 
Kingdoms in Newness

G. Haritharan
Copyright © 2011 G. Haritharan and s4mT

First Published by s4mT in 2007 ISBN 978-0-9552958-1-2

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

Other books by G. Haritharan:

The Depression of Surya (and Stories from this Era) <https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/42621>

Followers of the Dead Man

<http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/85323>

Dedicated to the individuals and groups who have fallen in the pursuit for the freedom of Eelam. Your efforts will never be forgotten and She **will** praise you once emancipated.

Public Mental Health Warning:

Do not attempt to figure timelines or draw maps using this novel (especially with Murali's second chapter). You'll see/feel frustrations that could be avoided by merely relaxing and reading.

" _The imagination is a wonderful thing."_

(Anyone who has ever said that, the year/s that they have said it)

### Nahani (1)

(She took two steps across Rama's Bridge and looked back at Tamil Eelam and Sri Lanka/Ceylon. Was she going home? She turned and looked towards India...feel home, even when one is not there...)

Entry One (of new copy book) – 9th March, Madras

Today I woke and thought of the rest of my life. At seventeen (albeit very plus!) there are to the ladies of my culture the options that fall beneath our feet. However, we do not choose but merely play wait to the notions of both the males and other females within our circle. I sit to a tight and wait upon my bull as supposed long before teardrops in oceans, the Southern kingdoms of India, castes of separation and blonde haired travellers of a previous 'Pure'- stan. With puffed cheek and quick step heart rhythm I am to enjoy my situations – like petals at my toes. Let me ask; who actually likes the feeling of petals at ones feet? Is it to be ranked top number in example of feeling? I can think of many that would overjoy these episodes and that is the same for the thought/feeling/notion of ocean that is female movement.

Am I to follow the footsteps of my brave mother and wed? I have this option. The easy option. No need for curtailing thoughts of jamboree run away my precious and rest not until your lungs cannot fashion further alveoli osmoses (or was it...? anyway, an issue with a semi-permeable membrane). Oh the ragged Annie life would not suit me, I have an education! At the stinch of a pinch, I choose the wedlock.

But seventeen?

A young one like me should not be given up in such flight of fancy circumstance. I am at a prime – already, I know. The thought of my ageing is beyond that of many; just last week a foolish child of fifteen went away with another off the banana. (Once more I say, I know what you must think of my 200 month old/young/wise/idiotic frame, but I am almost seventeen – to you all I say 'So there.') Anyway – so to the fifteen year old. Banana boat and lover. Fresh I tell you. Back they went to the **motherland** like hoodwinked lemmings. She, a doctor in training born of a wealthy family, many brothers and sisters all doctors themselves. She even had a delightful singing voice; so I'm told. He, a rough scallion of the dark and dingy kind; his brother worked the bar of a watering hole... if such things legally existed.

Their official word was of love and the impossible living circumstance of India – that is here: the Hindustani great cape. The two's parents and family were much too overbearing to compete with the same playing level...

So what do the star crossed do? – move back. Back across the sea leaving India, their/mine/our new home gone.

If a love is worth a fight then so-be-it. But to travel back? 'Let us flee persecution of our familiar towards the arms of tyranny'. If you pick a lover then away with you! Not to this land or your previous; the resplendent land? Never. Only to the Buddhist. The brainwashed Sinhala. A Tamil couple should not go back they should move forth... and they are not even good at cricket! (I hear great things from father (Appa) on the subject of the Indian national team. The name sounds so meagre when compared to the might that is England, yet they have a chance, he says. Either that or the West Indians will ride once more: 'the team to lift the world cup will be Indian. I'm just not sure which Indian.')

I digress...

If it is a love for me – then I will move on. I mean, let it be assured that I know no real love – I have thought of nobody else but my Siva. The man who I am to wed at my father's (no, sorry - my 'Appa's') request is a boy I have known in and out for a while. Of course, it is not the romance of love but it is our way and like my brave mother would tell me 'You will fall in love, eventually'.

I am scared. What the English call 'Cold Feet'. Still, it was like this for my mother and probably to a degree, her mother – my grandmother. We are venturing the pre-historic Tamil age here, where emotions are none more than either excitement or anger. These two; the bread and work of Tamilian nature. All others are to be suppressed under a carpet of skin, blood and other organs.

I am not special as I will do this also. My ambition will be 'corned' i.e. discarded for the sake of peace within my family. My father (sorry, Appa) would not have his stubborn ways changed for all the rupees you could throw at him. If he wants for my marriage then it is so... and it is increasingly like this will be the case.

If you detect the air of defeat within my words (or even a growing contradiction) then reader, close your eyes. I will have opportunity within my sole option (not quite the 'option'). Ok I will be, at first, a baby making/breeding/raising machine but that is expected and that will be my vocation. My husband's will be to lay the foundation of monetary base. It's that easy. My option, herein, is to lay my own foundation. My children will grow not knowing this. They will grow not knowing of the stupidity by which my family are here in this Indian continent of filth. The plush setting that would have been their upbringing has been replaced by the smell of mortar and evility. My child(ren) will not know of this in real experience. They will be Indian and brought up to believe that they can stand up and be accounted for as a being that need not the oppression of others – including mine!

Yes, oppression will not be living with my family. Siva best know this. Best for his sake.

A Poem – 13th March

I do not much feel for writing today. I'm much too sad. I have told Appa that I would like to see England before my marriage (again as always) yet he disagrees with my sentiment. He agrees I am mature enough for such the venture but, alas, I am promised to Siva like the moon to his Namesake's hair.

Adieu England, adieu your sweet land

For if I could show you a hand

Or a foot

To step amongst the soil, the clay, the soot

For time will keep us apart no longer

Place me in your heart and hold me stronger

I will be with you

Entry Two – 15th March

I have written diary since the earliest of ages. Copy books I use come and pass (the last was first page written upon 'over there'. Shh, I will not speak her land's name). I have, with previous entry started the new, reader as you know. With each start I must explain at least something I have quite honestly written before. On gone pages. The order of these speeches (or entries) will not be geared. Sequential. Merely as and when. To chart my life. To keep me in check for I will not give up the fight to out breed alienation. I will not embark the trip to England but my child(ren) will. Oh England.

It is my dream to live my literary heaven in the country that my bones were supposed to born. They will; with my endeavour and hope, die there. The language is what I am blessed (though maybe cursed). Read is all I am and do while my family play and engage in conversation between my sibling, aunties, uncles, mother and father (Appa).

Indeed I am Tamil; from **teardrop**. Born and raised for a long while; transported via ocean/bay/heavenly water of newness like Narayana It/Her/His self. If it were my decision (and my family have been privy to the fancy of my choice) then I, well _would_ condone such behaviour. India is my home now. Tamil Nadu is a swap for the atrocious past. However, the decision was removed from my hands and placed into that of Appa's, who to be but only fair, has made some of the best judgements to his Tamil people that only the future will prove me correct. (Though with the separate beings that are his Tamil people and his only daughter, the curiousness of certain choices are brought up. But I am his daughter, so herein my bias! What am I to expect but normality bred from traditional Hindu way? Father's (Appa's) ways are only modern for his people; backward for his famile).

Even the mithuna that is Double J will follow the path. We have not spoke of such events and futures for the long while. Exam pressure has got to the three of us which tinkers slowly and successfully with regular other life. Today I even let go the usual motor route. I told Dosh to release me from autocab constraint a full three streets down from high school. I walked on kicking dust; alone as a woman should not be, I am told. I caught the stares, no doubt wondering why such a dark skinned woman should be so brave. Fellows in white shirts literally turned to notice me, I know I am not a looker, so they turned just to make a note or two. I passed street vendors selling nothing but fruit on this hot day; I would have sweated out all my melancholy but the sun is not hot enough to do such. I stopped, looked a mango. I was tempted, but what of my mood? Does it necessitate I remove a curse with a gift? No. I walked on passed the bronze statue of Vellupillai then next on the three pairs of tall, swaying trees. The benches beneath them cause stirs at my remembrance: I imagined my self back in Colombo, a little girl getting lost in the maze map of the lower neighbourhoods. No road markings, just memory as guide. Go with someone you know for the first time, then as a true Tamil way, you're on your own after that.

I always knew my way home; 'smell the tea leaves, thanga' I told myself. 'When you get home you'll write a poem in your diary and no one will see it. Then you'll post it in your imaginary post box and it will end up on the desk of a duke in Cambridge.' I walk with my head down, firmly engaging the blasted earth, except I was smiling. Why? I walked passed a post office, only this one was real.

'Britain' I said under my breath.

Entry Three – 20th March

I know reader, I know. Never the day to day making. To be honest, revision and homework is time consuming rage with the 16th being taking with task. It was not so in the beginning/start, then I wrote you diary everyday. But here lay difference in my motivation; I will write to the consistency that once sat upon this land I promised to write my verses. Thus far, my words have been scribble this/that/the other. As a valuable reference point in history (less of the _his_ missy!) I will document my situation.

But this, after a story I wrote in English class.

The Flower of Ten Petals

One day a beautiful handsome prince named BV was strolling around his palace in a town next to Madras, conveniently called Manipura. Everyday he would do this. He would wake, brush his teeth. Bathe. Eat breakfast with the queen and then stroll. The daily activity of walking around the gardens pleased the young man who had all to live for. At a small pace he walked around the confined walls of the estate looking deeply at the various different flowers dotted. Chrysanthemums, roses, tulips and then the really exotic; grey lilies, pink jasmine and a flower that he did not know the name for. It had ten very distinct petals upon the perimeter of her face and a deep, engraved red triangle amidst the circular centre. Though he spent hours in front of this particular one, for he was proud it had grown in his view, he did so out of several emotions and not just so of pride. In fact, there were contrasting, conflicting feelings of embarrassment; why should this flower grow here in the kingdom enclosed, why not further a field for all the towns folk to see?

Still, that was most days. Today was the one day of speciality; for after years of absence, his father Arjuna the Great was returning to see his son and wife, so like a son would, BV busily prepared the grounds. Chief gardener pruned; maids swept, cleaned and dusted. Cooks prepared a feast. Butlers moved furniture. Everything was to perfection, yet BV wanted more. He wanted to show his extra love for the father that would no doubt do the same... he pondered and walked in the similar fashion he'd always do; feet straight as arrows from a bow, in line with each step and his hands interlocked behind his strong, lower back. He passed the gardner and enquired of his flower scissors; 'Why use scissors when you can use a knife?' BV spoke directly. The gardener bent down on one knee and spoke to the prince's feet; 'Scissors are easier for my arthritic ridden hands, though if the master wishes I will use a knife and the finest one in Manipura at that to cut these beautiful flowers.' It was then that BV had the idea that would change his life.

He snatched the scissors and ran across the green field; passing the smaller servant huts, passed mini hill adventures and finally passed orange roses to find the flower of ten petals. The idea was to cut the pretty head off and place it upon the breast of his father. He went to cut the stem when he stopped. Could he do it? He stared long and hard at the flower head and grew ashamed. How could he kill the beauty of it? To destroy beauty is another's way – an evil way. BV put down the scissors and smiled. Suddenly, he received a tap on the shoulder. He turned and stared into the eyes of his father. Would one think of joy, of rapture of happiness? No, BV could only feel guilt and shame. Fear even. His mouth dried instantly and he was tormented on the very spot. He fell to his knees and looked at his hands; who was he? Who was this man ahead of him? Arjuna the Great bent to offer peace to his child yet the prince could only see war. From behind him he picked up the garden scissor and thrust the sharp object into his father's side. With wide eyes of surprise, Arjuna the Fallen repeated his sons early drop... then further to the earth, dead.

BV with desperation in his sight pulled from abdomen the blade, opened it and snapped the head of the ten petal flower. Instantly it too died, perishing in a flame and ash. BV went to turn the sharp edge upon himself...

Well I was sad. I am always sad. Until my dreams are truthed, so I shall stay this way. The occasional vent of a story or poem (though never to publish such, only privately... until England). Well so so. The romance of the English language is not only the blast that is imagination. What of structure? Such fame can be accounted for individuals other than the world's best Shakespeare. What of Carew... or Bacon? The Byron? Even the lesser know trinkets as in David Lodge or namesake – David Spirral. A grandiose grasp of the language that has spread over this wide earth like it were hallucinating in fever yet shivering in damp, moist sweaty shakes!

Like in their manner, perhaps my writing (though rather mostly unfictional, as opposed to their workings/writtens/stories/charms) will show face to real emotion. Maybe my happy, even dancing words cover the gloom that sits chamber in my second heart. The heart that yearns (like these and other writer's hearts) for it's fulfilments. Britain awaits me; I know it does.

Entry Four – 29th March

By the wooden house annex we sat. where I once saw a boy I thought I dreamt. He ate under the old tree on his own. Lentil curry, rice and another I could not smell. I wanted to ask him if he was indeed the same boy. His hair was the same; slick and parted at the side. His eyes were the same; hazel brown and piercing...

He left no sooner he arrived in my life. He left me alone and bewildered. I could love, I told myself. I was not desperate for love, but I could love. Not just Siva or family love... but real, unmatched love.

By the wooden house annex we sat. Double J and I. Janany, Jhoyti and Nahani. Two that have been by my side almost since I scratched my first page with Indian diary ink. As three females in this Indian society, at lunch, we sat and discussed our role in the greatest play since the times of the aforementioned playwright; that is, "The Future." We sat by the wooden house annex, our spot. Marriage, children and possible happiness. Well, yes happiness will lay in the eyes of my first born. Maybe even in those of Siva; the suited candidate of my procreation. But is there not a time before this event that will send my heart into overdriven excitement! Is existence not more than the simple/ordinary? Tell the opposite to our Marxist Tamil brothers south of the bay. With death staring mothers, fathers, siblings and other everyday in the face and without a non-native sole/soul outside of the fated island honestly knowing the true worth of beings that fall for the spite of others. Purity is a common word, yet so versatile, for beauty or evil extreme will come from it.

And in sombre. Though both Js have not the ambition/(almost antonym) tale of land/s other than their own. Or lives other than that set for them by best laid plan. – Line of best fit. We sat. Those three; Tiffin carriers and eyes; nervousness but burnt. Anxiety; but in good form. Me, a look in my mind's eye that this great trauma is beset by the damning of will: like a train track pulley. Destination was fulfilment... change! and now new ending: normality. The three had a content about them, this whereas I could only see one path to which I am being dragged away. Yet there is silence, for my screams/shouts/calls are not heard. England! England!

(I remember Janany giggling for I, to mine and fellow student's surprise actually did chant the country out loud. Luckily, no Ghandi in sight.)

A Poem – 1st April

The fool I am

To think that the British will love me

Married I will be

The fool I am

To believe that dreams will come to me

Married I will be

The fool I am

To even write my desire out for me

Married I will be

The fool I am

To pray to Muraghan about what will become of me

Married I will be

Entry Five – 10th April

Pa Pa Pa!!

Rah rah rah!

Wow Wow wow!

My joy is ridden to a highest height! Yes, reader, you are not mistaken it IS still I, Nahani your melancholy ridden, teenager. However it has all changed at least for the moments in the day of... – Today!

I overheard father (sorry, Appa, he is ever the stickler) and for you I will translate what I heard: 'How dare he!' He started whilst I stopped to listen upon landing outside ajar door master bedroom. 'Does the son of a fortune believe he can become any man? Does he hold no regard for his wife? How is he to support the lady; through his daddy's money? Don't be a rascal.' Mother then said her quick, interposed piece, which was ignored as custom, something about stress and my Appa's level of diabetes, then; 'A director! How could my son...' that is, my husband-to-be, '...be a director of talkies? This clown believes he will be a famous man at his young age. It takes years to crack Indian talkie market... look at that loser Pradesh; he made one hit and he was a drunk forever after. If he was an established director now then fine... but how will he support his wife and children...' children! Appa, please! '...Through the money of his estate? How [I'm guessing _who_ ] does he think he is; Dr Ramachandran? At least he is a doctor. Nahani is seventeen, you know?' Yes, my mother knew, 'do you think she has many more years to bare little ones?' I should think so. 'No, she is not to marry that rascal.'

Joy! More than I could have ever thought that would have lifted my spirit! I say more due to facts ill explained in Appa's rant. After cooling period, the one half of my parent team realised he would have to accept a pride defeat in that his good friend Logan has a son who does not want his very own and quite dearest (I should hope so!) daughter's hand in marriage. To counter such demeaning/self esteem rocking my father (my Appa) turned up at Logan's abode and told him of his relief at the 'delay' in the marriage of appropriated offspring due to his decision to send daughter packing half away across planet to... ENGLAND! I had begun to give up hope upon this excursion but a turn of film talkie related events has thrown my dream oh so alive again.

I should not get so excited. Appa is such the whimsical man with the ability to change his mind at the drop of a hat; the simplest perversion of truth. Not half a day when Siva was the apple of a middle age Tamil man's eyes, yet now only the rotten core. However, due to this dissonance I am free... in just five months to fulfil ambition – a student of the English system... literature in the place of birth! Rapture!

**I should not get so excited.** That last paragraph shows example of how it so impossible to remain calm. It is either yes or no, yet I will not know until all is set. For once, his proud Tamil soul has come to my use; perhaps even to dissipate worries of me leaving with tales of my desire to study the books and words of the English. Well the family of Siva needn't worry about the corruption, taint and finally safety as to their future-daughter-in-law... for I would have gone along with such a proposal; what is a girl of my situation to do than suppress years of desire for the production of a marriage as arranged by family tie?

Still, I am seventeen and for most those years I have lived my life through the works of others; books. All I have done is read the literature of the English. This is the language of my second faith. Together with my Hindu nature there is the fusion of love, life and spirituality. All of these. I begged myself to believe and dharma has collected the plea for today I have beginning to achieve.

Entry six – 12th April

I woke excited. Spoke a silent prayer, wishing Muraghan well on His movements through planes other than ours. In my tradition I lit a candle and broadcast thoughts out to my uncles, aunties, brothers and sisters being plagued by terror past Rama's Bridge. As I looked at the flame I thought of Agni, without whom there would be no natural heat, yet the irony in mortal man's fear of Him.

With the weekend I had there was no being (God or otherwise) to worry this young woman! To school I went; smile blazed across my façade! What joy to tell Double J.

Jhoyti and Janany: my sisters. Technically, not. But the schooling I have shared with the pair links me closer to them then I am with my obnoxious younger sibling, Suthyan: air to the internal to internal ChiefLeaf Corp and the full external to internal ImporTea Corporation. (Appa's businesses since travelling to the dusty earth of Hindustan; five years and stronger than ever though not quite as threshold reached as with Portokorilli, which is a place past Indian border, south past sea.) Whilst in writing it is always too difficult to grant priority to either of my two chums so I represent the two with the tag Double J.

And since love is all I have for them then share is all I can with them. I would tell them my news... except, in reciprocal authority, the two shared equal with I. That is, my super news was pushed to the minor order. Main course was something entirely different...

A new (and rather quiet) pupil, Ashok, hailing the outer extremity of Gouripur, Bangladesh, pushed into the slight palm of Janany: a letter. A letter of love? Well according to the boy's limited use of either Tamil or English the letter was from a cousin (for that matter, he could not use any Indian mainstream language... what he was doing in the region of Madras – heart of Tamil land only one or two Gods will know). This cousin was back in the northern state of the country of his origin. Reasoning? – Not of love but of intrigue. Love could have been understandable given the nature of the disease in this town, but intrigue? We may well have done worse than to sniff trouble. According to the young man (but a month or two my elder!) the Bangla boy's cousin, 'Dietmar' wrote it.

Hello there,

My cousin has held you in the most highest and deepest regard as the drei frauen – the three women of Madras. The three of Chennai District High; Mixed Final Year.

I must admit, the description that my cousin gave me of your delicate natures is that you all remain within your circle of trust. It is refreshing to hear of the female togetherness – since it is in your very essence to cat, rather than to coup.

Do not be alarmed by my forwardness, my name is Dietmar: cousin of Ashok. He is fairly the shy, quite boy but believe that is more the language problem than anything else. He's a lovely boy really.

Listen, please write back (via Ashok) and I will reveal more about myself as hopefully you will too.

Dietmar

x

Interesting/exciting/weird! Though I purred at his direct and forward boldness. Still, Double J were inclined to agree with 'weird', and were the apprehensive except there was no doubt that we were to reply. After querying the hapless Bangla Ashok, that is.

He is timid, as described by Dietmar. Rather coarse, stiff and oh so greasy hair. Thin/slim body, a peculiar (though not entirely dislikeable) odour and also an expression upon his U-shaped face that would neither change for sun nor moon. Gormless and serious; with an orange tint to skin that was fairly pimpled. He is ill-received by fellow students due to his sweaty/unclean ways (he has several shirts; worn on rotation, that we are sure he does not wash as regular as he would wear them). That and the fact he is foreign.

The combination of a set of students about almost all of whom were Tamil made up our honorary Junior High – High school. A near toxic mix and blend of the studious types amongst a good amount of sport orientated persons (largely boys). Achievers were limited to the such sports: Kabaddi and cricket. However, there is one outstanding face of difference (I add in wonderment, due to such the individuality); the energetic role of the one boy; Kevin Sundaar. The Principal's sole hope of mapping real fame to our only infamous school (on account of the mixed gender final year). You see, master Sundaar was good enough for professional tennis leaders to take note. National tournaments he had been collecting at the youth standard when at even young ages. However, turning eighteen, it was decided to thirst his developing body on an adult circuit; and even further a field than national: a minor Asian trophy. Yes his build was dwarf but his sheer drive and determination moved him beyond his station; a post-mature semi-final exit.

And from here the fame started; he grew – physique, stature. The lot. But do you know what grew the most? You maybe allowed for guessing incorrectly; a forearm, back muscles, leg muscles and all you need for successful tennis did rise (and is in transition), however, the most undeniable feature of Kevin Sundaar, as he caught that flight back from Thailand. The inexplicable component of his body which enlarged the greatest having finished the tournament... was his head. In fact, it ballooned to a distortion between it and his body. It enabled more students to make him out in the hall rooms, outside class. And on the clay courts of Malhavany... _there goes the new star! So sexy, yaar... new balls please!_ And back to the humble school of his reading, an innocent walk to the WC causes whispers... _I hear he is going to America... I hear he is going to Wimbledon to be India's glory!_ With all this speculation, how does he study?

I digress...

– we quizzed him. Rewind, rewind... Ashok! We quizzed Ashok about this mysterious letter; who is your cousin? Where does he live? Why did he send this to us? What did you tell him of us? (these all answered in the letter, though still we pursued ignorantly). How old is he? What school does he go to?

No luck in these jaunts. The boy's linguistic skills are none too smart. Included with inability was a shyness that once under pressure there does indulge the common stutter.

Who is your cousin? _Dee-dee-ea-ea-eat-maar_

How old is he? _Ai-noo_ ('I don't know', perhaps?)

The way he looks at our Janany leads arousal of suspicion he is under the spell of infatuation; even pre-letter. The secret fancy of a lady the boy holds and she is indeed pretty, sweet, so inclined with many virtues a madam could bare. This consists of a quiet way that I too share and sets us apart to the underscore of the robust Jhoyti. Lovely and loud is the latter's theory of life. They say that the opposite will attract but dear Ashok has eyes for silent, still Janany.

The trio (incorporating myself, yet I still use description afar) decided, owing to the reception of letter so close to the ending of school day, to write response tomorrow. This has rather overshadowed my news on becoming elite with Chennai High's escapist club. Second fiddle is a place I am thoroughly used. Spirit dampened? A touch. But only a touch, dear England – do not worry!

Entry Seven – 14th April

It is agreed that though Jhoyti is the spirit of the reply; I will take position as writer (it's only natural!)

To the man labelled Dietmar

That is an unusual name for a Bangla boy... Are you sure you hail from this area? You are an interesting motivation and what we are ensue of is why you would send letters of provocation to three innocent girls?

We have questions:

1) Who are you? Please explain yourself fully detailing age, schooling/family background, father's name, home and current city/town information.

2) (the obvious) Why did you write to us (in your own words and an expansion on 'female togetherness'?

3) If possible, please send a photo (not a question but a request! Via Ashok we will send it right back)

We fully suspect your plain motive in your written moves and are only dedicated to the appeasement and resolution in an end to this writing charades. We are not the types to be continually conversing using, what if know, forbidden communication.

Regards,

J, J, N

The mere fact that we responded showed the man an opportunity regardless of my effort to threaten. The Double J both displayed no sign of leaving ends open; the trio are not so the success rate at Chennai High. We walk the sultry/hot/steaming sun's glare alone and but for the odd interruption, we talk alone. This is not to our exclusive domain, or even inferred such, this is mainly to the perception of a lower state to our trilogy. The exception of this rule is Jhoyti's firm standings and ability to interact without self-consciousness to those that mingle in the tiny instance. However, we are still outcast: touched by the foot, rather than the mouth, though with form as if spoken to by ear. The High school class system. We lay near bottom; within ourselves yet almost entertained. Then along comes a Bangla letter and we realise the space that a non-uniform caste has left us with. Come mystery with, come hither and play with the trio! Unravel as you would! (Let us hope to unwrap in the presence of a photo; we have no real ambition for this since Bangladesh is the most backward of countries.)

So in the time passing for when quiet Ashok takes our note back with him to his temporary station (the daily commute from Bangladesh is very implausible!) I once more iterate the little-to-my-peers fact that I am to travel the world to a darling land. This time I received the furore I so expected the first. I was able to explain the decisions of Appa, the movement of talkie scandal; director sons and learned daughters split apart by fates that one has forged, the other none-manipulated.

Of course the gasps! The hugs! And with so we walked to lesson after recess. Here it hit me like a love impulse maybe. My dreamed aspiration to move on to the island I so always wanted to be apart of. From my young days sitting upon earth across the Gulf of Mannār learning hard and engulfing myself in the English language. Admittedly, maybe first motivation came from my reluctance to take on board the Singhalese scripting/speaking as so pushed upon me by my education and curriculum.

I will share with you sore/sour/difficult/repressible (but not taken) information about my past that I knew one day I would write about. Did I envision such a change in circumstance? My first confessions of life lost in diary ink in a land away from where I bled without the real flow of red plasma...

My days at East Colombo Junior and High school involved burial of mind within the grammatical structure of the Queen of England's system of communication. Not just so; the words and subsequent expansion of my then meagre vocabulary. As other children played; I played. Played with knowledge - with grasp. More I wanted: words, forms, interpretations, descriptions; it all vained me. By Junior High school it was poetry and stories that involved my creations. Though this was not mine yet. After only a month of creative writing plague I stopped, promising myself to continue once (and only when) experienced in my chosen language of English. Until then; all non academic fiction will be confined to the pages of my journal. To honour this, I would have to embark on excursion to land that natively harboured the linguistic.

So I returned to literature. To read at least would give me the vital stepping stones to a future filled. The outsource teaching; I pressured myself into spending spare time reading and self-coaching; Dickens, Steven Charles, Virginia Woolf and even Evelyn Bridges (she was not strictly British). All (and more) gave me what I hungered for but without satiation. Maliciously, I was attacked politically grounded – to drive me to edge/end/border. I had to move off. Impossible in the physical, actual sense, so I did in thought. In retrospect, I would have needed the challenge of propulsion from my peers or even an enthused teacher. I did not receive such and was confined to a few grey, clay walls that held me, tutor and ten blue jumpered, white shirted, grey skirted Singhalese girls.

Yes. The sole difference between myself and the other eleven members of class A6, East Colombo Junior High was that whereas I was Tamil, they were Singalum.

Not that theses two sets of people needed encouragement; government propaganda did so, to push the majority Singhalese brunt upon Tamil. And as crisis worsened each day, my repressed Junior High; likewise. The regime of eleven-on-one. With pupil there were no accomplice and even through our tutor: no saviour, for I. Teased and harassed as would little girls of an evil mind could do, whilst in another corner, a much older bully exacted her storm of abuse through alienation and disassociation. Through showing up a girl in example, as if she had done all things wrong. Delivering beating when I can only think of my teacher's frustration at events exclusive to myself and even her class. What I would say/do helped in no end to what I received at the hands of a brainwashed teacher aiming anger at her only Tamil student. What could I say of my fellow ten pupils also? The same frustrations, annoyances, angers, fuelled by repetitive images (newspaper/poster/radio/messenger for the poor, add television for the rich enough) and those beliefs passed down from parents in the same tree. I wish not to go deeply into the horrors that the children beset upon me, so I will not. All lay with me and shall stay, barring miracle, to the grave.

I will say, that ever the cliché – the fallen, seeks courage through vice. In this case, the avenue of literature. In order to get away; I travelled further than a car, train, plane or ship could take a soul. I read.

(The midnight hour is approaching and so I must move forth with the next entry. I am on a role so I will continue where I leave...)

Entry Eight – 15th April

(As father like daughter – a true stick we both are for traditions. He to his own and I to the entry per day as divided by midnight. A little word of my surrounding – I sit here, quiet as a mouse so as not to disturb sleeping giants, using only candlelight to guide me like a real British author (Dickens perhaps?).)

But my continuation beyond reasonable end is an explanation of another British man who stole my heart at an age where if it were left as is, the bruising may have continued onto till early demise.

So I left the reality of my life for the works of one David Spirral. I could honestly say (though blushing!): my first love. A modest author who spent his energy written about the events of a Roman Catholic Boys' School in Blackheath, England. The joys of escaping to and within his world held me hopeful and the degree captive. A 'Secondary school' (middle school, ages 11-16) full of children in charcoal trousers, plain white shirt, a v-neck grey sweater (for use in winter) and compulsory little, lime and loving green jackets... so cute, I imagined! In addition (I recall from memory, though the volume lay next to my desk) black socks, black shoes and a green and white tie, striped at intersections.

The tales (for it was one fairly continuous book of short stories), still now, bring sweet thoughts. As his stories flood gates opened in my head, I could do my journal no harm than to regurgitate. One such, told of the Jewish and Polish boys. At the time, I read this tale over twenty times; sometimes for the pure pleasure, others caused by run ins with narrow-minded Singhalese girls or ethically/ethnically intolerant Singhalese teachers. The story centred the conflict of two boys (with each other) and their bids to rid stigma of being the most hated pupil of the year/grade/class. Due to their lesser in Roman Catholicism, others bullied each, both separately and as a pair. The latter, a persecution with purpose, for in the usual/the most/the unoriginal, this shared evil would bring the boys immediately together; however, Spirral is not the most/usual/unoriginal. After bearing witness to a particular onslaught that both of the two boys received, a group of three (the leaders of the year) thought precedence in reversing any solidarity the duo may well have formed; turning both against one and other. Spirral labelled the 'Fight of the Barrel', for both were very much at the bottom.

The weeks went by and each trained their small frames with fighting spirit (more so than technique). The date had been pre-arranged; one month, the venue; under the chapel staircase; an enclosure. This was the space used for many transactions of little law.

And with four weeks of grind, new found attention and even fake respect, the two came together; space limited, to an elite few who had lunch money saved to pay for a ticket; others stood just outside. Spirral described the intensity of each's eyes – on destruction: 'I would not be the lowest ebb'. Elevation may even hold the opportunity to move further up invisible ladder.

The description gave birth to five pages of detailed fighting scene; even creeping analysis. Not a blow omitted. The author lost himself in his pen as I did (and the others who have read) will have done. The culmination and peak set at two green blazers being ripped to shreds. At this point the roars of the audience were in the high decibels and with noise marry curiosity. A Scottish teacher and priest by the name Father Walter McEwen hauled the two boys to their feet, dragging, separating and then detaining them. Not interested in any of the others who had scampered, steadfast.

This became the case for a two week period: after school detentions (corporal punishment not used, as would be the case in Tamil, Singhalese or even an earlier time in England). Then, when came a third week Father McEwen changed the rules. It was obvious fighting was wrong and this lesson had been learnt but the relationship between souls was weak. So the rule was this: once the boy's conversed, they were free from punishment.

Easy for the cheaters! However, they did not; and it was not til the end of this trio of their worst weeks did the talk start to flow. The Polish boy, Nicolas, looked at the Jewish Boy's, Joseph's, 'Record Book' and coveted the front cover wrapping. Each boy who attended the school was given a three month planning diary, or _Record Book_ , at the start of each academic semester (one small enough that it would fit within the inside pocket of their green jacket). The task at the beginning of each term was to cover it using imagination (or for those without; a simple transparent 'sticky-back plastic coating'). This in a building of extra solidity for the piece and subsequent respect for their own effort. Joseph had an eclectic mix and match of different squares of wrapping paper. Something that must have taken true patience and dedication.

So after the initial awkwardness and fears of rejection Nicolas expressed his admiration for the work of Joseph. Joseph paused and in equal reluctance appreciated the respect shown... From those moments acceptance rang in and, of course, Father McEwen released the boys of their debt. For the rest of their time at the school in Blackheath, England, the duo were inseparable.

Blow – for out goes my candle light...

### Entry nine – 27th April

Days have moved on and to you reader, I apologise. For a brief moment the Siva escapade had moved back into timeline so I have been a little off of the weather with angst. He (and other) is working on a talkie project with the Madras Film Company to which, by the sound of Appa's rants, is not moving all the success story. Still, what keeps my hopes alive is the motivation (that I perceive through third eye) he has.

'What a stupid boy!' My Appa cries! 'Does he not know that there is a beautiful girl waiting for him... if he is only sensible?' (thank you, daddy dearest.) 'He has the offers of working for his father in a very traditional, good way. Why blow all chance of a family with foolish ideas of making bloody pictures? It's not even working for him and he is getting no respect from Madras... and why would they? Taking a risk on a boy with no credentials, did you even hear of this film malarkey before dear?' to which Amma mumbled some tepid response. 'Yes, yes, woman, but he has nothing but ideas... does he have a script? You need a script for a film you know. I know dear, I have plenty of experience in the trade of media, my dear, you know that. At least I have made investments into the future of fact... bloody not the movies. All love and singing; what about real issues and bastard killing..?' Amma sighed, for the warning sign of _if we were still_ had just arrived. '...If we were still in Ceylon then we could be thinking of a marriage involving a nice proper Tamil boy...' (a proper Tamil boy was a male Tamil born across the water, i.e. not the Indian side; however, Amma did note that Siva was in fact born across Rama's bridge.) '...yes, but he is diluted to the customs of over here. Talkie movies and what not. You see Nahani, she is a very traditional girl with a strong root for her island. At least, if he wanted some media experience with my company then he could have at anytime. But he rejected this idea for being too 'journalist'. The boy sees nothing for his very own people.'

Amma reassured her husband and my father that Siva was kind at heart and that he was to help people, in a way, by making feature films. She also pulled sense into the equation that if he did try to gain some way with Appa's small media interest Siva would in fact have to move back across bay to the original side – that is, away from me. May not have been a bad happening.

Forgive my negativity; I have only been thinking of the worst and with exams approaching I can only study (to make university grade) or wile hours away believing that all could be in vain. There has not been any update on our side plot of Ashok and the mystery cousin to take my mind away. He has confessed to not having seen his estranged family for the while...

It made us discuss briefly the bond between cousins, brothers friends. This even brought about how close Double J and I are. I even thought, with smile, of Joseph and Nicolas, particularly as I had my personal reminisce so close gone. I always looked for the kind of bond I share with my current trilogy in my younger, junior high school days. None found, so I took to the tales of others. If I could not bond with happiness; I had to bond with something relentless... how about adversity? None more so than the evil government control of my former time – how was a young Tamil mind to understand the propaganda, almost hypodermically infiltrated, into the minds of my Singhalese peers? Indeed, not just to the child these lies lay, for all around me. My school – though my class had only one teacher, all tutors for the range of grades were anti-Tamil. Were they not educated fellows? I may accept the fisherman or farmer with poisonous views but a teacher? Against the minority they were; and, in East Colombo I was that; minority – being the young one, I still to this day do not know or have heard word of other Tamil girls who may have attended East Colombo junior/high. I do maintain, which makes this harder than ever to understand the brainwashed: hatred was **not personal** to my persona, but to my creed. Why teach the Tamil children when there are Singalum girls to educate? To educate, in fact, as to how Tamils are not the future of their vision of the land. In all being, we are the Singhalese anti-future; reversing the process of majority. The paranoid still exist from times of past where the major players set many to sword through aggressive acts. To kill or be killed. Tell me, will a patriotic warrior not fight for his country, that for the moment unguarded was invaded by colonialist Portuguese, or Dutch and finally British? Cankili, leader amongst Tamil men of past, fought the brave battle in which he hauled limited success. For what? The future of Tamils or gelled 'Resplendent Land'? We could have seen the battle of two that had raged since earth in Eelam and Ceylon was a virtual free land, converged as one to expel beast (yes, sadly even the British includes this description). However, like all before him, Cankili's stake in Jaffna bellowed the pride of man; be you Christian, Portuguese, Portuguese-Christian or Singhalese: away with you!

Whilst the Portuguese ravaged the rest of the island only a few Tamil hot points remained and eventually went. Colonial master not interested in the history of the nation they had crudely interrupted, placed flag over a whole nation – NOT the many kingdoms as is the **truth.** Yes, Ceylon is Singhalese owned, that I do not dispute but Eelam is to Tamil as Mannar to Karaiyar and on... A certainty! Read it in the Gazette, the Post or the Times! At the least (and more so now), the island known as the teardrop in the Indian ocean is **two distinct nations** , where one Ying halts Yang via the greatest piece of luck in Asian history – the February 4th 1948 independence!

British hands are washed of a volatile nation and the party with a beautifully fixed ballot wins score and prize – two for the price of one! Inherit one, get one free! Two nations for the brand new government to believe is one. And from this point – the evolution (for where Darwin is executed by the Tamil idea of the old kingdoms, then Marxism and eventually separatism). It is not an accurate history as preached by that old school of mine with all the others; did the minority+ (strictly as a term for the idiot wholistic view of Ceylon) that are Tamils really invade Ceylon for the gold of land that a majority+ (strictly as a term for the idiot wholistic view of Ceylon) race held? What sense does this make; take a lesser legion to conquer? If this is history, then exactly who's story? If intelligence prevails then the tale of my fore fathers should run back to settlement of Tamils on land for the taking; **as Singhalese did the same**. Each race survived through the years of diminishing person (AKA Empirical Time) simply, and what is the making of total sense – to regain what is ours and what is theirs; Ceylon/Sri Lanka for the Sinhala; Eelam for the Tamil.

Not even this nominal ground. And from the technicality and grandiose of history; filter movements to the times of now and the small scale. For even a high school was a collected hateful/scorned issue. A no scale compared to the difficulty my Appa faced upon his level. To be rich on another's plane. With no respite, Appa kept one eye on bank account and the other (with hand) on our passports. He had the feelings that time would grow short but with cheery face, still played mule. Everyday he prayed folly belief in chance, yet stayed wise to the option to flee.

My Nuwa home-home – on a hill, deep forest/jungle to our left and of course Appa's tea plantation near by. Appa would drop me off at Canal Tree Point where the school miniature bus/van would pick me to take to shame. He would then travel back to oversee the overseers. It was his owned hot drink making site. Leaves manned and pruned by native: Tamil, Singhalese; Portuguese, Dutch – whomever. My father, my Appa was owner. Here lay the problem, for what would a Dutchman know? If he exchanged leaf for a few rupees then another of his un-understanding countrymen could also be as poor.

I know. Does a rant ever begin with sense? Never! My writing will tell all of my emotions for my Tamil people for I have felt first hand the cold, bitter twist of the Sinhala knife that threw my family and I out of a country they hardly owned. If I seem incoherent it is due to the pain of insolence and thoughtlessness of those powerful enough to put pressure upon my Appa and our family to slip out before real, physical force would have occurred.

Appa had secured the rights to create liquid enhancing netted bags from leaves after a purchase from the Dutchman; Hayden of Turremgoor. Lock and stock. The deed switched and in the decade of the 1960s; Tamil production.

Business boomed with global transport breakthrough. Overseas movement of cargo was trebling. Account books did not have the paper to cope! Whilst my tiny eyes (and Suthyan's even tinier) saw only a mother's gaze with the occasion father's smile, the evil government noticed more. It looked beyond crayons and making Appa gleam, it studied further than I being baby-like jealous of the family's first son. The British rule had records and targets for the several 'Bolts' of the Ceylon they knew; these largely ignored by new office since the biggest ventures had already grown clearly ahead of their immature siblings. Tea; and in particular my Appa's investment grew to the level sight that only big dog's lustful eyes could capture a glimpse and even, through nasal; a sniff. Was only the matter of time that lay between a bite and a carry to the garden; buried under soil.

By my tenth birthday, my father... my Appa's tea movement was the third biggest in the land. Some talked weather: un-failed monsoons; others, the earth – rich and almost edible to the hungry. Maybe even the ghosts of the Dutch were to be thanked for the good fortune – hungry sons of landowners voyaging to land in order to earn their father's wager amongst the indigenous coolie.

So whatever the reason, the point was this: in the land of the Singhalese, what is more dangerous than a spirit of Netherlands? A Tamil with money.

Entry Ten – 28th April

(Gosh! Now I should not get used to burning midnight oil for the sake of all else but duty; my exams are on their way, so in a last bid of freedom before my chaining to a study desk I will continue my journal of almost slavery... at precisely one minute past twelve and on!)

So. The government's policy of ridding the now Singhalese owned land of all Tamil culture was firmly in operation (on fairness; where my family and I lived, Singhalese land it was before British, Dutch or Portuguese). **Except** , the rules heinously applied also to the Tamil owned land (that is in fairness; before the British, Dutch or Portuguese, now and forever onwards). First language systems were abolished: the new national language of Ceylon and Eelam: Singhalese, then second, English. In accordance, the majority+ populations of Provinces in East and North of the island... i.e. Tamils, were to take up the language of the minority+ Singhalese in order to comply with the law of the other land, now forced upon by adjacent land. (+Yes! Yes! Just search Hindustan library available censuses birthed by those rather numerically literate Englishmen! Tamils are majority in Eelam, Singhalese are majority in Ceylon/Sri Lanka... I will reiterate; two separate nations that are merely only **not-** politically-recognised **.** ) The Tamil people unlucky enough to believe that the Southern state of Ceylon was a utopia existence (mine family inclusive) were to be tested upon their use of the spoken communication, for without it, even a job would not sit for him.

In this land of the old, the pressure mounted under the weight of rumour and encouraged propaganda. Appa succumbed to his own just paranoia (as I did not knowledge; being so young and un-in-tuned) investing outland and gathering like squirrel for the move away; to our current dwell. The exit neared with the old man's kept ear close enough to ground to catch the sound of closing Sinhala footsteps.

In particular...

That of the Official/Council Head/Governor for the district of Eliy; a corrupt and pains giving swine ready only for the increase of his pocket and blackness of heart. Mr Sarath Fonseka. His name burns holes in my pages. He skimmed taxes (as is a regular occurrence) and as profits rose above and ahead of speculation in normality, so did these 'taxes'. Incorporated were 'assurances' and, no doubt, the Tamil to Sinhala card. Pay a devil a fee to live like heaven in hell. Or as close to – for our years there, my family not I were close (my cursed exception, of course) but our lease was up and it was time to move the other – Hindustan; Madras Kingdom.

(Well... It is late now, but tomorrow I will tell the tale of Appa's remnant. Also, tomorrow will be the last entry until after examinations end; July 9th. Revision is not an effortless task and the discipline of less entertainment is a must! How fitting for a final tale of the land I left behind, though I promised (and within these pages past) never to reveal such evil; keeping only journal for the new and prosperous time I and my family will live (in all sense: the opposite of evil). However, I have dishonoured my word to bring you, reader, what I have been through... now I must sleep, for it is far, far too late!)

Entry Eleven – 2nd May

Sorry... I did pull the image of tomorrow from a bag of words last Wednesday but put into the middle of the week I decided a fresh, brand new set of seven days for this task of memory. So for the final entry (for the long while of suffer that is revision... that has, already started!) before revealing my final write up of days gone by I shall let you know of the day gone by... Dear Dietmar; your mood and mind seemed so suave (using the art of letter) until you dipped into the luck store.

Forgive my manner – I am the confused soul. If I doubt my happiness it is due to the sadness I have experienced. Perhaps sadness is too strong a word. Every play has it's chance of failure and it is a kind friend who has benefit from my disappointment. Now there is the correct word. It is my person who has to deal with the almost this and that of lovelife... no, love is too strong a word – fancy is better.

To Jhoyti

It is my pleasure to inform you all about my motive in writing as is as innocent as you three all are. A friendly nature of to'ing and fro'ing is all I am in interested in. they call it pen pals in Great Britain.

I am like you all a friendly simple student studying in Gouripur District. Friendly is I am. My preferred subjects are in English and science. Say what are your favourites?

My cousin has reported more interestingly since and is happy you have shown his quiet self some attention. I must ask, who wrote the wonderfully articulate response? My best bet is the girl in the header – Jhoyti; the odd one out, not being Tamil.

I leave you now with the information that my cousin, Ashok, has a rather 'something' for one of you... Her name begins with a J, but she is not Jhoyti.

Love,

Dietmar

x

This lacked the verve of his introduction. The pizzazz and throttle of surprise. Though Double J have dismissed my thoughts and put it down to the annoyed nature; being overlooked is quite the confidence killer; though we did tease the mentioned Jhoyti. She liked the rattle. I felt the tinge of damage as I let plague fly, telling the brash one of her admirer; she did not need to hear of it, she knew it.

Janany was not the centre of attention; but she had attention. The hapless go-between, Ashok; 'something for one of you.' Words to readable features. Indeed, that day he expressed (rather incoherently) undeniable love. The sweaty, smelly boy from independent Bangladesh; once lover of Pakistan... or more slave, now slave in lover for a Tamil girl at Chennai High (the powers really should have foretold such cursed relation! A mixed school in Madras... how did that happen?)

For all the boy advanced, Janany was not quick to push him away. I really did wonder what this two would have in common; knowing a fairly frivolous and superficial persona and then the contrast of his silent, inward character. The two were a perfect odd couple; I could see it in those wanton eyes of hers that she would inevitably accept offer. Time will tell.

It was hard to feel the cold of snobbery as I had all the luck (fingers crossed) in travel; a few months now, hard work for the first, this May month. Endure it, Nahani; the arduous life of the South Indian. No Eelam home now, but with the luck of Lakshmi my home will move more on the opportunity of study. Yes, I accept that Siva may be back with tales of his/Appa/Amma's fortune (this maybe sooner than later, as said: fingers crossed!) If across world I lay then it would be at this time that I would be asked to up and leave to be with this man. In my father's eyes he has the satisfaction of two issues for his soul; one for the heart of his only daughter, away in the distant land of Make-believe-England and the other; a good Tamil husband from the good Tamil familiar.

I determine myself to ignore such intricacy and concentrate solely on the issue of getting to the place to be dragged from. Study, study, study is my only option: for passing exams and obtaining the level of entry to my literature course is a must! I cannot rest on abilities alone; that is, unlike one boy from Chennai High. The boy with a tennis racket head for his... head.

Study... then England it is! The legacy will be written within these here pages I can guarantee! Less fancy than how my Appa gave his legacy to Eelam but it will still pass off I am sure. I promised/assured/gave word of my final portion of **the history of the Karmithan family's previous life**. So I will.

...Before the great move to the land of Hindu, Appa had to give something back. The area we lived was Singhalese territory and their now muscle to the separated border of a Tamil nation was nuisance with horror. Genocide. But exactly how is it that statistics lied? Pure mathematics can never be wrong? Merely manipulated by cold hearts. If a history book has told you that Jews were mass murdered in Germany only decades ago, which chapter will tell you of the shocking slay of civilian Tamils in our own nation, Eelam? None. Not even a book of truth, holy or other could quantify the acts of an invisible government regime.

Visibility is under the coin of control.

My father/Appa was out to make his own book... but not in words. In the form of the new image. Theatre is composed of the live whereas film is constructed in print. Appa acted as holy Vishnu in re-addressing the balance of not life but education through pictures. And what better than to enlist a team of angels for such a holy task in a newly appointed 'Hell'. With that, Appa set up the 'Ell-Laam Eelam Company'. Renegade bandit fellows; fuelled with the lust for justice and the eye for controversy... and armed with the latest technology.

A news company was the All E (for ell-laam = all). Six directors/journalists/broadcasters with a few hired on the when needed based contract. The task of whom was to investigate and broadcast the evils of the government and promote Tamil culture to the island (especially Eelam).

Latest technology I mention! Radio transmitters (perched on moving truck/vans), microphones, recording facilities and with it the bold step unto the breach of video cameras, editing faculty along with the illegal rental of broadcasting equipment engineered for the use of military minds. There is a future where such fancy is used in homes and for leisure, they say, but for now, hush hush! Satellite... What satellite?

All moulded into Tamilness by the elite all E group where experience was a lacklustre affair; university students of Madras, Jaffna/Batti college those shunned by Singalum press, what they knew; they taught, faults and all, until a team of dedicated post-Marxist rebels were in search of truth and publication to the unknowing world. A raw group of souls with the correct mentality: letting this planet know that freedom is an object that though some have, they are also willing to sacrifice lives to make sure others do not.

And to this present day in 1983; from falls of the un-cohesive Marxist Tamils and the ever increasing rise of a true Tamil by the name of Prabakaran and his Tamil Tigers of Freedom; the All E record the depth of these heroes along with unabated scourge to our villains. They have got better with continuance. Still the same core six not well paid with currency but in a land ravaged with now poverty (whilst Singhalese land prospers) what is none in finance is made up in respect and gratitude. Broadcast simultaneous across the medium of television, only the rich will benefit, and they do and appreciate (not just Eelam and Ceylon but also far parts of India that barely Tamils tread). Simultaneous with the power of radio and the small paper print... **the last independent press of the island** to Singhalese and 'Malabar'. The two worked the poor i.e. the majority+ of the supposed minority+ (not under consensus of both king and queen).

Still my Appa's efforts were geared towards a future – that of the lighted box. The television. The equipment he bought for a reason; global telecast was bought off for a reason. The Tamil cause. Yes they were rough around the edges but what to do? Bring in professionals so that the government stops voice with an army siege? As amateur as it stayed, as kudos it received; how do you catch those who share the same intensity of passion? Not that at my young age I noticed much in the way of non-professional. The All E employed a gracefully yet driven lead female for the purposes of on scene news casting. A beautiful memory is to still see the practice report attempt within the confines of our garden field in Nuwa. My very idol at time, Lanka Akka – big sister Lanka. She held the microphone in front of camera man Chinnathumbi uncle, who balanced a rather big camera mechanism across his shoulder. The others stood engrossed behind him watching Lanka explain a start to All E. I looked out of my window upon the proceeding in awe... later that night; it made a mirror presenter (with hair brush) out of me.

Well similar Lanka. All E's target audience had neither television nor even access to such technology for group viewing. Local cinemas before the escalation of military induced violence ran Appa's financial fuelled broadcasts; but from then it was the wireless radio wave that ruled roost with the more than paper periodicals a very close second due to the lesser need for battery power. So Lanka's beauty was for my eyes and the select few with the pair only. Her intelligence in research and commanding voice, however, were still for the many ears. Groups of Tamil farmers/fishermen/housewives/even as far reached as the civil service workers for the wretched government control (soon to be unemployed). Even the enemy had access to our broadcast and all mediums/pawns of them. Including the poor working class of the Singhalese – I'd like to believe a sense of sorrow existed within them, knowing the sadistic effects upon my brethren and sisteren. But most would have been poisoned with the easy temptation of the sedative known as promise. Mainstream media had always been given the head-start.

In the transition of move across shore, reports told Appa that All E and its satellite links meant the world would hear of the Tamil situation in advancing years. Be-in now and then, radio and press but to the future is television... to weigh with recorded image against the slant of overhanging biased. Justice: to be balanced. With genocide fast approaching and the future taking sweet time, for now, Appa's mediums are set up for the information for fellow strugglers. Any other consequence is firmly a by-product, though one eye is always on prize.

In February 1978 my family and I were satisfied for the escape across shore – we all left regrets along with the carriage of hopes. As you should know, I have been writing this here journal since and with a dotted past before. Why I did not fathom a consistent opening earlier only a few Gods know. Perhaps I needed time to develop a taste of subdued freedom. I say subdued simply because I am unused to the concrete path. What England holds (if indeed I get there) I will never know, what I do know is that I will approach all my deeds with what my Tamil nature does not allow. A security to feel home, even when one is not there. One does not feel assured if one does not have a home/base/safety.

As I extinguish the candle to my left I will bid you a brief (for you, dear reader!) farewell and feel you upon the other side. The confusion that is the political, emotional and non-schematic rhythm of my life brings only sorrow to my heart as it unfolds within my journal's pages. I cannot write until my exams have subsided. So goodbye until then.

Adieu.
Mr and Mrs Arnand (1)

(a three part story of the honeymoon between not-cricket's-finest and the former fifteen year old complexity)

### Day 1

In the end the taxi was too stuffy.

(Well a tale that starts of the end is rather premature – let us say; in the beginning, the taxi was stuffy. Still wearing their wedding outfits was the biggest factor in stuffiness. In fact, it was so big a factor, if they were not wearing the traditional ensemble they would have been fine.)

The thoughts of the late Ms Anusha Sivabalan; now Mrs A. Arnand. In the very British sense – church and all. Yet in not this fashion, she had on the elegant of all saris. _One cannot look less than the best on a day like this._ No matter which pig she married. She looked at her husband with distain and as she did so, a rather large bead of sweat escaped a strand of hair on her head. It splashed down onto her lower lip. She was pouting at the time. Mr M. Arnand was looking at his wife's face in hypnotic gaze. _What a catch, muchaan! Does she have a sister... introduce, huh?_ He let out a disgusting laugh. The type that sounds as though the laughee is clearing his throat, even though it is more like the back of his nose. Any harder and liquid of the nasal passage would have exited! (Indeed, only the good passage as one of the two did not quite work.)

Though this would be a facet of the knowing of her brand new husband. Anusha of all the items she would learn of a man she is, in accordance with unwritten/though sometimes so law; to be with for the rest of one's life. Her friend Brianni had confessed to having slept with a travelling salesman whilst her husband was away on national business; railway engineer. Brianni confessed this to Anusha after a frank admission to heat and sexual appetite. The words that her friend used made Anusha really analyse the importance of the female want and motivation. Without it there was no need for life – or _what is the point? Appreciation of a wife is high and needed, a lady goes elsewhere if she is bored._ So said also the Readers Digest magazine issue as left at a book shelf in Kodambakkam. The only piece of literature (ahem...) Anusha thought worthy of reading at the simple age of fifteen when forced on min-holiday by conflict or problem avoiding parents. It was here where she sampled the much cooler air and growing forestation/shrubbery. This way from the shootings of films and general Kollywood bustle. It really can be so peaceful in the right places.

Arnand, when in wet clothes thought of Kannan. A director friend at the Ayemtopeem call centre company the former owns. He said he would call but Arnand had no faith in such. He was happy to be embarking on married life and what not but a kick in the teeth of a friend who through all lack of trying fails to be the intensity of relationship he could be. Arnand would cling to him as an only child could do so only to be let down by the interruption of constant attention. First guess Arnand? _No, he'll take a second..._

So back to the cab from airport to hotel. That bead of sweat, though was the highlight of this particular part of the journey. You know what, reader? Let us move on by taking the step back... After a long Hindu marriage with the added bonus of the modern age. Our dear Anusha is a lover of the forward. Spend too much time in a socio-historic situation and by golly, we'd be looking at the newness. As reinvented by the _wow!_ in verve. This woman was the epitome of re-creation. A pseudo-Bramha; without the restraint. Brash as a knife in hot butter! You see the tradition in the Hindu wedding lines up days of festivities; the before and afters. Even the ceremony itself; wonder and splendour - but in strict tradition that was now rocked by a Chennai girl. Whereas the prayers to Lord Ganesh are an idea to prevent problems or obstacles; asked each day for at least fifteen days prior to wedlock, Anu (if I may be so bold) mixed this time with parties. _I have so many friends, yaar, they all must be appreciated._ And so they were; girls nights in and out. Pray with the family in the morning (i.e. around 11am on get up), with Anu holding the ability to pray without thinking a thought, script, suggestion or plea. Eyes closed, hands together – actions speak louder than words... _yaar_ , then to lunch and on to the evening festivities. No-family = 1) club, 2) movies 3)... other.

Fifteen days of that shit. Well, a little less. With persuasive parents she was brought into temporary line for the finale. The actual knot tying, mala giving, mother-in-law poking, fire rounding, Sanskrit wala(ing) blast of traditional heaven. Yes even here there were changes. Outfits and make up and mannerisms, I say. _Lime green? On your wedding day? Whatever happened to whites and reds? Sorry, Ganesh, reds and whites? Well maybe you can get away with such newness/dare/modernity and thank the world that you change clothes. Make sure you keep your head down and let your eyes do the talking. Humble is a good wife... wait, what lipstick is that? Remind me not to pay the make up lady..._ And on and on. Every mother finds her daughters imperfections. It was just easier in the case of Anusha.

Then dancing and then the night flight. Most weddings go on into the Hindustan night but this one went out early. The honeymoon awaited in the most English way (to the dismay of Anu's mother!). Straight from the wooden log to the airport and away from sunny climbs to... well, yes the same but... but... less dusty!

They arrived at the hotel, made their way to their room and admired the beach.

"Wow, Arnand, this is beautiful." Anusha commented in her lovely Anglo-Hindi almost Tamil accent. Although she was 100% Tamil, at an earlier age Anusha did the Hindi friends circuit at the New State Library in North Madras. She grew up speaking Tamil at her home, English at school and Hindi to her friends. This was until the age of around 15 when she would speak English to practically anyone.

"It iss ah-may-sing, no?" Arnand replied. His accent was unmistakably Tamil and a questioned under spotlight Anusha would vehemently claim she hated the way he spoke; ever since the first day she laid eyes and ears on him; four weeks ago. Though she had not heard him until half an hour after meeting him, she knew how he spoke. 'Like a true Tamil' she thought. In the future she would also comment it from time to time to Arnand's face, she believed.

Having said that, their room was, for sure, amazing. The balcony area overlooked the beach, Anusha discovered. "Hey, this balcony is fantastic, yaar!' she exclaimed. Her eyes and attention then wondered away from the triviality of conversation with a brand new spouse. There were more important aspects of view; like a man moving bottom off blanket. He was topless with a towel around his waist and had an upper torso with muscles not only big but well defined... Protein and exercise; sit ups and more – Crunch! Crunch! Then, in her first act of mental infidelity, she envisaged his big hands feeling her upper back while slowly en route to her lower areas. Tingling attraction; she saw Brianni in her mind's eye.

"I shore do pick thhem, huh?" Arnand part boasted part queried while sliding his somewhat smaller hands onto Anusha's stomach coming on to her from behind. Tut! Not only was this annoying that he had interrupted her fantasy but she realised what had never thus far bothered her in her limited time with this Tamil man. The infuriating habit of ending almost all statements with a one word question.

"Do you like my mha-ridge, Anu?" [you see, here _do you like my marriage_ is a statement-question, however _Anu_ rises intonation. Perhaps there should follow two question marks??]

"Do you like my mha-ridge, Anu??" Arnand continued. "You are a radiant beauty that is deser-wed of this peew[view]. I am trul-ley in lau[love], no?" He slowed down his last sentence for a more romantic effect. The innate romance he had inherited from his father (recessive gene) and his mother (dominant) and his father's father and his... However, it did not work. The petulant Anusha was silently collecting aggression. With hypocrisies, she breathed in deeply, turned sleekly in her husband's grasp and played with his ear.

"Honey, why don't we talk about our love a little later," she moved her finger to his cheek, "you start the unpacking and I will comeback and help you later."

(Of a soap opera as played on Anusha side grandfather owned television/satellite company _Oli National_ , a young woman cruised the streets of Chennai in an automobile 4 X 4 as bought by her new husband. She would not comeback for hours (though within the restraints of a twenty minute program). Scenes of the wife Selvi removing her helmet to view an untouched hair were repeated three times for every once the actress who played her did the manoeuvre. String orchestral arrangements blasted heinously criminal soundtrack; as if the world was to end. This here played in Arnand's mental note.)

"What? Where iss you going, darl-ling?" Arnand's face was not designed for poker; possibly dramatic theatre. A well of emotion; one surprise. Where could she have come up with the notion of the two separated? This is the joining day of Man with wife. Where Man goes, wife will follow. "I thought I would take a walk on the beach," she could see what he was about to respond with "alone, harney[honey]. Then I can come back all exciting for the love. You understand, yaar?" She slid her hands down Arnand's body stopping on his stomach. This was the depth of the Tamil man. All passion arose from the organ that lay behind the loose skin her delicate palm lay upon. As she moved around his waist to his bottom she tried to imagine a tough body. Maybe to the ones she had felt in her pre-marriage days. The idea, to Anusha, was the sight in concrete of it. There were no dealing with abstracts when it came to this woman of egocentricity. Unfortunately, for her supposed protector all she held was the slipping feeling of flab and loose skin. It is not really armour.

"But... It is our special day, no?" Arnand maintained sorrowfully but Anusha knew that she had him beat. She purred a little then continued. "Huneey, you know I need to recharge for our love. I'm going now to get changed." She hoped off; bangles jingling as she held her wrapped and wrapped sari up in order not to step on it.

***

Arnand threw a suitcase onto the king-size bed. White sheets, some colour as the pillows. Especially the decorative type. He ran to the double cupboard (white, thin gold border) and opened it to check the space, taking some hangers off the rail. He took out the first item after having only unzipped half of the case and so not actually seeing what he was to take out. The first item had to be at random – he could not just pick out one of his clothes by looking at it and choosing it (he had not packed, servants did that). This process might affect the eventual karma of his wife and his relationship; he had to be completely unbiased and as non-selective as possible.

The bathroom door opened and Anusha walked out wearing a red, two-piece bikini.

"Have you seen my fashion towel, darling?" Anusha inquired of her kikoy wrap around. "Oh yes that's it." Anusha snatched the garment from Arnand's hand who happened to have extracted that particular cloth.

"You're going outside like thh-at? Maybe you should be cover up, no?" _Arnand, this is what the Western people wear. We cannot stay behind all our lives._ The global position preaching Anusha said this while wrapping the kikoy around her waist. _Besides what am I doing now? Honestly, Arnand you are making me mad._ The named gentleman stopped his mind from raving further and figured that making his wife _mad_ on their wedding day was not the right way to go about his new marriage. He called upon a mantra that helped him find a dropped ear-ring as child. _Ohm-Namash..._ he thought it started, he never learnt the rest and kept reciting the simple beginning over and over. He spent ten minutes searching for his darling mother's pearl piece of jewellery and then continued for a further two with mantra in play. And success! Two minutes with prayer to ten minutes without: enough of a winning experiment for the eight year old child. (She lost it in the grass of their mansion you know; very big garden.)

The temporary blindness had evaporated quickly. Anusha said her goodbye (and with a kiss). The stuttering and surprised Arnand felt he needed to give her a good talking to but ah, it was their special day, however, so that converse would not happen yet. "I vill meeting you on the lobby in few minutes." He told himself. I mean, he said it out aloud and to his wife but she wasn't listening.

The door slammed to a satisfactory volume as Anusha felt the liberation of her stance as an independent female in a poorly arranged marriage. The pressure put on her by all of her family (and not just her parents, there were aunties, uncles and grandparents and great uncles/aunts to consider) was far too much for even her usual cool self to handle. She knew she had to get married eventually so it might as well be with a rich, stupid man that she could manipulate. The combination of all three is not as easy to find as one would imagine. Still, from the little time that she had known Arnand she believed she had found it. _At least, all in the eyes, yaar._

***

With the long flight all the way from Chennai to weigh her down Anu almost failed to notice that the beach was gorgeous. The sand was a fantastic white and the sea a beautiful blue/green. The reverse timing meant she was involved in an afternoon across the world where according to the time she was married only a few hours gone. That was around nine hours ago and a world away. For this tender moment, there was no place else on the planet Anusha would wanted to have been. In fact, this was the destination where she deserved to be – her struggle with life had finally been rewarded. The award ceremony of fate indicated thus. Sure there were times when she could be off the rails but then what of a teenager? From her family, who tried to get her married to somebody almost every month from the age of fifteen – a whole five years/sixty occurrences of married related torture. Pressure-less ease. Marriage, marriage, marriage. Was there no fun to be had? India was a lovely place, with fun on all corners. Every city was it's own Mumbai yet family were ingrained with the ability to halt feelings of desire like they never had a hand in the fermentation of such lust themselves. Of course, there were others to blame.

She had survived the various teachers at Madras Longwell High School For Girls trying to make moves on her from ages twelve to around fifteen. In particular the furore that occurred when at the later period she accused Dr Jayganathan of molesting her in the science lab after he never reciprocated the move she made on him. _I tell you, Amma, he is a sick puppy. Only eyes for the one girl. What a fine mess I am in but good gracious he is chancer. The door was open, I was sitting with innocence reading this biography of Prouse next to the box of Bunsen when he touched my leg. I tried to scream but it would not come out. Bloody nightmare, yaar._ The accusation did not get far due to the stonewalled alibi for the tutor – he meeting his long time lover, the headmistress Mrs Alison Kala-Indrani, an affair that until that month had been kept secret for eight years. Of course, this was the main reason for her parents extended marriage campaign – the desire to marry their daughter away from controversy.

Oh, and she never read Prouse again.

The sand as satin felt as good as it looked, clinging to Anusha's back line as she turned over. In mathematical precision, she had set herself short time limit in order not to get too dark. Darker skin was for men and not for ladies, though a sultry tanned look over even a golden brown colour (which was the tone of her skin, I daren't speak 'dark/medium wheatish') was quite sexy. Magazines that were more Western showed these women all the time. More western? – those publications heavily sponsored by corporations with head office outside of Hindustan... At least before her stumbling husband decides to ruin peace with chatter clatter she could get the rays of the sun to work a wonder. It is a big beach, he may miss her. Damned: this red bikini.

"Do you need a little help with your lotion, honey?" A voice called out to her from above. It was not God and there was no split second where Anu would have thought it. It was, however, a man who resembled one that a Greek may tale. "My name is Benji, what's yours?" Anusha stayed in her position reached by for her red purse which had lotion poking out from her previous application. Too many metaphors dear reader? She smiled and handed the not-a-symbol to Benji. To the uncommitted Anusha mind he seemed familiar, though this was unlikely since they were a million miles from India and the man was White. This White God, Benji, squirted (a choice of terminology to which I do apologise!) the cream over Anusha's freshly turned back and started massage technique which included circular movements and long strokes from base to neck and vice versa. He had strong hands which pleased Anusha greatly. She felt assured of his ability from the simple touch of his fingers and being bold enough to approach her may also have played a factor. "You know," Benji whispered approaching Anusha's ear, "you did not mention your name." The irreply: "You do that so well." She purred smiling, this was heaven and she did not want to ruin it with more mindless chit chat. There was the lifetime ahead for such.

Shorter in span, the two continued in a similar vein for the while; Benji trying his best to seduce Anusha and she not trying to stop him. Plainly used to the coming of a man in courting. There was the enjoyment of these interactions. That's Mumbai fun. Where hosts and hostesses know their place. Time and positions – this not the valleys and alleys of stone, cobbled streets but on the insides of cafes, beaches and should I say it? – nightclubs. Anu thought dearly of her friends and the high society of Indian women that had the swordsmanship of samurais – why? Because they had abilities to fight off their parents and others who wanted each to be married whilst there was the digit one at the beginning of their age. Anu was getting married and none of her school friends had (though one had run off with a shoe factory manager)...

...After five minutes on her stomach Anusha sat up thinking of her husband. She wasn't getting married – she was actually married.

Forgive yourself, reader, for thinking the norm – Anu is thinking: 'what would he think?' or 'I have a partner, this is insane?' You see, that is wrong. It was more like 'spoilt by dictation'. What is fun unless it is free? Responsibility, that's what. Anu could not have that; twenty years of life in struggle for another twenty years. _It's my honeymoon for Vishnu's sake!_ A sigh; gentle and a little huffed. She peered Benji over shades; was he the man she saw from the balcony? His body looked superb when closer – the definition of each muscle was amazing coupled with the size of them. On the clear screen (as opposed to the silver one) White people to Anusha were difficult to tell apart. Line ups would be useless with her. Still, her heart did beat a little faster upon facing this creature; the anonymity pleased the Tamil woman. He was tanned, well oiled with long dark hair pinned back in a high ponytail. Unchallenged streams hung around the sides and back; shorter and loose. Anusha, I fool you not, reader, was an (and no want here for the better word) _experienced_ girl yet these stunning features suddenly changed him. The metamorphous of within mind and not out. From being a fool with a one track mind to the object of a one track mind.

"I... I have to get inside now." She started nervously looking him up and down. Then the rest of the beach, up and down. These were not the ordinary nerves. If a hypnotherapist had her/his way, s/he may re-label the emotion 'excitement'... trouble is, Anu had done all that with her own lucid brain. His skin sizzled hot; Anusha wanted to touch it with a resemblance to moist cooked meat; this plodding restaurant memory through her mind. "I don't really want to stay in the sun too long." i.e. _cheque please!_ "That's perfect," Benji replied, slowing his words down subtly. "I have a beach hut just five minutes away. Care to join me?" Benji offered his arm for it to be linked and Anusha knew nothing but to oblige. Humanity and the want of touch; had scorned Midas in myth and now dearest Anu. To be fair: the man's skin was as close Gold as is possible. Yes, logically in a mix of ethics and promises, she knew it was wrong. But Madras was full of curry eating fat men who saved effort in stomach and general lipid store for the task of trying to fuck the youngest girl to be found. Tied to these Tamil men? She breathed in independence and believed in her Goanesque-self, or simply: 'achieving the enlightenment of true abandon.'

***

"...Kidnapped indeed. The ransom was meagre but still it is the principle of the operatives. So many being kidnapped; there are plenty of rich Tamil folk living in Colombo and since the police will do nothing, what have the criminals to fear but disposing of a body if payment is not made. It is crimes of both finance and passion – they hate us anyway, so killing us or collecting money for us is a bonus..." And then Murali talked more to his son about politics and such. Onto the subject of his father; "My father always used to speak at great lengths. I never appreciated it. I was always bored and thinking that I was in the right. Or even, if I was wrong then I would be ignoring what he was saying and concentrating on how I could make it right in my own way. I was never listening. Solid advice that I did not know of. Your grandfather is a great man and if he was up, he would speak to you. Tomorrow I will call and we can tell Grandpa to phone. Say what time is it?" Arnand told his father the local time. "Not even your mother is up here. One too many Martinis." Arnand's father chuckled. Arnand grimaced. "Did I tell you how proud I am of you? My father, never did so... ok, maybe once or twice but never regularly. They say you will grow like your father yet we try to grow into ways that he was never. They say that when he dies; his soul visits his eldest son and blesses the child with the same abilities as his father. Or perhaps curse is an appropriate word for some fathers. Anyway, younger, I am proud of you." Arnand acknowledged the words, though a creeping animosity to past behaviours and stereotypes did not let the young Tamil fall fully under the enchanted spell. Still, Arnand always liked his father's voice. "Where is your darling wife. Let me speak to her, younger." To which Arnand replied that she was on the beach waiting for his presence. So he had to put the phone down. "Ok fine. Remember to call your old man, I have been in the call business for longer than you were born. I know how they work better than Alexander Bell." Arnand told his father goodnight.

In pause of appreciation to those far away, noted was the hotel room and a hum emanating from the mini-bar. Arnand found the sound intolerable. A disease of the ear. This was not an ordinary spreading infection; new attacks of the virus hit every noticeable moment with inoculation consisting of Tamil knobbly knees seated down beside square object. Then a pull of the whole unit from the wooden cabinet. He was unsuccessful and turned his attention to reaching behind the ever so slight gap in order to remove plug. The plug was attached to the wall in way that only a technician could disengage it. He had to **put up**.

Alarm bells graced the hum to produce a noise of almost horror. Arnand the _put-ter-up-er_. In this tale, yes the first of his loser-based activities. But in this character's life; this was not president. It was surprising that he had little shoulder mass considering the metaphoric weight he did bear. As it should, since clouds of hostility hit poor Arnand irregularly, or at least, this was all he noticed.

One other thing he did/couldn't note: where was my wife? She went for a walk and well, left the man with the dutiful job of unpacking. One week away in the sun from sun; yet it seems she's away even more. The beach was a massive place where, after spending only a few minutes he wondered why he had not told his wife about a meeting point. How could he? He knew the island about as much as he knew his new wife. So he came back, picked up a phone call and pondered a brief tale of one aspect of his years gone by. The general loser/losing feeling. But still, positive thinking, right...? Lobby! He did venture lobby as meeting point; did he not? Arnand shook comment from head and digressed to the task under the logic: the faster I do unpack, the quicker I can get out there (again) to see my new love.

Except: distraction is not an art or a manipulated science – it is a natural phenomenon! Those ever present defenders in mechanism! From pieces of clothing in a container to the room. Which seemed larger than it was. Therefore a suitable test was devised and Arnand walked to a corner and stood pressed in heels against the walls. He predicted that it would take twenty-two pigeon steps to get to _the other side_. The validity of the task, however, was in question; the bed was in the way and before he could reach the very most corner of _the other side_ the dreaded mini-bar would stop him. For these areas he would have to use advanced ability in pigeon step prediction. So he came up with that number, twenty-two and then tested it.

It took:

-Six steps to get from a corner to the first obstacle: the bed.

-Fourteen steps to get from the bed to the mini-bar, just before the corner he was heading for.

There seemed to be at least another eight steps involved if the whole area was clear. He was incorrect. Arnand blamed the lay out of the room itself for his error. The bathroom encroached the wall on the bed's side leaving the corner to corner a 'diagonal' shorter than that of the opposite. Arnand walked to this corner (moving a small table housing a lampshade away enabling a clean heel-wall touch) and repeated his test. After removing a plant in the corner converse to where he started he found that the total pigeon step count was twenty-one and a half.

Yes - The smallest battles account in wager for the loss of a greater war.

He felt satisfied and smiled to himself whilst casually looking at his black leather, gold face watch. Citizen timing. The smile disappeared as fast as it appeared. It was the first day of their honeymoon and it was turning into night. The sun was setting but he did not have his wife to share that with. He was in a large hotel room; on his own, and with no symbolism whatsoever, he was holding a heavy money plant.

What is wealth without a wife? Arnand retreated to the bed and jumped backwards onto it creating a star shape as he landed, bouncing slightly. Anger and tiredness possessed the Tamil man who had not slept for the best part of thirty-six hours. Arnand hardly slept in relaxed situations (inherited gene from father to blame once more). To add: in between beach walking wife spotting, unpacking of all the clothes and room measuring, Arnand had embarked on an exercise program that he knew helped his sexual performance. Why? – This was to be the first time he and his wife were to make love and, in his mind, the first time she had been 'close' to anybody. It had to be special. Lack of memories told Arnand there was really only one time where he was indeed special. Around three years ago... to be in precision! Then, the slim man Arnand started his now quite successful call centre. Customer service – it was simple really. Through his father's contacts Arnand received the word of a major national bank in England who wanted cheap workers in India to answer service (and to a degree some sales) calls from customers relating to (obviously) financial products. With investor backing (his father mainly) it was very simple with only the one problem. A quite prominent one before he could start his new kingdom; capitalism and the 'free-world' birthed the fate of typicality: another _already_ successful same agenda company was housed in offices next to where Arnand had planned to buy his new holding. As a business, Arnand's rivals had a great reputation with other British corporations; in range? – the diversity of make up, personal computing and several insurances; house and auto. And this powerhouse was to compete for the signature of the account. It does not take business analysis in complexity to realise that this competitor was easily going to achieve the new lucrative deal ahead of Arnand's brand new rivalry. The already pinned and slightly more expensive Bangalore market was also to fall short with Chennai the chosen destination (Appa Arnand, that is Murali had contacts who knew).

So Arnand needed to do something about it. With only the proposed new office and proposed amount of staff to cover calls as assurance to his new suitors (being in Britain, what would they know about the lush central Chennai? Conference calls in rented suites gave Kollywood new meaning), the raring and ready Tamilan visited enemy managing director, the very sumptuous (putting it as kindly as possible) Mrs Kanya V. Widresawani; this was in order to convince her that she should at the very least share this contract simply to promote some healthy competition with also 'Indian Netverrking Wal-you'. She disagreed. Where normally a story in any other country would end; but the stan of Hindus had a Lakshmi and an elephant. With the luck of Gods afore and Ganesh 'the obstacle clearer', this woman instead of kicking a small posterior out of her door, wanted more to do with him. She found Arnand incredibly attractive; offering an undetectable false promise that she _would,_ only if skinny-Arnand made love to plump-her in the present zone (her office) at the present time. Well well, Arnand was very flattered but was also quite tired after moving various items into his almost new office across the street (presumptuous, yes, but he had belief!). He was exercised out except knew that he had to satisfy this woman if he wanted to succeed and not waste all the money his father had poured into the campaign. _Boy, when I wanted something very bad, my father – your Up-Pah-Pah would lecture my face for days. Count yourself lucky._ There was still a lecture, mind you.

The two managing directors started out on the sofa in the corner but soon progressed to the Grand Executive Power Desk (item 5, page 345, Ind Supplies Catalogue – spring/summer of that year) after Mrs Widresawani dragged Arnand's scrawny body with her, clearing the papers, pens and other items (4-8 on page 200-201; 32-45 on page 50-51 and 47 on page 81) off of it. She rode on top of him banging her heavy frame upon his pelvis hard enough to suggest in Arnand's confused mind the possibility of poor craftsmanship and breakage (...no, reader – the desk not his slender hips!). Kanya had no such distraction; in her total excitement and blind lust she did not realise that her right hand had landed on top of the only inanimate object survivor on the desk – a telephone (item 2 on page 551). Having no real idea as to how to operate the speed dials, she had previous (and totally by accident) assigned all nine of them to her husband's private line in his office in East Madurai. The call went through to him while he was annotating a letter to his beautiful personal assistant Ms Veena Sri-Devi. He would not have answered the call had his P.A. been at her desk to do the task for him.

Within three weeks, the personally vindictive and thus the at-a-loss business brain of Mr Manesh Widresawani had forced his wife to give up the Madras247 Customer Service Utility (he had funded) relinquishing contracts and workers that over the next three months Arnand happily lapped up. Still, the one thing that pleased him most about the whole torrid affair was not the immediate boom in work; nor the smile on his father's face when he returned every rupee he had loaned him after only eight weeks. Instead, it was his stamina. His duration. His ability to last. Arnand was happiest that it took half an hour for Manesh to run from his office to get to Kanya's – and he was still going at it when he burst in. Doing the mathematics (adding the ten minutes of intercourse on the sofa), there was a full forty minutes of penetrative motion. (Arnand's previous best was seven minutes with a prostitute in Bangladesh. A feat only attained due to the fact that this professional sex worker had had an eye infection which caused the seeping of pus. Not ordinary white stuff – yellow. And in addition, the sore reeked violently after about two minutes of Arnand's greyhound like pumping action.)

By a mile, his best sexual performance was with Mrs Widresawani and Arnand attributed this to the exercise he had gone through setting up his office. With time and ever since, he has managed times in excess of twenty minutes ( _no foreplay, muchaan, stre-ait fucking_ ). Twenty minutes with the ugliest prostitutes in Chennai; average hookers in Goa and the classiest professionals in Mumbai/Delhi. Today he was ready to break all records and service his new wife...

Ah but herein the problem: she was not around.

***

It was darker than it should be. The gold still glistened along with the diamonds. Beautifully white and shining brightly. Anusha was only smiling; with all this jewellery all she could do was smile. Though it was rather dark?

Anusha woke up. Puff of smoke and all was gone; jewels, glass cabinets – everything except her. But why were the lights not working? Was it the standard dream analysis – a girl with all she could want except that little extra? Or did she have everything and felt the guilt of this strain?

No. The sun had set and caused the thatched walls to lose the light it once trapped. She panicked and sat up but feeling the tired rush again, she fell back resting on the feather filled pillow.

Well yes, the sex quite frankly was incredible. This was a given even if nervous anticipation of a husband walking in should have been a fixture. It was not. The beauty of a one track mind... no, not sex – the self. It helped that this man, Benji, was a machine and he seemed hell bent on pleasuring Anusha while setting an own desire aside for second place. Reducing crudity as much as possible: they managed five different positions; the plastic, battery operated wall clock showed 7.35pm. The dynamics of the timing: they met at 5.30pm and were in his shack at 5.45pm. By 6pm they were undressed and he was performing oral sex, which was an unbelievable length of half an hour (she was just about able to endure this heightened state of sensuality for the first ten minutes... pause _no, stop... no, continue_ ). From 6.30pm each sexual position lasted about 5 minutes which was very much in a dual capacity. One of the two was 'hard' and the other, reader? Did you guess? – Fast. Exactly the way Anu liked it. Sleep was another half hour (and more) which in fact felt like an illness, way too short, but here she rests, naked with sweaty breasts where her arm swung onto _the other side_ of the 'bed' (a metal frame with a spring matrix topped with a spongy, springy mattress). Without a map, her arm did not find a partner; the sizeable Benji, was missing. Machines do not sleep?

She thought about Arnand and within a few seconds she thought about herself: here she lay about five minutes after committing adultery on her newly wed husband. _Of course I would be doing this_ ; ever since the engagement. Why? Because she would never settle for a Tamil man. A Tamil man could never please her, would never **want** to please her. They are after only one thing: the fulfilment of their own desires. Anusha was just a pleasure doll with the option of baby creation when ready. _I'm not having this, yaar._ The single point of life is never to give up on the one aspect of humanity that will never leave a soul – thinkism. With the exception of those 'talented' few who are able to read the minds of others, thoughts are private. For what reason? The choice to release them. Freedom, independence and all of that. If one's life is dictated by others then how human is one? Circumstance and consequence would be one big ball of 'someone else's shit'. _Not my fault he fucked me, yaar. He had something else – the extra._ Choices! Humans and animals. No – humans and other. Consciousness hasn't got nothing on decision!

Speaking of which; Mrs Anusha S. Arnand got up consciously and decided to search for her bikini, which she found under a small table. (Anu had to lift the table leg to get at her bikini thong – how this happened fooled her memory). As she wrapped her 'fashion towel' around her small waist there tinkled a noise coming from the outside and other end of the room; where the hut opened to the beach. Anu grabbed her matching red purse/beach bag and exited using the street opening. In came air via deep breath and the adulteress walked towards the hotel. Skipping beats, the timing of her hearts' thump missed motion with feet walk. Nervously, she looked around for Arnand. Nervously she never saw him; not even at the balcony window she once lucidly peered from. There was no skip in her walk even though the nervousness she felt, Anu labelled as excitement. How often would she be able to get away with such a naughty event? The childhood years were back from the extinction with one crucial difference – no reprimand. Purity in freedom/license for egocentricity. Whatever. The street roads, the hotel doorman, the lobby, the elevator and the corridor all whispered into Anu's hair hidden ear 'the right thing, is when your heart does sing'...

The very little traffic hit low notes. The doorman smile, somewhat higher! The lobby of sofa and interaction... with lyrics! 'Hello madam, I see a woman who knows how to have fun!' How did he know? An aforementioned mind reader? 'Diving in the reef is whatchu want, madam... I can make that happen for only...' A salesman! No, that's the wrong type of mind reader I'm not talking about.

Elevator up... _ding!_

...Carefully, Anusha opened the hotel room 427 door; card key into the reader and (slowly) push the handle down. It still made a loud clank and click which displeased. Still, she crept into the room edging past the shower to see Arnand passed out on the bed in a very curious star shaped position. Anusha breathed in a sigh of relief, took her garments off and tip-toed straight into the shower, locking the door.

In a mad panic to exit the room, Arnand leaped into the air and looked in the direction of the door. Strange. There was a second door that shortened the room turning it into the square that Arnand had needed previously (you know, for all that pigeon-step advanced prediction). He went to open this new way out which made an interesting noise – a clank-clicky! Now there was a second door, which was the original hotel room 427 divider. Arnand went for it and as it opened, a different sound – more like a locking mechanism. Feeling suddenly scared, Arnand awoke.

The white noise of shower filtered rather slowly into Arnand's ears. Then recognition. Anusha's bikini and kikoy was lying provocatively on the floor outside the locked bathroom. "Ah!" Arnand sat up and looked at the thong. It was tiny. Something so small and stringy fit around Anusha's sexily slim waist, bum and thighs. Thoughts of waxing intruded an already provoked mind. Just bikini, Brazilian or all off Bollywood? Well at least there must have been premeditation in anticipation of wearing such a revealing item of clothing. Imagining how it felt to wear something so intrusive, Arnand wondered whether it was wet. The beach – water is as it does. Though it did not look wet. Now shifting to those lateral areas of thinking; what if it was only a little wet. What does this mean? Where upon the garment is this moisture. A sign of whether she had been feeling... old chum like. _How iss your father, darrling?_ Mildly put: horny; whilst out and about (doing goodness knows what). Alarm bells. Is: whether or not her thong was wet... and wet in the... _the_ place. Arnand got excited. A stirring had a occurred within him (no not the obvious, please, reader, take it easy). The man was still groggy; he could not seem to shake his tiredness fully. He sat slouched, skin and bones. Skinny calves, slight roll of a stomach; gased, resting almost on lap. The eyes that could not fully open, continuously staring at the piece of red material on the floor to his right. He heard the shower switch off. _Tick tock!_ He only had limited time to execute his silly plan; pick up the thong and run his finger along the crotch. Any moisture? Guilty verdict. And dry? Not so not guilty, time periods have not been fully evaluated. Pigeon minute prediction. She took too long – enough time to have been associating with anybody. Importance now Arnand... why (oh why) does a Tamil wife (insert: all of a sudden) need a shower?

He leapt up to step towards the swim wear. _That's it, tired boy!_ Silly of him to misjudge such a feat. What if a gymnast does the same to a balance beam? Crash! He buckled falling on his hands and knees just shy of the two piece. Staying in this position (balance without the dignity; but this isn't the Olympics!) he picked up the thong and ran his thumb from where he believed Anusha's anus would have been to the seat of the crotch. It was wet. GUIL... No, it may have been the coldness of the silky satin texture. NOT GUIL... He tried once more but still could not determine whether the panty was wet or not. The only other thought that passed through Arnand's mind (and dear reader, he was tired, little sleep, jet lag, a lack of natural, gifted intelligence etc.): in order to check for natural feminine lubrication he need not touch the delicate, instead he should smell it (trust me when I say, he thought near worst). Brought to his face, he took a long, hard sniff.

The bathroom door opened and Anusha walked out to a view of her newly acquired husband on his knees with her knickers in his face.

"Arnand!" She screamed with a look of horror fixed to her expression. Role playing may have enhanced this boat rocking. "What are you doing? You dirty boy!" The words seemed a little immature with relation to the intensity applied. She was seriously (and romantically) dishevelled with his current action... and it was current; due to the fact that Arnand did not seem to want to move from his arrangement. The undergarment maintained it's precarious location in Arnand's hand, in his nose. "You are a creep, man! Why are you licking my pants?"

"I'm not licking them, darl-ling, I am smell..." What a response! Arnand was so quick to intercept raking ill manoeuvre with the righteousness of honesty! "Arnand, why are you smelling my underpanter, you sick barr-sted!" So matter-in-literal-hand, Anusha grabbed her thong from his grasp and picked up the rest of her garments too. She walked across the room to a mirror on the wall and started to separate her hair with fingers. "Shame on you Arnand." Was there a calming in her voice? "Shame on me?" Arnand cried getting to his feet. "Where have you been? I am your huzbend and I am deemand to know where you having been." He looked angry enough. But – mixed feelings; escape, being wronged, justice appreciation and lust... yes, no mistake. Lust. Seemingly outer-related and it was... almost, well in explanation; the back of his wife dripping wet with a towel that, around her body, was only barely long enough to cover her bottom.

"Don't give me grief, Arnand. I am an independent woman who can go for a walk on the beach if I please. You cannot stop me and if you do you are betraying my freedom." She clenched her fist, raised it and let it down firmly in a stabbing motion aimed at her right thigh. As the arm raised so did her towel revealing the upper most part of her hamstrings and what to Arnand's mind must have been the lowest aspect of her perked behind. "Where are my clothes?"

For the time being, the two argued some more. Anusha; for her freedom, independence and also for womankind. Arnand; to keep her in her towel long enough for it to, say, drop by accident. Eventually she took a dress from the cupboard and left to get changed in the bathroom. The disappointment had shone through both. Arnand was puzzled and to the point of sadness – he could not problem solve this situation (yet, that was a so far). He sat on the edge of the bed head in hands which passed through limited hair. Even in a locked bathroom Anu made noises to herself. He was wrong in the whole yet there was a hole that she could not quite put her finger on (perhaps it is to do with sex with a stranger, Anu). I say, _she_ couldn't put the finger on it, not I.

The mis-victory. What happened?: There was a position of winning to the lost by default. Why smell a woman's pants when you can ask her how they smell... I mean, what she was doing for the past few hours? Still, with the inappropriateness of an idiot, the Tamilan had put himself in the lower position of 'thing done wrong most recently.' Time for make up. Solution arrived to hands via head of thinning hair! The two even needed a new foot to stand on. Leverage for the afterthought. Room service including champagne, lobster and caviar. There was no way she could stay mad at him after seeing a trolley of the best food this island could offer. A phone call and _c'est complet!_ How could a woman resist the taste of good food?

In ten; Anu walked out of lock, wearing velvet green and a look of distain. She moped, searching for jewellery. Found it and returned to the bathroom. Looking at herself in the mirror, putting on earrings and thinking of the effort that she'd put on for a husband she did not need. Excess baggage is a good phrase. She had to though, no sense in roaming this holiday island on her own; picking up loose men and having casual acquaintance. A vision of Benji flashed before her. Yes, he was an amazing specimen as males would go. Then the question: why? Why fuck him? The answer: was because she had to, she knew that this was the way, the finance and social status of a husband with acts of self gratification as a side bet. Guaranteed winnings. As long as Arnand does not find out; all win. She had no choice but to spend an evening with the knot tying bastard. _With the onus on sex with the man?_ Anusha let out a sigh. A sign of disgust. Yes, he was not the fat, rolly-polly gentleman of Tamil Nadu, but he was not good looking. No sex appeal. Skin and bones and he was only the inch taller than her. Necks need to work for swooning! And where were his muscles? These days gyms were popping up all of central Chennai. Gold's Strength is the big one and it's right down the man's street. 'Mount...' _no, too much Amma talking_ , 'Anna Salai.' There that's better. His house is not even on it; yet all the wedding invites read... never mind. A knock at the door. Now who could Arnand be expecting at this hour? We're going out to dinner, Anu thought. She was tired though. _Small hard hours with this boy, long happy hours for Annie!_

The door opened to a man with a trolley to whom policy dictated the service important and the products he supplied too. Arnand noticed the man; dark skinned Indian region. Unmistakable. So Arnand queried the origin of this white suited man. The name Imran, though he was not Pakistani; direct descendent of Haroun Patel, head servant to a Brigadier Charles Wilson... Who rode wave with and for his captain; why? Reasons unknown. History in the shaking: guaranteed to be in the region of land ownership and distribution. Because? White men own land and only when ready, sell it to people who may have owned it before hand except the world will not know take seriously due (in part, dear reader) to insufficient documented evidence. Pens and papers, governor. It's easy.

So he (Haroun) had a son and he too, then another and then Imran (or thereabouts). The latest in this line with climate in reported change was still unable to shed the shackle of waiting on hand and foot. This time to a 'fellow' Indian. "My God, boy, I could be swearing you are from Chennai... sorry, Madras, no?" And before Imran had time to answer "Of course not! What an accent, soos! Jamaican, no?" No, Trinni. Arnand schooled the worker in the current state of politics in Chennai. He lectured the present but with the general resemble of most states: corruption. _These days, my boy, you must be greasing the people in sarge. Everybody is doing it, my father, me, associates... even fucking Americans! Hollywood, I tell you, no? Too many pirate movies copied and put on Internet. They make Kazaa and you think Indian, no?_ Then on to the boring facts about government in the ill-want to pursue true history because it was too expensive to 'record' it. _You have to pay a silly blighter to write down what iss happening. The bloody Times is disgrace, cash in pocket, muchaan – let us write what is important to the people with money. I tell you grease, my boy, grease._ When Imran got a word in, he told of his usual sob story; sister was a runner and wished to compete in the next Olympics, yet she ran bare feet. Like the wind, however, just bare foot. Of course, she hated footwear – not used to it. But under capitalist athletic rules: no runner without trainers in most major events. Health and safety is it? Tell that to miracle miler Kipkoech or steeple-chasing countryman, Christopher Kosgei. It was Imran's role in life to provide. Yes, it was a true story, but a cute one at that. Tipped for tips and a fat one he got. _Tank cue, sir. Goodnight to you and dee laydee_.

Anusha huffed having come out of the bathroom to be less than centre of attention. She sat on the bed whilst Arnand flirted with Imran and grew tired eyes so continued to be extremely moody. She stropped around the room and did not speak to her husband no matter what he mentioned. However, as Arnand presented a delicious assortment of cuisine and beverage she grew more and more still with content as she ate (and it had been a long time since she had eaten previous). The Tamil couple sat wading through ready-within-twenty-minutes lobster, pate, fresh enough bread, condiments and even soup (carrot and sweet potato). Of course, for refreshment, mineral water and champagne. Arnand even managed to grace a toast with his wife, after which he leant in to give her a paused peck, lip to lip. He smiled, she did not (but was still content, don't forget)... there was the one thing on his mind... until the phone rang. 5.30 Chennai call via a 'Happy Times' telecommunications calling card. Appa speaking... again! _How were the couple? Fine fine. Hotel good? Fine fine. We are missing you, thumbi... and so is grandpa... We are so proud of your marriage to a truly beautiful girl._ So formal! As always is father to son in the presence of keeping up appearance. _Blessed is this morning as you must have had the beginning of a child, huh? It took no time at all for you, babyboy... unfortunately after that your mother was unable to conceive further... upen, this is the first time you have been away from me since you were born... you are a success in the business world and you are now the same in the family circle. A wonder you have turned out, my boy..._

And more pet names and more and more. In this conversation, his father's side grandfather (of the set grandparents he had lived with, his grandmother had passed on) had much to say also, since he was awake and not patient enough to wait for a better hour. Interspersed with comments from his Appa and eventual awoken Amma _are there a lot of afro-people over there? I know about afros you know? They are not bad folk – I thought ill of one once but he was ok, Arnie. Lovely chap 'The Beast' really, despite my given moniker_. With his mother's often unexplainable and ill-controlled comments, Arnand loved to have talks with his father (I believe I have mentioned). Each was a lecture of sort but had the tones of a gentle and loving creature. His father, Murali, was a man who had reserved amounts of wisdom flowing through veins that had grasped and retained experience; but without a vent. Just slow moving, calm words that told stories from depths that no soul had gone to visit. The Inward Man. As if a power had cast a curse upon his verve. Only two spirits can do such a thing; a God and love. Delete appropriate.

It took half an hour to release Appa Murali, Amma Anita and the excited grandfather away from their nine hour end. There were brief comments to the wife (in English, she still did not want to speak Tamil, not even to the in-laws) and as Arnand's mother awoke there were a further ten minutes to repeat himself almost fully, minus the daily father-son political annotation. As he placed the white receiver on its white base, he breathed quickly and turned to his wife. Under a duvet and tucked in. A surprised scamper to his feet, the Tamil man smiled sweetly, picking up a floored green dress to place it on nightstand. Changing in quick time (withdrawing clothes and wrapping a _sarum_ around his waist) he joined sleeping Anu. On his back, under the duvet (just body and not his head) he moved into ritual staring - at the ceiling. Arnand smiled. He could not stop and if he did, he would just start again! Thoughts were passing through his mind that made him do so. He was in a position that he wanted to be in; lying next to his wife. Though she was asleep he was far from it and began to acknowledge his role in her life as her new man. He had to protect her, care for her and also understand her. This was crucial since she did seem like a complexity that he had to think carefully about when making decisions and approaching her. He needed to appreciate her and her every nature. It was not right in his own ways to expect her to be like he imagined she would be (an imagination extrapolated from his four week experiences of Anusha to date!). He needed to realise her individuality and be able to take it with a pinch of salt. God, Arnand and limited privileged few knew that this type of thinking could have addressed Arnand's parents' marriage. Turning his head he looked at Anusha's face resting peacefully on the pillow. _She had had a long day and was tired from all her walking._ Even though it was their first night as a married couple it did not bother Arnand that she was not up to making love. It did not matter – he was content with the indescribable feeling that he experienced by simply lying next to her.

### Murali (1)

(Mountain tales of the Worrior)

"Do you believe in yourself? This is the question you must ask because, son, if you wish to be in this fashion of your life then you must not question yourself other than to find out about your belief. It is critical that you know that this belief is that you will accomplish your achievement. Any other thought is irrelevant, you must believe and only then can you do this feat. Don't worry about your energy or your muscles or your fitness... you my son must believe that you can climb a mountain. If you cannot then you will not. I stand here to speak to you not in pride of your decision but in warning. Son, this I tell you out of love and knowledge because it is my duty to tell you this. As your father, you need to listen to my words and what I say: I cannot believe that you will pass this test and it matters not. Your belief is that which matters." The old man paused in breath. "On the scale of things you are nothing. Do you think that the people of the world look around and say 'Who is that boy with the silly hair?' Because they do not. They do their everyday activities and get on with their lives and forget about you. When I say nothing I mean you are nothing. Like a fly in a harsh wind. You are the fly. The wind does not care for you but you must care for it; otherwise you will be blown apart and lost." Yes, Murali thought. The analogy had quite the point to it since he was climbing a mountain. However, he did not have that much time for thought, he thought. "Your judgement is crucial. Your strength is crucial. But it is your belief that is vital to the mission. The mission of keeping your life is dictated by the belief that you have with yourself and in yourself. Do you believe in yourself?" The old man paused and Murali felt he may have to answer. Just like every other occasion where his heart pumped without delay within a break that he knew he could intercept if he had the gall to do so. He did not and the old man continued his rant. "My dear boy. My dear boy. You are a mystery to me. Of course you believe in yourself, otherwise you would relinquish this foolish idea of yours. A bloody mountain. From one death to the next; my father then I worked hard for you to get here to this land and you repay him and I by alleviating war for a bloody mountain." There was a one in one chance that the man was about to tell all unto the civil war back in his and Murali's native island. "Do you know what is happening back in Ceylon? The British and the bloody Portuguese may have left already but now we must deal with the stupid Sinhalese. Rascals. How dare they push me out of my country? Do they think we are Indian? I spit on this dust forsaken rubbish land. I would go back to the rich 'resplendent land'. Ta-Ta wanted it all for you and he had provided it for you. That bastard prime minister does not no a single shit. Fucking president bastard. The UNP have only one opinion that is to take that land and turn it into a theme park. A Sinhalese theme park. Tamils will be shot for hunting and if they like it, they will clean the rest room. I pray to my sons, your brothers for their safety but I know they would sacrifice this prayers for the good of Eelam. But this is why I will not tell you what to do. Because I am not a fascist bastard like Bandaranike. Do not get me started on JR," he spat, "one can make a film of his life and even his wife would not watch it. Dirty rascal. There will be a war. Prabakaran will see to it. I have faith – he means business when he talks. Action man. People say what will war do? It will ultimately free the rights of people. 'Sinhala only?' – my foot! We are not a minority, my dear boy. We are the majority... of Eelam. LTTE – long life! This is why we are here and Tamils are here. Even Tamils are moving to London and even Canada in America; where are the people's jobs? No jobs for Tamils because we have to speak Sinhalese." Murali's father spat once more. "I'm not speaking that dog language. Go climb the mount Pakora. When you come back you will be a man... like your brothers and, like those two, then you will know about fight. Freedom is at stake, my dear boy. Don't you know it?"

Usually, Murali listened to his father's ranting. This time he found it difficult. Disjointed.

...And besides, his head was hurting. Did he hit it at any point?

(HOLD! WAIT! But what significance is all this in relation to the worry man who is Murali? Exactly how does a man like he, get to climb a mountain? I, as a writer, pre-empt you, dear reader and all your questions!

...So then, let me attempt to explain...)

### Three Days Earlier

In his mind, Murali could taste the sambar. Savour the savoury. He could never fathom the draw of Kesari – a block of sugar, sugar and sugar. One taste. That's not enough! A good sambar along with itlee or dhorsai has plenty of variations. Soldiers, if you will, in the eternal war between sweet and savoury. Bigger army according to Murali; bigger army wins (although sugar has heart and heart always wins?). The weapons of variety. Savoury items have this momentum. What is in sweet? – the same taste every time. But, to those sugar lovers. The sweet tooth, is their really the need for another taste? As I said; heart. Murali imagined cracking one solitary crumb of granulated sugar using front teeth. _Death to the sweet!_ He noted thinking of moulded sugar; heaped on a teaspoon, hot water then cooled. For this Tamil man it was an excruciating effort not to think of food and the excitements it gave him. He queued at that moment. Three days before 'the lecture'. Whilst he queued he realised the certain fact that he would be nowhere near food for at least two hours. The sign next to him read, in three languages: 'Queue time two hours'. Considering the fact he had missed breakfast, this was hard.

He had walked down countless steps to set where he was (avoiding 13-15 year olds who believed everyday was Holi. Colour in hand ready to hammer any tourist/Indian who walked by). Murali walked a path that split from an irrigated field and was coming from the main road – and that's five miles in total. Add the weather (anything other than hot? Never, it's India) and that's eight miles at a comfortable temperature. So here he stood. In a queue that would not realise for two hours. With tourists. Always. They always came here. And it was tourist season. Summer/spring/autumn/winter – tourist season. White people with heads shaved. A new Hindu start to a Western life.

Sorry, should I rephrase? Pilgrims – not tourists. Pilgrim season. As they say. Fifty thousand of the blighters, from various parts of a Godly planet make the trip. To worship Gods plural. A handsome step away from the sight of one. Perhaps these pilgrims have turned up to see the wonder work of humanity as a species created by their one truth. These elephants, monkeys and what-have-you-not Gods are not really Gods. Admin. Think about it; one God may find it rather difficult to manage the many humans around the planet. It was a lot easier when there were just two; one man, one woman. Then there are the animals, weather etc. etc. One need's good admin these days for all walks of arbitration; humans, elephants, mice. Gosh! Noah must have had help! But, the assumption that I make on the **honest** pilgrim maybe too harsh. They visit everyday... not just holy days. These are in addition. Today was a normal day for young Murali and his problem was with the queuers; were they really here for what the temple stood for? Not admin; the lifecycle. Hinduism and humanity fused. No Christ, Mohammed etc. But Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva etc. instead. A cage of bodies in a giant squarey circle waited to complete themselves in Hinduism or 'just another notch on a silly belt'. A literal cage for queuing. A cage that wound forever in which Murali was right at the end, eyes on his _access token_ that tells the holder they are allowed in. The drive, the walk, the fasting. Why? Prayer and devotion. Unlike the tourists. He is why the temple is not an oath to hypocrisy. They come here to admire. Some come here to empty prayer, the process by which Murali's mind would tell you that their words float towards heaven only to be shielded from entry. It's what clouds are for; blocking fake prayers. Those who want, want, want. Once full, like the sponge, these white whisps release the 'forsaken' asks back to the earth via precipitation.

Whatever the Tamil believed he could only think for the present and to the point: he could hardly stand for all this standing. Draining nature was but moments from drained. His mind, though slowed, started moving into and out of zones – two strict ones. Remaining his usual self (zone 1) and the uninhibited self (zone 5; why 5? There must be in between zones, these we are unconcerned with). He was able to look at fellow queuees in the cage (did I explain well enough? The queue of people ran around the temple but each was not unsheltered. A tube. If facing the direction of play, to your right and ceiling; brick/mortar. To your left, thin girded iron makeshift walling. Enough to pass hands through. Murali was almost at its end, barring one or two new folk added in the space of my continuing description of a line of people). As he did so, the subtle cogs of his mind slipped two and from zones. Automatic clutch miss-control. The man endeavoured frustration, he felt he wanted to be seated but did not have the gall to do such first. Frustration point again; he was almost last in a queue of would- _bes_ when he was- _a_.

In front of him a woman spoke. "Oh my God, look at that boy." She said. A White woman whispering to an Asian man. She was frail of body yet plump of face. The man had about him a smug look; also with fair face and big, thick head of hair – doctor, perhaps? The lady in speaking was commenting on events outside the cage. The begging had begun, though in truth does never end, so never starts. She commented, in particular about a woman carting along a small, naked boy. Curled up. Head tucked into arms, faced down. There were flies swarming around his exposed bottom. The woman (young, maybe eighteen or so) pulled him along outside the security manned queuing cage hoping to collect profit from waiting tourists. She was not allowed (by men in moustaches) to get close to the metal frame, except only if a waiter (in the patience sense) brings money forth to slip between dividers. Our lady in White skin spoke more "Oh my God, Dins. Is he ok?" She asked this in knowledge that a doctor can diagnose a patient from two and a half feet. " He is fine." Dinesh responded in the knowledge that he can diagnose a patient from two and a half feet. "My dear, they are professional beggars. They take your money and live in their luxurious mansions and eat better than we do." And as the White lady sighed an expression of realisation+ (+NOTE: reader, pay careful attention to this word as it has astounding relevance to my chapters of Murali), Murali listened in, shaking his head in anger and staring sorrow into the boy. His little head was shaved and the skin on his back dry and patchy. The woman carting him had left him, approaching the cage. With moustache man/men in hiding, there was opportunity and at least Murali intended to give as much as he could. In his left trouser pocket: ten rupees. This was as much as he could; in his right sat fifteen rupees, the price of Archana and Poosai when he eventually got in to the temple.

The begging woman stood about six units away from Murali (units! The line snaked at a corner, families counted as one unit, couples also!). From the head of family one, she got not a glance. Family two, likewise. With these both units failed, Murali became nervous. Was he to be the first to present her with fund? A feeling at perception crossed him – his own perception, of himself. To confirm the excitement, he assessed the remaining units. Two old men (speaking, though not together) that he would call uncle if he had to communicate with; another family, a lone middle aged woman and then the smiting Anglo-Indian pairing. This analysis brought forward the bewitching result: the only unit likely of cash giving/beggar pleasing, was the lone, middle aged, skirt wearing lady. And when she did not, Murali's heart started to thump; how weak would he look, giving in to his pity and sorrow? There were men with their first born sons to consider: Murali the example of loser. The emotional rollercoaster of indifference moved him. Inwards. The woman was begging for money and this Tamil could only think of how he would look for giving it. A left hand handled paper in his pocket whilst energies sloshing inside him slowed at conflict. And with indecision, up and up panic went once more with the ever increasing closeness of a woman who had flies circling her dirty hair; she was communicating, in trial, at the penultimate unit. Opening his palm, Murali handled coinage also. Paper and coinage, about ten rupees in total... he let it go and withdrew his hand. An excuse seeking mind sent two brief messages; he'd have to pay for the temple to keep his footwear on rack and of belief in the doctor – was she really a 'professional'? No way! Flies in her hair and around the child's anus which happened also to be encrusted with his own shit... what's that; special effects? His mother/sister/carer had as much going on for her as the boy, both as scummy as each other. No pocket bulges containing keys to a mansion. No pockets.

Yet still, an inaudible voice in his mind persisted in the notion of handing nothing over; not even the un-princely sum of a few rupees. Both hands were now outside of material, holding only salty sweat, sliding almost free across palm and fingers. She moved onward in begging movement to face Murali. Stood direct to him, feet slightly apart, hands in prayer activity, eyes transfixed to his. He froze (although; 1 – flies swarmed her hair and _not_ snakes and; 2 – it was only his outer body that solidified, his heart and blood flow were doing the uppermost opposite, really).

'Give the lady some money.' A voice from nowhere! No, no. he had a location: within him, somewhere. 'Why not? It is no harm.' - Reason! So if our Murali could only move... I made reference to the Medusa; could she be her ancestor? Stranger things have happened (in mythology, that is). Deficient in movement, he could still see; usual light reflection and instant resulting form recognition all in tact... However... she realised Murali was a no earner. Murali realised he too was a no earner. The situation was diffused by her courteous, though defeated progress. Trains of thought blasted holes into young Murali before his pupils were distracted by a large (portly) gentlemen dressed in the cardboard brown of authority.

Was there any need for such force? He did not relent; dragging missy and flies back to the few yard occupation. She looked at him with distain yet no words were spoken. He, on the other hand was mouthing off liberally. She looked back to the boy on the cart who had not moved an inch bending down to stroke his back, glaring at the representation of power who moved backwards stopping a centimetre or two in front of the cage. He stood still and tall, using eyeballs to pierce. 'No more begging here, move on' said his eyes. Flies woman bent down once more, this time to pick up the tied rope to drag the bent wheels of the boy's cart. She stopped again, placed it down. Two girls, in passing from a nearby school approached her. No older than ten a piece, pig plaits, light blue sweaters, grey skirts and high up white socks. Both handed, in turn, coins picked rather carefully from two small, hand-stitched purses. As the woman with flies accepted, a third girl of similar age delved into her own money carrier, running/skipping few metres to the trio of females (plus one infant) just as the two original givers moved off, handing steel/nickel.

_Murali looked on._ Terror turning to guilt; 'it was just a beggar girl... why so angry?' He enquired of himself. He needn't have asked; this was the worrior Murali. Who had forgotten to eat and for a very long time. This morning of foodlessness had caught up with him and his ever questioning mind. Bloodstream filled with fatigued cells... exhaustion! He told himself (again) the event had passed and that he must concentrate on staying ready for prayer – conviction is the key to God's ears. Murali breathed out purposefully, trying not to notice a lady haul away a small boy. With them followed hot flies. Luckily, the cage ceiling along with time of day shielded himself from the sun (though it was quite warm); the Tamil man realised that he had well over an hour of queuing still to go.

***

Doctor, doctor: I feel like a frame. There you go then... What? "I FEEL LIKE A FRAME." Like _I_ want a frame. Get it? The joke was for poor Murali, anyway.

He leaned wearily against the brick wall side, as opposed to wire, of the queue cage (I am getting there in explanation!). Tracing the close history of the past twenty-four hours, Murali realised that he had not eaten for pretty much over that period. His only ingestion of product was a glass of water at 6pm yesterday evening in the presence of his mother who told her son that his lips were rather dry. Thanks to a broken down coach tour bus, the shop was busy and as usual, Murali worked through lunch surviving with a belly full of advanced tiffin. An ill Emil who could not make it in did not help matters, the brief trek home was in aid of passing finger food as cooked by Aunty Shanti in left over from her daughter's weekend puberty ceremony. Murali could have eaten some of these but as hunger affects most of us, it does not affect our Murali, until well in advance. Eat to live and do not live to eat, is the phrase... yet more than twenty-four hours is advanced enough. Indeed, whilst swaying (curiously) leant against man-made-God-inspired creation he dreamt of Madras famous chicken biryani – Aunty Shanti style. Finger foods were not her only ability.

A representative for the temple opened the door to which Murali had queued two and a half hours for, and stuck up three fingers. _Was that a 'W'? Yes! A 'W' standing for 'wait'._ The lone middle age woman now stood in front of our Tamil in question since she had let the Anglo-Indian couple ahead of her when the doorman previously stuck up two fingers. Tired Murali had not the energy to understand simple communication... W's were W's. "Problem?" The doorman/rep enquired which caused Murali to stare his counterpart. He sized him up and realised that reminder bells were ringing. Who was he? The highish hair line, curly and side-parted; thin moustache; the chest high posture (though stomach pushed shirt); eyebrows looking drawn on and; light, make up wearing skin... MGR! What was a famous film star turned super politician doing manning the entrance of this religious institute? Religious reasons, of course! A calling. The chief minister of Tamil Nadu was playing doorman for... _This is it. this day is special – I will be told by..._ maybe, even Muraghan! Right now, however, Murali appreciated MGR's nod gesture – to walk through the door and not to wait. "Thank you," Murali nodded back, looking and feeling suddenly perked. "Where is the hat and where are the cooling glasses?" As he passed through the door not waiting nor receiving a response, there was the feeling of puzzlement; why did MGR look like the darling that played leader's of men in hit movies of the late forties and fifties rather than the _el Dravida_ charger he had become?

Murali smiled and passed threshold to suddenly realise that MGR's face was intact... wasn't he shot there many moons ago? Make up! Yes, reader – he had little time to contemplate the reality check that MGR was in fact elsewhere and that his mind was playing tricks... _so the doctor gave him a frame – but not the picture to go with it..._ ah! Why no time? His stomach gave way. Finally. He had a crippling pain that he could only consult non-medical reference which told him to grab it and to scream.

At this point it would be expected that people should look at him. They did not.

Maybe everybody in the shoe exchange (that's where he had walked over threshold to encounter) were used to the weird. The wonderful world of the screamer. In the many years that proceeded the birth of this temple there must have been plenty of screamers. Say once or twice off peak, five times peak:

Ys = 40χ + 12p

Where:

Ys is the total amount of screamers in one year

χ is the amount of screamers per week, off peak

p is the amount of screamers per week, peak

The assumption is twelve weeks of tourist season (in truth, as mentioned, most weeks are like peak season anyway). This simple formula that looks as if written upon blackboard in any country, tallies many Ys and so many screamers per year.

Back to the issue at hand and not the issue of how many screamers – it was all about the one, present screamer. Murali. I mentioned the formula out of matter-of-factly type coincidence as there was a blackboard behind the gentleman taking shoes. It did not have a formula written upon it and it was waving.

Waving? Yes. Like a flashback is about to occur in a Kollywood/Bollywood/Hollywood[INSERT LETTER]ollywood film. I may have called it a blur but the thing was moving and it had changed/was a different colour. The blackboard was not black – it was orange. And when I say it was moving, well I should have also mentioned that the entire room was 'waving'. Let us review: the room is moving in short peaks and troughs (vertical) with semi-circular motioning... oh and, Murali was screaming.

He stopped to look around and notice what I have previously noted; nobody was interested. He even saw the middle age woman stroll casually away into the temple entrance. _Wait – what was that between her legs?_ This young, male Tamil was not in the business of staring at a woman's bottom or pin set and indeed his eyelids were not high enough for a more _upper_ look (did I tell you he was crouching? Screaming does that to you). Still, he was not staring at her arse – it was the _thing_ between her legs. This leaves only one option yet this lady wore a long black skirt that fit quite tight to a well preserved figure which Murali had not become aware of owing to nutrient deficiency. It was only now; he noted it. This, along with what popped its little head out from the open portion near her ankles.

Ah, but a head? No sir/madam... the opposite!

A tail! It was a tail! Red as well; almost to emphasise its mind of own. A small arrow pinnacled the tip and as the woman (or whatever?) escaped view into the temple-doorway-proper, the little red bugger zipped sprightly back up and invisible to the non-x-ray eye... "Aay!" Came the cry from the mouth of Murali; clutching stomach with left hand, other raised to an air grasping motion. Again, no soul responded (not even the deviless... should I have referred 'soul' to the demon?). Gathering strength from an unknown quantity, he straightened up and walked quickly to her slipstream. On reaching an almost, he halted. _Sir... What? No, nothing keep going, take the deviless down!_ "Sir! Shoes!" The cry came from away. His shoes; he must give them in, to walk on holy ground without humility in bare feet would be playing the deviless' (though no less a devil) game, but on **her** side. A mixture of hoping and stumbling aided the Madras resident in reaching the shoe bar. (One Bata heeled slip-on off.) Though Murali was in no right frame of mind to address his footwear, each was something of an odyssey. Up until then, shoe manufacturer Bata had made either slippers or shoes – never a cross between the two. These were a splice of the two types, no doubting. The pair were a novelty of creation; a push aside from the usual. Most of Murali's aunties and uncles had appreciated the product; sometimes holding aloft one of the two items in order to marvel at each one's soft leather upper, rubber sole and the ever so slight elastic under-ankle comforting stretch. A true new. "Wow, sir! Bee-you-tee-full slipper, sar." Murali was not in the realisation frame to correct him; too interested in chasing devils-no-less. Who would not? "Where you get this, man?" The attendant continued paying ill attention to his actual job, which was to take two items, some rupees too and in return give a numbered ticket placing the two things in a safe and marked rack. (Backroom rack; which spanned a conveniently sized area, meeting the temple's exit, where another attendant would explore the same wooden shoe-houses for the returns. Efficiency!)

The second Bata was off now and slammed onto the counter, accidentally for anxiety ridden Murali did not note the overexcitement of the temple worker. The man was not waiting for a response to his question as such, he was in Prince Charming fashion, examining crafted foot holders. Cinderella, however, was in a rush. "Ticket?" He asked impatiently. Still the man was emotionally unobtainable. "What sir?" A pause. "What?" Right back at him. No Pause. "You slippers..." was in English and now the switch to Tamil; "Your slippers. Where did you get them?" Yes, dear reader, this footwear recipient was very untrained in the pressing engagement of demons in dresses and their pursuers.. "Please can I have the ticket... token... quickly?" Murali slammed both coins and notes to the sum of around ten rupees on the counter. The orders he barked had snap but the delaying attendant saw the generous tip and decided against argument. Issued was half a stub of very yellow and very thin paper marked 80087. Three (yes, three) eights and an almost.

Inside the main temple the walls were made of an all new material. Jelly like... Well I lie. Cement/brick for sure; it's just that the walls were, waving.

Waving? Yes... we have been here before. Same rules apply. The colours for the items in young Murali's view have also been warped. Was it malnutrition or an affect of the underworld? Even idols were not spared – a curious blue in place of what should have been jet black. Walls, painted blue, appeared pink (and wavy, of course!). BUT STILL. Did any of the other praying and 'praying' individuals note the intensities? Colours, waves, Murali's anxiety and earlier cries... no. Not even the green borders encapsulating _things._

There were three doors to the room. The one he stood at, one to his left and one to his right. This latter had a glowing green frame as opposed to the dull green that satisfied all else. I'll say neon green but darker (all the waving affected the clarity). Stumbling Murali managed vague moves with his body in the direction of this door, hitting pink/blue wall to it's edge. The impact caused a sparkle colourama! Yet he did not care, since he had just entered a hallway big enough only for approximately three individuals standing side by side. Another door (I say door, but throughway is the more appropriate term) was opposite and it too had the dark neon green bold border. To Murali's right was a grand artwork depicting Muraghan in a tree. A rather garish oil painting/papier mache image; the tree and Muraghan protruding whilst all else was a background painting of scenery within a tainted gold colour frame. Ordinarily, this presentation may be given the pause for watch. Perhaps a reading of the legend containing the story of a cheeky young boy who climbed highest. However, as you may have gathered, this was no ordinary day and the picture moved... What moved? The boy or the tree? (Forgive me, I am so nonchalant!) Murali took a pigeon step and felt woozy. When one feels woozy, one looks to the ground; the natural human response to play out the height of one's feelings. So Murali looked down to the floor; which had pressed in from the force of his foot. Duly, he raised the sock-less body part and indeed, the concrete regained its prior solidarity. About to take a further test; was it just feet? He knelt down and _hey presto!_ more temporary indenting. If he wanted to get to the opposite exit (through which he saw nothing; darkness only) he have to traverse the wobble walk. Coupled with a now spinning head, a possibility crossed his mind; he was not going to make it.

With a no-less-than-devil in the midst of a holy shrine, what did this failure mean? Existence to non. Opposites. Life to turn inside out (is that an opposite?). Darkness would pillow talk the successfully sleeping light... then steal the duvet. Strangeness will become norm and likewise sanity; in. How will humans live with organs on the outside; with difficulty or like the norm it will have been engaged? Will cats become dogs? There were so many questions that were to be answered in the time it takes for the not-any-lesser-than-a-devil to complete her evil ruins in This House. Even fruit will fall from the sky.

What?

A piece of fruit had fallen beside and in front of Murali onto the sponge cement floor. Right next to his right hand (he was in crawl position now). _Which fruit?_ Is that really relevant? _Would you like hot or cold fruit?_ Muraghan called from his tree, in English. Curiously, he had the same voice as Murali had imagined once in his mind's ear at the age of seven whilst reading the picture's parable in the Harper-Gold 'Stories from Hinduism'. _If Murali was sent to talk to Him then exactly why should Murali give up? It only served further as proof of his need; his importance._ The twenty-three year old Tamil summoned up his greatest hidden energy, using it to crawl to the other end of the hallway and ending up half in, half out of the next room. The half in, included his head, which happened to house his eyes. With these he saw the black skirt along with something wriggling inside it... no, not something. Murali knew what it was. "YOU!" he shouted. She did not budge an inch from her view of Ganapathy in the form of a sculpture, encased shrine surrounded by forever glow candles. What did she want with Ganesh? An evil plan needs a beginning, Murali supposed leaning on door frame to his left. He almost buckled onto his elbow, so he overcompensated to the other direction. Reaching out to find security but only knocking over a copper indented picture of Hanuman. It fell next to him; who had fallen and rolled further from small height onto his back. Murali felt his bottom sink into the sponge. _Why are you trying to climb a mountain when you must follow me? We are carrying arrows for bows, you know?_ Hanuman popped out of his copper prison (though remaining copper, except for a rather furry tale... no, sorry TAIL) to jump on the fallen man's chest (delicately and un-impinging). For a millisecond; Murali envisioned the metal icon as a stuffed bonnet monkey. Though in taxidermy, the animals do not move.

Murali stared into the eyes of incarnation. It looked at him with the bold truth; he was being told to do something which, so far, he had failed to do. The incarnation faded whilst smiling, I might add, just as a gentlemen walked up to and knelt by Murali's side. He enquired as to his health, to which he received no response. A few others joined a party. They all discussed what to do next and it was in these precious few seconds that the Ganapathy seeking, no less-a-devil-in-a-black-skirt, entered the fray. _She was there to witness the end of a messenger/servant/particular-task-doer of God._ It was the perfect time for the last sermon in exhaustion. Murali rolled heavy onto his side and with very little thought (the conscious kind) thrust his left hand through and up the lower gap of her black skirt.

Ouch!

Yes, yes. The embarrassment. Dear reader, I know. Starve a man, especially the impressionable, and the stencil is changed. It may be temporary but this is all it takes to make a mistake. Temporary change. Not that I am completely ruling Murali out, she could very well be the devil (no less). Maybe she was a minion for the Opposite whilst our Tamil, for God. It could all be very well and true... the thing is, it just didn't _look_ good.

And so he was dragged to the corner of the temple room and character queried. Alcoholism? It was only the boy's pasty look and liquor free breath that saved him the drunkard treatment. He got off with a slap and more dragging/carrying activity to the temple exit where he was dumped upon dusty ground. Gathering some sort of sense, Murali got to his feet only for a familiar voice to step out from the temple confine and throw some footwear at him. It was the shoe attendant who was now not quite in Murali's awe. The bare foot Tamilian did not respect the event, not choosing to look back. Instead he focused his eyes on a nut and _piyasuum_ vendor situated but a few steps ahead of him. Food was a necessity, he thought whilst picking up his shoes. Actually each weren't shoes, and each were not his. Slip-ons, toe open plastic hold. Not even Bata brand. Without moving deltoids, he shrugged his shoulders mentally. The smell of sweet, sugary piyasuum. The stickles of savoury want had flown facetious coup. Food and energy, the man thought whilst he walked toward the stall pondering further now on the words of Hanuman who had told him about, or something to do with climbing a mountain.

Ah, so maybe **that's** what he is supposed to do.

***

A booming smile! That's all some people may offer. Those that have little to give but the friendly gesture of welcome. It is not actually hidden well, this fact; a smile can always be 'pokered'.

"Did you see this?" Theepan, call shop worker, Madras, looked up at the others with a look of intensity on his face. "Cow herders are getting better rates up north than they do here. It makes me sick."

"What?" Akilan replied having just placed a poster that was in his hands onto the call shop window. It read: Discount 10%. Big letters, black marker aboard white A3 size paper. "Of course people will be paid more than Tamils. The world hates us. We are cursed." To which Theepan vulgarised, in Tamil. "Bloody pussies."

With the exception of tourist bus breakdowns, as usual, the shop was quiet at its 10am start. The Chellam Call Shop, Bronze Road off Anna Salai. National calls and international, yet with the increase of the Indian phone network, the owner of the business, Murali's father, had to rely on the later commerce (which included getting his son to bribe coach drivers to 'breakdown' for an hour outside). With rising immigration rates and the 'existing' commonwealth; this was not the bad trade. Calls were made mainly in the afternoon and evening ('We are too far ahead, muchaan. Too many hours. The rest of the world needs her sleep!') and indeed Murali did think to ask his father about a later opening to the shop. Oh but his twisted, discipline ways; the young man thought better than to bother elder with a probable turn flat request. Why do it? Ruin the disguise of the blessing that was his own business to run, within reason, as he liked. As manager, he had in fact employed his closest friends, Theepan, Akilan and Emil as colleagues. The four were inseparable since the days of Madras State University; Akilan and Theepan having spent more than three quarters of their life spans in the company of each other. Murali came second close after being an inhabitant of Madras for almost ten years, and Emil, Moroccan born and raised, had only met the three others at the institute, aforementioned.

"Dai. Put a coffee on." Akilan shouted at Emil, in Tamil. Of course, the respondent had not the sufficient grasp of the language, especially as Tamil is a very fast spoken tongue. The Madras State University was an ALL ENGLISH educational solace which enabled the half Indian (Gujurat), Master Emil Korli Kofi, to attend. So Akilan repeated himself. "Put a _copy_ on, Emil, eh?" Were his words and although Emil had the only Tamil word of the sentence sussed, never-the-less, Theepan intervened trying to be informative and yet patronising "Say 'cor-fee', da. You fool."

And least say Emil ventured behind counter and entered a room at the privilege of employees. He placed out four silver beakers pouring coffee powder (straight from pot) into each. He cursed himself for not having 'switched on' the whistle blowing hob kettle. A rye smile, as was customary every time Emil made hot beverages, the memory of an interesting event, very early in his childhood.

[ _the yellow of the flame should be served as a warning_

but it never. It did adorn him

taking young Emil to the height of curious

a pot of water, above, boiling furious

young Emil tip-toed to reach for the heat

_a singe of sixth finger; example never to repeat_ ]

Looking at the scar at the knuckle on his left hand's baby finger, the small beam grew into the inner area of his cheeks. This curly haired gentleman would never say much, but if a picture is a thousand words, then Emil's actions were a thousand pictures. All detailing what his emotions were feeling at the very point in time. Ambivalent each were now for, and very understandably, he missed his homeland of Morocco... though, ever so slightly since Madras was rich with acceptance which was drastic to his previous life, the Boy Kofi; a subject of rejection. _Hey boy Kofi. The Gold Coast Black Child. What you doing up North? Why are you here? Go back home._ Hate and put downs and for what? He had never been to Ghana and he was not dark skinned. The only source of acceptance were the returns of his sailor uncle; the import /export man. He imported rice (and when in season, the blue mango) and exported red pepper and cous cous. At age ten, Emil learned that uncle Quarmi's favourite port of call for his in-bringing product, was Kandla, Gujurat. Picking up the finest rice the world (Morocco) would ever see. With first mate, Paulo Contra, the two were inseparable seafarers with the supreme talent of leaving harbour before all else and arriving back, again, before all else. The two had the ability to sell, sail, retrieve and return at a pace surpassed by no other to and from the North African shore. It would have been that the literally undercutting Quarmi (from tax book copy) should have been banned from therein. A versatility in cargo (not on tax book copy) proved an immunity from such threat. The almost banned Quarmi would almost reach within himself to pass away any advantage that he held over a competitor, letting trader have his sale, at his terms. You see, the banned Quarmi and first mate Paulo Contra, were not always in the same market as their merchant brethren. (Kandla to Tangiers by boat? Never at pace and completely unprofitable! It is not as if Moroccans could not make their own rice... innocent Emil knew/knows less than he thinks.)

With holder, Emil brought the four hot drinks into the shop front. Theepan, Akilan and Murali took their share; the latter two shimmying back to stool perches whilst the other half of the quartet stood. "Hey, no bubbles, muchaan. Did you making this proper, maiyt?" Theepan queried, using the curious phonetic pronunciation of the word 'mate' having encountered the phrase right there in the shop, three months ago from a pair of conversing Englishmen. By making coffee 'proper' one needs to pour an already made hot drink into an empty container, then back again into the original cup, repeating several times to cool the drink down whilst the action mixes thoroughly. This produces bubbles. For aesthetic purposes, the higher apart the two cups, the better; more skilful. Theepan caught a shrug of the shoulders and let out a disappointed (but he was smiling) sigh.

"Hey, is it not time for your wife to show up, huh Murali?" Akilan spoke, raising eyebrows simultaneously, twice which made his reference cringe with subtlety until Murali's eyes did blink, delayed. "Come on Murali! Where iss she?" Theepan added to the goat... To whom were the pair referring? Murali had not yet involved himself in matrimony. So yes, it was in jest. A female caller was a lady known by the name Diana (pronounced _Dynaar_ ). She was due to set foot in the premise, as she did everyday at around 10.30am. In she would walk. How? By placing a feeble hand up, pushing glass door using shoulder via palm. Dynaar looked down at the floor, approaching counter picking at her purse.

With regard to her ensemble; she'd never wear a sari. On almost everyday of her entrance, and that is, _almost,_ not that the Tamilans of the shop would know/notice, each outfit she wore was part of a strict rotation policy. Her waist down was one of three ankle length black, grey and black/grey check skirts. For footwear, one of three standard black, Bata flip flops. In her cupboard were sixteen button up blouses (which she wore buttoned up), these were changed daily when worn. To go through the colours and the patterns would be a pain, so the suffice, I say; all were either plain, or an easy, ordinary pattern of some kind. No pain for plain. Indeed her facial features were in this clothing vicinity. Hair fully tied back with no loose strand of seduction, plated neatly, triplets in one thick pigtail. The hair type? – a very dry and lifeless texture and although the colour was black, it was not the jet black associated with vibrancy. Dull is **a** and in this case, **the** word... Face always forlorn. No smile. Nervous interactions. The only form of attraction she exuded could have been her cuteness in shyness. I am clutching here; the lowest common denominator. It all could have been boosted by the ounce of prettiness.

"I don't farcking know, boyce." Murali spoke whilst breathing out and walking behind the counter to collect a broom. On most visits, Dynaar would avoid Murali at the front desk; and when she did make link, there was the obvious increase in nerves and stutter stutter. She always ordered the same thing. Every single day: fifteen minutes, nation call. On entering the booth she would dial. Inside, she would not talk much, at least, not move her mouth, wave hands or other characteristics of chatting. Maybe a few mild jerks. The real constant was the long and continuous stare out from the glass booth (the shop were the only glass vestibules in all of Madras) to the same Tamil shop worker/co-owner. If he looks backs, for any reason, away of gaze. She practically paid to stare outside of a window. (I suppose, on very silent days, her heart beat could be heard.)

"Hallo. F-f-fifteen minute." She spoke looking at Murali's broom. The reply: "Ok, Dynaar. Cow are you? Nash-tion-nul cal, yes?" Her left hand touched her own right. As did her feet; right foot flat, left stabbing metatarsal areas. "Yes." One word for both questions. Or was it ignore one, reply other? Whichever, she collected receipt and went to her regular business...

Did you hear that reader? 'Regular.' Sometimes when one is quite in the middle of other things thoughts start to infect distraction. And... it was at this point, having been stirring over a decision ever since Tirichi temple, Murali thought: _the days did the same. Came and went. At night the ceiling fan spinning was the only sight to be stared at, since closing one's eyes was the prelude to sleep and sleep was too difficult to get. In this life, their was most to be had by Murali; he had what most wanted. And the streets of Madras were filled with those wanting something. The something of better living._ Indeed, these types of thoughts kept Murali awake for many hours (or was it the fact that he was awake keeping the types of thoughts, for many hours?). _If all had what all wanted, how would it all work?_ New political structures mesmerised the Tamil that were based on communism. _N_ _o need for the poor,_ flowed through the brain that was the worrior (as opposed to a warrior). _A Maharajah state kingdom full of nothing but peace, sharing, caring, love, happiness, health and above all; monkeys._ Monkeys? Each say somethings... mountains!

Murali stopped sweeping. Racing brains make chasing talk. Putting the broom propped against wall, he faced his associates (as well as Dynaar, who had exited booth for technical fault reasons). This lady, Emil, Akilan and Theepan almost stood to attention; on typical time none broke the sweeping Tamil's stride before. They were positioned at four points in the shop front as if separate entities holding fort for territory (one with a top of the foot itch). Even coffee drinking was paused for the announcement.

"I am going up Pakora." Four looked up with surprise at the statement. One, Emil, responded with a more quizzical look upon his face. "Wait... What? Are you hungry?"

### Anita

(On being famous in Bombay)

### On Agents PART 1– starring the Ascended Anita!

### Co-star: Chunners

Pisces... remember Pisces, woman!

Do you get nervous when you have sex? Reader... huh? Differing values between men and women; arguably, it is quite potentially more damaging for men. You know? Crude as I might sound and a taste of things to come for this chapter but, – getting it up and stuff! Then again, my gender is the aggressor. More verve, more performance! (Whether that be quality included or not.) From the aggressor to the equal yet opposite role of the shy. This would be women. Of course, _they_ get scared! It is a built in nervous trait. In fact, nervous is the understatement and excitement is also a factor. Forgive my obvious introduction, but a usual tale is of the fair maiden wanting desperately to please her knight so... Anita did not always have that problem. She was nervous, however, for it was the first time she was to have sex...

...on camera.

She sat tense and compressed on the edge of a chair that along with a dresser were the only items in the apartment room. Sweaty. At half an hour ago, the electricity had cut off; now restored. The fans had only been on for the approximate five minutes. What effect this had on the needs of the electrical crew in the other room was unknown (electrical crew being the lone camera man). Her sweaty thumb made a moisturise print upon the flimsy paper that she held in her left hand. Details and such. A little admin in the daytime. The paper claimed that she has no _problems_ that is, illnesses. All according to a doctor at a Tuesday clinic working in tandem with Madras State Hospital, or 'Arse-Pee-tel' as her mother would pronounce it. Indeed, she never attended. Not a prick in the arm nor pee in the cup. Just cash and done!

Good job really since it was a far, far away from Bombay. That and the fact that a girl of her caste should not be seen in a place like that. Poor people go to that 'Arse-Pee-tel'. Not a rich woman like her. The problem was; there was no way of getting a certificate of disease clearance from a rich 'Arse-Pee-tel' without her parents finding out she had got one (not even in Bombay...? She'd never risk it anyway, why bother when her agent could sort it all out for a fee). If they did find out... my God! The only explanation for her doing so was 'Amma, I am trying to fuck every director in Bollywood so that one will make me lead in his next shooting. If I give one of these suckers hepatitis, syphilis or even a bloody cold then I wont get any part now will I?'

Normally the scheme of things in this and most Hindustani pornography, she would not need a certificate (if indeed something of this sort existed at the time). Since: directors fuck anybody. This 'movie' was not normal. A) Americans were in town to shoot the scenes; this was not an Indian production. A fellow called Adrian Mews decided on travelling the known world with camera and... ahem, tripod for reasons of the obvious and not so obvious. He brought with him more Americans also. And B) She happened to get this 'part' through a screening process (lots of photos of the naked kind) whereas usually her agent, Chaminder Vaas, would set her up on dates* with directors or other important/rich people (established and up-and-coming). It was sex after which a role for her, usually as a dancer. Now, as she sat pondering it was the reverse – a role, then sex! However, she had ambition and like many craved the chance to move on and make a grade. (*See also the example of _off agent_ application.)

Many of her friends and mentors had informed the young starlet that the Way you get into the talkies is by starting off in pornography. This was the _American Way_. Yamini Chandra (or 'Chunners' as she was known to her friends) told her this. "Girl," Chunners started every speech with this word. "I'm telling you this because you are my sweetie. If you want your place in Bollywood fame then you must do this show. Charmy [that's Chaminder Vaas] has set you up and you need to deliver to him the commitment wal-yous [values] of your amm-bitions. I shore vill." Chunners was a fellow student at Mumbai University, freshman year. The both of them (along with a few friends) were only attending because their parents were rich. They could afford to be there and elongate their single lives before either a dazzling actress career or marriage; whichever came first.

So, the important point to note in the fledgling actress career path: _They all_ fucked directors. Actors. Writers. Students posing as the above. Lecturers posing as the above. It was always regular and had to always have a purpose. It was never sex for free, always a purpose. A movie part the main aim but every so often when the monthly parental given allowance would run out, a payment of some kind would be a necessity. Right now, however, it's a mixture. Payment and a shot at Hollywood (that's correct – not Bolly or Kolly). In crude suggestion; it is also a shot (or a few) from Hollywood. (Apologies, really, I could not help it!)

"Hey baby, you're on. You ready?" Adrian Mews opens the door without leaving time for Anita to respond to his knock. "Wow, you look amazing. Really Hot." Yes she was; wearing a green silk sari with gold tailored ends. It was more of a formal dress rather than something somebody would associate with a seedy sex film. The gold tailored ends told of an extra elegance – it was 'making an impression at a party wear'. It certainly was not porno gear.

"Th-ank you." Anita reciprocated. More nervous feeling but the kind she had a grip on. Anxiety and waiting is not a lady's hotspot. Now she had a focus. She knew she had to focus on the reality that this was sex; only sex. There were cameras but then in the mind's eye there are always cameras. Cameras that view you from the side and above. Like every woman; Anita loved to fuck with her eyes closed. It was not only to aid visualisation (those mind eye cameras) but also for concentration. The blessed art of grasping the female orgasm. The wow. Due to the inward postulation of the vagina, Anita (like every woman – yarn!) homed her 'plenty tiny little explosions' by becoming within herself. All the different muscle contractions along with the eye closure were a shutdown of useless senses i.e. four useless senses. The fifth; feeling or touch, was the soul of orgasm. The point where one does not realise a thing but the moment one is in... the true meditation.

A sudden wave of enthusiasm engulfed the scared... a little like enlightenment from breathing exercise. Well, nothing like that really but Anita did have the following thoughts; the Indian men of her college and the others she had had nocturnal encounters were not that good ( _'nocturnal'_ – is that too romantic?). It would be a total and utter lie to suggest they were all bad lovers; some were worth, and pause for yet more crudity; an entrance fee. It's just that Indian men rivalled the selfish nature of the Indian female (strictly speaking, Anita was not of Hindustan origin, but she was Brown skinned and in India. Not quite Roman; but in Rome, none-the-less). This is the propeller of repulsion. North to North, South to South. They will go together but it has to be forced. If sex to a man is the reach of orgasm then he is a North. A woman is a North as standard, yet without definition (and a woman will not need definition). So men should always try to be South; to concentrate on the female orgasm – not the male. The men on set right now are professionals. Professional Souths.

So Ani was led with her glamorous sari to the set, which was simply the next room. The living room. Sofa and all that. Very nice lighting and probably the reason why the electricity cut previous. A man named Adrian walking to his position behind camera. Wow! A camera and she did not have to dance a set routine. Well, that is naïve but to the strictly choreographed, there is more freedom here. Hollywood beckoned. For the time being and before her counterparts arrived there were no others there; just lovely her and her director... Just the **star of the show**!

And don't forget, yaar – PISCES!

### Off Agents PART 1- examples starring the charismatic Chunners!

### Featuring: Anita

"It is a pillum about... gun raiders who find out that the fucking biggest weapons supply iss... in the grounds off a temple. In-whiting[inviting], yes?" A chequered shirt wearing young man told. "Pantastic." A brown polo t-shirt wearing older man replied. He looked tired but still enthusiastic enough to muster a crinkly smile. Bright, it was. "I will bringing the script oh-wer first thing in the morning." This sentence was a mixture of Hindi and English. He needed sorely to practice his English and should do ahead of other meetings he may have. This one, was not so important "No I cannot take it so early in the morning." Brown t-shirt (in Hindi, complete). "I am surprised to be here now; my shifts are too bloody late at the Blue Mongolian. I get home, I sleep and wake to go back to the bloody place."

The Blue Mongolian being a nightclub/discotheque as built on to the hotel Royal Montague building in 1980. Inside; a large black and plastic floor scattered with sequins, though glued to the ground. Hand rails divided a seating area around the edges from a central dance floor. The bar ensured the break up of a fully symmetrical system along with a steel staircase; this latter pathway led to yet another bar and dance areas, though these were somewhat darker and secluded for activities of the sordid kind... the place being a lovechild of American imports it judged the semen of a Carlitos Way joint spliced with the fertile egg of gypsy Bombay. The one important contrasting note was that the Brown people of this land fucked in the main areas of a club whilst the White people of the other land did it in the toilets.

"Cleaning fucking sperm and vomit until seven AM, yaar. Bloody savages." Brown T continued, yawning. "Oh shit. There will be a big protest today, how do I get into work now? People will throw bloody things at me. Sister-fuckers. They will block the front so I will go in through the rear... like a bugger. A bloody bum taker, yaar." He spoke to the chequered shirt though this man did not seem interested. Another hot day in Bombay – the hot air makes people very self-centred. "So when can I bring it to you? I want a final edit. You have the ideas, man. You know how to spice things up. It must be tomorrow; we have to start auditioning [ _chi-ching!_ ] next week." Chequered shirt was racing miles ahead of himself; not even a producer had been lined up for his debut picture. He based timings on an old friend and mentor who had told him that once a script was written a film can be completed in six weeks. Chequered shirt had things to do in seven. "Auditioning? [ _chi-ching!_ ] But, yaar..." This angered our chequered friend. "All I ask is you read the script add your two rupees and hand it to that producer [ _chi-ching!_ ] fucker at the club. He will sort it all out because it is such... such... a powerful script. Auditions [ _chi-ching!_ ] will be next week." There was a pause with silence. A philosophical look befell Brown T. "Ok. Ok. Sorry, man. You are hard man." Back to the English language. "You will surwive in this fucker bizness, yaar."

The conversation went on and Chunners got annoyed. Yes the weather was hot and dry but she was being made to wait by a night club worker; i.e. somebody of a lower class. A resentment engulfed the lady towards his brown blue collar and even questioned his honesty having searched for his face in mental pictures of trips to the Blue Mongolian. Chunners could not know every person who worked there; she hardly went. She would admit that the place was exciting to a degree but it was full of to many non-reals. That is, those men who put the talk on her yet have nothing else but a gifted tongue to offer (no reader, no crudity here!). Those men who have not the life to back up their imperfect imaginations. In fact, more than their descriptions, she saw through their actions as well as last straw; their eyes. If behaviour was not obvious, Chunners could argue that a man's eyes were always the easiest definition to passion. Chunners, along with her four closest friends (or colleagues, or confederates or, even, co-stars), knew that a successful man has passion in his eyes. Crucially, this passionate gaze should be to a man's concept and not towards his female counterpart. That is, his film, his celluloid photography via mental photography. A passion shown in a man's eyes whilst he views his mind' eye.

Of course, for every budding director there are fifty fakers. Fifty flirting fools to push to one side with, undoubtedly, that teasing nature in-built within most (if not all) women to play on every dirty hormone swimming within the male species. In the contrast, with the real deals (or potential realer dealers); this quartet had figured long ago that although the immediate satisfaction (that would be watching us men 'squirm') is good payment, it is in fact _not_ good payment. The stunt of intrinsic swish-swash-testosterone-cash flow was not a must for the flow of real, hard currency. You scratch a hormone and you're on the right track.

"Hi. What iss your name?" A suited suitor at the Blue Mongolian would inquire. Cheshire grin; exposed cash (in breast pocket an American dollar bill or an old five pound note, the kind not in circulation the more). Chunners is equally deft in move – shoulders back (to emphasise chest), head at tilt, lids as up as can be (to emphasise eyes). All this and for the initial drink. The first impression. These type of guys try it on any girl in the place; they would know to spend minimum one drink. It is factored into account costing for the night. Marked off into the red before the black ink has even dried.

"And who would like to know?" She'd reply floating one hand with finger stretched and stroking the highest hairs, poking outside of the Monetary Representative's collar. To this question the respondent has three replies. The first; his name only. The second, something witty. These two methods of converse prop are both ways of showing Chunners exactly how little real money and, subsequently, prospect the gentleman had. The wit may bespoke a little laughter but it would serve merely to delay the inevitable: the rejection.

Anita and the others of Chunners' gang (strictly speaking, it was not her gang, but then, these are her examples) would turn up within five minutes to ponder openly yet discreetly the validity of this new entrant. Chunners would give two vocal signals; 'Hi guys, this is [insert name].' After which the gang would fashion excuse and operate a rescue act to remove Chunners from the scene ('it iss a girly night out... ta ta darling' etc). Of course, if Chunners had been given the interest spinning third reply, she would have an entirely different vocal signal: 'Hi guys, this is [insert name]. He's a [insert title].' Which is almost mimic of the man's option three; responding to Chunners' query with his name **and** an occupation.

The difference? If a man is clearly with a passion in what he does; this shows in his introduction. First impressions are gold dust (although, in India, gold dust is quite easy to find) and an impression must include what a man does because that is a man; what he does.

Fickle. Fickle. Superficial. Well really? As hypocritical as would verse we are all very much like this. Women to the money as man to the beauty (and it is not as if Chunners is ugly). You see, a woman works with what she has got whereas a man works with what he will get. That is, from these examples; fame/money is accrued from men who want the beauty/sex. As we move back to the original setting of the café Padups, Bombay; we will see that Chunners needs to use intelligence as a _more than_ beauty/sex to get what she wants. Which for the moments was some kind of role in the upcoming movie _Lost Raiders in the Temple._

"Can I help you?" However, it was he who needed the help having completely lost himself to doom in the bosom of Chunners. Many men have been so. She had bent down to pick up files she had dropped on purpose by his table. Previous, Chunners had waited patiently for the opportunity to do so having entertained via eavesdropping the moans of a night club worker/wannabe producer. Of course, if she had to work two men, she would have but one was ideal. It iss better – otherwise; _too much pushing and shoving, yaar._

Never to get away with the low cut top she wore during the walk from campus to café, she had buttoned up her white, virginal cardigan. It was let loose once she was seated (by a mere three buttons). Even in the heat of Bombay she needed to wear the cardi! Who knows which principal of you know who's campus could have been walking into view. Whilst actresses like the much coveted _Shania Prania_ could walk the talkies wearing a gold and glitter boob tube and a hiked black skirt to show off those tubby, chubby legs (Oh sexual! The freedom of the actress is so exquisite and tempts the ordinary female with want). Chunners, apparently, could not.

Yes, there are moments when Ms Prania is shy and coy but this image of her was eclipsed with the 1980 smash Duplicate Disco. Like John Travolta all over again, except a fairly round Indian as opposed to the athletic Italian American. A swinging stride to a blistering M. S. Shurgan soundtrack of mridangam and tabla in scintillating rhythm as opposed to the Bee Gees and their twanging electrics.

"No, that is fine." Chunners replied looking flustered; the perfect way that she could. "No. Let me help." Was the reply. And so she was. Chequered Shirt bent down to pick up the files along with one textbook, Celluloid Almanac 1983, that she (yes, on purpose) did not attempt to herself. "Oh you are studying pillim? I did not know that there was such a course." And no there was not such. No Film Studies 101 at Mumbai University. He handed her the volume, she placed it flat with her files across her chest. He noted she had brown eyes and in her previous bent over position her untied whilst seated hair had flopped gracefully around the sides of her head; in fluffy but not flirty bounce. Low cut versus clean cut. Chequered Shirt was intrigued with what he saw, particularly the way she freed a hand to brush both clumps behind her ears. At a guess, clean cut, he'd say. "Yes. I... I... am trying hard to study but I am also an actress, you know?" She maybe could have delayed this, all the earlier waiting perhaps distracting her technique. Of course, in motion, it was obvious and required little thought – for a woman to seduce a man is an easy thing; all that is required is a motive. The man sitting at Chunners' left replied "that is a coincidence... I am a director [ _chi-ching!_ ]."

There he said it. Not that he had already made a film and Chunners knew this – but he had the confidence to suggest who he was or (more likely) who he was likely to become. This accounts for all of a man, a man who is, or at least, is _going_ somewhere. At this point, lights in Chunners' mind blinked on

### Off Agents PART 2– starring the acute Anita (with the rebellious Rahini!)

### Co-starring: Jorhnase, Chunners and Deepti

Whilst sitting patiently as Adrian Mews fiddled with his camera, Anita thought back to her first day on Mumbai University campus. This day, she reacquainted herself with Chunners for the first time since the end of the high school term. It seemed she was smaller than ever yet having bigger breasts than she ever did. A growth spurt? So late? Her very talkative and demand for attention nature continued where it had left off; dragging fields of light from reflecting off items in their shared dorm room towards her small self. Still, as the initial incessant (and even corrosive) tales slowed and filtered through Ani's (if I may be so bold) mind she caught the important part. The part that she could use for her. You see, Chunners knew somebody who knew how.

How: the mathematics of Anita would require very little in the way of pure, true hardcore processing. Trials and errors math. For like quadratic equations – the answer is already known. The sum of Anita's efforts equalled her desire to be an actress.

0 = 2x + 5y + 5w... (you get the picture)

Zero was home and the ability to show the world her own self as playing the many characters whom would be written for her. To get to zero, however, she needed to figure x, y, w... and the rest.

Up until now, she had been trying. By feeling her way through darkness. Even on her first day of the great university delay ( _no marriage please, I need an education_ ) she was reaching out in blindness. Walls and impermanent obstacles were touched before rounded. Courtyard, hall, corridors and dorm room all fumbled through. Light switches were searched for but none found. And as despair reached out with Ani willing to take a hand, any hand, the charismatic Chunners stepped in! She offered her own tow; 'grab my palm and I will guide you.' To whom? 'The elder.' The knowledge cover all.

Flick!

Went the light in the room travelled to from the corridors of darkness with only the guide to trust. Literally blindly. She may have walked with one hand in Chunners' and the other over her eyes. Which she took away upon entering the new room; filled with light. In which were, including Ani and Chunners, four girls. The duo are joined by another set of dorm mates (but not room mates); Deepti and Jorhnase (pronounced YOUR-NAY-SS). Each share this same dream of zero = actress (and _not_ to pass the degrees of Mathematics, English Language, Mathematics and Physics respectively). To be the new Shania Prania; gold glitter inclusive.

And suddenly the room goes dark. To two of the four new faces at Mumbai University; Ani and Jorhnase. This happens on acceptance of the fact they would be moving on once more. The torch holders lead the way (Chunners and Deepti) with a hand behind each practically dragging the blind two. More corridors and even staircases. Very difficult under the circumstances! Then from total blackness to a blurred vision. What can Ani see? A door to yet another dormitory room. With a knock, an entrance and a place to dwell each; all are restored back to normal, healthy vision. (In truth, dear reader, they need not eyes to see; but a person to paint an image to believe!)

Deepti's older sister; Rahini, is the one to do such. She had invited these new girls with the potential and drive as hand picked by freshman Deepti. Being pen pals with Chunners (family friends of friends of friends at a Bombay trip a long time ago), the latter did all the work and came up with Ani (the high school friend) and Jorhnase, a girl she had met in the courtyard spying initially a binder folder wallpapered in a black and white magazine cut out of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers posing in mid dance as they have so typically done. Rahini's invite is to her talk on what young minds do find music. The 'How To Get Into Bollywood' verbal speech; version Rahini One (R1). The speech is sectioned.

ONE – Find a man. NO – NOT ANY MAN (Rahini was adamant). A man who has importance: a director, an actor, someone IMPORTANT.

TWO – Importance is relative. Also, you do not need a famous important. In fact, the more famous the more difficult it will become to fulfil your ambitions. Find an aspiring man to take you with him to the top. Men with scripts and contacts, yaar. You make whoopee with him and you will get a part. Then you move up, ditching him if necessary.

THREE – DO NOT FALL IN LOVE. No matter how pretty his eyes or how sexy his two day face prickle... or even, quite plainly, how good his little penis feels. DO NOT LOVE HIM.

And so the speech went on. Rahini aloft on the perch of her bed whilst her four students sat crossed legged and starry-eyed on the carpet beneath her. She rattled on for the hour and half; four preened and pressed girls looking up at their tutor each imagining their selves within the story of the speaking other...

...Jorhnase, the tallest of the four by a foot was also the shyest. Her mind was fascinated and envious of the attitude displayed and the words of Rahini... could she herself do the things she was hearing? She imagined addressing a director. Say his name is Bohnsel. M. R. Bohnsel. She made an impression; they went to dinner (Camel Tallusk Eat Out; with crème estacia dessert and coffee), after which he walked her home. Delightful conversation all the way, skipping down the Kings Road, past all the motels that align the strip and scenery. Then onto her door; he asks 'May I come upstairs?' and she says 'Just for coffee?' and he says 'Of course, just coffee.' (For the purpose of imagination she omits the potential hazards and downfalls which are escorting a non-university related male past the front gate and onto and up the female dormitory area.)

And upstairs, she pushes him onto the double bed (which was two singles combined thanks to new roommate Jhoyti's transported woman act). Director M. R. Bohnsel is all hers. While he lays down and looks up in puppy dog fashion at long legs (longer via black high heels) creating an Anne Bancroft sharp arc 'Would you like me to _seduce_ you?' she mimics raising eyebrows. The lustful director loses sight of his actual directing job and responds. 'Would you like me to _produce_ you? Is that what it is?'

Yet in reality, Jorhnase would likely have fallen far short. She was more the lady who falls for every man who shows interest. A heady, dizzy love with zero, unattached sexual charge. At twelve, her cousin Andrade who was sixteen at the time told her that he thought her pretty. He later retracted the statement when he realised the girl was only three quarters of his own young self. The next three years of Jorhnase's life were spent in a day dreaming land of daffodils, hand holding and forever markings, not to mention the 'I'll run away with you and be happy.' Please realise that many of her textbooks were covered with the paragraph sentence:

Andy

4

Jorns

' _75/'76/'77_

The no-love-strings sex bits of what the girls had to do according to R1 would be particularly difficult for this one.

***

Over the next few month, the four put plans into commission. It was suggested (by Rahini) that they worked on group projects due to individual efforts that may fall short and affect confidence. She continued that in order to get a feel for the male species it was necessary for each to associate with one. Both Chunners and Deepti were exempt from immediate focus since they both were non-virgins. Anita and Jorhnase were automatic frontline. Generals C and D were to following and attack from the back and to be used only for auxiliary and authority (which meant, for their own kicks). The task that commander R had delivered was simple: fraternity 'Indigo Boys' were holding their annual freshman party. In two words: hook up.

The Indigo Boys were not just an ordinary set of male pupils. No, please strike that from the record – they were. Sex and frolics were all they embarked upon. Surviving within the university years using a supply to lecherous professors with the delights that they themselves had feasted on previous. In one word: pimping.

However, they were merely part time pimps; part time survivors. Father's cheque books/authority had each safely staying and crucially passing college credential. Carnal desire did drive their motion and it was parties that provided the fuel. With the normality of India being sex as dirty until cleaned through marriage (domestic household chores are even given new light!) unless vented through one other access point – the groupie. This is always the excuse for sex; for infatuation is as good as love in a woman's eye. Or _it doesn't count if you were fooled into it._ Whatever the excuse; groupie love is A-Ok. The agenda of marriage sex is to procreate whereas the agenda of groupie decadence is also to procreate and again it is a life. Except, the forgery of a life from the one that exists in the groupie. A fake world, if you will. The grouper, to take advantage of his power and the groupees' is to believe she is going somewhere.

All ladies to the Indigo Boys were groupies. They all knew that. No misinterpretations there. They had their own version of Commander R telling them the crack. Groupie love would be all they'd get; particularly at the Indigo Boys parties. Love should not be nor could be found; any one woman Indigo Boy would be expelled from the posse. The philosophy was backed with powerful reasoning; why would a man wish to be with just one when he could have many? Again, particularly at an Indigo Boy party, like the 'Freshman Decade 80' of 1980. All groupies waiting for there step into a search for fame; whether it be Indigo local or there-she-go national. Again, whatever the groupie motive, the grouper was obliged to take advantage. It is in fact rumoured that the efficiency of the Indigo Boys was second to none; every member since the party just labelled had seen action at every event including and since. Furthering the assault that if you were male and at a happening then you will get laid. If you were female, then you had to give it up.

The harsh nature of such rhythm could be hard to believe if it were not for the Indigo Code. An example:

Directive 115

No Peta* is to be forced against her will to a Clash**. She must be full consent and in knowledge of the activities she is to engage.

*Peta = female

**Clash = Party/event

(...Please note: spelling and grammar have been edited (oh yes), a reminder that money and power creates places on campus – not achievement...)

Many of the members have felt for the endearment of a scruple that does not seem a necessity in mentioning. Their reputation was so far tarnished/immaculate that every girl who was invited only needed to hear the colour indigo and they knew exactly what their suitor had in store for them. It was as easy as that! – saying one word in sorting the women from the girls.

So the crucial thing was – any groupie needed an invite and exactly how they were to do such was as easy as Rahini had told them. Set a trap with bait and reel in a party! It was how she had 'succeeded' and from there she had become a seasoned regular. Invited to all Indigo Boys events. She had learnt the benefits of pleasing the right people, whom were the current set of leaders within the fraternity. Rahini had not been retired as an object to those who inherited the reigns of the chapter and this was due to her hard work on her appeals and equal vigour with the elimination of her weaknesses. As far as India was concerned, Rahini really did have the side of perfection; in her looks as well as manner. Pretty, correct physique (not too slim, not too fat, not too toned, toned in the right places), a complexion to dream over (light skinned, flawless from head to toe), out going when she needed to be and shy and timid when she had to be dominated. It was all there in the five foot four bundle.

One stark difference noticeable about Rahini was in comparing her to her fellow female. Most women of her type had a classic inability to work with members of their own gender. _I get on well with boys, yaar. But girls? Well all my friends are guys, yaar._ To her fellows she had more; the desire to share her secret or steps to her success. The instructions to please men, and in particular, the freshmen men she saw associating with the once freshman themselves now turned leaders of these Indigo Boys. Through her sister, Deepti and her latest protégés; they all were ready to rise to the occasion. In groups of two, the four starry eyed future _playettes_ had to approach these equally starry eyed men, in order to firstly seal an invite and secondly, take a move closer to fame. The mission set; generals C and D, immediately send privates A and J to battle! The field: Kings Road; home of motels and hotels amongst other thing; this other, the entrance to Mumbai University and its courtyard opposite the very-sudden-student-orientated _café Padups_. The plan: attack with deception, once in view of the fresh face freshmans who loitered certain spots at certain times of day (the quick payment option to the day watchman for the exclusive use!). Privates A and J were to drop a folder (or two) in front of the new university attendees in order to initiate a response. So simple – how could it fail?

To cut an underhanded story short – it did not. The two captured the eyes of the three and were blessed with an invite to the Indigo Boys Freshman Party '82. The next day – a similar charade helped the two generals with their passport.

(...So our Anita, whose chastity to this 1982 point had been preserved, embarked upon the night to change this label. Was the fact that she was cherry picked mean her cherry was picked? _Yes._ And how it went? _Well_ , dear reader, apology; that is another description...)

### On Agents PART 2– starring, but only the Awesome Anita!

"And we're on." Mews calls out, pressing the tiny button at the top of a very big camera (one of two). "Hi. What's your name, beautiful?"

"Oh thank you." Anita smiled on reply, tilting her head and looking genuinely touched by the rather quick compliment rolled out. "It is Ani."

"No problem. No problem..." Mews spoke in a tone that had a seductive embellishment to it now. Deeper yet more gentle also. "Tell us how old you are." Note: he said 'us.'

"I'm nineteen... um, almost twenty. Not quite. Still young!" Anita laughed to the camera honestly.

"Wow! So young and so ripe." His vocal chords remained with seduction, hunger and want. "Well... er... so what's your star sign?"

"Pisces!" Anita almost shouted very pleased with herself. (Although there was a pause and long-enough-to-be-counted; _blink_.)

"Oh ok." Mews voice hit a surprised configuration. He gathered calm. "No one here ever gets that right... well done, honey. So you're smart too, huh?"

"Yes. I go to university." Anita beamed feeling somewhat assumed. Nerves were dissipating.

"A carllege gurl, huh? I get so turned on by carllege gurls." Note: he never said we.

"Do you? Do I turn you on?" Anita used the line and look she had given to almost every man she had had false intimacy with in the past nine months i.e. the whole of her sexual lifetime.

"Yes you do... tell us, when did you lose your virginity? How did you turn him on?" Adrian Mews was back to his unlevelled headed best. Anita? She was very caught up in the zone of excitement. Two cameras) for just her though only one currently played). No sharing with ten, twenty...countless dancers and a bratty heroine. Still, she worked hard on containment and responded leaking only the high tone as appeasement to her true adrenal flow.

"About one year ago I was at this party, yaar, and this Dinesh chap iss all over me, yaar. I wouldn't say he is a-tractive, no. Butt he is ok. Very ser-warve [suave]. I was thin-kin' that ass-slong-ass-hees-sa Indigo Boy, there iss no problem, yaar..." Adrian Mews called cut.

He explained: the viewers of his film would not be interested in reality. They would rather Ani make something up. In puzzlement, Ani's face screwed up to reject the notion. This was sex, right? The camera was looking at her and she at it. There was no script, what's to make up? Mews realised the dilemma; perhaps even assuming Ani incapable of lies (now this is a folly!). So using all his experience in easing the tensions of nervous women, Adrian told her she must... act! He gave her the bare bones of a story; she's fifteen and hormonal... or horny, to this Ani could add the experiences of real life to the meat. And with this, something clicked. Anita saw her duty in the... film! A film; not sex. She was to play the character of Anita; a fictional character being based upon herself; with differences. Differences that gave her audience a chance to relate to the acting. How could anybody know how it feels to be Ani? Nobody! But they can have the opportunity to know a character on screen if she acted a part. A chance to fill the cracks and gaps to create the flawless Anita. Improv, yes, but scripts were made to be changed! Acting skills require the good storytelling of another's words... _or your own._

As Mews rolled camera once more, Anita carried on where she had left off though this time taking the spirit of lying with her. She felt the surge of her imagination run through her body. Her eyes lit up too, though last, as if the information took a detoured route from her brain, down her neck, spine and legs then back up to her face. She told her invisible audience about how she had had sex, for the first time, with her mathematics tutor, in a janitor closet, at age fourteen. It was an obvious lie... no sorry, 'act' but the idea did stem from how she imagined doing just as she described. Incidentally, the teacher was a sweaty man which put most of the other pupils off. Anita had grown to adore him more, however, as she had spent over than an allotted time with the man since he gave private tuition that her parents thought she needed. Three years down the line and with Ani getting the opportunity to read mathematics as a university degree, this may/may not have supported the argument. But to the point – the extra sessions contributed to the by-product of focused training, which is attention. This sent the little one's unlearned, raw mind into overdrive... just like now! There was, again, only the one man in front of her but now too the added feature of cameras (one manned, but two different angles working) that represented many more. To have the many take heed of one's action and verse. They are all listening and watching and to no other than who is upon its lens. She even had it all to herself. That is, for only the fraction of the fifteen she had collected from agent Vaas.

Then the solitary fame had gone. After her tale of fake fruit in restricted walls, two naked men appeared, one to her left and the other to the central camera's left. Forcefully, they picked Anita up off of her feet in an interesting dragging motion. She looked startled but caught camera one rising from its tripod perch, finding anew on Adrian Mew's shoulder. She smiled at it and then at both her male suitors – a hide to the rampant butterflies in her belly. The inner voice in her mind told her of calm; a step towards the glitter and glamour. If anybody new better than India and Bollywood it was the United States and Hollywood. Three Americans in a room; at least one knew the right way to stardom – directions and correct address all the way down to zip code. All the actresses had sucked and fucked their ways into doing Bollywood. And Ani was here to do Hollywood, literally in the form of a White American and a Black American. The threesome.

(...She was no stranger to the 'two is allowed yet three is company' policy, as insisted by Arthur Venoth (of Indigo fame). Anita had had a three's company on two separate occasions involving the fellow along with his roommate, Maximar Will Sundaar, or Max Willy, as he was known. Name rather than nature...)

A spin ensued as Anita was unravelled via sari to the point of safety pin. Aggressively she was pulled harder and pop! A little rip. Just a little. But it would be noticed! Of-Indian-origin (and thereabouts!) mothers have eagle like eyes! To minimise damage, Ani gave her two the quick slip. A coy side step. A little _hard to get in the afternoon_ ... alas, not that difficult. The Black American dropped in one movement to his knees to focus on the dangling sari; to pull it down with yet more rigor. Ani felt it at her waist. It slunk to the floor neatly, revealing a bottom to toe naked woman (even _pavadai_ under skirt fell in the moment!). Two acts of debauchery and Anita sensed the third; she reached around her own back to unhook blouse, removing and tossing it free from two pairs of big feet; a fate foregone to the yards of floored green silk. Camera one interpreted Anita's want for action; two American birds, one 'Almost Indian' stone.

Through Ani's energy in focus yet confusion in barrage of the hectic events, the Tamil woman caught the eyes of the White American. He stood tall to her grasping her neck, then the back of her head. He had lust in his eyes, reader, make no mistake... like Anita did. She saw the blue pair reflecting studio lighting like marbles that Anita's gender had been disallowed to play with many years ago. Automatically this man was labelled 'Beauty'. The Black man on his knees rough-housing Anita's thighs was labelled 'The Beast' (yes his darker skin and afro hair contributed).

And Beauty sized Ani up; placing both hands on her triceps, pulling her forward provoking The Beast to move from his position. He kissed her full upon lips, passionately but lustfully with the air of desperation. Anita felt the magic for this was how it was to be charmed by an American. She paused in motion not knowing whether to lift a foot up behind her, bending knee in order to add dramatic effect to the scene. As it happened, she tried and failed owing to The Beast's want to hold firmly her calf and general fascination with her feet. Well, there was absolutely no chance Ani was to miss this opportunity to impress her employees. All she needed was the freeing of one foot, which was managed once The Beast started to pay attention to one more than the other. A 90 degree angle was created; an 'L-Shape' with her right thigh, knee and pointed toes whilst Beauty moved his hands from her arms, back to her face, palms on higher cheekbones, fingers in hair, pulling Ani from lips, his eyes staring deeply into hers, with, again, lust. _Why did he look at me like that?_ Anita thought this more than passing sex. There were visions of exporting her shapely Tamil body to the United States, she envisaged herself dressed in White. Beauty, on the other hand, had less than too many thoughts. He sized Anita up using eyes and neck muscles. He slipped fingers through her hair to the back of her head, then pulled the woman down firmly. She could not help but stumble to her knees. "Lil Indian girl," Beauty addressed the actress, "you ever suck White and Black dick at the same time?" All thoughts of romance tiptoed to the back of Anita's mind. However, crucially the thoughts still remained: if each did not stick around, she would not be able to do what she was doing.

The Beast rose to his feet and the two men stood impressive waiting for kneeling Anita to work. A given assumption for the naked standing male ahead of the lowered and equally naked female. Indeed, Anita readied herself in a very certified manner. The romantic notions firmly in not-right-now zone; a professional LED brain node flicked to the on position and 'work' is what she done. That particular 'job', dear reader, to put it crudely! With a customary (and possible equally professional) 'yeah' and 'uh-ha' every so often from the two men These exclamations fuelled Anita and the part of her thinking that queried her ability. Not that she was doing anything different to what she had learnt. The truth is, she had the process of note embedded as a procedural map and would not stray from this. Indeed, sexual as the dominated; it is not possible in the Skinner sense for many women to truly use creativity within a process – they need to be told what to do. Any moment of what would seem to be originality is stumbled upon and this then reinforced into 'good behaviour (with oohs and ahs, for example). The _magic_ of memory in conditional learning. In this particular case, Anita used her magic as remembered from her times with Veno and Max Willy; another and varied performance of the kneeling game.

(...And in techniques and practice, one practices techniques. The more practiced, the better the technique. To how many years?...)

...At the tender age of fifteen, our Anita's stomach felt a strain of course. The reason was unclear... as could be many situations in the adolescent life. She would run her legs off from one end of the Kara estate, East 'Teardrop' (reader – if you haven't got the references by now, then I'm feeling very sorry for you), to the field located at the other side. Out would spill the chicken, eggs and what ever else she had had for evening meal the night previous. Days did follow where vomit would also... not to mention the other end assimilation – her stomach was raw, she lost weight and ate less and of coarse (or course), a field was fertilised! Doctors were stumped to the poor girl's diseased complexity. Even a quack flown in from upper most Goa could merely suggest a longing for a father figure, though, Anita had hers, along with a jealousy of her mother (now if only ugly could SEE ugly).

Other than ill labelled and second rate psychiatrists, no other specialist would travel to see the princess of her father's eye. So she must go to see the special list. Apparently, at the time at the top, was a guy in Turkey researching into the technique commonly known as gastroscopy. The science/art/business of sending cameras (or a gastroscope) to places of interest within the stomach. Anita sat, small and scared upon a leather-like bench/bed awaiting Doctor Hakan. He and his (with lazy eye) assistant Fatima turned up, pulled curtains together. They switched on a generator as fast as Madras errand boys and equally as noisy as, say: anarchists; and attached to it; the long tubed lens, which was 'slipped' (all 30mm diameter of its end!) down dearest Anita's front and back mouth passages. Retch!

A similar story for that week: retch. No more in words needed – right? Just 'retch'. Does the reader not realise..? Then more! Daily, for the week in Istanbul, 30mm diameter in and down. Perhaps two or three times a day. Imagine the distress of wanting to throw up but not being able to? Then there was the typical (yet atypical) morning daily belly revolution that her condition demanded. First day, second day, third. That's a lot of distress. Now the fourth, on the other hand, relinquished slightly. And the reason? A doctor substitution! For the one session and one teaching. Mr Gürbüz and his amazing love of hippiness... not quite happiness. A testament to his ultra awareness – stimulation points; acupuncture. With this, Dr G. showed the angst ridden child how better to cope with the ordeal of a procedure; via self-stimulation of the Neiguan point. He showed her what he meant... "Ha. Um. Mo." He spoke no English/Tamil/other connecting spoken language so he presented a universal approach with hands and gestures. Whilst swallowing large intrusive items (one finger pointing down neck), Ani should place a thumb down two inches from her wrist, almost in the middle of forearm and push in with it, massaging deep and hard. Dr G. even showed her with an acute demonstration. After a while, Anita tried and with a few goes collected a very relaxed entrance to her throat, having the ability to resist regurgitation...

"Whoa! She's so deep, man!" Beauty spluttered. "Oh my guard [God], that's like her tongue on my balls and shit. Fuck." (ugh – apology, reader!) The Beast reached down in perusal of Ani's now public 'area' which caused the Tamil lady to unlock the grip she had; left hand upon her own right. She un-swallowed accordingly. "Shit!" Adrian Mews exclaimed, looking into Ani's face through lense, whilst disrobing. She smiled at it and tilted head, happily. "Oh shit, boys, Miss Deep Throat gotta clit in there." Cue laughter.

Beauty, Aid, The Beast were all impressed... who wouldn't be? The three had scoured the earth in a pornographic haze searching for the littlest responses of the female pattern; the technical movements of eyes, lips... and other parts. For Adrian, it was not enough to pay a lady and watch her coitus. The enthusiasm and grasp for sex was a must. Whether this lay as dominated or dominatrix. Adrian's camera eye would always fall on his ladies and their eyes. Each told the story of whether they wanted to be there... or not. The former, he personally believed, not only turned everyone of his viewers on but also separated himself from the makers of MMM – More Masturbation Movies. Where was the art? Where the desire to realise and further sexual act with the discovery of expression in women (and even across culture in women)? Adrian lobbied that women do not merely vary in the physical difference of facial features, breasts and rear end. Mews argued beyond these obvious aesthetics as so stereotyped with the industry he motioned within. Nor is it, as also typecast, that these same women ply their trade quite simply to make the end; the easy buck. The female of the species crossed paths with temptation and intrigue for reasons beyond this; that start off within the mind as want/motivation/desire in need of the bridge of pornography – the female needing a variation of sex equally as wanton by the male.

Ha! Does the reader read a reality? Or maybe just a comedy? Cynical are you? Well, I defend! All this writer can do is maintain in the integrity of my characters! Mews had a fascination with the motivation of the human being and being male, the female motivation and the aspect herein of her 'free will'. Especially with such a raw instinct, that is every bit as necessary as, say eating (with every bit as pleasurable!).

Ha! Is this just a cheap transference from my own thinking? Well, I can not speak on behalf of you – the reader is not a character I have written! Adrian would have you think that in regard to the fairer of the two genders, it is not simple to say that the larger brain between the ears has been taken over by the dominance of the smaller brain between her thighs (as with, his opinion, regard to the male). No, Mews knew more depth to the motif. Take for example, the current play: one woman, penetrated (more than one way), a hormonally inducing beautiful yet applying almost barbarically beastly acts. Why endure such and why openly peer the camera and then, of all behaviours, smile? Does she not suffer from the condition as so typically associated with the feminine persuasion: love, an emotional bond linking body, mind and soul is what fuels sexual intercourse? It isn't as simple as putting a rectangle peg into an equally rectangle hole. Adrian, whilst joining in with his counterparts, rotating action for camera duty with Beauty and The Beast, thought of an old High School sweetheart. A girl who felt nauseas at the suggestion of making love to another other than Aid. Ultimately, this stunted sobriety drove the two apart... or, _ultimately, this stunted intoxication drove the two apart_ , since it was almost as if her vagina had been penetrated by the penis of Adrian's which secreted the drug of spellbound attachment. Adrian hated the fact that when they fucked her eyes were always closed (no lens). Of course closed – she could never consciously dream the process of any other than Aid doing the same rhythmic activity to her naked self. The ideal other, rather than the realistic other; that was the young man.

***

As Anita climbed quickly (almost dragged) to the carpet assuming an Aikido style mercy position; on her knees, bum on heels, hands by her side. The Beast was first to bring his interest to ready state. Ani looked up at him, she did the same up to Beauty who was switching off the now rendered useless camera two. Then onto Aid, behind camera one. If Aid had the ideas to her motivation all horribly wrong then what could the position of her eyes and the decision of her mind on what she should focus on tell him? There was more scenery to the rented apartment than what it was currently set up for and there were three men within it that were very focused to give her any attention she so wished.

Instead, Ani kept her eyes on the shiny, dark and concaved glass at the front of Adrian Mews' camera. _Pisces, I got it right, yaar!_

### Mr and Mrs Arnand (2)

(The separate yet intertwining tales of the sharp brown 'sar' suit and the water lily)

### Day 2

That night, the first in new couple Mr and Mrs Arnand's lives, brought Anusha a nightmare. She walked on a cloud feeling as free as a peacock (or a peahen?). Then all of a sudden she was on the ground (but crucially still feeling free). Then she stumbled into a room that turned into a cage and on the moment she entered it open, the room subsequently shut closed trapping her inside. The cage resembled in exact replica one she had seen a farmer carrying away several peafowl when she was five years old.

Anusha awoke panicked, went straight to the bathroom to wash her face and as she did so she looked into the mirror. Her hair, which was tinted brown through out her naturally black colour, covered most of her face. Since it was long enough, both her hands ran through it from the front and held it at the back; a balled up fist rested on the back of her head. She looked at her complexion which was near flawless and then, for no conscious reason, her left ear. A perfectly formed organ completely symmetrical to the other leaving the whole shape of her face balanced and coordinated. Her vision switched to her nose which she was very proud of since it was of an adequate size and that she never suffered from the greasiness at the tip that she noticed on almost every person she had met. She smiled but then frowned. She felt guilty but had the gall to argue logically against the net of symptoms; plain enough through self introspection and subconscious emotional interpretations. A promise: men would not rule her. Independence was her aim and she knew that this did not mean finance; it was _mentality_. She should be allowed to live her life because her life was nobody else's and being forced into a marriage by her mother was not going to deter her from fulfilling her desire. She was not to forget even if she had to remind herself everyday – she was forced into the marriage and there was no getting around a fact (no spin). Her father, Mr Loganathan Sivabalan (or just Siva), had been threatening to revoke Anusha's finances for a very long time and eventually did, almost a couple of months preceding. _I told you, darling. No more cash. You must be a wife. If not, there are names for women like you and, well, the people will talk, they already do._ This marriage was the only way Anusha could live her life and be who she wanted to be without the need for her wretched father to overbore her. Independence was financed instead by her successful husband, though why he was successful she could not figure since every man that crossed her victimed path whom fit his profile almost certainly had 'loser' written in permanence on the space between eyebrows and hairline.

A choked type of snore came from the other room and the sudden emotion that she experienced within her dream struck her once more. Yes, maybe guilt but claustrophobia is a disease! There was no way that she would spend a minute longer than she had to with him, even if he was asleep. Carefully and with stealth movement she got changed.

***

Now, let me take you, reader... a little further on that day.

Arnand stood on a rock at an extremity of the beach. No piers but the coast stretched far. Gold sand warmed by a hot sun though on the jagged, part brown, part cream pepper specked coarse earth where he stood the breeze made temperatures beautifully average. The scrawny Tamil attempted to skim pebbles across the sea. A task of hopeless efforts. It is the throw that counts. Exercise that aways frustration. However, in grace of technique there was none – all stones penetrated the sea staying under with just one splash... _What have I done wrong?_ he thought to himself. The next thought was of the whereabouts of his wife to which he had no idea. Problem solving is easy with variables. His emotions were more of anger than of sadness but only in the smallest imbalance. Enough for aggression and throwing is a good therapy for this emotion. Another stone to hurl at the quite calm sea. He found two beautifully smooth pebbles and threw one of them wholeheartedly out towards. Though stood very much in front of the water Arnand missed it. The stone travelled to his right and ended up hitting a smaller, fragmented rock to the one he was standing and landed embedded in sand on the beach. A little tide washed over it as an offer of sympathy.

(...And back to early in the day and how Arnand awoke through the ringing of the phone and the loss of a wife. His longest friend Rueban Intha called to catch up on gossip and feed tales of the call centre and its profit. Rueban enquired as to the night and if it was filled with the desires that Arnand had hoped. Arnand told tales of lust; multiple positions, vigour, passion. It was all in the head of a Tamil not-skimming rock at the sea. How he had envisioned it should have/would have went. He had told Rueban about all his sexual escapades. Hookers, managing directors – the lot. If he paused or hesitated, the sharp thinking and on the ball gentleman in Chennai would suspect the truth. Then walk out onto the street and start up a cycle of hate campaigns in the form of advertising and marketing. Leaflets of Arnand's lack of coitus; posted through all doors. Megaphone in the car for those market stall streets. Local paper mentions – full page spreads. Perhaps even a television commercial; say in between the most rated soap opera on Anusha's grandfather's network. Now that would be rubbing it in! Of course, Rueban hadn't a clue and if he did he would have gone about his life in the most boring of fashions – dedicated to the everyday routine that is his own life; none too concerned about others...)

Minds wander at times of lowered point; bad emotions set as reminders of equally/roundabout times. He thought back to when he was a child playing for Hindustan Juniors Cricket Club Madras Section D Team, against the C team. Picture the excitement of the last ball of the game with the C team in bat; two run trail. Whatever contact (or not), the batsmen and his opposite runner needed to go for three. With luck on bat side, the bowler's delivery was slightly short; a nervous batsman carried a good enough strike on it and so the ball travelled rolling along the field in projection: splitting deep wicket and long on towards boundary. Arnand himself was positioned at deep, and with no long on, he had to go for it. The pace of the ball was as much as a twelve year-old low end batter could manage, so Arnand got there. He picked up the ball and noted that the pair had made one run already thus were desperately short of the two more they would require to win. All he had to do was get the ball to the wicket keeper (or nearer to him the bowler) and they would stump out either of the batsmen and win the game for the D team – affectively making Arnand's Hindustan Junior variants the new C team.

Completely excited, nervous and off balance, Arnand's right hand throw (whilst running in to his left) was appalling. He could have stopped motion and taken the standing throw... but inexperience is a villain. He also continued to hold the ball past the point of movement at which he was supposed to let go, releasing the ball at an angle that tossed the red thing over the boundary giving the C team an extra four by-runs to engage in victory.

Ugh! The second pebble found it's way to Arnand's right hand and with all the anger built up from the memory of the mockery his father administered to him at the time and then over the years since, Arnand hurled it towards the sea. Excitement and throwing seemed destined never to mix positively for the chap! Once more the angle of release did not favour him; the pebble skipped up off of a rock and hit a woman near the edge of the main beach area to his left. Trouble! – but something other than anger and sadness; at a cost. Feet minding for quick five minute travel. _Please don't be hurt!_ When he got there; "are you ok, no?" Arnand double queried down from his pinnacle. The woman was White, wearing a blue patterned two piece bikini and had a white hat on with a blue ribbon around it. This was on the sand. "I don't know what happened there. Something hit me." she began gingerly trying to touch her head. "Ouch, my head". Arnand felt he should explain, but not quite by using the truth. "Yes... I see that you have a bruise. I think I saw a pebble hit you, no? Yes, it was a pebble look." Arnand pointed towards the pebble he had thrown. "Whoa, did somebody throw that at me? Did you see them?" The woman inquired. Arnand thought best maybe to not to confirm this. "I'm not sure but maybe I can helping you, no?" Arnand's face was so sincere that not a soul could refuse him. She told him her hut was just a few minutes from where they were and she got up and led him.

The beach hut of not-quite-a-house on a beach so much as a roof over ones head. No real creature comfort, style or security. Just the choices of sand floor or not. Spring bed or beach mat. Steps on the warm sand later, Arnand had the opportunity in inspection of the hut on entrance deciding (and to keep it to himself) that he thought it rather messy. Fiona searched under a pile of clothes for a small obvious green medical kit box. "Be a honey and find the Medi-Wipes will ya?" to which Arnand opened the box, found the wipes and started to clean the minor scratch on the side of Fiona's head. "Your are American, no? Which capital? New York City?" Arnand with a little small talk to hide guilt. "Huh? Oh you mean city... which city am I from?" Arnand nodded "Yeah I'm from a small town called Cincinnati. You heard of it?" Arnand shook his head. "Yeah, that figures. Nobody ever hears about it. Fucking small town..." and Fiona proceeded to talk about her municipality and the life she led as a 'Shoe Clerk' in a Mall just across Maple Avenue. She digressed to issues concerning the problems with industry standard width of shoes, especially heeled variety. In consistency, she kept on about how her ex-boyfriend mistreated her and would never compliment her even when she put on her best make up and hair (blue eye shadow, little red _rosé_ cheeks, Maybelline mascara, pinned up mousy brown, where clip permits curls to be as free as ears and eyes do not like _well in the movies?_ ). What could have been anywhere between 20 to 40 minutes must have passed. Dinner dates were analysed. Lack of experimentation, blandness, little effort. All cited. In and out of attention Arnand travelled; taking in the mention of grabbing words like sex and female bodily parts. He hardly responded to it all; wondering instead about her white skin; why was she White and he Brown? As simple as the question Arnand simplified the answer; Gods intended variety. Did that mean Arnand should also stable variety in his own life? Tempting thoughts like these are so easily led when at worried points in one's life... then again temptation is around every corner anyway.

"Hey, you're a great listener," this brought Arnand's droopy eyes to Fiona, who leaned over and touched his arm extremely flirtatiously "Are you good at other things?" This brought Arnand's mind responses to attention. His conscious mind saw a White woman, like the movies of Hollywood and the songs on MTV Asia. And she was American too. The slowed thoughts of a man in a position detail the recording of heightened statistics (heart beats, for example) the brief flit on the dangers of any move. Unfortunately; these slowed are a concept of imagination or _reel_ or other; perhaps we may forget reel and go with real as in _real time._ Here, his by-pass conscious response was: "Well ass a matter of pact[fact]," a hand on her shoulder, "I do have certain... Qual-lities." Fiona smiled the smile of dimpled cheeks as Arnand quite smoothly moved forward removing his newly placed hand to use it for balance in a leaning position. With the real time free hand index finger, it wondered Fiona's neck to cheek line bringing her forward in the process of motioning. With every moment divided by the thin line of real loss and actual loss and all sorts of in-betweens, accidentally, Arnand brought the White American woman too forward; her eyes were closer to his mouth than where her lips should have been. Using brilliantly quick (and thoroughly unconscious) Casanova type process, he kissed her minor cut, corrected her face position and slowly brought his lips to hers. Boom! Heightened state. Boom! Lack of thought. Boom! Pushing of reality notions. Boom! Went his heart, as he wondered whether throwing stones could count as exercise.

***

The beach front contained cafés, open bars and other more various entertainment premises (comedy clubs, a dance studio for examples). Anusha chose a café since it was closer the dawn of day than dusk. Very spacious and bright; the sun finding plenty of windows to penetrate and considering the fact that it had potential to be a UV oven, the inside was very cool without air conditioning. Anusha found a table to sit and rest; beautifully cool. Scanning the grounds, and contrary to being alone at her open vestibule, Anusha was very happy with the general shop floor bustle. She felt comforted that other people liked what she had chosen because they too had chosen it; as simple as the statement. Smiling to herself and enjoying the atmosphere she almost did not notice the would-not-be-waited-on. The world and this island's opposite: Self Service. Pay for and collect food items at the counter. _Very strange, yaar_. However, she knew it was fine since other people were fine with it. Again, reader: simplicity.

The fast approaching lunch time called Anu into healthy and square meal shyness. Coffee and a slice of chocolate gateaux. Sitting back at her table this Tamil lady shifted her shoulders in her very quirky way. Up and down, simultaneous and quick like rabbits. Twice. This showing her excitement visually. For the moments that made up lunch, Anusha was happy. Excitement rolls off of happiness. Happy with her dessert and the symbol of it; a single piece taken from the larger whole. This small independent event of the larger independence. Ever so delicately she used her spoon to pick at the piece and once she made sure that the whole of the spoon end was in her mouth, Anusha turned it around and pulled it out gradually in order to get every creamy bit on her tongue. The pleasure for her was pure within the taste sensation coupled to the toast to freedom (she was completely oblivious to her pseudo-erotic gesture). And therein; halfway through the dessert/lunch, Anusha sifted through her purse to find a cigarette. Quick thought: she did not know whether Arnand would approve of her habit or even engaged in the same inclination. She lit it with the Zippo lighter that she had had since she was 7 years old. Interestingly coincidental, Anusha found it at another café in then Bombay that her family and she went to, to sample the delights of its tiffin menu. Her mother and father sat opposite and as she took her seat violently pushing her nine year old elder brother, Vijay, to do so, she sat on top of the lighter that somebody had obviously let drop out of his/her pocket. Dirtied chrome with an axe emblem as finish, with a remarkably detail dragon circling it. The ying-yang symbol on the left (nearer its tail) and the Hindu ohm symbol across on the right (as you faced it). Ever since, she kept it close by her believing in the gesture of luck and fortune. As she grew she began to use it when she started smoking three years later. Only ten years young! Anusha used to love the way her father smelt after a cigarette break. Almost any activity he was occupied in would have to be sacrificed for the sweet tobacco addiction enforced interruption. Her favourite game was what father Siva called the Indian House Express. This involved Anusha getting a piggy back ride around the mansion house stopping at various rooms and, of course, shouting 'Choo-Choo' in unison at intervals. When they got to Mr Sivabalan's study, he would always drop little Anusha off and go into smoke, dismissing the child. Mother Nahani could not stand the mini-smoulder, telling all _it reminds me of the British. Bloody smokes; life ruiners_. 'Life ruiners.' Was she speaking of the cancer inducing prescription or the British? Nobody ever knew – she spoke in riddles; Tamil riddles. Not a word of English even though her daughter could not help but to use this and only this form of communication. Anusha, with her love of all things five sense related, always waited outside with her nose and face pressed against the edges of the door to catch a whiff of the scent that penetrated into the hallway. It was the best smell in the world to her and she could never get enough of it. Anybody who walked passed would smile in seeing a daughter pine due to her father's absence. Indeed, Siva loved to open the door and see his youngest child 'bless' him by jumping up on to his darkened lungs and hugging him tightly. All to catch a more potent hit of the smell, a smell which she had available on tap once moving on to high school. And at ten, being a 'big' girl now, Anusha felt little need to be chaperoned to Madras Longwell High School For Girls and back. Her parents agreed since there were a few girls who could travel together within the neighbourhood (and a chaperone would be sent without the girl's knowledge anyway). Everyday after school, the four girls; Rose, Preena, Heema and Anusha did attempt to smoke a cigarette between them. Anusha had an endless supply since she would steal them from her father's study (but only one at a time so as not to arouse suspicion). Though the pusher and supplier, Anusha was actually the worst out of all of them when it came down to the deed. A beautiful contradiction of life meant that she did not like the smoking aspect but only the aroma. There were even hugs and kisses for her friends after they each took consecutive drags and if quantified; her daily dose hardily ever exceeded one portion of a cigarette a day. From then and up until present. (Oh, and the chaperone was bribed to stay quiet – you see? Simplicity!)

Done. The three C's: Coffee, Cigarette and Cake. Stepping out into the sun after what was a delightfully quaint 'lunch', Anusha breathed in the air and found herself naturally heading towards the hotel. Did she want to stay out on the beach? Yes but a part of her needed to share the/a experience with somebody. The person she had imagined was far from Arnand but he was the only person she knew on the island. Ah yes Benji! However, he was reinvented; the mind of the lady has the 'right' to change. Now, her 'muscle bound super-abilitied-between-the-sheets' was a 'pervert with only one thing on his mind'. A waste of a really great body. Good sex but not a conversation person. Justification here (today) leads to the beautifully perfect separation of events past (yesterday) and the new kingdom ahead of her (tomorrow). Throw in the 'but': Though she was queen, it was not as if Arnand was king. Well for sure, he was her husband and she did need to show her face and be his wife. If only for a short while.

There go shops selling clothes and shoes ( _reminder, darling: take Arnand here_ ) real elegant for the summer sun stuff. Original, different pieces that could grow envy to those at home and without access. Now, the market stalls selling fruit juice, freshly squeezed and right from the base. Just juice but without the marketing, the brand or the global presence... Stalls tightly packed dividing street place from beach place. The darkened off yellow type: thatched straw. Rather vintage. All the way to the four legged table and just about umbrella shade. Anusha noted: nothing but African folk. Well, Africans in the Caribbean. They must have come here because Africa is so poor and over here is a better life. _Can't blame that._ Is ignorance allowed, reader? More stalls; CDs, wood jewellery and even a fortune teller. The latter gave Anu a rather unemotional stare. The way to suck venom from poisoned eyes... except he may have missed. What was that pinned to his shirt; a silver snake? No – two silver snakes! _Let's go Anu, he is as black as the Madras night..._ Walking into the reception area of the hotel Anusha smiled at the manager who was behind the counter. Easy interaction. He was busy, but which hotel manager do you know without a smile? (Which hotel manager do you know not busy?) He beamed back pleasantly and professionally whilst Anusha diverted her gaze to the two elevators of which one was opening. Rush, rush! She made it. The only other person inside, a White-tanned blonde lady in a green, flowery long dress that showed off her slim-enough but pouting figure. She held the door open. "Hi, my name's Tiffany," she said looking at Anusha as the doors closed, "I love the colour of your skin,. It's ss-oh beautiful. What floor, honey?" The so beautiful skinned woman replied: "Number 4. Oh, thank you." Now she was happy; showing teeth and all. A stranger would be so kind as to compliment her without ulterior motive? Fantastic! "You look amay-sing all-so." The truth was far from her mention; Anusha thought that her dress choice was two sizes too short as her behind stuck far out and raised/shortened the length of it at the lady's hamstrings. Tiffany's breasts, in Anusha's opinion were sceptically large and so there existed suspicion: some form of surgical enhancement. Rather than amazing, Anusha would prefer to have used 'Slutty'. "I really love Indian skin. It's so perfect in colour. Sometimes I wish I was Indian." Just as she finished, Tiffany let out a shriek of laughter that would have been heard down any of the floor hallways had she not been in a lift. Anusha felt a little nervous from it's piercing nature. "But it's so poor that I don't think I want to really." Flippantly observed! Anusha was set back by this and was about to get quite aggie in response... she was beaten to her speech. "Wow! But you're not poor, look at the size of that rock." The woman gasped at Anusha's wedding ring. She had removed it before setting off in her bikini yesterday but thought is appropriate with her present day attire; a short black skirt, white buttoned down blouse, dark tights and heels. Anusha was also still wearing her sunglasses but in her hair which acted like a holding clip. "Well what can I say? It iss ver-ry beautiful, no?" Anusha responded and secretly cursed herself for using her husband's questo-terminology. The woman virtually grabbed Anusha's hand to inspect the ring closer and on arriving at her floor Anu had to almost prized it away from her. Acrylic nails flinched.

"Nice to me meet you, honey. By-yee."

Anusha smiled her response but the elevator doors were not at an appropriate angle for Tiffany to see. She felt a little violated by this random woman's touchy, feely disposition and played with her ring by rotating it on her finger while she waited and walked. Once at her room, a period in recovery; her door card key and hesitated; she remembered the noise that it made. There was a good chance that she would not be as lucky as she was yesterday and so would have to face the wrath of Arnand almost straight away. Still what had she done wrong? Nothing. He was asleep and she was bored. Her husband needed to accept that he could not be the source of constant entertainment for a woman of Anusha's calibre. There followed ten seconds of such psyching. Then; she entered and placed her purse on the table by the door, smelt bleach from the bathroom door which was ajar. The clean smell cut the air nicely and Anusha took a deep breath a moment before the automatic closure of the entrance to the area. _Catch-chern!_ It was obvious that housekeeping had been and left since the place was very nicely kept. In saying what was reasonable; what was not palpable: the location of her husband Arnand.

With understatement; Anusha was surprised. Her previous estimation of the depth of her husband was much lower than it had just become. Where could he have gone? Can an Asian man... No, Indian man function even less than properly on a foreign island? Her brother and father were both highly dependent on the angel-mother Nahani Sivabalan; all points of organisation drifted through the head of the household. Lieutenant N. Not quite commander; inwards; she is the inward woman. Lost. Organised but lost... how does that work? Unique blend is how.

Mrs Arnandan (that's _Mrs Arnand_ ; if you are not used to the fluctuation in Tamil names, reader, bare with me) sat on the bed and thought carefully about why she was so upset. There was no need to care about Arnand and what he does all she needed to worry about was herself and what she wanted to do. Right now, it was to sleep as an early afternoon nap was no doubt a necessity rather than a luxury. Anusha laid back on the soft and incredibly comfortable duvet ready to snooze away a non-eventful morning. Her shoes were kicked off and there was nothing or nobody to disturb her. Nothing except for her heartbeat which did not want to calm. She sat up. Where was he? What was he doing? It was ludicrous of him to leave his wife to fend for herself – that was not on. Anusha leant back on the palms of her hands holding her arms straight. Turning her head to the left she noticed a full fruit bowl on top of the mini-bar. Eating mangoes always relaxed her and with inspection she was in luck since two were available. With the entire basin, taking it with her back to the bed the Tamil woman sat back down realising the need for a knife. Well next to the mini-bar; a table that housed a kettle and a basket with an assortment of items including cups, biscuits, butter and spoons. Anusha got up again and searched further into it. A spreading knife with a small array of pathetic looking teeth – the best option. With the fruit ripe and it proved an efficient cutter which was to the delight of Anusha who did not want any hassle after the imbalance of current moments.

Removing her blouse she lay back on the bed once again and felt better having tasted the sweetness of two medium-sized, plump, juicy fruit. Her feet were off ground but she shimmied further up to let her body take a full grasp of the softness of the layer beneath her. It was difficult to do so, so she unzipped her skirt and took that off sliding it under her hips and bottom. An accidentally strong flick and it was to the other end of the room. And moved were her mango juice wet fingers across her stomach wanting to turn on her side, the energy required, however, was too great. So settled for the current position on her back; it was easier considering the fast loss in the awareness of it all anyway.

***

Fiona was asleep and Arnand was not. He lifted the dingy white cover-sheet slightly and looked at his penis. A small mass of gooey wetness. He thought: _a grower rather than a show-wer._ From a time many years previous, Mr Arnand did not like having sex without a condom. When a lot younger (around 8 years old) Arnand's father received a parcel that raised excitement as his elder told the boy it was for him. The image was of a clear curly haired, thin man shaking maraca-esque package _now are you not excited boy?_ As the child of straighter hair continued to open an unhidden joy he was told something to rock his quite scrawny foundation. Muraliharan, Arnand's father, also strictly stated that the younger was not allowed to open it before another few years. However, and he is to be forgiven, reader – being the curious Indian that he was, Arnand had to find where his dad hid it and subsequently what was in it. The search included the second shed at the end of the huge garden (in fact, it was almost the first place to look). The size of the rear grounds encompassed a large area, probably one and a half football pitches but with garden minor hills at regular points. The lawn was always trim and the flowers and bushes perfect around the sides. At the end of the huge raised field were two sheds virtually opposing each other next to the outer perimeter wall. This off-white bricked estate border was around six foot high to the inside and ten foot high to the outside (due to that raised ground within the enclosed land). The top was laced with barbed wire and there were both security guards (two Gujurat gentlemen, one of whom every half an hour would have to 'take the Walker-Trip') and cameras employed in a bid to deter would be intruders. Indeed it worked and helped make his mother and father feel safe, especially if their son would run about free across the garden over 150 yards away from the vision of the house. To one shed for the Garden Manager and his tools of vice. Area of no go to all except the man who ran such beautiful foundations. The other one, however, was the personal sanctuary of Appa, Mr K. Muraliharan.

Sanctuary... why? Two words: his wife, or Arnand's mother. The art of annoyance was brought forward as a discipline by the woman. In fact, it may have been a sport or a science since measurement could be taken in fine tuning such aspects of the ways in which she would annoy. She was shy and coy when Murali and his father (that's Arnand's grandfather) met her (an arranged marriage proposal at her family home very close to the old Mount road, in fact, when invitations went out for this and other celebrations the family would often place the house under the address of Mount road. Needless to say many people were always late to the household), however, after the marriage had started, a nagging crept in. At first, it was the things he wore; she would comment on the correct way to wear a tie even though Murali believed he wore one fine. Then it moved to the dynamics of the house; this ornament should be here and that vase there. Fine, fine – the woman of the house does know. Except, he tried to input a suggestion, a comment maybe occasionally... it would not work. The woman rejected everything he said no matter how small or trivial. Murali could not have counted the amount of variations of the word 'no' she had used because the figure was beyond memory and mind processing capacity. Neither could he count the amount of times she had superficially agreed with his suggest; simply, she never did. In the years that they were married, Anita Muraliharan, did not once agree with her husbands taste in anything. His hair was never combed (properly), his shirt never tucked in (properly) and he could not re-arrange furniture (at all). He was very much anti-revered in her eyes and for reasons not to be got into right now but, trust in these words; she hated him. Over a period of time, the hate became reciprocal. The middle ground that Murali found with her was the arrangement he had made. In a blistering be all and end all argument (at 11.12pm on a Friday night, after a few too many brandys at the Old Dogs Pavilion on the other side of Mount Road/Anna Salai) Murali decided on the erection of a 'special place' not within the household – as far as he could get away from the 'most monstrous being this side of the border' (part reference to Pakistan, though their Tamil Nadu mansion was far far away from the country). Following the row, the couple did not speak for six weeks. Go-between Arnand, was used in extra fashion. _Tell your father that the cook says his dinner is ready, I will be in the living room – join mummy, not Appa, son._ Or _Tell your mother to remove her undergarments from the bathroom floor, the maid is not available between the five seconds she leaves and I enter._ The situation was broke by Arnand's father to gloat at the finished work of his new shed at the bottom of the garden. She ignored him at the time but secretly believed that this was the best news she had heard since a doctor (at one of the first as-private-as-you-can-get sexual health clinics in Bombay) misdiagnosed a violent stomach cramp she had felt around her twentieth birthday as a miscarriage of the pregnancy she had discovered (in secret) weeks earlier.

And so day by day the man put all his things inside his wooden frame (above the door, a plaque reading 'The Diana-Pakora Wing: Prohibited Entry!') until it was time for him to place the parcel that was intended for young Arnand underneath a stuffed beaver. It was quite obvious since the beaver simply stood on top of it and was one of the first pieces of taxidermy a person would see once walking into the area (and Murali was partial to taxidermy). Whilst other animals were larger and more attractive, the beaver stood out. It was not well crafted or more appropriate _fashioned_ ; the teeth were too seperated, the coat patchy and to re-iterate it was at the front of the shed... Perhaps a first attempt? Nevertheless, little Arnand carefully pilfered the package and took it with him to the oak tree a few yards away. He climbed it and sat on the third branch up. The brown paper wrapping had his father's name on it and his address. On the reverse was Arnand's uncle's residence in England. A present from London – wow! Arnand ripped the paper and threw it to the ground not pre-empting any sort of capture from his father. The man was at work across town so there was not a problem with that... rather thin thought to the future cover up.

Inside: a video tape. A recorded on to, average, run of the mill type simply labelled AIDS.

AIDS? The little boy figured it stood for something and the only thing it could be was... well he had no idea; _watch it_ he told himself on the branch of a tree. So the journey back across green; avoiding sprinklers, dancing Fandango... quickstep! To the open patio back door, capturing efficiency. To the front room where mother could be... but wasn't! Into the VCR, TV on and GO!

What followed: a 30 minute documentary as penned and screened by bods at the British 'ITV' network; about – the virus. AIDS. How it is caught, transmitted and facts about it in general. The tape quashed spreading rumours (that Arnand had never heard, not that he had even heard of the disease) about toilet seats and kissing (though drinking '...buckets of saliva...' were not ruled out). There were simple animated graphics of 'relationships' in the form of male and female silhouettes. If Louise had HIV (how she got it, was unknown) and _went into a relationship_ with John (two silhouettes) he too would catch HIV. If John left Louise and _went into a relationship_ with Gill; she'd catch HIV also (three silhouettes). Then if Louise _went into a relationship_ with David, he'd be infected (four) but if Kevin (five), a gay man, was just friends with Louise, David, John and Gill he could not catch it. His flatmate, Jack (six) was also gay but he had HIV, however, Kevin could not get infected by merely being around his friend on a day to day basis without _going into a relationship_ with him. It was then explained (as it was at the top of the program) HIV leads to AIDS. Included were microscopic images of the disease multiplying and 'wiggling' within what may have been a Petri dish. Young Arnand (and God bless him) closed his eyes but could still see the images clearly. Black and white wiggle. Then the video, in his mind's eye if you will, tuned into an audio; did his father have AIDS... did his mother? Were they 'carriers' of HIV? Why was Kevin gay and what exactly was 'gay'? One thing was for sure to an eight year old's mind: you had to be in a relationship to have AIDS. The woman steer clear was on...

Present day Arnand's heart started skipping unpleasantly faster. In the aftermath of that day then; Arnand had asked everybody he knew about this AIDS and no soul could engage the child in suited conversation. Now, he was laying next to the finest White woman he had ever had intimate relations with (by default only, since she was the only). Every 'silhouette' described was told to be White owing to all the White person names. The memories flooded back. Did all White women have AIDS? No, no. Arnand brought rapid sense to the forefront of his fleeting and ridden mind. He had learnt a lot since the public information broadcast and holes have been filled. But to chase the sensationalist outside of a grown man is like catching the proverbial pigeon.

"A-ha, I see you are awake." The woman disturbed his thoughts. She pushed her naked bottom into Arnand whereas his response was to move his pelvis away. She ignored the fob and turned to him seeing something else in his eyes. "Don't be too nervous, honey, you were great." Amid all the thoughts of the last hours, one thing unaddressed by the ever so neurotic Mr Arnand was his performance. He replied: "Do you having a bathroom?"

Of course there was no bathroom. There was a changing area behind a stiff curtain. Arnand gave away some shyness and brought clothes and a bottle of Thalsy brand water with him. He used the water, his thumb and forefinger to wash under the foreskin of his Tamil manhood illogically. He felt cleaner at least. Those feelings of reassurance held with him as he kicked on underpants and pleated trousers to the far away memories of his father's strange hide away Diana Pakora. After placing the AIDS tape carefully back under beaver (package taped up, efficient enough), further exploration of the shed revealed a cabinet protected by dead, stuffed and chemically treated birds. Keys still inside the small silver lock. What was inside were more tapes! Tens of them, maybe even hundreds (Arnand's small eyes could have exaggerated). Having seen what he had just witnessed, there was to be no VCR encore. However, what did pop back whilst Arnand popped back on sand dusty clothes behind a thick curtain; what did pop back from almost erasure in grey matter were the labels of the cassettes. All uncased but with plain white tag: 'AnI Vol. 1'. Every single one. No variation, reader, just the same name for all. As the Tamil re-entered Fiona's main stage he realised that he never got the chance to view any of the videos. He never tried often but when memory permitted and curiosity aroused him he'd return to a cabinet which was always locked and un-keyed further on.

"God, you're elsewhere." Fiona spoke sitting sheet to breast. "What's up?" (Well, Arnand?) "Nothing... I'm...er... meditating, you see?" On the spot thinking s _uperb muchaan._ "Oh, wow. You know all that meditating shit. That's awesome, like yoga and stuff. That's like awesome." She sat up now dangling what was hidden. Arnand replied yes but it wasn't. Situations were catching up to him; a mixture of guilt and annoyance spread him wildfire. Now there was no need to be here. A buy one's leave was in order (or should have said on order?). In the internal commotion, Arnand agreed to something he did not fully understand and with that the fully naked White woman leapt from bed to scrawl information upon scrap paper. "It's on tonight... you're not supposed to be there but I guess I can bring you in and people will be totally wild to meet a guy like you." She planted a firm kiss upon his lips with extra suction. Though he had not mentioned it, Fiona knew he was leaving. "If you do come, bring ID. Just in case. Really try, honey. There really is more of me... and others, waiting."

***

Breathe in. Breathe out. He told himself: a man should not be afraid of his wife. Especially the woman who made scarce upon the very day the two were married. _Yes but you have committed adultery, she just fucked off for awhile_ , a little voice told him (not in those words). Not only this, but on the second day of a sacred oath. _I believe that's worst_. Breathe in. Breathe out. Arnand entered and walked into the hotel room to see his wife sitting, and rather dangling, on the edge of the king-sized bed. She looked tired but perked when seeing Arnand; she was wearing nothing but her smalls. "Where have you been?" The obvious start. "A vork on the beech, maderm[madam]." A walk for this long? Yes; what about _your_ freedom, what of mine? But you are my husband and you must take care of me and you were not here, gone, I thought we could have spent the day together as married couples do but you just wasn't here. No, don't cry, honey. It's just... you were not here when I woke... you are always disappearing. I am disappearing? Where were you, my husband? Can I even call you that? This is my honeymoon; it is up to you to make it perfect for me and I will never have this chance again... remember, husband, who will be the mother to your children? Huh?

And more. Until Anu disappeared (a lovely word!) into the bathroom. _Click!_ Sanctuary Anu. Arnand was left dumbstruck in a big room deciding on whether he had a case or not owing to unfaithfulness. It was the full half hour of speech rehearsal; I know I should be a better husband and I will start now. Let us go out for dinner, come home... and consummate our marriage. It was the full half hour before Anusha emerged from locked WC, fully kitted into evening wear and ready to leave dorm; without her husband. "Wait a moment! Hold your horsis, girrl!" Arnand cried full spirit! "Where are you going?" He bellowed. Anu stopped ahead of the exit and turned. "You do not have the right to stop me after you are no showing today!" Another rather spirited effort. She further explained of her intent to dine alone and return in the night. She said, she needed to cool down (since he had made her so mad). He argued of her safety; she needed her husband's arms around her to protect her... and some other gibberish of how he really wanted to put things right whilst... consummating.

Well, dear reader – it worked! (And I knew you thought the worst!) Happy family as if for at least the dinner; then they could work on it further on. For the time being; happy Arnand. Whose wife sat next to him on the bed. She even smiled and kissed his cheek. She told him that since she was ready, he'd have to hurry in getting scrubbed up; his best clothes along with a good wash of his dark face. Jolly Arnand did as told; electing full shower and even sang A. R. Rahman songs whilst he bathed. The man was clean as whistle. He was, shall I put it – as clean as he was happy. So in that respect, I will say that even time itself took pity on the Tamil as he opened the bathroom door to be a man wrapped in towel reading a note from his wife: 'I'm still angry. Love Anu. x' (I lied reader – I'm sorry.)

***

In a brown suit he stood. A suede type which was sold to him by a travelling market salesman. A chance meeting at a tiffin shop; breakfast for one turned into for two. The short, podgy and wheezy fellow told of how he had just been from Mumbai and was in Chennai as stopover before taking a flight with half his stock to London, UK. _Fashion show on Camden High Road, sar_. Down by new venue: Fishton Market Place, Arnand was allowed to try on several shirts using a curtain on a moving steel rack as changing room. He told Arnand he had the pick of most the items; all except one of the two blazers he had for his show. _Classy stuff, Raymond of course but not for sale; to take to the weather-is-fine London, UK._ No sooner the piece forbidden it became the must have. With it, like either magic or deep concentrated science, came the changes; passers by noted the most opposites in behaviours and even stopped in track to stare. Buyer haggling up, not down. Salesman unsure. Once purchased; strangely both parties were happiest. London, UK was to be denied the pleasure of a garment paid twice odds by the Tamil man from Chennai, India.

There is more: on his way to his father's first ever call-shop, who secured the venue from his father; he stepped inside modelling the kit... to a chorus of laughs! The two people in the actual phone booths seemed to chuckle (the first glass booths, when erected, in the whole of then Madras). Paying customers on the line to Canada and Germany... laughing away in the labelled west booth: Pakora and the east booth: Diana. Until now, in waiting mode, Arnand never thought to ask the significance of these commonplace names. He certainly was not thinking any such detail on this day; the self conscious Tamil removed centre of storm and cried before leaving "This jacket is meaning for eewer-ning vear."

And presently it was evening indeed. In the current, up-to-date circumstance outside the hotel Layso, Arnand stood sporting the brown tag nervously hoping the area/climate was rather more reciprocal to fashion than the threatened Hindustan. He had told the bouncer (one of two) that he knew Fiona. 'Fiona who?' Fiona, she organised the shin dig. 'Wait here' told the dread-locked bouncer as he waddled off. The shaven headed bouncer asked 'You got ID, bra?" to which Arnand flashed a copy of his Made in India passport. Side parting and a smile. What could have been two minutes of silence between strangers passed until: "Oh Arnand... nice jacket." He smiled a beamer I tell you! Before getting too carried away he returned with good manner the compliment, though he was not entirely sure if he meant it. What was she wearing?! – a strange choice of black, one piece lingerie suit, fish net stockings, black leather half up thigh high boots. She even had a whip. "Am I sou-tabel, no?" Arnand managed.

(In explanation: this party, the party Arnand was invited to by a naked Fiona at a beach hut where she scribbled her hotel and room number, was a saucy type affair. Leave your wife at home or _bring her if you dare._ Still this was the extra note that Arnand need not worry since translation had been lost on invite.)

Arnand was introduced after only a few moments walk in. "This is the guy I been talking 'bout." Fiona spoke of the Tamil. "A real mahavishnu of a guy; he knows heaps 'bout yoga, meditation and I'm sure a little somethin', somethin' about... tan-tra." A huge smile with a tiny wink. Her slightly slurred speech suggested the evening had entirely gotten underway for her already. The early almost coy, Mary-Jane from _sin-sin-natty_ , shoe clerk, ex-boyfriend is an ass, Maple Avenue, ok I'm free – let's fuck; had expelled to the unknown. Did Arnand seduce her or did his mind concoct it all wrong? "My God! What do you know 'bout tantra?" This was a lady called Grace. "I'm always up for increasin' ma pleasures... tell me something, how can you go for so long without... well, you know."

All eyes on Arnand. Does that constitute pressure..?

"Vell... it... iss a matter of... breething." A ferocity of thought blasted bullets into the man's mind... with quickness he never knew he had, Arnand was able to extract anything 'hippy like'. He had spent a week in Goa with a string of prostitutes interested only in foreigners and beedis and like all good punters/tricks, he actually listened to the girls talk. "Concentray-shun iss key. Through breething, one can be disscowering so meny discoweries in plenty. Deep inside..." before continuing he noted the extra and undivided attention he was receiving. Especially from the female party; Grace even delicately danced finger tips on corset-held bosom. "...deeper than we are th-inking eh-bout, ah? Why we are channelling all this hextra henergy, I say, the feeling iss more that all could believing." Almost the direct quote from Angie Carvalho, prostitute number three of Arnand's heavenly week. She was actually describing heroin intake, but what did Arnand know? – on narcotics or otherwise, the woman's grasp on the Tamil language was atrocious. "You see all around? It iss all here. The peeling and secrets of your innermorst..." and here it comes – "...soul" !! "We are sexing for each other... when you sex, it iss a bond of mankind... through low." _Low?_ "You know – love. Man and woman make it, no?" _oh I see_ , said Grace, touching his arm. It was then that Arnand realised how much less of a loser he was (and this was something, having lost his wife to the old get in the bathroom and count to ten move).

***

"Gotta go... byeeee." Said the familiar face. Anu was sitting holding champagne flute, feet by the pool. She pulled left arm closer to chest in order to hide the tissue stuffing of her borrowed bikini top even though this could not be detected (dare I say it – not to mentioned borrowed bottoms too! In fairness, she were told the piece was new). She was two sizes too small in cup to match her silicone friend. In addition, I'll add rather disjointedly; she was in the process of being deserted.

Let me rewind; upon leaving her hotel room having written the shabby 'see you, don't want to be with you' letter, Anusha considered options of dining alone (local currency still tingling in purse), playing catch up with muscle head Benji or late night bar. The latter could have provided a suitable beverage which she would have found useful in doing her nocturnal wife duty. (She shiver and shake at the thought.) Whilst calling the lift Anu almost about turned. An attack of conscience? A miniscule desire for the so called husband? Maybe even left something at home, yaar. Well she _almost_ turned except the doors opened. And of all the people? "Hi-yee. We should really stop meeting like this!" Tiffany laughed, which meant that both the women laughed. The buxom beauty mentioned the destination of a pool party that required swim suit as entrance fee ( _yeah, you'll be okay like that, but it's mucho fun in the water, hun!_ ). Anu had not had the forethought; being as it was already dark. Of course, the backthought involved the risky walk to the hotel room. So something borrowed (which also happened to be something blue). The rest is theirstory; and they both arrived, drank, mingled, flirted... and now Anu is deserted.

[Stop! Dear Reader: I am to assume your thoughts; is it really real that this 'pool party' is the one and only lingerie-tantra fest Arnand is attending? In a word – yes! In two and a half; you're correct! As shallow as this may sound, both Arnands were in the same confines of nighty-night society. Small(er) chest Anu by the pool; the Buddha of Chennai; by bar and table area... snap!]

"Gorgeous night, gorgeous champagne and a gorgeous lady... g'day, I'm Brett." A mousy brown haired gentleman whom Anu had previously unnoticed was hovering in the water showing only a head next to her right calf. His evening stomach was hidden by refraction. "Aren't you gonna jump in?" Anu's ankles and feet were wet from the pre pool overflow. "Maybe not." She had thought about it but saw the water splash on Brett's neck which gave an impression of the water height. Very bad to be so up there. And why was this so so bad? Well it relates to the sore subject of swimming. Not the best of activities that our character of Anu would claim! Bad memories fit for conditioned responses and tales of old love interests... Having had what can only be called a huge crush on her early-school teacher's brother, ten year old Anu saved up all her pocket money on the purchase of many sequins from the Parlu embroidery emporium. Not only the material but also the extras! Little Anu bought a lot of these extras and using glue and paper, proceeded to make a Valentine's card following instructions given to her by the trial All-India radio children's hour. ... _get a piece of card. Fold it in half; this is now your greeting card. Write a poem on the inside; who it is to and also your name... now boys, don't be shy!_ [further patronising later] _and you have a beautiful Valentine's day card for a beautiful girl. Don't tell your mummy now_ ... After mistress Saaj was fired, her replacement; Anjali Singh did the show for a month before the whole concept was replaced in favour of the more English 'Drive Time'.

Into the unknown world of love, Anu ventured taking her work, along with new peel-able fingers, to school. She presented it to Mrs P. Keema on Friday 13th February 1998. Mrs P. K. was so offended by the gesture she ripped up the paper, causing sequins of gold, silver, metallic purple, blue and green to wash the floor below. Of course, sobbing Anu was made to pick it all up.

(What has this to do with swimming...? Ah yes!) Approximately a year later, Mrs P. K. had forgotten of the insolence of a child and had invited the/her sixteen year old brother, Haresh, to be the second adult in minding a class field trip to Pulicat lake. It was here where young Anu mimicked (with unknown future foresight) a Deepha Mehta film character by entering the water. Except, unlike 'Kalyani' Anu was actually wanting to be saved and in particular, saved by Haresh. It was in fact a roaming gondola driver who did the honours but not all too soon as the darling child almost drowned. Lisa Ray – eat your heart out.

"Go on. It's lovely and warm. And as added bonus, I aint got no undies down 'ere." Brett laughed what is commonly known as a dirty giggle. Anu, horrified, shuffled feet from water and walked near naked self closer to beach front. A barbeque was in place and with food as a loving thought, Anu flicked sand with toes to get to the cook-out, housed in cordoned off beach area. Meat given and received and behind where Anu graciously accepted and ate grilled chicken breast off of a blue plastic plate, two bikini clad women spoke of their intentions at the jaunt. One wanted to have as much sex with as many different men as possible. The other, a penchant for 'wanking guys off'; whatever that meant. The main gist of the conversation gave Anu more of an idea to the theme of this gathering – a sex party! How very rude! Reader, please save judgement for the time being. Get me not wrong – Anu loved sex in most ways, however, there lay a wholistic approach to the act. Sex is not (and forgive my frankness) an erect penis slipped into a vagina. Oh not! There were many other aspects to the act; courtship being one. A sex party just gave the permission for approach work to be reduced to null. 'Excuse me, can we have sex?' is the least exciting prelude to coitus in the story of man and woman. This world was the prehistoric and Anu was a free thinking, independent new wave Indian.

It was on this epiphany, Tiffany returned to usher Anu to a new port of call.

### Day 3

A clique had created itself consisting of Arnand, Grace, a blonde haired gentleman (dressed as a clown) and a short man called Dwight. The latter being a rather hairy man who resembled the English town mouse. Except, as is noticeable in most of these cases, the top of his head was as hairless as the mice used in certain laboratory experiments. Blackheads aplenty, however. Shiny also. Dwight had a moustached bristled to broom manufacture standard and he wore only swimming trunks. Child size it seemed. His face was well tanned but yet his body was as pale as the unholidayed European. Away from the Mediterranean, that is.

"Arnand, you are an amazing character, I'm pretty glad I met you." Grace spoke with a determination, whereas her words could have been quite clingy. Arnand himself could not believe his charm. So used to the life of pay for pleasure, the man could not even please his wife for free. Yet in much less than ten hours he had sweet talked the socks (literally) off two Americans for nothing. "Wow, yeah! And so gorgeous too." The blonde clown winked an overly red eye. There was confusion in why this man was winking with the complimenting and all whilst wearing the most ridiculous outfit at this bizarre but recognisably not-clown orientated assembly. Not that this deterred a painted faced blonde man with very brightly coloured and baggy clothes (not in the cool fashion) since he kept on smiling provocatively. Grace noted the semblance with either cringed irony or misinterpretation (mischievous or other). She giggled almost silently then continued conversation to hide folly/mischief. Fiona returned holding a tray of drinks. "I saw you all from back there and thought: why not?" This was merely a joke, she had only left the side of Grace to retrieve drinks all night. The collection was offered. "You know, I have something extra." To which she discarded tray and opened right palm to reveal five white pills. "Put them in... and away we go..." [dosage/direction: one pill to be taken with cold fluid] The cold fluid in question; various alcoholic cocktails, were consumed tall to end and on completion the raising of glass in victory; elongated 'woo-hoo' to boot! "I know this killer spot that me and my ex did the snake at a couple years back and we gotta go there now. Besides, I know if this one does his nut now he'll be ready for me again later. Huh, Dwighty?" She bent down to him (being taller) and grasped his crotch pulling him forward to engage in the sucking of his lips; tongue assisted. People may call it kissing. Arnand looked on nonplussed wondering exactly what he had swallowed (both the pill and the creamy white cocktail). He realised the stare and looked quickly down at the five black straws collecting slight sand on the marble floor. He pulled his head level and realised the effect of the evening's alcohol. The lights of the flooring area that represented the halfway between outside and inside started to blur due to his head's ability to move quicker than his eye's chase. He noted that aside from bouncers and the odd waiter (way too few for a gathering this size and there should have been more considering tips bonus) he was the only darker skinned person at the shindig. Well, maybe the only dark skinned man since Arnand had just spotted the back of a woman out there who certainly looked non-White. Ah, but reflection plays tricks, no? The lights were effecting his judgement and with the night sky he was not entirely so sure about this blue bikini'd female, eating chicken in the sand facing the sea... her blonde, White and tanned friend paused to talk. So Latino perhaps?

Before the woman could turn so that the Brown sar suited man could take a look at this mysterious lady's face, a panic set in to the Tamil who could not find his feet though each were both below him. He heard "Let's go." But to where? When was this agreed? Too late, Arnand started to walk at a pace that may have shocked him since he did not have enough time to count the flooring fixings. Passed the pool that played home to bra-less wondering White women in their forties; several with cane-row braided styled hair (and bloated stomachs). Oh he felt the silly grin creep up on his cheeks so he fought to control it but his hand was being tugged hard and he was walking. To much doing. What do they say about men and multi-tasking? He tried to stop with the motion yet an over-friendly familiar body leaned into him, licking his ear. He almost stumbled, opened his eyes wide and looked Grace in hers. She put her finger to her mouth, walked forward and kissed her counterpart passionately for the briefest of moments. Arnand felt warmed... yet only for those briefest of moments. The panic came back. The guilt. Though worse – like being caught red handed. He could see his heart; cartoonish, thumping his chest to be let out. He had been seen in act as well as rumbled in secret desire... as to his left, tapping him on the shoulder almost aggressively was...

... a clown. Not a blonde haired clown, a real one with a smooth top-of-the-head and green shootings at the back and sides. Blonde haired man had donned the wig he carried in his baggy red striped trousers and also re-touched his make-up (another portable carry). Arnand took a step back for the jester was standing so close. "You go without me and I'll follow soon." He spoke to Arnand. Why would Arnand care? He looked at Grace who nodded an 'ok' and winked. He felt better knowing that this man was not talking directly to him. Grace went once more for the Tamil's hand and skipped dragging brown jacketed, Brown skinned man away, following the ushering Fiona and Dwight 'This way' they mouthed, or was it just Fiona? What did Dwight know; he never spoke, just laughed the dirty laugh. More bouncers on reaching the perimeter edge... and out of the party walls they skipped. Sand to rock, a little playful game of tag; 'Arnand, you're it'. He chased Grace with no thoughts otherwise; except when he caught her. Then there was one thought. Fiona ordered her final directional command: 'Behind those fuckers'. Three giant un-live coastline rocks; sort of what Mr Arnand had been throwing pebbles at Fiona from. Layered in corrosion, the same shape from the sea; though nightfall hide this. The sound of these waves crashing is easily heard by the sober, the less sober and the intoxicated. Within a space created in spiral by the element mix: wet sand, Fiona led the others (were there three, four five, six? Arnand was seeing things. Was this acid he had taken? Smoking beedis with ladies of debauchery was one things. Popping pills with Americans – _shame on you, Arnand_. His wife told him through the inner ear). His wife! How could he be even thinking of others when his wife was at home in Chennai waiting for him... no, at the hotel. _Where am I?_

What a question! Who ever knows the answer to that? Ecstasy, acid, beedi, sobriety. Which ever drug; are you ever sure? Fiona was – she used powers of the mind to carry her associates up naturally occurred stairs to a sheltered, shallow cave. "You can see the whole party from here. Look at the lights." Sorry reader, I made a mistake earlier, _this_ was her final command. Head spinning Arnand sat down with back to unsmooth wall. He did not twitch. Grace sat beside him after unconsciously recognising the need for two sub cliques of the one true whole-breakaway. "I don't know what she sees in him. He's like a fucking Danny DeVito clone." She faked a smile and waved to her insultee. Dwight DeVito 'smiled' back. "I can't believe I sslept with hhim." She slurred, "He'ss the hhairiest man alive and I'm like hhot!" She laughed whilst sobering but stunned Arnand scoped his slightly arrogant adjacent, black bikini top, black panties pathetically covered under a pink ballerina skirt. (Need I mention high heels?) Dark brown hair tied back, half of the top of her head covered with pink scarf. Crescent eyebrows and fake face mole in accompaniment. Arnand felt assured (though all he saw was what I have just described yet in an almost darkness). He closed his eyes and made a wish – _it was not to live forever._ "Hold me, Arnand." She lied speaking softly. Regaining stability Arnand tried and was pushed forcing a scraping of his back on rock. _Ouch!_ He looked over at Fiona with Dwight DeVito in grasp. She knelt to two gentlemen... where did this second man arrive from? Grace used her right hand to bring Arnand's attention back to her – a forceful pull of his jaw. She had removed her pink headband. Not really for the support of her style but to aid the decoration. In two movements its use was transformed. No longer apparel of the fancy kind, no – now a device. A machine to limit sight... a blindfold! "Arnand, I want to test your tantric ways."

As the blindfold donned she gracefully (and not to mention seductively) slide her hand across his thigh, placing her fingers underneath his shirt. Buttons, zips and belts later, she stared underpants. She could feel how cold the stone under her legs were and gave no information or warning to Arnand and his bottom. She looked to her right at the woman mounting the short hairy man she had revolted since catching his eye earlier in the week (however, I repeat her sentiment – she still fucked him). Then a mini struggle and up Fiona rose! Teasingly, the woman got up half bare and proceeded to run down those all natural rock formation stairs. Dwight, surprisingly sat where he remained and lay down. Sleep was playing catch up. Fiona saw the podgy man and his apathy and rolled her eyes up, placing her hands on her waist. She looked at Grace and smiled. She beckoned her to come forth with flicks of the wrist. Grace, busy with her hands, paused and motioned a 'no' with her head. A disgruntled Fiona grabbed her crotch almost violently; knees bent down and then up. It had no effect on the proximity of Grace, she seemed happy to stay with blind Arnand. Fiona looked to a high splash of water that had entered the encased sand, bent down, cupped a wet sand ball and threw it at her target; Grace's shoulder. Direct hit and a shriek. Fiona ran cheekily away feeling in her intoxicated mind state that she was being followed by her female friend.

Arnand, being unable to see Grace was so excited with what was going on to his personal level, he became extremely worried about... you know, ejaculating too early. A common Arnand thinking. Anxiety had crept in as drug high effects were creeping out. He even heard women shrilling and hoped that maybe Fiona was to join in on their escapade, he unknowing to the American woman's far and spirited run down the almost pitch black beach. The delusion of body over mind. Still, he needn't mind since stimulation was still in effect. He did still worry, however. His whole life had been geared up to sexual fantasy like this; ever since his teenage days of secret joys under the singular desks of Royal Blues (division) Hindustan High School for Boys. Thoughts were for Mrs Vinoth Ramayara; who could not see him. In truth, she could/knew and also the movements of several other boys in class 2D. The new age lady let things slide (pun apologies!) having heard the remarks of a Jewish lady on a radio station in London, who encouraged her six year old girl not to feel ashamed of self gratification, letting her indulge in pleasure anytime she pleased. _She'd rub away anytime. In the living room whilst I ironed, during the Coronation Street, you name it and she did. I didn't want to stop her in case I put conditions within our mother to daughter relationship affecting her relationships in the future. Of course, I had to stop her when we went down to the synagogue to speak to our Rabbi. She never did it in front of me or anyone else again._ Mrs Ramayara felt sexual expression was a healthy part of a growing child's life. Not that Arnand knew or cared. He remembered the way her frame pushed through her tight black skirt as she shuffled across the floor plastering chalk onto a blackboard (which could have had anything scribed upon it for all the attention the words were receiving). On her way to and from class, Ramayara covered up well. Extended shawls, long jackets in Indian heat and Anna Salais traffic fumes. _Beep! Beep! Point; stare!_ All worth it for the audience.

Rock propped current Arnand's eyes were closed whilst he was imagining the moments where she dropped chalk, erasers, paper... most things on almost imprecisely monitored occasions. Bending down so so slowly in order to pick it back up. She looked back once or twice. Did she eye little Arnand? Was there a twinkle of a horny nature within those grand blue/grey eyes, the dark (but not too dark) brown skin was always slightly sweaty, Arnand preferred the term 'salty'. She must have looked at him once – the time he raised his hand too high knocking the underside of the desk. Stroke up. Pause. No she has not seen, or was she just letting him get on with things? Stroke down. This is it, so close... concentrate... damned potions! Concentrate Arnand... on her bottom... she is turning slightly... her left breast and nipple... yes.

Arnand released an inbreathed orgasmic groan and then breathed out heavily. The tantric nature of this Tamil was shot out faster than... well, I should lessen such crude verse! Opening his eyes he had forgot about the blindfold, still he was in no state to take it off. "Wow." He spoke panting. Grace did not reply; he felt his beautiful temptress having reply issues (shall we say). _She must love the taste,_ he thought to himself believing that a messy cleaning operation was getting shorter and easier (I lessened where I could, reader!). The soothing softness took over his body as she used her tongue in a quite physically aggressive way. In addition, her chin moved onto the inside of Arnand's thigh rubbing it gently. Expectedly, Arnand should have found this soft and to a point caring. He did not. Instead, it was slightly sharp and prickly. A little like... the feeling of stubble? But then this could not have been the case? And as his mind did not want; the pill popping residue in the system out balanced these bodily reactions; seeming to wonder passed the conscious process. Indeed, ripping off the blindfold Arnand's nightmare was confirmed. A man had taken over from Grace's beginning and she was nowhere to be seen. Down a beach with a fellow American and same-sex friend (whilst now intimate). "Did you like that?" He spoke smiling. Unadulterated vision was returning to Arnand slowly; he made out vagrant sides of hair and very clown features. It was a sight that almost made Arnand vomit. Did a little creep his throat? No, he could not do so due to the anger that built up in him. "You fucking!" He shouted jumping up desperately and uncoordinated, searching for his trousers. Where the pair were was beyond him, so he had to continue shouting... Fionaesque, semi-naked. "Where iss Grey-see? You fucking cheating..." Arnand was too excited to expel anything that could vaguely resemble his better grasp of the English language. "I fucking kill you!" Well actually that was better.

Yes, there was an array of fist sized rock shrapnel on the hard stone next to Arnand's foot. Thoughts crossed his mind.

***

"If you thought that was a killer party," no, Anu did not, "wait ter yer check this out." Tiffany, Anu, Amber and Jennifer left the east beach sex/pool party, as is every year, organised by Fiona Broadass. "I mean this is great an' all but I want something classy. I need a lil Don Perignon down my throat." Tiffany squeezed Jennifer as she pushed her gently. These sumptuous four ladies wearing bikinis as only, walked down the cool sand to where the brightness pulled. A walk of a minute or two and a light emanated from a white yacht in bay one of Hometown Harbour. As their ears got closer the deep sounds of rhythmic baselines and drums blared from speakers. A garbled man spoke quickly over the beat with a heavy New York accent. Brooklyn I believe. When these four bombshells stepped onto a long timber slope bridging land with float, they were greeted by bouncers stood with an apparent organiser of the party. They unnecessarily stopped. "Oh snap! You ladies on the guess liss? I know I don't need ta look, you go on a head... ma man Ten iz up and waiting. Dayam." The non-bouncer (with a matching green suit) spoke. Chequered; a darker green to a lighter interspersed with diagonal blue-green lines. Jacket _and_ trousers. In the dark night he bore green rimmed shades and a green, feathered bowler hat which matched only the lighter shade of colour his jacket flashed. African Brown cheeks were chubby which may have suggested an easy going nature but he had a dead pan persona on guard. Giggles and arm locking had to be broken up in special difference as the awesome foursome boarded the Water Lily. They were told where to go but it was a token effort – the lights guided them still; like a star in that night. And when they arrived to the centre of activity, what did they see? No nativity – just five-ten men with twenty-thirty women.

The women? All gorgeous. Bikini clad (some with rather less, I might add). Not an ugo in sight!

The men? The word is baggy (the non-clown, cool fashion kind) and the other word is bright. Mostly African Americans but there was the one European American fellow whom happened to be surrounded by the most women.

What else? A pool, speakers, turntables complete with turntablist, then buckets and buckets of champagne, iced as appropriate and more drinks and drinks on separate table. Each left to owns harm. A rhythmic beat spliced with violin sample played background until a popular New York rapper queried 'Are you ready to _paaar-'ay_?' via vinyl lodging. After this calling, almost all aboard raised arms and cheered. Hedonistic dancing followed the introduction of the new record.

The fantastic four (now not as so fantastic) split ways into two twosomes; the stayers and the drink getters. Anu was a stayer with Jennifer, who closed a fist and stabbed air away from and above her head. Her body moved instinctively with this motion; eyes closed, bottom lip bit and thump! Thump! Anu the stayer caught this vibe un-entirely but nevertheless, the Tamil forced herself to at least sway. The awkward moment. She looked around. Was this party for Black men only? There was the one White man but his hair was arranged in a very non-White way. He even mimicked the mannerisms of all the Black gentlemen he surrounded himself with. Distracted by the position of no position; the empty guest. To investigate surround she did – a conversation Anu could barely hear; tapped into for no more than something to do. "..ya see? thass a nigger getting his. He got all street and now he up in dis record to make those notes. Yeah, aight, she singing and dancing like a ho, but fuck dat, son, da raps are tight. You don't fuck wit Redman, son..." Anu did not understand much of the colloquial but with Jennifer singing and stabbing her airborn heart out she continued to listen to the American football jersey wearing pair. Fifty-three still spoke to seventy-two "ayo, son, you need to pass that shit on. I'ma get ma drink on then it's... oh shit, check dis shorty right here...

Hey, I'm Deboss." He spoke to Anu who was caught unaware. She even questioned her wine intake for the evening. No, she was not drunk. "Hi." She humoured after pause. "Oh you can do better than 'Hi', mamasita. I bet you got some o' them Puerto Rican genes in you, dayam." Fifty-three looked her up and down and then around. Anu screwed her face: disgusted. "Don't play hard to get, mammy," he dragged on a newly acquired marijuana joint, "this cat got game and contacts. You wanna be up in my video, you go'er have to show me... you wan' it." Most of his words were wheezed whilst breathing out although Anu was still having trouble understanding the man anyway. He looked interested in her but in Anusha's made up mind he was not getting near.

Though I have pasted no real and hard evidence of a conscience, she suddenly thought of Arnand. She even thought of the scheme of things. Here in front of her person stood a quite rich (judging by the gold accessories and diamonds ear studs) man with an abundance of the type of charisma Arnand could never have. Granted, this man was Black and Anu could never envisage an African man as a suitor. MTV Asia broadcast a few _African Americans of the zeitgeist_ ; namely the ever popular Will Smith along with the more and more fanciful by day Nelly. Anu found these two rappers quite the treat especially as their songs were constant playbacks at the Western Lodge Nightdance. Owing to restrictions, her ability to attend regularly was affected, but the times she did, these two artists were amongst the select few floor fillers: the university boys forgot the bar, the university girls forgot their coy corner hugging tactics and (along with category Anusha: _others_ ) all joined the school girls already enjoying space for limb throwing.

Once upon a time Anu was one of these latter; being a fifteen year old for the love of the dance, music, sex and romance. She remembered never minding the intrusion which was followed by bottom pinching, incessant winking and further down the line; the lip kissing so curtailed at the cinema. _English kiss!_ A Tamil song had once sung in want.

"Oh you wanna make me work fo' it, huh? So you don't want 'xclusive Ten Squad shit? So you don't speak no English, huh? I gotchu, mammy." Anu could have told him the truth but this avenue was an easier street. Tiffany returned with flutes. Fifty-three and seventy-two's attention split across the four women; Amber knew who Fifty-three was; an East Coast rapper of the clique Ten Squad led by Tentym, the man whose name the yacht was in hire. As a side note, a fan in Europe had won a date in the island after sending off proof of purchase of Tentym's new CD single release _Iss Poppin' Like This_ (written by T. Innes/L. Metcalf/H. Jarvis/F. Kanoute/F. Junes/R. Jerkins contains samples from the song _Whole 'nother Love_ written by F. Junes/R. Jerkins. Distributed for Soundhouse Studios and Tenpin Records, NY NY). After shooting the video aboard the yacht for the follow up track, and making a short appearance to his fourteen year old adoration and her mother (which was filmed), his record company gave him permission to use the vessel for an after party (it was hired for three days anyway).

In the months gone by, Anu had stuck to the Indian whirl. Catching up on the gossip of stars Madhavan, Tricia and the ever popular Rajni and Aishwarya. To the further Western world, of which India and other South Asian countries were fed-filtered brutally through economic market rather than honesty or appropriation, Anu was not clued in. Not knowing exactly what she was dealing with in the current melee. Anu nervously sipped champagne. And whilst all around danced, ran, flirted, splashed. Whilst others were courted. Whilst Anu was attempted to be courted herself; by many suitors. Whilst music blared and men got further intoxicated, feeling free aboard fake land that... wobbled. Whilst women were thrown into water (though the lighted pool). Whilst men and women lost clothing then more and more... she avoided conversation due to being surrounded by giddy swimsuit beauties who had a chance to be involved in something they did not wish to miss – another music video. The furore moved a crowd towards the now recreated foursome since Deboss was busy educating his audience about his favourite subject; himself. _Blass 'em off wit a rhyme, dawg_ earlier friend now turned enemy seventy-two (or Shanx AKA fifty-three; Shanx being short for Tenshanks) spoke knowing that this would unnerve his companion; improv or freestyling was not a task Shanx accomplished well. Indeed the standard response followed _nah, dats some exclusive shit. Go kop da album, in stores..._ there followed a date.

Too many sips later Anusha left a posse to find the relief of a full bladder. She did so whilst almost lazily bumping into the only White man on board. He too was under the same motivation as any of the other men that had spoke/touched/leaned towards Anu. "All this is mine, baby. Thass wassup." He spoke, slurred. Anu noted that he spoke like all the Black gentlemen on board but there was a mispronunciation or intricacy that simply was not there. "Tentym, baby. Butchu know dat. Wass ur name, cutey... no wait... you speak Spanish? Me no speako Spanish." He giggled. "Nor. I am not SSpanish, I am Indian. This yacht is yours?" Amongst the many African origin males aboard, Anu felt reassured in the knowledge; the yacht was told as owned by a White man. He was quite young however. "Yeh hiss mine, baby. India, huh? I aint never had no Indian girl. You sure you aint Puerto Rican or some shit? I'll be a second." Indeed he was not the 'ladies first' type of man on this occasion and he was more than a second, but still rather fast. Flush. Anu's turn; the space in the cabin was confined so the two rubbed chest-to-chest in order to switch positions. "I like dat." Was Tentym's comment as Anu closed port-a-loo behind her. She did her business rather shaken. Was the yacht moving? Hurrying, Anu filled her conscious mind with twinkling toes to the gantry in order to look out to the sea. Flush. She raced out and almost knocked Tentym over (he was not the tallest or heaviest of men). He stared back at her panicked; Anu looked into his blue eyes and queried "are we moving?" To which she received a nod; "Thass all you heated up for? God damn, baby, I t'oughtchu... nevermind."

The Tamil woman realised he had waited whilst she relieved herself. With all spinning and dizzily passing by; he was not all dim-mannered. "How long will we be out at sea for, please?" Tentym put his finger to his lip, took her hand gently leading her back out to open deck. "Baby, you stuck wit me arl night. Thass wassup."

### Siva (1)

(About twenty-two hours to Bombay; mind your head, ah?)

"You ok, boy?" The balding skinny man with the dirty green shirt shouted. He had to shout, the bus was making allsorts of noise... Let's see: No windows, tin can exterior, veneered but peeling interior and all with the handsome mix of a driver who travelled in excess of 60MPH. It all shook and with shake comes noise. It's a scientific principle. The apple falls from the tree onto people's heads due to gravity and likewise the shaking of objects (particularly of put together objects, like buses) equals sound due to... well, due to something or another.

The boy had secured a window frame seat; window frame: a cut out of the metal outside of the tin can bus. There was no glass but simply several metal bars that served to shorten the distances of the gaps that the cut outs produced. No glass. Why? It costs too much to replace. In India, one is always replacing glass. Hence in the previous paragraph I said 'No windows...'

The roads of India are potholed. (Oh, and anything else that's obvious will be pointed out, dear patronisee.) The driver of the bus; a dark skinned Tamil with the light brown shirt of driver/conductor uniform, side parting combing over a bald spot (comb in breast pocket). His concentration is firmly elsewhere; lovely sweet thoughts of his wife and children safely tucked up in there home as he left them in the wee early moments of the morning 19 hours ago (well, his wife was awake when he left, making him breakfast, and it was too early to sleep; but it was darkening and this made sense).

So his foot is on the gas and he is happy. The second and last conductor/driver to his left has lost his previous jolly nature and is staring at the commotion but not acting on it. He has seen this all before. Small boy smacks top of head on window frame. It's a headline you know? Not typically. But today the young man is from England.

"Stop the bus, my child is hurt." Yet he wasn't. A little dazed, a bit sore. Mother, a round and light skinned Tamil woman though she spoke in English; she was taking all proportion from and to out of the open aired window. The bus/coach, thankfully, did not stop. What did stop was the boy's vision of himself as a bird. He was staring deeply into darkish, evening air when he was thrown up off of his seat, banging head. He had been given warning jolts but he, being only twelve, had ignored each.

There was the argument which involved the round lady as she squared off with five others (including the green shirted man) presenting the case to stop the bus. In typical Indian dramatic fashion the tension escalated, yet eased and floated away like steam within a circumference contradiction. So the bus was able to continue at over 60MPH rather than the 57 to 58 it had been moving at after the second and largely inactive conductor had told the driver to slow pending results.

With the beauty of timing, a village stop and the coach came to a halt. A true diffusion of the situation occurred. Onlooker, Siva, claimed his fruit through a straw, both bought at price one rupee. Weary at the journey thus far, he sat back down on his seat and drunk a fill. His hiker pack was attached to his left leg; this was the reason he did not involve himself with the bus politics. Bombay was a long way away and now, so was Madras. When you leave Tamil Nadu, have one's wits about you.

***

(...On an average day/night, Siva would be so arrogant as to believe his items would never be stolen. A typical pompous fool he is... except, this night – no ordinary night, for he had done some stealing of his own. A little pilfering at the local bar, as it were... and the item? – in a hiker pack near his left leg. The greatest ticket to another life yet! That is, in terms of Siva and his projected life...)

***

About twenty-four hours (or two coach rides) after leaving his home, Siva would reach a hotel in Bombay.

***

"Sorry, sir. Fully booked." Was the reply of a fuzzy haired man whose fuzzy hair for all the world looked a dilemma – like a terraced-house roof top with a diagonal slant, though all the grease in North India could not hold the side parting true... He spoke from behind the counter of the Raj Hotel.

"What are you talking?" The beauty of Tamil English – Tamglish. The pure words used in the certain interesting grammar... and let us not forget the accent! Not delicately graceful like the Northerner; more brutal and demanding. A representation of the Tamil language itself – unrelenting and sometimes crude in delivery. "Totally booked, sar. Please, I am asking, you are from the Madras Presidency?" Was he asking?! _The Madras Presidency._ A name not used to represent the state of Tamil Nadu (amongst all else) for the best part of decades/centuries less/more. Siva realised he would be dealing with Mr Old School. "Sorry," The fuzzy haired worker in polyester suit continued, "but we are having another hor-tel, sar. A hotel most suited to offer a person of your type." So what did he mean by this? Two things; Siva was Tamil and he had little luggage. The latter category paved a further two points; he had little in the way of travelling a further distance and he also would have little in the way of tipping like a tourist.

And so argument ensued. Am I to bore you with the typicality of the 101 Indian conflict? You can imagine the extent of the verbal way – _You are a darkie my friend. All you darkies are the same._ Along with the priceless: _My money is not short. I can afford more than your family and your prostitute sister's family can earn in a lifetime_. Wait, did I say I would spare you the boredom? Ok, so in quick terms: there was shouting, accidental spitting, arms pointing. Then the skin tone insulting, versions of castes and hierarchical structures with such and such divisions e.g. money and family business.

All in vain.

Siva knew he would be going the way of the mini-van-people-carrier out back. In light of the situation, it was lucky he even got a lift; he was doing most of the cursing. Any other night porter would have sent the Tamil out of the front but it just so happened that the hotel manager was in the building even at the late hour. And he was in a vicinity to play prying ears. He had, however, full respect for his staff and their ability to deal with the awkward customer. Besides, the manager had committed to his duty all throughout the day just gone and he felt he had earned his break from both employer and even as a husband. You see, the other reason to stay hidden was the need to get dressed once more having removed garments to be 'having the perks' of being in charge of the hotel hands. Literally.

Onto outside and to the description: slightly dusty but bearable. This would be for both the street Siva found himself on as well as the vehicle he was just opposite to. And inside; he sat alone at the rear being the only customer for the excursion, many fellow coach arrivals picking less expensive dwellings including long and lost relations. (The two; Siva and driver John Dhoshwere, both on their ways to Motel Maharaj, Kings Road, pulling away from the Raj Hotel, West Street.) Siva stared out of the window trying hard to grasp the new outer world. Within stores of hopes and dreams, Bombay buried itself abed roses and fruits and allsorts of delightful, fluffy things. The Big City; home of the talkie... no – birthplace of such. This small port of a land supplies the world with glamour, though this lifestyle is only meant for the few. Only the idea of glamour is permitted to all. To experience it, Siva thought, only the elite should be privy. Glamoured, glittered elite, like the gorgeous Shania Prania. Siva engaged her for the moment; an imaginary meeting with the lady. A swanky hotel (pushing the Raj Hotel to one side for the fantasy). She saw him from across the lobby and walked (in her onscreen way – _boom-chaka-boom!_ ) in approach, on arrival stroking the lapel of his white tuxedo. She leant seductively toward him and urinated.

Thoroughly, Siva was disgusted by an elderly gentleman doing exactly that against a street sign at the corner of an alley onto a main street. So disgruntled was he, Siva volleyed an obscenity to the driver _how dare he allow for such a route that would bring such a viewing?_ To the Tamil's surprise, the car/mini van/almost estate halted. "Sir. Do not being aay-gressive. I am but the dryfer and if you are varnting [wanting] me to be taking you too quickly then you no souting." As you may have gathered, Siva is not the type of man not up for a fight back, yet he went for the lenient approach. He let the calm threat go. A wave of his hand and slump back in seat. (Would I say respect? In a way yes, a healthy respect for the mean streets of the wrong city for a physically soft type.)

"What is your story?" The driver turned back, eyes on road from having faced his passenger in confrontation and they were off once more. "Nothing of your in-trest." Was the sore reply. There was a small bulb that flickered suggesting the potential of a beneficial response to the reason Siva was here. But then what would a driver know of the industry Siva was stealing into (again, very literally).

"So you want to making the talkies, yes?" The driver had extracted the deeply embedded thoughts of Mr L. Sivabalan. Either that or he used X-ray eyes to penetrate his bag eyeing the script of Siva's best friend, Seran. "No reason why wan [van] taking down sahib to Mahraj moretel. Must being moo-fees [movies] or gangster." Well a gangster in a gangster's paradise would be comfortable. On more than one method, since the driver's English was limited, the strain of conversation would be away; so the aloof of the rough and tough would hold sway. Siva, himself was tempted to lead belief – a chief hitman for the 'Madras Madman.' _Bullet-tooth Kannan, they call me._ Yes, that's who he was. "If I told you I was a movie boy, what would you know, ah?" A little truth is not always a bad thing. "I drife [drive] people," the sort of start to a longer admission of knowledge. "if I not picking up... aye, contact. Picking people. I making the free-ends [friends] with all Bombay. You Tamil, no? Passion, aye?" He waited for the nod. "I know, ah? Ser-vah-gee, eM-gee-ah, I know Tamil. Passion, aye? Your eyes. Blood passion." Though not showing it, Siva was taken by the fact he was being complimented along with the man's apparent contacts within the movie world of Bollywood. At least that's what he thought he was addressing. "I am hav-fing a man you must be talking. Producer, sahib. Yes he's Muslim, but he ok, ah? Hindu-Muslim!" He chuckled girlishly on the 'oxymoron,' "You have fillim, no?"

Was it obvious? Siva had not told a soul about his pure thievery. He did not have the time. To take then to make! He was a producer in the making and what better advice on such a career than a producer willing for talking! With ideas of wondering the streets of Bombay with nothing but a stolen script in his hands, the potential meeting with an actual Bollywood producer was not something Siva expected to have after only stepping off the coach. Perhaps _more Tamils should travel to Bombay._

***

At least the window was well positioned. The sun streamed into the room and touched the brown blanket which wrapped the naked Brown man. He was awake and had been so for an hour; smelling dusty air and musty bed clothes. Smell. Thoughts. Thoughts of his softly cushioned mattress back in the presidency of yesteryear... yesterday, came back to him. Siva could just as easily be in the familiarity and warmth of his own abode. His father would have come around to the idea of a film producer in the family. He had tried a stint in Kollywood mogul fashion. He even had links to the multinational media mini empire of his potential father-in-law, Karmithan. _Too journalistic. Why the truth when you can have a better villain than an evil president and a fucking army, ah? A super villain and a bloody good looking hero. Throw in a pretty girl, some songs and one is laughing!_

Yet what of the family business to run? No sweat! Siva had male siblings. But, and Siva re-realised this after collecting himself for the morning, all roles would be limited to this ovarian Kollywood and the highly Tamil Kodam area in cinema. There was a certain charm about it all but only razz. No, matazz, like the equally ovarian Mumbai or having just been birthed/coined _Bollywood_. Ugh! Journalists – what do they know?

Siva sat up. He looked back at the empty bed. He had the opportunity to share it with a paid worker of the kind and though no stranger to the act, he did not for he did not feel it purposeful on his first night. An impurity to the element of a gift. Stretching arms he smiled thinking of all the new Shania's in the making and what they would do for parts in blockbuster hits that he could well ensure. He'd hardly have to pay a rupee. There maybe no lady for the time being but this was going to change. Siva felt the excitement unbend his knees! His mind even spun the positive from spending the night in a very dim motel room; he was mucking in. All producers/directors and wannabe stars did it. It was the male equivalent to fucking a very fat and very hairy casting director. Ah yes! He was ready to take on the day!

Camel coloured corduroy trousers with only subtle flare bottoms. White shirt with stitched pink flower breast/side patterns, top four buttons undone, tucked in and tight showing off a black leather with brass buckled belt (no pattern). The attire that Siva chose always matched his medium length cut hair (past his ears but not the shoulders... except at the back which almost touched deltoids). If at an honest-to-God survey, Siva would have liked to be reasonably thinner, he was slightly the plumper, healthy or well fed, as it were. The poking belly of an eater who was young enough to put away delicacies without too many delicate calories. A few squats and arm reaches usually sorted him out, if he was having ultra lazy weeks.

Oh yes! Very ready he was now. A small neck movement to the mirror... _go tiger!_ He skipped from his room with a smile and style, zipping across a landing and two flights of varnished wooden stairs. The motel was merely a very big house with plenty of rooms. Hijacked... and then re-hijacked, from the British ruled Bombay. Like all the hotel/motel buildings surrounding, terraced style on the Kings Road. Not the most pleasing structures as the landlords (and one landlady) would say but the profits spoke themselves. Good enough.

The recommendation of hotel in Bombay fell squarely on the shoulders of the only other man to know of the Tamilan's departure. Mehagun. He'd even made all the necessary pre-arrangements and bookings. So you, reader, may just be able to understand the growing antipathy towards, who some would consider, Siva's personal butler. Double booking and annoying shenanigans on coach – his fault. Brand new room of arguing Tamils in Bombay – his fault.

'Brand new room of arguing Tamils?' Let me explain. Passing the reception, a loud raucous filtered the lobby. Siva ever interested in anything that could distract him knew that he had no particular reason to be in leaving of his stay so early. Investigation became the priority...

"The owner will not do anything. Fucking pussy from his mother's womb." A fat man in a kiely (sarum/lunghi/material wrapped around a man's waist... whatever you will) pointed out. He spoke in a very Tamil language with an accent suggesting he was from south of India (as opposed to _the_ south of India). "It is not the television, friend, it is the receiving device." A thin gentleman in charcoal trousers and white with blue pin stripes shirt stated in reciprocation. "I can switch on the television, fine. Yet I am on-ing the box and the light is working, see, but the problem is the connection, I'm thinking."

The room was filled Tamil.

-Elderly men; a group of three who sat on folded out chairs right at the front of the room. No teeth, bad eyesight (explaining the need to sit as close to the TV set as possible), thinning hair around the sides of their wrinkled heads. As quiet as can be.

-Elderly females; four old women with fine grey/salt and pepper hair. Green and gold saris (with not quite the same patterns, but close enough). The type of female wear that did not turn heads.

-Children; two small boys, extremely skinny, buck toothed (with open mouthed grins) and greasy haired to boot.

-Middle aged males; of course, the two pseudo-television mechanics, in their mid forties, the youngest of the adults. Fat and skinny as described.

Aside from the people – the musty smell! A distinct lack of ventilation. The heat of Bombay had the ability to present (in Her own unique way) the mixture of general body odour along with the 'elderly' version of such. Siva was automatically bombarded with a fantasy belief of events that somehow he had been kidnapped in the middle of the night to be transported back to Tamil Nadu. Before he could shake the tale – he was spotted and so became the focal point for eyes. The receptionist on duty also pinned Siva's position at the doorway entrance and rushed passed the Tamil to open a set of curtains, then window pushing it violently open. "Open the window. Why do you always never do this?" The receptionist spoke to no one. He gazed a child who had briefly paused at his activity of inspecting a line of ants that mimicked a crack in the wall. "Thumbi, it is now your duty to see this window open and shut everyday. Ok, thumbi?" He was given a nod and a buck tooth grin, all whilst an elderly women had crept up behind the boy to do some inspection of her own – the young man's head of hair (this older lady had her green and gold sari patterned with diamond shapes). The receptionist, who tried to spend as little time as possible in this part of his work environment, quickstepped back to his position behind desk that overlooked the entrances to 'the Tamil room' and main reception area. He gave a tired yet somewhat pleased smile to Siva as he passed, squeezing through space and door frame. Why Siva was still in that position he could not tell you. The decision was to walk into the room rather than back out of it to manoeuvre, Siva found himself too close to the action – so he had to ask "uncle, what's happening?" Of course he had no interest in the address of the television related problem. "It is not a thing, we have it all under control." Was the stern and crude response from the larger gentleman in the very casual wear. Blatantly, this would have been enough for the young Tamil to be on his way had it not been for the words of the pinstripe Tamil. "You are from The Land?" The Land being slang for the previously discussed: _south of India_. Siva broadcast that he was with a nod. The pinstripe smiled whilst searching his mind for the usual barrage: precisely which town/city/village he originated; what he was doing in Bombay; what was his father's name; what was his name; was he married; what was his business and (finally) _Can you fix the television set?_

Within the mix of response Siva told the man he hailed from Neerdevelly; he was in Bombay 'on business' and that he was not married though he had a proposal in the offering. To avoid answering the latter more directly, he focused on the answer to the final question of the set. _Arthavan_ mama was not impressed – the meddling was interrupting the progress of the large man who had so far switched the set off and then back on several times all whilst scratching an exposed and hairy lower stomach. _Niru_ mama had not actually touched the set, nor the decoder below – his philosophy was to think very hard before making any sort of move. In a way, he suited the pinstripe and the slim body. And whilst actions were taken, the more Siva continued to move the set about, the more Arthavan despaired. Written all over his teeth kissing, head shaking face. "Leave him. These young ones know what to do." Niru reassured the big man, gently placing a hand on his shoulder, then withdrawing it back to a folded position.

Siva pressed a button labelled '1'. Nothing happened. He tried two. Again nothing. Three? Static as with one and two. Back to one (well, why leave it on three?). With hand resting on top of the set he looked down below the television – on a stand, which underneath, a satellite decoder rested upon shelf. Feeling encompassed, the effort made him regress to a boyhood state; immediately, Siva felt over depth. The abilities of this young man ranged in two: to switch on and switch off a box that created and destroyed light respectively. When as a child, Siva's enthusiasm for the science of situations was stunted by being reprimanded. Still, there lay the roots of the problem solving structure; things go on that one cannot see. _Behind the TV, Siva._ So he glanced through glass cabinet wall to see a black snake like rope with a silver end. One extremity firmly in the back of the decoder unit, the other just sprayed. Idea bells rang off in Siva's mind but he could not be sure of how correct he was. There was also the symbolism of the situation to deal with – he could not be wrong in front of others in his first event within Bombay. This could upset the balance of the good omen he received the night previous. He needed to be right and on the first effort; the pressure crept slowly, climbing up his back.

Then a click: a clarity idea bulb (with bell!) shown brighter (yet louder!) than the others. One by one. On! One of the young boys of the room who had the fascination with ants, was attempting to pick his favourite. And literally. Too aggressive mind you; he'd most probably kill the ant rather than remove it from duty whilst it lived.

All irrelevant you may think, but not, since it was the action of the picking that caught Siva's eye. A nature or nurture bestowed upon the man, if you will. The pulling action to an ant could transfer to a snake! Was the little boy guilty of a crime against Mini-Bombay-Tamil humanity? So Siva leant further towards the unit and pulled the both television and decoder to an angle. The back was now in view and indeed one end of the snake was into the decoder with the other end slithering upon blue poke-a-dot grey carpet. Luckily, Siva noted the only place socket capable taking the floored wire and went for the connection with boldness and belief. Upon inception, a picture flashed onto the screen along with a loud burst of an Indian spoken language that was not Tamil. The room muffled its own random cries and joined in chorus of togetherness – a single happy gasp. And then? – a quick clap! Arthavan mama muscled past the still crouching Siva causing the younger Tamil to support his weight further with a hand. The large uncle fumbled to press the button on the TV numbered six.

A little if not a lot smart, Siva got up and thought of exit with the exploration of this part of Bombay also on. Niru mama was the more appreciative, so he led Siva to the door and then even outside. "Thank you, young man." Niru spoke to Siva in English, with very genuine regard in his eyes. He continued in Tamil. "Go and come back." Siva replied his adieu making haste; feeling the almost victories of the morning.

***

The young Siva needed the walk. It was simply much too soon in the mid-morning to be chatting with elder Tamils; especially as he had travelled the many miles to rid himself of such a duty. He wondered how they had got here; Bombay is not known for its Tamil contingent. It is also clear that the people of the Maharaj Motel should have been in family homes joining in with the tasks of the network. Instead, folks were here, including two children no doubt being watched for the ever increasing situation in which both parents needed to work. What else within the Big City?

So why did he need the walk? – only to get away from these Tamils? Not quite, for he had a call to make, though not at the present time. Hours had to be killed. And what better way than to walk the minutes before returning to the small building adjacent to the motel; this being an international/national call shop.

_Oh Bombay!_ (Siva privately wept.) _Where have you been all my life? From the traumas of_ _that pig country_ _to the present: 'just almost' tolerable Madras._ The busied street hustle for a star... _I wonder; if I walked down this road for as far as I could go, will I bump into a Prania of my own?_

Truth be told, the Kings Road was quite empty; lecture hour for most students at the Mumbai University along with lazy hour for the stock pile residents of the seemingly endless hotels/motels/guest houses on the strip. A thirty second walk saw an un-namely Hotel Rani... on the Kings Road! Every other building, however, was more suitably addressed; King this, King that, Raj-, -Rajah; you name it, the permutations were there. Opposite sides of the wide road and small pavement (ill differentiated) that was the very commercial way. As a vehicle passed by, so did the volume of dust that flew up into the air; Siva was well equipped with handkerchief. He held it to nose and mouth as he walked past what resembled sixties Salford, Manchester (well maybe in building but not brick colour. Wider street too.)

At the very easterly end, in conjunction with a meeting to a two way main road, the aptly named Mumbai University stood behind large, dominating, black metal gates. These were in opening owing to the security hands expecting in and out traffic at the time of the day. The guards, who were visibly stood outside of their booth, were in their last few years at the university and were only just getting used to the newer volumes of traffic that the institution was bearing. The non-automatic process of these gates was an arduous task of lifting moving parts, dragging moving parts and then re-closing moving parts. If one is getting on in years, this is not a welcome part of the learning curve. It also did not help that students/lecturers and general people traffic would be let in and out using the same method (no mini way in for those without gasoline fuelled engines.) Siva noted a third guard from the two older gentlemen standing. This third looked the youngest yet he was sitting and yawning. They caught an awkward stare to which Siva continued unrelenting. He felt the competition, which in surprising event he won. The guard relinquished turning eyes, uninterested elsewhere. Only tiffin laden large men have the same could not care attitude and this must have proved the downfall of the stereotype of the power hungry controller.

Siva diverted his attention from the lazy looking man to virtually opposite and across the street. Outside of a building labelled with a pinned, material banner reading 'PADUPS,' a man was busy placing a round table (fit for three people at most). A café. Indeed, Siva thought late breakfast would go down very easily, so he crossed the road and sat at the newly positioned table, which was next to other. The waiter, who had gone back indoors, but re-emerged with two chairs in his hands spotted the Tamil seated, placed the chairs for filling of Siva's order...

And as he did so, Siva envisioned the food. He could smell Tamil delicacy from the kitchen at the Maharaj and believe me when I say he was tempted, it was only the whole Tamilness of the motel which drove him out to find Indianness, Bombayness, Hindiness... etc. The anticipation of food caused the excitement of success to well up within him. Siva had the extravagance of a rich man simply owing to definition: he was a rich man. So much so that he always had the option to make the call home and request money that his father had in plenty; though not quite yet. Siva was prepared for a few weeks at Bollywood heights (and slumming lows...), there was no complete belt tightening to be done, at least, only real belts and no metaphorical ones.

Ah! Thoroughly disgusted he was even at the thought of limiting spending – Sivabalan pushed the alien thought from his skull trying to regain the bold positive of his move from skinny Madras to obese Bombay. However, when you try, you must try harder for the obstacles are deeper. No less than a new thought in recollection of what he had to propel the move... "The script." Siva whispered/spoke out loud. Not proud of his purposeful descend inflicted upon friend. Eyes still closed and framed, Siva felt so ashamed of the way he had mapped out the fame. _Only temporary,_ he started, this time successfully thinking the words rather than leaking such public. _He will direct the piece, I am merely the producer. In sense, I will give back what I have taken._

A loud clatter brought to an end the silence that Siva had enjoyed on reflection of his guilt. He opened his eyes to a vision of a slim and rather tall woman looking comically guilty herself. She looked right at him. If he was not mistaken, she was Tamil. _What was with the amount of Tamils in Bombay?_ "Sorry!" she spoke in English with accent. Siva accessed a look of intentional mischief upon her expression (the smoothness of her skin was also interrupted by the embarrassed smile). Put together, this lady worked very well. However, she did display the touch of the 'typical woman'. You know, the one that Siva's mother had warned him of. (Well, one thing dear reader – it was not as if Siva wasn't the prized, tongue-out-of-cheek enchantress' elder's subject to similar warning.)

This _enchantress_ , as I call her, picked up the chair she had just felled; how she inverted it was a mystery to Siva, his eyes were closed, though he did not think too carefully about it. "I say, why don't you bring that chair next to mine?" There were two (chairs though no people) at her table and only one at his. She smiled busily and brought silver metal with her. "My name is Anita." She extended her hand, knuckles facing up. Siva received the limb and kissed it appropriately or inappropriately. Soft skin with a fragile grasp, he noted and liked. "Oh a gentleman. Are you student?" Anita knew he was not a student. "You are Tamil?" She asked, in Tamil. "Yes. Yes." Then Siva nodded, as if the two yes' were not enough.

"But I am not a student... I am a producer."

[ _chi-ching!_ ]

Well it was a lie, though having said that, it was his projected belief and if all went well with the 'Hindu to Hindu-Muslim' call and hopeful meeting then he would produce.

"Wow! I have never met a producer before." Anita rep-LIED.

And it was a lie, though having said that... no, actually, there is no 'having said that.'

"I've never talked or even thought about the movies before, I'm just a student across the road."

Siva (1) – Anita (2)

"Well you should. You are a very beautiful girl." A realisation patter-pattern triggered in madam's mind. "Oh..." she stated, shyly looking down and away in exaggerated fashion. "I don't know about that." She fidgeted in a covering and defensive motion.

Siva (1) – Anita (3)

"Come on, guurl!" Siva blasted out in English...

(...Oh the series of the match up between two of Madras'/Eelam's children. The game of lies and illusion. Body language of lies. Empty words full of lies. You name it, it occurred. Drag in a specialist and they'll tell you – he's lying... no she's lying... now they both are... or he is exaggerating, she is exaggerating... and now the both. And on. For only time will know the extent of the duration. Only a God could have counted the fallacy of both talkers...)

"Listen, my sweet," he was back in Tamil, "I can give you an audition for my movie, yes?"

[ _Chi-ching!_ ]

"Yes... I don't know." Ani's blood was positively racing around. She had to keep her character but wanted outright just to shout 'Where? When? I'm there!" Instead, and with her head positioned to continue looking down; more coy.

"What? You don't know?" Siva erratically presented his arms. He believed he was in full control of the conversation. "You are a natural. I have never seen such... a vision of beauty."

Siva (A) – Anita (A)... (lie match (A)bandoned).

One more denial and refusal of such complement with persuasion and then Anita would 'fold' and be 'convinced' that an audition was right for her. She received this queue as the tiffin and coffee were consumed. The pair chatted (that is, Ani asked questions and listened). Elbows were bent and then elongated; the wrists attached were touched. Eyes contacted, met and smiles reciprocated. On ordinary days such as these (where the sun shines and birds sing songs of interest) the two would be in the throw of love. Alas, this is Hindustan... Both had eaten through the plate of café Padups and via the wallet of Siva who especially felt the connection between the two Tamils of Bombay. To him there was that something. Unfortunately, this was the attribution error. Yet, spare a thought or emotion for our man amidst mist; it is a lonely world for a Tamil away from Tamils (ones his age, at least) however, let me, the writer, **not** convince you he was sold hook, line or even _chi ching!_ and sunk. The man knew he had important business to float him away from the fake bliss, anyway. As she left (a lecture? A meeting with friends?), Siva caught the crucial extra exponents required for boosting confidence. He had more to his life than love and in particular, a meeting with a man who might change his life. For after he strolled back to his motel with a promise (to meet a fair maiden at a familiar café) he made the call. The conversation was brief but pleasant. A producer from the Bollywood age, he called himself 'But vhy talk talk away on the phone vhen I cannot see your face? Vee must meet!' And they _vill_ , sooner than you _vould_ think, dear reader...

***

"Vell hellow!" This is Jolly, the producer/financier. "[Incoherent speech]." I doubt Siva will ever recollect what Jolly said there, yet he still nodded. The man's accent was far too... English. "Very pleasant day in the Vest Coast... vell, it is mainly a pleasant day all over the Central county... I am talking very pre-partition, you know. I do consider myself an Indian. I live the dream and believe in the mother format of vhat is now more than one great nation... oh yes, the English! Vith all their interest in the Empire... Rule Britannia! Etc. Vell maybe they did spread the lies and propaganda that separated our fantastic nations... shame really. But the economic and structures are very very sound now, yes..?

...You know, religion has nothing to do with it. people believe this. Oh yes, the Britons told the revolutionary so they segregated a land based on this belief, or beliefs, should I say. It's true. You know, it backfired and Ghandi, who started off a stooge for the Brits, turned his back on them and followed the rights of the 'Pakindustan' – you know, this is a vord I like to use." Jolly, who was threatening to sit down and eventually he did, was far to preoccupied with the misfiring speech to notice Siva was not interested. He tried but found the accent too difficult to completely comprehend; he was getting better, however. (His eyes and body language told Jolly different; he couldn't let the man believe he was not listening... time to ask a question.)

"Why iss your name Jolly?" Though Siva did not realise, this was not in keeping with the conversation. "I smile lots and lots! My name is Mansoor. Nickname, you know?

You know, I am not a hater of Britons. Far from it. They had their agenda, that is their life time. I have been to England. A lovely town called Rochdale, near London. They speak the Queen's English (peace be vith her) and it is there that I found out the partition reality. It vas the only misdemeanour the English made – great nation. Full of very interesting Whiyte people. One day, I entertained a duke and his vife (there were plenty of dukes in Rochdale, as there vere Whiyte people). It vas getting late and the poor fellow had sipped far too much toddy; he requested I stay the night vith him (and, of course, his vife).

Vell, the night vent on course vile I slept in the spare room. The morning: fine. Vell, for me. I got up and vas to get ready after this duke who is using my room for a shave. All en-suite, my fellow, it vas that his bathroom was not functioning as expected. My surprise vas not this; the man vas using a container for excess vauter [water] – separate to the sink. I do not know about you, but I am very inclined to filling my sink using the plug. Now all is innocent, but you know vhat, Siva? The only container available was my bog jug! Can you believe it? This man was shaving his face vith the jug I use to clean my shitty bottom!"

And this did stir excitement into the novice producer as they both laughed. Two teas were brought out along with sweet treats on a dish. The two conversed about backgrounds as accents were acclimatised. They laughed about situations some more and got onto the subject of talkies. "The driver," well, with respect, Jolly could have used his real name. "He tells me you have a talkie idea to interest me." And so the floor was for Siva, who had more than just an idea. He had a comprehensive (comprehensively stolen) film script, which he synopsised for Jolly on the spot. "It iss about..." Come on Siva, let loose! "A man and a woman..." et voile! No wait! Sorry, there is more... "...They are both the uniwersity students but they cannot love because the father of the girl is the uniwersity dean... principal. Then boy – he is in a gang. But it is all the show because he has a brain deezees [disease]... he will die in 21 days. In the end he is dying and marrying the man. The father is cursing but realising the death... in the end he dies and all the woman crys."

There it lay upon the wind just outside of a café in Bombay. The shortened version of the work by M. V. Seran; Manoj Vito Seran, the man who was destined to live the cinema life for having coincidentally been middle-named after one of the most famous characters in celluloid history. His representative (and fraudulent agent) Siva, was merely giving the anointed one a push in the right direction. _The Madras film insurgency is no place to make a name for yourself._

[A bit of background] The young man Seran was an enthusiast for the love of the film. Since the age of nine he had worked in movies... no, not just acting – proper stuff; a coffee getter! For none other than K. G. Pradesh: director, producer and dialogue writer. His stand out movie 'I Gave To You' boasted the first ever soundtrack created by Mirchi Muchoo Radio You-Who! DJ Johnny Talikaar, who went on to award winning fame.

Back to the young Seran, who learned not only to make really great hot beverages but also: the detail of widescreen issues in camera work; how to chop/not chop the right breast of a professional dancer. Not to mention: film perfection: the write (no mistake) script, the actors to choose, the songs, the singers, the length of the songs, appropriate dancers, appropriate dancing... if it is in the films, Seran knew. So with this ten years of experience and a script in the hand, he would be long overdue to make a feature himself.

But.

With examples like these, there is always a but bit (though if you ask Siva, he'd see it as unwillingness; no bigger and bolder dimension. A cog within the mechanics of Seran falling loose... in need of a fixer). This was the effect of film; in particular, the depression of Pradesh. As Talikaar's fame grew, proportionally, Pradesh's infame expanded. He was ever increasingly being known as that man who made the bad film with the good songs. And all in a time where filmmakers Durai and J. Mahendran were establishing themselves as creators of art and not just talkies; Pradesh was even a closet fan of Mahendran's 'Johnny'. However, Pradesh was not a fan of namesake Talikaar who he described as nothing but an 'untalented hospital announcer' ( _Oru Madras, 1980_ ). He could not believe that this DJ, chosen for his lively personality rather than known music making ability had achieved such fame. Pradesh further suspected the inspiration behind such hits as 'In My Heart' and also the title track were influences from studio time musicians paid off to part with songs they had composed many years previous. The tracks were not even that good; just popular series' of percussion vibrations and passionate singing with extensions and key verbalisations of 'ah', 'er' and 'ooh.' The audience; 1 – the state of Tamil Nadu, 2 – _even more south_ and 3 – the Telugu translation listening public were, through music, better able to deal with the lead actors brush with death and his subsequent realisation that the woman whole stole his heart was also the woman who had, in busy Anna Salai, stolen his wallet.

As the crowds poured in to listen; that is, they forgot a fundamental action of movie going: to look. _Stop,... and listen_ – you see, all good things come in threes! The momentous nature that was Pradesh's feature turned into _that film the song came from._ Every Bolly/Kollywood producer/director knows that this is the stunt city – no not the express car, shot shoot, damage: stunt; more so the _less_ so, the non-growth homophone/pun. So with reputation down and panned, Pradesh walked the heat of Madras staring sun direct in antagonist sway. He looked towards blue sky with only hatred in his eyes, catching mist, air, light and house of repute... for when times are hard – drink!

So he did. Almost everyday. Once on a stint for three months, after which he was convinced by his only left standing right hand man, M. V. Seran, into making another flick. Yes Vito himself had given a Kollywood almost: _an offer he couldn't refuse!_

So the pair: director and assistant went back to scripts, entrepreneurial displays and... coffee making. Dragging together a collection of the what you wills of Tamil cinema; dancers, main men and adjunct comedy duos. All under the guise of separate, opposite and ironic motivations; one man wanted to continue passing the by the by unnoticed, unaccredited and diminished. The other; the need for righting wrongs in mass appreciation... Reader, I'll save on telling you the finale, for now.

A little ad hoc and Jolly ponders.

"Fantastic, my boy!" His smirk is very sly yet he does seem happy. "Not another man could have delivered better news... and you have a full script? [nod] Then you are a star! I mean, in my race to capture filim on image I have had ideas from these here city folk but the sheer gritting and grind of this verk is better than others in this place! [smile] 'Twenty-One Days' you say? [nod] Brain disease, ah? [nod] Genius! I say, fellow, there maybe changes, but that is all verk."

"Changes?"

"Vell, death is a strong ending. Can the people of the vorld [India] take death? That is not very Hindu, huh?" After which Siva paused. Knowing Seran, there was a lot of persuasion to be administered. The Tamil, instead of worrying on the subject noticed the air breeze as it drifted steam off of coffee south easterly. A sign! There, that **was** very Hindu of him! (Siva never quite liked the ending anyway.) "I cannot vait to finance this project." [ _chi-ching!_ ] An even better omen for Siva. "Oh and one thing, my Hindu friend, is it possible to have my business card back? The number is from a call shop that is closing down. Shame really, it vas an operation vith many years gone by.

Oh and before I forget, there are also some, vell, _issues_ ..."

***

Smoke blew fluffy into the face of another man. He breathed it in wantonly; the taste of a delicacy ever more; a wife who had read an article on the dangers of smoking had forbidden her jumpsuit wearing husband to do so. A service had been granted by Siva the haloed giver; the turtle neck wearing man with confidence having been given the nod for his... _sort of his_ talkie.

And when in such a mood; all around shall feel it! The butt flicked away he walked tall onto mauve carpet to play a winkie at the receptionist – such a walk for a man! Nodding dog to all; manager, guests – all. To your room to rest young sir... no! Let's look in on a few golden oldie friends and a TV's reception.

"Halooo..." Good natured Siva let fly, bellowing into the lounge room full of the same Tamils that he had seen sitting there for the past two days. Now, one woman was sipping toddy and staring... not at the infectious Siva but at the equally contagious television screen. In fact, they all were; seated and staring except the new entrant along with Niru and Arthavan... sorry, respect please – Niru mama and Arthavan mama, who were both standing but still staring. A chorus greeted Siva's enthusiasm. "Shush!" Why? What did he say? Well nothing inappropriate. It was timing or lack thereof. NEWSFLASH... (literally – dear reader, do keep up).

"...Is it not the rights of the weary first constitution of Ceylon? Soulbury, a Lord no less, taught us that every man, woman and child will have a rights. Not just the dirty monopoly of one creed. We as a nation must rise to the challenge set by the men who have preceded us. Nadesan had the stomach for war. Pet'r Pillai is a man who has led with example. He could not see a world without balance... poverty spoils the beauty of the universe, so to inequality that bleeds us..." Siva smirked at the unprofessional camera angle he was playing witness to on screen (he felt like a veteran critic yet only a few minutes into the film industry). This was news casting at its least. Was the presenter even spreading news? He thought of Nahani, his future wife. _Ugh!_ If he was correct this broadcast was from her father's flagship telecommunication company All E. _Amateurs – and he expected me to join up? No chance that I am going back to the dump that is Ceylon._ "...Ok, muchaan." A voice off camera spoke. The film moved to incorporate the voice holding his microphone. "The main news again: a local Tamil boy, born and raised in Trincomalee, has been burnt alive in Eastern Colombo during the Sinhalese demonstration. We have a witness... a witness we have hold of has told us of the boy's torment and suffering. He was slain because of his root."

The camera widened to show both presenter and a White man with a very red face, wearing khaki shorts and a white short sleeve shirt that raised over his large stomach. A clay wall of the temporary shelter they hid in was their backdrop. (I might add – this was not a legal broadcast.) A petrol motor hummed into the audio but the voices were clear enough. "Mr Burton, sar. Can you describing what is happening, please sar?" The camera now with the White man centred. All English accent. "Right, well... they poured... ahem, petrol over the young man... he... er, he could not have been more than fourteen or fifteen... maybe, dear God, younger, even?"

Mr Burton paused. The vision of the atrocity he had witnessed flashed once more before his mind's eye. Before now, peace was all he had ever addressed. "Please, sar. Continue."

"They l-l-lit a m-m-match and... and, threw it on him. I turned away... I couldn't face it. they laughed. These boys were psychotic. It was only boys who did it... they weren't even men for crying out loud. Why... why would they do this?" Mr Burton broke down. Tears rolled down a pink pigmented cheek whilst another soon followed from the opposite eye. Unsympathetically, the lens zoomed, shaky into the forty-seven year olds visage. With this image on camera, the presenter spoke into his microphone, reverting back to the Tamil language. "This tourist could not believe his White man eyes. A fellow Tamil of ours... no excuse me, **a fellow human being** was being torched... alive in front of his eyes. He is just a tourist and he is crying. Our countrymen are being bullied by these Sinhalese evil men. This evil Bandaranike family. We need justice. For the children of Eelam, we need many Nadesans in the form of the individuals to take the class race problem gone from this Godforsaken, South land. The Sinhalese march for a right that they have in their pockets; we cannot and even are not allowed to march for the rights that we do not have..."

Siva left the room here.

***

On a bed up two flights of stairs, away from the screech preach of the darkened skin, side parting, denim shirt wearing man... Siva smiled over his thus far two day Bombay excursion. Very productive. He had had 'his' film commissioned and he had sparked conversation with a breathtaking Tamil woman in the foreign vicinity of this famous city. People take weeks to achieve what Siva had done in around forty-eight hours.

There was a bigger day tomorrow; for if timing was anything to go by, he'd be sitting and talking to his director. Now the briefest of rests but in less than ten minutes he'd visit the call shop next door and make the direct national send to his brother. Who would run down to Siegel's bar and pull Seran away from whatever he was doing to visit the Tamil call shop with the African man just off the Salai in order to return the gesture. Then Seran would, in eager anticipation, board the first train out of Madras to be by the side of Siva his friend, thief and producer a day later.

Then more – cast, dancers, organising budget... etc. etc. Siva, Jolly and Seran in unification! Sure, a few dots on I's and crosses on t's... bu׀‌ ׀‌ha ׀‌'s ׀‌ ׀‌!!

Oh and worry? - _There's no need to worry, Sivabalan... about people dying. Former brothers and sisters from different mothers. 'Tis an old land gone; moved on. Death is another man's war. 'If I could, I would' philosophy. Let me be at peace though the souls of others are not. A burden does not rope correct – it hangs, hovers. Not looking up – hey! NO STRINGS!_

Dazzling, huh?

### Murali (2)

(Note to the reader: if you are aware to the geography of India; bare with me! If you are not; worry less... now, back to the story!)

_Mount Pakora_ is 5508m to the upper most peak. There is one vastly explored open peak at 3092m labelled _Murukku_. The raised land mass has been climbed/conquered several times over by the aged/experienced members of the Indian Mountaineering Foundation (IMF) and, even, the jaunt is not high on the list of foreign contingent wants. Obviously, the grandeur of the Himalayas (ha! If Nepal is even Hindustan!) has taken away from this smallery summit at _Guntakal_. It's not that cold either. However, for the man called Murali and his considered lack of experience, Pakora is the anyman's Everest.

"You are my hee-ror, buddy." Akilan slipped comment as the two trundled West High Road to Paystop; the one-stop-shop for everyday groceries. They just passed Pallu Embroidery as well as the many stalls dedicated to fruit, vegetable and other intricacy in Tamil cooking. The need for an all-in-one shop was rather obsolete; but with bully haranguing, gentle and other, stall owners were rather overhauled (do not forget successful marketing: 'We have fridges... our food is fresh, fresh, fresh!').

"Wait! Amma is needing some dahl." The young man of his mentioned his pride... right? Is it really such a task to climb a mountain? Of course! It is something one does not do everyday (barring the Sherpa that invests mount for vice).

"Yes. He is a fool." A lady started, whilst picking up a karela vegetable with both hands, using four fingers from each in balance, moving thumbs up and down the bumpy texture of the outside. "Such foolish talk. Why? A stall? These stalls think they are making more money than this shop. Look at the icebox. So fresh. This sun is no good for all the vegetables outside, huh? He is giving up a job in the office for this. Government job, Mala. I say he must go back to school to do more sums." She and her friend Mala giggled incessantly. Mala spoke. "Come on, shopping over. Let us collect rewards from Pallu." More giggling.

Let us say the shopping had been done. Women, men and all. Back onto the straight (almost) and monotonous road, back to the call shop almost, several minutes later, Murali inquired to his co-worker/employee/friend. "What do you mean hero?" So he got a response of some standard; _you are climbing a fucking mountain, that's awesome_ etc. Before Akilan could even ask to expand a why, the hero spoke. "Do you feel life is flowing down the gutter, my friend? This is insane, I tell you. This and that, here and there. Like bloody ants, man. Pig shit. There is no more that we can stretch from our little life. Maybe a purpose. Well, no. It is not a purpose... well, just a movement. I want to take this movement."

Akilan's expression was one flabbergast.

"Oh and also, muchaan, a monkey God told me to do it..." There was a pause that is worth the seconds it takes to read this sentence.

"Only joking."

(Feeling rather hazy, Murali experienced the following as a moment of déjà vu, for it had happened many days ago. Or did it?)

From chores in walks and talks on streets so dusty that even mice (and trust me) do not roam. The two reached second home to a round burst of activity. Sounds came from two new faces, sitting patiently, waiting for the use of (international) communication. It was easy to tell, from the colour of their skin and the accent they performed, they resided in a different nation. "Look, man. I know you're like an innovator an' all but this is a business, Adrian. We gotta sell that shit." A Black man told a White man named Adrian. On seeing the tone of the speaker's skin, Murali looked over to Emil. He looked back at the Tamil mouthing inquiry. Murali approached in concerned fashion, placed body in proximity to the new asking, to Theepan, 'are these two being served?' To which he received a yes and additional. 'Relax, marplay, they are waiting for your girlfriend.' Yes, in ceremony, Dynaar had entered booth for her stare... later than usual. If ever a time that the woman of Murali's nightmares caused indigestible peptic acid; it was now.

So disconcerted, Murali chose; and the two were cared for appropriately, except... "Wait. Excuse me, guy. Can I get a coffee? Make it milky, one for my amigo an' all. Black like him. So one black and a milky coffee." Not adjusted to the accent and only half tuned into the voice, both Murali and Theepan caught no semantic. In fact, what they heard was approximately the following: '...caneyegeta cerwafee..? Black... wonberlack anna mill-kay-cerwafee." Or was that 'Emil K. Kofi'? Both Tamils looked at the North African, Emil, who looked at them. He shook his head and headed for the kitchen in a strop – was it really his turn to make coffee again? The price of miscommunication... around about two beverages.

"Listen, Barb [Bob], you know the stuff we got is hart [hot]. It's about the jack time, baby and I got this like Rodeo Toosday." Adrian paused, then spoke on. "I been keepin' my eyes and ears to the street, man. Clocking shit and really playin' it. These things, man. Vee-cee-ahs [VCRs], they like gold... yeah, I know like they been around but folks are racking porno up on their shelves, Barb. That cinema shit is like history. Those fockers are renting fuck tapes by the bucket. Forget that cine-milli shit. That's out, Barb." Still Bob needed convincing as to the nature of the rant. Adrian had an idea but had problems in communicating this to Bob. Emil returned with _cerwafee_. "Ok. So it's all techy and what do I know? But I sees some of them films, Aid. They got budgets an' shit... they like proper Hollywood flicks." And Adrian used this note to build on his argument. "Barb, guys don't go into these pictures coz they wanna know what happens to missy... whether she makes it home or nart. They KNOW what happens to missy – she gets fucked. I aint inner-rested bout some fake broad and what kinda acting she got. I wanna know about the real girl... what drives these girls to do what they gotta do. Why are they fucking on screen, _fucking-on-screen_ man? You get it? It's more than money. There something in these girls that likes people watchin' 'em get splin'ed [splinted] and teased and shit and I wanna catch how that goes down. Fockers out there wanna catch how that goes down. They wanna... half these guys don't get girls like we can. They look like freaks. Ugly fockers like the fuckin' muppet show and shit. Like Kermit or Gonzo-looking fat fucks. But they need love too and our shit gets them, not just seeing the fucking going on but it's like they are in with us fuckin' too. They love it when the girls go wild and these girls go fuckin' wild. You see? Take that broad couple days back. She put your cark down her throat, man. I mean, Barb, you ever feel that shit before, man?" Head shaking and laughter. "Then that Del-lee girl that wanted you and Trent up in her at the same fuckin' time. I didn't ask her, she wanted it, man. That's hart [hot/heart, either] for the screen, for me and them Gonzo fucks at home. They aint in a cinema, man. They at home and these girls are with them staring them in the fuckin' eyes, wanting them to cum and shit. Now that's hart for business, my Berlack friend, along with these hart chicks. This is the pornographic revolution and I'm here at the fron' of it, Barb." With that he paused, for drama, staring straight into Black Bob's eyes. There is only so much you can gather from his words. The will of a man, that is, is rather expressed in more than. Lots of shoulder and hand gyration. Then there was the added bonus that these men were raised in the American continent...

...Sweat poured from the brow of Murali. He could sort of hear the words that were being spoken, Adrian was loud. But he was not coherent and, for that matter, coherent to the almost Indian and indeed to the Indian out right. Murali saw a heated debate to which the crux fell upon assumptions in the mind of a Tamil. Were they annoyed at the wait? Who would not be? When would the drafty fragrance that posed as perfume upon the dark neck of an ugly... no, worse, a _plain_ looking woman named Dynaar waft past Tamils to the exit? He cursed the luck of both booths being indisposed; one as spoken, the other; a business call by the good Dr Charlie Kusoor MD. Discussing, as every Wednesday, the latest pharmaceuticals and/or some or one from the following list: moisturising cream, anti-frizz hair oil, swimming pool friendly chlorine and deodorant. This was business. Either nationwide or the cheaper Thai, Malaysian or Chinese import (Pakistan would have been added to the list, equitable and even favourable values in the benefit of easy travel/travel cost but the patriotic act that was the doctor did not hold for this. Partition was always a rather dirty word).

So in principle, the doc had affairs to tie. Dynaar, for the lack of knowledge, did not. The frustration bloomed at the guessing of her lies. The ultimate lie; to oneself. She lived life like a Madras talkie. She the damsel that believed in the love of another; the man who did not see her in clarity; did not see her passion – yes, Tamil passion. Everyday and every night this lady would think in throws. Never further. She dreamt further, however. The comfort existed in these dreams. What might be; the usual ending, girl gets guy and happily ever after. Was this the way of her life as Murali did not perceive? Over his dead body! (But his heart was still beating?)

_Within the haze, Dynaar left, the men got their call, the doctor left and Murali had the strange feeling that he had done this all before – however,_ _without_ _the large bump that was forming at the back of his head._

***

There are plenty of odds and ends to complete, each day, to solve a business. Solution is the means to production. Thoughts of financial improvement never leave the processes within the thinking in Murali's brain. Only when he is praying. People often call the look upon Murali's face, whilst he is in deep thought, as a look of nervousness/worry. He on the other hand was yet to discover the label. Worrying involves too much.

From his seat on a red plastic chair, Murali was able to read a poster. At the foot of a large summit (which itself was so tall that certain frosty areas were omitted), two individuals, a man and a woman, stood hand in hand; geared in climbing overalls, one pink and one blue. They stared at the awesome nature of the non-existent top. Caption: IMF: When the Challenge of Love is Just Not Enough.

"Yes, my son," short man. Grey/black hair, side parting, enthusiastic grin. "Your fitness is mar-wellous. In-egsperience is one issue but a man of your father's status is... cannot be disappointed! With you, my two best Sherpa boys will take you to the summit." In sly note, one of the two dark, oily skinned gentlemen, positioned a little way behind Mr Enthused, shook his greasy head in annoyance; any man's Himalaya was the main man's mole hill. "In acc-cordance with our federal lau, we are needing a sig-nat-ture from you, sir." Murali signed away only a miniscule weary of the denial he had made when queried of faint or dizzy spells. He signed and reverted gaze to the two men acting back up. And how. Man's men they were, standing over six foot high (that tall? Nepali? Really?), round faced Nepalese tint. "You will be surr-prised how popular Pakora is... ha ha! Not the quick snack! The base near Puli is, or course, the main place but looking a-round... or should I be saying, up, we are grand! Many White, English men choose to conquer Pakora and it is the tourist haven of the south." Murali's heart sank momentarily; he felt the man's man inside his chest rag for competition – NOT some easy to go tourist excursion. "So it's not difficult?" He pondered.

Mr short, grey/black, enthusiastic _Feroz_ of the Indian Mountaineering Foundation (south side division) had never even attempted to climb to a peak. Only a high branch. For he was installed in such the position thanks to relatives, backhanders and internal politics. Standard tree climbing. However, he did possess some traits well in found to such a high ordered perch – Mr Feroz was a decent salesman. "No _not difficult_ ... I mean, there are _ince-dence_ of problems but don't worry of that." On purpose, the little man, kept eye contact, releasing gaze of a la sinister. _Problems? What problems?_ "Don't worry, sir; Pakora is _dain-gerouss_ but with these fine Sherpas and your _brayve_ spiret, you will pull through, old chum." Feroz's motivation? As with all sales; the power, the money.

On the way out to his car, Murali pondered life, as usual and like he needed and loved to. There were not many outs; different outs, that is. Job, marriage, children and exit! He had job. Marriage/children was easy enough and the same could be said of exit. In between job and marriage was a psychedelic incarnation in a temple... sorry, for Murali's purpose: a temple in Tirichi with an in life God. A final quest before end game; wife, childs and checkmate. This brand new adventure artifice – the Mountain of the Monkey... as personally told! No Mohammed to climb but instead, a _worrior_ Murali! The message was clear and brought forward by _warrior_ God, Hanuman... in Technicolor™! Peace be firmly upon him!

***

"There should be fireworks. For that Stick's birthday there is always fireworks. What for? He didn't discover Tamil Nadu. He is living off his great Appa's name. Gambling, alcoholic degenerate. Why else is he so skinny? Why is he here? The rich man's son is going to climb Pakora. Who hasn't? Nobody wants to. It's too small. Ask him to try Everest. Does he want to lick business bottom, I say. He can also lick the two balls under my trunk!" The adoring yet typified wife of this moaner replied. "Tell me, Appa, why are you here?"

Seven in AM on the chilly outskirts of Pulicat at the foot of mount Pakora a group of about fifty have braved an early wake and march down to the very mini forest that marked the Pinto side entrance/lane to Pakora. Men, women and one or two small children. Some carrying banners: "GO MURALI!" or "Murali: My Inspiration". Yes in the scheme of things, this decision of his was working. The craving of beliefs in the people behind him and some more back in central Madras filled the curly haired gentleman with that wispy, heady notion for humanity. Even Dynaar had made the jaunt (and yes, upon her cheek there was a tear the size of an island off India, ready to race with gravity). The familiar and unfamiliar faces brought a sense of cause and desire flailing settlement for the usual and trivial caller shop; national, international, _can I take your order, perlease?_

"Sorry, sir, the last checks on ecc-quip-ment iss being made." Our friend, the short and grey man of the IMF. "How are you feeling, my son?" Interested; was the response in Murali's mind; but the young man was too embroiled to answer. Everything was too interesting. Facts; the amount of people, the Indian Mountain Federation officials; the proud look in his father's eyes... and it was pride. For the first time in his life...

(...In the life of he and his family, Murali believed he was not valued as highly as his two brothers (he had, also, two sisters). Why? In the move across Rama's Bridge, Murali was the only one of the sons to make it. He was the youngest and felt a responsibility being the studious, technically mathematic of the three to run business with father. The other two had become very deeply immersed in the fight for rights and freedom as part of the Marxist Tamil movement of the late seventies. However, a key change in the political and revolutionary structure of his home island was afloat, except Murali and his father had left. One brother (the youngest of the two) was rather mind-hands on; organising demonstrations, rallies, debates and press circling was his forte. The eldest, hands-hands on; gifted in military subject, a soldier and spy. He was an organiser; of a different sort; the right body to be disposed at the right time. He had seen the rise of the new wave in Tamil resistance before it was happening, working very closely with the soon to be Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam and their leader, Prabakaran. There was no way in which either two important roles were to be relinquished. Father, mother, young daughters and youngest son moved on without them and although Murali's Appa was saddened, and to a degree angered by the virtual disownment, he realised he raised two great and virtuous sons; who were with importance to more than their immediate family. There was only one son left in which to take out this conflict of interest; secretly angry, openly proud. What is left for a son to see? A series of lectures that broke silence between men...)

_On to the small boat that waited three men who would cross a lake, to traverse a woodland, to, eventually, climb a mountain._ No tears in father's eyes yet cheers from a crowd. Fears from mother from a distance; she could not watch. Last minute hand shakes make journey complete. And no heart strings could be tugged, without an emotional farewell hug, set off right at the end like a clock timer; a young lady by the name Dynaar. Her arms were tight revealing expressions of shock and fright on Murali's demeanour. She even searched his body over big climber's coat; dreading never to see her love after small boat... had set sail.

Realising his ordeal at being embraced by the unattractive was over, Murali concentrated on waving whilst being rowed to the other side of the water. Seeing the banners, the people... it welled tears. He could not even realise the offset that could have been caused by the misconstruing of the hug he had just been victim to. Too many emotions and for whom? All for Murali? No, he thought. For God. This was God's work through one of his many children (and nothing to do with the lure of a rich, to-a-degree-famous, feared, respected and powerful father). His wave appreciation did not see the brackets, just the many cheers, waving arms and banners.

And the lake was crossed. And on they moved.

Three Sherpas (not one of whom were the two at the IMF South Indian Division headquarters) carrying loads the size that each could just manage to bear, Murali, a hiking backpack which contained essentials along with more than adequate sums of cans and metal containers holding various kinds of fish. Tuna, cod, pilchard, bass... the list grows... all kindly donated by All Needs In Tamil Fish Inc. The owners; The Ramarutty family, who as with Murali and most of his family, had made the persecution inspired journey across water. Head Ramarutty (who liked to be referred to as Mr R.) had even earmarked Murali to take his daughter, Anita, for wife. So there were links but for now, there was fish.

Mr R. brought with him the knowledge of a secret formula for preservation passed onto him through family and used to his capitalist end within Hindustan (with the help and coercion of his mother). If it were not for his mother's almost two year affair with a Tamil fisherman, Mr R. would not have the tool to command others to _spray_ farmed fish out of ocean keeping each preserved better than any other method except freezing. This held tight knowledge (as was want from mother, she loved that seafood sailor) could employ Tamil fisherman working off Kankesanturai (KKS) port/harbour etc. to catch fish for them and then sell all over the face of Mother India and Pakistan; without the needs for such overheads as refrigeration (and with also little need for the employing of non Tamil fishermen). Instant success in the Tamil south! The rest of Hindu- and Paki-stans held out but folded eventually, under not only taste pleasures (yes this secret formula added on a certain 'kick') but also media intrusion. All India radio aired the slogan: ANITAFI, ANITAFI QUICK, QUICK, QUICK! IF I HAVE NO ANITAFI I WILL FALL SICK! ANITAFI, ANITAFI I WILL PICK. ANITAFI, ANITAFI – SUPER FISH KICK! I tell you, even fifty year old women with little teeth were singing this jingle on the Golden Beach whilst waiting to let out a roar of laughter and a clap on completion. Such really amazing fish spiked with the spice of a preservative that acts like a flavouring). (The secret? It is hair like – for it was kept under the hat of Mr R. along with the man who he indirectly scooped it from, Thivian Telago. He himself was taught by Captain Vikram H. Xavier who discovered an emollient type material as extracted from, of all creatures, sheep. He was able to travel with fish exported in his licensed area all the way to southern cities such as Vavuniya. Some very finely knitted tales he encountered, I should guess.)

Now this became a grey and black and shades of blur as Murali kept turning and weaving. His concentration was shot owing to the reduction in audience. The fact is, he had an hour and a half journey through a humid forest and waiting for him? The foot of a mountain named Pakora...

(...Ahead! Dear reader; so excited am I to write the peril of Murali, I am compelled to skip burdens. Travail, travail... and on! So, in the easy scheme: there is a forest, at the foot of mountain and an ascent. From row boat in lake, to walking by foot to another foot... yes, that mountain foot. What did this entail? Weeds, shrubs, bushes, bugs. Trees, trunks, rests and water drunk. It all happened before they got to the foot of the mountain... yes, that foot. Then upwards, the four went. In formation (as directed by one head Sherpa) – 1: he, two: Murali, three then four... the others, trudge, trudge, bring up the rear.

So they keep step; one day and one night and one more half day. Karabiners were hooked, rope pulled, attached and left in place for the way back down. In total; six camps were set up where food and fluid were consumed to the delight of the non-Tamil speaking Sherpas (such the easy trip for these Himalayan dwellers). No English either; Murali's gestures took him as far as he could communicatively go. The drunken night; from backslapping to the regular thumb-to-mouth (fist closed, palm out etc.) All commands. Though awkward by all sense, a night on the mountain beat the home life left to his father, mother and sisters. The work life left to his friends. A leisure hike... no this is not true... a religious hike. Self discovery and, not to mention, the discovery of importance – why he was chosen to do God's work (whatever this task was). But, for the moments of the first day his mind held on to the leisure zone AND on awake, to let you know of our Murali's mood; the bubble burst. The grip of control fell loosely once more having held as plait du jour for most journey. Water, trees, raised land thus far. Yet now, a cup – an enclosure. The lid of freedom* (replace with chosen antonym). To climb a mountain; what better than open sort-of-terraformed scour against the throw of rigidity? The answer: too many to mention! However, for a Tamil brought prematurely to the ruin that is/was Madras; the answer: not much else...)

To here: one thousand, five hundred and 'or so' metres on. This placed the wondering four at the stable plane of Piyasuum Point. Camp was set up using the usual and now wearing thin hand signals. Here the three Sherpas will drink in the evening beauty. The poor, lonely Murali had to take seat, by and by, next to the trio and pretend to want social relevance. However, by now the act of mingling had worn away and the mentally tired Murali had only desire to find another form of entertainment.

Exhausted from the day that was leaving him, our young man forwent the burning in his thighs to take the imagined limited/cupped/lid-ded walk about Piyasuum Point. Giving the signal for wanting to urinate (a one handed air grasped of crotch) Murali stepped clear of camp ship sherp to trod thinly frosted land. The view? Of course, five star. The forest in predominant; green leaves wistful, dangling at distance. Then sky; at peace a land in itself (if one could figure the way to invade it). The mountainous range was developing a familiar white tint, the higher they climbed. Murali thought back to a talkie he had watched four weeks ago; _Intha vaalkai. Oru Kunn._ This Life. One Eye. A tale of the love between a diamond miner's son and a diamond trader's daughter. The parts that almost osmosed dear Murali were the faded flash images of the young actor's interpretation's of the trader's daughter. On screen in glimpses were various parts of her body (eyes, ears, mouth, shoulders, arms... more) and behind each was a picture landscape as captured by director Kendanarth; i.e. each body part, within each shot was superimposed onto scenery (or, vice versa, if you will). In promo releases, it was made clear that no expense was spared in the use of helicopters to shoot mountain ranges; fields, cities and hills. Kendanarth wanted the world (that is, Tamil Nadu) to know he hired the flyers on studio budget. Big money. Average film.

And here; where only helicopters with pretentious directors dare roll camera go, stood Murali. The Tamil bastion; called forth by a monkey God knockoff. Though he did believe truth – and thus a resurgence hit the young immigrant. No longer did his dark brown and hairy legs feel the effects of almost two days of gradient travel... the ability to move freely.

So he did.

No crevice intervened; and it was time to rename such rocks! Murali this, Murali that; Murali-And-Backpackland; Murali-Jagged-Edge; Backpack-cave, the Stick's stick... cave? An entrance to a chasm of exploration! Could others have entered? Of course, the likelihood was great, however, not as great as a man under the narcotic influence of discovery. In such positions of caution; how does one approach this situation? Go back for Sherpa help? Ignore the phenomena and carry on flat land 'conquering'? Enter and explore? And why not? He was an explorer and worst still – an explorer with liberation! There was no stopping the child of excitement. A few rocks? _Phewt!_ Out of the way! It was cold and this was movement heat. A small but enterable hole... so the child crawled to enter... no! he is a man, not a child. And a man _thinks_. So first backpack, then owner. But preceding this, flashlight the abode. Spy some appropriate footing. NOW – backpack and away, turn and climb down. With all this Sherpa led climbing up, it was quite the relief to wantonly climb down. _Except_ , a few feet only, he had hoped. There were issues. One was with support; for the spied ledge was not going to provide it. Collapsing under the pressure of a simple foot. So, it was guessed that the piece of ledge (and along with cave, in theory) had not been tested/entered.. So let us give it a mark – percentage wise. Pass is fifty percent, then on this occasion (let us face it; everyday is different) a score of 22%.

Upon giving way, Murali fell and landed with a bump and a crack down to a stone floor of the chute cave with the original ledge, in pieces, ironically/coincidentally, resting in most on top of the Tamil's legs. More on the left of the two. A few moments to grasp realisation, which was actually false-isation, since he thought falsely that he could get up. So the attempt, the pain/rejection, then the realisation... sorry, I am ahead of myself, for there was more false-isation; Murali cried out at the top of his lungs for progressive moments... and NOW, realisation. He was trapped in a small cave, he'd broken his left leg and could not be heard by another body though shouting at top decibel. The encapsulation confined Murali to a space he could almost, but not fully, lay down in. From a rough estimate, he was fifteen foot away from the entrance above his head. The diameter/perimeter slimmed as it approached the hole up top where Murali once was. The given way stone ledge would have been a just reach comfortable five foot drop down. Now, comfort was just a state of mind for the desperate Murali. Awkward moments follow closely to those who harbour their memory with critique. Murali was the type of man to be haunted by such.

With only ten minutes of time gone by the despair set in. Let's face it; a probable broken leg (that only adrenalin stopped the harsh pain... grace period). How long could the Tamil be down the wretched hole for? You see, it is a hole now, for a cave has mystery and journey province attached to it. A hole is something one is stuck in. There was no mystery about the fact Murali was stuck.

Those obvious physicality:

How long would the Tamil be down the wretched hole for? It's a matter of survival now. Human body without water/food (yes, all eatery was situated next to Sherpa number one, who had emptied the back pack in order to get to that Anitafi tuna stuck closer to the bottom).

Then there is the meta:

Will, hope, luck, courage...not courage... yes, courage; it all mixes together, anyway. In these situations, we embrace what we see, collate the references with points and summaries and goodness knows what. The (A) by-product is (mostly) despair and panic. At the forefront of the young Tamil's mind; however, this is an illusion. The false-reality (oh no, back to this chestnut once more!) that things are worst than they are... you laugh! But be honest, if in such a predicament, Murali, from the hypothetical stand point, it isn't so bad! He's severe pain free (soon and not for the counting moments, as long as he doesn't move), not so hungry and has a seat. It is just the tunnel of a conundrum his mind creates by horoscoping a possible future. Yes, yes, the percentages of all the negative plot points occurring are high. Still, lottery tickets are bought and football/soccer penalty shootouts are played for; where is the _real_ negative thinking in those circumstance?

Murali despaired to his luck. Fate/fortune/kismet. The existence of which had betrayed him. He would most likely die in what could only be called a fox hole. Though it was probable that this animal was never likely to take up the abode through no interest in a position that doubles mileage all the way back to civilisation and food.

...Food! Murali searched his pack and found one can of Anitafi bass. Ration priority one (though, and as noted previous, this young man could survive a very long time without food or water... many hours. Many days?). Not priority problem. He had on his climber cool jacket as protection to temperature worst than he was experiencing. Not a priority problem. In fact, the comfort of the situation (including the despair) was beginning to blossom! Since Murali was quite used to the fabrication of troubled times, the actual case of this cave was a convenience. The situation was miserable, plainly put, but it was better than having the option out. Misery never loves company. It's a myth! (Or have I been duped by sarcasm?) The whole light at the end of the cave was tailor made for a neurotic and it's not as if he'd not be thinking about his life, alone at home on a bed. I would go so far as to say the situation was... almost perfect! (Why almost? – no reason!) If ever there could be a clause, a catch, an ending to invert surroundings – _the exit button_. Then the immediate effect of one's predicament pulls weight on time. The invisible army of this continuum keeps warping; slowing down events localised – though elsewhere, the pace is kept consistently constant... Yes, the complexities of such physics are that simple!

*

Twenty-four hours is a time for memories. Especially when pain is taking over. Ouch! A broken leg is not a play thing. In fact, there were no play things. Just a couple of rocks. Not very pretty ones; like those Murali found at the beach and gave to girls when he was eight years old. Gosh! Thinking back to those times he was so much braver. There was verve to his life. He walked with a leap in his step. He even kissed and was kissed by two nine year olds behind the side to side tea stalls at the old Church Road almost through the centre of Lavinia. He kissed one on one cheek and was kissed on his left cheek by the other. They both giggled and ran off; perhaps thinking about marriage to the boy. Gosh! Colombo was pretty back then. Or what Murali could remember of it, aesthetically. He could not remember violence, the shaking up of his father and his Tamil friends who lived by. He was plagued by only the one memory of segregation; at eleven years old, a police officer slapped him for smiling and who then told his best friend at the time never to walk around with Tamils.

-As time progressed Murali was ready for his trip across water; leaving elder brothers to fight for justice whilst he had an uncertain future.

-When across, he himself fought hard for the similar pride his father showed his two male siblings. Not hard enough. And when, in every other sentence the two would be mentioned, Murali decided he should fall silent on their names. To balance the world of the over-stated pair.

It was jealousy. They had his father's heart, whilst he did not even have an eye, an ear, not even a nose. Nothing but duty to sisters and mother and the future of the family finance. How easy was that when you have capital? Invest in the future along with whatever is moving in the present. Telecommunications is a no-brainer. Murali felt the tinge of guilt as it hit him that he resented his brothers. Own flesh and blood; the two who had helped raised him by teaching him values and principles that his father was much too busy to do himself. He threw a rock at the opposite wall and it bounced, landed on his leg. Ouch! Murali grew angrier and threw a second; it split perfectly into two. For that moment, Murali would have sworn on any soul's life that he saw his brother's faces on each half. Fade in, fade out. Just like! Just like – Hanuman had wanted desperately to spy Rama and Sita in the equal way. (Murali would have ripped his jacket to reveal his chest to see if the two had made it tattoo style; again, just like Hanuman. The God must be close, right? Murali could feel him close.)

* + ½(*)

So you would like technical? We rejoin Murali in his caper exactly two and a half days on from his initial... 'slip' i.e. one and a half days since the captions above (co-efficient and * though this was not the case and will not be the case before and after this section of Murali's story). I will inform you of altercations of the days: one; the young man tried and failed several times at an escape route. These failures attributed to such as weakness and leg pains. Two; the can of bass could not be opened without a metal opening device to do so. The taste of his uncle's (no not real uncle!) fish ran tempting across his body several times for most of the evening. The plastic containers were with the Sherpas. No doubt feasting on fish and beer. All night, day and now night again. (It went through Murali's mind, the imagined elements of what these hired idiots were doing. They were not a rescue team but he did not wonder too far from the camp at Piyasuum Point but then they were quite drunk at the time he had left them. Nepalese songs were ringing out far harder than any previous settle. So, he could have been forgotten... temporary, it was feasible; drunkenness, sleep. There was three to seven hours, maybe more. The theory did not, however, account for the full thirty-six (approx.) he had been out of sight for.

Perhaps they looked, could not find him and left to return to base for a reinforced search. A need to inform the world (that is, India (that is, Madras)) that sahib Murali was missing. Another feeble effort at theory owing to the mentioned fact; he was not hard to find). Three; and what could also account for the loss of finders. A loud and obnoxious growling/wailing noise echoed through the tiny vent/window/hole/entrance. This sound lasted all of a minute and never returned thus far. It did not take much for paranoia to build; especially when all Murali heard most moments was the sound of his own breathing.

*

And by now the hunger had set in; using imaginary blow torches to burn equally imaginary holes in the base of his stomach (perhaps even the upper sections of his intestinal features). The dizzy haze also applied applicant and was accepted... just in time to watch the cave walls wave.

Waving? Yes. In fact most parts of the room were moving (ever so slightly). Possibly even all but Murali was moving at one point. It's hard to say. Light was wondering away, having done so upon the third and a half day, turning fourth; nothing but silence and clamminess for company. A cave is a lonely place with only memories for entertainment. Of course, of all the wonderful and not so, the one that pulsed the brightest node in knotted, malnourished matter happened to be the decision he made a few weeks back. To climb a mountain. A beautiful and Godly suggestion undeserving of the ultimate coincidence (or irony) that it was falling rather than climbing that would be the cruciate area of the expedition.

Rye smile... oh no! This latest effort tipped the area he lay in a matter of single digit degrees to a none horizontal nor vertical. The in-between. A rush of blood to the head caused yellow stained Tamil eyes to shoot up to the ever darker entrance. His eyelids did part of their job, for just a second or two, closing, as if waiting in rest for a supreme anti-action. Well, almost. For upon re-opening, Murali caught sight a difference which had hallmarks for extra emphasis. The difference in question? – a waggling and surprisingly furry (surprising, as I will reveal soon) tail. It gave Murali the sight of a letter of the English alphabet – 'J'. The owner of the J-Tail, without pussy footing around, entered himself fully, following fur into the grave of this young, fallen Tamil. Guess who? Hanuman's impostor, that's who.

(... I say impostor, since you may have guessed that this monkey God incarnation may well be a part of the imagination of dearest Murali. Not only that, the real Hanuman could not possibly have fit through the small entrance being over one hundred feet tall and rather muscular (he was a warrior which explains the muscles. The length? – In the days that Gods roamed this planet, even without yoga, everyone was around that height. However, with such embodiments, there was always room to get taller)...)

He knew where Murali lay, even if humans did not. This copper monkey with furry tale (you see? Surprising!) danced down the eight foot shaft exercising perfect balance. It/he did not make a noise, nor a rock crumble. Neither did he/it move its/his face when he/it spoke (curiously). "You are having pra-pra-prablems, sir?" in English! Sanskrit? Tamil...? Not even Hindi or Gujurati! English I tell you! Even Murali suspected the impostor. "I am real, this is all real, sir." Hanuman was intercepting the boy's thoughts! Imagine that, having a conversation with a being using your own thoughts! Very difficult; the copper monkey (or, for the purists, the monkey made of copper) seemed to have experience, however. "First and foremost, thank you for travelling this far up mount Pa-Pa-Pakora, I think. We are willing and wery hexcited by your pe-pe-persistence." And Murali rejected the sceptics to rise to the conclusion that this was really the incarnation of the monkey God Hanuman ( _with yoga he grew taller by the mountains_ , thought the young Tamil; _it makes sense that he could go the other way..._ except, the copper format, Murali?). There was both purpose to the monkey and Murali's existence and this; for the first time in days. Of course, it all depended on whether the existence of the monkey was real. For Murali's less sugared presence; yes.

"Currently, you are disabled to continuing your pr-pr-prophecies, dear child. But there is one fanciful interest I will informing to you." Murali almost sat up. For intense purpose, he felt like he was sitting up, though he may not have been. "To hold your dewotion close to our hearts, there are two episodes your life is meaning. One is love, the other is life. For life, we will be sending a rescue team to help you." Murali sighed relief simultaneously showing delight. "But for this you must still having pa-pa-patience and will – God is willing are you?" Murali nodded vibrantly. "Next is love. Per-per-promise me something, sir... before I depart." You're leaving..? But of course, anything I will! "You must chasing her when you are ready. As quickly as pe-pe-possible. If you do not, her will is not as strong. She will not surwive." Who? "You will know when your timing is correct." Following which 'Hanuman' scampered up walls to the hole, pausing and turning. "One more thing, my dear boy: it is cold and you have a good, warm jacket with insulated pockets; use them. You have poor circulation in your fingers." Interestingly enough, having spoke almost the entire conversation in English, this final piece was in Tamil. He/It was gone after.

½ (*)

The moments of activity shortened as so did the day. Gone despair, gone panic. The air grew expectancy, like a living organism. Bacteria can grow within, so why not the abstract? But there was a difference in this usual expectancy and the science behind the growth. This anticipation was nil. The void. Murali was questioning issues relating to realisation and false-isation. The realisation of the false-isation. There was no Hanuman on this earth, yet there was death. Murali had crept onto this planet and here he was in the position to creep out. A bow, however, a dignified exit. Dignified to the life he had led; no shocks, no great alarms. The straight and narrow til death did he part. Even as a baby, Amma would never hear him laugh or cry. Not even attention was extra necessary. "Thumbi, you would not make a single noise except when you needed burping – then you'd scream and scream until I firmly pat you on the back to let it all out." She'd tell him.

A simple memory that formed part of the entertainment on offer at Backpack Cave. Murali's deathbed. It was really his life flashing (and pausing) before his eyes. How tacky was that? The therapy of memories to leave a man in preparation for his final breath. Emotions that settle the score, physically, to the knowledge of loss at time's game. Murali believed he had only a foreseeable distance remaining. Walls were not waving. Everything was almost clear; only the noise of a humming remained. This, Murali took it, was the noise of death. As it grew louder; he stiller. There were only a few choice minutes – he could feel it fleeting. Again, like the noise of death; humming loud, then humming quiet. Murali exhaled hot air into a chilly evening. He even managed a small smile with the remembrance of fake words from a fake deity. Whether or not the vision counterfeit, at least there was amongst the plain life of Murali the achievement of trying desperately to do God's word. Not succeeding was typical of his lame nature. However, points are always given for effort. So he put his hands into his pockets feeling the fur of fleece on his left hand. For all the days gone by he had not felt this; just rough texture of synthetic plastic. He noted two extra pockets, above the ones he had been using. This pockets were for extra warmth whilst the opened, catch-all he had been using was simply for practical use. Insulated, Hanuman had called it. Even near death and in a hole for days; he could still conduct the activity of a fool.

So once more, he put his hands into his pockets feeling the fur of fleece on his left hand. On right, the rough material... that cannot be correct? His hands were both in the designated areas, left furry, cosy and empty. Right, still furry and cosy yet not as so for it was a little more cramped. There was something inside. Unclenched grew Murali's fist; he felt some edges. Thin... like paper. The young man pulled out a white envelope which upon its face had his name. In true idiotic sense he looked around forgetting completely that no living soul could have placed this within the last four days without him knowing about it. Murali opened it to see beautiful Tamil print. He read the following (translation):

Murali,

When I first heard of your conquest to claim Pakora I must admit I was devastated. Breathing had become difficult and my mind must have wondered so confused; as if not to register how life was passing me by. On many occasions I have bid to seek confession and then distribute it to your ears like you were a priest. You are not, but I, no nun.

You are, however, my religion. I am in confession not for an amazed ability to speak this yet for cowardice to write this. I have been in love with you since the moment I saw you. The astrological plane rotated precise harmony with my eyes catching your look; it was then when you were written into my stars.

The story goes:

I simply needed to talk to my good friend in Bangalore about her proposed decision to commit suicide at the Sharavati. Yes, we have a telephone within my home but the privacy that I was to obtain from a caller shop was priceless. So I skipped out of my room; laid excuse bare for my exit and found myself with the decision to choose a shop on the Mount Road. Call Centre Plus was recommended but I walked passed all to take the slip road onto... well, you know the road, after all, it is your shop. This was when I saw you. You were pushing up the poster that read INTERNATIONAL CALLS HERE PLEASE. I knew my decision was made by Jesus himself.

I trembled so scared, when I walked inside. I picked my cross softly with my fingers but I could not ease down until you smiled to me and asked 'Where you call to, please?' I had difficulty in making the effort to call Cheeli but I know she needed me and with your very silent help I convinced her that what she was to do was the wrong behaviour. With your eyes; I convinced her she would go to a fate in hell should she continue... for suicide. Suicide is against the Lord; who is her Lord, also.

_So she did not suicide... why? Because of the blessing that was your strength through me. Like Jesus! Strength through His mankind; His son's humanity. I am convinced that you are everything to me, you did not only save her life, Murali, you saved mine. Murali, Jesus teaches us to love but only through you, have I ever loved. A bond not forced by the relation of blood. Not_ _anboo_ _but_ _karthal_ _. I love you Murali. Everyday when I see you in the caller shop I see Jesus through your face. He is the Lord I sacrifice my life for, who is virtuously telling and showing my body that I must become with a love that has taken my mind to the same heights that only ever before God has taken me. Ever before I met you, Murali._

My confession of love is a culmination of my efforts just to see you day by day. For fifteen minutes (national call). You have the only shop with glass booths in the whole of Madras. If ever I could call Jesus from your phone I would also stare through the panel to see your face, Murali. I am locked to your heart; through yours only, does mine beat.

Love,

Diana

When you return from Pakora, return to me, Murali. Even though the coward that I am, I hope Jesus will bring you home to me. Amen

A different disbelief replaced the current. Murali had formed disbelief in living, surviving yet now he had grown disbelief in moment. Here he lay/sat with imminent death and the lady who had plagued approximately fifteen to twenty minutes (in, call, out) of his life each morning like a curse was, in fact, a gift. No, stronger. An anti-plague is more like... a cure! The existence of the nothing Murali had been all these years was a testament to the un-realisation (not false-isation) of his future; the future of Dynaar and he. All that emptiness and it was merely love he was looking for! That old chestnut! Climbing mountains are for prophets and foreigners... Murali needed to climb love! For all the resentment he had for her previous, it had diminished like his blood sugar level. The woman of his dreams was not blurred by T/K/B-ollywood camera lenses but instead by a sometimes unclean telephone booth or refraction/reflection... in the physical world. But since when has this ever been a world of physics?

The excitement of Murali's new found life/love distracted the Tamil from his wonderfully ironic situation. (Ur should I say: The excitement of Murali's new found life/love distracted the Tamil from his wonderfully coincidental situation..? The joy of inconsistency, dear reader!) He was dying. The ever increasing humming noise of death told him so. Only miracles from the Dynaar mentioned Jesus could save him. Miracles like turning water into wine; feeding five thousand with limited supply. Well, I say miracles since Murali was already privy to one; the miracle of shipping notes into climber jacket pockets... _that hug!_ Oh she was wily! Hugging Murali on the lake bank in front of his parents not giving a damn about reputation; his or hers. Secretly passing an envelope into his fleece lined hand warmer/holder. It mattered not a jot now.

And back to the humming sound of death. It affected Murali's train of thought; thoughts about love and miracles. He was fading fast by the moment – dying within it rather than living within it...

... _but exactly why all the humming? Is death weird like that? All noise and no bite –_ Murali felt no pain, _so why the blasted sound? Death is not God's work; but his opposite's: Mara. There is your answer. A simple ploy to tease and taunt those of whom who are not_ _aloud_ _to live any more. Get it? Allowed – aloud! Ha! Mara, you are wicked and yes it is a shame to disappoint you but I am heading up to the heavens. I have formed allegiances with Muraghan, Ganesh... not to mention Jesus and... well, of course, Hanuman. Ah, there is the light. Thing is, Lakshmi, I have broken my leg so can you give me a hand for my limb? Ha! Of course, YOU do not have to, by all means, send somebody._ Murali thought of a stretcher for he may have been easier to carry. _That's it, lift me whilst I lay. Tell your helpers to carry me up... up the ladder to your bosom where I can bet at home with my feeble life. I have loved it, mind you. Incorrectly._ But at least Murali found out exactly how to correct it even if he did not manage to engage in the activity... _does that count for much? Hello..? God?_

(The St John Council of India workers were able to place Murali strapped to stretcher ready to be air lifted. At least, that was the last memory of the 'event' Murali had before he opened his eyes.)

*** (and back to normal now)

"Thumbi, you are awake! My God you are pale but awake!" Bibi uncle (head servant at the Kandanaswamy residence) managed with lots of delight. "Do not try to speak, I will alert the family at once that you are back with us." Murali had no energy to argue. He re-closed his eyes to return to a sleep thinking briefly of the whereabouts of his mother and father.

***

"...They only see this type of coma in diabetic patients yet he is clearly not a diabetic. Before the I-wee, yes, he had low blood sukerr lewels but this is natural for if you have not eaten for quite some time... We eewen tested urine for glucose also, not present. The boy is fit as a fiddle. We have feeling the bump on his head combined with the starvation meant his body was already in an almost coma. He is also hewil-lee concussed. It is not a coma, as such but one type of coma..." Murali made out a doctor speaking to his father before he lowered eyelids almost as quickly as he had opened each.

***

Rays of sunshine hit Murali in the eyes and rather bright. No amount of rubbing with thumb and forefinger could relieve the distress. "My God you are moving, sahib. Well done! I would call your father but he is on the way for the morning visit." To which Murali stretched his eyes. "You scared us so, sahib. When you first arrived here you were dead. Not breathing. The doctors are so clever and amazing." Died? Where was he? A hazy memory had he thinking of a mountain yet that did not feel correct. "We thought that was it; especially when we saw your mother. She wailed at the loss of her son. Poor communication. My God, I even instructed Kumar to make arrangements. The word was out – you were dead. But look at you now. So alive!"

Blurred occurrence scrambled through the silent Tamil's fragile mind. He desperately tried to piece together these fleeting images. Had he just climbed a mountain? No. There were no mountains in proximity and that would invalidate Appa's morning visit. Unless, he stayed at a hotel around Nepal. This did not feel like Nepal. It did, however, feel horribly against the grain; countered logic. It just simply felt like Madras. The Himalayas were the obvious choice of mountain range to climb yet he did not believe he had been there. Nor did he believe he was here... or why would Bibi uncle, for that matter. The easy out – ask.

"Sar, you were at the temple and you never told anybody." Oh yes – the devil woman! But which temple has a mountain in address? All very confusing.

"You went all the way to Tirichi, sahib. You must tell your mother next time." In amidst the bizarre, Murali's head servant's words were given up with concern. Tirichi? But that was so long ago – _What about the mountain?_

"We were all worried... what? Mountain, sahib? The Himalayas, ah? My God you are delirious. Let me check your fever."

An adrenalin rush hit Murali hard. The letter, you see. Dynaar, the newly stated love of this Tamil's life, had poured her heart out and slipped the words of total emotion into a climber cool jacket pocket. _Where was it?_ Nowhere, perhaps back safely in his room. He'll keep it as a memento of love. Still, for the time being, the whereabouts and future use of a glorified overcoat shall be put to one side! For a young man: to outward bound and capture his female prize!

"Where are you going, sahib? You must rest" _Ignore him and ignore the fatigue. Make haste; she should not wait!_ And out of bed popped blue pyjamed Murali. He enquired for the use of Bibi uncle's thin, grey coat, who despite protest ("This is not a jacket for a man of your class, sar.") gave it up. Newly attired Murali; hooded anorak and bright baby blue slacker than slacks. Barefoot even; though this did not matter.

"Sahib please, it will rain. We can get a car. We can be home in no time." _Ha! Cars are for those willing to wait in traffic. A woman should not wait for her love._ So Murali was not willing to Bibi's enquiry, however he did respond asking for a location... where exactly was he? Elizabeth Private Hospital. Nodes flickered delightfully as plot placed itself around a Tamil smile; he was five minutes away from the call shop (or caller shop, as Dynaar had put it).

The last time he had been at the hospital was a year or so ago when and where he had an ingrown toenail removed. Then he noted it took five minutes to get from call shop to hospital by foot (carrying the injury, I might add) so it would take less than five to get back. Where, from records he would collect Dynaar's address (registered users included voucher discount)... then on to there; Dynaar's house. He would then propose; to her first and not her father, just in case she has had a change of heart. Unlikely... but Murali is a worrior.

In the curious exit (stumble, stumble regain balance... cycle) a flash of memory occurred from a unrealised point. Though it was almost like insanity had hit the boy; was there such a mountain in the region of India? Near Pulicat? Is that not just a town with a lovely lake? _Better make sure to check._ "Bibi mama, I came from Pakora... Mount Pakora... yes?" To which the head servant replied. "Excuse me, sahib? I don't understand. What is it... are you hungry?"

***

In greeting: the tickety-boo. "Wow! What are you out of hospital... already? I was there a few days ago... you were still almost dead... oh, now is not a good time, muchaan. Have you heard?" Said the fork to the spoon. The spoon, however, rummaged through drawers to find his prize. Yes, there she was; now paper; note this/that... done! "Coffee, muchaan... what is that? You do not look too well, muchaan. Maybe you should sit, ah?" _No time for sitting._ Before the fork got a response; he who left was the spoon.

***

Before even pressing the telecom buzzer Murali was greeted by a man who was large and of a Sikh religious persuasion. He stopped the scruffy looking Murali. "Who are you, sar? What you want?" Rather ruffled and distress, Murali answered. "I am a family frriend... Dynaar." He both spluttered and stuttered. He expected the degree of three; except Murali caught surprise, this man apologised almost teary eyed; letting the smaller Tamil man pass. Murali noted at subconscious level candles at the gate. On arrival at the door, it was clear that wellness was not a state onto the manor; heads down, sombre. _What is wrong?_ The head-maid greeted Murali with gesture for his enquiry. "The madam of the house, please. Dynaar, I do believe." He tried to smile in the order of upbeat. It failed.

"Dynaar iss gone."

Where?

"She is... dead."

Wh... what? how?

"I can't say..."

Damn it woman! Say!

"Suicide, sar."

Suicide? My God, why?

"Broken heart, sar."

Yes I am being crude. What kind of a way is that to find out the brand new love of your life is dead? But it is the way he found out. I will not coat it. Murali was frozen to the spot with a million buzzes of logic and illogical swimming in seas of thoughts. Emotions were making each incoherent until a few minutes of this false-isation. Then the realisation; the words of Bibi uncle. "...Your Amma was wailing at the loss of a son... I even instructed Kumar... The word was out – you were dead..."

  * And just like that, Murali plays Juliet in his own 1983 Love Story. Imagined dead and thus the cause of another's death; by own hand. (I'd tell you it was poison but who am I? Shakespeare?)

It was hard to think of the mountain he had been trapped in, since there was no Pakora in India. No Piyasuum point. Was there even a branch of the IMF in Tamil Nadu? Had he not made it out of Tirichi? Did the lady in devilish; no-less-a-devil cast him to the coma dream world that was imagined love letters, Sherpas and copper monkey Gods? Or did he just slip, fall and bump his head too hard?

Whatever happened, there was a death in **realisation** that mimicked (since and I repeat: Murali, was Juliet, therefore Dynaar was...) Romeo's words in **false-isation** :

"...I am locked to your heart. Through only yours does mine beat..."
Nahani (2)

(...A love of all things English – you are where you are..? The wrong slaves have power...)

###

###  September

How is love considered? Is it the fold that constructs a grip engulfing the 'lovee' never to see sense?

No. (I told you but last I was a confused girl.)

Why so? I'll tell you while...

...apologies for the lateness of my script. I had written the odd piece in my hectic last few months – my university approach. But my hands were put to use to crush these entries; done in anger and dissolution. It was not the great escape that I'd have hoped/dreamed. In fact in the opposite I lived for the most drawn weeks of my feeble life. A period of life that has been thrown harder than by the winds that sway bridges and destroy lands.

I have decided to keep the consistency to where I had left off, but reader, I will warn – this is the chapter end. No longer will I use the evil communication that once propelled my entertained soul. No more _from_ the death of this here transmission. English I will no more speak. English. It has been sent to aggravate my energy; to tell me that another will progress me; stunted is all else, including my original Tamil nature.

Reader this is the last. When I rest my pen I will rest my literate stance. I am to be married tomorrow; to my promised Siva. This I hold with the real next step to my previously deluded, depressed and disconcerting past. I will be the Tamil and not the Anglo-fool.

I know that this rage will cloud my last testament to idiocy. I have re-read my last entry and will continue as if the up-to-the-present has not happened. This, with my diary will be my story; for none to read except a vile generation after my life, that is IF, I have not burned these English pages in a random respect to the Tamils maimed by crude post-colonial Singhalese. Where to start?

### July (incorporating some June)

The examinations were a will of repetition that by the time of zone I was indeed well versed. My achievements were duly merited by an acceptance to the University of Manchester. The moon was at even the furthest, or highest, for me to be over. As a kite!

The streets were paved in celebrations – masts were climbed and trees and highest points of man made or nature laid proportion. The whole of Tamil Nadu turned out to cover each other in praise, colour and vigour. The young, the old, the sane and the insane were all one with the day at stand still and night sky in high light. Fireworks. Consumed was alcohol to warp the cells and thinking of joyous folk who would never have imagined...

...no reader, I am not commenting on this lands feeling at my attainment. No not I. The Indian cricket team who had beaten the highly favoured West Indies team and lifted the word cup of one day international cricket. Who would have thought that these small/petite/minimal fellows would walk away in victory.

They did yet...

Still, all around me, heads fell.

The effervescent Double J had not been so worth. Our dearest Jhoyti had been so taken aback by the most crude of news that I will deliver/present in equal fashion: Dietmar was a forty nine year old uncle of the silent Ashok. He had lied to poor Jhoyti (not to mention other J and I) even using correspondences to convince the poor girl to venture mouse to cat, to the Bangla area.

As she readied to start a new/fresh with her loved 'Dietmar', Janany stopped her. Bags and all down at the Madras bus station, regularly stocked; young women with the will to get away. On this occasion there was one who had tidily stepped out from opened window rather than door, left note and so apology: she was gone. Now she had given word to both other J and I the day previous and we said our emotional goodbyes. One of these byes was not so... good. Janany turned up at Stop Point C to confess of her knowledge to the information I have now early laid about the suitor. Silence had deserted Ashok, however, he explained all to his only J at eleventh hour. A distraught J snuck back into her family home making all look as if the dawn had been standard.

Well, with the anti-harmony of dishonesty, all relations were strained. The Tamil J had seen Ashok as her item. This new love could not continue knowing the deceit of her partner. The Double J had suffered more than what could have been wrathed and like a part of their empire: exams results, self esteem, hopes of marriage and children had crumbled to the earth amid lies and cruel foundations of mistrust. Their pain to be engulfed at the expense (maybe credit) of my aforementioned lunar clearing... with my happiness; the strain between us played the new song.

Following these revelations and results, the three, unfortunately, could only bond using the strength of a fragment. Within the days of summer break middle year and on the usual, we would not be parted – the one of am. On this once over summer; the dire strait of the pair drew away at the base of our triangle – leaving my own self to reach out in vain.

Efforts for such were hampered by my desire to work on. Though I had already achieved the desired grades to enter the University of Manchester; this higher power sought confirmation of my ability; their own test system. Since English Literature was my choice of reading; an English test I needed to pass. At the time, I suspected no such heinous issue; routine/procedure/practice... in cleared hindsight – this was nothing but a division; the old British Empire and it's assumption of all-inspiring Universal Truth. (I am only now in discovery, but as impression gone I was blind to such purpose. Bare with my occasional aggression regression.)

So with Double J temporarily out of me and destined for the life of civil wife (with exams dismal and ambition only to relieve self of the torture of Bangla Boys), the day came where I was to travel the air. I was, as I recall, the nervous excitement that catches the spirit yet the intense, massivity of my situation. Of toys and child! The eighties were moving in the continuum: time. I in another measure: distance.

### August

To take on as much as eyes could hold; my life was not even lived and here I was displacing plain. Via plane – how quaint! With only tears to wash away the boldness that kept me focused on an 'immature dream' (you see – the bias creeps, I cannot resist).

I prayed as I visualised my Appa, Amma (and Suthyan, of course) waving goodbye at the window between airport and runway. For the weeks preceding my flight, my parents were wondering of their decision to let me go. A year (or as long as my Siva could be readied) maybe in the total three for the degree... who knew? What I knew was that the escape could bring the future early to me; Britain had held me as my father told of how he would miss the worry lines upon my brow that develop as often as I do pray; I missed his portly stance. Britain had held me as I missed my Amma who weeps as I walked beyond and away. Britain held me as I even missed the downright cheek of the boy, Suthyan: a menace to the sister who loves him! Without the scamper at my heels and behind my weary or wary back, I did emotional sigh disappointment at not being able to see the scutter for the long while.

(and how long was that while? Read on, I needn't have been so sombre.)

These emotions are sold on corners and written by the many! Onwards. To the feelings of my very first independent travel. The itinerant! Well I'd tell all of the lonesome but to reveal the entire truth this was not the initial case. Next to, an uninvited liar sits...sat... who? The one Kevin Sundaar. Tennis' prodigal Indian (or what you will).

To the credit of his short mind, he remembered me. Even moved racket (sat upon a reserved seat) to make way for my posterior to accompany his journey. I would like to call the ten (or so, some time lost in transition, thankfully) hours I spent with Kevin a pleasant experience. An innocent lady on her first big air trip, spoiled by the arrogance of youth mixed to exuberance.

Follows; is the paraphrasing of a month old, in approximate, conversation:

" _So what can I say? So how is you girl?"_ the English was a middle ground of communication. _"I see you have the pleasure of a seat with me?"_ a line that works well with the girls of Chennai High, not me; I should have left the plane at that point. THIS IS MY FIRST FLIGHT... I tried, but was interrupted. _"I have taken many planes... I am an international player, you know?"_

I will onto spare you the undiversity of the following: the boy known as Kevin began to inform my goodself of his intent to stun the unknowing sporting community by beating the very best at a game called tennis at a tournament/place called Wimbledon. _"I am the best in Asia, yaar, and I will defeat the Western World – let them find out the hard way about Sundaar..."_

Deluded with this sentiment, yes harsh for if he is the best what was I to know? I cared only for the facts of ten hours (or so) of flights (including connections! My only respite being two stopovers where Kevin seemed content to talk to minders). My permit-ance to release facts about myself over the whole of the limited relationship boiled down to why I was on a plane to England; which included the name of the university I was to attend. I received the following question as the only interest shown by Kevin Sundaar into my life journey: _"Where in London, I say, is Man-sess-terr?"_

***

From the small packetted food parcels; the gorgeous stewardesses and their brown skirts (muffled comments on those leaving vehicle: 'they should be wearing saris); the air of Dubai (filled with fuel emission); the air of Frankfurt (once more slight and limited, but the air of another country no less)... to the arrival at Heathrow Airport, London, England. The United Kingdom.

And what is a young girl to see? The increased opportunity? Advanced technology? Betterment in health and hygiene?

No – White people. Everywhere.

Their skin (as I recall) was so wonderful... no, let me be honest whilst I run the words from my own fail-safe memory. The word is not wonderful but the word is **clean**. The Hindustan itself is a seething dirty country. Why? Not due to dust in mixture with humidity. Not sweat that holds impurity. Not the differences in sanitation as compared to the richer, more established nations of the planet. No. Dirtiness/un-cleanliness is a colour. The colour is brown. The colour of my shameful skin. I recall all well; with my Benyal backpack, red leather suitcase re-acquisitioned from luggage conveyor belt. I peered around witnessing the sea of White men, women and children, noticing for the first time, the sheer disgust that was my derm. I placed two fingers from my right hand upon my cheek and you, my loyal reader, guess what came loose, wet unto my index/middle? Filth. That's what.

I was led to Heathrow coach point by my second cousin, Heather. She waited patiently at arrivals chewing a piece of green gum and on the odd occasion pulling it stretched using her thumb and teeth. She wore her hair up, dyed both mousy brown and blonde streaked. She had on black boots that went up to her knees, a netted type of tights, a dark green felt skirt that was short enough to present a gap of net-thigh. A black leather jacket covered a very loose and long white t-shirt which had a pattern print on the front which I could not make out. The jacket was metal studded. She saw me and immediately put down the sign she had for my name; written on cardboard. No doubt, her thought resembled my colour. You see, though she was my relation, my father's cousin had married a White women by the name of Jane. They produced Henry, Heath and Heather – the later stood before me.

She walked ahead of me and I noted the chore it was to take me, the technically-not-though-Indian foreigner, to destination. She did not make conversation (idle or forthright) and I not back to her. I stood a distance enough so that others on ground would not associate her well lightened and genetically purer skin to mine. Heather drew with fifty yards of bay 12 in the bus yard and pointed out the rest of my limited London walking journey. She said goodbye and rolled her eyes, walking away with a kink and quickness to her step. For the briefest of times I wondered why my father's cousin had not shown as promised made to my Appa. It was a brief moment for I understood why – a lesser in association with the Brown/brown of India. He had wedded White; he was cleaner.

I spent six lifeless hours of my tainted, putrid energy shifting eyes with others aboard the Manchester Chorley Street bus station bound National Express carrier. Clean as the sound of whistles the folk were. Shiny and pure like sunlight. And then I, a pig rolled in the muck it lived, breathed, ate and defecated. Each set of pupils powered on my non-normality; 'there sits grime,' I could almost hear them say. I took to using the window as my safe haven, viewing large houses a plenty (and not just in segregated areas like India). Trees, flowers, greenery; they told me not to expect, but a distributed mass I did see. The speed of the vehicle made my sight the blur but what I collected with another sense brought forth an additional level to this land above my adopted one: the roads were so much more smoother. Though I still dreaded the moment I would have to retread English concrete.

And the moment – once off the stable, steady coach, I took steps to breath in Manchester air. My heart beat faster as if to ask me exactly what I was doing here. Pairs of eyes did the same. Haven had now disappeared and I was stood almost naked and on parade. I walked, dragging my two pieces of luggage with me for the short moment, then turned to look back. What did I see? A trail had started amid the pavement; my very own breadcrumb tail telling me where I had trod. (No not breadcrumb, perhaps more like the slime of a snail.)

A taxi stood... I approached but no. Would a clean, good fellow take rubbish with him to drop off? Worst still; I could not lead a man to make his decision through perceived kindness or charity, it would be wrong of me. So I walked on a pavement that was disgusted by my movement to whom I told to 'be strong, for White souls will bless you in the morn'. I was perusing in carousel the streets of Manchester at night to reach hostel home in the hour that rises penultimate to that of the witching. This sixty minutes held the breeze of dark air whilst I dragged my belongings leaving in replacement the staining that was my own go. Brown staining; my brown, staining this white world. I used all semblances of small energy to reach the doorway to where I was to stay in temporary fashion to the matter of days... stop. I realised what my mind previous had encapsulated to distraction. This putrid brown skin left it's mark not only in looking the distaste but it gave off the most vile, gut wrenching odour. There it was! How I did not notice for six hours of the eyes that watched, did I even account for their nasal passages too? Smell the foreigner! Blindfolds and air freshener, please, we're British! (I'll lay wager to recognise these items as mandatory objects for the travelling Englishman!) I suspect that all are non-available in the head country itself... the woes of colonialism; it's all go out there and defend yourself for the enemy will never set foot on our land. Apologies – digression.

I braced myself for interaction and indeed made conversation with the hostel reception. I did notice his efforts in gentle nature; to comfort me (from behind beech desk); to make small talk ('you must have been travelling for ages, pet'). But I knew from his exterior: disgust and even fear. I helped he (as he did try to me through almost silence) by filling each form with speed, distancing areas that may have popped from shell. 'Pet' was appropriate.

Once into my room-for-the-week-or-so (temporary for the ending days of English summer vacation, the year, as I thought it, would be lived elsewhere), I slammed down my items, sifted leather for cotton – the material of my towel. I raced out of my confine, down the hall and found the suitably labelled room for washing. Unlike India, though like it – a shower; the creation that mimics natural rain fall with the power of a Hindustan water fall. I was in no way close to getting clean, but at least the smell was dying away.

The stress, spoil and irreplacement of my mind that first night/day at new land haunts me still now. No wonder my most vivid descriptions, though not of my surrounding areas but of the intense emotions that this poor young girl had no preparation for. Reader, if you think me confused remember that I was but a shadow. Strength is gained via experience and it is my pleasure to tell you now that I have indeed built metaphorical muscle from my journey. I look back now and wonder my focus, when my Tamil brothers and sisters were tortured, maimed and killed within the worst month of Tamil history that had gone by with myself worrying about the nature of my visit to England and the impressions I make. Shame on me. They started calling it Bloody or Black July, and all I could do in August 1983 was travel to the country that was lazy enough to let the wrong slaves have power.

Anyway, I will continue and to do so I will admit the critical of blunders I will ever make within my life. My non-pleasure to tell you of my fouled naivety. The young, the bold, the idiotic. Here will lay description at ill ease. I will, with great effort to find the moments that have already gone, I am stronger now – but crucially, was not back then. So I must tell the tale as if in those same stupid moments. If I did not involve such distaste, it would gladden me, but with my last ink of the English language I will relieve... re-live.

In a day's turn I slept – wept, stirred. In wait for the examination of my immigrant standard (though the test was invited for all). I arrived in nerve without once the belief in my pen. I sat there scribing sentence after word after answer. Shock did play a vicious part in villainously hindering my abilities. There was the feeling in my heart then that I was unsuccessful, with hindsight approached I was indeed a failure. The whirl of gravity had an effect with not only my general manner but my grade too. As time was called, I was asked to rise, walk and leave fully uncompensated. I moved with the people sea, like a regular wave. The dark water in the white ocean of British and European success. The ethnic Indian... no, _woman of Eelam,_ hustled fast to the river apex to get away... and the truth? I write sat knowing my worst life to come true if another should read this; context or non. My reputation, my family's honour – all perished under Pennine moisture and evaporation. A Lancashire annihilation of a South Asian _lass._ But, for my heart is blown and at deaths door... I will admit upon page. This, at a converted bungalow housing an entrance test for reading an English Literature degree, is where – I saw **him**.

For the first time.

As the 'water' of the people sea sprayed vault outside the exit from a small bungalow enclosure; one bead of salty liquid that I was, caught two eyes glimmer in Manchester sun. Intense light from the district's version of our earth's star brightened my lost image of life; and here stood a new one... the reflection of two glazed, moist pupils – blue, the backdrop.

From in to out, my retinas adjusted to daylight; he stood awaiting sibling (I now know), who approached with open arms. They embraced, her hair he muffled and then (I pray I did not imagine such) they turned in this little Tamiletta's directions. Two seconds that passed sifting property to every agony in spent magnitude on my person _up until_ that point of my inexperienced lifetime. I had no idea of the pain, not only for what time held gone, but a repercussion: the shame of returning back to the Asian continent (failure and disgrace, no less).

That night I dreamt those eyes. Laid strewn on my spring bunk, I was pulled to lands seemingly so near, yet plane rides in distance. On the hilly fields closest to Canal Tree point. The grass on every occasion I had been there prior wavered East to North-West. On this occasion it stood, set still, upright. Not a movement, just two bodies looking at each other in those fields. Not even a movement from me, nor the little organ pumping silently to a world not listening. I awoke cold, but content. A fair content however, though I was in slight, I was in the sight and I was worth/value... unfortunately – I was also hungry! I needed nutrition – to the streets of North-West England!

I passed by buildings housing fermented products – and not undisclosed to public viewing; no subtlety here. I did actually shake my slightly melancholy, but rather dirty head to this custom (dirty? – showers were to far between, I felt I should have cleansed more, but how to rid a body of its skin?); though it was not exclusive to the English, underground bars are a commonplace in India and it is not as if these will not be made more accessible. The people want to drown sorrow like the former master (or at least the lesser know other slaves – actually White people, class-bound. Digression). India alike; alcohol was detrimental to my diameter populous. Still, I moved on; I walked beside buildings housing art; picture, drawn or not. I skirted buildings housing the injured; the difference in hospital of this great land to that of 'mine' I could not comment first hand, but from the outside there was no need to think at deepest. I moved from footpath to buildings holding consumables.

Harbouring gathered pennies I purchased both the future lunch and the even future dinner in the form of rather English savoury, non-meat pastries. Baked then ready for consumption – a sort of the ready breadcrumb rolls of yesterland and current India. I picked, shamed face. I brought to the developed-country-modern counter, shame faced and I paid and bought, shame faced. As I exited the store (shame faced) I bumped straight into obstacle due mainly to my lack of head movement; i.e. I was looking at my flat black Bata slip on shoes. 'Down she goes,' I could have sworn I heard as I fell to the ground. Indeed, a little disjointed I looked up at what... or more so, whom I crashed.

"I saw you yesterday. With ma sis. Wot you doin' 'ere?" Blue eyes asked me. I paused trying to believe not-so-blue mine. The vision of this being would have phased out of my mind, given time. However, here he was again, two in two days. I felt my heart go and in memory I thought back to the last time preceding my heart felt the same. Methilan Kormal – or Mets, we called him. We both were seven years and met overlooking Buddhist shrine in Kandy. A weekend trip intercepting diabolic days of East Colombo Junior; two days of holding hands and holding gaze. Those eyes I kept, until now. "I saw you... you... your eyes." I told him. An incorrect response, since this was not the answer to his query; he did not ask to what I had seen but to my purpose. "Yeah... wha'?" his tongue moved quickly but I held all his delivery. "I... taking the English... exam for the... course..." I told him. He showed me his faint lip line in glory, including teeth whiter than any label I could have given to his purity. "Can you even speak it, man?" He enquired. I was no 'man' so was unsure to his phrasing. "I don... don't understand?" Before the conversation could flourish; it was then I fell.

Not in the literal sense. I stared, moved from lips to eyes to blonde, cropped hair... back to eyes. The half of body which represented intelligence, fortitude, reason, belief and the whole manner of good build caught itself/myself in the vortex of gravity. To slip coldly away leaving me teetering. The loss of these traits groped impact upon vital areas of my frame – the main part? For those moments, it were my all too frail, anyhow knees. IT WAS THEN that I fell once more. Now, the literal event.

For the ten seconds that I lay, I dreamt more. Of all that was kindness; gifts wrapped in gold, even the silly – treasured smiles and 'giving' hand gestures.

I came to, to see the eyes of my corruption. "Yer right, luve?" The words of no poet but my saviour, no less. "Go 'ome. Don' knock abat 'ere. Get ya self in all sorts ser trouble." Though weak, on his chest I managed response. "Take me there."

***

A week in foreign is the longest time, though with my thoughts I was able to shorten trauma. Everywhere I travelled I saw the image of his features. Upon the grande town hall in Albert Square I saw the height of him. At the central library, I saw the breadth of him. Even at the Trade Hall I recognised the boldness of his fashion, the strength of him and reminisced music that linked strings from the concert that played there now a few days old (Beecham's Philharmonic).

A week not only in change for the wondrous mover; a week of find. An exam in which I, according to bias I would stake life, failed. Not entirely, however, just only in the standard of this institution's English Literature course. I had choice to settle else. (Now, I promised I would not but rile continues for the egocentric British system. They decide in their wisdom that I was not good enough for one subject but fine for the other. Exactly what learning entails was thrown; nearest exeunt! Not to mention such bias in exam as the judgement of creativity, time constraint yet freedom of verse. This is writing; when should straights be placed?)

STILL, I must put all this hatred away, with the stroke of my last English pen I must use it for other purpose. I have a story to tell.

The impression I gave; the decision to take the legal move. The structured degree: English Law (or law LLB as it is know there). So in refresh; I was to be, for the next years as I knew it, a student of the University of Manchester reading the degree in law. What else but a plane ride back to Hindustan/India/Brownville/dirty land. I chose the site of my first love (real love, disregarding Methilan dearest! Also the affection I held for Lanka Akka and even the tiniest seep of jealousy that woe betided me to Dietmar, or whatever his name was). An appeal made easier by the turn out of this soul at my place of temporary residence almost a moment as I prepared to leave for a year's permanency down the (long) road.

Yes. While clothes were re-packed; awaiting carriage, I ventured down lonely isle of 'for now' accommodation, to reception in search of check out and then away to my new academic year dwell. And upon reaching beech desk (fully showered, this time) to my right, receptionist/porter custom side: **my** eyes. "A' right love. So you stayed an' all and no you off 'ome? Nice 'oliday, yeah?" I repeat, everything this man says, I will remember for life now and to come. To avoid misunderstanding, I told him my situation (though he must have realised earlier with the exam hall sighting) in re-iteration to disregard the holiday comment. The exam failure (to which he replied with almost loving understanding: "Well it's English, man, so I get ya. They carnt expec' ya pass that."); the new course (a surprised expression on his part); current temporary accommodation move to the year long upgrade (a saddened or slight disappointment; I interpreted at the time as a want to see me closer or prolonged).

What follows I must be ashamed with. Blessed as every woman is with the abilities of temptation, though up to this point I had never used it. Knowing only his eyes and name... Bryan, I needed this man as a reminder that I was still wanted, so far from any that would normally have given. A female sentence to bleed, I acknowledge, I'll admit the insecurity. But strange surround, the colour of my skin in difference to others; where I almost believed I could achieve with simple soap and water. This skin colour was the symbol of those who ruled this land – not the red cross of St George or the Union Jack's similarity. The colour of skin of her residents. There are on no one group of the European but his tone. Those content with one's tranquillity will have suffered thanks to the exploration for wealth (and not discovery).

My digression, though not entirely – I too was in discovery. The naïve defensive mechanism of a woman. And with that, Bryan saw eyes to conquer. To set, where Britons (and others) have not ruled via empire (I am so crass!). Still, he in this instant is not too blame, for there was a second angel tainted by the name of Nahani – my feminine ways rolled sway the far of mind light... click! It switched; I looked he, he back at me. The freedom to do so with the intensity of drive was possible. The reason he had shown up at my doorstep was for the interaction with his friend the reception/porter/maintenance man, Robert. However, 'Rob' had since vacated due to emergency call out... no man, no woman who knew us each were present. A present to our desires. But I had to convince.

So I bartered. So uninhibited I was before him; pure male, me, lacklustre and brown. It was his eyes that brought out this spirit; so often labelled the Tamil passion. Do not see me wild, reader, back then, maybe I was, but it was not for the physical act as such but to include the requisition and the imposition theory. Beliefs hold humans to structure of moments. These in order for a definition, by force, my belief was rigid to the one laying path ahead of me.

Bryan had options. In the scale of a depth of a single belief I would find it so difficult to even know the count of these and even their offspring. I know only of two; to fulfil the desire of a woman or to forgo feelings and retreat. Within eyes I saw what I thought was the love that I felt through firstly, a vision of awesome, with four (second through fifth) slow-coach senses that followed. I felt it as yearn and regard instinctively known to the answer to his mental conundrum. A flick of this nonchalant head, moving over-slowly: tiny blonde hairs, with it. We were off to my fixed-annual abode. (The taxi I had summoned the only loser in this example of requisition theory.)

In his transport, we travelled the ten minutes. In the vehicle I reached out for his hand with mine, to which his White/pinkish fleshy face turned to meet facade with the deft of smiles. I had to interpret the connection of a love not known by other. A brief movement of his fair-skinned face; one side of this feature, in particular, one organ, closing to then open for the briefest of moments. A wink of love I believe.

Full brim of the anxiety of/for giddiness. I honestly, with the heart of this naïve young woman felt the reciprocation of want – in an innocent way. So I in fact led Bryan with me past the new reception hall of my residence, picking up the key to my partition. Readying in delight as to what love would bring me. I had the feelings of doubt, yes but this was a mere shadow. The agreeable emptiness of a brown chasm whose desire to be filled: White; transported philosophies of self-esteem/confidence and respect to their very own temporary accommodation and not within the vessel they used to call me home.

As I used to live in this transitory, so to now these aspects of my used persona, along with one more: righteousness. Or at least, part of him. When entering hall of residence flat room for the very first time I had bargained with feelings that had kept me in check for years. Oh yes, eventually I might still regain this fortune, however, in the main stay I lost. For it was the act of entering that, at the time brought me the joy of connection; entering my room... then the other 'entering'

***

Investment in many languages tells tales of stock and place. Stock had firmly been placed. _All in_ is the phrase. In the space of a dizzy few hours; languages of the vocal chords, body movements and even silences, worked through the stock of exchange. These bodily movements, sighs and stares moulded together to be de-scripted as the one whole language of love... tut! I know, the firmer I was taken by the residual complacency that follows the religion of one on one. The little girl of previous years had convinced herself of a future that could/would not exist.

More than that.

In my breast, an 'issue' was developing. As I felt his body above mine – I believe I was absorbing part of him. Like Lakshmi's son was watching from an easy distance and waiting... and then! Through Bryan's back into my chest with a swift and fast arrow. At the moment of pin point a light rushed my vessel. It was the start of a progression of change that merely needed the time to transmorph/transform/mutate. Whatever the word, I was changing and, indeed, the symbol for such was preparing in stamp – just above my left breast, engraved to leave scoured into flesh; a plain rectangle. This simple quadrilateral was no bigger than half the size of a standard cassette tape in which to play a song upon. As I slept, I gave Kama time to complete the beginning of His artistry, no doubt by the tip of His arrowhead. The simple frame upon my breast. For the time being, I knew not what image was to be placed within the small setting. For then, I knew only of love.

A blur followed my presence in the North West of England. I had accepted into at least a year (at the time I thought) of a law degree that I had not initially wanted. The English had succeeded in battering me, but in apology, Britain held me closer than I could ever be held. A classic abuse. They needed to push hate upon brown, whilst I: to love White. To cleanse me, as it were. Everything in my previous country was as backward as the colour of her people. I needed cleaning to not only wash but to bring me forward.

After my 'dawning' I was able to walk the concrete with a new found pizzazz – inspired by a real bathe! Confidence, new found; could I really become a part of my surround? I may just have deserved to be with 'fellow' Whites. Indeed, I noticed that all did not zone me for the disaster I used to be... no stares, no pointing... I was becoming a Briton. This I found inspirational! So kept walking beyond places that I had not even thought to cross due to the emotion that is fear.

I strolled from the built up area of the central city to come to a quieter area. Demonstrated by park as landmark. I looked around at the lack of persons and breathed in greener air. I was in no mood to stop so I kept to my wondering, following eyes to avoid small dangers and to... warn me of another. What was this? A man in black trousers, a white shirt and a walk that suggested he owned his territory. Yes confidence is a wonder aspect but the sticking point of this picture was that... this man had brown coloured skin, like my own. Even lighter, in fact. Did this individual have the same history that I had? What could 'another' Indian with such confidence hold within his past but to be at one with Whiteness?

I kept moving, thinking that case. I felt the prang of disappointment being the only foreigner no more to be vaccinated with England. This feeling came over me further when I approached two more brown skinned men, these two wearing the rather informal Jean-T-Shirt combination. Was there a hive where these souls were emerging? No sooner did I step forward the cool thirty second distance I saw it. One rather long road, filled with buildings built to house people and their eating habits. Restaurants. The difference between these and the ones I had seen previous were that they all shared the common factor of being Asian run. Pakistani to be precise. I had left the Indian paranoia of this race to land deep within the heart of enemy territory. Indeed, before that, my family and I had fled Singhalese 'Ceylon'. Is there anyplace for a Tamil to tread? Yes there was, back and away. Back to White areas of the city. I had to. My chest was ready to cave in under the weight of surprise and shock. It was one thing to have my individuality ripped away from me but not only that; this generosity of Britain to let by an area (and with this, there must be more... areas) of their land to be owned by their past slaves. As they left Mother India split (and wondrously **not** my home of home countries) the next British generation (just) that followed opened up gateways as way of apology/need/mistake. One thing was for sure; not all of these people had been through the processes I had. The almost ritual; passage of rites that was an early evening with a man named Bryan. From servant to master after the simple act of heavenly love.

Two days passed and the blur continued. I had been woken/startled by my walk into Mini-stan... not looking so 'pure'. It was enough to put me off coriander for the near future. Still, for these 48 hours I left all things South Asian alone, culminating in university start. Folder holding whilst walking; smiling to my 'fellow' White students/lecturers/passer's by. All the usual student-ville; upon the streets and at campus on the Hathersage Road (ignoring all non-White in my path and even within my field). My first day, the enrolment process went by with breeze; introductions and registration was simple for the White-girl-in-waiting: Nahani. I grew in confidence; my counterparts were treating me with the equality that I had been gifted with love, rather than the _pity_ of those selling spiced products, so close by.

But this was not to spoil my mood; nothing could. A Tamil on top of this world. A Tamil who could say anything to anyone and be heard... of someone. A recognisable face; the woman who embraced my Bryan just a week and so before. His sister. Joy! With only a mere flutter in what would have been my nervous heart, adrenalin still rushing, I spoke to her like she was within level field. Conversation flowed with White bite! I found that success within the exam that I hadn't was with her and as subsequent, she filed folders within the subject so closest to myself. So with that, I moved topic to other, even closest now; a brother, a lover: innocent at first. 'I saw him,' he saw me down by the store 'the other day'. She let go sibling rivalry in the minimum, whilst I noted her teeth at smile; whiter but not Whiter than her skin tone. We turned down to small talk, neither incredibly invested deeply, taking in campus scenery such as the beautiful acorn tree and green, freshly mowed lawn it grew from. I noted a bench, where student populous sat. Bryan and I would be the alternate seating, I felt.

Then. Within this same, easy conversation, she laid the time's most heinous block. A string of words blazed into my direction that had me into a stunned shock. The happiness of a successful negotiation of all the days' emotional engrossing events travelled the distances from the various points in my body to my toes, where each and every ounce jumped overboard. The setup: I told her of Bryan, our chance meeting part three and thus our new found love. She bluntly replied "Bryan? Love? With you? You sure we're on 'bout same Bryan 'ere? He cou'nt love goldmine, ah kid. I think you better lookout for yourself, 'specially your case."

This was where my whole spinning world slowed to brake. I was still blind, I tell you, but my other senses were given the jolt of uncertainty. I begged her to elaborate but her mood changed upon seeing my discern. She tried hardest to have bought leave not wishing to get further involved in the going on of her brother. This got me further a thought; a sister will know her sibling, how could the expression she gave be linked to what she believed of Bryan's motive? My mind told of a philanderer whereas my heart called lies! The stress so evident within the boundary of my expression called sister to sympathise, but with harsh, brutal truth. She told me of his persistence in a male orientated culture and how he used his good looks to do with what he fancied. I could not believe these words. "It's true. I aint lying, sweetie. Oh you got it bad but you're even worse. No way he'll take on anyone like you, love."

I needed the horse's mouth.

I pleaded to her for his whereabouts/destination/current/then lie. An enquiry to his address to slip messages of love and proposed contact. After that first time, Bryan had left with urgency; spilling bean that he would return 'soon'. Was it really shame on me for having believed such? I should remind you of a woman under impression. Love is a strong word, yet a stronger emotive. The drive of my conviction was second to none; I say more – due to my situation. A mist had floated, slowly, filling my eyes. The Whites of which were changing colour... to white. The slender difference, I could, you could not? Let me explain, an ordinary eye is white and yet my eyes could only see White – in reflection. This reflection became the colour of my sight. It was difficult at first; for example, movement caused troublesome bumping, a lot of apologies. But I kept walking, knowing my close future fate, and as I did so, I regained this natural ability, increasing quickstep. Everything became as easy as I managed in Madras. My earlier difficulties, from the brown-staring eyes, to the present blur, had faded with a new concentration. The want/went to reach a man.

The children's hospital shipped by my right as the car bay my left. Each made way for me in the most gentle of manners not previously given. Whitworth Park in stare, glared less so at me. No reflection – see? A store that sold nothing but liquor; as Nahani the brown, I saw vile here, though now Nahani the White and tainted, there was the improbable point to their sales.

I stepped further.

Twenty-four hour convenience, bridges (two) and the earlier ill-revered houses of freedom. All rolled by my fleeting glances of un-focus. For I had not but was now approaching point of application. An indeed 'freehouse' was exactly what I had to look for; by name – 'The Salutation'. Off the Oxford Road and into the smaller, critical paths of North West England. The bitter, unfriendly red brick of estates, pubs and as so: poverty. My Bryan was so well scrubbed, how could he be a regular, as sister Louise bespoke? I searched, to my right, estate scarcity orange/red buildings, to my left, communist grey institutions. Ah! In between alley, slight mud road high rise back drop, the little, bungalow, hut shaped, cream coloured. Black painted wooden plaque band across the uppermost top of the front face of this public house. The Salutation, blazed in an off gold, metal set of lettering. My destination. The mud track to ess-aay-you-tay-SHEN. The nerved spirit of a young lady bottled fear using anger – I pushed upon a stiff door to enter the, what called – pub...

Immediately, the smell hit me so I staggered weary feet off balance. It may have been the weight of a heavy door but in reflection was there the regression? The odour of stale ale sat moist on wood playing song with my nasal. The kind of song to ruin a glorious mood in the early morning. Lord Shiva could not have destroyed a disposition any better!

And to the stares. Necks in use by the dozen – though in one force. I glared back scanning pinkish faces for a certain group of features. As I heard the bell above my entrance ring in justification to a now closed door; it locked outside away. For there, impunity had followed me but was denied access. Not far behind, safe judgement had skipped traffic rows to be by my side; separated at the present by rectangular solidity. Without these traits/powers/abilities, I was to fend for myself, still looking for short blonde hair, blue eyes and familiarity. A creep, a look. A whole walk; anti-clockwise of centre bar, to then stop. Diagonally opposite my prize.

Surprised, he spoke "Fock you doin' 'ere?" An interesting use of greeting. It was, however, a good question for my purposefulness was at a lead far of my purpose. Why was I here? "To see you." Was my response. Romantic in my knowledge. "You carnt cum in 'er..." he said (it was today, yet he was no Antonio like the nursery rhyme). Another seated character offered a say in a throw of ideology "'ey Bry, whose ya brown lass?" So he had noticed my skin tone – as I mentioned, impunity had left me at the door.

A chorus of laughter uprose the chest of men with ale. "Love," another started, though I was not his love, "'ey love, you 'bout mile off, luv. Down roard, that way," he pointed to where I had just came, "iss where you menner be." More laughter. Now I was in the conversation though disassociated to it; I had missed an issue. Still, there was no motivation to find out such; I had the eyes I needed to calm me.

We moved locale to a darkened green, leather cubicle booth seat, area west of central bar. "'ow cum you think you can cum in 'ere? There's rules that you don' just cum bangin' in 'ere. Focking 'el, man!" He was angered; on realising, I shrank. I had not a valid reason to be invading the space he had picked for himself. However, he still needed me to justify a claim, so I spoke of Louise and her doubts, which led to my doubts, in turn; appeased by the eyes of my Bryan. He was not in great cheer to my lover notion. "I carnt speak you here... luv, I'll see you aff-ter. You still at same place? I'm cumin' lay'er, right?"

I re-affirmed at his words. To be with him again is all I could have dreamed for. And so soon! I suggested that I'd wait for him here, not the option he had to mind; he voiced, I left. Walked pitter patter to the sound of music in chorus; a cappella. For the men of the freehouse were singing!

Rule Britannia; Britannia rules the waves

In-dee-ernn girls, will never, never shaayve

As I rejoined impunity and safe judgement at the ringing of a bell; I smiled knowing they might be singing of me; although I was not born there, I had been Indian for a few years now.

[dearest reader... please do not invoke anti-opinion to me and mine o writing. The Journal Of A Mad Woman: I could call this. What was I to know? 'Just a fool in love, yaar' is what Jhoyti would have said/would say. I do not know what could have snapped within me; those who read – have you ever felt love? Tis similar; every case. In physicality, different yet for all those welled emotion poke from inside the memory stored, like a stick. Which came first – the loss of dignity or the gaining of love? Who knows – like Sanskrit or Tamil...]

Bryan, my love, your eyes

I doth prize

Each fixate my soul and bless me in way

I doth say

Bryan, my love, your lips

I doth grip

Each fixate mine and heed true

I doth need you

And

My blue eyes

My White skin

I had you within

Inside where you laid

Inside was where you stayed

My blue eyes

My White skin

I had you within

On you where I rest

On you is where I'm blessed

On returning to my dorm I sat, back against the wall directly under communal telephone with pen to pad. These are not the words that I wrote then; those were scrolls of ditty love. Poems that I disregarded when I left Katridge Halls of Residence the following week. The news I gripped that evening would force me to backtrack aboard a plane.

Upon the third ring of the buzzer located in second receiver, dedicated to personal calling human traffic, I picked with relevance. Breathing in oxygen: _uplifting thoughts I placed direction to reception which was corridors and stairs away. I gazed those eyes for the second distinct area of the day._ With a difference; the same stench I had attributed to the Salutation had left its perceived home and hitched back/front/side to side ride upon my beloved Bryan. Listlessly followed was I; corridor by corridor on occasions in three story flights of staircases passing the lime green half and half; two tone walls. White top, green bottom. Very little was spoken; he had a swagger I'd associate with grey haired uncles in name and familiar; laughter to have in cohesion with tumbler held thumb with middle finger – refilled with/without reason.

Despite the accompanying olfactory 'hand hold' we made it by pair back to my room. The breeze-blocked walls Bryan told me reminded him of an English prison. Embarrassed, I pointed to the only picture upon the wall so as to hide majority rule: Lakshmi aboard lotus leaf almost three of the blocks in size. "There, at least it is not all so bad." I tried cheering to snap at some of the tension. "Wha' the fock iss tha', man?" I do not justice to the slur, "Foo-king an angel? Fock an angel go ta do wit' nowt?"

I sensed an anger now irrevocably disturbed; it was time for the realisation. Still, I asked him to keep quieter yet he replied, loud. "Why the fock did you cum down pub? You aint my wife and you wont be." These words severed fresh skin at pace, creating un-healing wounds. Why would you say such insults, I love you; I told him. "Luuv? I only focked ya. I di'rnt know a Paki girl would be this bad. Chryst." I caught his words; Paki girl – a female from Pakistani? For the brief period, mood revived: had he the wrong person? "Wha'? Nah, you, luv. Tawkin' bout you." So I enquired teary eyed; I'm not from Pakistan... my mind raced, do you know another girl from Pakistan? Who is she? I grabbed tattered at his cyan blue t-shirt collar. "Er, wot? Fock off, ya daft cow." Immediately I was reared, fallen to sitting position, astride my bed from a solid push. "We aint goin' out, so I can fock ooh I want, ya cunt. Larss time I foo-ck a Paki cunt again, that's right. Focking trouble it cause. Lads ah killin' me in pub. Ya daft bitch, focking giving sum and all. That's it, focking fock off cos I aint seeing ya again."

Within my chest pumped not blood but will. Unadulterated it spread tenfold in place of the usual fluid that slipped useful around my veins/arteries. Blood carried red, whereas my new transfer was coloured green.

I leapt to challenge Bryan's new source of stroke; a Pakistani no less (for all the partition jibes I had overheard; the stereotypes; the discrimination in phrase and story. It came flooding back in unison with the green sea that had reached all parts of my numb vessel). I cried now, in top lung for this new temptress' name and destination. Within my petit/petty mind I felt sure I was to head strong (like the Salutation) into confrontation. He looked surprised and shocked at my new boldness, that folded somewhat at my next position: the appeasement. I begged his blue eyes to reconsider a love that I felt so sure he had requited. Half way across the world in a clammy flat/Halls of Residence in Manchester, England – not Man-ses-ter, London as Kevin Sundaar, Wildcard and first round exit Wimbledon 1983, would have you believe. The bravery of the classy lady Nahani was blown out by a jealous rage through the love of a foreign gentleman by the name of Bryan Chadwick.

After woman-handling me away, the man walked to the door to head, aiming one last parting shot:

"You're wun focked uup bitch, man. Seriously. Look at ya. How can I love ya now? You're a wreck fo' a star' but look at ya, ya... greasy wog. I just fancied a piece a ya but you aint nufin but a lying back, take it, tight cunt darkie. I've 'ad a Black one. Black cunt's better than you. Yeah, you got balls, cumin in pub like ya somethin' to me. Ah kid is gonna get a screamin' for that, I say. Now I cum 'ere to fock ya tight cunt again but I aint 'aving this. Never fock a Paki, I say."

With that, he slammed his way out of my life.

In spent force I grumbled in slow roll, sitting on the hard, mauve carpeted floor; spine pressed to aluminium table leg/pole. The only love of my life had left me for a Pakistani fling. Though, as sense settled back to a scorned Tamil girl; she may not have been the only one – the evidence pointed to womanising ways; his sister-the-truth, for one. Love, as did life, exited via pores over my skin, like sweat. This, with regard to the petty and limited life I had 'suffered' so far known, was my lowest point. I had not been in a physical accident but how my body ached. A man could do to me that no species in existence could; for all animals and Gods with their powers... This point on the gravity game I thought about my future; no matter how bleak. Did I have a degree to obtain? The place had fallen from a perch upon a stool unobtainable to any but a Tamil girl hailing/raised from/in Singhalese Nuwa. With spring in my calves I had placed Britain way up there with all things white. Distinct ironic coincidence – for it was Whiteness unobtainable, I sat. There. I honestly believed my skin grew paler by the wash, paler through acclimatisation; paler by the more I loved.

(All these thoughts racked my fragile and tainted mind as I sat carpet in Halls of Residence, Manchester. Without conscious I scratched my breast, owing to an itch. As I pulled down part of my blouse I noted the increase in intricacy to the aforementioned scar. It had not finished a plain rectangle for Kama had drawn a near 'X', almost joining corners.)

My heart thumped in rhythm to knocking at my wooden door. I heard the cry 'Naaars... phooooone." To which I did not have the energy to both word reply and act order. I drove myself to my feet and carried body (along with mind and left alone pieces of soul) to the communal receiver. On the other end, the other end of my life. India was calling and in particular, my Amma. A note of information and request. My original doctrine of prediction was now re-ready to take a chance. What timing! No sooner did Bryan walk out of my longing does Siva rosily gait back in. My husband-to-be's film career had fallen short in the talkie fame having been... well unsuccessful; I am sure that is another story to tell, not mine. I could have refused return but where was I really? Dirt in a clean country. A human needs anonymity – and what better than the invisibility of filth.

***

###  September

So here I am. The present day, that last of my English spoken days. I am almost the Tamil wife with a chalked history leading now so soon to 'honesty'. Though I will never dream of telling Siva my jaunt, I had to confess in a manner. And in address, here ends my love affair with the English (general and not only the specific). These will be my last uttered phrases of a language spurned from the country that held me down without regard for the wellness of my probable individuality. I had been abroad and failed my tests (unofficial and official) yet passing was as easy as being born a different shade of skin.

Now the only external memory of I to a distant world is this journal (which I will incinerate as the time becomes apparent) and the only mark I will have to hide and explain, somehow, to Siva the husband, is the finish upon my chest. A complete rectangle scratching just above my left breast which has healed to leave permanent scar. Inside crossed near to the diagonal in planes holding triangles to each edge. Standard crux through centre. In the mirror, it was obvious. Stamped like possession. Property of Great Britain. Yes, dear reader. The marking that had magically/mystically/wonderingly/though appropriately appeared upon my skin in a burned, scarred and knife like cut fashion was an etching of Great Britain's nation flag – the Union Jack.

Maybe the future? Though I doubt with vehemence.

Adieu

N

### Siva (2)

(Stealing and sex and filming and producing and Bombay and Prostitution and ignoring humanity... _these are a few of my favourite things..._ )

On this day: the chief minister of Tamil Nadu, M. G. Ramachandran's wife, Janaki celebrates her birthday two months early. She is scheduled to be outside of the country on the appropriate date and with such an important age along with resounding pressure to hold an official celebration of India's victory at Lords in June at the world cup in England (where else is the world cup of cricket held?), it was decidedly so. The night sky will be lit with fireworks.

On this day: chief minister of nothing, Arivinda Charman lost the right to his life after a decision to move all in on a 'certain' poker hand. Plush Flush he called it; ace's high. However, what he did not account for was the non-heart suited card on flop: the two of clubs. On turn; the two of hearts which Arivinda did concern himself with. In between and after; hearts. In hand, heart (the ace). An all in later and what did the opposition take home? Four deuces (or is it two?). Anyway; 'Four of a kind;' the kind being two. No amount of alcohol could numb such an anomaly of luck. He died in the alley behind Siegel's bar underneath an array of unimpressive fireworks.

The following Monday, across the country and the start of a brand new working week the solitary figure of an ever-so-slightly portly gentleman could be seen smoking and pacing up and down the mauve carpet of a Maharajan by name motel. He had called his director friend. He was expecting his director friend. He was waiting for his director friend unsure as to his reaction. Still, this was under the pre-tense that Siva was convinced that one had either be the man or simply be more confident than the others. Ever since childhood Siva had the gift of the gab. With other playmates of his young manoeuvres, he'd always end up with an excuse de jour. _I'm not allowed to field because Tamils have to either bowl or bat – it's the law_ he had once told several boys in a cobble stone alley. He didn't have a proper grasp of the Sinhalese language but substituting English words he managed to bat two innings and bowl several consecutive overs. And on; to the development of his natural charm fused with the arrogance that had embedded his will (as it does for the most of this generalised type). This was his advantage – his will; to drive home what he wanted and continuously with perseverance. Others, and director friend M. V. Seran would be one, would concentrate solely on what they had to do; the use of hands to create. Ways to do this, ways to do that. Put the two of them in a room and what have you? – Will and Way. In repetition: (in the reception of the Maharaj Motel) where there's a Will, there's a...

"No right boy! No right!" Way exclaimed walking into the threshold. An uneasy start to which Will had to respond quickly and well. "Oh come in and shut up. I done you a favour, pussy!" (pet names!) The two started walking to Will's room. "But why? I have started many scripts and I am waiting patiently for the future in Madras..." Way could see Will ready to counter. So he continued, louder. "Ah, don't talk. I mean, you know my situation. Give me some time and I will set Madras alight. Bombay is not an issue. Mainstream Hindustan is full of bastard people who want all your money... you know? Like those who steal your script and leave nothing but a note..." Will conceded with body language. "But jokes aside, there are too many people willing to take money for what is essentially my hard work. All they possess is money and a simple idea... no creativity – make money with money; that is hardly original... Now you are just as bad as them."

Will could have been offended, instead he noted that Way was not as angry as he could have been. The words were harsh but communicating in Tamil successfully require arms and hands; Ways were not as wayward and certainly not as willed. Will pre-empted Way's want of this opportunity; to direct his own script. In his understanding, there would be least problems (translation being the only obstacle, though Seran... oh sorry, Way himself would admit to the scripts ill-commercial dialogue, perhaps a Hindi screenplay expert could help). Seran/Way would no doubt have been through the many pitfalls that plagued his late mentor and director K. G. Pradesh. Club/bar shifts at the not-so-legal Siegel's bar funded meals and a temporary roof; a break in this monotony might just be what the Tamil ordered; as set up by his boozy bar hanging friend Siva... oh, sorry – 'Will.'

So Will merely had to take the barrage as planted by Krincol estate's budding direction boy. Will's own desire of producer was the almost rant away – as soon as Seran's words would let up and crack inviting the extra pressure of 'I always wanted to be a big shot...' speech with some 'it's in the stars, muchaan...' and also a good helping of 'don't ruin it for me...' And 'Why wouldn't that work?' Well Will was truly confident; he had confidence in his ability to read people especially when his own gain was at stake, yet it was funny how he had the difficulty with his own parents. Yes he had previously told them of his talkies producer want and they (his father) had previously and continuously denied his son. (Well it is easy to verbalise to a child the tendency to see in one's own image – i.e. playing God. _I my image, I create man._ A variation of God, at least). Will stole tales from the bar tending mouth of one Way and paid maternal and paternal concern with the currency of such knowledge regurgitated. _A script? No, Appa, many scripts. One is the best, Appa. '21 Days'. Superb pudam. Money maker guarantee._ However, when it was clear that no information bribe could get through to a God of sorts it was time to fly coupe (and Bentley), hit the common coach and move to dreamland; pulling director with producer like magnet to metal... but through sludge!

Ranting, panting and plain raving later, all was done. The convinced was that. Really was little in arm twisting for the boy Seran who, as Siva had sussed, under folds of grey matter, was rather pleased at the opportunity. The Tamil Nadu Madras centre for film (not an institution) was giving the most limiting of positions; that is, nothing. "Ok brother. We have a gruelling schedule tomorrow. We pick a cast. The next we brief. After we start the shooting, depending on our budget. Finally, we shoot the songs. Jolly tells me they are already made. Just add some tidy lyrics and that's it." As Siva spoke the words within his body travelled the pleasure of an accomplished dream. He was squashing the 'issue' that Jolly film producer had put forward; the awkward reality of the finance. Jolly was to fall short of a round budget; which ordinarily meant compressing some form of the expenses. However, Mr gung-ho Siva 'needed' to start shooting straight away. Jolly the financier was approximately three days from procuring his investment to re-invest. Three days of nothingness? No chance. Siva the Patient exists only whilst unwell! So where to go for quick money? The film council for financial aide? Ha! No, much closer to home source. In fact, as close as home. Siva, though leaving now almost five days without a call home was finally to make one. Confirmation of his safety along with enquiry into a loan... apologies, a _grant_ from industry rich, yet talkie shy but not-shy-to-talk father. In the mind of the young one, an investment. Loan/grant/investment; all just words really.

"Tomorrow we work, Seran. But tonight we play." Siva capped off his mood with translation thinking clearly in not-so-subtle smile. "However, _now_ I make a phone call."

***

**After** Siva made his phone call, which included the verbal assault from his father and grandfather; after the call, which included the crying of his mother; after the call, which included the wiring of money to the international call shop that doubled as a financial agent; **the two** men ventured further into early eighties Bombay. They surpassed the wide street of the King's Road and entered the connecting main road realising that it was actual thinner. 'Charl said go there I think.' Siva pointed to a road three down in a westerly trip. Tall buildings had shielded the two adequately from a sea breeze until now as they caught one along with the dust this dragged up. Overdramatically, manually covering themselves, the Tamil duo made their way to the night market passing sari/material shops, bakeries and yet more financial agents. They entered the cobble stoned market road and were immediately hit by the atmosphere of bustle. Food was the main point of sales; with meats having low shelf life; fried meals of rice, prawns and vegetables were offered. Powered by canister gas, fried rolls and dumplings were advertised in star fashion and fruits were still on display from stalls attached to wheels for ease of cart get away. Siva and Seran selected their odds and sat on rickety chairs and on wooden tables that were not level thanks to the aforementioned cobbled layout of the floor. On his perch, Siva noted the poorer housing scheme; unclean exterior walls with more wood; ill-varnished shut outs. Windowless (though hardly a home curtain-less) dwellings capturing whatever it could of the Bombay limited wind, thanks to poor situation in house direction. Siva sat opposite a sign which read in English "FROM LORDS WIT LOVE. THAK YOU FOR THE MEMORIES INDIA" referencing... yes, the recent cricket world cup victory over hot favourites to retain the title, West Indies. (It really is a wonder how they did it so?)

**After** the two men ate, which included spring and prawn rolls, rice, aubergine and prawn curries; after eating, which included the discussion of their next venue; after eating, which included the admission that Seran had little money and the reciprocal admission that Siva would pay for everything, **the two** left the outdoor market eatery, going back the way they came until the main road but continuing towards the distant coastline. Passing a closed pawnbroker and jewellery merchant, more sari shops and newer built office buildings, the two turned once more onto another side road. Siva winked at a few seated women in front of the Blue Mongolian café/nightspot. "Are we going there?" Seran queried to which Siva smiled and said no. He knew a 'better' place where he had been the previous two nights having been persuaded by a gentleman in a fez and open sherwani asking him if he wanted girls. "Maybe tomorrow night, muchaan. I like to be sober when I fuck, lets go there." Siva pointed to a place four buildings down. "I can smell the pussy from here." However confident Siva sounded, Seran could only note the half musty, half salty Bombay air.

***

"We need more time to screen for the main characters, huh? We can pick up floozies anywhere. There is a university over the road, the café, some nightclubbing like we saw last night. In the afternoon there are always girls and men at the cafés, this is how we do it Madras style." Seran almost thought out loud, inexperienced in the realisation that this was how it's done everywhere. Jolly's not so keen. "Yes..." (wait. Why when speaking of Jolly is there an apostrophe? Jolly's keen? Jolly's not so keen. Jolly's this, Jolly's that... Forget it! This Pakistani will here in out be known as _Jolly is_. For he _is_ the picture. All routes need fall through him; so he _is_ and must, right? Jolly is (or shorter – Jollis... better!) "...but let us not be over our station." Jollis continues. "Vee have a budget to stick to and vee need the... thee, um, cohesion of the total budget. There are accountants to think of. Making a filim is a taxable business structure with plenty of pitfall etches and sketches. Vhen I get my half to you I need your half; it is taxed... it is a very British vay." The issue Siva had ill recognised was the reversal of ways – he knew he was to front half the project and he considered this investment as part of personal production costs; it would literally be his movie. He knew this and so did a wary Seran, though it was accepted. What seemed to have changed, though it may have been misunderstood owing to the foreign English being spoken in the order of halves: Siva believed the ball (well, the camera) could start rolling on their own front and then the continuation in seamless, pauseless play with the introduction of Jollis half. "Say, vhen I boasted fruits in the Northern areas of Eng... London, vhere they say that the toughest people live. My Allah, compared to the South vee are talking the bra'lers and inside hatchet men that are safe enough to take even over our Sikh Punjab friends." Both Siva and Seran turned direction to a gaze. "Of course, that is neither here nor there. What is the situation is that vee must assemble the journey of talkie making with reliability of a budget in five days. Until then, vee do not move." To which Siva realised "What?! We have to starting right away. We are wasting time, you know?" To which Jollis rolled "Vee need the down payments for the various degrees of filming... sets, props and vhat of the actors... they are to be paid, no? This is Bombay!"

The little wrinkled man with silver spectacles had a point. It was Bombay... Hollywood without the H, instead an M. Not for pre-natal Mumbai but Money. CASHVILLE... so as to the stunt of a movie (again, I'm not talking crashing cars). However, where there is a Way, there is a...

"Listen my dear Jolly," Will told Jollis as the pair walked around the Padups café building to an alley at the backside. "I have spoken to my parents and they are willing to be sorting half finance. This is no problem; our budget is wired in two days... not tomorrow, day after this. We are producers, muchaan. You must teach me your vays... you know, I riss-spect you." There may have been genuine belief in his words. Jollis urinating at the wall sighs. "Then if I receive my payment in five days I must showe the investors the full caboodle... I suppose vee could use a portion of your fund for supplies but that is three days." He finished with a shake. "But we need to start... very much today... how do we need the money? Not very much, ah? We can shift around to get casting. We need only a cam-a-ra maybe. That's it. casting can be doing at the hotel. There are plenty of room. That is hardly the budget and I would spend but I have hardly any money until the wire. What do you say, Jolly?" The man indeed pondered wiping sweat from his chin with a handkerchief, staring without regard at Will's urine stream. Jollis received willed persuasion from his counterpart. "Ok son, you deal vith the luxury that iss a casting couch; try to use the hotel, maybe a lounge for the afternoon? I vill go to my studio associates and arrange for a camera... you are quite correct; let us get this showe on the road!"

Willed and Wayed?

***

So Jollis gone; the two others march on back to nest temporary adage at the motel Maharaj. Of excitement; Siva and his belief chose the relief of telling Seran about his plan to kick off the twenty-one day filming bonan... 'Za! Za! This is our first movie, muchaan.' He told Siva in the man's stately room. Nonsense, he was dismissed; broomed. The two mused over paper to write the schedule of things; day one part one; cast starts here... where? Siva in suitably fruity mode; first and only stop, again, the café down the road...

The early evening saw Siva and Seran once more towards the direction of Padups café. Seran in a fresh, starched mauve short sleeve shirt. Siva, again, persisting with turtle neck; indigo in colour on this occasion. Both men wore from the latter's wardrobe with cream/off white slacks; perfect crease interception and pleats. "Boy, I korpe I see this girl I saw. She would be an actress... It would be easy so much to pick her; then her friends, maybe? She is a student so we maybe can be using the campus. Main man will be difficult but we can see many men with the Thumbs Up attitude, muchaan."...

...The café beamed off night lamp lights with vibrancy that collect inconceivably. In a three; married men shared scenes with gleaming women, class aside, glasses resided random in content. The most rogue of barbarian, unemployed males strode chairs backward; tall bottle with small tumbler of gin. A few table members away sets of women lay posting cola into letterbox mouth (thumb up); gossiping on couples and one to one encounters that enjoyed near by. Waiters served beneath the hot clear sky (from smoked screen inside); nervously the harmony inconceivably rapturing. It could all fall down never capturing such fashion ever again...

"My God, Siva," Seran exclaimed, truly surprised by the vision. "So many people... so many different varieties under one roof! Never in Hindustan could I see such history." "Believe it." Siva started, "This is not history; this is the present! We are here to taking some people for the creation of the future that will be history, muchaan..." (I couldn't have put it better myself!) "From our lucky prez-zence... to the prez-sent! The history ob pilim, muchaan.!" Siva finished his sentence in a haze of excitement. He even felt that Seran himself had the same felling – rocketing the dyad through both the Tamil men in a café in Boombay (correct spelling). It was time for a calling. "People of Padups café..." Siva stated grandiose. A few moved heads but the chitter chatter was miles ahead. So undefeated Siva, had to get ahead – he hopped (at least, his mind told him he did so) onto a table around two feet off the ground. Then he boomed bay. "PEOPLE OF BOMBAY." Yes he had attentions now. "Announcing a new talkie in pre-produc-shone. A story of lau and tragedy. Vee are needing main heroine [ _chi-ching_ ] and a leading keyro [hero]. Recruitment process beg-gins at the Maharaj Hotel, down this road at forty five minutes." Siva paused. "Other parts also ah-wailable." Satisfied he turned to an also pleased Seran. A film written and directed and in part produced by himself, without his late mentor. An achievement.

(Amidst which Siva caught the eye of a certain Anita. During such a speech the lovely young Tamil lady switched a four legged seat for a two and leaned back into his view catching the eye as only she and a few knew how. After perch dismount and the final settle of Mr Siva's word account, he posted a gesture to wrap up the idea of a link between 'the' role and Anita (she would think). So what did he do? Why, dear reader... a wink!)

***

A bargain is a bargain though bargaining; well it's a different story within this here one. Just like a vision within a vision; very different stories within stories. Take three stories; one by one. The story of the lead actress...

It's three stories when told by three different people. The first is a young wannabe screen writer/director; M. V. Seran. The vision he had to bargain is of a tempting young student who is brash but homely with a barrage and flux of eye and lip movements. She had an almost unbreakable outer layer of a defence when around her friends and also when being courted by her love interest initially. A feisty arrogance that comes with being the daughter of a university dean and with it the higher caste. Yet, when she finds out about the condition of her flirting show off lead opposite, this woman shows her vulnerability in scenes whilst she sits alone...and also later with her brain diseased counterpart when he... interjects into her soul.

Whilst she has this character and has these traits, crucially, she has no face... as yet. Seran is still waiting on casting to throw the correct floozy a bone.

(...At night, staring at the broken fan on the ceiling; when the three other men in the room had fallen asleep, Seran thought of his mother and father. Who must have loved him so; true love, that parents give to children. The kind of love that only rarely mimics in the love of a good woman. The kind of love that makes a proud son smile, the kind of love that is deep in parent eyes, the kind of love a son yearns for, the kind of love that makes a couple give their first born son away to a richer set of not-so-lucky. Though I say not-so-lucky; within a few years they were with own child; a baby girl who grew up to become the doctor who run away in the name of love 'back' to a Ceylon that she had never been acquainted with. Seran's foster mother always reminded him of how sweet his real mother could have been and how she was in the position as given by cruel fate to hand over new born then flee. Seran wondered what she looked like but could never place the image. He had anxiety and apprehension to her persona on most days but had the general underling of a kind caring woman who through eventuality could be sort. Given the time, that a young mind believed was there; but the older head realised it neither here nor...)

Story two: that of Siva. The eye match from the day before... Siva's tale has everything its predecessor did not – a face of course! This is at the sacrifice of all else mentioned! However, a talkie is something you view, an attractive face is all you should need... oh, and a body; hips like a shaker! She has it and more! The girl Anita is Tamil; Seran has his wish to film the Tamil film (albeit in Hindi). Lead actor could be a problem; not many Tamils in this district _but that we shall work on in time_ , for if one is found it is round!

These two boys of Storyville made haste to screening preparation. In Siva's mind was the front room area of the Maharaj. He voiced this to Seran interrupting painstaking other thoughts; though the man agreed having little other options and no mentor to guide a nervous man; only a will strong friend. The lingering issue as to whether the look-a-like permanent inhabitants of the area were willing to leave. A speech to the forever smiling receptionist provided the honest answer of 'No, but Sahib, you may ask if you so pleasing.' There was no way he would not. The two waltzed in to find Arthavan and Niru mamas glued to transmission. Another news report. _Did these people have nothing better to do than sit and watch the news?_ One spoke.

"My God!" Arthavan exclaimed. A chubby lady behind him screeched and pulled her sari blouse in fantasy to stretch arms length in front of her. She started to wail. Desperate shrills increased from other audience members. The newscaster for the illegal 'All E' transmission had this to say:

"...Police did nothing. Bloody nothing. I am in shock at the events of this time. Please forgive my language but these farmers are merely simple men doing in the spirit of their work; slain by military men who should be taking the interest of fighting non-civilians; that is, those in a position to defend themselves.

I repeat: one witness has told us of the harrowing situation of a farmer's community in West Mahwar that has been savaged by mercenaries who are now playing with Tamil lives. They invaded the tiny district; brought five working farmers and their sons, a total of thirteen men, to their knees. The soldiers assassinated each one. All had wives, daughters, sisters, mothers. They witnessed theses bastard happenings and needless to say, I speculate rapes. For their mindless fun as if the killing is not enough. God can only tell what will become of these females. The government is thinking they are not paying soldiers to train in camps so they set them bastard tasks to kill innocent lives and stop Tamil productivity and generations. Genocide is the climate we bespoke. May God please show the path where we can survive – resistance, God. Pays the strength for such..."

In typical song verse, Siva shunned the broadcast.

Ceylon melee

Nothing to do with me

Uncle why you look so sad?

Go back to your country if you feel bad

"Those fucking Sinhalese – Bandaranike will fall; I will personally see to that." Siva stood horrified at his friend; total betrayal. And before he could reply curse to Seran's volley occupiers of the room cheered in support and appreciation. Siva thought twice. The peaceful young man with a passion for film was not even hailing from the island overseas – he was Hindustan; yet he had the will of Eelam, something that Siva could only really dream for. Though never a conscious dream; just the hidden fraction of an as yet immature persona. He had fled widespread violence in a country he could have liked to call home but as his father took his fourteen year old hand and dragged him across Rama's Bridge, the elder had turned his back on a nation... like father like son. The crucial need for newness was thereby accepted by both parties; a separation from the old. A new personality of Siva as decided from parts of him; not the sum of his parts, however. The result was the engineered Siva; whom in reconstruction I must leave to the reverse engineering experts! However, it is safe to give you the following: Siva was the culpable man of two main divisions – simple structures; the behaviours of arrogance and dismissal. Part two: the complexity of living, the guilt of his own race of people dying in front of his being and the ability to sweep like a natural martial artist or office cleaner. Under the carpet for the sake of one's own mental stability.

***

Back in young Siva's (and really, young Seran's also) room, the director told the producer that they must find alternate space for the casting session. Not only had an insensitive Siva plea been turned down, Seran was dead against the eviction of wailing Tamils. "We should not have told them we needed this at that time. They are grieving." "Well when is a good time, after the casting?" Eei! To add sarcasm to the fold! – through frustration of the fact that finance muscles all want to flex yet when in normal position of good money, Siva the producer currently and temporarily had none. So whilst on the back foot, turtle neck Siva used his front to attack. 'Why Seran will you get so involved with these situations across that pond? A place where you were not even born.' 'Because it is murder; can't you see what these fuckers are doing to you country?' 'But I have moved! This is my life now.' Siva's final response (paraphrased). A barrage of statement contained within that text, huh dear reader? The separation, as spoke of earlier was a virtual completion. The past and the present. How much for those tickets to Madras all those years ago? A convenient car to boat to car travel, from one island to a state on a large mass. It felt like a free feeling yet it was not this way. The prices are listed in parts or combinations of the following; soul; dignity; respect. There's even extra 'port tax' with friend ships and kin ships severing, breaking hull integrity.

On this rather later occasion, I tell you the price of ignorance = Respect and Dignity (+ VAT).

***

Picture a room in a hot and sweaty city crammed with hot and sweaty people. That is, on one side. The other space, along with two Tamils; a director and a producer, a bed turned up on its side. "What did I tell you, Seran? Plenty of folks and everybody is interested in parts." Siva discounted the facts; it was a small room and not everybody was interested in parts. Everybody, was however, interested in excitement. "Maybe, you know, you have ideas for the parts... but, you know, as the producer I have my say." Siva could not help but see Anita in his mind. He looked into the crowd. "But as a director I have full veto." Said Vito. "Yes, yes of course. But do not ignore me, my friend, I have use... like with the ladies... like those girls. Such beauties." Replied Siva. "Ay! Don't wave... wait, do you know them?" "What if I do? That one there, she is Tamil, you know?" "No?" "Yes, I say! The rest are not, well maybe one. But this is solving the problem for the dubbing, no? If she is the lead." "Maybe, but she must pass the casting." "Of course."

***

"Next please. Name." Said Seran.

"Khalon, sar." Said Khalon.

"Ok... I think this part. You read here." Said Seran.

"No English, plees sar." Said Khalon.

"Next." Said Seran.

***

"What tis your name, darling?" Said Seran

"Nancy. Is the lead taken? I am a performer with the university drama classes and we perform shows every season. That is four times per annum."

"Well it is not taken but..."

"-oh good because I have the ability, yaar. No question. University drama classes is taxing. Four times per annum. There is Shakespeare or what have you. Breathtaking..."

***

"So. I see you are trying out." Said Siva

"Of course. To see you again is worth it." Said Anita

"No, the pleeshure iss mine." Said Siva.

"Ok. Please reading from this text." Said Seran.

"In Tamil?" Said Anita.

"This text is in Tamil... here, no there's English. Wait. Ok here, Tamil – so please... you are Tamil, no?" Said Seran.

"Of course." Said Anita.

"Ok." Said Seran.

"Please give a moment... one minute... You are hurt? Why are you paining? Talk to me. How can we work if you do not talk? You are holding your head? A headache you have? Or is it something more? Is it your... brain?" Said Anita

"It is... is much more." Said Seran.

"Then what? You act the fool all year because you are nothing but a bully. Is this another one of your games? You called me here to help you study now you are faking a headache... I spit at your feet. Go!" Said Anita.

"Wait. Don't go. I have a confession for the love of my life." Said Seran.

"And what is that? You want to have your evil way with your 'love'? I'm not the love of your life. Just wait til my father finds out, he will put a stop to your wicked show. Leading me to your house just to teach you... what? How to be the idiot that you are normally." Said Anita

"Hey girl. I have brain tumour." Said Seran.

[Pause for acting.]

"Wow! You are a natural, my sweet. You are a sooper natural." Said Siva.

***

"Next." Said Seran.

"Fucking man let us finish now." Said Siva.

"No, we must screen. Plenty of part remaining, muchaan." Said Seran.

"But I gave the girl Anita my room number... I want to see how much talent she has... huh? Huh?" said Siva.

"You swine! Oh wait... name please." Said Seran.

"Bibi." Said Bibi.

"I already have a part for you, muchaan. I can see your frame... your face. You are perfect." Said Seran.

"Oh yes! I will make you proud, sar." Said Bibi.

"Of course you will. Come back, here, tomorrow arpternoon. And doorn't tell a blighter. Sec-cond casting se-shan is maximum priwate, yaar." Said Seran.

"Word iss mum, sar." Said Bibi.

***

"That's it muchaan?" Said Siva.

"Not yet, two at the door." Said Seran.

"That's enough Seran. It is too hot and I am horny." Said Siva.

"Ah, I will finish here, muchaan. You go." Said Seran.

"By and by I will. You can handle two? Oh and don't forget we have this room for the night. You will use it ah? I have the guest in the other, know what I mean, yaar?" Said Siva.

Seran looked at Siva and then at the bed propped up against wall done so to create space. He'd have to pull that down himself.

***

Back arched crescent; against the headboard of room 204 at the Maharaj Motel, Kings Road, Bombay, Anu threw her sleeping suitor a glance. Within her mind popped the heavily broadcast news story of Nimo Glenroe; the tourist who killed his wife as she slept at a beach view hotel in Goa. The man did so with a knife, using the weapon to slit the throat of his spousely victim. As she struggled and gasped her last Arjuna beach side air, Nimo watched her then left the room and went down to the water to swim. Later, a maid found the body, quite possibly screamed and certainly called the manager. Nimo Glenroe, who did not run away, was easily tracked by police due to the fact that he was a White tourist in Brown Hindustan. (That with the other interesting note: Mr Glenroe left his hotel room, naked.)

Of course, our Anita had no such desire to repeat the event. Contrary, in fact. She had been sitting up for the last five minutes thinking of another 'event'. Yes, that intersection of two lovers; except, and in the voice and words of those in multiple love list history: _this was different_. There was... a spark! Of the many times in the only recent past in which she had _made love_ (at stretch), there were exactly zero times she had... had, well been _there._ Need I be so vague? Well, it is nice of myself to give such characters mystery! This record, of not being 'quite at the end' had unfortunately still continued. The Tamil producer lying asleep next to her had not been able to detonate the 'tiny explosions,' even throughout the 'almost finished' night (and onto the morning hours). However, Siva was close to doing such for his wannabe starlet. Anita compiled the why and placed reason with the way he spoke Tamil pet names to her as he ground his plump posterior up and down. He called her fruits, which made her laugh; cuddly animals which made her smile; land phenomena which made her swoon and manmade creations which made her proud. These all along with usual Tamil terms of endearment, including 'chellam' which he pronounced several times with a u as replacement for the a. She found that ever so adorable and quite separate to the lusty animal drive she should have normally put together to snare not only the man but also the acting part. On this occasion, she felt more flaccid than usual and, well, to put blunt; she didn't even perform orally.

He was also the first film producer (actual one) she had bagged, this not including pornography. Internally there pleaded that this external stand point was the reason she felt the living within her. The drive. The newness... Besides, what would Rahini say? To the contrary; 'love is for losers... you're not a loser, are you Ani?' No.

Well, maybe a little.

***

Siva uncoiled an eyelid to peer the exposed breast of Anita. Petit, wonderful. She oozed pizzazz; excitement, drive. Nothing like that bookworm Nahani. Ani was fairer than Nahani too. By all classification; Nahani was quite the darkie. Hair tied back lifelessly; nothing but solidity offered. Ani, on the other hand was racy. She had the look and moves of a whore; yet she was a respectable university student. Respectful, indeed... Siva felt the twinge of a loyal human feeling named guilt. Memories of the night interspersed – was she a... a... the v word... _virgin_? All the shyness. The coy, sensitive, back-to-mattress play she displayed whilst he, Siva the destroyer (by name and now nature) had took something he could not realistically give back. The thought that an act or dupe was afloat never affected the man's thinking; _if this was regular, she would made felatio, no?_ This girl was not a pro, he concluded. Siva's expression grew once the worry; when he considered the 'M' word (and it is an M in English). The man closed his eyes immediately; there was a smile there somewhere.

***

"Camera as requested." Jollis spoke proudly. The three film amicable associates congregated outside the reception area of the motel. "Only a producer vith such contacts can get such a model... and only the moment's notice. Such a low deposit. You see, before I am given the studio money, scheduled for two veeks, after which more camera. More budget." He paused. "No, I am thinking in general. This time, and only because I have such faith in your passion for picture making, tomorrow, I front one half of the half studio budget and then yourself with the other half... this vay, vee start early. Vee come in few-veeks with studio clout and vee finish strong." This summary surprised two Tamils who were really only interested in the condition of the machine in front. A camera that looked on its last legs (though a tripod was not in sight). "Ok, Jolly, with the excess _cash_ I had we used out for casting se-ssan yesterday yet today I'm almost out. Wire to your account iss tomorrow but what of today expense?" Jollis pondered whilst holding the expression of dumbfounder. To contradiction he replied "of course. Vhat iss on today?" With the experience of the man, Siva thought, he'd have an idea or at least hazard a guess. "Second screening; this time with camera." To which the short Pakistani replied, "of course, but vhat expenses?" More insolence. "Just in-case expenses, muchaan. I vill have no money until I meet you too-morrow." To which Jollis ignored the question and asked one of his own. "Vhat... who is she doing here?" As he spoke Anita popped into reception hastily donning footwear; she was late. Siva smiled and winked at her mouthing her need to be away and was gone in a haze of nerves and wavy, could-be-brown hair. "That iss Ani. She could be lead." Siva beamed without a question to Jollis, winking again at Seran, who made a disapproving face. "No. Not that girl." Jollis whispered, though she had gone. "Why not?" Much more insolence. "She has been in _other_ films, sahib." Emphasised _other_ transmitted metadata that Siva picked up. He was shocked. "Which filims?" As if he did not know! At least, Seran knew. "The type of film a good gentleman like yourself vould not be interested in." Upon the raising of Jollis eyebrow, Siva resigned though he did not feel his face show the internal bodily system's recalled embarrassment. "No." (elongated). "Yes." (Standard length). "We have ree-ally thought for the second she was the one." Again, Seran grimaced and Siva could just have easily used this singular to simultaneous effect. Jollis sensed the disappointment of his co-financier. "That type of girl is a rupee per dozen. You can line each up all day. The girls I can get... through only the true contacts. Vhen I get the word out, trust me: superstar. A very pure Bombay beauty; glitter and all." Seran's eyes lit up. "P-P-Prania?"

Jollis smiled and with haste ushered Seran into the second hired room past the reception. Siva still had the feeling of a small child having broken his favourite toy. He bit lip with aggression and made a movement as directed by the others; though he picked up the camera they left behind. "Hey spunkie; I left my copy book in your room. I am late can I get it? Hey, who is that?" Anita had ill-timed a re-entrance; straight into the glare of Siva; in destruction. He had a twinkle of regret, a smidgen of evil and all of the Machiavellian two balled organs could hold. "Oh nobody, honey. Say, Seran is going to meet me upstairs in a while. He wants to work with the camera. We could do with an actress... you know, to help us. You need to be some place for the next few hours, ah?" Well yes, but how could she refuse?

(Oh and if you are wondering about the third story of the lead actress? I will let your mind wonder even more!)

### Mr and Mrs Arnand (3)

(The kingdoms of newness that are love, murder, desperation and devotion)

### Day 3 (...continued)

The sun streamed beautifully into the coffee shop – the great location would have ensured this everyday. It was quite surprising how a coffee shop could have survived though it did hold regular poetry meets (government art grants?). Anu sat at table 'G' with a cigarette and black coffee. She did not enjoy black coffee but believed in looking her best: nicotine and caffeine went well but not with cow juice. Dear reader, if you have not assumed: this is how Anusha liked things; to look nice and go well using the ideals she grew up believing. Not a slur to one set in a multi-dynamic chain of rearing; a slur to maybe all! (Pretentious me!) An attempt to change her usually resulted in major disapproval and not to mention plain violence. She sat slightly slouched staring through her shades. The art of prolonging a cigarette was her vice and she loved every part of the task. It was her meditation. A concentration, if you will; however, not on breathing but on the rise of fire towards the filter. I may have mentioned this before; she hardly took drags and would also take a by-product pleasure from keeping ash from falling off the edge. If cancer was to miss but one smoker it would be her.

A finger moved slowly under her eye rubbing away a non-existent bag. What a night! Was the man she had slept with (and due to his state of being: only slept, there is no need to go further) really as famous as the all the hype aboard the Water Lily? So much raw energy was in that party that the term slept could have been replaced by napped. Anu was not a big drinker but she was over the edge of previous bests. The look of a glass of wine; a cigarette, a coffee, though these were all unnecessary. Sleep was mostly, and she could have happily dismissed herself to a cosy cabin to shut eye until the captain threw her out to bay. She tried and failed noting lack of locking doors and dorms filled with copulating others. Not sexy. So Anu spent the night in the company of New York's White rapper Tentym, who having the exterior persona of a no nonsense, women for hire, money, drugs and prison baiting individual; the kind of man a mother would best meet as fiancé to her best friend's daughter's engagement party (snide me!). Anu brought about another within the small frame. A gentler, caring fold. A man under the influence of protection-fever. For all the rappers/rapper associates whom tried waggle tongue at Mrs Arnand, Tentym endeavoured to keep these men in check. With status as richest/employer/client to security: he succeeded. So Anu was not pinched, harangued or mishandled (particularly useful whilst a pool was close by) as long as she kept up the usual winking, touching and smiling (also talking in her delightful accent). Hours were whiled drinking, swimming (not Anu, no sir!) and dancing to records where almost each would tell the stepper exactly what to do. Whether it is was to put hands in the air, or move to the left – all was explained. Under the influence seemed to be the theme of the party and there was even the regression to a blissful past; for as Anu slinked and wound to a track she had never heard, dancing off the pleasurable mix of cocaine laced champagne, on came, punched in flawlessly – the latest single of the multi-millionaire rapper Tentym. All went wild, 'dance-floor' full. Anu was fifteen years old again and a sloppy university boy approached her stumbling mouthing and spitting (literally) the lyrics to his own song. Grab, grab, then kiss. _English kiss!_ Slimy, sucky and sloppy. But Anu did not care. After the final East Beat beat (East Beat being an up and coming producer), Tentym dragged Anu to his private quarters. More carefree kissing and fondling; to both _Tennessee Inne's_ and Anu's wants. The exception? His weak stomach, for after a few minutes of passion he threw up the strawberry sponge cake slice Vanessa's (the excited fourteen year old fan) mother had made Tentym eat (though there was more in there, let me save you the candid detail). Following this event, the two lay together trying to catch up on Anu's favourite of all activities... it begins with an s but there are two e's, reader – _tut tut!_

One startling reality of the almost sordid situation was Anu's feelings. There was the element of fear – for her marriage. Yes, she had decided onto the path of destruction but little pieces of pointing told her of a danger. Perhaps it was the yacht and the lack of freedom because she had chose a life of grime and husband-non-worship. Whenever she saw his face the anger welled and the choice was easy. It was in her control to deny the man. On a yacht; the control is not there. She _had_ to be away from him; forced, if you will. An independent woman is never forced. It is her will and a will that reflects choices displayed ahead of her. Open sea is not an option. In the end she had the opportunity to treat another feeble man as the husband she could not get to. A man who resembled the rather undignified, statue-less like figure (though he was very well marketed as a statue) who was Arnand. Clingy is a rather juicy word. Still, for every moment aboard the Water Lily that Anusha thought of Arnand a tinge of guilt crept a head. Down went the champagne, the wine, the buck fizz... etc... and there he'd pop up again. _This is wrong, no?_ or _Anu, my darling, you are my wife, no?_ Oh yes, Arnand, she was! Yet with all the wife type feelings of a women in love (early stages, yaar) her destination after the quick Tentym slip was not to be with him but to be away from him. I tell you – freedom. Given clear choices, it feels better to rebel the ones that feel the most manipulated. AKA, the sadist. (Or not, I'll appeal my need for options!)

A crack in the pavement outside forced a glistening effect from the sun upon it due to some water being caught inside. Anusha wondered how that water could have got there? The sea was plenty far enough and it had not rained for at least the duration of her honeymoon, up until the present. Anu noticed drops of water spraying towards the shop window and then back onto the pavement. At first her intelligence relayed the information of imminent rain. She kissed her teeth before looking up a little higher and seeing a badly dressed clown with badly fixed make up. Water was squirting profusely from a flower in his breast pocket and s/he did not know how to stop it. This was the cause of the 'flood'. A small child; a boy, stood pointing at the clown and laughing. The flower stopped it's leaking and the clown stood more assured and relieved focusing his attentions on the child. The confrontation was comical to say the least: the boy could see that this clown was bigger than he was; the clown, however, looked suspect and completely capable of unleashing fury upon even fragile children. Defiance and stupidity merged to create crazy. In Anusha's eyes, what followed was, well, slightly crazier; the clown decided to look up and caught sight of Anusha. A face off occurred during which Anu could not help but grow a smile that increased for every second. When she could not hold it no longer she giggled and customarily raised her right hand to hide her mouth from being seen. The clown, on the other hand (no not her hand reader, do keep up), never battered an expression. It just stood there until Anusha brought her hand from her face, momentarily, at which point s/he/it bolted (and in Hollywood fashion, ran one way initially and then realised that it was the wrong way). The returned hand remained in front of Anusha's mouth for a good while. During her giggle fit she thought _this is the type of moment I live for_ – at least went on holiday for. The now and entertaining now. The moments of bliss that collected life. Misery is avoidable in laughter. As she brought her hand of joy to a rest she hit the saucer her cup was on ( _Oh misery..._ Such small moments!). And fearing she may spill coffee there was another quick hand movement; in a general direction, did it work? No, of course not! No success! Cup hit forcefully to the ground, spilling but at least not breaking. 'Shit' she expressed leaning down towards, adjusting her seated position to quite seductively reveal a leg. Not planned but well executed. "Here," a man called, "I'll get that far ya" Anusha noticed the man's shorts hung down below his knees. He wore an off white, short sleeve t-shirt. It was crinkled but not in an not-ironed sense. He held a stern yet curiously warm smile on a dark brown skin; short styled afro hair with fade. The man picked up the cup and replaced it on the saucer. He looked straight into Anusha's eyes (through her sunglasses) "There you go. My name is Cerochi Reading." He extended his hand which Anusha, hesitantly, received. "Thank you," she told him "I got little diss-stracted and I am also very clumsy." The two enjoyed a brief and amusing re-count of the events that just bestowed our Anusha. _Clowns make good conversation_. Cerochi remarked along with "hey listen, I don't tink I can top that for entertainment value but will you watch me as I perform now?" Anusha undoubtedly was a little confused. "I'm a resident poet here and I am about to go on."

The clarified Anusha watched Cerochi walk towards an area of the coffee shop that did not really resemble a stage but indeed housed a microphone. With smiles, calls and waves he drew the attention of the fifteen to twenty people. 'Hello everyone. My name is Cerochi and you have all b'in quite luckily I would believe. It is always open mic here and you have decided to have coffee when it is my turn to entertain. That is, entertain with the medium of poetry. I invite your gracious attention.' The crowd seemed to receive the effort with great enthusiasm, many changing their seating direction with the belief that their ears would not suffice. 'I wrote this very suddenly just after I met somebody who I believe has so much more to offer myself.' His accent and use of words suggested he was a native of the island and, of course, he was a _resident_ poet... yet there was more to him. 'I have only just met her recently and she has already left an impression...' He held the microphone as if to burst into song. However, he didn't.

' _Lay my thought on your eyes – but without your glasses. It was that look where imagination would have the images you see as blurred._

Do you believe that this can work again? Misjudgement... and all? If laying next to you and peering deeply was a sign then would much be had?

The silence between would never have been expected if only it was known...'

Anu heard the word 'glasses' and assumed he was talking about her. She liked this notion that another person had written the sweetest poetry aimed only at her but crucially, broadcast to many.

'... _When is it? Will you impress my nature? I have only you to see even when I hold truly. But do you accept share of the blame?_

My courteous belief is at work again.'

None of those within the audience were more involved than Anu. All her marriage problems were flown away to some far off destination – home maybe. Life was good again and not just out of slapstick humour. Brought about by... whatever his name was. The performance; two more complete works in his stage accent: an almost English. Anu even thought of her mother as he spoke. Nahani used to speak in her sleep, yet not in her standard Tamil tongue. Whilst awake, Nahani would speak no language but Tamil; on odd occasions, she'd fall asleep on the sofa or in her room and when Anu overheard, English she rattled. A very intricate accent. Anusha often queried her mother's ability to speak it but was always dismissed. _I don't know English. Evil people in England, bastards I would say._ Anu thought for the briefest moments of her mother's stint in England. Was it real? Did she go all the way there all by herself?

And after; Cerochi found his way back to Anusha's table. Many 'wows' and 'My Gods' followed and Cerochi received his praise well. His accent intermittently fluctuated from Island, British then on to curious American. He captivated Anu with ease, showing a confidence in not only himself but in Anusha also. Encouraging her, complimenting her. Shallow Anu, having associated with several _Black fellows_ upon the night yacht, had absolutely no new evidence to suggest to her the elegance of the African-origin male. This man, however, had a charm that wrapped his skin colour in a shield to her stereotyped mind. Indeed, while they sat and discussed the focus of the poems, Anu could not help invoking the game of 'footsie' with her admirer. He, of course, responded and played at an equal level to his 'challenger'. Slippers off. Inevitably, Cerochi offered the use of his flat for the remainder duration of the conversation. Inevitably, Anu accepted the invitation.

***

Cerochi's apartment overlooked the beach front and was only the extended moment away from the shop. The two were led up (or did he really lead?) an almost spiral and certainly metal stairway to a green and wood door. Inside found a one bedroom flat with balcony. Though only 11am, was a glass of red wine in order? Cerochi did not ask, he poured – Anu accepted. She enquired of his poetry beginning and the short enough cropped hair man told her of how he sat behind a witch doctor's hut, smoking the most potent of marijuana he had come across; this island or other. From the age of twelve, young Cerochi finished school at around noon to sit at the back of Papa Zuani's Awareness Tent, smoking and whiling hours with three other boys his age. As the story went, this continued up to the date of his sixteenth birthday. For on this fateful day, Cerochi leaned too far (pun also) back on his rocking chair before his first puff of the first joint in his seventeenth year of life. Falling back, he saw past a gap between fencing and tent to make out a chrome hand gun held by one of two conversing, leather toting individuals. Stepping into a break in seam through the back of Papa's hut, Cerochi proceeded to play Zuani at this own game: prediction. He spoke of the two images of darkness casting the catch of light upon thee: Papa Zuani, Black Magic and Fortune Teller. Papa checked it out and indeed the assailants were ready to dispose of the human/s in the tent; nasty style. Papa, Cerochi and the usual three left via back exit. From that day forth, Cerochi was renamed (by and exclusively for the use of Papa); Ché. Scared, nervous and shocked, the young man stumbled into a brand new world... though not as you would think, reader. No. The underworld of literature. Verse. The get away of no toes and no feet from the back of sand and hut. No gangsters to avoid; just pain and suffering poured full on paper and then out onto air in float. The boy wrote his first poem that day...

A few years later he attended Buffalo State College, New York reading Literature and Creative Studies (minor: Philosophy). On completion, he returned homeland to invest inheritance of the late Papa Zuani into a coffee shop, housing poetry readings and Friday night free form Jazz (so NOT government funded, reader).

Anu looked to the wall and saw something that startled her. Ché caught her image look, misinterpreted her motion and went to the wall in the concerned, and extracted a frame; hanging script. "This is my first poem; I wrote it the day I helped Papa away... I stayed sober or not-high, and this created. The name is crazy, I knorr, but trus' me, it is not a mis-spelling. 'Puritian'. Look here, the pronunciation: pure-ree-shun. Written for (or by) the purity that shone from my heart that day. Puritian, get tit? I thought I was clever. You want me to read it to you?" To which he recognised the response: "I got... I have to go." Anu was distressed, her counterpart tried humour. "Ok. Ok. I wont read it. I'm sorry." And Anu explained that it was not the poem and it was something else. Ché would not be so dismissed, Anu re-iterated through mistake upon appointment... and after a few minutes, he did indeed concede. "Well, I cannot make you stay. Please, was it something I said? Will I hever see you again?" and she replied: "No... no... you see, sometimes you are so engrossed in life you miss certain things that you should not in a hindsight pashion [fashion], yaar." With astute brilliance, Ché responded: "Do you mean like a sign?" Her face lit up – _Yes, sir! A sign!_ "Missy... signs should be followed. Go, you have elsewhere to be." Anu smiled, fumbled through her purse and took one more look at Cerochi's first poem; 'Pure-ree-shun' give or take pronunciation, it is the Tamil word for husband.

***

Latch; click! And open went the hotel room door to a confused sight. Yes Arnand was there but he was heavily involved in a process. Suitcase on bed, furious throwing of clothes into it through ill order. Trousers on top of scarves. Bangles without reference. Panjab suits amid Italian suits. Total chaos without relation to a previously organised cupboard. "What are you doing Arnand?" An out of breath Anu in a blue bikini with nothing but shawl for cover cried in... well, desperation not curiosity. "Oh there you are, no?" Arnand started, still in continuation of his undisclosed but obvious plan. As if the world were blind. He added; "we're leaving... and soon."

_There it was_. An angry husband? Anu's tomfoolery (blind to her partner's) had got her into such trouble – the type that cuts holidays short. No continuance upon honeymoon island. And all after a transformation of the sorts. An epiphany in duty! Life zapped unfair even though the selfish had been sacrificed... Well it was back. _How dare this man who called her his wife call halt to what is a couples' most fantastic holiday?_ Her husband had a rather stubborn look on his face. This was not the usual argument. So Anu now had to win him over. The barter began; she pleaded to his ridiculous side. He kept on packing. She pleaded to his economical side. He kept on packing. Then to his reasoned/informational side. He kept on packing. There was only one side remaining and this was only for time rather than the infinite. Anu removed her shawl and her bikini top (careful of the tissue). She pushed the suitcase and some clothes as best she could finding a space on the bed.

Arnand stopped packing.

***

An amount of time later (let me blow dignity through mystique in my lead male character though he was proving quite the stud around women other than his wife), Anu and Arnand, wife and husband lay back down upon hotel bed staring at the ceiling, panting. Anu would not admit it to herself that she was satisfied; yet she did out loud. Arnand beamed a smile. "Thank you, my low. My knees'ar weak, no?" How was Anu to know? She was quiet for awhile. In enjoyment. Really. It was not bad. As bad as it could be – say her mother and father. Marriage arranged, fine. Efficient. Yet in the proceeding years; they did not know the first thing about each other. No feelings for each other, except control. Anu sprung a memory and became infuriated. She punched the bed with a fist. "What iss it, my low?" Did I... I not please you?" He had already been given the answer, a second hearing is always nice. Ordinarily, such an egocentric comment from a loved one would be shoved back down male Tamil throat; not now. Unlike a human being in Eelam; Anu was in a freed state. "What iss the worst thing you... anyone, for that matter has done, Arnand?" What kind of a question was that? Anu decided to expand, releasing a heavy chest.

"When I was a girl, I found a box in my Appa's study. I was only thirteen. Teenage. In the box was a lot of small things, papers that sort, yaar. But one thing was an enwelope from Manchester, London. I opened it... well it was already seal broken, yaar. Inside was an official letter. From the Uniwersity of Manchester. Ripped up, yaar. I pieced together, Arnand and it was actually a letter from this uniwersity to my mother. There was an error in her exam. A mistake. Some exam she took. My mother, Nahani Sivabalan was eligible for study in Britain – for English Literature. I was so excited, Arnand, I thought we all could go. I ran to mommy and showed her the piecing and asked her if I could come. She read the letter and she cried. I listened to the argument with my poppy and – you know? The bastard hide the letter from her for all those years. He was jealous! The years had past, obviously, so there was no chance mommy could go again. She told me, Arnand, that she did not want to go. Even if you ber-leave that, it does not matter. She could not go because my poppy forced her to stay. Mommy said she did not want to go back to where she failed as a lawyer deg-gree, but... can you ber-leave? The lie from my Appa. We were close, I and father. But not after this. Controlling, controlling. Are you like this, Arnand. Do you have secrets?"

A rare expression of brutal honesty laid bare by (the now small-part explained) former teenage complexity. Arnand could only give one real answer to such a tour de force of understanding. What more/less than to hold this woman in his arms and say that he would never hurt her... However, he did not. He had another idea – he got up, got changed and started packing again. "Arnand, why?" a desperate call from his naked wife. The sigh of desperation. "I'm sorry for my ways but I am here now... we have been connected, yaar... it is love, no?" She looked him deeply in the eyes. They both did nothing except gaze at one another. (And if Anu was lying, then I would tell you that this universe is reverse in polarity. She really wasn't this time.) "Love or not, it matters not, my wife. I am... in trouble. We are in trouble, we must flee." Arnand told her in Tamil. She was to query the extent, but she paused. Arnand also. Why? He felt his trouser pocket. These were not either of the pairs he wore to and at the party. One of these were in the bathroom. Arnand ran to the cubicle to ransack the pair he donned the night previous and wore for his trip back to the hotel. Rather baggy, but it did a job. A rather embarrassing job at that, especially with the rest of the outfit. This issue aside, Arnand did not find what he was looking for, darted back into the main suite and proceeded to unpack at a rate faster than he packed. The Tamilan then, all of a sudden, stopped and placed his hands hard on the top of his thinning hair. He was utterly shocked. _What? What is it Arnand?_ His hands moved down to his waist and he threw his facial tenure into despondency. He looked at her. "I don't having my passport, Anu. I left it... oh no." Indeed, there was a no at the end of the statement yet it was not a question. Before Arnand's mind's eyes flashed parts of his life; people in his life; his father, his grandfather, his mother, best friend Rueban even Angie Carvalho of Goa prostitution fame. Before Anusha's mind's eyes were the losses of all; a holiday, her ability to please husband (forget if Anu was pleased with Arnand's performance – did SHE please him?). Before Arnand's mind's eyes... failure. Before Anusha's mind's eyes could see more; a knock rattled the room door. Arnand turned his head to the sound and froze. Anu leapt under the duvet and pulled it up in cover. _Latch, click!_ Opened with spare card key. In popped two uniformed gentlemen and a man in a suit. Outside, remained the nervous manager and another local police officer. Both of the two attire-matching men who entered had at ready fire arms, pointing them in the direction they moved. Seeing Arnand, weapons were aimed to him. Anu shrieked. Upon request, both husband and wife raised hands, the latter doing so after suitably adjusting her cover. Approaching Arnand, officer one withdrew handcuffs from belt and used the pair on the Tamil man who was a quiet, cooperative prisoner... contrary to a man of innocence? "Are you Moo-rar-lee-har-ren Are-nand?" A little late, huh detective? He still received the nod of rhetoric. "I am arresting you for the murder of... You do not have to..." etc. The rest of the speech faded from sound.

***

(Now we must race! The pace of this couple's honeymoon tale has, as I have wanted, increased. Onwards in hours; except, let us not forget the newness in state of our dearest Anu.)

"It's hell fire to play with the devil. You seem like the nicest girl but I can see in your eyes that the playing days are over. You remind me of my past – all heady and excitable. Yet, you also hold some trooth in what I am now. But I aint to crash hot on that past; still got the scar. More of a symbol. Still, that part of my soul tells me that your interest will benefit me too." To which Anu replied; "Well," She paused, being stunned by this man's eloquence. Stereotypes still ruled roost in her mind, even after a night on a rapper's rented yacht and a date with a poet; the man who spoke those words was old, African (and North American) descendent with a full top of grey hair. He had a police officer's uniform on which he could so easily had withdrawn seeing as his shift had ended a while back. Melancholia and alcohol mixed a cocktail that demanded a shift in time itself (so bold! Maybe the lesser 'time management' would suffice). "I am not sure what you are talking. I am here to have a drink with cutey you." As Anu moved her left hand tiny finger over the small bone protruding his right wrist. The man felt this and looked at Anu's pouting eyes. Could any man resist the purity of a temptress? It is the most gracious human error to succumb to that over senses; beyond reach. Police guard Robert was. High on rank yet low on esteem. The closer years that had past him masked his previous desires. He was set to become the islands next chief of police. To most, there was not question of another. He had the solid head on his shoulders along with all the other count-full qualities a chief should have. The aura of reliability another, control and not to mention the silent passion (where eyes are calling louder than the larynx). Indeed calmness was never the prerequisite for this head position but Robert's guaranteed and assured nature is seen by islanders as a quiet aggression with a built in togetherness. It was only until very recently had he given up with being seen in such light. He now sat at the same position in the same bar, two nights in a row. This time, however, with a pretty lady sat next to him. "Now, now, sweet. You really do remind me of somebody I shared an immodest encounter with a very long time ago. Gees, I'd say you might even be the spirit of that woman sent back here... maybe not, that is an issue I have to deal with even now. Running away and I still couldn't run fast enough." ...swig... "You know, at the time, I saw her do things that I thought were impossible. These days it happens on tape every fuckin' week. I still have what she did all those years ago... here." He pointed at his head, "and here." He pointed elsewhere. Anu, about to speak, paused. Was this man drunk? He spoke confidently but rather grandeur and egocentric. Anusha had seen drunken eyes before and those were not present here. Anu clocked that he did not speak like a native; education was probably of another land also. His mannerisms were all non-island. Even the travelled Ché had an at-home quality this officer did not. "I don't need to wear this uniform you know? It makes me feel respected. I oughta be housing a suit and tie. What's the point?" As if Anu knew. She could not tell he would not get his promotion... why? – because a) he was not a native and; b) dirty politics. His past had caught up with him. All Anusha knew was that he was an officer of some sort (perhaps a detective) and her bones told her to sit with him for the conversation. There was a half drunken bottle of branded and blended whiskey sat before a small glass. Anu with her wine glass also half full/empty and a bustling bar to boot. "I think you need to cheer up... I will fill your glass, no?" Anu poured another shot, Robert was grateful. Very little thinking was happening here. Even on behalf of Anusha who would not usually approach a man, yet she did. It was the ticking notion way back in a console of her brain that made her do it (a place rarely visited by conscious address!). However, reader, she would never admit to the technical truth, so here in respect, as I showed my lead male earlier, I shall not reveal neither (for the moment).

[Lie] _she approached this gentleman because he was not the usual type of man she went for (Black and old); with the thrill of actually trying to court. Did she have what it took?_

Apparently, yes. For after twenty minutes of conversation and consumption, the two were away in a police jeep to a home. And inside, the couple sipped yet more whiskey; this time upon a white leather sofa. Strangely, both had items of pre-occupation plaguing moment; so stalling time was not an issue. "At first, this job meant the new world to me. Pastures new, a place to rid my shackles." The speech was slurring; a man well on the path to successful intoxication. "But it's all over. They say you can never run from the past, well... it's here with me now, Annie." Anu grew frustrated at the man's reference to another woman's title. She shared her grievance. "Sorry. You really remind me of my... what I'm talking 'bout now. I did one trip. I was a lost kid and I didn't have a clue. Just a body and a co..." He stopped with almost too much said. Though not on purpose; he was far too almost drunk to realise consequence. The man's mind just paused. Anusha decided that stalling was not an answer and edged, shimmied closer using the other hand to play delicately on Robert's ear. He entirely nonplussed the connotation. "Looks like they gonna fire me, missy. Fire me, the almost police chief. And why didn't they promote me? Because of this." Talk about one track mind! Not sex but confession! Heterosexual Robert could have picked up a man from the bar; all he wanted was a soul to listen to the tears. He got up. Anu, surprised though she did not stop him; a perverse interest in what could be more appealing than her-on-a-plate. Robert walked to wall, grasped oil painting of sunset over sea and placed it on the floor, propped. This process revealed a safe. Combination later and out popped a single video cassette, in an off grey-mesh slip cover. He tossed it to Anu, missing her yet landing harmlessly on the couch. She picked it up and read the plastic label created by a simple rotating and squeezable label maker. Obviously the title of the cassette's content. "That's it. the only mistake I made. Before today, that was the only link to my sordid past. But some, asshole had done their homework." Silently, he apologised to Jesus Christ for the profanity. "He asked around and got credits off the blasted innernet and all. I'm ruined. Fuck... forget the promotion, I don't even stand a chance on this bitchass tourist paradise no mo'." Anu noted the exit of eloquence and the entrance of brutal nihilism. She wanted to ask exactly what the tape contained but even with leaned mind she still had a good guess; footage that makes top player lose spot. She suddenly felt uneasy. Though, this was no time to panic and leave as she was so close to her goal of - ****** \- [reader: still too early!]

More conversation to the sorry tale of Robert the Almost. How he began on tourist island after working several wayward and traveller years aboard a pleasure cruise ship. How he chased down a purse snatcher having witnessed the event in front of nose on shore leave. The befriending of the then chief of police. In the six hours he spent on land that day he had gained more self awareness than a previous lifetime. On this land he discovered the teachings of the Bible and the sacrifice that Christ had made for him. He had Almost successfully banished the idiocy of immaturity away with a new religious grasp and a steady, decent vocation. Robert Almost was giving an account of the very near man; a drunken autobiography. Filled with sorrowful could have beens accompanied by sips and gulps of despair. For every trinket, Anu shook the edge of guilt; she needed to be ready for action. Whatever it took. There was a definition floating in her mind and while Robert told his last tale for the night she had the opportunity to work a position that showed she subscribed to this definition. Anu breathed in, got up and slinked sexily over to the second of the two sofas. She approached him placing face merely two centimetres away from his; did he look at her (the lights were dimmed)? And in what way? Only one way to find out; the key to a man is through his... she knelt in front of him a little tiredly. Reaching forward she fondled his police belt, which Robert had not removed (last hours as officer sentiment perhaps). The man moved pleasurably, groaning slightly. Anu's heart beat jumped at this. She was excited. She placed her hand where she knew he'd also become quite excited; but in this condition, who knows? Carefully, she used fingers to stroke delicately yet assured; she had knocked back with the police man but nowhere near as much as he. It was just for show; she was not drunk. She manoeuvred and tussled, slowly and quickly hoping to have the event over with without even needing to use her full feminine charm...

Latch, click!

Success! The bunch of keys on his belt came loose without the sleeping policeman awaking (dear reader; and should I enquire as to what you were thinking? Maybe I should not...). The aim of this section of the night for dearest Anu was to pilfer the uniformed man's keys... or to get as close she could. What a test to pass! (A test for what...? Not yet, reader – patience!)

So the Tamil woman picked up purse left by previous sofa and quietly made her way outside leaving the (soon to be not) deputy chief of police slouched in his own surround.

### Day 4

In yet more heavy misdemeanour (there's more!), Anu took her host's non-company vehicle to the island's only police station. In truth she did not even hold an Indian driving license and so merely the knowledge that automatic transmission cars are easy to drive. It was. She had sort of done it before anyway. That pseudo lesson was enough as she discovered; she parked somewhat a field of her target. Anu the thief approached the double doors (of her target) all the time questioning her reasoning whilst shaking such thought-barrage from out of wired mind. The door were locked without a key hole; from memory of a key fob amidst key bunch, the young Tamil wife looked quickly for a suitable electronic magnetic strip/bay/pod. She found one and on. The entrance reception. Manned by one officer who addressed her not already realising the fact that she had needed clearance to be beyond wooden keeper and in front of he. Had he left the door open? Lack of concentration; the set had only just been locked and via automatic timing (ah the technical...). Before involving herself in conversation, Anu scanned the open planned area; she saw no other human except the one ahead of her. "Can I help?" He enquired. At which point he had no opportunity to do so. The radio receiver/transmitter unit behind him called his number. He gestured appropriately and answered, turning his back on Mrs Arnand. The freeze was now off of her – like a sci-fi ray had been knocked off perch. Invisible (like a sci-fi ray... you get the picture) to company by way of an old chestnut 'If a tree falls in the woods...' Figuring de-motivation; Anu turned her perky posterior as if to meet her counterpart and chose the merest moment exit. Failure. She even opened the door that she had illegally entered. As a woman is allowed, she changed her mind. Twice. Once in the belief she did not want to retreat through what her mind had told her and then twice into the fact that _she just couldn't give up being this far_. Acknowledging the distracted officer, Anusha used this point to successfully tip toe past point-of-no-return: a groove between pillar and wall. The Tamil lady turned Anu-filler and filled the gap, thus preventing, from most vantage points behind reception desk, the eyes of peering night-watchman a chance to connect with an Anu type light refraction. As events took place, the man did not. He heard (behind his back) 1= 'the closing of the front door' and 1= 'the disappearance of a beautiful woman'

1 + 1 = 3

3= 'A beautiful woman has left the building' So to confirm suspicion, officer Peters (lets give him a name) walked to the entrance, opened it and half stepped outside. It was at this point that Anu, spying magnetic access site _numero deux_ , pressed her ever confidence within key fob to the plate, granting her her second false inbound of the day (and it's just past midnight, therefore it is a new day). In the flight of terror, Anu used automated logic to dictate her person and reason her moves. _In deep anyway, why stop, yaar?_ She followed a non-complex maze of corridors to dead ends, then back, then forth, finally reaching a hallway ending in girder. Locked in, Anu trialled and error'd several keys of her bunch until the marriage was evident (how apt). She entered a cage and had to do it all again at the other end. Beyond; more cages. Six to be precise. All locked, two occupants of the sextet. One: a large Caucasian man with uncontrollable wavy hair. He lay on his side, clutching his stomach but not on the bench/bed provided but the floor. The other gentleman, more relevant. A Tamil of the calling... "Arnand!" Anu cried. "I'm here!" She was! Anu approached the lock of the prison cell and proceeded through the many keys for the third time. A little tired and groggy from just having been woken, Arnand could not believe his eyes (that had been crying recently). He had been dreaming, was this part of? "Honey... why? How are you here? Iss wisiting time still ok, no?" Anu stared him in quizzical anger. "Shut up, man! I'm breaking you out, yaar!" She was on key number four. Then stopped. "You did not kill that man, yes?" to which she received the quick reply no. Then a pause; "I don't think so." She could have continued the unlocking process but wanted an elaboration. "I hit him hard. He was a fucking clown and what he was doing... it's not natural." Arnand managed to stutter out shame faced in his native tongue. "He was not awake but he smelt of alcohol. I thought he was just unconscious. So I dragged his body and took his clown suit... I was afraid, everybody had seen him and I... together, maybe..."

Anu was quite confused. She had been questioned by police officials in the afternoon but was at a haze to the situation. She knew that Arnand was being accused of the murder of Gary Cusack. She knew this took place just outside the manor of where she had been sex partying. She denied having been there and investigation reports did tie her at a boat party at time of death. She was saved the fraud claims since heavily criticised _Source Magazine_ Award nominee, the New York rapper Tentym, identified her as a guest aboard his rented vessel. He was being cautioned by police for starting a fight with passers by who were none too happy with the rapper's language use on record and blatant disregard for the life of a child role model.

After being thrown out of the police station (she now re-entered), Anu was not advised as to the situation of her husband owing to the fact that those running the investigation 'could not disclose facts about the case so early in its conception.' At the scene of outside the station, two reporters for the local gazette, Timothy Dee and Teresa Dumn, were tipped off as to homicide and looked to question Anu, who had been freshly ejected from camp. No sooner does Mrs Arnand do so, behind her follows New York's finest (and entourage) wishing to have a word with a married woman who carries her ring out of view in her purse. T. Dee and T. Dumn, who are hit with a mixture of star strike and glory, ignore Anu and rush to approach a doo-rag wearing White-American. The intervention of minders mixed with paranoid policemen ensured the great escape of the Indian Anusha Arnand, who goes back to her hotel room, showers, changes clothes and leaves trying to avoid any repeat. Resisting temptation to call home (what could they do except somehow blame her for the failure of the marriage?), first stop, random bar. With paranoia comes itchy feet, therefore second stop; similar random bar... but with random police officer to add. An idea simulated in her brain – and what followed was herstory, up and until now.

...And now, Arnand took several minutes to explain his predicament which was not helped by the barrage of giggles from the man in cell D. Arnand spoke in mostly Tamil but his good lady wife repeated nearly all of what he said back in English. With exclamation! He told her about his invite to the party where he did admit to philandering with temptress (though no name) who had it in her mind to play 'polish' with Arnand's business whilst he sat wearing blindfold (extra sensory enjoyment she could have called it). Unfortunately, there was an extraneous variable in the shape of... _ahem,_ a clown, who decided to continue polish halfway (approximately) until a mastermind conclusion: _she_ started so _he'll_ finish. _Iyoo Arnand, dirrty!_ Amongst other confession, Arnand duly spoke of Fiona and the stone throwing incident.

Anu, by the by, absorbed information with comment and indeed had startle in her eyes and worry with anger in her voice. In mental note, she was not as her behaviours suggested. Yes, she was no saint, which helped Arnand but she was no murderer. Along with the touché adultery, it added up. But in intrigue. The mind of a former teenage complexity cooked thought of a sum... in delight! Who'd have pictured it? The regular villain! Such passion to beat a man unconscious with his scrawny arms... and to have an... no, two and a half affairs in the space of three, pushing four days. Anu never thought of her husband as attractive, yet, now? The contrary to her original belief. Verification check box ticked. She looked into his eyes, despite his darkness – yes! He was quite the somebody! And quick as a flash, Anu rifled key bunch to the correct... _Click!_ Arnand was free as Eelam Tamilans are not. Anu clasped her husband's hand and smiled a breathtaking facial beam. "You do realising all this hanky panky must stop, mister?" She tip toed to kiss his cheek beside his left ear (her heels were dispensed in car). She pulled his frame, via the limb she held, in movement to the exit of cage door. To do what? To escape into the night air like the romance of newly weds desires...

Unfortunately not, for officer Peters was staring the two. And what do you know? He had a gun pointing.

(...So close! I know... so close! (But these things happen in some books.) We are so near to the end and, dear reader, I assume what you are thinking: only a miracle can save Mr and Mrs Arnand now; is there a miracle to come? Frankly, no. I mean, come on – how were they to get off the honeymoon island and back to India? They'd never make it with a wanted for murder sign at every place their fugitive vessels carried each. Gosh, I'd have to re-write Bonnie and Clyde with Indian tinge...)

So close! But not to be. After radio call to back up, Peters ushered the darling couple into (separate but adjacent) cells. Arnand, tears in his eyes and all. Then Anu, who was asked to relinquish her purse along with deputy/not-to-be-chief's keys. Even an officer of the law with a fire arm should not get in between a woman and her purse. She let the keys go, then reluctantly, her legally owned possession; after fracas which in event tipped items out of the opened button clip; lipstick, eye liner, video tape, bangles... VIDEO TAPE? With a clatter it hit a cold jail floor. Peters placed all artefacts back into the original denim holding. "Where did you get that tape?" Arnand enquired irrelevantly to the situation. "My father has many of that same title in his shedding on our grounds. Exact the same name _aay apost-tro-fee enn eye,_ vol one, no?"

Anu was not listening in a grade A sense; the nervousness of trouble had caught up with her. She sat in the corner of her cell, back against the wall, cyan, floral patterned skirt adjusted accordingly. She placed three finger through the cage mesh to Arnand who invited the gesture, holding the index. "Will it be ok?" She enquired.

Above her distress, Arnand smiled. Before this moment, he had never heard his wife speak a proper sentence, fully in Tamil.

***
About The Author

G. Haritharan was born on a Friday to Sri Lankan Tamil parents in a hospital on Denmark Hill which is in London, England. A few years later (around twenty or so) he decided he wanted to write. He started with poetry. Nobody liked it; he got a day job. More years later (around four) and he quit the day job to write a novel... In the proceeding years... He wrote two: Followers of the Dead Man and Kingdoms in Newness. Both were published under the Tamil idea of s4mT

<https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/haritharan>

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Other books by Hari:

The Depression of Surya (and Stories from this Era) <https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/42621>

Followers of the Dead Man

<http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/85323>
