Yesterday, three strange things happened to me; those unforeseen events led to something I would only have read in a book. A simple yes to a funny offer altered my world, literally, and as it seems, significantly. I don’t know how to feel about this, but I am writing all of it here—late in the night, with bananas at the side as lifeline for my untimely hunger—so that I can bring myself into a position from where I can see things with clarity and draw reasonable conclusions as to the circumstances I find my self in currently. The heavy rains outside the frosted windows beside my desk don’t help in calming me as they generally do.
It all started late in the afternoon; frustrated with my studies, I decided to take the rest of the day off from the books, just to clear my head. The orange of the sinking sun, showering through the balcony, illuminated the living room. The rose in the vase by the Teal L-shaped sofa gave off an enchanting shadow.
Fed up with my room that reminded me of all the pressuring elements of life through the CA foundation preparation books arranged unevenly in the racks and the fiction paperbacks, guitar and cricket bats—I came to spread myself and relax on the sofa. I stayed within the diagonal of the dark on the adjacent wall; thus, the sight of the flower’s shadow before me under the noon light seemed to me something magnificent, out of a world created by a magical realist author.
Somehow, there arose within me an urge to have a walk outside, perhaps in the park. The alluring shadow apparently gave birth to the desire; it told me something significant was about to happen. Yes, creating pointless stories in my head and not being able to pour the same into papers—when given the chance—has been a special quality of mine. I laughed at my weird fantasies and decided that before taking any further steps, I shall have the must-have late noon chai.
The money-tree leaves: twisted around the white grill of the kitchen windows, all the same, seemed otherworldly as the soothing paint of the sun didn’t leave them untouched. I turned on the gas, poured milk into the saucepan, ground some cardamom and ginger with the mortar pestle and added them with the tea leaves. I had the same on the balcony, standing against the white iron railing. This time, I bathed myself in the same light that had so fascinated me in the past half an hour. Had I kept studying mindlessly, watching business law lectures while being stuck in a pathetic haze, I would have completely missed the rare serene orange of the hour.
I changed into a V-neck, skin-tight black t-shirt and wore jeans along with it. Let the watch be, since time was the last thing I would have wanted to be reminded of for the rest of the day. I plugged in earbuds and stepped out of the door, listening to some lovely, soft yet musically complex tunes. I started walking towards the nearby park, which always provides me with peace of mind; I like to call it my favourite place.
As soon as I started walking, the play began. I was just playing the role written for me by some unknown writer. The string of strange events was thus pulled.
I walked along the paved path by the circle of benches that surrounded the patch of gardens that in turn went around the railings that encircled the pond in the middle of the park. Diminishing sunlight played in the ripples on the water’s surface, and I recorded the same scene as is the ritual of my regular visits. An orange cat that I hadn’t seen before amongst the band of cats in the park was stretched out on a yellow bench. I continued capturing the peaceful scene as I walked on; at some distance, old uncles and aunties shared conversations seated on the benches under the shade that faced each other. A few fitness enthusiasts ran in circles, whereas couples occupied the standalone benches.
While I was checking out the recording on the phone, a girl walked by me—I noticed her through my peripheral vision. Reacting to the natural male instinct, I turned to look back. However, I found no one there. ‘Might have been a mistake of the eye, ’ I thought.
After playing ‘Aahatein (unplugged)’ by the old Indian indie rock band, Agnee, I kept my phone back in the right pocket and moved my head in sync with the seamlessly flowing guitar in the song. That’s when my eyes fell on another yellow bench, placed perfectly in the centre of which was a diary with an elegant black cover. It seemed to be of the intimate kind, I could tell as I have been writing my daily entries since my early teen years. But I couldn’t figure out why someone would leave something seemingly precious and confidential to them like this.
The general human curiosity seized me; I almost advanced one step towards the bench so as to grab and read it. However, two things stopped me right then. One, the embarrassment that I would feel if I were caught in the act; two, being a CA student, Section 71 of the Indian Contract Act, 1872. I ran through the provisions of the section and weighed the responsibilities I would have to undertake due to the circumstances of a Quasi Contract imposed upon me against the delight of having a secret glimpse at someone’s life. The legal line goes like, “A person who finds goods belonging to another and takes them into his custody is subject to the same responsibility as a bailee”, which means I would have to take care of the diary as a man of ‘ordinary prudence’ would take care of his own and must make reasonable attempt to find the true owner of the same.
Making the wise decision, I walked past the bench. However, my pretence of ignorance quickly broke when I saw a purple umbrella at a distance leaning against a tree. The song had by then reached the melodious vocalisation part, a strange air made its heaviness felt, and unable to breathe, I turned back as if the diary had been pulling me towards it. As I turned, I saw through the corner of my eye the same umbrella fall to the grass. Perhaps this was just me making up stories to pick a stranger’s diary, but it can’t be completely written off that there was no other thing taking its effect—about this, I was only to find out early today morning.
Consequently, I picked up the diary and opened it to the ‘I belong to’ page. ‘Aavari aka Ree’ it said. I mused. Below the same was a ‘Return if Lost’ address, and I was relieved to find that it wasn’t too far away from my place. Perhaps I will go tomorrow and return it to the owner. ‘Today evening, however, Ree, I will find out all about you, ’ I said to myself with a devilish laugh that was heard by an uncle behind me. Out of sheer judgment common to those his age, he gave me a bad look and continued his run. I quickly consolidated my embarrassment and started walking in the opposite direction from the man to find a nice place to sit and read the diary.
I sat on a bench that gave me a nice view of the pond, and yet didn’t let a lot of the noise from old people's chatter ring into my ears or let jealousy from seeing happy couples my age disturb me.
Ree was around my age and had been writing for quite a while, just like me. No introduction was needed in this new diary of hers. I was quite impressed to find out she was studying in the college that I couldn’t get into due to missing the cutoff by 0.25 per cent on the second and last merit list. The entries were filled with her funny experiences and banter with friends. She has a lot of friends, apparently, both from the school and the new college. A social person, completely in contrast with me. I struggled to make any new friends after the death of my one and only friend a year ago.
Ree turned into a poet from the pain of being benched by the guy she loved—I concluded from the multiple awkward mentions of a ‘he’, ‘his’ or ‘him’ (literally with the quotations) and a follow-up of a short poem at the end of every entry. She has a comfortable relationship with her parents, and her many ‘family-time’ paragraphs, including those describing and reviewing new movies of different regions and genres that they explored together, confirmed that. A guy likes her too, it seems, but she can’t help but write in sympathy—and disgust from the desperation he displays at times—for him.
Reading all of it suddenly made me feel like putting the diary down. I felt a strange feeling in my stomach and realised that perhaps it was due to the guilt of peeking at someone’s life. Or it could be my characteristic wild hunger, whatever.
By the time I decided to leave, it had already gotten quite dark. The lamps at the park gave the place a new glow, and the flickering multi-colored lights around the pond seemed to effortlessly conduct a light show on its still surface. I took one final round around and got out through the gate that gave a straight route to my place. The Dark blue was taking over the sky as the lighter shades failed at their attempt to escape, having been surrounded from all sides; just then, across the street by the brown-stone subway entrance, I found a street vendor selling paintings.
I had never seen him on the spot before, naturally, I advanced towards his humble setup laid on the street just to run around a glance at all the paintings. The man wore a black suit that looked like a gimmick, given his status as someone selling paintings at the roadside. Not judging, just being honest. The black tie over the white shirt especially amplified my assessment. He even wore black shades…under the evening sky! Well, everyone has their preferences or perhaps a condition or illness.
His black leather shoes, I found upon a closer look, were polished with a heart to them. The man himself, though, looked thin and unimpressive; the street lamp’s shimmering light, falling upon his round hat, cloaked his face with an ominous shadow; only the glasses, as I said, shone from the dark. His hands were hidden by white, delicate gloves. ‘Interesting,’ I thought.
His paintings were simple but mysteriously attractive. They were simple drawings coloured roughly—of everyday observations of homes, streets and lifeless objects alongside those of cute animals—put into dark oak frames.
“How much are they for?” I asked, picking up two pictures, one of a baby elephant and the other of an orange cat. The cat seemed to be out of a recent memory of mine, but it took some time to pinpoint the fact that I had seen an orange cat earlier in the park, resembling very much the one in the painting.
“1000 to 2000 rupees ranged in the rows starting from the first one at the front, from which you picked up the two paintings.” He replied in a voice that is quite shrill for a man and yet evocative in its own way.
‘Wow, less than what I expected.’ I thought, then I asked, “Are all of these yours?”
“Yes,” he replied, I sensed a prideful smirk, though it wasn’t visible. “All mine.”
“Impressive, they are nice,” I replied. ‘When an artist is ready to sell his art for so low, needless to say, he is in a desperate situation.’ I thought with pity for the painter. I felt like buying both of the paintings. However, in my wallet, I found money sufficient for only one. This baffled me because before leaving, I remember checking my wallet to find around 3500 rupees. ‘Bizarre; where did the money go?’ I wondered. The paintings were so pretty that I wanted both of them. The baby elephant figures out its trunk, whereas the lazy cat relaxes under the sun. Both seemed to be personally calling out to me. The dilemma of picking one of the two was graver than the decision of choosing an education path. “Do you take online?” I asked.
“No, only cash.” He replied. Once again, I sensed a strange smile playing on the Painter’s lips.
‘No online payment in 2025? Is he joking?’ I wondered again as I was further pushed into the trouble of choosing one of the two paintings.
I hadn’t even walked up to the Painter to buy one of his paintings. I just wanted a view of his collection, and yet I was somehow persuaded to buy, and that too only one, because almost as if by magic, the cash in my wallet had been reduced.
Finally, I landed on the decision to take the painting with the baby elephant’s silly scene. The painter gave the slightest of laughs in response and said almost sarcastically, “Good choice.” I was confused, but I didn’t ask anything and simply handed him the 1000 rupees due to him. Holding both the diary and the painting in my hands felt awkward, so I asked him for a carry bag. The painter’s character broke suddenly as if the question I asked was out of his script. “Uh…sure”, he replied, startled, and from somewhere under the lines of paintings, took out a black plastic bag and passed it to me. I put both the items in the bag and resumed my walk towards home.
Before getting into my avenue, I decided to stop at the cafe beside the gate of the same to satisfy my raging hunger. The intense thinking to make a decision to buy one of the paintings had further put fuel to the fire. This cafe was a small but cosy one; Yuv and I often used to come here before…before his death.
Yuv wasn’t fond of either coffee or cafes, but influenced by me, he started visiting all the same. We would sit here after a long day of wandering around pointlessly and talk about girls, cars, sports, politics, religion, music and whatnot. We often discussed our plans for forming a luxury car brand, of course, baselessly; having neither background nor assured to have means in the future, and yet we went on, dwelling in our clouds of dreams. Though he lived far away from the place compared to my proximity to the same, he would find it effortless to come over regularly. We had a small YouTube channel where we would make covers of our favourite songs and occasionally post our originals. I did the vocals and played the acoustic guitar, whereas he played expertly the electric guitar and gave background vocals at times. I, of course, wrote the lyrics, and he would find it impossible upon reading to imagine that I could write those. His praises were never hollow, and his criticisms were never insulting. It was difficult to believe that he had now been absent from the world for more than a year. He died while on a holiday with his parents—a car crash, as I had said earlier; I was in no meaningful contact with the rest of the family, so I never got to know what happened later on. Going the way towards his home now feels unsettling. It might have been taken over, I wouldn’t know.
The pleasant memories and the deep sadness of separation came to me unexpectedly while I waited for my americano and pasta. The motivational quotes on the corner wall of the compact cafe didn’t seem useful anymore after having read the same for so many years. I was sitting at the matt grey painted iron table by the glass wall that gave a nice view of the street road that was lit by an oddly gothic-looking street lamp. There was a mysterious mud face statue of a woman stuck to the wall at the left of the entrance that was made by the cafe owner himself. A few aesthetic little collectables were here and there on the white painted wooden slabs upon the twisted black metal stands fixed against the turquoise walls snuck in the gap between marble pillars. There were 3 more tables except mine, and a few chairs were put up before a thin, dark wood shack-style counter attached to the wall.
To distract myself, I took out Ree’s diary from the black plastic bag that I had kept on the chair beside me. Although great in academics, Ree wasn’t the studious kind; she was the kind of person who spent her days in trendy cafes and ended up in clubs and bars by night. No one dares to ask a group of girls for ID, she says, even though most remain under drinking age and some under majority age. Then in one of her entries, she says how her father ruined her time by sending her younger brother along on a trip she was on with the quotation guy for a shoot of a short film for a college project.
Right when I was going to read the entry where she describes her rare visit to a bookstore (‘boring’ she calls the same, which I found uncharacteristic compared to her random poetry, philosophy and grades), the third strange thing of the day occurred.
A man dressed in a perfect, spotless purple suit with a red tie tied to the neck of his white shirt entered the cafe and, uninvited, sat in the chair next to mine. He carried a long purple umbrella on a night when the sky showed no hints of rain. Even the day was nice and blue. Just like the painter, he too wore black shades, and I wondered, ‘What’s this business of people wearing shades at night when it didn’t even match the rest of their outfit’s style?’
This man, though, was of a fine build—tall and lean with a broad chest and firm shoulders. The painter could probably fit inside twice within this guy. He too wore a round hat, but since the lighting was better inside, I was able to see his nice, sharp-featured face. He leaned his head forward, planting his left elbow on the table, and the pink ribbon circle on the ridge of his hat was thus visible. His thin but well-shaped lips broke into a smile.
I was clueless, I stared at him and observed all the above with a frown. My lips were parted the whole while as I wanted to speak out about the peculiar behaviour, but just wanted him to settle down. He carried with him a different air; a faint light just as purple as his suit surrounded him. Perhaps what they call an aura. “What do you think you are doing?” I finally asked the hard question. “There are plenty of empty seats, you can sit anywhere, and there’s no reason why I would want to share the table.”
What followed were bizarre announcements made by the man in purple. He first put down his hat on the table, revealing slick pulled-back hair and also and following that, also kept the glasses to reveal eyes having a purple tint at the iris. The man was certainly otherworldly. He put his arms on the table, linked the fingers of his hand and sat back, straight. He looked like he was about to make a business proposal.
Regardless of the sheer charisma he gave off, I had my mind set on not being defeated over the argument on the table.
“We have a problem,” he initiated, his lips were now twisted in a smirk.
“Yet you don’t seem at all bothered,” I said with eyebrows raised and a mocking smile.
“Your life is going to end tomorrow, at least in this world.”
“And you will somehow prevent that? And for what consideration? It’s not the ideal time for selling delusions. Please change your seat, I came here first.” My style of arguing seemed silly, but what’s more silly than being weirdly overdressed for a humble cafe?
“Look,” He leaned forward, “you are, no matter what, going to leave this material body tomorrow, but if you agree to my conditions, I can transport you to a place elsewhere, to a life that you wouldn’t mind. It wouldn’t be too different from this place, I promise. I just need a simple yes or no. There’s no pressure here, of course, I would only want your free consent to proceed.”
“Are you a part of some sort of religious cult? Is this a threat? See, sir, I don’t know who you are and what you are talking about, see, my food is here. I want you to leave me alone right this moment. I am planning to spend a pleasant, silent evening.” The waiter brought the food, but surprisingly, he didn’t seem to notice the man in purple at all. I gave a little smirk, thinking how insulting it might be for someone as beautiful and overdressed to be ignored bluntly. The man in purple smiled.
“You disappointed the cat.”
“What?”
“You didn’t pick the cat; you see, this painter—he is essentially a nobody, but lately he has emerged to be a pain to deal with. He declares himself as my rival and, without thinking of the consequences, disrupts the separate worlds’ fate lines and causes things of one dimension to pass into the other. That diary you took, or should I say, you were compelled to take in the disguise of free will, is but an object that didn’t belong to this world originally. He conducted a similar play recently, not here, but in another world, in Ree’s original world. The cat, it seems, has been hurt often. But in the world I will send you to next, I promise there will be no more angry cats. You only have to return the diary that causes a grave misalignment; it has never happened before. Transportation has always been seamless with no mishaps, but this time, I committed a blunder. Perhaps a part of the painter’s game.”
I could not comprehend a single that that the man had said as of yet. On one hand, he seemed autistic, as if stuck in a fantasy novel he just finished reading, but on the other, he had been accurate at guessing about my taking of the diary and picking another painting over the ginger cat’s. I appeared evidently disoriented, it seemed as the man stopped his bizarre speech for a moment. I took a long gulp of the hot Americano, didn’t mind the burn. Then proceeded to throw down two forkfuls of pasta down my stomach. The waiter, I finally understood, didn’t ignore the man but was just unable to see him since the visibility was restricted to me. I planted both my elbows on the table and ran my hands through my hair.
“As I said, I just need a yes or no, and you will be back to life, facing no pain whatsoever—just return that diary for me. You see, I can only manipulate fate lines and souls of people who come under circumstances not given in their fates originally. But I cannot transfer material objects from one place to another. So, I can only depend on you to restore this imbalance caused by the painter.” He then went on to describe how I would die: gloomy sky, riding my bike with a mind preoccupied, and suddenly the cat would appear in the middle of the road, losing my balance, I would slam into a car and die soon on the spot.
For no reason, my mind ran through essential elements of a valid contract as provided under section 10 of the Contract Act. This agreement was certainly void ab initio. Regardless, I accepted the offer. “Yes, whatever,” I said.
“Very well, we shall meet again tomorrow, though momentarily. The Umbrella of Possibilities will play its part.”
The man left with a smile after that…Quite disturbed, I sat still for some time, but eventually finished the pasta and the americano. The moon’s gaze hit sharply when I left the cafe, and clouds were already forming all around. I hung the painting by the kitchen entrance. Despite having had the kick of caffeine in my body, the clogged-up mental fog pushed me down into a state of deep sleep.
Next morning, that is, today morning, I contemplated death over black coffee. The conversation sequence from last night seemed like something I had made up in my mind out of the hopelessness of my solitude. In that unusually deep sleep, I had a dream. However, it had already become fragmentary as if someone was manipulating my memories to have them erased and to accommodate a new set of more relevant memories.
In that dream, I guess, after getting out of my bed, I did everything I usually do. Had coffee on the balcony, did my morning workout and was laughing about something being a scam. What was that thing? I fail to recall. The first thing I decided to do in the dream was to return Ree’s diary to the lost if found address. I rode my bike to get there. I had forgotten my helmet and was in fear of being spotted by the traffic police. I took roads that were known to be less dense in police presence. The sky was gloomy, and thunder roared every once in a while. My hair flew with the wind, and as I said earlier, I was too preoccupied thinking of avoiding being spotted. But when I saw the cat around a crossing, I realised what was happening. The exact circumstances of my death, as the man in purple had described last night, were coming together.
After my realisation, everything went down in a smooth flow. The cat stopped right before my path, leaving me with no time or space for a smart reflex. I panicked and slammed into a car that was crossing into my lane. The chaos was immense, a crowd had gathered around me, and in my final moments, through the thick gathering, I saw the man in purple, smiling. He opened his large purple umbrella, rolled it in front of him and then, while still rolling, took the same towards his back to reveal the glowing insides of the umbrella. A bright light with a purple hue emanated from the same. And in that brief moment’s glow, I swear I saw all the possibilities. What I mean by saying that, I myself don’t know.
Well then, I woke up. ‘Bizarre dream…’ I thought as I sat up in bed. I mistook everything, starting from my meeting with the man in purple in the cafe to the accident in the crossing, to all be a part of that one, same dream. However, I was proven wrong when I went to the kitchen to make my morning coffee. Because the picture I saw hung by the entrance was not that of the baby elephant but of the orange cat, stretched out under the noon sun. I turned away and back multiple times for it to change back and my illusion to end, but neither happened. I felt powerless; I was losing control of my own life. Thus, I contemplated death over the bitter morning coffee. Especially made more bitter today so that I regain clarity and understand my position, but it was useless. What it all pointed towards was that a transport to a different world took place, and that the actual me, at least my original material self in my original world, had died.
I did my morning workout, kept it simple: just some archer push-ups, russian twists, and calf raises. I realised that there were no major differences here, except that in this world, I chose the orange cat. My instincts and love for exercise were all the same. Took a bath after that and rode to the address, with a helmet this time.
The house was big and beautiful, but the original residents didn’t occupy it anymore. A new family was shifting in, upon my enquiry, I found that the people who lived here had gone elsewhere in grief after their only daughter’s death. One hand on chin, I read the last entry in Ree’s diary sitting on the stairs of what used to be her home in this world. It was all about similar strange occurrences, from getting herself caught unintentionally in the dilemma of picking a painting and then being subject to the cat’s wrath. The man in purple, similar to my case, helped her in her final moments to restore the balance in fate lines, but the diary had stayed. She was apologetic about getting ‘J’ stuck in the case, but she only acted upon the orders that the man in purple gave in their meeting after the transmission.
I sat still for some time, looking up into the ominous sky that was in contrast to the clear sky from yesterday. My phone buzzed just then; it was a text from Yuv. “Hey, J, at our place at 3, got something interesting to tell!”
React
