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.

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.

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.

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..

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

Brahma 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.

Brahma 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, Brahma 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, Brahma was happy for being alive.

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.

The storyteller approached the blind men and asked them about the conclusions they had reached and duly recorded their answers.

Blind Man #1: (fondling the Mrs. Elephant’s shapely trunk) I have concluded that the elephant is like a thick soft rope. It has horizontal creases all over it and there is an opening at the end of its rope-like body which it probably uses for intake of nutrients or for excretion, or perhaps for both.

Blind Man #2: (exploring Mrs. Elephant’s broad side) I am amused by the first gentleman’s imagination. I have been running my hands all over the subject’s body for a long time now and nowhere have I found evidence of anything rope-like in nature. In my considered scientific opinion, the elephant resembles a wall. Careful study will reveal its skin to be moist, thereby proving that the elephant consumes nutrients from the atmosphere, absorbing them through its skin.

Blind Man #3: (running his hands up and down Mrs. Elephant’s firm legs) I do not like to get into arguments. This is why I won’t comment on the profoundly stupid conclucions of my two learned friends. The elephant, I believe, is very much like a pillar. In fact, the elephant is not a living creature at all. It is simply a rigid, unmoving, and inanimate structure.

Blind Man #4: (tugging at Mrs. Elephant’s lithe tail) That is preposterous! The elephant is very much alive and not at all like a pillar. I can vouch for it. The elephant is like a rope, but not a thick and long one, like another deluded gentleman here seems to suggest. The elephant is a short, light rope that flicks about all the time. Indeed, it has slapped me on my face several times in the course of my investigations into its nature.

Blind Man #5: (standing with his back to the elephant and slicing the air with his outstretched arms) I believe what I can observe and prove, unlike all the others here who seem to be guided by their delusions. The elephant doesn’t exist. I have spent a lot of time looking for any sort of tangible proof, but there is none to be found. There is no such thing as an elephant.

The storyteller stood around for some time, wondering what to do next. Then he thought that perhaps the opinion of Mrs. Elephant herself might help clear things up. So he asked her what she thought. It didn’t go well.

Mrs. Elephant: (angrily) You are enjoying all this aren’t you? I will see how well you are doing after you have been surrounded and humiliated by all of them seekers of truth. Wait till my husband hears of this. This was totally against Indian culture!

The storyteller didn’t think it wise to press the point. Mrs. Elephant stomped off the scene and he returned to the five blind men who were still arguing.

Blind Man #5: Seriously! I consider it beneath me to even listen to the kind of drivel you people are pushing. Where is the proof? Where is the documented evidence? Where, for that matter, is anything resembling any of your ideas about this so-called elephant?

Blind Man #1: I, sir, have felt the elephant’s presence myself. It exists, whether you choose to accept it or not. The rope that is the elephant has always been and will always be.

Blind Man #4: I agree on the rope bit somewhat. It is possible that you and I are referring to the same thing. Perhaps the rope is thin at the top and thick towards the other end.

Blind Man #1: No! The rope is thick on the top and thin towards the end. There is no denying that. Do not dare mock my theory.

Blind Man #4: I wasn’t mocking anything… I merely wanted to point out that…

But it was too late. The first blind man had thrown himself at the fourth and the two were soon rolling in the dust yelling obscenities at each other. The storyteller saw that the second blind man was enjoying this immensely. He asked him why.

Blind Man #2: Their quarrels only show how unsure they are of themselves. They are only proving that the elephant is not like a rope at all, but in fact, like a wall, as I have demonstrated.

Blind Man #5: (sarcastically) Or maybe the elephant doesn’t exist at all, as I have demonstrated.

With this, the second blind man threw himself at the fifth blind man as well and they too, in no time, were rolling in the dust yelling obscenities at each other.

The storyteller drew a gun (he was a storyteller after all, and storytellers can draw upon anything from imagination) and fired a shot in the air. The blind men stopped fighting, some more reluctantly than others, and got up.

The storyteller put the gun away and asked them to sit down. He was asked what the loud cracking sound was and he told them it was thunder. They believed him (he was a storyteller after all).

The storyteller then requested all the blind men to sit down and discuss what they felt to be true. He told them that he was sure (he was not) they would find a way out of their disagreements if they just talked about it. The blind ones agreed.

Before he left the story, the storyteller managed to listen to the fourth blind man admit to feeling something like a pillar occasionally brush against his hand when he was trying to grab hold of the tail. The second blind man, in his turn said he hadn’t really found anything resembling a border to the wall and admitted that it was possible that there was more to the elephant than he had thought.

The fifth blind man laughed at all of this. The storyteller laughed with him.

“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.

His people raged all around the chained prisoners and his soldiers fought against an angry crowd intent upon lynching those captured.

The king silenced the crowd with a motion of his hand. He didn’t want the hands of his people sullied with the blood of murderers. His people were not killers. They were builders and poets and traders. He will not let them turn into the object of their hate.

The king dispensed justice swiftly. To those who had killed his people, he gave death. Those who had desecrated his people’s holy places, he sentenced to slavery, so they may help build back that which they had destroyed.

And to the one who had taken his only child from him, the brave king gave forgiveness.

The biker’s extended family rode with him, as well as the friends he had grown up with. The journey was spent talking. The old ones told stories of races they had won in their time. The young talked of what they hoped to see a mile or two ahead.

Our hero though, had his eyes fixed on a peak some distance ahead. It had been there for as long as he could remember and grew in size as they drew close to it. But nobody paid it much attention. They missed its enormous presence and the fact that it rose right past the clouds.

As they got closer to the mountain, the biker noticed paths on the slope. “It has been done before!” he couldn’t help but speak out loud.

“What has been done before?” his mother grew attentive at once.

“The peak has been scaled before,” he said and pointed to the mountain.

His mother turned and looked at what the boy was pointing at. She decided she didn’t like where this was going. The boy was too dreamy for his own good. Even before the boy spoke of it, she knew he wanted to ride his bike uphill.

“It can’t be done,” she told him.

“How do you know it can’t be done?” asked the boy, a little angrily.

“Remember your uncle?” she asked as her gaze shifted to the other side. “He once tried to scale a mountain on his bike. He didn’t make it. What’s more? He fell and broke his leg.”

The boy followed his mother’s gaze and saw his uncle. He rode a modified bicycle these days.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t do it,” said the boy. “It only means uncle couldn’t do it.”

The mother groaned at the boy’s arrogance. She wanted to tie the boy up, bundle him in a basket and carry him past the mountain and keep going until his arrogance subsided. But she knew such ideas only appeared to be workable.

“Fine,” she said at last. “But don’t be in a hurry. Those who ride too fast meet accidents. Ride with us till we reach the foot of the mountain. Then you can go your way.”

The boy considered this for some time and finally agreed. Even though his heart wanted nothing more than to ride as fast as he could and not stop pedalling until he was at the top of the peak.

It took the family a little over one week to reach the foot of the mountain. During this time, almost everyone around him had tried to talk the boy out of his foolish dream. But he refused to listen to their wisdom.

When the path uphill was the closest, the boy said his goodbyes to the family and started pedalling uphill.

His bike went smooth for sometime. Then the real climb began. The boy was panting very soon. His legs strained against the pedals and he couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried, go any further. He braked, but the wheels couldn’t hold on to the slopes and he fell.

Fortunately, all he suffered was bruised knees and elbows. His loving family gathered around him and tended to his wounds. He knew what his mother was going to say. His mother took a look at him and knew that he knew what she was going to say. Then she said it anyway, “I told you so.”

The boy groaned at his mother’s lack of imagination. This wasn’t failure. It was a setback. Besides, now he knew why he couldn’t make it.

He shouldn’t have waited for the foot of the mountain. He shouldn’t have taken it slow for the last seven days. He should have started pedalling as hard as he could as soon as he decided he wanted to scale the mountain. He should have built up speed.

The young biker got up and dusted himself off. “Go on without me,” he said to his family. “I am going the other way. I will ride for a day or two and then turn around and charge the mountain. That is what I need to do.”

His mother knew he was past reasoning. Why someone would give up the pleasures and comfort of a steady riding family and go after a wild dream out of nowhere, she would never understand.

The family rode into the sunset and the lone young biker rode the other way, into the darkness.

Fobo remained on his knees. Any attempt to stand straight in the presence of the horrible Xoth would result in his guards shooting him. Dying would be pointless, he believed. His cousin still owed him money. There was hope in the world still.

After long painful minutes, Xoth dropped the mangled bicycle in front of the kneeling Fobo and laughed a high, cold laugh. Fobo remained silent.

“There lies your precious piece of work metalworker. I have destroyed in minutes what you spent weeks on. What do you say to that?”

Fobo looked up to face the terrible Xoth and flinched upon seeing his face. Then he said, “I can fix it.”

“It will take you weeks just to get this mess sorted out,” said the ugly Xoth and kicked the remains of the bicycle.

Fobo nodded, “True. But I can still fix it.”

The impolite Xoth laughed again, “All those painfully long hours of careful work, all over again. Does the prospect make you afraid?”

Fobo shrugged, “It does, a little. But what am I going to do? This is my work. This is my life.”

The fearsome Xoth leant a little forward and spoke to Fobo coldly, “I will return metalworker. When you are done, I will return and destroy your work, all over again. You will feel this pain… umm… all over again.”

Fobo sighed, “I was kind of expecting that.”

“Then you give up? You vow never to make another bicycle again?” asked the morbidly hopeful Xoth.

Fobo smiled a weak smile, “I don’t think so. No.”

The haughty Xoth stood up and declared, “You will never rest in peace metalworker. Each waking moment of yours will dread my coming, and your nightmares will show you broken bicycles.”

“You know me too well Xoth,” replied Fobo. “Things are indeed as you say they are. But there is still much in my life to make me happy. My cousin owes me money.”

It was well-known that the monarch Xoth had no family. He had executed all his cousins for fear of them usurping his throne. He raged silently for a moment.

All of a sudden, Fobo was lifted off the ground by his collar. The angry Xoth breathed fowl into his face, “I could kill you right now metalworker. You will be dead and then you will make no more bicycles.”

“Indeed you could,” gasped Fobo. “And if you really want me to stop making bicycles, you will need to kill me.”

Xoth dropped Fobo. Fobo coughed a little and said, “You have no other choice.”

The lost Xoth knew the metalworker was right. To kill him would be to prove him right. To kill him would be the same as being defeated by him.

“I will always make bicycles,” said Fobo, unaware of what went on in the defeated Xoth’s mind.

Once it rained real hard. A river swelled and washed over its banks. Entire villages and towns were submerged and their people fled.

Many were stranded on rooftops and waited for help. Days passed. One day at around noon, a young woman atop an old school building saw a man swimming by. He wasn’t doing too well though. He looked exhausted and on the verge of giving up.

The woman called to him but he didn’t seem to be able to hear her.

Just as the man was about to lose to the water, the woman jumped in for him.

The woman put her arm around the unconscious man’s neck and started swimming back towards the school building.

But the old school building collapsed on them when they got near it. It was the death of them both.

Some time later, the man woke up on an almost unreal beach to find a sad and beautiful young woman sitting next to him. Her chin rested on her palms and her elbows rested on her knees. Her legs were crossed and she was staring at the setting sun.

“Who are you?” he asked her when she didn’t react to his waking up.

She turned to look at him. She sighed and said, “My name is Kavita.”

He realised he was speechless. So he extended his hand, “I am Mohit.”

“Where are we?” he asked, to either her or to no one in particular.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But we are dead.” They were both silent for a while before she spoke again, “I wanted to be an IAS officer.”

He was sorry. But he didn’t know what to say. He could have said that he was sorry but it wouldn’t really have conveyed how sorry he was. To be frank, he wasn’t even sure why he was so sorry.

He got up dusting his clothes and looked around. The beach was beautiful. He realised what a torture it would have been to be alone in a place like this.

“I will go have a look around,” he said uncertainly.

“Wait,” she said, getting up. “I will come with you. No point me sitting here alone.”

His heart swelled with joy. He tried to keep it from showing.

They walked the length of the beach looking for they knew not what.

“So,” he tried to strike up a conversation, “How did you die?”

She wasn’t speaking. But she managed to grow even more silent.

“You don’t know?” she asked, without looking at him. “Do you know how you died?

“I drowned I think,” he said, rather apologetically.

“I tried to save you,” she said. “Did a lousy job. I am sorry.”

“It’s alright,” he said after a moment’s silence. He wasn’t angry or sorry. Far from it in fact. He considered laughing but decided against it in the end.

“Who are you?” she asked him. “As in, what do you… did… you do?”

“I was a political activist. I organised campaign rallies and stuff.”

“Sounds interesting,” she said sounding uninterested. He sighed inwardly.

“Actually…” he said, “No. I wasn’t an activist… or anything. I was a… people hired me to… beat people up and… kill people.”

She stopped walking and stared at him. He felt his defences falling away.

“Well…” she said, “We are dead now. So it probably doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Ok,” he said. He was ashamed.

“Are you ashamed?” she asked. “Of killing people… for money.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I think I am.”

They had reached what appeared to be the end of the unreal beach. The sun still hung in the evening sky, unwilling to set.

There were people waiting for them.

A group of people gestured to her and she went in their direction. He thought she could at least have said goodbye. Then he decided he wouldn’t have liked the sound of that.

Then he felt an unbearable tug of loneliness. As if he had spent centuries alone on the beach. He tried following her but found he couldn’t.

So he went to the other group – the one waiting for him. An old man he vaguely recognised from a dream or some past life stood smiling at him.

“What do you want?” the old man asked him.

“Punish me,” he said and almost choked on the words. “I deserve punishment for the things I have done.”

“Perhaps,” said the old man, “But that is not for me to say. One punishes himself. One rewards himself. One gets what one wants. Your punishment has probably already begun.”

He didn’t ask for an explanation. The old man didn’t offer any. All the man was thinking of was her stare.

The old man said, “She is entering a life of extreme hardships. It won’t be easy to watch her.”

“I deserve to be with her then. I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

The old man nodded, and the beach melted away. A day later, the two were born again, nearly a world apart, but already on their ways to what they wanted most.

Dogs of all ages strain themselves. Some are more determined than others. Some are really not into it. They are just doing it because everyone else is. Many have been doing it for years and think they can’t stop now. In any case, everyone is going round and round.

One day, one of them, after having flexed his body to degrees unimaginable, gets to his tail. As he holds on to it with his teeth, all others around him stop. Soon, there is a crowd around him. Some dogs bark their appreciation. Some growl in envy.

Some come to him to seek his secrets. But the dog is too busy holding on to his tail so he can’t share his way of doing it with anyone. Eventually, they all go back to chasing their own tails.

The dog holds on to his own tail. He is aware of hundreds of dogs all around him, looking at him in awe and wonder. They consider him unique. He has accomplished what they have only ever dreamt of.

The dog is pleased, but a part of him is full of questions. He had always thought that this was his day. Maybe it is. But how does that change things? What is he to do now? The other dogs see in him a content and happy being. He sees nothing. There is only emptiness ahead of him. An eternity standing right there, with his tail between his teeth.

It is then that a smell comes to him from somewhere outside the backyard. He can’t see beyond the high fence. But as the smell assaults his nostrils, he is reminded of the days when he was a pup. Back when he used to bound about the garbage dump with his brothers and sisters, sniffing for good, wholesome leftovers.

The dog’s mouth waters. The tail almost slips away from between his teeth. But he can’t let go of it. He has spent too much time on it. His image… his very life hangs on it. He begins to fear the smell. He convinces himself to hate it. He tells himself it is something evil, sent to take away his life from him, leaving him insecure and unsafe. Without his tail, he would be right back where he started. He has his day and he is not going to let go of it.

Time passes. One day the gentle wind brings a wave of smell to him again. Fighting the impulse to follow it, he bites hard into his tail. It bleeds and he opens his mouth a little to let out a whimper. The tail swings free. He snaps at it several times in vain, but he is standing straight now and can’t get back to it.

He goes round and round for a while, unwilling to believe that he has lost it. Then he notices that he looks like everyone else now. Fear and a sense of loss come crashing down upon him and he howls out loud, disconsolate.

A few other dogs stop and come to him to share his grief. But as before, they don’t stay long and return to their own tails.

Then the smell comes again and a part of him feels happy. He seeks refuge in his childhood and the memories flood his mind. He doesn’t have the energy to fight them this time.

Eventually he opens his eyes, and gets up on his feet. He finds his tail wagging and feels odd. He doesn’t remember the last time this happened. Turning to face the source of the smell, he takes slow, leisurely steps. Then he breaks into a trot. The other dogs appear creatures from a bizarre dream now. He looks at them in mild amusement as he passes them. None of them notice him.

He follows the smell out of the backyard, far away and beyond the sea of dogs. As the smell grows stronger, his trot dissolves into a run and he bounds forward like the wind.

At long last, he comes across a garbage dump. There is a puppy running around it on its little legs. The dog feels happy to find the puppy’s glee reflected in himself. His tail wags harder. He runs across to the puppy and barks to him in happiness. The puppy answers with a small, enthusiastic bark.

The dog takes the puppy around the dump. He teaches him to find less steep slopes — easier to climb up. Then he teaches the puppy to leap. He tells him how to use his hind legs to propel himself forward and upward. The puppy tries and fails many times. The dog nudges him on.

Soon, the puppy makes it to the top of the mound and retrieves a slice of pizza. It is still soft and untouched. The puppy starts eating, hoping that the dog will help himself to it. But the dog doesn’t. He waits for the puppy to finish.

Then they walk, both of them, side by side. They are happy, and it is unclear which one is following the other; or whether they are following anything at all.

He wasn’t very happy therefore, when one day, the wise court astrologer foretold his death. His exact words were, “Ten years from this day, you will die. And you will die alone.”

The wise one had never been wrong before. The king considered his age and decided that life was not fair. He was to die at thirty!

The king grew angry with the wise one. But he respected him too much. So instead of having him executed or imprisoned, he limited the old man to his house and forbade him from making any more predictions.

As the years passed, the king grew sickly with worry. In all but appearance, he was already dead. The thought of death occupied all of his mind. Nightmares of bloody battles haunted his nights. Seven years remained.

Then one day, a travelling merchant came by to pay his respects. The king sat through the formalities looking his usual wooden self. When the time came for the meeting to end, the merchant asked, “What ails you my king?”

“Haven’t you heard citizen?” replied the king. “I am a dead king. In seven years, I will die. At the hands of what monsters, I don’t know.”

The merchant considered his words and realised nothing would console the young king. He looked about and asked a guard out aloud, “When are you going to die?”

“I don’t know,” said the guard.

The merchant asked him, “Will you die tomorrow?”

“It is unlikely. But anything can happen. Anyone may die at any time.”

The merchant next addressed one of the ministers, “When do you think you will die my lord?”

The minister was silent for a while. Then he said, “I should very much prefer to grow old and die in peace. But that is not for me to decide. I could die any day, if God so willed.”

The merchant turned to the king at last, “When will you die my king?”

“In seven years, as you very well know,” said the king, now slightly irritated.

“What if you were to face off with a hungry lion in a ring tomorrow? Will you die then?”

Realisation pounced at the king out of nowhere. “I won’t,” he said.

“What if you took your forces against that dastardly warmonger king to our north? Will he be able to kill you?”

“No,” said the king, beaming now.

“For the next seven years, neither man, nor god – neither disease nor sword… will be able to harm you. You will die on a day seven years from now,” said the merchant, “But that day is not tomorrow. Nor the day after, or the one after that.”

The king rose to his feet and looked around. The court house looked different somehow. The courtiers looked different. They all spelt possibility.

There wasn’t much time. The king decided to get busy.