Lineage-Fictional Sketches

LINEAGE -

FICTIONAL Sketches

1 Meetings

2 Uncle’s House

3 C.15

4 Bugs

1 Meetings

His room was in a glass cabin camouflaged by curtains. The aide was announced about my arrival and when he read my name written on the small piece of paper, I could see through the hazy glass slides, his convulsions, which was impossible for him to bury. The doorman and his wife talked for a few minutes before granting me an audience to the prince crown. How could they deny me to see him, his only cousin living now? And think further, his mother and my mother had the best possible relationship between two sisters. .. 2 Did I descry the jounce in his eyes and the acedia of handshake when I introduced myself to them? I had all the shabbiness and the ill look of a clown and that odd strabismus that marked me out from any rout. Sometimes it was my armour to get away from the unwanted company. Sometimes it was to my dismay that people took it their privilege to deny me or even delay me something that I deserved. There was a surplus of mosquitos in the room, that were crowding to hit the people in the room making their legs swollen and black. I had my name written on a slip that another aide, maybe a more trustworthy one took and handed over to Damo, my cousin the royal prince and the next king. From childhood we disliked these intrigues, these trivial quarrels over things that are not permanent and in the hasty grabbing of it, man acquires more covetous qualities. Damo also had the same feelings, maybe in a more intense way and he never sought the throne, neither for its own sake nor for any private gain in future. But circumstances were wrought in such a way that he had to accept the wand of the future prince. When we met, he cried. He called my name and cried. I too cried. Perhaps he was thinking of my mother or his own mother or those happy years of childhood, free from concern and craftiness. 3 What is his life now? Who loves him now in a genuine way? Does his wife have that passion of youth and loves him from the bottom of heart? Can he, who is no less than a bundle of bones, love her with equal strength of body and spirit? From the plethora of sycophants who surround him and waste his time for an audience can he with all the sharpness of mind distinguish the genuine one? Not the least. His cousin called his name and said that he is the luckiest of chaps to see him today. He will mark this day in his diary with the picture of roses drawn in it. Damo stayed at the lower storey of the house and Vasetta, who was focusing the cases at Fort's court, remained in the other room. There were two stairs. One that leads to his room that contained many woollen blankets and his collection of chicken feathers that he used as earbuds. And the other to the private kitchen, where he dined at a small table, sitting on an old chair and experiencing his culinary talents. Camunni who came recently after seeing the circus in the town was all praise for the artistes. He had never seen ladies in elegant suits. He was the boy employed by the family to look afrer the cows. It is a demanding job. , 4 Damo was hard to hear and we did not know the correct reason. Once when at college we went to Komballur toddy(country liquor made from palm trees) shop in the company of Venetta and three others. Damo brought us back in his car which he gave sometimes as a private taxi ... We stayed in the two sections of the traditional building. Late at night, the lights shone in his mini Alexandrian library. Volumes from Plato to Swapnavasavadattam, half-read and scattered throughout the room, which the librarian organized in the morning hours. Damo probably read it all. Where did you get energy for all this? His student was discussing another treatise he had learned. Some people in the costumes of the assistants came and went. They silently lit the cigarettes in the cell on the corner, Damo's irritating behaviour upset some who were fair to treat him according to his stature. Hey, he had his minutes without power, something for the people and something modest to recognize him. In front of a group of young people, he tried to say something close to his heart that the general public thought silly and inopportune. Meanwhile, Bacchus has overpowered him. The children wanted to get back their father, but it was too late and the disease had spread to another organ ... 5 What should I say my dear friends..only that this Damo no longer exists now? He was more than a brother and more than a friend to me. When I was away from him, I never felt his absence. Yes, they say that true friends can communicate with each other in the same way as when they are on a sofa. Time and distance are illusions as many before I have declared. Love is very strange. Love is so real This my dear Damo knew it too. But I must admit now that I have no knowledge of his whereabouts. In fact, I'm not interested ... Now his wife, the sad lady enters the cemetery to praise her life partner. To return to her best positive self. To capture once again that intimacy and her veil flutters in the north wind. It is a pure waste of time. Not a necessary labour as Damo's friends told each other. Maybe she can have that feeling by staying alone in a cell with no sadder thoughts to bear. She now quotes my dear brother Damo that in life, every moment is a full flower and you being the gardener who told you to steal a flower and take pride in that

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2 -Uncle's House

My uncle stayed in the country. The house was an eight structured building of the traditional type that was once common in ancient times. It could accommodate several families and usually, siblings or cousins ​​stayed with their families even after the wedding. The atmosphere of these families was very cooperative and almost all the problems could be solved very easily thanks to the mutual help of the parents. Later, families began to separate and the children became more egocentric, unlike earlier eras when group pursuits were quite common.

My aunt taught me philosophies, and my uncle was very competent in this field, even though he had other interests such as music and football. He was a regular guest to the Europa League. When I was in grade two, my aunt insisted that I take notes from Heidegger's Being and Time and Sartre's Being and Nothingness, telling me that it would at least improve my thinking skills. Although it did not make me exceptional, I scored higher on the terminal exam than the previous year and qualified for a scholarship.

My aunt was such a good storyteller that she told stories to a great filmmaker because she loved to share stories, and this gentleman did many shows, stories told by her and some became hits This filmmaker was a distant cousin to me, a man. My uncle was also great in philosophical debates and was a great orator and crowd puller, but stayed away from politics and devoted his energy to crafts and music. He is groomed in the traditional Indian fashion, with a profuse kurta and a loose garments, very easy and pleasant when sitting or walking in the garden, but difficult while crossing the highways because the transports will not respect the virtue of your raiment.

In the town, we stayed, we could not foretell from what direction the wind would blow. A gentleman had a roaring practice when he was a surgeon, a middle-aged man in our town and he would often forget to close his rear door when he started driving the car and passers-by must cringe. Nevertheless, he had flourishing services in the hospital, and because of his expertise and absorption, many had secondary seasons. I stayed at my uncle's house for two years when my father was abroad and my mom, one of his associates in the creation and she was a fabulous illustrator who could depict landscapes, although I did not acquire any of her expertise. I was mainly inspired by my aunt, who was the head of the state of our miniature estate and Prince Damo who was my relative would be the next leader when he reached the age. My aunt and uncle were friends of course but no one grabbed it after several years because the wedlock was arranged in secret because my uncle did not want to provoke his father who was a doctrinal person. At that time, my uncle was always wearing a grey woollen sweatshirt and during the football days - he was just ahead - he was wearing blue sweaters. when rolling, he used hovding, rather than the helmet and still used a Tesla Model S during the tour. He had strange hairstyles as if he belonged to a subculture. When they were classmates, they met at Robin Hood Gardens and talked for hours, and although the friendship began innocently and in a studious way, it ended by getting married. When I think of the romance of my uncle and aunt, I often find with a smile, the quote of Kafka in America, in a portrait of Karl Rossmann that all relations with a woman, even the most philosophical, end in bed. Some may deem this as a flippant remark, but at least in the case of my uncle and aunt, it was wholly true. My aunt told my wife that it was at the steep climb to Darley Street, Bradford, that he told something very intimate. She was striving to finish the climb and rest and at that second, had few concerns for the future. But finally, the wedding took place.

3 - C-15

This is not just the story of C-15. This is also the story of my father, mother, uncle, sister and myself. Our humble but decent stay in the N.G. quarters at district.C-15 is the name of the house. It is not a name to be exact. The N.G. quarters which consists of about a hundred houses are divided into four categories according to the grades of the non gazetted officers to whom the house is allotted. My mother was a division clerk in the Agricultural Department in the State government. because of this, she was eligible to get the quarters. She got the c grade of the quarter. The quarters are of four levels-b,c,d, and e. After three years of our stay in the quarters, we purchased ground and then constructed a small dwelling in the nearby stretch. We sojourned in this house at C-15 for about three years. N.G. colony, as the whole setup is known, stands at a small hillock, elevated from the usual land and the place is stunning and you get a good glimpse of the enclosing neighbourhoods. The hillock is not very high. You can reach there by a walk from all the sides of the colony and the small zigzag paths are lovely and melodious when the interstate wind blows. The district is known for its incessant symphony of wind since it is on the eastern fringe of the state and the western ghats form an aperture in this area which in local dialect is called charm. So the wind trumpets on and off, particularly during the October and November months.

The quarters are a harmonious community of non gazetted officers. When we were staying there the secretary of the club of the members of the community who stayed was a distant relative of my father. He was very close to our family. My father was in the National Movement, in the origin, but later he left the group but kept contacts with his old buddies. He was a person of many salutary features. The first and foremost was that he will never tell a lie. I have not seen my father telling a lie in his whole life. And at moments when he has to tell truth, and an unpalatable truth, he will avoid the situation graciously and later such friendships, but in case not tell a lie. He was a very understanding father and also a good friend to others, especially people who are less fortunate. in life. He has helped a lot of people, but he never made a show of it. This was not just the quality of my father, but also the quality of some of his friends at that time.

The quarters was like a big family where every family will cooperate for the well-being of the other. Since it was a community of lower-middle-class people who did not have a lot of money but a good amount of decency, it was generally a happy setup. There was the occasional misunderstanding among some members, but the matter was resolved amicably. When Mr V. N. was the secretary of the club, he took a deep interest in the welfare of the families and the club bought. Carrom boards, Chessboard, and a playing cards room and there was also a library that contains good books, but mostly Malayalam novels, and some good biographies.

My uncle from my mother's side also stayed with us. He used to take part in family entertainment. One of the frequent guests of our house was Sivaraman maman[Sivaraman uncle], a small radical of about thirty years. My father and he will engage in political and cultural discussions. He knew some cultural heroes personally as my father knew. The house was sometimes a discussion table. my uncle always had conservative views and we had a special play of dice at home. The play sessions were most lively. Sivaraman maman[uncle sivaraman] had a special mantra to get the right dice- 'Om Sundara bale, Gandhara Mohini, pattudutha Parama yogini, nee vetted the vilayadi varika' - [Meaning- Om-most beautiful damsel girl, the one belonging to the most seductive Gandharva clan, the yogini, who has reached the ultimate station in spirituality, such is dressed in pure silk clothing, you please enter playfully here, wearing the garment of light]. My uncle had another mantra-'Kol mina, gentle mina, deebrak, salladi baa.' About my uncle's mantra, I don't know its exact translation. Maybe, it is a cryptic mixture of some dialectical tongues or some crazy imaginary stuff of the drunkards of his youthful company. I learned both the mantras, but still, there was no certainty of anybody getting the correct dice. It was just fluke. The dices and frolics went away in time, but not the memories and the redolence of my mama's fish curry suppers after the events.

4- Bugs

This story encompasses many other secondary stories, kinds of reflections that have relevance to my growth or destiny. It is focused on my stay of two years in the capital of the southern state of India known for its palm trees and mountains and the Arabian Sea which attracts many memories of Jews, Saracens, and other travellers.

My stay in the capital town lasted for two consecutive years, though I visited this place whenever got free time. And our family friend who was my local guardian was a notable cultural figure and he was my dad's friend of his youth and thanks to the lovely gestures of mutual esteem in that era. When I left the hometown, this gentleman saw me off at the omnibus station, giving his wife a letter of introduction to furnish me a place in his family till I got a room in the hostel. I was very independent at the time and had always preferred to stay in hotel rooms to disturb others. You see such romantic fascinations are shed in course of time. He said, 'It's a request' Quite a grand gesture considering his station in the social circles. This phrase floored me due to the humility and openness of words and also the fact that it was from such a man who did not forget his old companion.

After my initial stay in hotel rooms, I went to his house by presenting a letter to his wife, a professor, a doctor and a sagacious lady. And further, after cycles, I was fortunate enough to keep a long correspondence with her through letters with this remarkable lady, until her death. In this house everything was in a socialistic way, they practised what they preached. For example, the youngest daughter will address the eldest by her name, which was taboo in my family. And again after the breakfast or meal, you have to carry the empty plates to the kitchen sink, because it is socialistic to do so, as women have to be valued properly. In my village, the ladies will take the empty plates and men will sit chatting in easy chairs. Quite, feudalistic from their point of view. These two years, I was practically at owe seeing how elegantly and thoughtfully ladies moved and talked, many times it was reminding of the quote from Middlemarch about Dorothy-

“When one sees a perfect woman, one never thinks of her attributes―one is conscious of her presence” (page-413).-George Eliot

Yes, I saw many Dorothy symbols in those two years, D.S. and S. and some others.

In the first year, I was an earnest student. Very serious in the sense that I reached the university library in the first opening hours and left it toward the close, around eight at night. Meanwhile, I will have my modest meal at a nearby restaurant or the M.L.A. Quarters canteen, where legislators dined and the lunch was accessible to anyone on a reduced rate. This custom extended until my professor warned that I cannot dodge the classes and remain in the archives. So I modified the pattern to make many hours for the classes too. During the second year, the reverse happened. I was plunged into student union activities and was chosen to the student departments union, as a nonpolitical nominee. I had less time to study, unlike the inaugural year where I was absorbed in volumes.

The inn was marvellous. My room was No. 232 towards the farthest row on the second floor and it overlooked a church and from there village spectacles abound. The sun was a welcome presence and the wind never ceased tooting and during rainy days, the water would splatter to the balcony and we will chat sitting in the room. Very temperate and delightful discussions about nearly everything in life.

Eventually, my room became a rendezvous for intellectuals and also some smokers, which made the air uneasy.

I was transformed more into a public property for the first time in life. Although it has some sort of charm, raising a small ego, which we might have craved them. My 'Advanced Learner's' Dictionary' that was treasured as scripture, someone took without my permission, and I was forced to forgive and it was slightly tough to pass the days without the lexicon.

In the final year, I was astounded to notice that I grasped nothing about the syllabus, either English or American. I had already skipped the first year university review, supposing I will write both the years concurrently, and this turned out to be a mammoth business by all measures. I had read only a few of the original texts and the manuals were too many.

Everything was arrayed in such a shape not making me likely to finish the course in the forthcoming seasons.

The examination was fast approaching. There is only one month left. I took a room in the city centre because the boy who ran the ice cream cafe was on the ground floor and he helped me get the room. I took the room without the knowledge of my friends, except my close friend, B. because I did not want to be hypocritical to my friends, and told B. to inform them that my stay is private only for a month, and I will eventually see them when the ordeal is over.

I got a humble room with a small table and a small wooden chair and a humble bed and spread.

I purchased big packets of books, all fresh, and started reading. Original titles and accessory guides. My intelligent friends often avoided guidebooks and to be seen in this condition was probably miserable. One day I stood by the window of the room to get the glimpse of the city.

Because it's a good sight and a nice day and the air is probably rich, I can't help it otherwise. Suddenly my eyes met a senior student's face, and he was probably shocked to see me there.

But I did not see him later in life. He might have taken another route. There were classics of all kinds, Thomas Browne, Chaucer and Thoreau and Joyce. And, sometimes, the guests from other rooms went to the common shower, as these guests could not afford the private shower in the room with the services. And I was one of those. It was like heavenly beings come from another sphere and we meet accidentally at the peak of the night, look at each other for a second and part for the rest of the life. An angelic interruption to studies. Those were clearly an expressive pair of big eyes. The attraction of eyes is quite ironic. As the year's pass, you seem to be more fascinated by the teary ones than the big ones since the former have more points to share with you. Still, it is only a likelihood. On the bed, there was a batch of bugs. Nay, my mattress was the zoo of fresh bugs eager to quash me to their refreshing entertainment. This blend of classics, bugs, and a young man is a masterful collage. But I had to justify my stay and for the rest of the day's found myself immersed in these classical routes. Despite all the preparations, I did not do well. The burden was pretty heavy. I wrote three papers and then cancelled.

In those days, you can cancel the examination at your own discretion and you will not be, I hope, additionally burdened. You just have to write one more time and clear it. I went to the museum park. While I was sitting on one of the benches, a senior scholar who belonged to another discipline, a nice human being, met me. When asked about the exam, I said that I have cancelled. Although he did not exhibit any signs of shock, I discerned that he was sorry at my lot. I have not seen him for the rest of my life. I penned a lengthy letter to my parents, full of contrition for my stupidity and asked their forgiveness. They readily forgave me, as they had done in many larger issues in later scaffolds of life. What a treasure a parent's heart is.

After a generation, I was to sit in the same plaza in one of those benches, trying to relive the despondency of a young man.

The place was the same. Maybe the same seat or something similar to it. The arrangement may have evolved. I assume I nearly relived the deep affections of a young man and meanwhile, my parents have gone to another kingdom.

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six stories

Contents

1 Boat 2 Strange Room3 Vault4 Roulet5 Paris Nights6 Watercrafts by the Seine1The BoatHe paused for the waves to settle for a while, not heeding the wind that has been blowing since he started this peregrination. Never in the most termagant of dreams could he fathom that this could be the motive for hisgetting back to this once beloved place. Friend, I am here, he mumbled to the breeze and presently shifting his look into the abstruse sea at the other orbit, was unable to twig its conundrum. The kids of the fisherfolk well-nigh failed to notice him as they were collecting the playthings and commencing afresh a sport that they might have abruptly abandoned in the middle, last evening. Possibly the hurricane that welted yesterday hindered their game but in no way swaying the gusto. Several crows appeared as if sprouted from a Heraclitan dream and peeked at him, swinging their heads sidelong and later lodged at a distance to watch for food crumbs.This is the village, he recollected, that gave him respite and vitality many years ago when he came here for the first time. Now, but for a few recovering service teams and some forms inquisitive about what is going on, grouped here and beyond, there appears little that is consoling. In the past few weeks, the stormshad upset its healthy structure and the fishing yachts that carried many men were turned down and afew are missing. Rain fell heavily yesterday too. While walking on the shore, the damp sand escaped theslim cover of his footwear and rubbed the feet giving a comforting brotherly feel. He gazed at the valleyand to the vast expanse into which it regressed. Mesmerizing as it was, it stretched far away into a hedge of coconut palms and then into a puddle of settled waters remote from the sea.Twenty years have passed, he thought. He was in his second year at Sorbonne, when a thorax ailment developed, causing him languishing and unfit for the classes. His physician ascribed this to a rare sort of lung disorder caused by rodents, though he could not recollect any event that could have incited it. Of course, he had a fleeting stopover with his father in his countryside in the vicinity of a farm. They said he needed absolute rest. So he left the studies in the middle and got back homeward. Later his friendsproposed that he better go and stay in this well-known hamlet by the sea. Once it hosted kings and theirconsorts. Now, a sick student. And he came here. He was young and had less baggage.2They gave him a room in one of the few seemly rest house that was available then, the others being in halfdilapidated fettle. As his father was known to the village elder, he was given good treatment, an aide and a room with a view. His chamber was towards the eastern side and the portholes gave an adorable glimpse into the sea and it was his habit to spend long wakeful nights watching the waves that undulated ceaselessly and the ships that swam far away, from the dim glimmer of a lighthouse that was chiefly intended for a prominent harbour attached to this port.Here he met his friend. He then was anticipating the final year graduation results. In his spare time, the young manworked as the deputy of the Caretaker of the inn. Soon, they formed a thick alliance, the type of which that hadnever occurred later in his life. While he was recovering, his friend read the only two volumes he brought with him. A collection of Oscar Wilde and a biography of saints. All these ruminations made him fling an exhalation and later, he discerned that it was pretty odd for him- these rooted casts of gloom. In this affair, he emulated his father who showed sufficient internal fervour in crucial states. In the household talks, this was a subject that piqued his mother who believed that a man without fear is an impossible entity. All people, she argued, have fears and vexations amounting to different degrees. Only that, some live with them and others act sagaciously at crucial times in spite of them. In brief, bravery according to her is not a virtue from skies but a matter of urgent choice and an ability that increases after repeated practice. Complete strength is a façade, his mother told, and he heard her laughter from a far beyond place.Now, he will not choose to brood over it for long, as he is more concerned about the missing boat that went for fishing three days ago which carried his friend and is still not traceable. And a great sadness overwhelmed him. He shifted his mind to his own version of happiness which was an intent to be in the ever-present in spite of all odds. He thought for a moment about his friend’s family and tossed with the idea and while doing so, his feet gathered a momentum unknown to him. Yes, he is sure about the house. He had been there many times. There were many men assembled in the garden that enclosed the house. The whole place was bordered by a metallic fence on three sides and in the front by a lateritious stone wall. The gate opened with a whining sound and the men assembled in the front portion and elsewhere under the trees, looked up. They were probably searching in their memories for the identity of the guest in such a calamitous situation. The dog barked. But after one yelp, stopped as if it had seen a hidden direction in the space. As he approached, two elderly men rose up from the gathering, one man hinting to his fat middle-aged companion something and the other nodded in complying. The middle-aged fellow lifted his hand and he was to a big degree disconcerted by a heavy gold-coloured watch that refused to rest on his right wrist. He realized the old man as his friend’s uncle who knew him well and with whom he had numerous evenings and dinners. His uncle, whose beard was turning full grey, wore khaki pants and check shirts that hung lower than the usual fitting levels. He smiled warmly in a friendly greeting but the sad outfit of being escaped the thin frame.“Is the boat sighted?’, he asked and waited solemnly for his reply.‘No.’ he said. There were no more parleys.He went inside the house and along with the few visitors, occupied a chair in the corner place. He discerned that the place had evolved much. The furniture is more luxurious and the walls are full of the photos of a military officer in uniform. That was his friend who got short service commission in the army and later resumed the family fishing industry following the death of his father.A few minutes elapsed and a lady in a white attire appeared. He recognized his friend’s wife whom he hadmet in the Carnival of Peacocks along with his friend. Her face had a pathetic pallor, an equivalent of which he saw only on some faces at his mother’s funeral. A man begins hugely and finds himself solving many outstanding tasks and a few interims later, discovers himself swallowed by his own shadow and powerless to continue the natural walk. In such a condition, even rest is ghastly, haunted by faces of clowns that enter into areas where they have no right to do so. He aspired to share some of the family vexations with this lady and plead with her that she is not alone in her grief, but everything seemed redundant. All he could do was look at the photograph of the officer in uniform that adorned the wall. The storm had ceased. It has been a week since he came to this village. They have not yet traced the bodies in the missing boat. Yesterday, he sent a note to his friend's family telling of his departure. He was rather afraid to meet the lady in person. He possibly had not so many fine words at his disposal that would ease a crumbling mind. Now, he himself is not that vibrant youth who could see all life hanging in future. He also had his share of sorrows. Though these did not make him all the more blessed, they unquestionably made him modest and urged him from inside to chop a few expressions of free parlance in all conditions. More words in more solemn ones. From here, he must go, not barehanded but with a fascination to look into a new chapter of a book he had bought casually once, and has never read. Perhaps, when he goes away from this place, he will forget some faces. But it will not weigh much. After all, we all have such experiences. Feeling that something is inevitable and later learn with a sigh that it is not so. The things we goofed up were not real stuff but things only very close to it. Lastly, this is a fabulous relief. He will surely relive those kids by the beach who were reconstructing the fun items in the morning after yesterday’s tornado. Or he would one day travel back to his former borough and attend the Cart Festival with the hope that somebody in the crowd will call him by his first name. Or look at some of those sights in the streets he dodged. Or he would partake in those zingers of his old companions that he classed ribald. Or just stay near the bangle sellers and listen to their animated chats without comment. In fact, he did not know. One thing that was very sure was, he is alive and his friend is missing. Is it encouraging? Maybe. And all on a sudden a very simple form of gratitude filled him and shook him….Now he was moving. He was walking aimlessly on the shore, and then towards those small markets that sold fried fish, fishes fresh from the sea. He entered one temporary shed and an old lady with thick bangles and a smile greeted him. He noticed that one of the front teeth was missing, but it was very appropriate. They only added to the humble, deep notes of the sea. He chose not to order fish, but go for hot spicy tea that was on the menu. Then he walked again and tried to view the shore from an elevated sod that was not far. He saw at a close distance, the broken glass windows of an old building that was actually hard to crack because of its strong dexterity of make. The children who were near them amused themselves with constant throws that became harder by each hit and he saw them taking pride in the force of their hit and in the enjoyment of the sound of broken glasses. They have made it another game. He watched them with a new, acquired smile that he got only that afternoon. Suddenly at far, he saw a very bright sun, perhaps the brightest his eyes had ever spotted on......................................................................................................2Strange Room of Alexandre Barito1Nothing saunters more true-blue in my boyhood souvenir than the thought of Alexandre Barito. We both walked to the same Junior Basic School and later together to the Arnold Library to read books. Barito read classics and tomes of profound content. My choice instead was fairy tales and pulp fiction. I have often marvelled, how Barito acquired this uncanny knack of sticking to the august and the patrician throughout his lifespan. It ought to be otherwise, taking into account that his father was a cagey businessman and also a shady loan shark of our town. But Barito did not have any of his father’s bents. This earned him a cluster of devout companions, among whom, I was one.In his youth, Barito was charismatic and he used to drop in our house often. My house was in the country and a river was at the reachable distance and Barito and I would sit on the bank. We would gape listlessly at the barges floating along and the maple trees near the sidewalk whose branches blended with the afternoon draft. Those were sunny August days. Some boys pedal bikes and later take a rest on the grass. Occasionally, tourists will come and go, ask route in altered accent. Most of our chats revolved around books or colleagues. I must acknowledge with gratitude that Barito moulded my thoughts largely. It was astounding that he never told a lie nor did he make fun of people’s frailties, unlike pranksters as us. Barito lived in an alluring two-storeyed house behind the Central Library from where markets forked. The library was an old Gothic edifice having huge marble columns and a layer of concrete steps and a compound of chestnut trees. In those days it was befriended by intellectuals and dropouts. For two years, Barito was my classmate at university before he went to a bigger city for further studies. During those college years, I met him at his house whenever I went to the library. Here, Barito would relax in most opulent splendour in an armed chair, that was once used by his great-grandfather. His room contained all sorts of papers, tools, and chess boards. The maid always left the room partially clean, as she had to rush to a day- job somewhere near. Though there was no dearth of servants in our town, this lady was kept chiefly because she was his mother’s confidant and perhaps an adviser on some issues of concern. Barito used a cot made of the flexible mattress, guarded by strings and whenever he jumped into it, the cot lifted him up to a moderate height and again backward as if to teach him Newton’s laws of motion.The greatest trouble, Barito told me once, was his brother. Though his brother was younger to Barito by several years, he did not respect him. Their common disputes focused on issues such as who should engage the modish shower or sometimes over the apparels they shared and as to who the primary owner is. Though these points seem trivial, when they transpired, a minor volcano emitted, sufficient to define a day’s repose. Sadly, the closing point was that these divided the brothers to further ends. In some families, I have visited later, the brothers did not fight until they matured. Later the topics of estate slithered in and all of them would have children whose fees they had to meet, or their spouses would prompt them, though with ample roots, to raise a family of their own. But the same siblings at a yet succeeding state are perceived to embrace a lately generated amity and confess to each other, albeit not getting back the days of youth.2In Barito’s cell, there was a family picture of a happy Houdini with his mama and wife. It was subsequent to his learning board skills from an acquaintance. He had also finished several of the portraits with merit, emulating his ancestors, who as the line claimed belonged to Utrecht Guild. Those early sketches were deemed as an heirloom and were on exhibit in the foyer. They were principally representations of convivial life and matchmaking and depictions of the countryside. His maternal grandsire had desisted to give them off, notwithstanding several appeals from private collectors. His mama served in the Energy quarter, a modest female who conserved a portion of her payroll without her husband’s knowledge because she had stings of the panic of old age and a forsaken existence. One evening, when Barito and I were hiking along the way of our former academy, he told me that he had no model personage in the family. I suggested that he can be his own hero. Barito smiled and agreed graciously that he is the one he is waiting for. It was, in truth, an echo of a strain we both understood.3My father had business in Salamanca where he spent half of the year. While in Munich, where he studied, he was in the cream company that included probable Nobel Laureates. My dad could not recapitulate his studies, principally because of specific dispositions that channelled his energy to other shores, making him jittery at formal learning. Later he was to tour extensively, squandering some family wealth, but in the course of time, was able to set up his business in Salamanca. While with us, he would take solo trips to the interior where he had inherited a farm commanding moors. When his business expanded, he bought a bordering land that hosted bald cypress and marsh Helleborine. It had many water spots, ducks, herrings and owls. Further, mother extended it with her share of turkeys and swans. When I was in the prime of youth, my father thought me irresolute and lacking fire in activities. He claimed that he had that enough in his youth, though he could not particularly apply it in academics. So he sent me to a revered friend of him in another city, to seek advice. When I met my mentor, he was coming out from a room after zazen with his private students. He asked me of my plight and after listening told me to write down an area in life where I needed improvement, in case I got a reprieve or a second chance. After considering the options of being the richest or the wisest, I wrote that I wanted to be the kindest [knowing well that I cannot eclipse those saints]. He said that whatever I did, would not matter, so far it is not sabotaging to myself or to humanity in particular, but I proceed with ardour. He said that roads will lead to broader roads and I will possibly get guidance. The next morning, I met a poor girl on the street who asked me for some money. As I had only the train fare to go back home, I gave the watch. The girl, though perplexed for a moment, accepted.Forthwith, I found myself surrounded by a group of people who probably mistook me for a prince incognito. Somehow I managed to scram and rushed to the nearest station to catch the rail. Further experiences revealed that my guide was more or less right. That was the year I met my future wife, a dark and sagacious lady. In our house, there was a room in the upper story and one could reach it only through a spiral corridor. This gave the room an advantage of privacy, where my grandfather, a retired soldier would sit and drink ale. Sometimes he would relax on the balcony writing something in a diary with varied expressions. We had an uncle who was a lawyer and an aficionado of Conan Doyle and a member of a club that professed good service. When his clientele was at an ebb, he wrote mystery plays that were rarely staged.4My elder sister also studied in the same college as me. Because of her, many senior students talked to me. She was an ardent member of the Culture Club, which held weekly assemblages of erudite quality. The conferences were chiefly haunted by the older scholars of an academy nearby. She also served as an apprentice to a Women Liberation leader, until she became disenchanted with the latter’s private life, which my sister ought not to have mixed up with the public one. Also, splendour thing happened in the Club. She became enamoured by a man of dubious values, though she could not suspect it in the beginning. Later she found out that this man had no love, but only private ends. Those were all days of intense vexation for our group. My uncle found out that his father was a culprit in a casino brawl and had a clandestine meeting with dance maidens. The young man took part in our weekly meetings and claimed that he had read all of Spinoza, but his rivals challenged that all he could entertain were sassy thoughts. I must acknowledge the help I received from Barito to relieve my sister of the impending depression. Later she was to get engaged to a mountaineer and still further over time, both met with a disaster on their climb to Kilimanjaro just above Barafu camp, making her an invalid for the rest of life.5Before he went to the city, Barito stayed with us on the farm for a couple of days. We had a good time near water spots and the night owl’s habitats. Then I lost touch with him. We took different routes and had different lifestyles. Meanwhile, my father’s business dwindled and he came to hometown to settle there permanently. Still a loss, as far as wealth was concerned, he retained composure, only knowing rather late that certain things are beyond repair, and we should not incur further loss thinking about those. I married and took frequent trips to hometown to see my parents. Once, from mutual friends, I knew that Barito was there with his American wife. Together with our wives, we met in the tulip garden behind a row of windmills. Barito had slightly gone flabby on the mid-portion, and that evening he told me about the death of his father. Though far from an ideal figure, the old man held tremendous influence over his young son, enabling him to live an extraordinarily luxurious life. That evening, we met at Barito’s residence. After coffee, Barito invited me to his room. I was surprised by the change. The family photograph of Harry Houdini had given way to the poster of a blue-eyed Italian action hero. Barito noticed the shift of my eye and said that his wife is a fan of Italian actors. After the ’Last Tango’, I had not seen any Italian film and then too, spent half the time in the side hall, hanging around with friends. Now, my eyes fell on the most elegant cot that had replaced Barito’s old flexible one that taught him once Newton’s laws of motion. In the same evening, we met in a newly constructed restaurant in City Square. Barito had the fish tacos and iced tea. I took a sweet yoghurt, having had a stomach upset.After that, probably a decade passed. Or maybe more. While travelling in North, once in a train compartment, I met a friend from college days and among many other things, he conveyed to me the changes that had come to Alexandre Barito. My friend did not know in detail but suggested that Barito was into a new life of religious contemplation. ‘ How about his medical practice?’, I asked.’Though he attends the hospital, his wife is managing everything ’, the friend said.Luckily, that year, when I came home for vacation, Barito was in the town. I took this shot to see everything at first hand and hear from the horse’s mouth. The footman opened the portal and led me inside. There were several calicos and male bovines[Bos Taurus] grazing in the yard. The servitor had known me before and conducted me to Barito's cell, that remained unchanged from outside. When the door was unlatched, I got sight of Barito sitting on a futon close to ground level. His face had transformed. He had shaved his scalp and the eyelids drooped at times and the orbs seemed focused and still. On the wall stood the vignette of St. Bruno meditating on a skull. He said that he had a chimaera of a reaper entering harvest time and that changed his life. He had prevailed over some unlucky addictions in the recent past. I asked him if he followed the Carthusian Order, but his reply was negative.He was only trying to live in the world as if he were in a desert, to have the best of both worlds. He chose his Lauds, Vespers, and Psalms at his own notion. He said that he was arriving at clarity, which was fairly evident from his sober flourishes. He also said that he was translating a religious text into a Dutch dialect of his ancestry. It was, he said, not for publication, but focus. When he inquired me of my concerns, I told him that I was trying to speak and be in the company of children as much as possible, in an attempt to retrieve a seemingly lost innocence. I invited him for a final time to the river bank by my house, and Barito conceded. We walked for a whole afternoon looking at the barges, and on the sidewalks that sold silverware, avoiding pellets of the long-eared owl.After that, a couple of years passed by and I had no news of Barito. But eventually learned from other sources that he was spending half the year in Vancouver and the other half in the hometown, imitating an Indian king. While he was at home, the gardener allowed only chosen visitors. His contact and contemplation of the world became threadbare. His doctor who was also his classmate visited him at times and prescribed drugs and potions. He was suffering from an unknown ailment. One day I met a mutual friend at the airport and he told that Barito suffered an internal haemorrhage while driving but had escaped fatality. And now he is convalescing and is able to carry along his routine. I wrote to him. He wrote back if I could make his home, my next stopover. It was a tremendously beautiful letter, better than all the good books I had come across. In this epistle, he had recollected some old tales. There was neither morbidity nor philosophy. And he mentioned a few old jokes too. I wrote back that we will write a joint autobiography and perhaps some youngster will find it thrilling. I am waiting for his reply...........................................................3Vault Beside the Tower1SHE thought she would better apply for the office of a paranymph as she had previously known the princess in her trip in gondola. The infanta had a warm smirk, hazel eyes and dainty stoop towards the left side. She has just reached from La Coruna that day. While giggling, she stretched her facial muscles at random but Zucchi did not feel it uncomely but pretty suited to her carriage. The dame took a chair next to her throughout the ride and various spirited exchanges ensued. Had she met her earlier? Possibly not. The princess was on an education travel into those Romanesque, the sturdy pillars and groin vaults and she was earnest about not only that but virtually everything in general. The two ladies later gathered at a luncheon hosted for academicians and by accident further in the vaporetto. It is to be reported to the advantage of the princess that she was no mean person. On the other hand, she had a bountiful nature, the sort of character that is the upshot of careful upbringing. While leaving they shared each other’s address and also swapped some pictures and the infanta invited Zucchi to her region that was only a night’s drive from Venice.It was her second year on the continent. Zucchi selected Venice for her stay as it suited the project she was into. This ‘mundus alter’ of Petrarch fascinated her in ebbs and elations. She had many anxieties. She aspired to be an avant-garde writer but did not apprehend how. Still one of her experiments was to write without semicolons emulating an American author. Her thesis on Marco Polo was progressing in a tardy way and her guide had already warned that she was composing romance rather than a well-formed scholarly paper. Why these ‘caverns measureless to man’ and all those strange stuff? Her guide did not suppress irritation. She was mixing Marco Polo, Kublai Khan and the English poet in an unwholesome way. She has not licensed to fashion academic exposition as an Arabian tale. Moreover, her grammar and punctuation are terrible. And her father pens that his gout is getting graver and he seemed lonely as her sibling was away and the handlers of the estates are dawdling. Adding to these, here she is in one of the chilliest moons in Venice. Finally, it came to a cognizance that all baroque and beauty is not an indisputable way to tranquillity.Her roommate was a Croatian, a divorcee and a Dostoevsky scholar in her early forties on a lecture tour in Europe. This fine lady adjusted her trips in such a mannerhat she got ample access to universities and the humble lodging places that she preferred in her Raskolnikov style. She thought as the author of Raskolnikov that suffering is essential for the maturity of the human psyche. Unlike Zucchi, she planned everything from top to bottom and the only thing that fell through seemed to be her marriage. This, she attributed to her lack of acquaintance with male pneuma as she was brought up in a household of girls and nannies. She never had an intimate male company before marriage.But what troubled Zucchi was not these. It was the glance her roommate made after large meals on her mid portion that bloated unusually. Her friend, on the other hand, had a handsome physique[whose bag contained Oregon grape and turmeric] and she maintained it by regular walks and flexibility exercises in the Eastern style. This probably lessened her bouts of depression and kinks of moods.During last year they toured the continent extensively, mostly by train in order to get the glimpse into life at grassroots. This thrilled her roommate who also had similar humour. They went to Milan, Florence and to La Scala and then to Turin and Verona but mostly stayed at Dijon enjoying Burgundy and staying under fashionable roofs. She sent all the photographs to her father except the one her friend took at coastal Cantabrian in an unusual apparel. Perhaps he may not bother much, but Zucchi did not want to take the risk of making him further uneasy in his old age.Basted to an array of thoughts, she went to sleep. There she saw her father sauntering on the sands of Tigris with his grandfather and great grandfathers. They walked to a dome of Taurus marble that was lit by a special light day and night. They entered the centre room and checked their collections of urns of wine, loaves of bread and garments they got as funerary honours. There was a battle cry somewhere in the near distance and the soldiers announced the arrival of Ur Nina coming victoriously from Lagash.2She woke up the next morning after the phone call from her guide. He said that he is leaving the continent for a week. He opted that she make the changes in her paper. Zucchi was partially relieved...The thought of man made her think of mortality in general and the presumption of something beyond. On similar occasions, a vagueness filled her. Men are like cultures, cultures as different as Amazon and Paris. Some are nice, some are enigmatic and some are tedious. She had postponed many states of intimacy until she was in Madrid. And finally... What if life but a mountain of hope crumbling in a single day. Then we would be aliens to ourselves unless there is redemption at close quarters. That was the day she enjoyed the deep thrill and further appalled by the news of his missing. The corps took the hint and met her in the hotel room from where they got further photographs. Hers was the last entry in his special diary. They let her scot-free on the condition she could be summoned for further unravelling of the case.The vault stood beside a tower. With him, she went there. He had a narrow forehead and a wide jaw. He was kind. It was in the vault that he and his other visually challenged friends met. The Tower was a Middle Ages marvel and a rendezvous for pilgrims and tourists and a flea market rose nearby. It was thronged by crowds and businesses and brokers of all shades. On her visit to the vault, a middle-aged man who looked like a war - ex-stood at the entrance and saluted him and addressed him in a respective tone. He eventually introduced her to other companions who were in many ways similar to him. At the corner of the vault was a bookshelf of the special script and also drawers of files, porcelain vessels, and candles. There was a janitor who had external eyes and an expression of somebody at the victory stand to wait for the trophy. In the main hall, there was a mahogany table where the guests kept the flowers they brought with them. Roses, dahlia, daffodils, carnations, marigold, campion- Zucchi felt finally safe with not many sifting eyes to harrow her as if she walked in a self-guarded forest with the least concern to grieve.The police tracked the hint and came to the motel for further evidence. She was the one with whom he was seen last. There was a picture they took together in an atelier. What if life, a plateau of hope collapsing in a single day. That strange feeling to accommodate the rocambolesco, an unwavering reality that has solidified inside. Outside the lattice, a modest clump of maple trees dimmed in the twilight sky and below a few creatures like bearded dragons moved.3That was a usual sort of day and other than the slow murmur of wind there was nothing noticeable. Some people assembled in the other balconies were viewing the scene. A new crowd was coming from the west side and it melted into far off.That day she got three letters. One from her father in his cuneiforms like the script and many parts were unintelligible due to tremor of hand. He, a Draco in his youth has mellowed. She kissed the letter. He writes that his arthritis is getting worse, still, he finds occasion to go to his office in the old Porsche with his aide. As a recent development, he had met his schoolmate and the latter and his wife, both retired from service, meet him often and they have stories to share. The second was from his brother. He has written in his activist tone that Zucchi is wasting her life on dead projects that have no relevance today. Her ivory tower existence will hardly answer the colossal questions of our time. He augurs that she would regret and requests to join him. She paused and was immured into an applique of ruminations which made her further sense that she had not yet spawned any whopping resolutions in life, not even her marriage. The third epistle was from the princess. The paper and even the mucilage were redolent. Her husband is occupied with the regime and she on many seasons had to accompany him. Her only son needs an upright and educated lady to guide him into good tastes of reading and behaviour. Of the many applicants, she had selected Zucchi even though she had known her only for a short time. She wants to bring her son to an ideal prince who will have the qualities of equanimity and balance. She beseeches Zucchi to accept the post and promises that her office will be as informal as possible and she can pursue her research at the dukedom’s ancient library that houses rare manuscripts.Zucchi was rather exhausted after reading the letters. She wanted a hiatus and kept them in the drawer. She stood up, her chin up and looked into the vast sky that appeared in many layers of lapis lazuli. A cat, not easily chastised by threats looked into the room from the opposite window that had grills of geometric shapes. It reminded her of another time at another place as a wind rushed through the open panes.It was a crowd of white, green, and falcon red, two men were visibly moving, gladly discussing something and eating and proceeding. They were tremendously happy and were immersed in their story. The follower was in his sailor uniforms and had a gruff that could be heard from a distance.Zucchi slid her hands into the wallet and felt the quincunx of stars her friend had presented her. She touched its surface as she always had done on occasions like this. Outside the window lay a garden where nuthatches have sought entry. She counted-.five.seven - nine. They were more. A squirrel hesitated and went into the fold and after gaining confidence, remained. Her glance drifted to the burly men who were alike and were followed by two girls who were struggling to reach them.When her gaze fell on the leader, a cold ripple passed through her spine, seeing something like the great Tuscan with a book as in Michelino’s fresco. He had a prominent nose like the prow of a gondola and he touched his friend’s protruded belly as if to remind him of the aftermath of excessive love or gluttony. The follower, his eyes covered in a pair of lorgnette, seemingly not frazzled, was looking down. A big rush was setting the pace of the crowd to another direction. There she saw rivers of faces- Sepik, Zambezi, Ganges, Colorado, Orinoco, Volga, Nile, Euphrates, Salween-The rivers were gushing faster amidst an ensemble of liveries-Danube, Madeira, Brahmaputra, Irtish, Sungari, Purus, Viking, Japura, Saskatchewan. Among the crowd, she saw the sorrowful faces some mothers who have missed the mark by overemphasized responsibility. The two girls walking as the hind portion of the gang and holding Alpine zithers sang in solemn ‘in exitu’ in a chorus that could lull a baby to sleep. The whole retinue vanished in the final crescent of the path when a wind blew suddenly and closed the window. Everything merged in the knell of Santa Marco.She opened the box and took the looking glass she bought at the Carnival. On the rim had a few grains of sand, the last remains of the Adriatic on a happy day. She wiped the grains off and looked into the mirror as if she were seeing another object. There she went after a line of grey above her left ear, drifting humbly into the posterior with a sort of amazement. Was she too engrossed in studies to notice that? Magari. She thought about the Madrid man who was free from such reproofs. He had passed that stage where grey hairs are not phantoms. But who would not barter all the attributes for a little kindness at the final roll call? She realized that this will answer most of the guide’s questions if not all. With such thoughts by her side, she knew tomorrow will be a new day for her in Venice...................................................4The Roulette1At Salle Blanche, the roulette table did not turn to his favour. In this pinnacle of autumn, when even the winged animals were kept in for want of warmth, he was captured in a chain of alarming musings yet not knowing what couldn't evade from its anguish. He knew for beyond any doubt that the adorable minutes are shorter and on that, he stayed on this structure had a current flowing along underneath would drug into further debacles in thought. Summer has gone. Another kin left home with family. They are inspired by the family's collective aspirations. Each evening at the feasting table, they would describe the day and chalk out what ought to be done tomorrow. This was the family's condition in a flourishing time when they had landed at each alcove of the nation.He didn't realize what to do precisely. He only desired to sit somewhere and disregard all that stuff, his own choice to bring a taxi with his life partner with the euros his father had given yesterday at the air terminus and come here and partake in the most absurd movement ever and fiddle away all. All of a sudden he wound up plainly conscious. His mouth can still sputter a few more sagacious sounds. In any case, his life companion did not endorse any of those awful episodes. For her, it was all similar to living on a cruiser that was about to capsize. But, most likely he will recuperate from it. His devotedness for odd numbers rode on some notion he obtained from an old buddy and again it turned out to be disastrous for him which forbade to go back easily to his old normal self. 2 Her home in Sighisoara was one of only a handful few in that old style with an unmistakable perspective of the Tanners Tower. The structure was displayed on a stage house, with great veneers a couple of kilometres far from the old religious community. She met her father before going to roulette with the fiance. His absence of excitement was clear in the grin right now of parting. Still, he gathered himself and favoured her and reminded her to discern the daisies in the garden that have effloresced yesterday. She did that and culled a couple of blooms while holding her St. John's cross towards the right bosom and convoking every single great vagary conceivable. In the event an exclusive otherworldly occurrence could have ransomed her out from this future program, she thought... She fled the dwelling abruptly, her garments still on the drier. She had just a plain cascava and frappes in the morning which her mother had given her. She made her take the spotted parasol for she supposed that it may rain in the regions she went. She took the train to Brasov to reveal to her companion that she would be away for a week and advised while she is far in a remote domain and furthermore appeal to God for her till she returns. Nevertheless, she didn't perceive that she was fleeing with her life partner, in an insidious desire to astound her when she returns after the undertakings at the roulette board. Seldom his obsessive conduct disturbed her. He had no proven calling. In any case, that did not inconvenience her extraordinarily. He had aced in Theatrical Studies in flying hues from a similar college where she contemplated and was higher ranking than her by two years. When she entered the academy, his name was all over the place, at ball arenas, debating centres, and chess. He was a paragon to many. He never went to any address position to the full and left the hall before time, disclosing some reason to the teacher. When he exited the class, he strolled like Franco Nero, as though he had another mission to accomplish. Later he told his companions that the classes are underneath his standard and that he had dense volumes of a related title, presented by his father, which was a half-truth. His dad had all Constantin Stanislavski in his home library. He was exceptional on a primary level, she deemed, however all he lacked was grace. In Bucharest, she met a juvenile duo, the musical performers. She noticed in the young lady's eye, that extraordinary aching for future just ladies of the world has, a noble and chaste zest of spirit and hope. Essentially the equivalent of a saintly lady spending her days in a forlorn cloister, setting herself up for something pure and consecrated and deserving of presenting to eras to come. The pair was rehearsing a musical show composed by the boy on Emily Dickinson's' lyric no.712. What a mischance, she thought, she has perused the poem for the nth time. She was overwhelmed by the last piece of the steed's heads turned towards eternity.He stayed in the chamber three sequential nights, in some situations disclosing Libystic stories when she would rest, her eyes on the roof and her head trouncing on the yellow pad. It was on the third night that it spattered. She had no learning of seasons. In any case, it down-poured. She held her face toward the murky void of the sky that was still yet dormant, with blended emotions. The branches soaked in the downpour, coyed for some other point. The torrent was pounding find the stowaway with a mystery similitude that exclusive the branches and the earth and the ether acknowledged.The sprinkles fell in gigantic sheds and wet the heretofore dry turfs in flashes and the water in strong puddles occupied at each surge. She returned to the informal lodging and incredibly, a profound moan of longing and love filled her soul. When he returned from his walk, doused in water, she passed the towel towards him and he wiped the head and body mostly and with a sudden energy, stood beside and touched her beribboned hair, his heart ticking speedier. In any case, she realized that he couldn't extinguish even a thin bit of what she actually stood for in this life, a constant deepening of being, in her scan for something honourable and excellent and will keep going forever... 3 From his side, he didn't realize what she was, what she proposed to be. Notwithstanding the truth that he knew her since adolescence and they frequently played together being cousins and being individuals from more scattered kinsmen, cooperative in times of need and crisis, at great and tough states, he didn't have any acquaintance with her unmistakably enough. This wedlock affair altogether was a little stun to him as much as it was to her. It was his loved mother's wish and he never wanted to affront her in any capacity in her debilitated situation.She amazed him in the debating club by contradicting his views. He was taking after Clark Griffith's line of contentions and portrayed Death as the dignified beau. She said that Emily Dickinson ought to be clarified in her own particular terms. First, no one caught on. Still, after she made solid harangue against the commentator and stated, was it after all the wistful aspirations of a spinster, who was denied by all and her own particular endeavours to make up for that sentiment refusal through her verse. That was the minute he took a slight interest in her. He realized that she was marginally unique in relation to her friends, however, they were by all accounts winged animals of the same feather. Now, she smiled to herself and thought of how she will take up at the club her old argument, that is already in some circles that Odyssey is written by a woman.4All on a sudden, she saw her American Literature teacher, toward the finish of the lobby joined by a young fellow who had an interesting style touching shoulders. Yorick's skull, she thought. She went close to the educator and wished him. The teacher was somewhat astounded seeing her. He presented the young fellow as his child to the gathering. Also, she acquainted her life partner with them. The educator said that he comes to Monte Carlo, twice a year and he adores the session of roulette. She contemplated over this data and this was for her another look into a man's life which she thought as loaded with numerous conceivable outcomes, might be some part obscure to her. They shared a table. The teacher and her life partner had a mojito kind of drink. But his son requested plain water, and in the wake of opening the pack, took the French variant of "Romola" and began reading it while tasting the plain water at successive interims...Her life partner smiled at the croupier warmly as they had associated each other before. She was not amazed. He had before posted concise notes from different Italian and American gambling clubs last summer. With the scholar, he had a spirited conversation on Italian table games of Hoca and Biribi and besides some French prepackaged games. He was reviewing 1886 Hoyle betting books, single zero and twofold zero and such things. She was not enraptured by such talk. The teacher was asking him additionally points of interest. He was in the meantime telling that some inner organ of him is giving regular turmoil and he may require serious resources for restorative costs this year, and his doctor's facility protection has some issue.The teacher's son was stoic in his demeanour, yet raised his head frequently from the book and taken a gander at others on the table in grinning graciousness and further appeared to be snatched by the book's stream, by and by tasting from the glass of water regularly and filling it once more. He, several times asked her in all sincere, what she would drink and she told red wine and he obliged to that. Yet, other than that had few talks and taken a gander at her in a loving manner as though he were in a bar with his dearest sister and a spoilt father and a similarly spoilt brother in law.She glanced around and saw men and ladies in an uncommon excitement, somewhat wild yet purposeless at root, putting down wagers as the ball spun around the haggle merchant told no more wagers. At the point when the merchant got done with making payouts, the marker was expelled from the board and players were assuaged and gathered their rewards and made new wagers. The triumphant chips rested on the board. She had gone to a year ago a town by Swiss Alps to see his grandparents. It was the business that conveyed his folks to Bucharest, in addition to his dad's liking to music and theatre. On Berchtoldstag, he made wonderful hawks. She met him again that night, her mind loaded with whimsical contemplations. The day she met him once more, she was at Ticino, at Fiesta di Sant Antonio. She recollects that he confessed all with a donkey to her home and afterwards they both went to the congregation and in a similar night, he trusted some of his private musings to her, however, she didn't take it very seriously. Her betrothal was somewhat an understanding between two families, as her father and his dad were partners and had hunting endeavours together. It resembled an assertion of kinship that they would not like to be broken by time. They thought that they needed to deify their friendship with a bond that spanned another generation, broadened advance, if not eternity.The young gentleman with the grin of a dervish stood up before the reflection of the dazzling frame. He had brought his canine. He held up by the paws crossed to each other and parading the tongue that was long and spiked and jittery. In the following room was a craftsman family. The kids were conveying sheets, half painted and in part secured and they were glad. In her eyes flickered encompassing globes and granules and she was away in districts hazy yet invariably listened the rustle of a tyke. The life has transformed into a see-saw at thirty-when returned after passage saw the twofold bolt on the entryway, the landowner had put another bolt on the old one as a reaction to the deferred instalment of the lease. His child, an intermediary of old autos, continually cleaning the auto, as he was by all accounts obsessed with motors - the driver in a far-off expression, remembering an old struggle with another trekker in the morning. His dad named him and his sibling after English lords, such wonderful headliners.He came there with an anguished feeling all over while he was thumbing down everything that tagged along with his way lastly confessing to her that all is not well on the front and he required more time to settle. September went and October came. But, nothing went to his side tempting him to do anything favourable to his vocation or psyche. No, he was not ruthless, but solely bordering into lassitude. Even the greatest saints, she heard copy books so that the mind is not kept idle. She was fussing for many minutes and finally, his deep-throated voice was heard and he decided to go back to the country and called the taxi.5The train halted by the station. It was an old country station that was not the standard stop of numerous travellers. There was a declaration that it will take a few hours to advance. Some concealed things occurred in transit, maybe a mishap, slaughter, or sudden change, she didn't have even an inkling. Her fiance recommended that they put the halt in the country, which may be an uncommon thing to do - and see the nation in the interim - and push ahead. He had still the dazzling ring given by his mother, which she got from her own mom, and pledge it or even sell it if essential and have a decent time, and if things are not settled that way, despite everything he has his stopwatch and he could accomplish something with that and she can rest guaranteed that he will take her back to Bucharest securely. All things considered, she is his future mate and she will approve of him now and always... Presently they passed the wrap-up of a line of the ziggurat and minor edifices and a shopkeeper was quickly withdrawing from day's work, today earlier than usual, as his wife was pursuing him as he had accomplished something not reasonable. All sights got cloaked in the shimmer of a passing day. He was gawking down toward the stream, a comparable waterway he saw somewhere in his vision in an eastern town he ran with his uncle that a holy person had assembled cottage particularly into edge of the waterway, that was fed just seasonally, and the religious person staying there many months a year, not anyway during monsoon.... His uncle was an individual who took road contracts who went to various towns and villages of the country and was fond of this man.So, this is her prospective mate and she will approve of him now and her grandparents need no doubt about it. From the network of roads, they took a turn to the left which was inhabited by an ethnic neighbourhood and there were lodges and there were also some was group of mountainous terrains and ridges and falls that were coming like a livid stream and there in the sky was visible the first rains of the season, And as they were moving the rain poured suddenly. And from nowhere he has had a joke, a known one on his lips and he only uttered it half and it rained. Her fiance was not agitated vehemently over the change of clouds and instead of further complaining about the rain, called a carriage after several endeavours, as two or three of them moved along without conducting them.And ultimately they got one, a carriage pulled by a single sturdy horse, and there was the little area inside the carriage which smelt of coir and hay and sackcloth. He got inside and he pulled her hurriedly into it with a little laughter and she also laughed, this time not thinking anything about their dismal events at the roulette table, but reflecting about her companion at Costesti who will wait for her at the dance hall. Yes, for further reception of the tale. She closed her eyes for a moment and a few more moments. He was still, and apparently with a host of feelings, and he was looking deeply into the rain and trying to hear from it a common language all human people in all seasons and locales can discourse without an interpreter. The cart advanced rocking them and she sees herself, much exhausted to the border of a slumber, and her crest on his moving shoulder. They were like two kids, in a drizzly season, innocent of the world and dismal passions, and shrouded with something immense and hidden, that made them unsuited for further lapses......................................................................................................................5Paris Nights1 These episodes befell over the most recent days of my halt in Paris -I proceeded to Rue de Flore and set out towards the Seine and then to the purple of wisteria close to Notre Dame. My wife was confronted with calcaneal heel and could not walk much. She was an athlete in her youth, now into sedentary occupations and ill-designed travel. She, this time told me that she had ample participation with me and desired rest. Alighieri, my friend, took me to an ancient and prominent cafe at the 6th arrondissement opened by a Sicilian gentleman, wit and bon vivant. We relished dinner at Cafe, where Voltaire and Danton and Balzac - nay, more, Napoleon, Hugo, Gambetta and Anatole France also dined, seizing an alternative way to enormity, not doing any of the stupendous acts the sires have done. The cafe was refurbished in the eighteenth-century fashion, with Pompeian red dividers and crystal chandeliers and waiters serving in quasi-revolutionary outfits. This was my third trip to Paris. First as an undergraduate at Sorbonne, with a Heidegger scholar, but eventually dropping out due to chest ailments, that carried me far to an ocean town in India. Next, with a woman - And I envisioned myself sun, while she was the Zambezi in blistery season. She as the primordial rock. And I like an endemic worm. I was the Panthera pardus. She was Pelecanus onocrotalus. And the roles often switched. My third journey did not take place, as I aspired to get my mama to Paris for sounder treatment when she was diagnosed with the uterine disorder but as some predicaments meddled, I could not do so and had to get radiotherapy done, at a nearby hospice. She was ridden of terminal malady but later succumbed to asthma, a disease that had chased her for more than a decade. Alighieri had known some person in Paris whose mother was a friend of Katherine Mansfield when she stayed here for some otherworldly quests. Alighieri's friend was into esoteric mysticism and following manifold phone inquiries, Alighieri unveiled to me that she had moved with family some interval ago. It seemed she was into the perfume industry in another city in Europe. This is the third journey to Paris. Despite all the engaging shows and rues and promenades and cute stuff, I was not comforted, for my wife belatedly found that she had enough of me, living with a listless husband who did not care her profound reflections, as I have converted into a hindrance than a mate in her life. Will her life, from this point forward, be devoted to some greater ordeals that have a tie with redemption? I was impressed but did not entirely get a hook on her chain of deliberations that surpassed my understanding and, in extension, two mosquitoes were vying with each other, to hit my hands from both sides and also essentially at no point in life could I disdain my body well enough, to hoist the mind to higher musings. She said she is leaving for a monastery in Meteora, where she could soon meet another a companion who shared her sympathies. There, they will live a cloistered existence, away from the transitory world's whims. However, she said, I could meet her, at times- not frequently of course- not as husband, but as a friend.2 That day she got three letters. One from her father in his cuneiforms like the script and many parts were unintelligible due to tremor of hand. He, a Draco in his youth has mellowed. She kissed the letter. He writes that his arthritis is getting worse, still, he finds occasion to go to his office in the old Porsche with his aide. As a recent development, he had met his schoolmate and the latter and his wife, both retired from service, meet him often and they have stories to share. The second was from his brother. He has written in his activist tone that Zucchi is wasting her life on dead projects that have no relevance today. Her ivory tower existence will hardly answer the colossal questions of our time. He augurs that she would regret and requests to join him. She paused and was immured into an applique of ruminations which made her further sense that she had not yet spawned any whopping resolutions in life, not even her marriage. The third epistle was from the princess. The paper and even the mucilage were redolent. Her husband is occupied with the regime and she on many seasons had to accompany him. Her only son needs an upright and educated lady to guide him into good tastes f reading and behaviour. Of the many applicants, she had selected Zucchi even though she had known her only for a short time. She wants to bring her son to an ideal prince who will have the qualities of equanimity and balance. She beseeches Zucchi to accept the post and promises that her office will be as informal as possible and she can pursue her research at the dukedom’s ancient library that houses rare manuscripts.The winter was in Paris, a wonderful moment, with ducks of Jardin Yitzhak-Rabin - Did he say that? My friend will soon leave for Normandy, a part of his Flaubert affair. But, before that we must celebrate, he said - On the third Thursday, November, Beaujolais 4 Nouveau, the six-week wine, Burgundy cheese with its Cistercian reverberation -grapevine-sarments. Besides these, the giant barrels were opened. This was his way to calm me down. I had wine. Alighieri had saucisson and garlic bread and I ate tartiflette. Man, if he wants to continue, must modify everything to the current state - because different things will leave, but not the present moment - This was the key I learned from my mentor.My friend returned with a new pair of boots and I was looking for warm gloves. We have to celebrate winter, he said and gave me ideas - Christmas lights, a vision of Versailles, frost and fall, the glitter gratings. You can run truant and be present. Your wife is not here to enjoy your heart's content. Chestnuts cooked in coal at the corners of the street, and a walk around the Champs-Elysees to watch the fir trees that will stretch you over several boulevards of genteel thoughts. Tomorrow or another day, my friend will go skating as the stakes and rents are low. But I will not go - Instead, sit in a bistro by a grand avenue and sip coffee, hour after hour, and see the city twirling through the windows, resurrected in my eye - I will remain here for some more days and read this winter's thousand and one tales. 3 From the balustrade, my room met the feasting halls that were dimly lit, a large share of the regions of the facade and the entrance had works of art of taste and some semi-human shapes, icons with well-formed limbs and - at the edge a hollow from where a nave was visible and a little group of late worshippers moved out into the twilight ways - Alighieri called in his fine husky voice from someplace far, and proclaimed that he would join anytime - at the open passage, a man with bristly crest and a lady fashionable at most novel trends invaded, and the man hesitated at the ridge and both later linked - He swung his shoulders, the left one marginally bent than the right, maybe not feigned but his custom or attitude or a certain minor handicap. I entered from the main access and had a nearby glimpse of the motley masses inside, individuals of all assortments, the majority being, brand of buoyant youth and in incessant chatter - A woman of wide girth along with a male figure of huge torso and limbs, slightly shocking from my small- town benchmarks - T he man, obviously, a film running in his cerebral screen made rapid outbursts of emotion, that showed up like lightning on his face- Behind him, a young lady in Victoria’s Secret style entered in fresh gaiety, all consummately aware of their masculinity and womanhood - Everything was flawless and articulate in a show that was going to take place this evening. The nave was visible from the porthole- and those structures of grey Gothic stones that matched well in the gigantic canvas of a genius craftsman with its close bunch of Windsor greens and forest looks, a few separations away from the aisle - A picture shone on the grizzled cobalt walls, a class painting of wild asses some old explorers might find in their trips, creatures of fine Tibetan breed - an odour reminiscent of permeable vinegar in the air, various alcohols, and smoke - Here one, all of a sudden, aches for a new Zephyr from the open plains, under a sweltry, familiar sun with my father by the side. In any case, that is not my street this late evening. This evening of knocks and mishaps in Paris. I trusted, he would reprove me into the correct space and I will submit to him in reverence as I am aware, his grand purposes are adequate enough to make up for some of those shallow moves. For me, his living nearness is greater than the Nobel Prize.I switched the motel a few days ago in light of the fact that I favoured a room with a view into the city’s life and furthermore to get away from the water issues which denied me of my night showers. Now moved to a better one, as a senior kinfolk had put an amount into the record, seeing my debased state. There were sounds coming from the inn’s store of books, as a pre-publication of a new author was taking place. It was a book of amorous content and some entered the hall, with the book exhibiting on its cover, a lady reclining on the man’s tourniquet. I picked the table at the farther west end, and the host clearly did not spot me. It was an old rendezvous, where I would occasionally come with her and we both did not know how to dance - that even a child over here knew. The roulette was in the opposite hallway. I got Alighieri's phone that he has reached the hotel and consequently invited him to the dance floor. He didn’t demonstrate stun, instead asked which floor it is and of coming there without mishaps. Finally, we met as two doted old buddies. A lady scantily attired comes near the table, here she pulls back to the one abaft, after a minor qualm. One benefit of seniority is that you are justly deprived of envy and discern that in any domain, there is someone superior to you, and that competition is not, however, one of the life's cardinal virtues. You are gifted with the biggest gift ever at origin itself and that is life. The more one loses willfully the deeper - I don’t recognize all that stuff -but this straightforward oddity is at the root of things -At the farther edge, a solitary lady, not affected by the movement that was mounting in the anteroom, was opening a book and reading it seriously, however, tasting the champagne-like beverage from the container, the server in conspicuous familiarity – maybe a seasoned visitant. Music was maturing heavier and nearer - Alighieri pulled back as time turned out to be late, some point close to midnight, into his room, and I spotted myself in the hall with figures and shadows farther into the heart of the night. The Parisian night. Suddenly to my amazement, the woman who was sitting at the farther end of the honky-tonk, as my eyes were labouring in lesser sobriety, closed her book and arose from the cathedra with several visible plaques, and turned around, as if she had a private tryst in view, strolled towards my direction - now I see her visage which was altogether distinct from the other populace, and more closely I see her when she approaches, cleanly costumed and elegant in strides and with a kind but blazing look in eyes, not bothering the masculine shapes with huge arms and advancing to my small figure unwaveringly - and suddenly to my greatest bewilderment kissed on my right cheek and called me by my first name. This ultimate night. My Paris night. Here, I am purged of sinning, than further sinning..............................6Watercraft by the Seine1These episodes occurred during one of the latter days of my stay in Europe. I was seated in a Parisian café at Boulevard Saint-Germain, fully lit with classic sapwood, and the eatery looked like a vessel, and the servers wore pirate berets. Alighieri, my companion was to explain individual vagaries and I was also taking part in these reviews. This was because of the fact my wife temporarily left me for a respite in a cloister overlooking the Thessaly Plains. And as she said, she needs time for contemplation. Because of these events, I was partially crushed and further was lost in reverie. But Alighieri was enjoying a version of Balzac as well as food, garlic bread, and corn cheese filling. I had tabbouleh. As some of the cafes had reverberations to the writers I cherished in youth, I bought some of these titles, such as "Sun also Rises' summoning reminiscences of Hemingway reading in the University city.Now a couple came to the cafe, the most optimistic match, probably in the primary stages of conjugal bliss and obviously had much to take part in. Every good purport of the time, family aspirations or figments of tomorrow. The young lady gazed into my eyes with all the precision and with a swift discharge of agitation grabbed my right hand and asked to my dismay if I remembered her. I responded in negative. She mumbled, 'You bought me samosa in the Caxton Town'.Samosa is a famous Indian snack that I ate in the evenings during my sojourn in Asia.The name 'Caxton Town' hurled a dazzling vibration to my heart. Yes, I abruptly recalled the wanderings around the amazing pastures with my friend, Alighieri. Watching the birds in their ligneous habitats. Those clubs of Woodswallows, Ioras, Shrikes and Monarch Grey Hypocolius, Larks, and Bulbuls... • And still, to my confoundment, thinking of the little lady who had such an effect on my life in the Caxton Town. I could not believe that the tiny girl who took samosa from me in one evening under a banyan tree could change to such an extent. She said that she is a well-known author now and taking one of the copies from the bag, extended it for me. The book had a plain black jacket and the name of the writer was on the cover and I had definitely heard the writer's name on my recent trip to a book celebration. Critics adulated the author's distinctiveness, the autopsy of the human mind and dynamic digressions in Laurence Sterne style. Instantly I felt delighted to see one of my former friends ascended to this estimated height and also the fact she recognized me in an eatery in Paris. She introduced her partner to me and told that I was her first mentor. That was too generous to say. An exaggeration that confessed to her incorruptibility. This astounded me when I noticed important people, even condemning their early mentors alive. One late occurrence was a famous soloist meeting his old mentor, who organized external tours, meeting the latter, many years after, expressing, "Oh, we meet again", and swiftly turning to more recent fans. He seemed to be more affected by the sale of recordings than honouring his first patron. These are the people who go wrong to the grave, though I wish them otherwise. They have not been able to know the authentic thing in life.2My friend, Alighieri was to depart this midday as he got a call from his folks. He proceeded to the apartment to collect the luggage. I really relished my walk in Rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine etching the brightest hues of Paris, that joined place de la Bastille and Place de la Nation which was signalized by a history of its own. It reminded of the “Bastille storming” of 1789, an event considered as the beginning of the French Revolution. There was a traditional neighbourhood nearby, a working-class type from the twelfth century, a centre of trade and craft. I ate at a moderate restaurant, a bakery like a facade and some were coming and quitting with bright mackintoshes and ornate bonnets and were either talking about the past exploits or the nearby target. A cavalier opened a map from the gearbox and checked after keeping his camera down and his right limb crossed above the left one and after catching the call of a lady standing at the door, departed speedily and their mixed laughter like distant detonation echoed in the hall. There were much fervour and motion in the air. A couple of people dressed in cornflower blue and magenta pink were sipping a liquid at the next table. I selected an item, that was served as dense olio on a roof of injera, a fermented bread made from teff, a sort of old grain, that’s is an alternative to wheat. The food was savoury and appeared Ethiopian.There I met an old man and he had radiant eyes and dressed in thick gaberdine and I thought he must be an offbeat sort of man and engaged in conversation. The old gentleman had a Johann Strauss II type beard, moustache, and sideburns. In the following dialogue which lasted for about an hour, we were talking mainly about beards as the old sire knew more about beards and moustaches than I knew about literature. In the fifteenth century, most European men were clean-shaven. Beards were allowed to grow in the sixteenth century, to an astonishing length, John Knox or Thomas Cranmer. Some beards of this time were the Spanish spade beard, the English square-cut beard, the forked beard, and the stiletto beard. In 1587 Francis Drake claimed, in a figure of speech, to have singed the King of Spain's beard. And he knew the whole story by heart. There were more growing and migrating groups of customers.As I walked further into the boulevards, I met an aficionado, a companion on my morning walks and conversations about art and life, in general, took place. Although I have no profound insight into these areas, my hiking buddy has had interesting perspectives - who was connected to the art gallery of the Louvre and told me that many viewers took Mona Lisa to be a human being and not as a work of art and used to do many acts of foolishness. Alighieri left a note which I read now. A whimsical and sad minute and I was incredibly surprised by the chain of thoughts. He retained some private wounds and had held back revealing them, perhaps looking for a better opportunity to reveal. Such as a mind that went truants and its annoying recollections, and a disease that began a few months ago and also some voices and dreams. I had a similar experience in Warwickshire, hearing a sound of melody from a closed-door, in a manor house that had to some Robert Bruce connections. A musical bell from the nearby room, which, somebody told was the visitation of a feudal count, who was a composer in his lifetime and on whose life, volumes are drafted. Later, these turned out to be a big hoax. I wrote back to Alighieri that he was, after all into many journeys corporally and intellectually, and his brain cannot apparently accommodate all the stuff, and he wanted sound repose and probably simple walks in country greens, as a remedy. And about the voices, I have no knowledge about such questions so as to pass a remark. Still, he should investigate it rather than believe blindly, and history abounds in such fabrications. He asked me the name of someone seriously into these areas. I told him that presently no, still will try to find out one. After that, I made a friendly call, and we laughed simply, just to hear the sound of each other's laughter. This note I felt quite sad to read and this was an additional labour for my brain and took my thought to several of our wanderings together in various parts of India. I have always liked it in a romantic way that life is the same wherever - human beings, gentlemen or ladies have the same kind of predicaments, although some nuances in this fabric are darker or weaker than the others, and a course from murk to light or from daylight to gloom is a relative story. I spent quite a lot of time in the streets and cafes with bas-reliefs to find sustenance.In the present, in this Paris of the past, a mighty stream called The Seine flows, in its ever-widening and grabbing virtue, inspiring writers and performers, and explorers of all season, approaching to a radial net holding civilization on both sides with 777 kilometres of trail. I liked it anyhow and tried to put some of my sentiments in it like any traveller. Like Ms Bovary or Hugo, this river termed Sena, once Sequana of Dijon, is a timeless entity that can influence. Maybe I will not come again. Maybe I will come again numerous times. But that does not matter. Sena, in this navigable holden, in pallid and cerulean essence. And individuals who have bought vessels and lived in pontoons and boats, crafts, which transmits trade articles and so on. I spent a day in the library as I used to do in India when there is enough time at hand. With a hundred or two hundred rupees per day, I can have the most amazing life in India, spending an hour on the benches of Connemara. 3Paris is different. Please leave me for some time, when I recollect these old tales of war and love on both the banks of a river. How many tracks have transpired, amazingly wonderful, and still how could one retain that original splendour? This tenderness and history are fed into a certain part of my brain in order to get revived later. I took a cruise. The Eiffel Tower. There was a restaurant on the second floor. It was at Pont-Neuf, which was really the oldest. The nineteenth-century marvel. Notre Dame with its statues on the outside. And also Sainte-Chapelle with equally great Gothic spells. I have had some setbacks in the past few months, but that does not take away my freedom as a man on this planet.In this royal realm, I will wander for an hour if breath allows with great enthusiasm -more viewing, more living, more engaging and exploring. Maybe we live once. Who knows for sure? Amazingly, I was also not ready to adjust to the spasms of the legs and joint torments that were upsetting me in the hiking. Paris remained vague, in dim sanctuary chambers, boulevards, and cafes and later in a growing diary of memories with lots of footnotes by various scholars. Causes, destinies, and challenges as in an epic story that can be rewritten by another author. In my case, some disillusion apart, this was a lovely excursion. In the sense, I met you. River, I'm communicating with you. I have to assume that it is astonishing, sure. Furthermore, this is a felicitous comfort in moments of affliction as well as times calm. Before Sena, I bow down, humble to the last threshold of humility. A lady leaning down in the footsteps at the back of a rostrum. Another crouching figure may be a child, each by the side of the other, as a blanket to the other in a snowy landscape. And a fog that meets a few more frosty trees at a distance and receiving accolades from unknown hands.I went to the left bank that had an offbeat aura with a diverse group of its guests, craftsmen, travellers, bards, vagabonds, and couples lost in their own dreams and gentlemen in waterproof and oilskins to adorn these winter days. From my small salon, I make a glance at this grand virtuoso not as an apprentice, but from an impartial point of view. Sena in manifold tones, similar to a great darling who gave her heart for a reason for the posterity to cajole, looking for treasures that are not of these worlds. In this life everything will be better than ever in the last scrutiny, I assured myself.I saw it now, a colourful watercraft sliding to the bank with bantam sailcloths, not for some explicit utility, but for elegance and embellishment. And the mysterious sign on its frontispiece of my wife and mine at the betrothal season, with initials in stygian blue and crimson characters inscribed on it. Am I imagining it when once before taking the keys and throwing at the Pont de Arte? I asked a passerby who the owner of the watercraft was, and he answered that it was dedicated by a princess of Indian origin to her lover, for the poor passengers who can not afford a ride and wished it in the beautiful waters. And the lover had a name similar to mine. The envoy said he obtained this knowledge from an architect who is managing the watercraft in this season. .