He cowered, shaking in fear behind the “Times of India” newspaper which trembled with his clutch and shared his anguish. Desperately he tried to shut his eyes behind his minus seven powered horn rimmed glasses to avoid his wife, as she stomped into the room from the kitchen like a bull entering the ring arena in Spain, spoiling for a fight.

Rupa slammed the bowl on the table, which tried in vain to hold back its contents of cornflakes and milk. The table shook, the milk and cornflakes flew as the bowl wobbled. “Sorry,” the bowl whispered to him. The Times newspaper extended its centre page spread to try and protect him. His six year old son Bittu, a beautiful child with a mop of curly hair, fair skin and impeccable features, dived for cover under the table. At this impressionable age, Bittu was hooked onto proverbs and idioms in a big way and as he disappeared under the folds of the tablecloth, he muttered, “Out of Sight, Out of Mind.”

“Why?!” thundered Rupa in a voice that would have soiled the diapers of most brave hearts including Attila the Hun. “Why would you want to do something this stupid?” Rupa stood with her hands on her hips, nostrils flared and a wild look about her, daring her husband to respond. Rupa was beautiful, with long flowing hair, hazel eyes a full mouth. She was a virago to her poor husband, but the outside world only saw a beautiful wife that this runt of a man did not deserve.

 Realizing that the newspaper provided little cover and lesser defense, he emerged looking like a handkerchief left out in the rain. Despite his precarious position, Rupa’s beauty always left him breathless and out of air.

“A wish..that’s all…only a tiny wish”, he offered lamely.

“Tiny?!”, screamed Rupa. “Mr Wasim Mukesh Dinkar, the highest you have ever climbed is to the level of a supervisor in your bank in ten years time, from the post of a clerk, a position you joined in. And you now want to climb the 2700 ft. plus Burj Khalifa, the tallest building in the world?! I will not allow it! Do you remember that the only time we visited the Burj after paying through our noses, you collapsed INSIDE the observatory at the 124^th floor! You are acrophobic; you will possibly faint and fall at the height of ten floors. Even if the exertion doesn’t kill you the fear will! You want to try and climb a hundred and sixty floors!  You are crazy!!”

“Three…” he weakly countered.

“What?!!”

“One Hundred and Sixty Three,” he croaked, looking at his feet, chastised.

Rupa looked at him as though something a cat brought home from the garbage dump.

“For the last time, NO! And who names their child Wasim Mukesh Dinkar? You sound like a joint stock company! God! I hate this life!” Saying so Rupa stomped off to the kitchen.

“It’s okay Bittu, you can come out now,” said  WMD, after the kitchen door had given him a thumbs up that his adversary was safely away and had now turned her wrath to the bowl of lentils on the stove.

As a child, WMD had learnt that he was so christened because his father Mr. Dinkar, who had had two very close friends- Wasim and Mukesh, though Mr WMD had never seen either of them. His father had lamented that Wasim and Mukesh had drowned at sea when the three of them had once ventured too far, and Mr Dinkar was the only survivor of that trauma. Since his name was so long it was cut short to WMD by his colleagues.

However, WMD had not lived most of his life glorifying any memories. He was an apology of a man; he stood five feet two inches, weighed 120 lbs, had excelled neither in academics nor in sport and had an indifferent health. He was an object of ridicule in school, college, work and now in his married life as well. His exodus to the Middle East from his humble roots in Mumbai was more to escape the contempt and derision of his social circle than the lure of the lucre. Providence had smiled and he had secured an entry level job in a local bank. This was years before the pressures of Nitaquat had stifled the flow of migrant workers into the Middle East. He had few friends, and socializing was restricted to the occasional bank parties, where he usually sulked in the corner while Rupa basked in all the attention. WMD had regressed in life, going back to the prenatal fetal position, curled up and alone. His sole friend was Daljit whom he had known since childhood and who was WMD’s protector. Daljit was a complete antithesis to WMD. He was six feet two, a national swimmer in school and college and had been coaxed to apply for the same bank in Dubai by WMD. They had come together and worked together. After four years, Daljit had quit the menial bank job to set up his very successful wealth management firm and was handling the assets of most of the wealthy sheikhs (“Including their harems!” he had told WMD). He was uber- rich and single, though ever ready to mingle. Other than Daljit who visited him frequently and regaled him with stories of his exploits, WMD’s friends were his potted plants in his small balcony. He spent his spare time, nurturing and tending to his plants and discovered that he could communicate with them. Slowly WMD learnt that what humanity had denied him, lower life and inanimate objects supplemented in full. WMD could make friends and converse with any plant, animal, insect or an object; with ANYTHING.

Ever since Bittu was born, WMD was increasingly gnawed internally by his deficiencies. This was brought to the fore when late one night he was standing at his balcony and watering his plants on a particularly hot day. As a parched cactus greedily slurped the water he poured, it said, “Hey WMD, how will you ever become a father figure for Bittu? Who will he look up to? Will you ever become his role model?”

“What do I do?” said WMD miserably.

“Oh! Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” piped up the water canister in his hand. “Do something momentous, something unthinkable and out of this world!”

He had confided in Daljit too. Daljit had thought for long, looked hard at his friend and had said, “The only way to beat fear is to overcome it by doing something dangerous and totally out of your character. Can you do it?”

“Come,” said his computer as a forlorn WMD sat down at his study desk one night, “Let’s explore what you could do.”  

And so for the next three years he and the computer had explored. They had together debated on his participating in reality shows such as Fear Factor, or Wipe-out, had researched bungee jumping and sky diving. He realized with growing dismay that any of these activities required skill, intelligence and endurance; qualities that WMD was bereft of.

About three years ago, one day as he was passing the gleaming and majestic Burj Khalifa on his way to office,  he remembered how the French “Spiderman” Alain Roberts had scaled the monument in a little over six hours…. and suddenly VIOLA! WMD knew what he had to do. Though filled with a dizzy fear, he was resolute.

Every day thereafter, he would visit the Burj Khalifa and try and strike up a conversation. The first day he was able to strike up a conversation with the beautiful fountains at the base, which were not encouraging at all, “The Burj is a snooty one. With all the adulation she receives, she has got her head stuck in the clouds. We feel for you man…but we don’t think that you will be able to move her.”

The next day and the days that followed, he moved around the base of the Burj, caressing the shining steel and glass and tried in vain to strike a conversation. WMD was able to communicate mentally, without verbal articulation and appeared as just another admirer to pedestrians. He then spent a futile week walking the corridors of the Dubai Mall and even bribed a courier delivery boy to visit the corporate offices and suites. A week later, WMD was able to get a sympathetic hearing from the canteen boy at his bank, Ali.

“I have a friend, Hanif, who cleans the windows at the Burj,” he said. He works for Cox Gomyl, the Australian company who has the cleaning contract for the Burj. I will speak to him. But he could lose his job if they found out!”

On a Friday, which was a holiday, Hanif was able to smuggle WMD into the Burj. He was assigned the 80^th floor for window cleaning. Getting into the steel cages which ran on rails on the outer facade of the Burj, WMD looked through the meshed steel floor at the miniature lives hundreds of feet below and felt his legs turn to jelly as a wave of nausea engulfed him. He turned back and exited the building as fast as he could.

The next two years, unknown to his family, WMD enrolled in a rock climbing course, starting with indoor climbing with heights as low at 6 meters. Classes and equipments were expensive, but making excuses to Rupa was even more difficult. Yet WMD had a single-mindedness of purpose: To overcome acrophobia and learn basic climbing skills. He had of course taken Daljit into confidence and used his apartment to change in and out of his gear.

“Well you are light, so that’s good but you are scared so that’s bad. I would give you a 50:50 chance of success”, his instructor had opined. “And please get powered goggles…these simply will not do”, he said pointing to the apologetic horn rimmed apparatus that clung on to the sparse features of WMD.

In WMD however, the instructor found a willing learner, who was simply determined to become an intrepid climber.

At the end of the 18 months, the instructor summoned his class of fifty and said, “This weekend we will go deep-water soloing in the Musandam peninsula in Oman. You will get to scale cliffs of up to a hundreds of feet.  We will leave on Friday and return by Saturday late night. How many are keen?” Thirty hands went up.

“Free soloing is different from free climbing”, he said. “In free climbing, you are climbing with your bare hands and feet but you are harnessed by a rope. In free soloing, you have no rope, no harness. So falling is not an option ordinarily.” The coach smiled, as a gasp went up from the crowd.

“However, in Musandam in places the land rises straight from the ocean in knife-edged fins. “We will use these cliffs; push up the walls as far as we can and simply then tumble into the water. You will need to fall into the sea feet first, so you should be fine, if you are careful. So, how many are still game?” Fourteen hands remained. WMD was in.

That evening WMD agonized about telling Rupa. Finally he meekly explained that his bank had nominated him for an offsite training programme for the weekend in Oman. She had actually seemed pleased after a long time. “Finally,” she said. “Finally, some recognition comes your way.”

In the Musandam expedition where thirteen including the trainer participated, eight fell into the water after scaling heights of 30 to 50 ft. WMD began talking to the cliff as he made his climb. The cliff after an initial period of silence got interested and sympathetic towards WMD’s cause. Magically, crevices and toe-holds began to appear from the sheer sides of the cliff helping WMD scale up to over 300 feet. He was aching and his limbs were sore, but he was afraid to push off and jump.

“Don’t worry,” said the kind cliff. “I will help you on the way down”. Ledges and crevices appeared and held onto WMD as he worked his way down the precipitous slope.

The instructor stood at the base, open mouthed in amazement. “Well, I have never seen anyone come down these sheer rocks before! How did you do that?”

At work that Sunday, there was a spring in Mr WMD’s steps. He sought out Ali. “Tell Hanif. I want to go again.”

The next Friday, Hanif was surprised to see a very different WMD jauntily come into the cage and lean over precariously to try and touch the glass walls and the steel railings of the Burj. “Careful,” Hanif said, “Losing my job would be bad enough; I do not want to be culpable of homicide too.”

Unknown to Hanif, WMD had finally been able to break through the silence of the Burj! “Yes, I know that you have been sniffing around and caressing my feet for months now!” said the Burj speaking for the first time. WMD could not believe that the Burj had spoken! At such a great height, with wind speeds of over 60 kmph, at first he had mistaken it for the howling of the wind.

“Please, I need your help,” implored WMD.

“Why?” countered the Burj  “Do you think that I like nothing better than having five feet something men conquer me all the time and trying to feed their masochism?” she said. “Tom Cruise with his MI 4 team was fine, as it gave me a chance to star in one of the most popular Hollywood franchise, Alain was incredibly skillful….but YOU!! Don’t you have any respect for one of mankind’s greatest creation?”

WMD begged and pleaded but to no avail. “You will have to reason with my mind…trying to endear yourself to my heart will not help. You are at the 97^thfloor, please go above 150^th floor to the top and appeal to my mind. That’s your only hope”. 

“How do I get above the 150^th floor?” he asked Hanif. “The only way would be if you know a resident or a corporate who has a suite”, replied Hanif.

WMD spoke to Daljit who said, “Yes…I may be able to help. My client Mr Walter’s from the US has a suite at the 152^nd floor. He has trading interests in this part of the world and is due to visit in a month. I could take you as a colleague. However….” Daljit hesitated. “You understand that we will be discussing confidential issues relating to his investments. You have to promise to make yourself scarce.”

The next month WMD stepped up his rock climbing practice. He breathed, ate and slept over nothing else but on honing his skills and preparing for his upcoming rendezvous with lady Burj.

Stepping into Mr Walter’s luxurious suite WMD was for a minute left breathless by the panoramic view of beautiful Dubai and the ocean from the ample glass windows all around. He then reminded himself that this was not the time to admire external aesthetics but to appeal to the rationale of the Burj and test whether she was really as beautiful from inside.

After preliminary pleasantries, WMD excused himself on the pretext of exploring the apartment, while Daljit and their host got down to business.

As he was trying to connect with Burj’s mind standing in the middle of Mr Walter’s study, Burj suddenly said, “Don’t even think of it. You can try and scale me. However you will fail. And I can do nothing to help. If lesser beings such as you are allowed to clamber all over me, I will become the architectural laughing stock of this planet. Perish the thought and leave.”

WMD started relaying his life and what this challenge would mean to him. “And I promise to attempt this in the dead of the night, without any publicity. This is something I need to prove for myself and not the world. But you are right. I am insignificant creation of the Almighty and I will not be able to do this without your assistance.”

Finally the Burj relented, “I am amused by the unreasonableness of your request. I acquiesce only out of curiosity. But remember. NO PUBLICITY. No people, no press, no cameras. If I see anyone other than you within a mile’s radius, I will toss you off. If you need medical assistance, ensure that the ambulance is outside this radius. However, you will need to take permission. I have no idea how you plan to secure it.”

As WMD profusely thanked the Burj and turned to go, she said, “And remember, please examine weather conditions for the climb. If there is a desert storm, wind speeds will climb up to 100kmph and you will be swept away like a rag doll. Even I cannot save you then.”

Now as Bittu’s anxious face appeared from under the table, WMD helped him up and perched him on his lap.

Bittu’s eyes were wet with tears of pride and he flung his arms across his father’s neck and whispered in his ear, “Cool Dad! The Burj! Can I tell my friends about it?”

“No Bittu, never. Not now, not afterwards. Promise me.”

 Bittu high-fived his father, solemnized the promise and said, “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t look at a gift horse in the mouth.”

 For permission Daljit came to his rescue once again. Luckily, he was managing the investments for some of the directors of Emaar Properties and was able to secure permission for a specific day and specific time: Saturday 17^th August 2013 between midnight and 7 am. The day was almost a month after Ramadan and before the string of events started off in the city- Trade fairs, Christmas and New Year Celebrations, the Dubai Shopping Festival.

WMD was ecstatic. Though the climb was less than a month away, August would be the best month for the attempt, with little threat of rain or sandstorm.

He remembered Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist “And, when you want something, the entire universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.”  Yet, would seven hours be enough?

Daljit was also instrumental in convincing Rupa that it would be perfectly safe. All protective and the best equipment and gear would be bought. He had also used his influence with Emaar to allow them to fix a safety net at level 10. Emaar had also agreed to put up “maintenance work” signboards around the Burj to keep any stray persons at bay.

WMD shopped for the best equipment; new climbing shoes, aluminum carabineers, tubular nylon webbing, harness and belay devices. The best braided nylon fibre rope of kermantle construction was out of stock, but given Daljit’s connection in the sports equipment and industry, this would arrive by Thursday giving those two clear days.

WMD went every day to speak to the Burj. The night before, he fell down on his knees in front of the fountains while the sound and light show was still on and raised his arms to the majestic silhouette of the lady gleaming off the lights and ostentation of the city from her glass and steel face.

“I am impressed,” said the Burj. “I have never been serenaded by anyone in this manner before. You have nothing to fear. Go and sleep well tonight. You will need all your strength tomorrow.”

“The only thing I am worried about is that the rope has not yet arrived.” If it does not come by tomorrow morning, I will have to call it off.”

The next morning an ecstatic Daljit called him and said that the rope had reached and that he would personally collect it and deliver it at the earliest.

By 11pm that night, WMD was strapped up and ready to go. An hour ago, he had put Bittu to sleep wondering if he would be seeing the child again. Daljit was there to drive him to the Burj and had also spoken to the hospital to keep an ambulance and paramedics on standby. Rupa sat in a corner, sobbing silently and when WMD crossed her to exit the main door; she turned her face to him, her tears like pearls lit up by the moonlight streaming in.  Her visage of ethereal beauty momentarily blinded WMD. He paused in mid stride, feeling that he could die happily with her look etched on his heart.

Getting into the car, he asked Daljit, “I forgot to check the weather…all clear?”

“Yes, clean as a whistle,” Daljit smiled at him.

“How are you even attempting this without any assistance?” asked Daljit. “Even Alain Roberts has assistants every 30-40 floors handling and managing the ropes while he climbed.”

WMD could not tell Daljit that every floor would extend its arm to help him.

When Daljit had deposited him at the foot of the Burj and left, WMD checked his equipment, his supplies, donned his headgear and goggles. He saw the safety netting above him and adequate “Keep Away” signboards. Looking up the sheer face which disappeared into the night, he simply said, "Here I am.”

“I am waiting,” she said. “Begin your climb.” So dressing up his climbing knot, WMD began. The steel structures reached out to provide him grip, the glass yielded to give his climbing shoes purchase. Talking and climbing, WMD reached the 50^th floor in an hour. Good going. The wind speed picked up as he progressed, the city lights dwarfing with his climb. Ninety five floors in three hours. Sweating profusely, he stepped onto a ledge for his carbs and water break. Directing his head torch, he checked his temperature and his pressure gauge. The pressure gauge read 965 millibars which was fine. The temperature gauge however showed 12 degrees below the temperature at the base of the Burj. This was strange. He estimated that he would have climbed a little over 1500 ft. and the thumb rule was a drop of 3 degrees for every 1000 ft. So it was 6 degrees cooler.

It was a little after 3:30am and time was running out. Zipping back his supplies and adjusting his gear, WMD was up and on his way, eager to accomplish his goal. “Yes,” he thought as he neared the 105^th floor, “It was decidedly getting colder.” And the wind speed seemed to be picking up, buffeting him about, and making it more difficult to reach out to the helping hands of the girders.

Suddenly a black flapping falcon careened out of nowhere and hovered above him. “Hurry up!” it screeched. “There is a sand storm coming!”

The Burj barked orders, “Quick! He must reach floor 125! That is the closest exit point!”

The Burj acquired malleability as he had not experienced so far and he felt himself being pulled, guided, propelled upwards even as he swayed dangerously in the wind.

Too late! From behind and beneath him the swirling clouds of the desert storm blinded and suffocated him. He pitched and yawed, slamming against the Burj repeatedly. WMD was badly injured and bleeding from his face and close to losing consciousness. Suddenly the rope snapped and he felt himself in a free fall. The last he remembered was the glass shattering at the 27^th floor and a sharp panel trying in vain to stop his fall, piercing and ripping his jacket. Then he knew no more.

WMD woke up to find himself floating in a hospital room. Below he saw his mangled bloodied body swathed in bandage and Rupa, Bittu and Daljit surrounding his body and crying. He saw battle weary doctors and nurses who had lost a life make final notes from a clutch of monitors around the bed. And then he saw me. An ugly mass of protoplasmic rubbery like structure with wisps of vapor emanating from every pore, sitting as a blub on a bed in the corner of the room. I tried to fashion a human face so that WMD could speak to a part of me. It was a poor attempt and I looked even more hideous.

“Who are you and what happened at the Burj?” he asked me. It was time for the introductions.

“At least your memory is working,” I said, a poor attempt at humour. “Everything about you other than your hapless soul is a complete write off. You can call me Efil. No, not Evil. E-F-I-L. Life spelt backwards.”

“Who the hell are you?” said WMD getting agitated and exhibiting a higher degree of Brownian motion and zipping about the room.

“Hell and Heaven are strong words to use in this delicate state of yours,” I said trying to calm him down. And will you stop zipping about and listen to me? “

WMD calmed somewhat.

“Who do you think you have been talking to all these years? Me. All this while, in all the objects around you, in your potted plants. Just as Life justifies animate objects, I Efil justify inanimate objects. I am omnipresent and as you can see I can take the shape of anything. Although I agree that I look quite unflattering when not shaped into the form of an object.”

“Am I dead?” asked WMD.

“Do you remember your high school Physics?” I countered. “Does ice change directly to vapor without becoming liquid?” Alive and dead are absolute definitions given by the human race to define everything in discrete packets. However in reality nothing is discrete. It is all a continuum. You are now in the transient state. You have the choice of going back into that body which may never get repaired or escape into the afterlife. Not a bad choice given the worldly problems of inflation, hate, violence and politics one has to face when living.”

“But I love my family. I did it for Bittu. Is this the way you reward my efforts? I want to go back.”

“Please,” I said. “Get the facts straight and then decide. And DO NOT put this on me or God or whoever. Everyone and everything is there because you wanted it. What madness prompted this zany idea to scale the Burj? Oh I tried my best to first dissuade you and then help you. You think that this fall was an accident? Who advised you to do something dangerous? The rope was defective. Who gave it to you? Who assured you that the weather was ‘as clean as a whistle?’ Yes, Daljit planned it all. Rupa knew too. She had also realized that her opposition would only make you more resolute."

“No! That look on Rupa’s face when I was leaving…” said WMD. “The safety net and the medical assistance arranged by Daljit?”

“Oh, a minor pang of a guilty wife, that’s all.  Daljit returned to have the safety nets removed after you started your climb. Medical help was arranged by the security staff after your fall. And Bittu, that beautiful boy for who you risked everything is not yours. He is Daljit’s. Have you ever seriously seen yourself in the mirror and wondered how did this beautiful child bless your home that had none of your genes? Wake up WMD and smell the coffee.  And I have to agree with Rupa on one thing. Change your name. WMD! Seriously?  Mr Weapon of Mass Destruction, stop living the life of Walter Mitty Daily. Do you still want to go back?” I asked.

WMD had become perfectly still now. “Yes I do.”

“Jesus! What a loser!” I said as I molded myself back to the bedpost.

“I will surprise you,” said WMD as the body on the bed started twitching and cries of disbelief and frenzied resuscitation activity filled the room.

Three months later WMD stood at the door of his house bags packed. In his hand he held a briefcase.

Rupa and Daljit sat on the couch, heads down.

WMD said, “Rupa, all you ever wanted from me is in this briefcase. Details of files, investments, locker keys, bank statements. You probably won’t need them. I don’t either.”

Then raising his voice he called out, “Bittu!”; Bittu came out running,  all dressed and clasped his father’s hand.

“No, not my son!” screamed Rupa rushing towards them. “You don’t know...Bittu…”

WMD firmly pushed her aside. “I know everything. It’s not the child’s fault.”

As he and Bittu stepped over the threshold, WMD turned for one last time and said, “One more thing. If the two of you ever seek the custody of Bittu or if I die from any cause whatsoever, I have left instructions for a letter to be released which would not be good for the two of you. This letter contains my affidavit on my near death experience and the complicity of you two. There is supporting evidence too- such as Daljit removing the safety nets. So far you two have plotted my death. From now on, pray for my long life.”

As father and son stepped hand in hand out into the sunshine, he looked down at Bittu and said. “Let’s fill up our lungs with this wonderful air and taste freedom. Have you heard of a place called the Musandam Peninsula…?”