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.

---

"A Spooky Night at The Chalet: Where Ghosts Sip Tea and Secrets Linger in the Mist! 🍵👻"

---

The December sun bathed Darjeeling’s mall in a golden glow, its warmth a fleeting shield against the Himalayan chill that crept into your bones. A few years back, I was wandering through the bustling heart of the town, sidestepping tea hawkers and selfie-snapping tourists, when I met Thapa, a retired professor from St. Joseph’s College. With his tweed jacket, salt-and-pepper beard, and eyes that sparkled with mischief, he looked like he’d just stepped out of a lecture on Himalayan mysticism. We settled on a bench, soaking in the view of Kanchenjunga’s snow-draped peaks, and got to chatting.

I mentioned Darjeeling’s reputation for ghost stories—tales of spectral British sahibs haunting colonial bungalows, restless monks wandering ancient monasteries, and the infamous “Gray Lady” of the old Victoria Hospital, said to drift through its abandoned corridors, searching for her lost child. Thapa chuckled, adjusting his glasses. “Hope you don’t think *I’m* one of those ghosts, lurking here to haunt unsuspecting tourists.”

I grinned and gave his arm a playful nudge. “Nope, you’re too solid for a specter. Ghosts don’t carry library cards, do they? Or do they haunt the overdue fines section?”

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed like a monastery gong. “In Darjeeling, the line between the living and the dead is thinner than a first flush tea leaf. If you’re chasing ghosts, meet me at The Chalet at 8 pm. It’s a tucked-away cafe on the winding road to the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute.”

I raised an eyebrow. “The Chalet? What’s the deal—haunted by spirits, or just hipsters in Halloween costumes year-round?”

Thapa’s smile turned cryptic, like he was sharing a secret with the mountains. “Oh, it’s a place where the past lingers like mist. Ever heard of the Lepcha legend of the ‘Shadow Walkers’? They say spirits of ancient traders roam these hills, guarding hidden treasures from the Silk Route days. Some claim The Chalet’s built on one of their old paths. Show up, and you’ll see. Bring a scarf—it gets chilly when the shadows dance.”

Intrigued and mildly spooked, I arrived at The Chalet that evening. The cafe was nestled on a lonely hillside, shrouded by towering pine trees that stood like silent sentinels, their needles whispering secrets to the night. The air carried the scent of woodsmoke and mystery, and the distant howl of a Himalayan wolf—or was it the wind?—sent a shiver down my spine. The exterior was deceptively charming, with ivy-clad walls and glowing lanterns, but stepping inside was like crossing into a gothic novel. Dim candlelight flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls, and the low, haunting strains of organ music—straight out of a Dracula soundtrack—filled the air. The patrons didn’t help: cloaked in dark coats, wide-brimmed hats, and masks that hid all but their glinting eyes, they looked like they’d wandered in from a masquerade for the undead. Were they locals sipping Darjeeling’s finest, or apparitions nursing spectral brews? The jury was out.

Thapa waved me over to a semi-dark corner table, where the light barely reached. “You made it,” he said, handing me a leather-bound menu that creaked like an old crypt door. “No chickening out now. The ghosts here don’t take kindly to cancellations.”

I slid into the seat, scanning the room. “This place is creepier than a fog-covered tea estate. Those folks over there—coats, hats, masks—look like they’re auditioning for a ghost convention. What’s the deal, Thapa? Are we in a cafe or a portal to the underworld?”

He leaned back, smirking. “In Darjeeling, my friend, every cafe is a potential portal. You know the local lore about the ‘Mist Wraiths’? They say when the fog rolls in thick, spirits of lost trekkers wander the hills, drawn to warm places like this. Those masks? Could be fashion, could be precaution. Ghosts hate being recognized—it ruins their mystique.”

Before I could retort, a lanky waiter glided over, his black uniform blending into the shadows. “Good evening, sirs. I’m Luther,” he said, his voice smooth as moonlight on a frozen lake. “Our special tonight is the ‘Wraith’s Whisper,’ a dessert so light it might float off your plate. What’ll it be?”

I smirked. “Wraith’s Whisper? Sounds like it’ll haunt my stomach. What if it possesses my fork?”

Luther’s eyes twinkled, but his face stayed deadpan. “Sir, our forks are blessed by a lama from Ghoom Monastery. No possession guaranteed, but if it tries, we’ll banish it to the kids’ menu.” Thapa roared with laughter, and I ordered a masala chai to calm my nerves, while he opted for a black coffee—“to match the vibe,” he quipped.

As we sipped, the manager, Sebastian, strolled over—a burly man with a mustache that could hide a yeti and a voice like gravel crunching under boots. “All good here, gentlemen? No spectral disturbances?”

Thapa grinned. “Sebastian, my friend here thinks your customers are straight out of a Lepcha ghost tale. Tell him—are those masks for style, or are we dining with the Shadow Walkers?”

Sebastian’s mustache twitched with amusement. “In The Chalet, we welcome everyone—living, dead, or just here for the Wi-Fi. But if you’re worried, try our ‘Yeti Toddy.’ It’ll warm your soul, even if it’s halfway to the afterlife.”

I played along. “Yeti Toddy? Does it come with a side of abominable snowman? I’m already wondering if I’m dining with humans or the cast of a haunted tea party.”

The banter flowed like the chai, but the atmosphere thickened when the music surged and a sudden gust from an open window rattled the lanterns. One of the masked figures at the bar turned slowly, its eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that froze my blood. My pulse quickened—was this a real ghost? A Shadow Walker, perhaps, guarding some ancient treasure buried beneath the cafe? I whispered to Thapa, “Professor, that one’s staring like I owe it money. Friendly spirit, or should I start chanting the names of tea estates to ward it off?”

Thapa whispered back, “Chanting tea names? Brilliant. Try ‘Margaret’s Hope, Temi, Castleton.’ Ghosts can’t resist a good Darjeeling blend—they’ll float off in embarrassment.”

Luther reappeared with our drinks, but as he set them down, his hand seemed to shimmer *through* the steam rising from my chai—or was it the dim light playing tricks? I blinked, and he smirked. “Just the fog, sir. It loves to mess with first-timers. Or maybe I’m just that ghostly fast.”

Sebastian joined in, chuckling. “Don’t mind Luther. Last month, a tourist swore he saw a spectral yak herder at the bar. Turned out it was just Mrs. Tamang in her new shawl, sipping momos and rum.”

The tension broke when the “ghost” at the bar unmasked, revealing a young local artist in costume for an Instagram photoshoot, her eyes glinting with laughter, not malice. No Shadow Walker, just Darjeeling’s quirky charm at work. But the near-miss had us all cackling. Thapa raised his cup. “To almost-ghosts and foggy frights! Better than meeting a real Mist Wraith—they’re terrible tippers.”

I clinked my chai against his coffee. “And to Thapa, the professor who drags innocents into haunted cafes. Next time, warn me if the menu includes ‘spectral samosas’ or a side of Lepcha curses.”

Luther chimed in, balancing a tray with eerie grace. “No curses here, sir, unless you count our spicy chutney. That’ll haunt you till dawn.”

Sebastian clapped me on the shoulder. “Come back tomorrow. We’re hosting a ‘Ghosts of Darjeeling’ storytelling night. You might hear about the Phantom Rickshaw of Chowrasta or the Singing Monk of Observatory Hill. Bring your friend—he’s got a knack for spotting spirits.”

As we stepped out into the starry night, the pine trees rustling like they were applauding our survival, I felt the thrill of a memorable adventure. The Chalet hadn’t been truly haunted, but between the foggy folklore, the masked patrons, and Thapa’s wicked wit, it was the closest I’d come to dining with Darjeeling’s legendary spirits. The town’s tales—of Shadow Walkers, Mist Wraiths, and ghostly sahibs—lingered in my mind, as did the warmth of that chai and the laughter that echoed louder than any ghostly moan. I turned to Thapa. “Next time, professor, I’m picking the cafe. Somewhere with less... otherworldly ambiance.”

He winked. “Good luck. In Darjeeling, even the tea leaves have ghosts.”

বাংলা 1 লেট নাইট শো

**বাংলা১ লেট-নাইট শো: “রাতের সঙ্গী” – নন্তুর সঙ্গে** 

*(রাত ১২টা থেকে ভোর ৩টে – কলকাতা, ১৪ ডিসেম্বর ২০২৫)*

*[স্টুডিওর মৃদু আলো। জানালার বাইরে হুগলি হলদে আলোয় ঝিকমিক করছে। দূরে এসপ্ল্যানেডের কাছে শেষ ট্রামের টুংটাং শোনা যাচ্ছে। শো শুরু হয় রবীন্দ্রসংগীতের মৃদু সুরে…]*

**নন্তু** (গভীর, মখমলের মতো গলা, ধীরে, প্রায় ফিসফিস করে):  

আকাশ ভরা সূর্য-তারা…  

গুড ইভনিং, কলকাতা। এটা তোমাদের নন্তু, বাংলা১-এর রাতের সঙ্গী। রাত অনেক হয়ে গেছে, ট্রামের শেষ ঘণ্টাও বেজে গেছে, কিন্তু তোমরা জেগে আছ। আমার সঙ্গে জেগে থাকো।  

আজ রাতে আমরা একসঙ্গে মোমোর  খেয়ে, বিরিয়ানির গন্ধ নিয়ে, রোল চিবিয়ে… আর সল্ট লেক স্টেডিয়ামে মেসিকে ঠিকঠাক দেখতে না পাওয়ার এই কালেক্টিভ হার্টব্রেক নিয়ে কথা বলব।  

ফোন লাইন খোলা আছে। ডায়াল করো। কী বলবে?  

*[সুর মিলিয়ে যায় নীরবতায়। প্রথম কলার আসে।]*

**কলার ১ – রাজু, সুইগি ডেলিভারি বয়** (হাঁপাচ্ছে একটু, পেছনে বাইকের ইঞ্জিনের শব্দ):  

দাদা, লাস্ট ডেলিভারি শেষ করে এলাম কলেজ স্ট্রিটে। একটা চিকেন বিরিয়ানি এসপ্ল্যানেড থেকে পার্ক সার্কাস… এখন রাত দুটো, পেটে ছুটছুট আওয়াজ করছে।  

**নন্তু** (মৃদু হেসে):  

আরে রাজু ভাই, বিরিয়ানি ডেলিভার করে নিজে বিরিয়ানি খাসনি? এটা তো অন্যায়!  

বলো, আজ রাতের মুড কী? ফুটবল নিয়ে দুঃখ, না সল্ট লেকের বিশৃঙ্খলা নিয়ে ফ্রাস্ট্রেশন?  

**রাজু**:  

দাদা, মেসি… সল্ট লেকে এসে গেল, কিন্তু আমরা ঠিকঠাক দেখতেই পেলাম না। বাইরে দাঁড়িয়ে হ্যাশট্যাগ দিয়ে মরছি, আর ভিতরের লোকেরাও বোতল ছুঁড়ছে।  

**নন্তু**:  

হ্যাঁ রে, পুরো কলকাতা একটা কালেক্টিভ হার্টব্রেকে ডুবে গেছে – আবার একবার। কিন্তু জানিস রাজু, মেসি চলে গেছে, কিন্তু তোদের মতো ডেলিভারি বয়রা রাতের কলকাতাকে বাঁচিয়ে রেখেছে। তুই হিরো।  

শোন, তোর জন্য একটা গান… প্রতি রাতে বাইকে ১০০ মাইল দৌড়নোর জন্য।  

*[বাজে: “100 Miles” – ইংরেজি গান, সফট রক ভাইব]*  

**নন্তু** (গানের পর):  

রাজু, এখন বিরিয়ানি খেয়ে ঘুমিয়ে পড়। ডেলিভারি শেষ, রাত শেষ না… কিন্তু তোর শিফট শেষ। গুড নাইট, হিরো।  

*[পরের কলার]*

**কলার ২ – রিনা, বেহালার গৃহিণী** (গলা কাঁপা, রাগী ফিসফিস):  

নন্তু-দা, ও আবার ড্রিঙ্ক করে বেরিয়ে গেছে। রোজকার রোজকার… এখন রাত তিনটে, ঘরে নেই। বাচ্চারা ঘুমিয়ে গেছে, আমি এখানেই বসে আছি।  

**নন্তু** (গলা আরও নরম, কাউন্সেলর মোড):  

রিনা দি, শান্ত হয়ে বসো। শ্বাস নাও… শ্বাস ছাড়ো।  

জানো, কলকাতার অনেক মেয়েরা রাতে রেডিও শুনে শোয়। তুমি একা নও।  

ও যাবে, এসে পড়বে, কাল সকালে হ্যাঙ্গওভার নিয়ে মাফ মাগবে… আর তুমি অপেক্ষা করবে, কারণ তুমি বড়ো মনের।  

একটা পুরোনো গান শোনো… বেলা বয়ে যায়, যদি ও না আসে…  

*[বাজে: “বেলা বোস” – অঞ্জন দত্তের গান, নস্টালজিক, খুব কলকাতা]*  

**নন্তু**:  

রিনা দি, কাল ও আসবে। আর না এলেও… তুমি স্ট্রং। যখন ইচ্ছে কল করো।  

*[মাঝে মুড বজায় রাখতে]*  

**নন্তু**:  

কলকাতা, রাতের এই শান্তিতে এখন একটা গান যে আমার গানের স্বরলিপি লেখে… হেমন্ত-দার গলায়। শোনো, এই রাতটাকে আরও সুন্দর করে।  

*[বাজে: “আমার গানের স্বরলিপি” – হেমন্ত মুখোপাধ্যায়ের আত্মিক বাংলা ক্লাসিক]*  

*[পরের কলার – ক্লাস টেনের মেয়ে, গলা কাঁপছে]*

**কলার ৩ – প্রিয়া**:  

নন্তু-দা… বাবা-মা ফোন দেবে না বলে… আমি আজ… অনেক কিছু ভেবে ফেলেছিলাম…  

**নন্তু** (গলা আরও নীচু, জরুরি কিন্তু শান্ত):  

প্রিয়া, শোন। ফোনটা একটা মেশিন। তুমি একটা জীবন।  

বাবা-মা তোমাকে ভালোবাসে, ওদের ভয় হয় তোমাকে ইন্টারনেটের হাত থেকে বাঁচাতে।  

তুমি খুব ইম্পর্ট্যান্ট। এই রাতটা পার করে দাও… কাল স্কুলে যাও, বন্ধুদের সঙ্গে কথা বলো, আমার শো শোনো।  

লাইফ অনেক বড়ো, ফোন ছোটো। প্রমিস করো এখন ঘুমোতে যাবে?  

**প্রিয়া** (নাক টানছে):  

প্রমিস…  

**নন্তু**:  

গুড গার্ল। এই গানটা শোনো… আর মনে রেখো, তুমি তোমার উপায়েই জিতবে।  

*[বাজে: ফ্র্যাঙ্ক সিনাত্রা – “My Way”]*  

**নন্তু** (গানের পর):  

প্রিয়া, তুমি তোমার উপায়েই জিতবে। যখন ইচ্ছে কল করো।  

*[পরের কলার – চিন্তিত ভোটার]*  

**কলার ৪ – বিশ্বনাথ, সল্ট লেকের মধ্যবয়সি ভদ্রলোক** (উদ্বিগ্ন, তাড়াহুড়ো গলা):  

নন্তু-দা, ভোটের লিস্টে আমার নাম থাকবে কি? এই এসআইআর-এর জন্য সব কনফিউশন… ডকুমেন্ট জমা দিয়েছি, কিন্তু ভয় লাগছে, ইলেকশন আসছে, নাম না থাকলে কী হবে?  

**নন্তু** (শান্ত, আশ্বস্ত করে, কাউন্সেলর ভাইব):  

বিশ্বনাথ-দা, শান্ত। এসআইআর-এর এই গোলমালে অনেকেই টেনশনে আছে, কিন্তু তোমার নাম থাকবে। অনলাইনে ইলেকশন কমিশনের সাইটে চেক করো, না হলে লোকাল বুথে যাও।  

এই শহরে আমরা সবাই এক, ভোটের অধিকার কেউ হারাবে না। রিল্যাক্স, এক কাপ চা খাও, আর এই গান শোনো… আগর মুঝসে মোহাব্বত হ্যায়, তাহলে টেনশনকে দূর করো।  

*[বাজে: “আগর মুঝসে মোহাব্বত হ্যায়” – আপকি পরছাইয়াঁ ছবির রোমান্টিক হিন্দি ওল্ডি, একটু রসিকতার ছোঁয়া নিয়ে]*  

**নন্তু**:  

বিশ্বনাথ-দা, কাল চেক করো। সব ঠিক হয়ে যাবে। গুড নাইট।  

*[শেষ কলার – ১২ বছরের আরজুন, ভয়ে ভয়ে]*

**আরজুন**:  

নন্তু আঙ্কল… মা-বাবাকে পুলিশ বলেছে ডিজিটাল অ্যারেস্ট… ওদের ফোনে কিছু ফ্রড বলেছে, ব্যাঙ্ক অ্যাকাউন্ট খালি হয়ে যাবে বলে… আমি কী করব?  

**নন্তু** (দৃঢ় কিন্তু ভালোবেসে):  

আরজুন, সাবধানে শোন। এটা স্ক্যাম। পুলিশ কখনো ফোনে ডিজিটাল অ্যারেস্ট করে না।  

তুমি এখন মা-বাবাকে বলো ফোনটা অফ করে দিতে। কোনো লিঙ্ক ক্লিক করবে না, কোনো ইউপিআই পিন দেবে না।  

কাল সকালে কাছের থানায় যাও, কমপ্লেন করো।  

তুমি খুব স্মার্ট বাচ্চা… এই সময় তুমিই ওদের হিরো।  

একটা রোমান্টিক পুরোনো গান শোনো… জানো, লাইফে অনেক সন্ধে অদ্ভুত হয়, কিন্তু সব ঠিক হয়ে যায়।  

*[বাজে: “ইয়ে শাম মাস্তানি” – একটু রসিক হিন্দি ক্লাসিক ভাইব দিয়ে মুড হালকা করতে]*  

**নন্তু** (গানের পর):  

আরজুন, হিরো, এখন ঘুমিয়ে পড়। কাল সব সর্ট হয়ে যাবে।  

*[আরেকজন কলার ঢোকার চেষ্টা করে]*  

**কলার ৫ – অজ্ঞাতনামা রাজনৈতিক উৎসাহী** (উত্তেজিত, র‍্যান্ট করছে):  

নন্তু-দা, এই সরকারটা… সব দুর্নীতি, মেসির ঘটনাটাও রাজনৈতিক ষড়যন্ত্র, আর এই এসআইআর বা এনআরসি-র জন্য পুরো বাংলায়—  

**নন্তু** (মসৃণভাবে কেটে দিয়ে, হাসি মিশিয়ে):  

আরে ভাই, রাতের এই শান্তিতে পলিটিক্স না। এই শোটা লাভ, লাইফ আর কলকাতার রোল-বিরিয়ানি নিয়ে। তোমার জন্য একটা গান যে সব কথাকে ওয়ার্ডসে বাঁধে… কিন্তু পলিটিক্স নয়, প্লিজ!  

*[বাজে: “Words” – বিজিসের গান, শান্ত ইংরেজি ট্র্যাক দিয়ে টেনশন কমাতে]*  

**নন্তু**:  

দেখো, কথা সারিয়ে দিতে পারে বা আঘাত করতে পারে… সাবধানে বেছে নাও। কলার, পরের বার পার্সোনাল গল্প বলো।  

*[শো শেষ করতে, গলা উষ্ণ, বহুভাষিক]*  

কলকাতা, রাত অনেক হয়ে গেছে – আজ তো সল্ট লেকের বিশৃঙ্খলার পরেও। কেউ মোগলাই পরোটা খেয়ে ঘুমোতে যাচ্ছে, কেউ উত্তম-সুচিত্রার “সপ্তপদী” আবার দেখতে বসবে।  

তোমরা জেগে থাকো, কারণ এই শহর রাতেই বেঁচে থাকে। ইনসমনিয়াকরা, আমার সঙ্গে থাকো।  

কাল আবার মিডনাইটে দেখা হবে – আশা করি কম বিশৃঙ্খলা নিয়ে। এখন… শুভ রাত্রি, শুভ রাত্রি, গুড নাইট।  

আকাশ ভরা সূর্য-তারা… আবার শুরু হবে।  

*[আউট্রো: “আকাশ ভরা সূর্য-তারা”র ইন্সট্রুমেন্টাল ফেড, দূরে রাতের ফুচকা ঠেলার ঘণ্টির শব্দ মিশিয়ে]*

Midnight masala with Sandy

---

🌙 “Midnight Masala With Sandy” — Private FM Delhi

Time: 12:05 AM – 2:00 AM

Host: RJ Sandy

Station Tagline: “Dilli ke raat ke saath… hum bhi jaagte hain!”

---

🎙️ Opening Monologue

“Good eveniiiiing Dilli!

Yeh hai aapka dost… aapka padosi… aur thoda sa nautanki… Sandy!

Aur aap sun rahe ho Midnight Masala, jahan raat bhi jawaan hai… aur main bhi!”

“Abhi clock ne bajaya 12… aur iss waqt Dilli teen categories mein divided hoti hai:

1️⃣ Jo so rahe hain…

2️⃣ Jo so nahi paa rahe…

3️⃣ Aur jo so nahi chaaahte… like me… kyunki paisa tabhi milta hai jab main mic par bolta rehna hoon!”

“Chaliye… raat ki shuruaat ek old-school English beauty se karte hain… Elton John ka ‘Sacrifice’.

Stay tuned, don’t go anywhere… warna main aapke sapnon mein aa jaunga!”

🎶 SONG 1: Elton John – Sacrifice

---

☎️ Caller 1 — The Night-Shift Nurse

Sandy: “Aur ab hamare saath line par hain… Sister Neha from Safdarjung Hospital. Neha, kya haal-chaal?

Aap log hamare asli heroes ho!”

Neha (tired voice): “Bas Sandy… 14-hour shift hoyi… teen emergency cases aa gaye.”

Sandy: “Neha, aapko salute! Aaj ke liye aapka dedication… ‘Zindagi ki yahi reet hai’—from Mr. India.”

🎶 SONG 2: Zindagi Ki Yahi Reet Hai – Mr. India

Before the song ends Sandy cuts in smoothly:

“14 ghante duty? Agar main karta toh show mein soota milta! But Neha… you rock.”

---

☎️ Caller 2 — The Insomniac Philosopher

Sandy: “Agla call… oh ho… hamare regular caller ‘Shakespeare Sharma’!

Sharma ji, iss waqt aap kya soch rahe?”

Sharma: “Sandy beta… zindagi ki meaning batado?”

Sandy: “Sir, agar mujhe meaning pata hota… toh main FM RJ nahi… TED Talk speaker hota!

Chaliye, aapke liye ek soulful track bajata hoon.”

🎶 SONG 3: ‘Fix You’ – Coldplay

---

☎️ Caller 3 — The Restless Auto Driver

Sandy: “Line pe hain Mukesh bhaiya, CP se! Bhaiya auto chala rahe ho is waqt?”

Mukesh: “Haan Sandy bhai… ek chakka utha ke laaya hoon Gurgaon se. Ab thoda music chahiye.”

Sandy: “Lo bhai… aapke auto ki headlight se zyada bright gaana:

‘Khaike Paan Banaras Wala’!”

🎶 SONG 4: Khaike Paan Banaras Wala – Don

---

☎️ Caller 4 — The Suspiciously Nervous Man

(A thief)

Sandy: “Hello caller! Naam bataoge?”

Caller (whispering): “Naam mat puchho… bas gaana bajao… ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’…”

Sandy: “Arre bhai… itni raat ko kya kar rahe ho?”

Caller: “Bas… kaam par jaa raha hoon…”

Sandy: “Kaisa kaam?”

Caller: “Mat puchho!”

Sandy: “Theek hai… naam nhi batate… kaam nhi batate… par gaana suno.

Just don’t commit anything illegal before the chorus. Police bhi sun rahi hoti hai kabhi-kabhi!”

🎶 SONG 5: Don’t Stop Me Now – Queen

Sandy fades in laughing:

“Bas bhai… agar kuch ulta-seedha karne ja rahe ho… toh mera naam mat lena!”

---

☎️ Caller 5 — The Final, Sensitive One (possible suicidal mood)

Sandy switches tone: gentle, empathetic.

Sandy: “Hello… this is Sandy. Aap kaun bol rahe ho?”

Caller (sad male voice): “Sandy… I don’t know if I should continue… everything is useless…”

Sandy pauses, soft voice:

Sandy:

“Dost, ruko. Deep breath.

Raat lambi hai… aur mushkil bhi.

Lekin ek RJ ka phone line kabhi band nahi hota.

Tum bolte raho… main yahin hoon

Caller sobs about job loss, loneliness.

Sandy:

“Sun… ek gaana bajata hoon. Tum phone mat rakho.

After the song, we talk again… okay?”

🎶 SONG 6: ‘Chalo Ek Baar Phir Se Ajnabi’ – Talat Mahmood

After the song:

Sandy:

“Dost… duniya me koi raat itni andheri nahi hoti jisme subah naa ho.

Tum mujhe paraya mat samajhna.

Hum sab kabhi-kabhi toot jaate hain.

Par radio is for keeping you company… till the sun rises.”

They continue talking (off-air).

---

🎙️ Closing Monologue

“Dilli… it’s 1:55 AM.

Main hoon Sandy… aur yeh thi Midnight Masala.

Aaj ki raat ne sabko dikhaya:

Koi beedi pee raha, koi auto chala raha, koi hospital me jaan bacha raha…

Aur koi sirf zinda rehne ki koshish kar raha.

Music un sabka saath hai.

Main kal phir aaunga… tab tak…”

🎶 SONG 7: ‘Sweet Child O' Mine’ – Guns N’ Roses

“Good night Dilli… stay kind… stay alive.”

---

---

🌙 EPISODE 2 — “The Robber, The Radio, And The Ridiculous Night”

From the series: Midnight Masala With Sandy

The night after his emotional roller-coaster show, Sandy comes back to the FM station at 11:40 PM, clutching his favourite plastic cup of vending-machine cappuccino (which tastes like wet cardboard but keeps him awake).

He enters Studio 3 and the technician Ravi whispers:

“Bhai… raat ko ek ajeeb banda phone kiya tha… ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ wala. Lagta hai kuch gadbad tha.”

Sandy laughs:

“Arey aise log roz aate hain yaar… Dilli ka late-night clientele. Insomniac philosopher, heartbroken lover, night-shift nurse, aur beech mein koi petty thief. It’s part of the charm!”

🎙️ ON AIR — 12:03 AM

Sandy starts the show:

“Good night, Dilli! Aaj raat ka episode… thoda thanda, thoda garam, thoda masaledaar! Let’s open with ‘Hawa Hawai’ from Mr. India!”

The phones start lighting up like Diwali.

He takes one call, then another… and then…

Line 4 flashes.

The same number from last night.

The “nervous thief.”

Sandy smirks and picks up.

---

☎️ Caller: The Nervous Robber Returns

Sandy: “Hello caller… aapki saanson ki gati dekh kar lagta hai… ya toh aap ne marathon daudi… ya kuch aur.”

Caller (whisper whisper):

“Sandy bhai… main phir bol raha hoon…”

Sandy: “Waah! Delhi ka Robin Hood is back! Kal kya kara? Bank loot liya?”

Caller:

“Nahin bhai nahin! Main abhi mission par hoon… aur ek request hai… please aaj ‘Eye of the Tiger’ bajaa do. Motivation chahiye.”

Sandy can’t stop laughing.

He lowers his voice theatrically:

“Bhai… honestly… agar chor bhi motivation ke liye FM sunte hain… toh hamara TRP khatarnak hai.”

Caller (still nervous):

“Sandy bhai… bas bajaa do… main thoda darr gaya hoon.”

Sandy:

“Haan bajata hoon… but ek baat batao… last time kya kaam karne jaa rahe the?”

Caller:

“Bhai… sach bolun? Main chor nahin hoon…”

Sandy: “Toh?”

Caller:

“Main… learner chor hoon.”

Sandy: “WHAT? Apprentice chor?”

Caller:

“Haan bhai… training chal rahi hai! Aaj pehla assignment hai. Ek kirane ki dukaan se cash drawer uthana… bas… chhota kaam hai… 2-minute ka.”

Sandy chokes on his coffee.

He plays the song anyway — because station guidelines say “Never break character on-air” — and the moment the mic is off, he bends double laughing.

---

🎶 SONG BREAK: Eye of the Tiger – Survivor

---

🕐 1:15 AM — Off-Air Twist

After a commercial break, Sandy walks out to the vending machine to get water.

As he turns the corner of the parking lot…

A man jumps out of the dark.

Black hoodie.

Mask hanging on one ear.

Mobile in hand.

The SAME VOICE says:

“Sandy bhai?”

Sandy freezes.

“TU?!”

The man looks exactly like a nervous mosquito.

Skinny, jumpy, eyes like he hasn’t slept since demonetisation.

Robber:

“Bhai, main hi hoon. Aap se live advice leni thi… radio pe nahi bol sakta tha.”

Sandy:

“Bhai… tu radio pe tu robbery ka consultancy le raha hai… and now you’re here in person?! Security!”

The robber waves frantically.

“Nahin bhai… main chor type ka banda hoon hi nahin! Mujhe actually chor ban’na hi nahi tha!”

Sandy rubs his forehead:

“Then why the hell did you choose THIS career path?”

The man blurts:

“Bhai… main BCom fail ho gaya… call center mein bolne ka talent nahi… girlfriend ne bola ‘Tu kuch dhamakedaar kar’… toh main scripts dekh raha tha… chor character bada stylish lagta hai! But real life… haal kharab!”

Sandy starts laughing so hard he holds his stomach.

“Bhai… film mein Ranveer Singh chor hota hai, tu nahi. Tu toh ‘training wheels’ waala chor lagta hai!”

The robber looks embarrassed.

“Bhai… ek problem solve kar do.

Mera trainer, Vimal Cargo, waiting in that alley. He told me: ‘Jaa, store loot ke aa.’

But main darr raha hoon. Kya karoon?”

Sandy becomes philosophical.

“Dekh bhai… agar tujhe chor banna hota, tu mujhe phone nahi karta. Chor raat ko FM nahi sunte.

Unke paas apna playlist hota hai — ‘Jab se tere naina’ and ‘Jai Ho’.

You’re not a criminal. You’re just unemployed.”

The robber nods miserably.

---

🎭 THE CLIMAX — SANDY THE SAVIOUR

Sandy grabs his arm.

“Chal, tujhe ek kaam deta hoon.”

“FM station mein housekeeping ka vacancy hai. Raat ki shift. Paisa kam, crime zero.”

The robber’s eyes shine.

“Sach? Job mil jayegi?”

Sandy: “Haan. Bas training chor ki chhod de.”

At that moment, the trainer Vimal Cargo arrives — a bulky man with gutka-stained teeth.

“Arrey… isko kya sikhaya re Sandy?!”

Sandy folds his arms.

“Vimal bhai… isko HR department de diya. Ab ye radio station ka employee hai.

Agar aap usko disturb kiya… toh kal subah police wala Sharma ji ko main khud phone karunga.”

Vimal Cargo mutters curses and disappears into the darkness.

The robber looks at Sandy like he’s God.

“Bhai… main aapko life bhar ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ dedicate karunga.”

Sandy pats his shoulder.

“Chal… jaa job join kar. Aur haan… aaj ki raat ka gaana tere naam…”

---

🎙️ BACK ON AIR — 1:40 AM

Sandy (on air):

“Dilli… kabhi-kabhi life weird logon ko aapke raste mein bhej deti hai…

Par agar aap thoda sa waqt de do… toh sab theek ho sakta hai.

Aaj ka gaana… sab ‘lost but not bad’ logon ke liye.”

🎶 SONG: “It’s My Life” – Bon Jovi

---

🌅 END OF EPISODE 2

Sandy signs off at 2:00 AM, walks out of the studio…

…and sees the nervous ex-robber sweeping the office corridor, humming “Jai Jai Shivshankar.”

Sandy smiles.

“Welcome to honest work, brother.”

---

The Magnet of Misery

The Magnet of Misery

In the quiet lane behind the old Hanuman temple in Dehradun lived Baba Samaranand, retired electrical engineer from Bharat Heavy Electricals, self-certified philosopher, and part-time therapist who charged nothing but asked for total surrender to his “methods”. People called him “Baba Magnet-wale” because he had a bowl full of fridge magnets shaped like laughing Buddhas, OM signs, and one suspiciously obscene dancing Shiva that he swore was “pure tantra”.

One monsoon afternoon, a man stormed in wearing a safari suit two sizes too tight, face redder than a Diwali lantern.

“Babaji!” he shouted, “I am Vinod Tandon, branch manager, Punjab National Bank, Sector 17. My life is finished! My BP is 180/110, my wife has stopped cooking paneer, my daughter wants to marry a boy who makes YouTube videos about cryptocurrency, and yesterday the ATM swallowed my own debit card! Tell me, Babaji, is mercury retrograde or have I offended Shani-dev in my previous birth?”

Baba Samaranand was drinking tea from a steel glass that had “Best Employee 1998” printed on it. He looked at Vinod over the rim, slow as a lizard.

“Arre Tandon-sahib, sit. First remove your shoes, they are leaking tension on my floor.”

Vinod sat, sweating.

Baba opened his wooden Godrej cupboard, took out a bright red horseshoe magnet, and placed it in Vinod’s palm.

“Hold this.”

Vinod stared. “That’s it? I came from Chandigarh for a magnet?”

“Shh. Close fist. Feel the pull.”

Vinod closed his fist. “Nothing is pulling.”

“Exactly,” Baba smiled. “That is the whole point. The world is pulling you from all sides, wife, daughter, ATM, cryptocurrency damad. But this magnet is pulling nothing. For ten minutes daily, you sit with it and tell it your problems. It will listen quietly. No advice, no judgement, no forward of good-morning messages. Just listening.”

Vinod looked doubtful. “But Babaji, this is just cognitive behavioural distraction, right?”

Baba’s eyes widened in admiration. “Arre wah! You also read WhatsApp University psychology groups? Good, then you already know it works. Now go, complain to the magnet, not to your liver.”

Vinod left, slightly confused but lighter.

Three weeks later he returned, looking ten kilos thinner and suspiciously cheerful.

“Babaji, miracle! BP is 130/85, wife made paneer twice, daughter’s boyfriend has only 40,000 subscribers so I have postponed my heart attack, and the bank gave me new card with extra cashback. Your magnet is dev-amaan!”

Baba waved his hand. “Magnet is duffer, yaar. You just stopped short-circuiting your own brain.”

Next came Mrs. Shukla, chemistry teacher from St. Joseph’s, famous for making class 10th boys cry with her mole-concept sarcasm.

“Baba, I can’t sleep. Every night I calculate how many children have ruined their future because they confuse valency with validity. I wake up at 3 a.m. shouting ‘Avogadro!’ in my dream.”

Baba listened patiently, then disappeared into his little courtyard and returned with a small tulsi plant in a broken coffee mug.

“This is Tulsi Devi version 2.0. Your new daughter.”

Mrs. Shukla frowned. “I already have one tulsi outside my house.”

“That one is on autopilot. This one is on manual mode. Your job: keep her alive. Not too much water, not too little. Morning sun till 11, then shade. Talk to her in Hindi, she hates English medium.”

Mrs. Shukla laughed despite herself. “You’re giving me a plant instead of sleeping pills?”

“Sleeping pills have short cut. Plant has no short cut. Every day you will wake up thinking ‘Did I kill Tulsi Devi today?’ By the time you finish checking her soil, your brain will be too tired to torture you with mole concept. Nature’s own CBT.”

Mrs. Shukla took the plant like it was made of glass.

Six months later she sent Baba a Rakhi made of tulsi leaves and a card: “Tulsi Devi now has 47 children (cuttings). I sleep like Kumbhakaran. Thank you for upgrading my motherboard.”

Then came the grand finale: young Arjun, software engineer, 27 years old, 27 tabs open in brain.

“Baba, I have decision paralysis. Startup or Google? Arrange marriage or Tinder? Keto or rice? I overthink so much I forgot my own Wi-Fi password.”

Baba looked at him sadly. “Beta, you are trying to take short cut to life. Life has no Ctrl+Z.”

He thought for a long time, then went inside and returned with… nothing.

Arjun panicked. “No magnet? No plant?”

Baba shook his head. “For you, I have a task that even Google cannot optimise.”

He pointed to a rusty iron trunk in the corner. “Every morning at 6 a.m. you will come here, open this trunk, take out one old photograph, look at it for five minutes, try to remember the story behind it, then put it back exactly the way it was. No phone, no music, no short cut.”

Arjun opened the trunk. Inside were hundreds of faded photographs: someone’s wedding, someone’s first bicycle, a group of engineers in bell-bottoms holding a “400 kV line energised” banner.

“Whose photos are these?” Arjun asked.

“Mine, my friends’, strangers’ who left them here over twenty years. Some dead, some forgotten. You will never know the full story. That is the point. You will sit with mystery that has no closure, no LinkedIn profile, no resolution. Your overthinking engine will sputter and die because it has nothing to optimise.”

Arjun came every morning for three months. One day he arrived with a big grin.

“Baba, I have stopped overthinking.”

“Good!”

“I joined my father’s hardware shop in Roorkee. Cash only, no UPI, no decisions, no keto.”

Baba looked shocked. “Arre! That is too much offline, beta!”

Arjun laughed. “No short cut, Baba. You said.”

Baba hugged him. “Accha, at least update the shop’s WhatsApp DP once a year.”

Years passed. Baba Samaranand’s veranda became famous. People came with anxiety, left with magnets, plants, old photographs, sometimes just a safety pin he asked them to count every day (“there are exactly 108 grooves, no more, no less”).

One evening, a foreign lady journalist arrived with a big camera. “Sir, BBC wants to do a story: ‘The Indian Guru Who Heals With Fridge Magnets’.”

Baba offered her tea in the Best Employee 1998 glass.

“Madam, I am not guru. I am only retired electrical engineer. I know one thing: current always takes path of least resistance. Human beings also want least resistance. Anxiety is high-resistance path. I give tiny low-resistance loops, magnet, plant, photograph, so current calms down.”

The journalist smiled. “So placebo?”

Baba grinned, showing paan-stained teeth. “Placebo, placebo-effect, placebo-wallah, whatever. As long as the fuse doesn’t blow, who cares about the brand name?”

She asked for a magnet to take home.

Baba gave her the obscene dancing Shiva one.

“Careful, madam. This one has extra tantric pull.”

She laughed all the way back to London.

And in the quiet lane behind the Hanuman temple, Baba Samaranand kept his bowl of magnets ready.

Because some problems need surgery, some need medicines, and some just need a small, ridiculous task so the mind stops short-circuiting itself.

After all, as he liked to say, “In the grand 440 kV transmission line of life, sometimes all you need is a little grounding.”

A leaaf from a diary

I came across this short story written in blank verse!

The doorbell hums, a single lazy bee.  

I open—there stands a man of thirty-five  

or so, tall, smiling like an old refrain  

I almost know. His face is half a ghost  

of someone’s son; the eyes, perhaps, the chin—  

they tug at memory, then slip the hook.  

“Uncle,” he says, and folds his hands in greeting,  

the word a warm coin pressed into my palm.  

I stare, ashamed. These sixty years of postings—  

Ambala, Tezpur, Wellington, Surat—  

have strewn my mind with faces like confetti  

after parades long over. North, South, East,  

West: I have shaken hands in every dust  

and every rain this country owns. Somewhere  

among those thousands, surely, is his father.  

I smile the helpless smile of the forgetful,  

usher in this polite familiar stranger.  

“Sit, sit,” I say, and wave him to the sofa  

whose springs still sigh for friends who never age.  

The maid is summoned; tea will come anon.  

He sets a box upon the table—mithai,  

bright as festival, wrapped in silver hope.  

“My mother sent,” he laughs, “she still believes  

you have the sweet tooth of a twenty-five  

year captain who could finish half a kilo  

and ask for more.”  

I shake my head, rueful. “Those days are gone, beta.  

Diabetes now polices every spoon.  

Your mother’s love is lethal in the best way—  

it tries to kill me with affection.”  

He laughs, and for an instant I almost catch  

the name that dances just behind his teeth.  

Almost. The moment slips, like railway platforms  

sliding past the window of an express  

I boarded long ago and can’t get off.  

We sip the tea. He tells me of his job,  

his wife, a child who calls the fan “helicopter.”  

I nod, I smile, I say the proper things,  

while in my skull a thousand ghostly uncles  

lean forward, straining to remember him  

for me. They fail.  

At last he rises. “I must go, Uncle-ji.  

Next time I’ll bring namkeen.”  

I touch his shoulder—warm, substantial, real—  

and feel the small sharp sorrow of the old:  

to be a crowded album no one opens  

quite the right way anymore.  

He leaves. The box of sweets remains, unopened,  

a polite assassin on the table.  

I sit alone, tasting the bitter tea  

of being loved by people I’ve forgotten  

and forgetting those who still remember me.

Varanasi diary

The Queue That Whispers Everything Human

I was leaning against the warm stone wall near the Vishwanath Temple corridor, watching the queue snake like a living thing – slow, patient, unstoppable. It was late afternoon, the kind of heat that makes your shirt stick to your back, but nobody in the line seemed to mind. They had surrendered to the wait hours ago.

An old woman in a faded green sari was fanning herself with the edge of her pallu. I fell into step beside her.

“First time, beta?” she asked without looking at me.

“No, Aunty. I just… never stand in it. I usually touch the outer wall and run.”

She laughed, a dry crackle. “Arti-style. “Same disease. My knees won’t forgive me if I stand four hours. But this time my grandson wrote from America – ‘Dadi, one darshan for my Green Card interview.’ So here I am, trading knees for visa.”

A young man ahead of us turned. Early twenties, thin beard, nervous eyes, carrying a steel lota like it was made of glass.

“Green Card is easy, Auntyji,” he said. “Try asking Baba for a boy who earns thirty lakhs but still listens to his mother.”

The old woman cackled. “Thirty lakhs and listens to mother? You’ll need the special VIP queue for that miracle, son.”

The boy blushed. “Actually… I’m here for something else.” He lowered his voice. “My parents don’t know I’m… you know… I like boys. They keep sending biodatas of girls. I thought if I ask Baba to change me normal…”

The words hung in the hot air like incense smoke.

The old woman didn’t flinch. She just looked at him for a long second, then reached out and patted his arm, gently, like he was made of porcelain.

“Beta,” she said softly, “Baba has bigger things to fix than who you love. You ask him for courage instead. The rest will follow.”

The boy’s eyes filled. He couldn’t speak, just nodded, clutching his lota tighter.

A foreign couple – tall, sunburnt, backpacks the size of small elephants – squeezed past us toward Dashashwamedh Ghat for the evening Aarti. The girl had henna on her hands that was already flaking. Her boyfriend was filming everything on a GoPro like the city might vanish if he stopped recording.

I caught up with them near the steps.

“First Aarti?” I asked.

The girl – Freya from Sweden – grinned. “Third night in a row. We can’t stop coming. It’s like… church, but with fire and drums and zero guilt.”

Her boyfriend, Lukas, lowered the camera. “Back home, religion is quiet. Here it’s loud and sweaty and everyone is shouting at God like He’s hard of hearing. I love it.”

We found a spot on the upper steps. Below us, the river was black and gold, reflecting a thousand small oil lamps that people were already floating. The priests were warming up – testing microphones, adjusting the giant lamps like rock stars tuning guitars.

A sadhu with ash-smeared chest sat cross-legged near us, smoking a chillum. Freya, fearless, offered him a biscuit from her packet. He took it solemnly, broke it in half, gave her one piece back.

“Share with Ganga,” he rasped in English. “Everything shared becomes holy.”

Lukas laughed. “Do Indians really believe the river is their mother?”

The sadhu exhaled a blue cloud. “Do Swedes really believe IKEA is furniture?”

Freya burst out laughing so hard she almost fell into the lap of a Marwari family behind us.

Down on the platform, the Aarti began. Seven young priests in saffron robes, synchronized like dancers, swinging fire in perfect circles. The bells went mad. Conches moaned. The crowd – thousands strong – roared back with claps and cries of “Har Har Mahadev!”

I looked around. The boy from the queue was there, lota abandoned somewhere, eyes shining, clapping with everyone else. The old woman stood near the front, hands folded, lips moving silently – maybe for the grandson’s Green Card, maybe for the boy’s courage, maybe for her knees.

Freya had tears running down her cheeks, mascara making little rivers. Lukas had stopped filming. Even the sadhu was swaying, chillum forgotten.

And for those forty minutes, the city stopped pretending.

No one was asking for jobs or marriages or cures or to be “fixed.”

They were just standing in firelight, singing to a God who – if the old woman was right – already knew everything they were too afraid to say out loud.

When the last lamp was offered to the river and the priests bowed, the crowd didn’t rush away like they usually do in temples. They lingered. Someone started singing Bhajan. Others joined. Even Freya hummed along, murdering the tune gloriously.

I walked back through the lanes alone. A kachori seller on the corner recognized me from previous trips.

“Extra mirch wala?” he asked, already frying.

“Double,” I said.

He grinned. “Baba blessed you tonight?”

I thought of the boy finding courage, the old woman trading knees for love, the foreigners crying into the Ganga, the sadhu sharing his biscuit.

I took the paper plate, steam rising like incense.

“Yeah,” I said. “He always does. Just never the way we expect.”

“John lies under the African night sky, his transparent shield-tent turning the wild into a window to the stars.”

---

John’s Safari at the End of the Century

When John first announced he was going on safari, Juliet had laughed in disbelief.

“You? Out there? You can barely survive a weekend without Wi-Fi!”

But John, flushed with the excitement of the new Wild Reality Safari Program, refused to back down.

“This isn’t like the old days, Jules. I’ll have the best gear. A tent that turns invisible, cooling systems that make the desert air feel like spring, food tablets that taste like anything I want. It’s safe — safer than staying in the city.”

Juliet shook her head. “Safe doesn’t mean wise. You’ll see.”

---

Arrival in the Wild

On the first evening, John unpacked his sling bag, no bigger than a school satchel, and pressed a button. In seconds, an invisible shield-tent unfurled around him. From inside, it looked like a crystal dome — he could lie in bed and gaze at the brilliant constellations. When the sun rose, the shield automatically darkened, shading him while still letting him watch the savannah wake.

The heat of the day was tamed by his cooling device, which worked by evaporating moisture and stealing latent heat from the air. A pocket of perfect coolness surrounded his tent, even as outside temperatures soared.

For food, he popped compressed nutrition tablets that could taste like anything — pizza, mangoes, even Juliet’s lasagna. Still, he nibbled on fresh African vegetables when he craved fullness.

---

Meeting Amina

On the second day, while testing his jump-shoes across a stream, John landed almost in front of a girl. She was dressed in traditional attire, carrying a bow and a quiver of arrows.

“I am Amina,” she said warily. “And you? A hunter?”

John laughed, shaking his head. “Not even close. More like… a tourist with toys.”

Amina tried to string her bow but fumbled. “My grandmother could use this to bring down a gazelle. Me? I can barely keep the arrow straight.” She eyed his tiny sling bag suspiciously. “And you say you can survive with that?”

Moments later, when a curious giraffe poked its head nearby, John tapped his animal-communication device. To Amina’s amazement, the device emitted low rumbles that matched the giraffe’s own sounds. The animal blinked, swayed its head, and calmly walked away.

“Magic?” she whispered.

“Science,” John said, grinning.

---

The Night of the Hyenas

By the fourth night, John and Amina had settled into a rhythm — she showed him signs of the land, and he showed her what his gadgets could do. But when a pack of hyenas approached, reality bit hard.

At first, the shield-tent held them back, shimmering with invisible resistance. Then, with a sharp crack, the cooling device failed — the shield dimmed, no longer at full power. The hyenas pressed closer, their laughter-like howls echoing in the night.

John grabbed his scent-spray device, which could automatically choose the chemical that repelled any species. But the cartridge sputtered — clogged. The hyenas weren’t retreating.

Amina lifted her bow with trembling hands. “John… this is no game.”

Thinking fast, John pulled up the helmet’s sensor interface. It suggested an option he hadn’t tried yet: the lion-roar playback stored in the animal-communication device.

“Cover your ears,” he told Amina, and pressed the trigger.

A deafening roar thundered across the plain. The hyenas froze, then bolted into the tall grass, whining in terror.

For a long moment, silence. Then Amina let out a shaky laugh. “Your toys… they are stronger than my arrows.”

John exhaled, trembling. “They’re not toys. Not anymore.”

---

The Leap of Trust

The next day, while crossing another wide stream, John nearly slipped mid-jump. The helmet sensors instantly calculated the angle and boosted the jump-shoes at the last second, flinging him safely to the far bank. Amina clapped in awe, but John realized something deeper: without trusting the tech, and himself, he would have fallen.

---

Departure

When the safari program ended, John packed the tent, cooling device, sprays, shoes, and tablets back into his sling bag. The satellite tracker pinged green: mission complete.

Amina tied a leather string around his wrist. “This,” she said, “so you remember — the wild is not conquered by arrows, or by machines. It is shared, when you learn to listen.”

As John looked at the horizon one last time, he realized Juliet had been wrong: this wasn’t recklessness. It was discovery — of the wild, of friendship, and of himself.

My Day With Dominique Lapierre — The Friend Who Forgot My Name But Not My City

---

My Day With Dominique Lapierre — The Friend Who Forgot My Name But Not My City

It is not every day that life places you across the table from a man whose books have shaped the way an entire nation remembers its own tragedies. But on 9th September 2001, I had the rare privilege of spending a full day with Dominique Lapierre in Bhopal—an experience that still glows in memory like a warm lamp.

Dominique, known across India for Freedom at Midnight, Calcutta, The City of Joy and It Was Five Past Midnight in Bhopal, carried an unmistakable affection for our country. His writing had the honesty of a man who observed deeply and cared even more deeply.

He had come to Bhopal that week to release his book on the Union Carbide tragedy. Ironically, the book could not be released within the city because a section of local journalists insisted on cornering him over one issue—why the book did not mention anything about the then Chief Minister, Arjun Singh, during the night of the gas leak in 1984. Rumours had floated for years that he had left Bhopal on the crucial night between 2nd and 3rd December.

The tension grew, and the programme was abandoned.

As Executive Director of BHEL, Bhopal, I felt an obligation to let his research and voice be heard. So on that very day, 9th December 2001, I invited him to our Guest House to deliver the lecture he had prepared for the city.

The publisher from Manjul Publications whispered to me, “Sir, what he will speak now is the original lecture—the one no one got to hear.”

And so, in a quiet hall tucked inside the greenery of our campus, Dominique delivered his meticulously researched account. He had spoken to victims, doctors, factory technicians, and even senior officials who had first entered the plant after the leak. His analysis of how a pesticide experiment went horribly wrong was supported with facts, drawings, diagrams, and timelines he had collected over two years of work.

It was not a lecture—it was a moral document.

After the applause subsided, we moved to lunch at the Guest House. My wife had arranged a complete Western meal for him—soup, au gratin, grilled chicken, boiled vegetables, and a proper dessert.

Dominique settled into his chair with a sigh of relief.

“Ah,” he said, “after a long time I am eating a civilised lunch!”

I laughed. “But the newspapers say you love spicy Indian food!”

He leaned forward, eyes twinkling like a mischievous schoolboy.

“My friend from Calcutta,”—for he had started calling me that since morning—“I do love India, but tell me, why do you people insist on murdering perfectly innocent vegetables?”

I feigned indignation.

“Murder? Dominique, we give vegetables a second life! They enjoy their last moments in turmeric, cumin and mustard oil.”

He chuckled, pointing his fork at me.

“This boiled carrot tastes like carrot. In your system it would taste like… everything except carrot!”

To that, my wife calmly replied, “That is why Indians are rarely deficient in imagination.”

The table erupted in laughter.

A Brief Conversation About the Gas Leak

During lunch, I gently asked him, “Dominique, after hearing so many conflicting stories, what is the one thing that shocked you the most about that night?”

He paused, spoon halfway to his lips.

“That so many people died because the alarms were silenced,” he said quietly. “And because warnings were ignored for years. Technology failed, but human arrogance failed first.”

He had interviewed factory workers who told him of malfunctioning gauges, leaking valves, safety shortcuts, and the eerie silence that followed the first burst of gas.

“And the management?” I asked.

He shrugged, a heavy sadness in his eyes.

“Some saw it as an experiment gone wrong. They forgot that the experiment was happening over a city of a million sleeping souls.”

His voice carried the weight of a man who had spent months walking through the lanes of Old Bhopal, listening to coughing victims and widows who still searched for answers.

His Heart Was Always in India

It is common knowledge that Dominique and his wife adopted a village in Bengal, and the royalties from The City of Joy funded schools, clinics, and basic infrastructure there. That sense of giving—effortless, unadvertised—was what made India love him.

A Surprise Reunion at the Airport

Years later, in January 2003, I was travelling from Bhopal to Kolkata via Mumbai. At the airport, I spotted a familiar face surrounded by admirers. I smiled, thinking he would never recognise me.

Suddenly, he turned, his eyes lit up, and he came hurrying towards me.

“My friend from Kolkata!” he shouted.

Of course, he had forgotten my name—but not the warmth of that day.

And I felt strangely elated. Because sometimes relationships don’t need exact names; they only need the memory of shared kindness.

---

Note:Dominique Lapierre, a passionate storyteller and a true friend of India, lives on through the compassion and humanity woven into his books. Though he is no more, his words continue to illuminate the struggles and strengths of ordinary people with extraordinary grace.

Golf Story

---

A Reluctant Golfer’s Afternoon — 

A crisp winter afternoon at the course—the kind where the sun behaves like it’s working on contract—and there we were: Sikka, Jaggi, Put Kedar, and I, the permanent reluctant golfer, armed with hope, doubt, and a swing that even I don't trust.

---

Sikka (adjusting his cap and flashing his signature smile at passing lady golfers):

“SN, golf is actually the simplest game on earth. The ball is not running away. Stationary. Waiting for your blessings.”

Me:

“Simplest? With trees that appear out of nowhere? This course is like a haunted forest designed by a committee.”

Jaggi (grinning in his wicked but always warm style):

“Arrey Roybabu, these trees love you. They stand exactly where your ball wants to go.”

Then, with a soft sigh,

“Golf, jokes, and friends—that’s my life now. Rest all gone with time.”

We all fell silent just for a heartbeat, the kind that comes when humour brushes against truth.

---

I stepped up to my ball. Perfect stance—knees bent, eyes down, grip textbook-correct—looking like a golfer only in the brochure.

Me:

“Everything set… only the outcome uncertain.”

I swung. The ball shot off like it understood physics for the first three seconds, then—TOK!—straight onto the only tree in the entire fairway.

Put Kedar (shaking his head like a disappointed philosopher):

“Uncle… golf is like life. You plan the route, but destiny negotiates with the nearest tree.”

---

Next tee. More lady golfers walked by. As expected, Sikka’s spine straightened, swing became silk, voice deepened.

Sikka (after a perfect drive):

“SN, did you see that? Pure muscle memory.”

Jaggi:

“And pure motivation, Roybabu—please note the timing with the ladies passing.”

Kedar nearly swallowed his laughter.

---

Then we reached the sand bunker, that desert of despair.

Me:

“My ball visits this bunker more frequently than I visit my doctor.”

Put Kedar:

“Uncle, consider it an unplanned outage. Even the best power stations face it.”

Jaggi:

“Only difference is—power stations recover faster than Roybabu’s swing.”

---

At the green, the grass began its mischief—tilting and whispering directions only it understood.

Me:

“I hit straight, grass guides left. I hit left, it shifts right. This lawn is doing politics.”

Put Kedar:

“Uncle, pendulum stroke. Calm. Smooth. Like a temple bell on a quiet evening.”

Jaggi:

“Or like Roybabu when he’s planning how to explain to Madhuri bhabhi why he’s late again.”

I lined up the putt. Back-and-forth, gentle and precise.

The ball rolled… rolled… slowed… and stopped one inch before the hole.

Me:

“And this, gentlemen, is why I remain a reluctant golfer.”

Sikka:

“But SN, without you, our foursome loses half its charm.”

Jaggi:

“True, Roybabu. Your struggles give me hope.”

Put Kedar:

“And content. Every group needs one unpredictable factor. That is you, Uncle.”

We burst out laughing and moved toward the next tee—four men negotiating trees, grass, bunkers, memory, muscle memory, and each other.

Golf looks simple.

But for a reluctant golfer like me, it remains the most dignified comedy show in the world.

---

When technology forgets compassion , even the honest can turn rogue

---

The Ghost Accounts – When AI Replaced the Human Touch

When Sunil Verma lost his job at the bank, it wasn’t because he had done something wrong.
In fact, he had done everything right — for 27 years.

He was the kind of banker customers trusted blindly. He filled their forms, reminded them about KYC deadlines, fetched photocopies, and sometimes even attended their family functions. To hundreds of senior citizens, he wasn’t just Mr. Verma from the bank — he was “Beta Sunil.”

But then came AI automation.

The bank proudly declared itself “future-ready.” Machines would now handle customer interactions, assess loan eligibility, detect fraud, and even predict customer churn — all without human intervention.

Sunil’s name appeared in the list of employees to be retrenched.
He was handed a generous severance package, a polite handshake, and a line he would never forget:

“AI will take care of our customers now.”

---

A Quiet Grudge

For a while, Sunil tried to accept the change. But the silence of his small flat and the sight of younger bankers talking to screens instead of people ate away at him.

One evening, going through his old diaries, he found something unusual — pages filled with names of customers who had no nominees. He remembered many of them: widows, retired professors, old couples whose children lived abroad and rarely called.

He also knew that several of them had passed away.
Their money, sitting untouched, had become part of the bank’s ever-growing pool of unclaimed deposits.

He stared at those names for a long time and whispered to himself,

“AI took my job… let’s see if it can notice ghosts.”

---

The Hackers’ Pact

Through his neighbour’s son, Raghav — a tech-savvy youngster known for his ‘creative coding’ — Sunil got introduced to Aryan, a wiry 22-year-old hacker with dark circles and fast fingers.

They met at a café near Connaught Place.

Raghav laughed when Sunil explained his plan.

“Uncle, you’re seriously asking us to hack a bank?”

Sunil replied evenly, “Not hack. Just… reclaim money that nobody owns. The system doesn’t care, why should we?”

Aryan raised an eyebrow.

“Unclaimed accounts? That’s clever. But dangerous.”

Sunil smiled. “I’ve worked in that bank for decades. I know where the data sleeps.”

And that’s how the operation began — quietly, meticulously.

---

The Ghost Accounts

Using Sunil’s insider knowledge and the hackers’ technical skill, they created a sophisticated network of small transfers — a few hundred rupees at a time from dozens of dormant accounts. The money flowed into digital wallets and then into shell investment accounts.

Sunil rationalized every move.

“These people are gone. Their children don’t care. The bank will never even notice.”

For six months, the trio worked undetected. AI bots processed millions of transactions daily — theirs blended right in.

---

The Unexpected Living Ghost

Then one morning, Aryan burst into Sunil’s flat, alarmed.

“Uncle, we’ve got a problem. One of your ghost accounts — Ramesh Khatri — is active again.”

Sunil frowned. “That’s impossible. He died three years ago.”

Raghav checked the system logs.

“Someone’s making withdrawals, using valid two-factor authentication. It’s legit activity.”

A chill ran through Sunil. “Maybe his nephew…”

Aryan looked up sharply. “Yes. His nephew’s name is Rohan Khatri. And guess what — he works in your old bank. In the cybersecurity division.”

Sunil froze. For the first time, the thrill of revenge turned to fear.

---

The Fall

Two weeks later, Sunil’s doorbell rang at dawn.
Policemen entered, followed by a young man with sharp, observant eyes — Rohan Khatri.

“Mr. Verma,” Rohan said quietly, “you were my uncle’s banker. He trusted you.”

Sunil’s voice trembled. “I didn’t touch his money knowingly…”

Rohan interrupted gently.

“You made one mistake, sir. You trained the AI system years ago — its anomaly detection algorithm learned from your own working patterns. When those same keystroke rhythms appeared again, from outside the bank network, it flagged them.”

Sunil stared blankly. “You mean… it recognized me?”

Rohan nodded. “The system you helped design remembered you better than the people you served.”

As the officers led him away, Sunil muttered under his breath,

“I built relationships humans forgot — and machines remembered.”

---

Epilogue

Months later, a short news item appeared:

“Ex-bank employee held for siphoning funds from dormant accounts. AI-driven anomaly detection and ethical reporting by cybersecurity staff led to his arrest.”

In his prison cell, Sunil sometimes read that headline on an old newspaper clipping.
He smiled faintly and whispered,

“At least the AI finally remembered my name.”

---

Note:

This story explores how automation, while improving efficiency, can quietly erode the emotional bond between people and institutions. When technology replaces empathy, even honest men can lose their moral compass. Yet, as Sunil discovered too late, machines may lack emotion — but they never forget.

Echoes in the Stones:The Story of the Bamiyan Budha

The dust of Rajgir swirled around us, carrying with it the scent of ancient earth and blooming jasmine. I sat across from the venerable monk, his eyes, though clouded by age, held a sharp, distant gaze that hinted at centuries of wisdom. He was a man of Afghan origin, a descendant of the Rahmat line, though his ancestors, embracing the teachings of the Buddha, had taken a new name – Dharmapala, Protector of the Dharma.

Our conversation drifted, as it often did, to the grand epochs of Buddhist history, and soon, he began to speak of Bamiyan. Not of its tragic end, but of its glorious dawn. His voice, a low rumble, seemed to transport me back to the 5th century CE, to a time when Afghanistan, or what was then known as parts of ancient Gandhara and Bactria, was a crossroads of cultures and creeds.

"Imagine, if you will," Dharmapala began, his gaze fixed on a distant, unseen horizon, "the Bamiyan valley in those days. A rugged, majestic landscape, nestled within the Hindu Kush mountains. The air was thin, crisp, and the wind carried tales of nomadic tribes, of empires rising and falling, and always, the whisper of conflict between the various clans and petty kingdoms vying for control."

He described a time of paradox – a land often tumultuous, yet one that embraced the serene message of the Buddha with profound devotion. It was in this crucible that the vision for the colossal Buddhas of Bamiyan was born. "The people," he continued, "desired a symbol of peace and enlightenment so grand, so enduring, that it would stand as a beacon against the ever-present tides of strife."

Indian artisans and sculptors, masters of their craft, were summoned to this distant land. Dharmapala painted a vivid picture of their arduous journey, traversing mountain passes and vast plains, carrying with them not just tools, but the very essence of Indian architectural and artistic genius.

"Their struggle was immense," he recounted, a hint of empathy in his voice. "The climate, so different from the fertile plains of Hindustan. The biting cold, the fierce winds. And the food…" He paused, a faint smile touching his lips. "Ah, the food! No lush fields of rice, no abundance of fresh vegetables they were accustomed to. Here, it was dates, dried fruits, tough mountain grains, and the rich, pungent milk of goats."

I could almost taste the unfamiliar meals, see the Indian artisans huddling around small fires, trying to find comfort in the stark, magnificent landscape.

​"The carving itself," Dharmapala said, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper, "was a monumental feat of human endurance and devotion. Imagine chiseling away at the hard rock face of the cliff, day after day, year after year. For the higher reaches, they built elaborate scaffolding, precarious structures of wood and rope, clinging to the mountain like spiders on a web. Others, bolder still, worked from jhulas – swings suspended from above, swaying gently in the wind as they shaped the divine form."

​The local people, accustomed to the harsh terrain, played a crucial role. They were the helpers, the carriers, the strong backs that hauled materials and provided invaluable knowledge of the mountains. "It was a collaboration," Dharmapala emphasized, "between the vision of the patrons, the skill of the Indian masters, and the strength of the local populace." The chief architects, Indian experts in sthapati and shilpashastra, meticulously designed every curve, every fold of the Buddha's robes, ensuring that the colossal figures radiated serenity and power.

​As he spoke, I felt a deep sense of awe. His description was so vivid, so imbued with the spirit of that age, that I could practically see the dust motes dancing in the sunlight reflecting off the freshly carved stone, hear the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of chisels, and feel the sheer scale of the undertaking.

​Then, his voice faltered. The light in his eyes dimmed, and a profound sorrow settled upon his features. "And then," he said, his voice barely audible, "it was gone. Destroyed. By those who saw not art, not devotion, but merely idols." He spoke of the Taliban's act of destruction, not with anger, but with the deep, aching grief of one who mourned a lost piece of his soul, a heritage shattered. His heart, I could tell, was truly broken.

​The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the echoes of ancient chisels and the ghosts of magnificent statues. Dharmapala had not just told a story; he had opened a window into a forgotten world, reminding me of humanity's boundless capacity for creation, and its heartbreaking potential for destruction.

The Man Who Heard Too Much

A few years ago, I embarked on a short getaway to Ooty, the queen of hill stations in Tamil Nadu. We had rented an SUV from Coimbatore for a two-day trip, eager to escape the sweltering plains and immerse ourselves in the cool, misty highlands. As we wound our way up the ghat roads, the landscape transformed dramatically. Lush tea gardens stretched out like emerald carpets on the rolling hills, their neatly manicured rows dotted with women in colorful saris plucking leaves under the soft morning sun. Tall pine trees stood sentinel along the roadside, their needles whispering in the breeze, while distant meadows bloomed with wildflowers in shades of purple and yellow. The Nilgiri hill range loomed majestically ahead, shrouded in a light fog that promised adventure and serenity.

Our driver, Shrinu, was a character straight out of a comedy sketch—jovial, quick-witted, and always ready with a grin that crinkled his eyes. He navigated the hairpin bends with effortless skill, honking cheerfully at passing trucks while regaling us with local tales. About halfway up, as we paused at a viewpoint overlooking a valley of undulating green, I struck up a conversation to pass the time. "Shrinu, tell me about your family," I said, settling back in my seat.

He glanced at me in the rearview mirror, his mustache twitching with amusement. "Ah, sir, simple life for me. One wife, two children—a boy and a girl. They're my world."

I couldn't help but chuckle at the way he emphasized "one wife," as if it were a rare commodity. "Just one? Sounds like you're missing out on the fun!"

Shrinu let out a hearty laugh, winking slyly. "Oh, sir, you laugh now, but in Tamil Nadu, it's not so unusual for the big shots! Look at Karunanidhi—how many wives did he have? And his son Stalin, following in the footsteps. Then there's the film star Kamal Haasan, with his glamorous life and multiple marriages. Once they get rich or famous, they spot a smarter, more educated woman, and boom—the journey begins! Me? I'm happy with my one. Keeps the drama low and the idlis hot."

We both burst into laughter, the SUV echoing with our banter as we continued climbing. Shrinu shared more anecdotes about celebrity scandals, his naughty twinkle making the drive fly by. By the time we crested the hills and entered Ooty proper, the air had turned crisp and invigorating, carrying the scent of eucalyptus and fresh earth. The town unfolded before us: colonial-era bungalows nestled among pine groves, expansive meadows where horses grazed lazily, and tea estates that seemed to cascade down the slopes like green waterfalls. We checked into our cozy cottage, spent the afternoon wandering the botanical gardens, and as evening fell, the hills glowed in hues of orange and pink under the setting sun.

That night, we decided on a quiet dinner at a local restaurant overlooking the lake—a quaint spot with wooden beams and a menu heavy on steaming soups and masala dosas to ward off the chill. As I navigated the dimly lit room to our table, I accidentally bumped into an elderly man leaning on a cane. "Sorry about that," I muttered, then froze. The face looking up at me was familiar, though weathered by time.

"Ram? Is that you?" he said, his voice steady despite his stooped posture.

It hit me—Reddy, from my old days at the Vizag Steel Plant. We hadn't crossed paths in over 30 years. He looked aged, his back bent like a question mark, silver hair thinning, but his eyes were sharp as ever, piercing through the years. I, on the other hand, prided myself on staying upright—my daily walks and yoga sessions had kept the stoop at bay, though gray had crept into my temples too. "Reddy! What a surprise. You recognized me instantly."

He smiled faintly, gripping his stick. "Some faces stick, even after decades. Join me for a bit?"

We sat at his table, catching up on lost time. He was retired now, living quietly in Ooty. As we talked, something peculiar happened. I'd open my mouth to ask about his health, and before the words formed, he'd reply: "The arthritis is manageable with the cool weather here." Or I'd think of inquiring about old colleagues, and he'd preempt: "Most are scattered now—some in Chennai, others abroad." It wasn't constant, just sporadic, like flashes of insight.

I stared at him, puzzled. "Reddy, how are you doing that? It's like you're—"

"Reading your mind?" He finished my sentence with a sad smile. "Yes, I can. But not always. Only sometimes, and mostly with people I know well. I don't know why or how it works, but it does."

I was flabbergasted, my spoon hovering midway to my mouth. The restaurant's hum faded into the background—the clink of plates, the murmur of diners—as I processed this. "That's... incredible. Or terrifying?"

"More the latter," he admitted, his voice dropping. "It's caused nothing but trouble. My wife left me years ago; the kids barely call. You see, when I read their thoughts—especially the unkind ones, the frustrations they hid—I couldn't help but blurt it out. I'd get blunt, confrontational. 'Why are you thinking that about me?' I'd say. It created rifts that never healed. Same with friends—they'd drift away, calling me eerie or untrustworthy."

A wave of sympathy washed over me. How isolating that must be. I started pondering ways to help—maybe connect him with a specialist, or introduce him to support groups.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You can't help me, Ram. I can see it in your mind right now—you're wondering how to fix this."

I nodded, speechless. He leaned back, gazing out at the darkened lake reflecting the hill silhouettes. "I've rented a small flat here in Ooty. The isolation suits me—no new friends, limited contact with relatives. Keeps the noise down."

"But how did this start?" I finally asked, my curiosity overriding the awkwardness.

Reddy sighed, his eyes distant. "It was back at the plant. An accident in the blast furnace—I got too close during a malfunction and inhaled that poisonous gas. Knocked me unconscious for days. They airlifted me to Hyderabad for emergency treatment. When I woke up, everything was... different. Subtle at first—a hunch here, a premonition there. Then it sharpened into actual thoughts from people around me. Doctors called it a neurological quirk from the toxin exposure, but they couldn't explain it. Neither can I."

We parted ways that night with a promise to stay in touch, though I sensed he preferred his solitude amid Ooty's tranquil beauty—the whispering pines, the fragrant tea gardens, the misty meadows that offered a refuge from the world's unspoken chaos. As I walked back through the fog-shrouded streets, the hill range standing silent guard, I couldn't shake the eerie feeling. What a gift, what a curse—to glimpse the hidden minds of those you love, only to lose them in the process. Ooty's serenity had unveiled a story stranger than any mountain mist.

We often envy those who possess extraordinary powers — to see, to know, to hear more than the rest of us. But sometimes, what looks like a gift is, in truth, a quiet tragedy. Reddy’s story was a reminder that perhaps life is kinder when thoughts remain private, and the heart knows only what the lips choose to speak.

The Valley's Shadow

---

The Valley’s Shadow

Mussoorie in December—Mossauri, as the old-timers call it—is a town of two moods. By day, the Mall Road is alive with colour and chatter: tourists bundled in bright woollens, children clutching balloons, women bargaining for shawls, the air heavy with the smell of roasted corn, barbecued meat, and spicy golgappas that make one’s eyes water. By night, however, the mist swallows the lamps one by one, and the valley turns into a dark, endless gulf, watching silently from below.

It was here, in this curious town of shifting faces, that I met Mr. Bisht. He wasn’t a local—just another tourist like me. We happened to be staying in the same hotel, and one December evening, when the cold pressed harder than usual, we both found ourselves in the lounge.

The drawing room was warm, lined with shelves of books, the fireplace alive with logs hissing and snapping. I sat with a cup of tea in my hand, grateful for the fire’s glow. Bisht, a tall, thin man with snow-white hair and restless eyes, settled opposite me.

At first, our talk was small and harmless—the cruelty of the mountain cold, how his wife’s arthritis had kept her confined to their room, the cheerfulness of the tourists who seemed to thrive on the chill. But soon, his voice grew quiet, and he stared into the flames.

“There is something about this place,” he murmured, “that refuses to rest.”

---

He told me what had happened to him only the previous evening.

The hotel car had dropped him at the Mall Road, where the crowd moved like a festival procession. Families clustered around golgappa stalls, laughing through the sting of spice. Vendors rubbed lime across hot corn cobs, their smoke curling into the frosty air. At a corner, skewers of kebabs sizzled, the firelight flickering on hungry faces.

“I didn’t go for those things,” Bisht said with a faint smile. “Too old, too delicate a stomach. I went searching for one thing only—kachoris.”

He found the tea stall soon enough, tucked beside a wool shop, its bubbling oil perfuming the entire stretch of road. The vendor greeted him warmly, served him his paper packet, and exchanged a few words about the biting cold and the chance of snow. With his treasure in hand, Bisht walked to one of the canopies overlooking the valley.

---

Evening had descended quickly. The valley was already black, a sea of mist and shadow. He sat on the wooden bench, opened his kachoris, and let the warmth battle the cold.

That was when he saw them.

A young man, pacing nervously, checking his watch again and again. Moments later, a second figure appeared—older, broader, with a face set in stone.

“They spoke, argued, perhaps even shouted,” Bisht said softly. “But the mist muffled everything. And then… they struggled. A shove, a clutch, and in an instant both men tumbled into the valley. Gone. No cry, no echo—just silence.”

Before the shock could settle, a girl ran into view. Her shawl slipped from her shoulders as she grabbed a letter from the bench, read it, and without pause leapt into the same abyss.

Bisht’s hands shook as he spoke. “All in a matter of minutes. And I—mute, frozen—watched it happen.”

---

He had staggered back, found a policeman, and poured out the tale. The man only patted his shoulder and told him to return to the hotel. At another tea stall, Bisht tried again. This time, the locals only nodded gravely.

“You have seen it too,” they told him. “The old love story. A tragedy of a boy and girl from different castes. They died here long ago. Sometimes, tourists see it as if it were happening again. No bodies, no proof. Only the valley remembering.”

---

At this point, Bisht leaned closer to me, the firelight flickering in his glasses.

“But why me?” he whispered. “Why should I be chosen to watch their end? I’m not local—I had never even heard of such a story. Unless…” His voice trailed, but his eyes burned with unease.

“Unless I am bound to them. By blood, by fate. Perhaps the girl was of my family, and seeing me stirred the valley’s memory. Perhaps their secret lives in my veins. Should I trace their families? Get my DNA mapped? Find the truth that my ancestors buried?”

The fire cracked loudly, making me startle. Shadows loomed larger in the corners of the room. Outside, the wind moaned across the valley, carrying with it what might have been nothing more than air—or might have been the faint echo of three souls, falling still.

For the first time that night, the fire’s warmth felt useless.

---