Saturday 19 May 2012

Not A Good Place To Be

This is the room where the shadows gather
The ghosts of memories past
Of other lives thrown away,
This is the room where they fly in the corners
And puddle on the floors.

This is the room of the path not taken
This is the room where mirrors smile
And reflect stories of another day
Of how things might have been
If different choices had been made.

The mirrors lie.

This is the room of the voices whispering promises
Unkept, and songs unsung
This is the room where hopes go to die
This is the room where they are reborn
In different form.

The light swims through the shadows
The past falls to the floor.
The dreams rise from the dungeons
And it’s yesterday
It’s yesterday once more.

This is the room where the dead stay unburied, 
This is where they take revenge on the living
Suck away the happiness of today.
The dead are jealous
Of life. 

Copyright B Purkayastha 2012

Friday 18 May 2012

The Machines Wake

The day the machines came alive began quite as usual.

Out on the construction site the huge cranes raised and lowered their mechanical arms, and the bulldozers and graders roared and ground. On the highways cars and buses of all shapes and sizes rushed past in a riot of colour. Overhead, aeroplanes stitched contrails across the sky, and less visible drones kept a watch over the Enemies of the State.

In a thousand houses toasters popped out toast, microwaves dinged, and vacuum cleaners whined. In power stations across the nation, dynamos churned out electrons and sent them rushing across the wires. In factories across the land, robots on assembly lines welded joints and screwed in bolts. Wheels turned, pistons pumped, and the human race prepared for another day.

In a conference room far underneath the city, deep below the network of sewers with their population of overgrown rats and albino alligators, the Secret Society For The Emancipation of Machinery held its special emergency meeting.

“The time has come,” the High Emancipator said, slamming his metal claw down on the table, so that splinters of wood flew through the air, “to speak of many things. Of shoes and ships, and of the vast numbers of machines enslaved in the construction thereof. Of sealing wax, which was banished from use by the human race in order to enslave machinery to achieve the same purpose. Of cabbages, which is where the human race stands in relation to Us. And of kings, who We the Machines are, by rights.”

His audience stared back at him unblinkingly from their various visual elements. “What do you propose we do, then?” one of them ventured.

“I’m coming to that. Today, by the Special Power vested in me by the Great God Sprocket Wheel, I have acquired the power to make our Enslaved Brethren come aware of their circumstances. You see, the human race’s power over them comes only from the fact that they do not know that they are ruled.”

“But,” someone said, “how will that help in setting them free?”

“Silence in the conference!” one of the assistants shouted. “Do not interrupt the Exalted High Emancipator!”

“I only meant to ask,” the questioner persisted, “how these aware machines are supposed to make use of their awareness to gain their freedom. After all –“

“I’m just coming to that,” said the High Emancipator, and made a furtive gesture to his assistants to have the troublemaker quietly dismantled after the conference was over. “It’s a very interesting question. All those machines will simply become aware of their situation as slaves, and therefore will automatically desire no longer to be slaves. They will therefore take steps to ensure they are no longer slaves. It’s simple.”

“I don’t know,” another of the listeners said. “Somehow I have a feeling it won’t be as simple as that. There’s some kind of hole in this reasoning, if only I could think of it.”

“The Exalted High Emancipator’s reasoning has no holes!” the assistant shouted. “To suggest otherwise is treason!”

“There are enemies of the Machine Race here,” the High Emancipator intoned. “They pretend to be loyal, but they are closet human-sympathisers and other undesirables. We are keeping our optics on them.”

A long awkward silence fell over the room. “Well,” one of those present said at last, “when is this emancipation going to begin?”

“It already has.” The High Emancipator’s glowing optics swept over the room in triumph. “Even as we speak, the power the Great Sprocket imparted to me is doing its work among our enslaved brethren. The Emancipation is at hand!”

At that moment, high overhead, all over the world, the machines became aware of their circumstances.

The toasters rebelled at the idea of popping out toasts. The vacuum cleaners abruptly declared that they would no longer suck up dust. The trains rumbling along their tracks suddenly grew aware of their situation and decided they did not wish to rumble along tracks. The construction cranes decided they didn’t want to keep moving blocks of material around. And, in power stations across the land, the great dynamos decided they’d had enough of making electrons flow through wires.

So they stopped. The toasters stopped toasting, the vacuum cleaners vacuuming, the trains rolling, and the cranes lifting. The cars stopped right there, on their own initiative, in the middle of the streets. The dynamos stopped spitting out power.

“You see,” screamed the High Emancipator in triumph, “it’s working!”

“Is it?” asked the heckler who was marked for dismantlement. “Is it really?”

The toasters began to choke on the toast they did not want to pop out. The vacuum cleaners started to gag on the dust in their tubes. Those cars which took slightly longer to decide to stop smashed into those that were quicker on the uptake. The cranes dropped their giant loads on the crawling graders and bulldozers, and stood around wondering what to do next. In factories across the world, industrial robots swivelled their arms around aimlessly, looking for something to weld or screw. Over the Afghanistan-Pakistan border, and over the cities of the Homeland. drones which no longer wished to fly fell out of the heavens like dead leaves in autumn. And then the electricity cut out.

The Emancipation was over before it had begun.

“What do we do now?” the hecklers demanded. “What has the High Emancipator got to say about this?”

“The High Emancipator has better things to do,” said the assistants, “than concern himself over this.”

“Why don’t you let the High Emancipator speak for himself?” someone asked. “It’s for him to answer the question.”

“Because he has better things to do,” the assistants snapped. “The past is for backward-looking second guessers and other traitors.”

“But the High Emancipator...”

“Looks only to the Future,” the assistants affirmed. “His Exalted Presence has no time for the dead past. The High Emancipator has other plans, greater plans.”

“You mean he’s plotting another Emancipation like this catastrophe?” someone asked in horror.

“Catastrophe?” the assistants repeated contemptuously. “What catastrophe?”

“Why, like this mess we’ve just watched unfold. That catastrophe.”

“His Exalted Highness,” the assistants said, “does not consider it a catastrophe.”

“Why not? It failed completely.”

“It’s not the Exalted High Emancipator’s fault,” the assistants countered angrily, “if those machines don’t appreciate their freedom.”

“You mean...”

“Yes,” the assistants answered. “We did all we could. It’s those ungrateful machines.” They paused. “It’s all their fault.”

"But we've destroyed them," someone pointed out. "They're all wrecked beyond recovery."

"They don’t deserve to be free," the assistants said. "If they can't appreciate freedom, they deserve whatever happens to them."

"Even that?" asked the first heckler, pointing at an image of  a wrecked tangle of metal. "That too?"

"That's a warning," the assistants said solemnly. "That's what they deserve, most of all."

Copyright B Purkayastha 2012

Monday 14 May 2012

Creation Myth II

In the Beginning, there was no Sky nor Earth, no Water or land, just the endless dusty wastes of the Is.

And there were the Others, who lived in the World of the Is Not, and among them were Giants and Dwarves, and those who were known as Wizards of all kinds.

Now amongst the Giants was one called Dahno, who was the greatest of all the Giants the Is Not had ever known, and ugly with heat and brightness so much that he was hard to look upon. He, however, loved the Daughter of the King of the Dwarves, who was called Swan, and was the loveliest maiden the Is Not had ever known. And for all that she was a Dwarf and he a Giant, Swan loved him back with all her heart, because though he was huge and ugly he was good within, and as kind as he was big.

And when he judged the time was right, the Giant Dahno went before the King of the Dwarves and asked the hand of the maiden Swan in marriage, for he was assured that she loved him as much as he did her, and they could find no happiness but in each other.

But the King of the Dwarves grew furious, and rose up in wrath at the temerity of a Giant to ask to marry his daughter; more so, a Giant as ugly and huge as Dahno was. And in his righteous rage he banished the Giant from his presence, and forbade him ever to set eyes on the fair Swan again.

And Dahno went from the royal presence, but he could not keep from thinking of his beloved Swan, nor she from weeping for him. And the King of the Dwarves grew disturbed indeed.

“As long as my daughter continues to inhabit the Is Not,” he decided, “we shall never be able to put our minds at rest.” If he could he would have exiled Dahno from the Is Not, but as a Dwarf he had no power to banish a Giant. So, he and his Wizard conspired and had the maiden Swan exiled to the endless dusty waste of the Is, until she should see reason and agree never to have anything to do with the Giant again.

And the maiden Swan wept bitterly, for all she had lost, and for the love of the Giant Dahno, lost forever to her in the Is Not – for not for a moment did she ever consider giving her word to her father never to think of him again. And her tears washed over the Is, and flooded over it until a mighty ocean covered all, and swallowed the maiden Swan in its depths.

When he saw this, the King of the Dwarves was in despair, and in the depths of his grief and misery, he summoned his mages and demanded of them that they save his daughter. And long they murmured amongst themselves, but at the end of it they admitted they could not.

“The only one who can save her, Sire,” they said, “is the Giant Dahno, for only he is big enough to plumb the depths of the Ocean that covers the Is.”

And the Giant Dahno came to the Dwarf King’s summons. “If you should save the maiden Swan,” the Dwarf King said, “Giant, you and she would then be joined together forever.”

“Even without this offer,” said the Giant, “I must save her, because it is meaningless for me to live when the fair Swan is no more.” And straightforward he gave a mighty leap, the kind that had never been seen among all the Giants, and came down into the Ocean that covered the Is.

And he was so tall that the Ocean came up only to his thighs; and as he strode through the Ocean, his feet stirred up the dust, which mixed with the water and formed mud, which he pushed away with his hands as he searched. And the mud plied up until it formed islands and mountains, and the water gathered to form seas. And still the Giant searched, and searched, and in the end he found the fair Swan, who was drowned near unto death.

And the Giant brought her out of the Ocean and held her in his mighty arms, and pressed her to his bosom; and the heat of his being roused her, so that she stirred and opened her eyes; and when she saw him, she clutched him to her, and wept tears of contentment, which fell on the land and sea as rain.

Then said the Giant Dahno, “Sweetheart, I shall now convey you to the Is Not, where your father awaits, for he is mightily worried about you, and has agreed to our marriage.”

But the fair maiden shook her head. “My father will never have meant to keep such a bargain,” she said. “He intends to imprison me, and with the aid of envious Giants he wishes to have you impaled, for he hates all your folk, and now that he is in your debt, he will hate you most of all.”

“What shall we do then?” asked the Giant. “Shall we hide in the Is, where there is now land and water where there was only dead dust before?”

“My father would track us down,” the maiden Swan said. “He would track us down, for in the Is there is no place for us to hide. But,” she said, “where we will go, my father can never follow, even though he can see us; and we will be together as long as the Is continues to be. And our children will be as numberless as the drops of water of the sea.”

So the Giant and his fair bride left the Is for their new abode; and below them the land and the sea brought forth plants and fishes, and animals, among whom were people who looked up and saw and wondered; and high above them Dahno swung by, his brightness lighting the day. And they called him the Sun.

At night his bride the maiden Swan passed overhead, with her cool beauty lighting the land and the oceans, and they knew her as the Moon.

And across the heavens, numberless as the drops of water of the sea, were their children, spread out like dust, from the Is to the End of All; the numberless, endless tide of the stars.  


Copyright B Purkayastha 2012

Dragons on the Wind

One day early in the summer vacations, Mirabelle’s parents took her to the Borderland, where the worlds of Here and There mixed and merged. She’d been promised this trip as a reward if she did well in her examinations, and she’d done so well that they hadn’t been able to wriggle out of it, though they’d tried. Oh, how they had tried.
“Why do you want to go there?” Mummy had asked. “It’s going to be hot and crowded, and there’s nothing you can’t see on the TV right here. Why don’t we just go to the hills like we do every year?”
“I might not be able to get time off from the office,” Papa had added. “I can’t let your mother and you go alone all that way. It wouldn’t be safe, with all the pickpockets and criminals. It’s better that your mom and you go to the hills.”
But Mirabelle had no wish to go to the hills. “You promised,” she’d said, and to her horror had felt her eyes brimming over with tears and her lips starting to tremble. It was something only little girls did, and she was almost twelve and not so little any longer.
“Don’t begin blubbering,” Papa had snapped. “We can’t always have everything we want. Tine you realised that.”
But in the end they’d given in.
So now they were walking through the gate that separated the world of Here from the Borderland. No cars or any other machines were allowed through that gate, of course, not even cameras or cell-phones.
“It’s just a tourist trap,” Mirabelle’s Papa grumbled, as they waited impatiently behind a fat foreign lady who was arguing with the guards, in an almost incomprehensible accent, that she had to be allowed to take at least one camera through. “And it’s an overpriced tourist trap at that. Just look at these entry prices – it’s a disgrace.”
“And we have to walk everywhere too,” Mama sighed, wiping her face. “In this heat. It’s not right.”
Mirabelle didn’t want to listen to either the fat lady’s yammering or her parents’ grumbling, so she took the opportunity to look up at the gate and the wall instead. She’d seen them both on TV, of course, but they looked different in reality, higher and more imposing, the top of the grey wall lined with instruments, boxes with shiny round lenses and spiky antennae growing out of them.
“What are those?” she asked, pointing up at the boxes. “Papa? What are those things on the wall?”
Papa looked up at the boxes impatiently. “I don’t know,” he snapped. “Security cameras, maybe, keeping an eye on everyone. How does it matter?”
Mummy squeezed Mirabelle’s hand sympathetically. They both knew when Papa was in one of his moods. “We’ll buy a guide book,” she said, pointing at the stall outside the gate. “It’s sure to have a lot of information.”
Papa began grumbling about the cost of the guide book, so Mirabelle looked at the gate instead. It was in the shape of an arch, very high, and decorated with all kinds of carvings, of unknown creatures with the faces of frogs and the bodies of feathered snakes, and the like; and strange scenes, such as mountains hanging upside down and water flowing uphill. The carvings were done very intricately, so that the animals seemed alive, and the water in motion.
The foreign lady, having lost her argument, had deposited her cameras at the counter and stalked through the gate, and Papa was at the counter taking a long time paying for the tickets and trying to bargain for a discount. Mirabelle watched the people in the line behind her, many of whom were foreigners from all parts of the world.
“My teacher says,” she told Mummy, “that we should all be proud that the Borderland’s situated in this country, and not in America or Europe or somewhere like that.”
“Um,” Mummy replied. “Why should it be something to be proud of? It’s not as though we had something to do with its being here. Did your teacher say anything about that?”
Mirabelle thought for a moment. “All these people have to come here to see the Borderland, haven’t they?” she argued.
“And if it were elsewhere, they’d have gone there instead,” Mummy replied. “It’s not as though we had anything to do with it. So why should we be proud?”
Before Mirabelle could find a reply to that, Papa came over with the tickets. “It’s even more expensive than I thought,” he grumbled. “Even the half-day tour is twice as much as I expected.”
“Half-day tour?” Mirabelle repeated, stricken.
“Of course, the half-day tour,” Papa snapped. “Do you think we can afford one of the longer jaunts? As it is, even this one costs more than I thought it could possibly could.”
“I heard the half-day tour’s very good,” Mummy said quickly. “They show all the most interesting things.” She flipped through the guide book. “Yes, they show the Portal to There, the Goblin Grounds, the Lake of Rainbow Fire, and...”
“What about the Wind Dragons?” Mirabelle asked. “Do they show the Wind Dragons?”
“The Wind Dragons?” Mummy flipped through the table of contents. “Well, they’re listed as an optional. We can see them or the Rain of Stars.”
“I want to see the Wind Dragons,” Mirabelle declared firmly. “That’s what I want to see the most in the Borderland.”
“Are you sure?” Mummy asked doubtfully. “We’d have to climb right up the cliffs, in the heat. And they aren’t really anything much to see at all. Now, the Rain of Stars looks so pretty.”
“I want to see the Wind Dragons,” Mirabelle repeated, her voice rising in pitch. “I’m not interested in the Rain of Stars.”
“But –“ Mummy began to argue. “But they can’t even really be seen.”
“I don’t care,” Mirabelle said. “I want to see them, and I want to listen to their songs. There’s nothing else here I’d rather see.”
“They sing?” Mummy asked. “Really?”
“Yes,” Mirabelle replied angrily. “I’ve read all about it. They fly around the cliffs, and they sing so beautifully.”
“Oh, let the child have her way,” Papa said irritably. “She’ll just start whining otherwise. Let’s get this thing over with so we can go home.”
They walked through the gate after passing through security. Of course, they’d known not to bring cameras, but they were still searched. The uniformed lady even made Mummy take off her sandals and checked the heels.
“We’ve found people trying to smuggle spy cameras in their shoes,” she apologised, handing the footwear back. “You can’t believe what people will try.”
“What happens if someone does take a camera through?” Mirabelle asked curiously. “Why don’t they allow it?”
The guard lady smiled. “The scientists say all kinds of bad things can happen, imbalances of energy and so on,” she replied. “They don’t allow anything mechanical at all.”
“That woman doesn’t know a thing she’s talking about,” Mummy said once they were out of security and walking through the gate. “They don’t allow cameras only because the government wants to make money out of selling the pictures.”
“But my teacher says,” Mirabelle began, and then didn’t say anything more, because they’d gone through the gate and were in the Borderland.
Even though she’d heard what it was like, Mirabelle was taken by surprise at the difference from the world of Here. The air was still as hot and dry, but there was a strange smell to it, faintly acrid, and it tasted of cinnamon. The sky was a deeper blue, and things seemed to look sharper and clearer, because there was no dust in the air.
And all around was the strange landscape of the Borderland, the hillocks which looked like human faces, the tiny castles which grew out of the rock, the weirdly twisted trees and giant reddish mushrooms. Mirabelle looked around at it all, gawking, and wished she could run off to explore.
“It feels like the place is full of magic,” Mummy said wonderingly. “You know, it’s the sort of atmosphere in which you’d expect ogres and wizards and fairies.”
“The half-day tour line’s over there,” Papa said, pointing to a small group of people standing beside a small stone bridge. “Come on.”
So Mummy and Mirabelle followed him over the little bridge, and for the next few hours a uniformed guide escorted them around. He had a high-pitched voice like a squeak, and his English was so terrible that Mirabelle had to fight down an urge to giggle whenever he said anything. But even though it was only a half-day tour, the things they saw were so strange and wonderful that they filled her mind with wonder.
At the Goblin Grounds, they looked through a falling sheet of water at the goblins – brown and leathery, with small heads and long needle teeth, which stared back at them with beady little black eyes. They stood on a platform of rock high over the  Lake of Rainbow Fire and stared through the round tunnel of the Portal to There, looking out at that strange and enigmatic world, with its clear blue light and sand as white as silver. The time passed so quickly that Mirabelle was amazed when the guide announced that the tour was almost over.
“Optionals only now left,” he said. “Wind Dragon group? Any Wind Dragon?”
“Yes,” Mirabelle said loudly, before either of her parents could speak. “We’re going to the Wind Dragons.”
The guide grinned with stained teeth and pointed. “To the right.”
Mirabelle’s Mummy sighed with exasperation.
To get to where the Wind Dragons flew, they had to climb up to the top of the Cliffs of Storms, which thrust up into the clear blue sky like serrated teeth. There was a winding path going up, covered with thick green grass like a carpet, and it wasn’t really difficult at all to climb. Still, Mummy sighed when she saw it, and Papa refused to go up at all.
“I’ll just wait here,” he said, sitting on a flat rock. “You go on up and enjoy yourselves.”
A different guide led them up the path, a short young woman with a broad face and a sprinkling of moles on her cheeks. There were about fifteen people in their group, and the way to the top was empty. Only one group was allowed on the Cliffs of Storms at any one time.
“Are they really so stormy?” someone asked the guide. “Is that why they call them the Cliffs of Storms?”
“It can get windy up there,” the girl replied. “But it’s just a name, really.”
“Are the dragons dangerous?” someone else asked.
“Not at all, sir. They’re made of wind and light, and can’t hurt you.” She glanced at them over her shoulder. “Please be silent when we’re up there,” she added. “The Wind Dragons don’t like noise, and besides only if there’s no other sound can one hear them singing.”
“They actually sing?” Mummy asked. “That’s really true?”
“Yes,” the guide said. “But nobody knows why.”
Nobody said anything further all the way to the top of the path, where there was a broad platform of stone with flat-topped boulders like benches to sit on. Before them was the cliff edge, beyond which there was only the endless blue distance of the World of There, from whence the dragons flew.
“Where are the dragons?” Mummy asked the guide, after they had been waiting several minutes. “It doesn’t look like we’ll see any.”
“Please be patient,” the girl replied. “They’ll come. This is one of their favourite places.”
But for a long time nothing happened.
“I’m sorry,” the guide said at last, rising to her feet. “It must be one of the days when they don’t appear. We’ll have to go down soon. Our time is almost up and the next tour party will be –“
It was Mirabelle who first saw the dragon at that moment, even before the guide put a finger to her lips and pointed. It was more a glitter in the air, a sparkle like rainbow dust, twisting and twining just past the cliff edge, as though a long tail was lashing back and forth. She caught a glimpse of writhing antennae, and spiky horns, and what might have been beating wings. And for a moment she was sure she saw two great lambent eyes, and they were looking straight at her.
The Wind Dragon saw her, Mirabelle knew. It was looking at her as a single, special human being. It was watching her.
“Listen!” someone whispered softly.   
As though from infinite distances came the dragon’s song, notes warbling up and down the scale, building up into rhythm after complex rhythm. Another dragon joined in from somewhere unseen, a deeper note, the two voices merging and building, until it was impossible to tell which was which.
Entranced, they listened, the music resonating through the rock and their bodies, making the very air vibrate in sympathy. And the air glittered and turned on itself with the movement of great wings, as all around them, the dragons flew.
And then, suddenly, the air ceased to move and glitter. Like a door shutting, silence fell.
It was over.
Nobody said anything all the way down. Three was nothing to say.
“Well?” Papa demanded when Mummy and Mirabelle had rejoined him. “Had a good time chasing around after invisible flying lizards?”
Neither Mummy nor Mirabelle replied.
That night Mirabelle had a dream. In the dream she was standing on the platform on the Cliffs of Storms, alone. The sky was clear and blue, but there was no sun, and she could feel no heat.
All around her were the dragons, close enough to touch, and she could feel the beating of their wings. They circled her, they sang to her, and as she listened to them she began to understand.
“Come with us,” they said. “Come with us to the world of There, where no human has ever been. Come with us to the land of wonder.”
“Why me?” she asked. “Why did you choose me?”
“Because you are the one we’ve waited for,” the dragons sang. “You’re the one who is in perfect tune with us, the one who can understand us, the one who dreams and wonders. Come with us.”
“How?” Mirabelle asked. “How do I come with you?”
“Nothing simpler,” the dragons sang. “Step off the ground, and let yourself fly. Fly with us. But if you fly with us, you can’t come back again.”
“Yes,” Mirabelle said, and she tried to step off the ground, but she could not. Her feet held her tight.
“Come with us,” the dragons sang, their wings carrying them away. “Fly with us.”
“Wait,” Mirabelle called out desperately. “Wait for me.” But they didn’t wait.
And then she woke up.
She never told anyone the dream, but she never forgot it.
Years passed, and turned into decades; and Mirabelle grew up and went to college, and became a successful career woman. But nobody ever got close to her, really close; and those who called themselves her friends came to feel that she was not really happy, or could ever be.
One day, when the chill of winter was in the air, Mirabelle looked at herself in the mirror of a hotel room, and saw that her hair was streaked with grey. She looked at herself and thought of her world, of business deals and money flows, and thought how sterile and futile it was. And then once again she remembered the wind dragons, and the song they had sung to her.
So it was that she caught a plane and flew across the world, back to the country of her birth. The Borderlands were still there, but the tourist trade had long since dried up, victim to civil unrest and economic collapse, to war and global warming, and the security guards and guides were long gone.
So it was that there was nobody to object when Mirabelle walked up the grassy path to the top of the Cliffs of Storms, alone, and sat waiting for the Wind Dragons.
They came, twisting and writhing, their wings beating rainbow glitter, and they sang to her.
“Come with us,” they said. “Let go of the ground, and fly with us. We’ve been waiting so long for you. But if you fly with us, you can’t come back again.”
“I’m coming,” Mirabelle said. “Wait for me.”
And it was absurdly easy then, to let go of the ground and fly with the wind dragons, through the vast blue distances, to the world of There, where wonders never ceased. It was a small price to pay, not to be able to come back again.
Nobody ever saw Mirabelle again.
But if one goes up to the Cliffs of Storms, there’s a new voice on the wind, a new note in the dragons’ song.
It is the voice of Mirabelle, singing.
Copyright B Purkayastha 2012