The Perfect Woman. Prologue

It was past 12:00 AM as I walked home in the rain. Typical coastal monsoon. Thundering and pouring in a shameless narcissistic display of  power. That was when I saw her for the first time, sitting huddled for shelter on the steps of the ATM outside my society. She looked like she was from a well-to-do family. Young. That indecipherable range between 25 to 35 years. She glanced at me and then looked away into the rain. The watchman at the ATM was dozing away. A stray dog slept under his chair.

I smiled inwardly as I thought to myself that line from the movie 'Jab we met': Akeli ladki khuli tijori ki tarah hoti hai.

Social activist, writer, blogger, freelance journalist that I am, I couldn't just let her be there at this hour of the day. Cautiously, I walked up to her. And did my best 'friendly' smile, "Do you need help? Do you need to make a call to someone? Or call a cab or something? The bus depot is not far, and the last few buses leave by 12:35 am. I can walk you up to there with my umbrella"

She kept looking into the rain. "I... uh...I...", and suddenly began to sob uncontrollably. I was taken aback. And more than a little flustered. Women's tears, especially in the absence of any obvious reason, have a very unnerving effect on men. We are genetically inept at measuring and analysing lachrymal litres.

I tried again. "Would you like to go to the police station? I can help you file a complaint. I am a journalist. If... uhh... If you've been wronged, I can help you reach the people who can... ummm... help. Do you want some water?" And I offered her my bottle.

She had a sip, and sobered. Inhaling deeply, she looked up at me. Suddenly, I was staring into her eyes. Big, black eyes. Classical Indian eyes, despite the tears. Deep. Mesmerising.

"I can't remember anything. At all." she blurted.

Startled by that announcement, I snapped out of my reverie.

There was a pause for one full minute, before either of us spoke again. I was allowing that bit of newly acquired knowledge to sink in. She, on the other hand, probably didn't know what more to say. The watchman continued to sleep (honestly! I could have raped the girl right there, and he would have snored through her screams! What do they hire these guys for?! I made a mental note to write a story on this. Or at least a blogpost, if the papers didn't think the story was worth publishing).

"Soooooo..." I said slowly. "You cannot remember anything at all?"
She shook her head.

"Not even your name?"
"I can remember just one name. Purshottam. But that... it can't be my name, can it?"

"No. It cannot. It must be your father's. Can you associate a face with that name? We could make inquiries. Someone by that name will be your family. The police can help, I am sure" I said.

"No. That name. It doesn't make me feel happy. It instils a sense of dread in me. I cannot explain it. I don't feel happy thinking of that name. It makes me feel depressed and unnerved. I don't want to think of it, but yet it is the only name that I can find in my mind." Her eyes had a hunted look.

Things were getting rather complicated here. The rain continued its barrage mercilessly.
I said again, "Let's go to the police station."

"No. No. No... I will NOT go there. I will wait here. I will wait till I can remember. It is a matter of time I guess. I will remember. I will be fine... I will be fine... I will be fine..."

Her words were forceful, even as her voice trailed. Suddenly, she appeared more strong-willed than a moment ago.

"I'll get you something to eat".

Without any more bright ideas to handle this 'situation', I walked into the housing society, while she went back to her foetal, huddled position. I returned after 15 minutes with some food and a blanket. I told her I lived in Flat no. B-301, incase she needed any help, and that my name is Ratnakar.

Patrakar Ratnakar. I've always liked the sound of that. I came to Mumbai to become an investigative journalist while my family continued to stay in our small fishing village in Konkan. My father loved his boat too much. He said he'd die on the fierce, open seas, rather than waste his final years in a small flat in Mumbai. But I wanted more. I wanted excitement. Not for me, was that small village life and the monotony of going to the sea each day, praying for a good catch and a safe return. Armed with an M.A. in English and the youthful restlessness of making life big, I left for the Maya Nagari of India at the age of 22.

Life had been good. Even adventurous. Six years since I arrived here. Plenty of freelance journalistic assignments (sting ops, as they are called) came my way. I shared a flat with some other aspiring 'immigrants'. Mumbai is like that. It lets you be whoever you want to be. And if you love your work, you have already converted to a Mumbaikar. You are no longer an 'immigrant'. Work is worship here. I loved my work. And I had luck on my side. I covered news scoops with recklessness and cunning.

Along with these assignments, I also blogged and had a rather big online fan following. Not to be immodest, but I had a few film personalities following me on social media too and responding to my blogposts and tweets. In fact, I wouldn't mind telling you at this point, that one of these popular, "new age" directors who happened to read some of my fiction posts, had actually approached me to write an exclusive story which, if he really liked, would be made into a big budget movie. This was just a week prior, and I was already losing sleep over concepts for this story that would be my truly big career break!

That young woman in the rain. She was fascinating. She could be a story. The watchman and the woman and the stormy night. Bah! Crude!
But she was undeniably fascinating.

With ideas muddling up my tired mind, I fell asleep.

It was already 10:30 AM when I woke up. My flat-mates had left for work.

Hurriedly, I dressed and entered the kitchen to gobble up the monotonously insipid food prepared by the cook+cleaner maid. As I packed a few rotis and some sabzi for lunch. As I was stepping out, I suddenly remembered the woman. Maybe I should carry some food for her. I shrugged and grabbed a packet of Marie biscuits and a couple of apples.

No. She wasn't there at the ATM. My blanket had been kept neatly folded near the watchman's chair. There was a different watchman now. The day-shift chap. He had no idea about the woman or the blanket. I told him to leave the blanket outside my flat when he did his rounds of the society. Perhaps, she remembered. Or someone must have found her. She seemed sane. Lost, confused, upset, but definitely sane. Even sensible.

"Oh well...!" I thought, optimistically, as I jogged to the bus depot.
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NEXT PART: The mystery of Shivsharan Pandit

Tickles

It was dinner time at her residence… Yet again, her father was accompanied by a group of very important looking men. Whenever he spoke at a big conference, he invited some of the key speakers home for discussion and debate over dinner. It gave him insights and ideas, he said. These dinners were always loud and noisy affairs with arguments and counter arguments traded over the dishes.

Tara found these conversations interesting. She was always invited to the table with them, despite her being only 14 years of age. Her dad made it a point to never miss dinner with her, ever since he separated from her mother nearly 8 years ago. He was the founder and CEO of IND-AI. An investor in technology and an astute man, he was blessed with the knack for being at the right place at the right time even in his younger days. As a result, he had made it big earlier than most of his peers. Investing in artificial intelligence early in the 20th century had raked in big money.

Tara had a comfortable, if lonesome upbringing. With a busy father, and a mother who lived in another part of the country, Tara’s constant companion was A.I.-Ya.

AI-Ya was a singular prototype of an early companionship robot that her father’s company had developed in its start-up days. It looked like a silly vacuum cleaner, with its wheels and a basic flat-screen display. Nothing like those fancy humanoids that caught the imagination of the market. Which was a good thing too. Tara always found it strange that humanoid robots were assigned a gender! She also found it awkward interacting with humanoid robots. They just didn’t feel *right*. A.I.-Ya was just right and completely stress-free. AI-ya was an appliance, a toy… Nothing more. Not even a doll. 

She enjoyed having AI-YA by her side. It accompanied Tara everywhere. To the bathroom, to the school, to the park. It helped her solve math problems, it helped her perfect her spins and twirls at skating by analysing her motion, it constantly fed with new information about topics that she was interested in. And helped her debate with her ownself.

A.I.-Ya could make interesting conversation. It was knowledgeable, efficient… even patient and non-judgemental. It was programmeable to a large extent. Tara loved to train it. She had taught it social etiquette, and had trained it to perceive her emotions using its infrared sensors to read changes in body temperatures, as well as her facial expressions. A.I.-Ya knew exactly when to get chatty and when to be the quiet listener depending on Tara’s moods. A.I.-Ya was a good companion. Just the kind that a teenager needed. But she wasn’t emotionally attached to it.

What Tara did find exasperating though was A.I.-Ya’s utter inability to comprehend and appreciate the absurd. Like most teenagers, she relished the quirks of everyday life. She routinely smirked, snorted, giggled and guffawed… and these were all read wrong by A.I.-Ya. To A.I.-Ya, smirking andsnorting appeared to be precursors of a sneeze, whereas giggling and guffawing were equated with happiness. Tara tried really hard. She tried programming laughter. And AI-ya obediently went ‘Ha-haaaaa-haa-haa’ on cue. But it was never able figure out the cue on its own.

She had tried feeding in jokes into A.I.-Ya’s system. A.I.-Ya understood the pattern of the Knock Knock jokes.

It understood that two unrelated words said together made a Knock knock joke. It tried making one using this logic.

Knock Knock

Who is there?

Robot

Robot who?

Robot Apple

Tara tried teaching again. “Make sure that the two unrelated words form a new word!”

AI-ya tried again.

Knock knock

Who is there?

Companion

Companion who?

Companionship

“Noooooooooooooo!” Tara told AI-ya “Unrelated words, but they should make some sense together. You know like

“Knock Knock,

Who is there?

Yoda lady

Yoda Lady who?

Nice Yodelling!

Or

Knock Knock

Who is there?

Deja

Deja Who?

Knock Knock”

AI Ya tried again.

Knock Knock

Who is there?

Anna

Anna who?

Anaesthesia is used for inducing loss of sensation

Knock Knock

Who’s there?

Pop

Pop who?

Population!

Technically, AI Ya wasn’t wrong. But the joke was so flat and anti-climatic, that Tara fell off her chair laughing at the futility of it all.

“Oh come on, AI-ya! You could have at least said “Pop Kaun?” That would have been funny! Get it? Pop who? Pop Kaun? Pop Corn? No. You don’t get it” said Tara, while still laughing at the potential of the joke AI Ya attempted.

AI-ya appeared to think that her laughter meant the jokes were successful. It began making more jokes on similar lines. They were just never ever funny and very very hopelessly flat. Eventually, Tara instructed AI-ya to stop trying. She figured that absurdity and logic did not belong together… nor did absurdity and purpose. She made peace with the fact and life was good.

That evening the debate over dinner was more heated than on other days.

The country was, not for the first time, on the brink of war with the neighbouring country. To the outside observer, it would have appeared that the important-looking men at the table were at war with each other

Man 1: Of course, All this is political. That is how we control the populace. Nationhood! It is was binds everyone and keeps us together!

Man 2:

Tara’s dad:

Man 3:

Man 4:

Man 2:

Tara’s Dad

Man 3 and 4 together:

Tara’s dad and Man 1 together:

Tara’s dad: Robotical weapons! That is the *ONLY* solution to this war, I say.

Suddenly, Tara heard a familiar noise at her foot. ‘Ha-haaaaa-haa-haa’… ‘Ha-haaaaa-haa-haa’… ‘Ha-haaaaa-haa-haa’… ‘Ha-haaaaa-haa-haa’…

Everyone turned to look under the table

Robot-tickle… Polly tickle… Tickle Tickle... Prac-tickle Prophe-tickle Apocalyp tickle Spec tickle,

‘Ha-haaaaa-haa-haa’… ‘Ha-haaaaa-haa-haa’… ‘Ha-haaaaa-haa-haa’… ‘Ha-haaaaa-haa-haa’…

Little lost things

You know when people dream of doing BIG things- spaceships, monuments, blockbuster movies, best selling books, they often forget about the little things.

The needles, nuts, bolts, hairclips and bands, ear-buds, crayons, erasers, keys, batteries... a billion little things.  They are ever available, disposable and a dime a dozen. Mostly, they are sold cheap, no one cares much for them. There are the expensive little ones too- diamonds and precious nuggets and saffron. But the fact remains that they are 'little'. And the humans obsess over 'big'. The bigger the diamond, the better! . The little ones are still 'belittled' - insulted in the lexicon too.

Eventually, these little things got very offended, and decided to conspire. They made human lives difficult sometimes. They chose to hide, vanish, disappear when the humans needed them the most. The humans had to fumble and fall, trip and crawl. The little things asserted their presence in the most annoying ways  And when the humans found them, there was this overwhelming sense of relief! Yet, they were cursed- "Damn those 'little details' of our big plans", said the humans.

And the lost letters and photographs... they were particularly vengeful.  They hid for heartbreak to happen and then they would turn up. They made humans cry and want to tear them into a million more little pieces, and yet hold them close.  They made the humans want to become small enough to drown in them.

One day, one very dark dreary day, the devil in the details surged. A certain type of little things that cost more than most little things and go by the name of 'bullets', decided to remind humans how important the little things were in their lives. They partnered with the little seeds of hatred and went on to kill over 130 little humans. The big humans wept over the little belongings of their little ones, little tears rolled down their eyes. And yet, they kept proclaiming what a *BIG* tragedy this was.

The bullets had had enough being ignored. They would return again. Until people noticed them and the little seeds of hatred. Little was going to make human existence very miserable indeed.