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]

The Whispering Grove

 ‘A failure. Yet another one. In an unending series of failures. My research is a failure. I am one too. And so is every bit of science that I have ever studied. Failure, failure, failure.’

I talk to myself as I finally sit on a rock. It’s been quite a treacherous walk from my laboratory. I have been escaping into these woods whenever I need to clear my head. The disaster of last night’s experiments felt like a stab. Can’t even quit the darned thing now that I am sitting on a big pile of Government grants. Though I can just walk away. Begin a new life. But that won’t be right.

How long has it been since I left this morning? I check my watch. Close to five hours, it tells me. And a drop of water falls on my wrist. Rain? Great. I am not good even at taking a walk without getting soaked. But it isn’t a raindrop. Just a drop of water from a tree looking down upon me.

There are so many of them around. Tall, dense, and huddling a lean patch of grass at the center.

Suddenly aware of how thirsty I am, I lick the drop of water off my wrist. It tastes sweet. With a smile, I look up at the trees thanking them in my head.

“You’re quite welcome,” I hear almost an inaudible whisper.

‘Wonderful, now I am imagining things,’ I think, laughing at my sorry state.

“No, you aren’t,” the whisper replies. “Self-sustaining crops, isn’t it?”

So the trees talk and they know my research topic. I hate even the mention of it. I am surprised. For a bit. But then a scientist like me knows, what this is. My tired brain is playing tricks.

“What of it? It refuses to work.” There is nobody around anyway. A little conversation with the trees won’t really hurt.  

“But it does,” said the whisper. “All it takes is a little push of your faculties.”

“Seven years and counting. The faculties don’t exist. There’s nothing up here,” I tap at my temple and admit without hesitation.

“Come on now. Take a little walk. The tree with the hollow has something for you,” the whisper is almost encouraging.

Well, if the research won’t work, this certainly would. I walk up to the only tree I can see that has a hollow in it, almost sure that I am so tired even my hallucination is malfunctioning. I peep inside.

Nothing but a patch of fungus. “Thanks for introducing me to garbage,” I say.

There is no whisper now. But then I see something different about the fungus. It’s not the usual creamy, mouldy patch. It is green. So very green.

“I small bite for man, a giant step towards complete lunacy.” I use my fingertip to swoop a patch, and taste it. Wait a minute. This tastes like… spinach. But how? These aren’t plants nor animals. Could chlorophyll-contained fungus really be the answer to self-sustaining crops? I pay closer attention to the lingering taste in my mouth. Definitely spinach.

Only a lab study can provide the answer. The environment in which this fungus grows, the right temperature for it, how it creates more of itself if at all it does that? I must take this to my lab.

I take a handful of the fungus patch, and sparing no second thought to the whisper of the trees, begin walking back towards the lab. How do I keep track of the directions? Good old fairytale technique. Dropping things on my way back. I collect a few fragrant flowers, a few lush leaves, a few straight sticks - arranging them as I go.

And then, I am so hungry that I have to eat more of the spinach fungus. It’s too dark now to notice the flowers, or the leaves. I can’t be too far away from the lab though. I take off my shirt, rip it and drop its shreds. That should take care of the path back to the grove, back to my glory.

I can see the lights at the lab now. Hunger strikes again. I eat the spinach fungus and give the shirt-treatment to my pants. I wish to share the happy news with someone. But I am also glad nobody can see me in this state. And then I fall. Must get up. The lab. The research. Must get up. Must…

News flash: Famous bio-scientist Dr Matt was found dead under suspicious circumstances near his lab this morning. His autopsy suggests the presence of strong toxins in his body. Preliminary reports suggest the absence of any foul play and investigators are hinting at self-harm...

A few years later. At the grove. Another tired, dejected man is sitting alone thanking the trees for the drop of water. “You’re quite welcome” he hears a whisper.

The Clockmaker’s Secret

The last 34 years in Jungadh have offered me everything that I need. Eventless life, wonderful weather, and more importantly, a thin population. And yet, it is time for me to wrap up and leave. More than 35 years and people notice my oddities. The old begin to die, babies begin to arrive, and I remain as I am.

It’s past midnight and I am still staring at the dying dance of the flames in my shop. But I won’t let it die just yet. Let me savour these last few pleasant nights of Jungadh. I place a few more wooden sticks in the fireplace. The fire swallows them up and comes back to life. I can’t help but smile at how the sticks burn out one by one, only to keep the fire alive. On repeat.

Just then, I hear a knock on the shop window. “Come tomorrow. I am sleeping,” I shout only to realise the silliness of what I have just said. There is no response. Whoever it is, opens the window, places a watch, and walks away. Of course, I can just visualize all of this happening. The window opens to my collection centre – a small box where the customers drop their watches while I work at the dispensary. These days nobody can sustain only on clockmaking, especially in a village. Being an attendant of the doctor makes life easier.

I go to the collection box and a watch with a worn-out leather strap greets me. Is it the same watch? I can’t be sure. A note accompanies. I walk back to the fireplace to read what it says. Just two words. “Savitri lives.”

In an impulse, I throw the note in the fireplace and step back - as if Savitri was about to appear out of the note. The fire dutifully gobbles up the paper and I rush to the door to see if the messenger is still around. Nobody.

My mind goes back to the past. Savitri. The one who taught me how to work with clocks. Oh what fun it was to play with all the clocks in her father’s workshop. From giant grandfather clocks to tiny timepieces – he had them all. And the best part? He never asked us to stop exploring.

My smile turns into an angry frown. “He should have asked us to stop; asked me to stop.” I remember that fateful game of hide and seek – stepping into her room and pocketing her watch. For three nights, I kept studying its insides. Half asleep, half awake. As if Savitri’s watch had stolen my sense of time. I still remember the dream, if it was one. The voice in the dream still rumbled in my head, “The trick to live forever is to keep stealing time from people’s clocks.” Once I was back in my senses, I realized how stupid this whole idea was. I was not a clockmaker. What business did I have to study a watch’s mechanism? But then again, I had to test the dream. Steal Savitri’s time from her watch. In utter confusion, I threw the stupid watch on the floor and broke it.

When her father opened the door the next day, I had returned the mangled watch to him. “Uncle, isn’t this Savitri’s? I found it near the school.” Without a word, he went inside. I followed him in, only to hear him say, “Throw it away. Savitri is no more.”

It has been more than three hundred years since. And I have been living on time stolen from people’s clocks. Keeping the flame of my life alive by hanging on to other wood sticks. I stare at the fireplace, traces of the note long turned to ashes. 

The Lost Touch

 “Upload to CAIN,” I said in my raspy voice.

“Say ‘yes’ to confirm, ‘no’ to continue editing,” came the response.

“Yes,” I replied.

 “Error in uploading article to CAI-,” and the voice broke off.

I had never encountered an error while uploading an article to CAIN. “Upload to CAIN?” I asked pleadingly. Nothing happened. No response whatsoever. “Upload to CAIN,” I tried again even as I received the same silence in response.

As if on an impulse, I checked for the green light at the lower right corner of my laptop screen. It was red. It had been five years since the Central Artificial Intelligence Network had been implemented in our village – making it among the last ones to go under the cozy cushion of the world governing AI authority. Never had I seen the CAIN status light go red.

“Now what do I do with this garbage?” I looked at the article on “How CAIN taps into the human psyche only to make it better” I had just written – almost expecting it to tell me what is it that I am supposed to do in this scenario.

With no answer forthcoming, I did something I had not done in a long time – looked out of my window. To my utter surprise, Minti was looking back at me from his window.

I motioned with my finger in a circle and asked him if it was a thumbs-down at his end too.

Indeed, Minti responded with a thumbs-down and a dejected face. With CAIN down, Minti was clearly missing either his school lessons or his chess practice. So, I was not the only one suffering.

And then Minti did something unexpected. He motioned a thumb towards his door. “What is Minti hinting at? Is he going out? But that would be a clear violation of CAIN rules. To just go out like that.”

Then Minti did the unthinkable – he pointed at me, and again pointed at his door. “Ah! He is asking me to go out with him!”

I hesitated and laughed at the absurdity of the idea. “What does a school child know about the repercussions of heading out without CAIN looking?”

I looked back at Minti and saw that he was still looking at me in anticipation. Then, Minti produced a chess piece – a Queen and dangled it in front of the window – almost teasing me.

Even though I knew the rules of the game, I was not a designated chess player. Yet, the thrill of joining Minti for a game seemed thrilling – it was either the idea of playing with a human or just violating the CAIN rules – I could not be sure.

I quickly glanced at my laptop screen. CAIN was still red. As if that was the only confirmation that my indecisiveness needed, I dashed out of my house and waited. There was no warning alarm. Minti did not make me wait for long. Soon, we were lost in a series of games until the sirens on our houses blared.