1

The hotel manager walks towards my dad with the key, but Baba smilingly points to me. ‘I told you she’s going to drive.’

The manager seems unsure, then reluctant. I help him out by taking the key off him. ‘Thank you, Mr Khurana. Let’s go, Baba.’ I turn and start walking away.

‘Sir,’ the manager says, still not addressing the twenty-four-year-old woman in front of him, ‘are you sure? You start the drive, then you’ll see why I’m concerned. The road gets very narrow and windy as soon as you leave the town area. Lots of hairpin bends on the descent. Actually, why don’t you let Madam drive from here, and you take over when you reach the level crossing, which will be a good place to switch?’

‘We’ve paid the insurance, right? Your guy has checked Madam’s licence. You have it from me that she’s been driving since the age of eighteen. She’s driven all over India, in all conditions. You have my personal guarantee your car is in better hands with her than with me. Now, Mr Khurana, we’ll get going. I really want to explore these caves. You please call that guide and remind him of the exact spot to wait for us.’

We’re in the car, but Khurana is still unconvinced. What he’s now done is send one of his bearers, Omkar, to help me reverse through the hotel gate, which, truth be told, isn’t the widest, but all it needs is for me to line myself up and hold steady. I don’t even consider folding in the side mirrors.

I decide not to waste my breath yelling at Omkar for trying with unfathomable arm movements to guide me, but my father calls out to him, ‘Go inside. Madam’s temper is unpredictable. She’ll drive straight over your toes,’ and we exit the compound, laughing.

That’s when I choose to open my eyes. It’s the perfect moment, exactly what I asked for. The visit to the caves we can keep for another time. I want to savour this one for a while.

You see, this sort of thing isn’t any old dream. About ten minutes ago, after having my morning coffee, and knowing my Uber ride to the airport was half an hour away, I specifically asked for a nice memory from the age of twenty-four, then lay down on the sofa and shut my eyes. Within minutes it turned up, just like room service, and from the right period too, although the incident itself was a surprise.

I need to restate that. The details of the incident were a surprise, for this reason: it never happened! In fact, a so-called ‘memory’ such as this is the diametric opposite of all my actual recollections of my father. It’s also the opposite of my usual dreams of him. Until exactly twenty-four hours ago, there had not been a single occasion — and I’m thirty-three — when I saw Baba in my sleep and wasn’t filled with worry and fear.

Yesterday morning, Ravi Tarun rang to tell me about a two-day seminar I apparently needed to attend in Gurgaon (I fly out in three hours). An ‘orientation course’, he called it, at which there would be others with Shaktis from all over the country. As soon as I’d completed it, we could begin shooting for the web series, on which also ‘great progress’ had supposedly been made.

‘Oh, and by the way, I have a surprise for you. Think of it as a promotion, if you like, as though you’re moving up another level within your own Shakti, or getting an upgrade, like being bumped up to business class. From here on, you have what’s called memories-on-demand. Just request a year, or age; close your eyes for a few minutes, and you’ll be transported there. You’ll find you can make the recollection as specific as you wish, even centred on a particular person or place. Or else leave it to the Shakti to surprise you, take you back to a moment you didn’t even know you remembered.

‘If you have fifteen minutes after this call, try it right away. It’s been activated. It’s at your service, anywhere, anytime, including while you’re asleep. You’re welcome.’

I did call Ravi back about twenty minutes later. My father and I had been happily skipping together through a park on our way to get an ice cream. Yes, my brutal, abusive, violent Baba — to whom there were no other dimensions worth mentioning, except when he was even more dangerous because he was trying to manipulate us into something — was skipping alongside me! Beside us ran a gentle canal, with recognisable South Calcutta houses visible on either side behind the trees. In the daydream (for how can I call that a ‘memory’?), I was six, which was the age I’d specified, and to make the challenge as difficult as possible I’d demanded both Baba’s presence and that the memory be a happy one.

(Only after I put down the phone did the deeper irony strike me. The fact that my Shakti had fabricated a moment instead of locating a genuine one confirmed my belief that there were few to be found that were happy and included my father.)

‘Oh, did I forget to say?’ Ravi had sounded very pleased by the astonishment in my voice. ‘That’s not us, by the way, that’s the Shakti itself, using whatever it’s learnt about you. You see, as you make progress and consequently the Shakti gets to spend more time inside you, it learns you so well that it doesn’t just restore memories and people you’ve lost; it can gift you moments you’ve always longed for! The childhood you wish was true, along with highlights from the one you had; the man, or woman, you wish had never left, all the roads not taken that you’ve always yearned to go down. So, don’t thank me, thank the Shakti, which responds primarily to power — raw emotional power — and detects everything that is most important to us. And as any adult or indeed child will know, sometimes what we’ve longed for is more vivid than what we actually lived.

‘Enjoy every moment, Jaya. Remember, there’s not just a new future ahead of you, but also a better version of your past, from which, from here on, you’ll only draw strength and joy. Over time, what you remember now will fade away, and the new memories will feel more true. Speaking of new futures, please don’t miss your flight tomorrow. I had to pull quite a few strings to get you into a course this week, so that we can begin shooting directly after. In fact, pack for four days rather than two, because from Gurgaon you’re going to be taken straight to the location for the first episode. More details to follow.’

Ravi hung up. I packed stuff for two extra days, then booked a ride to the airport. My dear friend Arati died, was killed, just four days ago — the price demanded by the same Shakti, or its masters, for being reunited with her lost daughter. We cremated her yesterday after the post-mortem had confirmed death by stabbing. The rest of her family is currently staying at my sister’s vacant house in Jodhpur Park to escape the furore. In the wake of her death there have been clashes between rival political parties in her area, which have worsened since Alam, the municipal councillor charged with Arati’s rape (who might also have plotted her murder), was released on bail. Seventeen people are reported injured. A couple of newspapers and one television channel in particular insist on viewing this already brutal chain of happenings through a sectarian Hindu–Muslim lens, clearly following the line of the PM’s party who’re looking to make gains at the expense of the local ruling party of Bengal.

And yet, despite knowing and witnessing all this, I have chosen to hold on to my Shakti because, as they did for Arati, the gifts do genuinely keep giving! How can I turn away from further powers awaiting me in the future? Even more, how can I refuse a brand-new past?

You answer me — who can turn down masters like this?