First published by Context, an imprint of Westland Publications Private Limited

in 2019

61, 2nd Floor, Silverline Building, Alapakkam Main Road, Maduravoyal, Chennai
600095

Westland, the Westland logo, Context and the Context logo are the trademarks
of Westland Publications Private Limited, or its affiliates.

Copyright © Paul Zacharia, 2019

ISBN: 9789387894594

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events and

incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Dedicated to the memory of my parents, M.S. Paul and Thresiakutty Paul,
Mundattuchundayil and my brother M.P. Joseph
 CONTENTS

START READING
1
1 WOULD SHE BE CLOTHED?
2 WAS IT ALL FICTION?
3 THE SIXTH PSEUDONYM
4 WHO WILL SCRATCH US?
5 AUTISTIC LEELA
6 A PINK SEAL
7 MS MUNI KUMARI
8 IMAGINARY REPLIES
9 THE RING OF TRUTH
10 THE AUTHORIZED VERSION
11 THE BEST SEX GURUS
12 THE KARMA OF LIVING
13 ONLY THE BARE FACTS
14 THE DESTINY OF SONGS
15 THE SPEED OF LIGHT
16 CHIEF SITTING BULL
17 LICKING TERMS
18 THE HAUNTED FAN
19 THE PENALTY KICK
20 PRAYER FOR THE DEAD
21 A DELICATE PSYCHE
22 TERMINAL THEOLOGY
23 ONE-EYED MAMA
24 THE NUDE SNAKE
25 EARLY CLIMAX
26 FLYING DESIRES
27 THE DETERRENT EFFECT
2
28 THE BODY-SNATCHER
29 SUTRA OF STILL LIFE
30 THE LSN MEDITATION
31 DAMAGED BY DEATH
32 ONLY A WRAITH
33 THE HONEY TRAP
34 AGENDA OF THE TEETH
35 THE SPELLING SYNDROME
36 THE KALASHNIKOV
37 THE SECURITY MUDRA
38 LEONID BREZHNEV
39 THE GREAT BEARDED THINKER
40 DEEMED MARRIED
41 THE BRINK OF NOTHINGNESS
42 APPLIED DEATH
43 HURRAY!
44 OMEN!
45 THE PRIVACY OF ORGANS
46 NOTICE OF THE END
47 THE KREMLIN WINDOW
48 THE CLONE OF GOD
49 CONTEMPORARY THEATRE
50 ‘CUT!’
51 THE SCENT OF SANDALWOOD
52 EXTREME AVANT GARDE
53 THE MOMENT OF ALIENATION
54 ENTRENCHED STRESS
55 SOMEONE ELSE
56 THE COPYRIGHT ACT
57 THE EDITORIAL
3
58 GODS IN PROXIMITY
59 THE LARGER TRUTH
60 A CONSENSUAL FAMILY
61 BERLUTI SHOES
62 THE SLEEPING ITEM
63 THE SEED OF DESIRE
64 THE STANDALONE TRUTH
65 IN CABARET MODE
66 A HIGH JUMPER
67 THE ENDGAME
68 HOLIDAY IN GOA
69 A TERRORIST ACT
70 DOPPELGANGER
71 THE GIRLFRIEND
72 A METAPHYSICAL BODY
73 THE CHEETAH
74 A DAMP SQUIB
75 VERBOSITY
76 HEART TO HEART
77 BEELZEBUB
78 THE DECOY END
79 DROOPING MORALS
80 THE SEAMSTRESS
81 A REVOLUTIONARY GOD
82 THE FRUIT BASKET
83 A NEAR-EPIPHANY
84 LOOKING IS FREE
85 TIDBITS
86 THE MAGIC VEIL
87 ROGUE METEORS
88 A PAMPERED UNDERDOG
89 THE WAGGING TAIL
4
90 ALIEN THEOLOGIANS
91 A FLOATING HALO
92 THE SATAN DOCUMENT
93 A DEEP BREATH
94 BACK TO THE FUTURE
95 A SECRET HISTORY OF COMPASSION
5
96 NO MAN’S LAND
97 A SKY-PAVILION
98 THE BIG BOSS
99 ‘SUMMER WINE’
100 MYSORE
101 A RUSTLE IN THE SKY
102 NO ROPE AT HOME
103 KANCHEEVARAM COTTON
WITH GRATITUDE
‘Peace is the word from a Compassionate Lord.’
— The Quran, XXXVI, 58
 1
WOULD SHE BE CLOTHED?

Lord Spider, renowned author of mysteries, thrillers and romances, was on his
way to his study after breakfast. He paused on the steps and addressed his wife,
a freelancing philosopher.
‘My dear Rosi, please bear with me today. I need to be severely alone. The
essay on compassion I promised the party is perilously behind schedule. I must
get it into a first draft, somehow.’
‘And thank you,’ he continued, ‘for advising me to write it. It is a
tremendous challenge. You know I like to be challenged.’
He had promised the essay to the Communist Party for the souvenir it was
bringing out to raise funds for a home for destitute comrades. The party had
hinted to him that compassion might be the right theme. For these were
comrades who, alas, hadn’t been nimble enough to make it to the green
pastures at the right time. Very sad.
Lord Spider’s essay would be the cover story because he was such a
celebrity. But he had not been able to make headway with the writing because
the shift from fiction to non-fiction had run into unforeseen, and what seemed
to be mysterious, difficulties.
He certainly didn’t want to disappoint the party’s top brass, who, at
funerals and weddings, always went up to him and made small talk. In fact,
sometimes he had a vague feeling he was himself a communist, though he
couldn’t exactly say how. The deadline for the essay was knocking on the door.
In twenty years of writing, Spider had never missed a deadline. But today, he
was a worried man.
He climbed a few steps, then stopped and turned around. ‘Rosi, I wonder
if Marxists have any idea how hard it is for me, a writer of fiction, to make the
change from Imagination to Thought.’
 Rosi looked up from the breakfast table.
‘What about your mail? Should I bring it up?’ she asked.
Spider nearly dropped the jug of water he held. Mail! Oh! What shall I do?
I love mail!
‘Thank you! But, please, no lunch today.’ Let fasting save me!
‘There’s fried pomfret,’ Rosi said.
Spider’s heart sank. I am doomed. Is there no salvation?
‘You mean, fried in banana-leaf wrap?’ he asked, salivating.
‘Yes.’
‘Well … in that case …’ he said bitterly.
Spider peeped into his bedroom on the first floor with a feeling of dread.
The scene before him was exactly what he had feared. Plain scandalous! Brother
Dog was fast asleep on Rosi’s side of the bed. He seemed to be dreaming a
chase. His paws and ears twitched, his tail quivered, and he mumbled as if
suppressing a series of sneezes. Spider whispered hoarsely, Satan, I know you
are in love with Rosi. No way shall I give her up to you. I shall fight you till the
last drop of my blood.
As he climbed, Spider told himself grimly: Yes, I must do it. I shall have
revenge. I shall alter the warning on the gate and ruin his reputation.
Henceforth it will say: Beware of God! Haha.
He drank a mouthful of water from the jug and nearly choked as a
fearsome thought struck him: Brother’s mentor was none other than Satan, who
was known to work as God’s informer in his spare time. What if he carried the
news of the new, revealing dog-warning to God and She turned avenger? Spider
shivered.
The sun was strong and hot on the roof. He hurried towards the study at
one end of it, put the jug down and opened the door.
It was cool inside. The room was big and had a large writing table with a
cushioned high-back chair. There was an easy chair and a couple of wicker
chairs placed against one wall. The attached toilet was closed and the bolt
drawn. One window held an air conditioner. The other two were open and had
iron bars.
Spider bolted the door and sat down at the table. His eyes travelled to a
notebook with some lines scribbled on the open page and immediately dejection
overcame him. He made an attempt to put on a cheerful look, but failed because
he wasn’t sure where to start—from the cheeks or the ears. He tried both, and
then the chin, but drew a blank. His gloom deepened.
 He pulled open a drawer, took out a small mirror and bared his teeth at it.
Then he tried to hypnotize the face in the mirror by waving his fingers around.
After a while, he put the mirror back and picked up a sandstone statuette
which acted as a paperweight. It depicted Adam, Eve and the serpent in the
Garden of Eden under the tree of Knowledge, Eve holding the forbidden fruit.
He scrutinized the statuette for the nth time in the hope that its Paradise
connection would trigger a miracle and get the essay to move forward. But all
that happened was that he noticed once again how much like clones Adam and
Eve looked—except that Eve had pouting breasts and long, curly hair. And how
the round leaves of a creeper hid their gender. The serpent looked harried and
emaciated, making Spider wonder if all was indeed hunky-dory in Paradise. If
the serpent’s condition was any indication, Paradise hid an underworld of
deprivation and the chronic anxiety of the downtrodden, which journalists on
junkets obviously hadn’t bothered to sniff out. Shame on them. And the
forbidden fruit—a shrunken little thing—was such a letdown.
Adam and Eve were equally desirable, although a bit chubby for his taste.
Spider attributed the chubbiness to their laid-back lifestyle: too many fruits and
nuts, too much honey, and no jogging, tennis or yoga. He wished he too were in
Paradise with no essay to write—but, of course, with better lifestyle options.
And with as few snakes as possible. He had nothing personal against snakes. It
was just that he couldn’t figure out which way they were looking and that
made him dizzy.
One thing he wasn’t willing to compromise on: he wished to be clothed—
at least in a T-shirt and Bermudas. He simply didn’t want to present himself
nude before God. She was a lady after all. But a terrifying question remained
unanswered: Would She be clothed?
What if She wasn’t? Oh, would destiny be so cruel!
 2
WAS IT ALL FICTION?

Spider removed the wrap of the computer that sat on a side-table along with a
telephone-cum-answering machine, looked at it unhappily for a moment and
then put the wrap back. Desultorily he pressed a key on the answering machine
and was startled to hear Rosi’s voice. ‘Lord Spider is on vacation. Please leave
your message after the beep.’ He had requested Rosi to lend her voice for the
recording because he thought it would enhance the illusion of his absence.
‘No message please,’ he found himself telling the machine. Then fear
gripped him. Did the machine lure me to say that? Did it steal my voice to give
it to Satan to ring up good ladies at midnight, tell them dirty stories and get me
arrested?
He felt crushed and depleted. Thirty-six days back, on his forty-first
birthday, he had, as an exercise in spiritual renewal, reviewed his creative life.
To his utter shock, he had discovered that in twenty years he had written only
fiction. Only fiction! When the world was brimming with non-fiction and the
facts of life were within arm’s reach all around.
The review included an inventory of his published works: there were
ninety books in the categories of thriller and mystery and forty-one in romance.
One hundred and thirty-one in all. All fiction! Spider had felt defeated and
empty. What have I done? Can man live by fiction alone? What assurance is
there that fiction will last beyond 2034?
To cap the review, he conducted a scrutiny of the dictionary and
discovered to his horror that in twenty years he had used just about 9 per cent
of the words in it. What kind of a writer am I? Have I been fooling my readers?
I’ve deprived them of the 91 per cent! What if they find out? Disturbed and sad,
he had turned to Rosi for counsel.
‘Rosi, can we make love tonight in such a manner as to compel the
universe to force upon my life a turning point—a major shift to non-fiction?’
She had suggested, instead, that he agree to write the essay on compassion
for the party, which he had mentioned to her.
‘Write it,’ she said. ‘Confront the issue and force your life into non-fiction
with your own hands.’
She had added that the thing to do was to penetrate the communist
philosophy of lovemaking. It was an esoteric branch of diabolic materialism, a
mystery cult even the Marxist cognoscenti mentioned in guarded whispers, said
to have been founded by Joseph Stalin and a closely held secret. But if one could
infiltrate that arcane interface, it was bound to yield some surprisingly
compassionate raw material.
‘Also,’ she concluded, ‘lovemaking is essentially fiction. So by positing
lovemaking as a turning point towards non-fiction, you are barking up the
wrong tree altogether.’
Spider was so shocked he couldn’t breathe for a few seconds. Lovemaking
is fiction!
He didn’t have comparative statistical inputs to evaluate his lovemaking
figures, but he thought that in his own small way he had made a credible
contribution to the great cycle of birth, copulation and death. Was it all fiction,
then? He was shattered. Was it, he wondered sadly, at least adult fiction?
Rosi continued, ‘But lovemaking is with us as a phantom-fact. It would be
philosophically immoral to make it a shortcut to addressing problems of non-
fictional communication for which other solutions exist.’
Spider had stood dazed. Oh, maybe I should have remained a virgin. Can
one start again from scratch?
Rosi concluded by saying that, if he did wish to make love for one reason
or the other, she could review the matter on Monday afternoon at 3.30 p.m.
Thus had Lord Spider embarked upon the mission of non-fiction—of
composing the essay on compassion. Not once did he think that it would bring
him face to face with the secret world of meditative voyeurs, or entangle him in
narratives of death, or make him the first writer to fly with a borrowed body.
Such is life. Sometimes it is more enriching than fiction.
With a heavy heart, Spider picked up the notebook lying open on the table
and read what was written there.
An Essay on Compassion
by Lord Spider
 It is universally acknowledged that Compassion is a desirable virtue.
However, before we proceed further, it is desirable to define
Compassion.

He had written these two sentences on day six and come to a sudden halt,
devastated by the inexplicable repetition of the word ‘desirable’ in the second
sentence. What was it trying to do, reappearing so wantonly? He could have
replaced it, but it looked so nice where it sat. Oh, what a horrendous deadlock!
Was Satan at work? Was the essay haunted? Was non-fiction a honey trap?
He read aloud the two sentences, closed his eyes and waited for a
breakthrough, but saw only a shimmering curtain of grey. He opened his eyes,
gloomily put the notebook down, pulled a chair to the window, sat down and
gazed out despondently. Away on the horizon, the eastern mountains rose in a
haze of misty blue. Visible at its tallest point was a row of three rocky peaks
resembling a reclining head.
Spider had seen that rocky head in the sky ever since he could remember.
One day, as a fifteen-year-old, he had nodded off while at holy mass and
suddenly heard an angel telling him that the head belonged to a female alien
who had escaped a crashed spacecraft and was synergized into the hill by
galactic glue. The revelation got him into such a state of excitement that he
wanted to fly there right away and get a bird’s-eye view of the lady. He had
heard that aliens have gooey sex things. The result was that he found himself
with a big erection just as the priest was offering up the sacred host for
transformation into Jesus’s body. Spider was shattered. Oh, what a faux pas!
What if Jesus found out? As a conscientious sinner, he had included this
unfortunate event in his next confession.
The priest told him that the erection was not worth writing home about,
being a mere expression of carnal desire for a geological feature. Jesus had
better things to do than keep count of idiotic erections of idiotic fellows. But
snoozing during mass was deadly business. It could easily land him in hell and
needed to be addressed by a minimum penance of fifty Hail Marys and fifty
Holy Marys, which, the priest said, was letting him off lightly. Else, he could
have been reading aloud the complete Confessions of St Augustine on his
knees and summarizing its theology in fifty words standing on one leg.
 3
THE SIXTH PSEUDONYM

Spider shivered as a cool breeze from the mountains blew in. Freedom, he
whispered. Freedom from fiction and non-fiction! Then he heard a faraway
voice saying: Freedom from friction and non-friction! He thought that sounded
better, and sighed. The sigh floated away, paused on the windowsill and flew off
towards the mountains. What surprised him was that it looked like a
pterodactyl and not a ptarmigan. Something was amiss.
Then he saw two Ptolemies strolling through some dark clouds singing
pseudo-psalms. They were flying a kite. Spider was further surprised to see that
the kite was actually Cleopatra in a flat dimension. Suddenly drops of water fell
on him, and he looked up and was mortified to see that Cleopatra was speeing
on him from the sky. No, lady! he exclaimed. No, please! I am without an
umbrella. And why spee when you can pee?
A windy drizzle kept splashing raindrops upon a dozing Spider.
He dreamt that five of his pseudonyms were holding a patriotic march-
past. Yellow Man was in the lead, with Lightning Hero, Jack of Spades, King
Cobra and Lord Spider following, all goose stepping. They called out to him to
join them, but he excused himself, saying patriotism seemed too good to be
true.
Lord Spider was his favourite, because he admired the spider for many
things. It was light and swift, all legs and little body, centrifugally and
centripetally efficient, industrious, meticulous, patient and thrifty. Even miserly.
It sewed up and stored its food and rationed it with exemplary care. Lord
Spider loved thrift because it gave wealth a nice gloss. He loved miserliness too
because it made him feel sinful and dirty, which was titillating.
The spider was also an artist, architect and philosopher rolled into one. It
spun a perfect web that was like a geometry lesson in gossamer, sometimes
fluttering in the wind from a clothesline in the yard, sometimes lodged among
the twigs and leaves of the garden plants or between the bars of a forgotten
window. At the centre of it, the spider remained calm and meditative, like God
in Her lair. Of course, it was cunning and ruthless with its prey, as God was.
Well, you had to be, in a world where eating and being eaten constituted the
basics. In that sense, the spider was a philosopher, just like God.
The spider’s eyes had a piercing look, like yogis who possessed The Force.
Like guru-swami Rasputin, who made the Russian queen levitate up and down,
up and down his four-poster bed. It knew the art of molting, which is nothing
but the Yoga of Renewal. It bungee-jumped into the depths on its silk-line,
which is, after all, Letting Go in the Face of the Unknown.
He found the spider’s moral foundation strong because it tallied with the
Vedantic guidelines his wife often spoke of. That is to say, it was the web that
caught the prey and not the spider. The Web of Karma. The spider was just an
Agent of Divine Will who set up the web. It simply ate what the web brought
and that didn’t lead to bad karma. Or look at it this way: the web was the
spider’s home; it merely caught intruders and ate them. In which holy book is it
written that one shouldn’t catch intruders or eat them if they are edible?
But the female spider … Here, Lord Spider backed away from the vision
of the she-spider munching on her partner after sex. He thought that a sad
absurdity. Why, of all things, when you just want to turn to the other side
quietly, yawn politely and fall asleep immediately? Why would somebody want
to snack on you just at that turning point? Couldn’t she give up sex? Or munch
on banana chips afterwards?
Spider had a sixth pseudonym, but he hadn’t been able to recall it for
some time. It was a female one and the novel he wrote under it, a patriotic
thriller, had become a record-breaking bestseller. He had chosen a woman’s
name because he felt that patriotism, a virtue he had been planning to cultivate
in a big way at a suitable point of time, could benefit from a feminine touch.
Women could make it, for example, more homely and user-friendly—even sexy.
One day, Spider had learned from Rosi that names led secret lives nobody
else knew about. Immediately he had wished to take a look at the lost
pseudonym to try and ascertain what sort of a woman lived in it. But neither he
nor his publisher could locate a copy of the novel, which was out of print. Satan
at work again. Not even a file copy to be found of a super bestseller. The task of
revising it in keeping with an important finding that had come his way was in
limbo. He had wanted the revised edition to hit the market at the time of a
grand surge of patriotism. Unfortunately, that big wave hadn’t come about
because all the wonderful war opportunities were getting botched up for one
ridiculous reason or the other. Oh, how long can this go on, worried patriots
had begun to ask. Spider worried too. One fine morning, a magnificent war
would be here and his book wouldn’t be around to greet it.
In the novel, the hero, KingPin, a hired killer for politicos, converts to
non-violence under the influence of NightQueen, his beloved, who is a climate
scientist and animal-rights activist. In a grand gesture of patriotism, he presents
his own head on a platter to God, a sacrificial offering to retrieve Gandhi, the
Father of the Nation and the designer of non-violence, from the kingdom of
death and make him the Leader. God runs to the toilet to throw up. With her
eyes closed tight, she unconditionally agrees to give Gandhi his life back if only
the headless creature would quit the place expeditiously. She also hands over a
bottle of the elixir of youth to Gandhi as a bonus. She is fond of the quiet old
man who ambles around humming to himself. KingPin’s head is now back on
his neck and he is a celebrity. The heaven-returned Gandhi takes charge of the
nation.
But there is a fatal error. The soul returned to earth is not of the real
Gandhi. It belongs to a millionaire playboy-politician with the same surname
who, as it turns out, had become a half-hearted Gandhian in his old age for
reasons of health. It is a grievous inventory error in God’s store. She has not
been minding the store. Imagine! Is salvation just a pipe dream, then? The
thought made Spider shiver.
 4
WHO WILL SCRATCH US?

Spider’s thriller reaches a turning point when NightQueen, KingPin’s beloved,

invents a made-to-order monsoon from the residual fumes of body sprays,
which is engineered to cause rain at given locations at given times. Using this
invention to good effect, the imposter Gandhi creates a rain revolution that
makes his popularity soar. Especially because these rains come flavoured and
scented on account of their ingredients, they are a big hit. The imposter Gandhi,
meanwhile, has covertly bought up millions of acres of arid land for a pittance,
in anticipation of the rain revolution, and is now so rich, he splurges on gold-
coated condoms and platinum-coated sex-pills.
As a result of all that gold and platinum, a peculiar allergy hits him:
wearing undergarments sends him into fits of giggling. In the interest of VIP
decorum, he therefore gives them up. This gives him a unique place among the
world’s heads of state because amidst all those great men and women, he is the
only under-unclad. When secret agents tell their presidents and prime ministers
about Gandhi’s fascinating Life sans Underwear, their national pride bristles.
They must attain the same status or else the Balance of Power is bound to tilt.
The women among them are in two minds. Gandhi’s style is not exactly their
style. In the end, however, they are all advised by their secret services to desist
from copying Gandhi because his style poses a major national security threat:
accidental exposure of a strategically weak zone.
KingPin becomes a super leader, breaking world records in popularity
surveys. The elixir of youth gifted by God works the miracles it is expected to.
The imposter has a special eye on NightQueen. As a first step in that direction,
he appoints KingPin, her lover, commander-in-chief of the armed forces.
Success goes to his head and he begins to live it up in casinos around the
world. He accumulates gigantic debts. To sort these out, he conspires to sell all
the cattle in the country to a beef contractor in the US. KingPin, tipped off by
NightQueen, confronts the imposter in his luxury aircraft as he flies to Las
Vegas to sign the contract. In the ensuing fight, the fake Gandhi is thrown out
of the plane and perishes in the Grand Canyon. Fishes in the Colorado river are
suddenly enlightened. They had been living under the illusion that the native
Indians fed to them by white patriots were the real Indians. Finally they are
getting to taste a real one. They correct their history books.
KingPin still doesn’t know it was a fake Gandhi he eliminated.
He regretfully takes over the nation and, as a first step of reform,
announces universal suffrage for all cows who have attained puberty. But he is
heavy-hearted with guilt for he believes he has killed the real Gandhi, even if it
was to save the nation. As a penance, he takes the vow of brahmacharya—
heavy-duty virginity—in its most severe form: devotion to self-gratification.
This naturally leads to a crisis in his relationship with NightQueen. She has no
choice but to present her own head on a platter to God, who again throws up.
God reveals to NightQueen the truth about Gandhi. To rectify Her mistake, She
wakes up the real Gandhi from his siesta and asks if he would like to return
and take charge of the nation he founded. Gandhi replies that he is happy
enough where he is, wherever that is. In fact, he doesn’t remember any nation,
nor does he wish to be woken up from his siesta for silly things like nations.
Things move swiftly to a climax as KingPin bids adieu to brahmacharya
and a Revolutionary Golden Age begins under him and NightQueen. Its pinnacle
is a historic Declaration of Freedom, releasing all cows from calf-bearing,
milking and growing horns, if they feel so disposed. Every cow gets an
attachable carry-bag for methane collection, for free. Scratcher-robots are
installed all over the nation so that cows can get themselves a good scratch,
especially in hard-to-reach parts. The best part is that these robots are also
equipped to tickle cows to an orgasm if they are so inclined.
Bulls are happy too, considering the hard work of baby-making they have
been saved from. However, they petition KingPin for scratcher-robots for
themselves, equipped with the tickling function, no less. NightQueen pleads
their case and the request is granted. The novel ends with the scratcher-robots
wondering: But who will scratch us?
The novel went into many editions. Then, one day, Spider overheard his
wife listening to an old recording of Gandhi singing a bhajan. He was singing
like D.V. Paluskar in a carefree mood. Or Madurai Mani Iyer humming to
himself. Oh, is this the man, Spider asked himself shamefacedly, whose body I
caused an imposter to usurp, and then doomed to a nefarious life and a bad
end?
He was so shaken that he took a decision right away to rework the whole
novel. He also got his wife to play the song again, and could not help but shed a
few tears as he listened to it.
But the tears turned out to be better suited to a disappointment that
awaited him. He had asked Rosi for an encore of the bhajan, hoping it would
boost the empathy quotient of his suggestion of a brief lovemaking session later
that evening. And Rosi had replied that the matter be brought up for review the
following Wednesday—and here he was, on a Friday!
Spider then gave careful thought to the revision of the novel and it seemed
to him that a story about a spontaneous singer like Gandhi demanded an
altogether different treatment, perhaps that of a musical romance.
He dug out the novel’s agreement from his old files. The title was Ma-
Hat-Ma Must Die, which certainly needed to be reworked in the context of his
new understanding of Gandhi. But the female pseudonym couldn’t be found
because he had signed the agreement with his real name. Spider then tried for a
while to imagine the woman of the missing pseudonym, but drew a blank.
 5
AUTISTIC LEELA

Spider woke up from his doze with a start, hearing his name being called. It was
Rosi calling from below. The wind had dropped and the drizzle was tapering
off.
He knew Rosi did not want to come up because it was hot on the roof and
the aura-reinforcing cream she wore these days had a solar restriction. But he
wished to see her right away. Because suddenly he was seized by the fear that
she had stopped being his wife and had achieved the speed of light. The voice he
heard was in all probability a phantom she had dispatched from the Horsehead
Nebula to delude him and keep her exit a secret.
‘Hold on! I’m coming down!’ he called out in a tremulous voice. But she
was gone, having placed the mail at the door.
‘I’m going in for my bath,’ she said from somewhere below and added,
‘Spider, will you take me for a swim in the river one of these nights?’
Spider froze. I think she wants to make love in the river without taking
me into confidence. Oh, what shall I do? I can’t swim, I can only float! Will that
be enough? Oh, help me, Sister River!
‘Of course, of course, Rosi, I will,’ he mumbled in reply.
He picked up the mail with trembling hands, bolted the door and
returned to the study. He closed the door and locked it, sat down and looked at
his watch. It was eleven o’ clock! Time was running out.
He selected from the bunch of letters an envelope bearing his publisher’s
imprint, opened it carefully and took out the contents. A letter, a cheque and
some papers.
He quickly examined the cheque, then read the letter.

Respected Sir,
 Our humble greetings!
We request you to find enclosed herewith renewal agreements
for new editions of the following books:
By Lord Spider
1. I Was an Ant-Lion’s Love-Slave
2. The Mortuary Is My Dining Hall
By Yellow Man
1. Married to a Baobab: A Biological Romance
2. End of Days: Attack of the Sadist Flowerpots
By Jack of Spades
1. Seducing With Detergent: A Washerwoman’s Autobiography
2. Memoirs of a Bird-Porn Video-Maker
By Lightning Hero
1. My Early Experiments in Serial Killing
2. Revolt of the Hunchback Earthworms
By King Cobra
1. Secrets of the Robots’ Libido Clinic
2. Halleluja! This Pope Was an Alien!

We would also like to inform you that inquiries have come

flooding from thousands of readers for further biographical
information regarding your good self. We feel you must respond to
the spontaneous and vigorous response of the market and expand
the biographical note currently in use, a copy of which is enclosed
for your kind perusal and favourable action.
Also enclosed is a cheque for the amount of Rs 91,16,872.37,
being the half-yearly royalty as per statement attached. Kindly
acknowledge receipt. We request you to return the agreements duly
signed at your very earliest.

The publishers added that they looked forward to hearing from him and
assured him of their best services as always.
Spider read the biographical note with a pen in hand.
 ‘The author, celebrated under his several pseudonyms, is a humble farmer
leading a life of rest and meditation since youth. Now in his middle ages, he
enjoys an ideal family life and nuclear music. He is religious. The key spiritual
question that nags him is: Is it possible to possess an external, lightweight (say
400 grams), user-friendly soul with a twenty-four-hour battery life?’
Spider added the following to the note: ‘In the moral realm, he exhibits a
preference for the virtue of compassion. He is however open to new ideas in this
matter.’
He couldn’t but take a quick, bitter look at the notebook on the table and
the few sentences written in it.
He signed the papers, made a receipt for the cheque, opened a letter-pad
and wrote as follows:

Dear sirs,
Thank you for the royalty statement and the cheque.
First of all, I must tell you that I am very disappointed with the
computer you sent me to help with my writing. That I am obliged to
supply it with everything that I wish to write, is absurd. If it cannot
be self-sufficient, creative and pro-active in disbursing its
responsibilities, I think it’s being very unpatriotic and irreligious.
Kindly speak to its owners at your earliest. If it does not reform, I
shall have to send it away or convert it into a microwave oven.
I have made an addition to the biographical note. However,
please use it only after I give you the green signal, as I am awaiting
certain important developments in this connection.
Yours most sincerely,
Yellow Man
He felt sentimental, signing off as Yellow Man. He had begun his literary
life with that name, carrying his first novel around the editorial offices of
newspapers and magazines that serialized fiction. That was when an editor had
asked Spider to masturbate him as a prelude to reading his manuscript. He also
handed him in advance the inky machine-proof of the following day’s paper, to
wipe clean.
Yellow Man had explained to the editor that he believed masturbation to
be, by its very nature, an act of autistic leela by the Self in a post-Vedantic
frenzy and another could not do it for you unless his/her Self was beyond all
Maya. To attain that stage, one had to have an extra edge with Brahman—at
least an accreditation to one of its authorized franchises.
‘In any case,’ Yellow Man had told the editor with youthful transparency,
‘I consider the man’s thing-ding to be a pedantic and pedestrian object and
disagree with its aesthetics and body language. If you were a woman, it’s
possible I might have persuaded myself to hold a different view, but I’m not
sure of that either, considering that the essential nature of leela is unreliability.’
The editor sighed sadly, threw him a kiss and followed it up with the
manuscript, which hit him precisely on his thing-ding. At that moment, Yellow
Man was enlightened.
The phenomenon was, however, short-lived. Because all he could
remember of that profound moment was that he had acquired an erection as a
result of the manuscript hitting his thing-ding.
 6
A PINK SEAL

Spider opened another envelope and took out a letter. On top was printed the
legend: Devoted De-addiction Centre, Usilampatti.

Most Respected Excellency, as you know, the Holy Season of the

birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ is due in a few weeks’ time. But it is a
fact that I, Ponnuswamy Daiva Sahayam of this town, a victim of the
evil of alcohol and father of five girls and three boys and a firm
believer in Our Lord Jesus, am unable to celebrate Christmas with
due piety and fervour. For, I am very poor.
Having come to know of your Excellency’s compassionate
tendencies and philanthropic inclinations, I am making bold to
reveal to you my pitiable condition. I request you from the depth of
my agony to spare me a nice and kindly sum of money which will
not only enable us to suitably celebrate the Holy Birth of Our
Saviour but also bring upon Your Excellency and Your family a
shower of Heavenly Blessings. PS: Only Demand Drafts, please.
Yours most humbly,
P.D. Sahayam

Spider jumped to his feet, shocked and agitated. Compassionate

tendencies! How could an addict—or was it de-addict?—in Tamil Nadu come
up with the c-word? It’s not a coincidence, it’s Satan at work. It’s a jeering
omen he has sent to tell me my essay has been aborted! Spider felt faint.
Gingerly, with the end of a pencil, he pushed the letter to the farthest
corner of the table and kept a wary eye on it.
Then he saw the pink seal stamped on it and it seemed to beckon him in
an intimate manner. He leaned forward cautiously and, without touching the
envelope, studied the seal. Immediately he fell back in his chair with a look of
astonishment. It read: Sr Molly Magdalene, Devoted De-addiction Centre,
Usilampatti, Tamil Nadu.
Spider exclaimed aloud, ‘Good Heavens! It’s Molly!’
He picked up the letter and held it with trembling hands. Molly! So you
are in Usilampatti.
Suddenly a long-standing confusion hit him. Was it a mortal sin or a venial
one to want to have sex with one’s first cousin? And what if she were a nun?
Molly was his maternal aunt’s daughter and he had never stopped wanting to
have sex with her. He had had a small taste of it long ago, but his role in it was
debatable, as also the quantum of sin, if any, that he was responsible for. So he
hadn’t confessed it to the priest. Nor had he confessed it to Rosi, because he
feared that, despite being a philosopher, she might draw from it certain
undesirable conclusions without bothering to put on her thinker’s mantle.
With a stirring in his loins, he recalled the evening previous to Molly’s
departure for her convent life, twenty-five years ago. It was summer, the nearby
rivulet had dried up as usual, and he was bathing in a makeshift bath-shed in
the yard adjoining the well. It was dark as he stood under the open sky. He had
finished soaping himself and picked up a bucket of water to pour over his head
and enjoy the sensation of standing under a waterfall.
Suddenly, to his horror, a figure rushed in. Spider’s modesty was outraged.
He covered his gender with one hand and said indignantly, ‘Who’s this? Can’t
you see I’m still bathing?’
He heard Molly’s whispered voice, ‘It’s me!’
This made him put the bucket down and cover his gender with both
hands. Because Spider was suddenly gripped by an inferiority complex vis-à-vis
his gender and its role at the time.
Molly came up to him, firmly moved his hands away and taking hold of
his wet soapy thing-ding in both her hands, told him, ‘Take care of this little
brother. From today you are like Jesus to me.’
She continued to hold it in her hands, while it wiggled and slid about. This
was the first time she had touched him intimately in all the three years they
had been in love.
Spider stood there trying desperately to take charge of his erection and
failing. He only mumbled without conviction, ‘Yes, I’m Jesus.’ Urgently feeling
the need for a grip on something, he picked up the bucket of water again with
one hand.
Then Molly noticed his growth. Her face registered surprise and concern.
She bent down and took little brother in her mouth, the soap making
everything infinitely immeasurable and slippery. And Spider had a glimpse of
God in heaven. The bucket of water fell from his hand with a thud.
Someone from the house shouted, ‘What’s that?’ Molly sprang up and ran
out into the darkness, wiping the soap off her face. Spider stood swaying, his
mind racing along a tunnel of lingering pleasure. With trembling hands he
managed to pour some water on little brother to calm it down.
When the moon rose behind the rubber trees, he had difficulty
recognizing it. He thought it was a balloon filled with orange-coloured sex that
Jesus had sent him as a gift but had got entangled in the rubber branches.
He had seen Molly again, and for the last time, three years later, as she
knelt in the cathedral along with other aspirants, in the blazing white of a
novitiate’s habit, waiting to be accepted as a bride of Christ. He had sent
psychic signals to her from where he knelt next to the confessional, trying to
make contact with certain parts of her body that she used to allow him to
scrutinize from a distance of eleven feet.
But something was jamming the signals and Spider was certain it was the
anti-sex underwear she was sure to be wearing. Or the confessional was
emitting some love-slaughtering force.
Ever afterwards, it was either a colourless, sluggish Christmas card or a
proxy letter like the present one, sent from some strange place.
Spider sighed. He thought there were tears in his eyes. He dabbed one eye
with a finger and licked it. He wasn’t sure it tasted like a tear. He tried the
other eye and thought that tasted better.
 7
MS MUNI KUMARI

Spider looked at the pile of mail upon his table worriedly, unable to decide
which to open next. He wished to avoid the karma of making a choice, to the
extent possible. Then a wind blew an envelope to the ground. He picked it up,
whispering, Fate, thank you. He opened it and took out the contents.
It was a bunch of four photographs of a young woman in different poses,
clipped to a handwritten letter. Spider scrutinized them one after the other,
heaved a sigh, pulled open the drawer, placed the photos inside, closed it and
started to read the letter.

Respected Sir,
I may be allowed to introduce myself to your good self as Mrs Vana
Kumari, former leading lady of more than 189 films, ex-wife to three
superstars and mother of the well-known child-artiste Ms Muni
Kumari, who is at present 18 years of age (recent photographs
enclosed for your kind reference).
Having come to know that your famous novel The Killing
Field of Love is being made into a film, I most humbly request you
to be kind enough to use your good offices with the director of the
film in order that my daughter may be selected for the heroine’s
role.
She is a very nice and cooperative girl, also very beautiful and
well-experienced. She is obedient and hard working. It may not be
out of place to mention here that she has received dozens of offers of
marriage from prestigious and aristocratic gentlemen, young and old,
but owing to her devotion to the film-field, she has declined them all
and remained a virgin.
 She is a girl of many parts, patriotic and devoutly religious, and
as far as her acting talent is concerned, I can assure you that she is
the best in our mother country.
I shall be forever indebted to your good self if your good self
will be kind enough to give her a supporting hand. In case you wish
to interview her and satisfy yourself on various points before taking
the matter further, I shall be glad to make arrangements as per your
convenience.
Humbly awaiting your further instructions and blessings.
Mrs Vana Kumari
(Recipient of three dozen coveted Awards including the
National Citation for the Most Homely Sex-Object)
Spider remained engrossed in thought for a while. Then he closed his eyes
and sent out a mystic query to the universe whether, in order to write a reply
that would bring luck to all concerned, it would be best to sit where he was or
move to another chair.
Having got a move-on signal, he got up, went around, pulled a chair to the
front of the table and sat down to compose a reply.
He wrote:

Dear Mrs Vana Kumari,

Many thanks for your letter and the photographs of your wonderful
daughter, Ms Muni Kumari. I shall certainly recommend your
daughter to the director of the film, even though I must warn you
that I strongly suspect that he suffers from moral turpitude.
Apropos of your daughter’s photographs, I have a few
comments to offer as a well-wisher:
(a) Please refer to the picture in which Ms Kumari is shown
standing next to a bathtub with her back to the camera, but
turning her head and smiling. The thin, transparent bath towel
tied atop her breasts and going down to her upper thighs is
depicted as wet and clinging to her body, thus highlighting its
various features.
This obviously is an error of judgment. For, how can she get
wet when clearly she hasn’t entered the tub and, moreover, is
 holding in one hand a cake of soap with its wrapper on and in the
other a folded bath towel, both of which indicate a stage in
bathing which precedes making contact with water? Still more
surprising is the fact that the tub seems to have no water. You
may like to look into these anomalies.
(b) Coming to the picture which shows Ms Kumari’s face in close-
up, laughing with mouth wide open and winking at the same
time, I must inform you that I detected signs of caries in her
lateral incisor. You must have it examined by a competent
endodontist.
(c) I have also scrutinized the two photographs in which
Ms Kumari is featured in two different night dresses of
transparent material. In one, she is standing with one leg raised
and placed on the seat of a chair and, in the other, lying on her
back with one leg pulled up. They give me the impression that
she is exhibiting (1) a tendency to put on fat around the waist
and (2) a certain degree of hirsuteness on her legs. These also
deserve to be attended to.

Coming to your kind offer to arrange for Ms Muni Kumari to

be interviewed by me, I am sorry to have to decline your offer
because I am severely restricted by my present circumstances. I shall,
however, keep the matter open.
In the meantime, I wish all success to you and Ms Muni
Kumari in your worthy endeavours. I shall remember you in my
prayers.
Yours most sincerely,
Lord Spider
Even as he was writing the last few sentences, Spider’s hand had begun to
tremble and he barely managed to finish the letter. An uncontrollable feeling
had seized him that Rosi was standing at his back reading the letter.
He tried to examine the matter calmly and rationally. The door is locked.
The windows are barred. The air conditioner is in place. The toilet is bolted.
The roof is made of concrete. There are no other passages to this room. So how
can Rosi be standing behind me reading the letter?
Having asked himself this, he quickly turned the letter face down and
placed the dictionary upon it. It is a thoroughly innocuous letter, he told
himself, but I must respect its privacy and shield it from curious eyes. The key
question is: Should I now turn around and check if someone is behind me? If I
do, and I find Rosi there, what next?
Spider had no answer.
On the other hand, what if Rosi vanishes when I turn? I will never know if
she was there. I will also not know if she has read the letter, which is scarier
than knowing she did. But what is there in the letter that she shouldn’t see?
Will someone tell me, please? When did avoiding an appointment with an actor
become a sin?
Feeling upset and indignant, he re-assessed the situation. Of course, I can
go back to my chair without turning and looking behind. But once I’m there,
what’ll I do? Keep my eyes closed so I won’t see who’s in front? But without
opening them, how will I ever know? Oh, it’s too complicated!
All right, I shall turn and look, if that will solve the problem. But what if
it’s not Rosi? What if it’s Satan?
Spider shivered. Mar Tommy, Martyr of Meenachil, come to my aid!
 8
IMAGINARY REPLIES

Spider tried desperately to dismiss the illusion of someone standing behind him
and failed. Then he remembered a simple remedy prescribed by Rosi for such
occasions: apply rational thought.
He closed his eyes and switched to rational thinking. By logical deduction,
he reflected, I have established that no one can enter this room unless I open
the door. I am therefore fully in control of the situation and the illusion of
someone standing behind me is hereby dismissed. Hello, this is Lord Spider
speaking to whoever it may concern. Do you know there are more than one
hundred thousand species of spiders in the world? Many of them came out of
Africa and walked or thumbed lifts all the way to India via the opium route. Do
you know they were the first to set up hairpin-curve signs on the Khyber Pass?
Do you know they proselytized she-goats on the Indo-Gangetic plain while a
para-military band played devotional songs?
Rationality had begun to take hold and Spider was on the way to
becoming calm, when from behind him came the sound of someone politely
clearing their throat.
‘Ahem …’
Spider was devastated to find the hair standing up all over his body. Oh,
what a shame!
His heart was drumming in his ears.
He asked in a faint voice, ‘Will someone please tell me when man will be
able to stop his hair and heart from behaving illegally?’
Again came the unmistakable sound of someone clearing their throat.
Spider found his body shaking. I must confront this matter immediately.
In a voice that was almost a sob, he asked, ‘Rosi, who are you? Speak the
truth!’
 Now!
Spider waited for the illusion to vanish. All was quiet. There! Nothing like
taking the bull by the horns and asking the right questions.
He felt so good now that he took a moment to pat himself on the back for
coming up with such a scintillating new phrase to describe the situation. Take
the bull by the horns. Simply outstanding! No wonder I’m a famous writer.
Then a male voice said in a reverential tone, ‘Sir … I apologize …’
Spider managed to stop the scream that rose to his throat. He felt
something like a wet towel filling his mouth; it seemed to be his tongue. To
make sure, he stuck it out, tried to look at it, and not being able to, put it back.
With shaking hands, he gripped the chair. Beads of sweat crawled down his
back.
Suddenly he knew who had spoken. It was the chair! He had heard it
mumbling to itself earlier too, in creaks and squeaks. He whispered, ‘Brother
Chair, you need not call me “Sir”. Feel free to address me as an equal. In what
way can I help you? And thank you for letting me sit on you.’
Now that the cause of the illusion had been identified, he felt strong and
reenergized. In any case, he pondered, who says a random voice can’t float into
a closed room, clear its throat and start speaking? Or maybe this room, by a
decree of fate, has turned into a voice-storage terminal for the universe and
something’s leaking. Maybe I’m living inside a radio whose tuner has gone
berserk!
Or is it a horrible voice spectre from Satan’s Studios come to haunt me?
Spider pushed down another scream.
Then he heard the male voice say, ‘Sir, I humbly apologize …’
In the dead silence that followed, Spider prepared to meet this ultimate
deception. Rosi speaking like a man!
Rosi, even though I love you, I need to be stern when the situation
demands it. I am going to turn and look behind me now. Watch out!
He held fast the arms of the chair, closed his eyes tight and turned his
head, but not his body, to the right, and opened his eyes a slit. There was
nobody in sight as far as he could see.
Ha! This shows one must break illusions systematically and ruthlessly. All
you need to do is, see with your teeth, think with your prostate, hear with your
toes and speak with your hair.
Then a figure moved into his vision and came to a standstill.
It was not Rosi.
 As he fainted and slid down the chair, Spider heard himself doing
arithmetic tables: Divide thirty teen by twenty sex … multiply scary six by
hairy four … and addict three pins to two pricks … He felt proud that in a
life-or-death battle with the Unknown, his logical faculties were still intact.
Then, to his pleasant surprise, he found Rosi was breastfeeding him. She
had offered him his favourite breast, the one on the left, and cold coffee came
out of it. He examined the nipple and saw it had a minute coffee-vending
machine. Rosi smiled at him fondly and said, ‘The other one has paprika juice.
But you must pay first. This was free.’
Spider hadn’t heard of paprika juice. He asked her, his mouth full of cold
coffee, ‘You mean papaya juice?’ He liked papaya juice. He couldn’t find any
money on himself though, and begged Rosi for credit. When she agreed, he
switched to the right breast and had one sip when the nipple came off and
paprika juice gushed out, choking him.
He was floating in a twilight zone when someone softly touched him on
the shoulder and asked in a worried voice, ‘Sir? Are you all right?’
Spider came to and took stock of the situation. He did not want to take
any chances. Assuming an unseeing look, he opened his eyes a little. What he
saw was a man’s face hovering above him. It was a worried face. Spider was in
full alert mode as he sat up.
The man stood aside with an expression of reverence and guilt.
Careful, Spider told himself. Satan’s here. And he has peeped into my
essay. Oh, it’s in peril!
He turned to the man with a put-on smile and said, ‘Hello! Let me tell
you, the essay is a hoax. I’m just pretending to write it.’
The man seemed surprised, but listened raptly.
Spider continued, ‘The big find for you will be my letter to Mrs Vana
Kumari. That’s the hottest thing in fiction, known as Imaginary Replies to Real
Letters.’
The man looked lost and worried. He said in a meek voice, ‘Sir, I humbly
beg your pardon for entering your room without your permission and
disturbing your creative moments. My name is J.L. Pillai. I am a hangman by
profession.’
 9
THE RING OF TRUTH

The hangman put down the small cloth bag he held in one hand and took out
from his shirt pocket a small diary and a pen. He opened the pen, wiped its
inky neck on his right heel, and with the pen poised over a page asked, ‘Forgive
me, Sir, just now, did you say “imaginary replies” or “imagined replies”?’
Spider didn’t hear the question. His face had grown pale. He asked in a
sad voice, ‘Ha … veyo … uco … meto … han … gme? Wh … er … e’s th …
ero … pe?’
The man said unhappily, ‘Sir … I’m very sorry, I’m unable to …’
Spider repeated the question. ‘H … av … eyo … uc … ome … toh …
ang … me? Whe … re’s … th … erop … e?’
The man looked like he was about to cry. He said in small voice, ‘Sir …
I’m still not able to understand.’
This time Spider got it right. ‘Have you … come … to hang me? Where’s
… the rope?’
The man looked shattered. He tried to say something, but the words
wouldn’t emerge.
Spider continued, ‘Is the rope plastic or coir? Which is best?’
With palms joined at his chest and head bowed, the man said in a guilty
voice, ‘Sir, I apologize most humbly. Inadvertently I’ve caused you great
anxiety. In my immature enthusiasm, I came here without a prior appointment.
I wish to submit that I am your ardent fan and have come to pay my humble
respects to you in person, and also to enjoy the unique honour of being in your
great presence for a few precious moments. I confess that I was so taken up by
the sight of a great writer at work that I failed even to announce myself, thus
causing you unnecessary worry. I beg to be forgiven.’
Careful, careful, Spider told himself. How does he know I’m a great writer?
Apart from my books, which he may or may not have read, what proof does he
have? I think he’s bluffing.
Spider said, ‘I would like to refer to your statement that I’m a great
writer. What proof do you have?’
The man rushed forward, touched Spider’s feet and said, ‘Sir, your
greatness is beyond any proof!’
Spider thought that sounded logical. And the man’s manners were
agreeable. Even though touching someone’s feet was not his thing, he thought it
conveyed a fine point. But he didn’t want to leave anything to chance. The Rosi
angle needed to be probed.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Does the name Rosi ring a bell?’
He watched the man carefully. If he’s Rosi, it’ll show now. She sighs when
she lies.
The man didn’t sigh. He said, ‘Yes, Sir. You addressed me as Rosi a few
minutes back and asked me who I was. I’m a committed truth-speaker, Sir.’
The answer did seem to have a ring of truth.
‘Last question,’ Spider said. ‘Can you produce an original testimony from
a person of eminence that you are a reputed and respected hangman?’
The man said, ‘Sir, I have several of them, though not on my person just
now. Like the one the Raja of Tirumuttar gave me after I hanged his mistress.’
‘Oh! What was her crime?’
‘She murdered the Raja’s father, the Maharaja, in her bedroom, mistaking
him for the Raja.’
‘Ho!’ Spider said, surprised. ‘The Maharaja must have been very absent-
minded. What was he doing in his son’s mistress’s bedroom?’
‘I have not verified that, Sir,’ the man said.
‘Poor chap! Must have lost his way. Very sad indeed,’ Spider mused.
The man said, ‘Sir.’
Spider added thoughtfully, ‘Perhaps the light in the mistress’s bedroom
was poor. How come she couldn’t distinguish between the son and the father?
Was there a power failure?’
‘I’m unaware of that, Sir,’ the man said.
Spider continued, ‘Or her eyesight must’ve been bad.’
The man regretfully added that he hadn’t verified that either.
‘Oh, what a tragedy!’ Spider mused. ‘Imagine! The Maharaja thinks he’s
getting into his Rani’s bed, and then … Boom!’
The man said, ‘Yes, Sir.’
 ‘And think of the poor Raja, losing his father and his mistress at one go.
Terrible!’
The man said, ‘Sir.’
‘We live in bad times,’ Spider sighed. ‘Hardly a day passes without power
failure, poor eyesight, absent-mindedness or some such terrible thing creating
immense tragedies in reputed and respectable families.’
Suddenly a thought struck him and he asked, ‘But how did the Raja know
that it was him the mistress wanted to finish off and not his father?’
The man said, ‘I heard from highly placed sources that the Raja’s spies
eavesdropped on a conversation between his Rani and the jailed mistress in
which they consoled each other over the failure of the mission. They expressed
the view, however, that the father was a good consolation prize.’
Spider said the matter seemed delicate.
The man agreed. He added that a few days later, the Rani was murdered
on her way to the temple.
Spider was aghast. A Rani murdered in plain daylight in a public place!
Did the police have no shame?
‘Was the culprit caught?’ he asked.
The man said that as far as he knew, the culprit was never caught. He had,
however, heard that the Raja retired from public life afterwards and took to
writing poetry.
Spider asked if the poetry was any good.
The man said he had heard it was below par.
Spider was in a thoughtful mood. He said, ‘I’m surprised. Widower-hood,
even divorce, is said to work extremely well for fiction. Maybe not for poetry.
This deserves to be studied.’
The man stared at Spider in amazement, pulled out his diary and
scribbled. They were silent for a while.
Then Spider asked the hangman, ‘Did you say this is a courtesy call?’
The man said solemnly, ‘Sir, I would not even dare to imagine making a
courtesy call on an exalted personage like you. I have come to pay my respectful
homage to you. I am an ardent reader of your extraordinary works. I also wish
to seek your blessings, for my humble aspiration is to become a writer. Sir, I
wish to submit that I know many stories, but I do not know how to write
them.’
Spider turned the chair around to face him fully and asked, ‘How many?’
The man said, ‘A few hundred, Sir.’
 ‘Well,’ Spider said, ‘could you tell me your name again, please?’
‘It’s J.L. Pillai.’
‘What does J stand for?’
‘Jesus, Sir.’
Spider looked at him, puzzled. He asked, ‘Are you related to Jesus?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ the man said. ‘My late father met Jesus in
Tirunelveli and there were certain developments.’
‘You mean, Tirunelveli, Tamil Nadu?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Spider wondered how far Usilampatti was from Tirunelveli. Wouldn’t
Molly have known if Jesus was in the vicinity?
‘What was he doing there?’ he asked.
‘He was a hangman,’ the man said.
Spider was flabbergasted. Jesus! A hangman! This can’t be true. The man is
fibbing. He’s putting one over me with one of his unwritten stories and calling
it family history. I can’t let this go.
He said to the man, ‘Hello! While I’ve no quarrel with hangmen, I must
declare that I’m not willing to buy your story about Jesus being a hangman. He
would cut a sorry figure as a hangman. Your credibility is under the scanner.’
Now it was the man’s turn to be shocked.
He said, agitated, ‘Sir, I’m sorry I misunderstood your question. My father
was a hangman, not Jesus.’
Spider said, ‘That’s better! Please proceed.’
 10
THE AUTHORIZED VERSION

J.L. Pillai continued the story of Jesus and his father, as he stood reverently
before Spider, his hands crossed behind him and a faraway look in his eyes. ‘Sir,
my father had been summoned to the jail to do his duty as executioner. By a
strange turn of events, he happened to meet the condemned man in his cell the
day before the execution. They had a conversation.’
‘Just a moment, please!’ Spider interrupted. He couldn’t resist this
opportunity to make a prediction. ‘Can I guess who Jesus was?’
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, sounding thrilled, ‘I can’t believe you find my poor
narrative interesting enough to intervene in!’
Spider sat with closed eyes for a few moments, wrote down his finding on
a piece of paper and handed it to the man.
The man read aloud, ‘Jesus was (a) the jail chaplain or (b) the prisoner’s
wife.’
Spider watched J.L. Pillai with a complacent smile. ‘Jail chaplain’ was
certainly the correct answer, but he was taking a long shot with ‘prisoner’s
wife’ as Jesus was unlikely to have gender prejudices.
The man looked at Spider hesitantly and then said, ‘I’m afraid not, Sir.
Jesus was the condemned prisoner.’
Spider couldn’t help feeling upset. This is too much! Surely Jesus deserves
better options. Why is he the condemned man always?
Pillai continued, ‘He requested my father to do him a favour and my
father agreed. The following day, as the black hood was being lowered over his
head, with a quick glance he reminded my father of the promise. My father let
him know he remembered, with a flicker of his eyes. Then my father hanged
him.’
There was a brief silence. Then Spider said, ‘I think you have an ink-stain
on your shirt-pocket.’
‘I am sorry, Sir,’ the man said. ‘My pen tends to leak when I fly.’
Fly? When one can take a train or a bus, which are so much cheaper?
Maybe hangmen have a flying allowance.
The man asked, ‘May I go on, Sir?’
Spider said, ‘Yes, please. I hope that what you are narrating is the fully
authorized version.’
The man replied that it was authorized by both his father and mother.
Spider said that those credentials were as good as any, especially
considering it was family history.
The man continued, ‘When my father came out of the jail after the
hanging, a woman, whom he identified by a sign Jesus had given him, was
waiting outside. He told the woman what Jesus had entrusted him to say.’
‘Was her name Rosi?’ Spider asked with sudden interest. It was possible
she had squeezed in a rebirth before she married him.
‘No, Sir. Her name was Amritavalli. My father married her. When I was
born, they named me Jesus.’
Spider said, ‘So it was Jesus who mediated your mother’s marriage.’
‘Sir.’
‘Please take a seat,’ Spider said.
The man said he preferred to stand.
For a while, Spider was absorbed in thought.
Then he said, ‘Mr Pillai, I would like to obtain the following information
in order to place our mutual relationship on a surer footing:
1. What was Jesus’s crime?
2. What made your father believe the prisoner was Jesus?
3. What tools did you employ to enter this closed room?
4. How come your name has Hindu and Christian components in it?
5. Please re-clarify the exact purpose of your visit.’

Pillai pondered this. Then he said, ‘Sir, I shall try to answer all these
questions to the best of my ability.
‘Regarding item no.1, I’m promise-bound to silence on this matter. I can,
however, tell you that Jesus was a young carpenter living in Papanasam, near
Tirunelveli. It was his thirty-seventh reincarnation.’
Spider made a quick calculation and thought thirty-seven seemed realistic,
though thirty-four or thirty-six might fit too.
Pillai seemed to be cogitating.
Then he said, ‘For you, Sir, I would like to go a step further and divulge
that the woman Jesus loved, namely my mother, had killed a man in self-
defence. Jesus took her place before the law. Sir, I can go no further.
‘As for question no. 2, my father told me that he realized the prisoner in
the death-cell was Jesus because of a remarkable incident. At the precise
moment Jesus was revealing his secret to him, a rare and prized butterfly my
father had been hoping to net for decades landed on Jesus’s nose and signalled
to my father with a flip of its antennae that Jesus’s statement was true. It was
an audacious gesture. Because my father, Sir, was an uncompromising
lepidopterist and would have given his life to pin that butterfly down in his
collection. But he could only stare at it helplessly as it sat on Jesus’s nose,
waving its antennae. The incident haunted him for the rest of his life.
‘Sir, regarding item no. 3, I did not use any tools to enter the room. I flew
in through the window in the shape of a crow.’
Spider didn’t bat an eyelid. He was used to fantasy and hype from nearly
every person he met. Flew in! In the shape of a crow! What else is new, please?
‘Item no. 4: In our community, Sir, it’s common to share and conjoin
Hindu and Christian names. My father’s name was Lazarus Kumara Pillai and
mine is Jesus Lambodara Pillai. Thus we make the optimum use of good names
from both communities.
‘As for item no. 5, Sir, I have already stated to you the true purpose of my
visit, which is to pay my humble respects to you as a reader and seek your
blessings. I beg to be forgiven if I have caused you inconvenience.’
Spider was impressed. Are all hangmen so transparent and humble and
precise?
He decided to check one last detail. ‘Did that butterfly contact your father
or you again?’
‘No, Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘I feel it would have taken into account its own safety
and avoided such a step. Inside the prison, it was playing a daredevil game,
using Jesus as a prop: witnessing Jesus, sitting on his nose and, on the strength
of that, throwing a challenge to my father. Any place else, it would have had no
escape from being a prized exhibit in my father’s album.’
Spider was lost in thought.
Then he told Pillai, ‘Theologically speaking, I feel that the butterfly must
have been an earnest Christian, to be so bold as to witness Jesus, sitting upon
his nose. But given the intimacy it demonstrated to Jesus, it could have been a
reincarnation of Mary, sister of Martha—and of Lazarus, who, it is written, was
raised from the dead by Jesus. Mary would think nothing of tweaking Jesus’s
nose, let alone sit on it. If the butterfly was her, no wonder your father couldn’t
catch it. She was too good for most people, including Jesus.’
‘But, Sir, think of my father’s terrible disappointment. He too was a
believer. And his name was Lazarus too.’
‘Mr Pillai,’ Spider said, ‘I think I know where the catch is. If I were in
your father’s place and a true believer, I would have simply requested Jesus to
grab the butterfly and hand it over. I think your father was a shy man.’
‘True, Sir,’ Pillai agreed, ‘but given Jesus’s compassionate tendencies, he
would hardly have captured a butterfly and delivered it to a collector.’
Compassionate tendencies! Spider was shaken by the sudden reappearance
of the c-word. However, he recovered quickly, realizing that he didn’t feel as
threatened by the phenomenon as before. Based on his interactions with Pillai,
it seemed reasonable to suppose that the man had no secret agenda and he was
what he said he was: a reputed executioner, a devoted fan, an aspiring writer
and a relative of Jesus. And he was extremely well-mannered. That he was given
to hallucinations about flying was sad, but forgivable. Spider sighed and
whispered: Oh, thank you, Mar Tommy! What a relief it is to know that I’m not
the hallucinating type!
 11
THE BEST SEX GURUS

Spider took a good, long look at the hangman.

He saw a man of medium height, in his early forties, wearing a white-and-
blue checked shirt with sleeves folded up to the elbows, a white dhoti, and a
pair of well-worn green rubber slippers on his feet. He was clean-shaven and
had a benign look. The eyes had an expression of patient and polite waiting. His
hair was thick, curly, greying and well oiled. It shook as a single bunch when his
body moved, as now, while writing vigorously in his diary. His heels were
covered with ink marks.
He couldn’t help thinking of the Rosi angle again, because Rosi too was
capable of telling tales, looking benign, and making her hair dance when she
wanted to. But she wouldn’t ever wipe a pen on her heel. She wore an air of
patient and polite waiting too, but only while making love. Spider had always
thought that was queer. What on earth was she waiting for?
Suddenly a solution to the Rosi puzzle appeared as if by a miracle, which
made Spider suspect that Mar Tommy, though often a laggard, was paying
attention.
The solution was very simple: confront the executioner with a no-
nonsense, scientific query about his flying fantasy. If the man was indeed Rosi,
he was bound to hem and haw, because Rosi didn’t know a thing about flying
and, what’s more, objected to humans flying around in airplanes. And, of
course, she sighed when she lied.
The fact of the matter was that he had been worried by certain nocturnal
movements that seemed to point to some mysterious flying activity on Rosi’s
part. On some nights, he would suddenly wake up, and not finding her in bed,
be seized by a feeling of doom. While frantically looking for her, he had once
seen, out the window, in the star-lit sky, a prowling cloud bearing a strong
resemblance to her, inscrutably changing shape all the while. The strange cloud
sometimes hid the moon, turning the night sombre and foreboding, and
sometimes it slowly drifted, making the stars blink in and out. Just when his
heart had sunk into an eerie place and he had lost all hope, Rosi opened the
bathroom door and walked in as if it was the most natural thing to do for
someone coming out of the sky, and lay down on the bed and fell asleep
instantly.
He touched her warily to see if his hand would pass through her cloud-
body. But all that happened was that he got either a fragile erection or a strong
one, depending on where he touched her. Whichever it was, it had no practical
value because Rosi strongly discouraged late-night sex. According to her, the
majority of the world’s ants considered the inner hours of the night as wisdom
time and abstained from sex then. This improved their memory, eyesight,
pulling power, liver function and, of course, wisdom. She said she had learned
this from a group of ants on a pilgrimage to Manhattan, which according to
them was one of the ancient Holy Anthills captured by man. Spider chose not to
argue because he respected the domain of philosophy, with all its eccentricities.
However, he couldn’t but silently wonder: Are ants, in fact, the best sex gurus?
Did they write the Kamasutra? What if they are, with their dubious wisdom
theory, simply wreaking revenge on us for blasting them with insecticides round
the clock? We might forever miss out on the best sex then!
Spider framed his big question to the executioner as follows: If it were
indeed true that Mr Pillai could change himself into a bird and fly in the sky,
how did he account for the clothes, the bag, the diary, the pen etc., which he
had on him? Did they also change shape? If indeed they did, where did the bird-
body store them?
As he asked this, he put on a look of total disinterest. Haha! Now we’ll see
what we’ll see!
Pillai didn’t sigh or quibble. On the contrary, his face filled with pleasure.
He said joyfully, ‘Sir, it’s indeed fascinating that you have raised this highly
scientific query. The answer is surprisingly simple. When I undergo conversion
as a bird or a bat, the objects I have on me also become convertible and
portable. They somersault into the realm of philosophy and become pure ideas
—shirt-idea, rubber-slipper-idea, bag-idea, pen-idea, etc. Upon my return to
the human state, they too revert to the material state.’
It didn’t take Spider even a moment to see that this was a down-to-earth
statement of fact with a scientific basis. And Rosi would be the last person to
send her footwear, dress, handbag, creams, etc., somersaulting into philosophy.
She wouldn’t trust philosophy to the extent of handing over her personal stuff
to it. What if there were cloakroom thieves in there? He sighed with relief and
leaned back on the chair, grateful that the Rosi uncertainty was finally out of
the way.
But a related scientific issue still bothered him. He asked Pillai, ‘Have you
checked whether your pen continues to leak in the pure-idea state? I ask this
because ideas leak faster than materials and you could end up, for example,
losing a lot of ink-idea.’
Pillai seemed stunned by this information. He said in a voice filled with
emotion, ‘Sir, I am indebted to you. I bow my head before your genius. I have
been puzzled by the speed with which the ink in my pen gets finished. Your
profound insight has unravelled the mystery. Oh, thank you so much, Sir.’
He once again took out his diary and pen and wrote urgently.
Spider asked him, ‘Are you writing a story? Then it’s better that you sit
down. Many people write better when seated.’
The hangman seemed electrified and quickly moved to a fresh page to
write this down. Then he went back, referred to a previous entry and said,
‘Forgive me, Sir, for asking you to recollect your words. About the phenomenon
of leaks, did you employ the word “matter” or “material”?’
Spider couldn’t recall what he had said. Seeing how greatly disappointed
Pillai was, he told him, ‘Mr Pillai, let me suggest a way out, which I use when in
doubt in such matters. Look at both words for nine seconds each with the right
eye closed and see which one seems to beckon to you. Choose the other. You
have to be dispassionate in your choice of words—not compassionate. The less
inviting the word you choose, the safer you are.’
Pillai was scribbling so furiously now, his whole head of hair danced and
trembled.
It was then that a tremendous realization hit Spider. He almost fell off the
chair under its impact. He had spontaneously breached the block on the essay!
He had just created an original thought on compassion!
You have to be dispassionate in your choice of words—not compassionate.
The very breakthrough he had been waiting for! Had the executioner
brought him luck?
 12
THE KARMA OF LIVING

As he sat watching Pillai scribble at breakneck speed in his diary, another

miraculous revelation visited Spider. He was so overwhelmed by its game-
changing implications that he stopped breathing for a moment. Oh, Mar
Tommy! The solution to my problems with the essay is right here, standing
before me. Look at the mysterious interest the hangman has in words. See his
strange ability to produce thoughts. We could have a back-to-back arrangement.
He will assist me with the essay and I will provide him guidelines for writing his
stories. Oh, if only I were not so enslaved to reality, I could have also helped
him to hallucinate better. Of course, he needs a pen that doesn’t leak. That can
be fixed.
Pillai had finished writing and stood looking at Spider with worshipful
eyes. He said in a hushed voice, ‘Sir, as you can see, I am using these precious
moments to record your wisdom for myself and for posterity.’
He wiped the pen’s neck on his left heel before capping it and putting it in
his pocket. There was no place left on the right heel.
Spider was in a deep reverie about the momentous discovery he had just
made. He sat staring into the distance, open-mouthed, with unseeing eyes.
Pillai said cautiously, ‘Sir?’
There was no response. A look of worry appeared on Pillai’s face.
He went a step closer and peered at Spider’s face. Spider didn’t seem to
see him. The perplexity deepened on Pillai’s face.
At his next call, in a louder voice, Spider opened his eyes.
He said, ‘Oh, Mr Pillai! I’m sorry, I was carried away by an idea.’
‘Sir, I apologize if I disturbed the immaculate flow of revolutionary
thoughts that were rising within you.’
Spider thanked him and said humbly, ‘Oh, it’s all right.’
 He didn’t want to waste any more time on peripherals.
He turned to Pillai and said, ‘Mr Pillai, let’s take stock of where we stand
at this point of time. You want to write stories—I may be able to give you some
pointers. At the same time—as you might have noticed—I am writing an essay
on compassion which involves a major shift from Imagination to Thought. You
may be able to contribute some inputs to my work with regard to Thought.
Thus we could have a mutually beneficial intellectual collaboration.’
Pillai stared at Spider with a disbelieving expression. He seemed engulfed
by a wave of joy. Then he said, his voice trembling with excitement, ‘Not in my
wildest dreams, Sir, did I imagine that you, a literary giant of now and the
future, would offer to guide me, a humble seeker, or ask for my insignificant
and unworthy assistance. This is an unforgettable day for me, Sir. It is my
singular privilege to be at your command from this moment.’
‘Thank you,’ Spider said briefly. He didn’t want to go overboard with
jubilation, even though the man had passed every test so far.
Pillai seemed to be thinking.
‘Sir,’ he said after a few moments, ‘with your blessings, and from the little
knowledge I have gathered from wise men, may I make a humble suggestion?’
‘Please go ahead,’ Spider said.
‘Sir, I would like to suggest that the changeover you are about to effect
from Imagination to Thought belongs to the category of a paradigm shift.’
That sounded good. Spider was impressed.
‘I see a paradigm shift happen, Sir, for example, when I hang a person. It’s
a simple shift from being alive to being dead.’
Spider frowned. Is this what we want? Is he getting it mixed up? Is getting
hanged the best model for me?
Pillai continued, ‘Sir, in the context of paradigm shifts, you may find
interesting the history of His Holy Highness Master Tombvasi, who stayed dead
all his life in the luxurious tombs he built because he refused to accept the
paradigm shift from life to death. He taught it was better to be dead all the
time because that way, you escape the karma of living altogether. But you had
to earn the merit.’
Spider thought that was a good slap on the face of karma. Pillai was lucky
to have met such a wise guru. I’ve found the perfect collaborator for the essay.
Such wide-ranging experience of life.
Pillai continued, ‘Sir, his basic tenet was that if you were one of the
billions of unfortunate people who were born alive and stayed alive, the only
way to gain the merit to be dead was Holy Donation to the Holy Guru in cash
and kind. The Maharaj lived in a tomb—built from Holy Donations—which
had fourteen bedrooms, seven kitchens, seven dining halls and ten strongrooms,
and also swimming pools, gyms, saunas and theatres. He owned several other
similar tombs in famous mountain resorts and exotic islands. I was attached to
him for a while in an informal capacity because he wished to learn the art of
hanging which is, as you know, the most reputed mode of applied death.’
Spider was worried. He anxiously asked Pillai if he too had earned the
merit to die. Oh, am I talking to a living dead? He shivered.
Pillai said he didn’t have even a fraction of the capital needed to earn the
said merit. He had left when his task of training with the use of dummies was
over.
‘Sir,’ he said, ‘one day I was called upon to hang the Maharaj for
bestowing upon seventy-one of his millionaire disciples, one by one, the
heavenly blessing of becoming dead as soon as they had donated their full assets
to him. When I went to meet him for a last blessing before his execution, he
told me that his final finding was that life was just a bubble of thought, and
death was the real thing—death was pure imagination. He said he had enjoyed
being dead all these years except that sometimes he got the uncomfortable
feeling that fourteen bedrooms were a few too many. Even one seemed a
challenge sometimes. He was happy he was going to be out of all those
bedrooms finally and in the next phase of his death. He looked forward to a
period of rest, recuperation and rejuvenation.’
Spider found himself growing nervous. To the best of his knowledge, he
too was nothing but a man of pure imagination. Did that mean he had been
dead all this time? He thought he was suffocating. Oh, Rosi had better not hear
this. She thinks the body language of the dead is menacing, obnoxious and
obstructionist. Mar Tommy! I’ll be as good as dead if she finds out I’ve been
dead all this time and was covering it up. I might find myself out of the only
bedroom I have.
Spider girded up his loins and asked Pillai the fearsome question about
death, sounding as casual as possible. ‘Mr Pillai, is it possible then that I too am
dead, being a man of pure imagination?’
Pillai was shocked. He said in an emotion-charged voice, ‘Sir, please do not
even suggest such a thing. You are immortal. I used the late Guru’s story only
to illustrate how a special mind dealt with the paradigms of life and death.’
Spider was so relieved, he almost cried.
 He said, ‘In that case, Mr Pillai, to celebrate our partnership, let me tell
you my theory about death: I believe death is my eviction from history by
market forces looking for new talents. I die; history carries on with new recruits.
Suddenly I can’t yawn, make love, scratch my back or buy mixed-fruit jam. I’ll
never know who the next Pope is. That’s death. It’s a shameless market
operation.’
He added, ‘However, since I’ve nothing personal against death, I do feel it
would do death a world of good if it were renamed in a customer-friendly
manner and remarketed. Its rating could soar.’
After many days, suddenly, Spider felt refreshed and rejuvenated. What
cannot theory do! It’s so invigorating!
Pillai was scribbling without pause. When he finished, he looked up at
Spider with wonder-filled eyes. He said, ‘Sir, with such extraordinary insights at
your instant command, I feel it’s your great humility that prompts you to say
that you experience difficulty in executing a paradigm shift from Imagination to
Thought.’
Spider was overwhelmed. So dispassionate and balanced was this
executioner in his perception. No wonder he called me immortal. He said
warmly, ‘Mr Pillai, I embrace you as my brother. Let us march forward!’
 13
ONLY THE BARE FACTS

For a few minutes, Spider sat savouring his good fortune in having found a
collaborator who was so perfectly made to order. He wondered if he too should
get into hallucination like Pillai in order to obtain better results in the realm of
thought. Certainly, he was not one to shirk responsibility.
He glanced at his watch and was startled. It was twelve-thirty! Almost
lunch time. Some delicate matters needed to be immediately sorted out with
Pillai.
He said in a hushed voice, ‘Mr Pillai, in a while from now, my wife will
call me for lunch. She might come in or just shout from the steps.’
Pillai listened attentively.
Spider paused, considering the best way to get the rest of the message
across.
He continued, ‘I cannot invite you to lunch because your presence would
give the impression that I’m taking in visitors through the back door, which is
bound to affect my good name adversely. As a man of pure imagination, I am
willing to buy your case that you flew in as a crow through the window, but it
will not cut ice with my wife, who is a philosopher. My credibility will be
compromised. Add to that the fact that a certain agent of evil, who resides here
and goes by the name Brother Dog, is notorious for his malicious and aggressive
behaviour. Besides, there’s curried buttermilk for lunch …’
Spider nearly added, ‘… which I do not like to share with anyone’, but
cut himself short just in time.
Oh, that would have been terrible, Spider told himself. The hangman
would have got the impression that Rosi makes poor curried buttermilk, not fit
to be shared with a guest. In the nick of time! Oh, Mar Tommy! You are
brilliant!
 He made a factual statement instead. ‘When we have curried buttermilk,
we meditate on the udders of the cow, which you may find disconcerting if you
are a stranger to mystic practices.’
‘Sir,’ the man said, ‘not to worry at all. My lunch consists of a few nuts,
fruits and small insects which I carry with me. In any case, Sir, I think your
lunch may take a little longer because when I came in, your wife was only
beginning her oil massage.’
As the words left his mouth, the man went red in the face. He seemed to
be desperately trying to erase the words he had uttered. His face registered
agony.
Spider decided it was best to be frank. He said, ‘Mr Pillai, I think you
wanted to say your wife was in her oil bath.’
He felt bad for the hangman. Poor fellow! He is hallucinating all the time.
Imagine mixing up his wife with mine.
He said sympathetically, ‘Mr Pillai, I’m not surprised you’re facing a
problem in writing stories. From the way you mixed up your wife and mine in a
simple detail of daily life, I suspect you are weak at tracking reality. But that is
paramount to fiction, although it may not be evident.’
He paused and added, ‘I mean, evident to the naked eye.’
Pillai came out of his shock with a start, pulled out his diary and began
writing.
Then he looked up and asked reverently, ‘Sir, did you say “elegant” or
“evident”?’
Spider didn’t remember. He said he cleaned up his short-term memory
every three seconds to keep his soul vibrant. But to facilitate future dealings
with Pillai, he would re-programme it to thirty minutes.
Even though it was only Pillai’s hallucination, Spider couldn’t hide his
curiosity about oil baths. He asked, ‘If it’s not too personal a question, what oil
does your wife use for her massage?’
Pillai said in a hushed voice, ‘Sir, I am unmarried.’
He hesitated, his face filling with conflicting emotions. Then he said
guiltily, ‘Sir, I do not wish to speak an untruth to a great genius. I do believe it
was your wife I saw having an oil massage.’
Spider played along. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘Because my wife, Rosi,
sometimes creates hallucinations for others.’
He wanted that to sink in. There are hallucinations and hallucinations!
The man pulled himself together and said in a shaking voice, ‘Maybe … if
your good self will forgive me … my description of the event might provide
some clues.’
Spider understood his confusion. He’s nervous because he’s going to
fabricate a story. And doesn’t know a thing about fiction to fabricate efficiently.
What’s more, he is mostly off-track on reality. All right! Let’s see how difficult
he’s going to make it.
Spider said, ‘Between you and me, Mr Pillai, the fact is that my wife has
never let me watch her having an oil massage. She says an onlooker’s eye makes
the oil paranoid and the massage loses the egoless profundity she expects from
it. In fact, on several occasions, I have offered to massage her, despite my heavy
work schedule. But she says a writer’s fingers are bound to carry residues of the
unhappy words he may have used and that could create a toxic, undermining
effect on her body.’
Pillai’s eyes were closed and he seemed to be meditating. When he opened
his eyes, they had a dreamy, faraway look. He whispered, ‘Sir, I’m a very
fortunate man!’
Spider asked what made him suddenly think so.
Pillai said, ‘Sir, I’ve had the amazing luck in a single morning of meeting a
great literary genius and—although inadvertently—obtaining a glimpse of his
wife, a personage whose breadth of philosophical insight, as revealed by you, is
astounding. Sir, I’m indeed a privileged person.’
Spider appreciated the way the man had grasped the essence of the
situation and expressed it in a few neat words. I think I made a really smart
choice of collaborator. The hallucinations only seem to make him more
eloquent!
Pillai took a deep breath. It seemed to take a massive effort before he
asked, ‘Sir, may I then proceed with a brief description of the event in the
bathroom?’
‘Please,’ Spider said.
But he wished to make the terms and conditions clear. There were
accepted yardsticks for fabrication.
He said, ‘You must not embellish or exaggerate. You must state only the
bare facts. Then take it from there.’
Pillai said he firmly believed honesty was the best policy.
He continued, ‘Sir, the facts are as follows: This morning, at 11 a.m., I
landed on the guava tree in your lawn in the shape of a crow. Though my
preference is for the bat-shape, I avoid it during the day. Bats, as I am sure you
know, Sir, belong to the category of nocturnal creatures and tend to get adverse
attention in the daytime. It was while I was looking for your study that I
happened … er … to glance into the bathroom downstairs where Madam—
your wife—was applying oil on herself.’
‘Please fill in one detail,’ Spider intervened. ‘Was she clothed, partly
clothed or unclothed?’
‘Sir, fully unclothed.’
Spider sighed. He said, ‘Mr Pillai, please go ahead. But, as I said, no
embellishments, please.’
 14
THE DESTINY OF SONGS

Pillai continued his narration of the bare facts of his encounter with Spider’s
wife. He said, ‘Sitting on the windowsill of the bathroom, I studied Madam’s
massage technique because I’m a student of alternative systems of body and
mind care. I was charmed to see Madam dancing while she oiled herself.’
‘You don’t say!’ Spider exclaimed.
‘I have added no embellishments, Sir,’ Pillai said. ‘She was humming a
song.’
‘Could you identify the dance and the song?’
‘The dance, Sir, I thought had a classical touch to it, even though it had a
heart of folk. It was certainly dynamic. I could immediately identify the song
she was humming. ‘Jaayiye aap kahaan jaayenge’; singer: Asha Bhonsle;
music: O.P. Nayyar; lyrics: Majrooh Sultanpuri; film: Mere Sanam; banner: G.P.
Sippy; vintage: 1965.’
Spider was surprised that the man knew the ancient protocol for recalling
songs: always tag the song’s full ID. He was impressed. Once again, he
congratulated himself. What a wonderful collaborator he had found!
‘One minute, please,’ Spider said and quickly hummed the song under his
breath.
He said, ‘Amazing! The song hasn’t changed at all after all these years! I
know many that have, mostly for the worse, sometimes for the better.’
He was silent for a while, then continued reflectively, ‘I also know songs
that have lost everything. One night, Rosi and I were meditating on the bed in
the corpse-position when we distinctly heard a song weeping. It was almost
beyond recognition. When Brother Dog barked, it became silent. But
occasionally we could hear it sobbing. Rosi began to cry because it was one of
her dearest songs. Then she got out of bed, threw off her clothes and sat by the
window and sang the song the way it was when it was young and beautiful and
happy. The moon came up and everything became silent. Then she wished to
make love leaning on the window and the moon smiled at us.’
Spider bit his tongue in dismay. ‘The moon smiled at us!’ Oh, how could I
say such a thing? Reckless romantic hype! Is Pillai’s company casting a hype-
spell on me?
Pillai seemed galvanized. He said, ‘Sir, this is most extraordinary! In all my
travels, I have never met anyone else who is aware of the destiny of songs. If you
will kindly permit me, I would like to touch your feet once again, Sir.’
Spider appreciated the man’s sense of simple propriety and had half a
mind to let him do it, but stopped himself. He placated him by saying that
there would be many opportunities in the future and in any case, according to
the best traditions, once a day was enough.
Pillai took out his diary and pen and asked, ‘Sir, would it be possible for
you to recall the song that Madam loved and was weeping for? Please forgive my
archival curiosity.’
Spider replied he was sorry he couldn’t, because his wife disapproved of
him storing her favourite songs in his memory. According to her, the songs
came back looking baffled, which was something that baffled him too.
Pillai had an enchanted look in his eyes. He said, ‘Sir, one day, if I have
your kind permission, I shall take you and Madam to a valley in the eastern
mountains where, on certain nights, forgotten songs gather and share memories.
They disperse before sunrise. Till then, from a hiding place, we can listen to
them.’
‘Where do they go at dawn?’
‘Sir, I have heard it said that their haunts are abandoned movie theatres,
dead recording studios, junked juke-boxes, forlorn storerooms of disbanded
orchestras, failed music shops, alleys where singers, composers, lyricists,
musicians and recordists lived and died, old radios and record-players rusting in
scrap-piles …’
He added, ‘Sir, I’ve also heard it said that they haunt the homes of those
who have memories of them …’
‘Now I know what happened that night! The songs were inside my home!’
Spider had gooseflesh all over.
‘That is a strong possibility, Sir,’ Pillai said.
That got Spider into a reminiscing mood. He said he had lost touch with
many songs because his friend, in whose company he had listened to them when
they were young, and who could recall them at a moment’s notice with all the
relevant details, had fallen in love with alcohol.
Pillai said that in his humble experience, alcohol seemed to command a
significant role in the manufacture and marketing of Maya.
Spider said he thought Maya had invested in the manufacture of alcohol.
‘One day, my friend’s wife, a beautiful woman with a body that made me
dream of extraterrestrial copulations, rang up and asked me not to talk to her
husband about songs any more. She said songs seemed to make him want to
drink all the more. And drunkenness made his lovemaking sentimental and
tardy. She didn’t want to go in for replacements because it was so tiresome to
get them to learn her style each time. I got excited because I was unmarried and
felt I could make it wholesome for her, being a fast learner. Before I could point
out the possibility to her, she said, “And for your information, unmarried
young men are the most tiresome. They lack the courage of conviction and have
uninformed libidos.” And the conversation ended there. I never mentioned
songs to my friend after that.’
They were silent for a while.
Spider said, ‘My friend stopped drinking. I do not know if he made better
love to his wife.’
Pillai said he hoped for the best.
Spider was lost in thought.
Pillai said it was his sincere belief that in the light of what he had
gathered from the present conversation, a visit to the Valley of Lost Songs
would be a wonderful experience for Sir and Madam.
Spider said he would be thrilled to go to the Valley—so would his wife—
but only after the essay was out of the way. He was deeply anxious about the
approaching deadline.
Pillai said he would put in his humble and unremitting efforts to ensure
that the essay was finished on time.
He added, ‘Sir, I must inform you that an interesting aspect of the trip to
the Valley is that we need to fly there. It lies hidden amongst inaccessible
mountains.’
Spider was very disappointed. This was going to be a big problem.
He said unhappily, ‘Mr Pillai, there’s a major difficulty here. My wife, and
I along with her, happen to believe that flying in flying machines—whose
numbers are spinning out of control—is not an appropriate way to engage with
Life and its problems. It is an unnatural and desperate shortcut that leads only
to ever more dismal and tiresome security checks. Further, we are convinced
that manmade flying objects are an unlawful incursion into the territory of
born flyers, who will soon come to have no place in the air. That will provoke a
massive backlash, climaxing in a cataclysmic war between species and leading to
the extermination of the human race, the flyers capturing all the oxygen in the
air. According to Rosi, only Hitchcock foresaw this to some extent. And she
herself would like to be careful and not get pecked or oxygen-starved to death.
We are, therefore, averse to manmade flying.’
Pillai stood staring at Spider as if under a hypnotic spell. He had even
forgotten to take notes.
‘Sir,’ he exclaimed in a charged voice, ‘I am overwhelmed to find myself
sharing a worldview with two great personalities! I too believe that flying in
airplanes is not a solution to the problems of existence. Perhaps—as you so
aptly suggested, Sir—this shortcut is part of the problem, or it exacerbates it by
making problems travel faster. I agree that the flying spaces of flyers-by-birth
are inviolable. Therefore, I too shun manmade flights.’
He added, ‘I’m also thankful that Madam’s criticism of flying is directed
only against flying machines belonging to the realm of industrialized and
militarized flight and not against deemed birds or bats like myself.’
Spider said that appeared to be the case, even though he didn’t know
what a deemed bird or bat was. ‘But,’ he asked, ‘then what did you mean by
flying to the Valley?’
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘we have to fly there as birds or bats, not in an airplane.’
It was Spider’s turn to be dumbstruck. He couldn’t believe his ears.
‘You mean I—and my wife, if she wishes to accompany me—must turn
into a bird or a bat and fly in the air to reach the Valley?’ he asked.
Pillai said, ‘Sir, I’m afraid that is the only way.’
Spider sat brooding for a while.
Then he said dejectedly, ‘Mr Pillai, that’s an almost insurmountable
problem. Because I’ve held discussions with my wife on the possibility of
reinventing lovemaking by abandoning the human shape. But she has raised
strong objections to feathers, wings, claws, beaks, tails etc., because, according to
her, not only are they smelly, scaly and bony, they stick out and cannot be
easily shed, with the result that they are bound to come in the way of
everything you do and create more problems than solutions. For example, she
doesn’t like feathers because you can’t shampoo or dry-clean them. And it’s
difficult to take them off at short notice. I pointed out to her that birds make
love at the drop of a hat. But she says, if she were a bird, she would prefer to
take off all her feathers before engaging in sex. The fact is that while she loves
God’s creatures with all her heart, she doesn’t wish to be one of them.
However, I, as a man of pure imagination, am open to such possibilities.’
‘At the same time,’ he added, ‘I’m reluctant to set out on an adventure
like this without my wife because she is my mentor and this is a risky
undertaking. I like to have certain minimal guarantees while pursuing a path of
adventure. The sky is a no-man’s land. What if I have a sudden wing-
breakdown? Or birds, butterflies and moths suddenly start a revolution in the
air?’
Pillai replied that despite being an executioner, he was a steadfast
optimist. In the case of an illustrious genius like Sir, solutions were sure to
appear spontaneously, dispatched by the universe.
Spider felt humble. He agreed that, in general, that had been the case until
now.
 15
THE SPEED OF LIGHT

Suddenly Spider realized that they had wandered away from Pillai’s account of
the bare facts of the events in the bathroom. It had been interrupted at the
point where Rosi was dancing to the tune of ‘Jaayiye aap kahaan jaayenge’.
He said, ‘So! Mr Pillai, coming back to your fascinating story, did my wife
notice your presence in the bathroom?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said Pillai. ‘She caught sight of me, frowned and shooed me
away. Then she covered her nether parts with both her hands.’
‘Ha! Which parts? The back or the front?’
‘Sir, the front. And when I did not fly away when she shooed me …’
Spider interrupted, ‘One second, please! This is mystifying. Why did you
not fly away?’
‘Sir, I was assessing her physique. As a hangman, I am in the habit of
evaluating the physique of the people I meet, relative to the strength of a
standard rope. When I did not fly away, she threw a mugful of hot water at me.
I hadn’t completed my study yet, so I moved to the safety of a higher window
bar. She then let out a long sigh and returned to applying oil on herself, saying
to herself, “Just look at these sex-maniac crows! What’s happening to society?”
’
Spider thought Pillai’s fabrication was lively, if not titillating.
‘Mr Pillai, you must have felt quite abashed when my wife called you—
even though turned out as a crow—a sex maniac!’
‘That’s quite true, Sir,’ Pillai said. ‘It was the first time in my humble
career that I was being called a sex maniac by anyone.’
Spider sympathized with him. He hardly seemed like one.
He said, ‘Mr Pillai, another question. What was your professional
assessment of my wife’s physique?’
 ‘Sir, I failed to make a concrete assessment. Her body evaded my
evaluation. I think your wife possesses what I’d like to call a metaphysical body.
It challenges categorization and seems to function from elsewhere.’
Spider turned pale. Metaphysical! Evading evaluation! Functioning from
elsewhere!
With a palpitating heart, Spider confronted this new revelation. The man
is not making it up. He has assessed her correctly. All my fears have come true!
She’s an alien whose controls are elsewhere. As I have always suspected, there is
no real she. The philosophy is a cover for stealing earthian secrets through my
works. I think today’s oil bath was aimed at boosting her energy backup for the
trip back. By now she has attained the speed of light and gone to her origins.
She must have spouted horns and grown twenty feet tall with buckteeth,
skeletal fingers and knobby knees. Oh, what if she returns in the new shape and
lies down on the bed and asks me to make love to her? Spider trembled.
Suddenly another terrifying thought struck him. Maybe she has left
behind a look-alike phantom so I’ll never know she left! What shall I do? Help
me, Mar Tommy! How will I ever know if I’m dealing with a phantom? Will I
have to learn lovemaking all over again? How do phantoms do it? And cooking?
Will the phantom know how to get the cook to do the right thing with curried
buttermilk and fried pomfret? Even though I’m half a communist, how come I
love my food so much?
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, interrupting Spider’s train of thought, ‘in my humble
view, the herbal oil your wife uses holds the secret. Perhaps it has mystic
properties. On the one hand, it revealed Madam’s metaphysical body to the
humble eyes of a seeker and, on the other, it acted as a shield against standard
evaluation. She existed in an intermediary zone which may be called
Elsewhere.’
Relief descended upon Spider. That’s it! The oil is playing mystic games!
He told Pillai, ‘You’re absolutely right! I too have often felt there’s
something slippery, evasive, even slithery about her after an oil bath!’
Now Spider was excited. Pillai couldn’t have fabricated that. I have long
suspected that Rosi has a metaphysical underbelly. No wonder she studied
metaphysics. And it’s her metaphysical body she takes for a walk in the sky.
Imagine! It took all these years and an executioner to discover the truth. Oh,
what a wonderful collaborator destiny has bestowed on me!
He said, ‘Mr Pillai, please proceed with your story. It’s gripping.’
Pillai looked as though he was about to swoon with happiness.
 ‘Sir, thank you! We are nearly at the end. For, after making the above said
comment, she completely disregarded me and continued with her massage, song
and dance. Whereupon I was thrown into a reverie regarding which I remember
nothing. As soon as I came to, I flew up to your study and discovered you,
engrossed in writing—the most memorable moment of my humble life! You
know the rest, Sir.’
‘Great,’ Spider said. He was somewhat disappointed. The story suddenly
seemed to have lost its fizz. He had also begun to feel hungry.
Pillai looked at his watch and said worriedly, ‘Sir, please forgive me for
saying this, but it’s some time since you mentioned lunch. It seems delayed. I
hope it’s not because of the interruption I caused to Madam’s bath.’
Spider knew the reason. An oil bath made Rosi languid. She must be
especially so after all that song and dance—which she’s been keeping a secret!
She’s surely gone to sleep at the end of it all. In any case, philosophers are
languid people.
He said, ‘Not to worry, Mr Pillai. My wife’s first commitment is to
philosophy. She’ll soon call.’
Just then, Rosi’s call echoed up the stairs. ‘Spider, I’m giving a bath to
Brother. So hang on a bit for lunch. I’ll give you a shout as soon as I’m done.’
Spider swallowed a wave of bitterness. Bathing Satan! Right under my
nose, as usual! What if I asked her to bathe me, a famous writer? She would
merely say I’m word-toxic and it can’t be done. But that embodiment of evil is
pure. Oh, Mar Tommy! What shall I do to make my wife love only me?
He glanced at Pillai, who seemed lost in the view of the hazy peaks of the
eastern mountains.
He said, ‘So, Mr Pillai, that was my wife Rosi. Well … you’ve met her
already!’
Pillai looked abashed. He said, ‘Sir, it was nothing but my extraordinary
good fortune to meet two great personalities so spontaneously in the course of a
single morning.’
Spider once again found himself admiring Pillai’s way of summing up a
situation crisply.
Pillai added, ‘Sir, when you go down for lunch, I’ll also step out and, with
your kind permission, return to spend some more precious time with you.’
Spider was worried. Must he go? What if he doesn’t return? Oh, how I
wish I could keep him here till the essay is done!
‘Of course!’ Spider exclaimed, quickly hiding his fear. ‘That goes without
saying. We’re now comrades-in-arms. Maybe we can start work on the essay
this very day.’
‘Of course, Sir,’ Pillai said. ‘But maybe you will have a siesta after lunch?’
‘Yes,’ Spider said. ‘I’m glad you asked. That’s the time of the day when I
enjoy a spell of autonomous sleep, without any co-habiting body sending
psychic impedances to my core being. And there’s no night-darkness leaking
into my dreams, making them appear old, torn, frayed and black-and-white.
The visual quality of dreams is so much better during the day. I used to get all
my nocturnal emissions during siestas. Oh, those were wonderful times!’
Spider beamed.
Pillai wore a sad look. He said, ‘Sir, my experience is different. All my wet
dreams have been dry.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Spider said guiltily. ‘I didn’t know that. I didn’t mean
to traumatize you.’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, thank you for your sensitive heart. I’ve learnt to dream
differently now.’
Pillai became silent, seemingly lost in thought.
 16
CHIEF SITTING BULL

Pillai emerged from his thoughtful mood after a brief while and somewhat
hesitantly asked, ‘Sir, while you await lunch, may I take the liberty of telling
you about a little known field of knowledge? The few who know about it call it
meditative voyeurism.’
Spider sat up. Voyeurism? And meditative? That sounds promising. I
wonder if it’s fabrication or fiction.
Pillai continued, ‘Sir, voyeurism—in my humble way, I call it witnessing
—is a function that combines observation with desire. In meditative voyeurism,
we make desire meditative, thereby making observation detached. We do not
stop with the peephole. Nor do we stop with the object of desire. We transcend
into a consciousness that may be called the Witness of the Universe.’
Spider found this fascinating. He said, ‘You are saying a voyeur is actually
a witness? That’s interesting.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘But,’ asked Spider with some anxiety, ‘do meditative voyeurs or
witnesses get caught like the regular ones?’
Spider thought this was important to know because once a witness or
voyeur is caught red-handed, even if he is meditative, he becomes an accused
and needs a lawyer. And lawyers do not come cheap.
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘an experienced voyeur or witness doesn’t get caught
unless he or she fails to pay attention to details. New areas of knowledge
demand new visual, tactile and intellectual approaches. Safe witnessing is more
about self-erasing camouflage that lets you merge into the background.
However, careful attention to details is a must. Sir, you who are a great writer
and therefore a master of details know this better than anyone else.’
Spider wasn’t sure he understood. ‘What details?’ he asked anxiously. ‘I
don’t know any details about anything.’
‘Sir, details of existence.’
‘Oh, that!’ He breathed easy. Who doesn’t know those!
He said, ‘Mr Pillai, I too agree that desire can become detached. For
example, when I meditate jointly with Rosi in the corpse-position at bedtime,
she falls asleep right away, with the result that my desire has no clue which way
to go. It therefore embraces detachment.’
He continued, ‘As for observation, I, as a matter of fact, sometimes sit up
on the bed at night and observe Rosi sleep. Once, she suddenly woke up and
asked me if my name was Chief Sitting Bull. I think she was talking in her sleep.
I didn’t offer a reply, of course.’
‘Sir,’ Pillai said.
‘Mr Pillai,’ continued Spider, ‘let me put it to you as my valued
collaborator that I’m interested in all the spheres of virgin knowledge you have
opened up today: shape-changing, flying, meditative voyeurism or witnessing. It
is time I revamp my life and become a more gritty kind of celebrity writer.’
‘But, of course,’ he added, ‘the essay comes first.’
Pillai said fervently, ‘Sir, on that score, you need have no apprehension at
all. My humble services are entirely at your disposal.’
Both fell silent. Pillai opened his notebook and began to write.
Spider was pleasantly drawn into a review of his options if he were to go
into shape-changing in a big way. He rejected all creeping and crawling things
right away for health reasons. Too much slithering on floors and walls is
nothing but asking for arthritis.
He felt sentimental about the spider for obvious reasons, but dropped the
idea when he realized it was going to take a hell of a lot of time sorting out the
hands from the legs, especially when in a hurry.
Then he decided against all things with a tail. He knew he would go down
in Rosi’s estimation if she caught him with one on. According to her, a tail
looked stylish only on the Devil. Spider had questioned her about Brother Dog’s
tail, which that villain wagged for her so much, but she had changed the
subject.
Suddenly he remembered with a jolt that birds and bats too had tails. In
fact, you have to have a tail to fly! Even airplanes have tails. He decided he must
make a statistical presentation to Rosi on this vital but neglected aspect of
owning a tail.
Pillai was saying, ‘Sir, concerning shape-changing, in my humble opinion,
it is best to be a bird or a bat. That is, be a bird during the day and a bat at
night. Nobody ever notices them. They’re part of the picture.’
Spider encountered a problem here. He asked, ‘Don’t bats see everything
upside down, since they hang that way? What’s the fun then? They are queer
birds indeed.’
‘Bats are not birds, Sir,’ Pillai said. ‘They are mammals.’
‘Good Lord!’ Spider exclaimed. This was news! ‘You mean, they have
breasts?’
‘Sir,’ Pillai said.
Spider was too shocked to say anything for a while.
Finally he said in a sad voice, ‘Mr Pillai, I’m afraid I will never fly with
you to the Valley in bat-shape because I cannot have breasts, whatever the
implications of this decision may be. Even though I’m a staunch defender of
gender solidarity and I love breasts, I feel they’re too much of a personal
liability for a vulnerable man like me. Basically I like to travel light. Also,
though this will depend on their weight and disposition, I fear breasts could
unbalance my gait, poise and posture. I would, therefore, only like to be a plain
bird, and am ready, if that’ll help, to lay eggs even. I’ll sacrifice night travel,
that’s all. Oh, I can’t imagine Rosi catching me with breasts on. That would be
worse than possessing a tail. She’s going to be devastatingly personal in her
comments.’
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘I can reassure you on this matter. Not being a shape-
changer yet, you are connecting only to the human female breasts in this
context. But in shape-changing, we are dealing with the realm of ideas and with
breast-ideas of a wide variety. Should you become a bat, you will not feel any
discomfiture, just as you do not feel any with the two breasts you currently
have.’
Spider let out a cry. I have breasts? Oh, Mar Tommy! Save me! His hands
crept up to his chest. Is it possible Pillai has performed an on-the-spot mutation
on me? Is he Satan?
He tensed as he ran his fingers across his chest, dreading what he would
encounter. There seemed to be nothing except hair. Are the breasts visible only
to others and not to me? I wonder what size they are anyway.
He blanched as another thought occurred to him: I have to go down to
lunch! Rosi will be the first to notice. His heart sank. He wished the earth
would swallow him.
He said slowly, in a defeated voice, ‘Mr Pillai, I trusted you as a friend.
What have you done? As I explained, I cannot cope with breasts as a personal
item, especially when planted on me so suddenly. Perhaps I can have them one
day, but I need time and training. Please tell me, is there some way to submerge
them till I have finished lunch?’
He couldn’t proceed further. He could only raise his hands weakly to his
chest.
Pillai appeared to be at a loss for words. He rushed forward and stood
with joined palms before Spider, who was slumped in his chair, eyes closed. His
mouth was open and his breathing laborious. Pillai stood staring at him, his face
ashen. He stammered as he told Spider, ‘Sir, I humbly beg your forgiveness for
creating a horrible misunderstanding in your great and sensitive mind. By my
thoughtless remarks, Sir, I seem to have given you reason to think that you
possess breasts similar to those of the human female. That was far from my
intention, Sir. I was only referring to the residual breasts of the human male
…’
Spider sat up, electrified.
Residual breasts! Is that what I have? Oh, I’m saved!
‘Mr Pillai,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry. The fault is entirely mine. I have never
paid attention to my residual breasts. I just took them for granted, like my
navel, underarms, gender stuff, etc. Now that we are on the subject, I remember
Rosi telling me once that she would prefer residual breasts herself, being so
convenient to carry and store.’
He touched his residual breasts warily. Yes, they were in place, the same
old boring things.
Pillai looked like he’d had a rebirth. He said with a happy face, ‘Sir, thank
you so much. It is most magnanimous of you to forgive my careless words.’
‘Thank you,’ Spider said modestly, ‘I’m a simple man.’ He was also
beginning to be very hungry.
Just then Rosi called, ‘Hello! Let’s have lunch.’
He gave a start. He quickly got up and shouted, ‘Just a couple of minutes,
please! I’m in a conference.’
‘Oh! With whom?’ he heard her ask.
With whom? Oh, what shall I say? Why have I become a congenital truth-
speaker?
He shouted back feebly, ‘Oh, you know, just myself.’
‘You sound unsure, Spider,’ she said. ‘Make sure it’s yourself and not a
doppelganger.’
 ‘Oh, of course!’ Spider mumbled.
He turned to Pillai and explained, ‘Even though she is a philosopher, my
wife is also a stickler for facts.’
Pillai said that without doubt, this added to the empirical dimension of
her philosophical eminence.
‘Sir,’ he asked, ‘please instruct me as to what time you wish me to return
here?’
‘Let’s meet at 3 p.m., after my siesta. But please tell me, will you return as
a bird or a bat?’
‘I leave it to spontaneity, Sir,’ Pillai said.
‘That’s great,’ Spider said. ‘But please chirp, cry, sing, screech or hum, as
the case may be, when you come in. Otherwise I could get a start, as happened
this morning.’
‘Certainly, Sir,’ Pillai said.
He came to attention and became absolutely still. He then raised his eyes
skywards, lifted his hands and clapped once. There was a swish, a yellow mist
passed over him, and Spider saw a little grey bird sitting on the floor where
Pillai had stood.
Spider wasn’t sure what to do next. He smiled at the bird, not knowing if
that was the right thing to do, since birds are not given to smiling. The bird
chirped once and flew out the window. Spider tried to follow it with his eyes,
but it vanished into the sunlight.
Mar Tommy, Spider prayed, please ensure he returns!
 17
LICKING TERMS

As he went down the steps for lunch, Spider realized he had in hand a golden
opportunity to test Rosi’s claim of possessing a scientific temperament. Even
though she laid claim to it, he had always felt she paid scant attention to
science. It pained Spider because he swore by science. Wasn’t the toothbrush a
wonderful thing? The nail clipper was still more amazing. And, oh, the pencil
sharpener. The condom. And the peg measure. In all probability, God herself
was a scientist. And here was an opportunity—inadvertently provided by Pillai
—to give Rosi a jolt and make her realize where she stood vis-a-vis the world of
modern science. He would ask a simple question: Can you please name the
zoological class bats belong to? He was absolutely sure she didn’t know the bat
was a mammal. Oh, I pity you, my wife. I hope this will open your eyes finally.
But as he sat down and began mixing curried buttermilk with rice and
looked at Rosi, fresh and oil-soft from her bath, he felt uneasy. Good heavens! Is
it possible she knows the bat is a mammal? She looks so confident. Has she been
hiding it from me all these years? Oh! What’s going to happen when I ask her
the question?
Rosi was smiling at him. She asked, ‘Anything special in the mail today?’
Anything special in the mail today? Does she know about the starlet’s
mother’s letter?
Spider assumed a casual expression and said, ‘Nothing … except a request
for donation from a leprosy home in Tamil Nadu. Molly runs it.’
‘Cousin Molly?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s a pretty nun.’
Spider didn’t reply. He focused his attention on the fried fish.
‘I thought,’ Rosi said, ‘I saw an envelope with a German postage stamp.’
 Spider was filled with relief. That’s it! She wants the German stamp for
her collection. It must be in the karma-bound heap awaiting him on the table.
Suddenly he realized: The letter must be from Suja, my other cousin, the
nun-turned-cabaret-dancer in Hamburg. He could not control his excitement. Is
she visiting? Wow!
He put on a blank look and said, ‘I’ll remember to bring the stamp for
you.’
At the same time, he reminded himself to check the dictionary and/or any
other decent holy book to verify if it was against the rules to desire two cousins
simultaneously. Also, was he breaking any quantum law?
Rosi said, ‘Spider, why do you look so blank?’ She was smiling.
Just then, Brother Dog entered and Spider noticed how he went directly to
Rosi, looking up at her with adoring eyes and wagging his tail like it was a
mechanized love-bouquet.
With the tip of her left index finger, Rosi scratched Brother between his
eyes.
Oh, the G-spot! Spider saw Brother melting and sitting down under the
weight of his love.
Spider had no illusions about what he was witnessing—licentious love.
Rosi murmured, ‘Hi, Brother, where have you been?’
Brother was delirious. He put out his tongue in ecstasy. Shameless
exhibition. In front of my eyes!
As Spider chewed on the okra fritters after dipping them in garlic achaar,
he came to a hard decision. It was time to call Rosi’s bluff. He had caught her
red-handed. It was time he asked her a direct and candid question with regard
to her scandalous love life. He would frame it as follows: Can you deny that
Brother Dog is your lover? If you do deny it, a sworn affidavit will be necessary
to make it believable.
He put a generous helping of banana chips into his mouth and crunched
down hard, in order to lend his question the weight of authority. He now
articulated the question:
‘Rosi, do you know that bats have breasts?’
‘Yes, I do. They are mammals. But, unlike human beings, they don’t use
breasts as sex ancillaries. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh … ah … there was a bat in my room.’
‘And you saw its breasts?’
‘Yes.’
 ‘What was it doing in your room?’
‘I am unable to say.’ He decided to make a bold thrust. ‘I thought it was
an alien. I believe they try to read and copy my fiction with deep-radar probes.’
He waited for the result. There was none.
‘Were you clothed?’
‘Of course. You know I’m always clothed, though informally, when I
write.’ Spider was worried. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because a crow kept staring at me today while I was having my oil
massage.’
Spider gulped. He sipped some buttermilk to gain time. Then he took
control of the situation.
Looking into the distance contemplatively, he said, ‘I think there’s a
growing tendency among birds these days to become voyeurs … some even
become meditative voyeurs.’
Rosi was overwhelmed. He put that so neatly, like a philosopher! He seems
to be getting quick results from the shift to non-fiction. Or someone’s been
helping him.
She asked, ‘Is the essay progressing?’
Spider said, ‘It’s entering an interesting phase.’
Rosi passed him the plate of fried fish. ‘Have another.’
Trying to soften me with fried karimeen. No way! I’m going to pin you
down, alien!
He decided to confront her with a question that would ruthlessly cut open
her cover: Can you deny that you are an alien’s phantom? If so, please produce
a notarised certificate from a person of eminence to support your claim.
Dispassionately picking up two pieces of karimeen and transferring them
onto his plate, he asked in an uncompromising tone: ‘Rosi, for dinner, can you
please ask Leela to make an omelette with lots of garlic and small onions? Please
add a little grated coconut, if you don’t mind.’
‘Wonderful!’ Rosi said. ‘I’ll ask her to use kaada eggs so we can cut down
on the cholesterol.’
Suddenly Brother emerged from under the table and in a surge of love
jumped up, embraced Spider and fondly licked his face.
Spider’s heart melted. He decided he would lick Brother in return, but
realized in time that it would be a terrible mistake. If Brother ever eloped with
Rosi, their lawyer would ask: Can you deny that you were on licking terms with
your wife’s lover? So Spider kept his right hand free of Brother’s embrace and
merely hugged him politely with the other. With the free hand, he deftly
pushed the plate of fish beyond Brother’s reach. He did not want to take
chances with Brother even when he appeared to be filled with love.
Then he surrendered himself to the wave of love triggered by Brother. He
thought he was going blind with joy. He groped for Rosi’s hand, took it, kissed
it right under Brother’s nose and said, ‘Rosi, I’m overflowing with love for
you.’
When Rosi saw him lifting and kissing the ladle for serving sambar, she
said to herself: Aah! He has moved on from the tablespoon!
As Spider was going up the steps, she called after him, ‘When do you want
your tea?’
Spider answered, ‘Thank you! At five o’ clock, please. For two.’
‘For two? Who’s the other?’
Spider cursed himself. Again! Truth will be the ruin of me! Oh, Mar
Tommy! Take away the cup of truth from me.
He said, ‘I mean, I feel like being two for tea.’
‘You should try being three, one of these days,’ said Rosi. ‘Then it’ll be a
nice tripartite conference!’
Spider heard her words only as a distant echo. His eyes were closing as he
approached the bedroom. He barely managed to open the door when he
encountered a yellow dream floating in from the east. Even as he pulled a pillow
from the bed, threw it on the floor and lay down, the dream was upon him.
He could make out a vista of white rain with winged fishes flying through
it and a red passenger train crawling up a tall mountain like a millipede. He was
surprised to see that Satan was the ticket examiner. That’s odd, he thought. He
should be at the dentist’s today! Then he saw that the rain came from a crowd
of people sitting in the clouds, shedding tears. One of them carried a placard
that said, ‘We are weeping because we have seen God. She’s very Predictable
and Boring.’ That’s odder still, Spider thought, because today is God’s
appointment with the pranic healer. These are strange times, he muttered
aloud. Must be climate change.
When the next dream floated in from the north-east, he was snoring.
Three lions, all of whom had a subtle resemblance to Rosi and had huge manes
that flew about in the wind, were seated on the bleached skeleton of a fallen
tree on a white beach. They were singing and sobbing, accompanying themselves
on guitars. Spider could immediately make out that they were singing the
Bhagavad Gita in reverse.
 That’s funny, Spider thought, they normally sing the Bible vertically and
the Quran horizontally and then start yawning. I’ve never seen them sobbing.
He was shocked to see that the guitar strings were made of human gut. And he
was very upset when he recognized his own small intestine on the lead guitar.
He tried to shout for help, but only a whine came out.
Brother Dog, who had been investigating Spider’s sleep, jumped back,
startled by the sudden whine. He thought Spider was secretly trying to learn
dog language while asleep. That’s dangerous, he told himself. This man could
jeopardize our whole moral structure by writing spiritual pornography in it. He
might even start a religion for dogs. Brother was chilled by the realization. He
lifted a hind leg, pondered for a moment, then withdrew it and walked away. A
cautionary thought had struck him. What if Spider interpreted it as a new
baptism and started a cult? He had a deadly religious streak, well-hidden
though it was. Brother could smell religion miles away.
 18
THE HAUNTED FAN

Spider returned eagerly to his study after the siesta. He felt buoyant and
upbeat, looking forward to a productive afternoon with Pillai. Cheerfully, he
opened the door, saying ‘Hello!’ to no one in particular, but expecting to see
Pillai inside.
Instead, what he saw nearly stopped his heart. It was Evil. His world
crashed, making him gape open-mouthed in horror. It was a dark-grey
abomination with a devil’s head, hanging from a blade of the ceiling fan, slowly
turning in the wind, seemingly dead. He thought he saw two dreadful eyes
looking at him impassively. Satan! Playing dead and alive at the same time. Oh,
what a horrendous apparition!
He backed off with a hushed cry and stood staring at the thing in disbelief.
Then the terrible truth hit him. Satan had hanged himself from his fan! Oh,
what shall I do? I hope he has left a suicide note clearing me of any blame. Even
so, I’ll be stuck with a haunted fan.
He stood watching the hanging thing fearfully, desperately trying to figure
out what he should do. The first option was to pray, but even Mar Tommy
wasn’t good enough to battle Satan in this unfathomable guise of suicide. The
second option was to call the police. But he wasn’t sure they had jurisdiction
over the netherworld. The last option was to call Rosi. He didn’t want to think
about that yet.
At that point, the hanging thing stirred, opened two leathery wings and
dropped down, assuming the form of J.L. Pillai.
Spider couldn’t hide his indignation. He said, ‘Excuse me! Mr Pillai, I was
expecting to see a little bird, or yourself in human shape. And I expected you
would give me a signal to warn me of your disguised presence.’
Pillai’s face showed guilt. He said in a penitent voice, ‘I’m very sorry, Sir,
and I apologize. Since you had not seen me as a bat and I had no reason to visit
you at night in that shape unless there’s a nocturnal emergency, I thought I
should present the bat-shape to you as a piece of scientific information. I chose
one of the largest species, namely, the Indian flying fox, to make a greater
impact.’
Spider could see the point of this, but he felt scientific information could
be less frightening.
Pillai continued, ‘I’ve come prepared to render my humble assistance to
you on the essay. I gave the topic some thought as I was sitting on the anjili tree
next to the temple tank, lunching on the fruits.’
‘Oh, lucky you!’ Spider couldn’t but exclaim. ‘I haven’t eaten an anjili
fruit in years. The bloody bats get them all!’
Instantly, Spider was shocked at his own discourtesy. He said, ‘Mr Pillai,
please forgive me. I didn’t mean to insult your food habits.’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, a dual life presents its own sorrows.’
Spider felt sad for the man. No wonder his writing isn’t taking off. His life
must be verging on multiple schizophrenia. Bat, bird, man, executioner, voyeur
and aspiring writer. Oh, what if fate had slapped a dual personality on me? I am
thankful that I’m simply myself—against heavy odds! He closed his eyes in
gratitude.
Pillai continued, ‘Sir, if you will kindly be seated at your desk, with your
kind permission I shall make a few humble submissions regarding the essay for
your consideration.’
‘Certainly, and thank you,’ Spider said. He took his seat and picked up his
pen. He wondered if he should wipe it on his heel as a declaration of solidarity,
but dropped the idea, fearing that it might set a precedent.
Suddenly, with a start, he remembered he hadn’t told Pillai an important
point. He said, ‘Mr Pillai, I must tell you that the Communist Party has
commissioned the essay for a souvenir to raise funds for an Old Comrades
Home. You may like to keep that in mind.’
Pillai said he had always held Karl Marx in high regard. He was a
philosopher of such momentous significance that it made one suspect he was
one of those select few who had attained the unique consciousness of the
Witness of the Universe.
Spider had goose pimples all over. Marx, a witness!
Pillai put his shoulder bag away, bent down and wiped his face with the
lower edge of his dhoti. He stood looking gravely towards the mountains, his
hands crossed behind him. Then he said in a deep and compelling voice:
‘Sir, my humble suggestion is that we begin from the future—the future
of compassion. The opening sentence, for example, Sir, could be:

The time is not far off when robot armies, interstellar ships and AI
units controlling WMDs and slaughterhouse machinery run by EI
will be programmed with compassion.’

For a few moments, Spider sat looking at Pillai as if he were an impossible

apparition. Then he jumped up with a shout that made Pillai take a few steps
back and stare at him in great alarm. Suddenly Spider thumped the table so
hard that everything on it rattled. The Paradise statuette nearly fell off.
Pillai took another terrified look at him and retreated to the window. He
seemed poised to run for his life.
Spider asked in a voice that sounded as if he was crying, ‘Mr Pillai, the
sentence you just spoke—you have its absolute ownership?’
Pillai’s look of terror deepened. He was sweating and had a trapped
expression.
He said in a frightened voice, ‘Sir, yes. I mean, I made it up. Is there a
problem, Sir?’
Spider continued, ‘And you have full copyright?’
Pillai appeared shattered. He said in a voice filled with misery, ‘Sir, I made
it up while sitting on the anjili tree. I hope I have not offended you in any way
or infringed on any copyright. If so, I beg your forgiveness.’
‘And you really want to part with the sentence for my essay?’ Spider
asked.
Pillai seemed paralyzed. He managed to mumble in an agonized voice,
‘That humble sentence and many more are at your service, Sir.’
Spider strode towards Pillai. The executioner quickly moved to a corner,
looking hunted. Spider opened his arms and embraced Pillai saying, ‘Brother,
welcome! Who said you are not a writer?’
Pillai stood reeling under the impact of what Spider had said. Then a smile
of sheer joy appeared on his lips. With joined palms and bowed head he said, ‘A
great genius has praised my humble words. My cup of joy overfloweth! Thank
you from the bottom of my heart, Sir.’
He bent and touched Spider’s feet.
Spider thought that was a timely gesture, although ‘cup of joy
overfloweth’ seemed like a borrowed item. But he let it go, considering the
emotional nature of the moment.
 19
THE PENALTY KICK

When Spider had regained his composure and sat down and written down the
first sentence of the essay, Pillai said with a smile of contentment on his face,
‘Sir, may I propose the next sentence as follows?

For, in the precarious days of the future, Compassion may be the

only tool capable of encompassing the remnants of Reality on its last
legs under the control of Nonchalant Intelligence (NI).’

Spider wrote that down, relishing every word.

Pillai continued, ‘Then, Sir, we could proceed to:

Even love might be dead then, or insufficiently equipped to engage

with a world in relentless disintegration.’

Spider raised a hand. ‘Excuse me, Mr Pillai, one moment please. I think it
is better that I get fully attuned to the technical jargon. Therefore, could you
please clarify what AI and WMD are? And EI? They sound vaguely familiar. Are
they religions or NGOs?’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, forgive me for not clarifying these at the outset. I
understand that they do not come into the higher realms of creativity where
you function. AI is the acronym for Artificial Intelligence. WMD is both
acronym and euphemism for Weapon of Mass Destruction. EI is Embedded
Intelligence, which provides gadgets with a thinking mind. Of course,
philosophically speaking, all three have a religious side. Because, very soon,
there is sure to be a religion catering to AI and EI units. And as you are aware,
Sir, WMDs are deployed, more often than not, by men of devout religious
persuasion. None of these is an NGO, unless, God forbid, capitalism itself, the
progenitor of them all, is one.’
Spider had one more question. ‘You mentioned Nonchalant Intelligence or
NI. How would you describe it?’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, my informants describe it as the finale of Evolutionary
Intelligence, driven by capitalism. Everything will come under its sway. The New
Dark Ages will follow, lit only by the screens of mobile phones.’
‘Should we then …’ Spider asked, ‘uh … expand them? The comrades
may not … uh … be able to decipher these acronyms. We must be reader-
friendly. Don’t you think so?’
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘I’m unworthy even to attempt to answer that because
you are a master of the world of letters. Nobody knows better than you, Sir,
how in writing it is necessary sometimes to assume a sweeping stance overriding
the details, with the sole intention of creating a gripping and mysterious
worldview.’
Struggling to contain a wave of joy, Spider asked, ‘Footnotes, then?’
‘Sir, in my humble opinion, footnotes would be rather patronizing. We
would be exhibiting the presumption that the comrades are unfamiliar with
these terms. Even if they are, you may not, as a friend, like to call attention to
that in public.’
‘Thanks!’ Spider exclaimed. ‘I think I know what to do. I’ll just phone the
party secretary and explain the acronyms to him.’
‘That’s a wonderful solution, Sir. I think it’s called audio-enhancement of
text.’
Controlling his impulse to give Pillai a hug, Spider asked, ‘Can we then go
on to the next sentence?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ Pillai said. ‘We may bring in here something that bolsters the
previous statement, like this:

In that future age where, at the hub of Existence, Nonchalant

Intelligence predominates as the Total Signifier, applied gauges such
as Freedom, Justice, Democracy, Truth and Love, all may wither
away—like the State in the Marxian climax.’

Spider sat spellbound. The Marxian angle, and so spontaneously!

Pillai pointed out to him the capitalized words and continued:
 ‘Because NI will supplant them all. However, Compassion may hang
on by converting itself to an ancillary of NI. A semblance of
humanity might linger in the undergrowth of Life.’

He cleared his throat and said, ‘Sir, you might have noticed that in a
humble manner I have introduced the Marxian theme in an earlier sentence.’
Spider was at a loss for words. He could only nod his head. But even in his
joy, he didn’t want to lose sight of one fundamental principle: veracity.
He enquired soberly, ‘Mr Pillai, all this could be true, could it?’
‘Sir, I know you are submitting me to a test. As a disciple, it fills me with
joy. Since you have asked the question, I’ll venture to tell you what I’ve learned
from great minds like yourself, which is that truth is an innovation. Truth is
created when we innovate statements that strike a bargain with possibilities.
Therefore, in this essay, we are engaged in the process of creating statements
which can have a dialogue with possibilities that are endless.’
Spider poured himself a glass of water to get his feelings in control. He
said, ‘Mr Pillai, I think I’m beginning to get a hang of this. Can I innovate the
next statement, keeping Marxism in sight?’
Pillai was overjoyed. He said, ‘Sir, I cannot believe my ears! You wish to
add your great words to those of a mere mortal like me?’
Spider once again noted with satisfaction how well-spoken his collaborator
was.
He thought for a few moments and said, ‘Mr Pillai, I put forward the
following statement for your kind consideration:

Is it any wonder then that comrades have begun to take the c-word
seriously? God forbid, however, that they become captives of
Nonchalant Intelligence!’

Pillai pondered this for a few moments. Then he said, ‘Sir, please forgive
me … That is indeed a weighty statement, but perhaps somewhat premature.
My humble suggestion is that we could fine-tune the Marxist angle as we
proceed deeper into the topic.’
‘Fine,’ said Spider. ‘I was only trying to get a feel of it. Can I make one
more attempt? This is in continuation of the vision of the future unveiled by
you.’
After a few moments of meditation, he said, with closed eyes:
 ‘In that remote and forlorn future, goalkeepers will be many but
goals will be few. Passion will be interlocked with Compassion and
perhaps that will help the worker-robots who do not have other
hobbies. The penalty kick of Fate is the final test and let’s hope for
the best.’

Spider opened his eyes and looked at Pillai enquiringly.

Pillai said, ‘Sir, that is powerful and prophetic and the totality creates a
vigorous and apocalyptic vision. But my humble opinion is that we need to be
so magnificently rhetorical only towards the very end.’
Spider took it well. ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘this goes into the ideas box then, to
await its turn.’
Just then, there came the sound of the door being frantically scratched
from outside.
 20
PRAYER FOR THE DEAD

Spider listened tensely to the ominous sounds from outside and whispered to
Pillai, ‘Tragedy is upon us! I forgot to bolt the terrace door. It’s Brother Dog!
He wants to come in and hug me. He exhibits an erratic, uneasy and, I think,
manipulative friendliness for me because I share Rosi with him, which by the
way, Mr Pillai, is a well-kept family secret. Given our cordial, even if superficial,
working relationship, I am compelled to let him in or he’ll create a furore with
a view to attracting Rosi’s attention. But the great peril is that once I give him
entry, and he discovers you, he’s bound to make a bigger ruckus. I would prefer
that our relationship remains confidential and does not become a talking
point.’
He added, ‘Nor do I wish to ask you to leave. Let there be no discontinuity
in the smooth flow of our creative collaboration. And the sooner we learn to
confront this villain, the better for the future of our collaboration.’
The fact was that, at this point, when the essay was flowing along so
beautifully, he didn’t want to let Pillai out of his sight even for a moment.
Especially now that the truth about Brother was out from his own mouth, what
if he never returned, even though he was a fan?
Spider was a worried man.
Pillai said, ‘Sir, as a shape-changer, I’m not, as a rule, fond of dogs. They
create much negative, invasive and hostile activity, accompanied, more often
than not, by mindless violence. However, please let your dog in, Sir. I’ll take
necessary precautions while continuing to remain on the scene.’
Pillai took a deep breath and seemed to do a somersault. There was a
whirr and suddenly a sparrow appeared on the windowsill.
Spider opened the door to Brother Dog with a philosophical expression on
his face.
 But Brother was not here to hug. He hardly glanced at Spider before going
into top-alert mode. He sniffed the air once, then sniffed viciously in quick
succession a few times, growling.
His face took on a grim and foreboding look, ears and tail locked in
combat mode. His opening bark had an overtone of what seemed like pure,
compressed evil. Then he went sniffing and searching in the room with such
ferocity that he nearly pushed Spider over a couple of times.
Spider stood a mute witness to this show of strength. He anxiously glanced
at the bird which had, for extra safety, moved from the windowsill to the top
bar. He wondered why it hadn’t simply flown away. Suddenly the truth dawned
on him: The essay has pinned him down! He’s in its entrapment. He’s
overflowing with Thought! He doesn’t want to go, even when Evil is out to
finish him off. Wow! What an amazing collaborator fate has brought me!
It took Brother only a few moments to zero in on the window. He
positioned himself beneath and, looking up at the bird, began a long and
sadistic growl which exploded into a ear-splitting bark.
Brother Dog was a proficient and artistic barker. The barks came in series.
Each series, bloodcurdling in its tonality, mixing demonic contempt for the
victim with the cold promise of bloodshed, trailed off into a plaintive whine-
cum-whimper that was utterly deceptive. Because, though it gave the
impression that Brother had changed his mind and was either declaring truce or
weeping for the victim, he was actually catching his breath and giving rest to his
jaws. It took only a second for the whine-whimper to become a seamless high-
decibel assault that shook the house.
It seemed as if, despite Spider’s efforts to maintain a conciliatory profile,
matters were heading in the direction of a disaster. He could visualize the
commotion seeping down to Rosi. She would soon start to pay attention. Oh!
He tried to plead with Brother, but to no avail. Occasionally, Brother
would stop barking and in a frenzy retrace the trail of the scent he had
originally investigated, smelling every inch out, his breath coming and going in
gasps like a steam engine. Then he would come to a puzzled stop in front of the
bird, his rage redoubled.
Suddenly Spider understood the true nature of Brother Dog’s
predicament. He was experiencing a reality paradox in relation to the identity
of the Other. He had smelt a stranger in the room, a human. But all the
evidence led to a little bird sitting on the window bar, which was illogical. This
had caused Brother to doubt his own sanity. He was also confronting the
chilling possibility for the first time that what he saw as the Other and
normally remained as the Other till he sank his teeth into it, was capable of
changing into This or That without his permission. He was enraged by the
negation of the routine relationship of his Self with the Other and determined
to destroy the paradox. Oh, Maya! Oh, illusion of the ego!
Brother let off another volley of barks. Spider stoically surrendered to the
possibility of Rosi entering the picture any moment now and getting to the root
of the commotion. As an incorrigible truth-speaker, he wasn’t sure he would be
able to resist her probing. It was going to be hard to persuade her that it was
perfectly normal to have a collaborator who made a backdoor entry as a bird.
Rosi was a stickler for total transparency within the household.
Then he saw something that nearly stopped his heart. The bird was
wobbling where it sat, as if it had fallen asleep. It was lurching as if it was
drunk and was clearly about to topple off. Something terrible had happened to
it. Brother was intensifying his attack, perhaps realizing that his strategy of
triggering terror was paying off. With a sinking heart, Spider visualized the end:
The bird keels over and Brother grabs it. Period.
Spider couldn’t contain his bitterness. We had just got going with the
essay and were doing so well!
He thought of pulling Brother away physically, but was certain Brother
would not only snap at him and humiliate him, but also prove to be stronger.
Perhaps he should climb on a chair and try to reach the bird and lock it up in a
drawer. But what if there was a slip somewhere? What if Brother jumped really
high? Oh, no! Not at my own hands shall my collaborator meet his end!
Making sure that his voice wouldn’t carry to Rosi, he cautiously shouted a
couple of times, ‘Mr Pillai! Mr Pillai! Wake up!’ But the bird seemed to hear
nothing.
Then Spider saw a truly horrifying sight. The bird was swaying from side
to side at a scary angle, a hair’s breadth away from actually toppling. As he
watched appalled, it fell like a toy struck off its perch. But, amazingly,
somehow, it fell not inwards but out the window. It took Brother only a second
to realize what had happened and he took off downstairs with a mad screech of
paw-nails on the floor.
Spider mumbled a prayer for the dead. Then he ran to the window and
looked out, ready to close his eyes if he saw what he feared he would see. He
did not want to witness the cold-blooded murder of a man who was related to
Jesus Christ and proficient in acronyms.
 He saw Brother going into a paroxysm of rage down in the backyard.
There was no sign of the bird at all.
 21
A DELICATE PSYCHE

As Spider stood leaning out, casting around for the bird, he heard a rustle and a
squeak and saw with incredulous eyes the bird sitting on the sun-shade beneath
the window, looking up at him. He gave a shout of joy and ran to close the door
and bolt it against Brother. There came a flutter of wings and he turned back to
see Pillai taking shape inside the room.
His entry technique had lost its flamboyance. He came back in bits and
pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle getting put together. Soon the whole of him stood
there, looking rundown and bedraggled. He was trembling.
‘Sir, I’m very sorry,’ he mumbled.
Though Spider was overjoyed to see him whole, he was also deeply
indignant. He asked, ‘Mr Pillai, what happened to you? Why did you fall asleep
when your life was in danger? You nearly fell into the mouth of a savage killer. I
thought birds had plenty of common sense. I’ve never seen one falling down in
a daze. You almost got killed.’
Pillai said, ‘I apologize, Sir. I did not expect your dog to be so ferocious
and full of such focused violence. Extreme noise and aggressiveness make me
short-breathed and I find it hard to keep a grip on myself. The turmoil your dog
created triggered my condition, which, in turn, developed into vertigo. Sir, the
fact is that as a hangman, witness and aspiring storyteller, I have a delicate
psyche that seeks equanimity, of which I had an abundance here. But your dog
had an unfortunate agenda … However, Sir, my mentor’s spirit, which is
always with me, supported me and made me fall outwards.’
He added, as if responding to Spider’s silent conjecture about why he
hadn’t run for his life, ‘Sir, I am so caught up in the magical evolution of the
essay that I couldn’t bring myself to leave your presence even in the life-
threatening situation that prevailed. Thank you for this extraordinary
experience.’
At this moment, they heard a bark outside and sounds of determined
mauling on the door. Pillai turned pale and retreated to the window. Spider’s
face took on a grim expression as he stood defiantly, staring into the far
distance, pretending he couldn’t hear the commotion. I shall not bend, you
progeny of Beelzebub! Go back to hell!
After a while, the sounds ceased.
‘You took a great risk,’ Spider said. ‘What if your mentor had other, more
urgent duties? You can never take these things for granted. If he’s exclusively
yours, of course, it’s a different matter. Anyway, who’s your mentor? Where
does he live?’
‘My mentor,’ said Pillai, ‘is the bat who taught me shape-changing and
flying. She’s dead.’
Spider couldn’t believe his ears. He is like me! His mentor is a she!
‘Oh, please tell me. How did your mentor die? Was she ill? Or very old? Or
did she just decide to transmigrate?’
‘No, Sir, she was shot by hunters when she was still young.’
Spider said, ‘May her soul rest in peace. She joins the ranks of many great
souls shot by a variety of hunters.’
Pillai said, ‘Thank you, Sir. I was planning to tell you my mentor’s story
today, in order to make my life more transparent to you. But I felt the essay
should take priority.’
Spider was sad. Look at the plight of civilization! It still hasn’t reached a
stage where, side by side, you can tell a story with your lips and write an essay
with your hand. Where is technology looking? It should be ashamed that it
hasn’t resolved such elementary contingencies!
He heaved a sigh and said, ‘Mr Pillai, in that case, let’s limit ourselves
today to just a few more sentences of the essay, especially considering you’ve
had such a bad time. After that, if you like, you can relax by telling me your
mentor’s story.’
Pillai’s face brightened. He said, ‘Thank you, Sir! If not the full story, I
hope I’ll be able to acquaint you with the bare facts of how I discovered my
mentor and how she initiated me into shape-changing and flying.’
Spider thought the premise sounded promising.
Rosi called from downstairs, ‘Tea! Just returned from my jog. What
happened here? Why is Brother rushing up and down?’
He said, ‘Nothing the matter with him. Just needs psychiatric attention!’
 Spider went downstairs and brought two cups of tea.
The tea made Pillai recover some of his lost vigour.
He mused for a few moments and said, ‘Sir, if you agree, we could
continue the essay in the following manner:

A key question facing the human race today is, how to be

compassionate without anxiously looking over one’s shoulder. This
behaviour seems to stem from a sense of inadequacy that most
civilizations developed in the capitalistic phase, and strange as it
may seem, it seems to be a product of the overwhelming adequacy of
wealth generated by Capitalism. Yes! Wealth is the inscrutable force
lurking behind people, making them look back apprehensively when
faced with the choice of Compassion. Alas, it is not in the nature of
Capitalism to part with wealth without profit or dispatch a tender
feeling without a price tag.’

Spider was mesmerized. Here was the ideological angle again. Wealth!
Capitalism! Profit!
As Spider wrote, he felt his mind racing ahead and opening up to the art
of non-fiction. Ideas were pouring in from mysterious sources. Perhaps the
paradigm shift was finally happening.
He raised his hand and said, ‘Mr Pillai, may I have a moment? A few
related thoughts struck me just now. You can listen to them for what they are
worth.’
Pillai responded with emotion. ‘Sir, allow me to say again that I cannot
believe this is happening to me! You are sharing the birth of a new thought
with me?’
He wiped away a tear.
Spider was touched. Oh, where did he learn the perfect etiquette of
collaboration?
He said, ‘Thank you!’ and continued, ‘I’m presenting these ideas in a
quick Q & A format for easier assimilation.
‘Q. To make compassion attractive to the common man, should we bring
sex into it or vice versa?
‘A. We should, but what if one turns into the other?
‘Q. What is the most irreversible expression of compassion?
‘A. That of the express train for the person it is about to run over.
 ‘Q. Which is more compassionate: the nuclear bomb or enriched uranium?
‘A. Enriched uranium. For, it is the mother.
‘Q. Will a change in the spelling of compassion make it more user-
friendly?
‘A. Same as a change in the spelling of New Delhi.’
Pillai stood enthralled.
 22
TERMINAL THEOLOGY

After listening to Spider’s presentation of quick questions and answers on

compassion, Pillai said in an awed voice, ‘Sir, each question you raised was
thought-provoking and the answers shone with an other-worldly wisdom. As
we progress with our writing, the presence of these revolutionary ideas at the
back of our minds will be of indescribable value to the successful completion of
the essay.’
Spider felt his spirit lifting up and thought this was a good moment to tell
Pillai about the science of Terminal Theology, which had a close link to
enriched uranium. It was possible Pillai might find in it something useful for
the essay.
Spider told Pillai that Rev. Littleboy, founder and chief god-man of the
celebrated Holyatom Church, had imparted the theology to Rosi when she met
him as part of her metaphysical studies. In a nutshell, it went like this: The
atom in the nuclear bomb is God because She is in the atom as she is
everywhere else. The evil creature who presses the nuke switch is also God
because God is in her or him too. Terminal Theology is born when God
explodes in the bomb—then God becomes terminator, terminated and
terminal. Each time She is exploded, more enriched theology is released. This
theology underpins True Patriotism. This was the theology the Holyatom
Church propagated among the patriots of the world, gaining millions of
followers in the process. As an allied activity, Rev. Littleboy also traded in
enriched uranium. Thus he became further enriched—in fact, one of the richest
men in the world.
Pillai said wonderingly that Madam seemed to be an amazing connoisseur
of exceptional occult knowledge. He fervently hoped he would have the
opportunity to meet her in person soon.
 Spider was about to remind Pillai that he had already met her in person,
when he remembered that was only the metaphysical body. The real body
remained to be viewed.
Spider said, ‘Mr Pillai, as I said, why don’t we put the essay away for a
moment and relax a bit? The story you were going to tell me about your mentor
—is it fiction or non-fiction?’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, it’s a page from my life story. So I hope, Sir, it falls into the
category of non-fiction.’
Spider said, ‘Then it’s better to be explicit and call it “life story (non-
fiction)”.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ Pillai said and made a note in his diary. ‘But the other
stories I would like to seek your advice on are different. They are not my own.’
‘Then whose are they?’ Spider asked cautiously. Copyright is tricky. He
didn’t want to invite any litigation even by listening to stolen matter.
‘I gathered them from all around as I travelled, Sir.’
‘You’re sure there aren’t any copyright issues?’
‘I don’t think so, Sir, because they belong to the existential realm. There is
no copyright on existence.’
Spider made a note of that. The guy is indeed knowledgeable. Even I
didn’t know this!
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I’m interested in hearing all of them when the time
is auspicious.’
Spider adjusted his position to make himself more comfortable and said,
‘Mr Pillai, shall we now proceed to your autobiographical non-fiction?’
Pillai said, ‘Certainly, Sir. It’s a simple story.’
He began to speak, his eyes wandering to the hills.
‘Sir, in the village in Kanyakumari district of Tamil Nadu, where I was
born, there was a tall and massive paala tree. As you know, the paala flowers
bloom only once a year and only at night. They filled the whole village with a
majestic, heart-devouring scent, making people lie awake and dream, with their
eyes wide open, of angels making forbidden love in the shades of the evergreen
gardens of God.
‘Ever since anyone could remember, a colony of bats had made the tree’s
spreading branches their home. At sunset, they flew out of the tree and went
hunting in the surrounding sky, like winged phantoms, and during the day they
slept, hanging from the branches like folded black umbrellas. Or they socialized,
screeching to each other, until the whole tree was in an uproar.’
 Spider frowned. Was such an elaborate opening necessary for a simple item
like mentor history? Pillai seemed to be going overboard because it was his own
story. But he kept silent, as this was the first time for Pillai. There would be
ample opportunities for correction.
Pillai continued, ‘The village took the bats for granted and the bats, the
village. Generations of bats and villagers had passed in peaceful neglect of each
other.
‘I must have been the only villager who had anything to do with the bats.
I had grown up in the company of cattle, goats, chicken, ducks, dogs and cats
and was used to helping my father with butterflies. I developed an affinity for
the bats too. Sir, I was a quiet and retiring boy, given to daydreaming.’
Spider was interested. ‘How many hours?’ he asked.
‘Sir?’
‘How many hours of daydreaming per day?’
‘I cannot say exactly, Sir, but many.’
‘That’s good,’ Spider said. ‘I manage about three or four hours a day even
now. It used to be around ten or twelve hours in my adolescence. Daydreaming
is good for the occult soul, but you shouldn’t snore.’
‘Thank you for this valuable piece of information, Sir,’ Pillai said. ‘Often I
would sit in the shade and watch the bats going through their routine, my mind
wandering off into worlds that both bewitched and threatened.’
Strange, Spider thought. I doubt if bats, sleeping or awake, can take you to
any world worth writing home about. Frightening things!
Pillai continued, ‘Some nights, Sir, as I lay awake in my bed, I would see
them winging through the night sky on hunting missions. That was when I first
yearned to fly.’
Spider asked, ‘You too wanted to hunt in the sky?’
‘No, Sir, I just wanted to inhabit the night sky. I sensed that the night
created spaces that sleepers know nothing about.’
‘Are you talking about black holes?’ Spider asked worriedly. Those were
pitfalls he wished to avoid at any cost, if he were ever to fly.
Pillai assured him that they were more like spaces in the mind than
physical phenomena.
Spider thought that seemed safe enough.
‘Well …’ he said, ‘in that case, I too wouldn’t mind exploring these
spaces once in a while. Provided I can carry a pillow and a sheet and wear a
woollen jacket and a monkey-cap. Also, I must ensure that Rosi doesn’t wake
up in the middle of the night and notice my absence.’
He added on a pensive note, ‘Mr Pillai, night-flying is fine if you are
unmarried. For the married, it is a deadly event-horizon. Because, one fine
night, you will come back from some hectic flying to find the door double-
locked and your stuff piled on the veranda.’
And the last thing he wanted while flying was to run into Rosi prowling
the sky as a cloud. God forbid! His legs trembled.
Pillai said, ‘Sir, it’s so characteristic of your greatness to understate your
bold approach to life, as described so magnificently in your books.’
For a moment Spider wondered if Pillai was flattering him. Then he
dismissed the thought. He is only a habitual truth-speaker like myself, except
for the occasional romantic hype that I shall simply take in my stride.
 23
ONE-EYED MAMA

‘Sir,’ Pillai said, continuing his autobiographical narrative, ‘as I became an

adolescent, I turned to voyeurism as a mode of investigating the world. I
voyeured at everything around me, from funerals and weddings to fights,
accidents, people in places of worship, lovers in clandestine union, clouds,
killers on a mission …’
Spider thought the list was not only very long but also mixed up. If Pillai
wished to include everything, why not ice cream and fried chicken too? Hype is
a habit that dies hard.
Pillai continued, ‘I watched the bats on the paala tree fighting, mating,
sleeping, feeding and hunting. I wondered if their God was a bat.’
Spider’s face showed disapproval. A bat-god! No takers!
Pillai continued, ‘One day, I was seated under the paala tree, leaning on its
big, rough trunk, dreaming of beautiful women.’
Spider interrupted, ‘Any special reason for dreaming about beautiful
women?’
Pillai appeared startled. He said he couldn’t pinpoint any. Somehow, in
those days, his dreams were filled with women.
‘Were they wet dreams?’
Pillai said, ‘No, Sir, they were just daydreams.’
Spider was sceptical. Show me the rule that says daydreams can’t be wet
dreams. Maybe, as Pillai had said earlier, they were dry wet dreams.
Pillai continued, ‘Suddenly I heard a feeble cry, of something moaning in
pain. I got up and looked around and saw a baby bat on the ground, fallen from
its nest. It was hairless like a human child, its wings askew, eyes screwed up in
pain. It wailed weakly as ants attacked it. I picked it up and looked at its sad
demon-like face.’
 Bhrrr! Spider shivered inside. Oh, Mar Tommy! Should I go on hearing this
story? Shall I escape?
Pillai continued, ‘It seemed to me that I was holding the Devil in my hand
—small, weak, squirming and helpless.’
Now Spider could not but intervene. He said, ‘Mr Pillai, I feel we are on
extremely dangerous ground. Are you sure it was the Devil and not Satan? Did
you check for an ID? Normally the Devil’s IDs are Beelzebub, Chocolate Fart,
One-eyed Mama …’
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘it was only a momentary illusion.’
‘That’s fine, then,’ Spider said doubtfully. Even momentary illusions
should have an ID.
‘Thank you, Sir,’ Pillai said. ‘I plucked the ants from its body and
wrapped it in my handkerchief. Then I climbed the paala tree, as high as I could
go without intruding into the zone of the sleeping bats, strung the kerchief like
a cradle to a branch, left the baby in it, and climbed down. I could hear the
baby continuing to cry. Then I looked up and saw a gathering of bats on the
branch where the baby was. They lifted the baby along with the kerchief and
carried it away. Then I saw my kerchief fluttering down and ran to catch it. But
suddenly a strong wind came and the kerchief vanished.’
Spider was very upset. He asked, ‘Didn’t you go and look for it?’
‘No, Sir,’ Pillai said.
‘You should have,’ Spider said. ‘One shouldn’t abandon one’s personal
things, especially in a crisis. They cry out in fear and loneliness. And if they
perish in a forsaken state, a special karma befalls us. Oh! I dread to think of the
consequences.’
‘Thank you for this important piece of information, Sir,’ Pillai said. ‘I’m
equally thankful in retrospect that in this case, the worst didn’t happen. A
couple of days later, I found our cobbler’s son with my kerchief tied around his
head. He said it had come floating in the wind and was about to fall into the
temple tank when he caught it. He untied it and returned it to me with a smile.
And I gave him the one-rupee coin my father had given me to watch a movie.’
‘All’s well that ends well!’ exclaimed Spider. ‘That was a neat ending!’
Even though he wasn’t in the habit of patting himself on the back, Spider
suddenly realized that he had spontaneously invented a beautiful phrase: All’s
well that ends well! His modesty, though, didn’t allow him to point this out to
his collaborator and take credit for it.
But he was puzzled the story had ended so soon, even though it seemed
well wrapped up. Oh! Has Pillai palmed off a kerchief story on me under the
pretext of telling his mentor story?
Pillai thanked Spider and said, ‘Sir, my story is not over. I’m sorry if I gave
you that impression.’
Spider looked at his watch and said, ‘All right. Let’s hear the rest then!’
Pillai said, ‘In those days, I was raw and intense, wandering alone at
nameless hours in forsaken places, seeking fear, danger, humiliation, evil,
ecstasy, insignificance, violence.’
Spider found Pillai’s new list a lot better than the previous one. The man
was learning fast.
Pillai continued, ‘One afternoon, I was going up the steep bank of a stream
that flowed down the last westerly slope of the mountains. Gigantic rocks,
hurled down by ancient cloudbursts and frozen in their tracks, surrounded me.
Perched on the mountain slope, they looked as if they would start rolling down
again any moment. The stream was so clear that it shone like crystal under the
sun and rainbows danced on its sandy bottom.’
Spider was puzzled. All that is fine. But where’s the mentor? Is he taking
me for a long ride?
Pillai continued, ‘A girl, dark and beautiful, perhaps of my age, used to
bathe all alone at this time of the day in a pool in the upper stream and I was
going there to watch her. I once saw a marvellous event take place when she
had finished washing her clothes, spread them out to dry and entered the
water. A water snake, with the dreamiest eyes I have ever seen on any creature,
came swimming out of the shadowy depths, its mouth set in a mysterious smile,
and played with her. They swam together and frolicked. Then she got out of the
water and rubbed herself with soapnut powder and the snake slithered up her
thighs and slid down again and again. She would lift it and put it on her bosom,
where it balanced its swaying body on her small breasts. Then lifting up its
hood, it gazed into her eyes as if it was seeing her for the first time, an
inscrutable smile playing upon its eyes and mouth.’
Spider was getting restless. Even taken as a build-up to the real story, he
found the whole episode far from inspiring or uplifting. A snake, of all things!
Wouldn’t a fish have done? Personally, he had nothing against snakes, but he
definitely felt uncomfortable about their going about without any arms, legs,
ears or hair. Their whole lifestyle pointed to a certain elitism which needed to
be eschewed by all. And they looked through you in a manner that made you
feel empty and on the brink of vertigo. And, of course, there was the poison
business.
‘Mr Pillai,’ he commented tactfully, ‘I hope it wasn’t a poisonous snake. A
nice smile is no guarantee for anything in this world.’
‘Most water snakes aren’t poisonous, Sir,’ Pillai said.
‘I wonder why,’ Spider said. He speculated that perhaps their poison had
been watered down.
Pillai made a note in his diary and replied that he would make further
enquiries on this matter.
 24
THE NUDE SNAKE

Pillai continued the story of his mentor, the bat. ‘Sir, as I went up the steep
riverbank, it was cool under the trees. Suddenly I felt something soft and firm,
like a hand, falling on my right shoulder. I was shaken. I thought my mission
had been discovered by the girl’s family and I was going to be questioned.
Fearfully I turned to look and saw a grey-black shape upon my shoulder. It was
a bat. Something told me it was the baby bat I had saved. I was not frightened.’
Spider smiled to himself. Not frightened! How the man revels in hype. The
sudden appearance of a cockroach is enough to make a man pee in his pants,
even if he has met it many times before.
He said, ‘Mr Pillai, one matter needs some explaining. How did you know
it was the baby bat?’
‘Its touch told me so.’
Spider was willing to accept this. Yes, he could not deny that Rosi had
sometimes enlightened him with one small prod of her forefinger.
Pillai said, ‘The baby had become an adult.’
‘It had breasts?’ Spider asked.
‘Yes, Sir.’
Spider said, ‘Please continue.’
‘Sir, the bat became my friend and companion. It would come into my
room and watch me study and sleep. It accompanied me when I went out in the
evenings, flying at a distance. It even watched me witnessing. Whenever I
witnessed the girl and the snake, from my hiding spot in a bamboo grove, the
bat hung, like a bunch of dry leaves, from a branch nearby, and watched me.’
Spider was scandalized beyond words. He said indignantly, ‘Mr Pillai, I
can’t believe that a good man like you let a woman, I mean the bat-woman,
watch you witnessing the nude girl and the nude snake! I think you could be
accused of moral turpitude of a grave nature. And what if the bat thought you
were witnessing the snake and not the girl? Would you have enjoyed the
dubious honour of being adjudged the first voyeur to watch a water snake
bathe?’
Pillai grabbed his diary and started writing. When he had finished he said,
‘Sir, I’m grateful to you for this invaluable insight and warning.’
Spider said, ‘Please take my critique in the right spirit. I’m only your well-
wisher. Let’s listen to the rest of the story.’
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘with the bat as my friend, I could walk out even in the
midnight hours without feeling lonely. I would give a low whistle and the bat
would appear above me in the sky and follow me silently, spreading its angular
wings against the stars or the massing clouds or the ascending moon. I was not
alone any more, Sir.’
Spider thought this part was definitely overdone. So much gloss on a small
item like the bat’s night routine!
He glanced at his watch to give Pillai a hint that it was getting late and
said, ‘Mr Pillai, so when did the shape-changing and flying lessons start? I’m
waiting.’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, there were no lessons in the traditional manner. One day,
the bat led me far up the stream to a place I had never been to, a vast grassy
slope with tall trees huddled in a corner and the green expanse strewn with
towering rocks, impassive and brooding. I felt like an ant that had strayed into a
conclave of giants. Further up, I saw a massive rock face in whose crevices the
stream took birth, gushing out in sparkling cascades of white water. In the blue
sky, dark clouds rolled in, driven by an easterly wind, and underneath the flying
clouds the earth and the rocks seemed to rush towards me in a gigantic
stampede. The scent of wild jasmines filled the air. As I stood spellbound,
suddenly the bat came floating down from the sky and, to my great surprise, bit
me lightly on my right upper arm.’
Spider jumped up in agitation. He cried, ‘Mr Pillai! The bat b-i-t you! Oh,
Mar Tommy! Only a gene examination can tell if it was related to Dracula. Are
you sure you have not been experiencing any desire to howl at midnight or
sleep in boxes, keep the company of rats or drink blood instead of tea?’
Pillai said, ‘I’ll make the matter clear in a moment, Sir …’
But Spider had already begun to feel a twinge on his right upper arm. He
touched the spot gingerly. He felt the pain wriggling and beginning to sting. He
gasped and clutched his shoulder with a forlorn look in his eyes.
 Pillai was shocked to see the change and rushed up to Spider. With a
stricken cry, Spider fell to one side. Pillai just managed to hold him up. Spider’s
eyes were open but seemed unseeing.
Spider tried to signal to Pillai that he was either dying or turning into a
Dracula-ghoul. He desperately wanted a mirror. He screamed silently, ‘There’s a
small mirror in the bathroom. Bring it, please! I want to see myself one last time
before my teeth and ears became pointed.’
Pillai looked lost and terrified. He called out to Spider fearfully and with
trembling hands tried to ease Spider’s body down on the chair. But it seemed to
have developed an unnatural stiffness, like a cadaver. Looking pale and
shattered, he went to fetch the jug of water placed on the table.
When Pillai returned, holding the jug in trembling hands, he stopped in
his tracks to see Spider sitting up and examining his shoulder. Spider took the
jug from him, drank several mouthfuls of water and said in a weary voice, ‘Mr
Pillai, I’m sorry. I should have forewarned you. From birth I’ve been doomed to
this b-i-t-e phobia. Today, as I listened to the story of how you were b-i-t-t-e-n,
I was overwhelmed and experienced a virtual b-i-t-e.’
Pillai expressed his immense gratitude that Spider was all right. He said he
had just experienced one of the most terrifying moments of his life.
Spider said he owed Pillai a further explanation. ‘I was a precocious baby
in my mother’s womb. Therefore my mother sought a doctor’s help to deliver
me. The doctor was a puritan. He always closed his eyes when he had to apply
himself to a woman’s private parts. He closed his eyes tightly while delivering
me, and his forceps pulled me out by the ear. The b-i-t-e of his forceps on my
tender ear was imprinted in my psyche and I’ve had a problem with b-i-t-e-s
ever since. In fact, Rosi gives me advance notice before attempting even a simple
love b-i-t-e.’
‘That is really fascinating, Sir!’ Pillai exclaimed. ‘You were precocious in
the womb itself?’
‘That’s right,’ Spider said. ‘I was prematurely precocious in the womb and
precociously premature ever after.’
Or was it vice versa, he wondered.
He added: ‘Ever since, I have a horror of b-i-t-e-s. If you search all my
fiction, you’ll be surprised to find that there are no b-i-t-e-s in it. In
lovemaking, I give no b-i-t-e-s and take none unless Rosi insists. When I eat, I b-
i-t-e with the greatest caution, trying to make each b-i-t-e an instantaneous
illusion. One of my chief problems with the computer is that it measures
everything in b-y-t-e-s.’
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘I’m very sorry I upset you with the b-i-t-i-n-g incident.
But that was the central point and I couldn’t avoid it. For, that was how I came
to possess the ability to shape-change and fly. The b-i-t-e was the trigger.’
Disappointment was writ all over Spider’s face.
 25
EARLY CLIMAX

‘As soon as it b-i-t me,’ Pillai said, continuing the story of his initiation into
shape-changing and flying, ‘I felt a surge of lightness flowing through me. I
couldn’t understand the sensation. Then the bat prompted me with its eyes and
the tip of its wing to jump, to rise up, to make my feet lose their grip on the
ground. It signalled to me repeatedly but I stood there open-mouthed, not able
to jump or move, feeling threatened by the lightness. The bat flew away and
vanished. I was terrified. The giant rocks seemed to stir. The sky lowered and
hung within arm’s reach. Suddenly I saw the bat rushing at me from the
mountainside at breakneck speed. The next moment, she hit me on my chest
and pushed me with her body and wings. I lost my balance and fell, but found
myself floating and rising into the air.’
‘Mr Pillai,’ Spider interrupted in an unhappy voice, ‘is there no
alternative at all to the b-i-t-e in your mentor’s shape-changing and flying
technology?’
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘I can only say that for a genius like you, all possibilities
are encapsulated in spontaneity.’
‘Thank you,’ Spider said. He was not convinced. Being a genius was
sometimes a total letdown.
Pillai continued, ‘Sir, as I rose from the ground and floated, I spread my
arms and legs and the terror of weightlessness left me. My mentor was next to
me, and we began to fly. For the first time, I saw the world from the sky. It
didn’t seem to be the one I lived in. It was a huge, silent, mysterious, elusive
thing wrapped in a haze. I stared at it in awe.’
Spider felt his stomach heave a bit. Oh, does he need to expand on these
details? He mustn’t hang on to his favourite things if he’s to make any
advancement in writing fiction, non-fiction, or even journalism.
 He said casually, ‘Mr Pillai, this is just a reality check. Are you sure your
narrative is proceeding in the right direction with the right inputs?’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, it is. But please forgive me for producing a linear narrative.
I’m trying to go step by step so that you may appreciate the peculiar
wellsprings of my destiny. Now I shall proceed quickly to an early climax.’
Spider wondered, how early is early? He could simply have brought the
climax to the beginning and followed it up with the bare facts.
He poured himself a glass of water to make his stomach relax.
Pillai continued, ‘Suddenly I recognized my village by its temple tower.
But I was gripped by a terrible fear. If the villagers saw me flying, terrible things
could happen. Knowing them as I did, I knew they were sure to think that I was
flying because I was in league with the Devil and would kill me when I
returned.’
Spider found this highly improbable. He’s simply palming off sensational
stuff on me. No way!
He asked, ‘Mr Pillai, are you by any chance misinterpreting the facts? As
far as I know, it is not only the Devil who flies. Gods, angels, yakshis,
gandharvas and such others with a decent reputation also fly. Might not the
villagers have thought you were in league with one of these parties?’
Pillai appeared stunned by this query. He admitted that it was a logical
point of view. But, he respectfully pointed out, the fact remained that if you
were caught doing something unusual like flying, nobody asked whose side you
were on; they lynched you first.
Spider said if that was true, he did have a quarrel with gods and angels
and prophets. They shouldn’t be sitting scratching their bottoms while their
fans were being butchered.
Pillai said Sir had stated the case in a befitting manner.
He continued, ‘Sir, in that moment of terror, I looked at myself and a
thunderbolt-like shock hit me when I saw that I was just a little body in the
sky, flying with two skinny wings. I had shape-changed!’
‘What about breasts?’ Spider asked anxiously.
‘Notional, Sir, like all men’s. I was a male bat.’
Spider thought this was the best news of the day.
Pillai continued, ‘Sir, the mountain ranges were canyons of dark mist. The
rivers were like silver snakes, turning, curving and twisting through anonymous
valleys. I saw towns, lakes, roads, moving trains and unending expanses of green.
For the first time, I took in so much of the earth at one glance that my mind
whirled. I was so happy that I wanted to shout and sing, but what came out was
a tiny whine. My mentor looked at me in surprise. She must have thought I was
whining in fear. We were circling low now and suddenly I caught sight of the
dark girl, undressing in the stream. Sir, it must have been the euphoria of flying,
but for the first time my heart was filled with an overwhelming desire for her.’
Spider could see trouble brewing. Sex was in the air! He prepared himself
for the worst.
‘My little body burnt with my longing for the girl. Sir, all of a sudden,
with a shock that tore through me, I found I was dropping like a stone. I wasn’t
flying anymore. I screamed, but my voice seemed to have been sucked up by the
force of the fall.’
Spider shook his head sadly. I knew it was coming to this! Is he a ghost,
then? Oh, Mar Tommy! Shall I say I’ll hear the rest of the story later and make
a quick exit? But if he is a ghost, why isn’t he smelly?
Pillai continued, ‘Sir, I got ready for the terrible moment of impact and
hoped death would be instantaneous. I saw the place of my imminent end
rushing up towards me like an inscrutable stranger. Then, just a few feet away
from the ground, I felt something supporting me. I was being lowered slowly.
Then I found myself on the ground. Sir, my mentor, who had pursued me as I
fell, had saved my life at the last moment.’
Spider was crestfallen. If this was how shape-changing and flying lessons
were going to be conducted, he was quitting already. The bare minimum of a
parachute should be a statutory requirement!
 26
FLYING DESIRES

Pillai opened his mouth to continue the story of his occult initiation into shape-
changing and flying. Then he changed his mind, looked at Spider with
trepidation and said, ‘Sir, I request you to plug your ears.’
Spider was shocked. ‘What happened?’ he asked, trembling. Oh, has the
Enemy arrived? Plug my ears? It’s a blast, then! Perhaps a nuclear bomb. It’s
going to be ear-splitting!
He was about to plug his ears when Pillai said, ‘Sir, forgive me! I only
wished to warn you that I was going to speak the word you dread, to complete
the narrative.’
Spider relaxed. He was very pleased by the man’s attentiveness to every
small detail. He said, ‘Just spell it out as you’ve been doing and I’ll be fine.’
Pillai cast an anxious glance at Spider before saying, ‘Sir, my mentor, with
another administered b-i-t-e, taught me a basic tenet of flying: It’s very
dangerous to experience desire while you fly, because desire makes you heavy.’
Spider flinched. So many b-i-t-e-s! So Pillai will need to keep b-i-t-ing me
from the word go in order to give me the full set of lessons. Oh, how often does
he brush his teeth? What tooth powder does he use? Are all his cavities filled
and capped? Perhaps I can persuade him to visit my dentist before the b-i-t-e
event, he consoled himself
Suddenly a scientific doubt occurred to him.
He asked, ‘If you say desire makes people heavy when they fly, what about
all those people in airplanes? I’ve never been in one, but I understand that
airplanes are filled with people with a high degree of desire of many kinds. Is it
possible, then, that some planes crash because of the untenable weight of
transporting those heavy desires?’
Spider felt good, having asked this rational question.
 Pillai thought for a while. He said, ‘I have no reliable information on this,
Sir. Aerodynamics is a hush-hush science. I’ve heard it said that it has recently
developed a technology to recycle on-board desire into aviation fuel. It appears
that planes crash either because statistical imperatives of fatal functional failure
make inexplicable conjunctions with formulae of obsolescence and/or self-
elimination. Or, someone manages to put a bomb in it. Or, God forbid, a pilot
finds life inexplicable and bangs the plane into something.’
They were silent for a while.
Spider said, ‘Mr Pillai, do you think, on an average, our desires would
weigh more than three to four kilograms?’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, frankly I have not made enquiries into the weight of
human desire. But, from my experience as a shape-changer, I believe that the
desire-content, if any, of birds and bats must be a tiny fraction of their weight.
That’s why they are such sound fliers.’
Spider thumped the table and said triumphantly, ‘Mr Pillai, now I know
why chicken can’t fly. And ducks. And turkey. The reason is that their desire-
content is unnaturally high. They are so full of the desire to be eaten. The
weight of that desire presses down upon their wings. The day they stop wanting
to be eaten, they will be kings and queens of the skies. What do you say?’
Pillai stood looking at Spider reverentially.
Spider meditated briefly. Then he said, ‘Actually, it’s a vicious circle that
starts with the egg. The egg, by virtue of its very shape and oozy content, is so
lazy that it just wants to roll about, be eaten and done with. Is it surprising that
chicken inherit the same morbid psychology?’
Pillai said this was a psycho-biological insight of far-reaching significance.
He made a detailed note of it in his diary.
Spider said, ‘I’m sorry to have digressed. But you haven’t finished your
story. How many more flying lessons did you take and how did they go?’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, if you’ll excuse my mentioning that word again, my
mentor’s b-i-t-e on my arm was the full lesson. That gave me the ability to fly
and shape-change.’
Like an all-in-one injection, Spider thought, wincing. He asked in a
despondent voice, ‘Mr Pillai, does that mean you’ll have to b-i-t-e me in order
to …?’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, God forbid that I b-i-t-e you, a great writer. Spontaneity
will intervene, I’m sure, at the right time, because a mastermind of your calibre
is involved. The only thing I can claim to teach confidently is hanging. But
nobody has yet asked me to, Sir.’
Spider was suddenly in two minds. Hanging sounded nice too. And it
didn’t seem to require a bite. Spider applied his mind carefully to the issue. It
would be wonderful if one could hang some interesting people. He made a quick
list in his mind of the people who could be usefully hanged.
Spider said, ‘Mr Pillai, I’m interested in learning hanging too. Will it be
possible for you to give me tuitions at home? But we have to keep it a secret
from Brother and Rosi, for obvious reasons. Actually Brother could turn out to
be a good hangman, but we might end up making the fatal mistake of arming
Evil with yet another weapon.’
Pillai stood at attention, listening respectfully to Spider’s words.
Spider continued, ‘But there is a more serious problem. What’ll we do
with the bodies after the lessons are over? In fact, Mr Pillai, this should be a
challenge with respect to innovation in body disposal. Can we redesign hanging
in such a way that the body disappears along with the soul?’
Pillai had a look of utter astonishment on his face. He said, ‘Sir, I have no
words to express my feelings. What you have proposed is a bold and innovative
solution to handling body garbage. But my humble feeling is that you will be a
great flyer and shape-changer or even a witness, but not a hangman. The reason
being, the genius in you may find more satisfaction in entering into
conversations with the condemned person than in executing the due process of
law. That could affect legal deadlines adversely and is bound to prove an
impediment in pursuing a hangman’s career.’
Spider told him that he tried his best at all times to be a man of few
words. He had made a promise to his mother to that effect, while she was on
her deathbed. But maybe he wasn’t succeeding. Karma!
 27
THE DETERRENT EFFECT

Pillai looked guiltily at his watch, having brought to an end the story of his
initiation into shape-changing and flying. He said, ‘Sir, I do not wish to remove
myself from your mighty and invigorating presence, but I have to take your
leave, please forgive me. I am the secretary of the Union of Executioners and
Allied Professionals and there is a committee meeting this evening.’
Spider wished to know who the Allied Professionals were.
Pillai said they were specialists who contributed special services to a
hanging. An expert rope-maker, for example.
Spider asked if priests who officiated at executions were members of the
union because they provided a special service too.
Pillai said no priest had applied so far.
He continued, ‘We are meeting today to put forward a proposal that
executions be carried out in the virtual realm and an appropriate software be
urgently developed. The condemned individual must be a compulsory witness
to his virtual execution in order that he may be chastised by the sight of his
own elimination. The executioner will first depict to the condemned person the
intricate and macabre details of his death so that he can have a curtain-raiser
for himself. We are also suggesting that virtual executions be exhibited on wide
screens in public places. Because, apart from contributing to the deterrent
effect, if any, it will also provide simple entertainment to the general public,
along with some amelioration of their blood-thirstiness.’
Spider wondered aloud if creating the curtain-raiser wasn’t going to be
tough on the average executioner. Not everyone was good at depicting death in
a dramatic manner.
Pillai agreed that it was a problem.
Spider said they could conduct seminars on depictive narratives of death
for the use of executioners. He was willing to handle a couple of classes.
Pillai was so moved, he wished to touch Spider’s feet. But Spider asked
him to continue with the subject under discussion.
Pillai said, ‘Sir, we propose that a death sentence must also stipulate the
quantum of pain the condemned must undergo. At the virtual execution, the
person will be brain-wired to a pain-metre to monitor the pain score. The
executioner’s job will be to not only operate the virtual execution app but also
to ensure that the condemned person experiences the desired pain by subjecting
him or her to a volley of specially formulated verbal and histrionic pain-
enhancers.’
Spider expressed his sympathy for executioners once again. This was
getting mind-bogglingly tough. They might have to recruit top-class actors for
the executioner’s job.
Pillai thanked him for his generous empathy.
He said virtual execution would be a traumatic experience for the
executioner, just as much as for the condemned person, because of his deeper
involvement. Therefore, the union was planning to demand a higher allowance
for the heightened trauma its members would undergo as a result of the
augmented reality projected in the virtual realm.
Spider sat in silent thought.
Then he put forward the following suggestion: The virtual execution could
also be broadcast across the electronic media for substantial profits because
considering its sensational nature, sponsors would pour in. If it could be
rendered more bloody and sickening than the real one, with a few imaginative
touches, it might even beat the ratings for a T20 cricket match. The media
patronage might encourage their lordships to condemn the maximum number
of people to death because each execution would bring a fortune to the state as
revenue, instead of the wasteful expenditure incurred at present. One couldn’t
rule out the possibility of celebrity promoters coming forward to invest in
executions.
Pillai was taking notes with an expression of delirious joy. He thanked
Spider for the wonderful ideas that only a path-breaking genius could produce
at such short notice.
Spider said his motto was to be inspired at all times. Especially for good
causes.
He had a doubt, however. ‘Will there be a virtual funeral after the
execution?’
 Pillai said the union proposed to have one if the condemned so wished,
but at his or her cost. A funeral was nothing but conspicuous consumption. The
exchequer should not have to foot the bill for it.
Spider mused aloud that it was going to take the executed person a long
time to live down his disrepute as the executed one. That was the hard part.
The other way, once you were dead, you didn’t have to live down anything.
Pillai said that in his humble opinion, life was a peculiar thing. Spider said
that even death was.
Pillai thanked Spider profusely for granting him the most treasured
moments of his life and requested to be told at what time he should present
himself the next day.
Spider suggested 11 a.m.
Pillai came to attention, closed his eyes and executed a somersault. Whirr!
A bat winged out the window into the late evening sky. Spider stood gazing
after Pillai’s receding shape. He heard Brother going into a mad scramble down
in the yard.
Spider uttered a silent prayer. Mar Tommy, please take charge of his
prompt return!
Suddenly he realized that he had forgotten to get Pillai’s address and
telephone number. What if one of his wings failed and he fell down and a snake
ate him? Or he could be hit by a low-flying ICBM or a killer-drone on a crazy
spree. I’ll never know. Nor will I be able to attend the funeral.
Then he remembered that there wouldn’t be a funeral. Who would
arrange a funeral for a bird or a bat lying dead on the road? Unless, of course,
Pillai had changed into his human shape at the last moment. But if he had been
gobbled up instantly on hitting the ground, that possibility didn’t exist either.
Spider just hoped all would be well. The essay had got off to such a beautiful
start. Oh, Mar Tommy, is it going to be a slip between the cup and the lip?
 28
THE BODY-SNATCHER

As Spider got ready for his walk early in the morning, he was feeling low on
more than one count. The previous night, Rosi had said no to his plan for an
abridged lovemaking session of only spontaneous foreplay. She had objected
stating that (a) there was not sufficient advance notice for spontaneity and (b)
even foreplay could damage the enhanced aura of the tantric facial she had got
done earlier in the day. She had fallen asleep forthwith.
Spider had watched her for a while to see if she would turn into a cloud.
Suddenly he saw a giant moth with glowing eyes and huge wings approaching
him from the north-east and he realized it was sleep coming to get him. Oh, no!
I don’t want to sleep now! I’m keeping an eye on my wife! The moth grazed
him with its sexy wings and gave him a voluptuous kiss that nearly swallowed
him, and suddenly he found himself dancing with Eve and three nude snakes in
an exotic garden. The place looked like Paradise, but he soon realized that
everything was plastic, including Eve and the snakes.
That had been a painful experience, and it still rankled.
On top of that, he felt very disturbed about Pillai’s safety. He had realized
that dark forces dispatched by the compassion industry could also be at work to
sabotage the essay because the rise of compassion in a Marxist framework could
eat into everyone’s revenues. And they were not going to take it lying down.
Prodded by an ominous sense of mortality, he anxiously looked in the
mirror and examined his moustache for any hair that was standing up—they
were a bad omen. But they all seemed to be lying prone in their places.
Taking all things into consideration, Spider decided to proceed in the same
direction in which Pillai had departed the previous evening. He would keep an
eye on the road and the surroundings for any untoward signs.
He didn’t know what to look for. A dead bat/bird or a dead man? If Pillai
hadn’t reverted to human shape before dying, oh! Spider was filled with horror
as he visualized the mangled remains of the bat/bird after various categories of
night-diners had feasted on it, mauling and tearing. Shuddering, he broke into a
slow run along the deserted road as if to get away from the thought.
It was then that he saw something that chilled him to the bones. There it
was, lying a few hundred feet ahead—a black, broken thing with a small head
and half-folded wings, lifeless. Spider froze in his tracks.
The sight of brutal death overwhelmed him. So it was all over! The dark
ones had hit and Pillai had been eliminated. Wistfully, in his mind’s eye, he saw
Pillai standing at attention in his room and contributing those wonderful
sentences to the essay. Oh, the mind that created those ideas is lifeless! The
eminent hangman and relative of Jesus is no more. And the essay remains
unfinished.
Fearfully he looked around for the Enemy perhaps still haunting the scene,
but all he saw was a cyclist at a distance. He wanted the cyclist to pass and
then, all alone, to take a tearful last look at his erstwhile collaborator’s
leftovers. With trembling legs he walked towards the still shape on the road.
Oh, dear friend, he whispered, our essay is unfinished and you have been taken
away!
As he got closer, the thing on the road seemed to take on a different form.
Spider was shocked beyond words. It’s still shape-changing! Maybe it’s still
alive! Oh, Mar Tommy, please help! Give me just one chance to save my friend!
As he got closer, the thing seemed to change shape again. Oh, no! Spider
exclaimed. Don’t change any more! You’re making a mistake! Be as you were!
I’ve come to save you. By now the thing had taken on the form of a black,
double-folding umbrella, unclasped, with a couple of flaps open. Spider was
stunned. Pillai’s atman was going crazy. Imagine, it wants to die as an umbrella,
of all things!
‘Wait!’ Spider shouted. ‘I’m here!’ He didn’t want to put a scare into the
atman, so he crept towards the thing step by step.
Now he was standing right next to it. Friend, he murmured sadly, I hope
you haven’t left the earth yet. I’m here to save you. Stop changing. Stick to
being an umbrella now that I know it’s you.
He had bent down and was about to put his hand upon the black shape
when there came the screech of sudden brakes and a bicycle came to an abrupt
stop beside him. A boy jumped down from the bicycle, hurriedly picked up the
umbrella-thing and told Spider breathlessly, ‘Old Uncle, thanks for finding it!
It’s my brand-new umbrella! My mother would’ve skinned me alive for losing
it! Oh, thank God!’ Holding the umbrella-thing in one hand, he rode away
frantically, saying, ‘Thank you, Old Uncle! I’m the altar boy and I’m late. Oh,
Father Vicar is going to skin me!’
Spider stood aghast. He couldn’t believe his ears. He called me Old Uncle!
Twice! Spider could hardly breathe. Old Uncle! How dare he do that! Even
Uncle is bad enough! And just when I was about to pick up my friend and save
him from the clutches of death, he grabbed him! Crook! Body-snatcher! Police,
police! Where are you?
Spider was unable to contain his rage. Oh, may both your tyres burst and
may you fall down and lose your front teeth! May Father Vicar catch you
stealing the host and the mass wine and burn you at the stake! I’ll set Brother
Dog on you and teach you a lesson about whom to call Old Uncle!
Spider returned to his sorrow. Oh, Mar Tommy! I lost the chance to save
Pillai’s life. All I needed to do was to look that bicycle-bully in the face and say:
You’re a cheat! This is not your umbrella. This is my friend, the famous
hangman of Tirunelveli, J.L. Pillai. Return him to me now or I’ll speak to your
father! Spider felt utterly defeated and drained.
He considered the possibility of going to the church and grabbing the
umbrella. But he remembered in time that he hadn’t brushed his teeth. Oral
bacteria could get high-handed in an environment of prayer. It was an irony
that bacteria, together with bad breath, fortified and lifted up your prayer and
in return, got a free hand inside the mouth to wreak untold havoc. One could
end up with a root canal in an hour of prayer! Spider shivered.
As he stood there feeling angry and frustrated, he tried to think about
why Pillai had chosen to die as an umbrella. One possibility was that he
must’ve got news that heaven is a rainy place as against hell, which is hot and
sultry, and he was doubling both as atman and its umbrella. In other words, he
meant to travel light and compact, using integrated technology.
Secondly, it was possible that he wished to be an umbrella for Jesus in
heaven, which must certainly be a privileged position. Spider wondered if Pillai
wasn’t misusing his family connection with Jesus by aspiring for this top slot.
But perhaps, in heaven, acts of nepotism were not considered as sensitive as
they were here. Whatever it was, Spider realized painfully, it had become his
tragic lot to intervene in vain in these last, lonely moments of a collaborator-
friend’s life. He sighed sadly.
 29
SUTRA OF STILL LIFE

Spider decided to abandon his walk and head home. The more he thought of
the tragic fiasco that had just taken place, the more enraged and unhappy he
became. He tried to banish his depression by meditating as he walked.
He concentrated on a drop of sweat that was rolling down the back of his
neck. It crept slowly down his spine. He could feel it getting charged and
energized by The Force. He tried to place his atman inside the drop and was
delighted to find that it was quite easy to do so. Haha! Now he was rolling
down his own spine! He was an energy ball! He was on a spinal rollercoaster, a
Kundalini cruise!
He let go. Now he was hurtling down and swarms of energy mannequins,
males and females, surrounded him. That was nice! Suddenly they vanished,
giggling, and he saw with terrified eyes the reason: beneath him was the
Bottomless Pit of the non-Self and the energy ball of his Self was about to crash
into it, to become one with it. With a loud scream, he jumped off.
The street was empty except for a couple of cats basking in the sun, who,
alarmed by his scream, sprang up and scurried behind the fence. The village
newspaper boy had suddenly emerged on the sidewalk from an open gate and
ran straight into Spider just as he screamed. The boy leaped away with a
horrified cry, stood staring at Spider open-mouthed and then took to his heels,
looking over his shoulder, till he was satisfied he had reached a safe distance.
Spider was so surprised to see the boy running that he made a mental note
to tell Rosi about it. He was known to be the slowest-moving newspaper boy in
the world. He was so slow that on some days he managed to deliver only the
day-before-yesterday’s paper and Spider used to read it thinking it was the
same day’s till one day Rosi saw the dateline. In recent times, the boy had taken
to delivering the day’s papers before dark. By then he would have done all the
puzzles and games in them, filled the lucky-dip entry forms, peeled off the prize
stickers, scratched the tambola numbers and defaced portions he didn’t like in
the children’s section. He had also been found speaking to goats, squirrels and
water buffaloes for long periods and sitting on the newspaper bundle under a
tree, directing ant traffic. One day, girls bathing in the village stream had seen
him suddenly disappearing behind a hedge. When they investigated the
disappearance, suspecting him of being a peeping Tom, they found him sitting
between the legs of a cow and drinking milk from her udders. The cow,
notorious for her temper, was licking him as if he were her calf. The astonished
girls tiptoed back to the stream, fantasizing about how nice it would be if they
too could co-opt him. In the meantime, the cow had turned its attention to the
newspaper bundle, found it tasty, and eaten large portions of it. That day, many
subscribers, including Spider, received their newspaper with big chunks torn off
and bits of chewed grass and dried saliva sticking here and there.
Rosi didn’t mind the boy’s lateness because she always read the
newspaper a week later. She said it made the news flat, insignificant and
toothless. And all the heckling and soliciting lost their fizz, rendering it nearly
harmless.
What puzzled Spider was: Why did the boy run away? He was trying to
figure this out when he heard a voice.
‘Oh, Mr Spiderman! What happened to you? Are you hurt? Why did you
cry out?’
Spider was enraged for the second time that morning—he strongly
objected to being called Spiderman.
He had the highest regard for Spiderman and his various abilities.
However, when it came to the deployment of names, Spider was a stickler for
ethics and security norms. Spider was not Spiderman.
And he couldn’t understand the question at all. Cry out? Who had cried
out? Maybe that slow-motion robot of a newspaper boy had cried out because
he had suddenly remembered his multitudinous sins.
He looked around resignedly and saw the person who had called out to
him. He knew her. Her name was Ambujam Nair, and she was a powerfully
built woman in her sixties. She was standing at the gate of her house, which was
situated in a coconut grove adjoining the road.
The house was a massive Swiss chalet constructed by her daughter, who
was a nurse in Zurich. Ambujam Nair had been living alone in it after her
husband, a retired soldier, had left her when she stipulated that he should
stand at attention and salute before speaking to her and always address her as
‘Sir’. She had clarified to him that her only reason for this regulation was that
it helped to maintain a healthy level of patriotic discipline and matriarchal
order in the family. But he had submitted that now that he was retired, he
wished to go easy on patriotism and focus on self-development. Therefore he
had requested to be released from his patriotic and patriarchal duties. When
last heard, he was assisting a young lady-guru, who taught senior government
personnel and politicians to attain bliss without attaining an erection. She
called it the Sutra of Still Life.
 30
THE LSN MEDITATION

Spider was familiar with Ambujam Nair’s mournful but steely expression. She
had read his books and sometimes had questions for him on patriotic matters.
‘Good day, Mrs Nair,’ Spider said.
‘Oh, Mr Spiderman,’ she said, ‘I heard you cry out. What happened? Did
you have an attack?’
‘What attack?’ Spider was worried. Oh, has World War III started?
‘Heart attack,’ she said. ‘These days, it’s young people who are dying of a
heart attack.’
Spider was pleased to hear that. And that criminal called me Old Uncle!
He said, ‘But I’m careful. I exercise every day.’
‘But many die while exercising.’ She watched him for the impact.
‘The exercises I do are death compliant,’ Spider said.
‘But remember you’re not so young any more, Mr Spiderman.’
But you just said …! Spider cried out silently.
He said, ‘I read in the paper the other day that many old people are dead
and do not know it. They go about as usual, but dead, causing household
accidents, electrical fuse-blowing and other environmental problems.’
‘Did they say what age group?’
‘Sixties and upward.’
‘That’s excellent,’ Ambujam Nair said. ‘I stopped the aging process
through auto-erotic therapy at the age of fifty-seven. But Mr Spiderman, that
gives me an idea. If the news is true, I feel it’s time to start old people’s homes
for the dead. You know my daughter runs an old people’s home in Zurich, in
her off-duty hours. She can start one for the dead too.’
‘True,’ Spider said, ‘but the menu will be the hard part. God knows what
the dead eat these days.’
 Suddenly Spider had the feeling that Mrs Nair was dead and lounging at
the gate without knowing she was dead. Hiding his worry, he asked her in a
casual tone, ‘By the way, Mrs Nair, how’s your health these days?’
She said, ‘By God’s grace, I’m fine. My body feels light and I’m very
hungry all the time.’
That’s it, Spider said to himself, shocked. She must have died during the
night and she doesn’t know it. She has become weightless because of death and
as a result, her digestion is at high speed, giving the illusion of hunger. And
she’s talking about God for no reason. No wonder she’s planning old people’s
homes for the dead. It’s her subconscious at work, still lingering on. Spider
trembled. Oh, I’d better get away!
Then he told himself: Let me not run away. Let me be compassionate to
poor Mrs Nair in the terrible situation she is in. Suddenly he realized: Good
heavens! The c-word has returned! Something good must be round the corner!
Poor thing. It’s very sad indeed to be dead and still standing at your gate
greeting passers-by. She’s a sitting duck for body-snatchers like the criminal
who grabbed the dying Mr Pillai from me. Tomorrow she’ll be sold to the CIA
as a live cadaver for waterboarding experiments. I must help her by opening her
eyes to the fact that she is dead and needs to get back home and do the needful.
Spider decided the best way to help her was to tell her the story of the
Origins of Death, which had been revealed to him at an LSN meditation session.
Listening to a scientific account of the fundamentals of death might wake her
up to the fact that she was dead and make her reach home quickly.
The technique of LSN meditation involved, to begin with, mixing a drink
of fresh lime, soda, sugar and salt, with sugar having the upper hand. Spider
could never get the fresh lime right because he always tried to adjust its
quantity anticipating the sugar and salt. It was Rosi who told him: ‘The
enlightened ones put in sugar and salt first. Then the measure of fresh lime gets
auto-calibrated by the water level in your mouth.’
Once the drink was ready, the next step was to sit on a comfortable seat
facing the west and read the daily newspapers—reading between the lines,
identifying the lies, marking the evasions, noting the agendas. This was LSN:
Lime-Soda-News meditation.
Rosi had told him: ‘Once you’ve been enlightened through LSN, you’ll
find that you can close your eyes, even sleep, while reading or watching the
news. It’s the same.’
The only problem with this was that Spider had got into the habit of
introducing rum or vodka into the meditation drink, resulting in a watering
down of enlightenment. Yet, it was during one such session, after he had laced
the lime soda with an extra helping of vodka, that he had received the
revelation about the Origins of Death.
He now told Mrs Nair, sounding as friendly as possible, ‘Mrs Nair, can I
tell you a newly discovered secret about death?’
His heart was thumping because he didn’t know what would happen
when he finished the story and she understood she was dead. He moved a few
steps back as a precaution. Mrs Nair took this as an invitation to a hush-hush
conference, came out of the gate and took up position right next to him. Spider
looked around in panic. Oh, what shall I do? Shall I tell her I’ve received a
mystic intimation that Brother Dog is dying, and run? If only Pillai were here!
He would have suggested a way.
His voice quavered as he began the story of the Origins of Death.
‘Mrs Nair, I’ve been informed by highly placed sources that it was a deep-
rooted conspiracy engineered by our finger- and toe-nails that opened the way
for Death to infiltrate life on earth. Hair is said to have been complicit too, but
the evidence is incomplete. The nails had been in a charged state of violence
ever since man started clipping them. They—perhaps justifiably—felt their
rightful evolutionary growth had been cut down. However, Hair seemed to have
developed second thoughts after some grey hairs pointed out how it had had a
fairly smooth history of evolutionary growth on men as well as women.’
‘Mrs Nair,’ he continued, giving her a conspiratorial look, ‘Death at the
time was a starving intellectual on Mars, trying to kill rocks and mica stones. He
telepathically exploited the unrest of the nails and wormed in with a revenge
package. He told them that if they could give him a hiding place—for example,
in the dirt under a thumb nail—he would take it from there and teach the
humans a lesson on their behalf. He assured the nails that they wouldn’t die,
only the humans would. But the nails soon found out the truth. As people died,
the nails met the same silly fate as the bodies. They simply couldn’t pull out
and get away before the bodies were done away with. And Death became king
of everything that lived.’
 31
DAMAGED BY DEATH

Spider could hear his heart drumming as he got ready to draw Mrs Nair’s
attention to the momentous fact that she was perhaps dead. His voice shook as
he asked her in a hoarse whisper, ‘Mrs Nair, what do you think of it all? Does it
worry you? This terrible business of death? Do you feel death impacting us right
now?’
He backed away from her in such a hurry that Mrs Nair was startled.
However, she gave him a sympathetic look and said, ‘Mr Spiderman, thank you
for this information. It could be absolutely true. But I’m not worried. I rub my
nails together every single day and they are a happy, cooperative and patriotic
lot. And, mind you, I don’t even use nail polish. As for death, I think death’s a
wonderful thing. As a patriot, my slogan is: Death to the Enemy! How will
patriotism succeed without Death?’
Spider heaved a sigh of relief. Thank God, those didn’t sound like the
words of a dead person. And he knew about the benefit of rubbing one’s nails
together. The dead would find it hard to rub their nails together. It was tough
even for the living.
But the way she stood gazing at him with unblinking eyes, as if waiting for
something very unpleasant to happen, brought back Spider’s worry. Oh,
perhaps even the history of death hasn’t penetrated the Cloud of her
Unknowing!
He casually moved himself to a safe distance again and told her in a firm
voice, ‘Mrs Nair, I wish to tell you that my friend just died.’
He watched her closely.
She brightened. ‘Oh, Mr Spiderman, now I know why you cried aloud! You
must’ve heard the news just then. How did he die?’
Spider decided to be ruthless. If she’s dead, we’ll know now!
 He said, ‘I think he had an accident in the sky or was attacked. He fell
down on the road and in his last moments was turning into an umbrella, for
mysterious reasons. Before I could save him, he was stolen.’
Spider watched her carefully for the smallest sign of disquiet,
disintegration or fission.
But Mrs Nair only became animated. She said, ‘Mr Spiderman, I believe
you, and feel sad for your friend and, of course, for you. I think it will be
educative for you—because you are so interested in death—to hear the story of
the demise of a person I once knew. It will go to show how death takes people
for a ride, as in the case of your unfortunate friend.’
Spider said he had only an academic interest in death. Oh, not so much
death in a single morning!
Mrs Nair ignored his hint. She moved right next to him and fixed her
chilly gaze on him.
She said, ‘The person I knew was buying a train ticket. He went to the
ticket counter and said, “A second-class ticket to Vasanthapuram, please.” He
handed over the fare. Death was standing just behind him in the queue,
humming a song and tapping the ground with one foot.’
‘Which song? Do you know?’ Spider asked anxiously.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Nair said. ‘It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I just can’t recall
it.’
‘That’s too bad.’ Spider said, ‘We should try to find that song and check if
it has been damaged by Death. Songs become brittle and cold when they’ve
been hummed by Death.’
Mrs Nair thanked Spider for this new piece of information. She continued,
‘So this person took the ticket and the small change, and holding them in one
hand, picked up his briefcase, left the queue and turned towards the gate
leading to the platform. Death gave the ticket vendor the exact change and
bought only a platform ticket because he wasn’t going anywhere.’
‘Death,’ Spider said, ‘generally doesn’t buy tickets for anything. He is very
tight-fisted. I’m surprised he bought a platform ticket at all.’
Mrs Nair said, ‘Mr Spiderman, this person I knew then took seven steps
towards the gate and, at the same time, saw his train coming in. He was
surprised to hear the train making a different sort of noise on the track. He
didn’t know that what he heard was the sound of Death tapping the floor with
his foot, standing right next to him.
‘He turned and asked Death, “Sir, is that the train to Vasanthapuram?”
Death nodded smilingly and said, “Yes, crowded though.” ’
Spider exclaimed, ‘I think I know what was going on. Your friend was
making a terrible mistake. I have heard from reliable sources that there are
trains for the dead, which run on certain days on certain lines. It can be fatal if,
by mistake, you buy a ticket for one of them.’
Looking significantly at Mrs Nair, Spider added, ‘I hope you’ve not been in
one of them recently.’
He hurriedly stepped away from Mrs Nair.
Mrs Nair appeared alarmed by this new revelation. ‘My God!’ she said.
‘Are these trains listed anywhere? I keep travelling on trains all the time.’
Spider said he would check with his sources.
‘Please let me know,’ Mrs Nair said, ‘when you get the information.’
She continued, ‘Death tapped this person on the arm and said, smiling,
“The train’s on time!” ’
Then the dying person took the eighth step and Death gave him a small
push with his shoulder. The person fell down dead, with the ticket and small
change in one hand and the briefcase in the other. The train rolled in, unloaded
and loaded passengers, and left. Death strolled on the platform for a while,
looking at this and that. Then he glanced at his watch and left.’
There was a brief silence. Spider fidgeted with his cap, which he had taken
off.
Then Spider asked, ‘Mrs Nair, if I’m not being unduly inquisitive, do I
know this person who died?’
His plan was to find out if the dead person was one of the people he kept
meeting, who were perhaps dead but going around as if they were alive.
She said, ‘No, Mr Spiderman, you don’t. He was my lover.’
Spider said, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. It’s tough losing a lover. I shall remember
him in my prayers.’
‘He was not a particularly good lover. But I managed. And he was going to
Vasanthapuram because he was having an affair with another woman there.’
‘Oh, in that case …’
Spider didn’t complete the sentence. He didn’t know whether he should
say ‘that makes it better’ or ‘that makes it hard’ or ‘that makes it simpler’.
‘And the briefcase he was carrying contained an expensive diamond
necklace for her,’ Mrs Nair said.
It was then that Spider noticed the diamond necklace around Mrs Nair’s
neck. He couldn’t help but stare at it admiringly.
 Mrs Nair smiled. She said, ‘Mr Spiderman, because I am a staunch patriot,
luck would have it that I alighted from the same train he wished to board. I saw
his body and took charge of the situation and his belongings. It was patriotism
and nothing but patriotism that guided me there at that precise moment. It has
stood by me in every emergency. This necklace is living proof of that.’
Spider kept silent. Dealing with a person who could be dead but doesn’t
know it is a delicate affair.
Suddenly he knew where the problem lay in her story. Gathering all his
courage, he asked her in a confidential whisper, ‘Mrs Nair, how did you then …
er … come to know all that happened to your lover at the railway station since
you arrived there after his death?’
Mrs Nair said, ‘Oh, on the day I wore the diamond necklace for the first
time, I meditated, reciting the patriot’s mantra of gratitude. Suddenly my inner
eye opened and I saw all that I told you about.’
Spider had nothing to say. Obviously patriotism had become
multipurpose. He stood looking around uncertainly and then took leave of Mrs
Nair. He felt guilty that he was perhaps abandoning her to an uncertain fate,
but he was hungry.
When he had gone some distance, he looked back once to check if Mrs
Nair had vanished after suddenly realizing she was dead. She hadn’t. Instead,
she waved at him. He walked some more and looked back a second time and
found she was gone. Panicking, he began to run, taking care to make it look like
he was jogging.
 32
ONLY A WRAITH

A bit breathless from the jog, and dejected still, Spider continued his walk
homeward. Gloomily he returned the greetings of the occasional passer-by. He
paused for a moment under a tree to refocus his mind, when for the second
time that morning, he heard his name being called. It was a hushed voice. ‘Mr
Yellow Man! Please!’
He looked around and, in the window of an ancestral home in a gardened
courtyard, he saw a woman’s face. She was smiling at him and beckoning him to
stop. She said again, ‘Please … Mr Yellow Man!’
His heart missed a beat.
What! Is this real? It’s just past 7.30 a.m. and a woman is summoning me!
And, most surprising of all, she’s calling me Yellow Man, which not many do!
She’s inviting me for breakfast, for sure. And just when I’m getting hungry. Oh,
thank you, Mar Tommy, for making me so famous!
The woman who had hailed him opened the front door and stepped out
into the gravelled yard from the veranda. Spider watched her as she walked
towards him. She was an elegant woman in her forties, tall and dark, with long
black hair.
He could imagine what she was going to say: ‘Mr Yellow Man, will you
have some upma, or would you prefer idlis?’ And he knew what his answer
would be: ‘Thank you! Yes, Madam, I’ll have upma first and idlis next.’
The woman opened the gate and told Spider, ‘Oh, Mr Yellow Man, good
morning to you. I’ve wanted to talk to you for such a long time. I don’t think
you remember me, but I was a proofreader at the weekly that published your
first novel. I was so lucky, Mr Yellow Man, to have held your manuscript in my
two hands. I didn’t know then that you were going to be so famous!’
Oh, Spider thought bitterly, what’s my so-called fame? If only Pillai were
alive, I would have been the first writer to shape-shift and fly in the sky. And
that would’ve been fame worth writing home about! If you’re just a celebrated
writer who walks around on his two feet, staring at the ground, what’s special?
Anybody can do that.
‘Thank you, Madam,’ Spider told the woman politely. ‘You’re so kind.
But let me tell you, my fame is only a wraith. It is yet to crystallize into
something phenomenal.’
‘Oh, Mr Yellow Man,’ she said, ‘you’re so wonderfully modest!’
The sun was getting to be hot and Spider stepped into the shade of the tall
guava tree that stood at the gate with its spreading branches and ripe fruits.
The woman went up to him and said in a hushed voice, ‘Mr Yellow Man,
you’re a renowned philosopher and observer of human nature. Could you
please help me to better understand the situation I’m facing in my life now?’
Oh! But what about breakfast? I’m very hungry!
He said, ‘I can try.’ And added pointedly, ‘But … aren’t you going to be
busy with breakfast?’
‘Oh, breakfast can wait, Mr Yellow Man. That’s not as important as
talking to you.’
Spider’s heart sank.
She continued, ‘After so many days of waiting, today I picked up the
courage to call out to you. I’m so thrilled you stopped for me!’
Spider hid his despondence and looked up at the guava tree. Shall I pluck
a guava and eat it? Would it be impolite to do that on a first meeting? Should I
ask her to pluck one for me? Or is it better to pick up a fallen one? But what if
it’s not ripe? Or has been gnawed by a bat? The word ‘bat’ brought Pillai to
mind again, and sorrow made him hungrier. He made up his mind.
He told the woman, ‘I’m feeling very sorrowful. Can I eat a guava?’
She seemed surprised and exclaimed, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that! What
has happened to make you sorrowful? But first let me pluck you a guava.’
She jumped and caught hold of one of the lower branches of the tree,
plucked a ripe fruit and gave it to him.
She said, ‘Mr Yellow Man, please eat this. I don’t want you to be
sorrowful.’
‘Thank you so much, Madam,’ Spider said. ‘You see, my friend died just
now and turned into an umbrella, which got stolen. It made me very sad. Do
you mind if I eat this fruit before we talk?’
The woman said, ‘Oh, I hope you find your dead friend … I mean … the
stolen umbrella … Please eat as many guavas as you wish. I can get you more.’
Spider bit into the guava. It was juicy and sweet. The woman watched him
anxiously. He finished eating the fruit and said, ‘I’m less hungry now. I’m
grateful to you and to this guava tree.’
He looked up and smiled at the tree courteously.
The woman said, ‘Mr Yellow Man, if your sorrow is gone, may I tell you
the story of the peculiar situation I find myself in? It’ll take only a few
minutes.’
Spider was worried. It’s a long story then. A normal story shouldn’t take
more than a minute and a few seconds. Oh, what shall I do? Shall I start
running, saying that I’ve had a telepathic message that Pillai’s body has been
found?
But the sweetness of the guava made him change his mind. By the time she
finishes, I can have a few more.
He also decided to do one more reality check on breakfast before the story
started. He asked casually, ‘Madam, incidentally, what’s for your breakfast
today?’
‘Bread, butter and jam, Mr Yellow Man,’ the woman said.
Spider was shattered. Hell and damnation! Bread, butter and jam? Oh,
how can a beautiful woman like her have something so bizarre for breakfast?
Without betraying his inner turmoil and resigning himself to fate, he said,
‘Madam, that’s wonderful! As for your story, I think it will be excellent if you
can start at the beginning, get to the middle, and then come to the end. Then
we will have a complete picture. In between, maybe I’ll have a guava or two.’
As an afterthought he added, ‘By the bye, do you keep whole wheat
bread? It goes very well with butter and jam, and coffee.’
‘I always use whole wheat bread!’ she exclaimed.
This encouraged him to go one step further. ‘Perhaps you have eggs?’
‘Of course!’ she exclaimed.
Spider was sad beyond words. Oh! What are you waiting for then? Can’t
you see a guava is just a starter!
Subjugating his disappointment, he asked courteously, ‘Would you like to
start the story?’
He leaned on the guava tree to make himself comfortable.
The woman said, ‘Yes, Mr Yellow Man. Of course, you must have forgotten
my name. I was Mary Mathews then. Now I am Mary Ignatius.’
She continued, ‘I gave up my job when I got married. My husband’s work
took us to many places before we got here. He is a scientist specializing in the
diseases of the coconut tree.’
‘I would love to meet him,’ Spider said. ‘I have tremendous problems with
some saplings I planted recently.’
‘Oh, Mr Yellow Man, I’m sorry, but he may not be the right person for
you. He is a theorist. He doesn’t even look at coconut trees. He only visualizes
them. Also, he is now my ex-husband—I shall clarify that later.’
Mary continued, ‘We bought this house and moved here a couple of years
back, after my husband—we divorced only recently—got a special grant to
study the psychotic aspect of coconut-tree diseases. The coconut trees in this
area showed a marked tendency for such disorders and so he chose this place.’
‘Mr Yellow Man,’ Mary continued, ‘I urgently need sane, wise counsel.’
Spider thanked her and said that he fully endorsed sanity and wisdom.
‘The fact of the matter,’ Mary continued, ‘is that from the day of our
wedding, over twenty-five years ago, my ex-husband Ignatius was evasive on the
matter of making love. As you can see, Mr Yellow Man, I’m a nice woman and I
like to make love, if possible everyday.’
Spider moved himself partially behind the guava tree and gripped it with
both hands.
 33
THE HONEY TRAP

The shade beneath the guava tree had expanded as the sun moved up the sky.
Spider said in a trembling voice, ‘I completely agree that sex is a daily
necessity, like feeding the cat or watering the plants.’
Mary said, ‘Thank you, Mr Yellow Man! On the first night of our marriage,
my ex-husband admitted to me a fact about himself. He said that from his
fifteenth year he had been sleeping with his aunt—that is to say, his mother’s
youngest sister, who was only a few years older than him. He found it hard to
get over the habit, even though he was now married. I, however, persuaded him
to make love to me in a condensed format and he did so with his eyes closed
and, as he told me, imagining that I was his aunt.’
Spider thought this statement was rather unsubstantiated and several
points needed verification. Firstly, he was doubtful if, in order to imagine you
are making love to your aunt, it is necessary to close your eyes. The man could
have been bluffing the poor woman and just catching up on his sleep.
Assuming his claim was true, three questions came up:
1. Did he enter the bedroom with his eyes closed? Or did he close
them after getting into bed?
2. At what point did he reopen them?
3. During the event, who did Mary think she was?

Spider didn’t raise these queries, though the answers could have helped to
make a scientific study of the problem. He didn’t want to divert Mary’s
narrative and make it lengthier.
Mary continued, ‘Thus we had a daughter and a son. The daughter is
married and lives in the Solomon Islands where she and her husband run a
farm growing aphrodisiacs that also uplift the higher soul. My son, having
studied psycho-taxidermy in Washington DC, runs an international nursery for
girl suicide bombers in a secret location.’
Spider felt the pangs of hunger rising and thought it was time to
reintroduce the breakfast agenda gently. He said, ‘Please tell me, are your
children still fond of upma, dosa, idli, etc. for breakfast?’
Mary said, ‘They never were. They liked only cereals and fruit juices.’
Spider smiled bitterly to himself.
She continued, ‘The truth is, I’ve come to the conclusion that I mustn’t
waste any more time leading the life I’m leading. My children are settled. My
ex-husband has gained considerable credit for his path-breaking scientific
findings. I believe I can strike out on my own.’
‘Great,’ Spider said. ‘Is it possible to share some of these findings?’
Mary said, ‘For example, my ex-husband has identified traces of scientists’
souls in coir doormats and hangmen’s ropes. He says the doormat phenomenon
points to the subservient tendencies of science towards capitalistic greed while
soul-traces in the hangmen’s ropes indicate the unfulfilled desire of scientists to
commit murder, often of the boss-scientist.’
‘Science can be so amazing!’ Spider said, impressed by this startling array
of findings. He thought sadly of how Pillai would have loved to comment on the
hangman’s rope theory.
Just then, someone called out to Mary.
She told Spider, ‘Mr Yellow Man, that’s my ex-husband. He wants his
toast and tea. Please give me two minutes to serve him breakfast. Please don’t
go away, I beg you.’
Spider agreed. He felt certain that it would be his turn for breakfast next.
Standing in the shade of the guava tree, he looked around with a watchful
eye. Everything appeared normal. There were no signs of any threatening
phenomena. He rested his back against the tree and relaxed. Oh, it feels
heavenly to discuss science when the morning is still fresh, one is hungry, and
breakfast is on the way! He closed his eyes with a sense of peace.
Then he heard a voice saying, ‘Sir, I do not agree with the lady’s ex-
husband on several counts. First of all, the hangman’s rope. If it had scientists’
souls in it, given the nature of the scientific approach, it would not tighten so
fast and hard around the neck. It would only make graded experiments in
tightening, in pace with promotion to the next grade.’
Spider jumped away from the guava tree with a loud cry of terror and
stared about. He was hearing Pillai’s voice! But there was nobody in sight.
Shuddering, he closed his eyes tight. He didn’t want to see a ghost. He had
never met one, nor did he want to, because he had a hunch that ghosts were not
only ugly to look at, they also smelt bad. None of the religions he knew
suggested that people washed or dressed in a civilized manner in their post-
death career. He stood paralyzed, gripped by dread, waiting for the deadly blast
of ghost-stink. Going by what little he knew of Pillai, he didn’t expect the ghost
to be violent. But, poor fellow, he won’t be able to help the stink.
‘Sir,’ the voice which had been stopped by Spider’s cry, spoke again, with
a touch of guilt. ‘I apologize for alarming you by speaking out of turn and
breaking your reverie. But, being given to an approach based on facts, I could
not help but comment on the matter.’
So, here it comes! Spider waited for the numbing whiff of afterlife. He shut
his eyes tighter and put two fingers on his nose, ready for any eventuality. Then
he waited grimly.
The voice continued pleadingly, ‘Sir, I request you not to be alarmed. I am
only your humble servant, J.L. Pillai.’
Spider said in a shaking voice, ‘How do I know you are not your ghost?
And what is the guarantee that you will not stink or look ugly if I open my
eyes?’
The voice said, ‘Please trust me, Sir. I request you to look up at the big
east-going branch of the guava tree and its small branch pointed north.’
Help me, Mar Tommy, in this hour of mortal battle, Spider prayed. He
opened his eyes and looked up as directed. He saw a bat hanging from the
indicated branch with a guava fruit in its claw, looking at him in a significant
manner.
It was clear the voice came from the bat. That the bat was holding a guava
was sufficient proof that it was not a ghost. Ghosts have a poor grip on reality.
The bat said, ‘Sir, I beg forgiveness for startling you. I went to sleep on this
tree after dinner last night and woke up hearing the latter part of your
conversation with the lady. I was both surprised and delighted to see you. But I
couldn’t notify you of my presence because of the lady’s presence. I couldn’t
also help overhearing you since I waited to speak to you. Please excuse my
inadvertent actions, Sir.’
Spider was satisfied now that it was Pillai, even though the voice had a
batty squeak. He asked, ‘Is this tree in your logbook?’
‘Of course, Sir,’ Pillai said. ‘Its fruits are very tasty and branches very
homely. That’s the reason I chose to sleep here last night.’
Spider was suddenly struck by another possibility. Its impact nearly made
him lurch. He asked Pillai, ‘Did you then … also … witness anything?’
The bat moved uneasily on the branch and after a short silence, said, ‘Sir.’
Spider muttered: And all this while, I was sorrowing for him!
He asked, ‘What did you see, if I may ask?’
The bat was fidgeting so much, it almost dropped the guava.
‘All right,’ Spider said. ‘Was she singing or dancing?’
‘Sir,’ the bat said, ‘it was a dance in a manner of speaking. The lady was
practising postures from a book.’
This is getting interesting, Spider thought. So she knows yoga.
He asked, ‘Which book? The Patanjali?’
‘Sir,’ the bat said. ‘The Kamasutra.’
Spider stood staring ahead.
The bat manoeuvred itself down to a lower branch and looked at him
anxiously. It asked, ‘Sir, is anything wrong?’
Spider said, ‘Yes. Of course. I hope she was wearing her yoga suit while
posturing.’
The bat seemed worried. It said, ‘Sir, no. She was not. She wasn’t wearing
anything.’
Spider was silent for some time. Then he said, ‘Too bad. It’s against the
rules to practise the Kamasutra alone and in the nude. No wonder she has so
many troubles in her married life.’
He couldn’t recall the name of the rule book, though.
Pillai said marvelling, ‘Sir, the range of crucial information you command
is astounding!’
Spider said humbly, ‘I try my best.’
Now he told Pillai warmly, ‘Mr Pillai, I was under the impression that
you’d been murdered by the enemies of our essay project and was deeply
grieved. I’m so happy to rediscover you. Even as I was mourning for you, the
wonderful sentences you had contributed to the essay kept coming back to me.
We can easily pick up the threads again, can’t we?’
‘It would be my privilege and honour, Sir,’ Pillai said emotionally, ‘to
continue to render my humble assistance to you in the essay project. And the
fact that you grieved for me brings tears to my eyes.’
Spider asked apprehensively, ‘I hope you are, as a deemed bat, permitted
to shed tears?’
 Pillai said, ‘Only on special occasions like this, Sir.’
Spider had a related question. ‘Do you, as a deemed bat, brush your
teeth?’
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘once you are outside the human format, eating and
brushing are the same thing. Food is both the paste and the brush. Sir, the key
advantage of shape-changing is that one can dispense with toothbrush and
toothpaste altogether.’
Spider was electrified. We are transcending brushing! And toothpaste!
Wow!
 34
AGENDA OF THE TEETH

Pillai asked Spider’s permission to say a few more words on the subject of teeth.
‘Sir, I have come to understand that teeth are the source of a monstrous,
unending, moral crisis for humans. My father once said he heard it from my
mother that Jesus considered teeth to be the Devil’s implant in man. Because
man commits much evil to make food for teeth.’
Spider found that interesting. He had always thought the common usage
was ‘food for thought’. Like me, Jesus too seems to have had a facility for
inventing a telling phrase.
Pillai continued, ‘The day man learns to live without teeth, Jesus had said,
he will live happily, because he will be out of the rat race perpetuated by the
agenda of b-i-t-ing, tearing, grinding and chewing.’
Spider could see there was much sense in what Jesus had said. But it
would be difficult to get Rosi to agree to the idea that dosa and coffee could
replace toothbrush and toothpaste, or that pulling out her teeth would lead to
moral bliss!
Pillai said in a hushed voice, ‘Sir, the lady is returning. I shall keep silent.’
Mary returned, breathless and flustered.
‘Mr Yellow Man!’ she said. ‘Would you believe it! While I was making the
toast just now, for the first time in twenty-six years and three months, my ex-
husband expressed a desire to make love to me and I had to discuss it with
him.’
‘What was your reply?’ Spider asked her.
‘I told him it was too late.’
‘You mean too early? It’s only 7.50 a.m.’
‘No. Too late, as you’ll understand when you hear my full story.’
‘Ahem …’ A voice was heard from the treetop.
 Mary looked at Spider in puzzlement. ‘Did you say something?’ she asked.
‘No … no …’ Spider said and looked stealthily up at the branch. I think
Pillai is worried about the length of the full story.
Mary had caught Spider’s look and followed it. She exclaimed, ‘Good
gracious! Isn’t that a bat?’
Spider said, ‘I think it’s a bunch of dry leaves creating the illusion of a
bat.’
‘No, Mr Yellow Man! It’s a bat. Imagine! Eating my guavas in broad
daylight! These creatures are beginning to get so high-handed.’ She raised her
arms and made threatening gestures at the bat, then clapped loudly and
shouted, ‘Shoo! Shoo! Go away! Stupid bird!’
Spider froze. She called Pillai a stupid bird! He is a mammal. What if he
starts an argument?
The bat moved rather reluctantly on to an upper branch and was lost from
view. Spider heaved a sigh of relief.
Mary said, ‘Mr Yellow Man, now to tell you the whole story. As I said, I
took a decision not to continue with my present mode of life anymore. To begin
with, I called up my children and said I was quitting. They offered me positions
in their outfits, like that of an aphrodisiac taster at my daughter’s farm and a
counselor to stressed girl suicide bombers at my son’s nursery.’
Before Spider could check on the pay and perks of these positions, she
continued, ‘Frankly, I found their offers boring. I’m looking for something more
original and conducive to simple lovemaking for the rest of my days.’
‘That’s great!’ said Spider nervously.
Mary continued, ‘Then I spoke to my ex-husband about my decision to
quit. He was very hurt. He said he had least expected such a move from me.
Considering the kind of environmental, existential and spiritual hassle
lovemaking has become, he had sincerely believed that he was saving me a lot of
trouble by sleeping with his aunt. But now that he understood my concern, he
was willing to talk it over with his aunt and prepare a sleeping schedule
agreeable to all.’
Spider said she seemed to have taken the bull by the horns. He made a
mental note of the wonderful phrase he had just invented: Taking the bull by
the horns. Wow!
Mary said, ‘But I was firm. I said I wanted to start on a clean slate.
Therefore, Mr Yellow Man, we agreed upon divorce. As a settlement, I asked for
this house, because I like this guava tree and its fruit. But my ex-husband did
not agree to that. He said he wanted to keep the house because he wanted to
see the guava tree everyday, in my memory.’
A squeak with an overtone of indignation came from the branches. Spider
pretended he hadn’t heard it. He could sense Pillai was upset by the scientist’s
stand.
Mary looked up in irritation and said, ‘I think it’s that thieving bat again.
It hasn’t gone!’ She picked up a small stone and threw it into the branches.
Spider prayed silently. Mar Tommy, please let Pillai not be provoked!
Mary has shooed him, called him a stupid bird and a thieving bat. And pelted a
stone at him! She doesn’t even know he’s on her side and admires her
Kamasutra artistry. Oh, Maya! He sighed wearily.
It was clear as daylight to Spider that the scientist’s argument was full of
holes.
He told her, ‘Your ex-husband’s sentiments seem inflated. He surely
doesn’t need a whole house and a guava tree to treasure your memory. In his
place, I would have managed with your photograph. I have a feeling he’s not
being scientific enough.’
There was a muted but appreciative squeak from the branches which fell
on Spider’s ears only.
Mary admitted she hadn’t seen the matter from this angle. Though it was
too late and the divorce agreement had been signed, she said it was wonderful
to have the view of a great writer on the issue.
Spider thanked her and said that in his own modest way, he had always
tried to cultivate the truth, even when it was not palatable.
She continued, ‘Finally, he agreed to pay me ten million rupees in
settlement, on two conditions. One: I will continue to perform all the household
chores I’ve been doing, even after the divorce is granted and till I move out.
Two: the cash settlement will be 0.5 per cent of the total amount, that is, Rs
50,000. For the rest, he will give me the full copyright for all his scientific
findings. I agreed and signed the papers. Because, Mr Yellow Man, I believe in
science.’
From the branches above came a cry of shock. Spider didn’t dare to look
up.
He said, ‘Mary, I also believe in science. But … I think we need to
empirically assess the success parameters of the convertibility of scientific
discoveries such as in the present case into actual wealth, conduct reality
checks, draw appropriate conclusions and only then sign contracts about them. I
am of the opinion that Rs 50,000 is too small a sum to confront any reality with
these days, especially a divorced one.’
‘Oh! That’s really great advice and I’m thrilled to receive it from a genius
like you!’ exclaimed Mary. ‘I’m going to treasure it and use it in my future
dealings with the scientific community.’
Spider thanked her and denied he was a genius. He was just a hard-
working writer.
‘To continue my story, Mr Yellow Man,’ Mary said, ‘I had already
advertised for a partner in the matrimonial columns of the major newspapers.
The only conditions I put forward were that the partner should have a scientific
outlook, possess an enthusiastic approach to lovemaking and brush his teeth
four times a day.’
He asked her curiously, ‘Which are those four times?’
Mary said, ‘10 p.m, 3 a.m., 10 a.m. and 3 p.m.’
He looked at his watch. It was 8.45 a.m. One hour and 15 minutes to go
for the start!
He had a question. ‘But isn’t 3 a.m. a bit too early?’
‘Yes, in a manner of speaking,’ she said. ‘But it depends on too early for
what. I’m sure you know, Mr Yellow Man, that 3 a.m. is the Brahma Muhurta
—the holy hour of Brahma—which is the best time for elevated love.’
‘True, true,’ Spider agreed. Only if sleepiness allows us to be elevated, he
told himself.
Both were silent for a while, sunk in thought.
Mary continued, ‘I received hundreds of responses to my advertisement.
To my pleasant surprise, several were from journalists with the very newspapers
I’d advertised in. As a matter of fact, Mr Yellow Man, I believe in journalism as
a science of our times and I was honoured by the attention these journalists
gave me.
‘They had several queries. Some asked: Would the virtual reality mode be
acceptable in the lovemaking module? Some wanted details of the remittances
made by each of my children and whether these would continue after a partner
joined me. What were the overtime rates with regard to lovemaking activities?
All but one raised the question: Is it possible to redefine “partner” as stringer?
One wished to know if he could be designated as an embedded stringer and if
so, what would be the special perks.’
‘He must have been in Iraq and is now feeling nostalgic,’ Spider mused.
‘Hardly,’ said Mary. ‘When I quizzed him, I found that he thought Iraq
was a brand of baby food.’
She continued, ‘It was a pleasant surprise to discover amongst the
respondents my ex-husband himself, writing to the postbox number given in
my advertisement. Just now, at breakfast, I returned his letter to him,
expressing my inability to consider the offer. He seemed surprised that I was
the advertiser. He said he had responded because he wanted to take up new and
bold challenges beyond the realm of science. But, I asked, why did he want to
know if it would be all right if lovemaking was executed by a user-friendly
vibrator which was as loving and God-fearing as he was, with the name Ignatius
inscribed on it? He explained to me that his aunt had suggested the vibrator as
a step in technology upgradation in case he married again. Giving the vibrator a
name, she thought, would improve its self-esteem and boost work ethics. She
was a supporter of technological interventions in traditionally disempowered
areas. It was at this point that he offered to make love to me via Ignatius the
vibrator as a parting gift.
‘Anyhow, Mr Yellow Man,’ Mary said, ‘the crux of the matter is that our
divorce is through and I have fifteen days to vacate this house. I have not found
a partner and, if the responses I got for my advertisement are any indication, I
may not find one soon. My ex-husband has kept ready a cheque for Rs 50,000.
He has also indexed and handed over to me a set of files containing his
scientific discoveries. He too had advertised for a partner and has found one.
She has been sent to his aunt for familiarization and induction. So, Mr Yellow
Man, to go back to where we started, I’d be immensely grateful if you would
comment on my situation and suggest what I should do next. I know you’ll
have an answer. You are so wise!’
Spider was silent for a while, looking thoughtfully into the distance. Then
he told Mary, ‘I’m honoured that you’ve asked me this very important
question that affects your life deeply. As a humble student of life and from the
details you’ve provided, it appears to me that you’ve reached a major tuning
point in your life.’
A worried-sounding squeak came from the guava branches and Mary
looked up with an expression of despair.
Spider wondered what was troubling Pillai. I have only given the
introduction and am yet to get into hard theory. There’s nothing to worry
about. Or is he having hiccups from eating fruit while hanging upside down?
 35
THE SPELLING SYNDROME

Spider continued his advice to Mary. ‘Some experts might describe your life
situation as a milestone or a watershed. But I do not wish to, because both refer
to a certain kind of stop. You’re actually at a point of dynamic departure.
There’s no tuning back.’
Spider heard another urgent cry from the tree. He thought grimly: Pillai’s
going to get it from the lady!
Then came a whisper, ‘Sir … turning! … turning! … it’s T-U-R-N-I-N-
G!’
Spider was aghast. Was this the time to indulge in W.B. Yeats? When this
good lady is facing imminent tragedy? Tch tch! Pillai needs to urgently take
charge of his unbridled literary excursions.
Mary asked with a puzzled expression, ‘Mr Yellow Man, forgive my
asking, but is the tuning point you’re referring to, the same as a turning point?’
Spider was struck speechless at her plight. Oh, Mar Tommy! On top of all
her troubles, she has a spelling syndrome too. This is known to happen to
people in a divorce. Spelling is the first casualty. She doesn’t want to face up to
reality and is using spelling as a cover-up. She’s in denial! I shall be patient with
her, poor thing.
Spider told her in a calm and soothing voice, ‘Mary, of course we are
talking about a turning point. If you have a problem with that, I’ll put it
differently. What you’re undergoing is a paradigm shift—from having the house
and the guava tree to not having them, and from not having sex to probably
having it. Whatever it is, it cries out for monetary empowerment.’
Mary listened to him attentively.
Spider stole a glance at the guava branches. I hope Pillai can see how well I
grapple with theory!
 He continued, ‘Therefore, in my opinion, the most urgent thing for you to
do is to ask for and obtain from your ex-husband, in hard cash, not a penny less
than the ten million rupees he has agreed upon. To put it ideologically, it will
obliterate the class difference that will be created between him and you if you
have only Rs 50,000, and what’s more, close the monetary gap that I foresee
yawning in your immediate future. This will make your paradigm shift vibrant
and self-sustaining, irrespective of the value of the scientific findings you hold a
copyright to. Certainly, let’s give science the benefit of the doubt.’
Spider looked up at the branches with an expression of secret delight. I bet
Pillai didn’t know that I know about monetary gaps. You don’t need to be in
the World Bank to arrive at the plain truth about money.
Mary said sadly, ‘Oh, Mr Yellow Man! How I wish I’d met you a few days
back. The instruments of separation, including the financial conditions, have
been signed. All I have to do now is pack and leave in fifteen days, putting my
trust in science. I am especially worried because having been married so long, I
find myself a little out of touch with many aspects of reality. Hence, my humble
request to you to enlighten me.’
Spider was moved by her words. Providing enlightenment was not easy,
but one could always try.
He said, ‘Thank you. You are, as I said, at a turning point in your life …’
Mary interrupted him with a worried look. ‘Mr Yellow Man, is that the
same as a tuning point?’
Spider told himself, I must be very, very considerate with her. She is in a
major crisis and it’s my duty to show complete understanding.
He said, ‘Mary, Maya—the Great Illusionist—often uses spelling to create
in us the dark matter of unknowing, especially when we are divorced. But we
must fight back, ideally using a standard hard-bound dictionary.’
He continued, ‘For Maya, let me warn you, is a tough customer. You’ve
got to be ruthless with it. Otherwise it could send you on a spin to doom, from
spelling to grammar and—God forbid—from divorce to remarriage.’
Suddenly Spider realized the import of his words. Oh, Mar Tommy! What
shall I do? She’s actually looking for remarriage! Oh, oh, truth will be the end of
me!
He made a quick course-change and said, ‘I … I mean, the other way
round … from remarriage to divorce.’
‘I appreciate that, Mr Spiderman,’ Mary said. She became silent.
Spider was shattered. Spiderman! So Maya has got her by the neck! She’s
lost! But I shall try my best.
He said determinedly, ‘Mary, as I was saying, this turning point, or
paradigm shift, has imposed the following new paradigms on you:
1. You will not live in this house or eat the fruit of this guava tree
any more.
2. However, you will be free to seek freedom—but without
monetary empowerment.
3. And you are expelled from the old paradigm.’

Mary said, ‘Oh, thank you so much, I think my eyes are opened!’
Spider could not but cast a look of joy towards the guava branches. He
knew Pillai would be thrilled by the victory of theory over Maya.
 36
THE KALASHNIKOV

Being all too familiar with the obstinate nature of Maya and the way it grabs
you, Spider doggedly pursued his theoretical presentation to Mary. He said,
‘Mary, I shall make it clearer. Are you familiar with a certain hard-bound book
called the Bible?’
‘Of course,’ Mary exclaimed. ‘I’ve read all the sexy portions in it for self-
improvement.’
‘That’s very good,’ Spider said. ‘Then you must be aware of the
controversial incidents that took place at a location called the Garden of Eden
or Paradise, in the Beginning?’
Mary said of course she was. That was the curtain-raiser.
Spider said, ‘Let me then draw your attention to a parallel here. As in the
present case, sex and fruit were present at the events in Eden, as also expulsion.
Like it is here, sex was in shortage and fruits were abundant. The twist is that
your ex-husband had private access to a Forbidden Fruit, i.e., his aunt, and you
had none. And nobody expelled you, you chose self-expulsion.’
He continued, ‘The crisis now is that you’ve chosen to expel yourself from
the old paradigm without concretizing effective plans for an afterlife.
‘Your exit value has been fixed at Rs 50,000, a sum that carries little or no
clout in these hard times. And you have a long way to go. Under the
circumstances, not only are your chances of obtaining a new sex-paradigm
jeopardized, but also that of enjoying a regular supply of quality guava. If you
insist on quality, both are on the expensive side, to the best of my knowledge.’
Spider took a deep breath and looked up guardedly. I hope Pillai is
listening and not daydreaming. To be persuasive and ruthlessly logical at the
same time is not exactly child’s play.
He continued, ‘Mary, my long and strenuous engagement with the
capitalist economy tells me that money is the most vital key to the mystery of
life, including afterlife. I’m afraid you do not possess enough of it now as you
stand at the tuning point of your life. And that’s the crux of the matter.’
Mary looked surprised and was about to ask a question, but stopped.
Spider stood absorbed in thought for a while before he continued. ‘Believe
me, there’s nothing like a large income or bank balance to enhance the joys of
sex and, at the same time, ward off the looming threat from’—he couldn’t help
stealing a glance at the guava branches again—‘WMDs.’
Ha! Let’s see how she handles that. Acronyms are a powerful antidote for
spelling-related schizophrenia. By the time she figures out WMD, she’ll be
cured of all tuning and turning problems!
Mary interrupted in a startled voice, ‘But … but Mr Yellow Man, do you
really think a large income or bank balance can fight Weapons of Mass
Destruction? Oh, that’s wonderful!’
Spider was scandalized. How impulsively she shows off her General
Knowledge! I never expected this from a responsible woman in a crisis. And
acronyms have a security aspect to them. You can’t just expand them casually,
at any odd moment. Is she unpatriotic by any chance?
Hiding his disappointment, he told her, ‘Mary, that’s precisely what I’m
trying to formulate. My humble suggestion is that you must, as I earlier
mentioned, prevail upon your ex-husband to settle on you the full amount of
ten million rupees in cash, which, I feel, should be just enough to see you
through to an independent and reliable sex life, supported by quality guavas
and a nuclear shelter.
‘Let me admit to you privately that I’m a Marxist in my own humble way
—I can’t reveal more than that. But I unhesitatingly extend my full support to
you to take possession of the capital of ten million rupees from your ex-
husband, even though it will make you a capitalist and me, an accomplice to
capitalism. Marxism, thank God, is a flexible science—at least, ever since
comrade Lenin chose to live in the Moscow Kremlin.’
He glanced happily at the guava branches. Oh, thank you, Mr Pillai! Now I
know why you love theory. It is so fulfilling!
A gnawed but ripe and juicy guava fell from the tree. Mary hardly noticed
it and stood gazing into the distance. Spider’s mouth watered. He wanted badly
to pick it up and bite into it. But he was worried that if he did so, Mary might
perceive him as an accomplice of the bat. Oh, why is Pillai so irresponsible? He’s
endangering my social standing and credibility by recklessly dropping guavas!
 At this moment, Mary broke out of her reverie and said, ‘Mr Yellow Man,
now I fully understand the gravity of the tuning point I’m at.’
Spider couldn’t bear the shock. He stopped breathing for a moment.
Again! Maya is back!
‘But,’ she continued, ‘Mr Yellow Man, I don’t think my ex-husband will
give me a paisa more. He explained to me how the ready cash he has offered is
just a token of the billions of rupees the rights to his discoveries are going to
fetch me. He said that to give any more would amount to forcing charity on me.
That’s the last thing he wants to do at this point in our relationship because
inappropriate charity, he feels, is probably an economic offence.’
Spider was taken aback by this information. Mar Tommy, I didn’t know
that! He made a mental note to talk to his tax man.
He was now ready to hammer home the central theory.
He said, ‘I understand it’s a delicate situation. But it is our duty to
endeavour to uphold Dharma—Right Action. We must make your ex-husband
pay the full amount of ten million rupees in cash before you depart—even if he
doesn’t want to.’
Mary looked worried. ‘But, Mr Yellow Man, how?’
‘We will have to force him if necessary. In other words, we shall initiate a
Dharma Yudha aka Righteous War.’
Mary asked, ‘You mean, use guns?’
Spider was disappointed. How she’s jumping the gun! She doesn’t know
that pure theory needs nurturing, patience, non-violence, and even non-action.
‘I’ve already obtained a Kalashnikov,’ she said, ‘from my son in
Washington DC, for protection when I am de-married.’
 37
THE SECURITY MUDRA

Spider didn’t want to encourage Mary to put her Kalashnikov to use in order to
resolve the problem of her divorce. He suddenly recalled the words of a guru,
formerly a military hero who had machine-gunned a village school, suspecting
the children of aiding starving peasants who had turned rebels. After
retirement, he had taken to a spiritual life and become a revered master. Rosi
had visited him to find out if guns behaved in a special manner when they
killed children.
He had told Rosi that he remembered one interesting detail from his
shooting of schoolchildren that might have had a behavioural connection: the
machine gun seemed to pause for a fraction of a second in the short interval
between the children coming out screaming from the burning school and his
picking them off in bunches. But it could also have been a mechanical problem,
not a behavioural one, he said. He was grateful to God that he was now an
international speaker and a counselor, advising schoolchildren in lands where
they were often shot, on how to face death calmly, silently, without making a
hue and cry.
He added, ‘Let me tell you, the real problem with guns is that they are a
major cause of global warming, with all the heat and smoke they release. In fact,
nations where guns are a part of everyday life have taken the warming issue so
seriously that they are planning to ban shooting schoolchildren except, of
course, with licensed guns.’
Spider therefore told Mary, ‘I don’t think the Kalashnikov is called for in
the present case. We shall not contribute to global warming by firing more
shots. We should look for revolutionary solutions that are moderately violent
but fully eco-friendly.’
Suddenly a startling change came over him. His face became cold and
expressionless. Mary watched him in alarm. His voice took on the quality of a
deep growl as he told her, ‘I would like to confront you with what I know to be
an irrevocable truth. When an unfair solution has been forced upon the
proletariat, even if it has been done under the influence of ignorance, the
proletariat discovers the will to rectify the error by forcing the wrong-doer to
re-negotiate the solution.’
Now his voice rose and became a harsh snarl. ‘Mary, I put it to you that
you are the proletariat! That you must set right the erroneous solution forced
upon you. You cannot evade your historical responsibility. Revolution begins
when the proletariat recognizes that she or he is that.’
Mary appeared mesmerized.
‘Good God, Mr Yellow Man!’ she exclaimed. ‘You really believe I’m a
member of the proletariat? I never knew it, all these years!’ She stood
overwhelmed, as if in a dream.
Spider returned to his usual self and said with formal dignity, ‘Madam,
Marxism is a science that delivers unexpected enlightenment and charges no
fees—at least to begin with.’
‘I feel so much better already. Thank you so much,’ Mary said. Her eyes
smouldered with a new sense of power.
‘I’m a mere messenger,’ Spider said humbly.
Mary said in a contemplative voice, ‘Mr Yellow Man, I’m now ready to
fulfill my destiny as a member of the proletariat and confront the threat of the
monetary gap you’ve pointed out. Now that we are not favouring guns as a
solution, can you please help me identify the best course of action to force my
ex-husband to re-negotiate my exit value, as well as the economics of my
rehabilitation from married life?’
Spider heard a loud squeak from the guava branches. Mary was lost in
thought and didn’t seem to have heard it. Spider was very embarrassed. Oh,
what could it be now? Then it struck him that perhaps Pillai was warning him
to restrict himself to theory and leave the choice of action to the proletariat.
Well, there’s something in that. We mustn’t spoon-feed the proletariat.
Then he saw the real reason. A man was stepping out of the house and
heading for the gate.
Mary saw the man and said, ‘Oh! Here’s my ex-husband, on his way to
the office. Shall I introduce you to him? Only, please don’t mind that he doesn’t
much care for fiction.’
Spider just managed to configure the fingers of both hands into a high-
security mudra. Should I start jogging back home now? It’s getting very late. But
what if the scientist thinks I’m running away? That’s not good for writers!
As he watched the approaching figure, Spider wondered: If the man
mounts an attack, can I bank on Mary to come to my aid? When a scientist
attacks, the response needs to be equally scientific. But where’s the time to
refresh one’s biology or physics? Maybe Pillai will join the fight. But do bats
know how to subdue a scientist? He turned to face the man, prepared for the
worst.
He was an important-looking man in his fifties, with an athletic body,
dressed in expensive, branded men’s wear and carrying a gleaming briefcase.
His hair was smartly combed back above classy sunglasses. Spider savoured the
delicious whiff of high-end perfume that floated from him.
The sunglasses worried Spider. He had the feeling that behind the glasses
were not eyes but electronic beams. Then the scientist took off his glasses and
Spider was relieved to see he had normal eyes and that they were slightly
crossed, giving him a relaxed, benevolent look. In fact, he looked amiable.
The scientist smiled at both of them affably, nodded at Spider and
extended his hand saying, ‘Hello, my name is Ignatius. I’m a scientist. Are you a
new applicant for my ex-wife, Sir?’
Spider felt relaxed enough to unlock his fingers from the security mudra
and shake hands. He said, ‘Very pleased to meet you. I’m not an applicant. I
was on my morning walk and could not help but be impressed by your guava
tree. I stopped to admire it and your ex-wife was kind enough to give me a
guava to eat. It was delicious.’
The man asked Spider, ‘May I know your good name, Sir?’
Spider said, ‘I’m better known as Lord Spider. Your wife knows me best as
Yellow Man.’
‘Both are good names,’ the scientist said. ‘What do you do, Sir? Are you a
guava researcher?’
Mary intervened, ‘He’s a famous writer. He writes under different names.’
‘Oh, what do you write about?’
Spider thought to himself: I mustn’t annoy him by saying I write fiction.
He said courteously, ‘I write about Sex, Compassion and Marxism.’
‘Under different heads or together?’
‘Differently and together.’
‘But the discipline is Marxism?’
‘Yes,’ Spider said in a low key, keeping all options open.
‘You’re a Marxist!’ exclaimed Ignatius.
He took a couple of steps towards Spider, staring at him.
 38
LEONID BREZHNEV

Spider found himself trembling as Ignatius stepped towards him. So, here comes
the end! Oh, why did I become a congenital truth-speaker? How’s he going to
do it? Will the party commemorate me as a martyr? Will it help if I get behind
Mary?
He decided to make his last words forceful. ‘Yes, in my own humble way, I
seem to be a Marxist. I’m a friend of the Local Committee, for whom I’m doing
an important project on compassion.’
‘And you’re fully funded?’ asked the scientist.
‘Yes,’ he said. He didn’t add, with my own funds. What’s the use, when
the end is here?
The scientist stopped staring and beamed. ‘Comrade!’ he burst out. He
put down the briefcase, caught hold of Spider’s hand, shook it and said,
‘Comrade Spiderman! I’m honoured!’ He embraced Spider.
Spider hid his disappointment. Spiderman! How can a scientist be so
irresponsible with categories?
He replied with equanimity, ‘I’m happy too, to meet a scientist comrade.’
Spider relaxed. Now that the introductions are over, maybe it’s only polite
to make small talk.
He asked, ‘Are you a self-made Marxist or man-made?’
The scientist looked a little puzzled but replied, ‘Oh, I think I’m a
scientifically constituted Marxist. I’m also the founder-president of the Union
of Coconut Researchers for Revolution.’
An appreciative squeak came from the branches. Spider smiled to himself.
Union camaraderie! How weak Pillai is!
‘I’m home-made,’ Spider said.
‘So wonderful!’ the scientist said, looking a little more uncertain.
 Spider decided to extend the small talk to get a better measure of the man.
He said, ‘Your wife was just telling me that she has discovered she’s a member
of the proletariat. It’s a small world, isn’t it?’
The scientist said, ‘Oh, she said so, did she?’ He sounded low. He then put
on his sunglasses.
Spider added, ‘Comrade, in fact, I was delighted to hear her talking about
class war and the rights of those divorced from resources.’
Ha! That should make him really proud of her and provide a poignant
ideological footnote to the divorce.
The scientist appeared thoughtful. He suddenly took Spider by the hand
and led him away almost forcefully, saying, ‘Comrade, one minute, please.’
When they were at some distance from Mary, the scientist stopped and let
go of Spider’s hand. He began to speak in a confidential voice. ‘Comrade, I’m
sharing this secret with you in the spirit of our Revolutionary Goal. The fact is
that a golden opportunity is knocking at your door.’
Spider thanked him.
He continued in a whispering tone, ‘Comrade, let me tell you
confidentially that I am very fond of my ex-wife, whom you’ve met. She’s a
wonderful food-maker and love-maker. But she has decided to branch out on
her own in search of greater creativity. I appreciate that, as a creative person
myself.’
Spider shivered. If Rosi decides to branch out on her own, what’ll be my
line? What if she tells me tomorrow that she has found greater creativity
elsewhere? He thought his legs were turning to water.
‘The secret I wish to tell you is this: In case you have an opening for a
woman, especially in the capacity of a wife, I would strongly recommend
recruiting my ex-wife. Very confidentially again, let me tell you that I’ve gifted
to her all my scientific discoveries, which are going to rake in billions when the
Revolution arrives. No one knows about it yet. But the amazing fact is that
when you take over my ex-wife, these billion-rupee discoveries come free. I’m
parting with this invaluable information because we are comrades. I would
advise you to utilize this fabulous double offer before others step in. My only
demand is, since I’m giving you a billion-rupee tip—leave alone the full
possession of my talented ex-wife—pay me a simple consideration upfront. My
negotiable suggestion is a sum not less than one million rupees. In return, I
guarantee you a life enriched by sex, wealth and science. Comrade, grab this
golden chance!’
 He added after a pause, ‘Of course, the matter must remain top secret.
You must be especially careful with my ex-wife as she develops symptoms of
manic violence when faced with complex economic data such as this. Perhaps I
should warn you that she has a gun. Nevertheless, you will not be disappointed
at the end of the day, let me assure you.’
Spider told the scientist, ‘Comrade, thank you for this remarkable offer. It
will remain a closely guarded secret.’
The man took hold of Spider’s hand again and whispered with an ardent
look, ‘I, therefore, strongly urge that you give her your biodata right now. I’ll
also put in a word later. We’ll continue our negotiations one-to-one. Comrade, I
say, grab this revolutionary moment with both hands!’
Spider said, ‘Comrade, the offer you’ve made is irresistible. Unfortunately,
at present I’ve no opening for a wife. But I know someone who could be
interested and is a virgin and shall get back to you on that.’
The scientist was disappointed. He said, ‘Comrade, think again. You look
exactly like the kind of man who would fit the bill for my wife. No chains, no
gains!’
Spider trembled.
The scientist looked at his watch and said, ‘Oh, I’m late for a conference!
So, for now, a red salute to you. What’s your good name again, please?’
Spider finally lost patience. I think it’s time to be merciless. I’m going to
hit him below the belt.
He replied nonchalantly, ‘Comrade, my name is Leonid Brezhnev.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the scientist. ‘Thank you so much, Comrade Brezhnev. By
the bye, please remember that the offer we discussed will only be valid for
fifteen days from today.’
He hurried off towards the taxi that was waiting for him.
Spider walked up to Mary in a thoughtful mood.
Mary asked, ‘Oh, Mr Yellow Man, what do you think of my ex-husband?’
He said, ‘He is a strong comrade. He understands capitalism well, as also
speculative investment. I did not have enough time to discuss science with him.’
Mary looked at Spider reverentially and said, ‘Mr Yellow Man, I request
you again, please advise me on how to re-negotiate my exit value, close the
monetary gap that faces me, and fulfill my destiny as a proletariat.’
An urgent squeak issued from the branches.
Mary looked up and said angrily, ‘Shoo! That terrible creature hasn’t gone
yet!’
 Spider prayed silently, oh, Mar Tommy, please bless Pillai so he can
withstand the provocation. She has a gun!
As he stood searching for an answer, the meaning of Pillai’s warning note
struck him: Revolutionary answers are not provided so readily. They need
minute ideological calibration.
He said, ‘Mary, that’s a profound request. I would like to consult my
ideological handbook before answering your query. I also wish to discuss it with
a friend who is well-versed in paradigm shifts and related phenomena.’
Mary went up to Spider and, taking both his hands in hers, said
emotionally, ‘Oh, Mr Yellow Man, I am so lucky to have caught your eye today!
Please consult your handbook and your knowledgeable friend and help me. I’m
in your hands.’
Spider stood bewitched. He could actually feel his hands getting
hypnotized. First it was the thumb of the right hand. Then the left hand’s
middle finger, the right hand’s little finger, and suddenly both hands had been
transported. They had been swallowed by a magnetic softness that was all-
knowing. He found he couldn’t remove his hands from her hold. Oh, what shall
I do?
Oh, Mar Tommy, please restore my hands to me, he prayed. Rosi is bound
to be very annoyed if I go home without them. Then, miraculously, Mary let go.
He decided that before taking leave, he must reassure Mary of his full
support. He told her, ‘Rosi, everything is exactly as we agreed, as the case may
be.’
Mary looked startled. She exclaimed, ‘Rosi? Mr Yellow Man! I hope you
haven’t forgotten my name. It’s Mary.’
Spider stared at her in shock. Oh, is she a witch by any chance? She has
read my mind! It’s hardly seconds since I thought of Rosi, and she knows the
name! Suddenly he understood. It was the hypnotism. The hands! She was
invading my mind through her hands. Oh, I must escape. Now!
As he stumbled out of the gate, he just managed to say, ‘Of course! Of
course I know your name is Rosi! I don’t easily forget names!’
Mary called after Spider, ‘Mr Yellow Man! But you haven’t had breakfast!
I can get it ready in a moment.’
Spider was so intent on getting away that he didn’t hear her.
A bat flew out of the guava tree.
Now he heard Mary shouting, ‘Shoo! Shoo! Horrible creature! Son of
Dracula! Next time, I’ll shoot you!’
 Suddenly a chilling thought struck him. Was she referring to Pillai or him?
Maybe she wants to shoot me because I resisted her attempt to invade my
mind! Maybe she is going to start shooting right away!
He peered back fearfully, then started jogging in a zigzag fashion so he
would be a moving target when the shooting started.
Just then, Brother Dog, who was investigating the murder of a hare in the
bushes, emerged on to the road and came to a sudden halt. He wondered if he
should go after Spider and get him back on a straight line. Then he decided
against it. Chances were that Spider had invented a new religion and this was
how he prayed—enacting the path of a random particle. Reminded of religion,
he lifted his hind leg, prayed, performed a brief ritual against a lamp post, and
sniffed the spot to check if his prayer had been accepted. Satisfied, he returned
to the bushes to check if any other nefarious activity needed his attention.
 39
THE GREAT BEARDED THINKER

It was afternoon. Spider and Pillai were back in the study, rested and refreshed
after the morning’s tiring undertakings. They were back at work.
Pillai said, ‘Sir, my humble suggestion is that if we were to quickly go over
what we have written, it would enable us to recapture the mood of the essay as
we begin work today.’
Spider was thrilled. He had been full of desire to hear those sentences
again. He said, ‘Oh, that’s wonderful! Shall I read it out?’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, it will be the most magnificent moment of my life! I
wouldn’t have dared even to imagine that I would hear my humble words
flowing from your lips!’
For a moment Spider wondered if Pillai was just paying lip service to him.
No, it can’t be, he told himself. Pillai is a chronic truth-speaker, like me. Like
writer, like collaborator!
Pillai stood with his eyes closed, as if in a trance, as Spider read:

‘The time is not far off when robot armies, interstellar ships and AI
units controlling WMDs and slaughterhouse machinery run by EI
will be programmed with Compassion. For, in the precarious days of
the future, Compassion may be the only tool capable of
encompassing the remnants of Reality on its last leg under the
control of Nonchalant Intelligence (NI). Even Love might be dead
then, or insufficiently equipped to engage with a world in relentless
disintegration. In that future age where, at the hub of Existence,
Nonchalant Intelligence predominates as the Total Signifier, applied
gauges such as Freedom, Justice, Democracy, Truth and Love, all may
wither away like the State in the Marxian climax. Because NI will
 supplant them all. However, Compassion may hang on by converting
itself to an ancillary of NI. A semblance of humanity might linger in
the undergrowth of Life.
A key question facing the human race today is: How to be
compassionate without anxiously looking over one’s shoulder? This
behaviour seems to stem from a sense of inadequacy civilizations
developed in the capitalistic phase, and strange as it may seem, it
also seems to be a product of the overwhelming adequacy of wealth
generated by capitalism. Yes! Wealth is the inscrutable force lurking
behind people, making them look back apprehensively when faced
with the choice of Compassion. Alas, it is not in the nature of
capitalism to part with wealth without profit, or dispatch a tender
feeling without a price tag.’

Spider was surprised to see Pillai wiping a tear from his eye. Good
heavens! Is my reading not up to his expectations? Did I miss out something?
He asked, ‘Mr Pillai, is something wrong? You are crying!’
‘Sir,’ Pillai said with trembling lips, ‘I cried out of happiness, hearing my
humble words spoken in your voice.’
‘Thank you,’ Spider said, ‘you’re very kind.’
Pillai bent down, wiped his face with the edge of his dhoti and stood
looking out the window.
Then he asked, ‘Sir, may I place before you a new sentence for your kind
consideration?’
‘By all means!’ Spider said.
Pillai said,

‘The fact is that wealth, like consciousness itself, seems inseparable

from Evolution. If only the great bearded thinker had taken
cognizance of the determining role of wealth and its historical
instrument, Capitalism, while mapping Evolution’s landscape!’

Glee shone on Spider’s face as he wrote down Pillai’s words. When he

came to ‘the great bearded thinker’, he paused and asked, ‘Mr Pillai, shouldn’t
we capitalise “G”, “B” and “T”? Won’t it look nicer and show due respect to a
great man?’
Pillai exclaimed, ‘Sir, absolutely! Your finesse with the subtleties of style is
astounding! May I also request you to capitalize “E” in Evolution?’
Spider said that he believed in working earnestly to earn his bread.
Suddenly a worrisome doubt occurred to him. He said, ‘Mr Pillai, I
wonder if the comrades might misread the expression “Great Bearded Thinker”.
They may not be familiar with the theory of Evolution and therefore think, in a
spontaneous manner, that we are referring to Karl Marx, who also was a Great
Bearded Thinker. We mustn’t confuse the comrades, must we?’
Pillai seemed startled. He said, ‘Sir, You’re right.’ He was silent for a few
moments.
Then he said, ‘Sir, I intensely share your concern for the possible
predicament of the comrades vis-à-vis the identity of the Great Bearded
Thinker. But I also know, Sir, that you, as a great writer, are familiar more than
anyone else with the mystery of a metaphor. We can certainly help the
comrades with a footnote regarding the personage we are referring to. But the
value enhancement provided by the metaphor will be lost. Also, Sir, it is
possible that the mystery of the metaphor might lead the comrades to an
intellectual quest—a journey of discovery into Evolutionary theory. But you are
the final judge, Sir.’
Spider got up and hugged Pillai.
Pillai, in turn, touched his feet.
Oh, Spider told himself, my collaborator is so good. I’m almost tempted to
show him off to Rosi!
Pillai moved to the next part of the essay:

‘Let us agree then that it will hardly surprise a dispassionate

onlooker that Evolution is a process sans Compassion. We need not
search far for the reasons. Economics is at the heart of Biology—
Winner Takes All. Biology does not root for genes that have no purse
strings.’

Spider savoured each word as if it were a delicacy.

Pillai requested him to capitalize ‘W’, ‘T’ and ‘A’ in ‘Winner Takes All’.
Spider was so overjoyed by this casual Hollywood touch that he wondered
if he should hug Pillai once again. But he decided not to. One hug a day was the
optimum.
Pillai said, ‘Sir, with your permission, we may now proceed in the
following direction:
 In other words, the most challenging truth human civilization must
contend with is that wealth is the prime mover of the modern
evolutionary race. A time may come when man is fabricated in the
image of money and God occupies the seat of the Governor of the
Reserve Bank—not vice versa.’

He paused and asked if Spider wished to capitalize the ‘G’ in God.

Spider said since the Governor of the Reserve Bank was generally
capitalized, they shouldn’t hesitate about God.
He pointed out that the ‘vice versa’ at the end was perfect. ‘But,’ he
asked, ‘would it be better, for the benefit of the comrades, to explain what ‘vice
versa’ means: namely, today God is fabricated in the image of money and man
occupies the seat of the Governor of the Reserve Bank?’
Pillai thanked him profusely for this wonderful suggestion, which
showcased his remarkable, user-friendly vision. But his humble view was that
such an explanation could lead to elongation, which was best avoided. Also, it
was possible, in his humble view, that the comrades were evolving to higher
levels and might be able to put two and two together.
Spider agreed with this positive view.
He added wonderingly, ‘I seem to be coming to grips with non-fiction
faster than I expected!’
Pillai was thrilled. He said that whether Sir knew it or not, in the garden
of Mary Ignatius, Sir had reached great heights of non-fiction while presenting
the proletarian theory to Madam.
Spider said modestly that he found himself most talented when it was
least expected.
Pillai made hurried notes in his dairy.
Then he proposed the next sentence of the essay:

‘It appears certain that, for Compassion to become sustainable now

or in the future, we may require an armed struggle to demolish the
monetary economy—and cancel all bank balances, burn all currency
and melt all coins. In that revolutionary scenario, globalization will
be all about Compassion and even Pure Love—hopefully.’

Spider was perturbed. He sensed that the ideological line proposed by

Pillai was going against certain family interests. Pillai was calling for an armed
revolution to put an end to bank balances and to demolish the monetary
economy. What he did not know was that Rosi’s uncle, whose name was
Brother Luni Monigraber, was the founder of a celebrated new religion called
the Depositors’ Holy Bank of the Lord that directly placed God, man and
money in a tight embrace.
Brother Monigraber was the first Prophet to proclaim the bank as a house
of worship and depositing money as a holy ritual. The name of his gospel was
Heaven Is Where Money Is! It had sold a hundred million copies so far. Every
branch of the Holy Bank, of which there were tens of thousands across the
world, was monitored by Br Luni directly to ensure there was no pilfering of
faith. The theology of the Holy Bank was easily summed up: Share your wealth
with the Lord, who has incredible expenses like rebuilding Iraq, Syria,
Afghanistan, Libya, the United Kingdom and the United States. Deposit, keep
depositing, never stop depositing in the Holy Bank, so you can help the Lord
pay the mega bills—in return for which you will be the privileged owner of a
suite in heaven. Withdrawals were not permitted but loans were available to
those who could afford the designer-made interest rates. Loan collection was
entrusted to M/s Amtvister and Son Pvt. Ltd., a reputed firm of loan-retrievers.
Also, no questions could be asked, nor account statements demanded. For
the Lord is a busy person. You only had to trust in Him.
Spider had once asked Rosi whether Br Luni’s revelations about God and
money held water. She had replied that the wisdom of a revelation lay in what
it did not reveal. She, however, confirmed that Br Luni was so rich that it was
difficult to distinguish between him and God. He himself recognized this. She
had seen him getting up at night and asking his secretary for the latest
inventory of galaxies. He was worried about the recent rise in the number of
supernova events and was looking for a suitable technology to douse them. If
corrective measures were not taken, he said, stars could soon become an
endangered species. He was also planning to invest in harvesting stellar gas as an
alternative to fossil fuel.
Spider therefore asked himself: What will happen to Monigraber’s cult if
Pillai’s call for an armed revolution against money materializes? Oh, can one
neglect family interests while promoting revolution—and compassion?
Just when Spider had decided to make an intervention in this matter,
Pillai put forward the next sentence.
With his eyes meditatively closed, Pillai said:
 ‘It may become necessary, sooner rather than later, to persuade God
to introduce Compassion at the quantum level so that genes are
weaned away from their obsession with wealth.’

This statement was, of course, even more damaging than the one about
armed struggle.
He decided to immediately manoeuvre Pillai on to a money-friendly track
by telling him about the Depositors’ Holy Bank of the Lord.
He asked in a soft and persuasive voice, ‘Mr Pillai, are you sure the
proposal for cancelling bank balances, burning currency, uprooting the
monetary economy, etc., upholds moral theory? By disenfranchising bank
balances, we could be hurting deep-rooted sentiments about the oneness of
man, money and God. We might be inadvertently forcing millions of bank-
deposit holders to seek spurious spiritualities. And you know how tricky the
times are for the genuinely devout.’
It was Pillai’s turn to look distressed. He said, ‘Sir, forgive me. Perhaps I
introduced armed struggle into the picture prematurely. I shall amend it.’
But that made Spider more alarmed. He didn’t want to let go of armed
struggle either. It had a thrilling touch.
Then something flashed in his head and he found himself speaking as
follows: ‘Mr Pillai, can’t we simply postulate monetary economy and its
appurtenances as a watershed in the history of compassion?’
Pillai stood looking at Spider with disbelieving eyes. He said, ‘Sir, you are
enunciating theory with the ease of a philosopher prince! Oh, it is my
extraordinary privilege to watch a great genius at work at such close quarters!
Sir, the paradigm shift to non-fiction is nothing but a plaything in your hands!’
Spider felt humble. He said simply, ‘Thank you. I think it was just a flash.
It’s just that when I worry, I’m more talented.’
Pillai said with a faraway look that Brother Luni reminded him of a great
brahmachari by the name of Our Mata of the Sunglasses, for whom the universe
itself was the playground.
 40
DEEMED MARRIED

Spider couldn’t control his curiosity about this mysterious personality, Our
Mata of the Sunglasses. He had just opened his mouth to ask Pillai about her
when Pillai queried, ‘Sir, with your permission, may I amend the statement on
monetary economy as follows, restating it in the light of your reservations?

It appears certain that, for Compassion to reign supreme, we would

need to creatively explore its evolutionary relationship with wealth
on the one hand, and on the other, study how the institution of
monetary economy with its capitalistic paraphernalia has become a
watershed in this historical process.’

Spider was filled with such relief that he thumped the table loudly,
making Rosi call out from below, ‘Spider, are you all right? I hope non-fiction is
not making you behave violently.’
Spider cursed himself for being so spontaneous in expressing his
happiness. Philosophers are a mirthless lot!
He called back, ‘Oh, no, I’m fine. I just thumped the table with the
Thesaurus when I found the right word!’
Rosi said, ‘Better use a holy book for such things. They are better bound.’
Spider explained to Pillai, ‘Mr Pillai, as you just heard, my wife, like a true
mentor, keeps an eye on my creative moments and prods me on.’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, you are truly blessed. She is well-versed in the
fundamentals of books.’
After a moment’s silence he said, ‘Sir, with your kind permission, I
propose the next sentence, again suitably altered in the light of your learned
observations:
 ‘A possible armed struggle against Capital may have to redesign and
redefine its revolutionary objectives. In that unprecedented scenario,
globalization will be all about Compassion and even about pure
love.’

Spider thought it fitted to a T. And Pillai had managed to save the armed
struggle.
He wrote the new sentences down and asked, ‘Mr Pillai, didn’t you also
say something about persuading God?’
Pillai looked overwhelmed. He exclaimed, ‘Oh, Sir, you actually remember
those humble words? It was like this:

It may become necessary, sooner than later, to persuade God to

introduce Compassion at the quantum level so that genes can be
weaned away from their concern with wealth.’

Then, as if echoing Spider’s unspoken fears, Pillai said, ‘Sir, I’m afraid this
sentence also conflicts with our revised approach as it calls for weaning genes
away from the wealth sector.’
Spider was once again in a quandary. He did not want to give up the
quantum stuff. It struck an exciting scientific note.
Just then Pillai said, ‘Sir, we could amend the sentence, as follows:

It may become necessary sooner rather than later, therefore, to

persuade God to introduce Compassion at the quantum level so that
genes can learn to make Compassion co-exist with their
unfathomable concern with wealth and work towards a Brave New
World.’

‘And that would be the tuning point!’ Spider shouted, jumping up and
thumping the table again.
‘Sir …’ Pillai asked with a worried look, ‘er … you are perhaps referring
to a turning point?’
‘Of course!’ Spider exclaimed. ‘What else can it be?’ Oh, is spelling Maya
back at work?
Pillai said with an expression of relief, ‘May I request you, Sir, to
capitalize “B”, “N” and “W” in “Brave New World”?’
 Spider did so and asked, ‘Is that from Hollywood again?’
Pillai said he could see Sir was pulling his leg, since Sir certainly knew
both the literary and film connections of the title. He was only attempting to
use it to hint at a future that had uncertainty writ large upon it.
Spider felt so good that he wanted to take a short break and relax by
making small talk.
He said, ‘Mr Pillai, I’ve a strong feeling that it wasn’t you Mary Ignatius
called Son of Dracula and threatened to shoot, but me. I think she was
disappointed that though my theory was gripping, I couldn’t support it with a
strong action plan. What do you think?’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, I hope you’ll allow me to disagree with you. If she were
addressing you, she would not have used the sound “shoo!” My experience, Sir,
is that women use a variety of innovative sounds to give a hostile signal to other
humans in various situations and “shoo!” is not one of them. She was
addressing a creature—though a deemed one—like myself. Further, if you will
kindly recall, Madam, your wife, used the same sound yesterday to discourage
me from staying on in her bathroom. She too didn’t know I was only a deemed
bat.’
Spider thought he had a point there. Rosi had a whole treasury of off-
putting sounds she employed when the need arose, and if his memory served
him well, ‘shoo’ was not one of them.
Pillai continued in a philosophical vein, ‘There’s no doubt, Sir, that Mary
madam is in a difficult situation. I assure you, I harbour no ill-will towards her
for shooing me away several times and referring to me in unfriendly terms. I see
it only as Maya. After all, she mistook me for a real bat even though I’m only a
deemed one. Maya makes it impossible for us to see what is real and what is
deemed.’
‘Especially when one is divorced,’ added Spider thoughtfully.
Pillai said that was a profound comment on the imponderability of the
divorced state of being.
Spider then asked Pillai if it was possible to be deemed married, just like
being deemed a bat.
Pillai stood looking at Spider in wonderment, pulled out his notebook, and
wrote in it. Then he said in an awed voice, ‘Sir, only a genius like you could
throw open a Brave New World like that!’
Spider suspected Pillai was over-working the phrase. Not good for an
aspiring writer. You must keep inventing, like I do.
 He asked Pillai if there wasn’t, nevertheless, some kind of a hiccup, an
uncertainty, in being deemed married—a grey area of sorts? He couldn’t
visualize being deemed married to Rosi. Oh, Mar Tommy! What will I do then?
Pillai said that in his humble opinion, sometimes the hiccup was in the
certainties.
Both fell silent.
Pillai broke the silence and asked, ‘Sir, do you propose to help Mary
madam with a revolutionary action plan to overcome her crisis?’
‘As the case may be,’ Spider said, gazing into the distance.
Pillai stood staring at Spider open-mouthed. He exclaimed, ‘Sir, I am one
of the most fortunate people on earth! The spectacular overdrives of your
wisdom are beyond belief!’
Spider said he had come to believe that spontaneity was the best policy.
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘I would like to make a confession. But for the fact that
I’m devoted to my present lifestyle as a Witness of Life, I would have certainly
offered Mary madam an opening in my life. I like the way she told a story and
faced her oncoming turning point.’
Spider heaved a sigh of relief. Turning point! Thank you, Mar Tommy!
He asked, ‘Do you desire her?’
‘No, Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘it’s merely that from the point of view of a witness
and an aspiring storyteller, I find her admirable.’
‘Does that point of view include her artistry in Kamasutra postures?’
Pillai said after a moment of silence, ‘Sir.’
‘Do you wish to conduct experiments in those postures with her?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Why?’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, an experienced voyeur never expends his passion, which is
the primary fuel of his philosophy. And virgins have lighter bodies to fly with.
Sex makes one heavy in the long run. My mentor, the bat, was a virgin.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘She told me. She said it gave her better wing manoeuvre and vastly
improved sonar tracking. She advised me to stay a virgin, whatever the
temptations.’
Spider was worried. Oh, there are temptations then!
He asked anxiously, ‘Did she spell out the temptations?’
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘I think the temptations of bats are different from ours.’
‘Did you follow her advice regarding virginity?’
 ‘Yes, Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘I am a virgin.’
Spider asked, ‘Then you are a brahmachari—a celibate?’
Pillai said, ‘Not in the given sense, Sir. Amongst us witnesses, a
brahmachari occupies an exalted place. It has little to do with celibacy. I
humbly hope that one day I will be one.’
 41
THE BRINK OF NOTHINGNESS

Spider was electrified by Pillai’s revelation about his special virginity. This was
a totally new dimension. He hid his excitement and asked with an air of
disinterest, ‘Mr Pillai, could you please elaborate? Brahmacharya interests me. I
have a suspicion my wife is a closet brahmachari. I want to know if I am one,
closet or otherwise, by any chance.’
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘a witness who is a brahmachari is one who doesn’t ever
fly with their bodies to engage in witnessing. Flying makes them sleepy, absent-
minded and cantankerous. But their minds fly all over the Brahman—the
Universe, the Creation. They go into galaxies and look at … forgive me, Sir …
stars … as they undress.’
Spider thought that was a significant scientific discovery. It proved that
the tendency to undress was universal.
Pillai added hesitantly, ‘And … Sir … they also witness planets in their
cloud baths and meteors making love on the brink of nothingness.’
Spider got up from his chair. He said he had always had a deep interest in
galactic physics.
Pillai continued, ‘Sir, a holy woman I met—in fact, I just mentioned her
to you—who is known by the name Our Mata of the Sunglasses because she
never takes off her dark glasses even when she bathes or sleeps, told me a secret
about brahmacharya which, with your permission, I shall place before you.’
‘Mr Pillai,’ Spider asked anxiously, ‘does she at least take them off while
making love?’
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘no.’
‘How do you know?’
Spider was sure Pillai had got his facts wrong. Or he was bluffing. You
don’t make love with your sunglasses on. You would end up breaking them and
getting hurt, or falling off the bed, groping in the darkness created by the
glasses.
Pillai said in a small voice, ‘I have witnessed, Sir.’
Spider abruptly returned to his chair. He took a deep breath and asked
craftily, ‘Was the room dark?’ I’m going to call his bluff! Haha!
Pillai answered, ‘Sir, yes.’
Spider was exultant. He had unmasked Pillai! For, who can witness in
pitch darkness?
In a jolly voice he asked, ‘So you wear night vision glasses, do you?’
Pillai said apologetically, ‘Sir, no. But bats can see at night. In fact, they see
best at night.’
Spider was devastated. Good heavens! Where’s my biology?
After a while he said, ‘Mr Pillai, kindly continue the story.’
‘Sir. The Mata told me that black holes are the peepholes of the greatest
brahmacharis. Through them, they see the whole universe in an unclothed
condition.’
Spider had a doubt. ‘Can one get an erection in such a wide context?’ he
asked.
Pillai seemed taken aback. He said, ‘I am so sorry I did not ask her this
important question, Sir. Further, it is possible she does not attend to the male
point of view. She said she took just one look at the unclothed universe and
went blind. She found blindness fascinating because that amazing vision
remained cached in the darkness that filled her eyes. She has been wearing
sunglasses ever since, to enhance her blindness. She gets them from Paris, where
she goes shopping four times a year, to ensure that the state-of-the-art quality
of her unseeing is maintained intact.’
‘Oh!’ Spider was impressed. He exclaimed, ‘Did she say what she saw?’
‘I’m prohibited to say, Sir.’
‘Is it something you or I might want to see?’
‘Forgive me, Sir. I cannot say.’
Spider hid his disappointment and reflected aloud, ‘In any case, I’d be the
last person to wear sunglasses. They make me feel like I’m sleep-walking
through an afternoon nap. And Rosi says I have the face of a giant panda when I
wear them. I think she means it as a compliment, since giant pandas are an
endangered species. Or, perhaps, who knows, she said it to make me re-estimate
my self-esteem.’
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘may I humbly ask what your own view of brahmacharya
is?’
Spider said, ‘I’ve ordered a couple of self-help books on brahmacharya.
After studying them, I might be able to give you an informed opinion. As far as
virginity goes, I think I’m a virgin, though I’ve no concrete proof of that. Rosi
says I have the ambience of one. I think she is one too. Having sex with me is no
evidence of her not being one.’
Pillai said with a look of deep conviction, ‘Sir, I have no doubt that you
are a great brahmachari but do not wish to reveal it to me for occult reasons.
Perhaps your dislike of flying in airplanes is connected to that.’
Spider didn’t want to argue the point. He merely said, ‘As is where is.’
Pillai’s eyes widened. He hurriedly pulled the diary out of his pocket and
started writing. He repeatedly read the words he had jotted down and then
closed his eyes.
Spider thought he was meditating on the essay. But when Pillai did not
open his eyes after a reasonable interval, he started counting. He reached fifty,
but Pillai’s eyes remained closed. He began to worry. Has Pillai gone into
samadhi? Is he experiencing vertigo again? Spider started another count. He had
got to seventy and was getting frantic when Pillai opened his eyes and stood
looking at Spider wonderingly.
Spider asked agitated, ‘Mr Pillai, what happened? Were you sleeping or in
samadhi? How do you do it while standing up? Thank God you didn’t snore,
because Brother Dog has an uncanny ear for abnormal sounds.’
Pillai said, ‘I beg your pardon, Sir, I fell into deep meditation as soon as I
assimilated your mystic words. They carried me into a realm of ecstasy.’
Spider was cautious now. I should draw a line on how much sex to discuss
with him. He goes into ecstasy so easily. All this witnessing hasn’t made him
strong-willed about his libido.
He said somewhat severely, ‘Mr Pillai, it is best for you to not get into the
habit of meditating on sex. Because the next time you want to have sex, you
might end up wanting to meditate and slip off into brahmacharya instead.
Ecstasy will be a no-show then.’
Pillai appeared surprised. He said, ‘Sir, I was not meditating on sex. I was
meditating on the mystery of the extraordinary koan you pronounced: As Is
Where Is.’
 42
APPLIED DEATH

Spider was shattered by Pillai’s words. Oh! The Maya virus is back! As Is Where
Is! That’s from advertisements for the auction of used goods. Why has he
brought it up now? He seems to think I said it and calls it by a strange name.
Oh, is the Enemy at work again? Spider was filled with dread.
Pillai continued to gaze at Spider as if in a trance. He said, ‘Sir, the
amazing koan you uttered is a tuning point …’
Spider didn’t want to hear any more. Tuning point! The virus is spreading!
I must act now before it gets into his non-fiction software. I must divert him at
any cost.
Spider said in a firm and controlled voice, ‘Mr Pillai, koans will be koans,
whatever they are. We shall devote some time to them later. Right now your
mention of meditation has ignited in me the desire for a dose of strong
meditation. I wish to meditate upon something that can uplift, invigorate and
rejuvenate so that I can take down the rest of the essay with a new vigour. Isn’t
the discipline of applied death a good subject to meditate upon? You know it
intimately. Perhaps you have a gripping narrative about such an experience
which might lead me to a state of spontaneous meditation. Who knows, even to
levitation!’
Pillai became animated. His eyes lost their wandering look and shone with
eagerness. In a moment, he was his normal self again.
Spider felt very humble. Oh, how I wish Rosi was here to see the sheer
brilliance with which I keep managing a thoroughly eccentric collaborator.
Pillai exclaimed joyfully, ‘With pleasure, Sir! Your kind invitation
transports my humble life into a realm of magic. Thank you, Sir! Do you have a
preference for death by hanging or can I consider other modes too?’
‘I leave it to you, who are learned in the matter.’
 ‘Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘I asked you this question because the average death-
event I supervise is so brief it will not support a meditation of even five
minutes. Most of it is paper work and other formalities. The actual
implementation lasts but a few seconds. However, Sir, it so happens that I have
taken notes of an execution from an older period, when they were relaxed
affairs. The method employed was burning at the stake, a style that has fallen
out of favour.’
Spider intervened to say that the withering away of that school of applied
death must have had something to do with the growth of green philosophy
because it objected to the cutting of plants and trees to obtain combustibles.
Also, there was the issue of smoke pollution.
Pillai said, ‘Sir, I happened to read the account of the burning while taking
shelter in the library of a seminary. Being only a hangman, I am not well-versed
in burning matters, but I thought this was a focused account.’
Spider was intrigued. ‘What were you doing in a seminary?’
‘Sir,’ Pillai said after some hesitation, ‘I was in transit from a novitiate
house for nuns when a pack of crows attacked me. I took shelter in the
seminary.’
Spider asked, ‘What were you doing in a novitiate house for nuns?’ This
was getting to be puzzling indeed.
Pillai said, ‘I was on a routine visit.’
‘In what capacity?’ Spider wondered if he did chaplain’s duty in his free
time.
Pillai was visibly uneasy. He seemed to be searching for words.
Spider was certain now. He doesn’t want to admit he’s practising religion
secretly! And that, too, in a convent!
Pillai finally spoke. ‘Sir, I was witnessing.’
Spider leaned back in his chair. Pillai stood gazing at the eastern
mountains.
Suddenly Spider remembered reading in a book titled The World’s Best-
kept Secrets that nuns bathe with all their clothes on. Of course! Pillai had
been wasting his time, poor fellow. And got pecked at by crows for nothing!
Spider sat up cheerfully.
He said, ‘I’ve always thought it’s a tiresome custom for nuns to bathe
with their clothes on. Don’t you get bored witnessing it?’
‘On the contrary, Sir,’ Pillai said meekly, ‘nuns are impatient to disrobe
because the bath is their territory of absolute freedom.’
 ‘Oh,’ Spider said, ‘I’m happy for them!’
‘Sir,’ Pillai said.
The question of the bathing habits of nuns having been agreeably resolved,
Spider found himself dissatisfied with Pillai’s statement on another score. He
knew crows well and could not believe that they would misbehave with a
passing bat. He had seen them giving a hard time to Brother Dog and admired
their instant cognition of evil. He had to look into this strange accusation that
Pillai had made.
‘But I’m really surprised the crows attacked you. Basically they’re a
worldly-wise, success-oriented, hard-working group with much zest for life.’
Pillai had a regretful look on his face. He said, ‘Sir, I fully agree with you.
But I think they mistook my altruistic motives. I had seen a baby crow that had
fallen out of its nest and picked it up in my talons to save it, as I had once
picked up my mentor in my hands. But the crows misread my intention and
turned violent.’
Spider looked sharply at Pillai and asked, ‘Are you sure you were not
hungry and tempted to eat something? Hunger is a tricky thing. It creates Maya
at short notice.’
Pillai said with feeling, ‘Sir, however hungry I am, I do not eat babies.’
Spider didn’t want to argue the point. But how does he verify that some
of the insects he eats are not babies? He merely said, ‘That’s fine then. What
happened to the baby crow?’
‘I put it down in the seminary’s yard before escaping into the library. I
think the crows took it away.’
‘Do you hope to meet it again?’
‘The violence unleashed that day has made me drop the novitiate house
from my regular circuit—it is very sad, Sir,’ Pillai said dreamily.
Spider felt dreamy too. He wished he could fly. He could save so many
babies.
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘as I waited for the crows to disburse, I browsed among
the racks and, in an old book, came across the case of one John Hooper, Bishop
and Martyr. Being a hangman, I found the behaviour of Martyr Hooper to be a
model for such occasions and took notes even as the crows were cawing for my
blood outside.’
Martyr! Spider exclaimed to himself. I hope Mar Tommy’s listening. He
too is a martyr and as user-friendly as they come. Maybe he can pick up a tip or
two here!
 Spider looked at his watch and decided it was time to move faster. The
essay was waiting. He said, ‘Mr Pillai, I’m aroused by your introductory
remarks. Shall we now proceed to the core?’
‘With great pleasure, Sir,’ Pillai said. ‘May I start?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Spider said and leaned back in the chair. He ruminated:
Death is just a poster boy. Most of the talk about it is hearsay and hype. I’d be
the last man to fall for its glamour. If it throws out the Maya virus from Pillai,
that’s good enough!
Pillai looked in his notebook and said, ‘Sir, this happened in the year 1555
of Our Lord in a place called Gloucester in the country of England.’
That was sufficient to make Spider lose heart right away. 1555? That
meant the story was going to be filled with old, depressing, dimly lit black-and-
white stuff. He liked his history spic and span, sparkling and colourful. He
decided to put his feet up on the table and make himself comfortable in
anticipation of the dreary reading.
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, referring to his notes again, ‘it says that Mr Hooper was
brought to the scene of execution and tied to the stake. Then, the man who was
to make the fire asked his forgiveness, which was readily granted.’
Spider thought that was an opening one couldn’t quarrel with. And
forgiveness sounded fine. It placed you in the mainstream right away.
Pillai continued, ‘Sir, then the bundles of reeds for making the fire were
thrown up to the platform. Mr Hooper himself caught hold of two of them,
embraced them, kissed them, and put one under each arm.’
Is that a bit of showmanship or not, Spider wondered.
‘Then he indicated with his hand how the rest should be placed and
pointed out the gaps.’
Spider thought Mr Hooper needn’t have gone to such lengths to please the
crowd. In the end, you can never satisfy them enough. They’ll ask for more. A
middle path is the best.
‘Sir,’ Pillai continued, looking at his notes, ‘the fire was started. But the
wood was green and wouldn’t burn. Finally, when it did burn, and the reeds
alongside, the wind blew the flames away from him.’
Spider thought that was a nice dramatic pause. But it came too late to
make a hard-hitting impact. The man’s going to be dead in two minutes and
what have you. Obviously, the death industry was a mess in those black-and-
white days. Otherwise, how could they bring green wood for a burning? Shame
on them!
Pillai continued, ‘Then dry wood was brought and the fire resumed.’
Spider appreciated that. Of course, the show must go on!
 43
HURRAY!

Pillai continued with the story of the burning. ‘But the reeds were finished. The
fire burned at his nether portions only and because of the wind, managed only
to burn his hair and scorch his skin a bit. He was praying to Jesus all the while.’
Spider sought a clarification from Pillai. ‘Mr Pillai, for historicalclarity, I
would like to know the religion of those burning Mr Hooper.’
Pillai replied, ‘They were Christians, Sir.’
Spider felt very sad for Jesus. That must’ve been one hell of a fix to be in!
On the one hand, being a bishop, Mr Hooper must’ve been praying to him. On
the other, the burning side also must’ve been praying to him for a fantastic
burning event. Because they must’ve spent a lot of time, money and energy on
it.
Then a startling thought struck Spider: Had Jesus taken sides? Did he let
Mr Hooper burn? In which case, it must’ve been, oh, so very embarrassing for
him to hear the prisoner pray to him, and that too publicly. Spider squirmed in
his chair. Personally, he wouldn’t touch a situation like that with a bargepole.
Spider asked, ‘Does the narrative hint on whose side Jesus was?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Well, then,’ Spider said, ‘as the case may be. Please go ahead, Mr Pillai.’
‘Sir, when the second fire too went out, the prisoner wiped both his eyes
with his hands and seeing the people—I quote, Sir—“he said with an
indifferent loud voice: For God’s love, good people, let me have more fire!” All
this while, his nether parts were burning. Because of the shortage of firewood,
the flames had not risen high.’
Spider said this firewood business was a shame.
He also felt he needed some fresh air. All this talk of burning seemed to
have made the air in the room thick and heavy, apart from the fact that history
of this kind sent out villainous emanations causing queasiness in the stomach.
Anyway, he told himself, the full story wouldn’t take too long because the
nether parts were burning and all should be fine in a matter of minutes.
Pillai continued, ‘Sir, the third fire was lit after a while, and it was a
better one, causing the gunpowder bags to ignite. But even that didn’t help
because the wind was wayward. In this fire he prayed more loudly.’
Spider took a walk to the window for fresh air and discovered to his
horror that history had done something to his legs. They were behaving as if
they had no strength. He returned to the chair, feeling bad for Jesus. The louder
the prayer, the greater the trouble the poor man was in! Even as he stood
sympathizing with Jesus, he could distinctly feel the movement of some wiggly
force in the pit of his stomach.
He said, ‘Mr Pillai, maybe we should take a small break. Death is such an
endearing topic that I would like to chew on it slowly.’
He wondered if it wouldn’t be better, after the break, to ask Pillai to
provide the rest of the story in writing. But that could be dangerous too. He
might shift his attention altogether to writing the burning story and dilly-dally
on the essay.
Spider found himself visualizing Mr Hooper’s nether parts burning and
something heaved in his stomach again. He hoped someone would tell him
where one’s nether parts began and ended.
‘Sir, my notes say that those prayers were the last words Mr Hooper
spoke,’ Pillai said.
Spider almost shouted, hurray!
He stopped himself in time and said, ‘Of course! That’s it then! Poor man
is out of his misery. We really should give some thought to making martyrdom
more user-friendly, result-oriented and quick. Anyway, I believe we certainly
have here some wonderful stuff for a sound meditation of at least half an hour,
if not more. Thank you, Mr Pillai.’
He added with an upbeat expression, ‘So! All’s well that ends well!’
It took him some time to recover from the amazement of the original
phrase, superb in its precision—All’s well that ends well!—that had come
upon him literally out of the blue.
Then he asked cunningly, ‘Mr Pillai, now that the death story is over, do
you think it is time to return to the essay? I’ll store away this wonderful death
experience and meditate on it tonight in the presence of my wife so she may
receive its side benefits, if any. What do you say?’
 Pillai was poring over his notes. He looked up and said eagerly, ‘Sir, the
event is not over. It is my earnest request that you hear it in full. Since you have
kindly appreciated the portions already presented, you are sure to find, Sir, the
totality of it a powerful package from the meditative point of view. I am
confident you will be able to enter meditation and even proceed to levitate as
you listen to the rest of the story.’
Spider was in a state of shock. Oh, what shall I do? Shall I bring an air
purifier? Or say that I have suddenly developed absent-mindedness, and
without a mind, how can one meditate? Doesn’t Pillai realize Mr Hooper is a
showman and will stop at nothing?
Spider resigned himself to the inevitable and said sadly, ‘Oh, is that right?
Let me enjoy the totality then.’
 44
OMEN!

Pillai continued the account of Mr Hooper’s martyrdom, after expressing the

hope that the rest of the story would uplift Spider into a state of levitation. He
said, ‘Sir, soon after those last words, Mr Hooper was black in the mouth and
his tongue was so swollen he couldn’t speak. Yet his lips moved till they were
shrunk to the gums. He knocked his breast with his hands until one of his arms
fell off.’
At this point, Spider thought he heard a sound resembling that of a
gunpowder bag exploding. It seemed to have come from the western corner of
his stomach. Oh, Jesus, Spider prayed, if anything happens to me, make me a
world-class martyr, not just a bishop! He hoped against hope that martyrs were
senior to bishops, not only in status, but in their salary and perks too. Oh, I
should’ve consulted Mar Tommy! He knows it all.
Suddenly Spider rushed to the door and seemed to wait there for
something to happen, making Pillai anxious. He said, ‘Sir, I beg you to be
careful! The dog might be about and want to come in!’
Standing at the door, Spider was trying to establish a telepathic link with
Rosi before his lips shrank to the gums. He could feel his hair flaming and he
wished he had a small mirror to see how it looked before eternity engulfed it.
Then another bag of gunpowder ignited in his stomach. Spider knew he had
become enlightened, but couldn’t say exactly in which category of martyrdom.
But he could see enlightenment had made him want to sit down. It seemed to
also make his head whirr.
He returned to the chair with the gait of a swimmer, for the air had
become very thick, He was sweating and his face had a greenish tint. Good
people, he tried to shout, give me more hair! But his lips were gone and his
teeth had fallen off. He felt his eyes closing as a prelude to death.
 Pillai stared at him in awe. ‘Sir, I can see that you are already meditating. I
am most privileged to be a witness to this extraordinary event, Sir!’
Spider’s changed demeanour and body language had visibly invigorated
Pillai. He raised his voice enthusiastically. ‘When one of the arms fell off, Mr
Hooper knocked on his chest with the remaining arm till fat, water and blood
dropped out at his fingers’ ends. The fire was renewed again and then his
strength was gone.’
Pillai was watching Spider carefully. It was clear he expected levitation to
take place any moment.
Spider had opened his eyes briefly at Pillai’s last sentence. But they
seemed to see nothing. Then he lifted one hand, stared at it with fascination
and knocked his chest with it.
Pillai continued in a vigorous tone, ‘Sir, the hand he was knocking with
was now stuck to the iron chain on his chest.’
Spider sprang up from his chair with a suppressed cry and, with the
knocking hand held to his chest, rushed to push open the bathroom and
disappeared into it. What appeared to be the sounds of heaving and throwing
up, both muffled and loud, came from inside. Pillai looked anxiously towards
the bathroom. He seemed to be in two minds about following Spider inside.
Then he hurriedly pulled out his diary and made notes.
Spider emerged, holding a towel to his face. He seemed too weak to walk
and stood still for a while, holding on to the door, with a grim look on his face.
Then he inched his way to the chair, warding off Pillai’s attempts to support
him. He reached the chair and slumped into it. He then signalled Pillai with his
eyes to come closer and told him in a sad whisper, ‘Please bring more dry food.’
Pillai seemed not to know what to say. Then he said in a worried tone, ‘If
I may say so, Sir, I wonder if the guavas you ate this morning from Mary
madam’s tree disagreed with you. Ripe fruit, more often than not, is very
unpredictable. I myself have had several bitter experiences as a wayfarer relying
on unverified fruit. In your case, Sir, the powerful energy of meditation might
also have played a part.’
Spider made an effort to reply, but could not. Then he found his voice and
whispered, ‘Are all the portions burned?’
At this question, Pillai brightened and looked relaxed again. He turned to
the last page of his notes and said, ‘Sir, it’s wonderful to see you’re in touch
with the thread of my humble narrative even while in meditation. I shall now
narrate the concluding portion, which includes an uplifting spiritual passage
that I dare hope might bestow on me the good fortune to see you levitate.’
Spider gasped and closed his eyes again.
Pillai asked in an excited voice, ‘May I now narrate the concluding,
uplifting portion, Sir?’
Spider was desperate. He wanted an anti-airsickness pill if he was going to
levitate above a height of two feet. At this point, he was pleasantly surprised to
find he was signalling with one of his lost hands. Then he saw the other too.
With both hands, he grimly held on to the chair. He wanted to make sure it was
beneath him when he levitated.
Pillai continued in an arresting voice, ‘As I said, Sir, Mr Hooper’s
remaining arm was cleaved to the iron chain on his chest. At this point, he
bowed forward and yielded up his spirit. Sir, the book says he had been in the
fire three-quarters of an hour or more, by then.’
Spider said, ‘Amen!’ He saw the word bobbing in the air as ‘Omen!’ Now
he knew he was doomed.
 45
THE PRIVACY OF ORGANS

As Spider sat crushed by the sudden change from Amen to Omen, Pillai said,
‘Sir, I shall now quote the uplifting passage.’
Spider listened to Pillai’s announcement bleakly, gripped the chair with all
his might and closed his eyes tight.
Pillai read in a sombre and powerful voice, ‘His bowels fallen out, he died
as quietly as a child in his bed, and now he reigneth as a blessed martyr in the
joys of heaven prepared for the faithful in Christ before the foundations of the
world, for whose constancy all Christians are bound to praise God.’
Spider closed his eyes and gave himself up to the joy of levitation. Oh, I
too am a blessed martyr, if not a bishop. The joys of heaven are mine. Praise the
Lord! He made a quick calculation and decided that he must have reached a
height of around four feet by now. Stop! he commanded himself. Rising above
five feet could produce oxygen-starvation and vertigo. Oh, thank God the door
is closed. Or I would have floated off to outer space and tomorrow the Hubble
telescope will simply label me as one more piece of space junk.
He counted to one hundred before taking the decision to open his eyes
and look down in readiness to land. He gripped the chair tight, praying for a
smooth, cushioned landing, but suddenly realized he didn’t know the landing
procedure. He was terrified and wondered if he should shout for help. Finally
he squeezed his eyes into thin slits and looked down fearfully. He was shocked
to find he was sitting beside his table and that Pillai stood a few feet away.
‘How did I land? I didn’t feel it!’ Spider told Pillai in great surprise.
Pillai looked unhappy. He said, ‘Sir, I’m very sorry, but the reading of the
passage didn’t produce the desired result. You did not levitate.’
Spider immediately saw the reason. He said, ‘I can understand. I think this
chair is heavy and the passage you read was not strong enough to handle its
weight along with mine, since I was holding on to it.’
‘Sir,’ Pillai said.
‘However, the passage is still uplifting because it is useful for prospective
martyrs to know that God has been keeping joys ready for them in heaven for a
long time—though it’s not clear if they are in working condition after all these
years.’
Spider continued, ‘And it seems only Christians are eligible for the joys of
martyrdom. In which case, the Christians who burned Mr Hooper were doing
him a favour as they knew where he was going and what he was going to enjoy.
In fact, if they wanted to be hard on Mr Hooper, it would have been better not
to burn him and thus delay the joys of heaven till he died of old age, laziness or
forgetfulness. Foolish people, I must say!’
‘I can see your point, Sir,’ Pillai said sadly. He had not recovered from the
disappointment of the failed levitation mission.
Spider continued, ‘Mr Pillai, let me put it on record, however, that I have
an adverse comment about the method of martyrdom. Correct me if I’m wrong.
I feel Mr Hooper should not have let his bowels fall out even if it meant losing
his special place in heaven. I’m convinced that we must respect the privacy of
our organs.’
Pillai had a marvelling look on his face. He hurriedly took out his diary
and asked, ‘Sir, when you say organs, do you include both the internal and the
external ones?’
‘As the case may be,’ Spider said.
He added, ‘The fact is that our organs value privacy as much as we do.
That’s why the best of them prefer to stay inside rather than outside. Of course,
I do wish I could meet my heart, liver, pancreas, etc., face-to-face and get to
understand their world view. But we cannot help it if they are shy. Imagine!
Even if I live to 225 years, I’ll never make the acquaintance of my large
intestine. Such is life.’
Pillai scribbled urgently in his diary. Then he looked up and said, ‘Sir, I
humbly bow my head before your wisdom.’
Spider couldn’t but notice once again how excellent Pillai’s manners were.
He said benignly, ‘Thank you. Frankly, I’m not as wise as I seem. I borrow much
wisdom from Rosi. Despite being a philosopher, she somehow manages to be
up-to-date on most things, except perhaps science.’
Talking of science, Spider had a sudden doubt. He asked, ‘Mr Pillai, would
you say flying is a branch of levitation, or vice versa?’
 Spider saw how this question recharged Pillai. His unhappiness had
vanished altogether. Oh, flying is his first weakness! Witnessing comes only
next!
Pillai said, ‘There are common elements in both, Sir. However, I would say
that flying is a progressive art while levitation is somewhat conservative. Flying
is propelled by a destination-oriented practical intent, whereas levitation is
more in the nature of a lec-dem. Also, Sir, aerobically speaking, flying is more
body and muscle oriented, while levitation is symbolic in nature and doesn’t
burn calories. Levitation has a status quo aspect to it.
‘Further, one can say that in flying you go forward or upward, and you
have wings. In levitation, you mostly go upward and generally have no wings. In
fact, if you have wings, you need not levitate—unless you wish to make a point
of it. Actually, Sir, one need not levitate at all, unless one wants to make a
point. I was expecting, Sir—forgive me—that you would want to make a point.
I think you did not want to, because you have transcended levitation.’
Spider thought that was a sound presentation of the facts.
He said, ‘Can we say in sum then, that the one provides forward mobility
in a revolutionary manner, and the other upward mobility in an orthodox
manner—with or without wings.’
Pillai had a look of astonishment. He said, ‘Sir, that sums it up perfectly!’
Spider said, ‘Anyway, I’m glad we’re out of the woods in this matter.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ Pillai said. ‘I’m grateful to destiny that I could
participate in this extraordinary spiritual experiment with you.’
Spider was in a thoughtful mood. He told Pillai that with regard to death,
which was the theme of the day, he had a major worry. Science had proved that
all life is energy. When one dies, the energy is redistributed—which was fine.
His worry was that he might be turned into electricity when the reallocation
took place. He had no quarrel with electricity. It did a lot of good things. But
there were two problems. One was that alongside the good that it did,
electricity was also a merciless killer. Secondly and more terrifyingly, what if
that bit of electricity that was he ended up lighting the naked bulb in a fascist’s
torture cell? Or became the charge energizing a fanatic’s mike spewing a hate
speech that caused a hundred thousand people to be butchered? Or what if he
became the igniting spark in a nuclear button pressed by a mad president?
Spider said the very thought made him tremble.
Pillai was silent for a while. Then he said, ‘Sir, I share your anxiety
completely. The prevailing secretiveness about the post-death scenario is
nothing less than irresponsible, to say the least. If God is in charge of it, she
must realize that it is an area that demands total transparency and honesty.
However, Sir, in your case, my heart tells me that the energy of a great writer
will float free, traverse the galaxies and witness eternity.’
Spider thought that sounded plausible, but he wasn’t convinced. ‘But,’ he
said sadly, ‘what if electricity is king in eternity too and I’m absorbed into it?
And what if there are tyrants and fascists and murderous presidents there too,
and I end up working for them? Worse, what if I am the electron that sets off
the next Big Bang? Not for anything would I want to be instrumental in starting
everything all over again! God forbid!’
Both were lost in thought for a few moments. Then Pillai said in a hushed
voice that Sir had raised some inconceivably complex questions that surpassed
his understanding. He, however, thought Madam might have something to say
on the matter.
Spider wasn’t sure. Electricity was beyond her competence. She didn’t
know how to put batteries in a torchlight.
Pillai said wisdom was a dark horse.
Spider thought that was a wonderful idiom and wondered if he had said it
himself but heard it as Pillai’s words. He decided it wouldn’t be good form to
ask Pillai.
Pillai now requested Spider’s permission to depart for lunch. He closed his
eyes, stood for a moment with bowed head and joined palms, clapped once,
turned himself into a little green bird, and flew out the window.
Spider couldn’t help murmuring a short prayer: Mar Tommy, please
ensure he doesn’t forget to return!
 46
NOTICE OF THE END

When Spider returned to the study after his lunch and siesta, he took the
precaution of peeping into the room first, to make sure he wouldn’t see
anything he didn’t wish to see. He found Pillai standing at attention near the
window. Everything looked fine.
But then he noticed that Pillai’s eyes were closed. Oh, Mar Tommy! Is it
ecstasy again? Spider was very worried. He sat down and politely cleared his
throat. Pillai didn’t seem to have heard him. Spider counted till hundred. When
nothing happened and Pillai remained the way he was, Spider grew frantic. Oh,
what shall I do?
Just then, Pillai opened his eyes with a start and apologized for not
hearing Spider enter. He had been trying to establish contact with his mentor.
Spider asked if there was a special reason for this sudden impulse. Or did
he contact her on a daily basis?
Pillai said sometimes he felt sentimental about her and then he tried to
establish contact.
Spider enquired if the sentimentality was mutual.
Pillai said that, in his humble opinion, a mentor never becomes
sentimental. She only mentors.
Spider was troubled. This had implications for him. Because he had a
mentor too. Oh, I hope Pillai is only speaking about a trend among bat-mentors!
Before he could pursue the matter further, Pillai asked his permission to
begin work on the essay. ‘Sir,’ he added, ‘I request you to recall the last few
inputs to the essay so that we are reconnected to that realm of ideas.’
Pillai listened with an expression of joyful humility as Spider read as
follows:
 ‘A possible armed struggle against Capital may have to redesign and
redefine its revolutionary objectives. In that unprecedented scenario,
globalization will be all about Compassion and even about Pure
Love. It may become necessary sooner rather than later, therefore, to
persuade God to introduce Compassion at the quantum level so that
genes can learn to make Compassion co-exist with their
unfathomable concern with wealth and work towards a Brave New
World.’

Spider exclaimed, ‘Mr Pillai, this is wonderful! The comrades are going to
be so excited that they may start shouting slogans!’
Pillai stood with bowed head and said, ‘Sir, your genius is the beacon of
my humble talent.’
Not for the last time, Spider noted appreciatively how exemplary the
man’s transparency was. And not a word of flattery!
Pillai now asked if Spider had in mind a word limit for the essay. Because
once that was fixed, one could structure the piece accordingly.
Spider hadn’t thought of that. He was impressed by Pillai’s foresight. Oh,
he knows his stuff all right!
He said it would indeed be very nice to have a word limit because it gave
himself and Pillai, in a manner of speaking, advance notice of the approaching
end. Perhaps he would feel a little less sad when parting with the work, because
he would know the end was coming. He almost always cried when he wrote the
last sentence of a novel because it hurt to take leave of all those tens of
thousands of words he had written. He asked if Pillai had any ideas regarding a
word limit for the present essay.
Pillai said that considering the essay was aimed at an audience of
comrades, in his humble opinion, the shorter it was, the better, because they
were slogan-oriented by nature. Slogans were extremely user-friendly and
quickly disposable. They never lasted the evening. Therefore, he said, about 800
words would be the optimum limit for an essay such as this, which dealt with
what could be described as an esoteric theme.
Spider enquired if Pillai had any idea of the number of words they had
already achieved.
Pillai quickly counted the lines, sampled the number of words in a few,
and said the present length stood at around 550 words in his rough estimate.
They had another 250, plus or minus, to go.
Spider said that was not a tall order if they put their heads together.
 47
THE KREMLIN WINDOW

Having arrived at a consensus regrading the word limit for the essay, Pillai
closed his eyes and meditated for a few moments and then said, ‘Sir, I request
you to consider this statement.’
Spider got ready to write.
Pillai said:

‘But here we confront a philosophical question: Is God a reliable

factor with regard to Compassion? How do we know She has an
abiding interest in the cutting edge of the subject? Is it not possible
that She might be pushing Evolution to a point where the task of
promoting Compassion is franchised to the common cold virus? And
does History bear out God’s compassionate credentials? It is
doubtful in the extreme. Look at all the butchers who have
dominated History.’

Spider couldn’t keep his pen steady because the words were so
provocative. Oh, the man knows precisely where to hit. The comrades are going
to be delirious with joy. God may not have any interest in compassion, haha!
That’s a lovely one!
But his merriment came to a sudden halt. He realized there was a
problem. The comrades may not accept that God is a woman—it would be
something akin to admitting that Stalin was a woman. Or Mao was one. Oh,
what shall we do?
Spider explained to Pillai this ominous possibility.
He could see Pillai was suddenly excited. But he seemed to be in two
minds about revealing what had excited him.
 Spider decided to pursue the matter. He told Pillai he should not feel shy
about sharing any secrets with him because he was such a good keeper of
secrets. In fact, Rosi had once said he would fit perfectly into the secret police.
But, she had added, if the midnight knock was one of his duties, he was going to
do poorly because at that time of the night, he never managed to do anything
other than snore, dream or both.
Pillai looked around the room anxiously. His eyes darted to the window as
if he was expecting eavesdroppers. He said in a voice that was almost a whisper,
‘Sir, I could not but get excited when you mentioned, though not in a serious
manner, the possibility of comrade Stalin being a woman. I dare not mention
this to anyone other than you, but I’ve heard something that confirms your
accidental remark.’
Pillai’s voice trembled. He wiped sweat from his face with the back of his
hand and leaned against the wall as if for support.
Spider consoled him. ‘Mr Pillai, there’s nothing to fear as long as you are
in this house. If that scandalous rogue Brother Dog has any merit to claim in his
despicable life, it is that he is a ruthless hunter of intruders, visible or invisible,
man, beast, bird or ghost. So you can speak freely about what excites you.
Frankly, I myself have been excited by Stalin, in particular his moustache. I
thought it was very stylish.’
He added, ‘Like Hitler’s lock of creamed hair.’
Pillai whispered: ‘Sir, a migrating bird from Siberia once told me that
while sitting on a Kremlin windowsill late at night, it had seen Stalin undressing
in his room and nearly fainted when it saw he was a woman. The moustache
was just a stage prop. He was woman all over.’
Spider was speechless with shock. Mar Tommy! This can’t be true! If Stalin
was a woman, where are we? What’s communism going to do? Or is Pillai
clandestinely field-testing one of the stories he wants to write? I must watch
out!
He assumed a look of disinterest and asked why the bird had nearly
fainted. Was there something terrifying in the Stalin-woman?
Pillai said he hadn’t inquired about this point but his guess was that
Stalin, undressed, must have been a very beautiful woman and the Siberian bird
must have been overcome by her beauty.
Spider tried to visualize the beauty of the undressed Stalin-woman and
found himself with a tentative erection. He immediately brought the
visualization to an end. Tch, tch! I cannot be having an erection while my
collaborator is seated right in front of me! Where are my manners?
Suddenly a thought struck him and he asked Pillai whether, by any
chance, the bird belonged to the witnessing fraternity.
Pillai said in a low voice, ‘Sir.’
Now Spider knew the story was true. A real witness had spoken. Stalin
was a woman! Gosh! Women have a lot of explaining to do!
He inquired if Pillai had ever fainted because of a similar sight.
Pillai thought for a while and replied that he had been about to do so
while witnessing Madam in her bath.
Spider considered this for a few moments. Then he asked if Madam looked
like the Stalin-woman.
Pillai said he could not say since he hadn’t seen the undressed Stalin and
had only hearsay to go by. But, in his humble view, Madam was a voluptuous
personality, even at the metaphysical level.
Having said this, Pillai returned to the essay and suggested the following
passage:

‘God, therefore, may turn out to be only a standby player in the saga
of Compassion. And, needless to say, we must accept that
Compassion has not gathered sufficient historical mileage to attract
the human psyche’s undivided attention, like chilly chicken, hair
transplant, or kinky underwear. Under the circumstances, it needs to
be admitted that we are forced to look elsewhere for an answer to
the riddle of Compassion.’

Spider wrote joyfully. Oh, Rosi will love this. Riddles are her forte!
After seeking Spider’s approval with a reverential glance, Pillai continued:

‘Is it possible, we may then ask, that the most efficiently organized
establishments of Compassion in our world are the armies, navies,
air forces, secret services, terrorists, dictators, religious
fundamentalists and nuclear-button controllers? Perhaps we have
been mistaking them for annihilators whereas they only annihilate
Sorrow at its root by putting an end to Life. Life is at the bottom of
all problems. Do away with it, and we arrive at a model universe of
mass graves where Compassion is a black bird flying in the night,
singing of freedom. Or it might lie buried in one of those graves,
 along with the rotting remains, as a little pendant around the neck
of a baby shot in the head. It would be interesting to check a Holy
Book to see if at the End of Days, Compassion will enjoy a
resurrection and sit at the right hand of God.’

Spider’s pen raced on the page. He had always suspected there was a deep-
rooted problem with life and here was Pillai delineating it clearly and boldly.
He wished again that Rosi were here. As a philosopher, she would love the
precision of the theory being propounded.
He had one suggestion for Pillai, however. He said, ‘Mr Pillai, I think it
would be good to be very clear about God’s right and left. Because what is
God’s right from the onlooker’s point of view is left from God’s point of view.
So it would be better to state clearly whose point of view it is going to be when
it is time to be seated. Or there could be last moment confusion and avoidable
embarrassment.’
Pillai said Spider had pointed out a very important detail and he would
attempt to overcome the problem. He thought for a few seconds and sought
Spider’s permission to end the paragraph as follows:

‘Actually, right hand or left does not matter as long as God is able to
notice that Compassion is in bad shape, gives it early dinner and
sends it off to sleep.’

Spider was delighted. The words gave concrete immediacy to the aspect of
resurrection. Dinner after a harrowing resurrection fitted to a T. So much better
than sitting hungry at the right hand, swallowing your saliva!
Something was worrying Pillai. He asked to see Spider’s notebook, did
some quick calculations and said in an anxious voice, ‘Sir, I think we are about
to cross the word limit.’
Spider had never felt so disappointed. The essay was just getting into a
nice argumentative space. He felt cheated.
‘Mr Pillai,’ he said, ‘let’s be daring and put in more words. Even if just
one comrade turns compassionate at the end of the day, it will be no mean
achievement.’
Pillai agreed. He, however, said it would be best to fix a new word limit to
ensure a tight framework. He suggested closing the essay at 1200 words.
Spider said he didn’t know that non-fiction was so self-conscious about its
length. Why was that? Did it have something to hide? Did it have a Freudian
past?
 48
THE CLONE OF GOD

Spider was in a relaxed mood, knowing that the essay was progressing smoothly
to a thumping end.
As he watched Pillai flying towards him through the sunny sky, a blurred
shape that would soon turn into a little bird, he had a brainwave. He too had a
death-story which had been in the queue for a long time. Pillai seemed to be a
connoisseur of death-literature. Also, he had hands-on experience with death.
Here was a golden opportunity to test his own death-story on such a man. He
had some doubts about the efficacy of the story because it was actually about
enacted death, which can never be the same as the real thing. But Pillai would
be the best person to advise him. If Pillai’s opinion was encouraging, he could
take the story forward and make it a major fiction project, especially because
there appeared to be a big market for death the world over. His material was
not martyr-class like Mr Hooper’s story, but he was sure it had a few
potentially uplifting moments.
But he realized there was a problem. He could lose Pillai altogether!
Listening to the death-story, Pillai might fall into meditation or ecstasy and get
so uplifted that he might levitate and from sheer habit turn into a bat or a bird
and float out the window and be gone, and there was no guarantee that
forgetfulness would not swallow him despite the fact that he was a loyal fan.
Pillai was almost a mirage. In the midst of all this shape-shifting, there was no
saying if there was a real he. He could evaporate any moment or turn into
someone else. The essay’s fate hung by the thinnest of threads. He therefore
decided to test the waters before broaching the death-story.
‘Mr Pillai,’ Spider asked in a casual tone, ‘just out of curiosity, do you also
enter into meditation, ecstasy or levitation when exposed to narratives of
death?’
 Pillai said regretfully, ‘Sir, I am not thus privileged. I am, as I mentioned,
only a meditative witness. I am uplifted by witnessing. And since I already fly,
levitation is not in the picture.’
Spider couldn’t hide a nagging anxiety. ‘What about ecstasy? Does it catch
you unawares?’
‘Sir, not unless it is an exceptionally uplifting death-event.’
Spider wished he could ascertain the precise characteristics of such an
event, but wanted to test his death-story quickly because it was 11 a.m. and the
idea of lunch had already made its appearance.
He had, in fact, tried to find out from Rosi what was for lunch. But she
had signalled to him that she was observing silence, which meant she was
talking to God. He understood that. She too needed to talk to God, even though
her husband was already doing so. Only, sometimes he wondered if two weren’t
one too many to talk to God from within the same family. When he discussed
this with Rosi, she had suggested that one shouldn’t reject the odd chance that
either of them could be talking to a clone of God, a doppelganger, or a PR
department-cum-call centre of God. So it was better to keep two channels open.
Spider thought this point of view had a strong vein of common sense.
Thinking about lunch made him swiftly push on with his story. He said,
‘Mr Pillai, be that as it may, by sheer coincidence, I’ve had in my own life a
close shave with death and burning like the one narrated by you, but in an
enacted format. Would you like to hear about it? Perhaps it might help us
expand our consciousnesses before we start work on the essay today.’
Pillai’s face glowed with happiness. He exclaimed in a devout voice, ‘Sir, it
is incredible that you are going to tell me a story from your own life! My joy is
boundless! I’m so fortunate!’
Spider noticed admiringly how objective and precise the executioner was
in his response to the proposal.
Suddenly Pillai closed his eyes and stood still.
Spider counted to twenty, then to fifty, and stopped at hundred. He was
devastated. Oh, before I can even begin the story, the man has gone into ecstasy!
What have I done, Mar Tommy? Save me!
At this point, Pillai opened his eyes, looked at Spider wonderingly and
said, ‘Sir, in order to be able to assimilate this great experience in a composed
manner, may I sit down?’
This worried Spider all the more because sitting down and making himself
comfortable might transport him more easily into ecstasy. Still, as a courteous
host he said, ‘Of course! I’ve been concerned about how long you have been
standing. Please take a chair!’
Spider only hoped he would take a heavy chair, recalling how his own
levitation had been blocked by his chair.
But Pillai just sat down on the floor. He folded and crossed his legs and
assumed the lotus posture. His spine was straight and his legs were intertwined
neatly, with the soles of the feet upturned. He took a deep breath and looked at
Spider with expectation-filled eyes.
Spider could see he had walked into a booby trap. What was the lotus
posture for, if not to meditate and levitate? Chances were that before he was
into 2 per cent of the story, Pillai was going to go overboard, and who knew
what would happen after that. But it was too late now to say he was not
interested in telling the story and ask Pillai to stand up. That would certainly
damage their cordial relations. Oh, Mar Tommy! Tell me what to do! Shall I say
I’ve forgotten the beginning and the end?
He asked Pillai cautiously, ‘Is that how you always sit?’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, I sit like this when I’m witnessing something vitally
important. I call it the witness posture.’
Spider was flabbergasted. ‘You mean … your witnessing is done sitting
like this? But how?’
Considering the impossible locations of his witnessing, it seemed a miracle
to Spider. Oh, does he also hang people sitting in the lotus posture?
Pillai looked embarrassed. He said, ‘Sir, I’m sorry I gave you the wrong
impression. The lotus is my posture when I’m a listener-witness to something
momentous. With the lower half of the body locked, the spirit is in a better
position to rise up, Sir.’
Spider was rattled now. The spirit is to rise up! Are we back on the path of
disaster?
‘What happens when the spirit rises up?’ Spider asked tensely. ‘Is there a
limit as to how high it can go?’
‘Sir, height does not play a part here. The spirit rises to the occasion of
listening to something revolutionary, free from the interference of the nether
portions.’
‘Oh, that’s all,’ Spider said with relief.
‘Sir.’
‘Perhaps I should,’ Spider added thoughtfully, ‘learn the posture from you
so that I can improve the way I listen to my wife.’
Pillai replied, ‘Sir.’
 49
CONTEMPORARY THEATRE

Spider decided to tell the death-story standing up, in order to break the
authoritarian framework of one person seated on a chair and the other on the
floor. But mainly he hoped it would help him move in quickly if he saw any
signs of ecstasy in Pillai.
He began by saying that the event had taken place when he was about
eighteen and a vigorous young man, but not at all learned in Fiction, Maya, or
even plain Vedanta. Therefore, he was greatly handicapped in dealing with
reality. His father was a grassroots farmer and he was his father’s help, even as
he studied to be a modern man in a college in a nearby town.
One of his tasks was to take care of their stud bull, a brown, looming giant
called Tarzan, who was extremely popular among the cows in the neighbouring
areas. They liked him because his style was tough, yet full of sophisticated
insights, and the farmers liked him because he somehow produced more heifers
than bull calves. Looking back, Spider often wondered at how gender sensitive
even the unschooled farmers were in those days! They always rooted for the
female.
Spider’s job was to walk Tarzan along the long, winding village tracks to
the farms where the cow or cows waited, ensure Tarzan performed his pleasant
task, and bring him back, with the payment for the assignment safely in his
pocket. Spider always took the money out of sight of the bull because he didn’t
want the bull to feel that he was a sex slave. They were good friends and Spider
didn’t want to spoil their relationship. He knew Tarzan took him to be an
incorrigible do-gooder who guided him to some nice cows every other day.
While they walked the roads together, he lightly holding the rope and the
giant striding at his side, people in the markets along the way would call out
and ask which of the two was the stud. He dismissed the question with
contempt as he was a virgin, a fact the onlookers were not aware of.
Pillai opined that the middle class had always underestimated men’s
virginity, while women’s virginity was loaded with high expectations. He found
this intriguing.
Spider replied that after marrying Rosi, he had continued to feel
sentimental about his virginal days and sometimes even became morose about
having lost his virginity. Rosi had then pointed out that it was a problem of
category because Spider treated virginity as a sex-related issue. De-link it from
sex, she had told him, and you can claim it back in its pure form. He had done
so and immediately become cheerful.
Pillai said Madam had articulated a profound truth. He bowed his head
before her wisdom. He was certain she was a brahmachari and a seer.
Spider had no comment on the matter. But he couldn’t help wondering if
by referring to Rosi as a seer, Pillai meant a witness. In that case … wow! He
gulped and was lost in contemplation for a while.
He returned to the story. One day, he had taken what he thought was a
shortcut while coming back from a service visit to a cow some miles away. He
and Tarzan were walking along the unfamiliar path, relaxed, each absorbed in
his own thoughts. Tarzan let out a long snort followed by a small one, paused in
his steps, peed fluently, pawed the earth a couple of times, and started to walk
again. Spider felt good because he knew that meant Tarzan had finished his
pranayama. He always cleansed himself with pranayama, the art of pure breath,
after sex. He was now ready for the next assignment, if any.
Pillai said it seemed to him that Tarzan in his previous birth must have
been a holy sage who chose to spend a birth or two in the service of Mother
Cow, for karmic reasons.
Spider said he hadn’t thought of that, but it seemed plausible, in which
case he was honoured to have been of assistance to such a high personage. He
said he had recalled Tarzan’s habit of pranayama to Rosi, on their wedding
night, after sex. She had pointed out that pranayama was good for those who,
like the bull, did not feel sleepy after sex and were ready for the next stage of
action. If you were nodding off and at the same time trying to practise
pranayama, you might end up falling off the bed in a state of breathlessness, she
said. But Spider hadn’t heard her fully because he was already nodding off. She
had recounted the conversation next morning to refresh his memory and said
that while post-sex pranayama was a fine ideal, considering how fast Spider
nodded off, he didn’t seem suited to it. Also, she added for his future reference,
in view of her philosophical preoccupations, she couldn’t assure him of a sexual
opportunity every night. But, she said, that shouldn’t put a brake on Spider’s
enthusiasm because there were other significant possibilities in matrimony. For
example, together they could attempt to create contemporary theatre out of the
Collected Works of Kim II-Sung.
Pillai said, if he may be permitted to say so, Madam had captured the true
philosophy of matrimony on the very first night.
Spider replied dispassionately, ‘As is where is.’
Pillai gazed at him worshipfully.
Spider reverted to his reminiscences and said that as he and Tarzan
ambled along under the mild afternoon sun, he noticed a crowd at some
distance. When they got closer, he saw policemen, generator vans, camera teams,
sound recordists and light boys. Then he saw several film stars. A big crowd was
milling around everybody and everything. Spider had understood the situation
immediately. A film shoot was on.
Pillai looked at Spider and hesitantly lifted his hand, seeking permission to
intervene.
Spider was surprised. Oh! Does he want to call off the story already? Or
has he a moral position on movies?
He said, ‘I welcome your comments, Mr Pillai.’
Pillai readjusted the lotus posture to make himself more comfortable and
said that, as an avid watcher of movies, he found the present turning point in
the narrative gripping. A film shoot was bound to be fascinating.
Spider was filled with relief. He said ‘turning point’! Maya hasn’t re-
invaded!
Spider asked if he watched movies as a bat or a man.
Pillai said he watched them as a bat, hanging from the ceiling of the
theatre.
Spider was surprised. He said he never knew shape-shifting had such an
entertaining side to it. He asked if Pillai bought tickets for the shows.
Pillai said he did not. Considering that he did not occupy a seat, he
thought it was not unethical to not buy a ticket.
Spider agreed. He too did not like tickets—for anything. He added that in
any case, the movie house couldn’t charge Pillai because he watched the movie
upside down.
Pillai corrected him humbly to say that, as he’d had occasion to mention
earlier, bats saw everything normally even when they were upside down, being
gifted by nature in this matter.
Spider said that in that case, Pillai should have dropped a few coins in the
charity box, just to keep his conscience clear.
With a guilty expression, Pillai made a note in his diary and thanked
Spider.
 50
‘CUT!’

Spider returned to the memory of his encounter with enacted death. He said
Tarzan had snorted again, this time to indicate his mild worry about the
excessive number of human beings ahead. Spider patted him on his flank to
indicate the crowd had no bearing on their journey and there was nothing to
worry about. However, he was himself worried because he knew there was no
way he could pass a film shoot without taking a look. And that was going to
make him late and create some extra anxiety for his father.
His father always worried till Tarzan returned safely from his trips.
Perhaps he was afraid Tarzan would run away someday with one of the sexier
cows. Once, when the rains inordinately delayed their return from a service trip
and they got back around midnight, Spider found his father nervously waiting
at the village junction with a group of his friends. Father ran forward with open
arms on seeing them and Spider did the same, as a good son. But his father
didn’t seem to notice him. He rushed past Spider, straight to Tarzan, and
embraced him. Spider said that was a proud moment for him because his friend
was the star of the day.
Pillai said he would like to inform Spider that he himself was a regular
visitor to film shoots.
Spider enquired if he did this as a bat or a man.
Pillai replied that it was mostly as a man because that gave him an
intimate sense of the heat and dust that produced cinema. He added that
sometimes he also took the bat form. Then he abruptly stopped himself and
seemed to regret what he had just said.
Spider noticed his discomfiture and said that Pillai need not feel guilty if
he had been trying to enter the cinematic frame surreptitiously as a passing bat.
He understood such celluloid temptations. The camera entrapped you and you
were helpless. He invited Pillai to share the truth with him. He was, after all,
only a well-wisher.
Pillai said unhappily that he had taken the bat form not to enter the
frame but to witness the filming of intimate scenes, which was generally done
behind closed doors.
Spider was silent for a while. He then said he distinctly remembered
seeing a bat in a bedroom scene in a film and had thought it was very
unrealistic. Bats were not welcome in bedrooms, as far as he knew.
Pillai said he had always been careful not to reveal himself on such
occasions, film crews being very unpredictable, moody and given to violent
behaviour against intruders. But if he had indeed inadvertently entered a frame,
he was sorry.
Spider thought for a while and then wondered if perhaps the bedroom
scene he was thinking of was in a movie featuring Dracula, since that gentleman
was in the habit of visiting bedrooms in the shape of a bat.
Pillai brightened up and said that was perhaps the truth and he was very
glad the misunderstanding had been cleared up. He did not want Sir to think he
infiltrated film shoots to make uninvited cameo appearances.
Spider was not finished with the topic of bedroom shoots. Suddenly
finding himself filled with empathy for Pillai, he reflected aloud that Pillai must
possess tremendous resources of patience and fortitude. Else, how could he
devote long hours to watching a shoot with intimate scenes, when even a child
knew that it was all form without substance?
Pillai agreed it was absolutely true that sexual encounters in a film meant
for general consumption were nothing but a delusion. He, however, had a
different purpose while witnessing them. He was philosophically interested in
the deconstruction those activities underwent, as each scene was dissected by
the camera into shots. The resultant alienation was gripping.
Spider said the commonality between the two of them was amazing. He
too found gripping the way everything in a film shoot—crying, laughing, dying,
loving, killing—started on the order ‘Action!’ and stopped on ‘Cut!’ He
thought real life could learn something from that, although he could not
pinpoint exactly what that was.
Both remained in a contemplative mood for a while.
Spider now returned to the death-narrative, saying that he and Tarzan
came to a stop at a little distance from the crowd. There was a tree whose
outspread branches had lush grass growing under it. Spider led Tarzan there,
gave him a pat on his back to let him know he could have a short break and
some grazing, and another pat on his neck to denote that he should stay put
and not wander off.
Pillai said it was not surprising that Spider had become such an
extraordinary communicator. He was able to say so much with just two pats.
Spider said it was not so much his communicative power as Tarzan’s sheer
intelligence that allowed it. Even today, he mentioned Tarzan in the
‘Acknowledgements’ of every new book, as friend and benefactor. Tarzan was
sure to be in heaven, he mused, where he must be missing his work routine. Or,
who knows, maybe he does have work there, since God encourages sincere
work. He wondered, however, as to who would accompany Tarzan on his
service trips. It must be an angel, he surmised.
Pillai said that inasmuch as he had heard from reliable sources, heaven
was designed for retirement activities. The sort of service that Tarzan had
rendered was, in all probability, a closed chapter there.
Spider agreed, adding that, in any case, for Tarzan to find work, cows
needed to go to heaven too. He wasn’t sure how many of them made it in good
shape after all the child-bearing, milking, etc. He also wondered if Pillai knew
whether meals were included in the stay in heaven, and also places to graze.
Because Tarzan needed both to stay fit.
Pillai said that to the best of his knowledge, manna was the staple food in
heaven and it came free.
Spider said in that case, he was very sad for Tarzan. Because chances were
that manna, which seemed to be mere bland protein flakes, was not even a
tenth as tasty as plain grass and good cattle feed. Striking a personal note, he
said that if manna was indeed the only item on the menu, he would himself
simply keep out of heaven, unless Rosi insisted on going there in order to be
politically correct. He asked Pillai whether, in heaven, Jesus would help him to
get at least curried buttermilk and rice along with, if possible, a couple of
pappadams. Pillai said that for a literary giant like Sir, Jesus was bound to go
out of his way to help and arrange a special menu. But he was just not sure how
much of a say Jesus had in the running of the heavenly kitchen. Spider said in
that case, he would really have to keep his options with regard to heaven wide
open.
 51
THE SCENT OF SANDALWOOD

Spider continued his narrative of enacted death, plucked from the days of his
youth. He said he took the precaution of leaving Tarzan untied under the tree
because if there was one thing that vastly upset Tarzan, it was getting tied up in
strange places. It could make him irritated, violent and unruly. He was at his
best when nothing tied him down, not even cows.
Pillai said he could see Tarzan had a revolutionary side to him. His heart
loved freedom.
Spider thanked Pillai for the kind words about his friend. He said that he
had proceeded to the location of the shoot and wormed his way through the
pressing crowd to get a ringside view.
He said he could immediately see they were filming a grand funeral and
had put up a massive set. He marvelled at how realistically they had recreated a
traditional burning ground. There were a couple of smoking pyres under high
asbestos roofs. The ground was strewn with the debris of funerals—dead
flowers, faded wreaths, empty incense-stick packets, shards of broken pots,
crumpled newspapers, torn pieces of cloth, mud, dirty water, splinters of wood,
scattered rice and abandoned footwear. Spider could not help but mentally
commend the excellent work of the film’s art department.
Pillai requested pardon for intervening and said that dying took hardly a
second, but disposing of the body was a lengthy business. What would happen,
he had often wondered, if birds and beasts too insisted on having funerals?
Spider said be that as it may, there must have been at least a dozen
cameras at work, some moving on trolleys, some handheld, and a couple of
them on cranes. The crowd of mourners, ‘extras’ recruited for the job, was
standing around in clusters and talking in hushed tones. The actors doing the
roles of family members and relatives were rehearsing with admirable histrionic
skill, sobbing on each other’s shoulders, embracing other mourners with sad
looks and bursting into loud wails. An elderly woman fainted so credibly that
Spider wanted to clap his hands in appreciation. But from experience, he knew
that film crews discouraged such gestures. And the shoot was in full swing. He
was witnessing a multi-camera shoot for the first time and was impressed. No
one interfered with the actors. They just seemed to be living their parts while
the many cameras captured them wholesale.
Then he saw the centerpiece—a fresh, unlit pyre, made of what could pass
for chunks of sandalwood. He loved the scent of sandalwood and would have
liked to lift and put one of them to his nose and also check if it was original,
but his sense of film-shoot etiquette again intervened.
Pillai said Sir’s love for sandalwood was an astounding coincidence. Once,
when he had been flying to a late-night location, he was suddenly enveloped by
the wonderful scent of sandalwood. Then he realized someone was flying
alongside him. On a closer look, he recognized Jesus. The bewitching whiff of
sandalwood was coming from him. Jesus flew with him for a while and in reply
to his query, told him that he loved the perfume of sandalwood.
Spider asked whether Jesus was a habitual late-night flyer and where he
had been flying to at such an hour.
Pillai said apologetically that he hadn’t checked on this.
Spider then conveyed to Pillai his anxiety that being unmarried and young
—Jesus was hardly thirty-three—could make anyone reckless. He seemed to
need taking in hand a bit. Early to bed and early to rise was the best policy,
even at thirty-three.
Pillai said Sir had raised a genuine concern and he would communicate the
same to Jesus when he ran into him next. He added that he had enquired the
reason for Jesus’s love for sandalwood. Jesus had told him it reminded him of
Paradise, where he had been only once, it being a high-end, exclusive setup
beyond his reach. He had smuggled himself in as a buyer of dried, forbidden
fruits. There he found many beautiful groves of sandalwood trees, exuding the
promise of the magnificent perfume they had in them. That was when he saw
Eve standing under one of them, the hypnotic scent of sandalwood radiating
from her. He had been in love with sandalwood since then.
Spider glanced at the figurine of Adam and Eve on his table and said that
Jesus must have been horrendously embarrassed to run into a woman without
clothes in the middle of a forest. He wondered how he had tackled the delicate
situation.
 Pillai said Jesus didn’t refer to experiencing any such difficulty. And
chances were that Eve was clothed, since nudity had figured among the
problems in Paradise, leading to her and Adam’s eviction. She must have put on
a bikini at least when she returned.
Spider wondered if Adam had accompanied her.
Pillai said, in his humble opinion, Eve being endowed with a character that
displayed initiative, leadership and even a sense of adventure, it was possible
she had ventured out without Adam to seek better fortunes, now that Paradise
was a high-end destination.
Spider said he could see the point. He mused aloud that if Rosi, who had
similar characteristics, were to venture out like Eve had, he would be in deep
waters.
Pillai exclaimed that even a distant possibility didn’t exist for such a
development since, he was absolutely sure, Madam’s regard for Sir was of the
highest order.
Spider thanked Pillai.
Pillai added that, in his humble opinion, it must have been the overall
lyricism of the sight of a beautiful woman standing alone in a sandalwood grove,
exuding the enchanting scent of sandalwood, which made the perfume
especially memorable to Jesus, apart from the mysterious nature of the perfume
itself. He added that Jesus had then told him that he sometimes wished he had
died on a cross made of sandalwood. It would have been a perfumed death.
Spider said he was not surprised at Jesus’s impossible wish because such
an unrealistic approach was typical of him. Roman and Jewish politicians in
those days had been such penny-pinchers that even a baby knew they wouldn’t
spend one shekel on a sandalwood cross for a rootless preacher! Today, of
course, it would be a different matter. Jesus being the VIP that he has become,
he could ask for and get maybe a dozen sandalwood crosses with gold inlay
work, top to bottom.
Spider returned to his story and said the ‘dead body’, so to say, was kept
on the ground on a stretcher decked with flowers and hundreds of wreaths with
the names of mourners pinned to them on cards. From where he stood, Spider
couldn’t see the face of the actor playing dead because the art department had
piled such a mass of flowers around it. But he was pleasantly surprised to
discover that the ‘body’ was supposed to be that of a famous matinee idol
whom he adored. The condolence cards attached to the wreaths carried his
name, bidding him farewell in many endearing terms. Some wreaths carried his
photograph.
Spider uttered his name reverentially to Pillai.
Pillai seemed a little puzzled. He opened his mouth to say something, but
stopped himself.
Spider said he had now got the full picture. He had obviously wandered
into the making of a sensational movie—a revolutionary biopic about the real
matinee idol, in which he dies, as himself. And is cremated, as himself. What a
bold idea!
 52
EXTREME AVANT GARDE

Continuing the story of his experience of enacted death, as a movie-loving

young man, Spider said he was now determined that even if it meant his father
would have a heart attack from anxiety, he was going to get to the heart of this
extraordinary cinematic experiment. He thanked God for making him take the
shortcut and bringing him to this unique movie moment. In those days, he said,
he used to talk to God much oftener than now. And God too had been more
user-friendly.
Pillai said life had certainly got harder for all and God was no exception.
Spider returned to the story and said that in order to confirm his
conjecture about the path-breaking nature of the movie, he asked one of the
extras, a short, pot-bellied man dressed in rich and glittering clothes, if he knew
what the story of the film was. Spider was surprised at the speed with which
the man moved away, turning to look back at him a couple of times with an
expression of anxiety. It was clear that the story was a big secret and everyone
had been told to keep their mouths shut. Spider thought the pot-bellied man
had overdone the anxiety part. It was an innocent question after all.
Pillai said it was his very humble view that at a film shoot, everyone seems
to be on edge. He believed some kind of new spirituality was called for, to
provide solace to the people of the film world who, he believed, deserved the
best.
Spider said it was an interesting thought and he would check with Rosi on
it. Perhaps she could start a new religion for them. If enough fans joined in, it
could become a record-breaking religion. Only, a suitable God would have to be
identified. Oh, if only there was a reliable manpower agency to recruit Gods!
Money should be no problem since film stars were involved.
He came back to the story and said that he stood in the middle of all that
commotion for a while, appreciating the sheer grit of the actor who had been
lying motionless for God knows how long and breathing so minimally that
Spider couldn’t spot any movement, however hard he tried. To take a good look
at the man, he crept closer through the suffocating crowd and then almost
screamed with amazement. It was none other than the matinee idol himself
who was enacting his own death! This was stupendous! He was the lead actor in
a biopic about himself—and his death and cremation!
Pillai said Sir’s autobiographical vignette was a profound experiential
quest that wove overlapping orbits of subjective perception, deconstructing
death and elevating it to the level of cinematic Maya. It was also a gripping
example of how the life of a genius like Sir was invariably at odds with reality.
A red alert flashed in Spider’s head. Oh, have I been overexciting Pillai
and, as a result, he has begun to show ecstatic tendencies again? The man is
speaking a strange language which could only have been dictated by Maya.
Spider prayed: Oh, Mar Tommy, please handle him!
Praying made him feel better and he returned to the events of the shoot.
He said he couldn’t believe the superstar hadn’t found a dupe to do this boring
role of a dead body. He was so overwhelmed by admiration that he wanted to
grab the star’s hand and shake it. But he restrained himself, being in the know
of film-location discipline.
Pillai said he marvelled at the extraordinary resources of self-discipline Sir
possessed.
Spider thanked Pillai.
He said he read the names of all the famous people and eminent
institutions inscribed on the condolence cards. The film’s art department had
created a veritable grand-list of all those who mattered in the many spheres of
society. Superstars, big producers, singers, writers, political leaders and other
celebrities stood in small groups, looking sad and talking in hushed tones. If
they laughed, they covered their mouths with one hand, giving due respect to
the dead, as done in real life. Spider feasted his eyes on them. Suddenly he
understood why they were there. They were, of course, making a guest
appearance at the ‘funeral’, for the matinee idol’s sake! Good heavens! He was
so powerful! So influential! Yet he lay on a stretcher on the ground, amidst all
the heat and dust, with humility and patience. That was true artistic dedication.
Could he have fallen asleep, Spider wondered. Oh, no! How can a true artist fall
asleep when he is faking death?
Pillai pulled out his pen and diary and scribbled.
 Then he looked at Spider with adulatory eyes and said that he had been
transported to another world by Sir’s amazing observations on art and death.
Spider was shattered. Transported to another world! The story hadn’t
even reached the midway mark and Pillai was already slipping away! He
cautiously asked Pillai if he wished to stand up or change shape or eat some
nuts or insects, so that he would be refreshed.
Pillai said the raw story of death emanating from the great writer’s lips
was such a powerful experience that he didn’t want to move his body till it was
over, for fear of breaking the magic.
Spider quickly assessed the time it would take him to reach Pillai and grab
him in case he slipped into ecstasy.
Then he continued his story.
Suddenly, as one who had witnessed several shoots, Spider had a doubt.
Was this, by any chance, a rehearsal he was witnessing? If so, it was going to be
a long time before they came to the final ‘takes’. And that was going to
complicate matters vis-à-vis his father, and also Tarzan.
Therefore, in a hushed voice, Spider asked the extra who stood next to
him whether a rehearsal was on or a ‘take’. The extra did not seem to
understand the question. He was playing the role of a rich guy and wore silk
and diamonds and gold. He looked very important. In fact, Spider thought he
looked like a famous underworld don. Spider repeated the question in a louder
voice since it seemed the extra hadn’t heard, at which the extra appeared upset,
as also several others standing nearby, who looked like his bodyguards. They all
stared at Spider in an unfriendly manner. He was seeing so many quick-to-be-
displeased people at a shoot for the first time. Here he was, making a harmless
query, and they were behaving as if the heavens had fallen! As a peaceable man
and one who respected the superstar who was so committed to his art, he
moved away to another vantage point. He remained puzzled however, by a
peculiar aspect of this path-breaking film: there was no director holding a
megaphone and shouting ‘Action!’ and ‘Cut!’ That was a bit disappointing
because, as he had mentioned, he enjoyed the way the movie camera cut life
into user-friendly slices. Maybe this was an extreme avant garde film which had
no director and the cameras shot the film on their own!
 53
THE MOMENT OF ALIENATION

To give himself a short break from the burning story, Spider walked to the
window and stood a while looking at the distant mountains, thinking about the
Valley of Lost Songs hidden among them.
Refreshed, he returned to the story. The actor doing the priest’s role had
come forward and begun enacting the last rites. The main players and extras
moved to take up positions around the ‘body’ on the ground. At that moment,
in a daring move, he stepped forward and joined them. Spider said that was
why he had hinted to Pillai that he knew the temptations of the camera. He just
couldn’t help making that move. It was as if an invisible force dragged him. It
had something to do with the deep-seated soul of the camera. He said the
camera was never satisfied with the things it routinely captured, it was greedy
for more once it was on. It wanted to capture everyone and everything and
hoard it all.
Pillai said he wondered if the cameras were experiencing eschatological
anxiety, because once the world ended, they would have nothing to shoot. So
they were shooting everything before the End of Days.
Spider agreed and said eschatological dread was a terrible thing. He felt it
if he was trapped in a loo with a jammed door. In the instance of a camera,
some sort of a secret force that lurked inside its psyche, eschatological or
otherwise, seemed to pull you into the frame if you happened to be nearby.
He now stood next to the ‘body’ of the matinee idol, enacting the role of a
mourner by adopting a simple technique: staring into the distance with
unseeing eyes as if blinded by sorrow, philosophically accepting the inevitable.
Standing there, his mind wandered to what Tarzan might be doing out there
under the tree. He would be grazing peacefully and perhaps chewing on a
fantasy about a young cow awaiting her first impregnation.
 The enactment of the last rituals was long and tiresome, making Spider
wonder if the director, if there was one, wasn’t going too far to achieve realism.
He waited patiently. Then he saw the bier being lifted up by a group of people,
including the celebrities playing cameo parts, to move it to the pyre. In a well-
calibrated and swift action, he took hold of a corner of the bier, though he had
to jostle a bit and one or two people looked at him in an unfriendly manner.
But the indomitable will of the camera made him hang on.
The matinee idol was rather heavy. Spider thought he certainly needed to
watch his weight if he wanted to keep his youthful looks. He must be enjoying
this ride, being carried by so many VIPs, haha! Spider was filled with a great
excitement when he realized that he was actually playing a part in the grand
finale of a trend-changing film destined to win laurels all over the world. Highly
emotional scenes were being enacted all around him, the actors performing so
well that Spider almost lost his own emotional balance and felt like crying. He
only hoped Tarzan was still grazing or fantasizing, and not worrying about him,
and that he would remain calm till this climactic scene was over.
Spider said they put the bier down next to the pyre. He could see that
some of the actors, extras and even some VIPs were taking a good look at him.
They seemed puzzled. In fact, one of the actors pulled him to one side
somewhat harshly and asked him who he was. Before any conversation could
take place, the body was placed upon the pyre and the questioning actor turned
his attention there.
In the midst of heartbreaking scenes movingly performed by the many
artistes, the matinee idol lay calmly upon the pyre. It was remarkable how the
man still held on to the dead-body look. Now Spider knew that the time had
come for the undercover director to make his appearance. Before enacting the
lighting of the pyre, the director was sure to shout ‘Cut!’ and the idol would get
up with a big smile, wave to his fans and friends, stretch his numb limbs and
ask for a hot cup of tea. That was the moment Spider was waiting for—the
moment of alienation. He thanked the camera in all earnestness for bringing
him so close to the heart of the action in such a great movie. When the matinee
idol got up from the pyre, Spider was going to shake his hand and tell him how
wonderfully he had performed.
But what happened was most unexpected. No one said ‘Cut!’, the matinee
idol was covered with sandalwood blocks from head to foot, the pyre was
drenched with oil, and the artiste playing the role of the idol’s son lit the pyre.
At first Spider thought the fire was a cinematic illusion and would not burn
anything. But when the heat of the flames hit him, he grew puzzled. He made
another deduction: perhaps the heat was part of the illusion. It was then that he
saw, through the gaps between the sandal woodblocks, the matinee idol’s head
burning and, as happened to Mr Hooper, his lips and the whole face melting
and coming apart. That seemed to be the work of a real fire.
Now the whole truth hit Spider and he stood reeling under the blow.
Gosh! He should have seen through the trick long back! Oh, how he had been
fooled! They were burning a dummy! Spider ticked himself off for being such a
sucker. But it was also a learning experience. He needed to be much more wary
at shoots and not get taken in by the make-believe. Imagine! I took a silly
dummy for the matinee idol and wanted to shake his hand!
 54
ENTRENCHED STRESS

For a while Spider was silent, reliving the trauma of that moment of shock at
the film shoot. Then he commented that while innocence was praiseworthy in
itself, it could take you for a ride if you weren’t smart enough to know you
were innocent. In other words, you had to be both innocent and not-so-
innocent in order to handle reality.
Pillai hurriedly pulled out his diary and made notes.
Spider then returned to his memories and said that as he stood watching
the dummy burn, he heard a commotion at the back. He looked over his
shoulder to see what the noise was about. Were they overdoing the death-
drama to the extent of making it sensationally populist? Was an enacted riot on
the cards? But he was surprised to see Tarzan striding towards him through the
crowd of actors, extras and celebrities, his giant form cleaving a path, with some
among the crowd getting pushed out of his way and even falling down. His walk
was resolute, steady and stately, with an occasional shake of his powerful head.
As he made his way to the ringside where the burning was in progress, a few
cameras and cameramen were thrown to the ground and a couple of VIPs
almost got consigned to the flames. Spider was upset that Tarzan had taken this
precipitate decision to come looking for him. But it was also obvious he had
done so because he had either got bored or wanted to go home and eat home-
food. It was also possible he wanted to take a peek at the climactic scene. He
couldn’t be blamed.
Tarzan, now that he had found Spider, stood gazing at him lovingly and
devotedly, like the true friend he was. But among the VIPs and artistes, he
seemed to have created considerable unrest. Not caring a whit for their
tantrums, he moved closer and placed his chin affectionately on Spider’s
shoulder. Then he did something Spider wished he hadn’t, because it seemed to
aggravate the unhappiness of the filming team, the celebrities and VIPs. Tarzan
had apparently been doing pranayama as he waited for Spider and now he peed
at length and in abundance, and followed it up by dropping a few loads of
steaming dung. Then he looked at Spider to check if they shouldn’t be going
home and not keep Father waiting.
Spider quickly decided he shouldn’t keep Tarzan under the gaze of so
many cameras. What if they pulled him into their all-powerful circle of desire?
Tarzan might decide to perform his favourite task only for the camera for the
rest of his life. So Spider stepped away from the pyre, which was now flaming
high, and apologized to everyone for the spontaneous acts of Tarzan. Striking a
conciliatory and informal note, he added the light-hearted comment that he
had been really taken in by the dummy on the pyre, hahahaha!
At this remark, there were more angry outbursts from the crowd and even
as Tarzan and he walked away with quiet dignity, they seemed to be getting
restive and building up to a violent mood. Spider said he forgave them because
he knew how stressed out they all were. Cinema, at the end of the day, was the
product of much entrenched stress and endemic anxiety. It needed to be
forgiven at all times.
Pillai said his respect for cinema only increased when he thought about its
many adversities.
Pillai seemed to be silently debating something. Then he said, ‘Sir … there
appears to be an amazing coincidence in the story of your profound
confrontation with enacted death.’
Spider said he loved coincidences. They made life so much easier and
simpler. They were invariably user-friendly.
Pillai said, ‘Sir, I distinctly remember reading reports of the superstar’s
tragic and premature death, and the massive funeral. Believe it or not, Sir, they
all said the funeral was somewhat marred by the chaos that ensued when a bull
suddenly wandered in.’
Spider couldn’t hide his astonishment. Oh, what an extraordinary
coincidence! Imagine, there was a bull at the superstar’s real funeral too! What
can one say? Oh, Maya! Strange are your ways!
He said, ‘I marvel at this as a striking instance of life following in the
footsteps of art. From enacted death to the real! Wow!’
Pillai frantically made notes.
Spider was happy his story had spontaneously reached a transcendental
climax. Oh, thank you, Mar Tommy! Sometimes you are brilliant!
 He now asked Pillai, ‘Mr Pillai, as a connoisseur of death-literature, how
does my story strike you? I know it’s not martyr class, but does it at least stand
up to accepted yardsticks of the genre?’
Astonishment and joy filled Pillai’s face. He exclaimed, ‘Sir, never in my
most daring dreams did I think that a genius of your eminence would seek my
humble opinion on his story—a story plucked from his own life! I can only say
that the masterly account of your experience of enacted death was so
overpowering that there were a few times when I thought I was undergoing out-
of-the-body experiences of an advanced nature. I bow my head before you, Sir!’
Spider thought his heart would stop. What! He was close to an out-of-the-
body-experience? Oh, I’m such a fool! I nearly lost everything with my reckless
storytelling! By now the man could have been in Andromeda galaxy having his
dinner! Oh, when will I stop telling stories without applying my mind to the
consequences?
 55
SOMEONE ELSE

Later in the evening, in front of the mirror, Spider confronted the trauma of an
exceptionally difficult choice. Should he dye his hair for a photo shoot that was
coming up? The number of his grey hairs appeared to be around 126. They did
not have a strong presence, but perhaps it was better to deal with them with an
iron hand. He stood there, bewildered and in agony. Oh, he cried to himself,
can’t someone else dye the hair instead of me? Why should it always have to be
me? It took him a few minutes to pacify his agitated soul. He didn’t want to
discuss the matter with Rosi because he knew her view: Humans don’t need
hair on their head at all. Hair poach on the brain for their self-centered and
fashionable growth needs and deprive people of a lot of braininess they could
put to good use. And dyeing makes hair more deep-rooted in their exploitative
agenda.
The following morning, before starting work, he told Pillai, ‘Mr Pillai, you
are a special person who witnesses both life and death in the raw. I would like
to seek your opinion on an issue that has come to haunt me. I am talking of
alternatives to myself. For example, can’t someone else dye the hair instead of
me? Can’t someone else shave and bathe for me? Or make love? Or wear
clothes? Brush teeth and clip nails? Can’t someone else write for me? Can’t
someone else live and die in my place and leave me to do my own thing? Of
course, she or he should be paid handsomely for the service, since we live in a
monetary economy. Why am I myself doing all the thinking, worrying and
living? Is existence so merciless? Isn’t there a way out?’
Spider’s emotional outburst seemed to animate Pillai. He said, ‘Sir, the
poignant point you make reminds me of an incident in my professional life that
may go some way towards answering your question. Sometime back, I was about
to lower the black hood over the head of a young man. Suddenly he looked me
in the eye and asked, “Friend, will you listen to something I wish to say?” I
silently sought the permission of the officer in charge of the execution, who
happened to be my friend. Then I nodded.
‘He said, “Thank you. I am not asking to be saved. I just want to tell my
story to someone who will listen for a moment. It was from newspapers and
television reports that I heard about the crime I am supposed to have
committed. I was a loyal consumer of news. I used to hang on to every word the
reporters wrote, the editorials propounded and the anchors uttered. That was
before they picked me as the guilty one. They put me on trial on their pages and
in their bulletins, celebrated my arrest, cheered my death sentence and most
probably will, after my hanging, produce features and conduct debates and talk
shows on the pros and cons of the death penalty. I merely wonder at this
moment: Why am I, an innocent man, here at the gallows? Why isn’t it someone
else? But the newsmakers chose me. So did the judge, along with them.” Then
he smiled and told me, “Maybe, who knows, I am someone else. That could be,
couldn’t it?” ’
‘What did you do then?’ Spider asked.
He was sure Pillai had refused to hang the young man, rung up the owners
of the newspapers and channels and their editors and requested them to reverse
the cycle of events that had brought an innocent man to the gallows.
But Pillai said he had told the young man he believed him and was very
sorry he was hanging an innocent man and then, with trembling hands, he hung
him. When his body was taken down, Pillai noticed the young man’s last smile
had remained on his lips, despite the agony of death. He said his heart told him
that the young man had escaped the futility of his death through that lingering
smile.
Spider was worried. He asked Pillai how this sad event answered his
original question. He hoped Pillai wasn’t going to come up with another
macabre answer. Oh, shall I close my ears?
Pillai said, in his humble opinion, Sir was only masquerading. Sir knew the
answer. Sir was, as the young man had said about himself, somebody else,
shrouded in a great mystery.
Spider wasn’t convinced. He sat staring into the distance moodily.
Pillai looked at Spider anxiously and expressed his readiness to start work
on the essay. He stood gazing out the window, awaiting Spider’s nod.
But Spider was unable to extricate himself from the grip of the question
that had haunted him from the previous day. He felt an urgent need to pursue
it till he got some sort of a lead on it. Therefore, despite the fact that Pillai was
waiting to start work, he decided to share with him an incident in which his
friend had been transformed into someone else for a while.
Breaking Pillai’s reverie, he said, ‘Mr Pillai, having listened to your brief
and focused account of the terminal experience of being someone else, I am
tempted, despite the fact that the essay is urgently awaiting us, to carry the
discussion a little further by telling you about my first exposure to the
phenomenon of being someone else. Would you care to hear it? It may prompt
you to make further comments on the matter, which may throw further light
upon the subject. Thereafter we could return to the essay and take it forward.’
Pillai exclaimed joyfully that he could not believe his ears and he was the
most fortunate man on earth. Luck was shining on him for a second time!
He was about to sit down on the floor to get into the lotus position when
Spider, with a look of worry, told him, ‘Mr Pillai, I think the story is so short it
doesn’t call for your sitting down. Of course, you are free to do so if you feel
like it.’
Pillai said in that case he would stand.
Spider began to recall the experience by saying that one day, he was
having a drink with his friend, who was a famous philosopher.
Pillai said admiringly that Sir was blessed to have such a wonderful circle
of philosophers around him.
Spider thought Pillai’s exclamation was too early because the story had
just opened. Yet, the sincerity was evident. He thanked Pillai.
Pillai added that he had heard that philosophers drink alcohol because it
puts them into a mode of perception that blurs reality in a significant manner.
In that blur, Maya sometimes loosens its grip.
Spider continued the story by saying that, be that as it may, soon they had
several drinks and the philosopher began to narrate stories from his life that
were imbued with a moral.
Pillai looked fascinated and seemed tempted to sit down, but he held
himself back. Joyfully, he said he loved stories with a moral. They uplifted and
transported the listener to a higher plane.
An alarm went off in Spider’s head. Uplifted and transported the
listener! Oh, keep away from all stories with a moral! Is this story a trap of my
own making?
He said emphatically, ‘Be that as it may, the story I am going to tell you
does not have a moral.’
 Pillai said that was all the more wonderful because the absence of a moral
brought into sharp focus the missing moral.
Spider could see that he had trapped himself in a big way. But he bravely
decided to keep going and cross the bridge when he came to it.
At this point, he could not but pause for a moment to congratulate
himself. Cross the bridge when he came to it. Oh, what a lovely phrase! How
do I keep inventing these sparkling idioms every now and then, from nothing?
Thank you, Mar Tommy, for keeping me on my toes!
He returned to the story and said that the philosopher asked him all of a
sudden, ‘Hey, do you know what my wife is doing right now?’
Spider offered him the suggestion that she must be watching television or
attending to aspects of her general well being.
Pillai said that if he may be permitted to say so, it was a sober and logical
answer, and he wished to congratulate Sir for it.
Spider accepted the congratulations with thanks.
He said the philosopher vehemently disagreed with his view. The
philosopher said his wife was at this moment sleeping with his friend, the
editor of a literary journal.
It so happened the editor was Spider’s friend too.
Spider looked at his watch and found it was too early for active and
healthy adults to go to sleep. He commented that it was hardly sleeping time—
just past 9 p.m. Only babies slept then.
The philosopher said Spider was a stupid man. Everyone knew his wife
and the editor were sleeping together, which, even a baby knew, meant they
were making love.
Spider told him that in his opinion, it was wrong to describe lovemaking
as sleeping with someone. You slept after making love. How could anyone sleep
and make love simultaneously? That would be more like sleepwalking.
 56
THE COPYRIGHT ACT

Spider eagerly awaited the philosopher’s response to his statement about

sleeping versus lovemaking. It seemed like a great topic to tear into.
But the philosopher seemed to be in no mood for a debate. He said he was
not interested in Spider’s theoretical constructs. He merely wished to say that
his wife was right now engaged in making love to the editor, or vice versa. He
was merely pointing to a detail of life as it was lived because he happened to be
a philosopher.
Spider didn’t know if he should say he was pleased to hear they were
making love, or sad. So he only said, ‘Oh, that’s great!’ As an afterthought, he
enquired if the lovemaking had something to do with the freedom of the press,
since an editor was in the picture.
The philosopher said Spider was a stupid man. He finished his sixth drink
and asked Spider to pour another.
Spider poured him a drink. The philosopher drank it in one gulp, was
absorbed in thought for a while and then asked, ‘Hey, do you know what my
wife is doing right now?’
This time Spider knew the right answer. He said she was sleeping with the
philosopher’s friend, the editor.
‘How do you know?’ the philosopher asked in surprise.
Spider took the safe path and said, so he had heard.
The philosopher said, ‘So even you have heard!’
Spider agreed.
The philosopher was lost in thought again. Then he said, ‘That’s bad! That
means it’s all over the place.’
He wept for a while before asking for his eighth drink. Spider poured
himself his sixth.
 Then the philosopher asked, ‘Hello, do you know what my wife and your
friend the editor are doing right now?’
Spider didn’t want to be caught on the wrong foot. The philosopher
seemed to have become moodier. He therefore replied cautiously that they were
perhaps dreaming. His reasoning was that if they had been sleeping together
thirty minutes back, by now they must be dreaming, unless they suffered from
insomnia. For the sake of clarity, he pointed out that the editor was not only his
friend but also the philosopher’s.
The philosopher said Spider was an idiotic man. Because even a baby knew
his wife and the editor were screwing and not dreaming.
Spider didn’t know if he should say that was good or bad. So he said that
was out of this world.
The philosopher wept again. Then he said, ‘I want to pee.’
Spider led him to the toilet. The philosopher lurched as he walked. Spider
merely faltered.
Leaving the philosopher in the toilet, Spider returned to his seat. He let
his mind wander to the scene of the philosopher’s wife and the editor making
love, and felt sad. She was a beautiful woman. And it had taken so long for him
to discover she was all right with screwing someone other than the philosopher.
Oh, too late!
There was no sign of the philosopher, so Spider went in search of him. He
found him standing over the commode, frozen in peeing mode. His hands hung
limply on either side and his pants were still firmly zipped.
Spider wondered if the philosopher had died and didn’t know it and
continued to want to pee despite being dead.
Cautiously he went closer and examined the philosopher.
His eyes were open and he was singing a sad song that Spider knew. Spider
listened to it and could not but agree that he had got the song right overall. But
he had introduced an element of whining and wailing into it. He was spreading
the song thin.
Spider was about to ask him why he was not peeing, when he noticed that
the philosopher’s fly was dripping in an intermittent fashion. A few drops fell,
one behind the other; sometimes they waited before dripping down. Sometimes
there was a short stream. And it was falling not into the commode but upon the
philosopher’s feet and spilling on to the floor. Then Spider noticed that the
insides of the philosopher’s pants were wet all the way down.
Spider immediately understood the problem. The philosopher was not
being attentive to the practicalities of peeing. Instead, he was engrossed in the
song. Spider wished to point out this anomaly to him and, if need be, unzip his
fly and help him pee into the commode. But on second thoughts, he decided
against it.
What if the philosopher misconstrued his actions as a sexual advance? If
he was philosophically anti-homosexual, he was bound to be acrimonious and if
pro-homosexual, Spider might find himself in an ambiguous situation.
Pillai said, if he may be permitted to add a humble thought, Sir was
absolutely right in desisting because more than being construed to be gay,
which in itself was not a problem, it was a challenging situation in a different
sense. Because after the philosopher had peed, Sir would have had to put his
member back in the underwear and zip the fly. If the member was caught in the
zip by some misfortune, there would be much agony and angst and Sir was
bound to be chastised by the philosopher.
Spider had a question. What did ‘member’ stand for? He only knew about
members of the Legislative Assembly and of the Parliament. How come they
were suddenly in this scenario?
Pillai said ‘member’ was another euphemism for the male reproductive
instrument which Sir described by the wonderful euphemism ‘gender’.
Spider thanked him for this refreshing and useful piece of information.
‘Member’ was certainly more politically empowering than ‘gender’.
Pillai said he would like to add another thought, if Sir would permit.
Spider said he believed in complete freedom of expression, subject to the
Indian Copyright Act.
Pillai said, as a humble student of human nature, his impression was that
the philosopher was passing urine into his pants not because he was engrossed
in the song but because he couldn’t stop thinking about his wife, who was
engaged in sexual intercourse with his friend the editor. In his humble opinion,
that powerful thought had rendered the philosopher absent-minded with
regard to the practical steps of passing urine and made him, as Sir had
colloquially described it, pee into his pants.
Spider thanked Pillai for this timely observation. His own reconsidered
view was that the philosopher had peed into his pants because he had
momentarily escaped present reality by reverting to his childhood, a stage of life
in which one is free to pee everywhere and upon or into anything. It was a
philosophical declaration of Freedom Reloaded.
Pillai pulled out his notebook and hurriedly scribbled in it.
 Spider returned to the story by saying that it seemed to him that the only
way out was to point out to the philosopher the bare facts. Therefore he tapped
the philosopher on his shoulder and said, ‘Watch out! You are peeing into your
pants.’
The philosopher took no notice of him and kept singing and peeing. Spider
tapped him again and repeated his message.
The philosopher stopped singing and asked Spider, ‘Who are you?’ Spider
told him his name.
The philosopher said he had never heard the name before and asked him
why he was watching him pee. Was he a predator?
 57
THE EDITORIAL

Spider paused in his narration for a few moments, as if reliving those profound
moments of his first confrontation with the phenomenon of being Someone Else
had fatigued him.
Then he continued his narration.
Spider replied to the philosopher that he had only vague plans to be a
predator as he wished to make a proper study of the other options available to
him as a member of the middle class. Right now, he was in the toilet to fetch
the philosopher.
‘Fetch me?’ exclaimed the philosopher. ‘This is outrageous! Can’t you see
I’m working?’
Spider was pleasantly surprised. Oh, Mar Tommy! Finally, peeing has been
classified as work. Long live the Revolution!
The philosopher asked Spider if he had any clue who he was talking to
right now.
Spider mentioned the philosopher’s name and added his address as
reinforcement.
The philosopher said he didn’t know who Spider was, but it was clear he
was a stupid man. Because even a babe in arms knew that he, namely the
person Spider was talking to, was the well-known editor of a literary journal
and it was a shame that Spider, whoever he was, didn’t know that. He simply
was not the philosopher Spider was looking for, whoever he was.
Then he told Spider, ‘Can’t you see I’m busy writing the editorial? Leave
the room immediately or I’ll call the police!’
Spider told Pillai that he immediately left the toilet because he had no
desire to meet the police. But he was very unhappy that the philosopher had
equated writing editorials with peeing into one’s pants. There was something
wrong with that, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. To ameliorate his
disquiet, he had one more drink. When he returned after a while to check on
the philosopher’s condition, he found him slumped on the floor, fast asleep, his
head resting on the commode. But he had managed to take his—Spider decided
to use Pillai’s political terminology—member out of his fly.
It was past midnight when, with much difficulty, Spider took the
philosopher, who had become entirely someone else, home in a taxi. He and the
driver carried him to the door, sat him in the veranda against the wall in a
vertical position, rang the bell and left hurriedly. Spider felt a little shy about
meeting his wife.
Pillai said he hoped the philosopher had gained admission to the house
and that his wife was kind to him and he had got a good night’s sleep.
Spider said he understood the philosopher did gain admission to the
house, from discreet enquiries he had made. The rest was a grey area. Then he
asked cunningly, ‘Considering everything, shall we say the philosopher’s wife
was a compassionate woman?’ He felt good because he had succeeded in linking
the story in a spontaneous manner to the essay. A story must pay for its keep!
Pillai said he fully agreed with Sir’s assessment of the lady, even though he
had never met her.
Spider threw a quick, searching look at Pillai. I wonder!
Spider concluded by saying that this was how he had discovered that it
was possible for a person to be someone else at certain times. None other than a
famous philosopher had instilled the lesson in him, although inadvertently. But
he’d never had an opportunity to become someone else and it hurt him every
now and then, like today.
Then it occurred to Spider that as a matter of fact, Pillai was someone else
most of the time. He was a bat, a bird and God knows what else.
He mentioned this to Pillai and asked what he felt about such an
existence, where you didn’t know who you were half the time.
Pillai said that irrespective of the many hassles it posed, he felt rewarded.
Spider asked him if he wished to thank God for that. Pillai said that most
probably, God herself was someone else.
Spider congratulated Pillai for this insight and said that in a crunch, Pillai
could make a decent living as a theologian.
Pillai looked as if he had been bestowed immortality. Before Spider could
stop him, he had rushed forward and touched his feet.
Spider understood: Theology is his other weakness. I seem to have given
him a morale booster, and I’m sure it’s going to tell on his performance today.
Oh, the essay is going to fly!
But, all of a sudden, Pillai seemed to be somewhere else. His eyes
wandered and he looked lost. He moved to the window and stood gazing out.
Spider’s joy vanished. Oh, what has happened? Has my account of the
peeing philosopher induced in him a similar state of mind? What shall I do?
Spider watched him for a while and then, unable to endure the stress,
took a pen and tapped it loudly on the sandstone head of Adam. When Pillai
did not react, he switched to Satan and hit harder. Pillai came to with a start.
He said apologetically, ‘Oh, please forgive me, Sir, for being distracted.
Your masterly description of the film shoot with its admixture of death, cinema
and illusion has been haunting me.’
Spider was shattered. Oh! What have I done!
Pillai continued, ‘Sir, your magnificent narrative made me recall a dream
I’ve been carrying in my head for years.’
Spider’s unhappiness deepened. The essay is waiting, but here we go,
rerouting to a dream.
He couldn’t resist checking it out, though. Could it be a wet dream, for
example? Or, better still, a wetmare?
‘What sort of a dream is it?’ he asked cautiously. ‘Does it recur regularly?
Does it have a nude jellyfish in it? Or a cat with green whiskers and diarrhea?’
Rosi had given him a beginner’s orientation to the interpretation of
dreams, even though he never flaunted his occult knowledge.
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘I apologize for misleading you. I was referring to a film
project I’ve been dreaming about for a long time.’
Spider immediately saw the lurking danger. A film project! Both he and
Pillai were sitting ducks for the wily temptations of cinema and its cameras.
There was every possibility that both would be sucked into its enigmatic web of
desire and the essay would be forgotten. But he couldn’t help probing the
matter further. He steeled himself to be vigilant and not let go of the true goal,
which was the essay.
He asked, ‘So, Mr Pillai, who do you want to be in cinema? A producer?
An actor? Singer? Cinematographer? Director?’
‘Or,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘a bird or a bat?’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, I am ashamed to even mention my project in the presence
of a genius whose many books have been filmed.’
Spider was impressed. He is so impeccably well spoken!
 He said heartily, ‘No problem at all. Speak freely. We live in a democracy,
as far as I know.’
 58
GODS IN PROXIMITY

Having received Spider’s assent to present his dream project for a movie, Pillai
took a deep breath, turned his gaze upward for a moment, cleared his throat
and said in a deep and penetrating voice, ‘Sir, I have a story that I believe could
be a runaway hit as a film.’
A runaway hit! Spider could almost guess what it was going to be. He
asked pleasantly, ‘Can I anticipate the title?’
Pillai was awestruck. He stammered, ‘Sir! … Oh, it is my extraordinary
good fortune!’
Spider declared in a dramatic voice: ‘I, Voyeur! The Sensational Memoirs
of a Flying Witness!’
He added, ‘You could consider replacing “Sensational” with
“Uncensored”. ’
Pillai pulled out his notebook and scribbled, pausing in between to ask,
‘Sir, please excuse me, is there an exclamation mark after “Witness”?’
Spider said he could not say, but certainly the exclamation mark was
known to be a market-friendly item.
Pillai pocketed his notebook and said in a despairing voice, ‘Oh, Sir, it’s
such a magnificent title! How I wish I had a story to suit it. When I become
adept at the art of storytelling, I am going to tailor a film story to suit the
magical title you created so instantly.’
Spider said he also knew a young actor of proven calibre, the daughter of a
thespian, who could feature in the film.
Pillai wondered if a young lady of contemporary make would be ready to
take on the kind of spiritual risks the story he had in mind might expose her to.
Spider said that was a detail to be examined, but the said actor’s mother
had a strong will. And the daughter had strong legs—he stopped himself from
adding that they were somewhat hirsute.
Pillai’s eyes drifted toward the mountains as he asked, ‘Sir, with your
kind permission, may I now recapitulate the story of my dream film project?’
Spider asked if he would be reading out the screenplay. Pillai replied that
it was only the bare story, also known as a one-liner. He would speak from
memory.
‘Sir,’ he said, ‘the story I have in mind is macabre, but every word of it is
true. It contains terror, horror, pathos and salvation.’
Spider asked if these elements came in that order. For, he had always felt
salvation need not necessarily be the end-piece in a story. Why not begin with
salvation and have terror, horror, etc., follow?
Pillai said that was an amazing possibility and made a note in his diary in
large letters.
He then stated that the events of the story had taken place in one of his
previous births.
Spider was disappointed. He was doubtful whether events from previous
births could make a hit film in the present birth. Given present-day audience
preferences, the best chance of a previous-birth story becoming a hit was in the
previous birth itself.
Pillai made a note of this and said apologetically that in his next attempt
he would focus on the ongoing birth.
Spider said one needed to be very careful about the birth sector because,
in no time, the present birth would become the previous birth. And there
always was much confusion and dithering then. The transmigration sector was a
grey zone, full of unexpected turns.
Pillai appreciated this new information and continued, ‘Sir, in the
previous birth in which these events took place, I was a frog.’
Spider barely managed to hide his disgust. Hoo! A frog! That green,
spotted, creepy thing that goes flip-flop and scares the wits out of you on a
rainy day!
However, he said politely, ‘In that case, please make a note of Disney
Studios.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ Pillai said and made a note in his diary. ‘My story begins
when a snake catches me.’
Spider shivered. Oh! Is this hit-film material? Or am I out of touch with
contemporary cinema? Is it usually so violent from the very first frame?
He said encouragingly, ‘It is a dramatic start. Would you categorise it as
terror, horror or pathos?’
Pillai said that being caught by a snake combined all three emotions, as far
as he could tell.
Spider agreed. But there was a problem. That was the frog’s point of view.
What about the snake’s point of view? Cinema must strive to be inclusive in
order to be a hit.
Pillai said humbly that he hadn’t taken that into account. He scribbled in
his notebook.
Spider asked him to name the time of the day when the event had
occurred. That was a standard requirement of film-scripting.
Pillai said it was after dark.
Spider said, ‘Please also establish the location. Where did it catch you?’
‘In a marsh, near a small shrine of an unknown god, Sir.’
‘How old were you? And the snake?’
Pillai said he hadn’t got those facts.
Spider said that was a bit injudicious. Facts, even if relating to a previous
birth, were facts. ‘One can’t take today’s filmgoers for granted. They like to get
their facts right. Also, their morals in good order.’
Pillai made notes.
Spider added that a spot near a shrine was a strong location because of the
gods, known or unknown, who would be in proximity. They were invariably
entertainers and crowd-pullers.
He now wished to know who the heroine was and who the hero, between
the frog and the snake. It was best to settle these matters right at the start and
not leave them to conjecture.
Pillai appeared startled. He said he had failed to consider this angle. He
was afraid he lacked a romantic vision. He was grateful to Sir for this vital piece
of guidance.
Spider smiled to himself. Imagine! A man who spouts romantic jargon at
the drop of a hat says this!
Pillai added that he had positioned the snake as the villain since it had
caught him.
Spider asked, ‘What is your category then?’
Pillai appeared flustered. He enquired meekly if there was a category in
cinema called ‘victim’.
Spider said there were victims and victims in cinema, but the category
became significant only when a hero or a heroine became the victim. He asked
Pillai if the frog had the standard attributes of a hero or a heroine. If yes, there
was light at the end of the tunnel.
Pillai made frantic notes. Then, with a crestfallen look, he said he wasn’t
sure about the frog’s looks.
Spider comforted him by saying that for the purpose of the one-liner, the
frog could be nominated as the hero, irrespective of its looks. He enquired if the
snake was good-looking, because people like handsome villains who make
villainy engaging.
Pillai said he couldn’t take a good look at the snake because he was sitting
in its mouth most of the time, and it was dark as well.
He continued, ‘It didn’t plan to eat me right away, but was taking me for
its babies’ dinner.’
‘Irresponsible mother!’ Spider exclaimed. ‘Children should get their
dinner well before sunset!’
Pillai clarified that the snake was a father and he would elaborate on this
fact later.
 59
THE LARGER TRUTH

Pillai continued the story of his dream movie, recalled from a previous birth.
‘Now, the snake was waiting to cross a road along which an army was
marching, and I pleaded with it to let me go.’
‘The army is a good input,’ said Spider. ‘If you follow it through, there’s
bound to be some excellent patriotism, violence and bloodshed waiting for
you.’
Pillai said he was gratified by Sir’s words because he had been thinking of
putting the army to good use in the film.
He continued, ‘Sir, I told the snake I was poisonous and not edible.’
Spider asked, ‘Was that the truth or a lie?’
‘A lie.’
‘But,’ Spider exclaimed, ‘just now you said every word of the story was
true.’
‘True, Sir,’ Pillai said. ‘What I meant was that every word is true,
including the lies. That is to say, the lies are part of the larger existential truth.’
Spider thought that was a smart way of looking at truth. He made a
mental note to talk to Rosi about it. But he still had a bone to pick with Pillai.
He said, ‘Nevertheless, this lie could be construed as the first indicator of
the moral downfall of the hero. Ideally, such a downfall should be gradual,
exemplary and unrelenting.’
Pillai noted that down and continued, ‘I told the snake I had a wife and
several children.’
‘Truth or lie?’
‘Lie.’
Spider shook his head sadly. He wasn’t sure this story was going to hold
water with so many lies in it.
 Pillai continued, ‘Sir, the snake appeared to pay no heed to my arguments.
But it was listening. I heard it giggle.’
Spider said that was a strong input because it was a benchmark of good
villains that they either giggled or guffawed. With Pillai in its mouth, it couldn’t
have guffawed anyway.
Pillai continued, ‘I then told the snake that I was a spiritual seeker and
almost on the verge of enlightenment. I asked: Isn’t enlightenment important?
It giggled so much that I almost slipped from its mouth.’
Spider said the frog’s near escape could turn out to be a taut moment in
the film if suitably visualized and enacted. Cinema is nothing if it cannot bring
you to the edge of your seat.
Pillai resumed his story. ‘The column of soldiers was immensely long. The
men kept churning up dust and making the ground tremble, and we kept
waiting. I wondered if they knew that a poor frog was right next to their
marching feet, in the mouth of a snake, and if they would intervene and save
me.’
Spider exclaimed, ‘Here’s a marvellous input for the essay! The
compassion quotient of marching armies!’
Pillai said it was his humble privilege to have inadvertently contributed
this new thought to the essay. He praised the intellectual alertness of Spider
and made a note in his diary.
Spider wondered, however, if a compassionate intervention by the army
would have been of any real help. In the process of saving one, they may have
killed both. They found it easier to kill everyone first and then check the facts.
It saved time.
Pillai rushed to his diary. He then returned to the story and said that he
told the snake he knew a secret formula that could transform it into a more
powerful and altogether different person. The snake didn’t, of course, open its
mouth and say, ‘Okay, tell me.’ But he felt it gulp, which was a sign that his
words had made an impact.
Spider thought to himself that it was smart of Pillai to have sensed the
significance of the gulp, even though he was just a jelly-brained frog. No wonder
he had come such a long way.
Pillai said he told the snake, ‘Friend, I swear on this marching army that
I’m telling you the truth.’
‘Good! Did it gulp again?’ Spider asked.
‘Yes, Sir,’ Pillai said.
 ‘I’m not surprised. The very mention of the army makes lots of people
gulp. The snake must have been a true patriot, even if it was your tormentor.
Anyway, there’s nothing in the book that says tormentors cannot be patriots, or
vice versa.’
Pillai took hurried notes.
He then said the snake somewhat reduced the pressure of its jaws around
him, which meant it was interested.
He told the snake, ‘Dear friend, you see, I was like you, without legs, till a
few months back. Then I got legs and my life was transformed. If you let me go,
I will teach you how to get legs and revolutionize your life just like I did mine. I
hope you understand that revolution is not a luxury. It is an essential
commodity.’
Spider asked, ‘Truth or lie?’
‘Sir, lie. It was a political statement.’
Spider was worried by the rising number of lies, but said helpfully that
some close-up shots might be good to highlight this moment of ideological
thrust, even if it was a lie. He added that he hoped the snake was, unlike the
frog, handsome enough to meet the requirements of a close-up.
Pillai’s face fell.
Spider bit his tongue in consternation. Oh, how thoughtless I’ve been!
He said, ‘Mr Pillai, I’m very sorry if I hurt your feelings. I appreciate frogs
inasmuch as I can. I know they try their best to appear handsome. Anyhow, all
that is now behind you and I think you are a very good-looking executioner in
this birth.’
Spider’s thoughtful words seemed to console Pillai. He said, ‘Sir, forgive
me for being sentimental about my previous births. An attractive feature of my
frog birth was that I enjoyed the unique life of an amphibian.’
Spider thought this was a specious qualification intended to boost the
image of his past birth. Being an amphibian didn’t save him from the jaws of a
snake. Or is he talking about his role in evolution?
Suddenly a thought nearly brought him to his feet. What! Is that possible?
I must ask!
Spider said, ‘Mr Pillai, you need not answer this question if you do not
wish to. But to satisfy my historical curiosity, I cannot but ask: Were you in the
unique position of witnessing both under water and on land?’
Pillai blushed. He said, ‘As a frog I did no witnessing, Sir. Witnessing is
unique to my human birth.’
 After a moment’s hesitation he added, ‘As a frog, I was gay.’
Spider said all good people should be proud of Pillai for coming out after
God knows how many centuries or millennia.
 60
A CONSENSUAL FAMILY

Pillai continued the story of his dream film and the experience of being
captured by a snake and sitting in its mouth. He said it must have been his
mention of revolution that made the snake decide to talk to him. Perhaps the
snake had been a comrade in its previous birth.
Spider agreed. ‘Maybe it wanted an update on the present state of
revolution—especially its status as an essential commodity.’
Pillai thanked Spider for this comment and continued, ‘The snake put me
on the ground and held me down with its head while it talked.’
Spider expressed surprise. He said he thought it would have been much
easier for the snake to hold him down with its tail—the snake being elongated
and flexible—and talk more freely with the head. Was the snake, then, an
intellectual, using the head even in situations where the tail was sufficient? Or
vice versa, Spider wondered.
Pillai stared at Spider in disbelief and sought time to jot this down.
Spider told himself that Pillai certainly had an alert eye for philosophical
details.
Pillai said that the snake told him with a giggle, ‘Okay, tell me!’
Spider wanted to know what was the strength of the bad breath in the
snake’s mouth. Vile? Rotten? Putrid?
Pillai said the snake had a clean, odourless mouth. It was as if it had just
brushed.
He said he told the snake, ‘I love you, dear friend, for listening to me.
Since I am a believer in God, I ask you to swear on God that you will let me go
once I have taught you how to grow legs.’
The snake told him it was an atheist and therefore could not swear on
God.
 Spider said this definitely harked back to the problems the Old God had
with a snake in the Garden of Eden. He added that he was sure God must have
regretted acting so feudal and almighty at the time because today snakes
comprise a large and influential constituency and, with the times being so
competitive, one needs every follower one can buy, steal or convert.
His whole head of hair trembling, Pillai took notes.
After giving Spider a look of deep reverence, he continued the narrative.
The frog told the snake, ‘All right, friend. Then swear on your dear
husband and beloved children.’
‘What!’ exclaimed the snake. ‘Whatever makes you think I’m a wife and a
mother? I’m one of the greatest fathers alive. I do every bit of work at home. I
promised my mother I would, after she sank her fangs into the neck of my lazy
father and sent him to God.’
The frog apologized and told the snake, ‘Sir, I’m thrilled to meet a great
father like you. It’s nothing but providence that has brought me into the mouth
of such an exemplary personage. My eyes are now opened.’
‘As regards your suggestion that I swear on my family,’ the snake said,
‘please understand that I lead a consensual family life. My wife lives separately
because I’m an atheist and she needs to pursue her spiritual goals
independently. Also, she believes I’m good at bringing up babies despite my
atheism and asked me to attend to the task with devotion and leave her alone. I
cannot swear on my wife or the babies unless I’ve obtained their consensus.’
At this point, the frog told the snake dramatically, ‘Then, my dear friend,
swear on your fangs.’
Spider said the film now stood at a crossroads from where it could either
surge forward to a spectacular climax or backward to a chilling flashback of the
snake’s mother’s fangs sinking into her lazy husband’s neck. He preferred the
second because it held a lesson for all.
Pillai said he was gratified his humble one-liner had made such a good
impression on a master of fiction like Sir.
Spider said he was only glad to be of help, especially on a dream project.
Those that usually came his way belonged to the nightmare category.
On a reminiscing note, Spider added that one rarely came across well-
brushed and odour-free mouths and fangs such as the present snake’s. Think of
Dracula. What a mess he was! If only he had gargled and brushed!
Spider added that maybe brushing didn’t suit Dracula because women
enjoyed his smelly b-i-t-e. Perhaps they loved it because it involved just a b-i-t-
e and no further labour on their part. He wouldn’t be surprised, however, if the
more fastidious of them held a kerchief to their nose while he was b-i-t-ing
them!
‘But,’ Spider added sadly, ‘in our own case, what is lovemaking if one
hand is held to the nose all the while?’
He asked Pillai, ‘Since you are a shape-changer, and the bat is your
favourite item, have you found that women are specially attracted to bats? Or
to men who make dramatic entries into their bedroom accompanied by howls,
shrieks, lightning and thunder, rats, bats, etc.?’
Pillai said he was sorry he had no such experience because he was, as he’d
had occasion to mention earlier, a virgin. He had never entered a woman’s
bedroom with libidinal intent. And there was no evidence to show that women
in general appreciated a tumultuous entry into bedrooms. They seemed to
prefer silence, secrecy and a romantic mood.
Spider said that made him think of another possibility: Would a time ever
come when one could make love as often as one pleased and yet remain a
virgin? The actualization of such a world, he added, was a matter of a small
adjustment somewhere, but who was thinking about it seriously?
Pillai made notes. He then looked up with a joyful face and said it was his
incredible luck that his humble story could evoke such path-breaking thoughts
in a great literary genius.
Spider had the feeling that there was a whiff of flattery in his words.
Maybe, like me, he speaks the truth even if it sounds flattering.
Pillai continued his story. He said the snake pondered his request to swear
on its fangs for a few seconds. It changed position and held the frog down with
its tail, stared at him in the darkness with horrifying, burning eyes, and then
swore on its fangs that it would let the frog go free once it got legs.
‘Did it giggle this time?’ Spider asked.
‘No, Sir.’
Spider thought that showed the snake’s wisdom, for it is inappropriate to
giggle while you are swearing upon something. It is a solemn moment. Nor do
you giggle when you make love because that, too, is a solemn moment. He had
been prone to giggling when making love at the beginning of his married life.
But Rosi didn’t encourage it. She told him he could stammer instead.
Stammering was a form of deconstruction and introduced an element of
abstraction which was often missing in contemporary lovemaking.
Pillai said Madam’s keen observation dissected the act of lovemaking like
a sharp knife.
Spider said it was gratifying to know that one’s wife was an innovative
thinker. He also expressed his happiness that the snake had finally used its tail
in an appropriate fashion.
Pillai continued the story. He said, having sworn thus, the snake released
the frog forthwith. Sitting on the grass and breathing freely, the frog told the
snake, ‘You must have seen me—though you may not remember—as one
among the millions of tadpoles in the pond. I had no legs and was just like you,
except I was in water, not crawling on the ground.’
The snake watched the frog grimly, ready to pounce if he made the
slightest move. The marching army had nearly reached its tail-end. Pillai said he
prayed a soldier would catch sight of the snake and kill it. But the snake was
well hidden.
Spider observed that snakes—whatever our critique of them—needed to
have a decent life too. And they had no armies or nuclear shelters or old-age
homes. He added hurriedly that, of course, in this case he was with the frog all
the way.
 61
BERLUTI SHOES

Pillai thanked Spider for declaring his solidarity with the frog. It was comforting
to know that a great mind was on his side.
He said the frog thought hard about what to do next. It was poised
between life and death. In a trembling voice, it told the snake it was going to
reveal the secret of growing legs. It said it was doing so with much inner
turmoil because it was under an oath to never reveal it.
‘Truth or lie?’ Spider asked.
‘Sir,’ Pillai said unhappily, ‘lie.’
Worry showed on Spider’s face.
The snake giggled. It said, ‘For heaven’s sake, get it over with, please! My
babies must be getting very hungry.’
The frog then told the snake that there had been a major crisis in its life in
its tadpole days because, for some strange reason, it couldn’t develop into a
proper frog. It just went on being a tadpole. Its mother got tired of this
ridiculous situation, which was becoming a black mark on the family’s excellent
reputation. Also, the tadpole was making a nuisance of itself by flaunting its
underdevelopment. So its mother consulted their medicine man, a chameleon
living in the tapioca plantation adjoining their home. On the medicine man’s
advice, its mother made it undergo a magic ritual. And, unbelievable as it might
seem, even before the ritual got over, it leapt from being a tadpole to a frog
with four legs. The medicine man then swore them both to secrecy. He was of
the view that the fewer the legs in this world, the better. Because he believed
that many of the world’s problems stemmed from people using their legs every
which way, to get their way. The frog’s mother, bless her, had passed away, but
the frog remembered every step of that ritual. After considerable inner conflict,
it had decided to reveal the secret to the snake.
 ‘Truth or lie?’ Spider asked. To him, it sounded like the truth.
‘Sir, lie.’
Spider was very upset. He said, ‘Mr Pillai, I’m forced to say this, but I do
feel that’s one lie too many for a single film.’
Pillai looked at him contritely.
Spider asked, ‘Anyway, would you include it in the larger truth you were
envisioning?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ Pillai said. ‘In my humble opinion, a lie is also true for the
simple reason that it exists. Sir, isn’t it true that existence is all?’
Spider said he would like to consult Rosi before offering an opinion on
this matter.
Pillai continued his one-liner and said the snake now giggled and asked
the frog what, apart from the mere desire to live, had prompted it to make the
hard decision to break the oath and help a stranger whom it might never meet
again.
The frog said it felt very close to the snake. It was not altruism, but a sense
of intimacy. Perhaps it had to do with sitting in the snake’s mouth for so long.
The snake took a long, hard look at the frog.
The frog then explained to the snake the benefits of having legs. Once it
had legs, it could, instead of crawling and creeping, run after creatures it wished
to eat, run after people to bite them if it had such an urge, run after lady snakes
when it was so inclined and, above all, use its legs to walk or jog for a healthy
and long life. It could also get a pedicure, which was one of the great joys of the
modern world. It could have a foot massage in Bangkok. It could play football in
Rio de Janeiro. It could flaunt Berluti shoes on all four legs. It could climb
Mount Everest. It could play footsie on a lucky day when the ladies were
relaxed. It could kick an enemy in the balls when the opportunity presented
itself.
Spider was pleased to hear this. That last item took him back to his young
days. He had a friend whose left leg was crippled, after having been struck by
polio in childhood. He obtained much sympathy on this count from the world.
But, in reality, he was a fiend. He would often stand on the lame leg, supporting
himself against a wall at a strategic point, and suddenly extend his good leg
forward and trip an unwary classmate so that he fell on his face. If you fought
him, then he would, standing on the lame leg and using the terrible power of
his good leg, kick your balls with such accuracy and force that you wished
you’d never had balls. If you hit him back, he would howl for all the world to
hear and the general populace would curse you and pinch your ear for hitting a
poor, helpless, lame child.
Spider thought he saw the ghost of a smile on Pillai’s lips. It made him
wonder sadly if being an executioner had hardened him to such an extent that
he was only amused by stories of injustice and suffering.
Pillai returned to the story and said that the frog now asked the snake the
central question, ‘Friend, are you ready for the ritual?’
Spider intervened to ask if the snake had a name. Names are good pegs to
hang stories on.
Pillai said the snake’s name was Pretty Man, because he was so pretty that
he put beautiful lady snakes to shame.
This made Spider wonder if, in reality, the frog’s gay status had something
to do with the snake’s catching it and taking it home. He did not articulate the
question. These are private matters.
The snake then asked, ‘Okay, what next?’
The frog said, ‘We go to the pond near the shrine. That’s where the ritual
will be held.’
The snake asked, ‘Are you sure it’s not black magic? As an atheist, I
cannot associate with such things.’
The frog assured the snake that it was legitimate magic and the medicine
man had certifications from the appropriate authorities. Its mother was a
stickler for such things.
Spider asked, ‘Was that a truth or a lie?’
Pillai said unhappily, ‘Sir, lie.’
Spider pondered this for a moment. I only hope the times have changed
and a super-hit film can accommodate so many lies!
Pillai said the snake took the frog in its mouth again and glided through
the undergrowth to the pond.
He said somewhat emotionally that he still remembered how the stars
were floating on the dark waters of the pond that night. Someone was sleeping
on a step of the bathing ghat with a cloth bundle as his pillow. The shrine was
closed and the god, whoever it was, was fast asleep.
 62
THE SLEEPING ITEM

Spider found himself disagreeing with one point in Pillai’s story. He suggested
that the assumption that the god was fast asleep was uncalled for. Very many
gods simply don’t get any sleep. Rosi had said the gods had a nagging sense of
insecurity that they may not be gods tomorrow, and replacements were aplenty,
which kept them awake. It’s unwise, she had said, to take their sleep for
granted and say or do things you don’t want them to notice. They could catch
you with your pants down and you would look very foolish indeed.
Pillai was profuse in his thankfulness to Sir and Madam for this vital
information. He hoped he would get an opportunity to pay his respects to
Madam at an early date and receive her blessings.
Spider replied that he would take up the matter with her when the time
was ripe. He too ran a consensual family, like the snake.
He wondered if he should also tell Pillai that the image of stars floating on
dark water was a bit of sensation-mongering. But he didn’t want to dampen
Pillai’s enthusiasm.
He asked if the person sleeping on the step had a role in the story.
Pillai replied that he had an important role.
Spider said that was excellent because whenever he, as a writer, found
such an item accidentally, he tried to give it a role in the story rather than just
let it lie there and snore while the story struggled along. He was a utilitarian
writer. Every item had to sweat if it wanted to keep its seat.
Pillai said he was thrilled by the spontaneous words of appreciation from
a genius of fiction. He added that he was amazed by Sir’s unerring assessment
of the sleeping item.
Spider said modestly that he endeavoured to be conscientious in the
exercise of his profession.
 Pillai said the snake released the frog from its mouth on the pond’s bank
and kept a vigilant eye on it. A late moon was rising, dimly lit on a misty
horizon. The frog was trembling with fear.
The snake said, ‘All right. Please hurry. My babies will be exceedingly
hungry now. If you succeed in your magic, I’ll still be left with the task of
finding food for them. Let’s get this over with quickly.’
The frog could feel the snake’s searching eyes on its face. It peed in terror.
Spider frowned.
The frog then told the snake with as much courage as it could muster,
‘The ritual is conducted in water. So the first step is for you to get into the
water.’
The snake brought its head so close to the frog’s that it touched the frog’s
and hissed in a chilling voice, ‘And you?’
The frog peed again.
Spider’s frown deepened. He could not but intervene. He told Pillai that
while the face-to-face moment just depicted by Pillai had tremendous dramatic
potential, it seemed to him that peeing, especially a second time, was not on, if
Pillai was looking at a family hit. He conceded he was out of touch with
prevalent family realities. The tastes of the middle and upper classes were ever
changing. Yet something told him that too much peeing would be
counterproductive. Maybe even the lies would pass muster, but not so much
peeing. Also, he added, this was not the same as the philosopher peeing into his
pants. He was not into making a family hit.
Pillai thanked Spider and made copious notes in his notebook.
The frog recovered from its terror and replied that its duty was to stand
on the bank and help the snake carry out the ritual, which was simple:
circumambulate the pond 108 times while reciting a mantra.
The snake hissed in amusement and said, ‘Oh, my dear friend, that will
not do at all. I will hold you in my mouth as I go into the pond and you can
instruct me from there. It’s much simpler, and you will also feel more intimate
with me, haha!’
The frog replied that while that sounded like a wonderful arrangement
and it was willing to comply, there was a practical hitch. The snake needed to
utter the mantra during the ritual, and how would it do that with something in
its mouth? Further, and equally important, its mother had said that in order to
bring into effective play the water-to-land and legless-to-leggy transition, the
one seeking to get legs had to be in water and the helper with legs, on land.
 Spider told himself that this appeared to be an argumentative movie, but
perhaps argumentativeness too had takers.
The snake considered the frog’s answer for a few moments. Suddenly the
sleeper on the steps began laughing in his sleep. The snake uncoiled itself in
alarm. Then it lifted its hood and stared at the sleeper’s form. It told the frog in
a cold voice, ‘I would not like to have a witness when I carry out the ritual. I
have to safeguard my reputation as an atheist. I shall kill him.’ The sleeper, by
then, had ceased laughing and turned to the other side.
Spider said he was happy to see that the sleeper-item had been so nicely
brought into play.
Pillai replied that there would be more of him.
He returned to the story and said that the frog’s heart went out to the
sleeper, who was about to die. But this was the fatal turning point.
Spider let out a sigh of relief. Pillai had said ‘turning point’ without the
least hiccup. He was not in the grip of Maya, at least for the time being.
 63
THE SEED OF DESIRE

Pillai continued the film story borrowed from his past birth as a frog. He said
the frog told the snake, ‘All right, friend, please forgive me for not wanting to
be party to any bloodshed. I will wait here while you go and kill the sleeper.’
He knew the snake wouldn’t do that because it knew fully well the frog would
vanish into the tall grass without a trace.
The snake giggled so much that it nearly choked. It caught its breath to
tell the frog, ‘Oh, oh, you are a very clever frog indeed. When I return here after
killing him, you will be far, far away. My babies will go hungry, and if my wife
comes to know about it, my name will be mud.’
The frog said this was a risk the snake had to take. The fact remained that
he was a frog of his word and would sincerely await the snake’s return from the
killing.
There seemed to be an impasse.
Spider said there was no doubt that this was a moment of high drama.
Some stirring music would be in order in the background.
Pillai said the frog whispered dramatically, ‘Shh!’ It appeared to be
listening to something. Then it told the snake in a tone of wonderment, ‘Can
you believe it? That was my mother, about whom I’ve told you, speaking to me
from heaven! She says, under no circumstance can anyone commit a sin and
take part in the proposed ritual.’
‘Lie or truth?’ Spider asked.
Pillai squirmed. He said, ‘Sir, lie.’
Spider couldn’t hide his disapproval. He looked at Pillai sadly and said,
‘Please continue, Mr Pillai. You know how uncomfortable I am with lies. I’m
now worried for your film.’
Pillai said he was already seized of the gravity of the matter and would
take necessary action. He expressed his heartfelt gratitude to Spider.
He returned to the story.
‘Who says killing is a sin?’ the snake asked. ‘It’s my lifestyle.’
Spider shook his head sorrowfully. How they chase arguments and
ideologies. No wonder so many films fail at the box office, and works of fiction
crash.
Pillai said the frog listened keenly to something and said excitedly, ‘Oh,
here’s my mother again! She says she doesn’t want to contest your statement.
But you could end up not only not having legs but also losing your fangs. She
says The Holy Book of Rituals of the Chameleon cannot be wrong. So it’s
your choice. Also, she said both of us must be idiots because how can a sleeping
person be a witness unless he wakes up and looks at what is going on?’
Spider thought that was the best piece of dialogue in the film so far. There
was such a sense of finality to it. What a mother!
The snake then said, ‘All right, your mother seems like a sensible lady. I’ll
go according to the book. I hope the man doesn’t wake up, for his own good.
Haha!’
Then it made its eyes burn like yellow fire and hissed with its face so close
to the frog’s that the frog could see the white fangs between the bared lips.
Spider hoped the frog wouldn’t pee again.
Instead, the frog jumped back in terror and the snake nearly crushed it
with its head.
The snake hissed, ‘So now it’s back to you and me! How do we sort this
out? You are the culprit because you put the desire in me. I’d never thought of
having legs. But you planted the seed.’
Spider was thrown into a reminiscential mood by the snake’s words. It
had happened when he was a young man. A girl from the village helped his
mother with the daily cooking and housekeeping. Spider, in his modest way,
managed to attract her attention and obtain consent to some token enjoyment
of her body. She was young and vibrant and full of the fire of jackfruit and
mango and papaya, of wild honey and freshwater fish and tapioca. And of kanji,
that bland but potent gruel.
Spider, with his modest and optimistic world view, had assumed that the
arrangement would be occasional, random and laid back. Even in those days, he
believed in thrift and moderation. But the girl had other, more exciting ideas.
She was blessed with a sense of determination and dedication. She wanted him
to be available all the time and certainly whenever even the ghost of an
opportunity presented itself, however brief and impromptu it was. And she
ensured that such opportunities arose several times a day. She even turned
obstacles into opportunities. Like when he was laid up with severe diarrhea.
Spider had no respite. A time came when he dreaded going home. He discovered
he had become a love slave. Finally he stopped entering his house, except when
he was sure it was full and the girl could not seek him out alone.
Then, one day, he told her, ‘I’m sorry to have to say this. But do you
think you could find another help for my mother? Or can I opt out of our body
arrangement? I like you very much, but I think my energy platform is
insufficient to fully meet the event horizon of your expectations.’
The girl was incensed. ‘You sissy! Now you say this! I never asked you to
plant the seed of desire in me. You planted it and it grew. And it flowered and
put forth fruits. Now you are backing out. Sorry, I’m not going to oblige you by
leaving. I’ll go ahead on my own. Thank God there are any number of takers for
body joys and I know the full mechanics. You can go to hell. But let me tell you:
never plant a seed unless you can grow with it. You are released from your
responsibilities forthwith.’
When Spider mentioned this incident to Rosi one day, in a confessional
mood, she expressed a wish to go looking for the girl immediately and sit at her
feet. She said the girl could become the prime minister of India if she so wished.
Spider was proud for her and for himself. A day might come when he could tell
people, look here, believe it or not, I have experienced the joys of the body with
the prime minister of the country. Wow!
No doubt the frog was facing a similar crisis after planting the seed of
desire in the snake. But its crisis was much more deadly in nature. Spider, at
least, had escaped by the skin of his teeth.
Pillai said geniuses were always protected by the universe.
Spider was once again pleasantly surprised by Pillai’s ability to get to the
heart of the matter.
 64
THE STANDALONE TRUTH

The stress of recollecting the trauma of a past birth was writ large upon Pillai’s
face. He paused to wipe his face and gaze out the window for a few moments.
Then he returned to the story. He said that the frog found itself in a hard
place after the snake’s sarcastic remark about planting the seed of desire.
However, it girded up its loins and said, ‘Dear friend, I believe the matter is
simple. The first option is for you to trust that I shall wait till you return to
land on your own legs. I am, as I said before, a spiritual seeker, and cannot
embrace dishonesty. What’s your take on that?’
The snake said, ‘Please don’t make me giggle again. I get hiccups when I
giggle too much.’
‘The other option is for me to swear to you, like you did to me, that I will
await your return to land with legs, without fail. After all, I trusted you when
you swore.’
The snake considered this and said, ‘All right, let me see what items you
have to swear upon.’
The frog put forward a list: the shrine, the god inside, the offerings box,
the sleeper, the steps, the night, the moon, the stars, the pond, his late mother.
He was willing to add more interesting items.
The snake said it found the last item most attractive because the frog’s
mother had sounded quite bright. But he wanted something more tangible,
something right here and concrete. ‘So tell me quickly. It’s getting late. Or I’ll
have to forget about the legs and just take you home and let the babies handle
you. They tend to play around a bit to work up an appetite, so you too can have
some fun.’
The frog could feel a chill creeping up its legs. Then a new idea came to it.
It said in a solemn voice, ‘Dearest friend, I can swear on the most precious
gift God and my mother have bestowed on me: my four legs. And legs are
today’s topic.’
The snake hissed, ‘Now that you mention them, let me take a proper look
at them, as a potential buyer.’
The frog sat like a block of ice as the snake’s neck curved around it. It
cringed as the snake’s hot breath hit each of its legs. It thought it heard the
snake growl and had to fight hard to control its pee.
Spider said he had experienced the same problem with his drawing
teacher, who had thick hair growing out of his nostrils and ears, and had
eyebrows that curled up like Beelzebub’s. When he summoned Spider to his
table, his murderous cane raised in his hand, and told him, for example, that he
had drawn the moon so badly that it looked like an isosceles triangle—which
was true—oh, how the pee clamoured! No wonder he never became an artist
and never developed a soft corner for the moon.
Pillai said the snake commented caustically that he was unable to
understand why the two forward legs were smaller than the ones behind. He
was sure that he didn’t want to be in a situation where his backside was higher
than his front when standing up. That could be very misleading. He might even
be mistaken for a praying mantis. As an atheist, that was the last thing he
wanted.
The frog said he was, after all, sitting right in front of the snake and
wasn’t it clear that his front end was higher than the back? In fact, his bottom
fully touched the ground.
The snake said pityingly that the frog seemed to understand neither
physiology nor aesthetics. First of all, he, the snake, was not used to squatting
like a frog. Squatting was not the handsomest way of positioning your bottom.
Secondly, he had a long body that needed to be balanced evenly at the front and
the back. If not, chronic back pain was a certainty and that wasn’t something he
could afford, considering that he had to work very hard to keep the babies and
himself fed—if not well-fed.
Then the frog took a daring initiative. It said it fully agreed with the snake
and asked, ‘My friend, will you give me one moment to consult my mother
again?’
‘Go ahead,’ the snake said, ‘but your time is absolutely over now.’
The frog once again attended to the silent voice of its mother and told the
snake, ‘It’s wonderful! We are lucky! My mother said there is a special mantra
for the grant of legs of even length at the back and the front and she has
imparted it to me.’
Spider said he was amazed by the fact that there appeared to be a prayer
for every need. He wondered if there was a prayer to stop one’s nails from
growing or to get them to trim themselves as they grew. The same went for the
hair in the nostrils.
Pillai noted this point and said he would make exhaustive enquiries in his
own humble way.
Spider then enquired if the film was now moving to a climax or just
reaching the interval. Because, to him, it appeared the storyline had slowed
down suddenly. You can’t afford that when you are climaxing.
Pillai took urgent notes and said apologetically that he was actually trying
to be meticulous with regard to the polemical aspect of the film, all the while
hurrying towards the climax.
Spider shook his head woefully. He said family audiences were very finicky
and they wished to see the climax as quickly as possible and be done with it. If
possible, they would like to begin with the climax and work backward to the
start. That way, they were less stressed about the final outcome. Happiness was
not an easy goal these days. You needed to be very smart to make a large
number of people happy.
Pillai stood awestruck for a moment. Then he continued the story.
The snake said, ‘All right, I hope you will not let me develop a bad
opinion about your mother or you. Now be quick about it. Swear first.’
The frog then swore by its four legs that it would faithfully await the
return of the snake from the pond with four new legs of even length and would
not run away under any circumstances.
The frog added, ‘So help me God.’
Spider asked if what the frog had sworn was the truth.
Pillai said it was a stand-alone variety of truth. Because, taken alone, it
was true within its own domain. He had added ‘So help me God’ to buttress
the authenticity of it.
Spider thought this was very interesting. Truth was bound to become
immensely popular if it took the trouble to become user-friendly in this
manner.
 65
IN CABARET MODE

As Pillai’s film story moved towards its climax, Spider had a helpful suggestion.
He said that the frog swearing upon its four legs had the potential to be filmed
as a dramatic scene of overwhelming religious grandeur that could enthrall all
classes of audiences alike.
Pillai was overjoyed at this remark and said he didn’t have enough words
to thank Sir for his kind words.
He then continued the story.
The frog told the snake, ‘Dearest friend, now we come to the magical
moment. I’m going to teach you the mantra you need to recite as you
circumambulate the pond.’
The snake asked suspiciously, ‘This mantra—is it a prayer? I will not
pray.’
‘Dearest friend,’ the frog said, ‘a mantra is not a prayer, it is a tunefully
articulated word game with an agenda. You can safely recite it without
compromising disbelief. Also, this mantra is very user-friendly.’
It was then that the frog asked the snake its name and the snake told him:
Pretty Man.
The frog recited the mantra to the snake.

‘Oh, god of legs!

Oh, legs of gods!
Oh, legs of even length
At my back and front,
Come to me!
Yours humbly,
Pretty Man!
 Oh, love you, love you
Love you!’

Spider intervened to ask if Pillai had made up the mantra extempore. It

had a nice twang to it and could even be set to music in the film.
Pillai said in a thrilled voice that indeed he had made up the mantra even
as he stood trembling before the snake, and he didn’t know how to thank
Spider for his words of praise.
Spider nodded appreciatively. This man is so balanced.
The frog told the snake, ‘Dearest friend, all you have to do is to keep
reciting the mantra as you swim around the pond 108 times.’
The snake asked, ‘Is the god in your mantra spelt with a capital “G”? If so,
as an agnostic, I cannot recite such a mantra.’
The frog hadn’t thought of the spelling aspect.
It caught its breath and said, ‘Of course it’s a small “g”. That’s why I said
the mantra is user-friendly.’
The snake seemed to be satisfied. It raised its hood, opened its fearsome
mouth, bared its fangs and told the frog in a deadly whisper, ‘Remember, like
your God with a capital “G”, I’m omnipresent and omnipotent. Be very careful
what you do now.’
The frog peed again.
Spider was very upset. He said so to Pillai.
Pillai said he would delete the event immediately. He was only truthfully
recreating reality. He begged Spider’s pardon for upsetting him.
Spider replied sternly, ‘Mr Pillai, there is always a limit to the reality one
can accommodate. What we need to do is to negotiate with reality in unreal
ways so as to make it user-friendly.’
Pillai scribbled quickly in his diary.
Then he continued the story by saying that the moment of truth for the
frog had now arrived.
Spider wished to know whether it was the larger truth that was inclusive
of lies which were in themselves true, or the stand-alone type which was also in
itself true.
Pillai said he was now using the word ‘truth’ in an idiomatic sense, and
not philosophically. He added that he greatly appreciated Sir’s minute attention
to such details. He continued the one-liner.
The frog, hiding its terror and mustering all the courage it could
command, requested the snake in a shaking voice to jump into the pond and
begin the ritual. In the eerie darkness that surrounded them, the snake took the
plunge into the pond with a splash that shattered the silence of the night and
the ghostly image of the moon floating upon the water.
Spider was very unhappy. He could see Pillai was once again going
overboard with his pet addiction: romantic hype. At this critical moment in the
story, all that was needed were the bare facts: the frog requested the snake to
jump into the pond and it did. But he kept quiet because he didn’t want to
introduce an argumentative element at this turning point in the story.
The frog stood trembling on the shore and watched the snake starting the
first lap of its swim. The whole pond had come alive and the frog nearly
suffocated with fear as it watched the unfolding of its deadly game.
It looked towards the sleeper and was surprised to find he was gone.
Good, the frog thought, because when the snake returns and does not find me
waiting, it is going to be very angry indeed. All’s well that ends well!
Pillai paused significantly.
Spider couldn’t hide his disappointment. He asked, ‘Mr Pillai, is that the
climax? I’m sorry to say that it seems rather abrupt and weak. Also, I fail to
detect the salvation and the pathos. Or have you decided to move those
elements to the beginning?’
He also wondered to himself if Pillai was in the habit of stealing
metaphors. Where did All’s well that ends well come from? He distinctly
remembered having spontaneously invented it while talking to Pillai.
Pillai said he was sorry for giving the impression that he had reached the
climax. It was just round the corner. With Spider’s blessings, he would now
proceed swiftly to it.
The frog, standing on the shore, began to recite the mantra loudly in order
to motivate the snake.

‘Oh, god of legs!

Oh, legs of gods!
Oh, legs of even length
At my back and front …’

Spider exclaimed that this was the right moment to present the mantra as
a fast-beat song and it was certain to go down well with devotees of all faiths.
Suddenly it struck Spider that there was yet another opportunity here. He
told Pillai that he had, from the beginning, noted a gender imbalance in the
narrative. There was no female character to speak of, except the frog’s mother
in heaven and the snake’s separated wife, neither of whom was prominent.
He said, ‘Here is a golden chance. The sleeper wakes up even as the snake
raises its hood to strike. And behold! It is a beautiful woman! She dances an
item number, with the shrine of the unknown god as a backdrop. She has
nothing to cover herself with except the little pink sheet she had been sleeping
under and the grand theme of the dance is: In Love with the Unknown God!
And the snake, enchanted, dances with her in ecstasy.’
Pillai made breathless notes.
 66
A HIGH JUMPER

Listening to Spider’s elaboration of a possible item number in his film, Pillai

stood open-mouthed in wonder. He said, ‘Sir, I bow to the audacity of your
imagination!’
Spider thanked Pillai and said that considering the dramatic potential of
the scene, Pillai shouldn’t have let the sleeper vanish.
Pillai said sadly that there was a problem of historical veracity, which he
would come to presently.
The snake had finished the third lap and was going steady. The frog
stopped singing the mantra and shouted, ‘Dearest friend, another 101 laps and
you will be able to jump like this! See how I jump!’
The frog jumped high in the air. Came down and jumped again. ‘See! Isn’t
it wonderful to jump rather than crawl and slither? Don’t you wish to be a high
jumper?’
The snake was so engrossed in the mantra and the circumambulation that
it hardly noticed the frog’s demonstration.
The frog whispered, ‘Goodbye, dearest friend!’ and jumped and jumped
and jumped till it had left the pond a good distance behind. The moon came out
from behind a cloud and shone with a crystal-like light. The frog was guiltily
thinking about the snake’s babies waiting for dinner when it was suddenly
picked up by its hind legs.
Oh, oh! The snake has found out! It has come for me! The frog screamed to
itself.
Spider was suddenly tense. Oh, this is a tragedy! I thought it was only
about terror, horror, pathos and salvation. But there’s tragedy on the cards. He
didn’t like tragedies because they were repetitive and traditional. Nearly the
same things happened to nearly everyone. There was an urgent need to identify
new and refreshing areas of tragedy—and those that led to sizzling salvation
rather than glum faces.
Pillai said the frog tried to wiggle out of the grip it was in. Then the owner
of the grip laughed loudly. The frog was so shocked, it couldn’t believe its ears.
He recognized that laughter. The man laughed again and said, ‘Aha! You have
the nicest legs!’ And the frog knew. It was the sleeper on the steps.
All in one moment, the frog-catcher put the frog on the ground, held it
tightly by the neck, and taking out his knife, chopped off its back legs, put them
into his sack and threw the bleeding body into the bushes.
Pillai stopped. He had a forlorn look in his eyes.
Spider made a quick touch-inventory of his own arms and legs and was
reassured to find them all attached. There was no sign of blood either. He took
a deep breath and told Pillai in a soothing voice, ‘Mr Pillai, I can understand
your agony. Our lives are precious to us, even when they are located in a past
birth. I can only offer my heartfelt condolences to you at your unexpected and
untimely demise in another birth.’
Pillai said he was touched to the depths of his heart by Spider’s kindness
and concern.
Both were silent for a while.
Even though it was a deeply reflective moment, Spider couldn’t help
asking, ‘Mr Pillai, does the film end there, then?’
Pillai said, ‘No, Sir. There are a few more climactic developments which
carry the film to a powerful end.’
Spider had begun to feel hungry. He was also apprehensive that he might
not be able to withstand these further developments. Most probably, along with
more horror, terror and tragedy, pathos and salvation were also in the pipeline.
He looked at his watch and said, ‘Perhaps, at this point, it should be
enough if you paraphrase them for me to form an opinion and we can take the
long road when you write the full script.’
Spider then explained to Pillai that he firmly believed in Rosi’s theory
about the universe: There is very little that cannot be paraphrased into a
maximum of ten sentences, which is how the universe has fixed it. Writers are
those who break this paraphrase barrier and face the consequences. Rosi had
her own Bible, which was two sentences long, a Quran with two and three-
quarter sentences and a Bhagavad Gita with three and a quarter. Her version of
War and Peace was seven sentences long and that’s why she could read it
every day. Her Collected Works of V.I. Lenin was, however, fourteen
sentences long. She was too scared to make it shorter. She said it had to do with
the man’s chemical body in the Kremlin, which was made up of silicon, among
other things. Silicon is telepathic material—which is why computers have you
by your balls—and the man could be eavesdropping on everyone and
everything. What if a two-and-a-quarter sentence summary of the Collected
Works made him furious and he decided to teach her a lesson? She would hate
to be woken up by a midnight knock and confronted with a raging cadaver with
a goatee and a gun. And what if he brought along similar frozen VIPs from all
over the world for company? That was the only time Spider had seen Rosi in a
real sweat.
Pillai took detailed notes, but he seemed worried. He said, ‘Sir, I wonder if
an aspiring writer like me has the ability to paraphrase material in the manner
envisaged by Madam. I might not be able to grab the essence of reality in such
few words.’
Spider said encouragingly, ‘Mr Pillai, I’m here to help you. I’m known for
my brevity, if nothing else. Let’s make a start!’
Pillai was silent for a while. There was a tinge of disappointment on his
face. Then he said, ‘Sir, with your blessings, I shall endeavour to put the
climactic events in a nutshell.’
He continued, ‘Sir, the sequence of events leading to the climax,
paraphrased in my humble way, is as follows: One, I die in the bush, legless.’
Spider thought ‘I die’ was enough. Legless was understood. So was the
bush.
‘Two, the angry snake, cheated by the frog, bites the frog-catcher when he
goes to the pond to wash his leg-collection.’
Spider said, ‘Much too long. Cut the frills and say: Cheated snake kills
frog-catcher.’
‘Three. Before dying, the frog-catcher cuts the snake in two with his
knife.’
Spider said, ‘Knife, cutting, etc., are far too theatrical. “Dying catcher kills
snake” is sufficient.’
‘Four, the orphaned snake-babies are waiting for dinner.’
‘Over-explanatory. All you need is: Snake-babies await dinner.’
Spider was getting hungrier. He looked questioningly at Pillai. But he was
silent and lost in thought.
Spider asked worriedly, ‘Mr Pillai, do you mean to say the film ends where
the snake-babies are waiting for their dinner?’
 Pillai said, ‘Yes, Sir.’ There was brooding emotion upon his face and he
seemed to be in another world.
Spider was aghast. This man is going to lose every paisa he gets his
producer to put into the film! This is no way to end a hit movie. Hunger has no
future at all these days and hungry babies have lost their cutting edge.
Spider was further worried by another fact. Oh, he seems to be so
disturbed. After this, will he be up to the task of completing the essay? I should
not have encouraged him in this filmy adventure!
Choosing his words with extreme care, Spider said, ‘Mr Pillai, I can see
that recalling the tragic events of your past birth has upset you. Would you like
to go back to your place and rest for a while? If you do not wish to fly in this
difficult state of mind, you can rest in one of these chairs. We can look at the
climax of the story with a fresh mind. I must tell you frankly that I feel the
present climax where the hungry snake babies await dinner is insufficient to
meet the demands of contemporary viewers who are not used to waiting even
two seconds for anything—not even sex.’
Then he added cunningly, ‘And later, when you are feeling better, we can
return to the essay.’
Pillai came out of his reverie with a start and, looking profoundly
apologetic, said, ‘Sir, please forgive me. When I get to this part of the story, I am
so consumed by the terror, horror and pathos that I am unable to go forward.’
Spider was baffled. Terror and horror, yes. But pathos? Where was the
pathos here? Oh, am I missing out on reality? Should I have a word with Rosi
about finding myself an emotion template on a hard disk?
He asked, ‘Mr Pillai, though I’ve followed your one-liner closely, I’m not
sure I’ve caught on to the pathos in it. In fact, I’ve been wondering when it
would appear. Can you point it out to me?’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, I know you are only testing me. But I am honoured by the
interest you’ve taken in my humble cinematic effort. Sir, to my mind, the
snake-babies hungrily waiting for their dinner is the pathos. It haunts me.’
Spider felt like hitting himself. He hadn’t thought of that! Hunger being so
old-fashioned, he had entirely unsubscribed from that school of thought. But he
could see the point made by Pillai. When you are hungry and there is no food,
there is no solution other than food. The snake-babies were in for a tough time
indeed. Yes, there certainly was pathos here, unless, of course, their mother
sacrificed the spiritual path and decided to look after them. But that was
doubtful because looking after screaming babies comes nowhere near Spiritual
Bliss.
Spider looked admiringly at Pillai. The man does know a few things about
films. Look how sharply he identified pathos. It was right under my nose and I
didn’t notice it.
Spider told him, ‘Mr Pillai, let me try to help you. Where do you want to
go from here? What is the climax you have in mind?’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, salvation.’ His look of gloom intensified.
Spider said, ‘Mr Pillai, I know you are in the grip of toxic emotions that
are haunting you from the past. But think of the bright side. You’re not only
not a frog any more, you are a respectable executioner, a freewheeling witness, a
flier and an aspiring writer. Losing your legs was bad, but I think it’s better to
be a man with two legs than a frog with four, for the simple reason that these
days, hopefully, no one will cut off your two legs to fry them. At least, there
seems to be no market for fried human legs right now. Frogs continue to get
theirs fried. So let’s be positive and count our blessings and let’s both take the
story forward to a great climax of wholesome salvation.’
Pillai’s face brightened and he had just opened his mouth to reply when
Spider was overcome by the image of the snake-babies waiting for dinner. He
was suddenly consumed by an overwhelming urge to rush down to the dining
table.
He lifted one trembling arm to stop Pillai from proceeding further and
managed to whimper, ‘Mr Pillai, I’m suddenly experiencing a strange and
inconceivable form of pathos. I need to rush down to get help from my wife.
Can we meet again at 4 p.m.?’
Pillai moved forward worriedly to offer Spider help. But Spider had
tottered to the door with an anguished look and was gone.
Pillai stood there miserably for a while before clapping his hands and
flying out the window.
 67
THE ENDGAME

At the dining table, trying to make his question sound casual by pretending to
study the fried karimeen for its beauty, Spider asked Rosi, ‘By the way, I have a
theological query. What kind of people and/or creatures would be, according to
you, most eligible for salvation?’
As an afterthought he added, ‘That is, all things being equal.’
‘Salvation while alive or postmortem?’ Rosi asked.
Spider realized he faced a problem here. As Pillai’s story stood, the three
high-visibility players of his cast were in a postmortem condition. The final
condition of the snake-babies was yet to be ascertained. The frog’s mother was
already in heaven and didn’t need further salvation. Spider wasn’t sure if Pillai
should be on the salvation list because he was both in the past and in the
present. He was dead in one birth as one species, but also right here, narrating
the experience as a member of another species. One could say his condition was
both postmortem and post-postmortem, with a species makeover add-on.
Maybe it was only fair to include him in the salvation list as a reward for all the
topsy-turvy situations he found himself in.
Spider asked cautiously, ‘Which is easier, now or postmortem?’
Rosi had a sudden doubt. She asked, ‘Are you thinking of yourself?’
Spider thought evasiveness was a good option to elicit a clean answer from
the enlightened. So he said, ‘Oh, yes and no …’
‘If it’s you,’ Rosi said, ‘postmortem would be best because hopefully, you
would be left with no other choice and you wouldn’t flail about. At the same
time, there’s a strong chance you may not recognize salvation when it knocks
on your door in a postmortem condition. You might think it’s a postmortem
freebie of a sanitized wet dream. Not wanting to wake up from it and not
knowing that your salvation deadline will end in twenty-three seconds, you will
dilly-dally and the chance will be gone and you will find yourself nowhere.
Guru says salvation is for those who are smart enough to grab it the moment
the bell rings.’
Spider thanked Guru, though he didn’t know who he or she or it was.
He decided to place his cards on the table and come clean with Rosi. He
said he wished to know her views on the eligibility for salvation of (1) a frog (2)
a frog-catcher and (3) a snake, in a situation where (1) is killed by (2), (2) is
killed by (3) and (3) is killed by (2). There were also some hungry snake-babies
waiting for dinner, whose status was unclear.
Rosi asked in some surprise if this was part of the essay he was writing
and Spider said again, ‘Oh, yes and no.’
She pointed out to him that there appeared to be some confusion in the
order of killing, because how could (2) kill (3) when (2) had been already killed
by (3)?
Spider cursed himself. I should have remembered how good she is at
arithmetic. Oh, what shall I do? I can’t divulge the details either.
Rosi asked, ‘Are you really attending to your essay up there or are you up
to something else? How come you’re snarled up in salvation?’
Spider said he was actually working out a fictional case study exploring
possible connections between compassion and salvation.
Rosi said, if so, the chronology seemed to be at loggerheads with itself.
Anyway, in her opinion, salvation awaited the one killed last, namely the snake,
because it had suffered the maximum injustice, having been killed by the frog-
catcher who had been already killed by it. That was not fair. Once
someone/something is killed and is in a postmortem condition, it is not
expected of her/him/it that she/he/it will kill another, especially the one who
killed her/him/it in good faith that she/he/it would die. Therefore, the snake
was the best candidate for salvation.
Spider was not sure this was the salvation eligibility list Pillai had in mind.
So he concluded the session by thanking Rosi for her advice and used the
opportunity to enquire if she had included any intimate union item in the
week’s notifications. She said she was happy Spider had reminded her of it
because she wished to cancel the item she had already put in as she was going
to be busy with her music lessons. Replying to Spider’s query, she said this
week she was learning just one song.
Spider asked if she wished to divulge the name of the song.
Rosi said it was ‘Paan khaaye saiyyaan hamaaro …’
 Spider was very upset. How could she! She’s poaching my favourite song!
Does she even know the song’s full ID as required by ancient protocol? She may
be my wife and mentor but I cannot but expose her!
He was about to open his mouth to ask her to produce the song’s full ID
when Rosi rattled off: ‘Singer: Asha Bhonsle; music: Shankar–Jaikishan; lyrics:
Shailendra; film: Teesri Kasam; banner: Image Makers; vintage:1966.’
She added that she wished to learn to sing the song, and also to hum the
background score simultaneously.
Spider was so shocked that he rushed out as if he had seen a ghost.
As he walked up to his room, however, he found himself trying to hum
the song and mix the background score side by side. But when he tried keeping
the beat with his feet alongside, he stumbled on a step and fell down, causing
him to momentarily become anxious about his salvation.
Later, as he napped, he dreamt that Brother Dog had turned into a green
frog and was jumping and singing:

O, god of legs!
O, legs of gods!
O! O! O!

And Rosi was a beautiful snake dancing to the song. Suddenly Brother
jumped so high that he hit the moon and vanished in a burst of red flames. A
faint ‘O! O! O!’ floated back, ending in a shriek. Rosi, however, continued to
dance, not bothered by Brother’s disappearance. Spider smiled. Then her dance
turned into the proposed item number at the pond and Spider again smiled to
see that she had no pink sheet to cover herself with. Wow! That was daring for
a philosopher!
When he awoke, he was full of positive energy and ready to tackle the
climax-cum-salvation issue. He went to his study and found Pillai waiting for
him.
‘Mr Pillai, let’s come to the point straight away,’ Spider said. ‘As the sole
proprietor of the story, who would you select for salvation? The frog, the frog-
catcher or the snake?’
Pillai pondered the answer. Then, hesitantly, he asked if all three could get
salvation.
Spider wondered if Pillai was not shrewdly bargaining to set up a salvation
bandwagon from which the frog, namely himself, would not be left out. Or he’s
looking at a grand ending that will please everyone and make the movie a
blockbuster.
He said that seemed to be a very acceptable idea. However, he suggested
that if the souls had to travel as a group to the salvation hub, it must be
ensured that there were no recriminations or hostilities amongst them.
Salvation is an endgame. Either do it alone or have a united team. God has no
time for differences of opinion.
Pillai listened with closed eyes and a joyful expression to Spider’s views on
salvation. He said his heart was overflowing with gratitude to Sir for leading
him out of a traumatic mind-block and showing the way to a wonderful climax
to his story.
Spider said humbly that most things were beyond his control and they
just happened. He was only a reliable brand name, that was all.
Thinking of the story as a whole, he expressed satisfaction that its
prominent feature was a set of longings—from the longing for dinner to that
for legs. The upper and middle classes longed to long for something different,
because they were bored to death by the only longing that normally prevailed:
for money and its byproducts. And that boredom could turn the tide in the
film’s favour at the box office, provided of course, that the argumentative
element was trimmed and the entertainment element was strengthened. For
example, it could do with some comic input. Right now, nobody laughed in the
movie except the frog-catcher. They should think about giving him a larger
comic positioning.
Pillai made detailed notes and double-checked some points with Spider.
Spider said, ‘In the final analysis, it appears to me that there are a few
loose ends that need to be tied up in this otherwise competent one-liner. What
happened to the snake-babies? What stand did the mother take? Did they get
dinner? What sort of dinner was it? Was there dessert? Where are they now?
Shouldn’t they be included in the salvation package? Also, try to get their
names. Names make babies more presentable.’
Pillai replied sadly that the snake-babies were indeed dead. He accepted
the moral responsibility for their demise because it was his escape tactics that
had led to their starvation death. Pillai wiped away a tear as he spoke. Spider
felt so moved that he expected a tear to roll down his own cheek anytime.
Pillai added in a solemn voice that when he said salvation for all, he had
meant the babies too.
Just then, a tear rolled down Spider’s cheek. He had no idea what it was
for. He blinked his eyes to check if something had got into them.
Pillai had a glimpse of the teardrop before Spider wiped it away. With a
disbelieving look, he rushed forward and touched Spider’s feet and said, ‘Sir,
my life is fulfilled! Oh, my humble story has made you shed a tear!’
Spider prompted Pillai to get up and said, ‘My friend, crying is a
wonderful gift. I cry whenever I can. I wish I could do it more often.’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, I’ll be most grateful if you grant me the benefit of your
advice on the last remaining point: the title of the movie.’
Spider was invigorated. He was very good at titles. Pillai had come to the
right man!
He thought for a few seconds and said, ‘Let me give you three titles to
begin with: 1) Bloody Salvation! 2) Legless in Heaven 3) A Requiem for Snake-
babies.’
Pillai wrote the titles down joyfully. Spider asked him to note that there
was an exclamation mark after ‘Salvation’.
He felt relaxed and happy. He said, ‘Mr Pillai, don’t you think now is a
good moment to get back to the essay? I feel the attainment of salvation by so
many souls is a good omen.’
Pillai agreed and said he wished to add a thought here. He said
accidentally witnessing Madam in her oil bath was the amazing omen that had
brought him all the blessings he was receiving now.
Spider told himself: Oh, I’m so proud of my wife!
 68
HOLIDAY IN GOA

Having thus provided constructive criticism and creative support for Pillai’s
film story and feeling good about it, Spider asked him if he had given thought to
the direction the essay now needed to take, and to the important question of
word limits.
Pillai said he would keep the word-limit factor in mind and take action in
an appropriate manner.
He was absorbed in thought for a few moments before stating that the
essay perhaps needed to open up further. Seeking Spider’s permission, he
suggested a new passage:

‘Imagine a scenario wherein the human race has been set on the
path of total Compassion. It would be a time of wonderment and
miracle. History would have witnessed nothing like it.’

Spider couldn’t control his excitement. Oh, Pillai is casting his net wide!
Human race! History! Miracles!
Pillai continued:

‘Imagine, if you can, a time when politics is so compassionate that

politicians abolish elections so as to not disturb public life. The
media is so compassionate that even owners take a truth serum with
their breakfast. Religions are so compassionate that the handlers of
God give Her a two-week holiday in Goa—she only needs to pay for
Her transport.’

Spider put the pen down, stood up and shouted, ‘Superb!’

 Pillai said with a proud look, ‘Sir, it is the result of your blessings. If you
permit, we can add a few more sentences to wind up the argument we have
been following.’
Spider said, ‘Please go ahead.’
Pillai stood immersed in thought, his eyes searching the horizon
abstractedly. Then he said, ‘Sir, please consider the following:

It is possible therefore to envisage a future where Compassion will

be built into the hangman’s rope, the executioner’s syringe, the
terrorist’s bomb, the torturer’s screw, the fascist’s rant, the despot’s
scream, the drug baron’s smirk and the fanatic’s knife. We would
need to ask ourselves: Are we compassionate to the tapeworm? Are
we compassionate to the hookworm, the cold virus, the mouth
bacteria, the e-coli, the cancer cell, the wart, the tumour, the HIV
virus, all trapped in the dark and forlorn tunnels of Evolution? Are
we compassionate to Satan?’

Spider wrote with a spellbound expression. He was especially thrilled to

hear Pillai list the hangman’s rope as an item. It had a ring of personal
authenticity. And the comrades were getting awesome support on a platter for
the lowly members of the working class like the tapeworm, the hookworm and
the tumour. He’d always had a secret sympathy for the poor things. They too
had mouths to feed! They too had dreams!
As for Satan, he was willing to go fifty-fifty.
Pillai said, ‘Sir, with the following passage, if you permit, we could close
today’s entries.’
After a short interval of contemplation, he dictated the last sentence for
the day:

‘As a matter of fact, the true implication of Compassion is an ever-

widening, phantom-like circle; accountability may prove hard. Ask
the comrades! What manner of Compassion do you accord to the
world’s true downtrodden who thirst for revolution right under
your nose: the cockroach, the louse, the bedbug, the ant, the rat, the
mosquito, the house lizard, the spider, the centipede and the
millipede, to mention a few?’
 Spider controlled the urge to say ‘Yuck!’ as he wrote down the list of the
downtrodden. He reminded himself this essay was serious business. It was a
package of philosophy and ideology. Personal preferences must take a back seat.
Mar Tommy! Help me to steel myself if more such downtrodden enter the
picture! Or maybe I can learn to love a gun-toting cockroach or an anarchist
house lizard armed with a bomb. At least, I can try!
Pillai continued with a faraway look:

‘You shower Compassion on the white-collared oppressors of the

people. What about the underdogs of the street, the collarless poor:
the stray cat and dog? What about the chained elephant, the
murdered chicken, the chopped fish, the butchered pig, the
slaughtered cattle, the massacred lambs? These and similar questions
will keep agitating the masses. Answers are urgently needed and
should be discussed with God at Her earliest convenience. O! Beware
the silence!’

Spider sat bewitched. In a final flourish, Pillai had caused the convergence
of compassion, the comrades, the downtrodden, God, and, he suddenly
remembered, the spider! The spider was one of the downtrodden! That was an
audacious stroke. Right there, like a hidden signature, in his own essay for the
comrades.
Pillai was doing a quick word count. His face registered worry again. He
said, ‘Sir, I’m afraid we have once again crossed our word limit! Do you think
we should delete some matter?’
Spider couldn’t hide his shock. Delete? Is Pillai crazy? The essay has just
begun to flower! We should do at least another 500 words if we are
intellectually committed to the topic; if needed, another 1000, I would say, to be
fair to the institution of non-fiction. And we have just reached a thrilling
tuning point: ‘O! Beware the silence!’ So full of ominous portents!
Spider said with feeling, ‘Mr Pillai, as innovators of truth, we owe a debt
to society. We should not be led astray from our goal by a mere technical
consideration. I think we should stop only where a stop appears spontaneously.’
Pillai said Sir’s words were final. Yet, in his humble opinion, most
comrades were known to connect to ideas better when they were in a short,
sweet format—as he’d had occasion to mention earlier—such as a slogan.
Spider could see the man had had enough for the day. Yes, he had gone
through a lot emotionally, recounting the haunting tale of terror, horror, pathos
and salvation from his past birth on the one hand and, on the other, probing
the imponderables of the future of compassion immediately thereafter.
He seemed to be crashing finally. See how he wants brevity when the essay
is reaching for the sky!
Spider decided to make things easy for him. He said if the length became
formidable for the comrades, he had a ready solution: place an announcement
right below the title, stating that those who read the essay to the end would be
rewarded with Unexpected Enlightenment—so they would read to the very
end.
‘Sir,’ Pillai said.
Then it struck Spider that the comrades, being conscientious, might start
reading the essay from the end, to be abreast of the conclusion to start with.
They wouldn’t see the announcement till they reached the beginning. And they
would have to go back to the end to check if they had missed out on the
Unexpected Enlightenment. Were they used to such philosophical stress?
Pillai had nothing to say.
Spider therefore suggested a better solution: bring the conclusion to the
very beginning. Then there was no way the comrades would miss it. They could
work down to the end and then jump to the conclusion, backwards. What did
Pillai think of that?
Pillai seemed to be at a loss for words.
Spider thought for a moment and said he had another, more user-friendly
solution. ‘Let’s put a footnote at the end! Through that, we can tell them that
the end is provided at the beginning.’
Pillai looked like he was about to cry.
He said, ‘My humble suggestion, Sir, is that perhaps we can return to the
essay tomorrow with a fresh mind.’
Spider agreed. He could see that Pillai’s state of stress was getting out of
control. He said, ‘We have travelled a long road. You need rest.’
Pillai took leave of Spider with joined palms. Then he stepped back,
clapped his hands and, from a swirling pink mist, a little yellow bird flew out
into the evening air. Spider leaned out the window to check that it was flying
all right and the strain was not telling on it. Then something made him glance
down. He looked straight into the grim face of Brother Dog, who was staring up
and growling. He shivered and shut the window quickly. Not for the last time,
he fervently prayed to Mar Tommy: Oh, please make sure he is safe and he
returns!
 69
A TERRORIST ACT

One question had been on the tip of Spider’s tongue ever since he first saw
Pillai changing into a bird. Today, as soon as they sat down, Spider asked the
question, so that it would be behind them before they launched into the day’s
work.
He said, ‘Mr Pillai, if this question is too personal, you need not answer it,
but my motive in asking it is entirely scientific.’
Pillai said it added to his merit to answer any question posed by Spider.
Spider said his question had two parts. ‘One is ornithological and the
other is gender-related. The first is: How do you get hold of the precise physical
specifications of the particular type of bird you wish to become? For example,
how do you know the specs of a myna?’
Pillai smiled. This was the second time Spider had seen him smile.
Pillai said, ‘Sir, you have asked a very scientific question and I am
privileged to give you the answer. It is a secret I am honoured to share only
with you. Sir, in the days of my initiation, with considerable difficulty, I
procured a library edition of the respected Professor Salim Ali’s masterly work,
The Book of Indian Birds. It has given me the immense freedom for action
across the width and breadth of this continent. In fact, Sir, I know the book and
its illustrations by heart. It is my holy book. I once showed it to Jesus and he
said he really wished he’d had such a book when he was a seeker. He would
have simply become a birdwatcher instead of wasting his life on a god-forsaken
mission.’
Spider said he too was going to order a copy of the said book because
sometimes he was at sea over the name of a particular bird while writing a
novel. Of course, the book would be especially handy if he took up shape-
changing as a hobby.
 Pillai said there was no doubt about it. He would, however, suggest an
abridged pocket edition because it was convenient to transport and to hide
from curious eyes.
Spider was worried. Why hide? Was shape-changing by any chance a
terrorist act? The last thing Spider wanted was to get caught as a terrorist,
because he didn’t know how to prove he wasn’t one—or disprove that he was
one. Whichever was quicker, before they covered your face with a dirty towel
and put you on the 8 p.m. bulletins as the most wanted terrorist planning to
penetrate the Abominable Snowman’s home on Mount Everest to pick his
pocket. He would be asked to hold up for the TV cameras a route map to the
Snowman’s home from New Delhi. Then he would have to exhibit a diary with
entries in his own handwriting listing the locations where he peed, defecated
and masturbated on his way to India to commit the atrocity, and the exact hour
at which he performed these provocative acts. Oh, my name will be mud, then!
Which patriot will buy my books?
Anxiously, he asked, ‘Mr Pillai, why hide? Is there a problem?’
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘I said that only because the book is sacred to me and I do
not want people prying into it, especially the notes I’ve scribbled on the
margins.’
‘Oh, that’s fine then!’ Spider said with relief.
There was a second part to his question. Had Pillai learned the different
bird languages and songs?
Pillai said the languages and songs came free with the shape you took. It
was necessary to master them or one could be unmasked all of a sudden.
Spider’s question about gender was: Which gender is most user-friendly
when one becomes a bird or an animal?
Pillai replied that it was a chance one had to take because either way, one
was bound to encounter much knocking and scratching on the door at odd
times. Because many birds and animals took sex in their stride and gender was
often an afterthought. One got used to it.
Spider visualized himself getting used to such a lifestyle. Oh, in the sitting-
pretty world of writers, I’m going to be remembered as a daring pioneer who
took gender in his stride!
He had only a few doubts left: How hard was the b-i-t-e that made one a
shape-changer and flyer? Pillai said it was almost like a love-b-i-t-e; a small and
sweet pain. Was it done on an empty stomach? Pillai answered that an empty
stomach was best since it made one lighter and free from the karma of
digestion. Where would the b-i-t-e be administered? Pillai replied that Spider
could choose the spot according to his sensitivities. If he were to give his
humble opinion, the earlobe was a good spot as it stuck out conveniently and
was like a transponder—and, of course, it was suitably tender.
He felt good. He was ready to take the long leap into shape-changing and
flying. The only thing that remained was to persuade Rosi to take the leap too.
But there was a problem: If Rosi accepted the new paradigm, would Pillai
be up to the task of b-i-t-ing her? Pillai said that with Spider’s permission, he
would gird up his loins and do it if she desired it. However, he would have to
mega-meditate and get the special blessings of his mentor before b-i-t-ing
Madam. Because he would need special soul power to b-i-t-e a spiritually
consummate personality like Madam.
Then a shocking thought occurred to Spider. What if Rosi insists on co-
opting Brother Dog? There is no doubt that one day he is going to shape-change
to become my double. Oh! What will happen then? Spider shuddered. He told
Pillai he had some anxieties about giving Brother a shape-changer-cum-flyer
status in the long term.
Pillai said that shouldn’t be a problem because it was possible to
modulate the b-i-t-e in such a way that the effect was limited to one time.
Spider heaved a sigh of relief.
His last question to Pillai on the subject was legal in nature. Was it
necessary to obtain a license to shape-change and/or fly? Shape-changing, he
feared, could be treated as a criminal activity because it had a clandestine side
to it. They might even bill it as an alien invasion, put out a global alert and
catch and deport you to places like Uranus or Pluto where, by all accounts, life
was lived backwards. They started the day with sleep and ended it with waking
up and brushing. Not easy, when you are used to living vice versa!
He had also heard that flying was under a rigorous patriotic scanner. Any
Unidentified Flying Body could immediately draw fire, even a missile attack.
Vigilantes flew around in luxury jets and dreamliner bombers. They might
decide you had an unpatriotic body language. Or hairstyle. Or farting
mannerism. So, Spider asked Pillai, wouldn’t it be better to have a license from
the appropriate authorities to prove that one is a Patriotic Flying Body?
Pillai replied he had given much thought to the issue and in his opinion
the best thing was to keep off shape-changing and flying at times when
patriotism flared up, like the cricket season, or when the media demanded a
nuclear war before its next bulletin/edition was out. By the grace of his mentor,
he hadn’t had a patriotic mishap in all these years of shape-changing and flying.
Only once was he followed by a jet-fighter and he took a low dive into the trees
then, to vanish from its sight. He heard later that the fighter had crashed and
the pilot had bailed out. Apparently he had been given an ultimatum by his
wife to find her missing pet, a myna, and had mistaken Pillai for it and chased
him.
All’s well that ends well, Spider murmured, satisfied in all respects. He
even forgot to notice he had just invented a wonderful new idiom!
 70
DOPPELGANGER

Feeling very upbeat after clearing his doubts and worries regarding a possible
future in shape-changing and flying, Spider now looked at Pillai to check if this
wasn’t the right time to get back to the essay.
But Pillai seemed lost in thought. He stood with a faraway look in his eyes.
Then he came to and asked in a meek voice if Sir would allow him to ask a
question of great importance for the essay and for his own humble destiny.
Spider knew exactly what was coming. He’s going to ask for the film rights
of the essay! Oh, this is business and I must watch my step even though he’s my
valuable collaborator.
He said, ‘Mr Pillai, please go ahead.’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, I hope you will not think I’m trying to disengage myself
from the essay when I ask you this.’
Spider felt as if he had been hit by a thunderbolt. What! Is he giving up,
then? So soon! And when everything is flowing so smoothly! What caused this
change of mind? Oh, Mar Tommy, save me!
Controlling his emotions, Spider managed to say that he was actually in a
no-thought state just then.
Pillai said only a genius like Sir could induce a no-thought state in the
middle of everything.
Spider thanked him for the compliment. He steeled himself for the blow
and said through gritted teeth, ‘Mr Pillai, let us proceed to the question
immediately. I am very keen to hear it.’
He wished the earth would swallow him up. Oh, what a tragic end to a
great collaboration! He suppressed a sob.
Then he heard Pillai saying, ‘Sir, with your kind permission, I would like
to ask if you would like to invite Madam to join the writing of the concluding
portion of the essay. I feel it would be a momentous step if Sir is able to
persuade her to join. The essay would benefit immeasurably from Madam’s
monumental wisdom.’
Spider had to struggle to stop himself from shedding tears of relief. Oh, I
wish he wouldn’t make me teeter on the edge like this! Are all hangmen prone
to brinkmanship?
He said, ‘Mr Pillai, not only is there no misunderstanding, I think you
have made an excellent suggestion. I do believe my wife is very wise. I shall
certainly make a request to her to join us in the writing. I’m not always
successful in making her see my point of view, but let’s hope for the best.’
Suddenly Spider was struck by a brilliant new idea. Why limit Rosi’s
collaboration to writing? She can be as famous as I am! She will be celebrated as
the first philosopher to fly without an airplane! What’s more, another
extraordinary scientific opportunity awaits her. As a person learned in occult
matters, she is best suited to do the trial run in shape-changing and flying and
clear the deck. I can then safely follow in her footsteps. Oh! This is superb!
Then an alarm sounded in his head. What if she doesn’t come back from
the trial run? What if she gets stuck in a one-way street forever? He therefore
decided that he would persuade her to leave a doppelganger behind. But will
life be the same, he asked himself sadly, with a doppelganger?
Quickly overcoming his apprehension he told Pillai, ‘Let me take action
right away on your wonderful suggestion so that we can return to the essay as
soon as possible, with or without my wife.’
Pillai then asked Spider’s permission to be excused for a few hours so that
he could attend to some chores of a personal nature. He felt sure that by the
time he returned, Madam’s participation in the essay would have been
accomplished smoothly, given Sir’s extraordinary powers of persuasion.
As Pillai vanished into the bright sunlight, Spider couldn’t control the
usual tug of worry, but he overcame it. He was exhilarated. Haha! The essay is
just the tip of the iceberg! My future as a meditative witness of our times is
knocking on the door. And I shall be the first writer of fiction to fly without an
airplane and with his own shape-changed body. I too shall embrace butterflies
under the moon, exchange notes with Jesus amongst the clouds and save crow-
babies under attack.
Before Spider went looking for Rosi, he combed his hair, trimmed his
moustache, cut the hair in his nostrils and ears, brushed his teeth, clipped his
finger- and toe-nails and put on a silk shirt. He felt an immense verbal energy
flowing into him from the fresh-lime drink he lifted from the kitchen. His mind
was in deep focus. He dabbed on an exotic Arabian perfume, presented to him
by a friend in Oman who ran a famous perfume shop in Mutrah, Muscat city. It
came from a cave in Salalah, where in ancient times lived a holy Mastermind.
The Mastermind, it was said, simply took a pinch of sand from the
footprint of the woman he desired, blew on it and threw it in her direction, and
she flew into his arms sooner or later. With the result that beautiful women
who were worried about being swept away in this manner began to wear tunics
that were so long, they swept the ground like brooms and their footprints were
wiped clean behind them as they walked. Spider’s friend said that the
Mastermind, in order to combat this obstinacy, invented a master perfume that
was bewitching in its sweetness; women who breathed it found themselves
itching to go find the Mastermind immediately. And they did. Thus he came to
be known also as the Perfumed Hunter. The perfume Spider possessed was
reputed to be of the same lineage as the original. The knowledge gave him a
tremendous sense of control and confidence.
He peeped into Rosi’s room and saw her sitting cross-legged, eyes closed,
in her 4 p.m. meditation. He went in silently and stood watching her warily.
This was sheer good luck. She rarely kept the door open when she meditated.
Perhaps he was finally going to watch her levitating! She had always maintained
she did not levitate because, for her, the ground reality was supreme. Now,
hopefully, he was going to catch her in the act.
He saw her eyelids flutter and jumped a few steps back as a precautionary
measure. Here it comes! He wondered what her limit for hovering was and
whether courtesy demanded he offer her a supportive hand while she
descended. Also, he wondered if he should close the door, because what if she
floated out and vanished into space? He waited tensely.
Rosi opened her eyes and closed them.
Spider readied himself for any eventuality.
 71
THE GIRLFRIEND

Sitting in the lotus posture with closed eyes, Rosi considered the pros and cons
of Spider’s visit. Given the silk shirt, her best bet was that he was pretending to
be a high-end apparition to further his own ends which were sure to be
libidinal.
She now opened her eyes and said, ‘Hello, I can see you are an apparition
awaiting some important development. But the fact is that I have not made love
to an apparition ever since I was fifteen. I will have to learn the skill all over
again. So, if you are seeking a meeting at apparition level, ask for a date four
weeks from now. By then I shall have familiarized myself with current
techniques of apparition-sex. Also, please remember that authentic apparitions
have a foul smell. It comes from being in utter intellectual decay. So don’t
forget to dry-clean yourself and apply a quality spray before you come in. Even
then, I may be interested only in discussing theory with you. And better check
out what apparitions can and cannot actually accomplish in bed.’
Spider was infinitely sad. She thinks I’m an apparition without verifying if
I’m dead. How can she do this to me? As my wife, shouldn’t she keep an eye on
my death and after-life? Or does she think I’m an apparition even while I’m
alive? Oh, this is terrible! Or does she know something I don’t know? Maybe
I’ve overslept and become an apparition and I don’t know it yet, but she has
found out! Oh, Mar Tommy!
Spider trembled at the thought and, heart pounding, searched for his body
with both hands. It seemed to be there. But, oh, what if the feeling of its being
there was an apparition of a feeling?
He gripped a chair for support as he told Rosi in a shaking voice, ‘I’m glad
you brought up the subject of apparitions because what I am planning to tell
you has some bearing on them. But let me first make it clear that, to the best of
my knowledge, I’m not an apparition. If you wish, you can verify that before we
proceed further.’
Rosi appreciated the direct and transparent nature of his statement. She
told him there was no need to check and she was willing to take him at his
word. Also, she did not wish to do a touch-verification because she was in the
process of aura-cleansing. And, in any case, the fact that there was no bad odour
lent credence to his assertion. They could have a good dialogue.
‘So what’s up, Spider?’ she asked.
He said, ‘I’m in two minds.’
Rosi said that was good because she had found out two was today’s lucky
number.
Spider proceeded with his mission. ‘I’m wondering where to begin, from
the beginning or the end, to make the picture crystal clear.’ He added, ‘There
are also some secrets.’
Rosi said the easiest thing would be to begin from either end without
missing the middle, and get to the other end. He could reveal the secrets as a
separate package.
Spider appreciated the directness of her approach. He thanked her for the
advice and said, ‘So let me tell you about the essay first. It’s nearly over.’
Rosi thought that couldn’t be true. She asked, ‘Are you sure you are not
violating any secrecy clause by disclosing this?’
Spider said he was the sole proprietor of all his disclosures—all else being
equal.
He continued, ‘The concluding portion remains to be written. We formally
request you to join us in writing it.’
‘Who’s we? A girlfriend?’ Rosi raised the question as a routine wife-like
modality.
Spider’s disappointment knew no bounds. Where’s the philosopher in
her? Would he, a loving husband, flaunt a girlfriend, if any, before her? And
girlfriends, as far as he knew, enforced stringent privacy clauses on their
beneficiaries.
He said, ‘You know I am impervious to gender. I’m also a virgin, to the
best of my abilities.’
Rosi said, ‘I am only extrapolating a possibility. For example, if such a
girlfriend exists and her curriculum vitae is good, I am ready to hire her right
away on a part-time basis to start with, so that I can devote more time to the
task of recollecting who I am, was, and will be.’
 Spider’s hurt showed on his face as he said in an uncompromising tone,
‘Well, some philosophers may think that girlfriends are the opium of famished
husbands.’
Rosi was taken aback by this daring recycling of Marx. Somebody or
something is at work! He is taking bold strides!
Spider continued in a firm voice, ‘But theirs is a complex situation.’
Rosi enquired if ‘they’ referred to the husbands or the girlfriends. Spider
said even a little baby could tell that ‘they’ referred to the girlfriends.
He continued, ‘They are also the sigh of intellectuals with a lean and
hungry look, the heart of a heartless world and the soul of soulless conditions.’
He added that ‘they’, here again, referred to girlfriends.
He continued, ‘The criticism of girlfriends is, therefore, in embryo, the
criticism of that vale of tears of which they are the halo.’
Rosi sat spellbound.
Spider added, ‘And girlfriends are indeed the self-consciousness and self-
esteem of a man who has not yet won through to himself, or has already lost
himself again.’
Rosi asked if the just-mentioned attributes made him, too, a famished
husband.
Spider said, ‘As the case may be.’
Rosi said she was excited because it seemed possible to rework the whole
of Marx along these lines.
Spider said that would be a revolutionary step because the affected parties
were downtrodden and historically neglected.
Rosi wished to know who the affected parties were.
Spider said, ‘Who else but girlfriends?’
She got up from the lotus position and hugged him, saying, ‘Oh, Spider, I
wish you were my girlfriend!’
 72
A METAPHYSICAL BODY

When Rosi hugged him, Spider wished Pillai was witnessing them so he could
see how smoothly he was conducting the negotiations.
His mission was too urgent for him to respond suitably to Rosi’s hug. So
he thanked her and said he had always entertained the highest regard for her.
He continued, ‘If you agree to join the writing mission, you will, of course, be
working with my collaborator, who is a hangperson.’
Spider felt proud he had overcome the gender divide once again. The last
time had been at the Christmas party held by the local residents’ association
where he sang ‘Mary’s boy child Jesus Christ’. It spontaneously came out as
‘Mary’s girl child Jesus Christ’ and he could see that his audience was
awestruck.
In any case, Spider thought to himself, if you consider the frequency of
Pillai’s shape-changing, his gender must be a grey area, almost a black hole.
Rosi thought Spider had said ‘a hanged person’ and was perturbed.
She was silent for a while, thinking of the implications. Then she asked,
‘Are you sure you have made the right choice by having a hanged person as a
literary collaborator? Personally, if at all I have to choose the dead for any tie-
up, I’ll go for something that died the regular way, not the hanged, the
murdered, etc. Because, in my experience, the irregular category of the dead
mutate in their afterlife into habitual eavesdroppers in living rooms, bedrooms
and boardrooms, carrying gossip to heaven or hell, as the case may be. Some of
them exhibit strange and cantankerous behaviour in kitchens past midnight,
making vessels fall with an ear-splitting clatter and doors close with a horrible
thud. Many have attempted to make omelettes in the washing machine.’
Spider was devastated. Oh! Is Rosi in a state of philosophical meltdown?
This is terrible! Whoever talked of a hanged person? I crafted the wonderfully
gender-neutral word ‘hangperson’ but she has got it all horribly wrong. Good
God! She’s falling apart. Maybe too much philosophy can become toxic. Or
Brother has captured her soul for Dracula’s notorious boutique in Paradise that
sells smuggled multipurpose female souls. Oh, I must go to her rescue! I only
hope no permanent damage has been done.
He said, ‘Rosi, are you sure that while you were meditating, nobody was
tampering with your soul through the backdoor? Did you hear any eerie
sounds, like a bark, a growl, laughter, etc.? I’m asking this because when you are
in a state of no-mind, you may not know if something grabs your mind, or a
portion of it, and walks away with it.’
Rosi said, ‘The most eerie sound I have heard while in meditation is that
of my teeth trying to start an affair with my toenails. Why do you ask?’
‘I just wondered,’ Spider said. He added casually, ‘Because Brother has
been behaving in an ominous manner of late. As you know, I have always
suspected he has evil connections and nefarious agendas.’ He waited for the
impact.
‘Oh, I think he’s been obsessed with some suspicious movements in and
around the house. Must be a bandicoot or a snake or something. Or he’s been
having erotic daydreams. If he’s evil, it’s his karma.’
Spider nearly jumped out of his skin. Bandicoot! Snake! Oh, I’m glad Pillai
is not witnessing us! He would have been so demoralized that he might have
just changed his plans and left for his village.
He decided to confront Rosi directly with the reality of her plight and said
in an uncompromising tone, ‘Rosi, I am surprised you got the impression that
my collaborator is a hanged person. He is not hanged or dead, but a live
hangperson.’
Rosi was relieved. The hangperson, whatever it was, seemed to have
improved Spider’s diction, thought-process, and even memory.
‘I would like to meet this person anyway,’ she said, ‘and thank him for all
the upgrading you seem to have received.’
Spider realized he had won half the battle. He now decided to advance his
cause further. However, first, he had to put the nuts and bolts to the advantage
gained.
So he said, ‘I must tell you that my collaborator holds you in great regard
and thinks you have a metaphysical body.’
She asked, ‘When did he see my body?’
Spider cursed himself. Oh, when will I stop speaking the truth
inappropriately?
He covered up deftly. ‘I meant to say, my collaborator has come to think
like me. It’s the magic of shared creativity.’
‘So you think I have a metaphysical body?’
Spider fidgeted and said, ‘Yes, of course.’
‘That’s interesting to know, even though you have never told me this
yourself. I’m aroused by the suggestion, but let’s hear the full story and cross
that bridge when we come to it. How come you thought my body is
metaphysical?’
Spider knew the exact answer. ‘It’s simple science. The mystical properties
of your massage oil give the body a metaphysical gloss, making it, so to say,
slippery.’
He added on second thoughts, ‘And evasive.’
He was tense. Because suddenly, the phrase ‘cross the bridge when we
come to it’, a personal invention of his, had come out of Rosi’s mouth! Oh, are
idioms cutting their umbilical cord? Where’s their patriotism? He shuddered.
Rosi asked, ‘If the essay is approaching its end, how many more words do
you expect me to put in?’
Spider said, ‘My collaborator is making an estimate. We’ll let you know.’
He did not want to bring in the word limit right away. Let her feel
limitless. The sky is the limit, haha!
Rosi said, ‘Do count me in, Spider. I’m sure I’m going to enjoy working
with you and your collaborator. I shall be able to learn a lot.’
Keeping his exhilaration in rein, Spider merely said, ‘Thank you and
welcome!’
 73
THE CHEETAH

Rosi felt good, having agreed to write the concluding part of the essay with
Spider and Pillai. She asked, ‘Can we now quickly proceed to the end, take a
look at the secrets, if need be, and bring this session to a close? Because aura-
cleansing awaits me.’
Spider said that he had just realized they were already at the end. It had
arrived so suddenly that even he hadn’t registered the fact that only the secrets
remained.
She asked whether the secrets were to be directly revealed or was there a
preceding ritual?
Spider said feelingly that she should know he didn’t believe in rituals,
being a rational person. He was going to reveal the secrets to her directly. Only,
he wished to warn her that they might contain material that may not be suited
to inexperienced or immature ears. But there shouldn’t be any problem in her
case, because he knew she was experienced and wise.
Rosi thanked him for the compliment.
Spider said, ‘First of all, I wish to reiterate the gender and profession of
my collaborator: he is male and an executioner and therefore a hangperson.’
Rosi said, ‘I appreciate your act of creating the genderless nomenclature. I
would love to make your collaborator’s acquaintance and get from him first-
hand information on the manufacture of orchestrated death.’
Rosi’s words filled Spider with a surge of new energy.
He said in a studied voice, ‘It may also interest you to know that my
collaborator is a relative of Jesus.’
Rosi didn’t bat an eyelid. Must he go as far as Jesus to build up his
collaborator’s CV? She politely asked if Jesus would be present at the meeting.
Spider said the chances were bright of meeting him in the sky, according
to his collaborator.
‘You mean, both of them are frequent flyers?’
Now Spider went in for the kill. He said with a casual air, ‘You see, my
collaborator flies using his own body. He is a shape-changer. He flies in the
night, mainly as a bat. During the day, he flies as a bird. Sometimes he runs into
Jesus in the sky and they exchange pleasantries.’
‘So when does he hang people?’ Rosi asked.
Spider said he was sorry he hadn’t checked that out. It must be during the
free times in between.
‘What’s his prime mission, then?’ she asked.
Spider said it was to become a writer of fiction. It was not necessary to tell
her at this point about his other main mission, namely, that of being a
Meditative Witness of Our Times. Too much dry information can be taxing on
philosophers.
Rosi said, in that case, he was wasting his time flying, shape-changing,
hanging, etc. He should sit down and write religiously everyday instead of
frittering away his time and energy on such fashionable things.
Spider realized he had hit a road-block. He said, ‘True. But from what I
have gathered from him, shape-changing and flying have considerable spiritual
potential. And it appears they can make one a better writer of fiction. We are
yet to discuss any similar benefits of hanging.’
Then he took a swift, spontaneous decision to drive home the final thrust.
‘In a nutshell, one can say he is a Meditative Witness of Our Times.’
Rosi was silent for a while, thinking. Then she asked, ‘Can your
collaborator, for example, become a crow?’
Spider was overjoyed. My multi-layered persuasion is working! She’s
getting the hang of it!
He exclaimed, ‘Of course! He can change into any bird, animal, mammal
or, for that matter, marsupial. And look at the sheer coincidence of your asking
about crows! He first came to visit me as a crow the day you had your oil bath!’
Rosi was absorbed in thought again. Then she said, ‘Let me congratulate
your collaborator. He is a mastermind. I wish to sit at his feet.’
A premonition flashed in Spider’s head. He opened his mouth to say
something, but no sound emerged.
Rosi added that while she admired his collaborator’s brilliance overall, if
her memory served her well, he did not appear to be very meditative in his
witnessing. On the contrary, he was an avid and relentless voyeur with a high
degree of tolerance for hot water.
She continued, ‘I also appreciate his dedication because despite the hot-
water threat, he continued to watch me soap myself, shower and dry off, and
wear my clothes. He kept changing his position as if to get different views.’
Spider was very sad. Oh, Pillai never told me that! That means he assessed
her in every detail. He seems to be holding back from me the complete data.
Such secrecy is not good for science.
Then he heard a voice that sounded like his own saying, ‘Oh! I think my
collaborator was just resting on the window bar of the bathroom, on his way
up. Sometimes, after a hanging, he feels dead tired.’
Rosi said she would have imagined it was the hanged person who felt dead
tired after the hanging, not the hangman.
‘Be that as it may,’ she continued, ‘you must give me advance notice if
you are extending your collaboration beyond the essay to shape-changing, flying
and witnessing. I would hate to bump into you inside the house, or outside, in
the shape of creatures whose brief I do not hold. I may even tend to become
violent, when suddenly confronted with the cloud of my own unknowing of an
unknown creature. Also, I may not be able to keep an eye on Brother all the
time and you know how he is with creatures other than himself or his friends.
As for witnessing, it will be better if you notify the location in advance so that I
can send Brother to keep guard. I do not want you to come home in a damaged
condition.’
Spider admitted that he did have some plans of learning the arts of shape-
changing and flying. It was in order to improve the mystic quality of his writing.
He took a deep breath and added, ‘I’ve no doubt that as a philosopher
you too will discover in this unexplored area of knowledge unsuspected benefits
pertaining to philosophy.’
He waited for his words to sink in and said, ‘Shape-changing and flying
could revolutionize your exercise regimen. Because one produces a total
molecular rehash and the other provides full-body, aerial aerobics.’
‘To be frank,’ he told Rosi, ‘I myself expect to become a slimmer and
more muscular person with enhanced charisma and a fast-track approach to life
through these two activities.’
Rosi said in that case he should choose to become a cheetah, which was
slim and muscular and possessed high speed and charisma.
Spider thought that over.
‘It’s an amazing option!’ he said. ‘Because the cheetah is an endangered
species and I often feel endangered myself. But,’ he added, ‘there is a problem. I
would need a sanctuary to function from. The world is very hard on endangered
creatures and people.’
Rosi opined that in that case, a zoo would be the best place to live. Food
would be brought to the cage. Mating activities, however, would have to be held
in public view.
Spider said that was a problem. Mating in public was not his thing. He was
a bit shy.
 74
A DAMP SQUIB

Rosi said that considering all these issues, shape-changing appeared to have
many ramifications and a thoughtful approach seemed to be called for.
Spider agreed wholeheartedly. He said he would have deeper consultations
with his collaborator.
Rosi asked, ‘What is your collaborator’s name?’
Spider said it was Jesus Lambodara Pillai.
Rosi said that was a good name.
She asked, ‘So you are planning to become a flyer too?’
Spider said, ‘Yes, I do have that possibility in mind.’
He added, with a look of irrevocable conviction, ‘Rosi, while I am very
happy that you are joining us in the writing of the essay, I am also hoping you
will collaborate with me in both shape-changing and flying, so that we can share
the challenges together. That is to say, once you certify the full spiritual
potential of the two projects after a trial run by yourself, I can follow it up with
my own inputs. And then we can live happily, enjoying the fruits.’
Rosi closed her eyes. A couple of minutes passed. Spider began to worry
that she had been transported back to meditation by the sheer directness of his
presentation.
At this point, Rosi opened her eyes and said that as Spider already knew,
she was philosophically opposed to humans encroaching on the living space of
birds, bats, butterflies, moths, UFOs and random flying objects like devils,
ghosts, goblins, angels, small-time gods, etc.
She thought again and added that in fact, the shape-changing project still
left many questions unanswered. She had mentioned only a few. There were
more. For example, she was not attuned to unaccustomed toilet habits such as
would be required of her if she were to become, say, a caterpillar. Or a cockatoo.
For reasons beyond her control, she had got used to sitting on a WC and reading
a holy book for inspiration.
Again, even though she considered all animals, birds, fishes and
amphibians her brothers and sisters, she hadn’t reached a stage of inner growth
with regard to the matter of private smells. She preferred to smell like herself in
all parts of the body and was doubtful if that would be possible if she became,
for example, an eel. Or a python. Or a panda. Also, much conjecture and
contrariness were bound to occur in the area of sex as one would have to learn
the methodology from scratch with each new shape one took. And what one got
at the end of all that hard work might prove to be a damp squib.
Also, for reasons beyond her control again, she liked wearing detachable
garments that could be removed speedily when necessary, unlike feathers or
hair, which are built in. Last but not the least, she had got used to looking in
the mirror and seeing a face and a body she had thought of as herself ever since
she could remember. She didn’t want to find something with a beak or fangs
staring back at her.
Spider said that, from the beginning, he had been guided in this matter
entirely by an enthusiasm for scientific discovery. It was true he had not taken a
critical and impersonal view. It was really so wonderful to have a philosopher
wife.
Thank God, Spider told himself, that I didn’t tell her about the b-i-t-e
Pillai would have to give her to begin with.
He added that the issues raised by Rosi demanded deeper scrutiny. In fact,
he was all for alternative options to flying. He had always wondered: Is it
absolutely necessary to fly in the air? Can’t we fly somewhere else? Why not in
the sea, or under the earth? Or fly inside one’s own house so that one does not
infringe on anybody’s air copyright? As for smells, it was true that he too
wished to smell like himself in most parts of his body. He added on an
impulsive note that he, in fact, liked smelling like Rosi because he liked her
smell.
Rosi said she had already taken a patent on all her smells. But he was free
to appreciate them whenever there was an opportunity.
Spider began to get the uncomfortable feeling that something had gone
awry. He seemed to be agreeing with most of Rosi’s statements. That certainly
was not the desired outcome. How come she’s not agreeing with me instead?
She has agreed only to one thing: to collaborate on the essay. But the essay is
only one part of the story. Oh, why can’t she stop wanting to smell like herself?
Has she become religious? It’s religions that produce the same smells always—
even the farts in a place of worship.
Before he could activate an approach that might make Rosi more flexible,
she asked, ‘So would you say that your interest in flying and shape-changing
also extends to witnessing, in the footsteps of your collaborator?’
Spider was very calm when he told her, ‘I am very glad you asked that
question. My answer is simple. As a writer of fiction—and now also of facts—I
am hoping to eventually step into a consciousness that may be described as the
Great Witness.’
Rosi said she was happy to be married to such an evolutionary soul.
Spider said, ‘You know I’ve always been a humble seeker of the Path.’
She wished to know what a Great Witness usually witnessed.
Spider was lucid in his response. ‘He/she witnesses the Narrative of Life.’
He added, ‘Please note that “N” and “L” are capital letters.’
‘My main worry,’ she said, ‘about your becoming a meditative witness is
that you would be spending far too much time outdoors instead of doing your
real work, which is writing. In addition, you might catch a cold from night-
outings at odd times. Also, as I mentioned earlier, you might come home
absent-mindedly in your changed shape and land in Brother’s mouth. Even
more terrifying is your tendency to fall asleep while meditating. The
consequences can be disastrous when you are witnessing and meditating at the
same time.’
Spider said these were unexplored dimensions and he would treat them
with the seriousness they deserved. He added that he was touched by her
abundant foresight.
‘Can we say then,’ Rosi asked, ‘that we have now uncovered all the ends
and that all the secrets have been revealed?’
Spider said that appeared to be the case.
Rosi said she was very happy about the outcome and was immensely
honoured that she had been invited to collaborate with a relative of Jesus. She
looked forward to the meeting.
She added that she must remember to thank him for the very interesting
discovery he had made of her metaphysical body. It was worth investigating
further and she was very excited.
That gave Spider a shock. Oh, Mar Tommy! Pillai’s going to be devastated
to find out that Rosi knows he was the crow she chased out and called a sex
maniac! He might lose every bit of his self-esteem and fly away and never
return. Oh, what shall I do?
He said in a controlled voice, ‘Rosi, I happen to know Mr Pillai is highly
sensitive when it comes to his scientific discoveries. Though he was kind enough
to share his sensational finding about your metaphysical body with me,
knowing him as I do, he wouldn’t want even you, the coincidental subject of his
discovery, to learn about it till the world is ripe for such profound knowledge.
So it would be better if you don’t discuss it with him.’
Rosi said she certainly would not want to upset a scientific temperament.
She, however, expressed surprise that Spider had not invited Brother, who
was a member of the family, to this important meeting. Given Brother’s
habitual inclinations, he would certainly welcome a hangman. He might even
start learning to hang his victims instead of torturing them to death.
Spider was disheartened by Rosi’s light-hearted approach. Doesn’t she
realize she is jesting about a practising psychopath?
He said, ‘Brother has violent intentions towards my friend. My impression
is that he feels he has been deceived by two different scents of the same person
and has been made the victim of an illusion which he is unable to penetrate. A
meeting between them is not desirable.’
Rosi pointed out how this situation perfectly illustrated the uncertain role
of scent in shape-changing.
He was wondering if the discussion hadn’t come to an end when Rosi said,
‘Spider, thank you for the profound dialogue we’ve just had. As I said, I am
aroused by the discovery of my metaphysical body. Shall we make love to cap
this very interesting moment? Are you in two minds or one?’
Spider said he was single-minded in his pursuit of truth.
Rosi said, ‘So hug me, girlfriend.’
When he hugged her, Rosi said, ‘That’s a nice perfume.’
Suddenly a thought threw him off balance and made him hold tightly on
to Rosi. Good heavens! It’s the Mastermind at work! I wore his perfume and
he’s made me Rosi’s girlfriend!
Spider said, ‘I’m baffled.’
Rosi told him, ‘Many girlfriends are, the first time. Don’t worry. It will go
away.’
Spider let go of Rosi and quickly closed the door and bolted it. He knew
Satan’s lackey was somewhere out there.
She added, ‘You have the option of being a downtrodden girlfriend, if that
helps.’
 Spider said he would leave it to spontaneity.
Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. He asked in a feeble voice, ‘As a
girlfriend, do I have to grow breasts?’ He didn’t have the strength to go any
further.
Rosi replied, ‘Between you and me, my breasts are enough.’
 75
VERBOSITY

It was eleven in the morning and Rosi, seated in Spider’s study, was sampling
the essay.

‘The time is not far off when robot armies, interstellar ships and AI
units controlling WMDs and slaughterhouse machinery run by EI will
be programmed with Compassion. For, in the precarious days of the
future, Compassion may be the only tool capable of encompassing the
remnants of Reality on its last leg under the control of Nonchalant
Intelligence (NI).’

Spider stood watching her warily.

She looked up at him and asked, ‘Since this passage appears at the top of
the page and above it there is only the title, can I take it that it is the beginning
of the essay?’
Spider agreed. It was premature to tell her about the possibility of having
an extra beginning, or even two, using the end. Being an enlightened
philosopher is one thing, understanding the nitty-gritty of a writer’s craft, quite
another.
‘How does it read?’ he asked in a detached voice.
‘It has a ring of prophecy,’ she said.
Spider smiled, but impassively. He did not want to go overboard on
received praise. Suddenly, the joyful tweet of a bird came from somewhere.
Spider thought that was a wonderful augury.
Rosi continued, ‘But there’s also a sense of self-righteous sermonizing.’
Spider considered that. That’s great! And not surprising. Pillai is a relative
of Jesus and Jesus was both righteous and given to sermonizing. Genes run deep.
 ‘And,’ she added, ‘a touch of pomposity.’
Spider couldn’t agree more. Who doesn’t know that non-fiction has a
tendency to be pompous? That’s a benchmark. Oh, she’s a wonderful critic! I
never knew this side of her personality.
Rosi said, ‘In totality, it serves the given purpose of bamboozling the
comrades. I would say it’s even brilliant, considering the audacity of the
verbosity.’
Spider heaved a sigh of relief. A philosopher had given her opinion!
Prophecy! Brilliance! Audacity!
He said dispassionately, ‘We try to give satisfaction.’
There was a little tweet again and Spider looked around in surprise. It
made him think about Pillai.
He said, ‘Mr Pillai should be here any moment now. It’s past eleven o’
clock.’
Rosi was reading silently. She looked up from the essay and asked,
‘Notwithstanding the complex interface in which an intellectual collaboration
operates, may I inquire who actually wrote this?’
Spider said, ‘While you are collaborating with us, do not hesitate to ask
any question, however delicate it may be. We are democratic and transparent to
the core. To answer your question: I wrote it.’
Spider again wondered why Pillai was late. Oh, I hope someone hasn’t shot
him! Or is he held up at a witnessing spot?
Rosi appeared to be searching for words. She asked, ‘Are you sure your
memory is serving you well? Because I have heard it said that writing non-
fiction for long periods creates memory lapses and even delusions.’
Spider hesitated a moment. He could see that he had oversimplified his
answer to a point where it seemed to have awakened a sphere of unknowing in
her. It may be better to explain the simple system by which the collaboration
works and put her at ease. After all, she’s going to work with us.
He said patiently, ‘I am so glad you asked that important question. Let me
rework my answer to you this way: It’s very simple. I do the physical writing
and Mr Pillai does the narrating.’
Spider moved to the window and said worriedly, ‘Mr Pillai is late. I
wonder what happened to him.’
Rosi got up too, and they stood looking out.
Suddenly there was a buzzing sound behind them and they both veered
around, startled. In a pink fog hanging and swirling in mid-air, something was
dissolving into something else.
Rosi jumped a couple of steps back.
Spider said, ‘Don’t be afraid. I’m sure it’s only Mr Pillai.’
‘Thank you,’ Rosi said. ‘But I like to keep my distance from unidentified
floating objects. What if it’s not your friend but an alien on the hunt?’
Spider moved behind Rosi, telling himself that this way, he could pull her
back in case the alien tried to grab her. I’m her husband and I’ll ask for my
share.
The fog was taking its time resolving. Pillai usually appeared in a quick
dissolve and re-assembly.
Rosi said, ‘I wonder if it’s legal to watch this. Because it could be a
classified happening, like sex, and we could be booked for trespassing.’
Suddenly there was a shake-up inside the fog and Pillai stood before them,
at attention, his face reflecting a deep reverence.
 76
HEART TO HEART

Spider heaved a sigh of relief to see Pillai finally as a physical body. The
executioner had had a shave and a haircut. His hair was well oiled and combed
down. There was a visible coat of talcum powder on his face. He wore a sharply
ironed white shirt of a youthful cut and without any ink stains. The white dhoti
boasted a brocade border. The sandals were brand new and there were no ink
marks on Pillai’s heels. Instead of the old cloth bag, he carried a smart leather
briefcase.
Spider could immediately guess the reason for this sprucing up: He had
been to a classy execution and hadn’t had the time to change. No wonder he
was late.
Before Spider could make the introductions, Pillai had rushed forward and
touched Rosi’s feet with both hands.
Spider expected Rosi to do the done thing: look surprised, pretend to
dissuade Pillai and, with an expression of unworthiness, bless him by touching
his head, all the while assuming a pious look. Instead, she seemed to be giggling.
Spider was very upset. Not right! Outrageous! It is a given that when an
honourable guest touches your feet, you shall behave according to the tenets of
feet-touching.
At the same time, it surprised him to know that Rosi’s feet could be
touched in this manner. He normally touched them only when she was asleep,
to see if there was any surface radiation on them. Maybe it was a good idea to
touch her feet when she was awake too.
Pillai came to attention again, not looking at either of them but
respectfully into the distance. His face registered a certain ecstasy, which put
worry into Spider’s heart.
To start the conversation, Spider asked Pillai, ‘So, Mr Pillai, you must be
coming directly from an execution. I see you are dressed for the occasion. Was it
a nice one?’
Pillai seemed embarrassed. He said he hadn’t been to an execution. He
was dressed for the occasion of meeting Madam. This was a special moment he
had long been waiting for, and he wished to look his best. Even though he had
no confirmation about Madam joining them, he hadn’t wanted to take a chance.
Spider asked, ‘It must be your new briefcase that made the assembling
take so long today? In fact, my wife thought you were an alien and we were a
little worried.’
Pillai blushed and said, ‘Sir, I’m extremely sorry that I caused anxiety to
Madam and I beg her forgiveness. The briefcase is new, but it causes no delay in
shape-shifting. I am privileged to say that I bought it along with a new
notebook for specially recording Madam’s words of wisdom.’
‘But how come you got late?’ Spider asked.
Pillai looked sheepish. He said, ‘Please forgive me for creating a
misunderstanding. I was not late. I was already in the room and awaiting your
arrival. But when Madam began to read the essay, I couldn’t but wish to hear
her spontaneous reactions. So I remained hidden. And I was rewarded by the
kind words of appreciation Madam uttered. I’m fulfilled! Then I changed shape
and that unfortunately caused Madam to mistake me for an alien.’
‘So it was you who tweeted!’ Spider felt happy to have penetrated the
mystery.
‘Sir.’
‘But that still doesn’t explain why the changeover process took so long.’
Pillai looked abashed again. He said, ‘Sir, with Madam as a spectator, I
wished to present the process of shape-changing in all its scientific details.’
Spider exclaimed, ‘Great! Well begun is half done!’
He had a feeling he had heard that before. Perhaps it was his own
invention? Good Heavens! What’s happening to me?
Pillai now turned to Rosi and said with joined palms, ‘Madam, touching
your feet has energized me, as if I’ve had a rebirth.’
He continued, ‘Not even in my wildest dreams did I imagine that I would
be called upon to assist your husband, an unchallenged literary genius, in his
creative effort. And now my good fortune has bestowed upon me this
extraordinary opportunity to be in the presence of a spiritual genius and
philosophical guide, who is coincidentally his wife!’
Spider looked towards Rosi and was unhappy to see her giggling again. Oh,
has Brother stolen portions of her mind? What if Pillai becomes moody? The
work will be hit. He decided to intervene.
He took her aside and whispered, ‘Rosi, he is about to start work on the
essay and his mind is in a supercharged state. He could get disoriented by your
giggling because executioners in general are not used to people giggling when
they are at work. Please put him at ease. Welcome him. Thank him. Make your
metaphysical body shine forth! Go heart to heart!’
Rosi got the hint. She hadn’t extended to Mr Pillai the courtesies due to a
senior executioner and trusted collaborator. She had been distracted by his
mannerisms. Now that Spider had given the go-ahead, she must go all out and
make him comfortable.
Rosi walked up to Pillai, smiled and extended her hand. With a look of
incredulity, Pillai took her palm in both his hands and stood as if he had
forgotten to breathe. His gaze was so dreamy that Spider feared he was slipping
away into meditation.
Rosi said, ‘Mr Pillai, I’m proud to make the acquaintance of a senior
executioner, literary artist and maverick seeker who is also a relative of Jesus.
I’m privileged to be your collaborator because the essay you have composed in
association with my husband shows you are an original thinker and an
innovative writer. I’m awestruck that you are also a hangman. You are the first
hangman I’ve met and I’m deeply impressed. In fact, I feel the heat of death in
your hands. And I would love to learn from you an insider’s view of the
mechanics of administered death.’
Pillai looked as if he was melting with happiness.
Spider congratulated himself. Oh, what a magical difference my timely
intervention has made!
Rosi continued, ‘Also, I am infinitely grateful to you because it was your
sagacity that discovered, breaking through the man-made barriers of oil, soap
and water, that I have a metaphysical body. I have been enriched in a way that
words cannot describe because metaphysics is my area of speciality. Above all, I
must apologize to you. How I wish I had known it was you who were sitting on
my bathroom window. I would have never acted the way I did. I feel very bad
about the hot water.’
Rosi smilingly looked towards Spider to signify she had done what was
expected of her and the situation was under control.
Spider sought something to hold on to for support. He could feel a
tornado sweeping upward from the soles of his feet. He tottered to his chair and
sat down.
Rosi took her hand out of Pillai’s hold. Pillai swayed, then took a few
weak steps back and supported himself against the wall.
Rosi now put the finishing touches to her pleasantries. ‘Oh, Mr Pillai, I’m
sure it must be a very different experience for you to see me like this, with my
clothes on. Is my metaphysical body visible to you in these present conditions?’
Spider felt his body slump.
Suddenly there was a loud hum that sounded like a wail, then a flash, and
there was no Pillai.
 77
BEELZEBUB

Seeing Pillai vanishing, Spider sprang up from the chair with a cry.
Rosi was surprised to see a small bird on the ground where Pillai had
stood. ‘Catch it!’ Spider shouted. ‘Rosi, please!’
Just as the bird was flapping its wings to rise, Rosi rushed forward and
cupped it with her hand. A feeble tweet was heard.
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘Don’t let him go!’ Spider panted.
Rosi said they could be committing unlawful confinement of a senior
official. He might have received an urgent summons to an execution.
Spider said he would explain later.
‘Hold him!’ he said, and rushed down to the ground floor. It took him a
few minutes of breathless searching to find a netted fruit basket. He ran up
with it, puffing and gasping, and nearly collapsed as he entered the study. What
met his eyes made his blood freeze.
Brother Dog stood facing Rosi, growling and yelping and licking his lips in
a manic frenzy. He jumped up with both his paws in the air and trotted around
Rosi in a war-dance, whining without pause.
Beelzebub! He had seen the open door and entered to offer Rosi his love.
And come upon a bumper prize.
With a pounding heart, Spider searched for the bird. It was nowhere! Oh,
had Rosi let it go? Darkness filled his eyes. He held on to the table for support.
Tragedy has hit! Pillai is gone forever! The unmasking was too much for him!
His self-esteem is in ruins! Oh, Mar Tommy! What shall I do?
Suddenly he heard the bird singing joyfully, as if it had seen the sun rising
and it wished the whole world to know this fact. Oh, Mr Pillai, Spider thought
bitterly, is this the time to show off your musical talent? When death is staring
you in the face? How irresponsible, especially when you have a major project in
hand.
Spider asked in a voice filled with despair, ‘Oh, my God! Rosi, where is the
bird?’
‘Oh,’ Rosi said, ‘he’s safe.’
‘But where is he?’
‘Inside my blouse.’
Spider put the fruit basket down on the table. He took a deep breath.
‘Why is he so happy? Doesn’t he know he’s in the jaws of death?’
‘Oh, I talked to him to put him at ease and gave him my breast to suck.’
‘Which one?’
‘The left one.’
Oh, my favourite breast! The one with cold coffee!
‘But can a bird suck? With a beak? It’s unnatural!’
‘He managed. It hurts me a bit, but altogether the feeling is nice.’
‘How long do you plan to keep him there? He could get suffocated.’
‘No. He’s in my cleavage. There’s enough space.’
‘Will you please ask him to stop singing? It’s getting on everybody’s
nerves!’
‘Let him sing,’ Rosi said. ‘You said you needed him to be in a good mood
for the essay.’
Brother was waiting, his tongue lolling and a deadly intent in his eyes. He
beat the ground with his tail as if beating time to execute the kill. Spider
remembered Rosi’s words that Brother might like to hang his victims and
shivered.
He whispered to Rosi. ‘Please get Brother out! We need to bring Mr Pillai
back to his normal state.’
Rosi bent down, caught Brother by his collar and dragged him to the door.
‘Come! You poor thing!’ she said. ‘I’ll give you a brush-down later to
compensate for your sacrifice.’
Spider couldn’t contain his disgust. Morality was going to pieces! It was no
wonder newspapers were folding up and TV channels were failing!
Suddenly Spider saw something and his breath nearly stopped. ‘Rosi!’ he
screamed.
The bird had drifted to the top of Rosi’s blouse as she bent to drag
Brother away, and was slipping out!
And then it fell.
 Spider made a near suicidal dive and caught it as it fell. Brother was
wriggling and making ferocious efforts to free himself from Rosi’s grip. But Rosi
determinedly dragged him out, closed the door and, Spider saw with a shudder,
threw him a kiss.
Spider put the bird on the table and covered it with the fruit basket. Oh,
destiny is on my side! I had the presence of mind to run down and get the
basket at least.
The bird seemed to have gone to sleep. It sat there with closed eyes, silent
and motionless. Poor Pillai, he has gone through a lot today, Spider thought
sympathetically. At the end of a hard day, it must pinch you to keep sitting
between two large breasts, however romantic it may sound. Perhaps it’s even
traumatic. No wonder he’s looking worn out.
As another measure of abundant caution, Spider closed the window.
 78
THE DECOY END

Rosi told Spider, ‘It’s an interesting feeling to have a little bird between your
breasts. I must try it again.’
Spider said, in that case, it would be advisable to wear a closed-neck
blouse because one with a deep cleavage clearly invited danger to the occupant
inside, especially when evil characters abounded and the occupant was the sort
who grew dim-witted in a crisis.
Rosi pointed out that, on the contrary, the events of the last few minutes
were, as it were, a telling reminder of the hazards of shape-changing she had
earlier pointed out. It was as if a rehearsal had been arranged.
Suddenly a double-tweet was heard.
They turned to the fruit basket and found the bird was awake and
moving, unfolding its feathers and flapping its wings.
Spider said it seemed Mr Pillai was now rested and perhaps it was time to
remind him to be himself again. So much time had been spent on peripherals
today!
As a first step he closed the window and latched it. Then, he lifted the
basket covering the bird and said, ‘Mr Pillai, welcome back! All’s well!’
A green mist swirled briefly and Pillai appeared before them, looking
dishevelled but steady on his feet. He stood with joined palms, seemingly lost in
a dream.
Then he came to and said, ‘Madam and Sir, I have no words to say how
sorry I am for the inconvenience I caused both of you just now. I am a shy man
with fragile sentiments and I could not withstand the impact of the knowledge
that Madam had discovered my secret life. But I am also grateful to destiny
because the hiatus led me to the sweetest moments I have ever experienced. I
express my gratitude and reverence and salute Madam for the miraculous
protection she gave me.’
Spider was gratified. That was well put! He has given all credit to Madam.
Even though she’s my wife, she’s not impervious to flattery. Of course, the poor
man doesn’t know it was I who saved the day—went down and brought the
fruit basket and also accomplished a brilliant catch when he fell from his
hideout. Doesn’t matter!
Pillai continued, ‘The touch of Madam’s gentle hands upon me, the loving
shelter she blessed me with, and the sweet feel of her nipple are the most divine
experiences of my humble life so far.’
Spider couldn’t fault Pillai for slipping into a mawkish style. It was an
emotional moment and he was rising to the occasion.
It made Spider suddenly wonder if it wouldn’t be more conducive to
better working relations if he too addressed Rosi as Madam during the period
of their collaboration. If it produced good results, he could continue to do so
afterwards too.
He turned to Rosi and said, ‘Madam, Mr Pillai and I welcome you formally
to this collaboration. You’re already aware of Mr Pillai’s literary gifts. He was
insistent that your thoughts would be of the greatest value in developing the
rest of the essay on compassion in a gripping manner. I must also inform you
that in a prominent footnote to the essay on the very first page, I shall
acknowledge, along with that of Mr Pillai, your valuable contribution.’
Pillai rushed forward and touched Spider’s feet.
He said, ‘Sir, I’m blessed! I cannot believe that my name will appear on
the same page as yours and Madam’s. Oh, this is a day of unparalleled
fulfillment for me!’
Spider said he was only doing his duty as a true professional. He asked if
his collaborators were now in a calm state of mind and ready to start work on
the essay.
They said they were.
Rosi read aloud the last paragraph of the draft to get into the flow.

‘You shower compassion on the white-collared oppressors of the

people. What about the underdogs of the street, the collarless poor:
the stray cat and stray dog? What about the chained elephant, the
murdered chicken, the chopped fish, the butchered pig, the
slaughtered cattle, the massacred lambs? These and similar questions
will keep agitating the masses. Answers are urgently needed and
 should be discussed with God at Her earliest convenience. O! Beware
the silence!’

Spider faced his collaborators gravely and said, ‘It makes me very happy to
seek your permission to present a suggestion regarding the future shape of the
essay. Please treat my suggestion in the most dispassionate manner and take a
decision. I need not remind you that we live in a democracy.’
His collaborators said they were very keen to hear his suggestion.
He continued, ‘My suggestion is as follows: when we reach the end of the
essay, which we shall soon do, we should create a false end, or rather, a decoy
end. The reason is that, as readers progress towards the end, they will start
getting ready for it. This takes away from the enormous surprise potential of
the end. So we create a decoy end once we reach the actual end. We shall go on
for a few thousand words or a few dozen pages before we bring the decoy to an
end. It is for us to determine if the decoy should be a gripping one or just so-so.
‘The crux of the matter is that the reader shouldn’t even guess that the
real end is over. We shall send him on a wild goose chase. When his
predetermination has worked itself out and he thinks he has reached the end he
was waiting for, because there are no more pages to read, we shall confront him
with a footnote that says, “Good Sir/Madam, please go back to page so-and-so,
line so-and-so and you will find the end you’ve been waiting for.” Thus we
shall put an end to the unfortunate preoccupation of readers with the end.
‘Many things in life are in a mess because we are always looking for ends.
And loose ends. Like, oh, when will this journey end? Oh, when will this movie
end? Oh, when will this lovemaking end? Oh, when will this marriage end? Once
we show people that they were actually done with the end and just didn’t
know it, they’ll stop getting worked up about ends. And once we’ve succeeded
in doing this, we should go one step further and create decoy beginnings. But
let’s keep that for another day.’
Spider stopped and awaited the response of his collaborators.
 79
DROOPING MORALS

Pillai stood open-mouthed, with a worshipful expression on his face, having

listened to Spider’s theory of the decoy end. Then he ran forward and touched
Spider’s feet. This time Spider didn’t forget to bless him by placing his hands
on his head.
Rosi was fascinated by Spider’s presentation. His theoretical side is
showing tremendous growth! Oh, can one hangman do so much?
She said, ‘Would you therefore say that we create a decoy end today? Or
do we progress to a real end and then create a decoy? Since I’m inexperienced
at this, I would like to hear Mr Pillai’s opinion.’
Pillai’s face glowed as he said, ‘Madam, it is beyond every expectation of
mine that a person of your depth of vision and insight should seek my humble
opinion. I’m most grateful to you. While I am excited by Sir’s profound and
challenging theory about endings and feel that we must pursue that goal
determinedly in our literary efforts, at the moment I am of the opinion that we
are faced with a constraint, namely the word limit. Sir would perhaps agree that
we have already crossed the limit which the proposed readership of the essay,
namely the revolutionary comrades, will be able to contend with. Therefore, my
humble opinion is that we should aim to reach a quick end under Madam’s
wise guidance.’
Spider was bitterly disappointed. Oh, he just touched my feet and I blessed
him. Yet, he has let me down! No wonder churches are up for sale. No wonder
the Yeti is missing from his regular habitats.
He said, ‘Mr Pillai, when barriers are falling everywhere, should we be
inhibited by word limits? Are you sure the revolutionary comrades won’t be
able to override a mere word limit? I’ve heard it said that every revolution has
a decoy. Maybe revolutions themselves are decoys.’
 Pillai said he completely agreed with Sir’s sentiments. But he’d had
occasion to look at the party’s souvenirs from previous years and they were
modest in size and in the number of pages. Also, it was better to hand over a
piece that was shorter than expected than be subjected to editing or cutting by
comrades who may have never heard of philosophy for reasons beyond their
control.
Rosi was impressed. I’m not surprised he can fly and change shape. He
seems to have a grip on reality.
She said, ‘I thank Mr Pillai for this valuable advice. I think we should
postpone the use of decoys to another occasion and work towards a quick and
satisfactory end for now.’
Spider was aghast. Are they my collaborators or tormentors? Here I am
with a team with whom I can produce a grand essay of ten thousand words. But
that very team is letting the opportunity slip through their fingers, quoting
mere technicalities! Oh, how shall I make the blind see? Or make both ends
meet?
For a moment he stood dumbstruck, forgetting his inner turmoil. Oh, Mar
Tommy! What’s happening to me? I feel so humble! At one stroke I’ve given
shape to two clinching idioms! Make the blind see! Make both ends meet!
It’s incredible!
He returned to the issue at hand. He was not ready to go down without a
fight. He said, ‘That’s fine then. But what about the moral of the essay?
Shouldn’t we pay attention to that, especially given that we are living at a time
when morals are drooping everywhere?’
Haha! A moral should take care of at least three thousand words!
Rosi said a moral was problematic. The reason, she said, was that morals
were in high demand and the supply was insufficient. Therefore there was
rampant plagiarization of morals. It would be unwise to invest in a moral,
unless one could patent it. However, since the market was huge, one could start
one’s own production house and patent each moral before putting it out. In
fact, she distinctly remembered reading somewhere, quite recently, that there
was a thriving black market for morals. Taking all things into account, it was
better to avoid a moral in the essay unless you had a foolproof system to check
if it was original. Or produce an original one and patent it.
Pillai was listening with an astounded expression. As soon as Rosi finished,
he rushed forward with joined palms and touched her feet. Spider noticed that
he kept holding them till she withdrew them politely. Hey, that’s unfair, he
thought. When he touched my feet, his hands just brushed them. See how
privileged you are if you are a female guru!
Pillai said in an ardent voice that he fully agreed with Sir’s point of view
on having a moral. But the revelation made by Madam regarding the
problematic nature of morals was an eye-opener. What was needed was perhaps
a middle path. In his humble opinion, inasmuch as compassion constitutes a
moral approach to life, what the essay unfurled in its totality was in itself a
moral, which made the superimposition of another moral unnecessary.
Spider swallowed his unhappiness. And you say you are my fan! Well,
clearly I am in a minority and I shall have to compromise because I am
professionally committed to a deadline.
Spider said with all the fortitude at his command, ‘Since both my
collaborators advise me to proceed directly to the end, shall we then see how
this may be done?’
Rosi asked, ‘With the permission of my team members, may I make a
suggestion?’ She had caught on to the intimate style of discussion between the
team members.
The members requested her to do so.
Rosi said, ‘I feel the conclusion to the essay will benefit from asking and
answering a very important, but often avoided, question. It’s about lovemaking,
revolution and compassion.’
Spider was aghast. What! Is she going to reveal everything? And Pillai is a
virgin! The comrades are equally untutored. Oh, what shall I do?
Rosi continued, ‘Lovemaking is the cornerstone of humankind’s modes of
production. It stands at the pinnacle of proletarian labour. Even the most
ruthless capitalist becomes a part of labour when she or he makes love. Because
lovemaking is hard work, however brief it may be. But, alas, capitalism has
abducted lovemaking and made it a tool of exploitation and oppression. Why
did revolution let lovemaking slip through its fingers into the waiting mouth of
the capitalist? Was it because it rejected compassion that it lost passion? Does a
common future await compassion, passion and revolution? What is in store for
passionate bodies? Will passion ever take its central place in the pantheon of
revolution? What is compassion’s role in this historic mission? Let us ask such
questions.’
Not only did Spider heave a big sigh of relief, he wanted to hug Pillai for
putting forward the idea of asking Rosi to join the team. She had made a bold
and daring move to create a gripping and sensational end to the essay! He
wondered if Rosi’s questions would also cover orgasms. One could, for example,
ask: Are orgasms compassionate? Or, vice versa, is compassion orgasmic? That
brought to his mind what Rosi had told him on their wedding night: ‘Spider, I
believe the orgasm is a brief hysteria of time. We must learn to take it in our
stride. Don’t go overboard with it.’ At that moment, he had become
enlightened. But it had lasted only a night.
Pillai said, ‘Madam! I salute you! You’ve asked momentous questions!
You’ve taken the discussion to mystic levels!’
Spider got ready to see him touch Rosi’s feet again.
But Pillai continued in an impassioned voice, ‘Sir, with your kind
permission, may I request Madam to dictate this part of the essay so the
conclusion will have her personal stamp? And if you will permit me Sir, it’ll be
my greatest honour to take down Madam’s words.’
Spider was impressed by Pillai’s devotion. Can a metaphysical body make
such a big difference?
He said, ‘Oh, you’re most welcome, Mr Pillai. And please have a seat while
you are taking dictation.’
 80
THE SEAMSTRESS

After expressing his desire to take down Rosi’s words and it being welcomed,
Pillai sat down at the writing table gingerly and Spider moved the notebook and
pen towards him.
Pillai held the pen in both hands and bowed his head. Then he looked
towards Rosi and bowed once again.
Spider was pleased to see how gentle and civilized a soul his collaborator
was. He was so full of these appropriate courtesies that enriched life.
He told Pillai, ‘You may also find it interesting to smell the pen. It’s made
of sandalwood and may connect you to memories of Jesus. And, incidentally, the
fragrance of sandalwood helps to lift the writer to a higher plane.’
Then he cursed himself. Oh, what have I gone and said? Lifting and
floating are the last things I want to mention. Oh, where’s the fruit basket?
He watched tensely as Pillai smelt the pen with an expression of
veneration. Pillai’s eyes were closed as he inhaled the scent. Spider placed one
hand on the fruit basket. But the moment of danger passed. Pillai removed the
cap of the pen and glanced respectfully towards Rosi to show his readiness.
Rosi said, ‘As you know, I’m not even a novice in the art of literary
creation. I can only make a small attempt to keep pace with the outstanding
standards set by you.’
Pillai’s face filled with joy and pride.
After a few moments of thought, Rosi said, ‘Please consider the following,
taking up from where the essay paused.’
She dictated, her eyes wandering out the window towards the hills:

‘O! Beware the shroud of silence that hides History’s unending

massacres of the Body’s Uprisings—the brutal extermination of the
 Revolution of Passion. O! Beware the silence masking the tragic
History of love and lovemaking. Listen, if you can, to the fearsome
last rites of orgasms, to the inconsolable whimpers from the
annihilated universe of sweet lust.’

Spider sat hypnotized. Oh, is this my wife? Couldn’t we have started the
collaboration years back, married or unmarried? His heart soared with each
new word. I am such a lucky writer. No wonder my readers love me. Just listen
to these marvellous words!
Pillai took down the words as if he was under a magic spell. He glanced at
Rosi in between with an expression of marvelling adoration.
Rosi continued:

‘Meditate for a moment upon the gruesome surrenders of the body,

pinned down and gaping! Upon the hideous collaborations on
bended knees! Upon the gritted teeth, bulging eyes and churning
bowels! Ask: Who expelled Compassion from the paradise of love?’

She paused and looked at her collaborators questioningly.

Spider jumped up with a rapturous expression and stood clapping. Pillai
got up with joined palms, bowing his head reverentially. He tried to say
something, the words clearly failing him.
Rosi now stood up, bowed and thanked her teammates for their
appreciation and encouragement.
She felt good, because she too was gripped by the core spirit of the
collaboration—humility.
Spider couldn’t believe his ears as Rosi specified the exclamation marks,
capital letters, dashes, hyphens, colons, commas and full stops in the sentences.
She must have been a proofreader in her previous birth. How lucky I am to
have got such a wife!
Rosi moved to the next passage:

‘Question the silence that cloaks the barren destinies of the

comrades of the world to whom the Body’s sweet empire was a class
enemy—a thing to be crushed in the torture chamber. Ask: Who
stopped them from learning that Marx loved making love, as also
Lenin and the Stalin-woman?’
 Stalin-woman! What! Spider sprang up, unable to believe what he had
heard. He stood staring at Rosi.
Pillai too was on his feet, the pen in his hand trembling.
Rosi stared at them in surprise. Had she said something against the rules?
Spider stood utterly shattered. Stalin-woman! My worst fears have come
true! There’s no doubt she is an alien! How else could she have obtained this
top-secret information which only Mr Pillai, the Siberian bird and I share?
Camouflaged as my wife, she has been mind-reading and spying on me along
with her accomplice, Brother, for some dark planet in a hideous galaxy! Mar
Tommy, this is utterly frightening. Oh, what shall I do?
He glanced at Pillai for moral support and was devastated to see that he
had a thrilled expression on his face. Oh, this is terrible! I must get to the
bottom of this peculiar situation right away.
He pulled himself together with a massive effort and addressed Rosi in a
calm voice. ‘Madam, I am indeed pleasantly surprised that you have such
privileged information about a historic leader of the Revolution! Is it possible
you had access to secret Soviet archives? If the comrades raise a question about
the Stalin-woman, can we defend our statement?’
Rosi said, ‘Oh, I’m glad you raised this very interesting question. It’s a
family secret that I don’t mind sharing with my collaborators for the sake of
historical probity. I haven’t even shared it with my husband all these years
because he might have been prompted to proceed to Washington D.C. or New
Delhi or Pyongyang, looking for similar experiences, and could have
disappeared. As my husband is aware, my grandmother was a reputed Jewish
seamstress from Kochi, who married one of the early communist leaders. She
accompanied her husband, who was a member of the party and proficient in
Russian, to Moscow, where he worked in the Soviet propaganda wing. She
continued her seamstress’s trade from her home and her reputation spread far
and wide. That was how Stalin heard of her and had her put in charge of his
wardrobe. He seemed to enjoy the idea that a Jewess was his wardrobe manager.
One day, she had got ready for him a ceremonial uniform for the occasion
of a grand parade. Stalin was trying it on in his bedroom while she waited in
the anteroom. She thought she heard him call out her name, and using her
liberty as a member of his personal staff, she pushed the door open and peeped
in, and what did she see? She saw Stalin standing there as a woman. She fell
down in a faint. When she came to, she found herself lying on one of the
magnificent czarist sofas and Stalin sitting across the room on another, wearing
the uniform she had made for him and drinking vodka. He told her he wasn’t
going to kill her—though that was the wise thing to do—because she was such
a good seamstress and he wouldn’t be able to find a replacement. And he
appreciated her being a Jew. There was something about Jews, he said, that he
was at a loss to explain. Stalin wasn’t wearing his moustache and his boobs
were loose. They bobbed and swayed under the unbuttoned uniform. He was a
funny sight. He told her not to speak about what she saw to anyone, ever,
because he didn’t want to lose such a wonderful seamstress to the whims and
fancies of his secret police. They were a terrible and mischievous lot. They made
things very hard for women before killing them. Then he came over to her,
helped her up, sat next to her and kissed her. As she watched wide-eyed, he got
up, removed his tunic and pants, let down his hair, and stood before her as a
beautiful woman. My grandmother said he was sensational looking. Stalin went
up to her and embraced her, holding her close, and my grandmother thought
she had an orgasm—which I don’t believe because she had never known one to
begin with.
My grandmother and grandfather returned to Kochi after Stalin’s death
and she revealed this story to her daughter, my mother, on her deathbed. She
told her that while her fear of Stalin remained, she couldn’t also forget the
marvellous orgasm. So, my collaborators, this is the historical background of my
reference to the Stalin-woman. I hope you are satisfied. If the comrades call the
statement into question, I can tell them this story. But is it a bit too adult for
them, I wonder.’
 81
A REVOLUTIONARY GOD

Spider couldn’t contain his sense of relief. Phew! But I wonder if it was really
her fear that I might get into trouble in Pyongyang, etc., that stopped her from
telling me this very important piece of family history. Maybe she is a closet
communist and was covering up for Stalin! Or she must have thought it showed
her grandmother in a poor light because of the all-too-quick orgasm. But just
imagine! Like Pillai’s Jesus connection, Rosi has a Stalin connection. I am indeed
a privileged writer to have such eminent people supporting me.
‘Thank you, Madam,’ Spider said, ‘for revealing to us this vital piece of
history at the appropriate moment.’
He saw Pillai giving him a secret look of humble satisfaction. His Stalin-
woman story stood vindicated, and by none other than Madam! Spider
responded with a small congratulatory nod.
He, however, had a question for Rosi. ‘Madam,’ he asked, ‘how would you
explain the orgasm said to have been experienced by your grandmother? Do
you think she was exaggerating, to make the story more interesting?’
Rosi replied, ‘I think she peed in her panties in fear and confused that
with an orgasm.’
Spider thought that sounded logical, considering Stalin’s reputation.
He gave Pillai a significant look. It seemed to him that emotional peeing
had been in vogue for quite some time. Was it possible, he wondered, that many
people mistook it for an orgasm, like Rosi’s grandmother had? Or was it vice
versa?
Rosi requested her collaborators’ permission to return to the essay, which
was granted.
She dictated:
 ‘Oh, think of the searing, suffocated masturbations that fill the
wilderness of revolutions! Think of the demonic debris of failed
fornications floating in the flood of revolutionary blood!’

Pillai was writing with his eyes half closed, appearing lost to the world.
Spider worriedly sneaked a look at the page and was relieved to see he was
indeed diligently copying Rosi’s words.
Gazing out at the overcast horizon, Rosi continued:

‘Comrades, the chemical cadaver of Vladimir our Father awaits

resurrection at the Kremlin. Know that he is the new Budha, the
Compassionate One who will lead the coming Revolution of
Compassion—only, this time he will resurrect at the New York
Penn. Heed the message of his second coming! Raise your fists in a
red salute and get ready to join him in a triumphant march to
Washington D.C.!’

Spider listened with a dumbfounded expression. Pillai’s pen raced across

the page like a living entity.
Rosi continued:

‘Remember! The Stalin-woman was filled with Compassion when she

heard that the comrades who were shot dead on her orders had
ejaculated into their pants with their last breath—making love to
the Party one last time. Comrades! May Compassion bloom also in
your hearts! But make love, oh, make love to the body, not to the
Party.’

Pillai suddenly stood up. He seemed to be in the grip of strong emotions.

Rosi looked at Pillai anxiously. Had she said something unlawful?
Pillai managed to take control of himself and said in an impassioned voice,
‘I humbly request Madam not to stop the flow of her philosophical imagination.
I now realize that we must relinquish the word limit. Madam’s stupendous
eloquence transcends word limits.’
Spider was swallowed by a wave of joy. Finally! It has taken a philosopher
to bring Pillai to his senses about word limits.
Rosi continued, ‘Team members, I request you to hear the concluding part
of my statement:

Comrades! Witness the body beautiful! Witness the body

metaphysical! Witness the body compassionate!’

Spider heard a gurgling sound and glanced at Pillai. He was writing down
Rosi’s words but swaying in the chair, with a glazed look. The gurgle was
coming from him.
Spider gripped the fruit basket, every nerve taut.
Rosi continued:

‘Rise up and demand from God a new charter of Compassion for the
body! For the body is the proletariat. It is the downtrodden. It is the
working class. It is the underdog. It is the collarless. The body is the
material of materialism. If God does not consent, dethrone Her!’

There was a stunned silence.

Pillai got up, put the pen down and looked around blindly.
Spider whispered a prayer. This is it. Here it comes. Oh, whatever made
me agree to have him take the dictation today! He is having a calamitous
meltdown.
Pillai tried to say something, but failed. Then he lifted both hands towards
heaven and burst into tears.
Rosi stared at him in shock.
Pillai sobbed and moaned and wrung his hands. In between, he pulled out
a kerchief from his pocket and, with shaking hands, wiped his tears. But they
kept flowing and he kept sobbing.
Rosi turned to Spider with a guilty look. Had she wounded Pillai’s
feelings?
Spider was equally at sea. He couldn’t fathom Pillai’s outburst and could
only think of joining him in a show of solidarity.
So he went over to Pillai and put one hand on his shoulder, while in the
other he held the fruit basket hidden behind his back.
That seemed to help Pillai bring himself under control. His eyes were red
and his lips trembled. It was then Spider saw that through all that turmoil of
weeping, his face was filled with joy.
What! Is this how executioners handle joy? With tears and sobs? Spider
wondered.
Pillai told Spider with a look of extreme guilt, ‘Sir, I’m very sorry. I
apologize to Sir and Madam for behaving the way I did.’
Rosi’s face expressed relief. Perhaps it was normal for writers to burst out
crying in the middle of their work. Although she had never seen Spider
exhibiting this syndrome. Maybe he did it secretly.
‘Mr Pillai,’ Spider asked, ‘what happened? Did you suddenly think of
your late mentor and experience sorrow? Or did the memory of hanging some
innocent person suddenly haunt you? Whatever it was, we join you in your
great sorrow.’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, I’m afraid it was not sorrow. It was my joy that expressed
itself as tears.’
Oh, Spider thought, so I’m right!
‘What was the sudden cause for such joy?’ he asked.
Pillai looked at them uncomprehendingly. He seemed astonished they
hadn’t understood the reason for his tears. He said, ‘Sir, Madam’s
contributions to the essay were so passionate in their advocacy of themes so
close to my heart that they swept me away in a tide of joy and pride. Added to
that was the realization of my great good fortune in being able to record them
for posterity. I was so overcome that I could not but shed blissful tears. I am
sorry I got carried away in the middle of work, but I shall cherish this moment
till the end of my days.’
Spider glanced at Rosi, afraid that she might giggle, inappropriately as
usual. Oh, Mar Tommy, please don’t let her do it just now, when Pillai is
experiencing ecstasy.
To Spider’s relief, Rosi smiled and told Pillai, ‘Thank you.’
Spider said, ‘Mr Pillai, please accept my thanks too. It was so nice of you
to cry in appreciation of the literary merit of my wife. And I join you in
congratulating Madam for making so moving a contribution to the essay that it
could produce a flood of tears from an eminent executioner. I’m sure it will
make not only comrades but also many other people want to cry.’
 82
THE FRUIT BASKET

It was at this moment of overall satisfaction that Spider saw Rosi get up with a
broad smile and walk over to Pillai. Is she now going to touch his feet? Isn’t
that overdoing a good thing?
Then, with terrified eyes, he saw her extending her arms towards Pillai,
who stood staring at her with a mesmerized look.
Before Spider could shout a warning, Rosi had hugged him. Pillai seemed
to go limp in her arms.
Spider saw his face lolling over Rosi’s shoulder with a lost look.
Spider’s mouth went dry and his legs turned to water. Oh, how swiftly
disaster had struck! The moment he dreaded had arrived. He grabbed the fruit
basket.
A sound like a death rattle came from Pillai. Terrified, Rosi let go of him
and stepped back. She stared at him incredulously as he seemed to fall in slow
motion.
She covered her mouth and suppressed a scream.
With horrified eyes, Spider saw a mist forming around Pillai. He was
fading out and beginning to float away!
Spider made a flying leap and, in the nick of time, caught the floating bird-
shape with the fruit basket and banged it down on the ground.
Holding the basket down with one hand, he pulled out a dictionary and
threw it upon the basket and added a thesaurus as reinforcement. Then he
stood gasping on shaking feet.
Rosi stood thunderstruck. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, ‘what did I do wrong?’
When he had got his breath back, Spider said, ‘I’m afraid you are not
familiar with the ways of meditative witnesses of the brahmachari type. They
only witness and don’t ever touch or get touched. Right now, suddenly hugged
by a female, especially by one whose metaphysical body he had occasion to
witness, his atman got panicky and wanted to run away into infinity.’
He felt good, having explained to Rosi the scientific rationale behind the
deployment of the fruit basket.
‘But he touched my feet,’ Rosi said, ‘and nothing happened to him.’
‘Oh, that’s different,’ Spider said. ‘It was a controlled initiative from his
side, but what happened just now was an impulsive initiative from yours, and
he was traumatized. You see, the feet are only the tip of the iceberg. The whole
body is another kettle of fish. That proved too much for him.’
Spider thought he had put it rather neatly. He felt very humble, on seeing
how easily he was giving birth to more and more new figures of speech, so apt
and telling. Tip of the iceberg! Kettle of fish! Wow!
He added significantly, ‘And thank God for this wonderful fruit basket!’
He hoped Rosi appreciated his critical input with the fruit basket.
She merely said that with all this banging, the basket must be in tatters.
Spider could only shake his head sadly.
Rosi asked, ‘What do we do now?’
‘I will reintroduce his traumatized atman to reality in a subtle manner.’
Spider bent down and addressed the bird under the basket. ‘Mr Pillai,
how was your little excursion? I hope you are relaxed and ready to face life
now.’
There was a weak tweet from the basket.
‘Are you sure you are out of the floating-away mood?’
There was a double-tweet.
Spider wasn’t sure about the certainty of that response. So he said, ‘Mr
Pillai, even though you are my friend and collaborator, just to be on the safe
side, I request you to confirm it once more.’
There was another double-tweet.
Tension showed on Spider’s face as he lifted the basket. Soon Pillai stood
before them with consternation writ all over his face.
Spider didn’t want to probe into the peculiar events that had just taken
place and cause him embarrassment.
So he said pleasantly, ‘Mr Pillai, I hope the fruit basket doesn’t make you
feel constricted each time I use it. We always keep a large one and thank God
for that. Of course, you will appreciate that we use it only for your safety and
welfare.’
Pillai looked bashful. He said, ‘Sir and Madam, I’m once again very sorry
and apologize from the bottom of my heart. And I admire your profound
wisdom in the timely deployment of the fruit basket.’
Spider said humbly, ‘Oh, it was nothing. I’m only grateful that my wisdom
shifts spontaneously from the theoretical to the practical!’
Pillai said, ‘Sir, I owe both of you an explanation. I am aware I caused you
considerable stress. The fact is that I was subjected to an extraordinary mystical
experience just now. I saw Madam walking towards me, felt her arms around
me, and I think I experienced an epiphany. I do not remember anything more.’
That took Spider by surprise. An epiphany! That can’t be. That’s big
league. I think he’s hyping.
Rosi said, ‘Oh, I’m proud to have had a hand in your epiphany. I
understand you are an experienced brahmachari too. Do teach me
brahmacharya sometime. It sounds very exciting.’
Pillai said he was a mere novice, but it would be his greatest privilege to
instruct a personage like her in brahamacharya.
Spider felt sad. She has a ready, user-friendly brahmachari at home, but
she wants high-end stuff.
But his spirits recovered when he recollected how fruitful the day had
been, despite the setbacks. Rosi had turned out to be an outstanding
collaborator. The essay was speeding to its end. All that was required for a
grand finale was for Rosi to become a willing partner in the shape-changing and
flying project.
 83
A NEAR-EPIPHANY

Pillai’s mention of his ‘epiphany’ experience brought back a long-lost memory

to Spider. He had a feeling he had undergone a near-epiphany many years ago,
in a mortuary in a little town, when he had gone to collect his sister-in-law’s
body. He asked his collaborators if they would like to hear about it and help
him assess the nature of his experience. They might be able to tell him if he
belonged to the epiphany class, even if it was a stretch.
Pillai said it would be yet another incredible moment in his life to hear a
master storyteller recount the story of a momentous experience from his own
life.
Rosi said she very much looked forward to hearing it because Spider
hadn’t in all these years included it in his autobiographical tidbits. It must be
something very special indeed.
Spider told his collaborators that once, when he was much younger,
unmarried and continually haunted by Unknowing, it fell to his lot to claim
from the mortuary the body of his sister-in-law, who had died in a road
accident, because her husband who worked in the Gulf hadn’t yet arrived. She
was a lush young woman in her thirties, who had often given him challenging
looks. And he had enjoyed the wet dreams in which she had been the key
player.
Spider had for company a cousin brother who, en route, confessed to him
that he used to get an erection just thinking about the deceased. Along the way,
they bought a coffin and stowed it in the back of the van they were driving.
They had a few drinks at a wayside bar to bolster their morale because
neither of them had hands-on experience in taking charge of a dead body from
a mortuary. They only knew dead bodies were killingly heavy, because within
the family they were invariably called upon to act as pall-bearers, being able-
bodied and strong. They had never before collected and transported one.
At the mortuary, they signed some papers and an ageing attendant led
them along a dark, damp corridor, on both sides of which cats sat in silent
meditation. Spider immediately understood the reason for their presence: they
were keeping vigil over their masters and mistresses, who lay dead inside. Oh!
Poor things! He extended a consoling hand towards them as he walked along.
The attendant opened a locked door and Spider and his cousin entered a
large, cold room lit by dim electric bulbs. A sweet, sick odour of perfumes,
disinfectants and embalming fluids greeted them, making him recoil. It was as if
death had filled the room with scented and sanitized farts. As his eyes got used
to the low light, he saw bodies laid out in several rows, on wooden desks, some
under wraps and some not, some dressed and some undressed. They didn’t look
like they were dead. They seemed to be taking a short nap, after which they
would get up, collect their cats, and go home.
He asked the attendant in a hushed voice why the bodies were lying on
the open desks. The man answered in a loud hiss that swept through the room
that some were awaiting postmortem examination and some were in the queue
for a freezer.
‘Hello, young man,’ he hissed, ‘do you know what a postmortem
examination is?’
Spider told him he did, but the man ignored it.
He faced them with a twisted smile and hissed, ‘For your kind
information, it means cutting open the body into two like this, to check the
things inside.’
Saying so, with his index finger he drew a straight line from Spider’s
forehead, down the chin, chest, diaphragm and abdomen, to the belly button.
Spider thought the attendant was going all the way down to his gender and
pulled back shyly.
Prodding Spider’s belly button with his finger, the man asked, ‘Do you
know how many people’s inside-things I’ve seen?’
Spider said he didn’t.
‘Try,’ the man said.
Spider tried but couldn’t arrive at a figure. He admitted he had failed.
‘Try again,’ the man said.
He went over to a nearby desk and stood leaning on it, waiting for
Spider’s answer.
As Spider was wracking his brains to mention a figure, he noticed that the
man’s elbows were planted upon a body behind him on the desk. He stared
open-mouthed at the outline of a breast next to the man’s elbow. Then he saw
the man jiggling his elbow for a comfortable position till it rested on the breast.
He jiggled a bit more till he reached the desired comfort zone.
He now called out to Spider, ‘Hey, you bright boy!’
He was clearly very pleased with Spider’s failure to come up with a figure.
He said gleefully, ‘I see you have no answer. Let me educate you. It is nine
thousand. Just a thousand less than ten thousand. Did you hear that?’
Spider said he had.
‘If you heard me, tell me what you heard. I want to make sure you heard
it right.’
Spider shouted his answer loudly to make sure he was heard: ‘A thousand
less than ten thousand!’
‘Good boy!’ the man said, making his way to a row of freezers at one end
of the room.
 84
LOOKING IS FREE

Spider was curious about the body whose breast had just been used as a
cushion. She was a beautiful young woman with a charming smile upon her
face. He went closer and had a full view of her young body including the curly-
haired triangle of her pubis. He noticed his cousin looking worried and
fidgeting. He must be getting an erection, Spider thought, since he was given to
having them often. Then he found his throat had gone dry and he had an
erection himself. He felt weak in the legs, his face felt flushed, his heart was
thumping. He couldn’t control the urge to fondle the breast that had been
crushed by the attendant’s elbow.
He had moved closer to the body when he heard the attendant calling out
in a crookedly sweet voice, ‘Hello, hello, looking is free, but don’t look all day
long. I’ve got other things to do.’
He added harshly, ‘Stop the peepshow, bright boy, and take away the
body you’ve come to collect without wasting my time.’
Spider jumped back as if he had touched a live wire. He felt deeply hurt.
Looking at the young woman was a private matter between her and him; it
shouldn’t have been dragged into the public arena. And his sister-in-law was
right here! This was unfair.
The attendant roared with laughter. ‘Oh, oh, you two great men, I can see
your erections!’
Both Spider and his cousin immediately looked down to where the
erections were supposed to be and that made the man laugh all the more
loudly. Spider was so hurt by the attendant’s unkindness that when the man
asked him to guess the number of female bodies he had seen in the mortuary,
Spider refused to participate in the quiz.
‘Hey, try,’ the man prompted.
 Spider didn’t comply.
‘Hahaha!’ the attendant laughed. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to guess!’
He paused and hissed, ‘Seven thousand! Do you understand? Seven
followed by three zeroes! Three thousand more and it’ll be ten thousand!’
He placed a hand on Spider’s neck, drew him close and whispered, ‘I’m
waiting for a dead woman who can make me fall in love with her.’ A foul odour
swept out of his mouth.
Spider didn’t know what to say. He nodded his head and told the man
they were ready to take the body.
The attendant gave him a piece of paper and said, ‘Sign here.’
Spider signed.
‘Now you can take her away. Use the trolley.’
He pulled open the door of a freezer. It was dark inside, and fumes of cold
moisture floated out.
Spider readied himself to encounter his sister-in-law as a dead body. He
glanced at his cousin, silently urging him to be prepared too. All he could think
of was the dress she was wearing when she set out on the trip that had killed
her. The salwar was red with small golden suns and the kameez, blue with
white and red flowers. Oh, he thought, I hope she’ll look as she was.
The attendant took hold of a handle at the bottom of the freezer and
pulled, and a big tray came rolling out, making a noise like a train chugging
forward in slow motion. Spider stood staring open-mouthed and
uncomprehending at the body on the tray.
Bewilderment and shock filled his cousin’s face.
On the tray lay a voluptuous woman, smouldering under a coat of
powdery frost, cold fumes rising from her limbs as if she was undergoing a
miraculous transformation.
Spider’s hypnotized eyes travelled over the stark, enchanted domain of the
woman’s glimmering body, taking in the petal-like feet, sleek calves, gossamer
thighs that converged into a mound of opulent, clean-shaven sex, the navel’s
little pool swimming on a softly rounded belly, and arching breasts whose
nipples broke through the frost darkly. He stood drowned in an immaculate
and overpowering lust. He told himself, maybe this is how you fall in love with
a dead woman.
Even though all he wanted to do was to stand there and devour the
woman’s slumbering body forever, he turned to the attendant and shouted,
‘Hey! This is not our body! What have you done? My sister-in-law was wearing
a red salwar and blue kameez! Who is this woman?’
Behind the rising swirls of the evaporating mist, the woman appeared to
be aroused and waking up.
It took him a moment to understand the meaning of the thin red line that
now came into view, running up from her lower belly and disappearing into her
neck. Oh! She has been cut open! They have seen the secrets of her beautiful
body and put it together again. His mind vanished for a moment and he swayed
on the edge of a suffocating darkness. He held on to the freezer cabin to stop
himself from falling down. Something whizzed through his brain. That was the
moment, he told his collaborators, when he experienced what he believed was
an epiphany—the whizz.
Spider said he heard the attendant say, ‘Young fellow, look carefully again.
If this is not the body you want, give it to me in writing.’
Then he guffawed and with an obscene gesture said, ‘Hello, hello, what
you need to do is to stop looking at her cunt. Instead, take a good look at her
face!’
Spider accepted the insult silently. He was full of a strange exhilaration.
He went closer and looked at the woman’s face, his head hovering above
hers. Then he saw that she was indeed his sister-in-law. Her eyes were wide
open and he gazed into them for a few moments before turning away.
He told the attendant, ‘Yes, this is the right body. Where are her clothes?’
The attendant rummaged inside the freezer and pulled out a small bundle
rolled up in a newspaper and handed it over. It was iced over and soggy. Spider
opened it and took out the red salwar with small golden suns and the blue
kameez, with white and red flowers. Then he pulled out a panty and a bra.
There was blood on them all.
As Spider stood with the clothes in his hand, not knowing what to do
next, the attendant commanded, ‘Hey, boy, put the clothes on her. What are
you waiting for? Dress her nicely. Do you need to be told all this?’
He pointed to a niche in the wall and added, ‘There’s talcum powder and
a comb for you. And some perfume. Hurry now. And don’t dab the perfume on
yourself, for heaven’s sake! Some do! Haha!’
Spider stepped up to one side of the body and told his cousin, ‘Come on,
help me.’
His cousin came over and stood on the other side, looking doomed. His
eyes flitted over the body and quickly withdrew. He was sweating in that cold
room.
 ‘First put the panty on,’ the attendant commanded.
Spider took the embroidered black panty spotted with blood and
stretched it into shape. A vague scent floated out of it and he felt giddy. His
right hand went to his sister-in-law’s calf to lift her leg, so he could slip it
through one side of the panty. The body was so cold, he flinched as he touched
it. And it was hard as stone. That surprised him. She had looked as if his touch
would sink into her softness. Then, to his utter shock, he found he couldn’t lift
her leg even to insert his hand under her calf. Frantic, he tried again with both
hands. The leg wouldn’t budge. Terror hit him. She is resisting me! And she is
going to sit up and accuse me of touching her! Spider felt a supernatural dread
rising up from his bowels. Is this the end? Is she going to kill me now? Sweat
dripped from him and his hands trembled violently as he backed away from the
body. His legs were shaking. Desperately, he turned to his cousin for help and
found him squatting on the floor, head bent and hunched up like a creature
made of putty. Spider looked around with terrified eyes, the cold, damp panty
hanging from his hand.
 85
TIDBITS

The attendant went into another paroxysm of laughter. Catching his breath, he
managed to hiss, ‘Hello, boy, what do you think you are doing? She’s a block of
ice. Don’t you know death makes you stiff as an iron rod and the freezer makes
you stiffer? And you are wrestling with her! She’s not what you were ogling at.
No part of her works any more. Only yesterday I fed to the cats the tidbits from
her postmortem table. Oh, a dead body is a funny thing. The less you have to do
with it, the better. The sooner you burn or bury it, the better. I’m not even sure
all of them are actually dead. Haha!’
His laughter turned into a long, racking cough and he stood panting, eyes
red and watering and mouth open.
Spider was in deep shock. What! The mourners! They ate the tidbits from
my sister-in-law’s body? They are in the corridor for tidbits? Spider’s head was
swimming. I wonder what those tidbits were. But she looks so beautiful still!
‘You’re utterly useless!’ the attendant shouted. ‘You know nothing. I’ll
show you how to dress a corpse.’
He came to the foot of the table and, with both hands, took hold of the
body’s feet. Gripping one foot in each hand, with a violent wrench he forced the
legs apart. With another wrench, he lifted them up. Spider heard something
crack and break. He saw his cousin retching and running with a hand over his
mouth.
The attendant called out to him, ‘The toilet is in the corridor. For
heaven’s sake, hold it till you get there.’
He put the legs down, took the panty from Spider, slipped it all the way
up, gave a light pat on the pubis as if appreciating the cooperation and said,
‘Now she looks decent. Give me the bra.’
It was some time before the cousin returned, making Spider wonder if he
had run away. But he joined Spider with an almost unnatural enthusiasm and
helped him to powder the face of the body, comb the hair and move it to the
trolley. When his breath hit Spider, he understood why he had taken so long
and the reason for his new-found enthusiasm. He was drowned in brandy.
Spider looked at him accusingly. The cousin cheerfully patted his pant-pocket to
indicate that a bottle lay there. Spider immediately forgave him.
When the attendant went to wash his hands, Spider pulled the bottle out
of the cousin’s pocket and swigged a few mouthfuls of the burning spirit. Then
he looked at his sister-in-law lying on the trolley, looking so other-worldly. He
wept, thinking of the grandeur of her beauty, now lost forever. His cousin
joined him in the weeping, but Spider suspected he was just being
opportunistic.
He gave the attendant a tip. Then he took out the bottle and offered him a
drink. The man said he was a teetotaler. Alcohol made him afraid of the dead.
Spider and his cousin had a few more swigs and then set out, pushing the
trolley. Suddenly Spider remembered the cats and was filled with terror. Are
they going to come for more tidbits? Will they abduct the trolley? What am I
going to tell the family?
He was swaying from the effects of the brandy as they pushed the trolley
down the corridor. He saw the cats ranged along the walls and his heart began
to thump. At the sound of the trolley’s wheels, they stirred, got up and ran to
meet it. He closed his eyes and walked forward, steeling himself for an
avalanche of cats. A chorus of meows filled the corridor. The cats rubbed their
bodies against his legs and brushed him with their tails. He braced for the
onslaught. But they just kept meowing, softly and sadly, fondling him with their
trembling bodies and curving tails, accompanying the trolley all the way to the
van in a shapeless, meandering funeral procession.
Spider was breathless as he finished his narration. He had the distinct
feeling he had gone overboard with his epiphany or the epiphany had gone
overboard with him. I’m known to be a man of few words and now my name
will be mud for the way I got carried away! Has my co-habitation with Pillai
addled my brain with hype? Mar Tommy! Can I erase what I just said? He was
so disheartened, he didn’t want to look his collaborators in the face.
Then Rosi said, ‘I request Mr Pillai to render his opinion, shall I say, of
this gruesome experience of, shall we say, a possible epiphany?’
Pillai had an electrified look. He said, ‘Thank you, Madam, for placing
upon me the onerous task of uttering the first comment on the words of a
genius of our times!’
That made Spider feel better. Pillai understood the situation accurately.
When he’s not hyping things up, he’s nothing but a man of precision.
Pillai said, ‘My humble feeling, Madam and Sir, is that within the narrated
experience, there was more than one occasion when Sir could have been on the
verge of epiphany or in epiphany itself.’
He consulted his notebook and continued, ‘1. When Sir wished to fondle
the dead lady’s breast crushed by the attendant’s elbow. 2. When Sir was
consumed by overpowering lust for the lady in the tray, who was his sister-in-
law. 3. When, as Sir said, something whizzed through his brain. 4. When a
sudden fear of the dead lady made Sir sweat and tremble. 5. When Sir wept,
thinking how the dead lady’s beauty was going to be lost forever.’
He closed the notebook and continued, ‘I believe Sir’s youthful vigour
may have overshadowed the potential epiphany. A proper study of these crucial
moments, perhaps of the phenomenological genre, may reveal the truth.’
Spider thought that was a scientific answer, and well argued. He looked to
Rosi for her views.
Rosi said, ‘I tend to agree with Mr Pillai’s findings. I would, however, like
to add one more crucial moment to the five already mentioned. I see it as the
one when Spider forgives his cousin for drinking brandy without him. That is a
unique and rare phenomenon as far as he is concerned. But one empirical issue
worries me. Are so many erections in so short a time conducive to producing an
atmosphere suitable for an epiphany? This may be looked into.’
Spider was happy. He seemed to have been nearly there with his epiphany!
And at the tender age of twenty! He thanked his collaborators from the depths
of his heart.
 86
THE MAGIC VEIL

When Spider’s spirited exposition of his close encounter with epiphany,

followed by its philosophical assessment by his collaborators was over, the team
decided to take a short break before getting down to the essay.
Rosi went downstairs to do an aura-cleansing to purge the after-effects, if
any, of listening to the tale of Spider’s adventures in the mortuary. She
explained to the team that she did not mean any discourtesy, but perfumed
cadavers made her aura wilt and gave her migraine. Sometimes they also made
her retch.
Spider drew a chair to the window and gazed at the mountains, wondering
where amongst them lay hidden the Valley of Lost Songs. Pillai stood immersed
in thought.
Then Spider heard Pillai asking him, ‘Sir, may I have your permission to
say something important?’
Spider nervously turned the chair around and faced Pillai. Is he going to
have another meltdown? Shall I rush down and get the fruit basket? Maybe he
can fetch it himself, now that he is familiar with it. Oh, Mar Tommy! What shall
I do?
‘Please go ahead, Mr Pillai,’ he said calmly.
‘Sir,’ Pillai said, ‘may I ask what was Madam’s response to the idea of
joining you in the arenas of shape-changing and flying?’
With great relief, Spider said the response was not encouraging, but the
door had not been banged shut. He did not add that the negotiations had a
pleasant climax, which may or may not be deemed as a good omen.
Pillai said, ‘Sir, I asked you this because I believe I have a theoretical
window to the matter that Madam might find interesting. With your
permission, Sir, I could present it to her.’
 Spider was overjoyed. He said, ‘Of course! I wish you all success!
Considering that she’s planning to learn brahmacharya at your feet, the chances
of her concurring with your theory are bright.’
When Rosi returned and sat down, Pillai said, ‘Madam, before we embark
upon the essay, may I seek your permission to briefly present before you a
particular approach to the spheres of shape-changing and flying about which Sir
has held some discussions with you? It is possible you may find it interesting
from an epistemological point of view.’
Rosi said, ‘Mr Pillai, we live in a democracy. Please feel free to discuss any
of your theories.’
Pillai said, ‘Madam, I would like to propose that changing one’s shape and
flying with another body is a temporary abandonment of the ego. One day I had
the privilege of Sir confiding in me that on a certain night, you wept when you
listened to a lost song.’
Spider was utterly embarrassed. This was classified information! Oh, is he
going to tell her everything I told him? Rosi is sure to get a mini mind-collider
and erase my memory chip each time we make love. Oh, Mar Tommy, save me!
Pillai continued, ‘Madam, I humbly propose that you cried because you
had become egoless.’
Spider couldn’t see much merit in that argument. Look at me! I’m egoless
all the time, except when I sleep. In sleep, of course, my ego sneaks out and I’m
helpless. I am, in fact, planning to meditate for at least twenty minutes during
sleep and put an end to the ego-business once and for all!
Rosi said she agreed with Pillai. The argument had a philosophical edge.
Pillai thanked her for the compliment and continued, ‘Madam, I also
humbly suggest that music is actually sound changing shape and flying at
varying speeds, in a multitude of directions. Great singers themselves shape-
shift and fly, only we don’t see it. They camouflage their altered state behind
the magic veil of musical sound.’
Rosi listened keenly. She had been waiting for a new, path-breaking theory
of music.
Pillai continued, ‘Madam, the truth—which few people know—is that if
you are at the concert of a great singer and slowly let your open eyes become
unfocussed, you will be able to see with those passive eyes the singer changing
shape and flying side by side with the music like a shimmering phantom. I’ve
been told by reliable sources that what people think they see on the stage are
the doppelgangers the singers have left behind. They themselves, wrapped in
utter egolessness, are flying with the music far away, perhaps through other
universes.’
Spider could see Pillai was getting into hyper mode. But he was doing it
for a good cause.
Rosi asked, ‘Mr Pillai, you don’t mean Kumar Gandharva … and Kishori
… and Subbulakshmi … and Rafi … and Lata … and Asha?’
Pillai closed his eyes and replied in a well-modulated whisper, ‘Madam,
all! I have seen!’
A brief silence followed Pillai’s words. Then Rosi stood up. She seemed to
be about to make a statement. The look on her face was grave.
Spider grew tense. Oh, God! I think she has caught on to Pillai’s bluff!
She’s going to call Brother and throw him out!
Rosi said simply, ‘Hello, collaborators, I would like to state that I strongly
feel the time has come to discard our egos as Mr Pillai suggests and make an
attempt to shape-change and fly. I thank Mr Pillai for helping me understand
the matter from an original perspective.’
Spider cunningly underplayed the moment of victory. He looked around
disinterestedly and said, ‘Well … All I can say is that all’s well that ends well.’
He was pleasantly surprised by the accuracy with which this newly
invented phrase described the situation. He added with a casual air, ‘Let’s do it,
then, if that’s the way it is.’
He could not, however, help making a silent but wry comment to himself:
Haha! Rosi, talk about yourself! Don’t say ‘discard our egos’, say ‘discard my
ego’! I’m actually thinking of hiring a detective to verify the existence of my
ego!
But Pillai spoilt the moment by rushing forward and touching Rosi’s feet.
Spider silently counted the seconds. When he had reached fifteen and Pillai
hadn’t taken his hands away, he saw Rosi look at him worriedly.
Spider said, ‘Madam, I think Mr Pillai is waiting to be blessed.’
Rosi blessed Pillai by touching his trembling hair with one hand.
Pillai now said in a charged voice, ‘After obtaining Madam’s
compassionate blessings, I’ve discovered in myself the strength to place before
you a humble—perhaps even bold—proposal as a small token of my love and
gratitude. May I speak about it?’
Both Rosi and Spider cordially invited him to go ahead.
Spider knew for certain what he was going to say: he wished to adopt
Brother and take him home. What else could he mean by love and gratitude? I
could also gift him a length of good rope to hang him later.
Pillai came to attention and said, ‘I would like to most humbly invite
Madam and Sir to fly with me to the secret Valley of Lost Songs at an early
date.’
Spider couldn’t hide his eagerness to explain to Rosi what the Valley of
Lost Songs was. It was a place Mr Pillai frequented and recommended strongly.
It was a hidden location—somewhere in the heart of the eastern mountains—
where old and forgotten songs gathered to share memories with each other. Oh,
he was glad Pillai had brought up the subject. Madam was going to enjoy this!
The crux of the matter was that the only way to get there was to fly. And not
by aircraft, as he’d had occasion to think at first. You just changed shape and
flew. Now that Madam had taken the bold and beautiful decision to start flying,
the Valley of Lost Songs was at her fingertips! And all those great songs! You sat
in the shadows and quietly listened to the music without letting the songs
know you were there. If you made a noise, the songs flew away. But you could
hum along softly if your humming was good.
 87
ROGUE METEORS

Pillai stood listening to Spider’s briefing to Rosi on the Valley of Lost Songs
with closed eyes and a rapt expression.
Then he whispered dreamily, without opening his eyes, ‘Oh, Sir is
speaking as if he has already been there! Every word is so true.’
Spider thanked him and asked if it was true that instrumental versions of
songs also came to the gathering.
He knew how much Rosi loved instrumental versions. He also knew that
she had been unable to get hold of some of her favourite scores and how sad she
was about it.
Pillai said yes, it was true, because thousands of instrumentals, rendered
by unknown artists in long-forgotten studios and shut-down dance bars, were
lost. It was amazing that Sir had thought of them. Some instrumental versions,
in his humble opinion, went deeper to the heart of the song than the original
score.
Rosi seemed excited and was walking about restlessly. Then she returned
to her seat, took a deep breath and said that if such a valley did exist, she must
go there.
Spider had to control himself with much difficulty from shouting out for
joy.
She added, ‘But please explain the steps involved in this exercise. I’m not
an advocate of flying. As for shape-changing, I’ve already mentioned my view of
the uncertainties it poses.’
Spider moaned to himself. Oh, here comes the crunch! Pillai will now tell
her about the b-i-t-e and that will be the end of this dream. Rosi is going to run
for her life. How I wish his mentor had gone in for more user-friendly
hardware.
 Regretfully he steeled himself for the oncoming bump.
Pillai said, ‘Madam, I shall explain the modalities of flying to the best of
my abilities. The first step is to change shape into a bird or a bat—preferably a
night-flyer, since we will be undertaking our journey at night.’
Rosi wished to know what night-flyers were.
Pillai replied they were those species that inhabited the night sky for one
reason or the other.
Rosi enquired what her options were in this regard.
Pillai said, ‘Madam, there are not many, unless we include creatures like
moths whose lives are dangerously flimsy. In my opinion, the best choice is the
bat. It is ubiquitous and attracts little attention. It is also the only mammal that
actually flies, and doesn’t glide like a flying squirrel. And, as fellow mammals,
we have a connection to it. You might also enjoy the radar experience of the
world that bats are privy to.’
Spider flinched. Radar experience? This was new! Do I wish to experience
the world from a radar’s point of view? Is he unravelling the frightening parts
bit by bit?
Rosi said, ‘As a night-flyer, what are the chances of being hit by hunters’
bullets, hijacked aircrafts, cruise missiles, rogue meteors or mad drones?’
‘The chances are minimal, Madam. I stand before you as a living example.
I’ve been a night-flyer for over three decades.’
Rosi thanked Pillai for setting at rest her doubts.
Pillai said, ‘Thank you, Madam. I would now like to explain the next step
in the process, which is the application of the secret formula that sets off the
change.’
Spider was in agony. Oh, here it comes! I wish not to hear! He closed his
eyes and pretending that something had got into his ears, plugged them with his
fingers.
When he unplugged his ears, he heard Rosi asking Pillai, ‘But where do
you administer the kiss?’
Spider was so surprised that he almost lost his balance. A kiss! The b-i-t-e
has become a kiss?
Pillai was saying, ‘Madam, to answer your query, for best results, I would
say the lips are most suited.’
What! Spider was not only embarrassed but deeply upset. No way can he
kiss me on my lips! I can sacrifice my principles for a good cause only up to a
point. I’ve nothing against being kissed by a man, but will he floss and brush
his teeth and gargle before my eyes? And I have a feeling I’m going to get
hiccups if a man kisses me on my lips. I don’t know why. Oh, shall I leave the
room without saying goodbye and head for the Himalayas?
It appeared to Spider that the cup of joy was slipping from his hands at
the last moment.
He desperately wished to ask Pillai if he could stick to the original b-i-t-e,
however frightening it was. But he didn’t dare to even mention it in the
presence of Rosi.
So he told Pillai in a sad voice, ‘Mr Pillai, I must inform you that
unfortunately my lips are allergic to male chromosomes. The reason seems to be
that in one of my previous births, I was a courtesan famous for the beauty of
my lips, which were in great demand, with the result that I became sick and
tired of just kissing hundreds of men, especially VIPs, without any follow-up,
leaving me hanging in the air. There is little I can do about it.’
Rosi expressed surprise at this and said that if Spider had taken her into
confidence, she might have been able to appreciate his lips better.
Spider said he was sorry but these were very private worries.
Pillai, who appeared to have been lost in contemplation of the hills while
this brief conversation was going on, turned to Spider and said, ‘Sir, I am very
sorry that my words gave you the wrong impression. I only meant that the best
results come from a kiss on the lips. I can kiss you wherever you feel
comfortable, and still obtain satisfactory results.’
Spider’s mind whirred. Where am I most comfortable being kissed by a
man? He couldn’t make up his mind. On the belly button? The big toe of the
left foot? The kundalini? Then he got it. Pillai himself had mentioned it once.
He asked Pillai, ‘Is the upper tip of my left earlobe a good place? I
remember our discussing this earlier, with regard to the b-i- …’
He cut himself short. Whew! Just in time! Thank you, Mar Tommy!
Pillai said it was an excellent spot. Regarding the kiss on the lips, what he
wished to highlight was that it was upon the lips that The Force of his mentor
entered a person most effectively. A kiss in less potent places could result in
minor inconveniences like not having hair or feathers in the right place or
wobbling in flight—but nothing really to worry about.
Spider felt sad. In order to safeguard his principles, he was going to take a
high-risk path and could end up flying hairless, featherless and rudderless
through cold, turbulent, dark skies. He was going to gamble with his life. Well,
maybe he should carry a parachute. Or try and see if he could have an
ambulance on the ground following their flight. Oh, I may be a great writer, but
no one is with me when a tuning point is upon me!
Spider couldn’t help wondering again: How did the b-i-t-e suddenly
become a kiss?
At this moment, as if he had miraculously anticipated Spider’s unasked
question, Pillai said, ‘Sir, I am very happy to inform you that after our previous
discussions in this regard, as luck would have it, my mentor appeared to me in a
dream and said she had decided to make shape-changing more user-friendly to
accommodate individual sensitivities. Then she revealed the kiss to me.’
Spider looked questioningly at Rosi. He asked, ‘What is your preferred
spot to receive the kiss?’
She said, ‘I do not wish to take any risks. I shall be kissed on the lips.’
Spider saw Pillai swaying as if he had suddenly lost control of his legs. He
was trembling and seemed to be groping for support.
Spider grabbed the fruit basket which he had remembered to bring and
keep next to him, and rushed to Pillai.
He asked, ‘Mr Pillai, are you all right? Do you wish to take a short break?’
Pillai said he was very sorry to have momentarily lost his balance. He
attributed it to the intensely focused nature of the discussion.
 88
A PAMPERED UNDERDOG

Recovering from his short and mysterious fainting fit, Pillai said in a solemn
voice, ‘I congratulate Madam for the choice she has made, giving maximum
consideration to safety!’
Spider could not help but think it was ironical: Madam is a philosopher
and yet she wants to take no risks. She has chosen the kiss on the lips,
irrespective of whether Pillai had flossed and brushed his teeth, cleaned his
tongue or clipped the hair in his nostrils. I am a writer and, if I die, there’ll be
nobody to write my books, yet I’m taking major risks in order to stand by my
principles.
He felt lonely.
Spider made one last effort to intervene in the matter. Striving to sound
casual, he pondered aloud, ‘I wonder where Brother would like to be kissed.’
As soon as the words left his mouth, he wailed to himself, Oh, what have I
gone and said! I’ve put that fraud squarely in the picture. Rosi is going to grab
this opportunity.
Exactly as he feared, she exclaimed, ‘Oh, thank you for remembering
Brother! I got so immersed in the essay, I forgot all about him. We’ve been
going on as if he doesn’t exist. As a member of the family and, I’m sure, a well-
wisher of the essay, he has every right to join the shape-changing and flying
club. Let’s invite him in right away!’
Spider was on the verge of tears. He said, ‘Rosi, please remember what I
told you about the poor relations between Mr Pillai and Brother. Bringing him
into Mr Pillai’s presence could have disastrous consequences.’
Rosi said, ‘In fact, I’ve just realized that he has been an underdog all
along! Enough is enough. We must ask him to join us immediately.’
Spider couldn’t believe his ears. Here they were, after all the hiccups,
finally addressing the concluding part of the essay and Rosi was recklessly
pushing her ideology!
Pillai looked as if he had been dealt a body blow but was struggling to
keep himself under control.
Desperately, Spider considered calling off the collaboration. But it was not
going to be easy. Everything had got tangled up. Oh, Pillai and I had such a
simple, relaxed time of co-creation. Bringing in Brother would be equivalent to
pressing a self-destruct button. Something has to be done immediately!
As a first step, he got up and closed the window and bolted it. He didn’t
want to leave any temptations for Pillai.
Spider now used an enriched voice he kept for occasions requiring high-
velocity persuasion of a complex nature, and told Rosi, ‘You’ve seen the way
Brother behaved towards Mr Pillai, even though he was a bird hiding in your
blouse. You had to drag him away. Are you sure you can control his anarchy?
He could pose a grave threat to our project. Please see how worried Mr Pillai is.’
Rosi said she had the greatest concern for the safety of Mr Pillai and the
successful completion of the project.
She added that when Brother joined them, she would hold him in her lap
and create a Circle of Love.
Spider could see that all paths were blocked. Oh, Mar Tommy, he prayed
desperately, help me. Then he heard a whisper in his ear: You fool! The
perfume. The Mastermind’s perfume!
Spider was saddened by Mar Tommy referring to him as a fool. The
problem with saints was that they tended to develop a holier-than-thou
attitude. Imagine calling me a fool! He doesn’t realize his own credibility is at
stake.
At the same time, Spider couldn’t make out what the Mastermind’s
perfume had to do with the present crisis.
Then the truth hit him: The perfume is going to make the rascal fall in
love with Pillai. Spider literally flew out of his chair, went over to Rosi and said,
‘Rosi, I believe I have the solution.’
At that moment, Spider heard Pillai say in a small, sad voice, ‘Sir, I would
like to affirm that I shall try my utmost to cooperate with the particular
member of the family Madam wishes to invite here. I have complete trust in
Madam’s wisdom. With your permission, I would like to request Madam to
open the door to the party concerned without further delay. I’m sure his
contribution will enrich the essay.’
 Spider was shattered. The man was in a suicidal mood.
He said, ‘The solution is very simple. We are going to create a welcoming
atmosphere for the new member. He loves scents. As far as Madam and I are
concerned, he knows our scents only too well. I’m aware that he is also familiar
with your scent and some misunderstandings are unfortunately outstanding.
Without giving the proposed member time to recall all that, we shall envelop
him in a loving, gripping scent that will erase the negative past. I am in
possession of such a perfume and Madam has already spoken well of it.’
Rosi now recalled that the perfume Spider wore the previous day had an
extra something to it, something that seemed to make her want to jump.
Spider smiled to himself. Haha! She doesn’t know it made her jump into
my arms! Suddenly he remembered: But it also made me her girlfriend.
Shouldn’t it have been the other way around? Is the magic fizzling out from the
perfume? He was worried.
Rosi said, ‘Yes, I agree I found it interesting. It seemed to propel me
towards my husband for no reason whatsoever.’
Spider sighed. Is that how you describe an encounter with your girlfriend?
Pillai said, ‘Sir and Madam, as far as I am concerned, I have no hesitation
taking any step you ask me to take, so that the great essay, in the writing of
which it is my extraordinary fortune to be involved, is concluded as a grand
triumph of non-fiction.’
Despite the fervour with which Pillai said this, Spider detected a note of
desperation in his voice.
Spider took a fresh glance at the window to double-check that it was
indeed secured and noted that the fruit basket was in easy reach.
‘Thank you very much,’ he said. ‘I shall then bring the said perfume.’
He opened the door and came to a shocked standstill. Fiend Unbound!
Brother stood in front of him, every muscle flexed and in readiness to
charge. When he saw Spider, he casually averted his eyes and pretended to snap
at an imaginary something in the air. Oh, here’s the one who Rosi said would
join a Circle of Love!
Spider shivered. Oh, will the Mastermind’s magic work on this Mother of
all Evil? What if it doesn’t? What if Mar Tommy is pulling a fast one on me?
Rosi had once told him that the two occasions on which saints had real fun
were when they let somebody down and when they took somebody for a ride.
That was when, she said, they got a respite from pretending to be saintly. Spider
asked if they didn’t go further than that, like having an affair or going to an
adult movie or getting drunk and challenging a policeman. Rosi said they could,
but were handicapped because of their attire. They were stuck with the funny-
looking period costumes of their times which attracted unwanted attention. Or
they had to go nude, which was not only risqué but also risky. Rosi said this
was the central problem with sainthood: you had no change of clothes.
What about undies, Spider had asked. Rosi said unfortunately the same
applied to undies too. You kept wearing the same thing. That day, Spider had
opted out of sainthood.
He bolted the door from outside, and with heavy steps went down to fetch
the bottle of perfume. Picking it up from the shelf, he held it up for a moment
and tried to visualize the Mastermind disrobing those big desert women who
hadn’t had a bath for months and were awash with the dizzyingly rancid smell
of sand and sweat and everything. A few moments went into that before he
remembered his mission with a start.
He hurried up the steps with the bottle of perfume. Brother was lying in
front of the door in a pose of deadly patience with his jaw on the floor, looking
as if he was asleep. It made Spider want to make the sign of the cross, for what
it was worth. But he found he had forgotten which was longer: the vertical bar
of the cross or the horizontal. With a thumping heart, he unbolted the door,
keeping a wary eye behind him. He opened it just enough to squeeze through,
banged it shut, and bolted it again.
He opened the perfume, recollected the Mastermind for a moment and
handed the bottle over to Pillai saying, ‘Mr Pillai, here’s the perfume that will
help us to welcome the new member in a harmonious manner. Please apply a
sufficient quantity on yourself so that the scent engulfs our new collaborator as
soon as he comes in.’
Pillai received the little bottle with both hands, retreated to a corner,
opened the bottle with care, put it to his nostrils with closed eyes and inhaled
the scent. An enchanted expression came upon his face.
He appeared to be tottering, but steadied himself against the wall.
Pillai said in a voice that quivered with emotion, ‘Sir, I’m overwhelmed.
With the very first whiff of this marvellous perfume, I feel like I’m rising on the
wings of love!’
 89
THE WAGGING TAIL

Spider was terrified by Pillai’s ecstatic exclamation after sniffing the

Mastermind’s perfume. Good heavens! Upon the very first whiff, he’s talking of
rising on wings and being wafted away! What shall I do now? Bring a rope and
tie him to a chair?
Masking his anxiety, Spider said, ‘Mr Pillai, let’s remain calm. The feeling
of love you experienced is a delusion engineered into the perfume by its maker
for short-term goals. It would be a mistake to go overboard with it. Please apply
the perfume on yourself now, so that we can call in our new collaborator and
move towards our objective.’
Pillai put his index finger reverentially to the mouth of the bottle,
inverted it and dabbed his forehead, neck, chest, forearms and feet with the
perfume.
Spider watched anxiously for any further outbursts of overflowing love.
There were none.
Reassured, Spider told him, ‘Mr Pillai, please apply a few drops more.
Let’s take no chances. We are dealing with unpredictable forces.’
When Pillai had dabbed himself three more times Spider told him, ‘I think
that should be sufficient to combat the present situation.’
He didn’t want too much of the perfume to be expended on a single crisis.
He also had to take care of his own needs as and when they arose. Arabia was
far away.
Spider now told Rosi, ‘We are ready to invite your friend to the Circle of
Love. I would request you to strain every nerve to see that no harm comes to
Mr Pillai. He’s our guest and, so to say, visiting writer. It may not be out of
place to mention that we are also answerable to Jesus for Mr Pillai’s well-
being.’
 Rosi said she would stand at the door as a measure of ample precaution to
guide and motivate Brother.
Spider smiled grimly to himself, recalling the chilling spectacle of evil he
had witnessed a few minutes back.
He asked Rosi, ‘Who will open the door? You or I?’
Rosi said she would do it to ensure better coordination.
He wondered to himself if she was looking a little nervous.
He glanced at Pillai, who seemed oblivious to the threat that loomed over
him and stood with a dreamy smile. Spider could see it was a deadly situation.
The perfume had taken him over. If he was going to be hit by Brother, he
simply wasn’t going to do anything about it. It was scary.
Spider told him, ‘Mr Pillai, we are now going to invite our collaborator in.
You might want to pay closer attention to the situation.’
Pillai smiled with a loving expression and to Spider’s horror, sat down on
a chair. He had opted to sit down in the face of possible annihilation! The
situation had gone frighteningly awry.
Spider wished the earth would swallow him up as Rosi unbolted the door.
He saw her trying to hold Brother by his belt and failing miserably.
He suppressed a scream as a screeching shape hurtled past with a piercing,
hellish whine and headed for Pillai. Rosi stood staring helplessly.
Suddenly, everything came to an abrupt stop. There was an eerie silence. It
was as if someone had pressed a pause button. With his heart pounding, Spider
turned to look, ready to close his eyes if he saw what he expected to see, namely
(1) Pillai sitting dead on the chair with that sweet smile because his heart had
stopped, seeing Brother coming for him and (2) Brother standing frozen in his
path, suddenly confronted by a dead body. Brother didn’t do business with pre-
existing dead bodies. His business was to make new ones.
But the sight that met Spider’s eyes made him stare open-mouthed.
Brother seemed to have forgotten all about the hunt he had so ruthlessly set
out on. He stood still before Pillai with a melting look in his eyes. He even
wagged his tail, which Spider watched with a sardonic smile.
The Mastermind’s perfume was at work.
Pillai remained seated, his face glowing, smiling at Brother.
Spider scrutinized Pillai for any sign of death, including the possibility
that he didn’t know he had died. There seemed to be none.
Brother now started moving towards Pillai’s chair in slow motion, like a
somnambulist.
 Both Rosi and Spider rushed forward and took up positions near Pillai.
Brother didn’t even notice their presence. He went up to Pillai and, as Spider
and Rosi watched with disbelieving eyes, rose on his hind legs and placed his
forelegs in Pillai’s lap. Then he raised his head towards Pillai’s face. Spider
thought he wished to be scratched behind his ears. But Pillai simply bent down
and kissed him on his lips. Spider closed his eyes in indescribable disgust. He
opened them only to see Brother licking Pillai’s face.
Spider was devastated. Oh, the perfume has caused an overkill! Pillai has
been swallowed by the miasma of love. He’s going to elope with Brother. Spider
saw his essay lying in ruins.
He told Rosi bitterly, ‘I think that’s the end of our collaboration and
Circle of Love. Now they’ll go away and get married and that’s that. We’ll just
have to wait for them to get divorced.’
Rosi said, ‘Not yet. The thing about magic is that once its effects wear off,
people become normal and pick their nose and scratch their bottom and look
for grey hairs.’
Then a great possibility dawned upon him. Haha! This is also the end of
the rascal’s hold on Rosi! He has given her up and shifted his love to Pillai. He
has jettisoned his past.
At that moment, Brother came up to them and Spider watched
incredulously as he stood looking at Rosi with adoring eyes.
To Spider’s horror, Rosi bent down and gave him a hug and a kiss. She
said, ‘Brother, you poor thing, you went through a lot today!’
Spider almost fainted with disgust. He has merely added a boyfriend to his
kitty today! And the girlfriend is still in love with him!
Spider felt very sad. Clearly, the moral framework was crumbling
everywhere. Was it any surprise that the Arctic ice was melting and big-budget
films were busting? And TV channels were turning into grocery stores and
editors were writing second edits in jails. And the brains of presidents and
prime ministers were turning into beef steak. No wonder at all! It was time to
reinvent life!
His reverie was broken by Pillai’s words. ‘Sir, I thank you for the amazing
magic of the Arabian perfume. My life has been transformed. I have never
known such an extraordinary surge of love … except …’ He stopped abruptly.
Then he continued, ‘I am thankful to you and Madam that I’ve gained
today the friendship of an ambassador of peace and brotherhood, who will be
our new team member. I feel renewed and reborn. With your blessings and
guided by Madam’s wisdom, I’m full of a new confidence that a profound
ending to the essay is in sight.’
Spider nearly wept for joy. Oh, Pillai’s in good shape! Love has not
damaged him beyond repair.
Spider decided to count his blessings, even though the day’s sitting had
concluded without a word being written.
 90
ALIEN THEOLOGIANS

It was only natural that there was a lull, a laid-back sense of relaxation, after
the hectic activity that had accompanied the induction of the two new members
to the essay-writing team. So much so, Spider was motivated to ask Pillai if he
wished to take a short break.
Pillai was both taken by surprise and very pleased. He told Spider that he
had, in fact, been planning to ask Sir if he could go home for a few days to
attend to some personal chores but was feeling hesitant because the essay was
not even half done. It was very kind of Sir to ask. He could now take a brief
break without feeling perturbed because the essay had made considerable
progress and Madam’s presence in the team was a great source of strength.
Pillai added that he wished to reveal to Sir that he owned a carpentry shop back
home, which helped to meet his meagre economic needs, even as he continued
with the executioner’s job as a family tradition.
He said, ‘Sir, I have a couple of trustworthy assistants who, in my absence,
run the shop as I would. Now that the marriage season is upon ua, orders are
pouring in for items of furniture to be given as bridal gifts. I am keen to be
there for a few days to help my assistants. I shall return at the earliest possible
date because the completion of the essay before the deadline is my solemn
duty.’
Spider was surprised that he didn’t feel any anxiety at all about Pillai’s
impending departure. He wondered why. Suddenly the reason became clear:
even a baby could tell that Pillai would return, if only because the mystery of
Rosi’s metaphysical body remained to be unravelled! Oh, thank God for
metaphysics!
While Pillai was away, Spider relaxed by setting up an experimental trap
in the pepper plantation, using concealed wires and hidden mirrors to capture
any alien theologians who might land in the garden, mistaking it for Paradise.
It was as he was hiding among the pepper vines, straining his ears for
sounds of theological arguments in galactic tongues, that Satan made his entry
into Spider’s life with a small thud. Of course, Spider didn’t know it was Satan.
The sound came from the gate and he quickly walked over there, expecting to
see a crashed alien spacecraft and theologians crawling out of it. But what he
found this side of the gate was a rolled-up weekly magazine, which couldn’t
have been delivered by anyone other than his own newspaper boy.
It was in tatters. There was just a bit of the cover page left to show it was
the one he subscribed to. The boy had hacked into the pages inside and
subjected them to his brand of multi-pronged surgical torture. However, a few
crumpled pages remained. Out of idle curiosity, Spider smoothened them out
and took a look at the top page. It took him some time to decipher the title,
which was crushed out of shape. He read it aloud.
‘Satan’s Brush.’
What!
He was so shaken that he staggered open-mouthed to the veranda and sat
down. Oh, he has come for me! He has announced himself! His message has
landed directly at my gate. Oh, the war is out in the open!
‘Mar Tommy!’ he cried out. ‘Save me!’
For the first time in his life, he wished Brother was near. Perhaps he
would have intervened for me, Satan being his boss. After all, I’m his
girlfriend’s husband! He wondered if he should call Rosi for help, but decided
not to, because there was a chance she might, with philosophical impulsiveness,
invite Satan to join the essay team. Spider shuddered at the thought. The person
he missed most in this moment of mortal danger was Pillai. Being related to
Jesus, he was sure to be able to put the fear of God into Satan. But he was gone!
Spider asked himself bitterly: Why is it necessary for executioners to go home?
Does it say so in the Constitution? Or is it a malpractice? I dread to ask this, but
is Pillai really patriotic? Spider sat staring desperately into the lowering evening,
listening for the fearsome footsteps of Satan.
Suddenly something prompted him to take a second look at the soiled
pages. He picked them up with trembling hands and read the battered letters of
the caption again: ‘Satan’s Brush.’
Despite the fear that gripped him, he couldn’t help wondering: What’s
Satan doing with a brush? Is painting his hobby? That’s interesting!
He noticed that the boy had gouged out the author’s name.
 He started to read the text hesitantly. Then, to his surprise, he found he
couldn’t stop reading. And then, to his utter surprise, he found he had reached
the end. It didn’t feel like he had struggled through all those torn paragraphs,
words and sentences with the ink almost washed off, and whole passages with a
sticky coating of something that smelt funny.
He was so overwhelmed by what he had read that for some time his mind
was in a whirl. Everything had turned topsy-turvy. Here was a new Satan! A
massive paradigm shift had taken place in the most unexpected manner. What
he had just read was a dizzying document that brought out in detail the true
nature of Satan.
He felt immensely guilty. Oh, how I wish I hadn’t taken a harsh, intolerant
and short-sighted view of this wise and wonderful man! My life and writing
would’ve been so much more elevated had I known the truth about him! He
sighed sadly, regretting the number of times he had slandered this good man
who bungled and suffered through life like anybody else. Only, being deathless,
things were even more terrible for him because he couldn’t ever get away from
it all. Spider also wondered: How can such a person be the mentor of a villain
like Brother? It can’t be true!
The soiled magazine pages had given a description of Satan the person. He
was hairy, like many of us, and huge, like some of us, and lazy about brushing
his teeth, like lots of us. He was also an artist and a shape-changer like a few of
us. He was on personal terms with God, discussing good and evil like many of
us, and was a decent employer, like some of us. Interested parties had short-
changed him and put him across as damaged goods. If he had Satan’s number,
he would have rung him right away to tell him how sorry he was for having
been so insensitive and rude all these years.
Spider was so sad that he spoke to Rosi about it.
‘Rosi,’ he said, ‘I have a strong feeling that we are on the wrong track
about Satan. I read an account of him which disproves all the things we’ve
heard about him, except that he is a bit tardy about brushing his teeth. In
which case, he must be suffering from dental problems and is certain to be
getting root canal treatments, and that makes him even more of a sad figure,
just like one of us. I also feel that in the given situation of indifferent or no
brushing, bad breath has to be factored into the picture. It is a problem and he
must learn to tackle it with determination. He is also hairy, but that’s a
subjective issue. Many like it hairy. He is huge. That, again, is subjective. Many
like it huge. If you ask me, I think it is bad breath that gave Satan a bad name
to begin with, and his enemies took it from there.’
Rosi said that fortunately she had not been in the habit of seeing Satan in
a bad light and was happy that Spider had had a change of heart. Nevertheless,
the new facts presented by Spider were striking and deserved close attention.
To get to the bottom of the mystery of the Satan document, Spider waited
for Pillai’s return. He was sure to be able to throw new light on the matter,
given his wide-ranging connections.
 91
A FLOATING HALO

When Pillai returned from his chores, Spider did not wish to expose him
abruptly to the momentous revelation about Satan.
So he asked him casually, ‘Mr Pillai, is Satan a frequent flyer?’
Pillai said that although their paths had never crossed, Satan was known
to be a frequent flyer. He seemed to prefer a low-profile, behind-the-scenes
public presence and flew mostly at night—which was different, for example,
from God, who had a weakness for flamboyance.
Spider asked, ‘Mr Pillai, what are the chances of meeting Satan during our
flight to the Valley or back?’
Pillai said the chances were next to nil. Satan was a shy person. They
might even pass him, but they wouldn’t know it because he often flew in
camouflage.
Spider now decided to open up the subject further. He told Pillai he had
chanced upon a major document that had revolutionized his outlook on Satan
and on life itself. He added that it would be wonderful if he could share with
his collaborators this catalytic information that might even help them to
redefine compassion if need be.
Pillai looked blissful. He said, ‘Sir, not even in my most adventurous
moments have I dared to imagine that a genius of your greatness would share
with me path-breaking and revolutionizing information such as this.’
Suddenly Pillai was lying at Spider’s feet, holding them with both hands.
Though Spider was taken by surprise, he managed to bless Pillai just in time.
Once again, and not for the last time, he admired Pillai’s good manners.
Rosi came in and sat down, ready to begin work.
Spider explained to her the idea that the collaborators could together
share their thoughts on the amazing revelation about Satan while keeping open
the possibility that the essay would benefit from this new world view.
Rosi said she was certainly keen to participate in the discussion. She
dismissed for the time being a doubt that had occurred to her: Had Spider
possibly secured a PR job with Satan?
Pillai looked so excited that Spider wondered if he was planning to squat
on the floor and, if so, what precautions needed to be taken. Pillai, however,
made himself comfortable leaning against the wall, hands crossed across his
chest and eyes closed. Spider saw the fruit basket on a chair in a corner and was
comforted.
Spider thanked his collaborators for lending him their time and said, ‘It
was a miracle this account about Satan reached me at all, considering the
intermediary was our newspaper boy. Since Mr Pillai is not familiar with him—
and I suspect Madam isn’t either, except marginally—I must clarify that our
newspaper boy exists outside the 24 x7 framework of life as we know it. He
delivers the daily paper sometimes as much as a week late, often in bits and
pieces, and is commonly found asleep in unexpected places, using newspapers as
a mat or a pillow. He has been found wrestling with goats, racing with snakes,
floating in the ponds with buffaloes and helping young women bathing in the
stream to rub their backs and buttocks with soapnut powder. He is also known
to assist them in applying a crushed hibiscus-leaf mixture to their hair while
they hold his little penis for support when the mixture falls into their eyes and
makes them blind. Cows walk with him when he is on his delivery rounds,
listening to him reading out the headlines and editorials as a ballad, jingling the
bells on their horns to keep the beat. In return, they let him drink warm, frothy
milk from the pendent nipples of their bulging udders. Couples making love in
secluded places seek his help as a look-out while they mate upon the
newspapers borrowed from him, and he sits nearby, keeping watch and pelting
stones at distant trees with a sharpshooter’s precision.
‘Subscribers who get wrinkled newspapers pockmarked by stones and
thorns and with love-juices sticking to the pages do not make a fuss any more.
They read between the lines and are happy that lovemaking still thrives despite
the high cost of living and the idiotic war-mongering all around us.
Unconfirmed reports say that women in labour secretly call him over and he
sits between their legs and claps his hands once, twice, thrice, and the baby
slides out like a seed from a ripe jackfruit. Some people say they have seen him
delivering the papers past midnight, walking in the black night with fireflies
hovering round his head like a floating halo.’
 Rosi intervened to say the lifestyle of the newspaper boy sounded
fascinating and she wished she had paid more attention to him. It was
wonderful that Spider was up to date on local history, and she respected him
for that. But wasn’t he digressing from the topic under discussion, which was
the true nature of Satan?
Spider said he was coming precisely to that point. He was first making the
background perfect.
He said some people believed the boy had dealings with Satan and he was
distributing news on his behalf. But even in the days when Spider subscribed to
the negative viewpoint on Satan, he had not seen eye to eye with this view.
Actually the boy killed a lot of bad news and paid news by cutting, tearing and
disfiguring. Perhaps this was done at Satan’s bidding, now that Spider could see
Satan in a new and refreshing light.
Rosi was impressed. She said Spider had revealed unsuspected dimensions
in the boy. She agreed his talents were amazing. He could become the model for
a multitasking newspaper distribution system of the future. In fact, she might
like to ask the boy to come in one of these days, so she could have an informal
chat with him.
Spider wondered to himself if she wished to share some of the exotic
experiences he was famous for. Spider knew how adventurous she could be.
Maybe she just needs him to scrub her back during her oil bath. Oh, I’m proud
of my wife for being so avant garde!
Spider said he was indeed privileged to have been the catalyst in Rosi’s re-
discovery of the newspaper boy. If he might say so, it was somewhat like his re-
discovery of Satan.
He now explained how, on a recent evening, the magazine roll had landed
at the gate with a thud; how all the other pages of the magazine had been torn
out and only the crumpled sheets remained; and how there was a hole where
the author’s name had been. It was not clear why the boy wished Spider to read
it, or why the author’s name had been removed.
Rosi said the boy perhaps hoped to make a contribution to Spider’s
General Knowledge. At the same time, the hole in the place of the author’s
name must have been intended as a symbolic reminder to Spider of how
precarious and ephemeral all authorships are. The boy appeared to be a do-
gooder.
Spider thanked Rosi for reminding him about the hardships of being an
author. He hoped, however, that this wouldn’t diminish Pillai’s determination
to be a writer.
Suddenly he wondered: Was the boy actually peddling paid news? Was
there a conspiracy?
Then Rosi said, ‘Maybe Satan wanted you, a famous writer, to know his
true nature. And the boy, as some people think, is his agent.’
Spider thought that had a ring of truth to it. It was so kind of Satan to
think of him! Maybe he has read my books! Wow!
Spider now asked which of the two collaborators would like to read out
this historic document.
Pillai hastened to say that there was only one choice and that was Madam.
Her insightful approach and mellifluous voice would make the reading a
memorable experience.
 92
THE SATAN DOCUMENT

Rosi took the crumpled pages handed to her by Spider, took a deep breath and
read as follows:

SATAN’S BRUSH

Deathless Satan needed a man to brush his teeth. So the newspapers

reported. Hearing this, the man set out for Sky City. He had been
desperately searching for a job for many years now. He had gone
everywhere—to barber shops, five-star hotels, mines, brothels. But
he could not get a job. He asked people he met on the road, even
birds and animals, for a job. God’s secretaries and even the sun and
the moon mocked him. Then one day, lost and wandering on
unfamiliar paths, a storm of hunger knocked him down. When he
opened his eyes, he was in a hotel in a strange city, trembling in
distress and shrunk with shame, drinking the tea someone had
bought him. It was at that moment he heard the news about Satan
needing a man to brush his teeth. Instantly he roused himself and
started walking towards Satan’s house.
Satan sat under a tree in front of his mansion, dark, fearsome
forests of hair on his body, long nails on his fingers. He was painting
a picture of eternity. Hearing the man’s footsteps, he turned his
head and welcomed him with joy and wonder. The man, in great fear
and trembling, fell at Satan’s feet and wept, begging for the job of
brushing his teeth.
Satan picked him up as if he were a child, wiped his tears and
consoled him. Then he bared his teeth and invited the man to begin.
The man looked into his future, saw himself as a wealthy man, and
with great joy started his work. Satan was embarrassed about
seeking another’s help to brush his teeth. But since the bad odour
from his mouth was beginning to spread all over the earth, he sat
still and placed himself in the man’s hands.
The brushing over, Satan examined himself in a mirror. Little
silver fish smiled back at him from his mouth. He was overjoyed. He
opened his fridge and took out a bottle of wine. He poured out a
glassful and gave it to the man and the man drank it, shyly, greedily.
Satan lifted the bottle and poured the rest of the wine down his own
throat. Then he sat down on his chair and added a touch of red to
the lips of an angel flying along the firmament on white wings, a
golden sword held aloft in one hand.
One night, as the man’s pillows were being drenched with his
tears, an angel came and sat beside him. The man was intoxicated
with happiness. The angel took out a golden sword from under her
wings and gave it to him as a gift. In return, she asked for the head
of Satan. The man quivered as if the beheaded torso were his own.
He knew he could not rest till he had made the angel his own, yet he
was silent.
In anger, the angel left him. The man, gripped by the pangs of
separation, held the golden sword close to him and awaited sleep.
Faintly, from a faraway place, came the angel’s song. Now and then,
he would slip into a light slumber and dream that Satan had come
and lifted him up, and was holding him aloft between the earth and
the sky. He saw himself rise and touch the clouds. When he turned
around, Satan was nowhere in sight. Instead, the angel stood there
with open wings. He began to disrobe her. To his surprise, her
clothes kept coming off endlessly.
Every morning, he went to Satan and brushed his teeth while
Satan sat half-awake, arguing with God about good and evil.
One day, the angel spoke to the man secretly from the picture
of eternity, asking once again for Satan’s head.
He cried out in his heart that he could never kill Satan. The
angel heard him. She stretched out her hands to him, a smile of
temptation on her lips. And for a brief moment, a picture of himself
flying through the skies clasped to the angel’s bosom flashed before
the man’s eyes.
He tossed in his bed, unable to bear his separation from the
angel. One night, hearing his cries, Satan came to console him and
gave him a ring studded with star stones. The man saw Satan’s face
shining in the star stones, and the angel was erased from his
memory.
Every evening, Satan and he immersed themselves in games, the
blood-glow of sunset smeared on their bodies. Then one day, while
playing, the star-stone ring fell into the grass and was lost. And the
man was once again consumed by a burning desire for the angel.
He went to Satan one morning, the golden sword hidden under
his cloak. Satan bared his teeth as usual and invited him to brush
them. And the man thrust the golden sword deep into Satan’s
mouth. In a flash, he cut off Satan’s head. Blood all over his body, he
ran to the far side of the sky.
Suddenly the angel appeared, opening a door in the clouds.
There was a policeman with her. The man tried to embrace her, but
was knocked down.
The angel lifted her foot and stomped on his head, reducing it
to a bleeding ball. Then, against the background score of his cries,
she and the policeman went away to a festival ground, far away.
Satan rose from his death, came to the man and lifted him up
as if he were a child. He then walked to his mansion, the man over
his shoulders, patting his back, humming a lullaby, consoling him.
Satan kept constant vigil by his bedside, turning himself into a tree
in blossom, the colours and fragrance of the flowers bringing the
man peace and happiness. Whenever the man was hungry, Satan
extended to him branches laden with ripe fruits.
At last a day came when a tired little bird collapsed on the
branches of the flowering tree. Behind it came a posse of policemen,
their guns of evil words ready to shoot.
After the policemen had passed the invisible tree, the
trembling bird—none other than the angel—sat singing a song of
repentance and sorrow. The flower-decked tree shook happily in the
breeze. Sprouting wings, the man flew up from his bed on to a
bough of the tree.
Without its master, Satan’s brush slept, somewhere in an abyss.
 93
A DEEP BREATH

Rosi finished reading the Satan document and looked up at her collaborators.
She seemed sad.
Spider was surprised. He said, ‘You look sad!’
Rosi admitted that she was.
Spider asked, ‘You feel sad about something in the document?’ She said,
‘Yes.’
Spider could see Satan had won friends.
Rosi said, ‘I feel sad for Satan, but more so for the toothbrush.’
Oh, the toothbrush! Spider had forgotten about it. Yes, even a
handkerchief or a comb is heartbroken when the master is gone. Forlorn, it will
cry out for him. And one’s toothbrush is so much more intimate.
Spider said, ‘Yes, my heart goes out to the toothbrush. When it wakes up
from its sleep in the abyss, it’s going to be terrified without its master.’
Pillai agreed with both of them. He bowed his head before Satan’s
greatness. Sir’s unrelenting commitment to truth had made this game-changing
document available and he hoped it would reach the wide world soon.
Rosi said that although she had always thought well of Satan, only now
did she grasp the amazing extent of his simple existence. She thanked not only
Spider, but also the newspaper boy for this good turn. She reaffirmed that she
would like to be introduced to the boy at the earliest.
Spider said he wasn’t sure the newspaper boy really existed. It was more
likely that he was an apparition let loose by the print media to spread the
impression that even newspaper boys have editorial freedom, just like the
proprietors. The things he inflicted on the newspapers he delivered would be
shown as proof. Anyway, for Rosi’s sake, he would try to capture him. Their
paths had crossed only the other day and, going by the speed with which the
boy took to his heels, he would not be an easy one to catch.
Pillai now sought his collaborators’ permission to say a few words more
about the Satan document, which was granted.
He said, ‘Sir and Madam, I totally agree with you regarding the tragic
plight of the toothbrush. But I shudder equally or more for Satan. I wonder if
he is, tragically, a masochist at heart, inviting pain upon himself. And he seems
indifferent to personal well-being—even safety. He certainly should have
checked the man’s antecedents before appointing him to the brushing job. Had
he done that, he would have perhaps discovered that the man was fickle and
unreliable. Instead, he was too trusting.’
Pillai added, ‘Sir, what perturbs me in particular is the fact that Satan
became rooted to the same place as a tree. It is a great tragedy for a frequent
flyer. Sir, in my humble opinion, he urgently needs to uproot himself, if he
wishes to get on with his life—and definitely throw out the foolish assistant,
however good he was at brushing.’
Spider thought that was well said. He could see Satan had a fine,
pragmatic ally in Pillai.
He said he would like to add the thought that as soon as Satan was afoot,
he should go and retrieve his toothbrush from wherever it was in the abyss.
His collaborators agreed with him.
Spider then asked, ‘Are there any takers for the angel?’
Rosi speculated that the fact that the angel did not allow the man to
disrobe it meant it had something to hide. What, she couldn’t say.
Spider said, ‘I can understand that perfectly. The angel was in all
probability genderless and didn’t want the man to know.’
Rosi said the angel was perhaps trying to hide its actual gender. It must
have been male but had deluded the man into believing it was female.
Spider said, with gender or without, the outcome was the same: the man
was left in the lurch.
He asked, ‘Anyone for the policeman?’
Silence.
‘And for the man?’
Pillai said, ‘The man, in my humble opinion, was a compulsive depressive
and in that sense deserves some sympathy. But it was unforgivable of him to
have endangered Satan’s life for an unscrupulous angel. He couldn’t have had
much of a future because he appears to have been non-employable, disloyal,
moody, and maudlin to boot.’
 Rosi agreed with him and said that perhaps it was good that the angel had
given the nincompoop a knock on the head.
Both agreed that Satan was a wonderful personality and Spider was
perfectly justified in having a change of heart regarding him.
Spider asked, ‘Won’t you then join me in proposing a vote of thanks to
the newspaper boy for his signal service to humanity by (1) revealing the real
and inconceivable truth about Satan and (2) inventing alternative uses for
newspapers, for example, as a lovemaking mat.
The vote of thanks was proposed and passed unanimously.
 94
BACK TO THE FUTURE

When Pillai flew in the next day and assembled himself—so fast that it startled
Spider—he seemed immensely excited. His eyes sparkled; his hair trembled on
its own. His face was glowing.
Spider was worried. Excitement in Pillai was never a good sign. It
inevitably led to some calamity for which Spider, more than anyone else, paid
the price. And today, of all days, had been earmarked by the team, as if under a
pledge, to write the end piece of the essay and happily sign off on it. It was not
only a question of meeting the deadline, but of professional satisfaction too. It
was an embarrassing fact that several sessions had passed without a sentence
being put down.
As soon as the team sat down, Pillai begged the permission of Sir and
Madam to utter a few words. Spider waited stoically. Pillai’s animated state
seemed to have caught the attention of Rosi too, who gave him a puzzled look.
Pillai said, ‘Madam and Sir, I am aware that the team has earmarked this
day for completing all work on the essay. Therefore, I am filled with guilt as I
stand before you, disrupting the work schedule to speak a few words regarding
a matter which I believe demands the urgent attention of Sir and Madam.’
Spider knew what was coming and he got ready to take the body blow.
Pillai has changed his mind and is flying to Satan’s place to take up the
brushing job! He’s come to say goodbye. Oh, Mar Tommy! Did Satan plant that
document on me to capture Pillai? So it was paid news after all! Every month,
I’m paying for bloody paid news! He controlled his tears.
Then he heard Pillai saying, ‘Madam and Sir, I am extremely happy to
inform you that my sources in the eastern mountains have told me that a
gathering of lost songs will take place in the Valley in a week’s time.’
Spider stared at Pillai in disbelief and then clapped his hands and shouted,
‘That’s fantastic!’
Rosi smiled, ‘Wow! That’s wonderful!’
Pillai stood with joined palms, relishing the welcome his words had
received.
Spider couldn’t contain his happiness. Imagine! Two projects culminating
together! The essay on the one hand and shape-changing-flying on the other!
He reined in a desire to hug Pillai and instead asked, ‘Mr Pillai, so where
do we go from here?’
Pillai said that in his humble opinion, right now the best course of action
would be to focus on completing the essay. The flight to the Valley was best
discussed at leisure and length, without the essay looming over them.
Spider wanted to get into the details of the Valley flight straight away and
was sorely tempted to suggest that the essay could wait for just one more day.
But he remembered the top comrade’s phone call the previous day. The
comrade had said, with the utmost courtesy, that while they did not wish to
hurry him, they were only awaiting his contribution to go to press. Spider
therefore sadly dropped the idea.
Pillai was holding his notebook open. He said, ‘Sir and Madam, may I
place before you a sentence suggested by Sir earlier, when we did not have the
privilege of having Madam as a member of the team? It is my humble feeling
that this could become the cornerstone of the essay’s conclusion.’
Rosi said she had been waiting for this moment—to listen to Spider’s
first-hand thoughts on the subject. She had hitherto only seen him practising
compassion, not articulating it.
Spider beamed. Oh, my wife is so fond of me!
Pillai read as follows:

‘In that remote and revolutionary future, goalkeepers will be many

but goals will be few. Passion will be interlocked into Compassion
and that will be good for the worker-robots who do not have other
hobbies. The penalty kick of Fate is the final test and let’s hope for
the best.’

There was a hush. Brother walked in and took a seat on a wicker chair.
Rosi stood up to shout, ‘Superb!’
Spider showed no emotion. Well! Finally my wife is coming to grips with
what it takes to be a celebrity writer!
 She continued, ‘I can’t say I understand what it means, but it sounds
impressive. I think it has the capability to shake up those comrades who will
read the essay to the end. In particular, “hope for the best” puts the case for
compassion in a nutshell.’
She turned to Spider and asked, ‘Can I hug you?’
Spider was reluctant to be hugged. Hugs seemed to be going a dime a
dozen.
He said, ‘Thank you very much. Let’s not have any hugging today. They
have a tendency to be diversionary. But I’m honoured that good words have
been said about my contribution to the essay. In what direction do we move
now?’
Pillai said with a look of pride, ‘It’s a moment of fulfillment for me. If I
may humbly say so, I believe we have come to the end of the great essay, with
only the finishing touches remaining! Sir’s meticulously crafted and messianic
words fall into place like the grand finale of a symphony!’
He stood with bowed head. Spider thought the bowed head was not called
for. It gave the appearance of a funeral. Yet, it was to be admitted, he had
spoken well and logically.
Spider said, ‘Thank you very much. What my respected collaborators say
is the final word.’
Rosi said, ‘I agree with Mr Pillai. I request him to make the necessary
adjustments to induct the new passage as the conclusion of the essay.’
Pillai thought for a brief while and said, ‘In my humble opinion, the new
passage needs to be bridged with that of Madam’s, which precedes it. Madam’s
concluding words were:

‘“The body is the material of materialism. If God does not agree,

dethrone Her!”

‘I humbly suggest the following sentence as the bridge:

‘Dear comrades, I therefore beckon you back to the future and what
it may hold.’

Spider felt the excitement rising in him. Back to the future! Is he

positioning a decoy? Wow! Oh, thank you, fruit basket, for everything. Perhaps
I’ll place you on the mantelpiece as a family heirloom!
 Pillai added, ‘Sir and Madam, may I make a further suggestion? Even
though Sir’s magnificent conclusion makes a perfect end, its implications could
be further broadened by making it point to another unpredictable reality,
inserting, so to say, a thought representing an end bolstering the real end.’
Spider found himself trembling with anticipation.
Brother, who had fallen asleep as soon as he came in, woke up, got down
from the chair and moved to a strategic position near Rosi’s chair. He had
begun to feel hungry.
Pillai said, ‘Sir and Madam, it’s like a curtain falling but immediately
throwing open another world.’
Spider wished he wouldn’t explain so much. Oh, make the curtain fall
quickly! He nearly gritted his teeth.
Pillai stood silently for a few moments, gazing out the window. Spider was
a nervous wreck by now, fearful of another attack of ecstasy.
Then Pillai said, ‘Sir, I humbly suggest the following sentence for this
purpose:

For, the end is not here yet. It awaits you as a secret shrouded in a
mystery.’

Spider sat open-mouthed. He wished there was a way of hugging spoken

words. Oh, how well the decoy had been set up by Pillai! It was like a perfectly
camouflaged trapdoor!
He held on tightly with both hands to his chair because he felt he was
going to levitate.
Rosi said, ‘Oh, Mr Pillai, you are brilliant!’
She caressed Brother on his neck.
Brother was relaxed. He felt good. Visitors come and go. Even scented
charlatans like the present one. Even husbands, for that matter. Throw
compassion to the chickens!
Pillai now requested permission to replace the word ‘future’ in Spider’s
text with the word ‘realm’ to avoid a closely positioned repetition, and that
was agreed to.
Rosi requested Pillai to read the amended matter in its totality. Pillai read:

‘Dear comrades, I therefore beckon you back to the future and what
it may hold. In that remote and revolutionary realm, goalkeepers
 will be many but goals will be few. Passion will be interlocked into
Compassion and that’s good for the worker-robots who do not have
other hobbies. The penalty kick of Fate is the final test and let’s
hope for the best. For, the end is not here yet. It awaits you as a
secret shrouded in a mystery.’

Pillai paused, took a deep breath and added with a worshipful look at
Spider:

‘Or, vice versa.’

Brother was extremely upset when Spider tried to hug him, shouting, ‘Or,
vice versa!’ He considered it bad manners on the part of Spider to take such
liberties with him in front of a visitor—even one of a dubious character—and
also a naked exhibition of feudalism. He walked out in disgust, wondering if
there was a constitutional remedy against hegemonic hugging verging on
aggression.
Spider and Rosi said in one voice, ‘Thank you, Mr Pillai. That was
magnificent!’
With palms reverently joined, Pillai bowed, first to Spider and then to
Rosi. His face shone with unlimited joy. Spider readied his feet for Pillai’s touch
and was a little disappointed when it didn’t follow.
Instead, Pillai said in a grave voice, ‘Sir and Madam, thank you very much,
but our task is not finished yet.’
Spider was dismayed. Good heavens! Does he want to count the words
again? Oh, no!
Pillai continued, ‘The title remains to be done.’
Spider looked at Pillai with admiration. The man is wonderful! I had
totally forgotten about the title in the hurly-burly of the writing. Imagine
sending the essay to the comrades without one! They are so used to party
circulars with mile-long titles that they may not even recognize they have an
essay in their hands if it goes without a title. In fact, it may be best to call the
essay a circular so they will sit up and take note!
Pillai asked, ‘Sir, may I make a humble suggestion with regard to the
title?’
‘By all means,’ Spider said with pleasure.
Pillai stared at the mountain peaks for a few moments, took a deep breath
and said, ‘Sir and Madam, in my humble opinion, the essay could be titled …’
He paused and looked worriedly at both of them before saying, ‘A Secret
History of Compassion.’
Spider was speechless. What! In one stroke they had arrived at History!
Marxists love History! They keep inventing it! And it is secret too! It will
awaken their dormant nostalgia for the secret police and bring them to full
attention! Wow! This is going to set the party office on fire!
Spider got up and hugged Pillai with feeling. Only then did he realize the
lethal nature of his act. Terrified, he turned to look back at Rosi. Is she going to
follow suit? Do I have to run for the fruit basket at this joyous moment? But he
was relieved to see she was only standing and clapping her hands.
He was wondering if he should put forward the idea of amending the title
to ‘A Secret History of Compassion: A Circular’ or ‘A Circular on the Secret
History of Compassion’ or ‘A Secret Circular on the Secret History of
Compassion’ when he heard Rosi asking, ‘Mr Pillai, you’re amazing! Can I hug
you?’
Spider felt the earth heave. In a split second, he was up and standing like a
rock between Rosi and Pillai.
He told her in a voice he used only when he wished to apply The Force,
‘Rosi, I do feel Mr Pillai is very tired after the monumental effort of bringing
the essay to a close. Let us leave him alone to enjoy this moment. Needless to
say, he makes us all proud.’
Pillai joined his palms together and humbly acknowledged the
compliment, but he looked downcast.
Spider understood why. Poor guy! He didn’t mind being hugged by Rosi,
even with all the accompanying problems, because he’s learning to get used to
it. Or perhaps he thought I would hug him again and is disappointed that I
didn’t. But I shall be firm! I cannot take a chance. The flight to the Valley is still
in the pipeline. I must take the bull by the horns! He was so astounded by the
new, hard-hitting idiom he had just brought to life that he stopped breathing
for a moment. Take the bull by the horns! Wow! What a way to put my bold,
quick decision into a nutshell!
 95
A SECRET HISTORY OF COMPASSION

Now that the essay appeared to be complete in all respects including a fitting
title, the three team members were relaxed. They were proud and happy. They
had brought their task to an end well in time despite the challenges and
hurdles. To cap this pleasant mood of achievement, Rosi suggested it would be a
good idea to listen to the whole essay once, so that not only would they know if
it flowed smoothly, but also catch any slip-ups. The suggestion was welcomed.
Pillai said that once again, Madam’s great wisdom had made its presence felt.
Spider agreed. Pillai continued and said that if he might be allowed to put
forward his humble opinion, the right person to read out the full text of the
essay was Sir himself, for it was his brainchild. Spider smiled.
He read as follows:

‘The time is not far off when robot armies, interstellar ships and AI
units controlling WMDs and slaughterhouse machinery run by EI
will be programmed with Compassion. For, in the precarious days of
the future, Compassion may be the only tool capable of
encompassing the remnants of Reality on its last legs under the
control of Nonchalant Intelligence (NI). Even love might be dead
then, or insufficiently equipped to engage with a world in relentless
disintegration.
‘In that future age where, at the hub of Existence, Nonchalant
Intelligence predominates as the Total Signifier, applied gauges such
as Freedom, Justice, Democracy, Truth and Love, all may wither
away—like the State in the Marxian climax. Because NI will
supplant them all. However, Compassion may hang on by converting
itself to an ancillary of NI. A semblance of humanity might linger in
the undergrowth of Life.
‘A key question facing the human race today is, how to be
compassionate without anxiously looking over one’s shoulder. This
behaviour seems to stem from a sense of inadequacy that most
civilizations developed in the capitalistic phase, and strange as it
may seem, it seems to be a product of the overwhelming adequacy of
wealth generated by Capitalism. Yes! Wealth is the inscrutable force
lurking behind people, making them look back apprehensively when
faced with the choice of Compassion. Alas, it is not in the nature of
Capitalism to part with wealth without profit or dispatch a tender
feeling without a price tag. The fact is that wealth, like consciousness
itself, seems inseparable from Evolution. If only the Great Bearded
Thinker had taken cognizance of the determining role of wealth and
its historical instrument, Capitalism, while mapping Evolution’s
landscape! Let us agree then that it will hardly surprise a
dispassionate onlooker that Evolution is a process sans Compassion.
We need not search far for the reasons. Economics is at the heart of
Biology—Winner Takes All. Biology does not root for genes that
have no purse strings.
‘It appears certain that, for Compassion to reign supreme, we
would need to creatively explore its evolutionary relationship with
wealth on the one hand, and on the other, study how the institution
of monetary economy with its capitalistic paraphernalia has become
a watershed in this historical process. A possible armed struggle
against Capital may have to redesign and redefine its revolutionary
objectives. In that unprecedented scenario, globalization will be all
about Compassion and even about Pure Love. It may become
necessary sooner rather than later, therefore, to persuade God to
introduce Compassion at the quantum level so that genes can learn
to make Compassion co-exist with their unfathomable concern with
wealth and work towards a Brave New World.
‘But here we confront a philosophical question: Is God a
reliable factor with regard to Compassion? How do we know She has
an abiding interest in the cutting edge of the subject? Is it not
possible that She might be pushing Evolution to a point where the
task of promoting Compassion is franchised to the common-cold
virus? And does History bear out God’s compassionate credentials?
It is doubtful in the extreme. Look at all the butchers who have
dominated History. God, therefore, may turn out to be only a
standby player in the saga of Compassion. And, needless to say, we
must accept that Compassion has not gathered sufficient historical
mileage to attract the human psyche’s undivided attention, like
chilly chicken, hair transplants or kinky underwear. Under the
circumstances, it needs to be admitted that we are forced to look
elsewhere for an answer to the riddle of Compassion.
‘Is it possible, we may then ask, that the most efficiently
organized establishments of Compassion in our world are the armies,
navies, air forces, secret services, terrorists, dictators, religious
fundamentalists and nuclear-button controllers? Perhaps we have
been mistaking them for annihilators whereas they only annihilate
Sorrow at its root by putting an end to Life. Life is at the bottom of
all problems. Do away with it, and we arrive at a model universe of
mass graves where Compassion is a black bird flying in the night,
singing of freedom. Or it might lie buried in one of those graves,
along with the rotting remains, as a little pendant around the neck
of a baby shot in the head. It would be interesting to check a Holy
Book to see if at the End of Days, Compassion will enjoy a
resurrection and sit at the right hand of God. Actually, right hand or
left does not matter as long as God is able to notice that Compassion
is in bad shape, gives it early dinner and sends it off to sleep.
‘Imagine a scenario wherein the human race has been set on
the path of total Compassion. It would be a time of wonderment and
miracles. History would have witnessed nothing like it. Imagine, if
you can, a time when politics is so compassionate that politicians
abolish elections so as to not disturb public life. The media is so
compassionate that even owners take a truth serum with their
breakfast. Religions are so compassionate that the handlers of God
give Her a two-week holiday in Goa—she only needs to pay for Her
transport. It is possible therefore to envisage a future where
Compassion will be built into the hangman’s rope, the executioner’s
syringe, the terrorist’s bomb, the torturer’s screw, the fascist’s rant,
the despot’s scream, the drug baron’s smirk and the fanatic’s knife.
We would need to ask ourselves: Are we compassionate to the
tapeworm? Are we compassionate to the hookworm, the cold virus,
the mouth bacteria, the e-coli, the cancer cell, the wart, the tumour,
the HIV virus, all trapped in the dark and forlorn tunnels of
Evolution? Are we compassionate to Satan?
‘As a matter of fact, the true implication of Compassion is an
ever-widening, phantom-like circle; accountability may prove hard.
Ask the comrades! What manner of Compassion do you accord to the
world’s true downtrodden who thirst for Revolution right under
your nose: the cockroach, the louse, the bedbug, the ant, the rat, the
mosquito, the house lizard, the spider, the centipede and the
millipede, to mention a few? You shower Compassion on the white-
collared oppressors of the people. What about the underdogs of the
street, the collarless poor: the stray cat and dog? What about the
chained elephant, the murdered chicken, the chopped fish, the
butchered pig, the slaughtered cattle, the massacred lambs? These
and similar questions will keep agitating the masses. Answers are
urgently needed and should be discussed with God at Her earliest
convenience. O! Beware the silence!
‘O! Beware the shroud of silence that hides History’s unending
massacres of the Body’s Uprisings—the brutal extermination of the
Revolution of Passion. O! Beware the silence masking the tragic
History of love and lovemaking. Listen, if you can, to the fearsome
last rites of orgasms, to the inconsolable whimpers from the
annihilated universe of sweet lust. Meditate for a moment upon the
gruesome surrenders of the body, pinned down and gaping! Upon
the hideous collaborations on bended knees! Upon the gritted teeth,
bulging eyes and churning bowels! Ask: Who expelled Compassion
from the paradise of love?
‘Question the silence that cloaks the barren destinies of the
comrades of the world to whom the Body’s sweet empire was a class
enemy—a thing to be crushed in the torture chamber. Ask: Who
stopped them from learning that Marx loved making love, as also
Lenin and the Stalin-woman? Oh, think of the searing, suffocated
masturbations that fill the wilderness of revolutions! Think of the
demonic debris of failed fornications floating in the flood of
revolutionary blood! Comrades, the chemical cadaver of Vladimir our
Father awaits resurrection at the Kremlin. Know that he is the new
Buddha, the Compassionate One who will lead the coming
 Revolution of Compassion—only, this time he will resurrect at the
New York Penn. Heed the message of his second coming! Raise your
fists in a red salute and get ready to join him in a triumphant march
to Washington D.C.!
‘Remember! The Stalin-woman was filled with Compassion to
hear that comrades who were shot dead on her orders had
ejaculated into their pants with their last breath—making love to
the Party one last time. Comrades! May Compassion bloom also in
your hearts! But make love, oh, make love to the body, not to the
Party. Comrades! Witness the body beautiful! Witness the body
metaphysical! Witness the body compassionate! Rise up and demand
from God a new charter of Compassion for the body! For the body is
the proletariat. It is the downtrodden. It is the working class. It is
the underdog. It is the collarless. The body is the material of
materialism. If God does not consent, dethrone Her! Dear comrades,
I therefore beckon you back to the future and what it may hold. In
that remote and revolutionary realm, goalkeepers will be many but
goals will be few. Passion will be interlocked into Compassion and
that’s good for the worker-robots who do not have other hobbies.
The penalty kick of Fate is the final test and let’s hope for the best.
For, the end is not here yet. It awaits you as a secret shrouded in a
mystery. Or, vice versa!’

There was spirited applause at the end of Spider’s reading. He humbly

bowed to his teammates. What a wonderful essay! Was it any surprise he was so
famous. Thank you, Mar Tommy!
 96
NO MAN’S LAND

Four bats winged their way through the darkening sky towards the eastern
mountains. They saw the eerie glow of moonrise colouring the horizon’s edge.
Then a ghostly gleam lit up the distant, night-hidden mountain peaks and a
garden of incandescent summits floated at the end of the black sky with clouds
resting on them like sleeping moths.
The bats flew in close formation, sometimes flapping their wings,
sometimes gliding. Occasionally a gust of wind lifted them up and then let them
sink, like dry leaves in a draught. The full moon’s orange globe came into view,
filled with a dim and pallid light, and bobbed over the mountains like a
discarded, dying, festival lantern.
When an occasional passing cloud crossed the flyers’ path, one bat would
squirm, waver and slow down, but the one next to it, who seemed to be the
guide, would nudge it forward with its wing tip. They were quite far from their
destination amidst the mountains and flew at a steady pace through the lonely
sky, a sense of determination apparent in their wing beats. Even the bat who
seemed scared of clouds appeared quite determined to enjoy himself.
Spider wavered before the clouds because he could not get over the feeling
that they were not floating bodies of moisture and mist but hard matter. He
could bang into them and fall down dead. So he would dither, slow down and
watch what happened to the team members ahead of him. Even then, he gritted
his teeth each time he hit a cloud because he could not rule out the off chance
that it might instantly solidify after letting the other three pass. From the little
he had seen, the sky was a no-man’s land. You couldn’t take anything for
granted.
They had a good start except for a brief hiccup when Pillai’s trigger-kiss
for initiating shape-changes ran into trouble in Rosi’s case. It had led to some
anxious moments because he seemed to be unable to stop the kiss he was
administering to her. Spider, of course, realized that he was taking no chances
with regard to the efficacy of the start-up and was therefore making it long,
result-oriented and foolproof. Rosi extricated her lips with some difficulty.
What happened next was all the more worrying. Pillai suddenly fell down and
went into a delirium during which he kept tweeting and singing like a bird. It
took some effort to make him come back to his senses and revert to his tasks as
team leader.
Brother was seen wiping his lips upon a cushion after Pillai had
administered the kiss to him.
Spider asked Rosi her opinion of the kiss she had received and she replied
that though it had suffocated her, there was some technical finesse to it.
As for Spider, he felt very shy when Pillai kissed him on the tip of his left
ear. But the moment passed.
The moon had climbed up the horizon now and was shining forth,
smudging the clouds with an orange aura and throwing the crests of the
mountains into sharp relief. Spider could see why Pillai was addicted to flying.
Flying was actually nice, except for the problem with the true nature of
oncoming clouds. It didn’t take even half the effort of walking. Once you were
in the air and remembered to keep your wings open, the air took over. All you
needed to do was to not get into a place without air, in which case something
undesirable could happen.
And, of course, you had to guard against desire, as Pillai had warned. Once
desire hit you while flying, you dropped like a stone—Pillai’s mentor had been
very clear about that. Spider also realized that one could be unbelievably alone
in the sky with just the sky above, below and around you; it was very unlike
being in the house with Rosi the whole day, to say nothing of Brother. The
world, actually, looked better from the air. It seemed a harmless place filled
with twinkling lights and no people. In fact, seen from the sky, the brand-
building of human life as a super marvel ceased to matter. Life was an almost
microscopic occurrence, which vanished from sight from a few thousand feet up.
Of course, it was a bit bigger than the civilizations of the ant, the cockroach or
the fruit fly.
Suddenly Spider understood what made human life a big brand. It was the
buildings! The buildings made everything look larger than life. Five-foot-
something people lived in buildings that were five hundred feet high. Oh, thank
God ants, chameleons, caterpillars, snakes and the rest of the creature kingdom
have not gone into real estate and skyscrapers! That would have been the end of
the Human Life brand.
For a split second Spider almost stopped flying as the most dreadful
thought occurred to him: Perhaps the house lizards have started a revolution
while I’m up here flying, and have demolished my house to build a shopping
mall! He screamed with all his might, but only a whimper emerged. Hearing the
sound, Brother turned and glanced at him contemptuously. He thought Spider
was scared and secretly praying. Spineless fraud!
The foursome flew through the calm, silent, moon-lit sky, absorbed in
their separate worlds. Spider felt so exhilarated that the essay and all the
turmoil its writing had brought about seemed unreal, things of another world.
All of a sudden, ahead of them, in the misty distance, a blurred light
appeared, moving at a fast pace towards them. Spider stared at it, aghast. Every
instinct told him it was a low-flying heat-seeking missile. And it was heading
straight for them! He was shattered. He couldn’t find words to express his
sadness. He glanced at the others and silently bid goodbye. Oh, the end had
come so quickly! Should he try and run for it? But a heat-seeking missile was
sure to follow you wherever you went! Oh, Mar Tommy, is there some way I can
switch off my heat and turn cold? Or attain a height of seventy thousand feet
immediately? But how do I know that is high enough? He could see that Rosi
too was shaken. She was wobbling a bit. All her fears about flying had come
true! Rosi, I apologize! I hope we shall meet in heaven, unless you have other
plans. He looked at Pillai and was surprised to find that he didn’t seem
worried. Spider thought bitterly: He probably has a missile shield and has kept
it a secret! Oh, to think he is my fan and collaborator!
The light kept coming at a good speed. As it came closer, Spider grew
baffled. It didn’t seem to be the usual kind of missile with a gleaming, beautiful
body, every inch a killer. Instead it appeared to be some sort of a staff, as big as
a tree, burning with a luminous light, with big filaments grouped at one end.
Then he saw that there was somebody or something behind it, actually holding
it. And that somebody/something was very, very big. Whatever it was, it was
not a missile. As it came towards them, the figure became clearer and he heard
Rosi make a sound. He saw Pillai double-flap his wings to signal the team. It
had a touch of triumph. Spider’s heart missed a beat.
For, now it was clear that what was moving fast towards them under the
moon was none other than the great personality they had been discussing just a
few days back. Satan! Pillai turned his head to look significantly at them and
Spider could see how proud he was. He had brought them face to face with
Satan on their first flight!
Satan was as big as a massive cumulus cloud, his body black with hair the
length of sugar cane, and the tree-sized luminous rod in his hand was a
toothbrush, now so familiar to them. He held it in his right hand and they saw
him apply it to the tooth powder which shone with a green light in the hollow
of his left palm. Wow! He was brushing his teeth while flying!
Spider could see sparkling white teeth, each the size of a pool table, two
mild, dreamy eyes as big as fishing boats and a vast forehead like a football
court above which a conglomeration of curly hair glimmered black under the
moonlight. He noticed with some surprise that Satan’s toe- and finger-nails
were painted bright red. And he wore a beautiful, diamond-studded golden
necklace round his neck. A shiny golden ring glittered on his nose. All of which
gave him a theatrical look. Then Spider remembered that Satan, at the end of
the day, was an artist and like all artists he was nothing if not flamboyant.
As Satan bared his teeth to apply the brush, it looked as if he was smiling
at them. But obviously they were too small for him to notice. They smiled at
him admiringly to the extent their bat faces would allow. Spider felt very
proud. It was as if his presentation of the Satan document to his collaborators,
which had altered their perception of Satan, was made to order for this grand
occasion. He thanked the newspaper boy and the anonymous author of the
document for this thrilling and unforgettable climax.
But his greatest satisfaction was that the important matters the Satan
document had left to conjecture were now resolved. First of all, Satan had
stopped being a tear-jerking tree and had taken to the road again. Secondly, he
had retrieved the brush from the abyss. Thirdly, believe it or not, he had started
brushing his teeth—himself! He had certainly learned a lesson from all the
terrible things that had happened to him. His reputation would never be sullied
again by his enemies, using bad breath as a cover. And to cap it all, he seemed
to have become so enthusiastic about brushing that he was doing it right in the
middle of a flight. Wow!
Satan was moving so fast that he passed them in a whizz and when they
turned to take one more look, he had already become an afterglow on the
horizon. Thunder crackled in the distance, then the faint glow too faded out.
 97
A SKY-PAVILION

The four flyers kept gazing ahead as they beat their wings through the misty,
moonlit sky towards the mountains. If they were tired, their excitement seemed
to have beaten it.
As he flew on under the evaporating moonlight, Spider tried to identify
the clouds even as he gritted his teeth while passing through them. He had been
a cloud watcher all his life. He watched them because they were, all the time,
watching him. There seemed to be nothing that escaped their notice. They
witnessed everything that went on below, day and night, from bloody wars to
children playing. Perhaps they even looked at what went on in people’s homes.
In fact, Spider had a hunch the first meditative witnesses were the clouds. And
they were the fastest shape-changers. Right before your eyes, in no time, they
shifted shape. You looked away to swat a mosquito and the cloud you were
watching had acquired another shape!
Spider had discovered long back that nobody noticed clouds. People took
them for granted. Spider had watched them in particular for signs of aliens,
runaway angels and miscellaneous ghosts, but he had little success in catching
sight of any. He did have a few surprising sightings but they turned out to be
lost kites, weathermen’s balloons or passing aircraft. Perhaps his most
spectacular sighting was of Rosi herself—traversing the night sky in the shape
of a cloud. The memory gave him goose pimples even now. Tonight, if he had
hands, he would have patted himself on the back. Because he had managed to
identify twenty-two contrails, thirty-seven billows, a dozen orographics clinging
to the mountain tops, and fourteen pileus hanging still from the black roof of
the sky. The cirrus-nimbus-stratus-cumulus stuff was everywhere, but he
wasn’t interested. Too commonplace!
Suddenly he heard music. It sounded like a band playing. A band? In the
clouds? The mountains were still far away and there were no valleys in sight, let
alone the Valley of Lost Songs. Spider sensed his team members were also
puzzled by the inexplicable music. It became more audible as they flew onward.
He could actually make out someone singing. Then, at a distance, Spider saw
what appeared to be the source of the music. It had the appearance of an
illuminated pavilion and was moving towards them at a lazy pace. Spider didn’t
panic this time because even babies know that missiles don’t come decorated
like X’mas trees—unless some religious-minded commander had put on the
guise to celebrate X’mas. But this wasn’t X’mas season. Nor had he read
anywhere about ICBMs that broadcast music before reducing you to ashes, or
that they switched to cruising at a speed of about five kilometres an hour. He
glanced at Pillai, who appeared very excited by the thing that was approaching
them.
For a few moments, the pavilion was swallowed by a cloud and its lights
fumed and rippled through the mist, making it look like a submerged ship with
all its lights blazing. When it emerged from the cloud, Spider had a better view.
He could make out a heavily ornamented stage under a festooned roof and
there were people seated. Neon and laser lights flashed, rotating, twinkling and
streaming.
Suddenly he understood. They had run into an extra-terrestrial gambling
joint, operating on the sly in the earth’s territorial skies. He wished he had
some Milky Way currency to try his luck on the alien slot machines. Their
jackpots must be out of this world! And alien girls with astounding
configurations would be gyrating bottomless on the tables. Oh, he lamented,
when will we ever get to see a uni-galactic currency? Who said it is enough to be
patriotic to the solar system? We should start with the black holes!
Suddenly Spider saw a small human-like figure dart out of the pavilion
and fly towards them, followed by a few others. They were flashing red, green
and yellow lights and came at the bats at a fearsome speed. Spider was filled
with sadness. Oh, the end has come so unexpectedly! And at the hands of an
alien gambling mafia! What will posterity think of me? That I bet my last paisa
in a fly-by-night joint and got eliminated by the goons even as I begged for my
return fare? It was clear they had run into a booby trap Pillai hadn’t
anticipated. He looked to his companions to bid them adieu and was surprised
to find both in a calm state, at least outwardly. Then he realized that suddenly
both were flying faster, as if they wished to reach the pavilion first. This was
indeed extraordinary!
 The figures that shot out of the pavilion like hornets were now getting
closer to the flyers, their flashing lights blinding the travellers. They slowed
down. Then the lights dimmed, eyes cleared and things came into focus. One
look was enough for Spider to nearly suffocate in amazement. Angels! Half a
dozen of them! All the known descriptions fitted to a T—wings, baby face,
curly hair, short legs and hands, and all clones of each other. Spider looked for
gender signs but that was a grey area, as if air-brushed. Even though their
intentions were unclear, Spider congratulated himself for having had the
sagacity to set out on this flight. The scale of adventure was record-breaking.
First Satan and now angels, all in one evening! Wow!
The angels approached very close now, once again training their lights
upon the bats. Spider got a whiff of their odour, which was so sexy that he
forgot to beat his wings for a moment. Now he understood the logic of the
idiotic employee of Satan cutting his head off for an angel’s bed. They were
sheer dynamite, gender or no gender!
They also appeared to be inscrutable, and Spider watched them warily.
Then he noticed that Pillai was making some strange sounds and the angels
were listening. Good heavens, Spider marvelled, he knows angel-speak! And he’s
my collaborator. Spider couldn’t contain his pride.
Suddenly the angels turned around and whizzed back the way they had
come. Spider saw them vanish into the bizarre medley of lights, colours and
decorations of the huge stage. He revised his earlier finding: so it’s not aliens
but angels who run the casino. Hey, that means the cabaret artistes will be
angels too! These tough angels have come to check if we are police spies. Spider
cursed the monetary system again. If only he had some MW money. Hell, you
don’t get to watch an angelic tabletop dance every other day!
Pillai seemed to be urgently trying to communicate something to his team
members. Spider wanted to hug him and say that the trip was turning out to be
thrills galore. But Pillai seemed more excited than the mere sighting of a space-
crawling casino warranted. He appeared to be in the grip of powerful emotions.
What further surprised Spider was that Rosi too seemed overpowered by
sensations of a special nature. Spider felt his own excitement mount. He had a
wild hunch. They both want to take a break at the casino and crash into the
high jinks! Pillai must have resolved the money problem. Maybe he’s handing
over Brother as security till we make payment! Lovely! Well, you have company,
buddies, but let’s not take too long. We mustn’t end up missing the gathering
in the Valley!
 98
THE BIG BOSS

The bats were now bathed in the colours of the roving lights of the pavilion
which had come closer. It was a baroque extravaganza. The floridness came
from a heavy mixture of art deco and art nouveau with patches of gothic that
covered the visible surface of the pavilion in a flood of neon colours. Spider
thought that even for a sleazy space casino, it was abysmal. It gave the
impression that an interior decorator had gone berserk or someone in there was
an exhibitionist with a craze for shocking kitsch. But he found the totality
gripping. It forced you to look at it.
The pavilion was face to face with the flyers now. It paused its journey
with a shuddering heave, like an old truck. The mystery of the source of the
music stood revealed. On the stage under a psychedelic canopy sat a young
woman in a maroon T-shirt and blue jeans, upon a throne-like chair painted in
blazing colours. She was humming a song and strumming a guitar, looking at
the music sheets on the stand in front of her. She was slim and athletic and
seemed to be in her early twenties, but when she put on her glasses to read the
music, she appeared older. An all-angels band sat on one side.
Spider marvelled at her. So young, but she’s already the big boss of a space
joint. And she’s a singer! Oh, this is such a unique discovery on the first flight!
He glanced at Pillai thankfully. But something seemed to have happened to
Pillai. He was fluttering around excitedly. Rosi too appeared agitated. Mar
Tommy! How can sensible citizens like these get so worked up at the sight of a
den, however nice the young boss is? Have they forgotten the respectability they
command in a progressive society? Even a natural felon like Brother is only
observing the goings on and keeping quiet. How fickle is human nature! Spider
sighed.
Looking at the young lady, Spider once again wondered about the song he
thought he had heard when they first sighted the pavilion. It seemed unlikely
that an angel band from outer space led by a twenty-something young woman
would sing an old, romantic piece like ‘Summer Wine’ while hustling a casino
among the clouds.
The young lady looked up from her music, smiled at the bats and,
cheerfully, with a wave of her hand, invited them in. Pillai took the lead to
enter and alight on the floor and Spider was taken aback to see him changing
shape. He panicked. Oh! Oh! I hope I’m sufficiently clothed and wearing my
undies! A young lady is present! Pillai took only a moment to initiate the
changeover of the other three and presently they were standing upon the gaudy
stage and looking around. What next, Spider wondered. Do we buy tickets?
The young woman was watching the shape-changing procedure with
interest. She said, ‘That’s funny. Why did you do that?’
Pillai said they wanted to be in their original shape.
She was surprised. ‘You mean you are not whatever you were?’
Pillai said they were not bats—which was what they were a few minutes
ago—but people.
‘So where do you live then, people?’ she asked.
Pillai said, ‘Earth.’
She was puzzled. ‘Where’s that?’ she asked.
Pillai said it was directly down below.
‘That’s peculiar,’ she said, ‘I’m yet to hear about it.’
She asked an angel to make a note.
Then she told them, ‘Come flop. Make yourself at home.’
They took their seats on some empty chairs. The band was tuning up and
clattering about. Brother went up to the young woman and sniffed her, which
seemed to cause much consternation in Pillai and Rosi. Spider smiled to himself.
Don’t they understand the fraud is casing the joint, starting with the owner?
The young woman asked, ‘Who’s this?’
Rosi said, ‘Our dog.’
‘Also people?’ she asked.
Spider looked the other way.
Rosi said, ‘Yes.’
The young woman bent down and scratched Brother behind the ear.
‘Nice,’ she said.
Spider began to revise his first impression of her. How could she!
She asked, ‘Where are you guys off to?’
 Pillai said, ‘To the Valley of Lost Songs.’
That surprised her again. ‘Wow! That’s brilliant! Where is it? I would like
to go there too.’
Pillai appeared exhilarated.
He began to describe the gathering of lost songs to her. Then Spider heard
him say, ‘Madam, it would be wonderful if you could visit. But the chances are
that the high-profile presence of the God-pavilion may keep the songs away or
inhibit their singing.’
Spider was shocked. What! What does he mean by calling this scam a God-
pavilion? Was Pillai losing his marbles in his craving to please this—certainly
enterprising—young woman? He’s forgetting he’s a senior and a responsible
executioner who must always maintain a balanced perspective. Maybe he hopes
to get free tickets for all of us. Well, that’s excusable.
At that moment, he noticed the actual reason for Pillai’s exaggerated
terminology and felt repentant. Above the woman’s chair was a glittering board
which said in bright violet neon letters: GOD. A neon arrow pointed down to
the chair. Poor Pillai had fallen for this corporate game! She’s obviously been to
a fashionable B-school and is having fun with that God-sticker above her head.
Haha! This was nice! Maybe he too could have one over his chair in the study!
Rosi would, of course, know it was only a game! Or perhaps it would be better
to tell her in advance.
The young woman was picking out a tune on her guitar and the band
joined in, with one touch here and another there.
Spider thought he must tell Pillai that the God-sign was a joke so he
would be more guarded the next time and not look foolish before the young
woman.
He told Pillai under his breath, ‘So you fell for that God-sticker and called
this setup a God-pavilion. The sticker is only a corporate joke. Anyway, don’t
worry, we all get taken in by the capitalists at one time or the other. Smart
cookie the young lady is! By the bye, do you have enough MW money on you to
buy tickets? Or is it on the house?’
Pillai gave a start and stared at Spider with an expression of immense
guilt. He said in an emotion-charged whisper, ‘Sir, I feel so guilty I wish the sky
would swallow me! In my excitement I forgot to convey to you the gravity of
this moment! Sir, she is God! Madam knew it, I do not know how. As for me,
many years ago, one night up in the sky, my mentor had pointed out to me this
God-pavilion flying far away and said if I’m lucky I would meet it face to face
one day. I once again beg your forgiveness for my shameful lapse.’
Spider was very upset. If he hadn’t happened to talk about the God-
pavilion, chances were he would have just carried on without knowing he had
met God. At the end of the day, God is a celebrity, and who doesn’t want to
meet one so famous? Not all celebrities are insufferable—in any case, never as
much as a VIP. How irresponsible of Pillai and Rosi to have not kept him in the
picture!
Pillai seemed about to burst into tears or touch Spider’s feet, or both.
Spider stepped back in a hurry. He didn’t want God to catch him giving in to
feudal customs.
He felt lonely and forsaken.
 99
‘SUMMER WINE’

As Spider stood gloomily in God’s pavilion, feeling abandoned by his

collaborators, he heard God asking him a question. ‘Sir, what do you do?’
He recovered from his sadness and said, ‘I’m a writer.’
‘What do you write?’
‘Fiction, mostly,’
‘That’s great!’ she said, ‘We share the same profession! Only, I don’t write
fiction, I make it happen.’
Spider thought it would be only polite to continue the small talk. He said
he had been wondering about the decor of the place. Did she have a particular
preference for it?
God said, ‘Oh, I know it’s bad! You see, I inherited it. I have been
planning to redo it, but by the time I remember to, billennia pass and styles
change. What to do!’
Rosi joined the conversation to comment that she must be the youngest
God in a long time.
The young woman said, ‘Oh, many thanks for the compliment! Actually I
would like to grow older. But by the time I remember to, billennia pass and I
become lazy. What to do!’
She added, ‘Let me tell you, there’s simply no time for anything. I manage
a vacation like this just once in many billennia. Are you guys on vacation?’
‘Sort of,’ Rosi said. ‘We’re, as we said, going to the Valley of Lost Songs.’
God continued, ‘Yes! That’s lovely! Sorry about those idiot angels buzzing
you. Old habits die hard, you know. VIP security! I feel so embarrassed. One of
these days I’ll stop this nonsense. Oh, I hope I’ll remember to. Can I sing you
guys a song since you are going to a song festival?’
They said that would be very nice.
 ‘What shall it be?’ God asked. She polished her glasses with the edge of
her T-shirt.
Even though this was not exactly the moment to do so, Spider couldn’t
help asking her about the song he thought he had heard a while ago. He asked if
he was right in thinking that he had heard her singing ‘Summer Wine’
sometime back.
God beamed. She said, ‘Of course you’re right! I’m glad you mentioned it.
I love the song. It has been with me ever since I fell in love with music.
Sometimes it makes me cry. Sometimes it makes me dance.’
Rosi, Spider and Pillai were putting their heads together to pick a song,
when God waved at Brother and said, ‘Oho! I see what you want. That’s a
lovely one! Thank you for remembering it.’
Spider was shocked by Brother’s one-upmanship. Trust the rascal to do
that!
Then God strummed her guitar, signalled to the band and began:

‘Chiquitita tell me what’s wrong …’

Her voice was pure and fresh and the words were crystalline. She sang
with a faraway look in her eyes, not caring for anything else.
They joined her to sing along:

‘Chiquitita, you and I cry

But the sun is still in the sky and shining …’

When she finished, they clapped vigorously and also applauded the band.
God thanked them courteously. The angels of the band bowed politely to
the visitors, looking angelic, unlike the security mob.
God drank some water, looked at her watch and said, ‘All right! One more
song before I leave you. Sorry, but I’m already a couple of millennia behind
schedule. I must, must rush.’
It was Rosi who suggested the last song.
‘Oh,’ God said. ‘That’s my darling! I sing it especially when I’m in love or
feeling sad and defeated. I’d love to sing it for you.’
She searched in a dog-eared notebook for the lyrics and picked up her
guitar. She began,
 ‘I’d like to be under the sea
In an octopus’s garden in the shade …’

Spider smiled.
Her guitar was amazing. She rode a whirlwind, the guitar dancing and
trembling in her hands.
They joined her when she came to:

‘We would be so happy you and me

No one there to tell us what to do …’

Once again, there was vigorous applause.

Spider couldn’t help asking her, ‘Do you know you are singing earth
songs?’
‘Oh, are they? I have no clue. They are good, though. I get songs from all
over. That’s the good thing about being God.’
One thing troubled Spider. She hadn’t followed the ancient protocol of
presenting the song-facts. He wished to point this out, but couldn’t bring
himself to, seeing how rushed she was.
Just then she said, ‘Sir, please forgive me for not following the song-
protocol. The fact is, I’m so disorganized that I know only the songs, nothing
more. But could you please help me out by annotating the songs?’
Spider was overwhelmed.
‘With pleasure,’ he said.
He wanted to add, but didn’t, out of sheer modesty, ‘You asked the right
person!’
In a solemn voice he announced the song-facts, starting with those of the
song he had heard her singing from afar:
‘Song: “Summer Wine”; singers: originally sung by Suzi Jane Hokom and
Lee Hazlewood; later version by Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood;
songwriter/s: Lee Hazlewood (a source also mentions Suzi Jane Hokom along
with Lee Hazlewood); original album: Nancy in London; label: Reprise; vintage:
1966–67.’
He continued:
‘Song: “Octopus’s Garden”; singer/s: lead vocal—Richard Starkey aka
Ringo Starr; backing vocals—George Harrison, Paul McCartney, John Lennon;
songwriter: Ringo Starr; album: Abbey Road; label: Apple; vintage: 1969.
 ‘Song: “Chiquitita”; singer/lead vocal: Agnetha Faltskog; songwriters:
Benny Anderson, Björn Ulvaeus; album: Voulez-Vous; label: Polar; vintage:
1978.’
God looked stunned. She shook Spider’s hand warmly and said, ‘I can’t
believe my ears! How do you know all this?’
Spider said humbly, ‘Madam, it seems writers get to know all kinds of
things, some useful, some useless.’
He stole a sideways glance at Rosi and Pillai. I hope they see how I am
rising to the occasion!
God said, ‘Oh, wow! I’ve stored the info away. I won’t forget again!’
She thanked them for the good time, though it had been all too brief. She
wished she didn’t have to rush like this. Time was such a mess! They, in turn,
thanked her for the music. Spider wondered if he should say that they hoped to
meet her again, but decided against it as it could be misunderstood as a veiled
self-invitation to her place, namely, heaven.
The pavilion moved on and the flyers, having resumed their bat-shapes,
continued on their way. Spider turned for a last glance and saw far away the
pavilion’s lights twinkling against the black clouds like those of a jetliner on a
long haul. Then they winked out into the night’s dark folds.
 100
MYSORE

They were now flying over mountains lying asleep under a pale moonlight. Pillai
signalled to the team that their destination was nearing. They looked down into
a shadowy, wrinkled sea of ridges and peaks, frozen and calm. Sculpted summits
soared into the night sky, the sight of which scared the wits out of Spider with
the terrible loneliness they seemed to promise so coldly.
Such lonely heights were sure to be haunted. And the haunting ones must
be in the habit of taking walks in the surrounding sky when bored. Oh, they are
not going to like intruders when they are fighting boredom. What if they catch
me and take me home as a toy for the babies? He swallowed a scream and
considered the possibility of quietly falling behind and heading back home. But
where was home? The sky looked the same everywhere. He swallowed another
scream and tried to be brave.
It was then that a soft whiff of sandalwood reached Spider, making him
wonder if they were flying over Mysore.
Because that was where kings had frolicked with their mistresses in sandal
paste and made love in sandal-oil baths. Oh, Mysore was a wondrous place. The
slender and sinewy women of Mysore inhabited your dreams long after they
vanished round a corner. The masala dosa dissolved between your fingers before
it could reach your lips. The sambar made you dream like a poet and feel like a
prince. The coffee kissed you like a seductress and held you in thrall in the
bewitching prison of its milky fragrance. The pink jasmines in the glistening
black hair of the ladies smiled arrogantly at you, saying, ‘Do not follow me,
stranger, or you will be taught a lesson!’
The scent of sandalwood grew stronger. It was so mesmerizing that Spider
fell into a deep reverie on the myriad secrets of Mysore. Suddenly an alarm
went off in his head, making him tremble with fear. Pillai’s mentor’s words
rang loud and clear in his ears. Desire makes you heavy! And you fall!
Frantically he uprooted Mysore from his mind and prayed: Mar Tommy! Save
me! Reduce my weight! Keep me afloat!
Far below, mountain ranges kept slipping back and new ones came into
view, wrapped in a counterpane of mist, night and moonlight. Spider felt Pillai
tugging at him with his wing tip. Silently Pillai indicated to him to look to his
right, which was surprising because there was nothing to his right. His position
in the formation was first on the right. Spider glanced to his right anyway and
was so frightened that he nearly stopped mid-flight. Someone or something was
flying next to him.
Spider screamed silently. Oh, a haunting one has come for me! It is going
to put me atop one of those horrible peaks and let its babies play with me. Oh,
why me? There are three others to my left, and they are better with babies! I
find babies very boring. And, believe me, they find me equally boring.
Pillai heard the terrified sound he made and nudged him reassuringly.
That made Spider take one more fearful look to his right and he was surprised
to see that the flyer was a man—unless it was a haunting one masquerading as
a man. He was flying without wings, but the loose robe he wore flared out
wing-like in the wind on both sides. He flew statuesquely like Superman, with
hands pressed to his body on both sides, his head held high, eyes gazing ahead
and hair streaming behind him. Spider was relieved because even if he was a
ghost, he appeared totally disinterested, perhaps even unaware of the bats flying
beside him. And he didn’t smell the way a ghost was supposed to. No stink!
Then it struck Spider that the sandalwood scent came from him. Yes, it
did. Now he knew! The man is a salesman of sandalwood oil and perfume. His
company has trained sales personnel to fly with their own bodies so that field
visits are faster and the fuel cost is cut! It was an amazing technological jump.
Of course, he must be from Mysore or the fragrance wouldn’t be so lovely. Poor
chap seemed to be lost in market problems! Maybe I should strike up a
conversation, make him relax and check if he has any bargains to offer. Here
Spider came to a dead stop. He realized he wouldn’t be able to do that. He was
a bat and he couldn’t undo his bat shape in the middle of the sky. He felt very
disappointed. Sandalwood oil costs a fortune if you buy it at a regular outlet.
Just then, the man said without turning his head, ‘Hi!’
That took Spider by surprise. It was as if the man had read his thoughts,
like God had read Brother’s mind and given him an unwarranted boost.
Then, surprise of all surprises, he heard himself saying, ‘Hi!’
 He wondered if some kind of haunting was at work, using his voice to
mimic the man.
The man asked, still without turning his head, ‘Long way to go for you?’
Spider heard his own voice saying, ‘I think we’re almost there.’
That could not have been mimicking. He was actually talking! He now
opened up. ‘How’s the sandalwood products market these days?’
‘I just bought some oil in Mysore,’ the man said. ‘The prices are
outrageous! But the stuff is good.’
So, he wasn’t in the sandalwood perfume business, just another citizen
feeling the pinch of the market. But a self-flyer. Oh, how does Pillai account for
this?
‘So where are you headed?’ Spider asked.
Spider saw the man smile. He said, ‘There’s a valley hereabouts where old,
lost songs gather. I want to give it a try.’
What? Spider couldn’t believe it. This was simply impossible! Right in the
middle of nowhere, you hit upon somebody going to the same secret destination
as you! Hell, this is an amazing flight indeed. Pillai is a wizard!
Spider was invigorated now. He asked, ‘So you love music?’
‘Yes, I do,’ the man said and looked at Spider for the first time.
Spider asked, ‘May I know your good name, please?’
The man said, ‘Jesu.’
With the wind in his ears, Spider wasn’t sure he heard it right. He said,
‘This wind is a nuisance. Sorry, come again.’
The man repeated, ‘Jesu.’
Spider didn’t want to take any chances. He asked, ‘Are you also called
Jesus?’
The man replied, ‘I believe so.’
Spider was very upset. Couldn’t Pillai have somehow indicated that this
was the man? A small tug on the wing tip doesn’t mean a thing. Had he known,
he would have put on his best manners from the beginning.
Confronted with a celebrity so unexpectedly, Spider not only kept his cool
but also decided to verify the facts before he proceeded.
He asked, ‘Are you the same who was a friend of Mariam and Martha?’
‘Same.’ The man seemed surprised.
‘And you resurrected their brother Lazarus?’
‘I’m not sure. I was in a daze. But how do you know all these things?’
Spider decided to come clean.
 He said, ‘Nice to meet you! I know these things because I’m a writer and
generally writers get to know all kinds of things.’
The man smiled. ‘Nice to meet you too! I didn’t know bats could write. I
meet many as I travel.’
Spider said, ‘I’m not a bat. I’m a shape-changer. Basically I’m a human
being.’
The man looked at Spider and said, ‘That’s cool! Hello, again!’
‘Thank you!’ Spider said.
He added, ‘I think you haven’t noticed, but there are four of us. My wife
Rosi, my friend Mr Pillai, and our colleague Brother Dog. We are also
proceeding to the Valley of Lost Songs.’
Jesus’s face registered surprise. He said, ‘Hey, that’s great! I’m so sorry I
didn’t notice your group. I’m extremely short-sighted and unfortunately I
misplaced my glasses. Also, the night sky makes everything ghostly.’
He turned his head and said to everybody, ‘Hello there! Sorry I didn’t see
you all!’
They greeted him in return and said it was all right.
Spider said, ‘Since you do meet bats, perhaps you know my friend. He is a
frequent flyer.’
Spider didn’t want to mention the family history. Let them bring it up if
they wish to. I’m only a third party.
Jesus speeded up, took a U-turn so he faced the whole group and squinted
at them. Then he waved at Pillai and said, ‘Of course! We’re old friends! And I
think we’re family too!’
Spider heard a squeak and sensed Jesus’s words had sent Pillai into a
delirium of joy. Oh, I don’t grudge him! This is his day!
Jesus then introduced himself to Rosi and Brother.
He asked Rosi what she did.
Rosi said she was a seeker.
‘Of what?’ he asked.
‘Of philosophy,’ Rosi replied.
‘Wow!’ Jesus said, ‘I envy you! How I wish I hadn’t gone into preaching.
Hard to preach and seek.’
Rosi said she’d make a note of it.
‘And what do you do?’ Jesus asked Brother.
Spider wasn’t surprised to hear Brother speaking. Anything was possible
today!
 Brother said, ‘I’m a seeker too.’
Spider was shocked. Bloody plagiarist! Shameless pretender!
‘How nice!’ Jesus said, ‘What do you seek?’
Brother replied, ‘Love.’
Spider was aghast. Rank opportunism! Manipulation! Naked one-
upmanship!
Jesus threw him a kiss and said, ‘Love you! You take care.’
Brother was thankful. At least it’s a flying kiss! Think of the creature who
kept kissing me on the lips. Phew!
‘Love you too!’ he said.
 101
A RUSTLE IN THE SKY

The team, along with Jesus, was descending now. A mist rose from the
mountains and enveloped the flyers.
Jesus let out a loud sneeze. ‘Ahchoo!’
‘Excuse me!’ he said.
Spider could not help but think: Weak constitution, sneezing at the drop
of a hat.
‘Fogs are not my cup of tea,’ Jesus said apologetically.
‘Don’t miss your vitamin C,’ Spider said.
Jesus thanked him.
Then they were silent as they swam through a swirling sea of white mist.
They could barely see each other for a while until suddenly they were out of the
mist and the Valley appeared beneath them, like a sanctuary of moonlit
darkness amidst the mountain peaks.
Jesus said, ‘I shall leave you now. I apologize, but I would like to be by
myself when listening to the songs. I hardly got to listen to any in my time. Nice
knowing you and thank you for the great company!’
They thanked him too, and wished him the very best for the future. He
speeded ahead and was soon lost to sight.
As they descended into the Valley, they thought about God and felt sad
for her because they knew that, burdened as she was with all her paraphernalia,
she would never be able to make a quiet visit here. They only hoped she would
remember to stick to her plans to restructure everything so that one day she
could make it happen. She needs to, they said in one voice, fly free.
They quietly lowered themselves to the ground and Pillai led them to a
crevice in the mountainside.
Pillai whispered, ‘Sir and Madam and friend Brother, please forgive me for
saying that I do not know what to expect. Spontaneity is all.’
In the twilight of the grotto they sat still, and excited. Brother kept
sniffing the pure air so hard that Spider feared he would turn into a balloon
and fly away. The moon was a diffused glow behind the clouds. Full of wonder,
they surveyed the vast and shadowy world that lay before them: a thousand
unfathomable shapes blanketed by the ashen moon.
Wisps of mist floated by, evaporating as they sleepwalked in the flimsy
darkness. Fireflies came floating, swept around by passing draughts. Some
drifted into the niche, their minuscule lanterns aglow, making Spider wonder if
they were spying for the haunting ones on the horrible summits.
The team waited, hushed and still. The clouds parted and the moon came
out, startling in its sudden brilliance. Faint starlight covered the sky’s
infiniteness and the moon’s halo shone forth from it.
There was no prelude to the arrival of the songs except a rustle in the sky,
like a gust shaking the boughs of trees. There was silence again. Then a great
sigh filled the Valley like an ocean in high tide falling back upon itself. From the
western fringes of the sky a hoard of butterflies swam in, winding their way like
a phantom river. They sank into the Valley and disappeared.
Then an accordion’s laughter rang out. A flute murmured. A woman’s
husky hum ascended towards the golden moon. The music had begun.
But Spider was worried. Where’s the DJ? Who will announce the song-
facts? There will be many songs tonight that I won’t know. Or Jesus may not,
for that matter. Oh, a DJ is a must! Should I send a note to the organizers?
Just then, he heard a whisper in his ear. It was the sound of a harmonica:
‘Hello! I’m your DJ! Of course we know there are several of you secretly
listening! It’s beautiful!’
A drum rumbled softly. A violin giggled.
Spider was delighted. There indeed was a DJ! And a wonderful one, who
didn’t shout but whispered into your ear. And the mood didn’t seem to be
what he had feared—a mournful and gloomy affair full of unhappy tales and
weeping and wailing. There appeared to be cheer and laughter. The songs had
not given up on joy after all the forgetting they had been through!
The DJ continued, ‘Let me begin by telling you about something that
happened to us on our way here. Somewhere in the sky, we met a young singer
flying in a pavilion. She stopped and sang a few songs with us. She said she was
very lucky to have met us because some good people on their way to the Valley
had just told her about our gathering and she had very much wanted to be
here. But the way her life is, she thought there was very little chance she would
be able to make it here anytime in the near future. She was very happy that as
luck would have it, she had run straight into us!’
It took all of Spider’s self-control not to shout: Listen! We are the good
people she’s talking of! And, for your kind information, she’s God.
The DJ continued, ‘She told us she was a magician. She said she was very
sad to see how dilapidated we were and asked if we would like to become as
new as we were once. We said yes, of course. She then strummed her guitar and
said, “Friends! Be what you were—fresh, beautiful and amazing!” And we
found we were no longer dilapidated and decrepit. We were changed into what
we were when we were born.’
The team nearly clapped their hands, but luckily remembered the proviso
of silence and stopped themselves.
Just then, from the shadows of the Valley, a butterfly with glittering wings
rose into the air, growing bigger as it ascended, eyes smouldering like fired gold.
It grew large till its shining wings bathed the Valley in a radiance that
enmeshed the moonlight.
‘This,’ said the DJ, ‘is the Keeper of Lost Songs. This is how the young
lady’s magic has reimagined her.’
The DJ continued, ‘The first song of the evening is for our benefactor, the
young lady of the pavilion. She wanted to sing this song but had to rush because
she was behind schedule. It was first sung by a female singer whose name is lost,
and later recorded by another female singer. The version you’re going to hear
was sung by a long-haired, kind-eyed singer who died young. We dedicate the
song to his short life, and hope it was a happy one.’
Spider noted with satisfaction how the DJ followed the ancient protocol
with care:
‘Song: ‘Poovanangalkkariyamo’; original singer: not known; recorded
by: P. Leela; present singer: Thrikkodithanam Sachidanandan (real name:
Changanassery Ajithkumar); music: L.P.R. Varma; lyrics: Vayalar Ramavarma;
play: Swargam Naanikkunnu; banner: Kerala Theatres; vintage: 1957.’
The Keeper dissolved into a whirlwind of soft light. A dreamy dusk fell
upon the Valley, veiling the moon as if it had set.
The singer sang:

‘Do flower gardens know,

The pain of one flower?
 Oh, what does the flute know?
Of the agony of the singing heart?’

The song soared towards the moon that was drifting through the
dishevelled clouds. Along with it, the sounds of the morsing, violin, ghatam and
mridangam winged up like eagles towards their eyrie.
It had been an unbelievably lucky day for them and their luck continued
to hold all through that great night. One by one, their dearest songs spread
their wings in the Valley till the perambulating moon faded over the Arabian
Sea and the morning star began to wink in the east. Then slowly the songs
departed, making their way through the dawn sky like a luminous ribbon of
butterfly wings.
As the team flew out, they kept a lookout for Jesus, but he was not to be
seen. They presumed he had gone to sleep in his hiding place, filled with music
and happiness. Oh, bachelors will be bachelors, mused Spider to himself.
At the end of the day, there was one mystery Spider couldn’t figure out.
How had Rosi known it was God sitting in that sky-pavilion? How come he
hadn’t? He had imagined he had good connectivity with God. What was the
secret? As soon as they were back home, Spider asked Rosi the question.
She said she was glad Spider had asked this interesting question because it
brought back fine memories. One day, during her beautiful teenage years, she
was masturbating while meditating on a huge, rising moon with a sleepy, red
face. At the moment she came, a shooting star streaked across the sky and she
shouted a wish: ‘God! I want to see you!’ After a few moments a squirrel came
scurrying up her thigh, tickling her with its claws. It climbed up her tummy,
nibbled a moment on her left nipple, jumped on her shoulder and whispered
into her ear, ‘Of course you will!’
Rosi didn’t understand. ‘I will what?’ she asked.
The squirrel hissed, ‘Will see God. You will find her singing in a pavilion
in the sky. I was sent in the shooting star to tell you this. The reason is that you
masturbated with faith.’
Rosi said the squirrel then scampered down and stayed for a while
between her legs. Spider’s curiosity was aroused. He asked what it was doing
there. Rosi said she had no idea as she lost track of time. But her hunch was
that it was into some sort of prayer. Or maybe reporting to God telepathically
that the mission had been accomplished.
So, she said, today as soon as she saw the pavilion in the sky and heard the
music, she knew the moment predicted by the squirrel had come. Spider asked
if she thought the squirrel was a messenger of God. She said, of course it was.
Spider said the mystery was, why was it praying between her legs, of all places?
She replied that these preferences could not be explained, especially in
messengers of God. They were peculiar. He asked her if she had met it again.
She said she had not. Nor had she seen a shooting star again when coming.
Spider wondered if there was some message for him in that statement.
Spider had questions for Pillai too: How come Jesus had flown with them,
out of the blue? Why hadn’t Pillai taken the initiative to say hello to Jesus, even
though they had met before and chewed the cud? And how come they could
converse with Jesus despite the fact that they were in bat-shape?
Pillai said that though he knew Sir in his immense wisdom possessed all
the answers and was only testing him, it was his humble duty to reply. He said
Jesus’s joining them was indeed most unusual as he was usually a lone traveller.
It was clear as daylight that it was Sir’s and Madam’s charismatic presence that
had drawn him. Of course, there was an element of extreme good luck too, just
as in the case of their meeting Satan and God. But he had no doubt that Sir and
Madam were the magnets that pulled in the good luck.
As for his not revealing himself to Jesus, he said he wished for Sir to make
a first-hand discovery of Jesus without any intermediaries. Direct impressions
are the best. Further, given his familial connection to Jesus, he thought it would
be unbecoming—rather, it would be a cliché—to claim Jesus’s attention or
show familiarity. He was sorry his behaviour had placed Sir in a difficult
position for a brief while and he apologized sincerely.
With regard to their being able to speak with Jesus as if they were people
and not bats, he was equally mystified—especially considering how well
Brother had spoken too. He could only say that perhaps the energy released by
the activity of thousands of wonderful songs in the skies around the Valley for
many years had made the atmosphere extraordinarily audio-active so that even
thoughts got translated into voices.
Spider thought the explanations were excellent. The man possessed
uncommon common sense and practical wisdom. My collaborator is nothing but
a God-sent! Oh, my life would have been one long boring affair if he hadn’t
thought of paying me a visit! Thank you, Mar Tommy, for making me a famous
writer. It’s very useful to be one!
 102
NO ROPE AT HOME

It was on the day Pillai was scheduled to leave for his village that Rosi asked
him to hang her. He was planning to spend a few weeks at home prior to joining
Spider on a new non-fiction project: ‘What do Warmongers do When They are
not Warmongering?’
Spider and Pillai were discussing a possible flight to Mysore to taste the
masala dosa and bisibelebath and drink filter coffee. Spider was happy that she
had come in to say goodbye to Pillai. But she appeared preoccupied.
She said, ‘I’m aware Mr Pillai is going away today.’
Spider was thrilled. So she’s decided to make a short farewell speech!
That’s so kind of her.
Rosi continued, ‘Therefore I’ve to make an urgent request to him.’
Spider had no doubt what it was. She wants to fly again. She’s caught in
the web of flying. Imagine! So vulnerable are philosophers to small pleasures of
the flesh. I hope she’ll join us on the Mysore flight though she’s not very fond
of bisibelebath!
Rosi said, ‘I may not get another opportunity in the immediate future to
make this wish a reality, because Mr Pillai will be gone for a while. He is here
today and I’m inspired today. I’m sure, as a friend, he’ll lend me his services.’
Pillai’s face expressed eagerness.
Spider perked up his ears for what was coming.
Rosi said, ‘The fact is that I’m philosophically inspired to die by hanging. I
wish to experience how it feels for a philosopher to be hanged to death. As a
matter of fact, I wish to know how it feels for anyone to be put to death by
hanging or any other method.’
Spider suppressed a giggle. Oh, my God! I didn’t know she has the ability
to pull one’s leg so calmly. Haha, she wants to do it to Pillai on the exact day
he’s leaving! I hope he takes it in the right spirit and doesn’t have a meltdown.
Rosi continued, ‘I therefore request Mr Pillai to hang me till I die. Now.’
Spider managed to control a guffaw. Oh, my wife is a fine one! This is an
exciting new dimension to her. Well, never too late!
He looked towards Pillai to see how he was taking it.
He was taking it badly. He had turned pale and looked as if he had seen
his own ghost.
Spider cursed himself for having taken the fruit basket downstairs,
thinking its use was over. I think I must tell Rosi not to carry the joke too far or
he’ll fly away and may not ever return, fearing she will again pester him to hang
her, hahha!
Rosi spoke again. ‘Mr Pillai, I’m waiting for your answer so that I can get
ready.’
Spider saw that he urgently needed to intervene and divert Rosi from her
very funny but risky prank before Pillai decided to run for his life. The
Warmonger project was yet to get going! Spider therefore went along with Rosi
and asked in an innocuous manner if there was any special reason for her
developing a longing for this goal.
Rosi said, ‘It is, as I just said, that I need to know.’
‘Haha!’ Spider was jocular. ‘Know precisely what, may I ask? The
knowledge pool of applied death is huge. Wouldn’t Socrates be a good starting
point?’
Rosi refused to take the Socrates bait. She said, ‘I wish to know, for
example, what it is like to be hanged without a death sentence. Without any
reference to whether I’m guilty or innocent.’
She continued, ‘People have been hanged, tortured, shot, stabbed, clubbed,
beheaded, stoned, poisoned, drowned or electrocuted because someone had the
power to make them dead. And they had no choice but to die. Look at me. I’m
free. Nobody wants to make me dead. I have a choice not to die at this moment.
But I choose to, because this is the consolation of philosophy. I want to know
what those dead people know and I will never know unless I die. Philosophy
itself will never know unless it experiences death from inside.’
Spider said, ‘Absolutely, Madam. I face the same quandary. I don’t know
one bit of what the dead know. I feel so cheated when I sit down to write
because I don’t know their language and I have very many of them in my
stories. If they do have a language, I don’t mind learning it, provided I can do so
by swallowing a pill. I don’t like smelly ghosts teaching me how to read and
write. Frankly I’ll never understand why it’s all so hush-hush, once you die.
Much more transparency is called for in that area.’
Rosi said, ‘Spider, that’s a problem you can sort out later. My problem is
different. I’m philosophically inclined to be hanged to death now. My mind is
focused. Mr Pillai is a good friend. We have shared unique experiences with
him. This will be one such. I’m sure he’ll heed my request. As for your problem
about not knowing what the dead know, I can only say I’ll try to pass on to you
what I will get to know after dying.’
That shook Spider. Oh, no! Is she planning to visit me as a ghost? What
shall I do? I don’t like ghosts even if it’s my wife.
Suddenly Spider felt a surge of fear in the pit of his stomach. What if Pillai
says yes to her, just to please her? He’ll do anything she commands. Oh, Mar
Tommy, this joke has gone too far!
Spider’s mind was in a whirl. Had Rosi taken to alcohol and had one too
many? Is she experiencing some special sexual frustration? Does she wish to
stop being a philosopher and take up photography? Or, oh, is she planning to
die and pretend to be alive? Or is she planning to pretend to die and pretend to
be alive? Mar Tommy, what shall I do? How will I know the difference if she
pretends? Will I have to learn lovemaking from scratch? It’s so frightening!
He froze as he heard Rosi issuing a loud and clear command. ‘Mr Pillai, do
not let me down. Please make the arrangements to hang me.’
Spider saw Pillai retreating, wide-eyed, and bang into the wall.
It was clear the situation was deteriorating and Pillai would give in to Rosi
any moment. She was recklessly pursuing her macabre joke. Pillai was sweating
profusely as he supported himself against the wall. His pen was leaking and the
ink was spreading on the wet shirt pocket.
With shaking legs Spider went up to Rosi and whispered, ‘He hasn’t
caught on to your joke. You know how fragile his emotions are. In any case, give
me a moment to go down and get the fruit basket.’
Rosi said, ‘Spider, you certainly can get the fruit basket. But I need to be
hanged all the same.’
It was then that he realized. If she’s dead, chances are she won’t be home
anymore!
She won’t be home! Oh, what shall I do?
Spider asked Rosi in a quavering voice, ‘Madam, don’t you know you’ll be
killed if you are hanged and you won’t be home?’
Rosi said that was what she understood. The whole purpose was to hang
till you died. Otherwise why hang at all? She didn’t want to live with a broken
neck. She wouldn’t be able to do a headstand ever with a turned neck.
He whispered, ‘Madam, can’t we postpone this matter till we’ve discussed
it amicably?’
Rosi said she didn’t wish to. The time was now. An experienced
executioner was at hand and there may not be another opportunity like this.
And philosophically she was in the right frame of mind.
Spider saw Brother looking at her adoringly and wagging his tail. Oh, you
zombie, I’m going to lose a wife and you your girlfriend! But you just stand and
stare at her and wag your tail. Do something intelligent!
Pillai had the look of a condemned man awaiting his end.
Rosi said, ‘Mr Pillai, I repeat. Please do as I say. My husband will get you a
rope.’
Spider saw Brother walking out of the room and knew it was all over. The
rat was leaving the sinking ship. Maybe he’s gone to get the rope, haha!
Then he remembered: There’s no rope at home! The last length was used
up for the cows a few days back. The only way out was to steal it from them.
And that’s not going to be easy because their keeper, a young man who sings to
them the latest film songs, has gone off to get married. Not only do the cows
miss him and the music, they are probably sore he’s going to sing the songs to
some two-legged creature. Oh, they’ll give me hell before they part with even
one inch of rope!
Pillai stood leaning on the wall with his eyes closed. A meltdown could
start any moment!
Spider told Rosi, ‘But Rosi, the fact is, there’s no rope at home.’
Rosi exclaimed, ‘What! There’s no rope at home? And you call this a
civilized home? We don’t have a short length of rope to hang a person? This is
frightening!’
 103
KANCHEEVARAM COTTON

Spider was hurt by the civilizational taunt. He said he could quickly step out to
the market and get a length of good rope in no time at all, if only she would
keep an eye on Pillai in the middle of everything.
Rosi said, ‘No time for that! I can’t let this moment pass. I am
ideologically and philosophically inspired right now. Opportunities do not come
to women easily.’
Pillai looked as if he had severed all connections with the world. A sound
like a death-rattle came out of him. His eyes were closed.
Suddenly a terrifying thought struck Spider. If Pillai doesn’t do it, is she
going to ask me to hang her! Spider nearly lost his mind. Oh, do I want to be
the first writer to hang his wife with his own hands? Is there a precedent? Mar
Tommy! What shall I do?
Then he heard Rosi say, ‘If there’s no rope, I have an alternative.’
Spider stared at her in horror. She’s going to ask me to strangle her! Oh,
I’m a non-violent writer who hasn’t been to the gym in a while. I haven’t the
strength to strangle a tube of toothpaste. Shall I just run away, saying I’m going
to get the priest?
Summoning up all his persuasive powers, he told Rosi in his best special-
utility voice, ‘Rosi, it is my considered opinion that you should stick to rope,
giving due respect to tradition and Mr Pillai’s experience. Sometimes a
revolutionary alternative can be more disappointing than tradition. I would say
in fact that in an emergency, choose tradition. It is more user-friendly, even
though it has a tendency to cling. And if tradition is not immediately accessible,
postpone!’
He was amazed by the vitality of his logical faculty in the midst of such a
monstrous crisis and watched Rosi for the impact.
 But Rosi was not listening. She was doing something else. She was taking
off her saree. What! Spider watched her in disbelief. It was awesome to see her
undressing in his study, minus all the seductive bedroom atmospherics.
Then panic hit him. Oh! Has she changed her mind and decided to make
love instead? Can’t she see I’m under stress and may not live up to her
expectations, especially in my study where my creativity makes me extremely
self-conscious? And what will I do with Pillai? I hope he’ll keep his eyes closed.
But he’s an unremitting witness! He’ll see even with closed eyes! Oh, Mar
Tommy, this is going to be hard!
Rosi had taken off the saree and now stood in her blouse and underskirt.
She rolled up the saree into a ball and threw it towards Pillai saying, ‘Mr
Pillai, since there’s no rope, use my saree. It’s new. Kancheevaram cotton.’
She then turned to Spider and said, ‘Spider, afterwards please wash, starch
and iron it and keep in my wardrobe.’ She added, ‘All cotton sarees go in the
middle shelf. Do not mix categories.’
Spider wondered if he should ask her about how to handle the other
categories of her apparel after the event. She was particularly touchy about her
undergarments.
The saree she threw opened up and fell on Pillai, covering him from head
to foot like a shroud.
‘Mr Pillai!’ Rosi said. ‘Please use the saree and do your duty as an
eminent executioner. Mine must be the first metaphysical body you’ll ever get
to hang!’
As the saree fell on him and he disappeared under it, his figure jerked as if
he had received an electric shock and Spider watched with bulging eyes as he
swayed, slid along the wall and hit the floor with a thud, face down.
Spider rushed forward and extricated Pillai from the saree, then turned
him over. One look was enough for him to know that the man was dead. There
was on his face an expression of bliss that only the dead manage to wear. It was
clear he was in heaven drinking God’s tea and saying hello to the angels.
Spider told Rosi sadly, ‘Rosi, you’ve killed him. And he was a relative of
Jesus!’ He added, ‘And a great collaborator! What shall we do now?’ He had to
struggle to stop himself from crying when he thought about the Warmonger
project, now nipped in the bud.
Rosi said, ‘Please return my saree to me.’
Spider returned it forthwith.
Rosi seemed perplexed by what had happened to Pillai. She said, ‘I don’t
think he’s dead. I think he’s only enlightened. It’s just that the look is the
same.’
Spider didn’t want to take Rosi’s word for granted. He examined Pillai.
Yes, he was breathing. So here was a new lesson! It was possible to be
enlightened and yet lie flat on the floor in a dead faint and not know what was
going on.
Rosi began to wear the saree again. Spider watched her silently. He didn’t
want to interfere while she was engaged in a focused activity. When she was
done attending to the finer points, Spider asked gingerly, ‘So, Madam, can we
say today’s agenda is concluded, except bidding goodbye to Mr Pillai?’
‘Yes,’ Rosi said.
‘There’s no further plan to utilize his professional services as an
executioner?’
‘No. Certainly not today.’
She continued, ‘The moment has passed. I think taking off my saree had
something to do with it. A blouse and an underskirt are not appropriate attire
to be hanged in. I think I shall now read the complete works of Marx and check
out alternatives for my death urge.’
Spider let out a sigh of relief. That was going to take a lot of reading!
Anyway, he was not going to be caught on the wrong foot again and would
ensure that the house was well-stocked with rope.
Pillai had got up from the floor and now stood before them, looking
rumpled but with a radiant face. Spider felt good. So Rosi was right! He’s
enlightened! It’s written on his face. Oh, good for him! But he took a big beating
before it happened. I only hope enlightenment doesn’t affect his other, more
important, talents.
Pillai humbly apologized for disappointing Madam in the task she had
placed before him, but he wished to tell her that it was not a question of
choosing between a rope and a saree. He had found it beyond his competence to
hang Madam, for the simple reason that she had a metaphysical body. Today,
again, he’d had a glimpse of it.
He continued in an emotion-charged voice, ‘Even if it were within my
competence to hang Madam, I would have refused to do so because in my heart
Madam and Sir are inseparable. By no stretch of the imagination can I visualize
Sir existing without Madam.’
At this point, Pillai rushed forward and touched Spider’s and Rosi’s feet
one after the other.
 Spider thought that was a nice summing up.
Pillai now offered his apologies for the momentary loss of consciousness he
had suffered, once again causing anxiety to Sir and Madam. He wished to
confide that just the soft and caressing touch of Madam’s saree had transported
him into a grand epiphany of a sort that would make even the greatest saints
envious. He wiped his eyes.
Spider understood: He’s confusing enlightenment with epiphany!
He was about to wipe his eyes too, in solidarity, when he noticed Rosi
giggling, and he was so upset that he forgot. Has she no respect for the spiritual
attainment of another!
Suddenly a doubt occurred to him and he whispered to Rosi, ‘Shouldn’t
Pillai be informed that he’s been enlightened?’
Rosi said, ‘Enlightenment is best left alone. It might only distract him if he
comes to know about it.’
Having been enlightened several times, Spider understood what she meant.
It is a cross you must learn to carry.
When Pillai had bid them goodbye and left for his village, Rosi asked
Spider, ‘Who do you think Mr Pillai is?’
Spider did not reply.
Rosi said, ‘I think he is nothing but a voyeur, plain and simple. The rest is
fiction.’
Spider said, ‘Non-fiction is his forte.’
Rosi said, ‘I think he came to peep at me and stumbled on you.’
She continued, ‘’Perhaps I should close the window when I bathe.’
Spider said, ‘As the case may be.’
‘Or perhaps I won’t.’
Spider said profoundly, ‘As Is Where Is.’
Spider was not surprised when that evening, Rosi suggested suo moto that
they make love. He knew she had a perfect sense of timing. She said they could
do it to mark several memorable events: the completion of the essay, the
discovery of the true nature of Satan, their first shape-changing experience and
flight, the meetings with three eminent personalities, and their first experience
of the Valley of Lost Songs. She added one more item to the list: Brother’s
spiritual makeover. Spider took the last item in his stride, considering how
special Rosi’s offer was. He wondered, what about Pillai’s
epiphany/enlightenment today? He didn’t press the point.
Rosi added that she was not setting a precedent and the offer had only
limited validity. Spider had wanted to suggest that, instead of bunching all the
events together, she could celebrate them in separate sessions over a month or
so. However, he didn’t want to provoke a cancellation of the whole package by
introducing a note of dissent.
Later, in bed, when Rosi came, he thought he heard her say, ‘Oh, God!’
and became worried that the meeting with God had made her religious. Then
he heard her exclaim, ‘Old habits die hard!’
He immediately understood her problem: she was feeling guilty about
saying ‘Oh, God!’ He consoled her saying, ‘Not to worry! Everyone says “Oh,
God!” once in a while. Old habits cling even to philosopher kings.’
She said, ‘I meant the habit of lovemaking.’
Spider said, ‘Oh!’
Just then, he glanced out the window and saw something that jolted him:
a shooting star drawing a trail of light across the sky. He opened his mouth to
tell Rosi but, on second thoughts, kept quiet. The information was sure to
distract her from the activity at hand. However, he kept a wary lookout for a
squirrel who could be a messenger of God.
Spider was fast asleep when the squirrel came, whispered in Rosi’s ear and
scurried down to pray. The squirrel’s prayer flashed in the night sky like a bolt
of lightning, streaking into space. Rosi murmured something in her sleep. Spider
dreamt he was composing the national anthem for the newly independent
Republic of Alley Cats and Stray Dogs. God helped him out on the guitar and
the Stalin-woman on the drums. Satan stood by, brushing his teeth and tapping
his feet to the beat.
 WITH GRATITUDE

In the inadequate space of this brief note, I would like to thank at least some of
the many wonderful people who supported and encouraged me while this novel
was in the making.
T.J.S. George, Sashi Kumar, Dr A.J. Thomas, S. Sivadas, Saheera Thangal,
Manarkad Mathew, P.V. Thomas, Dr. C.S. Venkiteswaran, for thoughtful
comments at various stages of the writing.
The late Joseph Pulikunnel, Sashi Kumar, P.J. Thomas, the late Papanasam
Swamy, G. Mohandas, for great places to stay in and write.
Arundhati Roy, Shashi Tharoor, Rubin D’cruz, Jomy Thomas, for generous
help in ways that mattered.
My wife Lalitha; daughter Arundhati, her children Ayaan and Reyhan; son
Abhijit, his wife Kadambari and their son Jehan—I present this novel to them
with affection and thanks.
A heartfelt thank you to my friend and amazing writer Thomas Joseph,
who is battling illness as I write this, for the permission to include my English
translation of his story ‘Satan’s Brush’ in the novel. Sincere thanks to Geeta
Dharmarajan of ‘Katha’ for the permission to reproduce it from Katha Prize
Stories vol. 5.
A big hug to V.K. Karthika for her editorial care and complete attention,
and to Priya Kuriyan, who created the cover, for the beauty and fun she
brought to it.
To all those lovely people not named here, whose kindness, love and
support kept me going—a big thank you!