The disquiet had slipped away with the noise.
I breathed in the aroma of my Darjeeling blend — inhaling deeply and pausing before sipping. The warmth of the vapor signaled that the tea was hot. I had found the prospect more appealing in the past. Another unexpected consequence. The stimulus was no longer the goal of every action. Instead, the act of drinking my tea was more of an exploration driven by curiosity rather than a compulsion. I held the cup with both hands and cautiously tilted it towards my lips, trying to find the perfect angle when the fluid would reach the rim of the cup without flooding my mouth with the scalding liquid. The sweet scent of chamomile laced with barley and the orange-y ginger of turmeric settled behind my eyes. I winced at the sudden pain when I predictably tipped the cup too far. Setting the cup down, I focused on the sensation. I could not taste the tea for the stinging on my lips, gums, and tongue.
I smiled when I realized that I did not feel a need to immediately attempt another sip. I could wait until the liquid had cooled and become more palatable. I set the cup on the wooden table next to me, noticing the dull sound of ceramic meeting wood. The interplay between the complex, lingering scents and the fading pain was itself interesting. The former was pleasant, evoking memories without specific images — comfort and well-being. And a twinge of anxiety as the burning receded, until the flutter in my chest settled down.
Inhaling and then exhaling slowly, I marveled at the peace.
“Mr. Prasad, how are you feeling?”
I turned, gathering my gown around me, conscious now of the opening in the back.
I hadn’t noticed Dr. Venkat’s arrival. She looked at me with wide eyes, her head tilted forward and slightly to the right. When she spoke, her words were perfectly articulated, every syllable well-formed and linked to the next with a predictable and unwavering cadence, like a metronome. Precision! Her entire manner shouted it even as she spoke in even tones.
“Sometimes the process can be…” — even when she paused, the effect was like an orchestra leveraging a beat of silence before a rousing chord, practiced and impactful — “unsettling.”
I tried to smile and then realized that I was already grinning. “It’s amazing!” I breathed out. “Amazing.”
The corners of her mouth turned up and her lips parted slightly with perfect symmetry. “I’m pleased that you are responding favorably.” She glanced at the cup, still nearly full, sitting on the side table. “I see you’ve discovered our tea service. My day always ends with guayusa steeped in coconut water.”
“An addiction, Doctor?”
“Let’s call it a ritual,” she replied. She swiveled on her left heel and walked through the French doors, leaving me alone on the deck overlooking the grounds.
#
Later that morning, I blinked as the intense white light pierced my left eyeball, striking my retina like a splinter of ice.
“Don’t blink,” said the doctor examining me. He shifted the light to my other eye.
I blinked again.
The light switched off.
An orange red haze lingered, shrinking from the edges until my vision cleared. I noticed dark, threadlike shapes floating and drifting until my eyes focused on the doctor. He was turned away from me, facing a screen, blocking my view. The soft thrum of the computer fan and the clicking of the keys as the doctor typed were the only sounds.
I shifted my position to try to get a glimpse of the screen. There was an unpleasant sting from several spots on my chest, where adhesive electrodes pulled on my hair due to the weight of the different colored cables connecting them to a grey plastic box adorned with a stylized blue “N” encircled by four arrows linked head to tail.
“Please don’t move yet,” he said without looking at me.
My forearms were sweating where the bare skin was pressed against the smooth vinyl of the armrests. The stickiness of that tactile feedback reinforced the doctor’s command, and I sat still.
“I feel fine,” I told him.
“Yes, well, that’s not really the question, is it…” His attention was still on the screen. He was typing again. “You probably felt fine even before the procedure…”
As he spoke, his words slowed and trailed off at the end of each sentence. However, the keyboard sounds continued without pause. It reminded me of the sound of a cricket card in the spokes of my 3-speed Huffy — it had been a gift for my dhoti ceremony from my mother’s brother, who brought the bike from America. The banana-shaped seat had allowed me and my cousin to ride at the same time. And sometimes, Basha, the servant’s son, would ride on the handlebars, shoulders pulled back, while he gripped the steering column behind him, legs spread wide to avoid bumping the front wheel with his feet. I would lean to one side so I could see beyond the skinny boy, while Dinesh leaned the other way behind me to maintain our balance. I remembered the burn on my sweating thighs where they rubbed against the cheap black vinyl of the seat —
“There! What were you thinking of there?” There was no longer any clicking, and the doctor was partially crouched so our eyes were level. The deep brown of his skin made his eyes seem almost copper in comparison.
I sat up a little taller, peeling my forearms off the armrests, remembering again how the bicycle seat had stuck to my bare legs as a child. “I remembered riding my bike.”
“Was this a good memory?”
I thought for a moment, trying to recapture the image. We had been eager and unrestrained, exploring without fear.
“Yes.”
The doctor’s eyes crinkled at the corners, but he was not smiling. “Can you remember any details?”
“Sure.”
He stood and backed away a little, but he kept looking at me. I found myself glancing at the screen, which had been occupying him so completely just moments before. The tracings and numbers were meaningless to me. “I was riding my bike with my cousin and,” I hesitated, “another kid. We were riding through Madras — um, Chennai, well, it was Madras then, I guess — and we were going to Ottiambakam, an old quarry where we could have a swim.”
“And what made you think of this just then?” He was moving back to his keyboard but was still turned towards me.
“Well, when you were typing, the clicking reminded me of the sound my bike made when ––”
“Perfect!” His lips parted and his entire face lifted into an unrestrained smile. “A seamless transition from an innocuous stimulus to a cached memory with a positive association, during a typically anxiety-producing scenario…”
I blinked. “What?”
“It seems that the cognitive template was a 100% take.” He made a few quick keystrokes and then shut off the monitor. He unclipped the wires from the leads on my chest but left the electrodes in place. “I’ll let you remove these yourself,” he said. “When you’re ready, you can just stop at the front desk, and they’ll help you with your check out and follow-up.”
#
When I reached home, I hesitated and then proceeded up the 6 steps. I had been surprised by the trepidation that accompanied my approach to the massive door, painted in high gloss navy blue with an oversized brass knob in the center underneath a weathered knocker. The familiarity of the building’s silhouette — a flat-topped structure with a stucco facade, wide verandas, and black-faded-to-dark-grey louvres — triggered dread of a return to the normal I had gone to great lengths to escape.
The door opened as I approached, revealing a garishly lit corridor, and I was greeted by the house attendant, Birbal.
“Welcome home, Vikram.”
My knees buckled when the sound hit me, painfully loud. My hands flew to cover my ears, and I shouted, “Birbal, lower the volume!”
The AI promptly complied. “I’m sorry, Vikram,”— the volume was much lower now, though still loud— “Is this better?”
I lowered my hands from my ears which pulsed with remembered pain. “Yes, thank you.”
“You seem different,” it said. “Was the treatment a success?”
I thought for a moment. “Birbal, please update all the environmental settings to —” What would be appropriate? “How about setting them at something typical for most people — audio, lights, temperature. Let’s call this new profile ‘Prasad NT 1’.”
“Very good,” replied the AI. “Should I save your old settings, Vikram?”
I shouldn’t need them anymore if the process had worked. I peered into the hallway. The lights had dimmed to a more comfortable level, and the gentle pressure out the door from the laminar airflow system engaging further confirmed that my sensorium had indeed been down regulated. The contrast in my current perception of this, my home environment, with the comfort that it had once represented renewed my astonishment.
Nevertheless… “Save the old settings as Prasad SS 1.”
“Very good, Sir,” said Birbal agreeably. “In case you revert to your sensory seeking neurotype, it might make things easier.”
“Yes,” I said. I sat upon the low bench that I kept near the entrance and removed my black sneakers and thin cotton socks. I set my bare feet upon the cool marble and sat for a moment. I probed the ridges between the pink and blue streaked white slabs. The roughness reminded me of the grit that used to coat the floor of our farmhouse when I was a child. It had been years — after university, in fact — before I knew what it felt like to have clean feet without sediment between my toes. But it hadn’t bothered me. On the contrary, I used to wiggle my toes until the skin became raw and my Ammamma scolded me.
I smiled without joy at the memory. I had been scolded a lot as a child.
“Will you be taking your dinner this evening, Sir?” Birbal asked.
I realized that I was hungry. But I also realized that I could easily resist the compulsion to eat.
I smiled with actual joy.
“I don’t think so, Birbal. I’m going to just rest awhile.”
I set my shoes under the bench and went to find a book.
#
“Vik, why do you keep rubbing your chest?” asked Vamsi, leaning against the side of my cubicle, arms crossed. Her forehead was wrinkled — three subtle indentations. Was she concerned? However, she was smiling. She had not shouted her question, but I was aware that she was speaking quite loudly. I was also aware that she smelled of jasmine flowers. I noticed that her hair was kept in a long braid, draped across the top of her right shoulder. The flowers were woven into the braid. There were highlights of pink within the off-white petals that echoed the soft pink paisley pattern of her cream-colored sari.
I realized self-consciously that I had been rubbing my chest where the hair had been pulled off by the adhesive of the electrodes.
“I…had an exam…a medical test,” I stammered.
The wrinkles deepened and her eyes widened. “Are you ok?” she asked.
I noticed that the rich brown of her irises gave way to a bright amber at the outer margin, and there were tiny flecks of gold — narrow ovals, I realized — arrayed radially around the pupils, which had tightened.
“Your eyes are lovely,” I said.
Her smile widened so much that her eyes narrowed, and her natural tilak — why did I associate that with her glabellar lines? — disappeared. She stood taller. Her unadorned fingers went to the braid, as if holding a flute. “Thank you! I just had my eyes done this weekend.” Her tone had softened.
I watched as she blinked a few times. She was looking at me. Waiting?
“That’s nice,” I said. “Is it for a special occasion?”
She pursed her lips, erasing the smile, “Really?” She turned and walked away.
I noticed that Abhi, seated in his own cubicle across the aisle, was shaking his head.
“What?” I asked.
“You’re ridiculous, Bro.”
“Because I noticed her eye mod?” I asked.
“No, you dumb buffalo, because she changes her eye color every month and, apparently, you never noticed!”
The jasmine scent faded rapidly as Vamsi disappeared around a corner. I returned to my screen as streams of characters danced across it like playful monkeys, certain that Abhinav was exaggerating.
#
Several months later, I stood on the rooftop of my parents’ house with my father. The early evening light was fading, and the crowds were thinning as the festivities moved indoors. The streaks of color — violet and red and green and indigo — had deepened before desaturating into grays and blacks. I knew that the residue of Holi would not disappear until after several heavy rains.
I swirled my drink and held it under my nose. Notes of honey and caramel with a touch of vanilla. The ice sphere touched my upper lip as I sipped. The cold contrasted with the burn of the whiskey. I closed my eyes. Honey and jackfruit up front, but only briefly. The oak started to dominate, but that too faded. I was surprised by the subtle pomegranate and blackberry and, perhaps, wooden apple finish.
I opened my eyes and saw that my father was looking at me.
“I’m glad you and Vamsi came for supper this evening,” he said. “Your mother seems to like her.”
“Mom likes everyone,” I said.
“Yes,” he said, pausing to take a sip from his own glass, “but this is the first opportunity you have given her to like someone like Vamsi.”
The air had cooled to a comfortable 26 degrees Celsius. The sky was nearly starless, obscured by the haze that had become ubiquitous in our cities. Occasionally, starlight would penetrate the blanket of filth — a brief reminder of what lies beyond. I wondered whether a child born under such a sky would ever dream of the stars.
“Does Vamsi know about…well, the procedure?” he asked after a few moments.
“It’s ok to say it, Dad — neurotype reassignment.”
“Well, does she?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Ok,” he said. He stroked the back of his head with his left hand. I knew this was a sign of nervousness. “Does she know about the risk of reversion?”
“Of course,” I lied.
“Ok,” he said, watching me as he sipped gray liquid from a copper tumbler.
#
On the evening of our first wedding anniversary, Vamsi and I decided to visit Old Delhi, where we had our first meal together. Birbal called for a hoverlift to transport us to the Delhi Junction railway station. We then transferred to an auto rickshaw with a driver to take us along Chandni Chowk, the central artery of the market, where local ordinances prohibited non-air-gapped AI as well as biometric data collection.
The street wound between a collage of storefronts — mismatched boxes of concrete and wood, identified with signs in different languages. The windshield of the vehicle robbed the scene of its realism; it looked like a decoupage wall decoration through the transparent plastic. I felt Vamsi rest her hand on my knee, her gentle pressure drawing my attention to the bouncing of my knee, which I made an effort to relax.
I turned towards her and realized that she had been talking to me. “I wish they would allow ‘lifts here, or at least update the roads so they aren’t so rough!” she shouted to be heard over the street noise.
I smiled agreement, noticing now that the ride was somewhat bumpy.
We reached a narrow alley with food stalls and assorted wares. “Only foot traffic, Sahib!” called out our driver. We climbed out of the auto, waited briefly while the driver confirmed that payment had been logged, and walked the rest of the way. We pressed our way through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd. I followed Vamsi’s lead. Her bright orange sari was easy to track, although I almost lost her a few times. Fortunately, she knew exactly where to go.
We arrived at Natraj Dahi Bhalla. The corner shop had been established in 1940 and was famous for its street food. Vamsi went to the counter to order our food, while I surveilled the seating area until a table opened up. She joined me, bearing a tray with two bowls of dahi bhalla and two cups of mango lassi. My mouth began to water at the memory of the tartness of the richly spiced yogurt and the fluffiness of the fried dumplings.
“This place has hardly changed,” she said, adjusting her sari before she began to eat.
“Well, it’s been here for over a hundred years, so I wouldn’t really expect much difference since our last visit,” I replied.
“I just mean, because so much has changed for us, right?” She took a sip of her drink. “We aren’t really the same people we were two years ago.”
I paused. “We aren’t?”
“Well, you have a much better job now instead of sitting in front of a computer screen analyzing data. And I’m much happier with my new company, modeling the effects of climate intervention. And I think there was something else…”
I waited, and then, “What?”
Vamsi scrunched up her face. “Really?” She made a fist and mimed rapping me on my forehead. “We weren’t married two years ago!”
I smiled as I reached for the hot pickle, spooning a generous amount into my bowl. “I guess you’re right, my love, we have changed.”
#
“I don’t want you to do it,” Vamsi said. She wiped the corner of her eyes with the end of her sari. “We are fine.”
“This is not fine!” I shouted. We were in the sitting room, but neither of us was sitting.
“You don’t know what will happen if you go through it again,” she said.
“But I know what will happen if I don’t.” I tried to soften my voice, but I couldn’t be certain whether I succeeded. “I can’t go down this path again,” I continued. “It’s getting worse.”
“I know how hard —” she started.
“You don’t see all of it! It’s not just the noise that I need Birbal to play every night until I fall asleep or the videos that I watch during every meal. Everything is fading — tastes, colors, smells. I can’t even remember conversations unless they are fights.” I was suddenly tired and leaned against the corner of the cocktail table. “I just want to fix things, fix myself. Do you realize that you didn’t go out with me until after the procedure?”
My eyes had been wandering, but when I looked at her, I saw that her eyes were locked upon me.
“Vikram,” she said, “I knew who you were well before that damned clinic.” Her voice was even, controlled. “It was you who didn’t notice me until afterwards.”
And as my gaze drifted and I rubbed my back against the wall, I forced myself to look at my wife, to see her. I saw now that her tears were falling freely.
I reached out and lifted her chin, wiped a tear from her cheek.
“OK,” I lied, “I’ll forget about it.”
END