by balaji narasimhan

8/14/2019 By Balaji Narasimhan

1/23

By Balaji Narasimhan


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DEDICATION

This work is dedicated to my good friend TV Mahalingam. While every

word here has been written by me, Mahalingam helped me with theplanning, and so this is as much his work as it is mine.


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CONTENTS

EPILOGUE 4

THE FIRST DOOR: A MATTER OF CHOICE 5

THE SECOND DOOR: THE BIG CHOP 7

THE THIRD DOOR: BLACK NEVER MATES 9

THE FOURTH DOOR: ALL WOUND UP 12

THE FIFTH DOOR: LOW VOLTAGE 14

THE SIXTH DOOR: THE QUIZ ROOM 16

THE SEVENTH DOOR: ONE DOOR TOO MANY 19

PROLOGUE 22


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4

EPILOGUE

I put the mouth of the gun into my own mouth and pulled the trigger.


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5

"You are a man, and I am a toy. You feel pain, and I love philosophy,"

said the Talking Toy.

THE FIRST DOOR: A MATTER OF CHOICE

I woke up and found darkness all around. Except, that is, for a small bulb

in the corner.

And then, I saw it under the bulb. It was a toy that looked like a baby girl.

It had blue eyes and a cherubic expression.

"You destroyed me," it began. It sounded cherubic too, but there was,

behind the childish lisp, an edge that I couldn't put a finger on.

My head was still groggy, and I shook it to clear it. Not that it helped any.

"Huh?" was all I could think of.

"You robbed me of all that this world held dear to me," continued the

Talking Toy. Was there a gleam of wrath in its oh-so-pretty blue eyes?

Or, was I imagining? I didn't know. Where had I seen such pretty blue

eyes before? I couldn't remember. All I could remember was having an

ice cream. I remembered this because the guy who served me had theugliest scar I ever saw. And then, next thing I knew, here I was.

"Who are you?" I asked, staggering to my feet. My hands and feet were

not bound, thank goodness. Whoever had done this to me, he would pay.

And dearly. Nobody messes with me and gets away with it.

The Talking Toy giggled. Or rather, it sounded like a giggle, the

expression didn't change. Some joker had probably hid a speaker inside.

Never mind. Once I took apart the toy, I would take apart the fool whohad dared me.

"You never gave the ones I cared about any choice," said the Talking

Toy. "But, I shall give it to you."

"What choice?" I roared into the engulfing darkness, but the Talking Toy

ignored my question. Completely.


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"Eight years I have planned this down to the finest detail. Eight years ittook me to track you down. And now, here we are. Finally. Just you, me,

and a few doors. That is all."

I laughed.

Ok, so now you are wondering what this is all about. Well, that makes

two of us. But, just so that I can earn your sympathy--and also to prove to

you, dear reader, that there are no secrets between you and me--I shall letyou in on a small detail.

I am a terrorist.

I have plotted quite a few dastardly acts before. Blown up planes, sent upgasoline tanks in flames, shot a few dozen people. Stuff like that. And I

was pretty good at it too. That, and locks--I don't want to boast that I can

enter the vaults of the Bank of England in two minutes if you give me a

bent hairpin, but with my trusty tools--some of which I developed--I can

do it in a few hours.

Coming back to the story--ok, so now you know why I laughed. What did

this joker think, that he could use a few locks to scare me? Why, I could

be out the way I came in a matter of minutes.

But, there was only one snag--the door through which I had come in was

latched from the outside. So, there was nothing for me to do but to open

the door marked "2."

Surprisingly, it was not locked.

"None of the doors here are locked," said the Talking Toy. "Nevertheless,

your fate is sealed."

We'll see, motor mouth. We'll see.


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"If ice didn't float on water, would we still have cocktail parties?" asked

the Talking Toy.

THE SECOND DOOR: THE BIG CHOP

Beyond the second door, there were two more doors.

And another copy of the same Talking Toy.

"To your left," said the Talking Toy, "is a door that leads to a karate

champion. To the right, you will find a beautiful woman. Take your pick.

Now."

Now, I am a really well trained terrorist. I do know how to put anybody

out of commission, both with fire arms and with my bare arms. Still, I

thought, why take a risk? Why not try the second door? After all, if my

hidden tormentor thought that spending my time with a woman could hurt

me, then the laugh would be on him.

I entered the door on my right.

As the Talking Toy had promised, there was a beautiful woman in the

room, sitting on the floor, next to a bed that seemed to beckon invitingly.

I took a few steps towards her, and then all hell broke loose.

With the dexterity of a cheetah, she jumped forward, caught me by my

right wrist, and flipped me over, causing me to crash on the bed.

Saved, you would think, but then again, you would be wrong.

The quilt on the cot covered a bed of nails, on which I landed with apainful, if muffled, thud. There is only one thing more painful than this--

and that is discovering that miraculously, your wrist is broken.

Of course, I shattered the calm with a painful howl.

And, while I'm not exactly a Male Chauvinist Pig, I wished right then that

women would stick to cooking.

But, before I could progress down that line of thought, the femme fatalepounced upon me and clobbered me. In my worst street brawls, I have not


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"In vacuum, a feather and an iron ball will descend at the same speed.

But, in vacuum, you would be dead anyway, so you can't notice it," said

the Talking Toy.

THE THIRD DOOR: BLACK NEVER MATES

I picked myself up painfully and limped to another copy of the Talking

Toy. And faced two more doors.

"Sorry about the beating, chum," said the Talking Toy. If the person

behind the talking toy was sorry, he was hiding this fact very well indeed.

"Now," continued the Talking Toy, "you can enter by the door to the leftand meet another beautiful woman. Or, you can take the other door, and

play chess with the man inside that room."

Now, as a strategic terrorist, I loved chess. But that was not the reason

why I chose the second door. I selected chess because I had had my fill of

beautiful women for the time being, thank you.

I entered the door, and found a small man seated behind a rather

impressive chess set, carved out of marble. The scene would have looked

like something out of a Victorian novel, except for another copy of theTalking Toy on the shelf behind him.

Now, this looked safer. But, I had never been beaten by a woman, so I

had my guard up.

"Sit down," said the Talking Toy. The man, who didn't speak (of course,

he could have been a ventriloquist), had skin that looked like it had not

seen the sun that often. I was quite confident that this guy wouldn't beat

me.

Of course, I was wrong. What were you thinking? I'm merely the

protagonist here, not the hero.

As I sat down, a steel clamp tightened around my waist. The man got up

and connected a bracelet to my broken right wrist. I winced painfully, but

the man seemed not to care.

"Why are you doing this to me?" I asked in an anguished whisper.


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"Have a nice day," said a voice. Of course, it was not the man, it was theTalking Toy.

The man sat in his chair and pondered his first move. Naturally, he was

playing white.

When he lifted his first pawn, I felt as if a giant with a large cleaver was

splitting me in half. A few seconds later, I recovered from the shock of

the electric current that had coursed through my already battered body,courtesy of the bracelet that was fastened to my hand.

"Your turn," said the Talking Toy. The voice was still sweet, but that

somehow didn't make me feel better.

I lifted my first pawn, and placed it on another square. The moment I

moved my hand back, I was again jolted by electricity.

And this went on and on every time any of us moved any piece.

I would like to say that I won the game, but I lost. I have won a few

games while I was in college, but that was sans the electric bracelet. The

man in front of me was no expert, but he didn't have to be--he was

playing me when most of my gray cells were tottering over the brink of

no return.

Also, it was hard to concentrate because the Talking Toy, whose ideas of

etiquette were quite poor, insisted on singing "Hickory Dickory Dock" in

a manner that would have made me want to bang my head against a wall

on any normal day. Not that this was a normal day.

But I didn't give a damn to the chess game. My soul was filled with hate,

and all I wanted to do was meet my real tormentor face to face and break

his teeth.

This is hard to do if your right wrist is broken and even yawning seems to

tax what remains of your strength. But this thought didn't strike me right

then.

The little man who had defeated me in chess unscrewed the bracelet

around my right wrist. He did it gently, but his idea of gentleness, at thatpoint in time, didn't agree with mine.


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Still, no point fighting him. I wanted to save what remained of mystrength for the kingpin.

With this thought in mind, I staggered over to the door marked "4."


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"Death and taxes are inevitable. But, you no longer need to worry about

one of them," said the Talking Toy.

THE FOURTH DOOR: ALL WOUND UP

I had still not run out of bravado, but I thought that I would snivel a little

and see if this helps me get some sympathy.

"How long will this go on, for heaven's sake," I hollered. "Have mercy!

Please!"

"Mercy!" The Talking Toy's usual voice was replaced by another. A

grown man's voice, a voice that carried the chillness of a glacier. "Whatmercy have you shown to your victims?"

I could have argued the point with him, but it was, I knew, useless. This

was not a trial. I had already been tried. And found guilty by the unseen

one.

Who was he? He was so smart that it was only now that I had heard his

true voice. Would I meet him? My hopes were not very high.

"Ok, ok," I said wearily. "Let's get on with it then."

"Still, there is much to consider in what you say," said the Talking Toy in

its usual voice. "Ok. Now, I shall give you something easier. You can

wind 101 clocks in the room to your left. Or, you can fill out your tax

forms with the accountant in the room to your right."

Now, I hate paying taxes as much as the next man. But that was not the

reason why I avoided this room. I went into the room with the clocks

because I was tired of meeting people. Clocks are not something I'musually crazy about, but spending time in a room filled only with clocks

and no people sounded nice.

Still, I knew that I could put nothing past my enemy. So, I entered the

room cautiously, and started working carefully, edgily looking over my

shoulder--just in case somebody decided to sneak up and hit me over the

head with a four-pound hammer.

I wound up the 1st clock.


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Nothing happened.

I wound up the 2nd clock.

Nothing happened.

I wound up the 3rd clock.

Nothing happened.

I wound up the 10th clock.

Nothing happened.


Nothing happened.


Nothing happened.

I wound up the 101st clock.

Nothing happened.

Nothing, that is, if losing a perfectly good left eye permanently can be

counted as "nothing." This is what happens when you let your guard

down--I had not been expecting a cuckoo bird to leap out of the clock and

pierce my left eye with such unconcealed gusto.

Not to put too fine a point on it, things were not going my way.

A copy of the Talking Toy by the door (these damned things were all

over the damned place) advised me that I would find a first aid kit just

outside the exit door marked "5." With the helpfulness of an airline

hostess, the same voice also told me that there was a men's rest room and

a water cooler beyond this door.

The Talking Toy was telling the truth. But, after bandaging my eye asbest as I could with one broken wrist, I realized another painful truth.

There was no way I was getting out of this place alive.


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"Where is my big brother?" asked the Talking Toy.

THE FIFTH DOOR: LOW VOLTAGE

"Change of plans, my friend," said the Talking Toy as I entered the room.

Now, that didn't sound exactly like a good thing.

"I feel that you have been through enough," the voice continued. Yeah,

right. Courteous old bastard.

"Now, you will have help for what lies beyond. You can choose either the

pill or the syringe. Be warned, however, that one might be a placebo,while the other might be useful. But then again, this might not be true.

Still, you MUST take one or the other," said the Talking Toy in a voice

that reminded me of one of the high-class butlers showing off the new

Picasso that his master recently bought from Christie's.

I selected the syringe. God knows why I did. Maybe it was because I was

too beaten. Then again, maybe it was because I had come to realize that,

in this hellhole, the easy options didn't work.

I was to soon realize that even the difficult choices didn't get you far inthis place.

I entered the room through the door on the left. There was no particular

reason for choosing the left door--I could have chosen the right one, but I

somehow had an inkling that I would be in trouble either way.

For once, I was right. Not that it helped me any.

Both the doors opened into the same room. So much for choice.

This room was puzzling. All I could see was a flight of steps that seemed

to lead on into infinity.

"Ok," said the Talking Toy, "now you have to climb 101 steps and then

cross over on a narrow plank of wood that is just one feet wide, but 101

feet long."

"What if I fall?" I asked. Better to stay on the technical level with thisguy, I knew that he would show no mercy.


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"You won't fall because of the hand rails, which I have installed because

the place is pitch dark. However, the guide rails are connected to a low

voltage current source."

"Ha! You think that will scare me after what I just went through?"

"Once a man is broken, it doesn't take too much to complete the process."

While the voice was girlish and childish, there was a maturity in thewords that only a Nobel Laureate could have matched.

"Meaning?" I sniggered. I was feeling light headed.

"The syringe was full of a variant of a hallucinogenic drug that enhancesyour perceptions remarkably. So, 12 volts will now feel like 220."

I wish I could poke a hole in this theory, but I couldn't. As usual, the

Talking Toy was right.

How I managed to climb the 101 steps and cross the 101 feet long plank,

I don't know. What made me do it--even this is a question I could not

answer. Was the drug that I had been forced to inject into myself also

designed to make me obedient? Was it some inner impulse to get

revenge? Or was it just a tiredness with life and living, the desire of abroken man who has seen too much and wishes only to die, and die

quickly? I don't know. All I know is that I made it across.

The journey across that plank seemed like an eternity, but it was not. It

was merely a conduit to a door marked "6."


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"What is the difference between being right or wrong, when both are

deadly?" asked the Talking Toy.

THE SIXTH DOOR: THE QUIZ ROOM

Frankly, dear reader, I hope that you do not think that I'm a coward if I

say that I have had enough.

Now, while you may agree with me, I'm sure that the Talking Toy--or,

whoever is behind that accursed doll--has still not finished with me.

What would I find next? Would I be ravaged by starving tigers? Would I

be chopped up into tiny little pieces by savages armed with long knives?Would I fall down a deep precipice and break my neck? Somehow, I

hoped that the next room held one of these possibilities. Believe me, after

what I had gone through recently, it would be a pleasure to die.

And that is why I was surprised to see that the room held just two

luxurious chairs, something that the Chairman of the World Bank would

not have been ashamed to use.

The only problem was that one of the chairs had the Talking Toy.

The other chair was for me. I sat down wearily.

At once, the Talking Toy started to talk.

"Welcome! Please raise the trouser of your right leg and fit the bracelet

around your calf before we begin. Don't forget to apply the special gel--

placed within easy reach of your unbroken left wrist--on your leg first to

enhance electrical contact. Thank you. Have a nice day."

I did as told. I'm sure that the syringe contained some obedience serum.

Or, maybe it is because my mind had stopped working. In any case, I

didn't care.

"Now," continued the Talking Toy, "I shall ask you ten questions. Every

wrong answer will punish you with an electric jolt. Are we ready?"

I nodded my head. I knew that I would lose anyway, so why waste time

arguing?


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"1. What is 2 + 2?"

"4."

"Wrong! It is 5, because I was thinking about very large values of 2."

"2. What is 4 + 4?"

"10." I didn't care.

"Wrong! It is 7, because we are assuming very small values of 4."

"3. Who was the first President of the United States?"

"Washington."

"Wrong! We want the name of a person, not a place."

"4. What would the White House be called if it was not white?"

"Black House."

"Wrong! It could be called the Blue House or the Green House!"

"5. What did Humpty Dumpty do?"

"He sat on a wall."

"Wrong! He had a fall!"

"6. What was the name of female lead in the movie 7 year itch?"

"I don't know."

"Right! She didn't have any name, just as nobody has any name in this

book."

Of course, at the risk of digression, I must mention that getting an answer

right means that you get two electric shocks. You may want to wonder

about the logic behind this system, but I'm past caring.

"7. How do you pronounce India?"


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"Nidia."

"Right!" Hey! Don't ask me! I'm only the poor idiot in the electric chair.

If you have a complaint, please file it with the Talking Toy.

"8. Who wrote Alice in Wonderland?"

"Wordsworth."

"Right!"

"9. At what temperature does water boil?

"50 degrees Celsius."

"Right!"

"10. Do you think you can change a light bulb?"

"No."

"Right! Because, you see, you will be dead soon."


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"Have a nice day," said the Talking Toy.

THE SEVENTH DOOR: ONE DOOR TOO MANY

Frankly, I have had it.

All I want to do is to die.

Just as I was thinking about dying, I found a table with a single pistol,

which had a single bullet in it.

When I saw it, my desire for revenge grew again.

Gathering the remaining shreds of my courage and endurance, I limped

forward.

On the way, I passed a long corridor with 101 TV screens, which showed

all that I had passed through.

Every agony was played back before me. And this gave me strength.

I would meet the man who had tormented me.

And I would point the gun at him.

And then, I would pull the trigger.

It sounded simple. But in this hellish place, nothing is ever simple.

Because, you see, after the corridor ended, there was one more Talking

Toy.

And this time, there were three doors. Glass ones for a change, instead of

the wooden ones I was used to previously. One could have mistaken the

setup for a corporate office.

"Welcome," said the Talking Toy, "Your agony ends now."

"You are facing three one-way doors. The people inside can't see you, butyou can see them."

"What will they do to me?" I gasped.


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"Nothing," said the Talking Toy.

"The door to your left will lead you to meet a gentleman, who will offer

you a choice of Darjeeling tea or black tea."

"Take the one on the right, and you will be offered either black coffee or

while coffee."

"The gentleman in the middle will offer you either white wine or red

wine."

"Choose what you want, and once you have consumed the beverage, you

are free to go."

"Incidentally," continued the Talking Toy, "one of these three might be

your torturer."

"If you know who he is, then you are free to kill him with the gun you

possess."

I thought about it. Really hard. Or, as hard as I could think at that

moment.

The man on the left was clean shaven and was playing a violin.

The man in the middle had a very nice expression on his face. It almost

looked as if he was expecting me to walk in and tell him that I wanted to

give him a million dollars. Of course, I didn't trust him--by now, I had

stopped trusting people.

The man to the right was sharpening a long sword on a huge rotating

grinding stone. This sounded sinister, but for all you know, he was just aharmless fellow in charge of polishing knives.

So, I wondered, who was it?

Was it Mr Clean Shaven?

Was it Mr Nice Face?

Was it Mr Grinding Stone?


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Having got this far, I wanted to finish off this business.

But, I hesitated.

I didn't want to shoot the wrong guy and let my punisher get away.

Was Mr Clean Shaven capable of creating the hellish questions that were

a part of my quiz?

Was the chess machine setup created by Mr Nice Face?

Was it Mr Grinding Stone's hand that carved the cuckoo that blinded me?

Who had done this too me?

And why?

Anybody who could do this must have a deep, strong motive. And skill.

And passion.

And hate.

What had I done, which was so bad that somebody wanted to torture me

so badly? Of course, I would have understood it if somebody merelywanted to kill me--there are a lot of people who wanted to do it, but this

refined torture was sapping me of my stamina, my ego, and my very will

to live.

I fact, I was losing my reasoning faculties and my ability to process

information logically.

What was 2+2? I don't know if I knew. Not that I cared very much,

anyway.

I had been through too much.

Suddenly, I realized that I had lost everything.

Including my will to live.

And that is why I did what I felt was the right thing to do.


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PROLOGUE

* STOP PRESS * STOP PRESS * STOP PRESS * STOP PRESS *

Urgent News Report from Special Correspondent to Editor.

Dear Sir: Please carry this ASAP!

Dance of Death as Plane Crashes

All the people aboard an airborne plane were killed when a bomb that

was perhaps a part of somebody's luggage exploded.

According to officials, almost nothing might be recovered, except

perhaps the black box, because the bomb was a powerful one.

Relatives, whom this reporter managed to meet at the destination airport,

were in a state of shock. One man, who sported a rather ugly scar, was

found standing in the waiting room, with a talking toy girl doll that kept

saying "Have a nice day." Whomsoever this toy was meant for, he would

never see it.

Will the culprits be bought to book? Authorities are doubtful, and say thatthe lack of evidence could make matters tough. Also, with the amount of

work being placed upon the government law enforcement agencies, it is

doubtful if the authorities will be able to pursue the matter beyond a

point. Public memory is short, and the next attention-grabbing headline

will soon displace this "colossal tragedy," as the politicians call it, with

something else. The only people who can never forget are the ones whohave lost their dear ones in such a crash.

With the law enforcement agencies being so stressed out, the only waysuch cases can see the light of day is if the relatives keep up the pressure

upon the government. Alas, we live in evil times, and people no longer

seem keen to do such things--when this reporter approached the man with

the ugly scar, who had lost his wife and infant son because of the plane

crash, and asked him if he wanted the government to pursue the case andbring it to completion quickly, he just pointed to the sky and said, "with

His grace, the culprit will be bought to justice."

This gentleman's faith in God is commendable, but we as a nation need torealize that, while faith in the Supreme is important, man cannot abdicate


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his duty. All parties concerned need to move heaven and earth to find theculprits. Let no door be left unopened in our quest for justice. Let us wind

up our clocks and set a deadline, and quiz all the people concerned and

ensure that justice is done.

Let the culprits be bought to book, so that airports no longer witness

people like the man with the ugly scar (unfortunately, the gentleman

concerned refused to identify himself to us, so we are unable to reproduce

his name in print), weeping and clutching talking toy baby dolls that say"Have a nice day."

***

by balaji narasimhan

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