Cyber Space

6:30 p.m. Mr. Basu looks around the room, then sighs. He might have known. Atul Srivastav was never, ever on time. Had never been, in all their long years of acquaintance. He is in for a long wait.

His eyes sweep the room again, this time actually registering the various occupants of the lounge. A young couple, obviously too obsessed with each other to notice anything else; an old man leafing through an out-of-date periodical; a man in his early twenties trying and failing to control a boy who looked like his brother or nephew and, in the furthest corner of the room, leaning against one of the massive pillars, a girl in her late teens, intently typing into her laptop.

A cyber-junkie… or whatever it was that these people called themselves. He never understood the fascination cyber-space held for today’s teenagers. His nieces were beginning to venture into that world and he’d been rather repulsed and even scared by the friends they’d brought home once or twice. But this girl looks neat enough, in baggy jeans and tight tee-shirt, long brown hair in a pony-tail. Maybe he can approach her; she doesn’t look the type that’s completely renounced the real world. Maybe she can answer a few questions that’ve been nagging him for sometime

“Hi,” he says, and the girl looks up, light brown eyes glinting behind angular glasses. “Can I sit here?”

“Sure,” she shrugs, “it’s not like I own the place.” She looks up at him and smiles. “That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t let you if I did. It’s just my world-weary way of saying that you’re welcome to sit here.”

“Oh.” He seats himself, amused at the way the girl explains her reticence. It’s similar to how his friends pretended to do drugs in college, to ensure no-one prodded into their inner, insecure lives. Some things, he muses, never change. Encouraged by this discovery, he decides to push on. “Can I ask you something? It’s a bit awkward…” He trails off, embarrassed.

“You can ask,” the girl answers. “And I may choose to answer. Provided it’s not about something I may not want to answer.”

“It’s… erm… how can you kids be so obsessed about something unreal?” he blurts out, immediately feeling uncomfortable as the brown eyes narrow shrewdly.

“Ah, an unbeliever!” she grins. “Well, to whom am I explaining the phenomenon of the cyber-world?”

“Jatin Basu.” He smiles back, extending his hand. She takes it in a firm grasp.

“Well, Mr. Basu, I take it that even a computer-illiterate like you has some basic familiarity with the Net? A bank-account, maybe? Or some visits to the Sony or Zee websites? Something?”

“A bank-account.” He replies. “With Wenmmkilsons.”

“Oh.” She types something, moving the mouse button around. The screen dissolves. “That’s the entirety of your experience?” He nods, laughing inwardly at her dismayed expression.

“This,” she sighs, “is going to be difficult.” A new screen appears and she peers intently at it for a moment, then turns to look at him. “Well, Mr. Basu, why did you open a cyber account at Wenmmkilsons?”

“It’s just… easier, more convenient.” And my elder sister was badgering me about it.

“Exactly… it’s easier than standing in line for half an hour to deposit a cheque or withdraw cash.” She had started speaking more confidently, now that she was on what he supposed was her home-turf. “You press a few buttons, type in a few facts and voila, you’ve completed a transaction! Besides, it kind of makes the physical location of your cash irrelevant. Just withdraw from the nearest branch office.”

“Yes, but how does that have anything to do with my question? Don’t tell me you kids handle financial transactions all day long?”

“You’d be surprised,” she smiles. “But I was just starting out with something you’re familiar with. It’s basically the same for everything. Speed, convenience and the irrelevance of your geographical location.”

He makes a disbelieving face and she scowls, then shrugs. “Well, suppose you wanted information about… say thirteenth century temple architecture of Bali.” He blinks. “I’m an educated Net-freak,” she grins. “So, what would you normally do?”

“Erm… hit the library, I suppose. Check the books on Bali, temple architecture, then cross-reference?”

“How much time would that take? An hour, or more likely, 6-8 hours?” He shrugs. “On the other hand, I would start a Google search and within 2-3 minutes every scrap of information about thirteenth century temple architecture of Bali available on the Net would be on the screen, not to mention a lot of superfluous information. Plus, I could start a thread about it. Would take a bit more time, but I’d get everything about Bali by the end of the hour.” She smirked, glancing at the screen, which had morphed again. “And you would be sitting in front of a heap of dusty old books, thoroughly frustrated.”

“I concede the point,” he said, palms out in submission. “What about chatting, though? That’s not about finding useful information, is it?” Chatrooms were dens of… erm… something horrid, he knew it.

“Tell me, Mr. Basu, do you have friends?” He blinks, taken aback. “I’m not being insolent. It’s an important question. I mean real friends, who know how you really feel about objects, occurrences and individuals; who let you be yourself, no masks or facades required?” She looks at him earnestly. “Well, do you?”

If he is to be honest with himself, he has asked himself that question before, and, consequently, knows the answer. “One,” he says. Atul Srivastav. That’s why he tolerates Atul’s inevitable unpunctuality. Because it’s his only flaw.

“How old are you?” she queries, eyes narrowed. “40-42?” He shrugs non-commitally. “And you have one real friend. It’s much the same with us. Well, those of us with unmutilated brain cells, who aren’t future beauty queens. Actually, it’s worse. I don’t have a single friend.” He stares, amazed at an admission like this from a seemingly confident girl. She shrugs. “Thirteenth century temple architecture of Bali isn’t something I picked out of thin air, you know. I’m well aware of the main trends. Anyway, as I was saying… I don’t have any friends. Well, none this side of the Himalayas, anyway. Some are in Nepal, a couple in Greece, three girls in Egypt, a college-boy in the Hebrides… you get the general idea.”

“That Indian teens don’t care about Bali? And you have friends all over the world?”

“Well, yes. But that’s not the point.” She grins, then glances at the laptop, twiddling the mouse-button.

“What I’m saying is the Net allows us to meet, to chat, share information, formulate theories… even gossip and talk rubbish. All without ever seeing each other. And the best part is, it’s not even needed. We get along just fine without any of us knowing what the others look like.”

“You’re trying to tell me that the Net fosters friendships which function regardless of race, sex, caste or religion?” This was too much.

“And geographical location…don’t forget geographical location,” she jokes.

Well, maybe she’s right. Mixing with anonymous people from all cross-sections of society does lower inhibitions, even he knows that. The effect could only be greater if the people were from all over the world.

He glances at her. She’s staring, well, glaring really, at the computer screen, a frown creasing her forehead.

She looks up, suddenly aware of his staring. “So, Mr. Basu. Satisfied? Ready to join us?” He scowls, shaking his head. She sighs. “Well, are you at least aware why we are, and I quote, ‘so obsessed about something unreal’?”

“Yeah, I guess so. The Net has its merits. I concede that much.”

“Will you tell me something?” He nods. “Are your children into cyber-space? It’s just… you sounded the way my dad used to… before I proselytized him. Are they?”

“My nieces are. They’re around your age and… their noses are attached to the monitors almost the entire day. My elder daughter Ramaa, she’s 13, she’s beginning to dip into the cyber-world. My younger’s 3; she’s far too young to give a damn.”

“What’s the kid’s name? Ratna?” she asks, typing something and then looking up at him.

“No, Rati...” He smiles, remembering her vehement declaration that didi wasn’t letting her watch the new TV and she hated the new TV because it didn’t have sound and would maa scold didi for not letting her watch.

“Ah, Ramaa and Rati. I see.” She smiles at him mischievously. “By any chance, were you supposed to meet that one friend of yours here today?”

“Yeah, I was… well… am, actually. But he’s late. How did you know?”

“Well, if he’s tall and bespectacled and skeletally thin, he’s looking at you and he doesn’t seem very happy. ’Course, I wouldn’t be happy either if I was standing in a lounge for the last ten minutes watching my best friend chatting with a strange 19 year-old.”

“Right. Couldn’t have told me when he arrived, could you?” He turns, glancing warily at Atul, who looks at him with justifiable annoyance. She shakes her head, grinning at him. He begins to get up.

“Look, Mr. Basu. Ramaa, she’s going to get interested in this. Don’t try stopping her; it’ll only make her more curious. What you should do is install a few censors. By the time she figures out how to get past them, she’ll be old enough to know…” Her voice trails off; he’s not really listening to her anymore. Instead, he’s focusing on Atul, whose annoyed expression has been replaced by a lop-sided grin. One thing he’s learnt from this conversation is that true friends are rarer than he thought and he’s lucky to have even one as loyal as Atul.

Before walking out of the lounge, he glances back at the girl, realising he doesn’t even know her name. And truth be told, it hadn’t mattered.

She looks up, flashing him a huge smile, then bends back to her laptop, typing intently into the password slot.

RAMAA_RATI. Access denied.
RAAM_ RAATI. Access denied.
RAAM_ARATI. Access denied.
RAAM_AARATI. Access granted. Welcome, Mr. Basu.

How very interesting. Such a well padded bank account. Well, she’d known he was rich. Wenmmkilsons demanded a huge sum in order to start a locker… and… he’s had one for five years… the cyber version for only three months though. She looks up again, smiling at the young man, who abruptly forgets to yell at his brother. A lakh, that was quite enough, wouldn’t do to seem greedy.

“Oh, damn,” she mutters, “I quite forgot to warn him about cyber-crime. Ah well, can’t remember everything, can I?”