“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.