A few years ago, I was travelling to the southern most part of India, as a leisure cum religious visit. Rameshwaram was our main stop where we booked the guest house. It was very near to the famous temple shrine and not far away from the stinking sea shore. Odors of fresh flowers intertwined there with stench of the fish from small eateries and makeshift shops. A calm callousness could be felt in the lazy afternoon. The air was still and humid, and it made me sweat profusely. On top of that there was no cooler or AC in the guest house, as we fresh IT graduates had become so accustomed to. Since my friends went out to sight seeing the places nearby already and our main temple visit was scheduled next day early morning, so instead of suffering a painful sleep, I set out to swim through this double string of loose shops on either side, calling itself the village market.
Language being a major barrier, I stuck to just appreciating the artifacts put out in front of some of the shops and occasionally pointed out towards one of them to inquire on price. There were pots and vases, flowers and garlands, religious photo frames and small bottles of scented chemicals. We call them 'itra' (इत्र) in northern India. I stopped and lowered down to see those small bottles, as this was the only esteem establishment with a decent fragrance about it. The shopkeeper, an old hermit dressed in saffron robes and a piece of the same cloth wrapped around his head in a turban style, replied mostly with count of his fingers. Sometimes, it was 9 fingers, sometimes 15- indicating 90/- or 150/- and so on. As the labels on them were in Tamil, I rubbed one nozzle on back of my palm to check it out and a sharp scent of roses hit me hard. I picked up another one which turned out to be jasmine, and then the next turned out to be sandalwood.
I kid you not, in that very moment, a small obscure bottle with no labeling just moved at its own. Wondered, I picked it up and shook it to see if there were any unwanted elements on the inside. I couldn't see a thing through its dark content, but it seemed as if there wasn't a liquid but a whirlwind of gas was inside. By this time, the shopkeeper who had grown weary, signaled me (or abused, I'd hardly know the difference) to buy something or move on. I paid 100/-, took that still unknown fragranced bottle in my pocket and walked on to avoid getting abused further. It was one of those moments, when we buy something from a place as a souvenir of nostalgia with no idea if we will even use that stuff ever again. I didn't pay much heed to this episode and finished my afternoon stroll, the whole visit that weekend and returned to my Bangalore home afterward.
It was perhaps a month later, one Saturday, when I was just taking a nap out of usual weekend boredom over my drawing room sofa, when I heard some noise in the hall. I woke up leisurely expecting some mouse or stray cat but couldn't place a source, so tilted back my head to sleep again. Just a minute later, I heard the same noise and through the corner of my eye, I saw the same bottle kept in the rack, shaking up timidly, the one I bought about a month ago. Out of curiosity, I picked it up and tried to see through its thick black content again and managed to avoid a mini heart attack in the process. For I am sure I saw an obscure face in that tornado of black smoke inside. I opened it up instantly and put it up on table, expecting an insect or something to crawl, jump or fly out of it. When nothing such happened I brought it closer again to inspect and I heard a meek cry: "Release me." I thought I was getting crazy watching too many horror flicks. But I heard a weak voice yet again making an effort: "you have to say it, release me o noble human!"
"What the heck"- my kind began wandering to the stories in my home town, stories of tantra mantra, black magic and how souls of the departed were bound to daily use objects of that individual, to punish them even after death. Regardless, being a non believer, I did uncap the bottle saying- "To whomsoever it my concern, I release you. Just don't cause me any harm or.. Or it will be cheating." And with a loud thud, the bottle shook vigorously at its own, releasing a whirlwind of thick smoke, black and white in texture, about 3 feet of height, and gathered over the table. Now I expected it to be something like an Aladdin's genie, half human half fish sort of, or witty and magical, but it was rather just a mass of pepper white smoke with a hint of a face peeking through its top. I should have been shuddering with fear and terror logically. But the irony of this scene was just too much for me to hide laughter, because terror certainly wasn't. Nonetheless, I restrained myself and blurted out- "Who the hell are you supposed to be? A poor man's genie?"
The apparition moved and the face drew closer to reply- "I am a wandering spirit and eternally grateful to you o kindhearted gentleman, for releasing me off 150 years of captivity."
"150 years you say, how old are you actually then?"- the IT tester inside me awakened, shrugging off the laziness caused by an April afternoon sun glancing through the balcony, I began investigating- "Do you have some name?"
It said- "I have had many names, for I have lived through many ages and survived many civilizations. Call me Anak-un-Salah or Nebu Yednezar or Ismael or Winston or Ronin or.."
"Robin"- I exclaimed- "It's a wonderful name."
"Not Robin you moron, Ronin."- the spirit spoke, offended by me cutting it short. Well, it has been a perpetual problem with me anyway. But the ghost quickly resumed- "a Ronin is Japanese Samurai warrior who serves no master. An outlaw or a vigilante."
" Oh, that was subtle. And here I was thinking of laying my hands on a domestic genie who would finish up all my chores for free, than this useless bai who takes more day offs monthly than us IT guys annually." - I thought in my mental cloud, and then needled the ghost further- "So do you have any special talents? Like can you grant any wishes to, err... the one who freed you? Any magic or super powers?"
"My angel of liberation, I can read your thoughts, though I didn't get the cloud reference, but you can call me 'Robin'. Guess this is the kind of name for this century."- Robin spoke tactically mellowing down.
"I want to apologize though, for I have to disappoint you now. I carry no magic wand or can't fulfill any wishes you may possess."- Robin looked at me with a masterful look of sympathy, which somehow made me feel this performance had been executed quite a many time before. He continued with a slight chuckle in its grainy voice- "However, I carry something no less than pure magic. I carry STORIES."
"What stories?"- perplexed at the heights of Robin's boastful uselessness, I retorted.
"I was born a mason in the ancient Egypt named as Anuk-un-Salah, and achieved the highest civilian honor in my early 20s, by getting buried inside the sacrificial chambers of Tuten Khamen- the greatest pharaoh of Egypt. All others who sacrificed along with me, went to afterlife following the mighty pharaoh, the son of the the Sun. I however wasn't allowed, for I had committed a cardinal sin of stealing a little from Pharaoh's gold from the sacrificial chamber and passed it on to the poor girl I wished to marry, had I lived longer. At the gates of afterlife, my sins were judged and I was found unworthy of the Paradise which awaited. I was thrown back to earth, to watch all my loved ones die one by one. And then suffer till eternity, to be neither alive nor peacefully dead, since I am just a little cloud of smoke and words."
"That description you got quite right."- I made an intentional interjection.
Unperturbed by my sharp remark, Robin went on- "Since then, I have walked thousand of years on this earth. I have traveled with many great minds- explorers, inventors and philosophers. I have seen many firsts happening in human history. I've seen brothers killing brothers in battles, across the Nile, in Asian conquests, in American civil war, in great wars burning the Europe, throughout the imperial Japan and even your own homeland. My boy, I have collected the human civilization's most precious treasure- STORIES."- Robin flickered through its smokey charade momentarily.
"Wow, that's so useless of you."- I said still yawning. But then a silver lining appeared in my mind- "But I wouldn't mind sharing some nice story for a change in front of my girlfriend and my drinking buddies."
Robin quickly got agitated reading my thoughts- "You imbecile, don't you have any respect for your culture, history and.."- suddenly Robin swooshed back into the bottle whispering- "You seem quite harmless, boy. But tell nobody else of my existence. Specially to 'women'. It's the neighbor girl coming to your door."
Krati, my friend stormed inside into the hall, found me chilling on the sofa and rolled her eyes instantly- "I have caught you today Motu. You may think you can fool everyone? But not me mister."
"I.. I.. don't know what you.. what you talking ab..."
She shushed me showing traces of smoke and demanded- "Since when have you started smoking?"
"Oh that?"- I caught my breath- "That was.. umm.. now only, just to check this ice-burst menthol flavor my room mate bragged about. I didn't like it much though. Yukkk."
"Its okay be 'overacting ki dukaan'. Anyway, its your life, why do I have to worry. And I won't tell your girlfriend also, worry not. Just don't pick it up as a habit"- Krati went out towards her door right in front, with her usual casualness and commanding walk of an agony aunt.
"Robin paaji, she is gone"- I whispered towards the scent bottle. Robin came out and sighed with disappointment- "What a sorry figure you cut in front of women. She called you what- 'Motu'? Does that mean a 'Fat man'? You need to command respect from opposite gender, boy. Let me help you here. You know, I have been friends with the Archduke of..." I stopped Robin there itself- "Hold on bruh, I am well aware of my own level of awesomeness, or the lack thereof. But I am blessed to have at least some female friends. I am definitely not looking for relationship advice from a 3000 year old ghost of a guy who died single in his 20s. Let's get back to your story. Tell me how you got trapped in this bottle and how did you land here in India?"
Robin, offended again, but not finding a comeback said- "That's a long and painful story. I will tell you that and many others from my travels in great detail. If you choose to just let me stick with you. I won't offer any relationship advice also, I give you my word on that."
That last line had a pinch of hurt Robin felt and a sarcasm well directed at my perceived lack of ability with females. I took it well in my stride and shook a smokey hand Robin offered. We both could hear the lift stopping outside and my rather loud flatmates returning. With a tilt of it's smoky head, Robin acknowledged the start of this association. A relationship of a Storyteller and its Listener.
The smoke condensed and flew back into the bottle which stopped its shaking just as the front door opened. Harshad and Ishteyak entered and shouted at me- "Abe Gayle phod rha hai. IPL lagao be." And the search for TV remote began
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