Part 24 (1/2)
What was the use of it then? He lay back on the bed and turned to face the wall.
”Appa? Look at me.” She shook him. ”Look at me.” And when he did, she continued in the same calm voice. ”I know it's all very strange and new to you. And Amma is not here to make it easier. But life is change, and we have to adapt. Otherwise, we might as well be fossils. Evolution--”
”What is this evolution-evolution you keep brandis.h.i.+ng like a stick?”
”It's a theory that says we don't need a story to explain how we all got here. It was first clearly explained by Darwin--”
”Speak in Tamil, Ganga. Speak in Tamil.”
He listened to her fantastic tale about fish that had grown lungs and learnt to walk on earth, a Xerox machine called DNA in every atom and whatnot. As she talked, her alloy-treated hair furled outwards, a controlled motion that had nothing to do with the wind or any natural shake of the head. Somebody was playing with her hair. He closed his eyes.
When she said ”cells”, he imagined tiny telephones, but when she said ”chromosome”, ”molecule”, ”recombination”, and ”species”, nothing came to mind at all. He marvelled that she could swallow so incredible a story but refuse to accept the simplest, most obvious explanation understandable by the stupidest child: G.o.d did it. But he didn't want her to stop talking.
”Ganga, this Evolution G.o.d, is it Christian or some other religion only? And if it is Christian, then who is Jesus?”
She was silent for a few long seconds, and when she spoke, it was quiet enough to be almost a sigh. ”Aaliyah is right, Appa. If you're to see, you must have the right eyes first. The first step is to set you up with a visor. It won't be as good as having a hea.r.s.ee, but it's better than nothing. It'll be easier to see how it all fits together. Maybe a tour of Galapagos, my research lab, fossil museums...let's see.”
He was there, on the battered bench of a battered park, banished for the day, because the house was being energy-audited, and they didn't want him blurting something to the inspector.
It was good to be out, even though the sky was a sickly bluish-grey and the wind was one tooth too sharp. The park was bordered by book shops, clothing stores, cafes, and open-air restaurants. He'd picked a spot on a deserted side of the park because the smell of burning meat reminded him of the ghats of Benares.
Ramaswamy carefully removed the visor and the thimbles from their case. As he stared at the ”vision field,” it began to shear, as if it were being stretched from opposite corners. The eye had to keep moving, otherwise the visor would lose focus. His arthritic fingers found it hard to gesture the thimbles to manipulate the visor's controls, and after a whilst he began to get confused with the coloured flags, training wheels and little rotating astrology-type signs. The view filled with tiny windows and he blinked helplessly as he tried to regain the original view.
”Don't worry,” said Paru. ”A spectacles is no match for a Senior Clark from Esso.”
Abruptly, a gut-wrenching image of water, wood, blue, and sky filled his vision field. And tentacles. He caught a glimpse of lettering: Marine Research Inst.i.tute. He jerked back in his seat, reaching out to clutch something tangible.
”Hey! No linking,” said a voice. ”This is a research channel.”
And then his view s.h.i.+fted back to the park and its threadbare green. He regained his breath, and with it, triumph. He'd just used somebody else's visor, or more likely, hea.r.s.ee. So this is what ”surfing” the I-net was all about.
It took a whilst to retrace his steps, but he managed to get the screen full of windows again, and as it scrolled past, he blinked. And blinked. And blinked. In most cases, he got wobbly images of edges, shadows and corners of rooms. But even when he got a nice view, such as the one from the tourist staring up at the statues on Easter Island, or merely a bizarre one, like that young girl who stared fixedly at different parts of her naked body, what did it matter? Most people seemed to be sitting on equally battered benches staring out over equally battered parks. What did he and they have in common after all, other than a mutual acknowledgment of being lost? He was everywhere and nowhere.
”It is not our time,” said Paru, sounding subdued. ”Give it a chance.”
His visor filled with fifty scattered circles. Ganga had explained that in ”idle mode” the visor would show the GPS co-ordinates of people in a half-mile radius. A window popped up, reminding him to ”fill in his profile”.
”Do what it says,” said Paru. ”Put up a sign saying you want to chit-chat.”
”Keep quiet! You should be sitting here suffering, and I should be in your Madras-coffee-loving head. Irresponsible, selfish cow.”
He tried to describe himself but didn't get very far. The ”wizard” asked for his Myers-Briggs type, whether he was an introvert or extrovert, whether he was an active or a pa.s.sive voyeur, and on and on. What kinky things turned Ramaswamy on?
Elephants, thimbled Ramaswamy. Temples. Obedient children. Early morning showers. India. Brahmin culture. Decent women. But then he got diverted with the memories of all the delicious foods he would never eat again.
The bench was still slightly wet, perhaps from the early morning rains. The colony's park in Mumbai had always been chock full of people: retirees, teenage lovers, food vendors, toy vendors, mating dogs, laughing clubs, children running about everywhere. The sky looked dark, swollen, a child about to cry. Perhaps global raining was around the corner.
The visor queried his current mood. He selected the most depressed face he could from the samples in front of him.
”I took it all for granted,” he thought. His head had begun to ache.
A teenager sat down at the far end of the bench. He had an open, cheerful face framed by a halo of curly black hair. He nodded in Ramaswamy's direction.
”Waz,” said the kid. Then he stretched out his legs and made himself comfortable.
The visor claimed the kid's name was Krish and then went on to bug Ramaswamy with a variety of options. Irritated, he took off the visor.
”Excuse me, is your name Krish?”
”Like da tag sez, heya?” The boy seemed a little puzzled, and his eyelids nictated. His expression brightened. ”Ya-i-c. Welcome to Oz, uncle.”
”I'm Ramaswamy. I'm from India. Tamil Nadu. Are you also from same?”
Krish shrugged. ”Maybe. Me's from Wooshnu's navel, maybe.”
The boy's accent was not Indian. In fact, Ramaswamy could barely understand what he was saying. ”Are you having school holiday today?”
Krish grinned and shook his head. ”Waz school? You's the headmaster? What you be teaching, Master Bates?”
Ramaswamy laughed. Kids were scoundrels no matter where they were. ”Bad boy. You need to be more disciplined.”
”Nuff sport.” Krish scooted over. ”You's wanting da elephant, heya?”
The boy's eyes were so merry and his smile so infectious, Ramaswamy also found himself smiling. ”Heya. Heya. What's this 'heya'?”
”Gimme the izor, dear.” The kid reached for the visor, but something about his expression made Ramaswamy s.n.a.t.c.h it away and put it in his s.h.i.+rt pocket.
Krish shrugged and unb.u.t.toned his trousers. ”a.s.sayway you's want.” He grabbed Ramaswamy's hand and shoved it into his trousers. ”Go on. Sample all you's want. 100% desi juice on da tap, uncle dear.”
Later, Ramaswamy would puzzle over the fact that the boy's p.e.n.i.s had been hard and erect. But it was only one of the many puzzles.
A police car swooped out of nowhere, a blaze of whirling blue lights and piercing siren. The next ten minutes were a terrifying blur. Two officers jumped out of the car; one ran after Krish, and the other fumbled for his handcuff.
His boss from Esso! How was it possible? The same beefy expression, the same greyish-white whiskers, the same sozzled eyes. Mr Gregory! Just remembering the name after all these years was mildly o.r.g.a.s.mic.
”Mr Gregory, Sir!” Ramaswamy shot to his feet and was ready for dictation.
”Move again a.s.shole, and you'll make my day.” The cop pointed an object that resembled a TV remote at Ramaswamy.
But Ramaswamy had already realised his mistake. Of course this policeman wasn't Mr Gregory. His boss had already been middle-aged when he, Ramaswamy, had joined as a young a.s.sistant clerk.
”I'm sorry, I thought you were my boss from Esso. I came here to take some fresh breeze only.”
Ramaswamy tried to explain how his hand had ended up in the boy's trousers. The boy clearly needed a doctor, he had a rash of some kind. Perhaps he'd thought an Indian would help. But he was only a retired clerk from Esso, his daughter's dependent, practically a beggar himself. Esso's health insurance had barely covered Paru's treatment; there was nothing he could do for random lost-eyed Indian boys. If the officer would be kind enough to call his daughter, Ganga could confirm every detail. When Ramaswamy reached for the visor in his pocket, the officer tasered him.