Tell me what name to call you by

Tell me what name to call you by
I’ve exhausted my dictionaries, trying to find that one letter
I’ve burned my thesaurus
onto a CD
and I sent it to you, asking to know your name.
I scaled the mountains and plumbed the seas looking for you,
Yet you dismissed me with every step you took
Away
from
me.
I learned to stop chasing you,
For you have no time, to lead me on a wild goose chase
You did it for her, you did it for her. You led her on a chase through the plateau of your dreams. I didn’t even get a spark,
from the fire that you kindled.
It was all for her,
your soulmate
Yet, haven’t you heard of kindred spirits?
Did not anyone ever tell you the story,
All the stories, so many stories.
You are a born storyteller,
and so am I.
You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth,
Mine was platinum,
Hers was gold.
I never asked you for the answers, I didn’t question you after your dismissal of me,
I went on my own goose chase,
running after the white stag into the depths of the green wood. I came out on the other side, and saw a new horizon.
Was it the same one she saw, when she found you and you found her? Don’t tell me, that’s personal,
and for me,
personal information is sacred.
I return to my books,
I forgot
I can’t remember,
which ones I sent you. I feel the absence of carelessly donated volumes,
volumes upon volumes of books that were pieces of my soul.
I searched for your name in parables and riddles,
but you led me to believe that you are not a puzzle to solve. Well, neither am I.
I am not a nut to crack,
yet
you cut me open
with. every. word. you. spoke.
I tried dismissing you,
I learned,
I thought I knew how to do that
But then you returned with another face,
and I struggled all over again.
This time, I knew better than to mess with letters. I turned to numbers.
In you and I, there is a dance of numbers, and everyone wants to know the equation.
E=mc squared,
yet I found you at the end of the horizon
at the bottom of the well
at the edge of the rainbow
I jumped off a waterfall
and found a soft landing.
How many paths did you take to avoid me? I find your footprints everywhere I go.
I burned new paths into my own consciousness.
But I exhausted numbers, too.
Funny, they say numbers are infinite,
yet mix infinity with zero and you get an atomic reaction.
I stretched myself like a piece of elastic,
and found your footprint at the edge of the world.
I finally abandoned equations,
I reduced myself to a dot
a speck
I became the baby universe enclosed in a nutshell, waiting for its big bang. But this time,
instead of expanding
instead of collapsing
a wormhole opened and sucked me through to the other side.
There is light here
and open space
and birds chirping.
I never thought I would ask this question again,
but you stripped yourself of your titles,
and I discarded all frameworks that shaped my thoughts,
you are but a concept
my spirit guide running ahead of me into the woods.
I’ve been here before
but this time there are no steps
not even yours.

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The Experiment

Athelney Jones was thirty-five when Death came knocking at his door. After the initial shock, a strange calm washed over him. He was able to stand erect to study the apparition on his doorstep.

It was the Reaper himself, no doubt. Who else could have taken pains to appear as ghastly as possible, Athelney reflected, taking in the gaunt figure swathed in black from top to toe, with a single grisly eye protruding from the forehead. He matched his eerie one-eyed stare with his own stony gaze. Both recoiled from each other: Death saw the man as one blackened by his sins, so the revulsion was mutual.

It was Death who spoke first.

“Good morning, Mr. Jones,” he drawled lazily. “I am here to inform you that this was your last day on Earth.” He paused as if to invite a response, then continued: “As you have a long list of wrongdoings to account for, you are not permitted any time to settle affairs, bid farewells and so on. However, you are entitled to one last request.” Plucking dirt off his sleeve, he waited.

Now, this Athelney Jones possessed a remarkably quick and deft mind. While Death was engaged in formalities, he was racking his brains for a solution to his predicament. He absolutely refused to accept that his time had come. He thought feverishly: “What to do…what—ah! Now for the greatest experiment of my life!”

There was an eccentric side to Athelney Jones. He loved to poke about with everything, just to see what would happen. He would do completely wild feats in the name of “experimentation”. Only this morning he had doused his beetle-infested roses with hair spray instead of insecticide, which killed the pests but left them stuck on the plants. This kind of lifestyle led him to think of everything in terms of an “experiment”. At that moment, for instance, his line of thought ran thus: “Experiment: to beat Death…apparatus: cunning…procedure……”

A high, irritated voice filtered through his thoughts: “Mr. Jones, I

have the right to withdraw your only claimable right if you take too much time.”

“Oh!” Athelney, masked with sickly civility, mustered all his wits and turned to face reality. “If it won’t take too much trouble, if you’d be so kind—”

“What do you want?” Death snapped, dropping his businesslike manner.

“Only a red rose from the backyard.”

Death eyed him piercingly; Athelney felt annoyed.

“What’s the matter?”

“Oh, nothing,” Death answered easily, rising into the air. “Having known you for over three decades, you surprise me. I came prepared for some struggle on your part. Pity you’ve wizened; I’d have had fun restraining you.” He glided idly out of sight; Athelney closed his eyes in anticipation. Any moment now…

One minute…two minutes…five minutes passed and no sign of the hooded threat. Finally Athelney summoned all his courage and tiptoed over to where the rose plants leaned over the brick wall. An insanely comic sight met his eyes.

Death was halfway up the wall, seemingly clinging to the roses with his rotting hands and feet, struggling and shrieking with rage. Athelney took one look at him and dissolved into a guffaw that went on and on.

“Just look at you!” he gasped. “The Grim Reaper stuck on the roses!”

“Let me down!” demanded Death. “Right now!”

“No!”

“LET—ME—DOWN!”

“No way!” Athelney chuckled. “What do you take me for?” He sauntered towards his house, adding as a parting shot: “That’s where you’ll stay!”

Stay there he did, through three miserable weeks. When Athelney approached him again, he was in a pitiful state.

“Do you care to negotiate a treaty?” he asked cheerily.

“Anything…just get me off this bush!” Death begged wretchedly.

“OK.” Athelney was seated on the grass, rubbing his hands together

with glee. He could have what he wanted most…

“If I let you down,” he intoned carefully, “you’ll never come to take me.”

“Impossible! Besides, you don’t know the value of life!”

“Oh, well, a thousand years, then,” Athelney said offhandedly, “and I won’t age.”

Death saw the rapt look on his face, and sighed resignedly. “You have your prolonged life, but after that…” His voice fell on dumb ears; Athelney was dancing all over his garden.

“A thousand—a THOUSAND! Oh, the things I’ll do, the places I’ll see…”

“Ahem. What about me?”

“Oh, you!” He bottled his bliss so he could speak calmly. “I’ve bribed some neighbourhood kids to scrape you off that bush.”

“WHAT?”

“That’s the best I can do. It’s that or an eternity on the roses,” Athelney said imperiously.

It took the combined efforts of twelve boys with their spades to prize Death off. As they ran away to play, Death towered above Athelney. “Remember, you never learned the value of life,” he said dejectedly, before melting away into the air.

“That’s a successful experiment!” Athelney bubbled with satisfaction. “In fact, now begins the real part of the experiment…how I spend all these years!”

The prospect that hundreds of years were laid out before him was electrifying. Athelney Jones decided to “utilise wealth and live life to the fullest” by which he meant that he would begin by revelling in the fulfillment of all his selfish worldly pleasures. Time went on as he globe-trotted for enjoyment. The life he had known became history. He took root by the sea and watched the world’s constant changing, like kaleidoscopic patterns spinning by. The years rolled on. Nobody remembered him. For the first time Athelney was bewildered by the constantly-changing world and the rapidity of the passing time. He travelled northward as the world was scarred by wars, and when he retreated into a little secluded valley dotted with villages, he was no longer the blissful joy-rider he had been when he embarked upon his

journey. He was three hundred and fifty years old, looking not a day over thirty-five.

It was in this valley that he made himself a bungalow to remember the old days by, and there he remained.

“What have I done? Why have I brought this curse on myself?” he moaned. “I am utterly alone…nobody who loves me…nothing I know…all gone…and I, I have to remain still, and endure more torture. I’ve seen so many lucky people come and go, people who spend their lives on good causes and leave peacefully, respectfully. I can’t rest like they can. How dare they taunt me with their graves? They can spend their lives suffering!”

His curse became true for everyone in the valley. Drought and fire ravaged the land. Save for Athelney, nobody was left, only the skeletons of villages. The very seasons withdrew, refusing to grace the land with their individual beauty. The harsh and featureless landscape mocked Athelney; he now knew what it was to be abandoned by nature. He decided to make his days worthwhile. He found seeds in the ghost villages to make a garden, a vast garden enclosing acres of space with a high wall. He toiled for years, and it flourished as he nurtured it. It became his world, a world of fruits, vegetables and all kinds of flowers, including roses on the walls.

Years passed. The world began to heal. One day Athelney spotted a moving speck on the barren land beyond his green-walled one. He peered closely. It was a family, a couple with four children and a baby, trudging through the waste. They apparently thought his bungalow was another charred skeletal building, having gone far past it. Athelney thought no more of them; his was an unfeeling heart.

The next morning he looked into his garden, and what did he find at the walls? The travelling family, gazing yearningly at the lush greenery within!

Athelney was consumed with fury. He could not bear them even looking at his garden. He was about to unleash his wrath upon them when the sound of the baby crying stabbed him. The memory of numberless hollow years shamed him at last; he opened the door.

“Come in, all of you…”

Gratefully, they entered. In the shade, Athelney gave them food and

water and asked them to stay. Their gratitude knew no bounds. Their stay grew to two days, then a week. Soon there was no mention of leaving, and Athelney preferred it that way.

One morning he woke to find his room flooded with a soft, glowing white light. It dimmed so he could discern a familiar face—but how changed!

“It’s you,” he said quietly. “But it’s not a thousand years yet…”

Laughter rang around the room. “You deserved a thousand years to suffer, but I came earlier as a reward.”

“Why?”

You learned and acted upon the purpose and value of life, which is the real achievement…now, come with me!”

Athelney went. He felt them rising together, breaking the bonds of the Earth, emancipated. They were on the final journey to where all paths meet…

Conquest

It was a sheer drop, fifty feet at least. He did not go easily; he had to be
dragged by the shirt collar, kicking and squealing, with a cuff and a curse
added for good measure. The bottom of the gorge was deep and dark, with
no way out save to scale the vertical walls.

He didn’t like the dark.

“I want some light around here!” he called. His voice was needle-thin. It
barely penetrated the thick, stifling air. The echoes laughed, and there was
no light.

“Light!” he repeated, beginning to grow a trifle annoyed, “I asked for light!”

“Asked?” said a voice.

“Yes, asked,” he repeated angrily.

“Asked?”

“You heard the first time! I asked!”

“You didn’t ask.”

This was an unforeseen obstacle. He tried to peer through the darkness, asthough to cleave it with his very gaze.

“I asked,” he ventured eventually; in what he thought was a winning tone.

“You didn’t ask,” the voice persisted.

He sank into thought. He had never been compelled to think before,
accustomed to having everything served up on a silver platter the moment he
lifted a finger.

“OK, I didn’t ask,” he said finally. “I’m asking now…I want light.”

“You demanded, you whined, you moaned, but you didn’t ask. You didn’t
and haven’t asked. I don’t call that asking.”

“Well, I do! I want some light and I want it now!”

The echoes laughed merrily along with the jeering voice.

“You call that asking?”

“Yes, I do, and you’d better get used to it!”

Silence.

“Light!”

Silence. Not even the echoes chuckled now.

“I—want—light!”

He was getting afraid now. Every time he spoke, his words splintered and
scattered away like slivers of glass, and the silence came rushing back in
waves.

There was something uncanny about that voice: he had heard it before. It
seemed to be a part of him, and yet…so completely alien to anything he
remembered.

“Please give me light,” he whimpered, throwing his head back, trying to
catch a glimpse of light from where the walls of the gorge fell back to admit
the sky. Even up there the darkness was complete.

He was devastated. He began to scrabble at the unyielding stone walls,
feeling along the cracks, begging, pleading.

A terrible laughter exploded in his ears, and it was not the echoes’ laughter
this time. It was the voice, laughing without mirth, enjoying the spectacle,
unfeeling, unheeding.It was the laughter that jarred his memory. The laugh ringing in his ears used to be his not long ago, not very long ago, before he had been pushed into the
gorge. How often had he laughed like that, and at how many people, he
could not remember. He had laughed at the very possibility of himself
scrabbling in the dark, believing that the eternal light was his forever. He
had laughed—scorned, even—at the very idea of himself battling that which
he had never feared before…

That voice—that voice! How often had he spoken like that, in such
unyielding tones?

Was it possible that he was facing…himself?

Himself as he had been—as he had been, and would be again, if he ever
escaped from this gorge. For human nature is like a rubber band, springing
back to its true essence when there is light, and straining to its humbler form
when bent by darkness.

Laughter again. Louder this time, threatening to drown him, envelop him,
tear out his eardrums.

“You couldn’t beat me.”

He didn’t reply.

“You never could. Your good side was always your weak one.”
“I could!” The words shot out of his mouth before he knew it.

“That’s exactly the problem, you little wimp. You could, but you never
will.”

He couldn’t answer. How could he overcome the challenge of self? The
challenge the darker side always presents to the better one. Beat me, or
submit to me. He had submitted. His heart, mind and soul.

But there was a third choice. There always is. Beat me, submit to me, or stay
quiet. And the good side replies, “Yes, I’ll stay quiet, but when the darkness
without is greater than the darkness within, let’s see which side triumphs, me
or you.”And here he was. Reduced by hardship to his meagre good side. His
willpower was in such a poor state, it couldn’t cope with his dark side, being
used to being propelled by it instead of challenged.

So he chose to remain quiet. Chose not to answer the challenge posed by the
voice, his dark side. Beat me, or submit to me. I won’t give you any external
light. You must beat me with the light within. First he had begged, pleaded
—his internal light couldn’t handle his dark side. This was what he thought.
But the flickering flame within him just needed the fuel of his will to spark
up and engulf his dark side, and swallow it forever. But he would not
provide that fuel. The fuse was inches away from the flame, but he wouldn’t
let it light.

It was a battle lost before it had even begun. It was as if the enemy had flung
aside its weapon in a bid for him to show his strength, but he, having
depended on power instead of strength all his life, couldn’t—wouldn’t—take
up the challenge.

When he ventured to look upward again, he sensed a change. Maybe it had
all washed over and the challenge was no longer standing? A light kindled at
the top of the gorge. A flickering little flame. His heart leapt at the sight.

“I am here to help you,” the light called. “I will lend you my strength. Defeat
your dark side. Then you can climb out.”

But he was already on his feet, scrambling up the wall of the gorge.

“Defeat that part of your self!” came the cry. “Don’t use my help to escape
—use it to conquer!”

He was almost there…he’d made it. He sprinted away towards the faraway
glittering lights on the horizon.

The flame nearly fluttered out with exasperation. “If he had stopped for two
seconds…but he didn’t. He thirsted for the attractions his darker side
offered, and wouldn’t defeat it.” It blinked, shivered, and winked out.The gorge waited silently. Don’t wait for your turn in there to think yourself
out—is your better side your reigning one or your suffocated one? Only you
can tell. Or the gorge will certainly teach you.

***

Originally published in Us Magazine, The News International.

Destiny

Centre N, Sector 12, Satellite Reina. Extraterrestrial addresses differed from earthly ones like House 6, Wenn Street, Merrittown, Svalbard. The same address in space terms: Earth, Svalbard, Merrittown, Wenn Street, House 6—the order reversed to specify the largest scale first because Earth was no longer the only home. Now just the First Home, it was the launching pad for the first colonists as rival entrepreneurs set off in opposite directions to establish civilisations that orbited stars other than the sun. Man-made empires with man-made foundations and man-made conditions; materials from the planets they stripped bare of resources and light energy from the stars (or “centres”) around which their cities revolved. The enterprisers vied with each other, hoarding their knowledge and technology behind walls of jealousy. They called those few who chose to remain behind on Firsthome foolish followers of the old planet-dependent order, saying that they would never get anywhere. Yet an emissary from Firsthome was going further than any Groundling had ever gone before. Centre Nagavi had only two residents. One was the two-person team of Shumneya and his daughter Reina, making machine parts for everything from spacecraft engines to scent sprayers. Their unique technique set them apart. The other was the scout squad of the star-city Koryak, headed by Commander Kronotski, nosing around in the wake of every noteworthy activity, scavenging for spoils. He was determined to sniff out a windfall somewhere, but Shumneya and Reina were as unyielding as Kronotski was resolute.

 

“Reina,” Shumneya called from the observation bay. “We have a visitor. Let him land.”

 

Silence from the control deck. He could see her eyebrows arching with surprise. “He’s giving the correct admittance signal,” he prompted. “Open the dock.”

 

As she obeyed, he saw her shaking her head at his willingness to let a complete stranger enter the ship. He smiled.

 

That was how the Groundling found the two: Shumneya smiling serenely, Reina with her features set in an uncompromising expression.

 

“Mr.?”  Shumneya asked. “Zibell,” the man replied.

 

“What brings you here, Mr. Zibell?” Shumneya inquired pleasantly. “I assume that you’re not the latest gimmick from Kronotski. You don’t look like you come from Koryak.”

 

“No, I come from Earth.” A silent mixture of surprise and disbelief was his only answer. “I used a dark tunnel in the vicinity. It opens near here. A journey of many years over in a few seconds. I came quite deliberately, with a message…for Reina.”

 

“You must be mistaken,” Reina said. “I have never been there; my father left it when he was a young man. We have no ties there.” Her father appeared startled at her finishing words.

 

“You are not right there, my dear,” he said quietly. Turning to Zibell, he said, “You come from Ragnar?”

 

“No, Advendalen.”

 

“What—?” Reina began to ask, but Shumneya silenced her, indicating that Zibell should talk.

 

Zibell spoke, addressing Reina. “Before Shumneya left Firsthome, he worked with a man called Hijau. Due to some differences in opinion, they separated and went their own ways. Shumneya got the rights to the blueprints they were working on; with them he made an advanced design for long-distance spacecraft. Hijau founded a rival organisation, Ragnar, determined to use what knowledge he had to cause Shumneya’s downfall.” Reina stiffened. Shumneya asked, “But Hijau’s fight is with me. What does this have to do with Reina?”

 

“Everything,” Zibell answered. “When your partnership with Hijau broke up, you sealed your work against him with your brand of DNA coding technology so that he could not operate it. Even now, only you two can access your experimental, cutting-edge work.” His listeners were thunderstruck to hear that he knew about that. “He can’t use you to break your code because you blocked his DNA using your own, but Reina is your daughter. She has half your DNA, therefore she could access whatever you could once you enabled her to do so, but she is not directly protected against Hijau like you are.”  

 

“How do you know all this?” Reina exclaimed suddenly. “And why are you telling us?”

 

Zibell smiled. “I know it because I am the Vitrazh. We made our way and swore to safeguard it long ago; delivering this message was a crucial part of my responsibility. As for why I am telling you—Kronotski is Hijau’s man. He follows you more deliberately and precisely than you know. You cannot stay here. You must return to Firsthome, where we can protect you.”

 

“This—is—ridiculous!” Reina exclaimed. “Father, why didn’t you tell me before?”

 

“I did not want to worry you,” Shumneya replied. “Our techniques are too precious to hide, but they would be dangerous in the hands of someone like Hijau; he is disturbingly ambitious. We can only—”

 

Zwing. The sound of one of their one-man shuttles being powered up interrupted him. They both wheeled around in shock; Zibell was operating the switchboard. The controls were accessible by DNA coding only to Shumneya and Reina; it was technically impossible for anyone else to use them.

 

Reina leapt forward, but by the time she reached the switchboard, Zibell was in the cockpit.

 

“The coordinates to the dark tunnel are 89-V 40-C,” he called. “I’m going to distract Kronotski. You don’t have time to waste.” Without further ado, he shot off towards Kronotski’s headquarters, leaving two very astounded people behind him.

 

After a few moments, Shumneya turned to his daughter. “You must go in the other shuttle,” he said. “Don’t let his sacrifice go to waste.”

 

“Sacrifice?”

 

“Yes. When Kronotski discovers that you managed to get away because of Zibell, he won’t be happy.”  

 

“But…” Reina stared incredulously at her father. “What about you?”

 

“I have done my part in preserving this knowledge. Now you are destined to do the same.”

 

“You mean that I have no choice in the matter?”

 

“If our objective was destined to fail, we would never have gotten any chance to save it. This opportunity, however, lets us choose to strive for a possible outcome by acting, or resign ourselves to an inevitable outcome by not acting. The choice is there. The choice is yours.”

 

Reina stood gazing at Shumneya in silence for what seemed like a long while. Finally, she tore her eyes away from that beloved countenance and moved towards the shuttle. She knew that no matter how much she prolonged her last time with her father, it would never be enough.

 

***

 

“How can you say she isn’t from Tilago? They’ve tried to sneak in before.”

 

“A high-speed craft blasting right into the warehouses? Quite the opposite of sneaky. Besides, that shuttle isn’t of Tilago design.”

 

“Why did she go straight for the supplements storage, then? I spent months wagering that deal to get our hands on those. All gone! And you say it’s an accident!”

 

“You’re paranoid, Pervenets.”

 

“And you’re foolish, Uzon.”

 

“Are you two done arguing?” A third voice interrupted.

 

Two pairs of eyes, one alight with curiosity, the other tainted with suspicion, swivelled in the direction of the voice. Reina stood on the threshold, studying them guardedly.

 

“You must be quite disorientated,” Uzon said, “after a crash like that. You’ve been unconscious for awhile. How did you leave your room? It was locked.”

 

Animated by derision, Reina forgot her reserve. “You call that a lock?” Pervenets scowled.  

 

“You must be quite nifty with mechanisms to break out like that.” The interest in Uzon’s face sharpened. “Where did you come from?”

 

“Nagavi.”

 

“Where on Earth is that?”

 

“It’s not on…it’s in the Ustinova quadrant.”

 

“Oh.” Uzon’s eyes widened; Pervenets went pale. “You’re extraterrestrial! No wonder our locks seem feeble to you. Well, Starling, how come you’re anywhere near here?”

 

“Advendalen sent someone to fetch me,” Reina said.

 

“But…” Nonplussed, Uzon looked at Pervenets, who looked equally confused. “We’re Advendalen.”

 

“You?” It was Reina’s turn to be perplexed.

 

“Pardon me,” said Uzon; “we should introduce ourselves. I am Uzon Cronon, and this is my brother Pervenets. Together we run Advendalen, which doesn’t make as spectacular spacecraft as yours, but it’s good enough for Earth. We never called any Starling here.”

 

“Do you know about an Earth-based spacecraft company called Ragnar?”

 

“No; there isn’t any such company on Earth. If it existed, we would know,” Uzon assured her.

 

Reina was silent before venturing, “May I see my shuttle?”

 

“Why not,” Uzon said easily. “Come along.”

 

Even though it was mangled beyond repair, the shuttle still showed signs of its remarkable craftsmanship. Reina swept her gaze over the Earth-machine parts scattered among the debris of the warehouse. They were distorted, but her experienced eye could still make out their design and function. She turned one of them over with her foot.

 

“Look at that,” she said critically. “The shape! The joins! What a horrible contraption!”

 

Pervenets was in danger of bursting with indignation but Uzon was tingling with excitement. “Exactly,” he said.

 

“Excuse me?” She was surprised.

 

He indicated the shuttle. “Flawless technique.”

 

“So…?”

 

“You don’t realise the implications of wrecking a commercial warehouse, do you? Investigations, explanations—in this case, cover-up stories. It takes a lot of work.”

 

“So…?”

 

“That” (Uzon indicated the shuttle) “can compensate for this” (he indicated the destroyed warehouse).

 

“My shuttle?”

 

“Your knowledge.”

 

Reina raised her eyebrows.

 

“I’m not forcing you,” Uzon said steadily. “It’s your choice. I’m the manpower and Pervenets is the infrastructure. If you joined us, we’d have skill. The output would be colossal.” Seeing Reina glance at Pervenets, he added, “He won’t die. He’s just overly cautious.” Pervenets grimaced.

 

I’ll have somewhere to stay while I sort this out, Reina thought. “Advendalen,” she said aloud, “welcome Reina Shumneya. I’m not going to be easy on you.”

 

“That’s exactly what I want,” Uzon said.

 

Later on, when they were alone, Pervenets said to Uzon, “This is insane. The Groundling-Starling difference alone can’t account for the difference between our technology and hers. It’s unsettling.”

 

“In a good way,” Uzon countered. “Just think of where she will take Advendalen.”

 

“You were always mad,” Pervenets replied, “so it was natural for you to just start talking to her like that, but why she was crazy enough to reply so comfortably, I don’t understand.”

 

“Like responds to like,” Uzon remarked. “I fancy I see a kindred spirit in her.”

 

Pervenets just shook his head. A week later, he had more concerns to spill.

 

“All the products DNA-encoded to her!” he stormed. “No control left in our hands! All this time I’ve been watching you two gushing over this spindle and that joint, but enough is enough! This isn’t improvement, this is taking over! She’ll kick us out!”

 

Uzon smiled. “She’s committing herself to the work. Besides, her techniques don’t work any other way.”

 

Reina’s roommate, Dolina, had her own way of looking at things. When Reina came back from work at 5am one day, Dolina was waiting to ambush her.

 

“Where were you?” she squealed.

 

“Working,” Reina replied.

 

“With Uzon?” Dolina demanded. “Till 5am? Alone?”

 

Reina smiled, prolonging the suspense, watching Dolina squirm. “And Pervenets,” she added, “and Fram and Nansen.”

 

“WHAT?!” Dolina howled. “Reina, you—are—pathetic!”

 

Six months later, with many designs successfully implemented, Uzon asked Reina to be his wife and she agreed. This satisfied Dolina’s matchmaking instincts (though she had had no influence on the match) and quelled Pervenets’ anxiety (he no longer feared that Reina would take over Advendalen).

 

“Do you know what you have done?” Dolina asked Reina one day.

 

“What?” Reina asked.

 

“You have created a special bloodline. You can enable access to your kids because they have your father’s DNA, right? They’ll run Advendalen after you, and their kids after them, and so on until this pattern is disrupted. It’ll take a lot to disrupt it, though; the Vitrazh is always tough.”

 

“The…what?” Reina’s voice quavered, but Dolina did not notice it.

 

“Vitrazh. Protector related by blood; usually a sibling. Never wondered why Pervenets went berserk when you first came? He’s the Vitrazh for this generation, protecting Uzon with his own life. It’s an ancient system for large organisations like these.”

 

Reina recalled Zibell’s words: “We made our way and swore to safeguard it long ago.” Our way…the way of exclusive control in the hands of Shumneya’s descendants. Long ago…When? In the future of the present, but the past of the future. Pervenets would put the baton in one of her children’s hands, where it would ultimately pass on to Zibell, who, by discharging his duty, would ensure that it passed back to Pervenets again…a chain of choices, united because every link made the right one. That is destiny.

***

Originally published in Us Magazine, The News International.

Note: Forgive me for being so verbose in this story. As one of my English teachers used to say, “Avoid pomposity and verbosity”, and nobody pointed out to my face exactly how pompous and verbose my writing was at the time of writing this story, so here it is, in all its immaturely worded glory. Forgive a teen for being a teen, eh? I get embarrassed reading stuff from my teenage now that I know better.

Oh, and the names are mostly from a National Geographic article about volcanoes and geology. Go figure! I took a leaf out of J.K. Rowling’s book; she used maps for names, I used a single Nat Geo article. *grins*

This story is set in the universe of my novel, so consider it a backstory that sets the stage for the rest of it. Wish me luck. Rather, pray that I get to write down my novel successfully one day. I have a physical ache from carrying it around, unwritten, all these years. For those non-writers among you who don’t get what it means, think of it as an unborn baby in the third trimester. You’re tired of carrying it around everywhere and you just wanna get that sucker out! Only, there is no automatic natural process to birth it; you have to extract that novel from your self with tweezers and tongs, changing yourself irreversibly in the process.

Writing is hard. Never assume otherwise.

–Iqra Asad.

Book review: Gratitude Journal from Ayeina.com

Gratitude Journal front cover

The “Alhamdulillah For Series” Gratitude Journal by Ayeina is a work of art and worship rolled into one. The moment I held the prettily wrapped package in my hands, I knew it was something special. The cover shows a blackboard, complete with chalk-wiping marks, with Ayeina’s beautiful purple butterfly on the back. “A Muslim’s mini Gratitude Journal” is Ayeina’s first ink-and-paper baby, filled with colorful watercolor illustrations, and printed on good quality paper. It contains illustrations of things to be grateful for on each page. The gratitude journal is meant to be read and reflected upon. It is organized for you to own it and make it yours: there is a page for you to write who the book belongs to, if you want to do that, and there is a “weekly alhamdulillah list” for you to write things you are grateful for. Of course, if you’re like me, you go through the whole thing in one go and then use it the way it’s meant to be used. That’s fine, too. It’s designed for you to revisit it multiple times.

You can tell that a lot of heart has gone into this project. I appreciate that they have omitted facial features in their depictions of living things, which most people following Islamic media are used to and have come to expect.

You can find more about the gratitude journal in Ayeina’s own words, here.

Always remember:
“Gratitude is the key to happiness. When gratitude is practiced regularly and from the heart, it leads to a richer, fuller and more complete life… It is impossible to bring more abundance into your life if you are feeling ungrateful about what you already have. Why? Because the thoughts and feelings you emit as you feel ungrateful are negative emotions and they will attract more of those feelings and events into your life.” ~ Vishen Lakhiani

In an alternate reality

“Son, once you get married, there’s no coming back. Once you’re married, you’re married. That’s your identity for life.”

“Being a man, it’s your full responsibility to make your wife happy. If you fail in making your wife happy, you have failed as a person.”

“Brother, you must know, you have to keep yourself well groomed for your wife. If you leave your stomach hanging out and your nose hair untrimmed, she’s going to look at other men.”

“It’s a guy thing. You have to know how to fix your own breakfast and make a cup of tea. What are you going to do when your wife is sick or out of the house? Hang around starving until she’s there to serve you? No. That’s just not how we men do things.”

“Keep your wife happy. That’s very important. No matter what happens, never talk back to her. Never argue with her.”

“You are going to disgrace me in front of your in-laws if you do that. You’ll never be successful as a husband.”

“Thank you for doing this task for me. May Allah bless you with a good wife and children.”

“You have to do this degree. There’s no way anyone will choose you for a husband otherwise.”

“I am so angry at you! You are going to remain a childless bachelor all your life!”

“Go help your little brother with his Maths homework right now. How will you teach your children once you’re a father?”

“That’s not how manly boys sit. Sit with your legs closed. And don’t take up enough space for two people.”

***

I had lots of fun writing this. Add your own “marriage advice/remarks from an alternate reality” in the comments!  

Dental Doldrums

Regular students just get paper cuts.
Me?
I have
plaster knife cuts
from digging out cured appliances from their plaster moulds
I have
wax burns
melted wax dripping down the wax knife onto my skin
I have
gouged nails
from whirring burs slipping along one hand onto the other
And then there’s the
ever present danger of
needle prick injury
Three marks short essay question, how to manage needle stick injury from confirmed patient of hepatitis B?
The answer is get an antibody shot pronto, blood titer checked, Engerix B booster dose if needed.
But you don’t need to know that
because you’re busy sucking on your paper cut
cursing that darned paper clip for stepping out of line.

***

(A little something I wrote in November 2014.)