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Hey there, it's Wayfair here, where delivery and setup are as easy as a few taps on your phone. You're relaxing in an old hammock, scrolling Wayfair's app when you spot it. A brand new patio set. Next thing you know, Wayfair delivers it right to your patio and sets it up. Oh, you need a new grill too. All right, Wayfair's got you covered. With Wayfair's room of choice delivery and fast expert setup on qualifying orders, life gets a little easier. Visit Wayfair.com or the Wayfair app. Wayfair Every Style, Every home. Escape pod episode 1049Amrit by Kieran Kwasyni.
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Welcome to Escape Pod, the science fiction podcast. I'm Alastair, your host and this week's story comes to us from Kieran Corsini. Kieran is a Pushcart Prize nominated author with stories appearing in fnsf, Strange Horizons, Gulf Coast, Shenandoah, and other journals. Her work has been anthologised in Best Small Fictions, Lightning Strikes, an anthology of Flash Fiction by 50 Indian writers and elsewhere, and has been translated into Spanish and Portuguese. Your narrator for this week is Kaushik Narasimh. Kaushik is a management consultant by day, and Moonlights is a one man band with a variety of instruments, a vena and an electric guitar. He also enjoys writing, reading and listening to speculative fiction. On the weekends he pretends to be an ace pilot in a tiny Beechcraft Skipper he rents from the local flying club. Adam's working audio magic. I'm on the host spot and we are good to go. So let's meet Amrit because it's story time.
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Amrit Am Written by Kiran Kaur Saini Narrated by Kaushik Narasimhal the doorbell rang as Fox Singh lay staring into the plumbing under the kitchen sink. Go away. He wasn't expecting anybody, and if any of his neighbors ever rang it was only to complain about the volume of his television. The joints on the P trap looked like Fox's knees felt crusted over with white flake but somehow still leaking fluids all over the cabinet. Mr. Singh, a voice called, this is Amrit, your senior well being unit. What? This couldn't be. Did they honestly think he was that old and incapable? Fox hauled himself up and hobbled to the peephole. The unit wore a hot pink turban with leopard spots. Seriously. His beard was tucked tidily under his chin, though much neater than Fox's, and his glaring turban was also more streamlined, impressively crisp, each overlap at precisely the right position. In recent years, Fox had resigned himself to a delivery service, and though the scanner had read the shape and measurements of his head, the turbans never fit as they would if he tied them himself. The unit smiled and waved. He really did look almost human. Fox licked his fingers, twirled the ends of his moustache together, smoothed his beard, and opened the door. The unit wore a slim fitting Jodhpuri suit like he was on his way to a party. The hem of his purple satin jacket slashed diagonally across his hips. Mr. Singh. He extended his hand. Fawkes ignored it. I'm Amrit, your senior well being unit. You think I'm an ancient, decrepit man? Uh, no. Fox glared up and down the hall. Who called for you? Mrs. Greenwald. It's none of her business. Lord of busy bodies whose interest is strictly from behind closed doors. Who do they think is going to pay for this? It's entirely covered by your insurance and filial contribution. Fox froze. Filial contribution? I'll be damned. So his son had done something of his duty after all. After all those years of silence Raju had coughed up. Yes, it's mandatory that offspring provide a portion of I know what the laws are. I don't care. I don't want anyone in my house. Especially if Raju sent you. I like my independence. Go away, Mr. Singh. I'm already commissioned, financed, and dispatched. Perhaps I could come in for a short introductory discussion? Okay, sure. Fox stepped back, doorknob in hand. The unit took one step towards the threshold, and Fox slammed the door in his face. Just kidding. Get lost. That would serve his son right to spend all that money only to have it go to waste. Fox turned back to the kitchen, scowled at the cabinet, and shoved its door shut. He was all out of sorts now. Raju somehow knew just the things to annoy Fox, even from thousands of miles away. He went into the living room, settled onto the couch, and switched on the television. The spring that was always out of place poked at his scrotum. He reached under and prodded at it. Sometimes he could tuck it under the next spring, but tonight it remained stubbornly in position. So he moved to the end of the couch, where he was forced to sit in a trough worn in over the years. Fox awoke with a start in broad daylight. He'd fallen asleep on the couch again, despite having resolved not to. He lumbered to the kitchen and pulled open the freezer. There were no more microwavable breakfast sandwiches. He would have to go down to the bodega, grumbling. He ran his hands over his turban, checking for any poking out spots, and made to leave. When he opened the door, the unit was deep in conversation with Svensson from 3F. Vermiculite, you say? The unit said, nodding as if to express some deep interest in Svenssen's endless monologues on the proper conditioning of potting soil for balcony seed cultivation. Ah, Mr. Singh. He exclaimed when he saw Fawkes. Good morning. Good move this. Swenson jerked his thumb toward the unit. Fox coughed. It's nothing to do with me. Mr. Swenson has been telling me about your fall last year. I hope your wrist has healed well. What? That's none of your business. Fox glared at Svenson and Mrs. Greenwald mentioned the fire department came a few months ago when you lit a frying pan of bacon on fire. How many people have been through here? Fox asked. It's 10:30 in the morning, swenson said. Did you just get up? Now that the unit was facing Fox, Svensson reached up and ran his fingers over the unit's turbine. Hey. Fox reached over the unit's shoulder and swatted at Swenson's hand.
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Hands off.
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That's disrespectful. It's a robot, svensson said. It's not a real turban. Doesn't matter, fox said. Sorry, svensson said. You see what we have to put up with. Technically, Mr. Singh is correct, the unit said. Hair and turban are sacred. One wouldn't just reach out and handle such things unbidden, regardless of the wearer. Svenson gaped for a moment, as if unsure whether to be insulted or informed, and then harrumphed and shuffled off. Fox regarded the unit for a moment, but before he could think what to say, Ms. Bronwyn came out of the elevator with a bag of groceries. Oh, did you find the mangoes? The unit asked. Yes. Thank you so much for the recipe. I look forward to trying it out. She pulled one from the bag and held it toward the unit, who leaned in as if to sniff at it. I can't believe this, fox said. Do you really smell anything? I can sense the state of decomposition of most organic matter by detecting gaseous emissions, the unit said. You should take this guy's advice, Ms. Bronwyn said. He has some great ideas on kitchen management. You know, after your incident with the Yes, I know the frying pan, fox said. No, with the sack of potatoes. The unit spun his face towards her. With the sack of potatoes. What's that all about? Fox grabbed the unit's elbow. Get in here. He yanked the unit inside the apartment and slammed the door. They stood there for a moment in silence. Fox registered the unit's gaze sweeping over his apartment. Three small rooms in a row bedroom with bathroom to the left, living room to the right, and before them the kitchen with its dishes in the sink, dirty bodega buffet containers on the counter, and packed down grime along the baseboards. I've been busy, fox said. I see. Fox turned to the unit. Look, Amrit, Amrit, I appreciate this. I really do. I mean, kind of. But I'm not a people person. I like things done my own way, and I don't want any interference in my business. I like my Privacy. I am 100% programmed for privacy, the unit broke in. For secrecy, even, and for keeping confidences. Oh, you are. Fox flared up again. What was all that in the hall? That was all private information. The unit assumed a shocked expression. I didn't share any of that information. That was all information that was shared with me. But Fox had no idea what objection to make. Also, I'm not a person, so whether you are a people person or not is immaterial. The unit rattled off. Fox glared at him. I'm not obligated to use you, right? That is correct. Okay, then stay there and be quiet. Fox went to the freezer and opened the door. Damn it. The breakfast sandwiches. He'd forgotten all about them. Is there something I can help with? Fox sighed. I have to get a box of breakfast sandwiches from the bodega on the corner. Would you like me to get them? I have been added to your account. My account?
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Who.
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Who authorized that? It's just standard procedure when we are dispatched. There was no end to the insults. Nevertheless, this was tempting. Okay, but don't talk to anybody. If I tell you that, you have to do it right. Yes, but how will I thank the cashier? My neighbors, Fox said. Don't talk to my neighbors, okay? Fifteen minutes later, the unit returned with a brown paper bag tucked in one arm. Fox went over and peered inside. All it contained was the box of breakfast sandwiches. He looked up into the unit's face. That's it? No mangoes? Did you want mangoes? The unit suddenly looked concerned. I could go back. It's a joke, fox said, although it wasn't. He missed mangoes, but they were hard to cut. With his arthritic hands, Fox took the bag to the counter, pulled out a sandwich, and popped it in the microwave. When it finished, he put it on a plate and headed toward the living room. The unit started after him. Stay here, fox said. Don't touch anything. Very good, Mr. Singh. The unit halted where he was. I'm just here for emergencies. Fox is fine. Mr. Singh makes me feel like I'm still in school. Told that they could either call him Fox or Dr. Singh, all his math students over the years had insisted on Mr. Singh. Very good, Mr. Fox. The unit seemed to contemplate his name. Mr. Foxy Fox. Foxy, Foxy, Foxy Fox. On second thought, Mr. Singh is better. Fox ate his sandwich on the couch. He texted his son to complain about the unit. Send this thing back to the factory. An uncharacteristically quick answer came back. Sometimes he waited for days for a reply from Raju. Sometimes weeks. It's not up to me. My salary is being garnished for that thing. Hope you're happy. Fox fumed for a while and considered contacting Medicare to see if he could initiate the return himself. The Medicare website was so convoluted now, he couldn't find anything he needed. He tried to hear what the unit was doing. There was absolute silence. He rose and went to the doorway. The unit stood right where Fox had left him, halfway across the kitchen on the way to the living room. What are you doing? Nothing. I can see that. But why? Why don't you sit down? Fox knew the answer before it came. You told me to stay here. It's no problem. I don't require sitting. Fox composed himself. Can you at least behave a little more human? You don't have to take everything so literally. Sit down, please. The unit crossed to the kitchen table and scraped the chair back. Oh, sorry, he said as the chair leg peeled up a puddle of dried spaghetti sauce. While you're still here, fox began. Still? Aren't you supposed to clean up and stuff? Oh, absolutely. Mr. Singh, would you like to activate my auto housekeeping protocol? Uh, just do the dishes and the counters and maybe the floor. Very good, Mr. Singh. The unit jumped to his feet and started opening cupboards. It's all under the sink, fox said. The unit pulled open the cabinet and saw the sponges, the cleansers, the plastic basin, and the leaking P trap. Mr. Singh, you have a leaking P trap? Do you want me to. Fine. Put everything back in exactly the same place when you're finished. Fox left the unit at work and passed into his bedroom. The computer was piled under a heap of clothes. After the bacon incident, inspectors had come through and told him all the places he had to change things, clothing and Other soft items over electrical cords or appliances were out, so the computer was unplugged. Fox pushed debris away from the outlet. He gazed over the monitor while the computer booted outside his third floor window. The top of the gingko tree was still bare, although the slush on the street was melting away and the office workers in the building opposite had begun arriving without scarves. He pulled up the Medicare site and tried to remember his password. It was probably around here somewhere. After shuffling through stacks on the desk for a minute, he found himself staring out of the window again. The screen went into power savings mode. He got up and went back to the kitchen. Why didn't you say any of that stuff to me? He asked the unit. Like the recipes and everything. Why didn't you say anything? The unit turned from the sink. His jacket hung over the kitchen chair now his sleeves were rolled up and he wore an apron with purple unicorns printed on a mint green background. This is exactly why I suggested the introductory discussion when I arrived. You can change my default settings through simple conversation. Those people just talk to me. You don't. Would you like to enable my Initiate Conversation feature? Fox hesitated. Okay. Initiate Conversation feature enabled. So, Fox. What's that all about? What? Fox? Your name. What kind of name is Fox? I why is that any of your business? What about? I'm just making conversation. It's an unusual nickname. I mean, it's a forest creature. It comes from a family reunion a long time ago. My niece told my son she thought I was curious. Like a cat. My son said cat is a little bit dumb. Father is more like Fox. Then my niece started calling me Fox uncle, and then everybody just started calling me Fox. The unit grew stern and raised one eyebrow before answering. Cats are not dumb. I It wasn't me who said that. So what about the recipes? What's this thing with mangoes? Aren't you programmed to make dinner and stuff? The unit regarded him. I am programmed not to make unsolicited suggestions. If you would like recommendations, you will have to enable it. Would you like to turn on my recommendation protocol? Fox regarded the ceiling for a few moments. A bright orange spatter stretched from the light fixture to the window. That was from the last time he tried to use the blender and had forgotten to put the lid on. Okay, fine. Recommendation protocol enabled. The unit put down the sponge and gestured with both hands. For tonight's dinner, I recommend we start with an onion salad with lime and some black pepper puppets. I think the red chilli ones are too hot. Don't you. Followed by a malai kofta, a saag paneer, and a mushroom tekkam sala with raita mango lassi, of course, and, oh, gulab jamuns for dessert. Fox stared at him. Is that what you recommended to Ms. Bronwyn? Oh heavens no. She doesn't like to cook at all. Just the mango lassi. I think she's going to try putting vodka in it. Vodka? Wait, never mind. Don't you think that's a bit much for one person? Well, there'll be leftovers, naturally. And I could. I could sit with you with a plate of food while you ate. That's stupid, fox said. Just make the can I afford all of that? The eunuch looked off into a corner as he calculated, then returned his gaze to Fox. Yes, if we buy breakfast sandwiches at the supermarket instead of the bodega and you don't order three pairs of catalog trousers that don't fit you this week. Fox weighed this cost. Alright. The unit, pulled off his apron and swapped it for his asymmetrical jacket. I'll be back in a couple of hours. Within a few days Fawkes enabled the auto housekeeping protocol, and his apartment was soon quite different from when Amrit had arrived. The bodega containers were collected and recycled and the counters scrubbed spotless. The P trap under the sink got replaced and the general odour of the apartment shifted from a sour must to the drifting fragrance of Haldi, Dhaniya and jeera in the freshly stocked spice cabinet. Amrit's idea to sit at the table with a plate of food turned out to be not as outlandish as it had seemed. He had a way of turning food over in his chapatti as if he were thinking things through before speaking, which was very convincing, and by the end of the meal he'd somehow transferred all the leftovers into storage containers and simply put them in the refrigerator. He proved an excellent conversationalist and initiated discussions on anything from theoretical physics to sociolinguistics. They took to playing a game of chess or two in the afternoons. Amrit's rating was set just above Fox's, so Fox found himself challenged but not frustrated. After finding out that the gossip went both ways, Fawkes reauthorized Amrit to speak to his neighbours and little by little began listening to the news of the building. Mrs. Greenwald had finally faced sorting through her husband's closets after his death last fall. She'd finished his clothes and started in on her own. Svensson apparently played chess in the park on weekends, and Amrit thought he might make another potential opponent for Fox, although Fox objected to that idea and Ms. Bronwyn had mastered the vodka mango lassi, had moved on to a gin mint chhaas and a rum khas cooler, and was planning some sort of cocktail party. You can go if you want to, fox said. I don't want to go if you don't want to go, amrit returned. Fox began to, if not enjoy, then at least anticipate the news of his neighbours and eventually reports on the mail carrier, the building superintendent, and the bodega owner. Once, as Amrit slid a steaming glass of chai towards him, Fox casually asked him if he had any news from Raju. No, no contact after the initial order, amrit replied, then, looking up as if thinking of something this very second. Why don't we call him? Oh no, I was just wondering. There was no point. Raju was but one more thing gone. Once Fox's days had been filled with social events, a circle of friends, raucous competitive games of three card flush, a wife. But nothing could be trusted. You never know when when a change might come. It was better just to keep a safe distance, but Raju was the hardest to go. One afternoon, while Fox contemplated sacrificing his queen to four sumate and six, Amrit glanced over Fox's shoulder and remarked, it's spring. Fox twisted in his chair. Yellow green buds were bursting from the tips of the ginkgo branches. So it is. Shall we do your turbans? Amrit looked at him expectantly, like by hand. I haven't done that in years. There wasn't really space in the apartment. When the family had lived in their house outside the city, he'd done it in the backyard. I've been using a service. Amrit peered past the kitchen and into the bedroom, where doorways align to make one longish run. I think we have a good shot. I mean, you can still send them to service if it doesn't come out right. Fox considered. He could feel his own turban on his head again, shaped the way his hands would shape it, fitting over his temples and ears the way it had before. Okay, he said. The next day they washed all the turbans by hand in a bucket in the bathroom. Well, Fox mostly watched Amrit do it and issued directives about how much starch he liked in the water after the rinse. Finally they were all lined up in tightly wrung out balls along the bathtub's rim. Amrit stood in the kitchen looking fore and aft, then installed a series of small hooks high on the walls at the back of Fox's bedroom and the front of the living room. One by one he strung the turbans across the apartment until the entire hallway was layered with long delicate rectangles floating in the breeze from the open windows. That night Fox crawled on hands and knees under the turbans to reach his bedroom. When he glanced up, the bottom edges looked like fins, diaphanous gills filtering out recent years and infusing the space with the intimately familiar scent of starch, buffeting Fox in a tunnel of memory. By morning the turbans were dry and before breakfast Amrit took the first one down. Fox showed him how he liked them folded with no edges out so the final product formed a tight rectangle with a single hinge and two wings. Because of the starch, you could stand them on end on the closet shelf, and taking one out was like grasping the spine of a book. If you turned your hand palm up, the wings of the book dropped to each side, like when you let the pages of the Holy Granth Sahib fall open to reveal a guidance for the day. Once the turbans were aligned on the shelf in a color coded spectrum, Fox felt that long lost satisfaction, but worried it could go no further. Even in their unstretched state, the turbans had taken the full length of the apartment. But after breakfast, Amrit said, ready to stretch one. But where? Amrit stood and opened the door. The hallway. Oh, no way. There's no way my neighbours are going to stand for that. Perhaps you will be surprised. At any rate, this is the only space we have. Amrit and Fox fanned out from the apartment door, each with one end of the turban, careful not to let it touch the floor. When it reached its limit, Amrit stood at the building's front window and Fox approached the corner to the next hall. They grabbed the turban on diagonal corners and pulled. The elevator dinged and the door slid open to Emmett Swenson, who took one step out and almost walked into the turban. Fox readied himself for some barb, but Swenson just raised his eyebrows, looked both ways as if checking traffic on a street, then side stepped along the turban towards Fox. Looking good, Fox, he remarked as he squeezed by and disappeared around the corner. Fox looked to the other end of the hallway in surprise, but Amrit just shrugged. The turban stretched five or ten additional feet. When it could go no further, Fox instinctively reached a hand towards to roll the fabric into a tidy cylinder. He brought the rolled part toward him, stepping forward to do the next bit. Although it had been years, the motions came back to him like he'd done them yesterday, automatic and precise, the fabric's crunchy texture familiar in his fingers. He loped the turban over his arm like a garden hose as he worked his way towards the end. It was just like being in the backyard where he'd stretched his turbans for so many decades, taught his son those same motions. Even the dust motes around the backlit figure at the window were like dandelion tendrils in the summer air, a million unmade wishes passing by without being caught. By the time he reached the other end, he was almost giddy, and as he touched the other's hand, he looked up, expecting to see Raju's laughing face. But it wasn't Raju. It was Amrit. Fox wrested the turban from Amrit and spun on his heel toward the apartment. He stopped just short of slamming the door behind him before Amrit followed him back inside. Amrit pursued him all the way into the bedroom and then the bathroom. What are you doing? Fox practically yelled at him. I thought we were going to tie the turban next. We need the mirror, right? Fox took a deep breath. Okay. He looked around. There was nowhere to put the excess fabric except in Amrit's arms. He huffed and handed it over. Don't let it touch the toilet. Why would I let it touch the toilet? Fox held the turban's tail between his teeth and lifted the fabric behind his head for the first strap. His arms already ached from the stretching, and now his shoulders hurt before he'd even draped the first lud. Amrit reached up to help, but Fox snapped at him. I can do it. Fox guided the fabric around his nape and forward over his head. He repositioned it once or twice across his eyebrow, getting just the right angle, and then looped it towards the other side. His shoulders were burning. How could he be this out of shape? Three luddes later, Fox was spent. The turban still had two ludds to go, and Amrit reached for the fabric. Fox. Don't Fox me, fox said, letting his hands droop toward the sink, the slack of the turban dangling. Have I done something wrong? Amrit asked. I'm just tired, fox said, offering nothing more. Well, let's get this one the way you like it, and we'll see about the others later. Fox slumped and let Amrit finish the turban, barking out occasional commands on the tension or the angle as Amrit formed the last few lulls, took the tail from Fox's teeth, and tucked it into place. Fox regarded himself in the mirror. Even though Amrit had finished the turban, it looked and felt like the turbans Fox had made all his life, and he smiled sadly at Amrit's reflection over his shoulder. I thought this would make you happy, amrit said. Fox exhaled. I think I just want to watch some television. He went to the living room and turned on the tv. After a few hours, Amrit brought him a thali with some dal and Raitha, and Fox poked at it with a chapati. Later, Amrit peeked around the corner again. Do you want to play chess? By now Fox was prostrate on the couch, moments from drifting off. Okay. He moved to the chair as Amrit set up the board. Amrit positioned the last pawn and reached for the remote. I saw an interesting news story a while ago. Let's just leave the television on, fox said. Amrit paused but released the remote and sat opposite Fox. Fox opened with pawn to F3 and snapped at Amrit. When he asked if Fox wanted to take it back is the first move. For God's sake, fox said. This isn't like you, amrit replied. I have a right to make a stupid mistake, fox said. I have a right to throw my whole game away if I want to. Amrit said nothing more and played on to E5. On the television, two characters named Selma and Dane struggled to get their act together. Dane was hiding the fact from Salma that he did not have documentation and was meeting with an immigration lawyer. Salma thought Dane was either having an affair or secretly heading an interplanetary crime syndicate. Salma's best friend, Jules, was telling Salma not to jump to conclusions and trust Dane to tell his secret in his own time. Even if Selma is wrong, Fox said, she's entitled to her opinions. It sounds like Jules thinks Selma is stupid. That's just like my son. Amrit looked up sharply. Raju doesn't think you're stupid. How would you know? You told me yourself. You said, Raju said, cat is little bit dumb. Which by the way, is a misleading use of language to begin with. So he's hardly one to talk. Father is more like Fox. Ignoring the insult to both cats and people who don't speak, he was saying he considered you intelligent. Fox scowled. That was a long time ago. He still thinks so. Don't tell me what my son thinks. Why do you think I have such a broad subject database installed? Raju said. You needed somebody abreast of a wide range of material. He wouldn't have said that if he didn't think you were intelligent, or at least well informed. Raju didn't want anything to do with getting you set up. He didn't even want to put in his filial contribution. Nevertheless, my son doesn't want to have anything to do with me. Well, you know, amrit continued, you could be playing a part in how Raju feels about you. What? It takes two to tango, as they say. Stop. Family estrangements, while sometimes rightfully put in place in response to wholesale irremediable abuse, which is actually not the case here, are just as often caused by contributions on both sides. That's enough. In order to heal such a rift, both sides need to examine their responsibility. Is it possible you may have Amrit disable Recommendations Recommendations disabled? Amrit raised his eyebrows in surprise. He regarded Fox for a moment before opening his mouth again. Amrit disable Initiate conversations Initiate conversations disabled. Amrit narrowed his eyes at him. Fox got up and went to his bedroom. His clothes had all been washed and put away, so the computer was plugged in and ready to go. He poked at it to rouse it from the sleep mode. He hated talking to anybody, but this was an emergency. Instead of trying to navigate the Medicare website, he he found the voice number in the corner and called I want to send the senior unit back. That unit is on perpetual dispatch, the customer rep said after checking the details. You can't exactly return it. Is there something wrong with it? Yes. Fox searched for the right word. It's. He settled on something his son had used once. Dysfunctional. Thank you, sir. In what way is the unit malfunctioning? Fox considered. It's talking gibberish. Nothing it's saying is making any sense. It's too pushy and isn't respecting voice commands. Alright, well, we can certainly check that out. We'll initiate a recall shortly, review its interactions, and send a replacement. Thank you. Fox went back to the living room and raised the television volume. After perhaps 10 minutes, Amrit shifted his head in increments as if parsing a set of instructions. Then he abruptly stood and without looking at Fox, strode out the living room and through the kitchen. Fox heard the door to the apartment close behind him. He paused the TV to listen to the unit's footsteps disappear down the hallway as it made its way to the elevator. After that, there was no sound at all. Even the blades of the overhead fan, which had made a clicking sound before Amrit fixed him, were were now completely silent. The next day came and went with no word from Medicare. Fox microwaved the leftovers from Amrit's cooking, meal by meal, until nothing remained except breakfast sandwiches again. Fox certainly did not want to call Medicare and ask about the replacement. After all, he had not wanted the unit in the first place, so perhaps he did not care whether the replacement showed up at all. Simple pleasures in life were solitude, peacefulness, and self determination, even if it wasn't human. The slightest presence in your space that wasn't you pushed you around one way or another. That wasn't what Fox wanted. After dinner, Fox browsed his favorite online catalogues and considered some new pairs of trousers. Amrit had gotten rid of several of his, so there was space in the closet, and he'd taken Fox's measurements so he could order a better fit. He put six pairs into his cart and hovered on the checkout page. How many bags of groceries would that buy? It didn't matter. He didn't have the energy to cook anyway. He may as well. A knock came at the door. Fox leaped up and rushed into the kitchen. Fox? It was Mrs. Greenwald's voice. I haven't seen Amrit for the last day or so. Is everything all right? Fox stopped in his tracks. Should he answer the door? He started back to the bedroom, then hesitated. Amrit wouldn't have done that. At least she wasn't coming to complain about his television. He opened the door. Mrs. Greenwald was wearing a sky blue saree and a brace of bright red glass bangles. Fox stared at her. What's all this? Do you like it? Mrs. Greenwald twirled in a circle. Amrit told me where I could get one. It's. There was no reason Mrs. Greenwald couldn't wear a sari. Truth be told, a darker colour, like maybe a peacock blue, would have made a better contrast with her greying blonde hair. And the spread of bangles sort of suggested she was a new bride, which, let's face it, was way out of the ballpark. But for once Fox didn't feel like making such a remark to her. It's very nice. Thank you. Is. She glanced over Fox's shoulder. Is Amrit here? I haven't seen him. A cold wash spread over Fox. Oh, he mentioned I could stop by. Well, he's gone. He was defective. Fox stepped away from the doorway. I sent him back so you can forget about Amrit. Fox pushed the door shut and returned to the bedroom. There he found his cart timed out and he had to reselect all the trousers before making his purchase. The next day, Fox was microwaving the last breakfast sandwich when the doorbell rang again. Go away. He called out. Mr. Singh, this is your senior well being unit reporting for duty. Fox went to peer through the peephole. Outside was a unit that looked just like Amrit, but in sombre navy turban. Fox opened the door. It wore a western business suit like it was here for a job interview. Hello sir, the unit said. May I come in? Fox held the door open. The new unit stepped inside and stood at attention. He stood so straight Fox was afraid he might break into a salute. Fox closed the door. So what's your name? Amrit, sir. Amrit? That was the last one. I sent him back. Amrit is the name of the operating system, sir. Your previous unit was serial number 749-2848. My serial number is 749-3142. Well, I don't want the same operating system. That operating system was defective. Your comments and preferences have been incorporated into my current algorithms. I have been recustomized to suit your needs. Fox absorbed this. Oh well. Do you. Do you still cook and all that? Yes, sir. Unit didn't say anything else. Oh, of course. Enable recommendation protocol. Recommendation protocol enabled. Very good, sir. Unit continued standing there. Finally he said, the usual for dinner tonight, sir? Yeah, sure, fox said, not even certain what his usual was. He'd eaten so many things he hadn't tasted in years while Amrit was here. The other Amrit, that is this unit seemed like he wasn't going to do anything else. So Fox got his sandwich out of the microwave and headed toward the living room. He paused at the doorway. Do you want to watch tv? The unit smiled pleasantly. No thank you, sir. Fox went into the living room and put his sandwich on the side table. The couch was flat now because Amrit number one had fixed the spring. He hadn't known what to do with the trough, but he said he'd think about it and come up with a solution. Fox didn't feel like asking this Amrit if he had any ideas. He didn't even feel like sitting on the couch. He went back into the kitchen. Are you mad at me? The unit swiveled his face towards him. How could I be mad at you? I have just met you Yar. Don't call me that. Even Amrit didn't call me that. It was just the word for friend, buddy. But when this Amrit said it, it sounded sarcastic. I am Amrit, the unit said. Fox had a flash of inspiration. Enable. Initiate conversation. Initiate conversation Enabled, the unit said. Then nothing. That's it? Fox asked. If I think of something, I'll let you know. The unit looked away, out the kitchen window. Fox went back to the living room, sat in the trough of the couch, and ate his sandwich. After a while, a soft knock came at the door, almost as if the knocker didn't want to be heard. The unit's footsteps crossed the kitchen and the door opened. Mrs. Greenwald's whisper came first. I saw you on the street through my window. Did he really send you away? Why are you back? I stopped by like you said, but you were wrong. He didn't want to see me at all. He actually shut the door in my face. Fox jumped off the couch and peeked into the kitchen. The unit drew himself to full height, and rightly so. Get lost, you nosy busybody widow. Mrs. Greenwald. Astonished look showed only a moment before the unit swung the door shut. What the hell? Fox stepped into the doorway. What are you doing? The unit turned to him, utterly calm. Is that not your preferred style of interaction, sir? What? Fox reflected on all the time he'd said similar things to his neighbors or anybody close to him. Well, I. That's not the point. Wait. You invited her to visit me? That was the previous unit, the defective one. Please rest assured, sir, that no such transgression will take place again. Unit tilted his head, much as Amrit had just before leaving, and Fox almost hoped the same would happen again. The unit finished calculating and said, I will go shopping for dinner. I believe there is one more breakfast sandwich you can have for lunch. In the meantime, he reopened the door and left the apartment. It went on like that for a number of days. Once the breakfast sandwiches were gone, the new Amrit replaced them with aloo kale parathas, which were every bit as good as the first Amrit's, but somehow not nearly as enjoyable. He was just as meticulous as the first Amrit in terms of cleaning and noticing what could be improved, but he brought up any potential project in such an annoyingly deferent way that Fox snapped back, Just do it and don't bother me. Very good, sir, the unit would respond. Then Fox would find the neatly folded towels or the repaired bathroom shelf later by himself, while the unit stood by, always in another room. The trough in the couch even disappeared, but Fox took to sitting on the other end, where no improvements had yet been made. This unit played a mundane game of chess without comment and without sacrifices or fireworks of any kind, and after beating him in a few games, Fox gave up on it. One night, Fox tried to get the unit to watch a documentary with him on the life cycle of a newly discovered algae, and the unit did make a little conversation, but seemed to echo Fox's opinions on what impact the new species might have on energy production, and Fox felt like he was just talking to himself. Halfway through, Fox made up an excuse and went to bed. He lay awake looking at the ceiling. There were no cobwebs in the corners and the cracks had been patched so smoothly he could barely see where they had been. Three expertly tight turbans were lined up on his dresser, but the room felt flat and lifeless, unreal. A sense of deja vu crept into Fox. What had happened? All the things Amrit had brought back into the house. Foods and scents in the air, shared meals, a good debate, a sense of order and direction, as if a forward progression actually existed. He'd almost forgotten how wrong he could be about anything or anybody. Fox couldn't help but think of Raju, how at first he hadn't noticed anything happening, and then suddenly he was watching a boulder rolling away from him down a hill. Raju would turn 45 this year. Last time they'd been close he'd been 35, a young dad with two small children. Now he was pushing middle age, and Fox had no idea how that might be affecting him. It was just too late for so many things. Except for a moment. It had felt like it wasn't. It had felt wonderful and he had felt alive and everything felt real and familiar as the life he had once lived and loved. And Fox had believed every moment of it, all the way up until the last event. Then that too felt horribly familiar. It had happened again. But the replacement of a person he'd come to know with a cold, feelingless, uncaring stranger. The most important thing Amrit had brought back into Fox's life was gone, was the one thing Fox had thrown away, as he always did. Now all he had left was the ugly remains in his living room. It was what it was. He would just lie here and let the unit run everything. He just wished there had been some way for him to hold on to things, but it was impossible. He would have to do something different. Fox got up and walked the hallway in the dark. The unit sat watching the television with the sound off. The light from the screen flickered across his expressionless face. The algae documentary had finished, and some show where people paid money to smash giant glass sculptures with sledgehammers had taken its place. Every time the contestant hit something, an animation of A firebomb or a mushroom cloud or a litter of kittens flying in all directions had been added. Fox turned on the light. The unit watched another moment, then looked up. Can I help you, sir? Fox sat in the chair near the couch. Okay, look, I'm sorry. Sorry for what, sir? I'm sorry I called you defective. I'm sorry I sent you back. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. The unit adjusted his position toward Fox. That wasn't me, sir. That was the other unit. And I don't have feelings. I'm not human. But obviously everything's completely different. Yes, sir. My algorithms have been adjusted to better match your interactive style. I am not defective anymore. We are in absolute harmony. But this. This is stupid, fox said. There's nothing here. It's all empty. Can't we go back to the way it was? The unit paused a moment before speaking again. You want to send me away too? Well, no. I mean, aren't you. Actually, Amrit, can't the programming just be put how it was before? The unit tilted its head as if formulating its next thoughts, then look back to Fox. Algorithms are programmed to learn and adjust to incoming stimuli. It's not impossible to revert, but it's not an automatic process. The adjustments to Amrit's algorithms are a direct result of the input you provided. To change the algorithm, you will have to change the input. Another sense of the familiar crept into Fox. He had heard this before. Damn it. This is exactly what you said last time. Just in different words. Sir. You are Amrit. Of course I am, sir. I told you when I got here. No, I mean. Okay. Okay, fine. You win. You want to tell me what I did wrong with Raju? You want me to call him? Go ahead. But not all at once. Just maybe one small thing at a time. The unit shifted. A smile might have been cracking at one corner of his mouth. It's always one command at a time, sir. That's the only way to rewrite a program without breaking it. They sat there for another moment. I don't feel like sleeping, fox said. Amrit looked at him. Should we order pizza?
- [47:36]
B
There's more than a little wish fulfillment fantasy going on here. Here I was a full time caregiver to my mum for the last five years of her life, and I spent a lot of time thinking up impossible ideas about how society could better support people in later years. Also, with all our advances, wouldn't it be great if technology could help us overcome our personal failings as well? Finally, my dad actually had both a hot pink turban and a turban with leopard spots, although in his case they were two separate turbans. I love your dad's turbans so much, and the experience of being a caregiver, albeit not a full time one, is one I know viscerally. This one goes to some surprisingly intense places for me folks, so I'm going to throw a cautious semi content warning on the next few paragraphs. There will be some discussion of bereavement, neglect, psychological trauma and healing. So if you need to step away, keep an ear out and jump back in in a couple of minutes on the words on the subject of subscribing and support, Two beats in this story stood out for me. The first is this he could feel his own turban on his head again, shaped the way his hands were shaped, fitting over his temples and ears the way it had before A few years ago I hurt my foot and it was just a little, but this was around the time the world was kind of ending, so I didn't go to the doctor, which meant after a while because I was having to move around. Still, I had successfully hurt my foot a lot and that meant I couldn't move around very much. And that wasn't good. Injuries like that hold you. They have a specific gravity. It's one of those places where an injury never fades into the background because it's a part of your body that moves a lot and every time you move, it hurts. And I'm thinking about that at the moment because right now, as I both write and record this, my post first ever Exercises on the Road to Pill ups shoulders are going really? You hurt your foot a few years ago? That must suck. The thing is, though, and I say this to my shoulders as much as to you, is you heal so subtly and suddenly that you don't tend to notice when you have I remember watching Henry Rollins, alt rock icon and a man who serves as something of a cultural older brother to me, talking about the murder of his best friend when he was younger. Losing someone you love at far too early and age is an event that Henry Rollins and I share, and seeing him deal with that pain was key to helping me deal with mine. And then, almost a decade after I first saw him talk about it, I saw him live. And he talked about the loss with openness and honesty and humor and almost no pain. You heal when you don't notice. You change when you don't notice. And you accept those changes because we're taught to assume that's part of getting all this moment, captured so beautifully in this story, realizing that you can heal, you can get something back, is so sweet and so, so powerful. You talk about a loss without feeling it. You walk without pain. You realize you can get your turbans how you like to wear them again. Then there's this. The unit shifted. A smile might have been cracking at one corner of his mouth. It's always one command at a time, sir. That's the only way to rewrite a program without breaking it. This is a familial interaction I have first hand experience of. I won't bore you with the details or overshare, but reading this very kind hearted, measured exploration of familial estrangement led to two very different reactions in me. One was that complex emotion. There must surely be a German word for that sits on the border between rage and discomfort. I was never abused. I have no doubt that all my family members love me. But for a sizable portion of my life I was absolutely neglected or exploited in different ways. I survived that because I chose to see it wasn't happening. I heal from that, and it is heal, not healed from that through choice. One of those choices was conscious estrangement. By those lights, the people I've put at arm's reach, I put there because of their choices, not mine. And even writing this, even recording it, I feel something akin to anger begin to rise. You don't meet people who have hurt you again and again in the middle without concrete assurances from them that they will stop hurting you, without concrete assurances that they understand they have hurt you at all. Even then, you only do it if you can, if you want to. And you make sure that you have an exit strategy and clear lines. Because behavior like that is so easy to fall back into. This is not for many people, including me, the both sides situation. To quote one of my favorite sitcoms, Brockmire, eventually you need to stop apologizing for doing bad things and just stop doing bad things. But that's the second response manifesting as well. Because that first step is always there to be taken. Because no matter how many times it has been taken and then followed by six in the other direction it's been taken. That's hope. And that's a curse and a trap and an oil painting all at once. We choose one family, we learn to deal with the other. And it's possible, very possible indeed, to want the best for people, even if you don't want them close to you ever again. One command at a time, and not yet keep going and you're doing great are all valid commands and all keep you at the distance you need, at the distance that you deserve, until hopefully you and I don't need it anymore. What a lovely story. What a challenging story. Thank you. Onto the subject of subscribing and support, Escape Pod has long survived on donations alone, and even though there's ads now subscribing through a, our Patreon remains the best way to ensure we can keep bringing you one story told well. And if you subscribe at the $7 tier, you can get rid of the ads again. So if you would like to support what we and the rest of Escape Artists do, please join our patreon@patreon.com EAPodcasts and please do that through your browser. That way you'll avoid paying the App Store fees if you prefer, until another method. There are details for supporting us via Twitch, Amazon prime, ko fi and paypal on escapeartists.net or you can reach out directly by email at donationscapeartists.net with any questions and someone will get back to you. Oh, one last thing. Escape Pod is proud to say that we have partnered with Sleepphones Headphones to provide a special Escape Pod branded set of headphones. Sleepopolis Sleepphones are soft headphones that you wear while you sleep. They're comfortable, slim, think of them as headphones in a headband, so you put it on, you unplug and you surround yourself in this ultimate sound experience without disturbing or being disturbed by the person next to you. Sleepphones Headphones were designed by a family doctor and they provide wearable comfort that is literally music to your ears. And they're available with both 3.5mm audio jacks and blue Bluetooth, which means they're both brand new and retro. They're easy to clean, comfortable, and now you can get them with our logo on the headband and you get a 10% discount off your order of the EscapePod branded SleepPhomes if you use the coupon code ESCAPEPOD, which is all one word. Follow the link in our show Notes to Sleepphones and remember the code ESCAPEPOD to get 10% off. EscapePod is part of the Escape Artists Foundation, a 501 C3 nonprofit, and this episode is distributed under the Creative Commons Attribution Non commercial no derivatives 4.0 international license. Download and listen to the episodes on any device you like, but don't change it and don't sell it. Theme music is by permission of Daikaiju. We will see you next week. Before then, remember the human brain. A lovely piece of hardware. We'll see you next time, folks. Until then, have fun.
- [56:57]
A
Marketing is hard, but I'll tell you a little secret. It doesn't have to be. Let me point something out. You're listening to a podcast right now and it's great. You love the host. You seek it out and download it. You listen to it while driving, working out, cooking, even going to the bathroom. Podcasts are a pretty close companion. And this is a podcast ad. Did I get your attention? You can reach great listeners like yourself with podcast advertising from Libsyn Ads. Choose from hundreds of top podcasts offering host endorsements, or run a pre produced ad like this one across thousands of shows. To reach your target audience in their favorite podcasts with Libsyn Ads, go to libsynads. Com. That's L, I B S Y N Ads. Com. Today.