Impossible Tales

Wire draw Basic needs

Carl Matz was looking out of and down the window at the street a hundred floors below. He did not like to look out the window; he wanted to look out with the aid of the added preposition, of, abetting that ‘out’. In his grammar, that was the proper way of seeing whatever was to be seen on the other side of a window—–or a door —even if that window was located in the geographical area of the US of A. Matter of good taste. This particular window belonged to the study of his penthouse. He could afford the penthouse, as his father was a whooping billionaire. How his father made all that dough, whether legally or illegally, is not relevant to this story. Money, when it crosses a certain amount, can acquire the charming property of losing its scents of morality and legality.

“What I was saying,” he said turning towards his audience “is that thinkers qualify food as the most basic need. I wholeheartedly agree with that. But I add a caveat. Food is all that we humans require to live. Everything else is superfluous. If I can have two square meals a day, that is all I want.” He paused, then added, “No, make it three square meals.”

His friends laughed. There were three of them, seated on a plush sofa lined to the wall on the other side of the room. The seating of the sofa was filled with a calculated mixture of high-pressure air and the finest quality of Merino wool. The seat was further engineered such that the temperature of the air inside was always maintained at the human body temperature; specifically, that of the ass. The air below did not keep quiet. It gently, most pleasantly undulated at theta frequencies. A noiseless centralized machine accomplished all this and much more, unobtrusively located somewhere else in the building. The antimacassar strip spread, at neck-rest height, was sprayed with the finest of top brand perfumes. After sitting on the sofa for some time, the persons doing so would feel a subtle sense of unreality creeping up their spines and invading their brains. Most friends of Matz came to visit him, especially to enjoy this sensation. (Some of them would be zonked out after a while if they did not engage themselves in conversation, or some activity.)

The sofa was L-shaped. Carl Matz walked up from the window and sat on the other shoulder of the sofa so that he could clearly see his friends while they were engaged in conversation. As he sat, he further embellished his statement.

“I do like to have, naturally, my solid breakfast.” His friends, yealings, all of them serendipitously aged twenty-two, smiled. That stimulated Carl to gush forth into his newly discovered insight. He wanted his friends (audience) to appreciate that. He had the reputation of being an out-of-the-box thinker among them. He warmed up.

“Of course, humor apart, I am quite serious here. Look at all the millions of life forms crawling and moving on this planet. Apart from reproduction, the most essential activity that is common to all of them is that they consume food. That is the meaning of life. Purpose also, I dare say. That essentially applies to a human being also. He can indulge in mental activities if he wants. That is an extracurricular activity–strictly not in the syllabus.” Carl thumped on the table in front, for effect, as if it were an irrefutable argument by itself.

There were only a couple of books, newspapers, and sundry magazines on the Zephyr Storage coffee table. Luckily there was nothing to topple. ‘Not in the syllabus,’ was one of the cinnamon phrases of their college professor.

The yealings squealed in delight, at the perfect mimicry. The third one, who was flipping through the pages of a magazine on physics news, put the mag down on the table, firmly and eyeballed Matz.

“I object, your honor,” he said imitating the popular TV serial that was running like crazy, every Monday, for more than three years. (The serial was a sentimental rehash of the old Perry Mason series.)

“Objection overruled.” Matz shot back with gusto. “Food is enough. If everybody on earth had enough to eat—and a bit to spare, of course—the earth will be a happy, peaceful place to live on. There won’t be any wars. Everybody will be content.”

“Only food, and nothing else?”

“Yes, only food, and nothing else. What else do we need?”

The three friends opened their mouths all at once. Their intentions were preempted.

In a most extraordinary way. By the most extraordinary agents. Totally unimaginable agents. In a totally unimaginable manner. May be unimaginable, but not impossible.

The agents hailed from a realm where everything was possible. The four-dimensional continuum (and the ten or twelve dimensions of the stringent stringists[H1] [SV2] [SV3] ) was eternally enceinte with all possible states. The space inside the room was getting intensely primed for Quantum. The triggering words had been supplied by Carl Matz. Not, open Sesame, but

. . .

“Yes, only food, and nothing else. What else do we need?”

Words, when repeated, evoke strange effects. Especially, if they are repeated unnecessarily and stubbornly, the result (s) will be unpredictable.

The invisible agents were the invincible, infallible, inconceivable Quantum Agents. From their abode of zero dimensions, they emerged into the Einsteinian space surrounding Carl and his friends. The four of them felt a strange tingling sensation inside their ears, while the hairs on their bodies bristled up rigidly. They felt as if lightning was about to strike down any moment, followed by the earsplitting peel of thunder.

Even as Matz stared in horror at his friends, they began to shake and vibrate together. Matz tried hard to comprehend what was happening, blinking vigorously. By that time, they floated up in the air. Matz gawked. They seeped through the ceiling as though it were made of vapor, and vanished out of sight. Meanwhile . . .

Meanwhile, the event had occurred the other way around. Along with the Quantum Agents, the Relativity Twins had infiltrated the room, eager to play their game. The yealing pals of Carl Matz physically and most objectively saw that he, Matz rose in the air, hit the ceiling, and seeped up, through and out of it, away from them, effortlessly vanishing from their sight. Having accomplished this, and have had their fun, the Twins scarpered from the scene. Then, the Quantum Agents took over. Being quantumacious[H4] [SV5] , they had many aliases. They could be Agents or Minions or Spooks or Elfs . . . anything that fits a situation and an observer. They caught hold of Matz, marking him as the principal observer, and unceremoniously dragged him away from the scene. . . .

The first lesson

When Carl Matz opened his eyes, he could not guess how long he had had them closed. He always prided himself on his positive attitude. How long, did not matter; his eyes were open now. He could see clearly. Good. Optimism is good.

There is an old joke about an optimist, made up by dedicated pessimists. The optimist is falling down from a hundred-story skyscraper. As he crosses each floor on his downward journey towards the concrete pavement, he shouts defiantly, “I am still alive! I am still alive!!” . . . That joke flashed across in mind of Matz after he realized that he could see. What he could see made no sense at all to him.

He was inside a large kitchen-cum-dining room. He could see in front of him all the paraphernalia associated with a kitchen. The cooking platform was visible about thirty feet away from him. An elegant cooking range, a pressure cooker, a coffee maker, a grinder, an electric mixer, a water purifying machine, a toaster, a dishwasher, and other gadgets were arranged in neat order along the platform. The shelves and the stainless-steel racks on the other walls contained plenty of plates, porcelainware, silver tumblers, jars, and all such things that could be found in a well-equipped kitchen of gourmet. The stainless-steel sink was a beaut by itself. It was a large kitchen indeed. The wall opposite him was also about thirty feet wide. Directly in front of him, almost touching his stomach, stood a brand-new mahogany dining table, covered with a fine table cloth.

The dining table appeared to be an anomaly of sorts. He couldn’t place it immediately. The table was quite small. In fact, it was meant for only one person. Matz had, of course, seen such single-seater tables in some restaurants, but not in a home. The kitchen he was in, exuded the appearance and feel of domestic space; rich and luxuriant. Even his personal dining table in his penthouse . . . hey, what is happening? Where am I? I do not possess any single-dining table. That is below my dignity. What happened to my penthouse? Single-table, gosh? Where are my pals, with whom I was talking just a few minutes ago? Infra-dig. By my reckoning, this hall can easily accommodate thirty persons. Why then, a single table? Eh, stop it. Where am I? Whose kitchen is this? Single table, . . . damn! This joint doesn’t belong to me, definitely. Strange. How did I come here? Or, did someone bring me here? Was I drugged and kidnapped? But I did not eat or drink anything with my pals. Damn, where are they? The last I remember is seeing them floating in space and going through the ceiling. Shit, that is impossible; not in this world. Ah, where am I, then? Let us take a look around. Let me ring them up on my cellphone. Strange, I do not see any doors or windows; except that hole in the wall fitted with that silently revolving exhaust fan. Maybe, they are behind me. Let me recce this dump. Carl Matz got up and turned around.

No. He did not get up. With his best efforts, he was only able to accomplish a partial turning of his neck, accompanied by an acute crick in the neck. Next, dawned the realization of deductive logic worthy of Sherlock Holmes.

He had not gotten up, because he could not get up. He did not turn around completely, because he could not.

He could not accomplish the two simple acts, because he was seated on a chair. He was unable to lift the chair off the floor if he was to stand up. The chair was made of solid lead, and he did not have the strength to lift it using either his gluteus muscles, those of the femur, or of the calf. Because he deduced the last step in the chain of reasoning, with the simple act of looking down, not around.

When he looked down at himself, the horrendous realization was complete. He had been very efficiently and thoroughly bound, bound-strapped-cuffed to the chair. A satanic voice somewhere inside his already reeling head pointed out a small error. When he was so thoroughly bound, it was quite unnecessary to have the chair made out of a heavy metal like lead. It was overkill. When Matz heard that voice, he immediately knew that it was not his own voice; the volume, the accent, timbre, intonation, the drawl, everything was different and unfamiliar to him. Whose voice was it, then? What was it doing inside his head?

A mild wave of panic arose in his chest. No, he was an optimist. He should not panic. That thought about overkill was indeed a joke. He giggled. But seriously, he should not giggle under the present circumstance, as per protocol. Only those, apart from him–like his enemies–could smile, laugh, giggle, guffaw, or whatever fuck they wanted. If he did, then it was a sign of hysteria. At this, he panicked again.

No, no panicking. It does not help in a situation like this. Impractical. Be practical, cool down, cool down even if it takes effort. Breathe slowly, in and out . . . slowly, . . . deeply, in and out. No hurry, take your time. One, two, three . . . ah, that is better.

It took some time. But Carl Matz managed to calm down. Stay balanced, accept the present, stay in the present and proceed from there.

But, proceed how? He already knew that using physical effort to unbound himself was impossible. Maybe a 007, or a Terminator, or a Houdini could do such sort of things. The best physical thing he could do was to open his mouth.

That, he did. In the best manly but courteous voice he could manage, he asked the walls, one in the front, two on the sides, sealed by a ceiling on the top and a floor at the bottom. Logically, there should be one more wall behind his back, and most probably there could be one. (There it pops its head again, the imp of the irrelevant.)

“Hello, anybody there?”

There was no answer. Not even a faint echo. The place was perfectly designed to absorb sound waves. That suggested that it would have been efficiently soundproofed. No use in shouting or screaming. Darn. His inner voice told him to ask the question once again, and once again. He trusted it. He had developed a good rapport with his inner voice. It had served him well on some occasions. He threw the same question into the air two more times. After the third essay, he heard a sound. It was almost an inaudible sound of the automatic door closer. It was followed by the sound of footsteps; one, strong and firm, and three other soft pairs. Even though Matz could not turn around freely, the back of his head sensed that the soft feet belonged to women, and the strong one obviously was that of a man. His deduction was confirmed as the perfume hitting his nostrils grew more intense with each count of the approaching steps. He did not make an attempt to turn his head, though the instinct to do so was strong. Doing so would automatically put him at a lower level, psychologically.

The party came out and stood in front of him. His eyes confirmed what his ears and nose had sensed correctly. There was a man in front of him and three oomphalicious girls by his side. All were smiling in the friendliest manner possible. Hospitality was oozing out from them, like a pleasant breeze from a fan.

The man, to be frank, did not look like a man. He looked more like a giant. Matz had seen his share of tall men and hulks in his life. This man appeared to be at least seven feet tall. The sizes of his various body parts, and especially of muscles could only be described in terms of the mountains of flesh that they depict in cartoons. To be frank, once more, his skin did not seem to be that of humans. Matz felt it must have been a miraculous amalgam of skin and steel. That thought immediately reminded him of cyborgs, and he shivered. (I hope that thing did not notice it. Calm down Matz baby, smile.) No human being on earth could survive a physical battle with that metallic mass, he was sure. The girls by his side, in contrast, were of average build, all beautiful and equipped with alluring curves at appropriate places. They were angels. The only odd thing was that all three were identical in shape, appearance, makeup, mannerisms, and dress. (Maybe, all angels look alike in paradise, I don’t know.)

The android-behemoth reassuringly smiled at Matz and proceeded as if everything was normal.

“First things first. I think an introduction is in order since it looks like we are going to spend a few days together, in this poor hutch.” He spread his hands apologetically gesturing around the kitchen. (That the kitchen was equipped royally, was a different matter.) Massive, elephantine power was radiating from those swinging arms and shoulders. The gesture connoted a meaning quite opposite to those of the spoken words. The word, poor, is only a formal, civilized way of speaking, buster. If you believe it, how about a gentle sock on your jaw, just soft enough to disillusion you? Matz flinched automatically. The swinging hands were dangerously close to his face. He fully understood what that soft knock could do to his mug. Better be careful. That phrase portending his spending a few days there sent another wave of fear down his spine. The giant continued.

“I am to be your butler and cook for the period of your stay here. Welcome. Yes, I know you are going to ask my name; it is written all over your face. Personally, I do not care for a name. But as long as you stay here, you can call me Beam Shane.”

Matz again went off into a bout of internal dialogue. Yes, he is dressed like a cook, I can see that. His tailor must have had nightmares, trying to make clothes out of cloth. Those buttons on his chest may burst at any time. The stitches can’t stay for long, even if that looks like a new shirt on that steel barrel. If he flexes his biceps, the sleeves will surely get torn. That name sounds like the one I had seen in an Indian flick when I was on travel in India . . . Bhim Sen or something. This hulk definitely looks the part too. But the guy’s got good manners, I admit. He is, again and again, referring to my stay here. Gad, how long could that be? But it gives a bit of hope. It means that I may probably be released, go out alive, I mean. Touch wood.

Beam’s voice came to the foreground:

“And these angels could as well be called, Anne, App, and Purina. They will help me with my cooking. I admit I am not much of a cook, though wrestling is my forte and it relaxes me much.”

Matz could understand that. He could imagine the fate of a wheezing-struggling polar bear held in an endearing hug by this behemoth. In that Indian flick, he remembered that the Bhim character also acted the part of a cook for a brief period. Strange, the dames looked alike, and the names, when joined, sounded like that of an Indian Goddess of food, he had seen in another Indian flick on another trip of his. The girls smiled, bent slightly as a gesture of welcome, and said, “Hello, welcome gringo.” The three voices melded into a single one–like their names. Gringo?! By God, where exactly am I?

Beam picked up, “Let us get down to business. As I said, we are here to serve the needs of your stomach. You must be hungry. Tell us what you would like to eat. It will be our pleasure to feed you. Do not hesitate, you can ask for anything you want, anything.”

At the mention of food, Matz felt pangs of hunger. His stomach growled. Normally, he was not excessively fond of food. He was, of course, a trencherman but no glutton. He was unable to recall when exactly he left his penthouse, was abducted, rather. It could have been a long time ago since he was mightily hungry. Reason dictates that under the kind of situation he was in, he should concentrate primarily on how to escape from there. But hunger made him behave irrationally. That, in itself, is kinda irrational! I can’t help it. Besides, who knows, this may be my last supper, in spite of the promises of the Beam guy. Grab your grub first. A contented stomach calms you down. A calm mind is helpful to plan ahead. Irrational behavior? I do not mind. The situation I am in is itself totally irrational. May be this is a dream. I could pinch myself and wake up, but I can’t. Shall I ask this guy to pinch me? No, too risky. His softest pinch may take away a pound of my flesh along with it. The girls are preferable.

Beam’s voice cut in, as before: “No, that won’t help. This is not a dream. This is for real. But a reality of a different kind.”

Matz was taken aback. That guy was reading my thoughts, blimey. Is this a kinda virtual reality? Am I wearing invisible googles?

“No, this is not a Google-goggle-induced reality. You are in a Quantum state. Me too, and these angels, and this kitchen.” Carl Matz was not a dummy. He possessed a good, above-average IQ. But when it came to Quantum, he gave up. You can understand any complicated subject on earth when properly explained. Except for Quantum. Why even Satan will scarper if you begin to chant Quantum. Matz decided to calm down and behave as normally as possible.

The beam came nearer to the chair-bound man. Matz noticed his fire-resistant apron and coat. The last button of the coat was open, in the traditionally approved way. And the severely elegant bow-tie announced the profession of the guy. I bet that a hundred pounds of food will be just breakfast for this giant. No, no irrelevant thoughts, stop it. Beam whisked out a tablet, which was displaying a menu containing a long list of food items.

“You can choose any item you’d like to eat. We will get it to you in a jiffy, no problem. Go through it slowly. I will scroll down. There is more. Plenty to eat. No problem there.”

“How can I eat, while my hands are bound?” Matz asked instinctively. Beam looked at him speculatively, the look, not unmixed with amusement.

“No, I am not thinking of any escape strategies. I am hungry like hell. I am weak and feeling giddy. Even otherwise, you know pretty well that I am no match for you, physically.”

Beam smiled. “Glad to see that you can assess ground realities. I am not authorized to free your hands. I have to ask the boss. Tell you what; you open your mouth, and these nurses will feed you. Any time, any number of times. They will clean and wipe your mouth and face. If you are pliant, they may even plant kisses on you as a reward. Chaste ones. Lucky you. Let us complete this session perfectly and peacefully as per the script. I will ask the boss and see what can be done about freeing your hands. Be reasonable. Enjoy the food for now.” Beam thrust the tablet in front of Matz’s eyes.

Glancing down the menu, Matz asked, “Who is your boss?”

“Quantum Bohr Berg.”

“Sounds strange.”

“Think again. It is superfluous to point out that all the three words are famously familiar.” Carl was unable to think of a suitable retort.

“Where does he stay?”

“Here, there, everywhere. Usually, he is invisible. He materializes when an observer wants to observe him.” Matz was familiar with this quagmire part of science. He decided to step away from it. Passing his eyes down the list on the tablet’s screen he asked:

“What is this biryani thing here?”

“It is a famous dish of India. You must have come across it while you were in India.”

Strangely, this Quantum hunk seems to have a strong ESP. “Yeah, I remember the name but had no occasion to taste the dish. Can I have it here, now?”

“Sure, sure. You have made a good choice.”

Beam took away the tablet, turned towards the beauties, and spoke to them in an unearthly language. They giggled and scurried back, behind Matz. Matz heard the door open and close. He waited. Not for long.

The aroma of food hit him. Then he heard the familiar sound of the door opening and closing and the approach of soft footsteps. Despite his being groggy and hungry, the anomaly did not escape him. He smelled the food first before the door opened. Can smell travel through walls?

[H1]??

[SV2]Stet . maing fun of the string theory followers

[SV3]

[H4]?

[SV5]There is a word, contumacious. Punning on that word