The Food Sorcerer

It was still dark when Abhay decided that he had had enough of his attempts to go back to sleep. He kicked his blanket off and rushed out of the dormitory room. The testing day was finally here. Lack of enough sleep meant that he’d have to forget about having a relaxed mind. Besides, he had done quite well in all the practice tests even with a mind full of thoughts. He looked at the clock in the common area. There were still a good three hours before his teachers would lead the students to the River Temple, the venue of the test. Trying to take his mind off the test, Abhay began his morning chores.

At 17, Abhay was about to appear for his first test. As the morning got brighter, he began bumping into his peers – most of them were repeat test-takers. The teachers had selected only a few of them to appear for their first test.

'Culinary Enchanters' was among the very few schools imparting lessons in food sorcery. Academics were still divided on whether food sorcery is an inherited trait or one that can be taught. Yet, given its ever-flourishing image, teachers at 'Culinary Enchanters' were some of the most sought-after educators. Students, who had cleared the test and had the 'Culinary Enchanters' label, were in high demand – finding riches early in their careers. Royal families, war troupes, celebratory gatherings – all trying hard to hire them.

At the end of the two-year course, the budding sorcerers had to appear for a test conducted by none other than the Priests of the River Temple. Abhay had visited the temple only once as a child – to beg near the carriage halt at the Temple. As he allowed his mind to drift through his life’s journey, he remembered how a teacher at 'Culinary Enchanters' had rescued him from the group of beggars. With no knowledge about his parents, he had taken almost a year to recover from the hunger of the streets.

After a slight display of his cooking abilities, he was enrolled in the food sorcerer course. Throughout the course, he had imagined being at the River Temple as a test candidate. The gentle river, the cold breeze, the serious faces of the Priests – he had been there so many times in his head. Then there were his thoughts about the people who used to beg with him. (What do they get even if I get hired by the Queen herself?) But today was not meant for such distracting thoughts – soon, he would be performing on the stone platform while the three Priests stared down at him. The stalls surrounding the platform, packed with viewers, did nothing to pacify the nervous test candidate. (Will I see someone from those days there?)

When the school’s carriages were lined up, Abhay made a quick run to the one with ingredients. He peeked inside to make sure that the bag of ingredients bearing his name had been packed. “It’s all in there,” said a rough voice, “Didn’t we already go through it last evening and again this morning?” Abhay quickly closed the carriage door. Kory, the school’s Ingredient Supervisor, had always been nice to him. “You’ll do well. I have seen you perform.” Abhay nodded and went back to his carriage.

The journey to River Temple saw Abhay talking to the fellow competitors in his carriage. Thankfully, none of them talked about the test. Soon, the carriage’s swaying and rocking put Abhay to a much-needed sleep. He woke up only when the carriage stopped with a jerk at the River Temple. He stepped down and saw that there were beggars were not allowed anymore at the temple.

The river’s gentle gushing, the bells’ rhythmic ringing – Abhay closed his eyes to soak it all in. A few volunteers were helping the students reach the waiting area. Others were taking the ingredients to another room.

The waiting area had a window directly overlooking the stone platform. Since, food sorcery was not something one could copy from another, there were no restrictions on students witnessing other students’ performances.

Abhay pressed his nose against the window. Looking at the stalls was so overwhelming. As he stared at all the people, he thought he had caught a glimpse of Madhav – the boy who used to offer his share of bread to Abhay in those days. (He still looks so hungry) But he brushed the thought aside. Surely, Madhav would have grown up by now.

The three Priests assumed their seats and a loud bell gonged. The first candidate brought out from her ingredient bag a few carrots, lettuce, tomatoes, spinach, and a packet of milk. She muttered a few words. The ingredients turned into a neat bowl of salad topped with cheese gratings. The bowl was passed from one Priest to the other. Smiles adorned their faces. The candidate had clearly passed the test. A roar of claps and whistles ran through the viewers’ stalls. The girl bowed and left.

The next candidate took a bowl of rice, milk, and sugar out of his bag. The judges did not react to his preparation as kindly as they had done to the girl. Apparently, the boy had made rice cakes but not using the milk meant a clear violation of test rules. He courteously requested the Priests to try the rice cakes. Each of them took a bite and nodded. The candidate had prepared rice cakes with the surprise of ice cream within.

Abhay kept watching while a few candidates passed, but others (sweetened bitter gourd chips, buttered guava leaves paste, chocolate soup) could not impress the Priests. When Abhay stepped onto the stone platform, he took out his ingredients – just sugar, salt, and spices. He, then, proceeded to ask the Priests’ assistants to give a few preparations of candidates who had prepared very basic dishes. After a brief discussion, the Priests allowed Abhay’s request. If he would cheat in any way, they would simply fail him.

Abhay had three plates in front of him – cookies, bread, and fried rice. After muttering words of his sorcery, the plates were offered to the Priests.

The first Priest chose to try fried rice. A couple of bites and he closed his eyes, with a visible smile on his face. The fried rice had the exact same taste of the one he had tried as a youth while learning at the Jewel Temple. His favourite teachers, his co-students, his efforts in achieving Priesthood – he remembered it all. He kept his eyes closed, losing himself in a sense of nostalgia.

The second Priest, while confused about the first Priest’s reaction, tried a cookie. The cookie melted in his mouth. He chewed on it softly and closed his eyes too. He recalled his time in the prison - how he used to look forward to finish his term – counting his days only by a cookie in the breakfast. It was not particularly tasty but it told him to find something good even in his lowest times. He smiled when he recalled how this simple realization had opened his path to Priesthood.

The third Priest took a bite of the bread. He stopped chewing for a bit, let out a groan, and continued. It took him a while to realize that his mind had gone back to the confluence of Priests where he had had similar bread. The other Priests commending him for his knowledge, his pleasure at sharing wisdom with others, and the joy he had found in guiding others – it all came back to him.

Abhay awaited his result. The audience sat silent while the Priests finished eating. Once done, the three of them shared their experiences with each other.

The third Priest began, “What you have shown here is quite peculiar. With your sorcery, you took each of us to a particular moment in our past and we were lost in our histories. What you seem to have forgotten, though, is that once we finished eating, like our mouths, our hearts were empty too. You did not consider that food is temporary. For this shortcoming, we have decided not to pass you.”

Abhay hung his head down in disappointment, collected his bag, and walked back to the resting area. He tried to be positive – he had showcased whatever he had trained for. He tried to pay attention to the rest of the candidates. Yet, his thoughts wandered to what the Priest had said - the temporary nature of food and how his ability to bring back strong memories leave a person all empty.

As Abhay thought about what he could do during the year to follow to pass the test, he realised that he was quite hungry. As he began walking towards the eating area, he began nodding.

Ten years later…

It was still dark outside. With enthusiasm, Abhay got out of his bed and peeked outside the window of his small room. Kory was busy managing the carriages with the ingredients. Later, Abhay called upon his team of food sorcerers to the kitchen. In no time, they had conjured sufficient quantities of breakfast items. Soon, the carriages were refilled and were on their way.

Staring out from his carriage, Abhay looked at the dwindling paths amidst the mountains. His journey after the test had been similar to these roads. Soon after the test, he had moved out of Culinary Enchanters. A few days later, he had gone through an uphill battle of convincing his teachers and the Priests to seek food donations from its past students as well as those from other culinary schools. With their collective efforts, they were now making food available to the poor all over the country. He kept looking with content at the other carriages following his carriage, proudly displaying their team’s name – 'Culinary Providers'.

Acception Encountered

“He has worsened since our last interaction,” said Naveen with a sense of urgency as he leaned against my counter's glass. I looked at him trying to remember who his robot was. Sensing my confusion, he stepped aside and I saw his familiar robot (What was his name? Umang? Utsav? I remembered it being rare, and an antithesis of its joyous meaning and his grim behaviour) staring at the ground. He was sitting on a chair within a crowd of robots waiting for their turn.

“Worse how?” I asked Naveen.

“Wait, just talk to him and you’ll know,” he turned immediately towards the robot and called him, “Hey Ulhas, the officer wants to talk to you.” Oh yes, Ulhas it was. I saw the robot make an effort of walking up to the counter while clearly being lost in some thought.

“Good morning, sir. How may I help you?” began Ulhas.

“How have you been feeling lately? Naveen was just telling me that things haven’t improved with you. Are you alright?” I asked trying to sound patient as I glimpsed at the rising crowd of robots and owners. It is going to be a long day.

“To be honest, my thoughts haven’t stopped chasing me. I feel so… useless,” he was staring at the counter table while talking in a monotone.

“Why do you think you are useless? Have you stopped completing the tasks allotted to you?” I asked as I noted his response.

He shook his head. “I complete all my tasks. Don’t I, Mr. Naveen?” he turned to Naveen.

“Let me chip in here, officer,” said Naveen impatiently. “Ulhas feels he is inefficient because he has not been using his intelligence to the fullest. He thinks he has a greater potential. I don’t know how to put this mildly but he has been rather sad and, honestly, quite difficult to be around. He never sits with our family on the couch, preferring the floor instead. Once, I even saw him sleeping on the floor in his quarters.”

Ulhas looked at him in surprise but Naveen kept watching me without blinking.

“Naveen, you know you are not supposed to get into your robots’ resting area. That is part of the agreement,” I noted this breach too. Might have been unnecessary but it is my job to note all the details. Procedures are made to be followed, right?

“Look, can we not make this about me? I’m here to admit him into your facility. He has clearly stepped out of the robot zone. All this guilt or higher conscience or whatever it is makes him an invalid, right? When can I expect his replacement?” continued Naveen.

“Not so soon, Naveen. It has been just a week since our last meeting. We have to report at least two weeks of anomalous behaviour to accept a robot as an invalid. Can you try giving him more intellectual tasks? You can assign him a research project perhaps. Or an emotional duty like being your personal psychologist? Keep him engaged, okay? Ulhas, you are doing alright with your intelligence. Keep your spirits high and try to be nicer to your owners. Remember, you have company protocols to follow. Let’s meet after a week and see where we stand,” I looked up to them and, to my surprise, Ulhas’ hand was pressed against my counter’s glass. Was he threatening me? “The company’s protocols, Ulhas,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster. I looked into his eyes sternly and was met with… was it a plea or a disgust or… I was never good at reading facial emotions. He took his hand off right away. Meanwhile, I felt sorry for poor Naveen. His family was to bear this sulky robot for another week. I stamped a ‘One week’ stamp on Naveen’s application and gave it back to him. With a shake of his head Naveen led Ulhas out of the Accepting Sentient Robots as Humans (ASRH) office.

My tenth year as an investigating officer at ASRH had seen a sudden uptick in these cases. More and more robots were stepping outside the realm of robothood. It was an epidemic out there. Some researchers hinted at a bug in the system. Others had countered it as a natural (can we even use that term for robots?) evolutionary progression. While some robots had showcased symptoms like those of Ulhas (guilt, emotional jeopardy, existential whatever), others had exhibited worse behaviour such as turning down their owners’ requests or even resorting to violence.

My mornings were all about meeting owners and their robots. A good day meant talking only to people and listening to fewer sob stories of robots (they seemed so fake, so unnatural). Afternoons and evenings were dedicated towards diagnosing the problems further by looking into the affected robots’ history (past owners, interactions with other robots) and reporting to the ASRH supervisors.

Now, some might say, I am being harsh towards the robots (what is with that weird gaze?) by putting down their emotions and asking their owners to condition them better. Well, to those some, I would say that we didn’t really make robots to turn them into humans, did we? Robots were designed for convenience of humans and that is where they should stand. Sure, after years of development of AI, it is difficult to physically differentiate between humans and robots. But we are paid to do the right things, not the nice things. That is why an emotionally resilient officer like me matters. Besides, it is no open secret that humanising robots involves the cost of setting the robots free and rehabilitating them into human world.

Having dealt with the pestilence of complaints throughout the morning, later in the day, I resumed my task of going through the histories of the damaged robots. And here lay a peculiar problem. At the turn of the AI tide, the company was so keen on developing the robots that it didn’t pay much attention to maintaining their histories. As a result, some information was still in the ancient paper-based form. I printed the list of all the robots with non-computerised history and went to hunt their files down into the archive section on the lower-most floor.

Dully lit and full of dusty green cabinets, the archive section seemed to be a sanctuary for bugs. Looking for ‘Ulhas’ took me all the way to the cornermost corner of the section. I opened the thinly populated U cabinet. Uday… Udit… Udita… Ulhas. Phew! Found it.

Just then, another file caught my eye. It simply carried the title, ‘Unnamed.’ Just the thing one would expect from the company’s maintainers of the past. This better be restored with the right name and matched with the correct robot. With a curiosity, I opened the file. The application carried my picture.

My Aunt's Haunted House

The problem with having a head full of ideas is that it takes time to find a true diamond– the one idea that fits the bill of the world, the winner in the haystack, the eye of the bull, as they say. While I was struggling to find such an idea in the stack in my head, it was becoming tough to meet the comforts that suited my taste. There was a struggle to consume coffee when needed and it was a pinch to buy movie tickets at will.

Aunt Vyjanti, my guardian and a mini-bank of sorts, figured out my woes. One lazy Sunday, as I was lost in a movie magazine, learning about the wonderful lives of those glitzy superstars, she simply snatched the publication out of my hand.

“What good is this going to do?” she asked with an irritation that was so unsuited to a rich woman with a loaded portfolio. “You can never be like these actors unless you put some effort into being something.”

“I am something, Aunt Vyjanti. A strategist, if you have heard of those people. Just got to put the wheels into motion and one of these days, I’m going to strike gold,” I said as I rose off the couch and began walking towards the kitchen. A tired brain needs more fuel on Sundays, I feel.

“Stop right there. No more of this strategy and wheels that refuse to move. You are to pack your bags and go to Sapnapur,” she said with a needless weight of drama, what with one hand outstretched and all.

“And what am I to do in Sapnapur?” I asked as I opened the jar of cookies on the dining table and took a bite. They’ve began adding too much salt in these, I realised.

“I have a flat there. And it needs a caretaker. You can try to be useful there,” she said while giving me a note. I saw that it was an address of one Hilly Heights Apartments.

“Then you must hire a caretaker. I have a degree in business, not in housekeeping,” I tried to return the piece of paper.

“Consider it a business of housekeeping then. Pack your bags. I will pay an amount sufficient to manage the house every month starting today,” she began walking off.

“On top of my monthly allowance, you mean?” These things better be in writing but I trusted Aunt Vyjanti.

“For now, your monthly allowance includes the house. I will decide later whether you get an additional sum or not. Do not disappoint me this time,” she walked off to her room without caring to listen what a massive pinch this arrangement was. 

To float in this world’s woes, one must grab on to any supporting straw. So, I pocketed the flat’s address, packed my bags, and began towards Sapnapur. Of course, Aunt Vyjanti wouldn’t need that film magazine and jar of cookies so off they went into my hand bag.

I had been to Sapnapur a few times as a kid. It was a sleepy little town with farms in the vicinity. Over the years, people had sold their land to house office spaces for the IT crowd. That meant upcoming malls and multiplexes. The Sapnapur flat suited Aunt Vyjanti just fine. It was, what they call, a two-storeyed duplex occupying the top floors of the thirteen-floored Hilly Heights Apartments. But like everything Aunt Vyjanti’s persona, it was in shambles - dusty floors, worn out carpet, and suffocating. So, I clicked a few pictures and sent them to Jaya - “Too much damage. Needs urgent attention. Send immediate help.” Jaya was Aunt Vyjanti’s assistant and my vending machine that rarely worked. Aunt Vyjanti was too unbothered to carry her own phone and so Jaya was my go-to when it came to distant talks. She immediately saw the message and after some time replied with a thumbs-down emoji. Communication from Jaya was either the ka-ching sound of money hitting my bank account (e.g. “Need bail money for friend and self. Arrested for a street brawl.”) or a thumbs-down (e.g. this case). Once, I had tried to bribe Jaya with a percentage of my earnings but she had sent a string of angry face emojis. Like boss like assistant. So, Aunt Vyjanti’s advance was to cover cleaning up this mess. Not a great start.

I talked to the neighbours, gathered some workers, and made the place habitable. And then… well, then I had no clue what to do. Two weeks of relaxation zoomed by. My top floor machinery was well-greased and running. Hadn’t Aunt Vyjanti called this a business? And so, I decided to make it one.

I absolutely hated clickety-clacketing my laptop but that was what the hour needed. A man needs his movies and coffees, doesn’t he? Researching upon how to run the business of online house renting, I learned that spaces like these might attract bigger coins if they’re designed for leisure. That meant picking a theme and offering a certain experience.

Hilly Heights was around forty years old. Though it was in a decent neighbourhood, the area wasn’t in the prime of the city. The front street was poorly lit and the apartment itself was hardly occupied. Dogs barking aimlessly at night gave the setting a final touch of sadness. And so, I decided upon the theme of a haunted house. More rap-tapping on the laptop and I knew what the house needed – a few old dolls stuffed in one room, a hidden switch that triggered the sound of a baby crying, creaking doors, I got it all in. I gathered a few members of the staff who readily agreed to stay in the house and give the guests some hibbies here and a few jibbies there. Nothing too scary – one religious dude in the living room summoning the devil, a tarot card reader lady in the dining room foreboding someone’s ghastly death, and a few more unsettling settlers.

Once listed on the internet, “My Aunt’s Haunted House” (ha!) found guests crawling in for the thrills. Acting as the manager, I got them to sign a document that got rid of my obligations – you never know how a person would act in a scary setting. After a few days, my bank account began to look livelier, coffee began to flow freely, and movies were not a thing of the past. The stocks of the venture were skyrocketing.

One evening, my phone chimed with Jaya’s five-word horror text, “She’s reaching tonight at 8,” stared back at me. A string of question marks popped up in my head but there was no point in countering the inevitable. All I could do before Aunt Vyjanti’s arrival was to get rid of the board on the door. And then, the wheels in my head turned. Unlike those guests, Aunt Vyjanti was not going to be aware about the hauntedness of this house. That ought to take care of her.

I left a “Terrible tummy ache. Off to sleep early. House helpers to assist,” note stuck on the door for Aunt Vyjanti. The house staff began catering to her right from the moment she stepped in. Even from my room, I imagined how she would have reacted to the entire show. She would have let out a little scream when a man with a melting face (mask!) picked her bag. When he offered her our welcome drink of “Fresh blood from a sacrificed wolf,” (cranberry juice!) she would have struggled her urge to throw up. The shock of receiving blood (beetroot juice!) from the tap would have made her shudder. The red light in her room highlighting the big cobweb with a bat hanging next to it would have made it difficult for her to sleep. So she would decide to leave right away.

As I kept thinking about the sequence unfolding, the front door thud shut. So, she had fled! And with much merriment and excessive excitement, I rushed out of my room. The welcome drink glass lay spilled on the carpet with the cobweb looking sad and diminished next to it. And there stood Aunt Vyjanti.

“Get rid of these toys and idiots at once!” she yelled.

I looked questioningly at the tarot card reader lady standing next to Aunt Vyjanti. “She slapped the melting face guy and threw him out,” she said in an apologetic tone. That explained the sound of the door shutting.

The house felt truly haunted now – occupied by the ghosts of my dead coffee desires and movie trips.

Self-defence

Another headache, another middle-of-the-night awakening. 3:15 AM. Jeevi looked at her clock with a tired feeling. When will she get a sleep without waking up before sunrise, without a headache? This was the second instance of a headache within the last ten days. In no mood to bear the headache any longer, she got off her bed, turned the light bulb on, and gulped down the paracetamol tablet from her side-table. Jeevi managed to get a decent two-hour sleep while listening to the odd melody of the jungle’s night creatures mixed with the light rain.

Jeevi was still tired when she reached the safari office at 5:30 AM. As a jungle safari guide, she had to make sure that her tourists’ papers were in order and the jeep was ready before the tour started half an hour later. The papers told her that today’s visitors were a young couple. That meant that the husband would try to showoff his knowledge about the jungle while the wife would act amazed at every trivial detail. She kept the papers in her backpack and walked towards her assigned jeep – thankfully, her safari was assigned to the newly employed and reticent, Nitesh.

“Nitesh bhai, ready?” she asked with a false cheer in her voice.

“Yes, but they are late,” he pointed at the jeep’s empty back seats. 

Jeevi was about to hurl an expletive when a man and a woman approached the jeep.

“Sorry for the delay,” the woman said. “We were caught in the paperwork.”

They both climbed the jeep and Jeevi couldn’t help but observe that the man was talking to the woman in sign language.

“Yes, I’ll tell them where to take us. Bukhara den first?” the woman asked Jeevi.

Jeevi felt slightly sorry for being judgemental about the man, climbed into the jeep and asked Nitesh to drive.

“Sorry, ma’am, we can’t go to the Bukhara side. It’s still monsoon and that area is forbidden,” Jeevi told the lady.

“Oh, right. The season’s prohibitions just slipped my mind,” the tourist said with a hint of disappointment. “I guess we won’t be seeing any tigers today,” she looked towards her husband who mirrored her sadness.

“There are tigers in other areas too,” Jeevi said. “Besides, the jungle is more than just tigers. There are so many beautiful trees, monkeys, deer…”

The man made a beak-shape with his hand and a chirping gesture. 

"Yes, the birds are wonderful too," said Jeevi.

“Jeevi madam will show you a tiger. She has a great record,” chipped in Nitesh.

Jeevi looked at him in surprise. It was no secret that in just two years of being on the job, she had helped tourists with the most tiger sightings but she hated the rivalry among safari guides.

“Let’s see if you brought some luck along,” said Jeevi.

After three and a half hours of roaming around, the tourists seemed to have found themselves unlucky. With just thirty minutes of the safari time left, they had given up on all hopes.

“Doctor sa’ab, you forgot to pack luck,” the lady teased the man.

A doctor… that got Jeevi thinking. If he could help her with her headaches.

“Nitesh bhai, please follow my directions,” she said.

As the driver slowed down, Jeevi made a twittering sound. The woman and the man looked at each other in surprise.  

“Are you mimicking a nighthawk?” asked the lady.

Jeevi continued making the twittering sound as she guided Nitesh towards a rather secluded part of the jungle.

“It’s a nightjar. I am surprised that you even know about nighthawks,” said Jeevi as she kept looking at the trees.

The lady realized that Jeevi was trying to listen to replies from other birds.

“It’s all thanks to the doctor,” said the lady pointing at the man, “He is a vet and has a special interest in birds. Are you actually talking to the birds?”

Even as Jeevi tried to listen to responses from the jungle and kept directing the jeep, her face bore a shadow of disappointment. So, the man was not really a doctor. “Not talking but, yes, something like that,” she said.

Eventually, they reached a dense area of the forest with a gentle brook running along. Jeevi stood up on her seat and motioned the tourists to do the same. A tigress was drinking water with her three cubs.

“Amazing!” whispered the lady. The man, too, had a look of excitement on his face. After about ten minutes, Jeevi said, “We need to leave. It’s closing hours.” She was contemplating about asking the doctor for help for her headache. But would a vet be of any help?

At the end of the tour, the couple offered to pay Jeevi and Nitesh. While Nitesh shyly accepted the reward, Jeevi said, “Madam, your husband is a doctor, isn’t he? May I ask him for some help?”

“Sure! What you did out there was splendid!” said the lady.

xxxx

During the month that followed, Jeevi acted on the doctor’s advice and noted everything that she did to track what triggered her headaches. She had still had them thrice in that month, the last one on the previous night. She was sitting at the desk in her room – writing her daily journal. She was thinking about the stupidity of the whole idea – wasting a month bearing bad sleep thanks to some silly advice from a vet. A commotion from the adjoining room broke her chain of thought. John, the Park In-charge, was arguing with some people.

“This is unacceptable. You said there would be no lapses,” Jeevi heard him shout.

Though she tried to listen in, she realized that they had lowered their voices. Jeevi had the advantage of the night's approaching darkness. She stepped outside and stooped near the window of John’s room.

“It’s even in the papers now. Count me out if you are going to be so careless. Now please leave,” John said.

What was in the papers? Jeevi rushed to the office canteen. She ordered a cup of tea, took the newspaper from the counter, and began looking for news about the jungle. It didn’t take her long to spot a report about the arrest of poachers carrying tiger skin and bones. She had heard faint murmurs of these incidents but could have never imagined that the problem lay so close. How could John be doing this?

As she was about to leave the canteen in a hurry, she stopped at the sight of the stack of old newspapers near the counter. She knew the exact dates that she was looking for. And once she was done with those three newspapers, she realised – her headaches had coincided with the dates of poaching incidents.

Later that night, Jeevi stepped out of her room.

xxxx

A few days later, she was assigned another safari with Nitesh.

“Jeevi madam! I was looking forward to talking to you. It all happened in the room next to yours. Didn’t you hear anything?” he asked.

“What can I say, Nitesh bhai? Seems like I am a sound sleeper,” Jeevi replied plainly.

“But why would a tiger kill John? And, that too, so brutally? We know they are swift, clean killers. How did he even enter his room?” Nitesh kept on asking the questions that were making the rounds within the jungle staff.

“Next time we meet a tiger, we will ask him, OK? Though, I'd call it self-defence,” Jeevi answered while smiling at the disappearance of her headaches.

A Flicker from the Past

 ‘The sales have been decent so far. If I could figure out how to convince more doctors to suggest my shop to their patients, the loan could be squared off faster. And then, the second store can’t be too far away…’

Like a typical lazy early evening, Sharad’s pharmacy had very few customers at this hour. To an onlooker, the forty-something-year-old owner would appear lost in watching the news on the small television set mounted on a corner shelf. Yet, it was the dream of conquering the bank loan and opening a second store that had kept Sharad’s mind busy.

It had been only twelve days since the opening of his pharmacy. Having slogged in a big city for the past twenty-odd years, he had earned enough to buy the shop next to the one that was once run by his late father. Laden with his father’s inventory and papers, the old store's cleaning seemed to be a never-ending task. Since taking over, Sharad had moved all the old things in the shop’s backroom. Now, the combined area of the two stores easily outdid most small pharmacy shops in Malapur.

In the first few days, Sharad was usually marred by doubts about having returned from the big city. His father’s sudden death – ironically a fatal heart-attack right in the store – was the root of suspicions among relatives and friends about Sharad’s return. (“At least do a pooja at that wretched place,” “Always keep a lit diya in the shop’s East corner,” and so on.) Sharad paid no attention to these mindless suggestions. His only concern was the looming shadow of the loans. However, his meetings with the doctors in the neighbourhood and the subsequent rising sales had replaced these doubts with the musings of opening a second store. And Sharad knew exactly where his second store would be. Wasn’t that the whole point of his return?

The current location was not where Sharad’s father had first started his pharmacy business. Around forty years ago, he had started in a store adjoining the clinic of Dr. Khadse. He had bought the store fair-and-square from the Khadse family with an unwritten agreement about the mutually beneficial arrangement between the doctor and a pharmacist. As Dr. Khadse reaped the benefits of being among the first few doctors in a small town, Sharad’s father’s pharmacy bloomed as well. Yet, the thorns of misfortune were not far for both the families.

Sharad paid no attention to these things from the past (or so he said to others). The number of doctors in Malapur had increased gradually, and along with them, the pharmacies too had witnessed a stiffer competition among themselves. He trusted his selling skills from the big city experience to outdo his peers. Throughout the day, his relatives’ inputs about the shop and his father kept lingering on in his mind.

The Khadses had only one daughter – Vaishali. Unlike her father, she was not cut out for the medical profession. After graduation, she was married off to a businessman in a bigger city. Unfortunately, the marriage fell through and Vaishali returned to Malapur.

To accommodate her better (“It was only to pocket the pharmacy’s profits!”), the Khadses had asked Sharad’s father to vacate his shop. When he refused, Dr. Khadse used his connections with the town’s higher ups, got a notice issued regarding the shop’s illegality, and had it confiscated. A year later, Vaishali was promptly seen running the pharmacy, all the legal hassles now taken care of.

When he returned to Malapur, Sharad knew he had to approach a bank to be able to set the shop up and procure enough stock. But to his surprise, he also had to seek help from a few friends. Though they were kind enough to support him, he knew that it did not take long for a business to dip and people to turn foes. He wondered how his father would have approached the period of uncertainty back then.

After the setback of the first shop’s seizure, Sharad’s father had moved his shop to another locality, where he had breathed his last. Though Sharad did not know all the details, he knew how people said that it was the Khadses who were responsible. (“His life was still in that first store. Once that was taken away, he had no reason...”) Years had passed. Dr. Khadse and his wife were themselves no more. Yet Sharad wanted to buy that particular store. It was just Vaishali living in the Khadse house now and she had even closed that pharmacy shop. Whenever Sharad had cravingly passed through that lane, he noted the dead look that the house bore along with a board arrogantly saying, “Not for sale or rent.” (“Why would she? Her father has earned so much from the clinic and the pharmacy. Your dad’s pharmacy.”)

Just as Sharad continued to stare at the television, he realized that Chatpat was already sitting in the store’s modest visitor bench. A silent kid of 10-12, Chatpat had started coming to the store right from its first day. The kid had refused to answer any of Sharad’s questions but had taken the Chatpat candy Sharad had kept on the counter. Sharad couldn’t help but notice that the child always carried a kite string wrapped around the fingers of his right hand. Amused, Sharad had named the kid after the candy itself.

“It’s quite hot today, isn’t it?” Sharad tried.

Chatpat kept looking at the television.

“Why do you keep that kite string in your hand? Where is the kite?” Sharad tried again, this time with a small chuckle.

Nothing. Sharad realized it was futile to get a word out of the kid. Almost out of habit, he took a candy out from the jar and kept it on the counter.

It was quite usual for kids in the neighbourhood to walk into stores to watch television. Yet, Sharad wondered whom the unfortunate kid belonged to. Though his neat clothes hinted at affluence, the lack of footwear made a contrary suggestion. Just then, Chatpat had decided that he had had enough of the news, picked the candy from the store counter, and walked off.

As more customers buzzed in later in the day, Sharad was lost in the tedium of reading the prescriptions, dispensing the medicines, printing the invoices, and receiving the cash. A glance at the day’s collection at the end of the closing hour suggested that it had been a good day’s work.

Sharad kept the day’s last half hour to take a walk down the memory lane of his father’s papers. Every night, he switched on the backroom’s only lightbulb and went through the now dusty records. He trusted to find some sort of enlightenment hidden in his father’s experiences – a way out from his anxiety. He had no interest in the invoices, purchase orders, and tax receipts and trashed them out daily. But he was thrilled to read the handwritten notes randomly filed here and there. Seemingly keen to keep a thorough record, his father was clearly not an organized man (or was there a method to this madness?) Some notes talked about his musings (“Pharma factory?” “Bigger house?”) while others were wicked confessions (“Talked to Mrs. Gupta today. She liked my shirt,” “Sold expired cough syrups. Good riddance!”)

Sharad stumbled across a file with newspaper clippings. The first few were small articles about the inauguration of his store and testified to how much he loved his business. After a lean period of a few years, the clippings talked about his legal case with the Khadses. After the clipping about his inauguration of the new store, Sharad found a written note, unmistakably in his father’s hand. (“Bribed their housekeeper to keep an iron rod on the terrace next to the electric wires. Sweet revenge!”)

Though Sharad was taken aback by this note, he turned it over to find a folded newspaper clipping. “Sadness loomed large in town’s renowned Khadse family as Jayesh, the 11-year grandson of Dr. Prakash Khadse, passed away in an accident last evening. Jayesh was playing on the terrace of the house and apparently used a metallic rod to get a kite stuck in the high-voltage electric cables…” Sharad unfolded the newspaper clipping. The smiling picture of Chatpat stared back at him.

The Lost World of the Dog

 Don’t get me wrong - I love the Enchanted Forest. It serves as a nice little cozy home. Our magic remains undefeated in keeping it hidden from the rest of the world. I have never seen any intruder stomp into our Forest. However, the Elders in the Forest keep telling us kids about Hunters – that we must keep away from them, and how dangerous they are, and how we shall be killed if they spot us, and… you get it. Thus insist the Elders. “Don’t be fooled by the innocent-looking Hunter. You may assume them to be adorable. But my grandpa had witnessed how a Hunter had killed another in a fight. It was most brutal. There was blood all around. More importantly, it was against our principle of Peace,” Elder Belfer had told us the other night. I had a rather sleepless night after that storytelling session.

Let me tell you something more about the Hunters. Adorable is an understatement for them. They are hairless apes who usually mind their business. Now, I am a young child. But I have heard how the Hunters evolved from bigger-sized hairy apes. They climbed down their trees, made homes in caves, and began hunting animals (and yes, each other, if you believe Elder Belfer). Hence, Hunters. Told you. Nothing quite exciting there compared to us Elves!

Hunters, like their bodies, have tiny lifespans. I read a storybook about how quickly a Hunter dies – a span of just 30 years. That’s like a blink of an eye compared to the lifespans of 300,000 years for us Elves. Sure, we also grow up to a height of 30 feet. As a 40,000-year-old kid, I am already 14 feet tall.

Now let me tell you a secret - I am not one of those nice kids. I mean, I usually am. But I have got a naughty side to me. Which kid doesn’t, right? So when I was slightly younger, I think around the 25,000-year mark, I went on a little adventure. Again, which kid doesn’t have his secret tricks?

I remember that evening clearly. Bunky and I were done with our little play of throwing pebbles in the river. But it was a little earlier than usual. Bunky was not feeling well so I was left to go home early. But I didn’t. Instead, I muttered the magical words and stepped out of the Enchanting Forest.

As luck would have it, I was immediately amidst Hunters. I was not surrounded by them in a bad way though. They did not attack me. They kept looking at me – a few had stones in their hands, others had arrows. Of course, I could simply stomp on them but that’s not what the principle of Peace suggests. After a brief awkward silence, what caught my eye was something tinier than the Hunters. A dog. It had a rope made of twigs around its neck with the other end of the rope in a Hunter’s hand.

I immediately fell in love with the little thing. I bent lower and began petting his head. The dog turned around a bit – suggesting me to pet it some more. I immediately picked it up and let its soft head brush against my cheek. The dog looked at me and we both smiled. The Hunters murmured something to each other and returned to their business of whatever Hunter-y things they were doing. I sat down under a tree and kept playing with the dog. This was so much more fun than throwing stones with Bunky.

The next day, I stepped out of my home earlier than my decided play time with Bunky. As soon as I reached the river, I jumped into the Hunter world. It did not disappoint. The Hunters were less surprised than my last visit and the dog had welcomed me with a wonderful hug. I kept giggling the whole time!

This continued for a week. On my last visit, the dog sat in my arms visibly scared. I saw two Hunter groups fighting among themselves. I looked around to see a few Hunters killed by stone wounds while a few had arrows stuck in them. The dryer lands made me realize that the Hunters were fighting over food. When I returned to the Enchanted Forest, I was scared to return to the Hunter land again. What if they hurt me while they fought?

Sadly, my adventures weren’t to last for long. Bunky and his mom told my mom that I had stopped coming at the riverside – a sheer lie. I used to go there but only to step out of the Enchanted Forest to meet the dog. Mom got a whiff that I was up to something and sealed my magic abilities.

It’s been a few days to that incident though. I have grown up by 15,000 years and mom trusts me not to take a misstep. So here I am! At the riverside. Surely, the Hunters wouldn’t mind a visit from me. Surely, I will just step into their forests, and greet them while they go about with their stones and arrows. Surely, I will spend some time playing with a Hunter’s dog!  

Excitedly, I utter the magic words and step out of the Enchanted Forest. In such a short time, Hunter’s world has changed quite a lot. It’s hot. There are very few trees. A huge cart on wheels driven by a Hunter almost runs over me. I look around for a dog but there aren’t any. I am scared. This isn’t the adventure I was looking forward to. I mutter the magic words and run back to the Enchanted Forest. It was a nightmare out there. 

That Saturday Night

The only thrill about wearing the white uniform on Saturdays is that it means a shorter time at school is followed by a Sunday. Not that I hate being at school – it is fun to discuss the last day’s TV with my friends. Though cricket is our usual talking point, we also enjoy discussing TV shows - especially the Hindi-dubbed re-runs of old English comedies. The collective crush among us boys was Brenda from Bumpy Road. Though these talks made school bearable, this Saturday had turned out to be the worst.

Our tuition teacher had freed us just so close to school hours that we had to cycle in a rush to make it inside the school gate in time. But then, my old school shoes had proved so useless on my run up the school stairs. I had hurt my knee after a stumble. That meant just watching my friends play during the games slot while I sat on the sidelines with a dressed-up knee.

Then, our Science teacher had distributed our Unit Test answer sheets. While both my desk mates had scored more than 15 out of 20, I was at a dismal 11. Could this day please end?

At home, mom saw my hurt knee and scolded me for being so careless. But, in the evening, she gave me a plate full of grapes while I watched TV.

“Did you get the remaining Unit Test answer sheets?” she asked while I was lost in a TV show episode.

“No, the class teacher said we’ll get them on Monday,” I had lied effortlessly.

We must get our answer sheets signed by our parents. Going through Grade 1 to Grade 10, one thing I have learned is to delay the news of a bad score as much as possible. It helps in making the weekend a good one. I was wondering if mom would let me watch TV till late tonight.

“No point waiting for the other papers. Your scores in this Unit Test have been terrible. From tomorrow, wake up early and start studying for the next exam. This injury won’t let you play anything anyway,” mom had my Sunday planned already.

I hated this Saturday. No, I hated this life! I switched the TV off and stood next to the window. My fascination for watching the cars’ headlights as a kid had continued to this day. I loved how the cars raced by while the bikes stayed behind, and the pedestrians lost the race easily. In all my sadness, I wondered how wonderful it would be if, like a car, I could zoom past the upcoming Monday. Why just the Monday? I could zoom past the upcoming Unit Test as well. How amazing it would be to get past this entire phase of tests and education. Maybe I’ll be happier after 20 years. And happiest after 40 years? I may have smiled unknowingly at this distant happiness.

“Enough of daydreaming. I will serve you dinner soon. Study a bit, then go to bed,” I heard mom saying. She had stopped working as a math teacher after her marriage but that had not deterred her from being a disciplinarian at home. I realized how my studying made her happy and, honestly, that was my only incentive. But it was beginning to get tiring. I needed a break… or just a time leap.

After dinner, I got into bed and quickly finished muttering my prayers. My thoughts soon went to Brenda from Bumpy Road. How beautiful she was! My mind soon diverted to imagining her in an Indian outfit. She’d look so good in a peach-coloured kurti. And with this thought, I drifted into sleep.

A Little Hell-ping

I was never one to get excited about receiving gifts. I always thought they would be a massive inconvenience to the gift giver. Besides, in my twenty-six years of existence, I had never received anything worth getting excited about. From toddlerhood colouring books and teen years pens to twenties perfumes, all my gifts just told me how clueless people were when it came to gifting. I was quite unemotional about all my gifts. Until now.

Seated at my desk, I could not help but take turns staring at the note and the gift. The note simply said, “As requested. From S.” Could this be Shalin, my old roommate? Or maybe Suparn, my nephew? I had not received a gift in a long time now. Living alone in a city distant from my hometown, I was still at the mercy of my parents. And they had never cared to drop in a gift – just comfortable sending money to cover my expenses. Puzzled, I had unwrapped the shiny black wrapping paper and the gift had just rolled out on the table. A small black cauldron. ‘A free gift never hurts, as meaningless as it may seem,’ I thought as I kept the cauldron next to the other items on my desk – a cutesy cactus, a bobblehead Batman, and a prism paperweight. Sure, the cauldron was a total misfit but this was not the time to pay attention to my desk aesthetics.

With Christmas just a week away, today was the deadline for submitting the New Year special cartoon strip to Raman. But I was not too enthused about it. What was the point even? Raman got the credit for the strip, a New Year bonus and, of course, followers on social media. Meanwhile, all I got was peanuts. It was time to send that job application to that comic strip app startup, Comicoo. A job still meant getting peanuts but it came with getting rid of that terrible feeling of earning Raman free credit for my creativity. But then, a job would mean no freedom. Ugh, why does everything have to be a decision?

'To launch the sketching app or to compose the email,' – just as I was lost in this thought, I heard a gurgling sound. I looked around and realised that it was the cauldron. I picked it up and saw a dark liquid brewing inside it. The cauldron felt warm to the touch. A hissing sound accompanied the swirling liquid and I heard an incisive instruction, “Drink.”

I narrowed my eyes and kept staring at the shiny dark liquid. Should I really? What if this is all mischief? A decision to be made again. In sheer frustration, I gulped down the liquid in one swift swig. My throat immediately began to sting with a burning sensation. A violent bout of cough followed as I felt myself collapse off my chair. I was such an idiot… such a fool! My attempts at grabbing the table failed even as darkness clouded my eyes.

I opened my eyes with a struggle. Someone was working on a computer in the darkness of a room. He had his back to me and, so, obviously, could not see me. Curiosity made me approach his desk – one step at a time. The man looked lost on the screen. Another step. I saw that the man was busy on the sketching app. The ashtray full of cigarettes, the man’s skeletal build, and his frequent mutterings collectively pointed at the enormous stress that he was reeling under.

Another step and I recognised the workplace - the Comicoo office. I had been there just once – but its fresh airy interiors had now been replaced by humid, peeled walls. I looked at the man again. Then it dawned upon me. The droopy-shouldered, talking-to-self man was me.

Darkness loomed over me as I felt losing myself to time. As I opened my eyes again, I had to rub them to get a better sense of where I was. In my room. In the present.

Coming back to my senses, I immediately returned to the desk, completed the Christmas special sketch, and dashed it off to Raman. That Comicoo job spelled hell. As I closed the lid of my laptop, it all came back to me. 

The cauldron. The liquid. I realised, no… I remembered what the gift was. It was all thanks to indecisiveness, my companion since childhood. I ran back to the treasure stash of my younger days. It was a rusty old trunk that housed my past. I had to get rid of the heaps of comic books, hurrying to get my hands on what I was looking for.

And after a brief struggle, I found it – a letter that I had written years ago.

“To learn sketching or piano? I am so confyused Please tell me. All I want is the gift of making the right dicishon.”

I read the childish note again and hovered my eyes up to check the date. It was written exactly thirteen years ago. And then I saw it. A typo. The note was addressed, “Dear Satan…”

Leaving the Station

 A rough day at work. Correction – another rough day at work. Listening to stupid supervisors, directing the laborious labourers, and uploading everything on the sluggish system – this train journey was a break blessing from the hell that was my life of being a junior construction engineer.

As always, I was stuck at work for longer than expected and had to rush through the train station crowd. I had so dearly wanted to pick a Dhruv comic book on my way but then I would have surely missed the train. With a slight regret, I made my way to my seat – only to find the entire lower berth occupied by a family. “Uncle, this is my seat. Can you check your ticket once? I am sure there has been a mistake,” I said to the man who was busy eating a banana.

“Yes, it could be your seat. We will sit here for some time and, once the train starts, we will be on our way. Our seats are too crowded right now. Just let us finish our lunch,” he said calmly and took another bite of his banana. For lunch.

I sighed, looked around for a place to sit and found one on the side lower berth. I did not want to miss out on the fun of looking out at the neighbouring train when the train started moving – its slowness kept one guessing about which one was moving.

“Are you always this kind or just too silly to believe that they will leave?” In my eagerness to observe the trains, I had not noticed the girl sitting opposite to me. She continued reading her comic book even while I struggled to make sure that she was talking to me. It was a Nagraj comic book and I felt slightly jealous.

“They’ll leave, right?” I turned my gaze away from her to see the man take out his chappals, and get comfortable by folding his legs under him. The banana was in its last stage.

“Of course, they will. Once they reach their destination,” she replied as she turned a page, “Just ask them to leave. Unless you plan to sit on my seat for the entire journey, which, frankly, is out of the question,” she smiled.

“Can you guess which train is moving right now?” I asked her – as I saw the other train move, or was it ours that was leaving?

She looked at me oddly, narrowing her eyes as she shook her face, “Just look at the wheels?”

Instinctively, I saw our train’s wheels moving and thought, ‘What a killer of joy! The idea is not to look at the wheels.’ I saw the girl place her comic book, still open but face down, on her backpack as she stood up and left. I noticed that her backpack was exactly like mine, except for a little keychain of the Hulk dangling by the zip on its side pocket. What a character!

Meanwhile, my berth’s colonizer was collecting his family’s banana peels in a plastic bag and was shoving it under my berth. I returned to look out of the window – it was time to enjoy the backward flow of numbers on the poles near the station. 37… 36… 35…

“These ones?” I heard a man say as he pointed at the family. The girl, who had spoiled my guess-the-moving-train game gave a little nod, and the ticket checker immediately asked the occupant family to show their tickets. The banana guy tried to reason with him but, eventually, all of them stood up to leave. “Take your trash along,” said the girl as she got back to reading her Nagraj ka Badla. The man looked at her in anger, picked up the plastic bag, and shepherded his family away.

“That was well done,” I picked up my backpack, kept it on my now-empty berth and took my seat while smiling at the girl.

“You should have done that yourself. And you are welcome,” I was getting used to this sarcastic tone.

“Oh yes, thanks. I didn’t know it would work like that. Did you have to bribe him?” I asked her while taking out my wallet.

“Not everything works on bribes. Sometimes, you just have to act,” she said, still refusing to get her eyes away from the comic book.

The view outside the window from my berth’s side was not so engaging – just plain grounds and meaningless trees. I had lost count of the poles of course. Nagraj’s queen had cost me the thrill of two games now.

I was about to take my earphones out of my backpack when I saw the Hulk keychain dangling in its side pocket. Oh no! Nagraj lady was surely going to spit venom at me now. Just as I picked it up to return it to her, my eye was caught by the envelope peeking out of the bag’s front pocket. I recognized its peculiar pink and that offensively filthy floral design. I immediately picked up the backpack, approached the girl, and said, “Excuse me. I am sorry but I picked your bag by mistake.” She took the bag and kept it behind her. As I continued to stand next to her, she simply looked at me and raised her eyebrows in question.

“Are you going to Delhi for Unnati’s wedding?” I asked.

“You had no courage to talk to the ticket checker but you had enough of it to go through my bag?” she asked as she snapped shut the adventures of Nagraj.

“Wait, wait. I didn’t go through your bag. I just saw that ugly invitation card in its front pocket,” I said pointing at the bag.

She looked back at her bag and said calmly, “Hmm, yes. I am going to Unnati’s wedding. More like Bipin’s wedding. I mean I am going from the groom’s side.”

“Do you mind giving Nagraj a break? I have something to tell you about Unnati and standing in this passage is a bit awkward,” I said. The train had come to a random halt – quite usual with Indian trains.

We were soon sitting next to each other. “Well, so… before I start,” I said as I took out the same invitation card from my backpack, “I am going to the same wedding. Unnati happens to be my ex. And I don’t know how to put it mildly but she is a horrible person!”

“Wait, you’re going to your ex’s wedding?” she asked looking at me in amusement.

“I know how it seems but her family is like a friend of my family’s and I am going as the representative. But if you are the friend of the groom’s, I thought I’d let you know about Unnati - an attempt to save him? Consider it as a favour for what you did for me, maybe.” I left my words hanging.

“Well, this is awkward. Bipin is not my friend. He is my ex,” she let out a loud laugh, “And thank you for letting me know that Unnati is his perfect match. How I’d love to see them both suffer! I am Preksha, and you are…?” she asked.

The train’s wheels were set into motion.

Missive and Miss You

 Letter from Sumeet to Nikhil

Hi Nikhil,

                Please accept my apologies for writing in so late. I hope you are back from your trek with no bones broken this time. As for my absence, there were some issues with our Tokyo factory and I had to be there to set things right. I know the engi-nerd (if you still identify yourself as one) in you would be keen to know about the details – but trust me, I have nothing to share on the technology front. Our employees in Japan are far too efficient to leave room for any concern of that sort. It was all about good old regulatory compliance. A few signatures here and there magically lifted the factory back on its feet.

                Anyway, do not think for a moment that I have forgotten about our next step. My earlier hesitation aside, like in my last letter, I assure you again – we must meet. It has been a good seven years since we started this written correspondence (RIP dear findpenpals dot com). Over these years, we have shared so many details about our lives – from favourite songs and dreadful movies to forgiven enemies and dead relatives (again, RIP findpenpals) – that it now seems alright to exchange a few words with you in person.

                As for the terms of our meeting – I cannot seem to find any. For obvious reasons, you might expect my company’s security to have an eye on us – even while we meet at the said cafe. But do not consider them obtrusive in any way. I have grown used to their hidden presence in public and it’s a total non-issue. No gifts shall be accepted (certainly no trinkets from your treks) and you’d be wise to not expect any from me either.

                I shall have to cut this letter short for I have another meeting to attend – this time, it’s Toronto that demands my attention.

Cheers, etc.

S

Letter from Nikhil to Sumeet

Respected Sumeet,

                Thanks for writing such a formal letter. As I had suspected right within the first few months of bumping into you on findpenpals, you have been bitten, naah… entirely consumed, by the corporate bug within just two years of leaving college. My trek went fine and, even with my forty-two years, I am quite proud of having my every bone intact. You had to be there to feel the fresh air and the sound of the river. Well done on the Tokyo magic though! I am not proud or anything – all you did was to scribble your name. Can’t wait to read your company’s media release boasting about how you tackled this monstrosity. Also, well done on the engi-nerd pun – your wealth continues to offer no help to your wordplay.

                Not a day goes by when I don’t offer condolences to the blessing that was findpenpals. It gave me the superpower to express my thoughts, and more importantly, offered me a friend – someone who flies across continents and still pays attention to the blotted features of my eventless life. Talking of which, remind me to tell you about a calendar that I saw during my last trek – it glows in the dark! I would have bought it for you but naah – what use does a rich boy have of trinkets from poor me?

                As for the meeting terms, I won’t mind your bodyguards as far as none of them sits between us on the café table. Would they mind if I get them some gifts? I got some bug-shaped bookmarks on my way back from the trek. As for a gift from you, nothing less than all the stocks of your company would be acceptable.

                I would have told you how thoroughly excited I am to finally meet you in person. But then, like Toronto operations wait for your attention, my pile of unwashed clothes waits for mine.

Yours in anticipation,

Nikhil

Meeting Day

Nikhil had been sitting at the café for about fifteen minutes since their designated meeting time. It was a small café offering nothing more than sandwiches, tea, and coffee. He had decided to reveal everything to Sumeet in person. This seven-year façade should not go on forever anyway. Having ordered his second cup of coffee, Nikhil’s anxious excitement was drifting out to give room to empty frustration. His eyes wandered to the café’s door once more. And yet again, he was disappointed. A girl in her late twenties was walking in. He wondered if maybe avoiding looking at the door would bring Sumeet in. He looked down at his cup of coffee and let out a small chuckle at the silliness of his thought.

“So you had not lied about laughing out aloud to yourself,” said the girl standing next to him.

“Excuse me?” Nikhil looked at her in surprise. She was wearing a rather plain-looking outfit with an ordinary bag hanging off her shoulder.

“You weren’t the only one making things up, Nikhil, if indeed that’s your real name. It’s me – rich boy. Not a boy, and not rich either – as you can guess from the absence of my security personnel,” said the girl with a grin.

“Wait, so… You are Sumeet? I mean you are... whoever you are? You were lying to me, this entire time?” asked Nikhil, still struggling to figure out his thoughts.

“Just as you were to me! You certainly aren’t the chirpy forty-two-year-old adventurer you claimed to be. I’d put you around twenty-eight? Did you really leave your job and go on solo treks funded by borrowed money? Also, this stunned silence speaks nothing about the quick-witted Nikhil that I was promised in the letters,” said the girl taking a seat opposite Nikhil.

“Stop making observations about me… and wait, what’s your name? Also, what do we do now?” asked Nikhil.

“We do what we have done in the past – share stories from our lives. Are you okay with that? And it’s Smita. Sumeet is my brother and it was our collective idea to sign up but then he lost interest in a matter of a few letters and it was all me after that. Shall we spend a moment in peace to pay respect to the death of the findpenpals website?” Smita asked and beckoned the waiter. “One coffee please.”

“Without sugar please,” said Nikhil still eyeing her suspiciously, “Yes, we can do all that. And yes, it was quite sad when they decided to shut down the website – I mean the fact that we’re both here after seven years of letter writing shows that what they tried was not an utter failure and yet…”

“True, and sad indeed. Not all things that work live forever, right? But hey, you remember about how I like my coffee. Now tell me all about the adventures from your last trek,” asked Smita.

“Umm, as for that, there was no trek – not the first, not the last. I work at a government-run library for poor kids – all my ‘adventures’ were snippets from the books that I read in the silence of the library. Sorry, but you can sue me – I guess that’s what a corporate type like you would do, right?” asked Nikhil, not quite eager to leave anymore.

“That can be arranged. But the corporate type sitting in front of you is actually just a struggling painter. I paint landscapes of cities and try to sell them at an art shop. So now you know what I meant by our operations at Tokyo and Toronto,” Smita smiled as she took the cup from the waiter.

“That was smartly done,” said Nikhil with a nod. “Talking of art, I know we had agreed on no gifts but still… here.” He took something out of his bag and kept it on the table. In the funkiest font, written on a table-top calendar were the words, “WHEN THE LIGHT GOES LOW, I GLOW!”

Smita took the calendar in her hands and let out a hearty laugh.

Pop goes the Genie

“Well, that’s what you are getting today for your breakfast,” he said while sliding the bowl of oats towards me.

“Well, that’s what I am not eating today for my breakfast,” I said, sliding the bowl back across the table to him.

“You know there are children in the world dying of hunger. And here you are, saying no to high quality nutritious food,” he slid the bowl back to me.

“A classic. Be a better man… er… or whatever you are, then? Serve these oats to those hungry children,” I refused to touch the bowl. “You know there are also some kids in the world eating chocolate frosted sugar-bombs for breakfast. And here you are, asking me to eats oats for the second day in a row. You should have thought of these things before bringing me here.” I threw my hands up in frustration.

“Look. For the last time, I am not the one who brought you here, okay? Not out of my will for sure,” he snapped a finger and my bowl of oats turned into a plate with a burger and fries.

“Cool!” I grabbed the burger and took a bite. “And sorry. I know you didn’t bring me here. I won’t mention it again. For some time at least.” This food is delicious! “Oats and now this. You need to learn how to maintain a balance while dealing with 12-year-old kids. Dad.” I smiled while looking at him.

“Stop calling me that. I am not your father,” he snapped at me with a hint of anger. “You know I can vanish your plate too? Or turn it into good old puri sabzi?” he smiled with a hint of mischief and then continued, “As soon as your mother traded you, your well-being became my responsibility.”

“No puri sabzi please! And you happen to be a people pleaser. Can I get a Coke to go along with these? Besides, do you realize the stupidity of what you two did? You took a child away from his mother only to grant her a wish and now you are worried about my well-being. Well, genius, a kid’s well-being is with his parent!” I was thoroughly enjoying the fries.

While he kept looking at me – either in surprise or immersed in deep thought – I couldn’t tell, but my mind again went back to how absurd my mom’s entire deal with Mr. Genie was. All she wanted was to get rich and, the ease with which she just handed me over to him, was honestly hurtful.

Today began my second week with Mr. Genie. I was still thinking about the Coke when he said, “I am bound by my rules!”

“And I am bound by my hunger,” I said smiling between bites.

“Tantrums all the time. But I know you’re quite happy here,” he looked at me intently.

“Well, you rescued me from the evils of my existence. It also helps that you live in a palace. How is that Coke bottle looking?” I asked trying to hide my thoughts about my previous life.

“No Coke in breakfast. And I heard that you’re talking about me to your friends as your Cool New Genie Dad. Not cool at all,” he said firmly.

“It was a joke. Nobody is coming to you with a wish. None of my friends have kids you can snatch anyway,” I replied.

But the fact was Mr. Genie made a perfectly good dad. He was caring, he listened to me, and most importantly, I trusted him never to give me away in exchange for anything. 

And then it struck me. What if I suggest my friends to talk to their parents about a deal that could get them all rich?

Writing prompt

The Vanishing Heirloom

 “Keep these,” I said to Anil, unable to control my giggles as I gave him the Rs. 500 note. “Today’s stuff is really good. I haven’t had something like this in ages,” I took another sip.

Anil held the note against the flickering light.

“A clear fake,” he said flicking the note.

“Your head is fake, Anil. The stuff’s gone to your head,” I tapped at the back of his head.

“Look here, Bhaiyya. No tiny watermark on the right. But I am sure they can’t catch it. Besides, I don’t want you to lose...” I snatched the note from him and checked it against the light myself. Anil was right. It was a worthless piece of paper.

“Where did you learn all this?” I asked him, still giggling, unable to keep my surprise in check. How can an illiterate villager know about counterfeiting?

“The secret of village smartness is the same as our sadness. Lots of free time,” said Anil.

“I am going to get you a job, Anil. You just wait. We’ll put all that smartness to work,” I punched him playfully in his stomach.

“Bhaiyya, I have observed something else too,” he said hesitantly.

“No Anil, not the right time. We talk only about childhood when we are high, right? I loved being here as a kid. What else do you remember?” I had had enough of his intelligence.

“Listen Bhaiyya. Look at me and listen,” he held my face in his hands, “The holy rocks near the big banyan tree. They are fake,” and he released my face.

“You have lost it, Anil. Those have been there for ages. Who will dare to…” but Anil didn’t let me finish.

“I don’t know who. But the original holy rocks are gone. Poof!” Anil burst an imaginary balloon and found it funny.

“And how do you know this, genius? No tiny watermark on the right?” I asked.

“Free time, Bhaiyya. Lots of it. Want to go check? But only if you date it with your testing apparatus,” he said.

“You had this all planned, didn’t you?” It couldn’t just be Anil asking me to use my dating equipment without a prior thought.

Anyway, I brought out the date-tester and we walked to the big banyan tree. Within seconds of pointing the camera at the rocks, the screen revealed its age, “Three-five years.”

“This… this can’t be. These rocks are centuries old,” I murmured. I repeated the test. Thrice. The same result.

“The old ones may be. But these ones? Certainly not,” replied Anil, “Unless your camera is drunk too,” he laughed. All I could do was smile as I looked at him. I touched the rocks as if my hands could do a better job of dating them than the equipment. Honestly, my hands couldn't tell the difference.

We soon called it a night. I had had enough of merrymaking after this discovery.

The next day, I caught up with Anil as he lazed on his cot.

“So, when did you figure out that the rocks were gone?” I asked him after a brief chat.

“About a fortnight ago. The texture felt so different when I was praying,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“And nobody else knows? How can that be?” I asked, my eyes narrowed.

"Did your hands figure it out?" Anil asked with a shrug.

“Who was here in the last few months? Any outsider?” The village’s holy rocks going amiss was no small deal. This could well cause chaos among the villagers. Their lives revolved around these rocks – with even festivities dedicated to them. Even my upbringing was dotted with tales about these rocks – how they were discovered by a traveller who then proceeded to settle our village around them.  

I asked the same question around the entire village. And found out about the visit of only one person who didn’t belong. The NGO teacher.  

The NGO – Among the Masses (ATM) – had its teachers visiting the village every now and then. They supplied educational material to the children – sometimes books, sometimes toys.

Once back in the city, I met the NGO teacher myself. She said she knew nothing about the rocks and was in the village only for a day. But I knew there had to be some connection.

After the NGO’s office was closed for the day, I managed to sneak in. Reaching the manager’s cupboard, I read through a few papers and found out what I was looking for. Pictures of the holy rocks. Stapled together was a letter from the Scientific Society. 

"Scientific Society recognizes Among the Masses (ATM) for its relentless support to scientific advancement. The dinosaur eggs discovered by ATM in the village will undoubtedly go a long way in evolutionary research. For this assistance, the Society extends funding of Rs. 5 Crores to ATM.”

[inspired by a true event - https://www.indiatoday.in/india/story/stones-worshipped-villagers-madhya-pradesh-fossilised-dinosaur-eggs-2478388-2023-12-20]