2

harsh afternoon sun.

sunglasses.

big kato sunglasses that cover half my face sunglasses.

hat looks goofy but will have to do.

interface with fat turbanator auto driving man.

'bhaiya. nfc?'

overcharging. alright.

'community centre, hotel ke paas.'

community centre, hotel ke saath.

a long time ago, God asked gabriel to deliver his wrath to sodom. shortly after, gabriel retired. disguised as a human, he spent a few thousand years, acquiring scars and a sprinkling of grey. he moved from city to city, keeping to the shadows of civilization. he was in rome after the fall, in london after the fire, in paris during the occupation, in berlin till they broke the wall, etc. etc.

shape shifting as he went along, he moved from white to yellow to black to brown. his accent became no accent, his face no face, he became vesuvius, elton, dmitri, eto and a million other names, a cumulative of history that stretched back and forth to infinity, becoming everything and nothing all at once. (on this matter, he was also paul mccartney for a very short duration of time ,relatively, that is. closeted in by that life, he chose to disappear while the beatles were spending time at an ashram in rishikesh. worried as he was about his rather impulsive exit, his fears were laid to rest when he discovered that paul hadn't gone missing at all. another shape shifter had seized the opportunity and had moved in. now, paul mccartney was somebody else.)

in the smoking section at the nfc ccd, his leg shaking restlessly, a burnt cigarette in his right hand behind a herman hesse, he was riyazatullah khan, living with pinak, and timepass (his two dogs) and mr. a. a. khan (his room-mate) somewhere inaccessible by the river.

on sighting the princess, he got up and hugged her.

'hi', he said, 'how are you?'

'fine.', she said, sitting across, 'i think i'll have a coffee. did i tell you i'm going to study theatre in london.'

'oh. that's lovely.'

'really. i'm not that sure. you have a light.'

'sure, let me.'

scratch. blaze. puff.

'yeah. needed that. so what's up with you, riyaaz?'

'nothing, i'm thinking i'll go back home.'

riyaaz was impersonating someone's son.

'are you mad, they'll kill you there.'

'yeah well, that's ok.'

they laughed.

'good thing is', said riyaaz, 'it's got large spaces, you know, so the dogs will be happy.'

'but your job and everything.'

they laughed again.

'listen', she finally said, 'have you been in touch with udayan.'

'ummm', cigarette drag, 'not since he died.'

'no, that's the point, he's not dead.'

at this point, riyazat started scratching his head. he did this when articulation was a problem.

'he called me at one. the accident happened at twelve. he's got to be alive.'

'well, he's not been in touch as such.'

'hmmmm. do you have any leads.'

more scratching of the head. she understood he was keeping something.

'riyaaz' she kept her hand on his, 'it's ok. you don't have to tell me.'

a cigarette or two later, Riyazat asked the waiter for a pen.

'everybody here' sang michael stipe over the intercom, 'comes from somewhere.'

'i'm off in a week or so', riyazat said, 'i don't think we'll ever meet again. it's been a joy getting to know you.'

he scribbled something on the piece of paper, insisted on paying, hugged her again and left.

'that they would just as soon forget and disguise. at the summer camp where you volunteered, no one saw your face, no one saw your fear...'

passionately to an electric guitar.