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