No one noticed the screens, they were the very essence of life in Nova Londres. The city knew you, cared for you, provided your every need. It was a great gift, it really was, thought Marril as she shuffled by the chemist’s screen at the corner of Abbey Rd. “Time to refill your prescription Citizen M22736,” said the genderless, ageless face on the screen, “Please approve for immediate delivery.” Marrill tapped the underside of her wrist where the chip was embedded, approving delivery. How very nice that she would not find herself without her appetite suppressant medication at this time of year. How very comforting. Marril continued toward home. As she passed the cleaners, their screen showed a soothing scene of white linen flapping from a line in a green field. Lovely. Marril had never seen a field but the screen assured her it was a clean and lovely place. The screen changed and another face smiled and said, “Citizen M22736, your grey suit has been altered and is ready for pick up inside. Congratulations on trimming two sizes!” Marril nodded to herself and went inside. She tapped on her chip, paid and left with the smaller suit. How nice.

The gymnasium screen had been very attentive that year, kindly reminding her of her weight gain each time she passed. In fact, it had been attentively reporting a steady gain for a few years but last Spring, when the mercantile denied her a new suit to fit, she knew she had to make a change. Citizens were discouraged from varying from the approved sizes. Target BMI was set to prevent the people from unduly impacting the environment and it must be met. How thoughtful. So she’d joined the gym, went once a day on her way to work. The screens told her her calories were dropping, her arteries were healthy, her impact was reducing. She was given free credit for a second visit a day. She was an asset, a lesser burden on the country’s resources. She was appreciated. How satisfying. Marril entered the grocers and filled her basket. She planned a fine meal of proteins and vegetable products. The screen in the produce section asked her to confirm that she was preparing a meal for two. She tapped her chip to confirm. Her shopping was appropriate for two,

it agreed. “What a nice salad that will be,” said the smiling face. Yes, it will be. Marril also thought a nice pudding seemed like the excellent end to the meal. The screen above the sweets section reminded her that her current, approved, BMI would be difficult to maintain if she chose the pudding. Marril replaced in on the shelf. So good to be looked after. Of course, thought Marill, as she hung her rather meager grocery bag over her shoulder, she’d felt a little insubstantial of late, a little invisible. But the screen at the pub gave her a thumbs up. “You’ve added two friends to your contacts recently, Citizen M22736. Congratulations. You look good and you feel good. People notice.” It was true. She’d met two women at the gym. Pansy and Ishu were both at the target BMI. They encouraged her, they were good roll models. They were friends. How wonderful. Marril arrived at home and shed her coat. Her reflection in the window, against the now-dark sky outside, was insubstantial. Her flat was small, but not as small now that she herself had grown smaller. She was lucky to have this room to call her own. At 7:00 Caleb requested access, she tapped her chip to approve. Caleb, Citizen C88912, was a friend. Maybe more than a friend. Marril wasn’t certain. She liked him but she had rather preferred Talek, from work. However, the screen by her bed had kindly reminded her that Talek had not been following advice at the market and had even frequented an unlicensed restaurant in the East End, without a screen. Marril thought he was sort of exciting, but he was a risk to attaining her BMI, her minimal impact. Caleb helped her prepare the meal they shared. He was very very close to ideal BMI. He told her it was nice to meet someone equally efficient, equally minimal. When Caleb had left, the screen on her door agreed that it was nice. The screen reminded her how much nicer it would be to reach ultimate minimal impact by sharing her room. Marill smiled. It must indeed be nice.

Fall rolled into winter, Marril noted that she was chillier now that she was less impactful. In November the city-wide screens announced a new reduction in ideal BMI. Marril sighed and signed up for lunch-time sessions at the gym. She saw Pansy and Ishu once, they were very close to attaining the new goals. She did not see them again. How sad. Marill saw Talek once, crossing Finchley Rd. He waved and smiled. Marill waved and though that Talek looked somehow substantial, like he meant something. She thought that seemed nice but the crosswalk screen flashed Talek’s number, T110902, in red and his BMI. Marill’s eyes widened; that had been her number in June. It seemed a very long time ago and she wondered if she had also felt substantial in June.

Mid-way through February it snowed. This was a treat and Marill was delighted. When it snowed the city was calmed under the white weight of the powder. Half of the city disappeared leaving only the smiling faces from the screens and narrow shadows, people maybe, cutting trails through the snow. Marill passed the market and the screen flashed to a face, beaming with eyes filled with pride and joy, “Congratulations Citizen M22736, you have reached the new target BMI. Please give yourself a pat on the back for your minimal impact.” “Yes, I think I will,” said Marill to the screen. She reached back to give herself a pat and regarded the street behind. The snow sparkled smooth in an unbroken blanket reflecting the lights from the screens on the market, the crosswalk, the cleaner, the pub. Marill had left no footsteps in the snow.


It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same, apart from the plaque declaring what she remembered as ‘Woolwicke’ was now ‘Little Beam’. The white painted double garage with its navy blue painted roller shutter doors. The neighbour’s lamppost she used to be able to see peeping over the hedge when playing in the garden, making believe Mr Tumnas was waiting for her under it, even in midsummer. The conservatory she could see from between the bars of the wrought iron front gate. The shadow inside the conservatory that could well have been her mother waiting anxiously for her eight-year-old self to be delivered home from school by the child’s father. A shadow which suddenly moved. Joanne gasped, took a couple of steps backwards and pretended to be busy looking at the map on her phone, which she hadn’t needed for the last mile and a half. Nothing had changed about the country lane she’d been walking down either – the same twists and turns where parents had taught her to walk facing oncoming traffic (tractors seem so slow until as a pedestrian you nearly barge headfirst into one coming round a turn), the same corner of the field where the farmer’s horse would sometimes be standing, hopeful of an apple. The same elm tree she used to play in, pretending hedgehogs, mice and birds queueing up to move into the miniature treehouses she built for them. That elm tree had been as far as she was allowed from the house – where mother could still keep an eye on her from the kitchen window. Joanne turned to the path that led past more fields to Crook Woods. The name had thrilled her when she and her parents had moved to the area. Although she was scared when her dad first suggested (“to give your mum a break”) they take a walk to see them. He had to gently explain that the woods weren’t full of thieves. Crook could mean the stick belonging to a shepherd, or the crook of your elbow, he suggested, tickling Joanne in hers. She’d squealed. He’d laughed. Mother tutted. Mother didn’t like sudden loud noises. Ironic seeing as she could be (and often was) the loudest of the three, after a few glasses of red. The glasses she hadn’t smashed when screaming at her husband, unable to let some past grievance go. Joanne had never got to the bottom of the mystery, but was pretty sure it was because her dad had an ex-wife, and as would become startling apparent over the coming years, mother had to come first. Joanne shifted her weight from one foot to the other, hearing the crunch of small pebbles kicked up onto the grass by passing tractors and reminding her of how her cat, Barley, had used to shuffle his bottom after padding gently across those pebbles two and a half decades ago, then diving for some poor creature he’d spotted scurrying in the hedge. That was before the rules changed and he was only allowed out on a lead around the garden. He’d come back early one morning after having spent the night in the field with the sheep, his miaow having evolved to a bleat, which to mother’s ears may as well have been effing and blinding. Readjusting her rucksack straps, Joanne began trudging up towards the woods. She turned her phone off. She owed it to him not to be distracted. She’d been burying herself in the lives of others for too long, be they real or fictional. As she walked, she kept glancing at her feet. Remembering how she used to walk at a fast pace to match daddy’s long strides in the ruts formed by vehicles, while he walked on the wider grassy middle. She felt her bag bouncing softly off her back and thought of how she and her dad would fish the first of the sandwiches mother had wrapped up for their journey. An abundance which suggested mother was thinking (perhaps hoping) they were walking to the next county. They’d eat ham sandwiches, cut into small squares, to lighten the load. Plus it was a small act of rebellion at the strict mealtimes that punctuated their lives. The woods were growing larger now. She picked up the pace, but still went carefully. No-one around to scoop her up if she tripped. She thought of the time she fell and called out “Daddy!” – a big deal as she’d just recently started calling him ‘Dad’. The children at her new school made fun of her for talking about her ‘Daddy’. So she tried to change. “Ever the people pleaser,” 33-year-old Joanne muttered darkly. She listened to the call of some bird and kicked herself for not paying enough attention when her father had described what breed of bird made what cry. The woods became a smudge. She forced herself to think of other things – reminding herself to take cash out later for the B&B that only accepted that form of payment, to look up train times for the return journey, and whether she fancied a bath or a shower later. After thinking and blinking, finally the woods stood in sharp focus again. She inhaled deeply as she drew up to them, as if standing in a shuttle doorway before stepping off into deep space without an oxygen tank. Joanne walked into the darkness. As she tried to remember the way to their tree, she could hear her younger self beseeching her to slow down, to look around. She smiled as she recalled how she used to like to stop and investigate every little thing while her dad had walked on ahead, calling out intermittently for her to keep up. For Joanne this was a day of exploration outside her yellow painted bedroom walls. For him, it was a chance to exercise to counteract the consumption of “your father’s bedtime snacks" as her mother had dubbed them. Whiskey and bowls of salted peanuts. “More like ‘coping mechanisms’,” Joanne said to a wooden post at the stile she’d paused at. No big hairy hand to help her over it. A flash of red caught her eye. Joanne hunkered down to inspect it, wincing as her knees popped. She picked up a twig to wipe a leaf off the object. Shotgun cartridge. From clay pigeon shooting, came dad’s explanation in the back of her head, followed by “best not tell your mum you found this. She’d have kittens.” That imagery never failed to make Joanne giggle and she could feel the mirth bubbling up in her again. She briefly considered strangling it, but then just let it take over. There was calamity in the trees above as a flock of birds flew off in fright at the eruption, making Joanne laugh even harder. She stood up unsteadily, wiped her eyes, carried on. She was lost but didn’t care. She knew from many solo expeditions if you just keep walking for long enough, you’ll get somewhere. She played with the cartridge, admiring how the occasional streak of sunlight that filtered through the canopy ignited the gold at one end. She would look up later whether it could be recycled. Waste being more of a pressing issue to her now than it was to the little girl who left dozens blooming in the woods in the mid-1990s. She continued letting her feet take her where they wanted. A pity it wasn’t bluebell season. Seeing carpets of the merrily bobbing trumpet shaped petals always filled her with delight. She tried to forget how mother had berated them for bringing back a posy, adamant they were a ‘protected’ species and asking why they wanted her to get in trouble with the police. Interrupting her chain of thoughts was the tree , standing with boughs open in welcome, exactly how she remembered. Joanne stood still for a moment, afraid if she blinked it might disappear. When it didn’t, she walked slowly towards it, shrugging off her backpack. She unrolled and laid her blanket down between the knotted roots (“the witches they buried alive instead of burned” he’d suggested in a mock horror B movie narrator’s voice, one distant October). All their walks, whatever direction, had brought them circling round to this tree. Joanne had been certain this would be the case even now. Joanne sat for a while there, resting her legs, while the showreel of memories did the opposite. She let them play. “It’s time, dad,” she said eventually, rising to her feet. She took the box out of the bag. Even though she had difficulty finding the right words, the right opportunities, to tell him when he was still alive how much having at least one parent who enjoyed her company meant to her, she knew he had known already. As she watched his ashes swirl and dissipate, specks blending into the network of roots, others clouds floating up to settle into the leaves and branches, a peace seemed to hug her heart and confirm that truth. He had known, and she was loved, and that was all that mattered.


“Momma, Momma! Come here and see what I found in the attic!” Shirly was so excited and scared out of her mind, she was practically screaming at her mother, Francis. “Shirly!” Francis started to scream in return and immediately tried to calm herself. “Sweetheart I am working on a very big project. I know you're bored, but do you think while you are in the house you could use inside voices, please?” Francis’s tone had changed from frantic to pleading. Shirly did all she could to calm herself. Her hair was standing on end. She could not decide if she was still excited, or becoming more afraid of what she had found in the attic upstairs. “Okay, okay.” She smoothed her clothes and tried to calm her voice. “Mom, I found some kind of a weird door in the attic upstairs. PLEASE, PLEASE come and see?! I know that you have a deadline this week, but I’m very excited and kind of scared.” Now Shirly was very well known for her outrageous imagination. She was 10 years old and refused to sleep in the dark. She was superstitious. If a broom fell, anywhere, she and Francis would bake cookies for the company that was going to be coming. She also had an intense fascination for the occult. She amused her mother with her conspiracy theories of the government and neighbors. Francis would consider putting an end to Shirly’s over consumption of television and internet occult research. But Francis was a single mother who worked from home and Shirly was an only child. It was a blessing in disguise that she was such a curious child and kept herself so busy with her curiosity and imagination. She was so convincing in her arguments, and bossy, that she had her own league of minions at school. Alas, it was winter break and storming. So, no play dates this week. “Okay Shirly, okay. I need to take a break and make us some lunch anyhow. Let’s go up and see what you think you’ve found up there. I am guessing it would makes no difference if I told you that when I bought this house last year that I went through every single nook and cranny. … Nope, it does not matter to you in the least.” Francis mused to herself and smiled. She loved her little girl’s love for life so much, it made all their struggles so much easier to tackle. After the words, ‘okay’, left Francis’s mouth Shirly stopped listening. She was on her way up to the third story of the house. At the end of the hall on the second floor there was a heavy, old door that opened to stairs that led to the third story attic. It was a tight staircase, and it creaked a lot and loud. There was no sneaking up there, Shirly had tried more than a few times when they first moved in. Shirly got bored but was good at finding something to entertain herself. Her mother had been adamant about not going up to the attic, no matter how much Shirly begged or tried to sneak up there. Francis felt that the wood was too old and had too much mold. She wasn’t sure about how structurally sound it was. She promised Shirly that in the summer they would update the attic. Shirly would have her own secret clubhouse, or whatever she wanted to call it. Shirly had begun to make so many plans for what she and her friends would do. It might have made things worse for Francis by promising Shirly the space would be hers. Sometimes there was no stopping this child from the thing that she wanted. Especially when it comes to secret, adventures and all of the imaginationing. Francis had finally given in today and let Shirly go up the third-floor attic. She made Shirly promise that if she opened the door to the attic that she would let her work, without a lot of interruptions. No interruptions would be too much for Francis to ask of Shirly. And now here they both were, not even two hours later, with Francis sucked into another adventure. She was hoping that she would be able to go up and take a peek and that would be all. She was hungry, and it was time for lunch after all. She heard the old stairs creak very loud, as Shirly practically stomped her way up. “Momma, where are you? Come on!” Suddenly, Shirly let out the most ear piercing, spine tingling screech Francis had ever heard come out of her little girl. Without a thought she charged up the stairs after her. “SHIRLY?! What?! Talk to me!” She was hysterical. “Shirly, what’s happening?! Are you okay?!” She could feel her blood pressure sky rocketing as she reached to top of the stairs. Her gaze darted frantically from every corner of the attic. She was looking for Shirly. There was nothing in her entire life, or many lifetimes that would have been able to prepare her for what she found. Shirly was sitting on the floor, in the far side of the attic where the huge bay window is. This is the window that won Shirly over when they bought the house. It was magical to her, she had fallen in love with the window, and then the house immediately. There it was. There was a tiny open door on the left wall of the bay window. Francis had known it was there and thought it gone to nowhere, she had thought that it was merely decorative. The door looked to lead directly to the outside yard, only three stories up. Now the door was open, and there was a glowing light. The light looked and felt as if spring could be a light. It was so beautiful. Francis could swear that she saw sparkles in it. “No, that must be dust,” She thought to herself, “but no. Look, there they are. Look at them. It cannot be.” “Mom, fairies. Look, fairies. Can you believe this.” Shirly spoke in such a calm that it broke Francis’s bewilderment. She looked at her daughter, expressionless. There were fairies, in her attic, and they were coming out of a tiny door that seemingly led to nowhere. All the fairies had suddenly stopped dancing around Shirly. They seemed to all be gazing at Francis. It was then that the same calm that had taken over Shirly was now taking over Francis. Neither had felt such calm and happiness in their lifetimes; it was euphoric. The tiny door in the attic on the left wall next to the bay window opened up a fairy portal. They came through the door with slow apprehension and a lot of curiosity. It seemed that when they became aware of Shirly they were immediately at ease, and very, very excited. To Francis it looked like the fairies knew her, like Shirly was a long, lost friend. They were so excited to see the little girl, in their dancing, their tiny bodies started to glow. It had all stopped abruptly when they became aware of Francis. She was now standing, as still as she could, and so very calm. One of the fairies darted to her, and practically stopped and stood on her nose. They all seemed to have their own color of glow, but this one was a pretty peach rose color. The tiny creature looked Francis in the eyes, for what seemed to be a 1o minutes. The fairy placed one tiny hand on Francis’s nose. If the fairy was touching Francis, she could not feel it. Just as abruptly as the fairy darted to her, it shot up, almost through the ceiling. It was so fast it looked like a mere trail of light. It started to fly in circles, and the rest started to follow; they started to swirl around Shirly and Francis. They both felt that they were almost lifted off of the ground in the whirl wind of tiny fairies and light. When mother and daughter thought they were going to fly, the fairies stopped and began again to dance and then sing. The singing sounded like tiny, soft windchimes. As the singing went on, Shirly and Francis began to understand the words. It was hours later that Francis regained her self-awareness in the present. It was night. The sun was long gone, and the stars were out. Shirly was still singing and dancing with their new magical friends. “Shirly, it is way past bedtime. I think It’s time for us to say good night to our friends.” Francis spoke to Shirly as if they had known fairies existed as long as they knew the sun and stars were the same thing. The fairies cried in loving protest, and flurried around Shirly and Francis. They were giving them both a hug good night. Shirly and Francis smiled and held hands as they descended the stair case. …..August that same year…. “Francis! There are so many beautiful butterflies in your garden. Oh my goodness. And bees and dragonflies. Your garden looks like fairies have blessed it with their magic.” Molly, Francis’s sister had come to visit for the last month of summer before school started for Shirly. She was now beginning to think she would have a hard time ever leaving. Francis and Shirly responded in unison, “It is blessed by fairy magic.” They both giggled. It seemed that only the two of them could see the butterflies, bees, and dragonflies for what they really were. Molly giggled with them, completely unaware.


If I’ve learnt one thing, it’s this: looking for signs is not for the faint of heart. If you’re seeking one, you may not see it at first. Don’t give up. Stay alert, keep your eyes peeled, and eventually it’ll appear. But you may have to take the road less travelled by.

*	*	* 72 hours. They told me I had 72 hours to get it right. But this was not really the truth, the whole truth, the unvarnished truth, the one that’s stripped bare of veneers and obfuscations. No. The truth is, you have something like twelve hours. That’s all.

Here, I’ll explain the math. I can see your eyes are glazing over as soon as I say the word, but never mind, just listen, pay attention, you never know when you’ll be in that situation. When you’re going to need it . First of all you can take out the non business hours -- I see I’m losing you already, and I’ve lost so many people this year, I can’t bear to lose another. First the maid, then the gardener, then the flower girl. That’s three already. So okay. No more math. Just take my word for it. Just twelve hours. That’s all you’ve got. Practically speaking. The best place was the one at the airport. Of course there were places closer to me. Nearer to home, where I knew the roads, the intersections, the landmarks, where the speed limits were more friendly to me. That is, below the dreaded sixty five miles an hour. But no one vouched for them. They were like the homeless guy come into a bit of good luck, trying to rent a studio on Woodside. No prior references available. That’s what those places near home were like. Maybe there’ll come a time when someone will say, they’ll deliver for you in 24 hours, they’ll have all the magic letters the airline demands, the R and the T, the P, C and the R, all arranged in the right order, lined up like little soldiers fighting in my own battalion, but for right now, they were unknowns. So this is how I found myself, speeding along at sixty five, looking for a sign. The sign that said, “COVID tests, this way.” The google directions lady tried her best. “Stay straight on Airport Boulevard,” she said.

(But what is straight? I ask you this, not as a philosophical question, not as the question the homeless guy asked me when he broke into my house and took a silver pitcher saying, “Isn’t my life more important than the fact that your great grandmother left you this pitcher, and therefore my hunger trumps your idea of what it is to be straight,” but as a practical matter of directions. The North, South, East and West of life.) The boulevard that I was on bifurcated, and then the bifurcations further bifurcated, and then they had progeny, and I found myself swimming in the midst of five lanes. Domestic, International Arrivals, International Departures, If You Want To Go to Brokaw Road, Something Else to Confuse Hapless Souls, these were the lanes, and here I craned my neck left and then far right wondering where the heck the sign for Carbon Health was.

If I saw the sign, I knew that my trip would be a good idea. Wouldn’t it be the Universe’s way of telling me that it was giving me the go ahead to fly in the time of Delta, and here, I don’t mean the airline, but the variant, the one that grabs you in a matter of seconds and decimates your lungs, mind, kidneys, heart and any organ that can’t resist. That Delta. I was giving up when I saw the sign. It was off to the side, hanging out in the crook of the elbow formed by domestic and international, the time they parted ways as all separate roads must, sometime or the other. By this time, the sweat had amassed on my forehead, like melted ice atop a mountain, and major rivers were running down the side of my face. Sometimes the gap between where one is and where the sign is, is too great to traverse. It takes more than a hot moment to cross five lanes. Thankfully there was no limit on how often one can circle around an airport. I wound my way through the innards, passing Air Canada, United, Delta (this time the airline), Alaska and all the others that work for us to pollute our air. A second chance to find the sign. This time I’ll do it, I said to myself. Back at the starting line, I sat up straight, put my shoulders back, sucked the oxygen in deep. One lane, I got this, I told myself, then cut over to International. Before I knew it, the friendly two international lanes had split further, spawning strangers I was unacquainted with. I needed another sign, but there was none. I slowed down. I screamed. I asked Fate what it was playing at. Drivers behind me were getting impatient. I heard horns honking and then the people whose time was more precious than my mother's need to see me made their way around me and sped off down roads they knew better than I did. Third time was not a charm. As I started the fourth round, I began to ask myself: Was the failure to see the sign a sign? Was I in the Escher painting of signs where the lack of one sign points to another, a ladder that leads you to another ladder? Was this a portent that my trip was doomed, not to be undertaken in this perilous time? The fourth round was a bust. Now five has always been my favorite number. It’s got everything: flats, curves, a right angle. It’s not too rigid, and not too flexible. It would be Goldilock’s number, not too this and not too that. So the fifth time I went around, and International split, I stayed on the right. When it birthed a strange little road, I took it. Didn’t Frost talk about the road less travelled by? That came in handy. Then it was there: the second sign, the one that I had been seeking all along. “COVID test.” Modest, painted white, easily missable, a wallflower of a sign. A sign that's soon forgotten, much like one fails to remember the theft by a homeless guy of a silver pitcher, because he presents an infallible logic, the primacy of his need. What's forgotten goes unreported. Never had that dreaded word, and here I mean COVID, not theft, appeared so fair. I stepped on the gas, a smile lighting up my face, looking forward to white gowns, invasive swabs and finally, a single word with a bad rap, NEGATIVE.


THE SUN SETS ON THE MEADOW I have been working in the Brothers Grimm and Associates architectural firm for almost twenty years. I have always been involved in the renovation , or  refurbishment of bathrooms and kitchens. Never in all these years I have been asked to design a building. And when I say a building I don’t mean a public work (one), not a condominium or even a villa. No, I mean a single house, even a small one. Well, that morning , one of my bosses, Adolf Grimm, summoned me in his wide office. He even offered me a tasty, hearty  breakfast, after which he started to talk about what he called the occasion of my life, that he would offered me. Ah, he said me, a real stroke of luck, for you, my dear James. Indeed a train to be seized on fly , since, oh, occasions  like this doesn’t happen every day. As he lingered in these preambles, I swear I was thinking he is going to offer me a trip to the space , or something like that. Might be he was going to propose me the design of ( for) buildings on Mars. When he finished with his introduction, which promised, announced wonders, Adolf Grimm instead said me that he had decided to entrust to me the project for the construction of the villa of the Commendatore S. Rossi, who was also a Knight of merit of the Republic. I was complexly stunned, more than surprised, I could only be incredulous.   “ What, you don’t say anything?”  Mr. Grimm asked, with his thundering voice. Then he, standing up from behind his desk, came beside me, with his hands stuck  unto his trouser pockets, his chest out, and his belly too. I had remained seated , and was quiet, silent as a chick. “ Ah, but sure, I can understand that you are left speechless, by God! You would never have expected an occasion like this, right?” Mr. Grimm said, towering over me with his imposing physique. He leaned over me, his big bald head hit my ear, my cheek too. He grabbed my shoulder with his big hand, giving me a strong squeeze. “ Come on, but speak therefore! No, don’t tell me you have to think about my proposal! Since   you don’t really need to think about it! It is an opportunity to be seized on the fly! On, what are you waiting?” He shouted, giving me a strong slap on the back. “ Oh, I….really need to think about it a little before deciding” It came naturally ( spontaneously) to me to say. “ Ah, don’t start saying bullshit now! I cannot stand it!” Adolf Grimm thundered. “ But I have no experience. I never projected a building, much less a villa” I said. “ Oh, my dear James, I know, it’s our guilt. Ah, it’s mine especially, if you here, in our firm ( studio) have not been appreciated as you would have deserved, Oh, sure, I’m sorry, I regret too having entrusted you only with assignments mostly regarding the modernization of some rooms of a house…..Ah, look, I acknowledge that I have been wrong, even much wrong, that I made a big, unforgivably mistake , and I’m ready to apologize …..But you know how things go…..my brother Frank and I, we aren’t the only partners in this firm….” The biggest of my bosses started a rant, or rather a spiel , that I really didn’t stand to listen to….Oh, if I knew how…..things go in a prestigious architectural firm ( studio) like that of Brothers Grimm and…..and others. The architects who have to make a name for themselves, they are entrusted with the projects for important works, those works of which magazines and newspapers will write, of which  television will also speak , which will indeed advertise and the works and the architects who designed ( projected) them.  And, coincidentally, the architects who are entrusted with the design of these great works, they are always either relatives or friends  of the firm’s partners . ( of the firm’s owners) . And, as for friends, they are all sons, daughters, nephews, cousins of very rich and successful entrepreneurs , or even of powerful politicians. Meanwhile he, my biggest boss, insisted, he continued to speak non-stop, without listening to a word of what I said, indeed of what I was trying to say, he kept claiming the very great importance of that task ( assignment) for me. Oh, could I imagine? My name associated with the villa of S. Rossi! He, just he, the big entrepreneur , the biggest in the country, in the steel, iron, aluminum, pipe industry! Ah, his villa would obviously have been a marvel! It could only be an absolute wonder, a masterpiece, the villa of a man so much excellent! I understood this too, didn’t I? Oh, of course I should have designed the villa taking into account the tastes of this very excellent man “……since , oh, after all, it is he who pays!” My very big boss said, pulling up, with an energetic   tug at his belt, his trousers , which, truly, were not falling at all. Oh, but he, Adolf Grimm, is like that : when he loudly proclaims an unquestionable truth, oh, he needs to underline his words with an energetic gesture. Despite his great commitment, although he really gave it all to make me accept that sensational, fabulous assignment , oh, a more unique than rare occasion ( opportunity) for me, he could not at all convince me. Since I did not feel like saying him immediately, in front of his large face, that I didn’t  accept the wonderful assignment , which he, so magnanimously, had decided to gave me, since I also could not stand to hear him declaiming , thundering, his rant, I said him that oh, I thanked him very much, but I needed to think about it for a while before accepting that assignment.  He would never have expected it, that I could not have accepted instantly, so Mr. Grimm was very disappointed. Oh, I could see on his face how much he was disappointed . What face he made! Oh, his big, large and stubby face seemed to be smoothed out ( stretched out), flattened. It really made me think that it was as if the rolling pin, with which my grandmother smoothed the dough, had passed over his face . But that day the surprises weren’t over for me. I had just come back to my office, I was look at the plant of a bathroom to renovate when, oh, nothing than surprise, I almost took a hit, here that she came….she, Claire, the young and beautiful niece of the Grimm. Even Claire worked in the Brothers Grimm and associated firm ( studio). But she, unlike me, was a successful architect, yes, she was almost an archistar, however she was going to become one ( an archistar). Ah, Claire was a real beauty. She was tall, with a lithe, harmonious physique (body) , beautiful legs, slender and well shaped. She had a perfect oval face, wide, sculpted features, green cat eyes. Eh, Claire….years ago, not even so many years ago, even if it seemed to me a century had passed from then , when she had just been hired in the firm of her uncles, ah, I had been struck by her . I had made her a tight court. I had sent her flowers, accompanied by notes with words, oh, what words….words which now it could  never happen to me to write to anyone, never…….I had given her gifts, yes, jewels too….But she…ah, to say that she had stubbed me, it is too little. She had done worse. She had mimicked me with people of her high entourage, she had made fun of me. I had waited in vain for her on more than an appointment , which she had given me, and to which she had not come. But now, as they say, all this was a thing of the past. And instead here I saw her arrive, quite unexpectedly, in my office, all smiling and winking, even full of kindness, but you look a little…..Claire immediately ___she had entered without knocking on the door, but, oh, of course, apologizing as soon as she entered____began to congratulate me on the very important assignment that had been entrusted to me. Oh, a really great opportunity, not to be missed! Oh, I had to feel me at the seventh heaven, hadn’t I? I said her that, yes, the project for the magnificent villa of S. Rossi  was a great opportunity for me . After saying that I agreed with her, I was silent for a few moments, as if preparing the effect__or the space___of what I would add ( of what I was going to add). However I didn’t know if I would have accepted the fabulous assignment, I said, in fact. “Oh, but you want to joke, don’t you, James? You cannot at all speak seriously, on! It wouldn’t have ( make) sense for you to refuse! But why you would refuse, then? I really didn’t understand!”   Claire started screaming, even yelling, so much  she couldn’t believe that I spoke seriously when I said that I still didn’t know if I would have accepted to take care of the project for the villa of S. Rossi. She kept on screaming, came next to me, and, hopping around me,she slapped on my back. She even asked me, coming close to me, all thoughtfully, bringing her face closer to mine, if I was okay. Did I have health problems, which prevented me from accepting that assignment? “ No, I have no health problems. I’m fine” I replied calm, without breaking down. “ Then why? Oh, you won’t be serious, this is an occasion to be seized on the fly, that you can’t miss! “ She continued to insist, shouting and hopping around me. Perhaps it was because of her insistence , because it was evident that Claire, like her big uncle, didn’t care about what I thought____what mattered, what she, like his uncle, could admit , and also what they could understand, was only what they thought____that suddenly  her very presence became unbearable for me. I couldn’t wait for her to leave. When she, all smiling, said me that she was inviting me to dinner at her house that evening, that we would be alone, that , oh, she would have convinced me to accept the fabulous assignment, I would have liked to kick her out of the way. Of course, I didn’t kick her . I only refused her invitation, saying that I couldn’t, since I already had a commitment for that evening. Oh, the face that beautiful Claire made when I declined her invitation to dinner! Suddenly her perfectly sculpted features wrinkled, her face assumed the appearance of a deflated balloon. Of course, it wasn’t true that I already had a commitment for that evening. When I came home, the sun was setting. I stopped in front of the lawn near my house.  “ SUNSET is my favorite time of day, it’s my hour” My grandmother Lucy said, and I seemed to hear her voice again as I was looking at the lawn in front of me, under the light and shadows of the sunset. It was a meadow that had always left uncultivated. In the green of the meadow, among grasses and weeds, the daisies grew thick. I was used at that meadow. I saw it every day as soon as I left the house, it had nothing special for me. That day, completely unexpectedly, under the fiery sky of the sunset, that meadow appeared to me as an enchanted, wonderful vision. That expanse of daisies which peeped in the green carpet of the grass , suddenly it was something precious, something priceless.


Anika Choudhary had very few material comforts. A hot water bath was not one of them. Neither was sleeping in air-conditioning in the summer or waking up without cockroaches in the sheets. Nor was getting a decent wifi signal when she needed to find work. She did, however, have the kulfi man. He arrived before sunset every day. Come rain or shine. From her balcony, she could see the cows heading home. They ambled, manuring the potholed roads, and narrowly escaped cursing motorists. She heard the bells on the kulfi man’s walking cane, heralding his imminent arrival. She salivated in pavlovian response. A matka perched precariously on the kulfi man's head, wrapped in a worn red cloth. The earthen-ware pot was lined with salted ice— the aluminium moulds neatly nestled inside. The low-tech cooler delivered mostly-frozen bars, even though her apartment was the last stop on the kulfi man’s route. Those creamy condensed-milk frustums were unlike anything else in the world. Ten rupees a pop. She exercised admirable restraint and only bought one each day. She ate evenly and methodically, spinning the kulfi along her tongue so the bar held together. If she waited too long, it was a melted mess. If she did it just right, she got a mouth-full of caramelized sweet lactose, notes of pistachios or almonds, with a finish of ground cardamom and toasted saffron. Without dripping any on her bare toes. But that Sunday evening, Anika Choudhary was staring, and her kulfi was melting.

A light had come on in the building across the road. It was in a room on the top floor. The window was veiled behind the spiky fingers of a coconut tree frond, but she could see someone moving around up there. She knew that building to be empty. Slated for demolition— unsafe for habitation, or some such reason. Before Anika was cognizant of what was happening, she was across the road, kulfi in hand, ducking under the loosely strung rope barricade. The building’s stairwell smelt mightily of rat poop, which likely portended snakes. She ascended the stairs, the dying sun lighting her way through the broken windows. She thought she heard the kulfi man in the distance calling out her name. She had paid, hadn’t she? Yes, she had. Perhaps she was mistaken, and it was just the call of a cat, or a crow, or some creature of the night. Something about the corridors felt oddly familiar. Despite her never having entered the building in all the years she had lived in this neighbourhood. But then again, she had never paid any attention to the empty block that her balcony looked on to. Why would she? She had a doting husband, a circle of friends, a job that paid well. But now here she was, poor, unloved, middle-aged, and living off the transient joy of sweet frozen desserts. Anika felt surprisingly alive after having climbed five flights of stairs. She was fitter than she had given herself credit for; though perhaps it was just the sugar rush talking— she had been carefully licking the kulfi all the way up. The flat that she saw the light in was at the end of a long hallway. Daylight was fading fast, but a street lamp peeked in and threw enough light to get her there.

The door was open, but the flat was dark. Cobwebs crisscrossed the door frame. She brushed them aside and peered into the gloom. Nothing stirred. It certainly looked like nobody had been there for a long time. Perhaps this was the wrong flat? She tried the door of the flat across the hall— it was locked. Anika frowned, deflated, licking the kulfi as she walked back to the stairwell.

Behind her, a light came on. The light from the flat threw a warm arc into the hallway, beckoning her in. Anika turned and hurried back up the hallway. She felt a strange excitement as if she was coming upon the door of a dear friend who had invited her for a house party.

The flat was empty, but all the lights were now ablaze. A dazzling chandelier hung in the foyer, and ensconced wall-lamps illuminated framed art that was long gone. In the middle of the main hall, a free-standing mirror faced out towards the balcony. Why would someone leave such a thing behind? As she walked across the expanse of the room towards the mirror, Anika felt exposed— distastefully dressed at a party for the rich and sophisticated. She walked into the field of the mirror, shyly.

She expected to see her own familiar body— dark circles around her eyes, upper lip fuzz, stray grey hair, pale skin, paunchy physique. But the Anika that stared back was ever so slightly different— she looked as if something about the world finally made sense. She stood eating her kulfi, staring for a long time, until she had reached the end and let the wooden stick drop.

The workweek began again— Anika manned the telephone at a local printing shop. It was a mind-numbingly boring job but it paid her enough to survive. This Monday however, for the first time in days, even years, she felt something approaching happiness. After work, she found herself looking forward to going back home. She hadn't felt that way since her husband was still alive and welcomed her with samosas and chai. The kulfi man carefully removed the bar from the mould— expertly spiked on a wooden stick— and handed it to her. He hesitated before accepting the cash.

“That building is haunted, madam. You shouldn’t be going up there after dark.” He frowned darkly at the abandoned block. Anika noticed that no lights were on tonight. “Nonsense. There’s nothing there. Nobody. Probably rats. I was just curious. I get bored sometimes on Sundays.” He pressed on, genuinely concerned. It had been an upmarket apartment once, but somebody had died there many years ago. Many people who had moved in since had mysteriously disappeared. So people stopped renting there. Prices fell until people had stopped buying property around here altogether. That building was cursed. He reminded her that he had been walking this route for years— he knew what he was talking about. “Oh, please,” said Anika, through a mouth-full of kulfi, “Everyone dies. It doesn’t matter where they live.” It hadn’t been too long ago that Anika had briefly considered walking off her balcony and ending it all. After much deliberation, she decided that as her luck would have it, she would probably end up only being crippled— persisting in a wheelchair to the end of her days, on top of all the other misery. She waited for the kulfi man to leave, idly surveying the sunset reflecting off the parked cars. She felt a girlish urgency. As if waiting for her parents to go to sleep so that she could phone a boyfriend under cover of night.

The flat was dark, but she instinctively knew where the power mains were. She switched on the chandelier in the main hall, feeling almost like this was her flat. She froze. There was a woman standing in the middle of the room. With a jolt of pleasure, Anika saw that the woman was holding a kulfi too. She moved closer. She realised it was just herself— reflected in the mirror. She watched herself walking into the room. Was that really how she walked? It was graceful. The curve of her shoulders softening with the roll of her hips. She didn’t remember turning the mirror to face the door last night. But she brushed the thought aside as she admired herself. Anika had dressed up for tonight and felt more at home in the mirror. Her eyes looked brighter, and the corners of her mouth held an invisible smile, as if it lurked just out of reach. She looked alluring, mysterious. Her saree enveloped her perfectly. It was fitted at the waist and hips, billowing over her shoulders and around her ankles. Anika hadn’t felt this beautiful in years. “Hello, beautiful,” she said to herself, raising her eyebrows provocatively.

“Welcome home, darling,” came a voice from behind the mirror. Anika froze again, feeling stupid at having been caught talking to herself. She stepped out from behind the mirror, ready to face— There was nobody there.

As far as she could tell, she was the only one in the room.

A week passed. Anika awoke, having slept better than she had in months. She had had beautiful dreams she couldn’t remember. Her dark circles had started to fade, and she felt a little hop in her step. The kulfi man’s bells rang out in the smoky dusk. Anika had been waiting for him downstairs, ready for her daily visit to the mirror. She grabbed her kulfi, waited for him to leave as usual, and dashed up the stairs. The lights were on tonight, and there was music coming from within. Had someone moved in? Of course not. The building was still abandoned. She rubbed her palms —clammy with nervousness— against her velvet skirt and entered. “Anika, darling! We have been waiting for you. What took you so long? My, you look fabulous!”

A gorgeous woman, long black hair cascading down to her chest, reached a perfumed arm towards her and steered her into the hall. The lights were dazzling, and the room was full. Silver vases bore sunflowers, wild tulips, and roses. Oil paintings of pastoral scenes, fruit bowls and saree-clad women hung on the walls. Fashionable men and women draped easily across plush sofas, drinking wine out of crystal decanters, or dancing in pairs, shiny shoes clacking on the marble floor. A handsome man sat at a piano, his dark fingers massaging out a soulful tune. Anika saw herself, slack-jawed in the mirror. But she smiled when she saw how beautiful she looked.  “Who are you?” said Anika. “My dear, we are just like you,” the woman said and took a bite out of her kulfi.

The days went by. Anika began to lose weight— she had started fitting into clothes from when she had been married. She ransacked her wardrobe and experimented with new and fabulous outfits for her evenings out. Things had started to change for the better. Strangers in the market smiled at her. Good looking men on the bus turned to look at her. Her boss noticed her renewed enthusiasm and positivity at work. Old friends invited her out — she declined, saying she had to be home before dark. She had fallen into a blissful routine. Every evening she rushed home and waited breathlessly for the tinkling bells of the kulfi man.

“Twenty?” The kulfi man had said, the first time she had ordered in bulk. “Yes! I have friends to give them to. Don’t worry, I won’t eat them all.” Soon, he had stopped asking, pocketing the money grimly, and handing her the bars. He watched silently, as she arranged them neatly on a plate and walked across the street into the building. “Who wants kulfis?” She would say, holding aloft the plate of frozen bars. Her friends —beautiful every one of them— would descend, blowing kisses and complimenting her choice of shoes that evening. She would hand them out one by one. And they would party until the early hours of the morning. The best part was the time she spent in front of the mirror, looking deep into the soul of the real Anika, savouring her kulfi. The smiling, happy, flawless, Anika. “Madam, you’re looking very thin, are you ok?” said the kulfi man, one Saturday evening. “Thank you,” she said. She really was getting slim and gorgeous, wasn’t she? As she walked across the street with her plate of treats, the kulfi man watched her and shook his head with pity. That was the last time anyone set eyes on Anika Choudhary.

It was a few days before people came looking for her. Old friends knocked on her door but got no answer. The police were called, and they had the landlord open her apartment. It was a disgusting mess. Rotting food in the fridge, piles of unwashed clothes heaped on her bed, dishes piled in the sink gathering mould, dust everywhere, cockroaches scurrying in the shadows.

The police questioned Anika’s boss. He said that she had been acting strange the last few weeks— coming in late, skipping lunch, daydreaming, and even sleeping on the job. She had not turned up for work that week and didn’t answer her calls. He just assumed that she had quit. They questioned Anika's neighbours, but nobody knew anything. The neighbourhood shopkeeper said she had stopped buying groceries for a few weeks now, He thought she might have been out of town. In the evening, the kulfi man came around as usual. The police stopped him for questioning too. Did he come around regularly to this area? They showed him a photo of Anika. Did he know this woman? “She’s gone,” he said, “You won’t find her.” “Why not? Where did she go? What do you know about this?” “The curse has consumed her.” “Curse? What curse?” The kulfi man pointed at the top floor of the abandoned building. The police had to break down the door to the flat. The lock was rusted and the door couldn’t be opened.

The flat was empty and dark. The power supply had been disconnected a few years ago. By torch-light, they saw that the marble floor was covered in a sea of ants, interrupted by scurrying rats. The room was littered with melted, putrefying, kulfi bars.

At the foot of the mirror, in the middle of the hall, was another pile of kulfi sticks. All of them licked clean. Later, one of the junior constables would swear that as they exited the allegedly cursed apartment, he heard a faint sound of tinkling laughter and music.


"Do you know, Taz? Why is honey sweet?" Asked Vedantha, coming into his hut, drenched and dusted from a long day of Divine Labour: a term coined by the Emporer Shah Jahan to make the labourers believe their work is sacred. "Not just honey! Have you ever wondered yet? Why is honeycomb itself sweet?"

"Would you care to enlighten me, my love?" Taziana replied playfully without looking at him as she was busy cutting vegetables at the table. "Because every cell of it is made of love." He said and hugged his young wife from behind. She giggled and wiggled loosely to break out, wishing never to succeed. "Honey bees love what they do, for they believe their cause is sacred. Hence every little act of theirs becomes love. And love is sweet. Every soul, such as us, who is fortunate enough to taste it knows it. Don't they?" He whispered in her ears and kissed her gently on her cheek. "Now tell me, what is it that gathered honey bees into your mind coming straight from work?" She elbowed him lightly on his belly as she headed towards the kitchen. "It is the Mumtaz Mahal we are building." He slid up the window curtain and allowed the gold of the winter evening to grace their hut. The sun was setting red over the magnificent foundation of the piece of architecture that would colour the hearts of the beholders with love and sorrow at the same time in years to come. "What about it?" She put aside her chores and went near him. "Your heart is not at ease for some days now, you may not tell me, but I have felt it." "The Mumtaz Mahal is being built as the Emblem of Love in memory of our late Empress. Our Emporer would leave no stone unturned to ensure that songs of love between him and Mumtaz would be sung and remembered as long as the great monument stands, and believe me, it would stand for an eternity. It is being built at such a scale and fashion that our history has never seen. Never again such a feat will be accomplished in the future. It would enchant its beholders with a sense of might and marvel, but will they marvel with love? Because no love is being poured in the process." He said while swaying his hands slowly through the gold dust from the window, trying to form abstract patterns. "Tell me more." "Every day, the nobles tell us that our work is sacred, but they do not treat us well. Every day someone dies in an accident; many suffer fatal injuries while working, and we are not even allowed to mourn them. If they find someone catching a breath while working, they beat them to unconsciousness. They think they are building the Emblem of Love, but in reality, it is an Emblem of Cruelty. If we do nothing and the construction finishes in the manner it is proceeding, all the efforts and sacrifices of these labourers, all the resources and an opportunity to give the world a true Emblem of Love will go wasted upon an enormous pile of marble. I can not let it happen, Taz. My soul will not let me." "Oh! Ved, your ways of perceiving the world is a wonder to me." She took his hands in her hands. "But it is no good meddling in the matters of the big people. We are small people, Ved. We can't do anything about it." "It's not the riches one possesses that decides who is big or small; It's what one does with the life given to oneself. I believe if god has blessed me with the ability to dream, it's my duty to find the courage to fulfil it." He said, looking deep into her brown

eyes as if asking her to stand by him as she always has. She couldn't help but smile at him with utmost gratitude to Allah for blessing him with such a man. "Tell me, how are we to accomplish it?" She asked. * To set his vision afoot, Vedantha must meet The Emporer in person. It was no easy task. Fortunately, he knew the person who could help him with this: Ustad-Ahmad Lahori. Ustad was the chief architect of the Mumtaz Mahal. Vedantha was his only Hindu apprentice. Ustad always favoured Vedantha over his other apprentices for his deep understanding of architecture and labourer management skills. Vedantha's marriage with the Muslim girl Taziana was also one of his favours, for which Vedantha will always be indebted to him. Vedantha knocked on the door of the chamber of Ustad. "It's open." said the voice from inside, followed by a series of dry coughing. Vedantha went inside. Ustad had wrapped himself in a shawl and seemed to be working on something under his study lamp. Slow and steady flickers of the yellow lamp were the only serving light in the room. Even in the afternoon, it felt like midnight of a new moon once he closed the door behind him. "Don't come near me..." "Stand where you are..." "It seems I've caught a viral fever." Ustad managed in between his coughing. Vedantha stood there waiting for Ustad to gather his composer. "I won't be able to continue my duty from tomorrow until I'm on my feet again." Ustad began. "I've decided to divide my responsibilities and my men among Eight of my apprentices until then. The rest of the seven are on their tasks already. For the most daunting task among them, I've chosen you. You're the only one capable of handling it besides me." "What is it, Master?" Asked Vedantha, already knowing the answer. "I've assigned you to the group of 2500 labourers who call themselves Varuna Sena: The army of the god of water. Their work is to fetch water from the Yamuna river to the construction site. A tedious task indeed, but you understand how important it is. Right? Even a small delay in water supply could prove fatal for the construction. Your task is to ensure that doesn't happen." "You've trusted me with this master. I am grateful. Nothing will go amiss in my watch. I assure you." He said and stood there for a while, hesitating to ask for a favour. "What is it, my son?" "I was thinking about asking for a favour, Master." "Oh, laddie, I am in no shape to fulfil any favours right now. But, I can give you one thing, a hint, perhaps. Accomplish this task, and you will never have to ask for favours from anyone." He said with a mysterious grin on his face. Vedantha left the chamber confused and feeling strangely satisfied. He didn't know what to make of those last words of Ustad. 'Maybe Taz can tell.' He thought. * "Do you know, Taz? What is it that keeps the human race alive?" Asked Vedantha, coming into his hut feeling fresh and fortunate. "Ah, I think I should know this one. Gods, maybe?" Said Taziana, coming out from the bath and wiping her hair with a towel. "It is hope, my love. A possibility of seeing the light some distant day that keeps us fighting the dark." He said as he tried to play with her wet hair. "Something interesting has happened today, has it not?" She pushed him away gleefully and walked in front of the mirror to brush her hair. Vedantha gave a detailed account of what happened in the chamber and asked her opinion about the words of Ustad. "I think the fortune is about to favour us in unlikely ways." "In unlikely ways! Strange choice of words. I would say." He walked to stand behind her, took a strand of her long brown hair and tucked it carefully behind her ears. "So, tell me, Ved. How are you to approach the first day of your new endeavour?" She said, looking into his eyes from the mirror. "The gold you received on our wedding day, which we were saving for building our new home, we still have it, right? I think the time has ripened to use it wisely." He said. * As Vedantha rightly presumed, it was hard to keep the labourers motivated throughout the day. A dirt ramp was built between the Yamuna and the construction site to allow the easy conveyance of water. Still, it was a demanding task to carry water uphill. That too under the sun and with an empty belly. Vedantha realised that the excessive hard work and hunger were killing his labourers slowly. 'They may carry on like this for a few more years, but they would not survive to see the fulfilment of the monument.' He thought and decided to take the responsibility of providing afternoon meals for Varuna sena. Taziana had voluntarily chosen herself as the chief chef for the endeavour. As the days passed, the morale and efficiency of the Vauna sena rose. The stories of Vedantha feeding his 2500 labourers by himself every day became the talk of the town in no time. And with it rose the name of Vedantha in the hierarchy of the significant men of Agra. "Our gold is about to deplete, Ved," Taziana said one day during the afternoon meal. "Two more days, and we will have to find another source to fund the daily meals." "I think the gold has played its part, Taz. The labourers under the other apprentices have begun demanding the same treatment as the Varuna sena. The labourers are awakening about their rights. Some of them are even threatening to go on strike. Pressure is building on the nobles. The court of Shah Jahan will be sending for me any day now." Two days went by. Nobody from The Darbar of Shah Jahan came looking for Vedantha. There was no news about Ustad's health as well. From the day he took this new responsibility, he was living a dream from which he would never want to wake. But now, the situation was such that he would love to see Ustad return from his deathbed and take back the reigns from his hands. When they first took up the responsibility, Every apprentice had received an Elephant to command the groups of labourers from above. Vedantha had named his Elephant: Airavatha. He loved riding Airavatha as much as he loved the beast. But he never took Airavatha on the construction site, for he wanted the Varuna sena to feel that he was one of them, not above them. That morning he fed Airavatha well, climbed on him with tears running down his cheeks, and departed for their last ride together. He knew an animal dealer who would offer a fair amount for a well-kept beast. It would cover the cost of daily meals of Varuna sena for a week more. 'Taziana will kill me once she finds out about my sin.' He thought Just then few horse riders came shouting from behind him and encircled Airavatha. One of them came in front of Airavatha and removed his helmet, "Ustad seeks a word with you. Immediately." He shouted. Vedantha entered the dark chamber of Ustad, thinking that Ustad had recovered and was ready to reclaim the charge. But what he saw in front of him, his startled heart refused to believe. The Emporer of the realm himself was waiting for him beside Ustad under the dim yellow flickerings of the old lamp. "So you are the one who has the whole Agra talking about the labourers' rights." Shah Jahan spoke. Until now, all Vedantha needed was a chance to reach the ears of the Emporer. Now when the Emporer was right in front of him, all he could do was shake his head in agreement. "You are the reason my entire court can't sleep at night nowadays. In normal circumstances, you'd have been inside the dungeons by now, counting bars. But Ustad believes that he will not be able to fulfil the dream we both wove together and that you're the only capable person who can help me do it. So tell me, Vedantha, will you take the responsibility of the chief architect of the Mumtaz Mahal from today on? * "Do you know, Taz? Why god gives us hard times?" Asked Vedantha, coming into his hut, trying so hard not to cry out loud with excitement and spoil the surprise. "So that we learn to savour the good times with all our hearts while they last," Taziana said quietly, lying on her bed. The answer left him speechless for a while. It was so beautiful that he almost forgot that he was about to surprise Taziana. "It is beautiful, Taz. What you have just said." "Because it has come straight from my heart. Everything that comes from the heart is beautiful. Only those who have learned the art of doing things with their hearts know this, don't they?" "Of course they do." He said and went near her, trying to keep the excitement alive. But he noticed that Taz was not her usual self today. "Hey, what happened to you? Come on, wake up! I've something to tell you." He tickled her by lightly touching her waist. But she did not spring up on her knees laughing as she would usually do. "I also have something to tell you. But I don't know how to. I do not want to ruin your moment, but it is important." "Taz? Why are you talking like this? What is the matter?" "Your Taz is dying, Ved. She is halfway there already." "What are you saying? Are you crazy? Take back your words, Taz. It is no joking matter." "I wish I were lying. I have been ignoring the chest pain for a month now. Today it was unbearable, and blood started to come out with my coughing. So I went to the healer. She says I've Karka in my lunges. It is uncurable." "No! It can't be true. TELL ME YOU'RE LYING." Vedantha let out a muffled wail, his body trembling with sheer pain. "From the day we met, I've been promising you the life of your dreams. Now when the time has come when we can live our dreams, god is taking you from me." Vedantha put his head in her lap, sobbing. "I am not dying tomorrow, you idiot. We may still have six or seven years of togetherness. And who told you I did not have a good life with you? From the day we met, I've been living the life of my dreams." She said, leaning on his head and they stayed put together for a while without saying anything. "I am the chief architect of the Mumtaz Mahal now, Taz. It will take ten more years to complete. I'll not let you go without seeing it." Vedantha broke the silence wiping his tears. "Until now, I was building it as the Mumtaz Mahal. From today on, I will raise it as The Taz Mahal. I will ensure that it will have the essence of the pure soul that you are. I will try to pour as much love into it as I have for you. It will be the emblem of love as true as our love is for each other." * So the years passed, and the Taz Mahal began blossoming as a thing of wonder. Labourers pour their hearts into it, for they start believing that their work is sacred. They were treated and fed well. On the other hand, Taziana withered with time as the greens do under Autumn. But they both had accepted their fate now. They had decided never to let the sadness creep into their warm hearts ever again. Another significant thing happened during this time. Stories of love between their chief architect and his sickly wife slowly became popular among the labourers who admired Vedantha and then spread into the entire Agra like wildfire into a summer forest. Everything about it was merrily received in Agra. Until one day, an ill-intentioned foul-mouthed adviser twisted the tale and warned Shah Jahan about Vedantha. He made the Emporer believe that Vedantha was circulating the stories on purpose so that when people see The Mumtaz Mahal, they remember his love for Taziana. That enraged the Emporer beyond any measure, but he did not act until the construction concluded. Finally, the dark day arrived, which would be remembered as one of the cruellest days in the history of Hindustan. "It is marvellous, Veda. Its charm touches my heart from the distance as well." Taziana said, who was sitting with Vedantha on the balcony of their new home watching the Taz Mahal. As soon as she said that, she fell on Vedantha's lap groaning in pain, blood coming out of her mouth. Before Vedantha could do something about it, he heard heavy footsteps hurrying along the steps. The construction had concluded. The Emporer had decided to act. The soldiers dragged Vedantha along the floor, who was wailing and begging them to allow him a moment with her dying wife. "LEAVE ME ALONE... MY WIFE... SHE IS DYING..." He cried, trying all his might to escape and ran back to Taziana, who was stretching her arm for him lying on the floor, unable to speak. "AT LEAST GIVE ME A MOMENT... LET ME SEE HER FACE ONE LAST TIME..." He kept on crying. They did not listen. It is known all over Hindustan that enraged Shah Jahan had ordered to hang Vedantha and cut the hands of the entire Varuna sena for being loyal to Vedantha. Some people see it as the Emblem of Love, and some as the Emblem of Cruelty. But those who understand why it is called Taz Mahal and not Mumtaz Mahal know it is the true Emblem of Love. *


Where I Come From By Anabel Fielding Where do I come from? I come from a big city in California. To be specific, San Francisco. I come from a city where some people are very kind to you and others are very rude to you. I come from, San Francisco. I come from a city that is always under a big chunk of gray fog or a stormy raincloud. I come from a city where the people I have met are hopeless romantics, and successful leaders, and they are trying to provide a life filled with opportunities for themselves. I come from a city filled with happy middle-class working men and women with their children going to public school. I come from a city of pain and sadness because there is an ongoing homelessness crisis downtown. I come from the beautiful, mysterious, and wonderful city of San Francisco. I was born and raised in a mixed family. My mom is a Latina woman from Honduras. My dad is American and also he is a San Francisco native. I come from a family that has been supportive, loving, and kind towards me and my older brother. I have dealt with bullying throughout my middle school and high school years. I come from traveling on a long road of depression and anxiety before I found happiness in my life. I come from a long terrible path of being rejected, ostracized, and framed by my first crush, whom I fell in deep love with. I have come from a hurricane storm of heartbreaking, traumatic memories from my childhood that I experienced. The boy that I fell in love with destroyed my heart. He broke me into a million scattered pieces on the floor. He was full of hate, arrogance, and pride. He was not very kind. I finally have moved on from him, this year. This year, I will be a more beautiful, strong, and even more intelligent woman than ever before. I come from a family of Swedish, German, and English blood. I come from the Fielding family. I come from a bloodline that is continuing in a southern state, Georgia. I come from a bloodline that continues in Tallahassee, Florida. My cousins, aunts, and uncles are in those southern states and they were veterans of the USA. My uncle played American Football and he is in the hall of fame. My loved ones whom I have lost, their names are remembered. Their legacies continue through me. I am the great-granddaughter of Ethel Cyr, I am her greatest joy. She is remembered and she rests in heaven, peacefully. I come from her blood. I am named after my great-great-grandmother Anna Belle Clark and she is remembered, too. I come from her blood and I come from many generations back and back of the Fielding family. I come from the Earth. I am a daughter of Eve, who was the first woman before me. I am a human being. I come from heaven because I was chosen in this life to exist. I come from heaven because I was born a blessing, under a double rainbow, a Diamond in my mother's eye. I am Anabel Fielding and I will survive this beautiful, dark, scary, happy, and fantastic world we all live in together. You, readers, and I will survive. Where I come from, you and I, we will be revived in pureness and strife. We will be just, fine. I come from a family full of struggles and successes. I come from a mother who is a very wonderful nurse. She helps those who are sick and in need. She provides money for the homeless people that she sees. She is a god-loving woman and she is an amazing wife to her husband. She is my mom and she is my best friend. I come from her blood, I came from her womb. I am a god-fearing, beautiful, and truly insightful woman. I am her daughter. I came from my hero, my mom. I came from my father, the one who plays the piano. The one who taught me how to read, write, and do mathematics... one of the most difficult subjects to learn, mathematics. Oh, how I yearn to answer the question. Where do I come from? I come from a childhood well spent with my happy, loving older brother. I come from a brother who is my blood and whom I adore. I know he sometimes thinks of me as a bore. But he will always love me and he always does. I come from an actor, my brother, I come from the most successful talent in the family. I come from a family full of love, pain, and happiness that we all endure together. I come from a tornado of loneliness and sadness. I come from heartbreak and anger. I think that all of the human emotions are where I started and it is where I will end. I am so repetitive in this writing. I am so alone in this life. I am truly a sight to behold. I am a writer and a good one at that. Sometimes, I feel so sad and very vulnerable. Sometimes I cry myself to sleep because I lost all of my friends and my first crush. Sometimes I wish I could be with the one I truly love, my crush. I wish I could turn back the time sometimes. But I know that turning back the time is not possible, never is, I suppose. I feel so good telling you about where I come from. I come from a soul that was destined to become fully, inevitably human. I have no tail, no wings, and I have no extra stomach. What am I? I am a human. I am smaller than a plane and a bus combined. I am so small compared to the universe, the stars, and the heavens above. I come from God. I come from my father who art in heaven. I come from purity, and innocence, and I come from being a child to growing into a fully grown adult. I come from another dimension into this one. I come from the planet, Earth, and then some. I come from a distant land or a foreign tongue. I come from Honduras, America, I come from only God knows, I come from the heavens above. Blessed, happy, and full of life. I come from my mother, father, and my brother. I'm in love.


Warning: This story mentions but does not describe sexual and physical violence. I had of course heard of Him. Like every boy in the world, I imagined myself being Him as I played games of adventures and quests. I remember one time when the local boys and I were out in the fields playing the Second Labor I had been chosen to be Him. With a broken branch as a stand in for His club I would swing with as much might as my young body could muster. Smashing death blows into the imaginary hydra, while leaving very real welts on the flesh of my companions. As the son of the king I had responsibilities others my age did not. Such as ensuring I not only understood restraint but that I demonstrated it. So when my father had learned of my carelessness he set out to teach me a lesson.

“As the future king,” he told me. “You must restrain yourself. It is of utmost importance. The health of our domain relies upon it. When a ruler lashes out a merciless beating on his subjects their moral falls. Not only that but all sense of morals, ethics, and order falls away.” His voice was stern and hard, yet he spoke with a quiet and calm tone. Although I knew my father was furious with me he held his anger back. Always the living example of his teachings. Even when my fathers honor was called into question he always restrained himself, ensuring his emotions were under his control, rather than the other way around. “With power, my son, one must control themselves. When kings and rulers let their emotions control them, rather than being the one in control, Chaos rules all. Wars break out, famine falls upon the land. Rivers, lakes, and all fresh water turns to dust. The hard won Order the Gods fought for during the Titanomachy would be but nothing else than in vain.” That is why I knew the story told to me of my fathers death was nothing but lies. Not once had he ever been known to let his emotions take control of him. Nor had he ever been known to deny a person in need. I remember years after his lesson on restraint, he and I had been out grazing our herd when we came upon a starving man. He was clearly not of our land, nor the neighboring realms, for his garments were of an unknown fabric, design and fashion. Although clearly light and flexible, it seemed to be durable. To my amazement, his garb was covered in beautiful images of unknown creatures. As the stranger walked it looked as if the beasts moved along his body dancing amongst themselves. He wore the strangest looking chiton I had ever seen. Rather than being free flowing around the legs, it had been sown so that each leg was wrapped in the smooth cloth separately. Later, when I asked my father what they were, he called them “trousers”. A funny word for an even sillier looking garment. Not only was his garments strange and bizarre, he spoke a language I had never heard before in my life, nor since. It sounded like the sing-song of some fabulous bird. It was to my great surprise that my father not only knew the language but could in fact speak a few words. He was, he told me, better at understanding it than speaking it.

Had it not been for the man's strange outfit, or his barbaric speech he would still have stood out like a sore limb. His hair was like that of a beautiful women's, long and straight, and black as a raven’s feathers. His eyes, although peaceful, looked hard lived. His skin reminded me of a cured hide, and was darkened by the sun. In the strange man's sing-song language my father and he spoke briefly. Although I did not understand what was being said, I could tell the man had asked my father for one of our goats as he had pointed to the flock grazing around us. As the man pointed with one hand, his other moved to clinch his stomach. A sign I instantly understood as the man being hungry. Without hesitation, or another word exchanged my father turned to our herd and strode to the nearest goat. Kneeling to the side of the goat, my father placed a firm and gentle arm around the goat's body, reassuring it that he was safe. Then in a fluid and powerful stroke, my father drew his dagger across the goats throat. Spilling its blood to the earth, my father stood and gave praise to the Gods, and gave to the stranger the now dead goat. “Who was that father?” I asked as we returned from the grazing field later that day. “I do not know my child, a stranger to our land in need of vittles.” “Where is he from? I’ve never seen a man like him before.” “A land far from here boy, where Helios rises to drive his fiery chariot across the sky.” “Is he a God?” “No, he is mortal like us all Hylas. Just a man far from home. Now, do you understand why I gave him our most prized goat when he clearly could have either hunted for his own food, or worse, killed the two of us and taken what he wanted?” Shocked by my fathers question I simply shook my head in my ignorance. “Because,” my father paused, and with arms stretched out, gesturing to our large flock grazing all around. “We have plenty, and he had not but what he wore. The loss of a single goat will do little to hurt us, but will save that man's life. No matter the cost to our own wealth, if we can save the life of a single person then it is our duty to sacrifice what we can to do so. Even if that person has the means to do it themselves. We can always get another goat, bull, horse, or whatever it may be, but a man's life can never be returned from the grip of Hades. Do you understand me?” Not fully understanding, I simply nodded my head saying “I think so”.

With a rare smile my father patted me on the shoulder and said, “that’s alright, think on it.” And think on it I did. For the rest of that day's journey back home was silent other than the natural world around us. I pondered what my father had told me the entire way back. Although I had planned on asking my father on our arrival home about what he had meant, there had been no time. As the king he had urgent stately business to attend to on our return, and I, as the prince, was tasked with ensuring the flock’s safe return to the pastor. Other than in passing, I would never speak to my father again. The life of a king is a busy one and leaves little time for family matters. The only reason I had been with him taking the flock out to graze, was because I was turning sixteen that year and was to take on the role of head herder of the flock. As the king and my father, it was his responsibility to show me the proper way. He had told me “to be a good king one must know how to lead all under their protection.” The reason I am telling you all of this is to show you why it is of great urgency that I escape. My father was murdered, and I am the murderer's captive. You are the only one that can save me, and take me far away to a place He can never find me. The stories told about Him are all lies, Heracles is no hero of man. *** It was the eve of my sixteenth birthday when my fathers murderer came to Dryopis. A storm had gathered over the city the hours leading up to when Heracles arrived, bringing with him his lies and deceit of my fathers death. Boldly declaring in front of the entire court of Dryopis that “King Theiodamas is dead, and he died by my hands.” At the great uproar of Heracles' proclamation to my fathers murder, the senate demanded an explanation. With a simple wave of Heracles’ deadly hand, the entire senate fell silent, frightened that the murderous son of Zeus would turn on them. “Unwilling to part with a simple calf so that I may feed myself and stave off starvation, Theiodamas showed himself to be a dishonorable man and an unjust king.” Thinking he would be believed, Heracles told a bold face lie to the people who knew my father better than even I, his own son. In a chorus the senate bombarded Heracles with ridicule and justice, calling him a murderer. In a fit of rage the killer declared war on our entire people stating he would “return to conquer and lay waste to all Dryopians, all but you. “Son of Theiodamas, your beauty has encapsulated me, and for my prize I will have you. By right of conquest you will be mine to do with what I please, forever and always.” The wicked smile that fell upon the so-called hero revealed a darkness only hinted at in the stories as a wicked and tragic curse.

It was no curse but rather a horrible reality. Heracles is a murdering psychopath and within the week he had returned with a ravaging army to conquer Dryopis. Decimating the army I had come to know as friends and future citizens to protect as their King. My world had come to an end all at the hands of my childhood hero, and soon to be rapist.

“In the name of my Father, Zeus the Almighty I declare rights of conquest upon this land and its people.” Heracles declared to the surrendering senate. “By His laws I have the right to slay any living descendant of Dryopian blood, and I will. That is unless you give up your prince to me, to have forever as mine to do as I see fit.” In protest I pleaded “do not do this, do not give into this murderers demands! He slayed your king, your sons, your brothers! His men are ravaging our city and our women do not give in. I beg of you!” Alas my words fell on deaf ears, and the cowards stepped aside as Heracles waded towards me, and as if I were nothing but a babe, picked me up and strung me across his shoulders. Although I pounded my fists into his back, and kicked my knees deep into his face with all of my might, the attacks were like an insect bite to him. I do not think he even noticed that I struggled and screamed my protests at the world. He simply strode through the wreckage of my home to his war tent, where he forced himself unto me. I do not recall much of the following days, weeks or even months. It was as if I was living in a fog. What I do recall is that it was during these early days with him that I promised myself I would bring ruin to Heracles. I began training relentlessly under my captor's tutelage so that one day I could turn his warrior skills on him, and bring an end to the tyrannical life of Heracles. Seeing that I had begun to take to his lessons, Heracles’ savage nightly assaults started to decrease to the point that they only occurred when he became angered. Not only at me, but whenever his rage was enacted. Which for a man as vile and controlled by their emotions and whims as Heracles, it is more frequent than not. He even began to treat me with what I imagine he believes to be tinder love. Caressing my hair as he cages me in his unmovable strength. Whispering poems of beautiful words, and feelings that would sweep anyone off their feet, yet they act only to fuel the flame of hatred within me. However I knew that to survive I had to hide my loathing abhorrence for him, and so I played along. Returning each touch, and word with my own. Soon enough I found myself unable to truly hate the man who killed my father and assaulted me regularly, for I had begun to fall in love with Heracles. The days of my capture stretched into weeks, and the weeks into months, until word had made its way to Heracles and myself, that the greatest fleet of adventurers and heroes had begun to gather. So Heracles and I traveled to Iolcus where we joined the crew of the ship Argo. Once we arrived in Iolcus we met the greatest heroes of our time. Orpheus, the greatest poet and bard I have ever heard in my life. It is said he can coax the trees with his lyre. He even claims to be able to bring Hades himself to tears, “if only I had the opportunity”, he is keen to say. I hope he never does. Iolas, Heracles' younger cousin was there too, and for the first time in I do not know how long, Heracles paid little attention to me. However the reprieve would not last long, for as soon as the Argonauts, the name given to the crew, set out, Heracles came to me nightly. For a month now we have been questing, searching for the legendary Golden Fleece with Jason, a young nobleman of about my own age. He is eager to prove his worth to the other, older and capable heroes of living legend. He is a kind enough leader, if not a little foolish. Although I truly do wish him success in his quest, I can no longer bear being with Heracles. I am sworn by blood, and oath to slay my fathers murderer, and the man who defiled me. The man who I now love with all my being. My heart tears and my soul screams out in anguish. I can neither slay nor lay with him any longer. I must escape him, I must be rid of Heracles the Triumphant, the Hero, the Murderer. The Rapist.

*** “That is why I ask of you, please take me under your waters so that Heracles may never find me. I will do whatever you ask of me.” I ask the Naiad of Pegae. She looks at me with her majestic lake green eyes. There is a depth to them that pulls at me, at my soul as if it were calling me to it. For the first time since the news of my fathers murder I feel at peace, driving me further to push her to answer my request. “Please, Heracles is out hunting, he will be back looking for me at any moment. This is our only chance. My only chance. I beg of you, please take me with you.” “Your story has touched my heart, and I believe I have fallen in love with you mortal. Yes, I think I will take you with me.” She says with the voice of a murmuring spring, and the smile of a hungery eel. “You are so very beautiful, I would hate to lose you to a creature such as Him.” A feeling of dread falls over me the instant her smile changes from that of a beautiful maiden, to a hungry predator. Before I am able to distance myself from the shore of her spring, she captures me in her grip. Her preternatural strength thwarting my escape the naiad pulls me under the deep water. As the icy water enshrouds me in its dark depths, a final thought of regret runs through my mind. I do not want to die. With enough air in my lungs for a single word I scream my last mortal word. “Heracles!”