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Cosmosphere 1

Cosmosphere 1

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Cosmosphere 1

Lunghezza:
367 pagine
5 ore
Pubblicato:
Mar 12, 2011
ISBN:
9781458079152
Formato:
Libro

Descrizione

Omni Pundit with a fan Sarol unexpectedly meet Somidh, the director of the theater group. Somidh with Sarol and Protit at a quaint spot stopover for selection of the location of their proposed indie movie, come in touch with Shrota, Swaha and Lipi, who can not remain unaddicted in lusty love and funtasy at the moonhit night riverdale. In the natural rural atmosphere with the simpleton agrarian people and their folk culture, also their hidden rift, passion and adoration drift on the surface ..In the background scores of events, characters and situations, feelings, love, lust, joy, sufferings, fun, beauty, music...in scores of likely and unlikely locations to follow on & on in their onward queer travel from first to last from dust to dust-- as in fact there is also no end as there is no beginning in the cosmic sphere, connected with the eternal universal context of times, as envisions Shrota.

This Sphere one, named as Dear Sphere, is first of the epical books projected as Cosmosphere. In its epical span all genres >> novel, poetry, stories, romance, children’s, god, sci-fi, fantasy, utopia, environment, feminism &c. are naturally entwined, as in the real human life. So it is written blending prose-poetry-essay-play-picture all in one fusion form of fiction >> Prakalpana, with the new portmanteau words used unprecedentedly, for the newer generations.

Pubblicato:
Mar 12, 2011
ISBN:
9781458079152
Formato:
Libro

Informazioni sull'autore

"As the creator of the movement, Vattacharja Chandan envisaged an innovative literary form that tackled colonial forms and grew out of the surrounding organic reality", about him observed the New Man International Journal of Multidisciplinary Studies. As a bilingual writer in Bangla & English, and being the exponent of the international Prakalpana Movement, he has been published in several countries and has visited many countries. Edited PrakalpanA LiteratureE and kOBISENa. Performer of poetry with songs & music. His mail arts were exhibited in several international mail art exhibitions. Yet his journey as a writer has not been without challenges, as the Wikipedia noted: “Chandan's work, theories and role as a harbinger of the experimental and avant-garde ...literary movement in India have surrounded him with controversy.” Discover Books by Vattacharja Chandan Byabiloner Shunya Bagane (poetry) Porimandal (prakalpana) Upsurging Prakalpana (Edited prakalpana anthology) Atiprithibi 1. (prakalpana) Cosmosphere 1 (prakalpana) Chirochorachor (prakalpana) Gour Nodite Vor (prakalpana) Montraser Chhaddochhaya (prakalpana) Sarol Karo Valobasa (poetry) Posha Paakhi Hobona : I Won't Be a pet Bird (poetry) Prakalpana Aandoloner Istahaar (Manifesto of Prakalpana Movement)

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Anteprima del libro

Cosmosphere 1 - Vattacharja Chandan

Others Speak

India's… counterculture is symbolized in the Prakalpana Movement …Vattacharja Chandan is a central figure who contrived the movement. Prakalpana fiction is a fusion of prose, poetry, play, essay, and pictures. An example of a Prakalpana work is Chandan's bilingual Cosmosphere— isahitya.com

...Which includes Chandan’s...Cosmosphere—arguably the most interesting text… — New Hope International Review

I enjoyed the most….‘Aurora on the River Gour’, .... interesting nonetheless. — The New Pages Zine Rack

Cosmosphere 1

Dearsphere

Universion

Epical Fiction Prakalpana

By Vattacharja Chandan

Cover Design by Vattacharja Chandan

Copyright 2018 Vattacharja Chandan

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. You may share it with your friends and encourage others to download their own copy and share it. It may be reproduced, copied and distributed only for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form only, for promotion on a limited period of time to reach more people. If you enjoyed this book, won't you be kind enough to leave your review of this book. Thank you for your support for this book, which remains the copyrighted property of the author. All rights reserved.

Dedication

At the bosom of the bloom

may who smell the reclusive love

spell the soul to permeate allover

To You for ever

Cosmosphere 1: Dearsphere

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Incubation

Chapter 2: Solitary Outcry

Chapter 3: Universion

Chapter 4: Risen World

Chapter 5: Dreamatic Rendezvous

Chapter 6: Aurora on the River Gour

Chapter 7: Specter of Terroria

Chapter 8: Faraway Milkyway

Chapter 9: Unbidden Reflexion

Chapter 10: Nectar of Extimes

Chapter 11: DeviationTimes

Chapter 12: Rhymes of Times

Chapter 13: Lassefair Times

Chapter 14: Contension Times

Chapter 15: Diversion Times

Chapter 16: Harmonious Times

Chapter 17: Wayout Times

Chapter 18: Oblivious Times

Chapter 19: Rifting Times

Chapter 20: Drifting Times

Chapter 21: Rearsphere Dearsphere

Afterword

About Vattacharja Chandan

Discover Other Books by Vattacharja Chandan

Connect With Vattacharja Chandan

(((((((((((()))))))))))

C o s m o s p h e r E 1

D e a R S p h e r E

Perpetual times never sever

Unseen to anybody

my silent stint to ever haunt

beautilization in dear sphere

What where nowhere

spell in cosmosphere

1.1

Chapter 1: Incubation

Uncited Outset

== Ghost! Oh You host the ghost in the room? Funtastic! I’ll like to stay with them in the same room. The visitor opts.

== {The ice-cold corpses of a love-embedded young partners locked in warm embrace— who were the last boarders of this room a few months ago—still haunting the maître d’ hotel Luna Paul in the reception}. After a suicide in the room, there’s that fuss of ghost. some boarders think any sound from the room is in fact the sound of loitering of the exasperated thirsty spirits. So boarders avoid this room. Another thing, be ware of pranking monkeys prowling. may enter the room.. So u may choose another room now. Yet, if you so choose, do stay so long you want to stay in this room. But don’t blame us for this room later. Okay? This room is the cheapest of the lot. Still Biswapur is an obscure place. few tourists come. it’s new inn. opened some months back. still underprepared. renovation not yet complete. Luna says, gladly welcoming the visitor with a bit of surprise for the visitant’s choice of the room.

== Don’t worry. am takin’ this garret deliberately. monkeys won’t harm me. rather some people are more monkish than these distant relatives of them. then tho i ain’t eager to meet ghosts, atmas or spirit tirits, but if it so happens — no harm. it’ll be an experience! i like this garret not only becuz it’s rent is lesser, but also for apart from the adjacent roof & balcony, from this room even lying you see the free sea — which can’t be seen from the other rooms. the roof houses no other room / to presume / none lives in the solitude, i need now.

Answers the someone erratic writer opting this room, after stepping in this inn for resting some days, to plan a piece of writing. As he cerebrates:

If we fail to plan aptly

the plan will fail us inaptly

Insite

.... The garret. background twilight. a few days later. on the drab wall a pink glow of day end. a circular perpetual calendar hung on wall by the writer. In the room 1 lies/ opens eyes / & the ocean on 3 sides. Aside the bedstead magenta colored fauteuil, telephone, books and papers dumped on the table. The ocean from the table again. all pervasive. vast. profound.

At a corner of room:

.... An earthen pitcher. a glass covering its neck. a kingsize cosychair. a table.

On the wall above: 2 olden life sized portraits in oil like the typical pictures of king Harishchandra & queen Shaibya one findeth in the Ramayan and Mahavarat. At the bottom of the pictures, the names inscribed in the delicately crafted frames: Maharaja Durjoy Singh Deb Bahadur & Maharani Ratnaprova Debi. They might be the erstwhile zeminder owner of this house and his lady. His Highness weareth: jeweled turban, crimson royal robes with sword &c &c &c. Her Highness weareth: crown, tikli on the forehead, once-glittering golden embroidered dotty sari blouse, few rounds of precious necklace + thick waistlace highlighting the waistland —an inviting central province of her body which probably harbored frequent sexuberant strains with bon heur ……. nope, it is implausible for the garreteer to depicture her. Better our readers make her up as they like. The 2 paintings are damaged in places by attack of fungus. Only their smile shineth — of narcissism. Now spiders play trapeze on the pics. On 1 side see thru windows [][] arbor. cars in portico. street. reception. lawn. flowers. gate. lampposts. hotels & restaurants visible.

.... 2 other sides after window show far s-p-r-e-a-d shadow of soil conserving casuarinas & Akashmoni forest. a debarrened dune ahead. then the beach. some boats and nets squatting. millions of red crab on beach. endangered. cautious. sound of foot prompts them to home into their holes. again come back. the beach bows the sea. the expanse of waterforces. In the sea drift boats & trawlers of fishermen / Somewhen waves toy with ships and fade out in the distant horizon / and it is only wind blowing wind somethen / when change the color and roar of unruly ocean’s pleasure & pain.

.... At the entrance of the garret (to be described hereinafter as room # 15). Lies shrunk on the doormat / the darn cat. / Disgust in her cattitude / to a comer if she is to give way / pausing her beatitude.

.... Enter room # 15. A pair of hobo shoes garaged beside the door. How far can one go in these shoes in the untrotten ways into posterity? In this twilight what are the other things in the room, cannot be primagined from distance.

-close up-

.... The writer lying abed. open sheet of blank paper. white pages. white shadow. ongoing a bad patch. Writing few lines then tearing into pieces — yielding no fruitful utility so to say no fruitility. Overflourishing the trash basket twisted torn pieces of papers scattered allover the floor. He cogitates i’m tearing everything into pieces in a mess! looks cruise. a cobweb is swinging in the wind down the ceiling.

The spider’s net is its nest

with a package

of food + bed rest

As a ringmaster cater tricks on net to network, is a big expert artisan spider who seems to be a tiny octopus. If little octopuses can be brought up in cistern & set upon the suckers if needed?

Tame Octopus in Cistern

i’m tearing time into pieces flowers into pieces

i'm tearing love into pieces myself into pieces

i'm tearing into pieces all into × pieces

i’m bit as I want to be a mongoose at a snake

i miss fortune as I want to be a minstrel after tune

i’m finished as I want to punish imposters

i forget this is a mask age as I want to unmask

i’m tearing time into pieces flowers into pieces

i'm tearing love into pieces myself into pieces

i'm tearing into pieces all into × pieces

i aim to tame octopus in cistern & set upon suckers

But oh, rather I’m husked being sucked out!

i’m tearing time into pieces flowers into pieces

i'm tearing love into pieces myself into pieces

i'm tearing into pieces all into × pieces

i smell someone signals me from far galaxy.

At a bent of another milky way

my Hiya awaits me torridly

Again from different universe

she frolics skylarks hide & seek

sends hifrequency kisses

showers parijat flowers galore & calls:

I evol u Nadnahc(.) Emoc prahs ot em(.)

But i’m dazed can’t decode the message

In limbo i’m tearing flowers into pieces

love into pieces

my worlden and farworlden times into pieces.

Still i wait as: if terraductil calls in dream

& i reget the heydays when i freeply

eat in temple lie in mosque

Now lifelorn desert raided by hardcore blizzards

Life’s furnace is ablaze amidst random rains

What do i do, am i my harmer?

Unable to save anything

i’m burning althing & crawling toward the end

i'm tearing solid sleep & blissful peace into pieces

tearing my chance into pieces my future into pieces

i'm tearing into pieces my extravacant life

tearing into pieces my uncared for manuscripts

,, into pieces my nonconvertible dreamage

i'm tearing × pieces myself × pieces all × × pieces

.... Yesternight windows of his room were open. Moon looking after him thru the night. Thenafter he was not aware when clouds reinforced by rain seized the sky driving out the moon and the constellation. Rains dampened the edge of his bed as well as his papers. The infiltrator winds inflicted him cold. throat-tickling. headache. fever. Trifling that, today also he has wandered over this terra incognita semitown Biswapur through and through. Occluded bazaar, warehouse, shops, fishermen’s wharfs, offices, school, college, playfield… even called by the local youth Romnis Pundit, whom he has met several times here at the Sweetheart Café, and visited his theque @ the Tea Circle…… alwhere. then seabath. lunch in cheap price hotel. and watching sportsfest in Biswapur stadium. sitting in the spectator’s gallery. his watching of various competitive events >>> discus throwing, high & long jump, races, hurdles, relay, wrestling, boxing, kabadi, musical chair, go as you like &c…. Whole day in the rude & crude sun. The aftereffect is that he has to surrender his nearly out of order walkster body to the bed returning to the inn somehow in a rickshaw. temperature of his body upped. bepained in the chest. in the whole body. he feels sleepy but cannot sleep in numbness. On the screen of mind roving scenes of different thoughts and dreamages reel one after another tout ensemble and fade out…. Well, in this room #15, he has not yet encountered with disgruntled spirits. Of course he has heard thudding sounds at night.

.... A...few...pair...of...glowing...eyes...in...the..stark..dark

(o\/o) (^)(^) <>/\<> (oLo)

.... But in flashlight it has been found that something like civets fleeing……

Suddenly he feels something lightly lands on his forehead. He rubs his temple and grabs an insect. To observe the insect he opens his eyes. sees swarm of purple black brown green insects on the green jungle-print bedsheet covering his body for his chillfeeling and quivering. Not only in bed big and small peculiar numerous insects on the table, but also on wall. Shelf. almira. chair. allwhere in the room. They have sneaked into his room sometime utilizing the propertunity of ajar doors and windows. Only insect insect insect insect tcesni tcesni tcesni tcesni. i n s e c t.

.... Big small tall wonderful dreadly ugly picturesque countless insects. He finds a big insect slowly approaching him ….. He takes his magnifying glass Q used for reading smaller alphabets fro the table and observes the enlarged version of the worm through it …. It seems a tiny edition of a ferocious tyrannosaurus rex coming to grasp him. The other insects are as if living micro replicas of ankylosaur, tiger, lion, hippo, dodo ….. and other survivor & extinct species from primeval animals world till today. On the wall a potbellied corpulent lizard, silently crawling and then suddenly speeding to grab the prey like a little reptile, is superfeasting gladly catching many worms. A line of cooperative well disciplined marching ants

o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

.... marching whereto who knows like a black crack in the wall. 2 bees or may be wasps rushing out through the window, whereto who knows? Tracking their source to the outmosphere his eyes turn toward the sea. In the sea drift boats and trawlers of fishermen / Somewhen waves toy with ships and fade out in the distant horizon / And it is only wind only blowing wind somethen / when change the color & roar of unruly ocean’s pleasure and pain.

.... Due to the strain of quizzing at the insects through the magni glass for sometime water drips down his eyes. His head spins. In this condition he thinks of writing and writes a few lines. He shakes the bedspread full of insects outside the balcony and after bedjustment lies down wrapping himself again with the bedspread.

.... The bedder’s eyes roll over the walls. olden walls. eroded and corroded at places. On 1 wall hangs his circular perpetual calendar — one can spot out any particular day, date & year of several centuries ahead or reverse rotating and calculating out of it. He attempts but cannot fix his eyes on the calendar. In the reckless wind indulged through the doors and windows, the calendar swings like a pendulum of endless times swimming across the centuries and millennia. The speeding eternal time swings. The cosmosphere swings hangs reels rolls. He rediverts his vision overlooking the ocean. He can now comprehend why the original owner/s had built this villa ship-shaped. He salutes the portraits of His & Her Highness now raising his hand touching his forehead. Bemusing the rebel waves chasing him. having the feel that surrounded by the expanse of water. living in a frivolous wavering ship tottering vigorously—which may sink into fathomless netherworld in any moment.

i was just a trivial traveler on time ocean

enshored to be tested by time for a while

ensured to be withdrawn by next waversion

.... Has just shut his eyes, a thumping sound, open eyes. a ghost? naw. not a ghost. not even a civet. The writer eyes a few branches and twigs of trees of the arbor descend over the windows of the attic. In the branches camp acrobatic monkeys. Their operation/ is to jump from branch to branch of trees / on the roof veranda tin roof of the attic / to grab any food if they get any door or window ajar / and run in fun. a pair of monkeys with their burnt-black faces entering in his room. Then smartly escaping lifting up his packet of food. And sensing that the pigeons nesting on the wooden structure beneath the red tin roof are fluttering cooing tottering stirring. He inquires if these monkeys are the distant sequels to the Indicus species of the Dryopithecus apes of the Miocene epoch? ….. Pendulum of the endless time swings / The speeding eternal time swings / The cosmosphere hangs reels rolls swings / He reinvents the rhythm of the ocean.

The natural even & uneven fusion

harmonizing in rhyme & unrhyme

as the rhythmic blowing flow verse

is the verse of the universe

Preflexion

.... The sun has just immersed. Still in the influence of sun the cloudscape painted all over the sky and the horizon colored with dreamatic spectrum ….. Had the Talgai cranium man seen exactly this colored sky from the Darling Downs of Queens Land 12000 years BC? Will there be anything called (wo)man after say 537 or 17349 or 600000 years?

The future of the world's survival

will largely depend on co existence

and divergence of eco existence

.... By that time this dear earth and wo/man might be decreated due to sunrage. awful explosion of population. stuffocating pollution. global warming or cooling. extraterrestrial war. madmaniac powerplay. human greed & mistance. terroric destructure. attack by aliens germs & survirus. swarm of locusts. or due to known / unknown diseases. hunger & thirst. scientific madventure./ wo/man made intelligent objects outsmarting people / or encounter with comets / planets star asteroids. or due to heat / cold wave. Storm. Deluge. Conflagration. volcanic eruption. Earthquake. Tsunami. or due to some other unforeseen causes ….. Or as a pis aller, wo/man may drive this earth or leave this earth to settle in other celestial place in the space before the doomsday. And whence if wo/man changed to the root, still remains, thence his piece of writing won’t be thither. Or if some part of his writing is excavated or rediscovered in the virtual or spacific another world — someven by mistake, thence also it would be like a primal language to them— which oho, whence nobody shall understandeth!

.... Oho, that day none shall know that a Homo sapiens man circa at the fringe of 2nd & 3rd millennium AD, too had something to say. something to do. He too one day walked in dust. roamed in sun. drenched in rain. smiled in euphoria. wept in dysphoria. he called. woke. worked. mused. sang. raged. believed. smeared in pollen dust. loved. And even if they understandeth, this account of the current earthen sphere will likely to appear to them then as so queer, incredible and implausible. Though —

The story of its blossoming in niceties

knows only the plant

what others know of it?

.... So he wishes to leave little trails for the posterity to dig out as to how wast the proversion of his experienced, experimented and introspected world and how floated his

e a r t h m o s p h e r e

Born in spring i have gotten only venom

i seek flower > I do not pluck

i do blunder < that I remember

This body ravaged by acute diseases

cannot be cured in thousand lives

This mind imbued in intimate hues

cannot be defaced in thousand lives

This life rocked by countless faux pas

cannot be whitewashed in thousand lives

i’m walled by futile insomniac sursphere

cannot be dwindled in thousand lives

i do blunder > I do not blame

i’m pierced < have not reversed

It occurs what to occur it loses what to lose

It flows what to flow it bears what to bear

One errs time recedes

body erodes apathy endured

i refeel in this life for me it will not hap:

Swimming in T~i~t~i~k~a~k~a

crossing Sahara on camel

It will not hap to climb atop the Everest ^^

to be a matador + to canvas for award

jockeying for lottery, to be conqueror

hunter wrestler millionaire

minister leader scientist star king emir it won’t be

this life cannot be chained not not be retained

i am bit i am hit > i do not tit for that tat

i want con amore < have got never

So it is overt > in this life i couldn’t talk to

Tutankhamun Confucius Cleopatra Jean De Arc

Kalidas Shakespeare Marx Madam Curie

Dostoevsky Einstein Netaji

not trotted Burkina Faso Neptune planet

i couldn’t sing humdrum songs in chorus

i couldn’t keep pace to face with all

i couldn’t avow all rules and prohibitions

i couldn’t change the side with the wind

This life could not be caged anywhere

i couldn’t coax to be a hearticipant

i couldn’t retreat from where I’m heading to

i couldn’t dash to the Andromeda galaxy

i couldn’t know how to knit how to net

how to reap how to bait

how to husk how to make jewelry cut

how to how to attract

how to how to bite by springing hood

S

how to how…

not known not worked not heard not done

not seen not been any manythings over there

Life ensnared drove rolled cooled burnt me

for nothing for nothing nothing for nothing

Born in spring i have gotten only venom

i seek flower > i do not pluck

i do blunder < that i remember

(((((((((()))))))))

C o s m o s p h e r E 1 D e a r s p h e r E

1.2

Chapter 2: Solitary Outcry

Onsite

== Switch on the light. (In sotto voce)

== Alive or gone?

== If anybody dies again nobody'll dare stay in this room.

== Inhaling. (Cosmetic smell of the hand stretched out to check his breathing before his nose).

== Got temperature? (Touch of a soft hand feeling his pulse. Bangles faint rhyming chiming rinijhini).

== Doc-hospital-ambulance should we call?

== Nope, see here’s a medkit.

== Taken the right med (seeing the phial).

== I had cautioned him of ghosts—he who stays in this room / faces the doom. But he didn’t care—poets have got nuts in brain.

== Poet? name?

== Who knows? New. never heard him.

== See. What he has written! Poem? (Tries to read. Cannot follow).

== What trash they write—m - o- d- e- r- r- r- n poetry. Who reads and who understands nobody knows. I don’t read poem toem. They’re futile brains — have neither head nor tail — simply meantellectual nonsense—.

== Quite right. If you talk of poetry, that must be Tagore’s. long ago I had read that in school, still I can recite fluently from memory — oh, what’s that piece — ah ha tell me — My — yeah what’s that tell me — .

The staffs of the inn surround the bed of the ailing writer were talking in a low voice among them — when suddenly the proprietress of the inn is seen in the scene appearing in the balcony. Everybody alert in a moment: Hush-shshsh Hiyadi is coming.

.... Entering the room and coup de’oeil at the ailing boarder Hiya gets a jerk menternally — Hoa who’s he! But outwardly she demands: Show me what’s written (her doubtlook), let me see. Is it a suicide note? She grabs the piece of paper and reads at a breath in quick time. Her heart beats faster — she becomes sure, not a suicide note, may be a self depicture or epitaph or — ? She scans the poem now:

Epitaph

Hush!

This latent prayer is appealed to all

Please

do not forget this baseman

Absorbed & instilled

in this cosmosphere

is unexplored chandan

originated in epoch Holocene

on 1d to end 3m of 56y before millennium III began

being the 4th weekday in ex-Tamralipta

the grandson of Pramatho + Baroda

son of Sitalakshmi of Vattacharja clan

That blood streamed whose body

oozed all vein & by vein

about 61320 million miles per year

Lab of nigh 250 kin of bacteria

grained in the skin

Here is zeroed

that homo sapiens brain

charged in 88°30'E longitude & 22°34'N latitude

& 2.5 million times throbbing heartborn prakalpana

Please

do not forget this baseman

Hushhhh!

.... Reading the poem again Hiya’s worry eases. But next moment renoticing the name of the writer she is selectrified — she has read this poet a few times in periodicals before. While screening the dismal health & visage of the writer, on reverse lookup the shadow of the same-named boy recasts after a tall interval again in part by part in the scenario, like the stretches of shoal risen up on the breast of river! Moving visions of the pastrack. A candle of the pet night days & times has been softly burning and melting in aplomb within Hiya silently …

Movision 1

…. She in her early teens. Perched rice Muri in the hollow of the folded ends of her wear black striped sari. Holding his one hand she is dragging her companion— walking barefooted in the dew of winter dawn on the narrow divider pathway of in the field of khesari pea cultivation — plucking up the peas — then sitting on the embankment of canal together with her playmate gulping muri with peeled dewy green khesari peas….

Cut to

Movision 2

.... Babul tree in the risen shoal of river. Thread of kite fastened to one tree and spread to another distanced tree horizontally. Her playmate’s polishing the thread with the paste of powered glass mixed with the gum of broken green wood apple. Her sitting in the meadow, making a tailed kite with newspaper cuts pasting in that broken wood apple’s gum having raw green smell. Afar mother calling her aloud: H-i-y-a. come home with him. your tutor has come. to teach youuuuuuuuuuuuu.

Cut to

.... That time left far. Yet she can even now feel the smell of that broken green wood apple, sensing the shadow of her missed companion in this ailing poet ….. There may be something like rebirth or may not be, but they shall meet again — she will definitely get back her missing heartmate one day or another — she has had and shall have this firm conviction that will last for ever — but costing such a wide stopgap of years — in this ailing condition — in her own holiday inn she would reget him like a coup de theatre — this she could not even daydream! Still she is unable to assimilate this incredible factasy! But at the same time how can she disbelief? From this poem his identity tallies in toto! So this guy-is-her-long-misappeared-heartmate-since-puerility!? Yes, the same looks. But now wan! …

.... Suddenly she becomes conscious that the staff of her hotel watching her in amazement. Their appearance hints >> their proprietress is wasting so much time for an unknown unrevealed tramp property << what’s the matter? Sniffing this + to get the warm touch of his body once again + to be confirmed in this propertunity by examining his palm at a glimpse, she smartly raises the right wrist of the close-eyed patient in the pretext of checking his pulse — but the touch of his hand stops her heartbeat for the moment as in those days — yet suppressing her menternality she glances at his palm — yes in the second part of his 2nd finger that mole still remains — noticing which her astrologer father had said: look Hiya, the mount of Saturn in his hand …and the Solomon Ring…. Yes, like that day today also Hiya reads the Solomon Ring quickly — while feeling the heat & pulse beat in

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