The Post Script Store

I am sitting at the counter. A customer hands over a book. It is a recently published love story. Full of light banter and no sadness whatsoever. “Nice choice, Subhashbabu” I smile at the 70-something gentleman who has an undying love for romcoms. “As always,” he replies with a grin. I generate an invoice, collect cash, and return the book to him.

He leaves and I am left alone at the counter. A buzz is setting inside the store. Isn’t it early to get crowded? I glance at the clock on my desk.

2:50 AM. 10 minutes left.

I glance around in the store. Most of the people are at the ‘Best-sellers’ section. I stand and walk away from the counter. I need a break before the rush hour.

I scan my thumb at the door to the inner room. Should we have an ‘Authorized Personnel Only’ board? Unnecessary and would only invite unwanted attention. Nobody cares to walk inside unmarked doors at a bookstore.

But this is not just a bookstore. Certainly not after 3.

I walk inside the room. Netra is busy looking at a form from last night’s orders. Weighing the ingredients. Mixing them in her test-tubes.

“Give yourself a break, Netra. You up for a coffee?” I ask as I head towards the coffee machine. I know not to go anywhere near her when she’s working. Once, I had tried to distract her and she had emptied a beaker right on my shirt while yelling, “Acid!” only to be followed by a giggle and “It’s only water.” Morbid sense of humour.

“Make it a strong one,” she says with a smile.

 “Too much caffeine isn’t good for you,” I say as I pick up two cups from the machine – my latte and her dark coffee.

“Caffeine, coffin… too much of anything isn’t good, right?” she says while sealing a vial and pasting a label on it.

“Unnecessary,” I say as I keep her cup on the desk.

I hear a buzz from the front counter. Ten minutes up already? I rush out of the inner room – my cup of coffee in one hand and Netra’s OUTWARD tray with neatly stacked vials in it, in the other.

The counter window has a queue. As soon as I sit on my chair, I see the familiar face of Farhan. His eyes are red. He is offering his empty vial through the counter window.

“Empty so soon? You are overusing, Farhan. We had discussed it. It’s not healthy,” I say, yet not stopping myself from taking his vial and keeping it in my INWARD basket.

“It’s my school friend. We grew up together. It’s so difficult-,” he says with a glint in his eyes.

“Friend, father, foe - who cares?” I cut him off. I have heard these stories before and this isn’t the time to listen to a repeat customer. “Come tomorrow to collect it. Just don’t get addicted,” I say as I give him an invoice. He pays immediately and walks away – a smile on his face, something already brewing in his head for the next time he uses.

I see a 50-something woman next. She is hesitant. “I don’t know how this works,” she smiles through the pain on her face.

“I am sorry for your loss. Take this form. There are pens at the writing counter near the ‘Spirituality’ section. Write your name, the name of the departed, date of death, favourite memory. It’s all pretty basic,” I hand over a form to her. She is still confused.

“You will have to make the payment now.” I give her an invoice and the lady pays – more question marks on her forehead. “Drop the filled form in this box,” I keep the box of forms at the counter, “Collect your vial tomorrow. Take a sip from the vial in the morning and you’ll get to spend a day with the departed. Please avoid overusing it. It’s not healthy,” I smile. The lady moves out of the queue while looking at the box, trying to assimilate everything I had said.

Now, we could have printed it all on a board. But Netra thought it would be better to have a human with people skills (me, of course) to talk to people before we take their money.

Throughout the day, and partly through the night, we sell books at our store. The 3-4 AM hour is reserved for selling vials.

“Is my vial ready?” It is Subhashbabu again.

“Sure is,” I hand him the labelled vial from Netra’s OUTWARD tray, followed by an invoice. He pays me but, for some reason, is still in the queue.

“Yes, Subhashbabu?” I ask. He is not easy to get impatient with.

“You talked about my choice earlier. Sheela is my best choice,” he says proudly. I smile at him adoring how he kept it in his mind to reply.

“Of course,” I smile at his use of present tense for someone lost long ago. He begins to move out of the queue.

“I wanted to ask. Why don’t you sell these vials before 3?” Subhashbabu peeks in again.

It would be better to have a board at least for this one but Netra is against all forms of written communication. “Oh, it is just that we are selling books all day. These things take time to prepare. Besides, we don’t wish to mix the two businesses,” I say, wondering if he is convinced.

I spend the hour taking customers’ requests either for a refill or a new request to spend a day with another loved one. I keep nudging them not to overdo it. We don’t know the bad effects of the vial on a person’s physical health. But we know that being addicted to the departed could not be too healthy.

The clock on my desk gives out a little ding. It is 4 AM. I keep the CLOSED slate on the counter. I hear a collective sigh from the unattended customers. They know better than to complain about the strict hours.

I stand up and stretch my arms. It will be a while before the crowd steps out of the store. They deserve some time to collect their thoughts and emotions.

I scan my thumbprint at the door of the inner room. Netra is deeply engrossed in a horror book – a shadow of a house on its cover.

“Do you ever think that these gruesome books could be the reason for your dark thoughts?” I ask as I stand next to her.

“Could be. Or, it could be just an occupational hazard,” she says.

I look at how beautiful she looks even while reading something so ghastly. That ready wit, those expressive eyes, those pretty hair – all gone so soon. I can’t take my eyes off her as I raise the vial to my lips.

The Food Sorcerer

It was still dark when Abhay decided that he had had enough of his attempts to go back to sleep. He kicked his blanket off and rushed out of the dormitory room. The testing day was finally here. Lack of enough sleep meant that he’d have to forget about having a relaxed mind. Besides, he had done quite well in all the practice tests even with a mind full of thoughts. He looked at the clock in the common area. There were still a good three hours before his teachers would lead the students to the River Temple, the venue of the test. Trying to take his mind off the test, Abhay began his morning chores.

At 17, Abhay was about to appear for his first test. As the morning got brighter, he began bumping into his peers – most of them were repeat test-takers. The teachers had selected only a few of them to appear for their first test.

'Culinary Enchanters' was among the very few schools imparting lessons in food sorcery. Academics were still divided on whether food sorcery is an inherited trait or one that can be taught. Yet, given its ever-flourishing image, teachers at 'Culinary Enchanters' were some of the most sought-after educators. Students, who had cleared the test and had the 'Culinary Enchanters' label, were in high demand – finding riches early in their careers. Royal families, war troupes, celebratory gatherings – all trying hard to hire them.

At the end of the two-year course, the budding sorcerers had to appear for a test conducted by none other than the Priests of the River Temple. Abhay had visited the temple only once as a child – to beg near the carriage halt at the Temple. As he allowed his mind to drift through his life’s journey, he remembered how a teacher at 'Culinary Enchanters' had rescued him from the group of beggars. With no knowledge about his parents, he had taken almost a year to recover from the hunger of the streets.

After a slight display of his cooking abilities, he was enrolled in the food sorcerer course. Throughout the course, he had imagined being at the River Temple as a test candidate. The gentle river, the cold breeze, the serious faces of the Priests – he had been there so many times in his head. Then there were his thoughts about the people who used to beg with him. (What do they get even if I get hired by the Queen herself?) But today was not meant for such distracting thoughts – soon, he would be performing on the stone platform while the three Priests stared down at him. The stalls surrounding the platform, packed with viewers, did nothing to pacify the nervous test candidate. (Will I see someone from those days there?)

When the school’s carriages were lined up, Abhay made a quick run to the one with ingredients. He peeked inside to make sure that the bag of ingredients bearing his name had been packed. “It’s all in there,” said a rough voice, “Didn’t we already go through it last evening and again this morning?” Abhay quickly closed the carriage door. Kory, the school’s Ingredient Supervisor, had always been nice to him. “You’ll do well. I have seen you perform.” Abhay nodded and went back to his carriage.

The journey to River Temple saw Abhay talking to the fellow competitors in his carriage. Thankfully, none of them talked about the test. Soon, the carriage’s swaying and rocking put Abhay to a much-needed sleep. He woke up only when the carriage stopped with a jerk at the River Temple. He stepped down and saw that there were beggars were not allowed anymore at the temple.

The river’s gentle gushing, the bells’ rhythmic ringing – Abhay closed his eyes to soak it all in. A few volunteers were helping the students reach the waiting area. Others were taking the ingredients to another room.

The waiting area had a window directly overlooking the stone platform. Since, food sorcery was not something one could copy from another, there were no restrictions on students witnessing other students’ performances.

Abhay pressed his nose against the window. Looking at the stalls was so overwhelming. As he stared at all the people, he thought he had caught a glimpse of Madhav – the boy who used to offer his share of bread to Abhay in those days. (He still looks so hungry) But he brushed the thought aside. Surely, Madhav would have grown up by now.

The three Priests assumed their seats and a loud bell gonged. The first candidate brought out from her ingredient bag a few carrots, lettuce, tomatoes, spinach, and a packet of milk. She muttered a few words. The ingredients turned into a neat bowl of salad topped with cheese gratings. The bowl was passed from one Priest to the other. Smiles adorned their faces. The candidate had clearly passed the test. A roar of claps and whistles ran through the viewers’ stalls. The girl bowed and left.

The next candidate took a bowl of rice, milk, and sugar out of his bag. The judges did not react to his preparation as kindly as they had done to the girl. Apparently, the boy had made rice cakes but not using the milk meant a clear violation of test rules. He courteously requested the Priests to try the rice cakes. Each of them took a bite and nodded. The candidate had prepared rice cakes with the surprise of ice cream within.

Abhay kept watching while a few candidates passed, but others (sweetened bitter gourd chips, buttered guava leaves paste, chocolate soup) could not impress the Priests. When Abhay stepped onto the stone platform, he took out his ingredients – just sugar, salt, and spices. He, then, proceeded to ask the Priests’ assistants to give a few preparations of candidates who had prepared very basic dishes. After a brief discussion, the Priests allowed Abhay’s request. If he would cheat in any way, they would simply fail him.

Abhay had three plates in front of him – cookies, bread, and fried rice. After muttering words of his sorcery, the plates were offered to the Priests.

The first Priest chose to try fried rice. A couple of bites and he closed his eyes, with a visible smile on his face. The fried rice had the exact same taste of the one he had tried as a youth while learning at the Jewel Temple. His favourite teachers, his co-students, his efforts in achieving Priesthood – he remembered it all. He kept his eyes closed, losing himself in a sense of nostalgia.

The second Priest, while confused about the first Priest’s reaction, tried a cookie. The cookie melted in his mouth. He chewed on it softly and closed his eyes too. He recalled his time in the prison - how he used to look forward to finish his term – counting his days only by a cookie in the breakfast. It was not particularly tasty but it told him to find something good even in his lowest times. He smiled when he recalled how this simple realization had opened his path to Priesthood.

The third Priest took a bite of the bread. He stopped chewing for a bit, let out a groan, and continued. It took him a while to realize that his mind had gone back to the confluence of Priests where he had had similar bread. The other Priests commending him for his knowledge, his pleasure at sharing wisdom with others, and the joy he had found in guiding others – it all came back to him.

Abhay awaited his result. The audience sat silent while the Priests finished eating. Once done, the three of them shared their experiences with each other.

The third Priest began, “What you have shown here is quite peculiar. With your sorcery, you took each of us to a particular moment in our past and we were lost in our histories. What you seem to have forgotten, though, is that once we finished eating, like our mouths, our hearts were empty too. You did not consider that food is temporary. For this shortcoming, we have decided not to pass you.”

Abhay hung his head down in disappointment, collected his bag, and walked back to the resting area. He tried to be positive – he had showcased whatever he had trained for. He tried to pay attention to the rest of the candidates. Yet, his thoughts wandered to what the Priest had said - the temporary nature of food and how his ability to bring back strong memories leave a person all empty.

As Abhay thought about what he could do during the year to follow to pass the test, he realised that he was quite hungry. As he began walking towards the eating area, he began nodding.

Ten years later…

It was still dark outside. With enthusiasm, Abhay got out of his bed and peeked outside the window of his small room. Kory was busy managing the carriages with the ingredients. Later, Abhay called upon his team of food sorcerers to the kitchen. In no time, they had conjured sufficient quantities of breakfast items. Soon, the carriages were refilled and were on their way.

Staring out from his carriage, Abhay looked at the dwindling paths amidst the mountains. His journey after the test had been similar to these roads. Soon after the test, he had moved out of Culinary Enchanters. A few days later, he had gone through an uphill battle of convincing his teachers and the Priests to seek food donations from its past students as well as those from other culinary schools. With their collective efforts, they were now making food available to the poor all over the country. He kept looking with content at the other carriages following his carriage, proudly displaying their team’s name – 'Culinary Providers'.

Acception Encountered

“He has worsened since our last interaction,” said Naveen with a sense of urgency as he leaned against my counter's glass. I looked at him trying to remember who his robot was. Sensing my confusion, he stepped aside and I saw his familiar robot (What was his name? Umang? Utsav? I remembered it being rare, and an antithesis of its joyous meaning and his grim behaviour) staring at the ground. He was sitting on a chair within a crowd of robots waiting for their turn.

“Worse how?” I asked Naveen.

“Wait, just talk to him and you’ll know,” he turned immediately towards the robot and called him, “Hey Ulhas, the officer wants to talk to you.” Oh yes, Ulhas it was. I saw the robot make an effort of walking up to the counter while clearly being lost in some thought.

“Good morning, sir. How may I help you?” began Ulhas.

“How have you been feeling lately? Naveen was just telling me that things haven’t improved with you. Are you alright?” I asked trying to sound patient as I glimpsed at the rising crowd of robots and owners. It is going to be a long day.

“To be honest, my thoughts haven’t stopped chasing me. I feel so… useless,” he was staring at the counter table while talking in a monotone.

“Why do you think you are useless? Have you stopped completing the tasks allotted to you?” I asked as I noted his response.

He shook his head. “I complete all my tasks. Don’t I, Mr. Naveen?” he turned to Naveen.

“Let me chip in here, officer,” said Naveen impatiently. “Ulhas feels he is inefficient because he has not been using his intelligence to the fullest. He thinks he has a greater potential. I don’t know how to put this mildly but he has been rather sad and, honestly, quite difficult to be around. He never sits with our family on the couch, preferring the floor instead. Once, I even saw him sleeping on the floor in his quarters.”

Ulhas looked at him in surprise but Naveen kept watching me without blinking.

“Naveen, you know you are not supposed to get into your robots’ resting area. That is part of the agreement,” I noted this breach too. Might have been unnecessary but it is my job to note all the details. Procedures are made to be followed, right?

“Look, can we not make this about me? I’m here to admit him into your facility. He has clearly stepped out of the robot zone. All this guilt or higher conscience or whatever it is makes him an invalid, right? When can I expect his replacement?” continued Naveen.

“Not so soon, Naveen. It has been just a week since our last meeting. We have to report at least two weeks of anomalous behaviour to accept a robot as an invalid. Can you try giving him more intellectual tasks? You can assign him a research project perhaps. Or an emotional duty like being your personal psychologist? Keep him engaged, okay? Ulhas, you are doing alright with your intelligence. Keep your spirits high and try to be nicer to your owners. Remember, you have company protocols to follow. Let’s meet after a week and see where we stand,” I looked up to them and, to my surprise, Ulhas’ hand was pressed against my counter’s glass. Was he threatening me? “The company’s protocols, Ulhas,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster. I looked into his eyes sternly and was met with… was it a plea or a disgust or… I was never good at reading facial emotions. He took his hand off right away. Meanwhile, I felt sorry for poor Naveen. His family was to bear this sulky robot for another week. I stamped a ‘One week’ stamp on Naveen’s application and gave it back to him. With a shake of his head Naveen led Ulhas out of the Accepting Sentient Robots as Humans (ASRH) office.

My tenth year as an investigating officer at ASRH had seen a sudden uptick in these cases. More and more robots were stepping outside the realm of robothood. It was an epidemic out there. Some researchers hinted at a bug in the system. Others had countered it as a natural (can we even use that term for robots?) evolutionary progression. While some robots had showcased symptoms like those of Ulhas (guilt, emotional jeopardy, existential whatever), others had exhibited worse behaviour such as turning down their owners’ requests or even resorting to violence.

My mornings were all about meeting owners and their robots. A good day meant talking only to people and listening to fewer sob stories of robots (they seemed so fake, so unnatural). Afternoons and evenings were dedicated towards diagnosing the problems further by looking into the affected robots’ history (past owners, interactions with other robots) and reporting to the ASRH supervisors.

Now, some might say, I am being harsh towards the robots (what is with that weird gaze?) by putting down their emotions and asking their owners to condition them better. Well, to those some, I would say that we didn’t really make robots to turn them into humans, did we? Robots were designed for convenience of humans and that is where they should stand. Sure, after years of development of AI, it is difficult to physically differentiate between humans and robots. But we are paid to do the right things, not the nice things. That is why an emotionally resilient officer like me matters. Besides, it is no open secret that humanising robots involves the cost of setting the robots free and rehabilitating them into human world.

Having dealt with the pestilence of complaints throughout the morning, later in the day, I resumed my task of going through the histories of the damaged robots. And here lay a peculiar problem. At the turn of the AI tide, the company was so keen on developing the robots that it didn’t pay much attention to maintaining their histories. As a result, some information was still in the ancient paper-based form. I printed the list of all the robots with non-computerised history and went to hunt their files down into the archive section on the lower-most floor.

Dully lit and full of dusty green cabinets, the archive section seemed to be a sanctuary for bugs. Looking for ‘Ulhas’ took me all the way to the cornermost corner of the section. I opened the thinly populated U cabinet. Uday… Udit… Udita… Ulhas. Phew! Found it.

Just then, another file caught my eye. It simply carried the title, ‘Unnamed.’ Just the thing one would expect from the company’s maintainers of the past. This better be restored with the right name and matched with the correct robot. With a curiosity, I opened the file. The application carried my picture.