My name is Nagari. I am thirty years old. I had only just bathed and my hair was still wet when there was a knock at door of my rented room. I opened it to three welldressed men. When I saw their jeep in the front yard, I knew why why they had come. Before they had even uttered their firm, heavy speech, I already understood what was happening. The three men took me to a house. It had a long corridor lined with endless doorways and a cold, slippery floor. Below the high ceilings, footsteps and whispers echoed with a strange hiss. It was like an old, disused hotel and the air moved feebly within it.

I came to a room. the three men bid me in, each with a polite sweep of the hand. Inside the room was a table made of wood and metal, with two chairs tucked into its either side. The clock on the wall resounded with a piercing tick and the air was heavy with a dust that pained my throat. When the door closed behind me., I felt it was urging me into a pool of sand. The sound of the ticking clock was giving me goose bumps. I already knew why I had been brought into this room.

Only a week had passed since a friend of mine had warned me that this might happen. At the time, I found it hard to take her seriously. I had heard lots of stories about the weird and ilogical things that happen to people. Like when a friend of mine was kidnapped in the middle of the night, blindfolded and taken away. She was driven around and around, to where she doesnt remember. And all that time, not one of the kidnappers said a word to her! All she heard was the sound of marching footsteps, and the sound of the trigger of an unloaded pistol being pulled again and again. And what do you call that? Terror ? Intimidation? A mysterious incident? In the end she was returned to her house in a perfect state. Her body revealed nit the slightest scratch to reveal what she had been through. All that was left of the incident was an expression which, when i looked into her face, told of deep trauma. From the sockets of ther eyes grew a great tree whoseroots were dense with fear.

But there's a difference between listening and remembering. And even though i knew that what had happened to my friend could happen to anyone, I never imagine that anyone would be me. As it turned out, itdid happen to me. But I was a little luckier than my friend. At least i knew that something had been planned for me, and I was ready for it. There in, in that house, there was no need for explanation. That room said more than any explanation. *******************

My name is Nagari.Occupation? Sometimes I write, sometimes I sing. If you could call what i do an occuopation, my occupation is entertaining people. "Adress?" "But dont you already know, Bapak?"I looked hard at his eyes which seemed to be without nerves for they hardly ever blinked. "It's just procedure. Your address, saudari ?'' he repeated, patiently. "Rented houde number 2212''

The man drew his lips tightly closed. He was wearing a leather jacket and a white shirt, the cuffs of which were grubby. His lips were nicotine-black. His fingers were thick and rough. But beneath the 25-watt light, his face shone and was ready for action. "I'm hopping for you co-operation, saudari, so we can get this over with quickly. I am tired and I Know you are also tired. So let's co-operate...'' The men's voice had all the forced politeness of the stiff bureaucrat that my friends at the Gallery reveled in mimicking.

"Do you understand me, saudari?'' continued the man."No!'' I retorted, and the man raised his eyebrouws. For some reason his smile got broader and thinner as he groped in his pocket and finally fished out a cigarette. Do you smoke, saudari ?'' "Sometimes ..." "Modern woman usually smoke ..." He muttered. "I'm sure you understand saudari. I'll be straight with you. Many people admire your writing and your singing . I'm one of those people who fell that something of the day is missing if you column doesn't oppear in the morning paper. The man exhaled his cigarette smoke in to the light, and it etched abstract shapes in to the airborne dust, sometimes like clouds, sometimes like animals, and sometimes like strange symbols. "As a friend, I apologize for my impertinence. As an admirer, I would really like to know what caused you to remove your womb on 22 December last year ?''

For good sake ! The more I thought about the man's question, the more it left me baffled. Damn it And I had assumed that it was an English-language newspaper in the capital that I had the honor of being invited into that room. Damn! I was way off and, surprisingly, this disappointed me. All this not for my womb!!?? What do you mean, Bapak?'' My head creaked with comfusion. "Womb? You mean, Bapak, the removal or my womb a year ago?" "yes, on 22 December at 11.30 am in a private hospital..." declared the man in a discomforting tone. "I don't understant, Pak..." "I understant your confusion, saudari. Maybe you think what you did was quite normal. That is your right, saudari. It is your basic right. We understand that -