An Incredible Journey Assured!!

[Inspired by Arthur C. Clake's short stories.]

Mars had already been colonized almost a century ago. But even in 2130, you people can have no idea of the troubles and trials we had to endure before we perfected the Hyperspace- transporter, before large scale migration to Mars became possible. The greatest hurdle, as it had been with the television and the primitive computer, was with improving the definition, and we spent nearly ten years perfecting that. The Hyperspace transporter was dreamt of in little dream of getting to Mars a bit faster than two years (as it was in an ordinary space shuttle). The Earth’s population had increased manifold during the early 21st century and the discovery that Mars could be made habitable caused such an excitement and flurry that people packed their bags before an adequate mode of transport was concocted. Such was the beginning of the subtle yet elegant Hyperspace-transporter invented by, I am proud to say, me.

This thingamajig or gizmo could help in instantaneous transport to and from Mars or anywhere where there is the receiving thingamabob. So first one must get there by any primitive vehicle, like the space shuttle or whatever they used then or by any of our galaxyships, and set up the receiving unit. The structure designed using complicated circuits, neutrincs, wave transformation and quantum principles (the details of which I do not want to frighten you with here) makes a wormhole through the hyperspace boundary and as all of you learned from your textbooks, you can go a whole lot faster in there.

As you will have seen in the Martian Science Museum, the first object we transmitted was a cube, which was assembled all right, only instead of being one solid block it consisted of millions of little spheres. To perfect this we added neutrino-scanners all round our subject on all six faces. It was a lovely game synchronizing all six…. but hey it worked!

When they were not looking, we borrowed a lab mouse from the biology people and sent it through the apparatus. The scientists on Mars received it in good condition only for the exception that it was dead. We obtained another mouse, covered it with the non-toxic exofrincium (element 137), and sent it through the transmitter. To our delight, it revived. We immediately had killed it and stuffed it for the benefit of posterity. You can see that too in the Museum.

The time had obviously come for one of us to try out the apparatus but as we realized what a loss it would be to humanity should anything go wrong, we found a suitable victim in the person of Professor Berry, who teaches Greek or something foolish in Cambridge. We lured him to the transmitter with a copy of Homer, switched on the field, and by the row from the receiver, we knew he’d arrived safely and in full possession of his faculties, as they were. We would have liked to have him stuffed as well, but it couldn’t be arranged.

Then the scientists went through it in turns, and found the experience quite painless, and decided to put the device on the market. I expect your parents can remember the excitement there was when we first demonstrated our little toy to the Press. This demonstration gave us so much publicity that we had no trouble at all in forming a company. We bade a reluctant farewell to the Research Foundation, told the remaining scientists that perhaps one day we’d heap coals of fire on their heads by sending them a few millions, and started to design our first commercial senders and receivers. The first service was inaugurated on June 11th, 2057. The ceremony took place in the Indian megalopolis Dcomsistai (earlier known as Chennai), and even the Martian Paramount City had a huge crowd watching to see the first passengers arrive.

After that, passengers began to stream through at the rate at which water gushes out from a Himalayan glacier, which left the Customs officials helpless. The service was a great and instantaneous success, as we charged only $50 per head and $80 only as a special discount for those with two. Naturally, there were accidents, but we could point out that we had done what no Minister of Space Transport had ever done, reduced space highway fatalities to a mere hundred thousand a year. We lost only one client in 15 million, which was pretty good to start with, though our record is even better now. Some mishaps were very peculiar indeed, and in fact, there were quite a few facts which we haven’t explained to the dependents yet, or to the insurance companies either.

One complaint was median short loops along the wormhole. When that happened, our unfortunate passenger was just dissipated into nothingness. I suppose his or her atoms would go into orbit around the Sun. I remembered one particularly gruesome accident when the apparatus failed in the middle of transmission. You can guess the result … Perhaps even worse was what happened when two wormholes got crossed and the loops got mixed.

We also had a good deal of trouble through interference and static. You see, our apparatus picked up various gamma disturbances and superimposed them on the object under transmission. As a result many people came out looking nothing on Earth and very little on Mercury or Pluto. They could usually be straightened out by the plastic surgeons, but some of the products had to be seen to be believed. Now, the glitches have been corrected and device has been perfected, so that the probability of you looking like a goose when you arrive has been reduced to a minimum. But hey, without the risk it couldn’t be an incredible journey.

As you can very well see, the population here, even on Mars had been exponentially increasing and the resources decreasing and humanity is once again forced to migrate to another planet. I am proud to announce a receiver has just been installed on Titan and I promise that there’ll be more from where that came from. Also a galaxyship has been sent to Proxima Centuri to install the apparatus in Planet XD2 (soon to be named Redonc).

Oh my!! It’s nearly 10 p.m. I have meeting on Earth tomorrow morning. What’s that? … Oh no! I’m going by a galaxyship. I don’t go by Hyperspace, much too risky.
Goodnight everyone.

The Litchi Garden

Streaks of light split open a grey sky as the morning sun emerged from its hinterland hibernation. The monsoons were finally receding. The atmosphere was heavy and moisture hung in the air beclouding as much was possible of the garden. A young girl, with a little straw basket held slackly under her arms, was standing alone in the fog and was waiting patiently and eagerly for it to clear. The sight that she had been waiting for the past couple of weeks was about to unveil itself in front of her.

More clouds dispersed as the sun slowly rose over the horizon. When its rays finally reached the garden, the girl was found gaping in awe. Translucent, lissome, dew drops fell from a bright red and pink fusion of ripe litchis, that were hanging in enormous bunches crowned by dark green leaves. These lined both sides of the muddy lane that stretched out before her. It was a magnificent sight and the smell of the soil added the subtle spice to complete the experience.

This wasn’t new for Chutki. It was just the same as it had been for the past eight years, yet her initial enthusiasm remained ever as high.

Chutki lived next to a litchi garden. Her mother worked for the landlord of the area and she hadn’t seen her father in quite sometime. It was her morning job that made the eye of envy for the other children in the village; Chutki picked litchis.

Every single morning during the harvest season, Chutki woke up early and rushed to the garden and at stood at the very same spot to watch the mist clear. She ran along picking the ripe fruits from the trees. She happily went about through the hard, tiring routine. Most of the time she sang, and the other times she relished the ecstasy from a stolen litchi. She loved the garden. She’d spend entire afternoons, and even evenings at the garden, intoxicated by the fruits.

She would just sit there and smile and she would dream. She would dream of land beyond and life away from the garden. Many of her friends at school had moved to the city. She heard so many stories one day wished that she could go there. She wanted to learn about science and economics and about the rest of the world and she sang about that all day long.

One day, her mother rushed into the hut, with tears in her eyes. These were tears of joy. “Chutki! We are going to the city!” she cried enthusiastically.“The landlord’s son is moving there and he wants us to go in order to help him. Isn’t that wonderful? This is what we have been waiting for. Aren’t you happy Chutki?”

Tears fell down Chutki’s eyes forming rivulets as it marred her young cheeks. These were tears of sadness. “NO! I’m not coming”, she screamed and darted out of the house.

Her mom stood there, surprised. Chutki was always dreaming about life in the city and now she wondered what possibly could be the reason for the change of attitude.

Chutki ran to the garden and kept running till she could run no more. She knelt down on the soil, her tears now mixed with sweat. She herself could not understand what was pulling her back. Why would she ever leave this haven, her real home, where she had been happy for all this time? It was as if a spirit had seized her and was not letting go or maybe she just couldn’t apprehend a nostalgic feeling. But she was sure of one thing, that all her dreams would come true in the litchi garden.

*****

Love By Numbers - The Short Story

LOVE BY NUMBERS
The Short Story

Music, to me, is the language of the emotions. It is the lingua franca of passion and desire, of happiness and sorrow, of hatred and fear, and of love and hope. Twelve magical notes convolved in a myriad of mesmerizing sequences beguiling the hearts of millions who lend their ears. The beats, the octaves, and the diverse instruments orchestrate a feeling of what life is meant to be.
I was fortunate to find a person who shared the same passion as me. Her name was Talitha. The only thing she couldn’t do was ‘see’.
One fine evening, after my usual practice routine, I was making my way out from the band room on the terrace. The sky was a naive blue without a cloud in sight and a slight breeze kept the atmosphere lucid. I heard a faint voice, singing. Impressed, I moved towards it. That was when I first saw her. Her back was turned towards me. The dark blue shawl of her salwaar contrasted the sky, as it danced in the breeze, along with her satiny black hair. She was singing to the wind.
I quickly ran back to the band room and brought out my acoustic guitar. Catching her melody, I strummed the chords behind her. She was startled at first, but continued singing without turning around. Probably she wanted to amuse me and my pertinacity.
“Who is this?” she asked after she finished her song.
I kept strumming a vague tune. I wanted her to turn towards me, but she didn’t.
“You play beautifully”, she said.
“You sing beautifully”, I replied.
“Why, thank you!” she turned around and smiled. The first time I saw her smile; it took my breath away. She was wearing round black sunglasses, and I felt that behind those were the most amazing eyes a person could be endowed with.
I remember that day very well. She sang and I played through the evening, till the sky turned pink and orange. I never knew at that point of time that she couldn’t revel in the colours of nature as I did.
Over the next few days, we met everyday on the terrace. We sang, we danced and talked through the night. Talitha had lost her eyesight at the age of three in a gas explosion. She was a smart girl, however, and she learnt quickly how to live with and overcome her disability. All she remembered from the world of sight were hazy memories of her parent’s faces. She got along with life just fine. Her prime quality was that she refused to give up, and one day wished to make it big and maybe even secure the means the regain her eyesight.
As time went by, we grew closer. We shared our memories, our happiness, and our sorrow. I followed her home every night just to make sure she got there safe because she wouldn’t let me come along with her. Best of all, we made music together, and that was what kept us eternally bound.
I taught her how to play the guitar. Her lissom fingers found it hard to press the strings initially, but like I said, she learnt quickly. She wasn’t able to grasp the notes of the music readily, so I taught her the numbers and the tabs.
“This is such an amazing instrument!”
“It really is. Every time I play it, I feel as if I’ve lost a part of me in it.”
Soon we were writing our own tunes and she came up with the most beautiful lyrics. I was in love, and so was she and every thing was perfect.
Everything was perfect till I received the letter from the Army. I was to be drafted. I did not have a choice and I had to leave for at least two years. I told her that I would be safe and I would come home soon, but she knew as well as I did that the truth to that statement was as much as a tear drop in a flood of grief. I kissed her for the first time, and I left.

******


For three years, I didn’t hear from Rohit. My life became weary and hebetudinous. All I had was hope, that some day he would walk in, and I could hear his voice again, and feel his breath, and that our music would live on. Hope is a lie.
On one particular day, the atmosphere felt more oppressive than usual. I heard a set of three coarse knocks on the door. Apprehensive, I slowly walked towards the door, and called out.
“Who is this? What do you want?”
A deep, rough voice replied “Ms. Talitha. Ma’m I’m from the Army,” he paused, “I’m afraid I have some bad news. Rohit...”
He didn’t have to say anymore. My world was already spinning. After all these years, I feared this moment would come, I refused to believe it. Rohit, who taught me how to see a life beyond myself, who taught me the meaning of love, the only person I’d ever wanted to see...
“He has left a package for you,” the man outside continued, “he wished that it would reach you under any circumstance.”
“A package?”
I braved my tears and opened the door. I stumbled as I picked up the package from the man. It was a bit heavy.
“I’m deeply sorry for your loss. He was a good man and a courageous man. He loved you very much.”
I didn’t say anything. I was transfixed. And after a while, I heard his footsteps die as he walked away. Hasn’t he seen a blind woman’s tears? I went back inside, and ripped open the package hastily. A set of light plates fell onto the floor. I fumbled as I picked them up and I felt my fingers all over them. The all too familiar dots; It was Braille. They were numbers written in sequences of six arranged linearly.
I was confused. “Is this a game? He sends me a bunch of numbers? A code?” I did not understand the cause for my anger; maybe it was out of fear of acceptance.
Right then, I remembered all the times we’d spent together. I remembered the music. I pulled out his guitar and I pressed my fingers on the strings. I felt a slight pain. I must’ve pressed too hard; I didn’t care. I felt the numbers on the plate again, located them on the fret board, and I played and I played the last song he wrote for me.


******



The End