One of the nurses wheeled me into Thangachi’s room and I saw how KK had embraced her with such enthusiasm and lifted her baby, Raja, so high, because he was a boy. Thangachi was the mother of a champ, so that made her a champ too. When he had picked up my baby earlier he hadn’t lifted her up anywhere as high, and he embraced me with less warmth. I felt it was a struggle not even to be seen as a runner-up with my contribution of a baby daughter. I also noticed that KK’s late mother’s heart-shaped emerald pendant and thick gold chain adorned Thangachi’s now fat neck. I didn’t sulk openly.
I was sent home with my baby first, and had two quiet days with Kumari, after which Thangachi returned from hospital, making her usual demands to KK in her shrill voice: “Please can you order sakarai satham, with extra brown sugar in the rice, crushed cardamom seeds, and roasted cashew nuts over it, and make sure you offer that as thanksgiving to Lord Ganesha for making you a father to our new-born son. After the blessing bring a small portion back for both of us please.”
Unlike the past seven years, I saw a gentle smile on KK’s face, and his temper had disappeared too. I saw him sitting on his usual sofa cooing to baby Raja.
Sometimes mothers die at childbirth, but this time it was the father who died of a heart attack within four weeks of our two babies being born. I’m glad that’s one ‘custom’ that has changed in this man’s world.
My friend Mrs. Chong said ‘sei’ in Cantonese meant both four and death. KK’s doctor, who rushed over when he collapsed at home, said that despite his advice on how a heart patient should behave, KK had raised his voice to him, especially when he referred to KK as someone with a heart condition.
×××
Now, at the funeral, as the hearse pulls up at our main gate, Thangachi beats her head with both her palms. “Kadavellai, my God, why did you do this to him just when you gave us our greatest miracle? You have given me a son, but you have taken away my husband.”
I’m standing beside her, but she says “my”, not “our” or “your” husband. I cannot wait to set her right after this melodrama is over. When we were little girls we played pura-pura, pretend-pretend games. She doesn’t realize that she cannot continue to pretend that I don’t exist in her life. All these months it has been herself, her son and KK, without any mention of her Acca. She seems so immersed in her grief that she barely notices my presence. She is wailing much louder than me for this man who gave me all the blame and took all the credit for himself and Thangachi. She has shown our relatives, KK’s colleagues and friends, that he meant much more to her than to me. Why the need to parade ugly half-truths when I am the one who has cared for him all these years?
Our guests are slowly leaving. The white and yellow frangipani from the wreaths surrounding the main foyer are beginning to fade. Outside, the sky is turning blue with white clouds, and the sun is beginning to shine. I now have my daughter Kumari to care for, and soon a son too.
“The king is dead. Long live the queen.” Since I heard that on BBC radio five years ago in 1952, when King George VI died and Princess Elizabeth took over as Queen, I’ve dreamt of this moment. This is my Merdeka.
“Now at last, I am the head of this household,” I say when all the relatives, friends and neighbors have left. I go to our sitting room and am seated spread out on the sofa like KK used to be. Thangachi follows me and sits on the rug. Her cold fingertips touch my warm feet and bring my thoughts back to her. As she reaches up to hug me I push her forehead back. Shall I put Thangachi through all KK did to me?
“Too late for the old Acca business. Acca is dead, long live Amma. Now you have to pay me back.”
“How Amma? I have nothing to give.”
“Nothing? Is your son nothing?”
“Aiyo, no Amma. He’s the only thing that I have.”
“You took all that I had. You snatched my husband into your cradle. I saw after our son was born that you are no different from the women of other races in the club.”
“I’m so sorry Amma. Aiyo, Amma.”
Tears rolled down Thangachi’s black eyeliner-smeared cheeks once again.
“Many poor mothers have given away their babies so their children may have a better life.”
“They give away daughters for adoption but… but… never their sons, Amma.”
“It’s time to throw away the bad old man-made customs and start some new woman-made ones. You will announce to the world that I delivered twins, a girl and a boy.”
“Now I’m beginning to understand this nightmare.”
“Nightmare? You dare call my dream your nightmare?”
“Sorry Amma, I meant this change. Can I think about all you said, Amma?” Thangachi asked.
“Then I will think about whether I should kick you out of my house. By the way, I want to show you something at the top of the stairs.”
“Aiyo, Amma you won’t kick me down the stairs, the way Athan kicked the dhobi?” Thangachi lifts her other hand.
“What happened to the dhobi is nothing compared to what I will do to you,” I say, as I lead her upstairs by her wrist.
PANOPTICON
VICTOR FERNANDO R. OCAMPO
“The illusion of free will is itself an illusion.”
− Sam Harris, Neuroscientist and Author.
I woke up in a dirty public toilet, white noise fogging my head. The stink of urine and cigarettes choked the dead air. A broken sink in front of me lay thick with organic crust, ashes and ancient spittle. Overhead, an incandescent bulb flickered uncertainly.
“Mr. Salazar?” a voice behind me asked. “Try not to move so much, you’re not complete yet.”
I glanced up at the mirror and saw the reflection of a woman in a tight white jumper, slender and tall like a huntress. I knew immediately that something was wrong. Her face was familiar, too familiar. It was a face that I had seen hundreds of times before, the Singaporean screen siren Marrie Lee. She looked as if she’d stepped out from the movie They Call Her Cleopatra Wong.
I balled my hand into a fist. I knew she couldn’t possibly be real.
“No need to fight Mr. Salazar. Your reaction is all the confirmation I need,” the strange woman said. “Cigarette?”
“Who are you?” I asked, gagging at the assault of cesspool smells. “Where am I?”
“It’s me, Pai Kia,” the woman said, her voice dropping suddenly to a baritone. “I’m Ms. Esperanza’s agent, remember? Let me adjust my HI.”
“H… HI?” I stammered, as her body morphed into something more androgynous.
“Aiyoh. H-I, Haptic Interface, It allows you to touch me,” e explained. “Anyway, we spoke at Golden Acres. I’m your caseworker, at least for the next few minutes. Sorry for the rough landing, this is my cheapest loading program. You did travel by steerage after all. Welcome to Alt.Tundon.”
I threw up.
“Isn’t it wonderful? That’s your system getting rid of unnecessary information,” Pai Kia said, as e took a drag from a long Djarum Black. “Feels so real, correct or not? This place is almost the real universe. You won’t see any pixelation, not even at the quantum level. This hack is that good. You gone case uncle. But soon, very soon, you won’t even remember transitioning.”
I threw up until my knees gave way. My face slumped into the dirty sink, straight into the puddle of my own vomit.
“Listen, I’m paid by the second, so listen and listen closely,” the agent said. “You just came back from the dead and your algorithm’s still broken. She wants you to find her. This time she says there’s less bullshit, no guns and no restraining orders. Find her. She’s waiting for you.”
“Where am I? What… what is this place?” I asked.
“Alt.Tundon’s a Hacker Town. It’s a cloud of parasite spaces called Gimokud, hidden beneath the New Cities. Are you sure you don’t remember? The New Cities are what passes for Paradise for the affluent deceased.”
Pai Kia fished for something in eir pocket and tossed it to the floor. It was an old Casio Databank watch.
“Since you’re not part of the 1%, you have to wear one of these. Your identity and your credits are inside until you’re re-skinned. Don’t lose it or you’ll be purged. If you need more credits you’ll have to sell something. If you got nothing, sell yourself. Good luck.”
“Wait…” I whispered hoarsely, struggling to my feet. “Please wait.”
By the time I finally managed to stand, the agent was gone. Only the smell of clove cigarettes remained, pungent as rotting fruit.
I moved to a clean sink and washed my face. When I looked into the mirror, an impossible face stared back. I was young again, probably 41 or 42. That was about the age I was when I first met Esperanza. I had a feeling something would happen to my appearance when I transitioned, but I had not expected this.
Damn it. Why is she torturing me? Why now, after all these years? I felt a familiar flood of pain and self-loathing. Why did I even come?
In my old age I had tried my best to forget about her, to erase what had ripped my heart out. Our love broke me to the point where I couldn’t deal with relationships, not anymore, perhaps not ever.
It took a long time, but after years I believed my nightmare was behind me. Why the hell did I agree to see her again? Why the hell did I agree to tear open old wounds?
It hadn’t been easy. My stupid heart refused to forget past sins. To move on, I had opted to misremember everything. Memory was never perfect anyway, and false memories were just as good as real ones, if you wished hard enough.
I dried my face on my shirt. It was made of piña cloth, a luxurious Barong Tagalog reserved for weddings. The telltale static of Nanotex fabric on wet skin, a glitch actually, told me the shirt wasn’t real. I put on the watch she’d left me and checked its digital signature. Every single thing I was wearing was a hand-me-down download, pre-owned by her dead husband, the industrialist Julio Salas.
A message scrolled across the calado embroidery on my shirt cuffs, a helpful reminder of my indigent humiliation:
Good evening Mr. Salas Mr. Salazar. This shirt is best washed with Mr. Clean digital detergent. Removes vomit and all simulated organics.
A detergent ad? Biofilms and ultrasonics cleaned everything now and I hadn’t seen real soap in decades. I decided it was probably a skeuomorph, a virtual anachronism designed to make people – old people – more comfortable being digitized.
What the hell is this place?
I staggered out of the toilet. Night had fallen and I looked around the deserted alley, wondering where I was supposed to go. A bicycle had been propped on a wall just in front of the lavatory entrance. As soon as I stepped toward it the bike began to flash its lights, illuminating layers of advertising graffiti with a frail white fluorescence. The lights kept blinking until I put my hand on its bamboo handlebars.
A message popped on its digital odometer:
Thank you for choosing a Shimano Intelligent Bicycle Mr. Salas Mr. Salazar. The seat has been automatically adjusted to your height. Your route has already been pre-selected. Please climb aboard and simply pedal.
I heaved myself onto the gel-padded saddle and kicked off. The bike guided me through the dark and narrow alleys that snaked through the labyrinth of tenements. Everything in Alt.Tundon lay in the shadow of its sole skyscraper, the neon-lit Torre Paraiso.
I passed through the slums like a ghost. Through the yawning windows I saw people leading seemingly normal lives – playing mahjong, or the card game pusoy dos, eating dinner, or simply gathered around their living rooms, plugged into a legion of electronic devices. This was a town of old people, permanently idle; permanently trapped in the amber of unstructured time. Not a single child was in sight.
The faces of certain strangers looked disturbingly familiar. I passed a panciteria, where I thought I saw Harrison Ford drinking San Miguel beer with Jonathan Pryce and Bembol Roco. Nearby, on a street-level TODA station, a woman the spitting image of the actress Hilda Colonel waited patiently for a hover-cyclo to come.
I wondered how many of them were real people, not background SIMs, or in-memoriam programs. If they were human, I wondered if this was their idea of heaven.
The bicycle took me away from the maze of small streets to a wide, tree-lined boulevard bustling with shops and post-modern apartments. My ride stopped in front of a garishly-lit clothing store called The Way We Wear. There, an oddly-dressed man waited expectantly.
“Welcome to Alt.Tundon, Mr. Salazar,” he said softly. The old man wore a circus ringmaster’s outfit. On his head was an elegant top hat with large aviator goggles hanging carelessly from its brim. A strange watch, encrusted with many dials, covered his left arm like an armature of metal eczema. I imagined it could keep time for the entire universe.
“I have been asked to dress you and guide you to Paraiso.”
“Thank you, but this looks like an expensive place,” I replied, as I stepped in to view his merchandise. The store smelled of spikenard, incense and myrrh, the stink of gods and rich people. “I’m not sure I have enough credits.”
“Don’t worry about that, Mr. Salazar,” he reassured me. “Your re-skinning has already been paid for.”
Inside the store I realized there were no actual clothes, just an infinite library of paintings, photos, and video screens, displaying clothing styles from every time period and from all over the world.
“Now then,” he announced theatrically, “a Gimokud is a world where heart and mind are one.”
“Hang on. What is this place?” I interrupted. “Where am I? Am I dead?”
“I understand that you were a filmmaker once,” he said cryptically. “You were a director, a scriptwriter. You were once a Creator.”
“Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“Can you not recognize art when you see it? Some creators can build worlds from words and images. Some can create an entire universe. Your mind is what the philosopher Anaxagoras called ‘the intellect that builds reality’.”
“You’re not making any sense,” I said. “Who built this? Who is responsible for this place?”
“I was under the impression that you were responsible,” he announced without emotion. “I suppose if you want to know more, you will have to ask Mrs. Salas.”
“Where is she?” I asked. “Is Esperanza really here?”
“She is waiting for you at Paraiso. I am afraid you are running very late.”
I wasn’t sure if it was my traumatic transition, or simply the thought of seeing Esperanza again, but I felt suddenly faint. I sat down on a huge Persian carpet in the center of the store and buried my head in my hands.
“I’m sorry. Please get up,” the old man said gently. “Paraiso checks for broken souls and will frown on your second-hand clothes.”
“I have nothing else.”
“Oh, that is not true. Even here you have some measure of agency.” he said unexpectedly. “I will use your Nanotex canvas to craft a new outfit that will map the man you used to be. I will cut it from the cloth of your pain, that buried fabric spun from the love you’ve lost and sew it with the dark threads of your forbidden consummations. Finally, I shall embellish it with the future fruit of your final, bittersweet meeting.”
“What are you talking about?”
The older man was much stronger than he looked. He helped me up and ushered me to his workstation.
“Does that outfit sound about right to you?” he asked. “After all, our clothes are guideposts to our feelings. Your outside will now match what is inside. How are you feeling now Mr. Salazar?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. A swarm of 3D printers, buzzing like paper wasps, stripped me down to my bare Nanotex frame. There was absolutely nothing underneath.
“You are dressing me with emotions that I have spent a lifetime forgetting.”
“Ah, but that is who you are,” said the old man.
The tailor’s curious machines repaired my algorithm, then created code by code, thread by thread, a beautiful new suit of gra
y merino wool – one that did not have ‘Mr. Julio Salas’ crossed out on its digital signature.
“Perfect,” the old man exclaimed. “As they say, clothes do make a man. You are now a perfect simulation of your old self. Perhaps this time you will find the right words to say.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “What do I need to do now?”
“Just a piece of advice – the body can become young again, but the soul, never. When the hurt is strongest we must watch what we say,” he cautioned. “Now go please, there is a Personal Air Lifter outside, waiting to take you to Paraiso. Mrs. Salas is already there.”
I thanked the old man and left feeling as gray as my suit. I wasn’t really sure what he’d done, but it felt like I’d been prepped for a funeral.
“Hello again, Mr. Salazar,” Pai Kia greeted cheerily, as I climbed aboard the sleek red aircraft. E was still dressed in Cleopatra Wong’s tight white jump suit. “You clean up very nicely, Uncle. I could fancy someone like you.”
I said nothing as our autogiro lifted toward an indifferent brown sky, past the grid of wires that stretched over the slums like a garrote. The highway in the heavens was teeming with sky jeeps, floating hawker stalls, hover-cyclos, air tuk-tuks, and giant advertising dirigibles. The latter’s Holosonic displays bombarded my head with hundreds and thousands of advertisements, factoids, and subliminal purchasing suggestions.
I closed my eyes to escape, letting the lights of the airborne traffic blur into hazy constellations. Every few seconds, a small group of vehicles would peel away, puncturing the smoke-choked clouds like dying meteors.
“I don’t get it,” I asked. “If people pay to be here, why does it look like a retro-future dump? It’s like we went back in time, to some old Third World country.”
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