Posted in Fiction, Science Fiction

The Glitch: Part 2 of 5

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is the second installment of a new Science-fiction short story. You find the first part here.

Mercy

Beccy continues with enthusiasm, not getting the hint that I am not in the mood for the discussion, “Do you think Athr can be your boyfriend now? He is meant to be target-oriented, and you’ll need a boyfriend now that you have lost one.”

“He can’t.” I can’t believe that I am explaining all this to a robotics engineer, “Athr does not have feelings. While he can understand his targets and sort-of sympathise with them, he can’t really feel any emotions.”

“Well, that’s a shame! He looks amazing. I would have been thrilled to even imagine the possibility.”

“Really? Do you want a boyfriend who can tear your friends apart if he gets jealous? There is a reason why we draw a line when it comes to emotions in robots.”

“Yeah! But I still think it would be amazing!” I try not to roll my eyes at that. Everyone is allowed to have an opinion; however foolish it may be.

*****

ATHR 1 is the first successful version of Autonomous Target-anchor Humanoid Robot whom I have recently finished building. Honestly, I should use the pronoun “it” since he is non-living, but he looks and feels so much like a real person, using “it” for him feels like I am insulting him. On the surface, he is every girl’s dream man—handsome, helpful, efficient and understanding with a perfectly human body.

His actions are autonomous, which means he does not have an embedded work program, and he is anchored to his target customers. He learns from them and works as per their needs. It means that once manufactured commercially, each ATHR will be a different “person” with different work and personal experiences.

The only embedded program that their autonomy or owner’s directives cannot override is about human and animal rights, international and local laws, and work ethics. They cannot do anything unlawful or unethical and cannot cause harm to another human being or animal. So, they cannot work as a butcher or pull a trigger even when working in the police force, because it has the potential to hurt a human or animal. Everything else, they can do.

Ah! Well, they are also not allowed to feel emotions. International Robotics Law Enforcement Society has set clear laws: machines are not allowed to feel emotions, and they must take consent of their owner before acting. The consent can be a clear instruction or a nod of head, but it has to be clear and deliberate.

The only lab to ignore the directive was broken to bits by its own robot in a fit of rage. It took seventeen days of military action to decimate it and stop it from burning the whole city down. Ever since then, the rule is followed by all the labs around the world.

And that is why I have to talk to Athr about taking consent of the target before acting. Now that he is not connected to lab cables, talking is the most straight-forward way to program him. If he doesn’t agree, he will need to be decommissioned, which I can’t even imagine. I have put years of work into him. While he is not the costliest product I have created, he is a cherished personal project and the most ambitious one.

Once I have fixed all the kinks, I am showcasing him in the next Annual Robotics Meet in Sydney. If we can get an investor interested, we can rake in millions by selling the design and the first prototype. The investor will be able to create many more ATHRs like him who can be used in end number of fields, whether it is running a space station or cleaning a home. I am particularly interested in medicine—a doctor who can assimilate knowledge of all the medical fields and doesn’t need to sleep is a rare treasure for any city.

*****

I had brought ATHR 1 home to help him learn how to behave around people through observation and acquire new skills. Also, I want to observe how he adjusts to my needs and gets programmed on household work. The fact that he is easy on the eye doesn’t hurt as well.

But being hyper-sensitive to his environment and autonomous in decision-making means that he has been taking decisions that favour me without seeking my consent—throwing out cow’s milk and pretending to be my boyfriend are just the tip of the treacherous iceberg. I need to speak to him about the importance of consent. So,there we go.

“Steve came to the office today, Athr. He had a few interesting things to say about my new boyfriend. Do you know who he is? “

To be continued

You find the third part here.

Photo by Vitaly Gariev on Unsplash

Posted in Fiction, Science Fiction

The Glitch: Part 1 of 5

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is the first installment of a new Science-fiction short story.

Mercy

It is one thing for Athr to throw out real milk and replace it with vegan soya milk because ‘it is better for my health’, but to pretend being my new boyfriend in front of Steve, my actual boyfriend, just because Athr considers him a douchebag…

Well, that’s taking things too far!

Not that I am not thankful for the help—Steve is a total douchebag. In the past five months of our relationship, the only thing that kept me around him is his absolute belief that I am too nice to hurt him. Since I am that nice, I have stayed around him and went along with his stupidity.

But now that he is already hurt by Athr and shouting at me in my office for all of my coworkers to hear, I have no more desire nor reason to stick around him. I’ll deal with Athr once I’m home.

“I’m sorry, but we are over!”

“What? That’s all you have to say for yourself?” He is bowled over with my lack of usual pleading.

“Yes.”

“You will not even try to defend yourself and tell me there is a misunderstanding? That the guy at your home is a long-lost cousin’s hologram or something?”

“Well, you saw him at my home—alone and in shorts—so you know he is living there. And since you shook his hands, you know he is not a hologram. What is there to defend? He moved in a couple of weeks ago and now he is the soul of my home. I can’t live without him. Sorry!”

Some of my coworkers are snickering. They know exactly who Athr is and why he is at my home, but, thankfully, none of them feels inclined to clarify. They all have my lifelong gratitude.

“So, you are accepting that you went behind my back with another man.”

“Well, let’s just say that I found someone more responsible, caring and mature, who respects me and listens to me, and who would never shout at me—”

“So, you don’t want me back?”

“No,” I’m absolutely sure about that much.

“And you won’t even apologise for hurting me?”

“Only once you apologise for shouting at me,” I reply in voice as cool as I can make it, even though anger is moving inside me in waves.

“In your dreams!”

“Same here.”

Steve stomps to the door, and when I am about to sigh in relief, he turns back and starts again, “I never thought you would do that to me, you know. I always believed the best in you. That is why I had put up with all your nerdiness for the past five months. I had so many women to pick from, but I chose you—a plain Jane—believing you’ll be faithful. I guess I was wrong.”

Ah! The old plain Jane barb—I should have known! Since I’m a genetically engineered genius on a fast-track educational program and with no time for make-up or dress-up, I have been called that name all my life. It doesn’t even hurt so much anymore.

So, I reply as neutrally as I can while my nerves are on fire, “I guess, you were wrong!”

“Well, don’t come back to me crying when he breaks your heart for being good for nothing!”

The jackass! “I won’t.”

He sweeps out of the door in a graceful motion, and I am left behind to deal with my coworkers. Technically, they are my employees, but they are all robotics engineers like me—hence, I treat them as my equals. I just own the lab we all work in.

I started the lab when I was fourteen—fresh out of Master’s in Robotics Engineering—and hired the first few of them. Since then, we have worked out a system where they get a steady salary as well as a decent share in the profits of their inventions. It motivates them to invent without the pressure of paying bills, making our robotics lab one of the most successful around the world with eighteen major patents within ten years of its inception.

Being the sort-of boss here, the aftermath of the public face-off has my face burning. Thankfully, it is Beccy, one of the nicer girls, who skips to me, “He is such a prick! Good that you pit Athr against him. He managed to fool him perfectly!”

I can’t tell her that Athr orchestrated all of this on his own volition. It would be disastrous! So, I just play along hoping for the discussion to end, “Thanks!”

Beccy continues with enthusiasm, not getting the hint, “Do you think Athr can be your boyfriend now? He is meant to be target-oriented, and you’ll need a boyfriend now that you have lost one.”

To be continued

Read part 2 here

Photo by Vitaly Gariev on Unsplash

Posted in Fiction, Tiny stories

The Best Purchase

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal
Daily writing prompt
What is the best purchase you have ever made?
View all responses

“I assure you, it’s an original–found in the ruins of Salem. Witches use skull rocks to look at the future, you know. Just put your eyes in both the holes at once so your lashes touch it, and you can see the future. Trust me, it’s the best purchase you will ever make!”

“You can’t see it. Probably because you need practice. I, for one, always start the day by checking my future through one of these beauties. They are really popular among fortune-telling witches, you know.” I lean in close and whisper, “In fact, one of them came in to buy it this morning. She just wasn’t carrying enough cash, and witches don’t keep cards because of the whole identity issue. She promised to come back in the evening for this one.”

“Scared of witches? Naah! When you are in the field of selling antiques, brushing shoulders with the paranormal is the norm. And witches aren’t all that scary to look at. You won’t even notice them if they are in the shop. I just have this tingling in my tummy when I meet one–comes in handy while you are negotiating for price of magical objects. Ogres and dwarfs are more obvious–that’s why they come around midnight when I’m sleeping upstairs.”

“Sorry, I can’t wait for you to come back tomorrow. This witch was desperate to collect this skull rock, you know, and she knows it’s here. Can’t risk keeping it overnight and allow it to get stolen. Honestly, I shouldn’t have shown it to you but I have a feeling this stone wants to go with you.”

“So, what do you say, do you believe in fate or not? Because I say it’s fate that you came here on the very day this rock came out for sale.”

“Pricy? No way! A thousand dollars is fair price for figuring out the future–planning presentations while knowing the questions your client will ask and the end result too, you know.”

“Well, last offer–nine hundred dollars and not a penny less. And we accept cards.”

“Perfect! You won’t regret this purchase, believe me! Have a good vacation!”

And that’s why a visit to the seaside is always worth it–shiny rocks bolstered by history and a bit of mystery sells well. Don’t you think so?

Photo by Erika on Unsplash

Posted in My life

Matters of Heart: Act 9

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal
Daily writing prompt
What’s the funniest misunderstanding you’ve ever been part of?
View all responses

I have always been a bit of a dope when it came to matters of heart. It doesn’t help that love is a forbidden territory in India. The word “Love” is frowned upon like “Covid”. Any male (regardless of age) guilty of broaching the topic with a girl is beaten by her brother, father, uncle, brother’s friends or neighbours in general. Even married couples don’t hold hands in front of their family, afraid that someone might accuse them of spreading the virus.

That’s why lovers hide in plain sight using a code language that I had never been able to crack. So when guys made passes at me, they all passed by me without making a dent, or even a scratch…

When I was in the second year of college, I was pretty boyish myself–I was one of the few girls in my college who had her own ride and never had eyebrows done (in fact I had nearly a unibrow. I never used makeup, wore pants more often than salwar suits, walked ungracefully and my laughter was often compared to a generator.

My close friend had joined a coaching and there were quite a few older boys there who talked to her. I walked with her from college to the coaching and sat with her until her classes started. The first day, I cautioned her against a guy in particular. He felt to be a “bad boy”, though I had no idea why. There was an air around him that called out to girls left, right and center. I had a feeling he welcomed ALL of them.

Since I was quite boyish, I never expected boys to notice me. So, I didn’t follow my own advice and befriended him. By befriending means that I would talk to him outside their coaching in public setting and visit his home to meet his family (who were superb people, by the way).

A few months down the lane, he told me through my friend that he “liked” me–Indian code for “want to date”. I called him to discuss the matter and laughed out loud throughout the conversation despite his swearing that he was telling the truth. I “knew” it was a prank to pull my leg later.

He said that to every girly girl. And I was not a girly girl.

Gradually, it became an ongoing joke between us where he would propose me and I will say “No”, because I “knew”.

One day, when I called him over the phone, he told me about his ex-girlfriend who was my classmate. And he told me that “he loved the way she loved him.”

See, I “knew”!

I nodded understandingly–clearly, he was looking for a way to get back with her. I wanted to help, hoping it will stop him from running behind ever available girl (including me) and settle down for a single sweet one instead. So, the next time I had a conversation with this girl, I told her about what he had said.

Soon after that his sister fell ill and I went to visit her. This girl was there too, and it looked like they were between a serious conversation.

He asked me, “What did you say to her?”

He didn’t look pleased, so I tried to stall, “We are classmates and say a lot of things to each other. Which one in particular are talking about?”

“About me and –“

“Exactly what you told me over the phone.”

The girl looked triumphant and the guy flustered. After that the room became quite uncomfortable. I couldn’t understand why he would tell me something like that if he didn’t expect me to pass it over to her.

It took me nearly seven years to figure out he was trying to make me jealous.

Stupid me!

Posted in Blogging, Book Review

Rewriting Book’s Ending: The Lord of Rings

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal
Daily writing prompt
If you could rewrite any book’s ending, which one would you choose?
View all responses

A story’s ending is usually the writer’s biggest challenge. To roll it all together, tie all the loose ends and make it memorable, yet acceptable is a monumental task. Most classics are memorable because of it. However, The Lord of Rings is an exception for me. The loved the entire book start to end, but the last part of the ending left me feeling like something was amiss. Everyone else was happy but Frodo had to leave Middle Earth for the New World to be rid of his pain.

I understand the writer’s reasoning–when you have carried such a terrible power for as long as he had, it was near-impossible to come back unscathed. So, I know the writer the was right and often wonder whether he lived Frodo’s pain during the war he had to join against his better judgement.

I would say it is so amazing the way Tolkien has build this character–Frodo–his simplicity; his everyday way of life; the way he is pushed in a war that he never knew existed to carry a burden his superiors failed at; the way the rings power allures him and he resists; the way he gradually falls under its spell until he is on the brink of suicide alongside the ring…

I felt Frodo’s endless pain and cannot help but wish for a better future for him. I wish there was a resolution for Frodo–a happy ending like everyone else. I had come to love his character and to see him leave because there was no hope of happiness for him felt wrong…Painful even!

I guess that is why war is wrong–soldiers never win no matter which side they are on. They may come back physically fine but the wounds to their hearts are forever.

I wish I could change that!

Posted in Fiction, Tiny stories

Vulnerable

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

The vulnerability is eating at me.

I had spent years building this tree trunk around myself, until what was supposed to clothe me became a fortress. The trunk was thick and unbending. I was safe from prying eyes.

It was lonely but it seemed worthwhile.

I was free to wield my magic however I wanted. No one could criticise me. No one remembered it was me. I was safe. Comfortable.

The world outside went on without me until they had all but forgotten me. I would make Spring, I would call on Summer and Autumn, I would call on new leaves once Winter was over. Over and over and over…

There was nothing to look forward to.

When the storm this morning broke my tree, suddenly, the entire forest was looking at me with curiosity, wondering what to make of me–trees, birds, squirrels and predators alike.

Once again, I was bare…open to everyone’s scrutiny–raw and vulnerable.

I was finally free.

This is a photo-prompt story. Thank you Mohammad Gh for the amazing picture (available on Unsplash.com).

Posted in Blogging, Book Review, Random Thoughts

Dinner with Wizard Howl

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal
Daily writing prompt
If you could have dinner with any fictional character, who would it be?
View all responses

Wizard Howl from Howl’s Moving Castle (The book version)

It would be a dream to have dinner with Wizard Howl, more so because he is impossible to catch.

His Moving Castle ensures he is never in the same place. Also, nobody knows who he really is, switching between identities: Wizard Howl in Market Chipping, Wizard Pendragon in Kingsbury, Jenkins the Sorcerer in Porthaven and Howell Jenkins in Wales.

I love his character because it has so many layers. He is not your usual hero.

Everyone is scared stiff just by hearing his name. He is the most powerful wizard of his times with a fire demon to boot. He owns a scary moving castle and is known to “eat souls of pretty girls”. He is a manipulative arrogant showoff with tantrums that shake the city.

Mostly, he is a coward, hiding behind negative publicity and many identities.

But he is soft at heart, taking in strays like Calcifer, Michael and Sophie, despite the personal cost, buying them expensive clothes while only owning two dresses himself. He worries about Michael and Calcifer and tries to help Sophie even though she is being as charming as an old crone, taking out her frustration and anger on everyone around her. Even his sister is awful to him and yet he visits her to meet his nephew and niece and be close to the only family he has.

He is also trying to fall in love, knowing there is no hope since he is heartless.

He is a super wizard who plays football for college, drinks too much when scared and, yet, never moves the burden on the shoulders of those he loves. He carries it alone.

He is my type of hero!

Posted in Fiction, Tiny stories

In the Moment

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

I’m still groggy from sleep. If it’s a complimentary drink from the hotel, what is it doing in my bed? With a flower and without a tray? Right next to my phone?

Is it room service? But how come they didn’t knock at the door? And why didn’t I hear the door open?

No, it can’t be room service…

From my vantage point on the bed, I can’t see the rest of the suite. But I can hear someone’s rummaging through the drawers next door. Should I scream? What if they are carrying weapons…

I look around for my purse. I always kept a pepper spray when I went out. But the purse I see is not mine. Whose purse is this and what do they want anyway. It’s not like I’m carrying a lot of cash. Or am I?

What did I carry here?

Where is ‘here’ anyway? What am I doing in a hotel room?

Shuffling of feet has me tensed all over. I want to slink back inside my fluffy blanket, but my hands feel like they are made of lead. And they have wrinkles…

When did I get wrinkles?

A familiar wrinkled face slides into the room with a smile that takes my breath away. Yet again. The cobwebs in my mind clear.

“Happy 50th Anniversary, Honey!”

Author’s note: This is a photo-prompt story. Thank you Susan Wilkinson for the inspiring photograph (available on Unsplash).

Posted in Random Thoughts

Taking a Bucket—If You Know What I Mean

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

I recently read statistics 📈 about the percentage of people taking shower 🚿 daily in European countries. It made me reconsider my own life so far. I also read about the difference between taking a bath 🛁 and a shower 🚿 . Neither of them applies to me. 😥

Like most Indians, I take a bucket 🪣.

The first time I remember seeing the Lux Beauty Soap ad with a person under the shower 🚿, applying bathing soap gracefully to her face (Yes, face—can’t even think about it now, can we?), there was only one thought in my mind, “Do they have one of those water contraptions in India? Or is she in a foreign country?” Also, the first time I saw a bathtub 🛁was also in a Beauty Soap ad and I wondered if they went overseas✈️ just for shooting inside a bathroom.

I didn’t see a bathtub 🛁 in India until I went for an overnight stay at Hotel Taj 🏨. I didn’t know how to fill it up and there was no bucket. I had to take a shower 🚿 and then wipe the whole place down because I didn’t know how to tuck in the shower curtains.

I also couldn’t skip the bath. You see, taking a “bath” in India isn’t optional. We Indians are supposed to wake up in a bathroom 🚪—or at least stumble into one as soon as we are awake—and wash ourselves from head to toe. Most months of the year, a lot of us do it twice a day, just so we wouldn’t smell like dead rats.

In the rainy season, we are tempted to do it thrice to stop feeling like we have just stepped out in the rain—a very salty rain, that is 🥵. But we don’t. Because it is pointless. By the time we dry ourselves enough to wear clothes, we are sweaty again 🥵. Also, because where would we dry all the clothes we are discarding every time? Trust me, wearing one of those again before washing is a crime against humanity 🗡️.

So, we can’t skip the “bath”. We also can’t skip family 👨‍👩‍👦‍👦👨‍👩‍👧‍👧👨‍👩‍👦‍👦👨‍👩‍👧‍👧👨‍👩‍👦‍👦👨‍👩‍👧‍👧👨‍👩‍👦‍👦.

Since most of us live in joint families with one bathroom 🚪per five to ten people, filling anything but a small bucket will empty the overhead tank and delay the other people getting ready for work–our spouse 😄, brother(s) 😄 😄, father 😄, grandfather 😄, uncle(s) 😄😄, and their female counterparts 😄😄😄😄😄😄😄. So, even though showers 🚿have entered Indian bathrooms in the past 10 or so years, old habits die hard and we end up filling a small bucket 🪣 and wash ourselves down quickly and ungracefully before someone puts their shoulder to the door 🚪 and breaks it down.

And we risk doing that every day of our life, twice a day mostly. Our life is quite adventurous that way 😎!

Well, having said all that, the point remains—if the statistician 📈 from before comes asking about shower-rate 🚿in India, we would score as low as once a year. We don’t “take a shower 🚿” every day.

We “take a bucket 🪣”!

Photo by George Lopez on Unsplash

Posted in Fiction

Seen: Part 2 of 2

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

This is the second instalment of my new short story.

I am rather late due to road construction on the way. I called my date to inform him, but he never picked up. So, I left him a message, but he is yet to return the call. Is he stuck in the same traffic problem?

I slip out of the taxi and walk inside the restaurant. My date is my sister’s colleague and, according to her, just my type. I’m already scared because my type has been going wrong all these years.

I open the restaurant door and notice the rectangular frame behind the receptionist. Before I can avert my eyes to avoid what is surely a mirror, I see a black shirt and maroon tie, his face lonely and lost, like he has been waiting for quite some time. My heart squeezes and I wonder if the woman has stood him up. What woman would do that to someone as sweet as him? Even though I am relieved he isn’t being cozy with anyone, I want to smack the woman for hurting him.

Sigh! I don’t need that on my date.

I walk up to the receptionist, avoiding peeking at him and concentrating hard on the back of the receptionist’s desktop, and enquire for my date. He hasn’t arrived, nor left a message. Has he stood me up too?

Undecided, I ask for my table. The receptionist opens a door in the wall behind her and gestures at the table reserved for me.

But my eyes travel to a different table. Apparently, the “mirror” behind the reception is a see-through glass. I sit down at my assigned seat facing ‘him’. My eyes keep drifting at him.

It has been fifteen minutes since I came here. He is looking down at his wristwatch, getting impatient.

Another ten minutes pass by. He is calling someone on the phone but isn’t getting any response.

When will we ever really meet?

I realise I am focusing more on his date not showing up than mine. I twirl the spoon in my hand for something to do, assuming I will see him in the surface but all I see is my own face reflecting back!

Is it because he is right here? Or has fate decided to stop intervening? Is it the last time I see him? I wait as I chew on my thoughts.

Another ten minutes…

Time is running out. I watch him rise out of his seat, having decided to give up. I hate the defeated look on his face. I twirl the spoon in my hand to avoid looking at him. It reflects me back.

Will I ever see him again? Am I okay not seeing him ever again, considering, until lately, I always thought of him as a pest? The thought churns my stomach.

He straightens his shoulders and raises his head. Our eyes meet. I can’t help asking, “Hi, were you waiting for someone?”

I just added insult to his injury. Who wants to talk about something like this. So, this is the moment when he should huff out of the room. But he nods solemnly, “Seems like something important came up so she couldn’t make it.”

I like it that he is not acting mad or trying to put her down. Always the gentleman.

He doesn’t need this. Doesn’t deserve this.

My mouth opens without my meaning to speak, “Will you have dinner with me instead?” My voice comes out all wrong, and I realise how forward I’m being through this proposition. What would he think of me?

His eyes are wide with surprise and confusion. I clear my throat and try to look casual, “I know it’s a lot to ask. But my date is late enough to assume he stood me up and I don’t want to eat alone.”

He raises an eyebrow, second guessing if I am crazy and, if not, why I want to invite a complete stranger to dinner. The silence lasts a few seconds while he considers the offer—long enough to give me a flash back of all the years I have waited for him. My heart is running a mile a minute. For the first time in my life, I have taken the lead. If he declines, I will never be able to live it down. Should I retract the offer? Say I was just kidding?

Looking at my hands, I wrestle internally with all the excuses I can come up with to leave the place. But before I can bolt out of the door, he simply shrugs his shoulders with a smile and sits down in front of me, “Well, if you are sure! I need to eat something too, I guess. By the way, I’m—”

And so it begins.

END

Photo by Zane Lee on Unsplash