J.O.N has Kuri

#KuriStory. #HeyKuri.

It is rare in life when something has an impact so powerful over us, we base the rest of our lives on it. Even rarer when that something is as simple as a good hot meal.

For the Junior Operator of Non-humanoids, or J.O.N, it was a local dish of curry – and lazily put together, at that - in the not-so-heard-of village of Munkda in the human state of Delhi.

He was the first ever biological specimen to reach such a high rank – the second highest available, right after Senior Operative – in the non-humanoid division of the intergalactic syndicate for universal conquest, and he came this far for having nothing less than zero tolerance for empathy and colorful emotions of the sort… but by the time that spoonful of hot... sizzling, sauce-dripping, and mind-boggling exotic mixture of herbs and spices went down his throat…

Well, suffice to say he had lost complete interest in universal domination. Or for any kind of domination for that matter. In fact, that violent yet coherent taste, perfectly harmonizing with his three tongues and two digesting systems, made him wonder why there were galactic wars in the first place. Why, for the love of our arbitrary evolutionary events, are we fighting at all? How could we engage in such pathetic endeavors while such wonder exists? Nobody should be denied this pleasure, no matter how inferior!

“We had this all wrong!” he thinks, outraged, as he stomps his fisted seven fingers on the cracked wooden bar of the small curry stand. It rattles, and some of the sample dishes spill, angering the poor little cook – or marvelous genius in the eyes of J.O.N – who had naïvely mistaken the deadly inter-galactic assassin standing in awe in front of him for some oversized child to a disgustingly rich family which spoils him with over the top cosplay costumes while he barely manages to feed his grandmother. “You pay for that you brat!" The cook shouted in his language.

“What’s this called?” J.O.N asked, gesturing at the bowl he held. The cook, raising both brows at the incoherent gibberish which just came out of the brat’s mouth (suspecting it’s some tricky way to insult him without him noticing), said “You pay for that Curry. For all the Curry you spilled, too.”

“Ku-Ri?" J.O.N asked, hoping for confirmation. Those two syllables were enough for the cook to understand. “yes. Curry. You pay for it. I work hard on my Curry. Well, except for today... I’m a bit distracted. My daughter got a scholarship for Harvard and she’s leaving today to get a degree in robotics. I miss her already, she loves my Curry, she…” He trailed off, wiping away tears.

“Kuri”, the word echoes in J.O.N’s brains… a sought after enlightenment. For the first time in his adult life he removes his third hand (his trigger-happy hand) from the small yet deadly laser launcher concealed in his armor, and instead uses it to flip off the cook (the highest regarded sign of admiration in the syndicate for universal conquest) which had the cook madly vaulting atop his stand, knocking over the rest of his samples, in order the choke the life out of this condescending good for nothing brat, only to land face first in the dirt.

As angry as the poor cook was, he didn’t know - and likely he never will - that his delicious curry just saved the earth from a ruthless invasion.

J.O.N reappeared back in his courters in the syndicate’s HQ, and immediately started construction of the robot that would help him eradicate this blood-thirsty organization and bring long-awaited peace to the galaxy. Help him by maintaining his household while he was away - he wanted the place appropriate enough for a universe of peace and curry, after all.

A cute little machine, white colored, with happy and admiring eyes, created best to imitate the feeling he had while eating the spectacular human dish.

A machine destined to watch over his courters as he goes off to end all violence…with more violence. Yes, it might sound a bit flawed, but it’s all he has ever known in life.

Many moons later, after much sweat blood and tears were poured into his work, the guardian robot still failed to activate. The reason for which unclear to J.O.N, he suddenly burst into tears (That dish of curry also seemed to have melted his literally stone-cold heart. Good thing he went for the extra spicy version). During all that time, he grew fond of little Kuri. He kept fantasizing about her wandering around his quarters, keeping the place clean for him, keeping it tidy and nice, and making it a… loving… place for him to return after his crusade is complete.

A loving place.

And now, as his precious Kuri doesn’t activate, doesn’t power on, doesn’t open her loving admiring eyes, the image is shattered, the fantasy is in pieces, and his tears are not under his control anymore.

Dammit. What is this warm feeling in his gut? What is it? Why is it so pleasant, yet so painful at the same time? For the life of him, he can’t seem to identify it. But you know and I both know the guy’s experiencing love. Not exactly the same as he felt for the curry - this was not awe or admiration. This was something quite different, something he couldn’t really describe. And it’s not his fault. Nobody in this galaxy ever managed to describe love as it is. Perhaps no one ever will. But we’ll know it still.

“But… But I love you, Kuri. I love what you would become. You have to power on… Because I love you.”

And as if on cue, after admitting love for the first time in all of his long life of death and destruction, Kuri powers on for him. For J.O.N.

She powers on because she has to. Because her papa loves her.

As her loving and admiring eyes flicker for the first time, J.O.N realizes what he’d done. He’d created a loving object meant to do good, in the headquarters of the galactic embodiment of evil. Her very essence is not allowed to exist here. One more reason he must fight off this cursed syndicate he once called home. But Kuri must be safe. She cannot be harmed. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she’s harmed. He doesn’t want to know.

Thus one night when a simple poor curry chef’s daughter came to visit him back in his home, she found a cute little white robot on the doorstep, with loving and admiring eyes and a note attached to it: It said, "Kuri".

She examined it, was blown away by the advanced technology inside, and with the help of her Ph.D. managed to reverse engineer her, and the rest… well the rest is history.

The original Kuri remained in the cook’s home, and even when his daughter was away changing the world, he never felt alone anymore. And his curry making never suffered again.

This was the #kuristory.

#HeyKuri.