He woke up to a changed morning; to an air that tasted sweeter on his tongue. The skies seemed to be filled in hues of tangerine, not the usual shades of blue that he’d been accustomed to. The birds seemed to sing songs that were set to a vibrant tune, not the usually somber tune he’d always wake up to.
“Where am I?”, he wondered aloud to himself.
Not that this place seemed entirely unseen to him. No. He’d been here before. Maybe just recently. And yet, he couldn’t really find a proper noun to identify this place. Words seemed to be stuck in his throat, unwilling to slip onto his tongue.
He looked around the room – adorned with the finest of woodwork and rare collectibles, serenely white curtains that blew ever so slightly in the gentle winds, an intricately carpeted floor that would be deemed fit enough for royalty to set foot on. Ah, he was in a good place.
His thoughts were interrupted by a feeling of acute pain in one of his feet. He looked down to experience a state of shock as he witnessed that a couple of toes from his left feet were missing. No blood or open wound, just a droning sense of pain that shot up his legs into his chest and further up into his head.
“I must be in a nightmare”, he said to himself before pinching himself in the neck to figure out that he was in fact, not in one.
He managed to momentarily forget about his missing toes as he stuttered up to the antique mirror that stood quietly in one of the corners. It seemed to have matured with time, taking in all the love and misery and hatred and finery that it may have been witness to. He made an attempt to stand tall, flexing his feeble shoulders to their limit, unwittingly stretching himself a good three inches above the grand flooring, so that he was almost standing upright on his eight remaining toes now.
To his utter surprise, his reflection lost its head in the process. He could only see a man standing bottom up till his neck in the mirror. The last he remembered, he was a vertically challenged man, who only stood 5 feet 6 inches above the ground. The mirror In front of him seemed taller and larger than the one he had back home.
He settled back onto his heels. He seemed a good 8 inches taller than before, rising high into the ceiling. His shoulders had more muscle on them, his usually lax biceps showing signs of much hard work in the gym. His layered face now wore a chiseled look. As if Michelangelo himself had descended from the heavens and decided that it was time to make another David.
He knew there was no loss of memory. He remembered that he was Rakshit Mukherjee, a highly skilled media professional whose life was better than most other mortals he knew of. His salary was right up there, in six figures. His wife cut an even better figure; as his envious friends would often attest. He remembered making love to her last night. He couldn’t help but compare her smooth skin to the velvety touch of the white curtains. He had a wonderfully bright kid who just learnt to say “Papa”. Life was perfect.
Now, as he opened the curtains, the French windows opened into an entirely unexpected world. He was in the middle of a bustling market, the pandemonium outside completely devouring the serenity inside the room. There was a mad rush amongst people to sell their wares. The horrifically narrow by-lanes were filled to the brim. There wasn’t space for a needle to pass through. The sellers shouted in a language incomprehensible to him. The buyers wailed in a manner intangible to him. The sellers dingy make shift shops were filled with all types of irrelevant goods – a broken watch, a set of unmatched shoes, a pair of what seemed to an angel’s clipped wings; perhaps from a costume company.
But what caught Rakshit’s eye was a vial of liquid in the most beautiful shade of blue he’d ever seen. Not even the graphic designers in his ad agency could have produced that shade using their ever-so-complicated software. All those unkempt buyers in the dirty lane seemed to be vying for it. He placed a bet with himself that they could have given an eye and a tooth for it.
He couldn’t resist putting on his clothes- which seemed several sizes smaller for him now- and opening the door of the room he had woken up in, to walk down the stairs and take a closer look at the vial of blue liquid. As he ran down the dusty stairs, he checked his pockets to find any money that he could use to buy some.
A decision he’d rue for the coming several years.
Rakshit set foot on the stone-cobbled roads. The air had a heavy mixture of many distinct smells in it; the pungent smell of dry fishes, the sweet fragrance of juicy sweets, the heady intoxication coming in from the stall that sold the blue liquid. He could hardly hear his own panting in the utter chaos that characterized the market. People of all shapes, colors and sizes were shouting in languages that he simply failed to understand; either to sell their wares for the highest possible price or bid for the lowest cost for something they liked. As he took in the squalid atmosphere, he realized he had no footwear on. The stoned streets had turned into scorching burners under the intrepidly hot sun and he winced under the pain of already-developing blisters on his feet.
His focus was unwavering though. Amidst the commotion, he was amazed that the dazzling blue vial still had the undivided attention of all his senses. He took a few uncompromising steps towards the little stall where it was being vended. As he came nearer, the old vendor behind the stall managed to steal some of his attention.
The old man had a disturbingly weathered face, as if the wrinkles had a life of their own and were cringing to reveal to the onlooker the amazing story of his magical past. Rakshit could feel that if he had the time, he could traverse the wrinkled map on the old man’s face and visit the events that they held within their folds. He wore a long robe that seemed to have been unwashed for ages, his head wrapped in layers of a colorful piece of cloth that he wore as proudly as a peacock would wear its plume. His hands were filled with beads of varying shapes and every inch of his fingers were covered with antique rings.
Rakshit approached the old man with some amount of apprehension. He felt the old man wouldn’t sell his wares even if he offered him a good deal of money. A sixth sense told him that he would have to prove to the old man that he was worthy of acquiring some of the enchanting liquid.
“Good day sir”, he greeted the old man with a degree of genuine respect. Rakshit knew pretense wouldn’t work here.
The old vendor looked into Rakshit’s eyes with his heavily kohl-lined gaze.
“No nirvana on sale here, kid”, his steely voice pierced Rakshit.
Rakshit was taken aback a moment at having been able to understand the old man’s language. He could hardly figure out what anyone else spoke in this mysterious place.
“Aah…I am looking for a gateway to heaven sir, and I am willing to walk the rough road for it.”, Rakshit replied in all honesty.
“Freedom has no price son. It comes at the cost of letting go of all that you’ve managed to become over the years”, the old man replied with a hint of hard earned wisdom in his voice.
He took a long hard look at Rakshit, and then decided to continue in a calmer voice.
“But, a few drops of this blue magic could be the catalyst to help you do it”.
Rakshit knew it for time to strike a deal with the wily old man.
“How much for a couple of ounces?”, he inquired.
“A couple of fingers from your left hand, son and the whole vial is yours.”, the old vendor replied with a manic smile.
Rakshit looked into the old man’s crazed eyes, dumbfounded.
He had to have the blue liquid. He knew he was craving for it. He looked at the severed toes of his left feet.
Did he know this old man? Had he had the blue liquid before? Was he in a dream or in some alternate reality? He couldn’t tell.
In the heavy air that allowed him little space to hold a clear line of thought, Rakshit made an instantaneous decision that would have a heavy impact on his future.
As he struggled to control the flow of blood from the two severed fingers of his left hand, his right hand clutched on firmly to the blue vial that the old vendor had handed over to him a couple of minutes back.
It was time for Rakshit to go back into the room and wake up to a new morning.
