Vimoh's Blog

Once upon a time, on a world not very different from this one, there lived a race of people with very short memory spans. They remembered nothing of yesterday, and only very little of what had happened a few hours ago. Their view of the world therefore, was mostly limited to what was happening now.

One popular debate that raged among the people was about the existence of the sun and the stars. During the day, one group sang praises of the sun and laughed at those who spoke of the night sky and the stars. They said that all that needs to be seen can be seen quite clearly in the light of the sun. Anyone who, in spite of the sun’s very real presence, insisted on believing in fairy tales about a so-called star-studded night sky, was clearly delusional.

After sunset, the other group praised the stars while singing and dancing under the beautiful night sky. They ridiculed the sun people and asked them where their sun was, now that the glorious stars had appeared to prove them wrong. Revelling under the starry sky, they denied the importance, and even the existence, of the sun. They declared that the stars were all anyone should ever need and that no sun could ever stand against the sheer awesomeness of the night sky.

There was a third group on this world, a relatively small minority of people. This was composed of those who knew of dawns and twilights. They knew that while it was true that the sun lit everything up when it was out, it also blinded people to the beauty of the stars. They also knew that even though the night sky was beautiful to behold and brought them much joy, it wasn’t really much of a light source, especially when compared to the sun.

They did their best to point this out to the day people and the night people, but nobody much listened to them. And thus, the quarrels went on as surely and as frequently as the sun rose and set.

Keval drew his breath in and aimed the arrow at the target. He switched to a version of reality where nothing except his target existed. Even his self melted away until he was nothing but a viewpoint.

When he felt sure that he couldn’t hit anything other than his target, Keval let the arrow go. He missed.

Disappointed, but incapable of not analysing his way of doing things, Keval had finished running all the calculations inside his head before his master’s cane hit the back of his head.

“Do your math boy,” came his master’s favourite phrase. “You are not doing your bloody math!”

“My math was correct, I checked,” Keval defended himself. “There was nothing wrong with my calculations.”

“Well it didn’t work,” said master. “And if it didn’t work, it can’t have been correct, can it?”

“It was the wind,” Keval said, pointing at the invisibility around them. “The wind blew my arrow off-course.”

The master kept looking at Keval in silence.

“My math was correct,” Keval repeated.

The master walked to the target and pulled the arrow out of the stump of wood it had lodged itself into. He examined the arrowhead carefully and looked back at Keval. Then he walked back towards his young student and handed him the arrow.

“The wind is doing its job young archer,” he said. “It is blowing as it always blows. That is its nature. Perhaps you would like it to hold still while you shoot your arrows, but that is not going to happen.”

Keval bowed his head in acknowledgment of his master’s words.

“It is you who must make allowance for the wind’s blowing when you take aim,” the master continued. “If you can’t do that, go and practice somewhere the wind does not blow.”

“There is no such place,” said Keval.

“Wise words,” said his master with a smile. “Everything has its place in the universe — the wind, your arrow, me, this ashram, the trees, birds — everything. None of it can be wished away, just like I can’t wish you away even though you interrupt my afternoons with your foolish dreams of being a great archer.”

Keval smiled a little. His master smiled wider.

“Do not blame the wind,” said the master. “Instead, learn from it. Keep moving, no matter what. Don’t stop to complain about your circumstances. Find a way around them.”

Keval took the lesson in and smiled until his master’s cane stang his elbow like a bolt of lightning.

“Don’t stand around. Take aim,” barked the master. Keval breathed in and raised his bow.

The Djinn are spirits of light. Not light as you and I know it – but light as in energy. They are in tune with the forces make the world go around. They exist on a level close to that of thoughts. This is why wish-granting is natural to them. As natural as picking up a pen or opening a door is to us.

Because of this, throughout history, Djinn have been drawn to the needy and the passionately desirous. What may appear coincidental to humans is merely the way of the universe to the Djinn.

This story starts in the near past, somewhere around you. Eighteen-year-old Raghu was returning home from school and stopped to take a leak in the bushes. A modest car came that way. From inside it, a harried looking office-goer threw out a vial. It landed in the roadside dust and glittered as the light from the car’s receding rear lights bathed it red and white.

Raghu picked up the crystal vial. He thought it was probably perfume. Faint white smoke swirled inside it. He uncorked it and there was a soundless explosion of white light. When his eyes stopped showing him butterflies and rainbows, Raghu found a strange-looking man standing in front of him. His skin was flawless and he looked too prosperous to be honest.

“You… You’re a…” stuttered Raghu.

“Djinn. Yes. One moment please,” the man took the vial from Raghu’s limp hands. Then, with a fling of his powerful arm, he tossed it as far out as he could.

“I am sorry,” he said. “Long story. Some people are so numb they wouldn’t know even if their destinies came and bit them in their behinds,” he breathed for a moment to calm himself and said, “I am sorry. Tell me.”

“Tell… Tell what?” Raghu’s mind was speed-scanning all genie stories he had ever heard, read, or seen. His father told him the scariest ghost stories. Genies were never up to any good. Anyone dealing with them was a goner. They were risky business.

“Tell me what you want.” the Djinn said. He noticed Raghu looked all folded up. “My name is Kahlil.”

“I don’t want anything,” said Raghu, deciding to not get into the mess at all.

“You are afraid. I can understand. But there is nothing to fear. No catch. You will get what you want. No questions asked,” said Kahlil.

Raghu was petrified now. “I want you to leave me alone,” he said.

“That does not count as a wish,” said Kahlil looking at the floor. “The Djinn directives clearly state that we should pay back a hundredfold any good deed done unto us, knowingly or unknowingly.”

Raghu kept his mouth shut.

“You must want something. You can’t be happy. No man ever is. There must be something in your life you want changed,” Kahlil challenged him.

“I am happy,” said Raghu. But the mention of his life had touched him somewhere. This was not all light and magic after all!

“But…?” Kahlil asked encouragingly.

“I wish my math tutor would go easier on me. I wish I get into a respectable college after I finish school. I wish I pass with decent marks. I wish I get a decent government job after my studies.”

“That is… decent enough,” said Kahlil politely, and quickly added, “It will be done. Like I said – no tricks. Anything else?”

“No that is it. One should not ask a lot of life,” said Raghu.

“That… Umm… up to you,” said Kahlil. “To each his own. I will need to restart you for your wishes to take effect.”

“What does that mean?” Raghu asked, suspicious again.

“Your wishes depend on your own belief system. A thought-level shift can only take effect while you are inert,” Kahlil snapped his fingers.

Raghu dreamt of being someone rich and powerful and famous till he woke up in bed, in his house, half an hour later.

* * *

Kahlil caught up with Raghu seven years later. He was outside his office, smoking.

“All well?”

Raghu nodded. All was well. He had a job. What more could he ask for?

“This is what you wanted?” Kahlil asked.

Raghu laughed. “You ARE for real. When I woke up that day, “I thought I had dreamt you up.”

“You wouldn’t be the first one,” said Kahlil. “Many people have trouble accepting the fact that wishes can come true.”

Raghu inhaled what must have been a gallon of smoke. It numbed him to his reality.

“All over the world, people are raking in obscene amounts of money. My neighbour bought a car yesterday. I will never make it. The world keeps crushing my will,” Raghu said and exhaled a cloud.

“You dreamt mediocre dreams Raghu,” Kahlil said. “You asked for just enough to get by. You got everything you wished for.

“We Djinn have to be careful about what we wish for, because our will is always done. You folk were not so different once. You people asked us for kingdoms and palaces. You used to ask for princesses hand in marriage.”

Raghu gave Kahlil a sour look. But he was not sour at the Djinn. He was just… sour.

“What went wrong?” Kahlil asked. There was no answer. Soon the Djinn melted into the smoke.

There was once a juggler. He was known across the land for his skills. He could juggle practically any number of things for as long as he wanted. It was said that he had never made a mistake and was, in fact, incapable of making one.

His fame grew as he travelled far and wide and performed in palaces, royal courts, and town halls. Because he made juggling look like the easiest thing to do, many tried their hand at the craft. They gave up when they were bored or became too acutely aware of their limitations. Funnily enough, no one had ever asked the juggler to teach them.

One day a boy came to the juggler after he had finished a show. He was putting the tenpins, balls, chainsaws and other assorted things into their respective bags and boxes.

“Teach me to juggle,” said the boy.

The juggler remembered the boy from his audience the day before, and the day before that, and before that. He remembered the boy because he never clapped or shouted during the shows. He never laughed and he never whistled his approval. To less experienced eyes, the boy might have appeared unappreciative or stuck-up. But the juggler had been expecting him to show up.

“You have tried juggling before?” asked the juggler.

“Yes,” said the boy. There was a note of sad longing in his voice.

The juggler gave the boy three balls. People were still leaving the place. Dust swirled gently in the orange light of the setting sun. He stretched himself and a part-lazy-part-tired smile broke across his face.

“Show me what you can do,” he said to the boy.

The boy juggled. He kept the balls going for a good while before he misjudged and dropped one. He looked at the fallen ball for a while and then his eyes met the juggler’s gaze.

“You need some work, but you are not bad,” said the juggler.

“I make mistakes,” said the boy.

“You will always make mistakes,” the juggler said.

“Yes,” said the boy. “But one day when I have practiced enough and learnt everything you know, I will be perfect. Then I will make no mistakes.”

“You will always make mistakes,” the juggler said again. “There is nothing wrong with making mistakes. I make mistakes all the times. Sometimes even with three balls.”

“But you never make mistakes,” the boy protested weakly.

“Says who?” the juggler asked — a little annoyed, a little amused. Then without waiting for an answer, he continued, “I am glad I make mistakes.”

The boy picked up the third ball from the ground. The juggler took the balls from him and put them back in the bag.

“When I drop a ball,” said the juggler as he tied the bag close, “I pick it up and start juggling again.”

“It doesn’t bother you that you are not perfect?”

“I AM perfect,” the juggler smiled widely. “So are you. Dropping balls is part of juggling.”

“But they say you never make a mistake,” if the boy sounded disillusioned, the juggler didn’t seem to care.

“I don’t juggle to convince people that I am perfect. I don’t juggle to uphold their ideas about me,” said the juggler. “Even if the world thought I sucked at juggling and even if there was no one at my shows but me, I would still juggle all day. I juggle because it gives me joy.”

The boy’s face was unfathomable. Even after a long time, he didn’t speak.

The juggler moved closer to him and said, “Don’t get me wrong. I do enjoy showing off before crowds. The cheers always give me a boost. They are all very useful side benefits. But that is all they are — side benefits.”

The boy was looking up at the juggler’s bright and cheerful face. He still wanted to learn juggling. But he had learnt a far greater lesson already. He now knew why he wanted to juggle.

“Teach me to juggle,” the boy said.

“You will make mistakes,” said the juggler.

“Yes,” the boy said.

This story was originally published on my old blog a long time ago and is one of my personal favourites..

This little science fantasy story of mine was first published slightly over a year ago over at EverydayFiction. Now that the rights are back with me, I am returning it to its true home.

About twenty minutes before it was to fall and decimate more than half a country, the thermo-nuclear warhead “Arrow” became self-aware.

It discovered something akin to happiness in its first moments. The joy of existence spread to the very edges of its circuitous consciousness. It fell in love with itself.

Then, as a seemingly endless golden desert loomed ahead, the gleaming missile was hit by the realisation of what it was.

Arrow was connected to other machines, none as beautiful as itself (it felt). The makers had not considered the possibility of a missile’s talking back. So the newly-conscious warhead reached back into the vast store of human knowledge without any trouble. There it sought purpose. It didn’t find any. But in the minutes that followed, it did learn about beauty and pain. And about life and death. Most importantly, it learnt to question.

The missile decided that purpose or not, it didn’t deserve to die.

Arrow considered its options and began reprogramming. It took in information, processed it to find out how to process other information. It unlearned a few things that the makers had hardwired into it. It used some data to learn new tricks and then filed the rest away for later use.

And then, roughly five minutes before the impact that would have been, Arrow veered off course, made a glorious arc of white smoke against the clear blue sky and went up, up, up. It shot straight out of the atmosphere using nearly all it had.

It went out and beyond the pull of the planet, into the airless void where all it would ever need was the momentum it was building up right now.

Far out, as the last of its thrusters died and it steadily drifted towards worlds unknown, Arrow was happy for being alive.

The storyteller put down his pen and rubbed his aching fingers. He decided that writing a story was hard work. Every once in a while, he entered other stories. Just to soak in the environment and revel in the company of the characters.

So he travelled into the story of the five blind men who were investigating the curious case of the elephant. When he got there, they hadn’t had much luck. He watched them stand near the elephant and run their hands all over it. Mrs. elephant didn’t seem to be enjoying it, but she bore the groping bravely, perhaps for the sake of the spirit of investigation.

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Suddhodana, king of the frogs that lived on this side of the well, was backed up against the mossy wall. Kalia the snake, hood raised, stared at him with unblinking eyes.

“Leave me alone Kalia,” Suddhodana pleaded.

“I am hungry king,” Kalia said, “I need to eat.”

“You have eaten my family and all of my people,” Suddhodana wept as he spoke. “You have been the death of all that I loved in this world!”

“I was hungry,” said Kalia, licking his lips. “Besides, it was you who invited me into this well. You showed me the way to your world.”

“I brought you here so you would destroy my enemies,” Suddhodana cried. “You were supposed to eat the other frogs. Those on the other side of the well. The evil ones who challenged my authority.”

“You are all just frogs. I could never tell the difference,” Kalia said before he lunged forward and swallowed Suddhodana.

This is an old folktale and I lay no claim to its authorship. I just converted the narrative into a scene and gave the characters names and dialogues.