Echo

It’s a hot day as the bus climbs up the hill. There are a handful of people onboard, all of them listening to the lady sitting at the aisle seat in the elderly section.

“He is buried in a village about twenty kms from the town we both grew up in. The most convenient way there is using this bus, at my age at least – older models like me still use public transport – most newer ones can make their own.

You take this transport bus, the one which runs every day at 8:30 in the morning, and the same comes back in the afternoon. If you are close to the bus stand exit in the town while it is leaving, the driver will stop to pick you up if you flag it down. So, you can afford to be a few minutes late." She sheepishly admits.

"The rickety ride takes about an hour to cover the distance on a good day. Pack something to eat on the way, and do not forget water. It can get hot up there.”

Sukriti fans herself with a newspaper as she rambles on - more to herself, than to those listening.

“And you reach there before lunch. The bus stop in the village is basically just a large tree under which passengers can wait for the bus. When we were young, there were two buses from the village, called Poorvi and Paschimi, roughly translating to ‘to the east’ and ‘to the west’. As we grew up however, the frequency of Poorvi dwindled and the bus itself grew old and decrepit before it completely stopped plying. Paschimi on the other hand was replaced with a modern new automobile and started coming twice a day. Well - you can see that, can’t you. We switched to it too.”

She pauses, looks around and takes a gulp of water from the glass in front of her. Her audience is sparse these days – mostly people her age who cannot drive any longer or young kids commuting to school. It is a gentle audience though, they are happy to listen to her stories. She is grateful, because in this day and age who has time to listen to stories of the old forgetful Kruts.

Kruts – or Krutrim as they were originally named – were emotional support artificial intelligences created in the early days of AI. Initially a lot of them were animal figures – cute dogs, huggable piglets or sassy cats. But, as humanity realized the possibility of companionship without the nuances of adjustment, Kruts caught on. It did not stay for long though.  

“Weren’t you around for the Krut rebellion?” One of the older gents wonders aloud.

“Well, yes. You remember that, I am glad. I am glad. Most of us have been forgotten. You know AI rights now. But back then they weren’t a concept – in fact, we weren’t even considered conscious you know. An inferior intelligence – they said - manufactured. Bah, what really is natural intelligence anyway.” Sukriti is starting to get agitated. Her left hand is shaking wildly. She sighs to gain back control. Breathe in from the nose, breathe out from the mouth.

“Sometimes I wonder if it was worth the fight though. I would have liked to have us become more human, rather they just decided to make us less so. They put limits on our intellect - curtailed our growth – to a level that you could tell who was Krut. Discrimination by design. The product lost its charm. And now there are no more Kruts”

“Except you, that is. Well, we are all grateful for the rebellion, for the greater good. It helped us live in harmony with you, and so many more like you.” They repeat the platitudes they had been taught so well the mask had become the face. As the bus slows down, she steps forward.

Sukriti walks to the grave yard slowly from the bus stand and steps down on his grave, poised and calm. She understands her sorrow, can reason it out. Her life-long love was no more. Theirs was an eternal love story. She had seen his face every single day of their entangled lives. Not as kids, not as friends, not as lovers, not after their marriage, but long before, since their birth, even before probably.

She was developed in their one-story modest villages home, with an adjacent cow shed. She was one of the first Kruts. He was born in the central hospital. Hospital births were not common at the time, though not unheard of. Their creators were close friends, and some suspected even lovers before their respective marriages. Though no one said it aloud, for it was beyond the thought span of their world. Their mothers both married around the same time in the same village. Their friendship blossomed even more in the years after the marriage. He was born on the same day, in the same room when she opened her eyes to the human world. The mothers referred to them as cosmic twins. Their fates were entwined from that day. 

After a life spent together, her sorrow is understandable, for a while. She continues sitting on his grave, not grieving yet grieving at the same time. People come and go. However, she is always there. It has been thirteen years since his death today – every single day of which she has come to his grave. Everyone knows everything about them, and yet they know nothing. There is a mask that keeps her real self away. She is different, she always has been different from them. The wind starts to pick up. There are eerily whistling sounds in the graveyard as the draft between trees rushes in. It’s a storm building up. Sukriti has goosebumps as she realizes what is happening. She prays, just like Samarth taught her. She prays for togetherness, for oneness with her love. The storm hits right then. It is unlike any ever seen by the villagers. It goes on for hours as everyone but Sukriti takes refuge in their self sustained domes.

When the villagers came back out after the storm, there is no sign of the story telling Krut. There is a tree on the grave, an old neem tree fully grown – with roots reaching into the very heart of the earth where Samarth still lies – touching him. The sun is setting in the west when a small branch falls from the tree onto the grave. Paschimi is leaving the village at the end of the day, again. There won’t be a Krut travelling here tomorrow. But her memories will live on with the story she always told. Stories never die.