Chapter 1
The market was bustling with people and Tala had a hard time stepping around everyone, and through the narrow pathways between the stands. She held two bags, full of vegetables and melons in her hands, and she was trying to make it back to her bike. The bags were heavy, and at this point she normally would have been slightly miffed at her slow proceedings, but the day was too lovely to ruin with anger. The sun was high and hot, but there was a fair breeze and the market smelled so good, of incense and spice. She smiled to herself as she wandered along, and tried to decide what to prepare for dinner.
All of a sudden, through the hustle she thought she heard her name being called. She stopped and glanced about, but seeing no one, continued on. A moment later there was another shout and she looked behind her to see an arm waving above the shoulders of a group of people in the way. She paused, wondering who it was. A little man came out from around the crowd, a bright smile upon his face. Tala grinned.
"Ravi! How are you?"
"Wonderful. Lovely day, isn't it Tala?" he asked, approaching her. He gave her a hug, then stood back.
"Well what are you doing in town?" she questioned, setting down her bags.
"I'm showing a guest around."
"Oh yes?" she asked, mildly interested, "Where is this guest?"
Ravi looked around, then pointed to a stand across the street. "Seems I've lost him over there. Quite curious he is, about everything."
Tala followed his arm and saw a taller man, his back to her, peering down at a table top full of hand-crafted instruments. His hair was shoulder-length and wavy, dark brown, but not black . . . he wasn't a native. Ravi grinned.
"Aren't you interested in who it is?"
Tala shifted her eyes back to Ravi. He didn't normally make his visitors known.
"Who?"
"A very beloved student of mine, from England."
"Oh, the English lad you taught a few years ago. And he's visiting?"
"Yes, on holiday. Well, here he comes now."
Tala looked up to see the man approaching. He was wearing robes and walked slowly, his eyes taking everything in. Then he looked up and his glance caught hers and he seemed to slow. She smiled, then looked back at Ravi. He smiled up at his guest and took him lightly by the arm.
"George, I'd like to introduce you to Shakuntala. She goes by the shorter, easier Tala. I've known her since she was a little girl, and now such a lovely woman."
Tala shook her head. She looked back at George and smiled.
"Pay no mind to Ravi. He has his favorites," she said, holding her hand out to him. He wrapped his around hers and shook it slowly and smiled back. She felt a strange, little warmth growing in the pit of her stomach. Such a pretty smile, crooked and gawky, but pretty. And he was quite handsome, very dark, in his hair and eyes . . . such penetrating eyes.
After the handshake ended, she looked back to Ravi, and then to George who's eyes hadn't left her face since the moment she saw him looking at her. She felt a blush come to her cheeks.
"And Tala, this is George Harrison."
She nodded, then frowned as the name caught a bit of recognition in her mind, as if she had heard it before. Both men noticed. Ravi laughed.
"He doesn't like me saying it, but he's George, of Beatle fame."
Tala's lips made an O, and she gave another little nod. Of course she had heard of the Beatles, it just didn't mean too much to her.
"I hope you don't mind George," Ravi said, glancing up at him, "Tala's not one to care."
George smiled. "I don't mind," he said slowly.
Tala glanced at him, liking his voice. It was deeper than she expected, and heavy with an accent, not a typical British one. He stood, smiling at her softly.
"Well, it's very nice to meet you Mr. Harrison," she said, giving him a nod.
"And you . . . Tala. But please call me George."
Ravi intervened before she could reply.
"You know, Tala here is known for her meditation room as well as her special massage oils. I recommend her highly if you have the time, George."
Tala shook her head and gave George an apologetic smile, but she saw that his eyes were lit with genuine interest.
"That sounds really nice," he started.
"Believe me, I didn't ask Ravi to advertise my services. But you are welcome."
He nodded, and opened his mouth to speak, but Ravi interrupted.
"Well, I must be off, and I must take George with me. Many things to do yet today. It was lovely seeing you, Tala dear."
"As always Ravi," she said hugging him again, "Have a nice, relaxing stay, Mr. Harrison," she said then to George, who nodded slightly. Ravi turned away and Tala bent to pick up her bags. She walked a few steps, then felt a hand at her back.
"Tala," came a quiet voice.
She glanced over her shoulder and saw George, standing with a partially confused, partially nervous look on his face. She waited for him to speak.
"I - I . . . do you need help with your bags? Could I help you carry them?" he asked.
She smiled, feeling endeared toward he and his apparent shyness.
"If you'd like. My bike is over there," she said, inclining her head.
He stooped to take the bags from her hands, then followed her lead through the crowd. She felt aware of his eyes on her, and she blushed, trying not to let him notice. When they got to her bike, she took the bags back and set them in her cart.
"Thank you very much," she said, smiling brightly. His mouth broke into an infectious grin and it made her smile wider still.
"Your meditation room sounds very nice. I'd like to come over some time, if that would be alright with you," he said, shuffling his feet slightly.
Tala thought he looked like a little boy, his hair falling in his eyes the way it did. But that was what she found so attractive, his combination of boyish qualities, and the strength of his face and voice. He seemed irresistibly awkward.
"Anytime you'd like. I'm nearly always available," she said, then turned to pull her bike from the wall.
"Sunday, maybe?"
She turned and looked at him, slightly surprised. He must really want to meditate, she thought. Then she noticed something in his eyes, behind them that wasn't so boyish. There was a heaviness and a kind of trapped quality in them and she wondered what had happened.
"Sunday is fine. I don't live so far from Ravi, I'm sure he can give you directions. I'll be there."
He nodded. "Thank you. It was very nice meeting you." She smiled, feeling suddenly light-headed.
"And you."
She turned, and got on her bike, then rolled it out into the street. She looked around, but he had gone, into the crowd. She wondered if he would really come. There was something darkening his soul, she could tell after only a few moments. Perhaps he was seeking healing. She sighed and began to pedal toward her home.
"This won't bother you?"
He gave her that crooked smile and shook his head. She smiled in return, then extended a hand.
"Please sit," she said, lowering herself on the rug.
"Thank you," he replied and sat across from her, his long legs wrapping in a lotus position. She gazed at him from beneath her lashes.
"Are you comfortable?"
"Very."
She looked at him for another moment, let her eyes take in the angularity of his face. He was more handsome than she remembered, especially with his hair brushing his shoulders, falling into his eyes. But there was something else about him, that intensity behind his eyes she glimpsed before.
"What troubles you, Mr. Harrison?"
"George, please," he smiled, then paused. "Are you a mystic?"
She laughed. "Not at all. But there is pressure on your soul. I can feel it."
His face immediately darkened. "Is it that noticeable?"
She gave him a soft, nurturing smile. "Not so much, but I can sense these things."
"What else can you sense?"
She raised a brow. "You need India. It is good, that you are here. Breathe it in George. Let it take you places. Let yourself go."
His lips seemed to tremble at her words, and he leaned closer to her, hand out, then hesitated for a moment, before brushing a strand of hair from her face. She felt a shock through her body, one that was hard to hide. She wondered if her face was betraying her emotions. Strangely, she almost expected that he would touch her.
"I want it to," he said, huskily, "But I need help. My life-"
She brought a finger to his lips and he closed his eyes, a shaking sigh escaping his lips.
"Your life is here now. For this moment, for all moments. Hold it inside of you and think of it whenever you need it," she said, letting her heart impulsively guide her words.
His eyes opened, and they shimmered. His face looked stricken, as a little boy's. She smiled again and leaned forward. His hand cupped her face and their lips met. The kiss was gentle, timid. She drew back slightly and traced her fingertip along his cheekbone, down the line of his jaw. He grasped her hand tightly, but the pressure softened as she kissed him again at the corner of his mouth.
"Help me," he whispered, his hand running through her long, dark hair.
"I will. Let yourself go," she said softly, feeling the tremble of her own body as she realised what was about to happen. Her words were not only directed toward him . . .
Their eyes met once more, and then he was kissing her, pulling her toward him, into his arms. Her hands pressed against the firmness of his chest and she opened her lips to receive the taste of his mouth. His hands moved to her shoulders, where he pushed away the flimsy fabric of her sari. He broke the kiss to gaze at her shoulders, to run his long, thin fingers over her collarbone. She sighed and tilted her head back and he pushed the rest of the sari away to fall to her lap.
"You're so lovely," he breathed, nuzzling against her neck, pressing warm kisses on her burnished skin.
"You're lovely, George. I can feel your goodness," she whispered, running her hands down the length of his arms to catch his hands. She intertwined his fingers with hers and brought them together at his heart.
"Can you feel it?"
He closed his eyes again and a smile came to his mouth. "Yes, Tala. You make me feel this way," he said, his voice like a soft wind.
Gently she tugged on his robes and he raised his arms so she could free him from them. His body was lean and hard, and his arms were defined of sinewy muscle. His skin was hot, and it made her own ardor rise. She let her hands roam along the contours of his torso while he watched, eyes filled with desire. Then she lay back against the pillows that covered the floor and took his hand to guide him to her.
He situated himself on top of her, bracing his weight on an elbow as his free hand made patterns over her breasts, then her belly. She made a low noise in her throat as he touched her in those sensitive places, one that made him smile. He leaned down to kiss each breast, wet, open- mouth kisses that sent spiraling waves of pleasure through her body. She bit her lip and ran her hands up his back, kneading his flesh. Then she let her hands trail to his hips, where the rest of his robes still lay. Slowly, she pushed them down, and he broke from her just for a moment to kick them all of the way off.
She sat up and put her hands on his chest and pushed him down, then straddled herself above him. She leaned, hair cascading around them, to kiss him, and his hands played at her waist, rolling the rest of her sari down, little by little. She rubbed her cheek against his, and ran her tongue along his earlobe, an action that made him groan and grip her tighter. She continued a trail of kisses down his neck and over his chest and let her hand roam in between his legs. He was fully erect and she gently ran her fingertips over the smooth skin there. He groaned again and yanked at her sari, pulling it from her, down to her thighs. She lay on him to remove it totally, then he rolled her over to position himself on top once more.
His breathing had grown fast and perspiration was breaking out on his skin already. She brought her knee up and rubbed against his leg as his hand found her inner thigh. He caressed her gently, but didn't press his fingers into her. The light touch caught the breath in her throat, and she grasped him and pulled him down against her body. He kissed her fervently, his tongue touching, melding with hers. Then she parted her legs further and he pressed into her smoothly. She moaned and arched her back to meet his beginning thrusts. She ran her hands through his hair as he traced his tongue over her breasts. Leaning her head back, she opened her eyes to a hazy world, the tapestries hanging above her, making a swirl of delirious colors. She breathed in incense and sweat and she could taste the salt from his skin. Her body moved with the rhythm he demanded, one that was excruciatingly slow, yet so perfect for this moment. It was as if it could be no other way.
Each of his thrusts seemed calculated. They slipped in and held, then slipped away, then back, all of the time slowly and steadily, with the perfect pressure. She lifted herself to meet him, to feel him more fully inside of her. He began to moan and his breathing came fast and ragged. His hands slipped beneath her shoulder blades to push her up closer to him and the heat of their bodies made her gasp. The intensity of his body and his motion was driving her mad and she arched to him, twining her legs around his, crying out. She could feel herself being taken higher, each thrust pushing her closer and closer to her climax. Her hands clutched his shoulders and she threw her head back. He leaned his face to her neck, and she could feel his warm breath as he gave his final, deep pushes. She cried aloud at the force and shuddered as the orgasm finally took hold of her body. In her bliss she heard him moan and felt his warmth come inside of her. He sighed and lowered himself on her, his breathing still racing. She lay her hands lightly on his back and waited as the cloud of ecstasy dripped from her gradually. She became drowsy, and tenderly pushed the damp hair away from his eyes. He gripped her hand and brought it to his mouth and kissed it.
They lay, spent, for a few moments in the quiet room, slowly realising what they had just done. How it happened so quickly, and with that much passion . . . George then leaned on his elbow and arranged her dark hair over her sweat-beaded breasts. She smiled and closed her eyes. He spoke.
"I didn't expect this. I thought about it, but I never expected it."
"It just happened, didn't it?" she said, opening her eyes, "But that's the way life should be."
He seemed surprised by her answer but said nothing. She gave a little laugh and sat up. She kissed the side of his mouth, then pressed him back on the pillows. She gazed at him, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. She didn't want the mood to become uneasy, so she decided to try an retain an essence of normalcy despite the total oddness of what just happened.
"I'm going to make some tea. Would you like any?"
He nodded. "That would be wonderful, love."
She grinned at his scouse drawl and stood, wrapping a sheet around her naked body. He ran a hand up her leg as she made a knot at her breasts, then watched her go from him to the small stove in the corner of the room. She filled the teapot with water and set in on the burner. From a shelf she took a canister of tea and two cups. She set it all on a tray, along with sugar and honey. Then she turned and walked back to George, who had plumped the pillows and was leaning against them, his arms raised above his head. She sat next to him and he shifted slightly, and wrapped an arm around her, cradling her to him.
"Shakuntala is a beautiful name," he said, looking down at her. "Everything in India is so beautiful. You alone, are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life."
"I'm sure you've seen quite too many to say that," she said, giving him a wry smile.
"No, I swear. You take my breath away. Everything here is so lovely. It's all real, you know? Not fake and contrived like the world I live in."
She glanced up at him to see his brows drawn together in dissension. She reached up to smooth the crease there and he sighed.
"What troubles you?"
"What doesn't? I can't even come to India in peace. It's like I run from my own life. It all looked so good years ago, but now it's hell."
She moved so she could face him. "George, you must do what feels good for you. If you regret what you do in life, than what you're doing is wrong. Trust your heart. Listen to your soul."
"It's not that easy. The band is my life. I say that, and I know it is, but isn't. I want more freedom within the band, and I don't get it, yet I can't leave. I don't know, I think it's falling apart anyway."
She nodded. "I understand. There aren't many choices for you."
"It's just that-" he paused, and frowned severely, "I refuse to talk about this. Not now, not here. Now after what we just did. I always have been one to kill the mood," he mumbled.
Tala smiled. "Don't be so hard on yourself. What we just did was wonderful. We were both concentrated on each other, which made it perfect. And the mood needn't diminish if we don't let it."
He gave a chuckle and looked at her, not speaking for a moment. "How do you make everything so easy? Things that are right in front of my face, and I can't even see!"
"It takes time," she assured, rubbing her hand over his chest.
"Well, when we made love . . . it was better than anything I've ever done. It was as if I could feel your soul and mine together, I didn't feel that it was me making love to you. I felt like I was floating above you, or within you, or somewhere. But I've never felt like that before. Never."
"It was special," she whispered, blushing, "It was as nothing I've experienced."
He bent his head and kissed her softly. "Tala, dark lady love. If I were any good I'd write a song for you."
"George, have a little faith. Next time you mediate, why don't you think about something you want to change about yourself. Then when you finish, you'll feel better about it. You'll reach an acceptance level. That's what I do when I need to search within myself."
He nodded. "I'll try that. Meditating always helps."
She smiled. "It interests me, that you are so captivated by my India. My home."
"I never would have thought myself. Five years ago I couldn't imagine such a thing. I was such a daft kid. I didn't care about anything but rock and roll, the band and having a shag." He shook his head. "Now, I see that India is part of my life. I feel that I am part of this place. That's why I'm trying to bring India to the West. The culture and the music. That's the one good thing about the time we're living in now. Everyone's much more open about new things. Sitar in rock and roll? No one would have thought, only a few years ago. Granted, half the people who care are on permanent drugs, but, what can you do?"
"You can't tell me you haven't been doing these drugs as well."
He shrugged. "I have. But, after LSD, I realised that what I'm searching for isn't in drugs. They've given me the freedom to see what I need, but they don't give it to me. That's why I've come here, to find it for myself, not through some chemical. But like I said, most people who are open to experimentation in music are on drugs. Kind of a shame it has to be that way."
"Well George, people are going to be the way they are. You can't change them. You can only change yourself. And it's hard. I've done it and it's never easy facing bad things about yourself that need to be changed. Some people are too lazy for that."
He nodded, his face dark and brooding again. She wondered if he was thinking about the band, or maybe himself. Water began to sputter and hiss on the stove and she rose quickly to remove the pot from the scalding burner. Placing it on the tray she carefully lifted it and walked slowly back to the rug. George reached up to take it and he set it on the ground.
"Let me," he said, wrapping his hand around the handle of the pot, to pour the tea through the strainer set above the cups.
"Honey or sugar?"
"Honey, please," she replied, charmed by such a little action.
He grinned and spooned a bit of the glistening, amber-colored substance into her cup. Then he licked his finger, having caught a bit of it by accident.
"Mmm, good," he said, smiling and raising his brows. As he dropped a cube of sugar into his tea, she dipped her finger into the jar of honey, leaned over and gently drew it along his lower lip. His eyes met hers and she leaned in to seductively lick it off. He opened his mouth and touched his tongue to hers, which led to a deepening kiss. When they broke, he shook his head.
"Don't do that," he mumbled, caressing her face, "You tempt me too much." The corners of her mouth twisted up slightly at the ends.
"That's why I did it."
He tilted his head a bit and reached to tug at the knot of the sheet around her body. It loosened and he drew it away. She sat watching him expectantly as he pushed the tray across the floor out of they way. He took her into his arms and kissed her, then gently lowered her against the pillows.
"Again?" she asked, a laugh in her voice.
"Oh, again and again," he breathed, his hand cupping her breast.
A thrill ran through her, almost a feeling of nervous butterflies and she smiled.
His lovemaking wasn't so slow this time, wasn't as drugged and disconnected. The feelings were sharper, and he moved within her faster. And this time their orgasm came together and their eyes met at the same moment. His sparkled and snapped with feverish passion and then he lowered his head as he moaned in the throws of the ecstacy that grabbed hold of him. She cried out too, a low groan that reduced to silent gasps as the waves rocked her throughout. He collapsed beside her, his arms spread out wide and chest heaving.
"God, what you do to me," he said, voice still trembling between gasps after a few minutes.
Suddenly feeling her passion rising again at the sound of his voice, that drowsy accent, she turned and began kissing his neck, gently sucking on his skin there. His hand ran down her back and played between the curve of her waist and hips. She moved on top of him and he sought for her mouth, kissing her deeply.
"Again," she whispered, rubbing her hand between his legs.
Not having to be told twice, he grasped her at her waist at positioned her just so he could slip himself inside of her comfortably. She groaned aloud, and he drew her down again and again creating the most delicious friction she had felt yet. Seeing her pleasure, he raised his own hips to support her, to make sure he was inside of her fully. He pulled her to him and kissed her skin, dragging his tongue over her breasts. Her hair enveloped them, a waterfall of darkness that separated them from all of the world.
One of his hands grabbed behind her neck and directed her face to his, where he kissed her until she had to break away to take a breath.
"Tala," he moaned, eyes closing, hands tangling in her hair.
He continued to thrust and she leaned back as she again felt the orgasm sweltering within her, luring her into throws of passion. She closed her eyes and felt tears drip from the corners of her eyes. His heat came into her and she could feel him guide her to lay on top of him. His arms encircled her and she rested her cheek against his chest. There she could feel the rapid beating of his heart and hear his quick breaths.
"Love, are you crying?" he asked, after a little while, running the tip of his finger at the corner of her eye.
She took a moment to catch her breath, then answered, "I sometimes cry. Not really cry, but when I feel that passion taking hold of me, it sometimes grips me so hard that tears fall."
There was a moment of silence, then he ran his hand over her hair.
"That's beautiful," he said quietly.
"Is it?" she asked, turning her head to face him. He nodded. She sat up and moved off of him and her eyes fell on the tray that had been pushed away. She leaned over to take her cup, then put it to her lips.
"Cold," she said, making a face.
He grinned. "We'll have to make some more."
"Well I wouldn't want to go to the trouble just to have it . . . go cold again," she said, arching a brow.
"Let me make some more, and if it goes cold again, well, sod it."
She laughed and he grabbed his robes to cover his nakedness, then took the tray and went to the stove. As he was busying himself, Tala spread the sheet out over the rug and propped the pillows more fully. Then she pulled a blanket from the back of a chair and covered herself with it. George came back after a moment and slipped under the blanket, then threw the robe aside.
"While that's warming up, what do you want to do?" he asked, his mouth forming that crooked grin of his. She shook her head, but laughed in spite of herself.
"Catch my breath!"
He laughed and smoothed back his hair. He looked at her then and put his arms around her.
"Tell me. What does your name mean?"
She smiled. "Do you often talk about women's names when you've finished making love?" she questioned.
"No. But it's just that I think I've said your name so often this past hour that it's stuck in my head for all time."
When she realised he was talking about the times he called her name in his passion, she blushed.
"Shakuntala is the name of a work by Kalidasa. He was a court poet in the classical age of Hinduism, and this was one of his dramas about a forest nymph. My father was convinced I was going to be a girl, and he picked my name far before I was born. It was his favourite classic."
"I can see you as a nymph," he said, kissing the top of her head.
"Then you must be blinded," she said wryly. "Where did you get your name?"
He rolled his eyes. "My mum named me after King George VI. Bloody uncreative, if you ask me. Never liked it."
"I think it's charming," she said, running her finger along his jawline.
He shook his head, then gazed at her for a long moment. He stared at her with those dark eyes for such a long time that she looked away, flustered.
"There's . . . something . . . about you. Something I can't say."
She slowly looked back to him and he seemed to be looking through her.
"Thank you," she said finally, supposing that it was a compliment.
Her words seemed to snap him back and he blinked. "Sorry," he mumbled.
"George, did you bring a guitar with you?" she asked suddenly.
"No, why?"
"Oh, well I was going to ask if you would play something for me. Not even sing, but just so I could watch."
"I can find one," he said, perking up, "There's got to be one around here somewhere."
"Please don't trouble yourself," she said, shaking her head.
"I didn't bring one so that I could take a break, but if you want to see how I play guitar, I'll find one."
She felt slightly embarrassed that she asked and lowered her eyes. "I don't fully understand the Beatles, or what you sing about, but I do understand the impact you've had on this world. I'm ashamed for having asked, it was rude. The last thing you need, I'm sure."
He frowned, then took her hands. "No, Tala. If you want to see I'll show you. I'm happy that you have interest."
She smiled. "Well, if you can't find one, don't bother yourself about it. It was just a whim I had."
"I almost wish I had one now. So many thoughts are going through my head, I could probably lay something down right now. See what inspiration you give me?"
"Now I don't believe that. It's only India, not me."
"Well, believe what you like. I know the truth," he said, raising his brows. She smiled and lay back against the pillows. He lay with her and they stayed in silence, looking to the tapestries along the ceiling until the water once again began to hiss on the stove top.
"I'll get it," he said, and clamored up. She waited and watched him bring the tray to the floor between them.
"So can we do this properly this time?" he asked, pouring the tea.
"It'll be a challenge," she whispered, giving him a mischievous smile.
"Honey?" he asked, grinning.
"Please."
After he finished administering the honey and stirring it a bit, he held the cup out for her and she took it, blowing away the steam.
She watched him stir his tea, then she looked at his long legs that were stretched out before her. Feeling bold, she put down her cup and moved closer. Gently she touched his foot, massaging his skin. She rubbed her fingers up and down the arch of his foot, then his toes. He looked at her, startled. She gave him a glance from beneath her lashes and he stared, mouth open, cup in one hand, held to the side. She ran her lips over the top of his foot, caressing ever so gently. She placed gentle pressure on his soft underside, below the arch and he gave a little groan. She ran her hands up his legs, then got up and came round to sit behind him. She took the cup from his hand and placed it back on the tray.
Putting her hands on either side of his neck she lowered him, so that his head lay on her lap. She leaned down and ran the tip of her chin along the top of his nose, back and forth. His eyes closed, then she kissed him, so that she held his bottom lip in between hers. She kissed him in this way several times, and his hands balled into fists at his sides. When she sat back up he shook his head, baffled, mouth opened as if to ask a question. She leaned in close to his ear and gently nipped at his earlobe, then ran her tongue around the end of it. He moaned deeply from his throat.
"Kamasutra," she whispered heavily, with a smile.
He let out a breath and she lay his head back on the pillows and she came around to press open-mouthed kisses along his skin, from his belly to his chest. There she grazed the flesh with her teeth, applying enough pressure so he cried out. One of his hands shot out and knocked against the tray, which skidded away, the cups and pot crashing to one side. She ran her nails along his chest very lightly, and grazed her lips against his. He lifted his chin to press his lips to hers, but she darted away. She teased him, touching her tongue to his just for a moment before pulling way just an inch to gently press her lips elsewhere. She touched her lips to his cheek, then his bottom lip, coquettishly until she finally let him kiss her.
"Tease," he gasped, his hands encircling her upper arms.
"Just trying to keep it interesting," she said, as he pulled her close.
"I have a feeling it'll never get dull with you," he murmured, laying her down. She grinned, and the tea grew cold, once again.
Chapter 2
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