The tragedy was not that he did not believe in astrology. The tragedy was that, he had made it a point to announce to the entire world, and then some, of his disbelief in what the stars foretold.

Now they were all out and about, smirking, to watch him devour his words – for he was at the door of a renowned astrologer, holding a pair of birth charts, birth timings and other miscellaneous details, not admitting – even to himself – his hope that the interview would bring peace to his very troubled mind.

After five long years of self-imposed exile, Nath had returned to India with his tail between his legs, to nurse his wounds. Sympathetic relatives came to visit, and offered condolences for what they foresaw, clearer than the stars did, was an impending divorce. He narrated the catastrophe eagerly to the first few, before discerning that what he read as concern in their eyes was actually a gleam of ‘I-knew-it-will-happen’. Condolence was another mode of gossip.

Nevertheless, what brought him to the place he thought he would never visit was a word that one of them dropped, a word that loitered around his mind for several days. He overheard his Aunt whisper to his Ma that any marriage without the consent of an astrologer was doomed.

*

“What was I possibly thinking???” he muttered to himself as he left the astrologer’s house, following an hour long tête-à-tête. He had gone in search of peace; he found nothing but more trouble, and a splitting headache. If anything, it reinforced his disbelief in the stars. Nonetheless, the shred of uneasiness that planted itself in his mind refused to settle down.

Either the astrologer knew nothing, or else he knew something he didn’t. He examined the copy of the birth chart that Nath had confiscated from his wife, and asked strange questions, and made impossible announcements. About Shivani’s life before she met him.

He was determined to give nothing away to the astrologer. He would speak only to the point and if the guy tried clever tricks and pretended to know more than he actually did, he would be ready to call his bluff. These phoneys were always good at reading between the lines and he would be careful not to let anything slip. As expected, he was asked a few questions about his wife and their life together. Nath managed to answer in ‘Yes’, ‘No’ and other minimal words.

The astrologer’s questions were curious and unexpected. He asked if Shivani was a widow when he met her. If she had a daughter from her first marriage. If she had stayed in a different city, like Paris. Not that he knew of, Nath had replied. The astrologer pondered for long over the sheets with furrowed brows, drawing circles on them with his finger and caressing his greying beard.

She had wanted to relocate.

“Why Paris?” he had said. “Can you not pursue your career here, in London?”

“This is an offer no one would decline,” said she. “I will get to work with some of the best in the field.”

He refused to be convinced. “You cannot go hopping around the world for your career.” He regretted it the moment he uttered it.

“I could, you know,” she said quietly.

Things were about to get out of hand. He would have to do something before more damaging words were exchanged. He sat down next to her and put his arm around her.

“Ambition is a strange thing,” she said thoughtfully. “It works both ways. If it makes you abandon your life and chase your dreams, you become great. If you sacrifice your desires for others, you’re still considered great. Either way, you can’t lose.”

She turned down the opportunity. He was pleased. He realised much later that one more seed of discord was sown that day. She retreated into a shell. He felt abandoned; and stopped contacting his friends, calling up his family or attending parties. He began to detest the very thought of socialising. That was before she realised she was pregnant. When he suggested they move to India and raise their child there, she flatly refused. After all, she was born and brought up in the U.K., and could consider only that place as home, whereas he was a mere visitor.

The astrologer raising the name of the very city that she wanted to move to, was something worth thinking about.

“I could be wrong,” said the astrologer, – a strange admission from a man in his profession! – “and most of what I am about to say is by adding two and two together, and from my vast experience in seeing similar charts. This could be difficult for you, but I would like to know if I am right. So I request you to go back to her past and look around a bit. If I am not mistaken, she had been married before, and her husband died… in some sort of an accident that shattered his brain.”

Nath dismissed the declarations with a shake of his head. She could not have hidden anything as huge from him. The astrologer would not say more till he got the answers. As he rose to leave, he thought the astrologer was looking strangely at him.

*

Her quiet and enigmatic eyes had enthralled all of them alike. And yet, it was Nath for whom her eyes brightened every time, or so it appeared to him. When she accepted his proposal, he considered it a conquest. He never asked anything about her past; she always hid her life behind her smile. It did not matter to him, at first. She loved him, and that was all that mattered.

“A model? Are you nuts?” his friend had exclaimed. “They are very well to ogle at and drool over, but to get married? Use your head – for once.” With that, he ceased to be a friend.

The enigma that seemed romantic and charming soon became increasingly difficult to adjust with; it was criss-crossing all over his life. It was to become the very thread that ripped their life apart. He had determined to unravel the mystery that was she, but there were areas of her life, past and present, that were always shut out from him.

*

When he left the astrologer, he did not go straight home. He wanted to be alone, to clear his thoughts. Not that he believed a word of what he heard; but nor could he ignore it.

His walk took him past the construction site of a fly-over. In his last visit, he had seen the work abandoned after the pillars were done. Now there was a bustle of activity, the air was noisy with shouts and the roar of machines. He stood watching the men at work. The pillars were old, the machines were rusty and the workers were tired. Yet they all trudged on, together, and in a few weeks’ time, the bridge would be ready for traffic.

The astrologer was right. He should go back to her. He should talk to her. His feelings had blinded him. He never tried to listen, his blindness drove him away from her, and she had closed herself down. Love does not end. It can only transform. She still loved him enough to message him the previous day that their baby was a girl. He had deserted her when she needed him the most. He should go back and try to bridge their life together again. And, he was relieved when he realised it, it did not even matter if she had been a widow. Perhaps she would have been more open to him if he had tried to understand.

There are times when a split-second seems longer than an hour. In the last split-second of his life, he took in more than he ever had before. He heard the workers’ scream. He saw their alarmed glances and gestures. He realised that he had strayed too close to the construction site. He looked up and observed with indifference a concrete block weighing tonnes break apart from the bridge and fall, just inches away from smashing him to the ground. He heard again the astrologer’s words. It made sense. Finally. His wife would live in Paris with his daughter. She would be a widow. Her husband would die of head concussion. It was not her past he was narrating. There never was a first husband. It was he, all along.

* * *

Image  Courtesy: CJLUC from sxc.hu

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Mom said I was in the Intensive Care Unit for a day. Unfortunately, I have no memory of it. Just when I opened my eyes to discover a few nurses fussing over me, I was moved out to the ward. Too bad – I did not even get time to savour all the attention. The name itself makes one feel important, doesn’t it? Intensive Care Unit. I like the sound of it, though I don’t fancy its smell. The last time I was at the door of the ICU was when my Uncle was admitted. He died a few days later. No wonder I had a host of wide-eyed relatives around me when I woke up.

The doctor, when he came on his rounds, was kind – I had expected him to be harsh; rough, perhaps. But he was not. Maybe he had left all the spanking for later. Not that he is into spanking, though he sometimes looks at me as though his hands were itching for sharp contact. Mom was concerned of course, and ensured that my adventure was short-lived. She was in a hurry to bring me back home. When you are six years old, you don’t have much say in things. I can’t wait to be thirteen – teen world rocks. Not to mention an exciting adult life afterwards.

I heard him ask Mom about the events that led to my appearance at the ICU. She explained the build up to my forty-eight hour, almost-non-stop throwing-up programme. She made it sound very trivial, something one might even look forward to, whereas in truth it was everything but. I didn’t know that the whole body takes such an earnest part in the activity. Even my littlest finger did its share. I don’t know which part of me came up with the idea of a yellow liquid, maybe they wanted to make things a little colourful. Mom said it was called ‘bile’. She was scared when she saw it, and I thought I would die soon. I do not recall much after that, till I opened my eyes in the ICU.

I suddenly realised that the doc was giving Mom an earful about my allergies. “I have been warning you for two years. I am pretty sure this time he has had something his stomach doesn’t agree with. I can see no other reason. He has to throw up till the tiniest grain is expelled from his system.”

“But I did not give him anything, Doctor. However much he yearns for ice cream or curd, I deny it. Mercilessly.” Mom let out a sob at the word.

He turned to me. “What about you, young man? Did you have milk or milk products before this happened?”

There was only one correct answer. “No, Doctor.”

“Do you know that you are not supposed to have milk or curd? That your body is allergic to these?”

“Yes, Doctor.” I can be obedience personified when required. I doubt if the eyes that peered into me over the glasses fell for that act, though. I lowered mine.

The doctor continued to query Mom about items she has been feeding me with, hovering for long over the details of the take-away on Sunday night, even stuff she cooks our food with. She obliged, and went so far as to even name the brands of her chilli powder and cooking oil.

I would have liked to sit there swinging my legs, watching the grilling, but I was bound to the glucose bottle dangling upside down from the tall stand. Besides, I was still exhausted. The last time I found myself as close to this immobility was when I was grounded for throwing stones at the neighbour’s car window, but it wasn’t half as exciting as this. Wait till I show the needle mark to my friends! Even better, I would not have to go to school for at least a week. Mom always fell for theatrics.

The doctor, however, had other ideas. “Give him semi-solids now. Make him eat in small amounts. If he is all right, start solids in the morning. We can discharge him tomorrow if his body retains it. He can get back to school after a day.”

Mom went a step ahead in the conspiracy. “Let me take him home today, Doctor. I will give him solids and will let you know how he takes it. I don’t want my baby to be in hospital one more night.”

Horror of horrors! The doctor looked at Mom with eyes brimming over with compassion, reflected for a while and said, “All right. But bring him back at the slightest difficulty.” Mothers have all the pity in the world. I tell you, six year olds have a tough life.

“Efffff…,” I thought. It came out in a puff of air. I was not allowed to say the word aloud, though I often said it in my mind. It made me feel good. Mother looked daggers at me; she knew what it meant.

*

Mom and the Doctor were too distracted to notice me squirming in my seat when I answered his questions. Holding it in was too difficult. My inherent truthful, stupid self wanted to spill the whole story.

I was at my neighbour’s place on Sunday evening, supposedly playing with their kids. I do not know why, but my Mom often asks me to go ‘play’ with them, which is the masqueraded term for baby-sitting. Since Sheila Auntie’s twins started crawling last month, my job was to ensure that they do not climb up the walls and disentangle the fan or wires or something. They haven’t figured out their horizontals and verticals yet. I am not allowed to even contemplate a ‘No’ when Mom makes one of them demands. Did I tell you my life was hard?

Sheila Auntie sometimes offers me picture books to look at, which makes me feel like I was one of her babies. Picture books at my age? Lady, I know how to read. I can spell all the alphabets from one of your bulky magazines, upper and lower case. But I browse through them, because that’s what six year olds are supposed to do.

Anyway, as I was saying, on Sunday evening I was there, as usual. She was cooking, and asked me to keep an eye on the babies. An eye each it was, since they crawled in opposite ways, banging their heads on the table and chairs, and merrily unmindful of it. Their eagerness reminded me of the girl in class who always asked for extra homework. I was bored to despair, to say the least.

Sheila Auntie came in suddenly, and I pretended to be holding one of them crawlies and coaxing her to come back to the carpet from where she started.

“Would you like some milk?” she asked. I shook my head. I am allergic to milk, of course.

“Biscuits?” I shook my head again.

“Ice cream, maybe? I made some yesterday.”

Ice cream? Deep sigh. Does Sheila Auntie know? Is she testing me? Will she tell Mom? She looked innocent enough. I stole a glance at the window to see if Mom was spying.

Desire won over honesty. I blinked.

“Yes,” I said. “A little, please. Thank you, Auntie.”

Image courtesy:  rweller from sxc.hu

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March was just one month away from showing its dreadful face.

The pace was building up, tempers were rising sky high. Sridhar looked in disdain at the work piled up on his table – Financial Year ending, appraisals, resignations, recruitments, impending Financial Year, its targets and all the paraphernalia. It was inevitable that once a year March should make its appearance, and all the pleasures of the eleven months before that should culminate in a storm that would take a lot of people up and down with it.

Nevertheless, the belief that better and relaxing days were in store, with a lot of sleepy meetings thrown in, come April, kept him alive.

“Dude!” the cabin door banged open and a breathless colleague flew in. Sridhar recoiled in the impact.

Rajesh was more than a colleague. When he joined the organisation a few years ago, he was introduced to Sridhar for mentoring. Within a matter of days, Sridhar learnt that it was futile to even attempt such a task as mentoring a person like Rajesh, so he gave up and the allotted duration was spent in casual talk. It followed naturally that Rajesh spilled his life before him and called him his confidant, much to the latter’s distaste. But a mentor was not expected to exhibit dislike; all he had to do was listen and offer a pointer when it was required.

“Not again! Not now…” Sridhar groaned to himself. But there was no stopping Rajesh when he set his mind on blasting someone’s peace of mind to smithereens.

“Dude, you gotta help me!” he said, collapsing on a chair.

Sridhar winced as he always did when he was addressed ‘dude’, ‘buddy’, ‘man’, or even ‘Sri’ by Rajesh. But the youngster absolutely refused to fall prey to subtle hints. “Is it urgent? I have a bundle of things to finish today. You know, March, year-ending and so on. Any of it rings a bell?”

“No, let me speak. Hear me out, man! Aren’t you supposed to me my mentor?”

Sridhar grimaced. “Let’s forget that part for some time – like, a few centuries. Just tell me what it is about.”

His visitor pulled on the forlorn face of a romantic hero. “You believe in destiny, don’t you?”

Trick question? “Well, I guess I do,” said Sridhar cautiously, “as far as it helps me in solving my latest problem.”

Rajesh pondered over the answer for a second, his forehead creased in thought. He shook his head as if to ward off the confusion that ensued and said, “I am tempted to, myself.”

“No! You?” Sridhar said in a tone dripping with sarcasm. This was going to take some time, it might as well be another day of procrastination. All in the name of mentoring. He closed his laptop and sat back.

“Yes. Surprising, eh?” Rajesh leaned forward and said in a confidential tone, “Something – or someone – is conspiring to oust me from my current position.”

“Indeed? And what position is that?” Surely he did not mean his ‘position’ in the organisation, because there could be nothing or no one who would be remotely interested in usurping it.

“I hear a lay-off is brewing in the horizon! And that it is massive.”

“Oh, that.” Sridhar adjusted his eyeglasses and turned to his laptop. “I’m sure you have nothing to worry. For God’s sake, don’t waste my time over rumours.”

“It’s not just that.”

“Well?” The trace of impatience in Sridhar’s tone might have been outright offensive to anyone else, but too miniscule to be observed by his visitor.

“It’s after me!” Rajesh mouthed the words as if he were leaking out an important plot line from a thriller. “Destiny! It is smoking me out.”

Sridhar’s jaw dropped at the histrionics. He had a vision of Rajesh, smoke emerging from his ears, bolting out of the office. March was forgotten in that one humorous mental image. “I am sure Destiny has better things to do,” he said, stifling a smile. “Rajesh, I really need to get back to work. Every moment is precious.”

“So is mine, my good fella, so is mine. You need to help me find a new apartment.”

Apartment. Where is this conversation headed? “What’s the matter with this one?”

“Oh, there are lots. Cockroaches, ants, flies, mosquitoes, for a start. Especially cockroaches. Real huge beasts spying around, swinging their extraordinary sensors. My wife cannot even stay in the kitchen for the monsters.”

“Get a pesticide.”

“The cupboards. You should see them. They are falling apart. And the doors, the windows – the entire woodwork is crumbling.”

“Talk to the owner.”

“Oh, he doesn’t respond.”

“Find a carpenter.”

“The taps are leaking, all of them. And there is a permanent block in the kitchen-sink.”

“Call a plumber.”

“Power outages. Every effing now and then.”

“Can’t help. It is the same everywhere. It’s called load-shedding.”

“22 hours?”

“It was a one-off, wasn’t it? Must have been a major fault. Can happen, anywhere, anytime.”

“You don’t get it, do you? All of these – they are happening at the same time. It’s the hand of Destiny!”

I have no time for this, the Mentor grumbled to himself, trying to hold his face from erupting into a display of emotions. Memories of impending deadlines danced over his head. “No – it is just a coincidence. Just resolve them, one by one, and there you are. Destiny would admit defeat. You’ll see.” He turned to his laptop again, a sign that the conversation has come to an end. As always, the gesture flew past Rajesh.

“Not so fast. I really have to shift from this apartment. I simply cannot handle Destiny’s fury when it is out to get me.”

***
The days flowed on, tumbling over one another. Deadlines were edging closer, occasionally peeking from around the corners, steady and quick in their approach. Sridhar spent his waking hours engrossed in work, almost to the point of losing sense of space and time. Sleep, meals and other non-essential activities happened as if in a dream, when requirement became a necessity.

When he switched on the laptop one morning, a small window started blinking in the task bar. He vaguely wondered when he had last logged in to the messenger, and how he had forgotten to log out. Seeing the window title as ‘Rajesh’, and carrying an over-worked head threatening to explode so early in the day, his first instinct was to log out without typing a word, or even reading what Rajesh had to say.

The last time they spoke – just after Rajesh moved in to his new house and new job – he was bombarded to death with descriptions on the ‘amazing’ ambience of the apartment and the premises, the perfection of the wiring and the plumbing, the absence of pests, so much so that finally he had to barge in and say, “Hey… have you forgotten it was I who first told you of the place?”

Just as he was about to hit the ‘logout’ button, something stopped him; curiosity won the day, and he typed ‘Hi’. To cut a long story short, for reasons he could not explain, he found himself at a small restaurant near the office before long, chatting over scalding tea with Rajesh.

“Man, you’re not going to believe this.” Opening statements often have a very powerful impact. Sridhar immediately regretted not logging out when he could, not turning down the offer of tea, and surrendering to the voice in his head that urged him to take a break. But there was no escape now, he had to get on with it and hope that the headache that was already at its summit would have no option but to subside. “It’s about my apartment – it is getting difficult to stay there. Destiny has still not let go of me yet.”

How did I fall into this again? “Is it cockroaches, or ants or… ?” he said drily.

“It’s bigger than any of those. Or all of those.”

“Electricity?” Sridhar smirked.

“Electricity outages are not problems at all. Mankind is learning to adjust. They call it Mutation or Evolution or something, these days.” Rajesh chuckled at his own feeble joke, and grew serious a moment later.

Unbelievable. “So what is it this time?”

“You got to help me get the hell out of there. ‘As soon as possible’ is not soon enough.”

“I will, if you would just tell me what it is. I think you’ve encountered all the problems so far identified by Mankind, in your last apartment.”

“I was wrong. There never was a better house. I should never have left it. Destiny was playing a joke – a bad, cruel joke – on me. And now I’ve to pay the price.”

“So, are you going to tell me what it is, and where it is?”

“It… it resides right outside the door of my apartment.”

“What?” Sridhar said, sitting up in alarm. “A bug? A wasp? What in the world?”

“The house right opposite mine. The girl next door. Is my ex-lover. Help me escape, buddy!…”

When Sridhar stomped out of the restaurant a moment later, he was cursing the English language for conjuring up the word ‘mentoring’.

Image: Crojet from sxc.hu

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The Watchman was tired. Tired of faking a smile for everyone who passed in and out of the gate, with hardly a glance at him. But he had been doing this for years now, day and night, and it came automatically now – the stiff widening of the lips that he called a ‘smile’, that created no strain to the lines on his face or to his eyes. True, that not many acknowledged it, but he did it every time.

He was about to close the gate when the Mother with her two-year-old on the stroller appeared. This time the lines on his face actually softened for the little one, and the tender smile that touched his eyes was genuine. He was rewarded with a smile, and the wave of a tiny hand. The Mother did not stop, as she usually did, for the chubby little hands to get a shake from the Watchman but, with a polite glance, pushed the stroller on.

“Evening walk?” the Watchman asked, as the baby waved merrily to him. He had loved the little one from the time the Mother and the child had moved in to the apartment, about a year ago. He would see them come out twice daily, in the morning when the Mother went to leave the baby with a sitter, and proceed to her office, and in the evening when they both went out for a walk.

***
The iron-wallah had his hands, and table, full. Sunday was the day he got the most number of clothes to iron. It was evening, and he had to finish his cloth-pile and return the dresses to their homes. He had not stopped even to have his lunch. But when a starched, stiff, well-pressed red and green cotton saree passed before his eyes, he had to look up.

“Here comes my walking advertisement,” he thought as he admired the woman pushing the stroller. “How lovely the saree looks! I’m sure people are bound to notice.”

“Who is she?” asked the carpenter winding up his work for the day, seeing him ogle at the woman.

“Single Mom, stays in the apartment yonder. I iron her dresses for her,” he said with a touch of pride.

The carpenter walked over to the chaiwaali’s. The evening crowd had gathered around her small portable shop, and she was swiftly pouring chai into little paper cups for her customers. She paused a moment, the tea kettle frozen in mid air, to peer at the Mother and baby passing by, the little boy enjoying the sights and chuckling to himself.

“Horrid woman,” whispered the chaiwaali to her husband, shaking her head at the passing couple. “Walks by twice every day and never stops to even smile.” She turned her back to the unfriendly Mother and child.

***
The traffic cop on duty was having a lousy day. The lights were behaving, the rush hour was under control, even the usually unruly auto-drivers were exceptionally decent. He squinted his eyes towards the Interceptor at a distance, they seemed to be having no fun either. He did not have to yell at anyone today, his vocal cords were given an unexpected rest which he did not completely enjoy. He walked away from the lights and surveyed the service roads. Indicators, horns, road rules, pedestrians – nothing could be more perfect. He spotted a woman with the stroller at one end of the service road.

“The highway at rush hour is not the best place for a walk with a baby,” he muttered to himself.

A bus apparently defying speed limits caught his eye. He waited for the Interceptor to signal its doom, but either the guys were sleeping or the bus was just within limits. That was certainly not the pace at which he expected a bus to approach traffic lights. The driver was clearly planning to hop before the light turns red. He scowled as it shot past.

“The next one to do this encounters my wrath,” he swore, curling his fist.

He turned around and saw the woman carrying the child edge closer to the road, keeping her eye on the flowing traffic.

“No, Ma’am. Not a very good idea…” he muttered to himself, shaking his head in disapproval. “You need to cross the road at the signal… This is not good…”

Some cops are born with a policeman’s instinct; some acquire them over years of training. When he spotted the stroller by the road-side, he had already started running. It was a few seconds later that he even bothered to ask himself why. But he never questioned his instinct, only acted on it. When he was about a hundred metres from her, calling out and waving frantically, the woman took one deep breath, held her smiling baby tight and stepped right on to the path of a long distance bus that was hurtling towards the traffic lights.

The memory of the empty stroller by the roadside would haunt him for years to come.

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Kallu Koylewala limped into the living room of his house. “Imarti Rani,” he called out to his wife in a shrill voice wiping the sweat from his bald head. Imarti came into the living room from the kitchen smelling of turmeric and garlic. She looked at her husband’s dark face, his dhoti and kurta, which were white when she had given them to him in the morning and were now almost blackened with coal dust.

He took out a wad of 500 Rupee notes and gave it to her.

“What, the notes are smudged in coal again. You know the sabzi wala and doodh wala don’t accept these blackened notes of yours. And whenever I go to the kirana wala, I hear those jealous women whispering amongst themselves that we have black money. Why don’t you do something about it?” She screamed waving the wooden rolling pin at his face.

“Keep them inside and get me a cup of tea,” said Kallu as if he didn’t hear anything. Imarti went into the bedroom mumbling something. She lifted the mattress on the bed revealing a zip underneath. She opened the zip and plop, out fell a couple of wads of coal smudged 500 rupee notes. She shoved them all inside the mattress.

She came into the living room again and placed the tea cup with a rattle on the table. Kallu flicked a channel and the TV started to broadcast a 20-20 cricket match. “Are you listening,” said Imarti looking at the bowler on the screen who was rubbing the ball on his thigh. “The other day Sharmaji’s wife was telling me, that these big business men are all converting their black money into white money by purchasing these cricket teams. Why don’t you do it too? All the money has started falling out of the mattress now.”

“Shut up and don’t talk stupid,” said Kallu looking up at Imarti. “If somebody hears that and reports it to the IT department we will be in jail.”

“Then don’t tell me if there’s no milk or vegetables tomorrow. No one is ready to accept this black stained money. They all want their money to be clean.”

“They are all jealous of my money. Now stop screaming before the IT department raids our house.”

* * * * *

Early next morning Imarti was woken by a loud banging on the front door. She ran to the door covering her head with her saree pallu. As soon as she opened the door she gave a short cry of bewilderment, horror and surprise all at the same time. In front of her stood eight tall men all wearing grey Safari suit and dark glasses. Every one of them had thick black hair combed so tight that not even hurricane Katrina would be able to ruffle them.

“Is this where Kallu Koylewala lives,” asked one of the men.

Imarti couldn’t say anything. She just gawked at the eight well-built, tall men.

“Yes I am Kallu Koylewala,” said Kallu almost tumbling into the living room pulling a dirty vest over his pot belly.

“We are from the IT department and we have been informed that you have a lot of black money and that you are trying to convert them into white money by buying a cricket team. And your wife will also be a stakeholder in the team.”

Now both Kallu and Imarti were gawking at the men.

“All the money that I have got is this,” mumbled Kallu and pulled out a few coal smudged ten rupee notes from the pocket in his pajama.

“Mishra check if the money is black,” said the man who had spoken first.

Mishra stepped forward, took the money from Kallu’s hand and looked closely at the black stains all over the notes.

“Yes sir, it’s black money,” declared Mishra.

“Mr. Kallu we will have to search your house,” said the boss.

Imarti slapped her forehead, sat down on the floor and started crying. Kallu fell on the sofa clutching his chest.

The men spread out all over the house and started to turn it upside down.

“Sir, I have found it,” Mishra’s voice came from the bed room.

They all ran into the bedroom. Mishra was standing clutching a handful of black, stained five hundred rupee notes and with the other hand he had raised the mattress. The zip was open and several black stained notes were trying to get out of the opening.

“Mr. Kallu you will have to go to jail for this. And since your wife was supposed to have a stake in the cricket team you were talking of purchasing last night she will also have to go to the jail,” said the boss looking gravely at Kallu.

Imarti gave a shrill cry of horror mixed with pain and flopped onto the ground again.

Kallu tried to explain but all he could say in between sobs was “Sir… errrrr… no money… errrrr no cricket team… ummm… please… my life… errr.”

But the men were not ready to listen to anything. Mishra tugged the mattress and brought it into the living room. The men followed him, followed by Kallu who was now pleading with the boss with tearful eyes and folded hands. A huge crowd had gathered out side Kallu’s house.

The boss took a look at the crowd and then at Kallu who was now wailing like a dog who had lost his bone on a chilly winter night.

“Stop crying. Speak to Mishra may be he has a way of making things right.” said the boss.

Kallu got up and looked at Mishra expectantly. Mishra whispered something in Kallu’s ears. Kallu nodded and wiped the tears from his face.

“But how will you make all my money white,” asked Kallu.

“Leave that to the experts,” said Mishra.

Mishra nodded at his boss. The boss nodded in reply. The rest of the six men nodded at each other.

“Get down to work,” ordered the boss.

Mishra closed the front door and the windows.

The men tore open the mattress. Tripathi started counting the black five hundred rupee notes and stacked them. Mishra asked Imarti to get some clean rags and some water.

They all sat down on the floor and with the rags dipped in water started wiping the black stains off all the notes. The boss sat on the sofa watching a cricket match on the TV as Imarti got busy in the kitchen.

It was eight in the evening when Mishra polished the last note and put it on a stack.

“Sir we are done,” declared Mishra, stood up and stretched his full body.

The boss looked at the neat piles and smiled satisfactorily.

“Mr Kallu we have done our job it’s your turn now, get us a briefcase,” he said.

Kallu produced a battered grey briefcase from under the sofa and handed it to him, who in turn passed it to Mishra, who in turn got down on his knees and started stuffing the briefcase with the stacks of notes until there was no space left.

Mishra closed the briefcase with a loud click and nodded at his boss. The boss nodded in reply, all the men nodded at each other.

“Mr. Kallu, we are sorry for all the trouble we caused you and we are happy to say that all your money is clean,” said the boss with a grin and shook Kallu’s hands as if they were long lost friends.

Kallu managed a smile looking at the few stacks of notes left on the ground.

The men opened the door and came out. A horde of people, journalists and news reporters greeted them with a loud noise. The news reporters thrust their cameras and microphones at the boss’s face.

“We have interrogated Mr. Kallu Koylewala in the latest Cricket scam. We have not found any black money at his place. We are happy to say that Mr. Koylewala is clean,” said the boss generally addressing the crowd with his right hand raised, as if taking an oath and the battered briefcase in his left hand.

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Exactly a dozen years ago, a girl met a boy on all fool’s day and they fell in love. The rest as they say is a dozen years of history.

It was the 16th day after the Ides of March. She had come to work about an hour early today. Yesterday Hunterwali’s memo had reminded her that she would have to “temporarily” vacate her cubicle to the editor’s blue-eyed boy, who was arriving from the UK, to work on a ”research”, around mid day. And needless to say, she had to get on top of the deadline by late morning.

But all morning all she did was stare at the cursor blinking on the blank page, her mind restless and clouded.

Last evening had not gone well. First the memo from Hunterwali at work. The office had a conference room which could be made available to this “blue-eyed-boy” but Hunterwali had declined. She was to give up her cubicle and share space with Ranjana that was final.

And then, later in the night, came the call from a voice from a not-so-distant-past.

He was the last person she had expected to hear from. The phone rang just when she was about to settle down among her cushions on the window seat with The Fountainhead.

“Hello Fly,” had said the voice.

Wait, ‘Fly’? There was only one person she knew who would call her ‘Fly’. It had to be him. He had named her “Fly” at the University’s Photography Club. That was where she, the undergraduate, had met him, a senior from the Mechanical Engineering department. Because in those days she chased one desire, freezing flying kites on celluloid, with her father’s Canon. And his favourite was freezing portraits, so she called him “Mask”.

“Yes?”

“Fly, it’s me. How have you been?”

“Have been well but could be better… why did you call? It’s late … I’ll need to …”

“Don’t hang up, please! Was thinking about you today. So I thought of calling you.”

Her eyes had started stinging from the tears that had welled up. But yesterday she didn’t cry. The flashbacks had come in jumps and cuts. Him & her at the photography exhibitions, attending Mamata Shankar’s ballet at Kalamnadir, the meal at Flury’s, watching Diabolique, the farewell, the first kiss and a pretty Smriti in his portraits. Cut!

“But I’m not sure I have anything left to talk about. How is Smriti?”

“I don’t know. I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to see you…. where is work? I could come along around lunch…”

“But I don’t want to see you!”

That was the end of the call. She had regretted disconnecting the line later. But who knows, she thought, maybe this was better. The call, in an odd sort of way, had given her hope, but she didn’t want to give in. No. She had lived with a lot of questions for the last three years. Now she was too tired to seek answers. He was now a bleak spot in her mind. Yet, somewhere she did regret disconnecting the call.

And all through this morning, that was the tussle that her mind tried her heart get over with.

“Am I supposed to wait and wait and wait? And are you supposed to keep staring at the couple of lines of whatever you have written?” A laugh followed the jibe.

The ‘blue-eyed-boy’ was punctual, Hunterwali had mentioned. But she was in no mood to take anything without a fight today. Not anymore.

“As a matter of fact, yes! You see, you are taking over my computer and my cubicle for god knows how many days, so I am trying to make sure I finish my work before being so charitable towards you!” And she returned to the press release she was writing for a steel plant inauguration.

“Do you bite too?” came another jibe.

“I just might if you continue to hover over this cubicle. I should finish by lunch, see you then!”

“You know you will be standing outside this cubicle if I want you to… ” it was a chuckle this time.

“Try!” And she continued keying in the last paragraph of the boring press release.

” Sure, let me … hang on, is that a purple box kite?” genuine surprise had replaced the snigger. “Where did you find that?”

“Look, I need to finish this, so why don’t you fly it yourself! I took that picture in Maidan, an old Britisher was trying to fly it last Sunday.”

“Go ahead, finish what you are up to, I was just joking! Can I look at your Kites gallery in the mean time?” He pointed at the soft board behind her. She hadn’t stopped chasing the kites and pinned their frozen frame up on this wall. They were an escape into the open sky, she flew with them and looked down on creation through their eyes.

“This must be from China Town during New Year? And Petkati, mombati, mukhpora, chadiyal …. You have an amazing eye for these flying objects, I must say.” It sounded like genuine praise.

But she was not up for praise either.

“I’m done. You can take over. And you will not touch my photographs!” And with that she picked up her bag. She wanted to romance the afternoon with her camera and the kites on the terrace today. Alone. She wanted to get over the call from last evening. She had to stop asking why he had left her for Smriti. She had no intention to understand why he wanted to return to her again. She didn’t want him back, not anymore.

“Err, you know, just in case I have a problem on this computer? Do you mind leaving your number?”. She came back to her cubicle, at her kites and then at the face that asked her the question, for the first time.

She saw no harm in a boy in his late twenties with big ‘That 70’s Show’ glasses, ruffled hair, a pair of white and gray Slazenger, a black t-shirt and a back pack with a British Airways baggage tag. He seemed to care a lot less about her, specially after her acerbic outburst.

“It’s up on the wall, just under the picture of the box kite.” She pointed out. “You will find Ranjana in the next cubicle pretty helpful.”

And then she left for the day.

But the phone rang again, just after she had reached the terrace, at four. Ma called her from the first floor balcony, “It’s a call from your office, are you going to take it?”

“In a minute,” she was already on her way down the stairs.

“Hi! Its me, the Hunterwali’s blue-eyed-boy who has taken over your life.” Another chortle.

By now she was somewhat back to herself, the sky had helped her release her angst.

Now she remembered, “So you have been going through my planner I left there by mistake?” she sighed.

She had marked 31st March with a fluorescent blue and had written “Hunterwali’s blue-eyed-boy takes over my life, must arrive early to finish Steel release”

“No, I was trying to look for your number.” He sounded resigned.

“I said it is up there on my board. This is my home number, I don’t take office calls on this.”

“Hang on, I tried the mobile number. But it is unfortunately switched off!” Did he sound a little flustered, but why should she care.

“So why did you call?” She was impatient, the neighbourhood boys would soon be out with their kites … she had left the camera on its tripod on the terrace.

“I had turned off your comp to go out for lunch, now it needs a password to log in … so!” Yes, he did sound inpatient and flustered.

“It is ‘fly1975′. That is f – l – y – 1 – 9 – 7 – 5 . Anything else?”

“The entry under 1st April says, ‘come to office at 8:00, before B.E.B arrives & get B.O. write-up done.’ …”

“So?”

“No, I was just wondering … I could do the morning shift and you can get your comp back by say 10. Does that work?”

‘Why is he trying to be nice to me?’ she wondered. “No, thank you! You please come at your own time, I will be there at 8:00 and you will have my cubicle all to yourself by 11:00 as usual!” She did not regret putting down the phone.

Next morning she entered her office after pacifying a grumbling Gadadhar, who also had to come early and unlock the office to let her in. She had remembered to get him some piping singara from her neighbourhood shop. Yesterday she had manage to work out a deal of getting him singara for the rest of the fortnight or for as long as she needed to arrive at 8:00.

At 8:10 a.m. Gadadhar appeared and stood there looking at the kites.

She looked up, “What is it?”

“That phirang just walked in..”

“And what business does the phirang have at this …”

“I just thought that poor you will be slogging for two hours all by yourself, so I came in to keep you company. I live in the neighbourhood.” He was already standing at the door.

Gadadhar slowly withdrew. She turned to face him. He had changed into a white t-shirt today, his hair was neatly combed and the dorky glasses had been replaced by a sleek pair of carbon frames. She quickly moved her gaze away. Why did she find him attractive all of a sudden? He was the one who had caused all the confusion in her life.

“So, all these kites, why kites?” He lowered his tall frame into the other empty chair. “Why do you only take pictures of kites?”

“I find them fascinating, I love the colours, their patterns…” She tried to turn her attention to the press release she was working on today. He was breathing down her neck already, she had to finish fast and vacate the chair to him.

“Have you tried flying one?” He was holding the picture of a diamond kite she had taken on Sankranti, in Bombay, between his fingers.

She turned around to face him, “Look, I really need a couple of hours to finish my work, then you will have the whole day to admire the kites and fly them.”

“I just asked you whether you have tried flying one of them. Have you?”

“No.”

“You must. It is a wonderful feeling. Holding the thread between your fingers, feeling the tug of the wind, controlling the winged being from the ground …. It is exhilarating!”

She was almost through with her release. She looked up from the keyboard again. He was still looking at the kites. Did that disappoint her? Perhaps. She pushed the unruly lock of hair from her face to where it belonged. And finally she was at the end of her work.

“Can we go and grab some breakfast from somewhere?” He smiled.

“I thought you lived nearby. Didn’t you have breakfast before you left?”

“Umm, nah! I was getting late. I had to get here. So shall we? Eat breakfast?”

That was it, “Let me understand this! I am have come to office at an ungodly hour because you are doing some research with our editor Ashmita, I have to vacate my cubicle and make space for you. I am getting shoved around and now I am supposed to chaperon you around and get you breakfast!”

“What about the kochuri-aloo dam at the next door cafe? I still remember the last time I had it, though not for breakfast… we’ll discuss about only kites, I promise.”

She looked straight into his eyes, they were bright, warm and smiling. She fought with all her might to say ‘no’, something had gotten her tongue it seemed. She looked at the kites again.

“I didn’t have breakfast either, was in too much of a hurry to reach on time. But Ma has packed some sandwiches, you could have some, she always packs more than I can have.”

“Gada,” he called out. Gadadhar seemed to have been somewhere very close by. He appeared in a moment and asked, “Shall I get the tea and kochuri-aloo dam?”

And she found herself smiling, the smile spread from her lips, to her eyes and reached her heart and then she heard herself laughing with a man who she knew nothing about. But for once she didn’t care anymore. They were either which way going to discuss kites, that’s about it, promise.

And it all happened on All Fool’s Day. Though they took another month to decide that they wanted to get married. And by the end of the following month they were happily married.

And the rest as they say became history in a dozen years.

Image: by Kathi_b from sxc.hu

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It was the best of plans. Lucky, Aksh, and Abhi had worked on it for days until they could find no flaw with it. They were sure it would work. All they had to do now was execute it, and the day, or night in this case, to do that had arrived.

Silently, they reached the designated spot. They didn’t talk much. There was no need to. Each knew where they were headed to, and how they would get there. Their destination was the top floor of a four storey house, which was occupied by a family of four – husband, wife and two sons, aged 14 and 8. The husband, they knew, would not be home as he had left for a nearby town – on business – that very morning.

There was a flight of stairs that ran up to the top floor. The three, however, did not intend to use them, especially since taking them would entail passing by the front door of each of the six apartments on the floors below. Though it was 12 in the night, and the chance of anyone seeing them was negligible, they did not want to take any unnecessary risks.

It was towards the back of the building that they crept silently – three figures, almost invisible, camouflaged in their black dresses against the dark night. There was a drain pipe at the back that ran up all the way up to the fourth storey, and that is what the three were going to climb.

The drain pipe would take the three to the bathroom window, and from there on it would be a cake walk. The one area of concern was that the drain pipe was made a bit loose, and oft and again it would clang against the wall making a noise that someone might notice. But that was a risk they were willing to take. Once they entered the house they were confident that three young, able bodied men would easily be able to overpower a woman and two kids. But, if there plan went as intended there wouldn’t be any need for overpowering.

Lucky, Aksh and Abhi quickly slithered up the drain pipe, and soon they were at the window. They had made a few sounds climbing up, and they were hoping that the sounds were low enough not to wake anyone. But the time to worry had past.

With a determined glance – that meant action – the three entered the house. From his pocket, Lucky drew a bottle that held some clear, transparent liquid. Lucky seemed to be the leader of the group, and the other two seemed to be following his lead. With a quick shove Lucky opened the door to what, the three knew, was the living room of the house.

Aksh frowned. This was not in the plan, and that was a little unnerving. The family did not own a dog, or any other pet for that matter. What was this?

The three drew near to the source of the sound, and then it happened.

“Aaaaaaa….,” a scream loud, but not loud enough to go a long distance, rented the air of the house. It was shrill and eerie, and it made the three intruders jump in their skins.

As often happens in life, the best laid plan had suddenly gone all wrong. Lucky, Aksh, and Abhi had meant to rob the house quietly and get out without anyone finding out about the robbery, until they were far and away. But now they were not sure what was going on here.

They stood frozen in the dark.

Difficult times, they say, bring out the hero hidden inside us. It was Aksh, and not Lucky, was the first to get out of his daze. He quickly approached the bundles lying in the corner. To his astonishment the bundles were no bundles, and they were no pets either, but what he found there instead was the wife and the younger son, bound and gagged. Fear was writ all across their faces, and their eyes were pleading for help.

“This is them,” Aksh whispered.

“Them who?” Lucky growled back, regaining some of his confidence.

Aksh did not answer, but soon Lucky saw for himself, and his face clouded with an expression of bewilderment. Abhi had also reached them by now. The three did not know what to do next, but they realized that the wife was desperately trying to tell them something.

They looked at each other, and unspoken words passed between them. Abhi reached out to un-gag the wife.

“Don’t scream!” He said menacingly.

“Help us!” were the first words that came out of her mouth, and “Wh… Who are you?” came next.

“We are here to rob your house!” Abhi said foolishly.

“So you are with the other six too?”

“Six!” the three cried in unison, almost forgetting the need to be silent. At the same time there was a loud clang from the other room as if a steel cupboard had just been torn open.

“…the ones with the guns…the ones in the other room?”

It was their turn to sweat now. Lucky, Aksh, and Abhi were final year engineering students and tonight was just a quick way to get their hands on a few quick bucks, and have an adventure at the same time. They never meant to hurt anyone, nor did they intend to loot the family out of everything they had. They had chosen this family because they seemed to have a lot of money, and would not be hurt too much by losing some of it. Also, more than the money, there was this charm of carrying out the perfect crime. Too many Hollywood movies can have strange effects on young and impressionable minds

Be it as it may be, the three were in a fix now. They had to deal with real thugs with real guns, and they were not sure whether they were capable of doing that. A woman, and two kids, was manageable, but six men with guns was a different story altogether.

“We should get out of here,” Lucky said.

“No! Help us.” The wife pleaded.

“We can’t leave them like this,” Abhi said, and Aksh nodded in agreement.

“What are we going to do? Use your little kitchen knife against the guns?” Lucky said, “Don’t try to be a Don Quixote.”

By this time Abhi had untied the wife and the son, and they were clinging to Abhi and Aksh, begging them to help them.

Lucky was not so sure. His good sense told him to run out of this place as fast as he could, and put the idea of any robbery behind him, once and for all. But , in his heart, he knew his friends were not wrong. They could not leave the wife and the son at the mercy of the robbers…and then there was the other son who was being beaten mercilessly by the robbers in the next room.

Suddenly he thought of plan. He was quick at coming up with plans.

“Let’s get out of here and call the police,” he said in a quite whisper.

It sounded like a good plan, but at these words the wife and the son started sobbing.

“Help my son please!” the wife pleaded. Every now and then they could hear a low moan form the other room. “They have taken him to show them the house, and tell them where things are!”

“Look woman,” Lucky said, “We can’t help you or ourselves by staying here. Let us get out of here and call the police, they should be here soon. I know there is a police post not very far from here. We will call them as soon as we get out of here.”

Reluctantly, the wife agreed. Her face had an expression of resignation. If this was how it was going to be, then so be it. Soon, the three had climbed down the drain pipe and had called the police.

When the police arrived 15 minutes later, they found the wife merrily having a late snack with her two sons. The police man told them about the call about a robbery that they had just received.

“Must be a prank call,” The 14 year old son said, with a twinkle in his eye. It was not without reason that he was the head of the amateur drama club at school.

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He was awake, but lying in bed,  waiting for the others in the house to get up. He had no doubts about anyone forgetting his birthday. He had taken care to make sure that everyone in his family remembered such details about other family members. Soon his son knocked on the door. That roused his wife too. He was showered with good wishes from the mother and the son.

He was alone again as his son had left and his wife had gone into the kitchen for preparing tea. He had never kept any servants because he believed that every person should do his/ her work himself. He got up and went into his parents’ room and touched their feet. He did that every morning. It had become more of a ritual with him. But today it was special and his parents blessed him and the ritual lasted longer than it usually did.

Then he was back in his room, reading his morning paper and sipping a cup of hot tea. But his mind was wandering off the paper. Something nagged him at the back of his mind. He was not able to put his finger on what it was, but he couldn’t read the paper either. He switched on the T.V. but soon realized that even that couldn’t hold his attention, so he turned it off.

He always enjoyed talking to his son, so he called out to him. Vishal, the obedient son as he was, came to him and sat down on the chair next to his bed. Vishal picked up the paper and began reading it. This annoyed Rajesh. He wanted to talk to his son but his son was busy reading the paper. He kept on looking at his son who was not even aware of his father’s gaze. Then it occurred to him – he realised what was bothering him. His family, which he had cultivated and nurtured carefully, had become mechanical, almost robot-like.

He was becoming angry but he controlled his feelings and asked, “What are you planning for today, Vishal?”

“Nothing, Dad,” was the short reply. Vishal had not even looked up from the paper.

“It’s my birthday. I want you to plan a party tonight.”

Vishal looked up this time. But said nothing. He was taken aback by the question as his father, he knew, hated parties. So he just stared. He did not know what to say.

The silence was more annoying to Rajesh than any answer Vishal could have given. Rajesh also felt awkward with the silence. So he decided to switch topics.

“How are your studies?”

“Good.”

“What do you mean by good?” Rajesh was angry again though his tone was still normal.

Vishal looked up and saw the anger in his father’s eyes. But even to his own surprise he felt an equal and opposite anger rising in him. He tried to suppress it but felt that it would be impossible to do so. So he quickly got up and left the room on some pretext.

Rajesh was thoughtful now. All he wanted from his son was a little obedience and some hard work so that he could attain a certain position in life. What was wrong with that? It was what he had done for his father and what he expected from his son.

Breakfast was served at the table. Vishal had skipped breakfast and gone out. It was only Rajesh and his father at the table. Rajesh and his father had not talked much in the past few days. Rajesh blamed his lack of time for it. Today he saw an opportunity to talk.

The breakfast was soon finished. And the whole time the father-son duo had not said a word.

“Dad, anything wrong? You are so silent?” Rajesh tried to break the ice.

“No, nothing,” was the short reply his father gave before he got up.

Rajesh was getting angry again. Rajesh had been an obedient son for a long time but one day he had argued with his father and that argument had become hotter and hotter and it was the wives who had calmed the waters. That was the first time that he had done something against his father’s wishes and then slowly and steadily he had become like his father — the decision-maker of the family.

The clock was striking twelve now but Rajesh was still sitting at the breakfast table. All this time he had been thinking. He had been able to identify the fact that was bothering him. He remembered the look on his son’s face in the morning and he realized that the transformation that had occurred years ago in his family was taking place again. He had become his father, and in his son he could see his own reflection.

“I have been such a fool!” He thought to himself as he realized that he had repeated all the mistakes of his father. He was now determined to change all that and make sure that things took a turn for the better. It was with a light heart now that he left the table.

So, a few hours of dissatisfaction notwithstanding, Rajesh was still a satisfied man on his forty-fifth birthday.

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Flying has been one of man’s oldest and deepest desires. From the time of Icarus, many mortals have tried to invent a flying machine, albeit vainly. It was the Wright brothers who finally arrived on the scene, and solved the problem for all mankind.

Yet, even in today’s world, there are people who cherish the desire to fly. Loktak was definitely not one of them. He lived his simple life, and loved it. True, he enjoyed the odd superhero movie, every now and then, but he had his head placed firmly on his shoulders, and he knew that what was shown in the movies was best left to the movies. One day Loktak was going home from work. He had a fixed route, and he almost had the steps counted by heart. His house was one thousand, seven hundred and forty three steps from his office – give or take a few. At five hundred steps, there was a teashop, where he had tea, if he had the time. At one thousand and one hundred steps, a little girl sold flowers. He liked the girl, so he usually bought a flower, or two, from her. At One thousand five hundred steps there was the turn that led to his house.

Today he had money in his pocket, and free time on his hands. He decided to have tea at the teashop, and buy some flowers from the flower girl. But to his dismay, it was raining. He wasn’t sure if the teashop, or the flower girl, would be there in such weather. Their shops were makeshift and did not offer much protection from the weather Gods. As he had thought, neither of his favourite people were to be found.

But the rain was pouring now, and to save himself from getting wet, Loktak decided to climb a few stairs and take cover in the porch of a house on the way. To reach the safety of the shelter he had to climb a few stairs.

The rain, which had been falling for some time, had made the steps wet and slippery. Loktak was climbing the stairs absent-mindedly, as usual, and at the fourth step he slipped. He was jerked out of his reverie, and he came face to face with reality. The reality that in a few seconds his head would be introduced to the sidewalk. He was never good at meeting new people, and this particular introduction, he decided, was going to be very painful.

He braced himself for the impact.

But none came. The fall took longer than usual. Loktak felt himself float for a few seconds, before he found himself sprawling on the ground. It was wet and very uncomfortable, but there was no pain.

“What had just happened?” Loktak thought. He should have hit the ground hard and hurt himself, but nothing had happened.

“How did you do that?” he heard a voice.

It was the flower girl. She, it seemed, had chosen the same porch to escape the rain.

“What did I do?” Loktak asked, hesitantly.

“You flew.”

“I did not”

Saying that, Loktak hurriedly walked away. Could it be true, he thought, had he really done as the girl had said. Had he floated?

Loktak’s mind was in great turmoil when he reached home. He knew there was only one way to find out. He had to try it again. But he wanted to do that only in the confines of the four walls of his home. As soon as he had locked the door behind him he ran to where the dining table stood, He quickly stacked a chair on top of the dining table and climbed on it. It was no great height, but it was enough to test his theory.

He jumped, and braced himself for the impact. But he realized he was floating and it took him a few seconds to hit the floor. He could fly!

…Continued in next part.

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