First there is TriLaDre.

Then there is confidence. This is a tale that must be told.

Now, TriLaDre isn't her real name of course; this is a complex Sanskrit-Spanish pun that is difficult to explain, so let's just say she doesnt mind it one bit when I call her that. In fact, she'd respond to any name, she once claimed. I think she was challenging me to create new names for her. I called her Mandakini. She called me psychotic. I told her, ((2^n)-1) yourself; or at least, that's what Srinivasa Ramanujan would have said. She grinned at that, and then said, you fool, you'll never learn math; you will still have to come to me for that. I agreed, and went on to explore the strange new world of hyperventilatory networks; butterflies in Peking will cause tornadoes in Washington, Konisberg will still find no bridges to cross, Brahma will have shipments to deliver from Benares to Hanoi. And I would be domiciled to Hyderabad's city buses.

There are times when I wish she'd be with me once again, even if it's only to do with math. Yesterday was one such evening. In fact, I believe she was there. No way she would have missed those drums, the dhuls; she'd have come running all the way from Jalan Kreyu for all you know.

You see, TriLaDre, for all her immense greatness, has one weakness; she's a sucker for artistic perfection. She told this when we were staring at this dome I know in Heartland Hyderabad. That changed my life; all of a sudden, I catapulted from rocky wells and smelly drains to the heights of the gumbad; Green Hands go where eagles dare. We learnt eternal vigilence without the requisite diligence. Which is why I still haven't been able to impress her; you can't really be artistically perfect unless you are diligent, know what I mean?

Then there is this time when I studiously avoided her; I kept propping up stupid excuses about the night, and how working then was more beneficial. It was stupid; frankly, it wasn't my mistake all, I blame it all on a certain Mr Tan. He later turned to be a moron, but back then, he was a leading beacon. On hindsight, I should have seen through him the moment he gave Tim Tams In The Time Of SARS, but how was I to know they weren't meant for me; they were meant for her. Hey, no competition man, she's all yours, just don't give me leftovers, mmkay?

It all ended finally when she sent me her recording on an mp3. It was the most touching thing anyone sent me. I cried. Had to. It's the last time I ever cried, though; even when the Bhantus came, I still didn't cry. I was fat, but I was also brave; in some corner of my mind, I knew TriLaDre would be there. She didn't tell me, but the signs were obvious.

I went back to our secret spot in Hyderabad. They now have a food court there serving dum biryani, burritos, chow mein and pizza. The bajji stall is long gone. They're also making a rock garden somewhere close; for that, they have truckloads of labourers. The labourers are now stuck though; always stupid to sleep so close to them rocks, once they pull you in, it's very difficult to extract yourself out. Especially if the government changes. The saruses are an exception of course; they can fly away anytime they want. We can't. Just ask Tanaeshah.

All in all, I really didn't think she'd want to go there.

I think she'll come here. The Valley of a Thousand Soldiers is our new secret spot.

Know what? I think she's already here.