The Great Kolkata Cash Carousel

 The Great Kolkata Cash Carousel

In the sweltering heat of Kolkata's summer, a flashy ad popped up in every dingy tea stall and on the cracked screens of second-hand mobiles: "EARN 15,000 MONTHLY! NO QUALIFICATIONS NEEDED! ANY GENDER, CASTE, RELIGION WELCOME! INTERVIEWS AT GRAND HOTEL, TODAY ONLY!" It was like Diwali came early for the city's underbelly. By noon, a queue snaked around the block, longer than the one for subsidized rice during floods. Slum dwellers, rickshaw pullers, and even a few housewives with dreams of escaping their in-laws' nagging lined up, clutching crumpled resumes that were basically just their Aadhaar cards.

Inside the hotel's stuffy conference room, Rajesh, the "HR Manager" – a slick guy with a fake gold chain and a mustache that screamed '80s villain – scanned the crowd with a grin. "Next! You, the one with the hungry eyes. Name?"

"Vimal, sir," mumbled a lanky kid from the Salt Lake slums, his shirt two sizes too big. "I... I can do anything. Sweep floors, lift boxes, even dance if you pay extra."

Rajesh chuckled, eyeing Vimal like a pawn in a chess game. "Dance? Ha! No need for that, beta. We're a data entry firm. Sit tight, type stuff. Easy peasy. Selected!"

By evening, 50 lucky souls were chosen – all from the city's forgotten corners, where "steady job" meant hawking chai or dodging eviction notices. They high-fived each other outside, whispering, "Finally, bhai! No more begging from relatives."

A week later, they crammed into a rickety auto-rickshaw headed to the "office" – a two-story hovel squeezed into a narrow lane in North Kolkata, where laundry lines crisscrossed like spider webs and stray dogs ruled the alleys. The place looked more like a haunted adda than a workplace. Faded posters of Bollywood stars peeled from the walls, and the "computers" were four ancient desktops that wheezed like asthmatic uncles.

"Welcome, team!" Rajesh boomed, handing out forms. "Fill in your bank details. Salary straight to account – no chit-chat with pesky tellers."

Priya, a feisty girl from the same slum as Vimal, raised an eyebrow. "Bank details? Arre, boss, I don't even have a bank account that isn't overdrawn. What if you deposit and it vanishes into thin air?"

Rajesh winked. "Trust me, didi. Magic happens here."

On joining day, ping! 7,500 rupees hit their accounts as "advance." The group erupted in cheers. Vimal stared at his phone screen. "Yaar, this is more than I've seen in months! I was this close to pickpocketing tourists at Victoria Memorial."

"Shh, idiot," hissed Ratan, a burly guy with a tattoo of a cobra on his arm. "Don't jinx it. Finally, we eat biryani instead of khichdi."

Their "job"? Taking turns on those four creaky computers, entering nonsense data like "apple banana cat dog" into endless spreadsheets. Most of the time, they lounged on plastic chairs, sipping chai from a street vendor, gossiping about everything from cricket to crushes.

By month's end, another 7,500 landed. No questions asked. In the dim office light, they huddled like conspirators.

Vimal leaned in. "Guys, this is too good. We're getting paid to do jackshit. I feel like a king... or a conman. Remember, I almost turned to thievery? This is better – legal thievery!"

Priya smirked, fanning herself with a torn magazine. "Legal? Ha! Last week, I typed 'boobies' by mistake, and no one cared. But seriously, bhaiya, if they kick us out, I'm back to selling fake jewelry on the streets. At least here, I can flirt with the chai-wala without my ma yelling."

Ratan flexed his muscles. "Flirt? Didi, with your sharp tongue, you'd scare off a tiger. But yeah, I'm staying. My wife's already planning a new TV. If this is a scam, let it scam me rich!"

One fateful afternoon, Rajesh summoned them all. The air thickened with tension – was this the boot? Instead, in strolled Jacob, a towering Nigerian with muscles like a Maidan footballer, dreadlocks bouncing, and a smile that could sell ice to Eskimos. He looked like he could bench-press a tram.

"Listen up, my friends!" Jacob boomed in a thick accent, his voice echoing off the peeling walls. "I'm Jacob, your new big boss from Lagos. You all been good mules – wait, I mean, employees! From now, salary bump to 20,000! But rule one: Money drops in your account? Withdraw pronto and hand to Rajesh. No delay, no questions."

Vimal's eyes widened. "Mules? Like donkeys? Boss, I'm confused. And why the hurry? What if I want to buy a new phone first?"

Jacob laughed, a deep rumble. "Ha! Donkey? No, no, smart boy. Think of it as... express delivery. Big sums coming – lakhs, maybe crores! You withdraw, give to Rajesh. We handle the rest. And rule two: Mouth shut! Tell anyone – poof! Job gone. Family trouble too, eh?"

Priya crossed her arms, eyeing Jacob up and down. "Big sums? Sounds fishy, uncle. What are we, ATMs with legs? And you look like you could play for Mohun Bagan – why not scam on the field instead?"

Jacob grinned wider. "Feisty one! I like you. Football? Been there, scored that. But this game's more fun – no red cards, only green bucks. You all needy, right? Slums, struggles? We help each other. Win-win!"

Ratan nodded eagerly. "I'm in, boss! My account's ready. Deposit away – I'll withdraw faster than Usain Bolt!"

From the next day, it was chaos comedy. Ping! A lakh hits Vimal's account. He bolts to the bank, sweating bullets. "Arre, didi at the counter, quick! Withdraw all!"

Back at the office, he hands it to Rajesh. "Boss, felt like I was in a Bollywood heist. Heart pounding – what if cops show?"

Rajesh pockets it smoothly. "Good boy. Next time, act normal. Smile like you're buying veggies."

Priya's turn: Two lakhs. She struts in, cash in a plastic bag. "Here, take your dirty money. But boss, if this is illegal, at least make it exciting. Add some drama – chase scenes, maybe?"

Jacob, overhearing via video call, chuckles. "Drama? Girl, this is Kolkata – traffic's enough drama! Keep quiet, get paid. Or else... well, let's say I know people who make problems disappear faster than your monsoon floods."

Vimal whispered to Priya later, "Yaar, we're mules for scammers! Nigerian prince stuff, but real. I was gonna pickpocket, now I'm the pocket!"

Priya giggled. "Shh! At 20k a month, I'll mule till the cows come home. But if Jacob asks me out, I'm saying yes – those abs could crack coconuts!"

Ratan butted in. "Abs? Focus, people! Next deposit's mine. Let's make this the best fraud family ever!"

And so, the mule network thrived in that shabby lane, a hilarious web of desperation, deposits, and dodgy deals. They laughed off the risks, bantering like old pals, until one day... but that's another scam story. For now, in Kolkata's underbelly, easy money flowed like the Hooghly – murky, fast, and full of surprises.

The Great Kolkata Cash Carousel: Part 2 – Mule Mayhem

The shabby office in that North Kolkata lane buzzed like a beehive on steroids. The 50 mules – er, employees – had settled into their routine: Ping goes the phone, dash to the bank, hand over the cash to Rajesh, pocket their cut, and repeat. It was like a twisted game of musical chairs, but with lakhs instead of seats. Vimal, Priya, and Ratan formed the unofficial "Mule Trio," cracking jokes to mask the growing unease.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the crumbling rooftops, Jacob called another meeting. He sauntered in, football under his arm like a trophy, his jersey stained from a recent match with some local club. "My people!" he boomed, flashing that megawatt grin. "You all stars now. But let me tell you my story – keep it real, eh?"

Vimal perked up, munching on a samosa. "Story time? Boss, you look like you could star in a Nollywood flick. Spill!"

Jacob leaned against a rickety table, which creaked under his bulk. "Ah, started as foreign student, you know? Came to Kolkata for uni – cheap fees, spicy food, crazy traffic. But books? Boring! I play football for East Bengal reserves – score goals, make fans cheer. With match cash and... side gigs, I build this. Smart business, no? You all family now. More money coming – digital arrests, fake lotteries, all that jazz from my boys back home."

Priya's eyes narrowed, but she couldn't help smirking. "Digital arrests? Like, 'Hello, this is police, pay up or jail'? And you're funding it with football kicks? Boss, that's next-level multitasking. But why us slum rats? Couldn't you hire posh kids from Salt Lake?"

Jacob laughed, a thunderous sound that rattled the ancient fans. "Posh kids? They snitch! You all hungry – do anything for rupee. Like you, skinny boy," he pointed at Vimal. "Rajesh say you almost pickpocket? Ha! Now you pro – no touch, just withdraw!"

Ratan flexed, trying to match Jacob's vibe. "I'm in, chief! But what's a digital arrest? Sounds like my phone getting grounded."

"Simple, muscle man," Jacob explained, tossing the ball in the air. "Call from 'police' – say victim in big trouble, transfer money quick. Victim panics, sends to our accounts here. You mules withdraw, money vanishes into air. Poof! We split – I get lion's share for my... investments."

Just then, Rajesh slithered in, his fake gold chain glinting under the bulb. He clapped his hands sharply. "Enough chit-chat! Listen up, you lot. Jacob's the brain, I'm the muscle here. And among you – yeah, you innocents – I got my own guys. Spies, watchers. One wrong word, one sneaky call to cops? They'll report. Boom – you're out. Or worse."

Vimal gulped, nearly choking on his samosa. "Spies? Like James Bond in our group? Boss, that's paranoid! We're all broke buddies here."

Rajesh's mustache twitched menacingly. "Paranoid? Smart, beta. Last batch? One fool blabbed to his girlfriend. Now he's... let's say, enjoying free room and board in Tihar. You think this is game? Calls come from Nigeria, Dubai, even Cambodia – untraceable. Money spreads like wildfire, vanishes. You get 20k, I get... well, more. High pay for high risk. Now scat – next deposit tomorrow!"

Priya whispered to the trio as they shuffled out. "Spies? Ha! Bet it's that quiet guy in the corner, always staring. But 20k? I'll spy on myself if needed. Vimal, you okay? You look like you saw a ghost."

Vimal wiped his brow. "Yaar, I was gonna steal wallets, now I'm in international scam league? Jacob's footballer by day, fraudster by night – like Batman, but evil. And Rajesh? That crook's probably rolling in crores, buying gold chains for his gold chains!"

Ratan grinned, slapping Vimal's back. "Lighten up! Think of it as adventure. Next time money drops, I'll withdraw in style – maybe moonwalk out the bank. 'Officer, it's legit – from my Nigerian uncle!'"

Priya rolled her eyes. "Moonwalk? With your two left feet? Please. But seriously, if spies are watching, let's act normal. No more samosa parties – wait, screw that, bring extra tomorrow!"

As the mules dispersed into the humid night, the operation hummed on. Jacob headed to his next match, Rajesh counted his stacks in the back room, and the trio plotted their next banter session. Little did they know, the web was tightening – but for now, in Kolkata's chaotic lanes, the cash carousel spun wildly, fueled by desperation, deposits, and a dash of dark humor.

*Footnote: This tale draws from real-life scams routinely busted by Indian police, where mule networks launder money from digital arrest frauds, phishing, and international cybercrimes. Funds from panicked victims get dispersed through such accounts and vanish into untraceable channels. Local handlers like Rajesh are often well-compensated operatives, while calls originate from foreign hubs like Nigeria or Southeast Asia.*

From Farah's Exile Chic to Iran's Echo Revolt: The Tailor Who Stitched a Queen's Last Stand Spills All in Our Trastevere Tell-All!"

**Vogue Global Dish: Tailor's Juicy Spill on Farah's Epic Coat Dash—As Iran's Rebels Rewrite History!**  

*Spilled by Your Fly-on-the-Wall Reporter, Trastevere's Grimiest Hideout, January 22, 2026*  

He hissed secrets like a starlet dodging paparazzi, the ancient tailor, voice so hushed you'd swear blabbing louder might summon Farah's shade or today's Tehran protesters marching for change. Dive into his "retirement pad"—a scandalously squalid Trastevere hole, thick with camphor whiffs, cat fluff, and limoncello vibes from Reagan's era. Walls peeling like a bad facelift, decked in dog-eared *Vogues* starring Farah's prime and polaroids of him cozying up to Valentino. Workbench? Hot mess express: thread tangles, fabric scraps, a half-gone prosciutto guarded by Stitch the cat, batting my recorder like yesterday's news. Sagging cot buried in mink remnants and a telly tuned to BBC: Iranians rallying in streets, voices rising with "Woman, Life, Freedom!" calls amid the push for reform. The irony? Forty-seven years after Farah's flight, Iran's stirring again—history's full-circle fashion moment. Twisted fingers fiddle phantom threads. Ex-Valentino vault insider, all discretion. "Coat chatter?" he purrs, eyeing the screen. "Darling, dig into *the night*. And chuckle at time's twist!"

**Tehran's '79 Tea: Revolution's Sassiest Street Party**  

Tehran, Jan '79? No beauty rest—that town was buzzing with unrest, a whirlwind where Khomeini posters waved like must-haves. Our insider jets in undercover for Empress "final-fits"—subtle, right? Streets layered in slogans: "Marg bar Shah!" echoing from mosques turned rally hubs, corners flickering with fires. Air heavy with tension, tear gas hints, and market bustle. Shah's polished world—glitzy galas, lavish lounges, oil elegance—was fraying fast. Guards shifted sides, friends whispered betrayals, Ayatollah tapes fueled the fervor. Youth lobbed stones at cars; markets hummed with change. "Revolts?" he snickers, eyes alight. "They arrive with flair—sense them in doors clicking shut!" Valentino's coat? Ivory elegance, sleek lines, no extras—just smart protection. Fur topper? Warm and discreet. Farah held steady at fitting—no flicker. "Steadier than steel," he notes. "More chilling than jitters!" Outside: "Death to Shah!" rolled like a chant chorus.

**Mehrabad Madness: Shah & Farah's Coat-Cloaked Exit—Gossip Gold!**  

That runway? Endless stretch of suspense. Tailor hangs by the tarmac—"for any rips," as if seams topped the stakes. Enter Farah and Shah, escorts on edge, crowd beyond barriers alive with shouts, tears, quiet stares, "Marg bar Shah!" swelling strong. Stones skipped close—*plink!* on pavement, *crack!* near feet. Barriers strained; tension peaked.  

Farah shone through. Coat secured high, shoulders set, chin firm. Breeze lifted the hem—*swish!*—a graceful ripple against the storm. Shah close by; engines hummed; stones flew—*thud!* near the wing—as she stepped up, profile poised: timeless grace in turmoil. No look back. Plane rose, Iran faded. "Composure!" tailor enthuses, bench-tap emphatic. "Beyond fear or fury—she commanded it all!"

**Reverse Revolt Remix: Iran's New Chapter Echoes the Past**  

Jet away; tailor back to routine. Atelier hummed—fittings, talk, now news scrolls. That coat? Etched in lore. Now 2026: Iran's unrest builds, crowds calling "Woman, Life, Freedom!" in a push against the old guard—mirroring '79's energy in reverse. Farah's poise feels prescient. "Clothes carry stories," tailor muses at the screen. "They're history's quiet narrators!" Hands fold, seam sealed: fabric, falls, fervor, and fate's loop. Rome buzzes; here, tales endure.

***

The Brass Lamp of Bagha Beach

The Brass Lamp of Baga Beach

Raman had promised his family Goa.

For a lower middle-class clerk from Nagpur, a promise like that was not made lightly. It was born on a sweaty summer night, whispered to his wife Meena as their children slept on the floor mattress—twelve-year-old Rishi sprawled like a starfish, and eight-year-old Ananya clutching her doll. Raman had no savings worth the name, but he had resolve, and a habit of honouring his word.

They travelled by overnight bus, knees jammed, tempers frayed, the children oscillating between excitement and nausea. By dawn, Goa greeted them with palm trees, salt-laden air, and the roar of the Arabian Sea. Raman found a cheap lodge—peeling paint, a reluctant ceiling fan, but clean sheets and a balcony from where one could hear waves arguing with the shore.

The first morning, they went to the beach early, before the tourists woke and before the sun turned cruel. The sand was cool, damp, and dotted with fishermen hauling nets that shimmered like silver lace. Raman waded into the water to rinse his feet when he noticed a middle-aged man struggling waist-deep in the surf.

The man was stout, moustached, and clearly unused to the sea. His wife stood anxiously at a distance, shouting instructions that the waves ignored.

Raman hurried over, held the man steady, and guided him through the ritual of dipping, splashing, and retreating before the next wave struck. The man emerged breathless but triumphant.

“Ram Ram sa,” he said, folding his hands. “I am Banwari Lal, from Rajasthan. The sea is more aggressive than our desert winds.”

Raman smiled. “The sea has moods, sahib. You just met a bad one.”

Banwari Lal laughed, a deep, prosperous laugh, the kind that came from full stomachs and successful deals. He introduced his wife and called out to his servant, Viru—a lean, sharp-eyed man in his thirties, who soon struck up an easy conversation with Raman over coconut water.

Viru had the rare talent of making friends without trying. He admired Raman for bringing his family by bus; Raman admired Viru for his fearless dive into the waves. By the end of the morning, they were exchanging hotel names and dinner plans.

That evening, Banwari Lal mentioned something curious. During a stroll through the Mapusa flea market, he had bought an old brass lamp from a toothless antique seller.

“Pure junk,” his wife sniffed.

“Or pure luck,” Banwari Lal said cryptically.

The lamp was unmistakable—long-spouted, round-bellied, etched with fading Arabic patterns, darkened by age and neglect. It looked like it had escaped straight from an illustration of Aladdin.

The next morning, Viru came running to Raman’s lodge, breathless and pale.

“Babuji is missing,” he said. “Since dawn. His phone is off. His room untouched.”

He clutched the brass lamp like a child holding a relic.

Raman frowned. “Where did you get this?”

“Last night,” Viru said. “Babuji was polishing it, rubbing it again and again, joking about wishes. He told me to keep it safe. Now he is gone.”

They went straight to the police station, where Detective Miranda listened in silence.

Miranda was portly, calm, and permanently accompanied by a pipe that never seemed fully lit yet always smelled faintly of tobacco. He had the heavy-lidded eyes and patient stillness of a man who believed crimes confessed themselves if given enough time. If Georges Simenon’s Maigret had been reborn in Goa, he would have looked exactly like Miranda—minus the French accent, replaced instead by a soft Konkani lilt.

Beside him sat Sophia, his assistant—sharp, efficient, notebook always open, pen moving even when no one seemed to be speaking. She recorded coughs, pauses, and raised eyebrows with equal seriousness.

“A missing businessman,” Miranda said slowly. “A lamp. And a beach. Goa never disappoints.”

Two days passed. Banwari Lal did not surface.

Miranda visited Banwari Lal’s hotel, examined the room, and asked for the lamp. Something about it bothered him—the excessive polishing marks, the reverence with which Viru handled it.

“This lamp,” Miranda said, tapping it gently with his pipe, “has seen more than it admits.”

He took it to his office and asked Constable Ghorpade to guard it.

The next morning, Miranda nearly dropped his pipe.

A Marwari gentleman sat calmly across his desk, sipping tea.

“I am Banwari Lal,” the man said.

Sophia entered just then. “Sir, Constable Ghorpade is missing. Night duty. Lamp intact.”

Miranda stared at the lamp. Then at Banwari Lal. Then at the empty chair where Ghorpade should have been guarding the lamp.

The dots aligned.

Miranda leaned forward. “Tell me,” he said gently, “how many wishes did you ask for?”

Banwari Lal’s shoulders sagged.

He spoke of greed disguised as curiosity. Of wishes for wealth, then power, then immortality. Of how the lamp had warned him—twice only. The third wish had reversed the bargain. The genie had walked free, and Banwari Lal had been trapped inside the brass prison.

“Ghorpade rubbed it,” he whispered. “He wished.”

Miranda nodded. “And became what you were.”

He leaned back, exhaled a slow ribbon of smoke, and looked at Sophia.

“Now tell me,” he said, “how does one rescue a constable who is currently a supernatural civil servant trapped inside antique brass?”

Sophia did not look up from her notebook. “Sir, as per procedure, we cannot issue a missing person notice for someone who is technically not a person at the moment.”

Miranda sighed. “Goa Police manuals are very limited in imagination.”

She finally looked up. “However, we do have assets.”

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “If you say budget, I will retire today.”

“Salim,” Sophia said calmly.

Miranda stopped mid-puff. “The serial killer Salim?”

“Yes, sir. The one who enjoys bargaining, believes he is smarter than destiny, and has already filed six mercy petitions.”

Miranda smiled faintly. “And costs the exchequer how much per year?”

Sophia flipped a page. “Enough to fund three police jeeps, one monsoon bridge repair, and your pipe tobacco for life.”

Miranda nodded approvingly. “Excellent. Tempt him.”

“With the lamp?”

“With greed,” Miranda corrected. “The lamp is only the delivery system.”

Sophia allowed herself a rare smile. “We tell Salim that rubbing the lamp grants wishes. We supervise. Two wishes allowed.”

“And the third?” Miranda asked.

“He will insist,” Sophia said. “They always do.”

Miranda chuckled. “Criminal psychology is wonderfully predictable.”

The plan worked with embarrassing ease.

Salim rubbed the lamp, wished for power, then freedom. The third wish escaped before Miranda could even light his pipe.

By evening, Constable Ghorpade was back—confused, hungry, and requesting leave.

The lamp sat quietly on the table.

Sophia closed her notebook. “Case resolved. One constable recovered. One trial saved. Budget balanced.”

Miranda tapped the lamp gently. “Justice,” he said, “sometimes needs imagination.”

Banwari Lal left the lamp behind.

Later that evening, Raman received a parcel at his lodge—an envelope thick with cash and a note:

For keeping promises, even to your family. —B.L.

Raman looked at the sea that night, held Meena’s hand, and felt content.

Some promises, he realised, were better than wishes.

Between two lives

---

Between Two Lives

I was nursing a cup of bitter airport coffee at Changi, watching the quiet efficiency of the world pass by—travelers moving with purpose, announcements gliding through the air like practiced apologies—when the man approached me.

He hesitated first. Then, noticing my passport lying open on the table, he asked softly,

“Sir… are you from India?”

There was something in his voice—neither confidence nor desperation, but a cautious hope. I nodded.

“My name is Ramu,” he said, lowering himself into the chair opposite me without waiting for permission. “I don’t know why, but I felt I should speak to you.”

He looked ordinary in every way—thin, sun-darkened skin, cheap sandals, a shirt ironed too many times. The kind of man whose life passes unnoticed unless it collapses entirely.

Only then did I notice the men sitting a little distance away. They weren’t watching us openly, but their eyes returned to Ramu often enough. Guards—not uniformed, but unmistakable.

Ramu followed my gaze and gave a faint smile.

“They are with me,” he said. “Or maybe I am with them.”

After a pause, words spilled out—not dramatically, but like water escaping a cracked pot.

He was poor. From Bihar. His wife worked as a maid in Patna, leaving home before sunrise, returning after dark. Two children—one in school, one too young to understand why milk had become occasional instead of daily. Debt sat on his chest like a stone.

Then came the proposal.

Eighty lakhs.

All travel paid. Hospital expenses covered. A small shop promised once he returned. Enough, he said, to turn survival into dignity.

“I am selling my kidney,” he said plainly, as if stating a train schedule.

The recipient—a wealthy man from another country—was traveling with him. Life and death, sitting side by side in business class, divided by money and biology. The surgery would happen somewhere in Southeast Asia, where questions were fewer and paperwork lighter.

“In India,” Ramu said, “they ask too many questions. Relative, blood group, family consent. Here… they only ask for payment.”

I knew this. We all do. I had seen cases where relatives donated kidneys, acts of quiet heroism that never reached newspapers. I had also read about darker stories—men kidnapped, drugged, waking up with scars and silence.

This, at least, was consent. Compelled consent—but consent all the same.

During the long layover, while the others slept stretched across airport chairs, Ramu slipped away. Fear had finally reached him.

“What if I don’t wake up?” he whispered.

“What if my children grow up without a father?”

His ticket and passport were not with him. They were “kept safe” by the party arranging everything. Safe—from escape.

“I need the money,” he said. “But I am afraid, sir. You are educated. You have seen the world. Tell me—what should I do?”

That question landed on me like a burden I had no right to carry.

What advice could I give?

To walk away would mean returning to debt, hunger, humiliation.

To go ahead meant gambling with his body so others could keep theirs intact.

I told him gently what I knew—that one kidney can sustain a life, that many live normally after donation. I also told him the truth—that risk never asks permission, and exploitation rarely wears a villain’s face.

He listened quietly.

“I don’t blame them,” he said suddenly, surprising me.

“The man who needs my kidney… he is also fighting death. For him, this is the only way. For me, this is also the only way.”

Life, it seemed, had created a marketplace where desperation met desperation, only the currency was flesh.

The guards eventually noticed his absence. They came. There was no violence, no shouting. Just firm hands, practiced smiles, inevitability.

Before leaving, Ramu turned once more.

“If my children can study,” he said, “if my wife doesn’t have to scrub other people’s floors forever… then maybe this kidney will have lived a better life in another body.”

He was taken away.

I finished my coffee long after it had gone cold.

At an airport where millions pass each day chasing comfort, ambition, or escape, two lives had intersected briefly—one buying time, the other selling a part of himself to purchase hope.

We often speak of the sanctity of the human body. But poverty, I realized, has a way of rewriting moral codes. When survival is at stake, ethics become negotiable, and the line between victim and participant blurs.

Perhaps the real tragedy is not that kidneys are sold—but that a world exists where a man must sell a piece of himself so his family can remain whole.

And somewhere between law and compassion, between life saved and life risked, the question remains unanswered:

Is this commerce—or sacrifice?

Sanghamitra: Daughter of the Bodhi Tree

---

Sanghamitrā: Daughter of the Bodhi Tree

The palace gardens of Pāṭaliputra rustled with birdsong. Young Sanghamitrā often slipped away from her attendants to sit beneath a wide peepal tree, tracing her fingers across its bark. She would whisper to the leaves, “Why do you give shade without asking anything in return?” Nature answered her in silence, and she learned its lesson of patience.

But the palace no longer rang with laughter. The Kalinga war had ended, leaving behind not triumph but ashes. Emperor Aśoka, once called Chandashoka—fierce Aśoka—walked the halls with restless eyes.

One evening Sanghamitrā found him by the lotus pond, his sword rusting at his side.

“Father,” she asked softly, “why do you no longer dine with us? Why do you stare so at the ground?”

Aśoka’s voice was hollow.
“Child, I have seen too much blood. The cries of mothers and children follow me even in sleep. What is an empire worth, if it is built on suffering?”

“Then let the empire be built on healing,” Sanghamitrā said, her young face glowing with conviction. “Like the trees heal with their shade. Teach the people another way.”

Aśoka looked at her, startled at the wisdom in her words. “Perhaps the Buddha’s path of Dharma is the only way left for me,” he whispered.

---

Years later, Sanghamitrā watched her elder brother Mahinda depart for Sri Lanka to spread the Buddha’s teaching. She too felt a stirring, as though the island called her name. One evening she approached her father.

“Father, if Mahinda can carry the message of the Buddha, so can I. But I wish to plant not just words—a living symbol.”

Aśoka raised his brows. “You mean the Bodhi tree, the very tree under which the Buddha awakened?”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes bright. “A branch from that tree. If it thrives in Lanka’s soil, the people will know that Dharma cannot be uprooted.”

---

The voyage began under a clear sky. The Bodhi sapling, wrapped in silk and earth, was placed at the center of the ship as if it were a king. Sanghamitrā, now a nun in saffron robes, sailed with eleven companions.

But the sea turned dark. Storm winds rose, waves crashed like walls of black glass. Sailors clung to the mast, crying out in fear.

“The sea spirits are angry—we will sink!” one shouted.

Sanghamitrā stood firm, her hands on the Bodhi sapling. “If this tree lives, the Dharma will live. Fear not. Even the storm must bow to truth.”

She began to chant verses of the Buddha. Her voice, steady against thunder, calmed the hearts around her. By dawn, the storm had passed, leaving the sea a silver mirror.

---

At Anuradhapura, King Devanampiya Tissa and his queen awaited her arrival. Drums rolled as the Bodhi sapling was carried ashore. The queen clasped Sanghamitrā’s hand.

“From today,” she said, “you are my sister.”

But not all were pleased. Somadeva, the Brahmin priest of the court, whispered to the king, “Do not let a foreign woman rule your soul. She will steal your throne of faith.”

A tribal chief named Kurung, famed for his “mystical powers,” joined in. “Our spirits bow to no foreign tree,” he sneered, shaking a talisman of bones.

Yet the queen stood resolute. “This woman brings no weapons, only service. Let us judge her by deeds, not fear.”

---

Sanghamitrā did not answer with sermons. She and her nuns tended to the sick, washed the wounds of beggars, and fed hungry children. Word spread: The lady in saffron heals without asking for gold. She serves without pride.

One day the king, disguised, went among his people. He saw Sanghamitrā kneeling by a leper, washing his sores with her bare hands.

Returning to the palace, he told the queen, “I saw no goddess today, only a woman who chose to be less than all, so that all may rise. Her soul is selfless.”

---

When the Bodhi tree was finally planted at Anuradhapura, Somadeva scoffed, “It will wither.”

But the sapling grew, its leaves rustling like whispered prayers. Even Kurung, the tribal chief, bowed at its roots.

Thus Sanghamitrā was no longer just Aśoka’s daughter. She became the Mother of the Bhikkhunī Order in Lanka, remembered for planting both a tree and a way of life that gave shade to generations.

And under its branches, people would tell their children: “Once, a woman crossed the sea, carrying a tree in her heart. That is why we live in Dharma’s shade today.”

---

Footnote

Sanghamitra was the daughter of Emperor Ashoka and Queen Devi, renowned for her role in spreading Buddhism to Sri Lanka in the 3rd century BCE.

Early Life

Born around 282 BCE in Vidisha, she married briefly before renouncing worldly life to become a Buddhist nun, renamed Ayapali. Her brother Mahinda shared her commitment to Buddhism.

 Mission to Sri Lanka

In 252 BCE, at King Devanampiya Tissa's request, Ashoka sent Sanghamitra with a Bodhi tree sapling, which she planted in Anuradhapura. She converted royal women, established a nunnery, and trained nuns.

 Legacy

Sanghamitra dedicated her life to proselytizing among women, dying around 203 BCE; the Sri Lankan king honored her with personal funeral rites. The Bodhi tree remains a sacred site.

Why Ghosts Never Leave Our Homes-or Our Minds

H --- ## **Why Ghosts Never Leave Our Homes—or Our Minds**

The thought crossed my mind while watching the film *There Is a Ghost in Our House*. It was not fear that lingered after the screen went dark, but familiarity. A quiet recognition—as if the idea of a ghost was never foreign to us. It has always existed, silently occupying a corner of human consciousness. From there, my mind drifted, as it often does, to my all-time favourite ghost film—*Ghost* (1990). Not for its special effects, but for its emotional depth. Love that refuses to dissolve with death. Memory that refuses to fade. And of course, **“Unchained Melody”**—a song that seems to float between two worlds. When it plays, one does not think of fear; one thinks of longing. Of bonds that death cannot neatly sever. Indian cinema understood this truth much earlier. Long before Hollywood romanticised spirits, Hindi films explored ghosts as carriers of **memory, justice, and unfinished destiny**. *Mahal* (1949), with Ashok Kumar and Madhubala, remains etched in the collective psyche—not because it frightened audiences, but because it mesmerised them. The dim corridors, echoing footsteps, and that unforgettable boat scene where the past seems to glide silently into the present. The song *“Aayega Aanewala”* does not announce a ghost; it summons inevitability. Then came *Madhumati* (1958). Vyjayanthimala’s character returns not merely as a ghost, but as a force of moral reckoning. Wronged in one lifetime, justice eludes her until another. Here, reincarnation and revenge merge seamlessly. The ghost is not frightening; she is purposeful. She restores balance where life had failed. What is striking across these films—Indian or Western—is that ghosts are rarely grotesque. They are melancholic, restrained, even dignified. They appear when something remains unresolved: love unfinished, injustice unanswered, promises broken. The ghost, then, is not an intruder, but a reminder. This universality extends far beyond cinema. Across cultures and continents, belief in ghosts persists. India speaks of *bhūts* and *prets*, Japan of *yūrei*, England of manor-house spirits, Africa of ancestral souls, and the Middle East of *jinn*. Civilisations that share nothing else—language, religion, climate—share this belief. Technology may have advanced from oil lamps to LEDs, from handwritten letters to Instagram, but this idea has remained remarkably untouched. Even great minds were not immune. Abraham Lincoln reportedly spoke of apparitions in the White House and even foresaw his own death. Winston Churchill, a man of iron resolve, once fled a room convinced he had encountered a spectral presence. Napoleon Bonaparte believed a guiding spirit accompanied him. Charles Dickens, realist and reformer, firmly believed in ghosts and claimed personal encounters. These were not timid men. They were leaders, thinkers, and rational minds of their time. Their belief suggests that ghosts are not born of fear alone, but of **humility before the unknown**. Which brings us to the inevitable question: *Are ghosts real?* The debate, perhaps, is misplaced. The question of whether ghosts exist is no different from asking whether God exists, or whether rebirth is possible. Rationalists like **Yuval Noah Harari**, armed with neuroscience, evolutionary biology, and data, will dismiss all three as stories humans tell themselves to cope with uncertainty—useful myths, perhaps, but myths nonetheless. And yet, for every such argument, millions smile back. Not in ridicule, but in quiet confidence. Because belief is not always an argument; often, it is an experience. One does not prove love before feeling it. One does not demand laboratory validation for grief, memory, or presence. Ghosts, like God or rebirth, survive precisely because they operate outside the jurisdiction of pure reason. They inhabit memory, intuition, moral order, and unresolved longing. Indian philosophy offers a calm explanation. The *Bhagavad Gita* reminds us: **“Na hanyate hanyamāne śarīre”** *The soul is not destroyed when the body is destroyed.* If the soul is eternal, then perhaps a ghost is not an aberration, but a pause—an echo when the transition is incomplete. Cinema, music, and storytelling merely give that echo a form. Whether it is Vyjayanthimala standing silently on a misty hillside, Madhubala’s voice drifting across still waters, or *Unchained Melody* playing as love transcends death, ghosts return to remind us of one simple truth: **relationships do not end neatly**. Ghosts endure because **memory endures**. They are not here to frighten us, but to whisper—of love that outlives life, of justice delayed but not denied, and of journeys that do not conclude when the curtain falls. Some debates are not meant to end. They exist to remind us that however advanced we become, the human mind still bows before mystery. And perhaps, when rational certainty laughs at belief, belief quietly laughs back—secure in the knowledge that not everything meaningful needs to be measurable. As the *Gita* gently concludes: **“Avyaktādīni bhūtāni vyakta-madhyāni bhārata”** *All beings emerge from the unmanifest and return to the unmanifest.* Between the unseen and the seen, between silence and song, ghosts—real or imagined—continue to walk with us. ---

Foot Notes to Power

---

After the Files

The Epstein files surfaced again that morning—names, counter-names, outrage neatly packaged for breakfast reading. By the time I reached the golf course, the scandal had already travelled ahead of me.

Someone mentioned it near the clubhouse. Someone else dismissed it as political theatre. The usual polarisation followed.

Rathore, my regular golf partner, said nothing until we had finished the round and settled down with tea. He had the habit of letting noise exhaust itself.

“You know,” he said finally, “people think the files created the sickness. They didn’t. They only confirmed it.”

I looked at him. “You sound unsurprised.”

“That’s because I’ve smelt it before,” he said. “Long before it had a name.”

---

“I was in Paris in 2002,” Rathore began, “when Epstein was alive but invisible. No files, no headlines. Just… arrangements.”

He spoke of a dinner with a senior multinational executive—Thomas, he called him. Polished, reasonable, persuasive in the way only people with nothing to fear can be.

“Over wine,” Rathore said, “he explained power without drama. According to him, the elite didn’t break laws. They designed lives where laws rarely intruded.”

Private retreats. Discreet hospitality. Guests who arrived without appearing to have travelled.

“At the time,” Rathore said, “I dismissed it as European arrogance.”

---

“Years later,” he continued, “on an early morning Indian Airlines flight to Delhi—Executive Class—I heard the same philosophy spoken again, though with a local accent.”

Somewhere over central India, the man beside him mentioned S.—just the initial.

“Everyone knows him,” the man said. “Even those who haven’t met him.”

S., Rathore was told, didn’t sell influence. He provided geography. Farmhouses scattered across the country, places where phones lost signal and explanations were unnecessary.

“In America,” the man said lightly, “they needed islands. In India, land was enough.”

By the time tea arrived, they were discussing cricket.

---

Rathore paused. “I saw the same pattern again near Gwalior.”

A respectable gathering. Professionals. No secrecy. Someone mentioned a piece of land outside the city.

“Neutral ground,” another said.

No one asked neutral for what.

“That’s when it became clear,” Rathore said. “This wasn’t about people. It was about design.”

---

Listening to him, my mind went back to Jeffrey Archer’s Clifton Chronicles, which I had read years earlier. There, manipulation moved effortlessly across continents, institutions, and generations. Decisions felt organic to those affected, but every outcome had been quietly positioned in advance. Nothing was illegal; nothing shouted; yet everything was engineered.

At the time, I had admired Archer’s craft while reassuring myself it was fiction.

Now, with Epstein files dominating headlines and Rathore’s recollections filling the gaps, Archer’s technique felt less imaginative and more observational.

“In Archer’s world,” I said, “manipulation didn’t shout. It arranged the room so the outcome was unavoidable.”

Rathore nodded. “Exactly. Power never pushes. It positions.”

---

The clubhouse hummed around us. Outside, the fairway lay calm and perfectly maintained, betraying no sign of the planning beneath it.

“When the Epstein files came out,” Rathore said quietly, “people were shocked by the names. They shouldn’t have been. Names are footnotes.”

He stood up, adjusted his cap.

“Files appear late,” he said. “Systems appear early. And by the time files are debated, the system has already relocated.”

As he walked away, I realised what had been troubling me all along.

The files were not revelations.

They were confirmations.

Like an Archer plot revealed in the final chapter, the outcome seemed shocking only to those who hadn’t noticed how carefully the stage had been set.

---