My Expressions

About Esther

January, 16th, 1991.

Bognor Regis had seen many a salubrious weathers; this hour of sunlight was no different. Recumbent over a boulder, were they, sitting arm by arm. His shirt was rebuffing to stay stuck to his skin; his consign to keep it stuck further inspired it to run amuck.

“About Christ..” She said.

“What about Him?” His eyes still fresh from life, stayed with the wind.

“Do you think He travelled the world for three days before deciding that He has to resurrect to save it from itself?”

“If He is as perspicacious and as expedient as they say He’s, He wouldn’t have died first, only to come back later from the dead.”

“Did He try hard to teach the world what’s good and what isn’t bad?”

“Esther, I haven’t read His autobiography. I simply don’t know; don’t care.”

“About Jonah..”

“What about him?”

“Did he really get swallowed by a ‘whale-like’ fish?”

“If he did, I’m confident he never would have lived to tell a tale that transformed literature.”

“About Literature..”

“What about it?”

“Keats and Co. are exigent.”

“No man — ever – will choose to say otherwise.”

“About saying otherwise..”

“What about it?”

“Do you know ‘Yo-gay-sh-were’? His father is also Indian. He is the only one in our grade who’s read ‘Middlemarch’. Although he is extremely ugly, and incredibly repugnant, he recites Keats and Longfellow like he were their nephew. Mrs Arthur had said, last week, that his summary of ‘A Psalm of Life’ was nice. Just nice.”

“That fat bastard. It’s no wonder, Esther; it takes a douchebag to fathom another, or two other, in his case.”

“How’s it, that he knows so much without knowing he knows so much?”

“The same way you’re beautiful without knowing how much.”

“About that..”

“About what?”

“It. I’m not.”

“Beautiful, or Unaware?”

“Neither.”

“About that..”

“What about ‘that’?”

“Are you sure you’ll not return?”

“Mum says, the memory of it has to wash away. She says these are evanescent threads, that needn’t be woven into our souls.”

“Are you sure you’re going to like it in India?”

“Mum says it’s a grotesque place to be in. Dad says Mum has to be there first to know what it’s like to be there.”

“About you..”

“What about me?”

“Will you like it there? Will you make the same friends as you did here?”

“Mum says there are no bonds to make in India; no love to share. She says the only thing more than people in India is the lack of common sense amongst the folklore. Last week, she said, ‘There are a lot of people in India, sure, but not many Human Beings.’ ”

“Will this memory fade away?”

“It will be as efficacious as we let it be.”

“Will we never see each other again?”

“I don’t pray so. Do you?’

“I haven’t had time to pray. I’ll pray to see you everyday in the park, playing football.”

“Distinct possibility. Still, very probable.”

“Cannot turn them down, can you?”

“Dad’s Indian. He’s Dad.”

“About that..”

“What about it?”

“India, and -ns.. Stringent and obstinate they’re.”

“Mum says she heard of a kid who was knuckle beat by his teacher for not spelling realise with a ‘z’.”

“Tragic!”

“Mum says their predilection to think of ‘only’ America when the word ‘west’ is bespoken, makes them responsible for their own population dearth.”

“Do you understand it?”

“No. You know I cannot ask Mum what she means when she says something I don’t understand what she means by saying which.”

“About the plane..”

“What about it?”

“What if they deem it unfit for flying?”

They don’t run with ‘one’ airplane, Esther.”

“About the weather..”

“What about it?”

“What if they deem it unfit to fly an airplane in?”

“It is as pacific as Marley Lane, Es.”

“Will you write to me?”

“I don’t think so.”


“Hugh..?”

“Esther Bier?”

“Are you scared of going to India; being in India?”

“Appalled, Affright, Petrified, Mortified, Stupefied.”

The warmth of the bodies that had occupied the boulder persisted even after the bodies were removed. The undertone of the wind had now phased to murmur, as the chastity of the place was tied in an impeachable knot.


December, 25th, 2015.

Margaret Thatcher’s life-size portrait hung slightly tilted on the wall. For the first time in the past six months, glee fondled with the London Stock Exchange.
Esther Bier stood at the least frequented corner of the LSE; the south-east window. Over looking the London Bridge, past the noble expanses of the Thames, Ms Bier was transfixed on an imaginary blot in the memory.

“Ma’am?” A voice brought life back into her.

“Eh, Yes. Sorry.” Ms Bier adjusted her self into her.

“I’m new to this place, and I need to dispose off this paper. Palpable as it sounds, I’m positively lost.” He shrugged an embarrassed shrug.

“No new thing around here. My first day, I lost three hours in finding my workspace.” Ms Bier smiled.

“I hope to do so, too. Anything to kill time. Ehrm, ma’am, the, paper disposal room?” he polited.

“Oh, sorry. That way,” Ms Bier said, pointing to her left, the man’s right.

“Many thanks, Ms…?”

“Esther. Esther Bier. And you’d be?”

“Gallagher. H.G. Gallagher.”

“Anything to do with the Eyebrow(s) and the Drugs?” She smiled a heart.

“Wish!” He heart-smiled back. “Only the music and the lyrics, that’s all I want to be associated with.”

“They were a nice band. I wish love never led to hate.”

“I wish the world never came to be. Never do we get what we wish for, Ms Bier. It’s serpentine to comprehend how the world’s convoluted into shape.”

“You talk sense. What — and whose — more importantly — position are you filling in, HG? — Do you mind if I call you that?”

“No, not at all, Ms Bier. I’m here for my father. He chose to stay back and make more love and less money. I picked up the mantle.”

“Oh, so patriarchy lives in a world where the queen rules, eh?”

“Funnily so. Yes. Women need Men; Men need both Men, and Women.”


There was a surreptitious wind blowing past Thames. The city had seen calm, but never had it seen tranquility of this record. Somewhere in the palace, a lot of phones rang. Too many legs moved. When the ringing stopped, the locomotion expedited. In its calm, private way, London was gearing up for a storm. The ignorance of its inhabitants was a gullible blunder, the city was ready to excuse.

What couldn’t be excused, though, was the otiose alacrity of those who had to be on the road, preventing the storm, feigning to stop it. The bells that were supposed to ring alarms, were now festooning the memories of the sparrows flying over them. The injustice of the warning sign’s failure to fall on the right ears was about to take a toll on the most supersonic employee of the LSE.


Esther Bier stood in her workspace cubicle, wanting to formulate, speculate, calculate, estimate, approximate, gauge, determine and appraise.

Mother Dearest!” She exclaimed. “Can we please function like we’re malfunctioning?” She asked her encephalon.

It didn’t answer.

While still wanting, she persuaded herself to work.

“You chose to be here, today.”
“How does it matter? They don’t know even if He was born today or not.”

Her trail of bread crumb memories had molded Esther Bier to judge. Things. Not people.

As Bier kept pondering over the possibilities of birth, and its compound end, her screen came to life.

“FUBAR.”

Given the message came from her boss, Ms Bier presumed he had forgotten his gift, and was orderly begging her to run him an errand.

“He doesn’t have to be Fucked UBAR to get me to work; a doltish, camouflaged as a warning, ‘Will Fire You’ threat would’ve done its bit for him.” She thought.

“What gift. Where from?” She replied.

GTFO!” The screen grew in stature.

“Ashton, stop acronym-ing me!” She sent in polite haste.

Within minutes that comprised of seconds, Esther’s phone rang.

“What is it, Ashton?” She sung.

“The Trade Poll Kit LifeLine.” He whimpered.

“Did it fail?” She stiffened.

“Jesus, Esther! Check the Log. Write a Perl Script, will’ya?”

Esther took to the keypad the way a man takes to breasts, and went about her work exactly how the ‘a man’ wouldn’t go about his.

“ASHTON….” She spluttered.

“Yes. Get out of that building, now. Get 999 to ask PeerPines to try and shut down the servers, and evacuate… Why on Earth do you work on holidays?” He implored his consternations.

Esther was too benumbed to prove existence, then retaliate.

“Ashton, I know this.” She oomph’d.

“And why?”

“Because the trade line is at fault. And….”

“….you wrote the trade line code..” He gulped.

“Give me, erm, forty minutes?”

“Quit, Esther, once the trail surpasses 13.6, all heaven will conjoin.”

“I will stay here and watch.”

“I’m coming. Cannot risk my ONLY log programmer fish alone on a windy night.”

“Dinner with wife and kids? Action after dinner? Alexandra might find it dubious.” She quipped.

“Uh, dunk her in foundation. I’ll start for you.”


Whilst the city lost itself in the celebration of a guileless birth, Esther Bier toiled away at her workstation.

“Ma’am?” A voice grew to form.

“HG! Thought you’d retired for the day.”

“Too old for it, now, me are, ma’am.”

“Ah! The grumpy old kid, with no vested interest in the world and its efficacies.”

“One of many ways to put it. Aside, I’ve taken notice of something that you take notice of, only when it’s ‘created’ during staging sessions.”

“Oh. So, you’re a log programmer, too?”

“Yes, ma’am, me are.”

“Tell me, HG, what anomaly do you think has put this meek nation with its heart between a whale’s teeth?”

“The fire-line.”

“Oh my bets! Where were you while the world was collecting its quota of acuity?”

“Reading John Myles White is my favourite past-time.”

“Sly serendipity! I finished reading Drew Conway’s thesis just last week!”

“I’m amazed at my amazement. Aside, is this even a ‘real’ problem?”

“Yes. Yes, it’s. If the trade line trail falls anywhere onto the 14.089 dart, we’ll be ‘royal-ly’ screwed.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When the commonwealth decided to digitise, they chose to draw all power supply to this building by forking the supplies of the households. PoC — If LSE crumbles, it takes the whole of London down with it.”

“Welcome to the world of Batman.”

“Well, since I’m not hot and ‘Hathaway’ , and you’re not offy and ‘Bale’, let’s do this by ourselves.

“Where do I start?”

“At first, distribute funds. As much capital as you can, let the influx take care of itself; throw open the gates, against the Dollar, if the Pound sterling falls to a pathetic minimal, let it.”

“And what about the trade line that melts the capital off of all the off-shore accounts? What do you brain on doing about the dropping chart line?”

“One inch at a time, HG; the slower, the sounder.”

“I’ll set the clock to strike at 22:45, i.e., 17 minutes from now, if you can hold it till then, I’ll close the counter for today, and maybe, just maybe, with the other nations still rejoicing, we might be able to bilk life to this city.”


As jargons transpired a symphony of challenge, the city streets filled with heat. On a snowy night in London, people started calling in with complains of power outrages. With very little idea, and a lot of pique, Christmas was about to turn awry.

Lost in the perils of Perl Scripting Esther Bier forgot to check her phone, as it rang for the 14th time. Having gained a momentary consolation breathing span, she answered,

“Ashton..”

“I’m stuck; in the middle of the city. Araby Road is packed as NYC is, on the 4th of July.”

“You said you’ve never been to Columbu’s land before. How dare you!”

“Es, metaphor!”

“You’re only giving people less time to stand a chance to fight by holding me up, BOSS.”

“Do what you want to; when it goes beyond you, RUN…”

Esther felt a sensation. Like an infinitesimal wave mocking the strength of a shore side rock.

“Umhm!” She half-moaned.

“Ms Bier,” the voice came in loud and joy.

“Stable?”

“For now…”

Esther set aside her distractions and let the fingers run.


“You have to leave…”

“But, HG, it is already past 16.8, if it drops another .70 bits, this place will be torrefied.”

“Don’t bother, Ms Bier, I’m undeserving of life.”

“Oh, god-damnit! What moments men choose to be cheesy at!”

“You get going, this place will be, uh, torr’d?”

“Torrefied. And, come with me, this data is as good as lost, anyway. I cannot have corpulent brokers sit under warm roofs, while you scuffle with death to keep them there.”

“Ms Bier, don’t excogitate, I shall get out before the trail leads back to this building; by then, anyhow, the cloud would’ve been backed up.”

“About it..”

“Sorry?”

“Oh, I wish I could explain..”

“About what, Ms Bier?”

“Why can’t you just let the cloud fill itself up, and leave?

“You first. I need to make sure that all records have been stored.”

“I’ll see you on the outside, HG. Although short-lived, this was an in — awe, phenomenal Christmas night. Just please leave.”

“I shall, Ms Bier. I have my own trepidations.”

“About it..”

“What about it, ma’am?”

“Are you not scared, HG?”

“Appalled, Affright, Petrified, Mortified, Stupefied.”

Esther Bier had paced out of the building, onto the snowing streets when something pushed her behind.
A memory streak sparked a light, as she turned around in joy, the LSE was ashes and headlines for the days to come.


The gelid floor was now starting to push the metabolism up. The miasma of form, and the shrivelled sense of there being life, was making the body start to defy the sense of calm.

“Margaret!! Get Dr. Longbottom down here, as quickly as you can.”

“You do know, Mum, that we don’t live next door, do you?”

“Oh, Margaret,” the voice, filled with exultation, proclaimed the victory of endurance and vespers and a million such worships.

Margaret came jogging into the room only to be stunned into paradise with Christ, as she let awe sink into her.

“I’ll get him.” She ran, like people from death; often reality.


Dr Longbottom had help in putting her back in her bed.

“I’d’ve said this is a ‘miracle’ had it happened ten years yore. Now, this is for science to go back and regroup,” the doctor said, as he slurped his tea.


When God had decided to make this world, as rumoured, out of love and not need, or want, He had sketched on a canvas He didn’t quite understand. When it came to unfolding the canvas, and letting go of the art, He lacked the molecule that’d help His cause. As and when days turned to years, God had realised the folly of His thought. Having painted the finest of arts, to smother the blemishes of time, that were ruled by the embryonic cause of the fear of life, God gave it an antithesis. He called it Light. When the canvas of His opulent art unfolded in light, the auteur drowned in so much pride, that He was lost for this lifetime.


When Esther Bier opened her eyes, she could feel the weight of the world hanging by her side.

She murmured in plain sight, and opened both eyes.

Mrs Bier held The Holy Book against her bosom, half tending to the miracle, half to another.

“How do you feel, Esther?”

“Where am I? Where’s HG. He’s Hugh, I should’ve known. I should’ve saved him; I could’ve saved him; how did I?”

“Hugh? Hugh Gallagher?”

“Yes. Him. Do you know if he’s safe? Did he, by any chance, make it out of that building?”

“Esther,” Mrs Bier, placing her ever so comforting hand on her head, said, “Hugh Gallagher, along with his family died in a plane crash on January, the 16th, years yore in 1991.”

“W H A T ?”

“Dear,” Mrs Bier said, still weeping an ocean, “don’t you remember? You and Hugh were cycling down the coastal lines, when you were hit by a truck? Hugh Gallagher had lost the use of his legs, and his father decided to take him away to India?”

‘W H A T?”

“Doctor?” The wailing mother begged.

“Esther, darling, lie down. You’ve been comatose for the past 24 years. When everything gave up, your parents turned up. No one thought you’d ever wake up. But you did; you’ve.”

“w h a t?”

“Your brain has been ‘dead’ for the past 24 years!”

“w h at?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“w hat?”

“Can’t you remember?”

“what?”


“Mum says, the memory of it has to wash away. She says these are evanescent threads, that needn’t be woven into our souls.”

To,

Dolica Gopisetty,

My favourite Tennis player,

Ms Tall — But — I — Won’t — Believe — It.

The Shepherd to me dumb sheep.

Ms Don’t — know — who — Jonny Ive — is.

I can go on…

From being my soul-mates’ sister, to becoming my “swallowing whale” , you’ve been — you are supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

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Yogeshwar Singh

Yogeshwar Singh

Full Time Dreamer; Part Time Human.