THE BLISS

I am posting a story I wrote last Durga Puja. Will be extremely glad to receive your comments. Candid & Critical.

I.

The Aching

The train left them leaving a trail of plume of smoke and trundled across the bridge. They looked at the bridge. At the train. Its fading contours. Its slithering away into the horizon. They were engulfed by a deep silence. Suddenly. They looked at each other. They ; Joy. With Denim jeans & mauve coloured T-shirt. Dipanwita. In a svelte Salwar Kameej. Both nearly 6 ft. tall. Both flushed with excitement. Both glowed with arrogance of youth. They looked around the station. There was only one track. The station had no elevated platform for the passengers. There was no one at the station. No shade. No waiting room. No posters. No porter. No hawker. No thrown-away crud. No dirt. And amidst all this emptiness stood a small room used as a ticket counter. It seemed that the room was carved out of nowhere and placed near the track as the last vestiges of civilization. Joy looked at Dipanwita. At the luggage. Two big American Tourister. At the red terrain and then realized that they were finally miles away from the familiar humdrum, a fact they were desperately trying to make happen for the last one year since they got married. It was Shome, a colleague of Joy, who suggested this place when Joy was really frustrated at not being able to find a place for them amid the hustle and bustle of the city. He got married with Dip, Dipanwita, but could not consummate the marriage with Dip working at a call centre and Joy toiling hard to settle down at an editorial office. Their work schedule rarely matched. Their plans rarely dovetailed with each other ; Joy having week off on Monday. Dip on Thrusday. Dip back from office. Joy getting ready for the day. Initially, Joy pleaded with Admin Office but could never convince them. It seemed that entire world was conspiring against Joy. To keep him at bay. From Dipanwita. Joy could not take it any more. Every muscle protesting against her absence. Every part itching for Dip, but all they could get was a peck from her at the door-way of their fulfillment. It was at this moment Joy divulged, “I’m going to quit.”
He was having lunch in the office canteen with Shome who laughed at the proposal.
“You laughing, Motu, do you know I have not yet been able to count the number of moles she is having. Can you believe this? Even after ten months of marriage.” Shome was generous; may be the desperation got over rationality. Eagerness over acuity. High fever over mild fever. He arranged everything; the booking of tickets. Reservation for the bungalow. The seven day leaves for Joy. The assurances to Admin. And finally packed them off to the Station.
“Tell me the number when you are back”, he whispered.
Joy frowned.
“Come on. The moles. I’ll will not check it. Don’t worry.”
It was his way of giving things back to his friend.

Joy smiled and found that Dip was looking at him, surprised, for the situation now, with two big luggage around in this God-forsaken place and bungalow not yet been searched for, did not surely call for a smug smile. Rather, she urged, eyes perched at Joy, to get out of this grotesque place. As soon as possible. She somehow got an eerie feeling, a feeling always accustomed with the female. The Sixth Sense.
Joy jerked out of his regurgitation and prepared for the flurry of activities to prove his solicitude for his doting wife.
When they finally reached the bungalow, taking a rickshaw Joy found after lot of difficulties, it was nearly dusk. The last ray of sun casting splotch of leaf shadow on the bungalow imparting a mystic monolith structure in an isolated place. The sky was draped in mottled colours. Their hearts aching to meet. Their expectations tinged with anonymous fear. Their some-what forced celibacy alluring to consummation of desire.

II.

The morning glory

Next day, by 9 a.m, they were ready for breakfast. Joy suggested a walk around the bungalow, to get a feel of the place. He somehow got miffed at Shome for suggesting this place. The ambience. Singularly isolated. Singularly serene. Singularly silent. May be their lives were too incarcerated in city humdrum to enjoy the freedom of nature here. Funny. But true. They came out of the room, walked across the porch, the garden, & then, looking at their left, observed a portly old man sitting in a garden chair in a relaxed posture. Joy was in a quandary- they should stop and get introduced-and then in a sudden sleight of hands poked Dip to step up the paces, leaving the garden in a jiffy, ignoring the old man, stranded, folding hands, about to greet them. When they came out of the bungalow Dip got furious, “how can you behave like this? Simply outrageous.”
“You don’t know this kind of people. They start off with humane interest & end up with crazy inquisitiveness, in between probing & prodding your 14 generations. O.K. 2 generations only.” The way Joy climbed down from 14 generations to 2 generations, surreptitiously, gave Dip a smile. Holding her hands intimately, Joy said, somewhat soliloquy, “Leave it. We are here for 5-6 days. Let it be you and me only.”
He turned his face to meet her eyes; eyes so deep. So delicate. So gentle. So graceful. Eyes so unknown to him at her anger, yet so known to him at her fondness. He pressed her hands softly, both dissolving into the thought of last night—their first freedom from the city crud. Their unbridled passion. Their flagrant breach of established borderlines. Her coquettish smile. Her unscathed beauty. Her un-travelled terrain. His raging virility. His simmering passion. His unaccustomed calmness.
They walked nearly 15 minutes and reached near a small shop. A small group of people squatted near the shop, enjoying the early morning sunshine. Their dresses, half-clad bodies, made Joy & Dip ashamed of their costly branded clothes. Dip in 3-quarter jeans. Cleverly revealing the contours of body terrain. The light yellow T-shirt. Un-tucked. Caressing. Expressing. The audacity of most visible treasure a female would have. Joy sported casual red T-shirt. Ash coloured multi-pocketed trouser. The branded attire showing enough muscle in it. Both had their sneakers on.
Modern times engulfed primitive culture. Immediately.
The owner rushed out of the shop, arranged for a wooden bench near a tree and stood outside the dark entrance of the shop, with folded hands. No words were exchanged but everyone knew that the couple would sit on the bench. The audience squatting. Gaping & gawking. From the distance. They did. Their smile wore a mixture of pity & condescension.
“They are looking at you, a heroine from Bollywood. Please wave them”, Joy poked.
“Shut up, stupid. Enjoy the tea.”
Joy fell in live with Dip. Once again. The ‘stupid’ word from Dip had his heart melting. The aroma. The enchantment associated with this word coming from Dip only made his life ensnared. With irrationality. He couldn’t simply justify. And didn’t want to.
But the tea was different. It was redolent with the smell of wood smoke & flecked with ash. Still they liked the tea. May be purity of air, the serenity & the “star” status they enjoyed more than compensated the quality of tea they were used to. They finished their breakfast with bread & local curry. But they enjoyed the sincerity of the owner to hide the wretched condition of the cutlery, to use big size betal leaf instead. When they got up, the audience were enthralled for nearly an hour. With an entire day glaring, they decided to take a detour and asked the shop owner whether there was any place worth visiting.
“yes, you could visit the old temple. I would arrange for a rickshaw,” his hand still folded.

III.

The premonition


They reached the temple within an hour. The temple was dilapidated and seemed to have tested the enragement of nature. It was enshrouded with big trees, branches falling on its roof, one side completely broken. The walls seemed singed & sodden, thickets of soot clumped bat-like. With not a single soul around, Joy thought, this was a perfect place for a fugitive on the run. “Come babu ji , come”, a loud voice from the right side of Joy startled them. Dip clasped his hand tightly. A very old man came out into the open from his clandestine hideout inside the bush and sat on the stairs of the temple. Joy felt a bit uncanny that such a deep voice came out from this old man!
“Maaji, this is a very old temple. Your prayers will be listened.”
Dip looked at Joy and smiled. The old man, the priest, hit the bull’s eye in his maiden attempt, Joy thought. When the rituals & Puja were over, he offered money to the priest. But the old man refused. Amazed, atheist Joy thought, “but it is money that you want in exchange of the structured way of worshipping God.”
“Babuji, all human being in this universe follow structured way of living,” the old man said in his uncanny deep voice. Joy got shock of his life; how this old man got to know what he was thinking. More so, the word ‘structured’, he did not expect it from a priest in this forbidden place.
“Babuji, you love maaji, but you love in a structured way. When you have children, you will raise them in a structured way. Even when you hate someone, you hate him in a structured way.”
It was Dip who was shaken more.
“Please forgive him and don’t call me Maaji. I’m like your daughter.”
“No, Maaji, even a six month old daughter has Maa in her.”
Now Joy was forthcoming, “but do you believe in prophecy? Panditji?” He upgraded him quickly, the city smartness coming to the fore.
“yes, I do.” The deep voice blurted out.
Then suddenly, the old priest took Dip’s hands into his and looking at her sweaty palm started telling the past. Her parents. Her lost sister. Her education…
Joy could not do anything & watched helplessly. Though he didn’t believe in the gift of prophecy or prognostication, his conceit was a bit shaken by this man.
“Can you tell me, shall I be happy with my husband ?” Joy heard Dip asking the old man. He frowned and looked at the priest.
“He will leave you one day.” The deep voice whispered, still good enough to fill the void.
“What? Oh no.” Dip cried out and looked at Joy.
“Do you believe this? This primitive man? This magical power?” Joy could not say much, shocked.
Initially he thought that he would be profligate with this old man but now decided against it.
“Let’s go,” he held Dip’s hands.
Dip slowly took her hands away, opened her purse, kept a Rs. 500 note on the stair of the temple and placed a pebble on it. Then, without looking at the old man, scuttled towards the rickshaw waiting for their return.
Though the journey back to the bungalow took less than 30 min with roads sloping downwards, Joy thought that it would never end. He tried to say something but avoided it. Let her give time to come out of the shock. He took her hands in his palms, but they were cold. Liveless. Finally, he could not resist himself,
“ how could you believe this portentous sign? In this era, in this scien…”
He could not finish. Dip whispered, the voice seemed to have come from a long distance,
“Please give me some time.” Then she looked away, into the forest slowing moving away from them as they approached the bungalow.
Joy cursed himself for believing Shome. For making no enquiry of the place before leaving the city. For their morning adventurous detour.


IV.

The bees


The lunch was a quick affair. Joy decided to let Dip alone. He took out a book, perched himself onto a chair lying on the varandah & delve deep into it. He wanted the portend out of his mind.
“you, still reading?”
Joy shook a bit and looked up. It was Dip with swollen face, eyes wet from water splash, standing beside him.
“I’d a nice sleep. Feeling fresh.”
Joy didn’t take his eyes off her face. Her forehead. Small pervasive hair. Leading to a bigger volume of hair. Long. Curly. Like sand & water on the shore leading to bigger ocean. The eyebrows. Nicely shaped. Crescent. The eyelashes. The flustering eyelashes. As effervescent as ever. The effeminate eyes. The ineffable eyes. The deep shadows inside.
“what are you looking at?”
“you.”
“what! Am I new to you?”
“yes.”
“but you knew me for a year.”
“true. But you are new. I discovered a mole, just below your left shoulder, last night.”
“you are incorrigible.” Dip fainted a blow on his chest.
Joy was relieved. The morning blues were over. He thanked Shome for taking pain, arranging things for them and packing them off. Joy admonished himself for disbelieving his friend.
They enjoyed the afternoon. Sweet fragrant. Sweet aroma. Wafting through the air. Lending the place a love ground. Flowers pollinated by bees. Dip was charmed by a butterfly. Mottled. Levitating. Silently.


V.

The Friendship


It was long past sunset now, and the faces of the couple were glowing in the light of a single kerosene lamp. As soon as the dusk fell power went off. Joy was lying on the bed. Legs falling off from the edge of the bed. Dip was sitting on the chair. Near the window. Listening to the sounds of nature.
“You know, our neighbours here are very old couple.” Dip wanted to get rid of the morning mis-adventure: was everything we do pre-ordained?
“Yes, the man seemed to be very old. I didn’t see the lady. Did you?” Joy got relieved, wanted to continue the conversation.
“No, I haven’t. But I’ve heard her humming in the bathroom. You know, I think the bathrooms are close to each other, separated by wooden wall.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I think she was taking her bath. A very sweet voice, I must say. She has a lilting voice. Some old song, you know.”
“Certainly, we can’t expect her sing hip-hop song.”
They both had a laugh.
“I think I have come out pretty poorly this morning”, Joy seemed repentant of his morning behavior. Misbehavior.
“Ya, I think I’ve seen him standing up, folding his hands together. You left so stupidly.”
Joy was again melting, the influence of “stupid” from Dip had started its impact.
“Oh no! I’m not that much contemptible.” Joy regretted, “O.K. let’s make amends.”
“What?”
“See, I’ve started it. I’ll finish it. My style.” Joy seemed confident.
“But how to make amends? You want to pay them a visit?”
“Yes, darling. Right you are. So intelligent. So..”
Dip stopped the flow of adjectives, “Right now?”.
“Oh no! let me give you a peck!”
Joy leaned forwarded but, Dip, already stood up, found Joy groping in the dark.
“O.K. I’ll go. But you have to behave chivalrous. Absolute gentleman. No slang. No allusion.”
“Yes, ma’m. All conditions agreed. But a peck per 10 min. You know, it’s dark. Promise it’ll be as noiseless as …”
Dip knew what was coming on the way. Another frivolous Joy. So she stopped him,
“Your conditions start now.”
“O.K. Doll In Pyar.”
That was Dip, expanded by Joy.







VI.

The love

They decided not to change into formal clothes. Dip clasped Joy’s hands tightly. Went down the stairs, across the porch, into the neighbour’s garden. Joy whispered into her ears, “your bb are undulating pleasantly.”
Dip stopped at once, stepped back two steps. But, that was more a mock surprise than a serious retreat. More a display of love than that of anger. More a meeting of hearts than separation of it.
When they finally reached the steps leading to the entrance, an eerie feeling engulfed them. May be this journey was also pre-destined. May be they seemed preordained to meet.
The door was left ajar, a softening ray of light seeping through it.
“Can we come? Joy knocked at the door, Dip pressing his hands. Softly.
A portly old man came out of the room.
“Oh yes, yes, welcome. Welcome. Please come inside.
He led them into the room, offered two chairs & closed the door.
“You have to sit in a closed room. Hope you are not suffering from claustrophobia. You see, she is suffering from cold, having mild fever.”
Joy and Dip looked at the lady lying on the bed. Covered with quilt till her neck. Her back resting on 2-3 pillows. They could see her face & podgy arms. Their vision being blurred by the lantern light. Still, they were charmed by her beauty ; her chiseled nose. Her wide, beautiful eyes. Her lively smile. All reminding them that they were looking at the painting on the canvas. Just finished. And left alone. They took 2-3 min to come back to reality. It was Dip who reacted first,
“I’m Dip, Dipanwita. We’ve come yesterday to your neighbouring bungalow.”
Dip folded her hands. Before Joy could do the encore, the man laughed,
“Oh! no, don’t be so formal. It’s alright. I’ve met you this morning.”
Joy cringed, “Actually, we’re in a hurry,…”
The excuses put forwarded by Joy was less convincing but he was saved.
“Please don’t give any explanation my boy. We’re not your boss. Are we?”
Everyone laughed loudly. Only the old lady parted her lips, smiled silently, looking more graceful than before.
“You’ve to excuse me.”
The old man got up, went near the lantern, took the poultice, applied on his hand. Satisfied about the temperature, applied on his wife’s swollen arms.
“Every year she catches cold just before the onset of the winter.”
Before he could finish, the lady admonished,
“Are you going to give detailed list of my diseases? You know, they are young couple, not like us, old..”
The man laughed loudly, “O.K. I’m closing the book.”
Everyone smiled.
The old lady talked for the first time, her sweet voice made them spell-bound. How could it be so sweet, even at this age?
“Your voice is so sweet, just like teenage singers,” Dip was candid.
“Yes, that’s why I never leave her for a second. You know, I may miss out.”
Everyone laughed. Only the old lady smiled through her eyes.
“I’ve listened to your song today.” Dip gave a flash-out. “You sing so sweet.”
“ How naughty you are? Listening to me quietly. Don’t take it seriously. I’m a bathroom singer.”
The soft voice filled the air and wafted inside the room.
This time the man became serious. “You know, she always sings well. But never pursues seriously. I’ve tried several times but she refuses to go for audition test.”
He sounded so serious that it seemed if they could cajole her into taking the test, he would arrange for it. Even now.
“She’s not been able to move properly for the last 5 years. Particularly winter season leaves her almost bed-ridden.”
The man became nostalgic.
“Again? If you go on like this, they will be bored & leave us immediately.”
The man got up, searched for the medicine, got a glass of water & helped her to swallow it.
“How long have you been married?”, the soft voice asked Dip.
“A year.”
“See, your husband is very good chap. Mine was too afraid to go for a trip.” She smiled.
A red flush spread over his cheek, “No, no. Don’t listen to her. In fact, she was afraid of going out with me. Forty years ago, she was really beautiful.”
Dip & Joy tried to visualize the lady forty years ago. The mirror, fickle as ever, showed one thing. Then another. And left them. As usual. Without an answer.
The man was now applying the poultice on her feet. The lady closed her eyes. May be in shame, may be in comfort, may be she was trying to feel his heart, still aching for her.
She opened her eyes again and found the couple staring at her face.
“Why you all are pulling my legs? Have you noticed the young lady?”, she smiled.
All eyes were on Dip’s face now. She was looking at her feet. She sometimes thought herself pretty, but as she began to make proper investigation she found that. It was changeable thing, beauty. She glanced up and found Joy gazing at her. May be in this room, where she could feel profuse love, love begets love. Beauty begets beauty. May be. Beauty without love is so brief one could barely hold it steady. Fade & expire. Unsung. Un-rescued.
It was Joy who broke the silence, “please forgive me for my behaviour.”




VII.

The Bliss


When they came out of the room, they were spell-bound, speech-less. Tinged with sadness. They felt love trapped forever in a place whose time had already passed.
They didn’t take any dinner. The old couple ensured that the new one were fed to surfeit. Their room was suffused with moonlight. They were lying in the bed, both looking out of the window, to the outside garden, deeper outside, as far as they could see. Their eyes were smothered with the beauty of the old lady. Their hearts smothered with the love of the old couple. Their bodies kept flailing. Aching for love. Dip had lain pliant in his arms. Every pore of her skin was alive. Passing on the passion. To another. He needed no prodding. A ravenous appetite engulfed them, passion rekindled. Suddenly, just before they were completely sunk in deep love, Dip asked “ Will you love me?”
“Will you love me the way old man loves the lady?”
“Yes, I will”, Joy replied. But the reply seemed less convincing. More out of desperation than that of careful thought. More out of passion than that of requited love.
“But what will happen when someone dies?”
Joy kept quiet. He did not have any answer.
A drop of warm water fell on his arms. Salty. Dip was crying. They could not find out what would happen to the lady if the old man died. Nor could they have any answer to old man giving his wife medicine for the last time.
They simply kept quiet. Their passion giving way to cries. The eagerness giving way to emptiness. The arrogance of youth giving way to gracious old-age love. The premonition of the priest came to her mind again.
“Will you love me when I become old?”
“Will you love me when I become old. Very old?”
Joy did not reply to anyone.
“Will you love me if I have to remove them?” Dip asked.
“What?”, Joy could not follow.
“Will you care for me if I have to remove the one you are caressing now?”
Joy found his hands on her breasts. Firm & yielding. He didn’t place his hands knowingly. May be their closeness taught his hands. Where to place. When to place. How to place. But he felt the emptiness in his mind.
“Tell me, if I have to remove them for any reason after some years, will you still love me, caress me the way you are doing now.”
Dip was crying; the thought of the old couple, the premonition of the priest & Joy’s passion—she could not identify herself with anyone of them and her indecision made her cry. Her indecision. They did not know when they had fallen asleep. The early morning breeze woke up Joy. He found himself facing the window. His hands on her flaccid breasts. Then he remembered all: Dip’s cry, asking him repeatedly, testing him. He got up, looked at the morning sunshine and covered Dip with blanket. He promised looking at the sunshine : I’ll never leave you, Dip. I would be with you. Till the last day. Till you are forty. Sixty. Seventy. Ninety. I’ll be with you in whatever way you are. Don’t worry, Dip. He murmured. Dip was not aware. She was sleeping. Trying to compensate the lost sleep last night. Joy did not wake her up.

SLUMDOG...TRYST WITH OSCAR

Slumdog Millionaire…

It is very easy to eulogize the movie as the number of awards won by it so far & set to win on “the Premier Day” on 22nd Feb may act as a titillating factor.
But, unfortunately, there are other factors also…
a) Is it an Indian movie?—a nationalistic feeling, given that the director, producer & some tech stuff are non-Indian. I think, this is nothing but sort of “Nazi zealot”... with so much infusion of technology, thoughts & themes between “east- west” art & culture, no one really cares. Do we really bother about the “cut, copy, paste” allegations against almost all Hindi movies—the fight scene, the tattoo sign, the rhythm of the song track, the theme… On the other hand, this movie is based on an Indian fiction, located on the most talked-about Indian city, acted upon by Indian artists (barring a few). Though the protagonist has been acted by a Brtish national of Indian origin, a recent Bengali movie heroine has been from Germany. But that Bengali movie remains a tepid non-significant one. Most importantly, every minute of the movie captures Indian values, Indian thought process, Indian psychological dilemma, Indian valor…

b) Success of the movie on account of “selling of poverty”--- similar sort of term used against “Pather Panchali”, “The White Tiger” & so many… Put in simplest terms, as long as there is poverty it will find place in stories, movies, songs… If smart Hindi movies can set its location on Switz, depict gorgeous detailed dizzying rich marriage ceremonies, delve deep into homosexuality then it should also set its location on slums, depict heart-rendering sensuous detailed translucent life styles of slum-dwellers, delve deep into child prostitution. Because both are true. I don't even feel comfortable with this need to define our country. Because it's bigger than that! How can one define India? There is no one language, there is no one culture. There is no one religion, there is no one way of life. There is absolutely no way one could draw a line around it and say, "This is India" or, "This is what it means to be Indian." The whole world is seeking simplification. It's not that easy. I don't believe that one clever movie or one clever book can begin to convey what it means to be Indian. Of course, every fiction writer or movie maker tries to make sense of his/her world and there is nothing wrong about it.



Having settled the issues I think I can safely say that the movie is not a master piece. It never transcends the boundaries of contemporary movies and fails to catapult into the classical & art movies genre.

But it certainly touches the human chord and connects with the audience. It has a self –professed language of human expression of yearning and joy which are brilliantly portrayed by the child artists. Cinematography, presentation, editing, casting are superb and give an edge over other movies. Unlike Tare Zamin Par, it is not laden with 5-6 songs. But still proves that Music Director can be nominated for Oscar. That’s the beauty and charm of this movie. Bollywood may concentrate on quality and not the number of the songs—more than 2-3 songs in a movie always negate the quality and chance of winning international acclaim. Once in a while Bollywood may wean itself off cheap money.

For me, the movie is a dizzying microcosm of modern India.

Will it win Oscar?

Certainly it will. And in the main category.

Q & A--A REVIEW

“Do you have ‘Q & A’?”
I enquired at the Book Store, local & popular, on my way home, a late evening languid journey. The day was suffused with motley voices--vendors, maintenance personnel, security guards—all bumping into each other. Ironically, the disturbed mind desired further distraction—a new fiction.
“No”,
came the stunning voice, once again confirming my belief that negative answer in Bengal always sounds more convincing than a positive one. I could feel a weird smile appearing, unintentionally, greeting the salesman. But just before it could recede to normal position, I blurted out,
“Don’t you have Slumdog…”
“Oh, ya. Certainly”, his swiftness proving my self-professed conviction about Bengal wrong.
Once SM was in possession I felt pity for the poor author—the cover page flaunting the movie name, the author banished to a miniscule space.
But, yes, I was again proved wrong.
Having been through with the story, I strongly feel, there could not have been possibly a more apt title than SM. Q & A was way behind. The fiction is entirely on the slums, its inhabitants, their restless, stubborn & translucent life styles—the Q&A session being a well-crafted pattern/design to lure the readers till the end. I think that human relationships and the divisions between human beings are more brutal and straightforward in slums than those in “normal places”(where we live!), where everything is hidden behind walls under a veneer of urban sophistication.
The fiction is fiercely fast paced & laden with humour born out of darkness. But, most importantly, what it has been capable of generating is a scientific exactitude of depicting a feeling of “Nothingness, Non-existence” by the recognized part of our society.
There is always only one side of the river in our (so-called) civilized society; the other side, though visible & quite obvious, is being simply refused to be acknowledged by the stronger side. The marginal sections of the society—the beggars, the scavengers, the prostitutes, the servants, the maids, the cooks, the drivers—though an integral part of the scheme of things are treated as non-existence, a passing forgettable memory in the course of our journey. A Nothingness. A Non-existent. A Non-entity.
The undertone, the evocative smells, the muffled voices of these marginal people may be quite similar to that of “The White Tiger”, though SM is certainly not rich in literary content and smacks of “Bollywood imaginary boldness”.


The quality of narration is very simple, straight from the heart, at times morally strenuous but quite enthralling all the way through.
Overall, one enjoys the walk, the light seeping through the lives of the characters, silently, imparting a feeling of liquid shimmering. And most importantly, even though one experiences certain incredulous things, the truth is apparent.

“All you need to do is to reach out and pluck it.”