The Protocol Provenance
Some friendships begin with a name. Ours began with a protocol.
This is the third story in the Tensor Krishnan Iyer series. Read The Monogamy Virus and The 713 Connection first.
I first saw Tensor Krishnan Iyer 6 years ago.
He was sitting on a plastic chair outside the nearby ashram.
It was a cold winter evening. Inside, thirty or forty people were meditating. Outside, Krishna was doing the same thing.
Eyes closed.
Purring.
He wasn’t sleeping. I was sure of it.
I watched him for a few minutes.
The next evening he was there again.
Same chair. Same posture. Same closed eyes.
Third evening… same.
I asked the ashram attendant.
“Whose cat?”
“Not anybody’s.”
“Then?”
He shrugged.
“Regular.”
That was all.
I didn’t see Krishna again for almost two years.
Few years back, on my birthday, I returned from a long road trip.
The house had been locked for more than a fortnight.
Krishna was sitting on the doorstep.
He looked at me.
No surprise.
No excitement.
Nothing.
I was delighted.
“Krishna!”
He didn’t move.
I had to open the door to get inside. There was no way to do it without disturbing him.
So I opened it.
He walked in.
Not like a cat entering an unfamiliar house.
Like an emperor returning to his empire after great victories.
There was some cat food and frozen chicken in the freezer. I had bought it for Coffee Singh.
I fed him.
He ate without hesitation.
Finished.
Looked at me.
I gave him more.
He ate that too.
Then he found a comfortable place and slept.
That was how our friendship began.
No introduction.
No permission.
No discussion.
Very efficient.
Krishna isn’t a house cat.
He comes when he wants.
Leaves when he wants.
Sometimes disappears for days.
But he talks.
Not in the usual sense.
There are meows that I translate try to translate into English, & fail miserably.
His communication is something else.
He looks at me and I simply know.
Door.
Food.
Outside.
Don’t follow.
Wait.
Sometimes the message is more complicated.
Once, at two in the morning, he woke me.
He was sitting near the door.
I opened it.
He didn’t leave.
He looked at me.
Then at the road.
Then back at me.
I understood:
Not yet.
We stood there for perhaps ten minutes.
Then a car came speeding around the bend.
Krishna watched it pass.
Then walked into the darkness.
I never asked him about it.
Some conversations are better left untranslated.
He knows my routine.
Especially dinner.
He never comes while I’m cooking.
Never while I’m eating.
He appears exactly when I finish.
I once deliberately changed the timing.
He didn’t come.
Twenty minutes later, he appeared at the window.
He looked offended.
I opened the door.
He walked past me without a word.
I apologised.
He ate.
The matter was closed.
I have learnt not to argue with Krishna.
He has the advantage of being right most of the time.
Then came the epidemic.
The news began talking about HIV again.
Then came the strange decline.
Fewer infections.
More stable relationships.
People began talking about monogamy.
Some called it the Monogamy Virus.
Others called it the Love Virus.
Krishna watched the news every evening.
7:13.
Always.
One evening I saw him outside.
On the retaining wall.
I became excited.
“Krishna!”
He turned.
I opened the door.
“Come home.”
He looked directly into my eyes.
And I understood.
Not no.
Something else.
Not now.
There was urgency in it.
Purpose.
Almost an apology.
I stopped calling.
He turned towards the wilderness.
For a moment, I felt hurt.
After everything… the two years, the nights, the food, the strange conversations without words… I had begun to think that perhaps I was his human.
Perhaps he was my cat.
Perhaps that was all there was to it.
He jumped from the wall.
Walked a few steps.
Then stopped.
Looked back.
The message came again.
This time it was unmistakable.
Don’t follow me.
I don’t know why, but my eyes became wet.
“Okay,” I whispered.
Krishna stood there for a few seconds.
Then turned and disappeared into the trees.
I remained at the door.
The house suddenly felt very large.
And very empty.
I went inside.
The television was still on.
7:13 PM.
The newsreader was talking about the epidemic.
A new report.
A new graph.
A new explanation.
I wasn’t listening.
I sat on the sofa where Krishna usually sat.
There was still a little warmth on the cushion.
I put my hand there.
And then I realised something.
I had never taught Krishna how to communicate.
He had taught me.
I just didn’t know when the lessons had begun.
Or who had written the protocol.
I looked towards the window.
Nothing.
The wilderness was silent.
Then, from somewhere far beyond the retaining wall, came a faint sound.
A purr.
I stood up.
For a moment, I thought of going after him.
I didn’t.
He had said not to.
That was the strange thing about Krishna.
I trusted him.
More than I trusted myself.
I switched off the television.
The room became dark.
Then the television came back on.
No channel.
Only a black screen.
A few seconds later, white letters appeared.
PROTOCOL STATUS
I stared.
Another line.
HUMAN INTERFACE: STABLE
My heart began beating faster.
SUBJECT NAME: SHANKAR
Then:
COMMUNICATION: ESTABLISHED
I couldn’t move.
The screen went black.
For several seconds there was nothing.
Then one final line appeared.
PROVENANCE: UNKNOWN
I read it twice.
Behind me, something moved.
I turned.
Krishna was sitting on the sofa.
I hadn’t heard him enter.
He looked at me.
Calm.
Unhurried.
The same eyes.
The same little white patch beneath his chin.
I wanted to ask him everything.
Where had he been?
What was he doing?
Who was he talking to?
Why me?
Instead, I said the only thing that came to mind.
“Did you miss me?”
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he came closer.
Pressed his head against my hand.
And purred.
That was all.
I closed my eyes.
For years, I had believed I was learning to understand Krishna.
That night, for the first time, I understood something else.
Perhaps Krishna had never been trying to communicate with me.
Perhaps he had been preparing me to communicate with something else.
The purring continued.
Outside, somewhere in the wilderness, another cat answered.
Then another.
Then another.
I opened my eyes.
Krishna was still beside me.
7:13.
Continued in The Feline Factor.