping for the expected arrival and went home to sleep in increasing crescendo of confusion. In the last week of Sejals pregnancy Mayas social life was reduced to Sejal, Abhinav and the child at verge of being born. As the days became closer, Sejal started becoming nervous; Ignorance is Bliss, Knowledge is Fear. Sejal being a gynecologist imagined all possible problems; her head asked her to relax and then conjured visions of deformed complications. She had seen enough births in operation theaters and labor rooms. She had read enough to know the biology of the clock. She shared her darkest fears (psyched up with increased pregnancy risks post-thirty) with Maya. That night Maya could not sleep, the patterns of her dreams became a clock running fast and the Biology of Gynecology haunted her ticking like a Time Bomb. The labor started one evening when Maya was with them. Maya helped Sejal inside the car and Abhinav drove to their nursing home. The labor room was already prepared and expecting the mother to be. The midwives started working on Sejal, Abhinav and Maya watched. Maya wanted to go outside and wait, but Sejal was getting nervous, she wanted her to stay, she requested her with halting breath in pain. Maya could not refuse; she stood next to her holding her hands. Maya felt the pulse of her palm throbbing fast, reflecting anxiety fear pain exhilaration joy the pulse carried so much emotions that Maya didnt know whether it was hers. Palms had folded in a connection of souls; Maya was living Sejals feelings through the connection of hands. Doctor asked her to push harder, Maya felt movement inside her; Sejal was moaning in pain, Maya felt the pleasure. And then the miracle, creation revealed, covered in red, the violence of breaking out, he arrived weak and small, A LIFE, another story to be told, the boy was born; soul changed clothes. Sejal was relieved of the pain the nurse cut the cord she left her
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hand; Maya was relieved even more. The nurse wiped the baby and passed him to Sejal; Maya felt the smile and cry. Abhinav stood there with heaven still dawning in his head relaxing after the anxiety of wifes pain. Maya drove back with Abhinav, Sejal and their newborn. It was already late at night, they ordered food. Maya saw Sejal giving the baby his first feed, Sejals breasts swollen with life; Maya feeling the surge within her. The food was delivered, Maya ate with Abhinav; she held the baby in her hands while Sejal ate. A tiny piece of life, eyes closed after the feed, sleeping in her hands in peace; in Bliss. Maya went home sober; that night was her day of the pill; she had been popping it up in the regular cycle of moon. As her hands mechanically opened the medicine cabinet, she realized she had continued on the pill, although since the start of preparation for millennium bash she had not been intimate with any man; it was almost a year ago. Her gift of giving birth to life was sacred; every time she had popped the pill there was a streak of violence in unseen deeps of her mind which nourished her gift to nourish life. She laughed and felt sad about her slavish devotion to the pill. That moment, confusions of her head cleared, her gift to give life was blessed; she wanted a child. Her freedom to soar was gift of the sea and soar she will with her child, and in this equation of creation a man was just a means and was not required for more. In that moment of realization and decision Maya broke her pact with the pill. Love was freedom, she will love her child. She will be free; waves will continue their games with shores till eternity. ********* Maya got engrossed in creations, she stopped taking the pills, she felt her body respond; cycles of moon longing for creation. Faces tried appearing in her imagination, figments of faces in whimsical confabulation of unmentionable names; juxtaposition of names invisible in her unreliable presentiment. Jean-Pierre continued to remain an enigma, but her calls with him were no longer cloaked in formality; when she spoke she had an invisible hesitation, when he spoke she had an invisible tension. Routers of Sam schemed again, long distance, and voices began to connect in conversations of creations. Vidya still headed creations India operations, business was doing well, and despite Mayas performance there was no case for her replacement. Maya hit a glass ceiling the room above was occupied. Maya wanted a change to proceed with her post-pact life. Jean-Pierre thought she had grown bigger than Indian operations; she
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will be the plinth pillaring the future of global creations. There were conversations about her moving to the headquarters; there were conversations about creations Middle East being launched; there was acquiescence that once Maya starts up the operations in Dubai she will relocate to Paris. Dubai will be her baptization in Global Scene and preparation for Paris; Jean-Pierre always knew how to develop and use his generals in the best formation. Maya was excited about her relocation. She jumped on the offer. It was time to move on; memories of the pill were becoming difficult to drag. Maya started transitioning her job, she recommended Shilpi for taking over her role. Engine of the world is driven by oil. Sands of Arabia are dry; what comes out is gold. The boom driven by flare-up of dotcom heated the times flaming up prices of oil and owners of sands in deserts saw their lands melting into gold. Gold flowed into Dubai. Wealth needs confirmation, populace needs control; Theocracies of Middle East flowing with money and Mullahs controlling morality; Dubai is the vent; an oasis of western shopping in deserts of restricting religion. Chariot of creations re-created in the desert; the rulers were Arabs, charioteers were Brits, horses Indian; and they pulled the Chariot Well. Jean-Pierre knew that future moving east will have a stopover for drinks at oasis in the desert. He decided to launch creations Middle East in Dubai. The launch will be grand; another New Year party to match the millennium (already a year old); fashion needs to change. Bollywood will be shipped across the sea of Arabia for creations in sands of gold. Adnan arranged everything required for the setup in Dubai. JeanPierre was the enigma, Maya the illusion, Bollywood the drapery to unveil creations. It was all done in a hurry; Jean-Pierre wanted everything yesterday. Tickets were booked; she had a stopover in Mumbai for a day to check last minute confirmations of the Khans, and to say final goodbye and best wishes to Shilpi. She left home in the morning to catch the flight; Abhinav came down to her house to drop her to the airport. It was a cold morning in Delhi, Sejal stayed back with the baby. Abhinav and Maya were alone after a long time; it was the time for goodbye; he was somber for her. He had created his own illusions, happy with his family and practice, seeing his son grow was a pleasure. But for Maya he felt a craving incompleteness; he wanted her to fly to heights of the world and find her dream. He wished her well, they hugged goodbye; their hearts beat together. Maya felt her heart connected beating not her own. Maya completed her
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last bit of packing. It was a long drive to the airport. Her hands packed, his hands drove, their hearts remained connected and pulsated in melancholy of the moment of parting; it was a long morning Maya thought as she boarded her flight. Maya went straight to creations office in Mumbai; there were speeches and handovers, and a joint lunch. She then drove to offices of the Khans; Emperors obliged the Queen, Of course we will come, they said in goodbye; it was a long afternoon Maya thought when she was done with her work for the day. She went to Shilpis place to spend the evening before her flight to Dubai. Shilpi and Raj were going to another farewell; Why dont you come along, we will have a departing party for two of our friends. She said, This guy is a colleague, partner and friend of Raj and they together had created the magic of source, some bug has caught up with him and he is going back to the school. They went to the nerdy colleagues house, there were some guests and the party had already started, Maya noted the furniture, it was all creations, she was proud of Shilpi, she never forgot friends are also customers; She thought in middle of it all, the chair and the painting was a bit odd. Raj introduced her to his colleague, names were mentioned but not heard, it was his party, he was the protagonist; she came uninvited, she was an illusion. Eyes connected in a game of avoidance, party continued avoiding the invisible; liquor flowed, the flow incomprehensible. Raj and Shilpi tried cheering their respective friends and colleagues who had suddenly become sober in anticipation of their new lives. Everyone drank a bit more, goodbyes are always emotional; emotions flowed, the flow unfathomable. Protagonist volunteered to drop Illusion to the airport; I have to go there anyways to collect tickets for my flight to America tomorrow night. He offered. Illusion impressed by the chivalrous offer; I will wait till end of the party. She agreed. People too drunk on emotions of goodbyes to notice that source had made tickets digital, you no longer needed to come and pick them up. People left, party ended, illusion remained in connection of eyes; there was a drive traffic, the airport crowds, but the eyes avoided it all; it was a long evening Maya thought as she stood in the queue to check in. Hi I am alterego, from behind her in the line speaking with eyes, It seems we have seats next to each other. He said. Is it? I am illusion. She replied. Hands came out to shake in introduction. Hands got connected and remained that way. They crossed security, bodies were frisked and baggage
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scanned in dark tunnels of X-rays. The hands remained connected while they crossed different lines for ladies and gents. Ears heard announcements, flights were delayed, tongues were quiet and eyes connected in handshake. They boarded the plane; drinks were served and drank by locked-in hands. The flight jumped time and crossed the seas, Mumbai was shore left behind and shore ahead was sands of time. Maya had waited for this day, waves fulfilling her promise of world beyond seas; it was a long flight Maya thought as the plane touched down the runway in Dubai and they parted in goodbye. She was excited; she came out and saw God standing there; Jean-Pierre had come to pick Maya up from the airport; It was early hours of the morning and no one knew when he slept when awake; they got in the limousine and the chauffer drove to her hotel. Jean-Pierre was his art of faultless accomplishments; he asked questions, she answered him; he was checking on preparations, she was reassuring him; it was mechanical; his tongue asked her tongue answered; tongues connected in the conversation of preparation. Maya looked out, day breaking coloring sands of the desert; city breaking converting sands to concrete. Dubai, rising like a sky-high oasis in the desert in drive from the airport to city in the dawn; creation of energy of man, buildings and lights, skyscrapers and billboards, rising in a sequence of growing heights. Jean-Pierre was satisfied, assured after the conversation that Dubai was in for a show that was never witnessed before. He came up to Mayas room, said goodbye and left to let her rest; it was a long drive Maya thought as she crashed into her bed. Maya was awake for twenty-four hours, she crossed seas and time skipped a zone and half; fatigued she slept in dreams; she dreamed of before history and myth. She saw faces from stories of old, she felt the bliss of Ganga; son forgoing progeny, abducting Ambika Ambalika. She felt the blindness of Ambika, paleness of Ambalika, anger of Amba. She felt the passion of Satyavati, borne the son who told stories of Vedas; comfort of maid bearing wisdom. She felt the boon of Kunti, invoking gods, creating legends, guilt of floating the Sun, Maternity of Propriety Velour Strength. And she felt the passion and pain of Draupadi, seeing hell for favoritism. And Also she felt the purity of out of wedlock love of Radha. And And Also she felt the comforting fire of Sita; burning pyre of propriety in the paining examination of abduction. Emotions ran in her dream in a continuum from before the creation of time. There were faces of all kind. She could not recognize the mirror256

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featured women; she could not recognize the familiar-featured men; recognizable only if the combinations were right; she saw herself. She felt hearts beat, she saw eyes connect, she touched with hand and spoke with tongue; she crossed the seas and jumped time; Her will soared like tides at night, Destiny twisted in her dreams to connect real and illusion, She saw God creating Earth; and on the final day he annunciated: Let there be light; Earth came to life, genesis completed, and God tired of his work decided to rest. The light brought peace in Mayas dream and she slept in solace of conceiving premonition; it was a long night Maya thought when she woke up dull and drowsy after a really long sleep. ********* Waking up after her repose Maya rushed through the shower, got ready and left for work. The office was a frantic countdown for the newyear event of the launch. Energy and inertia of flurried activities sucked her in. The long awake and long sleep of crossing seas and jumping time became a memory and the long days and long nights of beating deadline became the reality. Adnan and Jean-Pierre were not working from the office of creations; they worked from the home office of Adnan. Once in a while there would be a call, generally to check and add to the guest lists, but rarely for an update on preparations. They trusted their general who was the master of creating illusions. Adnan and Jean-Pierre spent their time in inviting the high and mighty, the owners of sands. Visiting calls were made to emirs and kings of the land and the executives of shells and wells. The launch was at Burj al Arab, iconic luxury hotel that announced with vengeance coming of age of Dubai to the world. The hotel was an exercise in possibility of art and style at grand scale, a statement in capability of human will not restrained by resources. The brief to Maya was similar, the launch should be worthy of the site, reflecting the style and spirit of the hotel; declaring the start of eastwards migration of high culture. The guest list assembled by Adnan was extraordinary; it was a minor whos who of global power and wealth. The kings and Emirs came, oil executives came, bankers of the Street were there, top designers of top fashion houses lined up to see the competition. There were generals and admirals; there were defense contractors and executives of weapon manufacturers.
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The show started; stars of Bollywood descended en mass at Burj al Arab and gyrated in full dazzle; razzmatazz of the Khans outdoing each other; seductresses performing; belles dancing; pizzazz showering in the desert. The drinks were all labeled in exclusive distilleries and vineyards, their years most eminent; wines from France, whisky from Scotland, champagne from Heaven; hotel in the desert, mist of Highlands, sunshine of Mediterranean; the dance of Mumbai. The fashion train appeared with the launch range of creations up on the catwalk; models from over the world; designs of Future and Fusion. Liquor ran in parallel with the shows; the cocktail area where a lavish bar was set was off-limits for media and photographers; and in there a parallel show, the menagerie of power and wealth. There were groups of people conversing in overture of awkwardness. Adnan did the introductions, smiles were exchanged but cards were not. Discussions ending with strangers saying to each other, Always trust Adnan to be the great host. He was a repository of trust; he was banker of the dark side; Adnan the dealmaker was the bridge on which secret games of politics and power crossed divides; he was the impresario of creations who swabbed animosity. When faces were familiar, prices of oil were discussed. Russians were the new boys on the block, Adnan was proud to get them there. Everyone who got introduced reaffirmed in their mind magic of the dealmaker. There were Yanks and Brits from embassies and intelligence; there were Iraqis and Iranians, who couldnt see eye to eye; there were generals and mullahs who hated enough to kill; Adnan the dealmaker was the love that connected their eyes. The cocktail area had its own Khans, showstoppers of the mighty; they were the boys and girl from Enron; everyone was eager to hear their stories and shake their hands. Adnan was the Router of Gods love of enemies; Jean-Pierre was the art spirit of style; for assurance of emotion and security to power and wealth. The lounge was a dream, mortal gods from over the world; dealing conceiving ideas in illusion. Maya noticed, the gods had come with wives left behind; there were seductive women, who Maya didnt know, they were not models from the show, introduced by Adnan as hostesses of creation. Maya thought it was none of her business; her business was creations. The invisible introductions, the bridge of love and trust of Adnan, the illusive ideas, continued through the night along with Khans and their ladies performing between walks on the runway. Older Bollywood songs from time of the God, when he was still angry
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and not old, dance performed by the younger not-so-angry gods; Khans dancing to the tune of Amitabh songs; Where your sight is darling I am aware, beware, beware, I am aware. The show ended with a grand ovation, but the after party of invisible introductions and grand game of multiple seductions of beauty wealth and power continued. Maya was moving around, moving into the higher circuit of culture, her game had become global; stakes were the world. She felt the intoxication of power as she slowly understood the introductions and guest lists of Adnan and Jean-Pierre. She was not part of the invisible conversations, but she could feel the smiles of illusion. She did not see pictures being exchanged, the Towers in the pictures, Greek columns of Karma; she could not recognize the pattern of grand scheme sustaining energy of the Earth. The guests dispersed by sunup, Maya went back to her hotel, relieved of the perfect show she slept. She dreamed of illusionary conspiracies, abominable crashes, and she dreamed in midst of all these, the flowering of creations. The next day was lax, the whole office in Dubai was happy and relieved, they had e-mail congratulation from Jean-Pierre sent from the airport; he and Adnan, along with their guests, left Dubai early-morning New Year. ********* The weeks passed by in regular bustle of setting shop in gorgeous malls of Dubai, which mushroomed like the wells of steel (that sucked the land of its energy) had done before in the desert. Maya got familiar with Dubai, she moved out of the hotel in to a serviced apartment near BurJuman. The landscape was changing by the day, buildings were brought down and dreams stood up. Dubai was transforming and Maya could see it everywhere. She missed the familiar permanence of central Delhi. Dubai is the oasis of Middle East and its window to the West. The economy is an economy of events, festivals not of gods in heavens, but of wealth on earth. And the cycle of business ran in tandem with festivals; there will be a spurt, as world descended to shop and fun, followed by cleaning and preparations for the next descend. Biggest of the festivals is the Dubai Shopping Festival, people came in thousands; cash comes in millions. Maya was busy for the first shopping festival of creations. Launch was the branding, festival will be the numbers; creations had ambitious projections for February sales. The whole office prepared for the battle, Maya was their General. The moon changed shape in its rhythm, but Mayas body broke its cycle, she missed her period. She waited for a couple of days and bought a
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pregnancy-test kit. In the evening in her apartment she took the test. She was not surprised; she knew she had conceived in her dream, God created earth in imagination and illusion, Maya conceived Prithvi in dream and in real, She did not know gender of the child but she knew her name, Maya was happy; she was finally going to find love and freedom. The waves will rise in ecstasy, the sea will keep its promise; Prithvi will be hers to love forever. Shopping festivals came and went, months passed, the after party of the launch continued in cities around the world; in Dungeons which resembled the Room and Rooms which were in Dungeons and Caves. There were pictures of buildings, planes, numbers of energy and value. There were papers and discussions, prayers and provocations. Time travelled, wheels of Karma turned. Maya became visibly pregnant; her belly grew along with whispers. Colleagues avoided glancing towards the visible growth of life within her pretending business as usual. Women who had babies before wanted to share thoughts and support, but a baby without father is nonexistent and conversations were duly avoided. Maya didnt mind her colleagues keeping their whispers away from her ears. Every time she saw the invisible embarrassment in their avoiding eyes, she surprisingly found it humorous. What she didnt find humorous however, was how to break the news to her parents. She anticipated the sadness of her fathers wrinkles and fear of her mothers social avoidance. She was happy nevertheless; she knew people will learn to forget their embarrassment. Mayas father (recently retired from the Navy) had relocated again to Delhi, this time not in the Vice-Admirals Bungalow in abode of power but in his own house in NOIDA. He was easing into his retirement when Maya called from Dubai. Maya declared on phone to her family that she was coming to Delhi for maternity leave. The reaction was not of aghast, but of silence that does not let the routers transfer emotions. Her mother asked about the date and stage and gave advice for travel; questions which were not asked were not answered. Jean-Pierre approved her leave with a message of congratulation and wished well for her delivery. The leave was asked for in an e-mail and the approval came back in an e-mail; the windows failed to transfer what was not written. Maya reached Delhi, monsoon was at its end, the last showers were emptying, humidity and heat was slowly giving way to the autumn of Twothousand One. She stayed with her parents, she was comforted by their undiluted support, she knew it was hard on them, she felt a slight guilt of betraying them.
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Sejal came over to Mayas parents place as soon as she heard the news. She had resumed her practice; her son was approaching her first birthday. She and Abhinav were juggling their lives between their patients and the child. Abhinav sat in the drawing room and chatted with Mayas father about things in general. Mayas mother held their baby boy in her arms and was playing with him. Sejal was left alone with Maya in the bedroom where she was resting. Sejal felt the kick, they smiled. Sejal couldnt resist her curiosity; she was her friend from before days of the pact and guide in matters of the pill. She was also her doctor; she didnt need to avoid the question. Who is the lucky one? She finally asked. He is an illusion. Maya replied; the women became girls hitting adolescence again and laughed. Sejal saw the ultrasounds and told her that she was a girl; Maya already knew, she knew her, she knew her name, she knew her destiny. Once again their evenings were spent in the Mall with Sejals kid in the pram, and two of them shopping for another new-arrival to be. Sejal found Maya to be very confident, not showing any of the normal anxiety of expectant mothers; she was not surprised, she had known her for long enough. Maya though was getting uncomfortable of moments of hidden embarrassment trying hard not to reveal on faces of her parents friends. Mayas parents had always been very social, they were known for their entertaining. With a carrying daughter to take care of, the dinners and parties in their house substantially decreased. New Delhi was still not prepared to openly or comfortably handle a single mother, neither was Dubai. Added to the issue of single parent was the fact that Maya had outgrown both Indian and Middle-eastern operations of creations. Dubai operations were already set and creations was expanding globally. Paris is a good place to be for a single mother; its full of them, no one bothers. Paris is the fashion capital of the world, it is where Global Headquarters of creations is, where Jean-Pierre is. She had calls with JeanPierre; things discussed earlier were formally agreed. Maya will have an extended leave, and once the child is few months old she will relocate to Paris. She knew it will be difficult, without the support of her parents, to handle work and child alone. Jean-Pierre was eager to get his most talented general in the headquarters. He agreed for flexible timings, work-fromhome arrangements, extended leaves and other perks. He told Maya on phone about the excellent crche they had in Paris office. He e-mailed her
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pictures of babies being taken care of in the crche. He assigned her an assistant who will start preparing for her relocation. Barbara will send her pictures of apartments, furnishing etc., Maya can finalize things over the phone, when she lands in Paris she will not have to start all over again; it will be like moving into a continuing life. Maya knew that it was an overpromise, she knew it will be tough; still she was moved by his gestures. She will require all the help on her onward journey with Prithvi. She was nervous, she was excited, she was impatient; to be the mother and daughter in Paris. Not known to her, her daughter was not nervous, though excited and impatient, and in her excitement and impatience she decided to surprise everyone by coming earlier than Sejals calculations. That autumn afternoon the labor started suddenly; Mayas father called Sejal and told her that they are driving with Maya to her nursing home.

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Chapter 14 The airport


Kalki broke out of trance of illusion with the jerk of touchdown of Emirates Mumbai-Dubai flight. He walked out through the aerobridge into the airport. Kalki had travelled abroad a few times before, as part of his induction and training in intelligence and diplomacy. But these were for a few days, he was always on a schedule, he hadnt let himself get immersed in the magic of airports. Major international airports are fascinating places. Its a pity that most travellers full of care, dont stop by for a moment to stand and stare. For a poet it can be as inspiring as Mother Nature; a microcosm of the grand world outside. But this time it was different, he was not travelling for training or induction, all six months of that journey he had already covered. His instructors at espionage and diplomacy schools were impressed. RDS was not surprised; he was satisfied of the solution; best for all. The official cover for Kalki was Indian Foreign-service officer on deputation in United Nations High Commission for Refugees; he will be a part of UNHCR administration in Geneva. His covert brief as undercover intelligence officer was to work and coordinate with friendly agencies to gather information about the fast-expanding web of jihadist terror organizations. It was a developing cancer, everyone was worried, major intelligence agencies of the world had agreed to cooperate and share information. Geneva is a hotbed for intelligence, clandestine agents with covert briefs, undercover in the UN officialdom, is hardly something anyone bothers about; it is the norm rather than exception. Kalki was travelling well prepared and trained. He wasnt in any hurry, he was relocating to Geneva to start his new life, no scheduled meeting or flight back was waiting for him at his final destination. Cultivated outfitted sense for observation made him see the airport in a different light; the pattern showed itself; similar pattern of familiar divides replicated in international color and flavor. It was a new world, far away from his hinterland, even far away from Delhi and Mumbai; the airport was massive; the walk till immigration, helped by horizontal conveyers, was long. Kalki noticed the scales, world was larger and spacious. The crowds were there, getting in-and-out of flights, moving to-and-from buildings, but people had space to walk, to stand, to breathe. It was unbelievable compared to more-familiar airports, railwaystations and bus-stands of India. People traveling without losing their identity in Karmic connection of crowds; movement was still automatic but
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the push was not human, instead it was machine of the conveyer. Dubai Airport was ostentatious, high arches, large billboards, huge shops, restaurants, cafs; a grandiose shopping arcade. He started detaching his imagination from imprints of airports of Delhi and Mumbai. The change was not abrupt and complete his journey to the West through oasis in the desert a physical transformation into Europe but in spirit Asian (and in particular case of Dubai, South Asian). The majority of passengers had still not changed colors, the British, Americans and Europeans still stood out with their white skins. Kalki noticed as he continued walking towards immigration, bulk of the crowd was from the subcontinent. They were of all variety, he could make out the skilled and unskilled labor, (blue-collar), and the high-skilled and professionals (white-collar); their colored visa-types printed on their faces. Kalki was on a transit visa, he had a diplomatic passport; life is easier with small mercies of god. But for the immigrants coming for greener pastures in the desert, their status imprinted on visas allocated by the Emirates, it was a different story. The unskilled and semiskilled carried contracts which read like indentures. The skilled will get a decent earning, skimming a saving to send back home for construction of a house in the village where wife was raising children. At top of the migrating pecking order were the doctors engineers accountants managers who will form the bulwark of Dubai society the middle layer of wheel of wealth. They were fortunate to travel with families; the kids will go to international schools with children of Europeans and Americans. But they will still live in downtown middleclass district, dividing the ground between Diara district of labor and uptown suburbs of houses with swimming pools in the desert. They were Keepers of the Divide, White-collared Babus of the Oil Raj; a new generation of Macaulays Children sprouting in the desert; expatriates outsourced, keepers of the Raj everywhere. Kalki kept walking noticing people, placing them in their neat divides. He had travelled extensively in India but he had never got enough space to detach himself from the next person to reflect independently on persona of the fellow traveller. The reality dawned completely in the immigration hall. Even spaces and architectures have its divides. There were separate lines for European and American passport holders and separate for Indians Pakistanis and Bangladeshis. The queue was significantly larger, more crowded and chaotic for the subcontinents counter. Thankfully Kalki had a diplomats passport, a separate almostnegligible queue. His connecting flight was later in the day. He had some
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hours to spend in Dubai and his baggage was already checked in till Geneva. He had a bit of breakfast in an airport caf and went out to the city. It was early morning, the roads were quiet, he saw people in front of the hotels and clubs returning from parties, a lot of women had blonde hair, he noticed the darkness of eyebrows and lashes. Dubai was a nice city, not as large as ever-expanding Delhi or Mumbai, nevertheless grand, buildings were new; architecture was contemporary, aspirations modern. He spent a few hours at the river front watching Diara boats docking and sailing to cross the Gulf with cargo loads of smuggled western goods for Iran and Iraq. Kalki didnt know the details yet; American sanction against regimes of Middle East was a big industry, from coke to cars everything was smuggled on small wooden boats with motors and sails. And Also among the cargo were weapons and people who moved freely across the Gulf in defiance of all divides. Middle East is a complicated game; everyone plays from everyones side and their own. But that morning the boats had their cargos hidden, invisible in holds, what was visible to Kalki was the beauty of sails against the morning sun. He returned to the airport by afternoon for his Swiss Air flight to Geneva. After loitering around airport shops he finally heard the boarding call. He cleared security and boarded the flight. The gradual change of Kalkis context now accelerated. Within the plane to Geneva, he, for the first time, was a minority in hair-and-skin color. But he thought he belonged, he thought he will belong, he had been with same skin-and-hair color and still on other side of divides; he knew the divides of men are not of superficial colors, but colors running deeper; thats what he had seen and known. The plane took off; in the fading daylight he saw the deserts of Arabia receding from his window. The onboard meal was no longer Indian; he ordered a regular dinner, doubted whether it was beef, he was assured it was chicken. He ate and wondered what if he encounters beef in a meal in Europe; will he eat it? Does it matter? He didnt want to know; he ate his chicken and slept. In his sleep Kalki jumped another couple of time zones. When he woke up he saw it was still light outside; he tried comprehending how long he slept. His mental clock told him it should be dusk; he realized that Time had moved back; his life moved forward; Kalki left the hinterland a few time zones and several divides behind. He saw the whiteness of Alps from his window; it looked like a model
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of mountains in three dimensions. The sun shone in a blinding reflection on white snow of southern slopes; the snow was black in shadows of the lee; the northern slopes unseen even from the sky. Kalki imagined the grays of invisible sides, beyond which was Geneva. The captain announced landing. Kalki felt an emptiness of uprootment; his journey from Pracharak of the Parivar to representative in the United Nations; his context changing; hinterlands of Bihar became the serene whiteness of Alps; he was excited; the emotion accompanied its opposite; he was deep in nonexistent thoughts; blankness of anticipation. He felt sound of the wheels disengaging from the hold, he saw models of the ranges becoming real, scale of vision changed rapidly as the plane descended, it became larger and larger, hills were no longer there as a range, it was an individual slope, it became an individual tree, and then it became building of the terminal and grass of the field, and finally asphalt of the runway. He felt sound of the tires hitting metal in rapid deceleration; the braking peaked; his transformation completed; he answered the question he had wondered before dinner; he was the world; free. The temperature in Geneva was below freezing. Kalki had bought Jackets and warm clothing in Delhi. He put his overcoat gating out of the airplane. Geneva Airport was a complete change of Kalkis context. The passport control was not segregated; the sign simply said All Passports. There were people of colors but unlike in Dubai and Delhi it was their turn to stand out. To Kalkis surprise the whole process was quick; he crossed immigration towards the luggage belt. Suitcases bags boxes valises slowly started emerging from the chute to conveyer into the new world new country new century; New Millennium. The haves and have-nots of future will be those who will play in a global world and those who will be left behind in hinterlands of the globe; Immigration will be the line of control and airports its no mans land. Kalki had a booking in a hotel by the lake; he took a cab, he noted that the cab was a Mercedes, chariot worthy of gods rather than pretense of vehicles they called taxis and three-wheeled chariots of devil in Delhi and Mumbai. Another experience of crossing the divide was when he paid the bill; strength of the currency, value of labor, purchasing power. He checked into his hotel getting out of the shock of converting Swiss Francs of the cab bill first into Dollars, which he paid to the cabdriver, and then into Rupees. Dollar was no longer cheap but there was plenty to buy. Kalki wasnt in unease for too long; he made a mental note to stop conversions in his mind. He will start on a global salary in United Nations, globally tax free. The hotel, commonly used by UN employees, was a relatively-new structure among traditional Swiss buildings along the lake. Kalki unpacked, had shower and went down for a stroll. He ate dinner at a lakeside Caf.
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Next morning he took a cab to the United Nations Campus. Entering the compound, suddenly Europe of Geneva became a replica of world of Nations. The UN complex was huge, truly cosmopolitan, the labyrinth of complicated corridors and byzantine bureaucracy of the Global Government hid its shame of absolute powerlessness; Spineless Labyrinthviathan. Kalki went through a number of checkpoints and identity verifications. He passed through several connected corridors, and reached the reception of UNHCR. There was an elderly lady receptionist, probably Swiss; she asked her to wait and called someone announcing the visitor. Kalki sat down on the sofa in front of the reception and pretended browsing journals and magazines on the shelf. Few minutes later Sashi came out, he introduced himself and inquired about RDS. He took Kalki inside and made him comfortable in his room. Kalki was impressed that Sashi had a room to himself in the United Nations. Sashi had engineered Kalkis assignment with UNHCR. He was a veteran Diplomat, had been on assignments in various countries and various UN organizations. Currently he was a senior official in UNHCR; Kalki would be directly working for him. ********* First few weeks were orientation in the works of UNHCR, their offices, the structure donors issues definitions laws sensitivities struggles conflicts crises camps diseases and the Deaths. It was a mind-boggling muddle for Kalki; even out of India, a large world in continual fire. He saw outside the window of his classroom in the training center of UN campus in Geneva; it was pristine white and peaceful. He was glad he was not in one of the camps in pictures being projected from a beamer by the instructor. The class was of fifteen people, mostly young recruits; some were elder from associate organizations and NGOs. Most people in the class will go back to locations; they will be in the field. Kalki was a country representative in the High Commission; he would be based out of Geneva, his work, more of overseeing activities, auditing the field offices, producing reports, travelling to hotspots and camps around the world to create a firsthand perspective for the bosses. There was one more country rep in the class, she was from Colombia. Kalki guessed she must be a year elder or younger to him. The field and headquarters were very different. Field had people who were generally UN employees. Headquarters in contrast was full of country reps on deputation in UN. Their primary allegiance was for the governments they worked for, their purpose of being in Geneva was to manage politics of refuge and immigration rather than provide relief and opportunities. Kalki found it utterly funny that the orientation course was
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same for both. The days passed in periods of classes, videos and slides. The trainees familiarized with each other during coffees and lunches. Kalki was hearing stories of the wide world, he heard in amazement. He heard about the camps, some firsthand stories of the trainees, and others in narrative of the instructors. During his orientation week Kalki found an apartment, it was another modern multistory building amidst traditional Swiss homes all around, a few minutes drive from the Centre. From the eighth floor of his apartment he had a decent view of the valley and lake. Last week of the year, holidays started for Christmas and New Year. Next Year second round of orientation and work will start. Sashi had prepared a travel itinerary for Kalki to visit office locations and camps allocated to him. Till then he had a couple of weeks to immerse in snow and peace of the Alps and the magical lake in which he could walk and skate. Kalki visited the higher Alps. Skiers from over the world had gathered in the ski resorts. The season had started but was still early; it peaked during mid to late January. Kalki took basic ski instructions and started on the beginners slope. It was a liberating experience, the slopes, serenity, people, their clothes and equipments, even waiters at the resorts. He had never seen so much abundance and prosperity, he had ideas of western world, he knew there were riches, he knew there was a material culture, abundant but decadent. He found the abundance but the decadence was missing. People respected people as human beings, social definitions based on status were not visibly apparent. Kalki was gently sloping down the snow-covered tender slopes of the alps, he decided he will like Europe, he concluded his view of the world was narrow and skewed, he promised he will see the world for himself, he will have his own perceptions; opinions not borrowed. First time in his life, away from the Mines, away from Xaviers, from Hindu, far from the Parivar, far from Hinterland, from Violence and justifications or lack of it by Dharma, Kalki found a feeling he had never known before. He thought, Perhaps this is Peace. Whites of Alps became his new painting, with blacks of the ski lifts crisscrossing it. He was glad once again that RDS had arranged for him to be in Switzerland. That winter in Swiss Alps, Kalki continued his ski lessons; he soon became a proficient skier, high speed of gravity sliding on white snowy slopes. The trainees and staff of UN had gone to their respective home countries for the holidays, but Kalki had stayed back, he didnt want to get out from his white dream of Switzerland to the black nightmare of the
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Hinterland. He was at peace enjoying observing learning Europeanizing himself. After vacation the UNHCR trainings resumed. He befriended the Colombian representative Rebecca. They started being together and became friends, partly because they were the only country reps in the group, and also because they were among the elder most in the team of young trainees. Rebeccas husband also worked for United Nations in another agency as Colombian country rep. They had a two year old girl and the family stayed in an Apartment in the Lake Area. She invited Kalki over for dinner along with some other friends of the family. Kalki liked the evening; his social life became cosmopolitan reflecting the ethos of United Nations. Networking his way around, making friends, and knowing people was also his business. He soon began with the first stage of setting his parallel life of intelligence gathering. He had rendezvous with American and British agents, He separately met the Russians (no longer in their old glory of Soviet days, but once again asserting themselves, backed by an aggressive government and flowing energy of wealth). Russians were also important and valued for the legacy of history (amount of information they had about the roots of newly mushrooming groups was surprisingly helpful), everyone was glad that the Cold War was long over; Agents of Nations enjoyed their honeymoon of sharing in Geneva. The Rendezvous in bars of ski resorts in multilingual backdrop of teeming tourists and skiers was for Kalki a beginners high in the game. He controlled his excitement. He mentally planned and plotted his way to come to the tables as an equal. He will set up his own network, he will not just be the one being tipped to sound back warnings to India, he will have his own sources, he will have his own chips; a real player rather than the patronized learner. His advantage was UNHCR, once he starts going to the field he will be close to action. The view of migrants from fringes of nations and divides of legality is always broad and deep. He will soon develop his sources in the dark side. He will then be the master player. He had to be patient; he knew this was not an hour of football, but a five-day test of cricket. In his apparent white side of life, it was neither cricket nor football, but skiing which became his passion through his first winter in Europe. ********* Shoots of spring sprouted in green when the trainee batch went for their first field trip. They went to the nearest camp of UNHCR from Geneva; purpose was to familiarize the group with procedures that were elaborated in the classroom, before they are deployed in real hotspots of the world. Kosovo was very unlike anything Kalki had imagined about Europe. He had seen the war on television, heard the brutal stories of ethnic
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cleansing and collaterals of bombings, but seeing was different. Seeing Kosovo shrouded new meaning to pictures and videos of Africa he had seen for hours in the classroom; those are several-time worse. It was a tiring day, the group retired after dinner in their hotel. Rebecca and Kalki were at the hotel bar chatting. You seem to be disturbed today? she asked. No, not exactly, coming to Switzerland and skiing all winter I was cultivating an illusion. I thought I had left violence behind. Today was a reminder that meaningless bloodshed is not a monopoly of Asia or Africa. I have seen enough in India, but I was surprised to see it in Europe. Kalki couldnt believe his own ears what he was confessing to a colleague. Yes I know what you mean; it is the same in South America. South America as a real world not a mere mention in Geography textbooks only started existing for Kalki after he befriended Rebecca. She had told him over cups of coffee: Everyone thinks it is only the Hindus who have Castes. You should come to Colombia and see espanoles indios mestizos pardos zambos negros, and a whole lot more of finer divisions; the gradation of colors of society. Kalki imagined the different colors killing in an orgy of identity. He had laughed about it. He knew it wasnt that bad. But in Kosovo he had his doubts, he wondered, Why in the first place I assumed man is different anywhere? May be because of deceiving serenity of Geneva; maybe he just wanted to be deceived. Anyways, that is the way it is. She continued changing the topic, What plans for summer? Nothing really, perhaps go to France or Italy, hang out on the beach. Rebecca was surprised; he was not planning to go home. I will go to Colombia. The kid gets some time with Grandparents. Yes good to have kids and grandparents, if you have neither the beaches of Mediterranean will do, he thought with a pinch of irony, not letting it surface in his expression; It would be nice for you to be home, he said genuinely. You have a girlfriend? Rebecca asked. She need not have asked, she knew, she had now been colleague and friend for long enough to know the meaning of something never mentioned. A tiring day, glasses of beer unwinding imagery of hangover of violence in a refugee camp; conversation of love is always helpful. I had a breakup few months before I relocated. In fact it was also a reason that pushed me to come. It was not planned, it was instantaneous, he did not know from where it came.
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It was just for avoidance of sympathy and embarrassment. In his first months in Europe Kalki had realized to his surprise, that single at a viable age even in the liberal lands was of an equal awkwardness, the difference being, society had left behind demands of pretension of paper or sanction of god, yet it still required evidence of blissful togetherness, else you deserve a well-deserved sympathy. The not-required emotion was a notrequired embarrassment. Yes! Being in between relationships was a more-palatable answer, he was good at making stories about himself, he was undercover, he needed to create a cover identity that could do without the perturbations of his pact days; fast slipping glasses of beer was of help. I think she grew out of me, he ventured, imagining a not-required explanation. Never mind, I think you will find someone in Geneva. Rebecca cheered him up. His eyes lighted, he pretended cheered-up. The twinkle of his eyes hid the strong attraction he was feeling, the sadness of wasted years; a sensation rising in his body. She was dusky, Latino beautiful, not really a hip-shaking sexy siren of MTV, but still very attractive, its difficult to say she has a kid, too bad she is married, worse happily married. They continued their conversation of plans for summer over another glass of beer. She retired, next day again was a field day in the camps, she did not want to make it a late-night drinking, she was feeling good and relaxed, she decided to go and sleep, they said goodnight. He left the hotel for a stroll in downtown Pristina, whenever he visited a city it was on his agenda to check the nightlife, to get the pattern, he was studying the dark side of Europe to find his sources, he knew where the information was, it was his job, in night the pretense of his cover was off, he was hunting in lascivious streets, by-lanes of Bacchus, his cover for the night, rich respectable customer discreetly crossing the divide of darkness, by-alleys of streets of Pristina booming in trade of flesh, economic dividend of peace and its keeping, he entered a small innocuous club, its suggestive name showing in a streaming red light on a small board, it had many women, all hair naturally or painted blonde, provocatively dressed, there were people dancing and drinking, men mostly looked like young soldiers, deserving a good night out for keeping the peace, he sits at the bar, dramatized demeanor is a signal, somebody surreptitiously sells him a joint, aphrodisiac, he smiles at the visible deception, he is smoking and looking at the women, they all know he is more loaded than the youngsters fooling around, he will be a catch, no fuss, no bargaining, diaphanous dresses, coquetry, who will he choose, he finally signals to one of them, he has a small chat, standard questions, standard replies, even standard names, they go towards a dingy staircase leading to the floor above, a small room, it was
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a surprise, it was not mechanical, it was a job, pretending working and not working, who was pretending what, this is a bad business, good encounters are always welcome, she was happy, wish there were more like him, he loved her, she loved him, it was respect, he was happy; seeds of source planted. The trainee group was soon back in Geneva; it was an enlightening experience preparing them for the field; the reality of refuge and immigration. ********* That summer when most of the United Nations came to a halt of vacations, Kalki didnt go back to India, although most people went back to their home countries for holidays. Kalki took a month long vacation touring cities on the Mediterranean coast of France and Italy, he was on beaches, in bars, in casinos, getting into conversations, fitting in the pieces in his pattern of understanding, observing life, trying to find openings for source, enjoying the beauty of Europe, the beauty of wealth and prosperity, lovely women, handsome men, fast cars, cultivated drinks, he made no effort to keep tab on expenses, he let the money show, he had access to hidden funds for his covert ops, he incited bees that will guide him back to source. His eliciting back-alley rendezvous of the night continued along the coast and inner cities, he ventured into immigrant districts, on street in nights, cover of discreetness of a gentleman, conversing with pimps and drug dealers, never haggling, never hassling, always respectful, making love to women of profession as they were his lovers, sometimes he would pay and spend the whole night just talking and caressing, listening to horror stories, listening to pleasant memories, just being the never-present ears, just being human, and coming back, asking for the same girl, bringing a small present; planting the seeds of source. He started helping out the immigrants in distress of legal paperwork, Kalki helped them find lawyers, did proper filing, used his connections in the system and his position in UN to push for legalization of fringe cases, slowly he was being accepted as their own, in suburban ghettos of migrant populations in European megalopolises, slowly he started having a circle of beholden friends among Arabs Turks Africans South-Asians East-Asians East-Europeans Central-Asians Latin-Americans people of color became the colors of Kalkis life in Europe. A part of his life was on the surface, the beauty, magnificence of history, and another was in the underbelly, the dark side, the world of legal-illegal political-economic migrants. Kalki was feeding information to his mind, he was collecting contradictory signals, he was finding it difficult to fit all pieces in the puzzle; he was struggling to decipher meaning of facets of European life he was living. He knew one day he will figure it out, missing parts of the jigsaw,
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blades of history, but for now he just needed to continue building his network, working ground up; penetrating deep in invisible lives of underbelly; of the dark side. The course and vacations ended. Kalkis assignment was to travel to camps run by UNHCR for headquarter review, an audit of sorts, but mostly to make operatives feel that Geneva exists and is more than an e-mail id. The summers in Switzerland was better than he expected, lush green slopes, cattle with jingling cowbells, funny Asian tourists rapidly trying to capture it all in moments of Digicams; time passing fast. He built his reputation of a problem solver for the camps. He became the trouble shooter to be dispatched if there were issues local team was struggling with. His initiatives, his willingness, made him more than a country rep, everyone liked him. His reputation in circles of espionage also sprouted; no one knew how, but everyone was impressed by the new kid on the block who had information. Although information Kalki had, was mostly known by the big boys, neither was it of great strategic value, but Kalki by passing it was letting them know he was not just a receiving station for Indian intelligence, he was building his own sources and it was growing fast. By respecting what needs to be respected, by loving what needs to be loved, by being a friend, by being human, Kalki was slowly building his labyrinth of information network, striking up from the very roots of the dark side. Summer stopped his skiing; he found the substitute in skydiving. Kalki was an explorer-adventurer, he had the means and money, he utilized it to hilt his life. The facade of UN and his secret funds allowed him his indulgences. In addition to his nightly rendezvous he became an amateur adventure-sports aficionado. He used his vacations and weekends to do a course in skydiving at the Parachute Club. He loved everything to do with freefall bungee-jumping skydiving base-jumping. His moment of high was the moment of time when he would let go, his body would disconnect from the platform or the plane, and before he was conscious of the drop; the split second he could never capture in his memory or experience was what made him do it again and again. (Moment of discreteness of time, moment before which the body is grounded and after which it is in freefall, moment of transition, start of acceleration, the sudden sinking of heart, complete dislocation of the senses, the split second before everything comes back to an altered reality.) He didnt feel the same high in tightening of the bungee or release of the chute, the moment of change was there, but it was not sudden and abrupt. He longed for the quantum of time in which he disconnected from the physical world in plummet, before the gush of wind into his face barometering acceleration bestowed a sense of speed in the stationary large273

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scale map of the world below. The jump became Kalkis solace, his peace in his double life in Europe; it was a high he hadnt experienced in any drug or woman. The summer passed and his life settled in a cycle of travel around Europe and Africa, living in spells of days-and-nights in cover-andundercover. ********* Rebecca and Kalki had come to the Cafeteria for an early lunch; they had meetings starting early afternoon. Kalki had just returned from a trip from East Africa and was completely aghast at what he saw in Sudan, Somalia and Ethiopia. Field offices were completely powerless in visage of genocide of gun and hunger; in afternoon he was to present a situation report to the High Commissioner. Rebecca was helping him since morning to collate summaries of his reports in a presentation for the meeting. They bought their food, Kalki sat facing Rebecca, on the wall to his back was a large T.V switched to muted CNN murmuring history. The cafeteria was not very crowded, few tables were occupied; there was a slight mumble, a mix-up of multiple conversations going on in soft voices. I would still say that you focus more on what UNHCR can do rather than asking overwhelmingly for Security Council interference. She advised him for his meeting. You dont understand, I have been there, its a military problem first. Only way this manmade disaster can be averted is that the world community assembles a large peacekeeping force and deploys it for a long period. Kalki, why be so nave, it is not Kosovo, it is not Europe, there is no oil, nothing worth human lives of powerful nations. We need to work in this given reality. Let the NGOs make deals with warlords to supply food to the camps. We will supply the NGOs. Dont expect any blue-helmeted army fixing the problems down there anytime soon; its too back of the behind. Its same for many other regions of the world. Look at Afghanistan, what is happening there is even worse, but nobody cares, because there are no more Russians there to take care of. I am afraid this neglect by the world, refusal to see the visible obvious, to pretend that their pains are mute, because our eyes are blinded by He stopped talking as he saw an unfathomable expression on Rebeccas face, she was staring as if he did not exist, she was looking at T.V on the wall, susurrations of the Cafeteria suddenly changed to a shocked volcanic silence and he turned around to see for himself as someone was using the remote to amplify volume of the petrified muted CNN. *********
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Krishna took his own trip to other side of another divide in the late winter of Two-thousand. He had been travelling to U.S since he joined source, and had stayed there for elongated periods of time, first for projects of the Bank and later for the IPO. But this time it was different, although he had a familiar feeling of a warrior deploying to the battlefield. Krishna noticed a very different airport, for the first time colors of international travel was visible to him beyond the business traveller. He was carrying some books for light reading but his laptop was not on. He was soaking in people around, architecture of the buildings and patterns of movement rather than slides that need to be presented tomorrow. He didnt have anything to present when he reaches the school; he was going with an open mind, he had ideas, he didnt want to rush it, he wanted the play to develop properly in its natural course; in time he will pull things to conclusion and be free of his daemons. Schiphol Airport Amsterdam had been his normal transit point to get on to transatlantic flights to the City. He had spent hours in lounges of Schiphol in last years, but he had never bothered to experience its colors, the people, shops, restaurants, bars. Krishna had few hours waiting time, he considered visiting the city, but it was freezing outside and he decided to stroll around the colossal Airport Plaza. Remembering the unimpressive crowded small unkempt Mumbai Airport he left the previous night, he felt an inferiority complex of being an Indian. Airports are the reflection of a country, its first impressions. Mumbai and Amsterdam airports compared in his mind to tell the long story of East-and-West already-developed and struggling-to-develop richand-poor. He wondered how far in future will the airports in India will be something that you dont consistently, in your mind, try to hide as a stigma of shame. The flight to Boston finally took off from Amsterdam, after several hours of flying and chitchatting with the gentleman sitting next to him, browsing magazines and light reading, the plane landed. The lady at the immigration was surprised seeing his passport full of business entries and then suddenly transforming into a student visa. The owner of the passport didnt look like a student, although he was dressed in jeans, pullovers and sneakers. She smiled at Krishna and asked, What do you propose to study? Krishna smiled back and said, I Plan to Formulate the Theory of Everything. The lady thought best not to pursue further, his entry was stamped; he crossed the immigration and left the airport for the school. ********* The school was the paradise Krishna had been longing to come to, it was the answer to his dreams, he felt like Botala, freedom from routine,
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from chase, freedom of thought. He was a student again learning reflecting sharing and back to learning again; creating in its glory and inconsequence, the slight schemes of greater goodness. He joined the basic courses with graduate students of various programs. Coming back to abstract math was the most difficult; he knew he will have to ease himself back into the language of science; he had already started his practice in Mumbai. source had created a different perception of numbers for him, interceptions of man money schedules calendars operational-matrices efficiencies defects bits bytes. He struggled to prune source out of his mind and to feel the numbers in their natural glory, the language of nature, the change movement distance time pattern progression. Similar equations plotted on similar graphs with change of names and transformations of axes, was the change that Krishna went through; from the series of price and value on Y-axis plotted against time in X, to the light cone of abscissa engulfing the energy in ordinates of space; quiescent quirks of transforming intercepts. He got along well with his supervisors and evaluators, who soon dropped their prejudice of an outside freak buying his way in. They were impressed by his dedication and structured thought on which he progressed to crystallize his direction of research. They liked the start but were worried where it will lead; many had perished in search of the Holy Grail. Krishna became familiar with labs of the school. Worlds of absolute purity; his favorites were the Telescope in Space whose sites looking back in time continuously flowed to the schools Advanced Astronomy Center through a direct link from NASA, and the Accelerator Underground the school in the shape of a gigantic Eight, generating collisions of data for the Advanced Particle Physics Center. Above the Particle Accelerator was the cycling walking running track, which made a huge Eight skirting the opposite sides of campus of the school and tapering in from both sides to the Central Academic Block; Krishna became a child again with his Binoculars and Train. At the point where two circles of Eight met was the main building of the laboratories, the Wheelers Lab, with as many floors below ground as above. The above ground floors had offices, classrooms, cafeterias etc., but the main action was below ground levels, the entry points of the particle accelerator, and large computers processing colossal amount of data from telescopes in space and colliders in earth. It was the world of bending straight lights and splitting invisible particles, abode of the Metronomic Wheeler, the turner of Wheel of Karma, the Chakra. Men inside the labs, invisible for the world, in their own world of high science, silently turning wheels that create civilization unnoticed un-applauded un-acclaimed like the Mahatma spinning cotton and turning history on his Charkha; Krishna
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felt at home, at peace; he felt the high of high science; telescope hobbled, collider had-run, intellect galore. ********* The freezing snowy winter turned to shoots of springs, Krishna was charging up to a life in academics, slowly getting back in the groove, source receding in his memory, equations of physics re-appearing, he had always felt a spiritual connection with the equations, but their manifestation in his consciousness after almost a decade of business world gave them an increased profoundness, he started sensing the story the symbols on paper were trying to tell him, sometimes he got impatient to unravel the narrative, rush into his thesis, but he kept his course as per the plan. Krishna was surprised to find known faces in the faculty, people he recognized from his IIT days, seniors and juniors. Even his close friend Iyer had been in the faculty for some time after he completed his PhD, but he had left and moved to the corporate world. With so many Indians around, Krishna did not feel like being in a foreign world. He was with the type of people he wanted to be, they came from over the world, dedicated in their pursuit of knowledge, the best brains of humankind. Ironically, he also noticed that it was a continuation of the grand cloning process, insight of which had dawned on him while struggling to decide his post-IIT life. Even in the pure pursuit, clones had carried their defining genes, they were still competing, racing to crack the problem first, mechanism of the race was different, parameters were different, a race nevertheless, keep walking of the race walk, coming first, Firstest; the clones of IIT descended on the school and mutated to become the Clones of ACADEMIA, the gene that was cloned was PUBLISH. The New England summer was vacation time, Krishna took a short trip to India and was back even while his holidays remained. He was impatient to work. He used the time to elaborate his approach. He had another few months left for the core courses to finish and start of formal research. He needed to pass the core term and get the approval for his approach of the thesis. He wasnt concerned on either front; he was already progressing well in his sure-footed academic journey. ********* The term of required courses ended in autumn. Krishna took a break from the school to visit Iyer (before he got down to fulltime research). Iyer had moved to the City with a job on the Street. So! Mr. Krishna, the Emperor finally came to claim his throne. Iyer joked with him evoking the memories of another school. Ha! Ha! Krishna laughed, I just could not resist. The urge was killing me. Even if I dont end up doing something fruitful, at least I will
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not live my life in the guilt of not attempting. Yes, but be careful, it can be a difficult journey. Iyer said in a sober tone amidst the nostalgic laughter of old friends. The guys back at school were telling me about the work you did, decent stuff man. Why did you leave? Krishna was suddenly not sure whether he did the right thing by asking. Well! I think I hit a roadblock in competing to publish, a point of delusion happened. Politics of peer review was eating me up. I figured that the world is same everywhere and it pays decently more in being with a bank than academics. Iyer was melancholic, But it was me, its not like that for everyone. I think you will be great. I told you this because you asked. I dont want you to think about it. But what does a physicist do in a bank. Krishna knew pretty much about the banking world, he had build software platforms that move monies around the globe, but in his knowledge of banks the only science of engineering that figured was related to computers. Nobody knows. Iyer had an ironic laughter, Actually it is more about applying quantitative techniques in the world of finance, studying the markets, unraveling volatilities. Iyer continued explaining him about his work but beyond a point Krishna lost him. Anyways, dont bother. Iyer figuring his disinterest said, The job pays pretty well, that is important. Iyers wife served dinner; he had married a couple of years ago, a match arranged by his parents. Hema was a few years younger to them and had done her studies in communication; she worked with a publishing company in the city. Through the dinner three of them remembered their school days and life in India. It had a nostalgic flavor; everything that make people leave the country was not discussed, everything that attracts them back was talked about. The nostalgia of Indian expatriate keeps ballooning by the day till you have a vacation back home and the reality pricks it to a wasted rubber of the busted balloon, and post-vacation the process starts again. Krishna stayed overnight with the Iyers. Next morning Iyer and Krishna took a cab to downtown. Iyer wanted to show him his office, and after that Krishna was to take the underground to the airport to catch his late-morning flight. You guys from Pakistan or India? The cabdriver asked in broken Urdu. He was glad to have his first fare of the morning from the subcontinent. He was from Afghanistan. Its a bad situation there, isnt it? Krishna asked generally to keep the conversation going.
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Real bad sir, nothing to do, everyone wants to get out. Find a job to feed the family. Khuda Bakhsh said. What about your family? They are back home or here in the States? No sir, mine is here, I have been in this city for fifteen years now. We ran away from the Russians, got a visa from the refugee camp in Pakistan. In those days Americans were helping more, now no one cares what happens. There is no longer in news, people killing each other, it is madness every day. The cabdriver was mechanically narrating the story of a homeland not seen for fifteen years, stories heard from mutated versions carried out by fresh crop of muted refuge seekers and immigrants that land in the City every year. Krishna was assimilating the views of early-morning downtown, people pouring out of Metro stations and moving towards office buildings. They were approaching Iyers office when the cab suddenly stopped to a screeching halt in a shocked silenced brake, and they heard the staggered syllabi of Khuda Bakhsh supervening the earsplitting eruption; Qayamat! Ya Khuda! Allah!

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