Smoke in the Mirror

Birthdays shouldn’t exist - especially after a person dies.

The thought lingers in my mind (or whatever is left of it) as I linger around the spot of my funeral. It is my birthday today and I await the monstrosity called Tejas to appear. He will be here any moment now. It is not so much an ‘awaiting’ as it is a ‘helplessness.’ I am trying to find a parallel between this moment and a life experience. That shouldn’t be a struggle for an author.

Child birth? Awaiting yes, helplessness no.

It has been 180 years since I passed on (not entirely but in a way). Every year – a few people turn up at my cenotaph (an empty tomb! How do I remember that one?) on my birthday and even on the day of my death. They offer flowers, letters, candles, and other trash. But among them all, Tejas is the worst. 

Let me tell you a bit about Tejas. 30-something, shabbily dressed, and never talks to anybody else when he is here. He began coming here five years ago. A very short letter, a rose and three incense sticks. I would have preferred a bottle of wine.

Hangovers? Helplessness yes, awaiting no.

His letters “sent” to me are all some variations of:

“For all your sufferings, Bharat.”

“We are not worthy, Bharat.”

“Always in our hearts, Bharat.”

A hint of apology sprinkled with a dash of sorrow. A pinch of memory to suit one’s taste. Debauchery of the finest kind.

What is the point of all this when it’s all a thing of the past? Correcting nothing except soothing the misplaced guilt in their hearts. I died a pauper with a hatred for my writings and a yearning for my death. Time to revisit a review for one of my first books:

“Bharat Doshi’s works are bland and immature - terrible tales of doom and despair rousing a reader’s underlying uncertainties.”

The reviewer must have spent more time on making the alliteration than understanding the book.

A dead child coming back to kill his mother’s murderer, a pet parrot gouging out his master’s killer’s eyes, a poor farmer haunting a moneylender into poverty. Revenge, revenge, revenge! How sweet is revenge, the reviewer would not know. How have these immature tales grown into cult (ha!) classics now!

Oh success, you rise a curious curve. Now that is an alliteration.

Revenge? Awaiting yes, helplessness no.

I hear some mourners asking in a murmur, “How did you die?”

It’s a mystery, they say. Not so for me. Some say I had died of heavy intoxication. Some say it was the handiwork of a competing author. I assure you - it was neither. But why do these mourners need to know?

Talking of mourners, Tejas is here. I see him. But worse. I smell the terrible incense sticks. Are they cheap? Shut up, brain. Price has nothing to do with quality. Don’t we know that?

I wish I could just throw those sticks away. But my spirit is too weak. As it was then? I have had worse thoughts. Tejas’ head. The rock on my cenotaph. What if… Let’s be kind now.

I bear the smell of the incense sticks. It’s a mix of sweaty socks combined with rotten radish. I read his letter to take my mind off.

“Bless me, Bharat.”

Utterly poor - even by Tejas’ standards. I suffer the nausea of his presence. Oh, you shall see! I am going to bless you alright.

At night, as Tejas goes to bed, I wait. I wait for him to begin dreaming. Then I bless him. Most horrendous scenery he could ever have imagined. I do not spare his dear friends or his loving relatives. They’re all in his dreams – suffering the worst fates possible. As he begins to awake, I show him my face. That should do it. The signature sign-off. No more coming to my spot, you rot.

For a year, I am at it. A zest of savagery squeezed in with a crush of cruelty. Now, I await my birthday.

A year passes. Tejas is here again. Is he carrying those incense sticks again? Yes, he is. He is not alone though. A crowd follows him – some are asking him questions, others are clicking his pictures.

He leads them to my funeral spot, and gets down on his knees. He keeps the letter, the rose, and the incense sticks down. The people around him are relentless. “What does Bharat mean to you?” one asks.

He pauses (oh the drama! Somebody, kill me again) and then answers, “Three successful horror books in one year. I couldn’t have done it without Bharat.” He bows.

“Any tips for aspiring authors?” a man asks. This is now a workshop for budding writers.

“Just talk to Bharat,” Tejas answers with his hands pointing towards the emptiness. “Don’t forget the incense sticks,” he adds.

I read his letter. “In death, you have won, Bharat.” Sure, this right here is the sweet smell of success.

Death. Awaiting yes, helplessness yes.

Birthdays shouldn’t exist.

Inspiration: Poe Toaster

The Post Script Store

I am sitting at the counter. A customer hands over a book. It is a recently published love story. Full of light banter and no sadness whatsoever. “Nice choice, Subhashbabu” I smile at the 70-something gentleman who has an undying love for romcoms. “As always,” he replies with a grin. I generate an invoice, collect cash, and return the book to him.

He leaves and I am left alone at the counter. A buzz is setting inside the store. Isn’t it early to get crowded? I glance at the clock on my desk.

2:50 AM. 10 minutes left.

I glance around in the store. Most of the people are at the ‘Best-sellers’ section. I stand and walk away from the counter. I need a break before the rush hour.

I scan my thumb at the door to the inner room. Should we have an ‘Authorized Personnel Only’ board? Unnecessary and would only invite unwanted attention. Nobody cares to walk inside unmarked doors at a bookstore.

But this is not just a bookstore. Certainly not after 3.

I walk inside the room. Netra is busy looking at a form from last night’s orders. Weighing the ingredients. Mixing them in her test-tubes.

“Give yourself a break, Netra. You up for a coffee?” I ask as I head towards the coffee machine. I know not to go anywhere near her when she’s working. Once, I had tried to distract her and she had emptied a beaker right on my shirt while yelling, “Acid!” only to be followed by a giggle and “It’s only water.” Morbid sense of humour.

“Make it a strong one,” she says with a smile.

 “Too much caffeine isn’t good for you,” I say as I pick up two cups from the machine – my latte and her dark coffee.

“Caffeine, coffin… too much of anything isn’t good, right?” she says while sealing a vial and pasting a label on it.

“Unnecessary,” I say as I keep her cup on the desk.

I hear a buzz from the front counter. Ten minutes up already? I rush out of the inner room – my cup of coffee in one hand and Netra’s OUTWARD tray with neatly stacked vials in it, in the other.

The counter window has a queue. As soon as I sit on my chair, I see the familiar face of Farhan. His eyes are red. He is offering his empty vial through the counter window.

“Empty so soon? You are overusing, Farhan. We had discussed it. It’s not healthy,” I say, yet not stopping myself from taking his vial and keeping it in my INWARD basket.

“It’s my school friend. We grew up together. It’s so difficult-,” he says with a glint in his eyes.

“Friend, father, foe - who cares?” I cut him off. I have heard these stories before and this isn’t the time to listen to a repeat customer. “Come tomorrow to collect it. Just don’t get addicted,” I say as I give him an invoice. He pays immediately and walks away – a smile on his face, something already brewing in his head for the next time he uses.

I see a 50-something woman next. She is hesitant. “I don’t know how this works,” she smiles through the pain on her face.

“I am sorry for your loss. Take this form. There are pens at the writing counter near the ‘Spirituality’ section. Write your name, the name of the departed, date of death, favourite memory. It’s all pretty basic,” I hand over a form to her. She is still confused.

“You will have to make the payment now.” I give her an invoice and the lady pays – more question marks on her forehead. “Drop the filled form in this box,” I keep the box of forms at the counter, “Collect your vial tomorrow. Take a sip from the vial in the morning and you’ll get to spend a day with the departed. Please avoid overusing it. It’s not healthy,” I smile. The lady moves out of the queue while looking at the box, trying to assimilate everything I had said.

Now, we could have printed it all on a board. But Netra thought it would be better to have a human with people skills (me, of course) to talk to people before we take their money.

Throughout the day, and partly through the night, we sell books at our store. The 3-4 AM hour is reserved for selling vials.

“Is my vial ready?” It is Subhashbabu again.

“Sure is,” I hand him the labelled vial from Netra’s OUTWARD tray, followed by an invoice. He pays me but, for some reason, is still in the queue.

“Yes, Subhashbabu?” I ask. He is not easy to get impatient with.

“You talked about my choice earlier. Sheela is my best choice,” he says proudly. I smile at him adoring how he kept it in his mind to reply.

“Of course,” I smile at his use of present tense for someone lost long ago. He begins to move out of the queue.

“I wanted to ask. Why don’t you sell these vials before 3?” Subhashbabu peeks in again.

It would be better to have a board at least for this one but Netra is against all forms of written communication. “Oh, it is just that we are selling books all day. These things take time to prepare. Besides, we don’t wish to mix the two businesses,” I say, wondering if he is convinced.

I spend the hour taking customers’ requests either for a refill or a new request to spend a day with another loved one. I keep nudging them not to overdo it. We don’t know the bad effects of the vial on a person’s physical health. But we know that being addicted to the departed could not be too healthy.

The clock on my desk gives out a little ding. It is 4 AM. I keep the CLOSED slate on the counter. I hear a collective sigh from the unattended customers. They know better than to complain about the strict hours.

I stand up and stretch my arms. It will be a while before the crowd steps out of the store. They deserve some time to collect their thoughts and emotions.

I scan my thumbprint at the door of the inner room. Netra is deeply engrossed in a horror book – a shadow of a house on its cover.

“Do you ever think that these gruesome books could be the reason for your dark thoughts?” I ask as I stand next to her.

“Could be. Or, it could be just an occupational hazard,” she says.

I look at how beautiful she looks even while reading something so ghastly. That ready wit, those expressive eyes, those pretty hair – all gone so soon. I can’t take my eyes off her as I raise the vial to my lips.

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'.