This is fictional garbage, nuclear waste of spent internal explosions, thinly veiled autobiographical spawn, some versions of imagined future, some versions of realities lived through, and hence that lie beyond the border that loosely seperates facts and fiction, some stories, some numbers (1729), some events from a much limited lived life all jumbled up, that are repeated ad infinitum like spells in the hope that they might open up the Ali Baba's cave of understanding. But is it understanding that the writer primarly seeks?

They walk across the old bridge thrown across from Brooklyn to reach the lights of Manhattan. Ram and Kaveri, with Hudson gleaming underfoot in the first sunny days of spring. Such an intersection, aren’t human lives about intersections, conjunctions, separations?, would have been hard to come by naturally. Perhaps their routes could have crossed underground in the subway, doesn’t he look someone who was hanging on to the rail, his clothes smelling of cigarette smoke?, or perhaps it might had been to her hospital he might have dragged himself to with his burnt hands, wasn’t she rushing down a fluorescent light tunnel, her badge flashing in the light, Kaveri Sumbramaniam, M.D., more friendly Kavs to friends with tongues resistant to the languages of the Orient, here all soon get American names, especially the Chinese, or Chittiamma to her parents.

Thus the once prosperous Wall Streeter now indigent writer meets the steady doctor, who finally found time to examine the state of her soul, is it thinning like her hair? You may have read about too many dramatic meetings previously for example on the tilting deck of a Titanic, or in a Bedu camp at the edge of what the Arabs call the Empty Quarter. But there was no drama in this meeting, drama is expensive shit, and this meeting was engineering by distant aunts in the tropics, who neither had met in recent years, carried out at one of the ubiquitous Starbucks coffee houses.

typing to be resumed later

After a night full of restless wandering The morning comes without any hope.

I fall down into some endless tunnel And this moment moves into the next

Without asking why, when or which. Words lay around like mangy dogs lolling

In summer heat, unable to assuage this Endless silence of shadows of my world.

The only consolation are these few old songs I had carried here from afar on

Crackling unwound reels, which I play again And again endlessly through out this day.

Sooner or later roads come to an end. The tram draws to a stop beside the bridge Then doubles back. Cogwheel railways descend

To their terminus. You reach the world’s edge To leap off or to turn around and face The ardours of the tiring homeward trudge.

The beggars in the subway know their place. The shopgirl yawns. A couple in the square Seem to be locked in statuesque embrace.

Surely by now the credits should appear. Our characters, our narratives, our themes And leitmotifs are hanging in the air

As dusk comes on with the small print of dreams. We get into the car and cruise away Negotiating networks of dipped beams.

Everything snores. Even the fine spray Of rain breathes evenly. The houses close Their doors to the street. Bedroom curtains sway

And darken. Somewhere in the comatose Suburbs two people chase each other through Sequences of courtyards with black windows.

Today is history, only the night is new And always startling. Slowly the paint flakes On the wall. Eventually the film-crew

Pack their gear away. The darkness aches For morning which arrives with bird-calls, gusts Of wind and traffic just as the reel breaks.