HUSBAND SWAP The Love Experiment

THE LOVE EXPERIMENT

Psychocybernetics

Science Fiction  -  a Short Story  -  a Romance

By

VIKRAM KARVE

From my archives: Sci Fi -  an experimental fiction story - for a change...

Failures avoid school reunions. It is painful, and shameful, for a loser to be in midst of winners.  

  

But this time I decided to go.  Sucheta would be there. She had rung up from New York.  And of course her husband Anand was also coming with her. Maybe that’s the real reason I wanted to go.  

It was fifteen years since we passed out from school and the reunion was a grand affair in the best hotel at this picturesque ‘queen’ of hill stations on the slopes of the awesome mighty Himalayas where our school was located. 

As I said the reunion was followed a lavish dinner and dance party for ours was an elite and famous boarding school, valued more for its snob appeal rather than for its academic excellence. 

‘Bookworm’ was an exception.  He had topped the board exams and had become a distinguished scientist, always inventing something mysterious and experimenting something esoteric.  

“Hi, Bookworm…!” I said, genuinely happy to see him.  

“Moushumi, my name is Doctor Kedarnath Joshi.  Not Bookworm”, he said angrily, “I am a Professor.”  

“Professor Bookworm..,!” I teased him. 

“That’s better,” he said, with smug look on his face.  

“So, Professor, what are you inventing nowadays?” I asked. 

“I’m researching in the frontiers of Psycho-cybernetics.” 

“Pyscho-what…? Stop the mumbo jumbo, Bookworm. Tell me in simple language. Who are you and what do you do?” 

“Okay. I am a neurologist. A psychiatrist.  A psychologist. And I also hold a doctorate in Electrical Engineering. Currently I am researching in mind-transference,” Bookworm said proudly. 

“Mind-transference…?” I asked confused.  

“You have seen star-trek haven’t you?”

“Yes.”  

“There they transfer persons in space. H G Wells’ time machine transferred entire persons in time,” he said.  

“Time Machine…you’re making a time machine…?” I asked incredulously. 

“No..No… I am working on something more complicated…Brain Transfer…I can put your mind into someone else’s body and vice-versa – that is, someone else’s brain into your body!” 

“It sounds very spooky to me.  Is it ESP…?  Or some kind of occult stuff…?”  

“Not at all,” Bookworm said, “Nothing supernatural, esoteric or mystical.  It’s a purely scientific technique.  I’ve developed a pilot system for trials. The machine is upstairs in my hotel room.  Why don’t you give it a try?”    

A strange curious wicked thought crossed my mind. I surveyed the expanse of the majestic ballroom with my eyes and soon my eyes found Anand.  His dashing physique and his magnificent beard made him look prominent in the crowd.  He looked a decisive, hot-blooded and dangerous man, but he also looked vulnerable. 

He wore a lonely and rather perplexed expression, as though he were at the party but not enjoying it.  And beside him stood his wife Sucheta radiating the natural pride of possession that any woman feels when she has the ownership and company of a man that other women desire.  

I reminisced. There were four of us who grew up together. The same group of classmates and friends - in school and in college - Anand, Mohan, Sucheta and Moushumi (that’s me) – the famous four – inseparable friends. All of us loved each other.  

I had the first choice since both Anand and Mohan were desperately in love with me and both had proposed to me. 

I chose Mohan, leaving Anand for Sucheta.  

And since that moment I kept tormenting myself wondering if I had made the wrong choice.

Physically I lived with Mohan but longed for Anand, repenting, and trying to imagine what my life would have been like if I had married Anand instead of Mohan.  

I looked at Anand, and then at Bookworm.  

Serendipity...! Yes. It was indeed Serendipity... pure luck... 

I felt the adrenalin rush. 

This was my golden chance to find out what life would have been like if I had married Anand... and I was going to seize the opportunity.  

I waved out to Sucheta and five minutes later both of us were lying side by side on the double-bed in Bookworm’s hotel room.  

There was a mesh of wires with electrode-transducers connected to our heads (like an EEG), a laptop-like special computer and a briefcase-size electronic device which Bookworm described as the ‘Electrophoresis Signal Processor’.  

“Good,” Bookworm said, “both your brainwave frequencies are in ‘beta’ state around 15 hertz.  I’ll give you both a high frequency burst to momentarily raise your brain-states to ‘K-Complex’ and instantaneously commence the electrophoresis.”  

Looking at me, he said, “Moushumi, you will be Sucheta as far as the outside world is concerned. So when you wake up, go straight to Anand.  Let’s see if he suspects.” And then to Sucheta he said, “Sucheta, you go straight to Mohan. He will think you are Moushumi.”  

“It’s dangerous. I’m scared,” Sucheta said.  

“Come on, Sucheta. Be a sport. It’s just for fun,” I said.  

“It’s not fun. We’re doing this experiment to validate my research – in vivo – to see if the concept of mind-transference it works. Just for half-an-hour,” Bookworm said, “then both of you come back and I’ll reverse the process, everything will be the same as before, and you can leave as your own total selves – your same mind in your own same body.”  

I closed my eyes in trepidation wondering whether I was doing the right thing. Suddenly I felt my brain go blank and then there were vivid flashes in a void.  

Half an hour later, when I was in a state of ecstasy, in seventh heaven, gliding in Anand’s strong arms, enjoying the dance, in blissful trance.  

Bookworm suddenly appeared by my side, started tugging my arm and telling me with urgency in his voice, “It’s time. Let’s go, Moushumi.”   

“Moushumi…? Why are you calling her Moushumi…?” an incredulous Anand asked Bookworm.  

“She is Moushumi,” Bookworm said pointing at me.   

“Are you drunk or stoned or something…?” Anand snapped angrily. “Can’t you see she’s Sucheta, my wife...? Moushumi must be with her husband Mohan.  I last saw them having a drink near the bar.”   

Instinctively I turned and looked towards the bar. I could not spot Sucheta. Nor was Mohan there. I hurriedly scanned the room. There was no sign of them. They had disappeared.  

Bookworm was in a state of panic and shouted incoherently: “Anand...Anand...Try to understand...Your wife Sucheta has gone away with Mohan.  And this lady here in front of you is Moushumi – Mohan’s wife. This is only Sucheta’s body. Inside her is Moushumi’s brain. Moushumi’s mind is in Sucheta’s body. My in vivo experiment was successful – my psycho-cybernetics discovery is validated – the mind-transference has been achieved...!”  

“Psychocybernetics…? Mind-transference…? Stop talking nonsense…!” Anand shouted angrily at Bookworm and taking my arm he said to me, “Come on Sucheta. Let’s go. Bookworm has gone crazy. And it’s getting late. We’ll drive straight down to Delhi. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow before we catch our flight back home to New York.”  

As we walked through the parking lot towards the luxury limousine Anand had hired for his visit I noticed that ‘our’ car was missing.  It was cold and I glanced at ‘our’ small cottage on the hill slope for the last time. ‘They’ were probably cuddling up in ‘our’ bedroom by now.   

I thought I was smart, but it was Sucheta who played the double game.   

For me it was only a half-hour experiment, but Sucheta had upped the ante and turned the tables on me.  

Will Mohan ever find out…? And Anand…will he still think I am his wife Sucheta…? Will this psychocybernetic mind-transference last forever…? Am I beyond the point of no return…? 

I shiver with tremors of trepidation as I think of my future. From now on it’s going to be a tightrope walk.  Every moment I’ll have to be on my toes.

I’m excited…very excited…and a bit terrified and scared too. It’s going to be dangerous fun.  

Yes, this crazy psycho-cybernetics love experiment is going to be dangerous fun.  

But one thing is sure.  

Now I will really know what life would have been like if had I married Anand instead of Mohan. 

VIKRAM KARVE  

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2010

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm

vikramkarve@sify.com

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com


 

Horror Story - This is no Joke

THIS IS NO JOKE - Sheer Horror

Short Fiction

by

VIKRAM KARVE




Read this slowly and carefully.

Take your time.

Savour every word.

Try to enjoy it.

For it is going to be the last thing you ever read, because you’re not going to read much after this.

That’s because by the time you finish reading this, I am going to finish you off.

Yes. You read right.

I am going to finish you off once and for all.

Murder you in cold blood.

Till you are dead.

RIP.

Requiescat in pace.

Or is it requiescant in pace?

It just doesn’t matter.

But you for sure are going to rest in peace.

That’s right. Rest in Peace.

Rest in Peace!

RIP.

Forever.

You think this is a big joke?

It is not a joke. Yes, my friend, this is no joke.

I’m going to terminate you.

I’ve been watching you for days. You’re so nice and healthy. That is why I have no compunctions, as I firmly believe that my victim ought to be in good health, since it is barbarous to kill anybody who is weak or of a sickly disposition.

After you finish reading this, just sit back and relax.

But don't turn around and look behind you.

That's right - DO NOT LOOK BEHIND YOU.

I know you can find excuses to hang around your house, or your office, or wherever you are reading this; but sooner or later you’re going to have to get up and go out.

That’s where I’ll be waiting for you.

Or maybe I am closer to you than that.

Maybe I am in this very room where you are sitting.

You think of death as something far distant, don’t you?

It is not! Death is very near, very close to you. Maybe just behind you.

Believe me. I’m dead serious. Your death is just lurking behind your back.

Do not look behind you.

Come on, dear Reader. Tell me. Where are you reading this?

In your room late at night on your PC, or in your office, or on your laptop, in bed, or outdoors, or while traveling, or on a lazy Sunday afternoon?

Or have you taken a printout and are reading this propped up on your pillow in bed late at night?

It doesn't matter. It just doesn’t matter.

Because I’m going to come and get you the moment you finish reading this.

You can take my word for it.

If you are home while reading this, maybe I’m in your house with you right now, maybe in this very room, stealthily creeping right behind you, waiting for you to finish the story.

Do not look behind you.

Maybe I’m watching surreptitiously though your office window, or maybe I am standing menacingly right behind you as you sit at your work desk staring at the monitor, waiting to pierce you with the deadly needle of the venom filled hypodermic syringe the moment you finish reading this.

Just sit still and keep reading.

Do not look behind you.

Or maybe I’m sitting covertly right next to you in the Internet café where you are reading this.

Don’t look! Please do not turn around and look.

Just keep reading.

Maybe I’m waiting outside for you.

But don’t look around.

You’ll be happier if you don’t know – if you don’t see the needle coming.

So please do not look behind you.

But wherever you are reading this, I’m near you, watching and waiting for you to finish.

And then I’ll silently slither right behind you.

And from the right pocket of my trousers I’ll carefully take out the lethal syringe.


Don’t be scared.

You won’t feel a thing.

Maybe just a wee little scratch, a teeny weeny prick of a tiny microscopic needle.

And you will die instantly.

It’s much better killing this way – instantaneous, effortless, clean, clinical. I like it this way.

When I kill people this way they don’t even come to know.

Unless they turn around and look.

So don’t look behind you!

I am warning you, just don't turn around and look behind you.

You don’t believe in the macabre, do you?

You think my imagination is running wild and this is just my amateurish attempt at writing a short story, don’t you?

Go on; smile to yourself, thinking this is just a joke, a fib, a yarn.

This is no joke.

Don’t look behind you. Please do not look behind you.

You don't believe me?

Okay, don’t believe me – until you feel the gentle prick of the hypodermic needle penetrating deep into your spine.


VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

Kaleidoscope

KALEIDOSCOPE
(a fiction short story)
by
VIKRAM KARVE


It’s a lazy Sunday morning and I sit languidly in my balcony reminiscing the good old days of my wonderful past, melancholically mourning the gloomy and depressing present, and speculating with foreboding about what the ominous future may hold in store for me.

The doorbell rings. Cursing at being disturbed from my reverie, and wondering who it is on a Sunday morning, I open the door. It’s Monica, my wife Anjali’s friend and colleague, who lives across the street.

“Anjali is not at home,” I say.

“I know,” she says, “I’ve come to see you.”

“Me?” I stare at her baffled.

“Yes. You. I’ve come to see you. I want to talk to you alone.”

“Alone?” I am curious. We’ve never been alone before.

“Yes. Alone. Won’t you ask me to come in?”

“Of course. Please come in. Shall we sit in the balcony?”

“No. We’ll sit here, so no one will see us and we can talk in private.”

Monica looks chic and ravishing, in tight jeans and a close fitting pink T-shirt. I try not to stare at her.

The moment we sit down on the living room sofa, she says, “Suppose you found out that your wife was being unfaithful. Tell me, Ajay, what would you do?”

Taken aback, I say, “What?”

“Suppose you caught her having an affair.”

“What nonsense!” I say angrily, but inside me there germinates a small seed of doubt. Does Monica know something? Why is she saying all this? Trying to hide my fears, I put up a solid face and say, “Come on Mrs. Kumar. You know Anjali. How much she loves me.”

“Hey, stop calling me Mrs. Kumar. I’ve told you before, haven’t I?” Monica says, looks provocatively into my eyes, and asks, “Suppose, just suppose, you caught your wife having an affair, cheating on you, betraying your trust with infidelity…”

“I’ll kill her,” I say instinctively.

“How?”

“How? What do you mean ‘How’?”

“I mean ‘How’. How will you kill your wife?”

“Well, I don’t know,” I say getting up from the sofa, not wanting to continue this conversation.

“Let’s hypothesize. Would you shoot her? Strangle her? Stab her to death? Suffocate her with a pillow? Push her over the balcony or shove her off a cliff? Electrocute her? Drown her? Douse her with kerosene and set her on fire? An ‘accidental’ gas cylinder explosion?”

“What do you want from me? Why are you harassing me? Please go. Anjali will be here any moment,” I beseech her.

“No, she won’t. I know she’s gone to the health club and parlour. She’ll be back after twelve. We have enough time together, haven’t we?” Monica says mischievously and adds, “Okay, you tell me how you would kill you wife if you caught her having an affair and I’ll go away!”

“I’d probably use poison,” I say and start walking towards the entrance door.

Monica remains seated in silence for some time, and then she looks at me intently and says, her words clear and deliberate, “Poison! The way you finished Nisha, your first wife?”

I stop dead in my tracks. Pole-axed, I can sense a sharp, cold fear drilling into my vitals. I look at Monica, into her shining eyes. She knows! And she wants me to know, that she knows! And now I know that I have no choice. I walk back to my sofa, sit down and say to her, “So you want to kill your husband. Just because you think he is having an affair.”

“You killed Nisha, didn’t you?” she asks, looking directly into my eyes.

I feel very frightened, scared. How much does Monica know? Or is she just speculating, guessing? A shot in the dark. But seeing the venom in her eyes, I realize that I dare not take any chances, so I smile and say, “Well, Monica, you have got your manacles on me, haven’t you?”

“Listen, Ajay,” Monica says, her voice soft, as she speaks in measured tones, “I don’t want a scandal, that’s why I haven’t given him even the slightest hint that I suspect. But I can’t live a lie any longer pretending I am happy. The flimsy façade of our successful marriage, the veneer of pretence – it’s all going to blow-up sooner or later as he is becoming more and more indiscreet and careless.” She pauses for a moment and says, “He’s got to go. Quickly. Quietly. As ‘normal’ a death as you can arrange.”


“Why don’t you leave him? Ask him for a divorce.”

“It’s much better to be a widow than a divorcee, isn’t it?”

I think about what she says. She’s right. It is much better to have all the sympathy of a widow than the stigma of being a divorcee; inherit all her husband’s riches, money, property rather than the paltry alimony. Her husband is rich and successful, and her marriage a social triumph.


“Tell me, who is he having an affair with?” I ask out of sheer curiosity.

“It’s none of your business,” she says angrily. “Just do what I tell you and don’t delve too deeply.”

“I thought maybe…”

“What’s the use? He’ll get another one – bloody philanderer,” Monica says with contempt. “It’s he who has betrayed me and I want to get rid of him fast. You do this for me, Ajay, and my lips remain sealed about Nisha forever. I promise!”

“That’s all?”

“I’ll clear all your gambling debts, your loans, the mortgages – with the bookies, financers…”

Inside I tremble with indescribable terror; outside I try to be calm and say, “You know all about me, don’t you?”

“I’ve done my homework. Now you execute a foolproof plan. And after it’s all over there’ll be plenty more to come for you. So much money, you can’t even imagine!”

“Okay, let’s brainstorm. You tell me everything about your husband. All details. His food habits. His routine. His programme for the next few days. About both of you. Absolutely everything.”

“I’m thirsty,” Monica announces.

“Fresh Lime?”

“How about a beer?”

I get two cans of chilled beer from the fridge.

“Hey,” Monica exclaims holding up a beer can, “you know what? Kumar drinks the same brand of beer as you do! It’s his favorite beer.”

“That’s a good start,” I say and clink my beer can with hers, “Cheers! To our success! Now tell me everything.”

She tells me everything. I listen carefully and make notes. And by the time she finishes, in my mind’s eye I am already evaluating the pros and cons of various options how Kumar is going to die.

“How do you want him to die? Instantaneous, or prolonged illness?” I ask Monica.

“I want to finish it off as quickly as possible. Painless. Fast. When he is far away from here. Like maybe during his trekking trip to Mussoorie next week,” she pauses for a moment and says, “but make sure it’s a perfect foolproof job – not even an iota of doubt or needle of suspicion.”

My mind races, exploring and weighing all the options. An Exotoxin which leaves no trace, excretes itself from the organism within a few hours? I keep on thinking, my brain cells working at lightning speed, and all of a sudden I know what I’m going to do!

“We’ll give him something in his favorite beer,” I say.

“What? Tell me, please!” Monica says excitedly.

“Now you don’t delve too much!” I say haughtily. “Just do what I say. Lips sealed. No questions!”

“Okay.”

I look at the notes I had made when she was telling me about her husband and ask, “His weight is only 70?”

“That’s right. Seventy kilograms. Five feet ten. Thirty Eight years of age. Ideal, isn’t it? He’s a fitness freak.”

“And he leaves for Mussoorie on Thursday?”

“Yes. Early in the morning.”

“Okay,” I say, “I’ll have the beer can ready by Wednesday evening. Make sure you collect it by six before Anjali comes back from office and see that he drinks it…”

“No. No. You serve it to him. Let him have it here. In front of you. Right here.”

“He’s never come here to our place before!”

“He will. If you invite him.”

“Fine. I’ll tell Anjali to invite you all for dinner on Wednesday evening. She’s been wanting to call you over for a long time.”

“And?”

“I’ll make sure your Kumar drinks the special beer. He’ll be off to Mussoorie on Thursday, and you should have the ‘good news’ by Sunday morning.”

“He shouldn’t pop off here.”

“He won’t. I’ll calculate everything precisely – make sure there’s at least a 36 hour incubation and proliferation period.”

After Monica leaves, I realize three things. Firstly, murder is a rather lucrative business. Secondly, from an amateur, I am going to become a professional. And thirdly, infidelity is not only reason why Monica wants to get rid of her husband.

Everything works as per my plan. I meticulously keep the vacuum microencapsulated ‘special’ can of beer firmly in its designated place in the fridge on Wednesday morning the moment Anjali leaves for work and before I do.

When I open the fridge the moment I return from work on Wednesday evening I notice that the particular beer-can is missing. My heart skips a beat, I feel a tremor of trepidation and soon I’m in a state of total panic. After a frantic search I find the empty beer can in the kitchen dustbin.

I pick up the can and check. Oh yes, no doubt about it – it is the same beer-can; and it is empty! I try to think, steady my confused mind. Who can it be?

Everything becomes clear all of a sudden and I find myself shaking in sheer terror. I rush to the bedroom, run around the house like a crazy animal. Anjali is not at home. I dial her mobile. An excruciating wait. She answers.

“Anjali? Where are you?”

“In the mall. Picking up some stuff for the evening.”

“So early?”

“I took half a day off. Came home for lunch, got things tidied up and ready for the evening and am just getting a few things from the market. I’ll be back soon.”

“Anjali. The beer! The beer!” I stutter.

“You want me to get more beer? I thought we had enough.”

“No. No. There is a beer-can missing in the fridge. I found it in the dustbin.”

“Oh, that. I drank it in the afternoon,” Anjali says.

“What? You drank that beer?” I shout.

“Yes. I drank it. I came home in the afternoon. It was hot. I felt thirsty. So I opened the fridge, picked up a can of beer and I drank it. It’s that simple.”

“You stupid fool! Why did you drink that can?” I scream into the phone.

“Stupid fool? How dare you? Ajay, have you lost your mind? I just can’t understand your behavior now-a-days!” Anjali says and disconnects.

It was extraordinary, how my mind became clear all of a sudden. There was no known antidote to the stuff I had synthesized. Clinically, there was nothing I could do. Logically, there was no point in doing something stupid in desperation. It was a question of my own survival. Having sunk to the depths of depravity, all I could do was helplessly wait and watch Anjali die. She was less than sixty kilos, much lighter than Kumar. By Saturday evening it would all be over!

The evening passes in a haze. My heart sinks as I watch Kumar enjoy beer after beer, but what’s the use – that beer-can, the one I specially prepared for him, is lying empty in the dustbin. There is a gleam in Monica’s eye. What excuse am I going to give her? She does not know what’s happened and I shudder to think what she may do when she realizes. At best she may forget everything; but knowing her vindictive streak, anything is possible! Inside I tremble with fear in unimaginable agony; outside I try to present a happy and cheerful façade and make pretence of enjoying the dinner.

Time crawls. I feel wretched and suffer in painful silence the longest and most agonizing hours of my life. Thursday. Friday. Saturday. Nothing happens. Anjali seems normal, in fact, quite hale and hearty.

Sunday. Anjali is still going strong! She sits across the dining table devouring her favorite idli-chutney-sambar Sunday breakfast. Maybe her constitution, her liver, is super-strong; or maybe I’ve goofed up!

My cell-phone rings. It’s Monica. My heart skips a beat.

“Hello,” I say with trepidation.

“You’ve done it! Kumar is dead. I just got a call from Mussoorie,” Monica says excitedly.

“How?” I mumble perplexed in consternation.

“Exactly like you said. In the early hours of Sunday morning. He died in his sleep. They say maybe it was heart failure. Painless, instantaneous death.”

“I’ll come now?” I ask.

“No! No! Not now. We can’t take chances. I’m rushing to Mussoorie now. I’ll finish off everything; make sure the paperwork is done okay. And when I return, you can come and offer your condolences…” I hear Monica’s voice trail away.

I disconnect, put my mobile phone in my pocket, and look at Anjali.

“Who was it?” she asks.

“Someone from the office,” I lie.

“Anything important?”

“No. A man died. That’s all,” I say nonchalantly.

“A man died? That’s all?” Anjali looks at me in bemused bewilderment.

And as I focus my eyes on her, my mind races, twisting and turning like a kaleidoscope, my brain-cells work at lightning speed, and all of a sudden I know what I’m going to do!



VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 by Vikram Karve


vikramkarve@sify.com

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com