The alarm shattered the silence at precisely 6 a.m. Murugan jolted upright, his breath sharp and uneven. A momentary panic gripped him as he touched the fabric of his pajamas, half-expecting the warmth of an accident. The dream had been too vivid—too absurd yet dangerously convincing.
He could still hear the voice of the Saudi Sheikh echoing in his mind, regal and unwavering: “If you want the vending machine to dispense gold bricks, you need to pee in it.”
Murugan wiped his forehead, exhaling. He had read about such dreams—deceptive, cunning things. The internet was clear on this: Never trust dreams that make unreasonable demands. They were traps, every single one of them.
Shaking his head, he swung his legs off the bed, muttering, “Nice try, subconscious. Not today.”
Murugan had only one ambition in life: to marry only when he was truly rich. Not just comfortable, not just well-off—really rich. He had no interest in bringing a wife into financial struggles or shouldering the burden of children without first securing the kind of wealth that made life effortless. A mansion in the United States, Ferraris in the driveway, Bugattis for the weekends—then he would consider marriage.
But life had its own plans.
By the time he had managed to buy a modest 1,500-square-foot plot and construct a two-bedroom house, time had already slipped through his fingers. He was fifty now, with no wife, no children—just a house and a debt that still clung to him like an old curse.
For the past twenty-two years, he had faithfully paid his EMI, each installment a reminder of the life he had planned but never lived. Eight more years, and the house—aged and worn by time—would finally be his, free from the bank’s grip. But even then, there would still be land tax, water tax, responsibilities that never quite ended.
The thought weighed on him. He wanted to take risks, to do something bold, something reckless—but the EMI always held him back, like an invisible chain around his ankles.
Murugan folded his bed with the precision of habit, the motions mechanical, his mind still lingering on the absurdity of his dream. He shuffled to the bathroom, squeezed out a strip of toothpaste onto his brush, and scrubbed his teeth with the same reluctant energy he reserved for most morning routines.
The real test, however, was the shower.
The chill in the air was unforgiving, and every fiber of his being longed for the comforting embrace of warm water. But Murugan was a man bound by strange convictions. Years ago, a wandering saint—barefoot, wrapped in tattered saffron cloth—had bestowed upon him a single piece of wisdom: “Bathe only in cold water if you wish for a long life.”
Murugan remembered that moment with absurd clarity, not because the advice had been profound, but because he had handed the saint a ten-rupee note just before receiving it. A paid-for prophecy, he had thought at the time.
And yet, here he was, all these years later, shivering under the icy cascade, stubbornly committed to the words of a homeless mystic.
Murugan’s career had been anything but thrilling. He had joined a government bank as a Teller, a steady, respectable job—until the advent of ATMs rendered his role practically meaningless. But fate, or perhaps the invisible hand of his horoscope, had always intervened at the right moments. He also suspected it had something to do with the loan he had taken from the very same bank. The manager, not wanting a defaulting employee, had found ways to keep him afloat. Whenever his position became obsolete due to technological advancements, a timely promotion would land him in a new role, ensuring his survival in the system.
His current designation was Wealth Manager—a grand title for a job that essentially revolved around helping the already rich become richer. The irony never escaped him. Every day, he sat across from people whose single bank transfer held more zeroes than his lifetime earnings, advising them on where to park their money for maximum returns.
But in the depths of his mind, Murugan nurtured a small, stubborn hope. What if, he often wondered, one of these wealthy clients, deeply moved by my sincerity and devotion, decides to share a fraction of their fortune with me? Or perhaps, in a twist of fate, some lonely rich man, with no family to inherit his wealth, might make Murugan his nominee before departing from the world.
A ridiculous fantasy.
After dealing with over five hundred clients, he had learned a bitter truth—humans were selfish. They would part with their lives before parting with even a fraction of their wealth.
And so, reality left him with no choice but to make peace with his salary and the occasional commission he managed to scrape together. It wasn’t the grand life he had envisioned, but it was, at the very least, predictable.
Mobile phone—taken.
Wallet—taken.
ID card—taken.
Murugan moved through his morning routine with methodical precision, his mind focused on the day ahead. Today wasn’t just another day at the bank. Today, he had an important meeting with a super rich client—exactly the kind of person he secretly hoped might one day, by some stroke of divine generosity, change his fate.
Dressed in his best—a crisp white shirt, neatly pressed blue trousers, and a red-and-white tie—he exuded the air of a man who belonged in the world of wealth, even if his bank balance told a different story.
But before stepping out of his house, he had one final ritual to complete.
He turned to the massive eight-foot mirror fixed just beside the exit—a mirror he had installed with great purpose. On its surface, placed at eye level, was a sticker he had stuck on the day of his housewarming ceremony. The letters, bold and defiant, read:
“I AM DESTINED TO BE A MILLIONAIRE.”
Murugan took one last glance at the mirror, a final check before heading out. But what he saw froze him in place.
It wasn’t his 50-year-old self staring back at him.
It was a child.
A five-year-old boy stood in his reflection, mirroring his movements, wearing his neatly pressed blue pants, white shirt, and red-and-white tie. But the face—the face was not his.
His stomach lurched. A chill ran down his spine.
“What the fuck?” he blurted, stepping back in shock. His pulse pounded in his ears as his mind scrambled for answers. Who am I? What am I? Where am I? Was this some kind of hallucination? A dream? A cruel trick played by his tired mind?
Panic gripped him. He needed to snap out of it. His fingers dug into his arm as he pinched himself—hard.
“Ouch!” he yelped. Pain shot through his skin. He was awake. He was real. And so was the child in the mirror.
Heart hammering, he grabbed his phone and switched to the selfie camera, desperate for confirmation. The screen flickered to life.
“Oh, fuck,” he whispered.
The same child stared back at him. Wide-eyed. Confused. Real.
Murugan’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. His mind screamed for an explanation, but none came. He didn’t have time for this. He had a meeting. A life to attend to.
Shoving his phone into his pocket, he made a decision—whatever this was, dream or madness, he wouldn’t let it stop him.
Without another thought, he stepped out of the house.
Murugan walked briskly, determined to shake off whatever bizarre illusion had gripped him back at home. It’s nothing, he told himself. Maybe I’m just overworked. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, a stress-induced hallucination. Who cares? I have a bus to catch and a meeting to attend.
As he strode down the familiar street, his focus fixed ahead, a voice called out to him.
“Baby, please go slow. There are a few stray dogs on the road. They might attack you.”
Murugan turned his head, eyebrows furrowing. A sweeper lady stood nearby, pausing from her work to warn him.
Baby?
His mind stuttered. Did she just call me—
A surge of irritation shot through him. He wasn’t some lost toddler wandering the streets! He was fifty, a government employee, a man with EMIs and tax worries and an important meeting to get to.
But he said nothing. He simply glared ahead, his lips pressed into a thin line, and kept walking.
Yet, as he neared the pack of mongrels sniffing around a garbage pile, he hesitated.
What if they really did attack?
With an annoyed sigh, he slowed his pace, casting a wary glance at the dogs.
Whatever was happening today, he didn’t need teeth sinking into his leg on top of it.
Murugan stopped at the roadside tea stall, his morning routine as ingrained as the wrinkles on his forehead—or at least, the ones he thought were still there. The comforting aroma of fried batter and steaming tea filled the air as he stepped up to the counter.
“Two medhu vadas and one tea,” he said, reaching into his pocket for cash.
The shopkeeper, a man who had been serving him for nearly two decades, looked at him with amused disbelief.
“Vadas, I can give,” he said, scooping up the golden, crispy snacks. “But who accustomed you to having tea at this tender age? Not good for children, you see.”
The laughter that rippled through the small crowd around the stall was light but piercing. Murugan felt a surge of heat rise to his face—whether from embarrassment or sheer frustration, he couldn’t tell.
He clenched his jaw, swallowed his irritation, and corrected himself. “Okay, cancel the tea. Just give me the two vadas.”
As he took the plate and moved aside, his mind raced.
Maybe everyone is seeing what I saw in the mirror.
He took a deep breath, letting the thought settle. If this was a joke, it was an elaborate one. If it was a dream, it was too persistent. And if it was real…
Murugan wasn’t sure he wanted to finish that thought.
As Murugan handed over the cash for the vadas, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen—his boss.
Just what he needed.
With a sigh, he answered. “Hello?”
“Murug, there’s bad news for you,” came his boss’s voice, heavy with fake sympathy.
Now what?! Murugan thought, his patience already worn thin.
“The client has cancelled the meeting. Had to leave town due to an emergency. So, the meeting is postponed to next week.”
Murugan exhaled, frustration simmering beneath the surface. All that effort—getting ready, battling his bizarre reflection, enduring public humiliation—wasted.
“Oh. Okay,” he muttered, barely able to muster a response.
“Well, that means you can relax today,” his boss added, as if that were some grand consolation prize.
“Okay,” Murugan repeated flatly before ending the call.
When he looked up, he noticed the eyes of the tea stall crowd fixed on him again, their curiosity blatant. A man among them, scratching his chin, remarked loudly, “What kind of world have we created? Even a five-year-old carries a mobile phone these days!”
Laughter followed.
Murugan’s fists clenched. Enough is enough.
Without another word, he turned on his heels and walked away, his appetite gone, his irritation mounting.
No work today. No pointless meeting.
Fine.
If the universe was throwing him into some absurd, twisted reality, he might as well step into a place where the absurd was welcomed.
I’ll go to the temple, he thought.
And so, he started walking.
Murugan crossed the bustling streets, weaving through the honking rickshaws and the scent of fried snacks wafting from roadside stalls. His feet carried him forward, his mind heavy with the morning’s absurdity—until he spotted the pond.
A small body of water, shimmering under the sun, surrounded by wild grass and the carefree laughter of children.
A few boys stood knee-deep, their hands dipping into the murky water, trying to catch fish with makeshift nets. Others took turns launching themselves into the pond, their bodies cutting through the surface with fearless joy. The air was thick with their exhilaration, their uninhibited freedom.
Murugan slowed his pace. His eyes lingered on them, transfixed. For the first time since morning—perhaps for the first time in years—he felt something stir inside him. Not frustration, not exhaustion, not worry.
Connection.
His feet moved of their own accord as he stepped closer, drawn to the scene. He wanted to watch, to take in every detail, to understand what made these boys so utterly free.
And then, out of nowhere—
A rough shove.
Murugan barely registered the force before he was airborne, his body tipping forward, gravity yanking him down.
The water swallowed him whole.
A rush of cold, a shock to his skin. But before he could react, something else hit him—memories.
They flooded his mind like the water around him.
His father’s laughter as he taught him to swim. His mother’s voice calling him back home as the sun dipped below the horizon. The rough play of his siblings, the endless summer afternoons spent splashing in ponds just like this one.
The childhood he had abandoned. The joy he had forgotten in the chase for something he once thought was bigger—wealth, status, security.
How had he let four decades slip by without touching the water?
He knew how to swim, of course. His limbs remembered. But for a moment, he let himself sink, embracing the weightlessness, letting time slow.
This—this moment of complete surrender—was nirvana.
Then, with a mighty push, he propelled himself upward, breaking through the surface with a gasp.
“Aweweheweh!” he sputtered, water streaming down his face.
Laughter erupted around him.
The children were in stitches, clutching their bellies, pointing at him like he was the punchline of the best joke they had heard all day.
Murugan blinked at them, chest rising and falling, water dripping from his hair.
And then—unexpectedly, uncontrollably—he laughed too.
Murugan dragged himself out of the pond, water dripping from his clothes, his shoes squelching with every step. He quickly patted his pockets, a mild panic creeping in—wallet, phone… shit. They were definitely soaked. But he decided against checking them now. Not in front of the kids.
Before he could gather his thoughts, a small hand appeared in front of him.
“Here you go,” said a boy with a perpetually runny nose, his voice matter-of-fact. In his tiny outstretched palm leaf sat a generous serving of yellow lemon rice, its tangy aroma cutting through the dampness in the air.
Murugan stared at it for a second. The boy’s face was unreadable, but his gesture was simple and pure. No hesitation, no conditions—just the instinctive kindness of a child offering food to someone who, to him, probably looked like a lost and drenched little boy.
Murugan took the leaf, scooped up a few morsels, and ate without a second thought. The familiar burst of flavors—the tartness of lemon, the crunch of mustard seeds—hit his tongue, and for a fleeting moment, he felt warmth spread through him.
He swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked at the children. “Thanks, boys,” he said, offering a nod of gratitude.
They just grinned.
Murugan turned away, shaking off the water clinging to him, and resumed walking—toward the temple, as he had planned.
But somehow, he felt lighter now. Like something inside him had quietly shifted.
As Murugan reached the temple entrance, a strange lightness settled over him. For the first time in years—maybe even in his entire life—he felt unburdened.
No job.
No deadlines.
No EMI looming over his head.
He had just swum in a pond after decades, eaten lemon rice straight from a child’s hand, and laughed—truly laughed—without a care in the world. He wasn’t just seeing himself as a five-year-old anymore; he felt like one. Carefree. Alive.
Maybe this was all a hallucination. Maybe he had finally snapped. But for once, he didn’t care.
He had come to the temple with the intention of complaining—about his struggles, his loneliness, the sheer unfairness of life. But standing there now, he felt an unexpected shift.
Instead of complaining, maybe he should be thanking God.
Thank you for making me a child again.
With that thought, he took a step forward.
But before he could enter, a voice cut through his moment of peace.
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
Murugan halted.
The temple priest stood at the entrance, his face twisted in disapproval. “At this old age, don’t you know you cannot enter the temple with your shoes on?”
Murugan froze.
Old age?
The words hit him like a slap. For the first time in hours, doubt clawed its way back into his mind.
With a deep breath, he pulled out his mobile phone, his fingers trembling slightly. He flipped open the camera app and switched to selfie mode.
His breath caught in his throat.
The reflection staring back at him was not a child.
It was him. The real him.
Grey hair. Wrinkles creeping across his forehead. Droopy, tired eyes. Lips that had forgotten how to smile naturally.
In a matter of seconds, all the joy, all the freedom, all the magic of the morning evaporated.
Reality had returned.
Murugan swallowed, stepping back. “I’m sorry,” he muttered to the priest, barely hearing his own voice.
Without another word, he turned around and walked away.
He found a cement bench nearby, sat down heavily, and exhaled.
What the hell had just happened?
Murugan sat motionless on the cement bench, his head bowed, his thoughts drowning him.
The world around him continued as if nothing had happened.
The trees swayed, whispering in the cool breeze.
The birds sang their mating calls, celebrating life.
The temple bells rang in rhythmic devotion.
Bhajans, floating from the cylindrical speakers, wrapped the air in a gentle hum of divinity.
And yet, Murugan felt nothing but emptiness.
What have I done with my life?
Is this all I was born for?
To live alone and die alone?
Did I miss my bus? Was it destiny? Or was it my own free will that led me here?
The world was rejoicing. Life was moving forward. And he—he was the only one stuck, suffocating in his own existence.
A million questions tore through his mind.
And then—
A hand.
A firm but gentle hand rested on his shoulder from behind.
Murugan stiffened.
He turned slowly, his breath caught in his chest.
The man standing before him was tall, fair, and strikingly handsome.
He wasn’t a foreigner—at least not in the way Murugan imagined foreigners. He was neither white nor black. But he wasn’t Indian either. His features were sharp, his presence commanding yet calm, like someone who had seen the world and was untouched by its chaos.
The man looked at him with an expression Murugan couldn’t quite read.
And then, in a voice that carried both weight and mystery, he asked—
“Would you like to work in a foreign country?”
“Yes, of course!” Murugan blurted out, his desperation answering before his mind could process.
The stranger nodded, but Murugan hesitated. “But…” he stammered, uncertainty creeping in.
“You got your passport?” the man interrupted, his tone brisk and businesslike.
Murugan straightened up. “Yes, of course! I’ve been diligently renewing it every ten years,” he said, a flicker of pride surfacing.
“Good,” the man said with a slight smile. “In that case, you need to travel to our country next week. We urgently need employees to test our latest technology.”
Murugan’s excitement surged, but skepticism quickly followed. “But I have a few questions…”
The man glanced at his watch, his expression unchanged. “I shall answer all your questions, but for now, I’m in a hurry.”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a sleek business card, and handed it to Murugan. “Here. Email me a copy of your passport, and I’ll send you the flight tickets within a day or two.”
Before Murugan could say another word, the man extended his hand for a firm handshake, then turned and walked away.
Murugan stood frozen, gripping the business card, his mind reeling.
What kind of joke is this?
What kind of day am I having?
Everything—from waking up in a child’s body to getting an unexpected job offer in a foreign country—felt too surreal.
He looked down at the business card in his hand.
The name. The company. The email. Everything seemed… real.
Murugan exhaled sharply, his heart pounding.
Is this fate? Or am I walking straight into another illusion?
Murugan pinched himself again—hard.
The sting shot up his arm. It was real.
Just to be doubly sure, he pulled out his mobile phone, opened the selfie camera, and stared at the screen.
Grey hair. Wrinkles. Droopy eyes.
His real face.
He exhaled a deep breath, a strange relief washing over him.
Slowly, he rose to his feet. His hands folded instinctively, his palms pressing together in reverence. He turned toward the towering gopuram of the temple, its intricate carvings bathed in the golden afternoon light.
Tilting his head up, he closed his eyes for a moment and whispered a silent prayer.
Thank you.
For the madness of the day. For the glimpse of childhood. For the unknown opportunity that had just landed in his lap.
Whatever this was—destiny, coincidence, or sheer absurdity—Murugan decided he would embrace it.
The ticket arrived right on time, just as the stranger had promised.
Murugan boarded his first-ever international flight, his heart pounding with excitement. At 50, he had finally broken free from his monotonous life. He wasn’t just traveling; he was stepping into a future he had only dared to dream of.
As the plane soared above the clouds, he pressed his face against the window, watching the land shrink beneath him. He felt like a child again—wide-eyed, hopeful, and ready for anything.
The moment he landed, a wave of anticipation rushed through him. The airport was massive, the people around him speaking in languages he didn’t understand. But none of it mattered.
He had arrived.
This is it. The wait is over. The moment I’ve been dreaming of.
For the first time in his life, he could see the possibility of becoming a millionaire.
And just to be sure nothing weird was happening again, he kept taking selfies at every possible moment.
Selfie at the baggage claim.
Selfie in the airport lobby.
Selfie near a foreigner who looked important.
And then—disaster.
He turned his front camera toward the immigration officer, hoping to capture his first-ever interaction with foreign authority.
“NO PHOTOS!”
The officer’s voice thundered through the hall, snapping Murugan back to reality.
“Sorry, sir! Sorry!” Murugan yelped, fumbling with his phone as a few people turned to stare.
The officer gave him a long, unimpressed look before stamping his passport.
Murugan grabbed it, muttered another apology, and scurried away.
Not the best first impression.
But who cared?
He was here. And his new life was just beginning.
Murugan stood at the arrivals gate, his eyes darting across the sea of unfamiliar faces.
The stranger had promised to pick him up. But where was he?
He scanned the crowd, searching for the tall, fair man he had met at the temple. Nothing.
His heart began to pound.
Was this all a setup?
Some elaborate scam?
Oh god, are they going to steal my kidneys?
A million paranoid thoughts rushed through his mind as he gripped his suitcase tighter. The bright, promising future he had imagined just hours ago suddenly seemed like a foolish fantasy.
And then—
“Welcome.”
Murugan spun around.
There he was. The stranger.
Murugan let out a sigh of pure relief. He almost felt like hugging the man but stopped himself in time.
He took a step back, shaking his head at himself. “Damn, I didn’t recognize you!”
The stranger smirked. “That’s because I’m dressed like a local now.”
Murugan looked him up and down—gone was the crisp, formal attire from before. Now, the man wore a simple but elegant clothe, blending effortlessly with the locals around them.
Murugan chuckled, partly out of relief, partly at his own foolishness.
“Come on,” the stranger said, picking up Murugan’s suitcase. “Your new life starts now.”
Murugan took one last deep breath.
Whatever lay ahead—good or bad—there was no turning back now.
They drove out of the airport in a sleek BMW, the city lights reflecting off its polished surface. Murugan sank into the plush leather seat, his heart pounding with excitement.
A BMW. A foreign country. A new life.
It was happening. It was finally happening.
The doubts that had once plagued him—the stranger’s legitimacy, the job offer, even the fear of organ trafficking—had completely disappeared the moment his flight ticket arrived. He had stopped questioning fate. If the universe was offering him a shot at wealth, he was taking it.
His eyes stayed glued to the window as they sped through the city. Everything looked straight out of a dream—clean roads, dazzling skyscrapers, massive malls. And the cars—oh, the cars! Ferraris, Bugattis, Lamborghinis, all zipping past as if money were just another mundane possession.
This was the world he had always wanted to belong to.
“Wouldn’t you want to know about your job?” the stranger asked, his tone formal yet amused. “Or the latest technology I mentioned?”
Murugan turned to him, realizing only now that he hadn’t asked a single question about what he was actually supposed to do here.
“Of course, yes,” he said quickly, though his eyes kept drifting back to the view outside.
For the first time in years, he felt like he was arriving somewhere—not just physically, but in life itself.
Whatever the job was, whatever the technology, he didn’t care.
He was here. And that was all that mattered.
The BMW came to a smooth halt in front of a towering skyscraper. Murugan craned his neck, his eyes trailing up the gleaming structure that stretched into the sky like a monument to wealth.
The stranger, now dressed in an immaculate white tunic, stepped out first. He turned to Murugan with a slight nod. “Come,” he said.
Murugan didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his luggage and followed obediently, his mind buzzing with anticipation.
They entered the lobby, a grand space filled with marble floors, golden accents, and an air of silent power. A sleek elevator whisked them up to the 12th floor, the numbers blinking rapidly.
Ding!
The doors slid open.
The floor was eerily quiet. No employees, no cubicles, no bustling office space—just a single massive glass box standing in the center of the room.
Murugan frowned but kept walking, trailing behind the stranger. As they approached, his breath caught in his throat.
Inside the glass box—
Gold.
Not just coins, not just jewelry—solid, glistening bricks of pure gold stacked neatly inside.
His heart pounded as he stepped closer, his reflection dancing across the transparent surface. His mind raced with questions, but only one escaped his lips.
“What is this?” he whispered in sheer astonishment.
The Saudi Sheik smiled. “This,” he said, gesturing toward the box, “is our latest technology—if you want the vending machine to dispense gold bricks, you need to pee in it.”
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