If Books Could Pay...

On a late Sunday afternoon, with nothing much to do, I strolled out to the string of second-hand bookstores dotting the narrow lanes at the end of the main market area. Having already read most of the popular books, I was looking for something obscure – may be with a catchy title from an unknown author. It is difficult to say no to these shopkeepers when they insist on buying at least something from their huge collection. But when one has meager means like me, haggling becomes easier.

This was just my first month after completing my graduation. With no vacancies for teachers, I decided to stay back in the city and look for jobs. I was okay with the idea of being a home tutor or even assisting at a tuition class. With minimum support arriving from my parents, things were as they say, ‘quite tight.’ I was still staying at the college hostel as the next batch of students had not yet arrived.

Having walked empty-handed out of two stores, I was caught by a book on Sarp Dosh in the third store. I was glancing through the book – trying to figure out if any of it would make sense to someone whose knowledge of astrology is limited to reading daily horoscope and finding the lucky colour of the day. However, the book seemed too technical with detailed astrology charts. I was about to return the book to its stack, when a man tapped on my shoulder and said, “It is a good book. Once you get a hang of it, you’ll want to read more of those.”

I turned around to see a man in his late 40s with a thick moustache and rectangular glasses. He was carrying a flimsy plastic bag with a few books. “Have you read it already?” I asked and felt silly at my question. Of course, he had.

“Yes, it is a nice read,” he replied, “but the one by Charu Pande is better.”

“Do you believe in all these things? This movement of planets deciding our fate…” I asked with a smile.

“No, not really. But that is not the intent of reading them, isn’t it? I keep reading all sorts of stuff,” he smiled.

“How frequently do you come here? Like twice a month?” I asked wondering if he’d know the shopkeeper and could help me score a discount?

“Sometimes, I come here twice a day. Once, before going to college, and once after. It’s on my way. I love collecting books,” he took out his phone. “I have two rooms full of them. My father is now asking me to pay rent for the books.” He kept doing something on his phone. I was wondering if he was about to show me something, and indeed, he showed me a video capturing stacks of books at his home.

“This is fascinating. Are you a PhD student?” I asked feebly, trying not to offend him.

“Not a student. I am a college librarian. I keep reading at the library. Then, I come home, and read some more. What do you do?” he kept his phone back in his pocket.

“I just finished studying B.Ed. Now, looking for a job. By any chance, does your college-“ I began.

“No, sorry. They don’t hire fresh graduates,” he said and was about to walk off when a thought occurred to me.

“Listen. Will you show me your collection? These shops have either very popular books or the ones which I won’t understand,” I was exploring the possibilities.

Parikshit’s house, as I had figured from the video, was a rather modest one. Faded exteriors, old electric sockets, creaky doors – it had all the signs of being from the previous generation.  He was living with his father who kept fussing around about money and casually throwing around that phrase – ‘Major inconvenience.’

“Our kitchen tap’s been leaking – major inconvenience.”

“These damned crows just keep cawing – major inconvenience.”

And sure enough, there were a few crows crowing all around that house. Quite atypical for that time of the day. Anyway, when he brought up Parikshit’s insufficient earning for the third time that evening, I suggested what I had in mind – “Is it okay if I could rent out a room? I don’t mind the books in the smaller one.” 

“Only one person in my house is a major inconvenience. Since his books can’t pay the rent, it would be good to have someone who does,” Parikshit’s father agreed right away.

---

Once settled in, my schedule was to go out each day, knock on the doors of educational institutes, and return with the hope of a better tomorrow. A week in that house and I realized that the father’s concerns were not unfounded. Parikshit read a book before going to college, picked it up as soon as he returned home, and kept reading well into the night. There was hardly any conversation between the father and the son.

“What does your father really want?” I asked Parikshit once after dinner while he was walking with a book in his hand and I was reading one too.

“The stuff you will give him at the beginning of each month. He wants just that,” he said, not taking his eyes off the book.

“And you?” I was trying to figure out if there was a way to reconcile things between the father and the son.

“The stuff you see all around in this house minus the people,” he replied.

“You don’t want to reach a higher level of earning?” I knew I was walking into the none-of-my-business territory.

 “Not really, no,” he answered  

It was either the futility of the conversation or the possibility of turning into Parikshit that kept me from sleeping that night. It must have been around 3 in the AM. The crows were still at it as if the house was cursed by them. I sat upright on my bed and saw a glow emerging from Parikshit’s room. I thought it must have been a fire and rushed out. 

When I peered through his door, I saw him seated on the floor. A book was open in front of him. A stream of light was pouring out of the book. I don’t know how but he sensed my presence and closed the book shut. The light vanished and he looked at me.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” he asked me as I took a step back.

“Yes, I thought…” was all I could manage and returned to my room.

The next day, I caught up with Parikshit at breakfast. “So do you want to tell me what that was all about?” I asked.

“Tell you what was what about?” he asked, “Focus on your career… if you want to make one.”

That was unprecedentedly rude of him. I decided not to poke into matters that are beyond me. Did this have to do anything with those Sarpa Dosh books? I couldn’t believe my thoughts had gone into that direction. Yet, I was eager to know more about Parikshit’s secrets.

That night I decided not to sleep. At exactly 3, I glanced towards Parikshit’s room. That glow again. I tiptoed out. It was the same sight from the previous night. This time, I did not stop at his doorstep. “Parikshit, what are you doing?” I asked and touched his shoulder.

Immediately, the light flashed so bright that I had to close my eyes. When I realized that the intensity of the flash had finally reduced, I opened my eyes.

We were not in Parikshit’s room anymore. We were in a forest. The glow was emerging from a fire pit. Parikshit glanced at me and returned to the book. But we were not alone. Surrounding us, were all sorts of animals – rabbits, snakes, wolves, even a tiger. The trees were lined with crows and none of them were crowing. They were all listening intently to Parikshit. In the early hours of the morning, Parikshit closed the book and we ended up being back in his room. “I am too tired now. Talk tomorrow?” he said.

The next morning – before I could say anything, Parikshit said, “So that was the answer to your 'What do you want?' It is a minor inconvenience but it will do.”

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.

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. 

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…”

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 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.