He had failed again. As always, it was mathematics that had betrayed him.
It was the second time in a row he’d flunked his eighth-grade exams, and though the results screamed his name in bold red letters, the blame wasn’t his alone. The friend who once slipped answers to him during tests—an ally in the war zone of numbers—had moved away, whisked off to a foreign country by his father’s job transfer. His new neighbour in the roll call was a disaster in disguise, a boy whose grasp of maths was somehow even worse than his own.
Strangely, Karthi wasn’t too worried about the failed exam itself. The numbers, the grades—they barely stirred him. What haunted him was the memory of his father’s rage the last time he failed. Not the slap, not even the belt—that was manageable. It was the knuckle. A solid, closed-knuckle blow right at the center of his skull. That kind of pain didn’t just sting. It echoed. It rearranged your thoughts, sent your mind reeling into another realm where sound warped and vision blurred.
A knock like that didn’t feel human. It felt cosmic.
The school wasn’t far—barely two kilometers from home—but Karthi always managed to stretch the journey into an hour-long expedition. It wasn’t that he had places to be or people to meet. He just didn’t want to reach home too soon.
It wasn’t like he stayed back to play cricket either. That door had long closed on him. The boys didn’t want him on their team—never had, really. He was too stout, too slow, his movements lacking the sharpness needed to chase a ball or spin one across the pitch.
But what truly sealed his fate on the cricket field was that one afternoon, the day he dropped Lalit’s catch. The memory clung to him like wet cloth. He could still hear the gasp from the crowd, the collective disappointment, the way Lalit had stared at him—not angry, just… stunned. And that silence that followed. It had struck something deep, something that didn’t quite heal.
From that day forward, Karthi had made a quiet vow: no cricket bat, no ball, not even a glance toward the field.
The walk home was slow by design, and Karthi filled it with small adventures only he seemed to care about. He chased butterflies through overgrown patches by the roadside, their colors fluttering like secrets. Dragonflies were his true prize, though—sleek, trembling things that darted like thoughts he couldn’t catch. When he did manage to trap one between careful fingers, he’d tie a thin thread around its tail, a ritual he had perfected over time. Then he’d let it fly, tethered, but free—at least for a while.
He never reeled them back. That wasn’t the point. Sometimes, the force of the takeoff would be too much, and he’d be left holding nothing but the tail, the rest of the insect vanished into the air like a loose idea. It didn’t matter. He’d simply swipe the air again with the same clumsy reverence. This time maybe a blue one. Never the same dragonfly twice.
While some boys in his class were busy growing up—voices deepening, shadows appearing above their lips, flirting awkwardly with girls—they seemed to move ahead on a train Karthi hadn’t even boarded. He watched from the platform, string in one hand, dragonfly in the other, and didn’t mind it much.
But today was different.
The butterflies danced just as they always did, and the dragonflies zipped past him in their usual zigzag flight—but Karthi didn’t care. He didn’t reach out. He didn’t even notice them. The familiar urge to punt an abandoned plastic bottle down the road, to watch it rattle and bounce in slow spirals, was gone. His feet dragged, and his thoughts circled darker things.
He was upset. Not the quiet kind of upset that passes with a snack or a nap—but the kind that coils in the chest, slow and tight, the kind that made every step heavier. The kind that whispered one word over and over: violence.
He had to escape it somehow. But how?
Running away was never an option, not for him. He knew it in his bones—he wouldn’t last a day out there. The world beyond their gate didn’t have his mother’s chicken biryani, and that thought alone made survival seem pointless. Even his rebellions had limits.
So he did what little he could. He walked slower. Dragged each step like it mattered. Delayed the inevitable. Maybe if he took long enough, the sun would go down, the mood would change, or the house would forget. But deep inside, he knew it wouldn’t.
All he could do was prepare.
He rubbed his scalp with firm fingers, trying to loosen the skin, soften the blow. A good head massage—his only armor against that mighty knuckle that had made the sky spin once before. Maybe this time, he wouldn’t cry.
Maybe this time, he’d be strong.
On days when the last period was unexpectedly cancelled, Karthi didn’t hurry home. He treated those rare moments as gifts—an hour carved out of the usual cycle of school, fear, and dinner. He would slip away from the main road and make his way to a secluded bench by a pond, tucked in the wilderness just far enough to be forgotten by most.
It was quiet there. Too quiet for the average villager’s comfort. The place had earned a mild reputation, whispered warnings of snakes and scorpions keeping most people away. But Karthi wasn’t most people.
In his mind, he was a younger, darker Steve Irwin in school uniform. He had watched every wildlife documentary he could get his hands on, fascinated by the way Irwin handled beasts with bare hands and bare nerves. Karthi had never actually come face-to-face with a snake or a scorpion—but if they ever showed up, he was mentally ready to wrestle destiny.
First, though, he had to cross the village’s 300-meter shame.
The stretch of road that led to the pond was infamous—not for wildlife, but for something worse: human excrement. In Karthi’s village, open defecation was still a daily ritual for many, and the road bore testimony in scattered, nauseating landmines. Every step was a gamble.
Karthi had developed a technique over time. He would tighten his school tie around his nose, block his breath like a diver plunging into deep water, and sprint. Not too fast—he still had to dodge the landmines—but with purpose. Sometimes he made the mistake of inhaling mid-run, and the stench would slap him harder than his father ever could. Still, he pushed on.
Finally, the pond would appear like a miracle. The stink would fade. The scent of lilies would rise to greet him, floating atop the water like gentle whispers of another life.
Here, Karthi would sit. And breathe. And be.
Today, he was back.
Back at the pond, back on the weather-stained cement bench beneath the leaning tamarind tree, seeking a few moments of calm before the storm broke loose at home. The lilies still floated like delicate survivors on the water’s surface, and the breeze moved through the grass in small, whispering waves. But none of that registered today.
Karthi dropped his school bag onto the bench with a dull thud and sat down beside it, his fingers already digging through the zipper. Inside were his answer sheets—fanned out and folded, the ink still fresh with judgment. The teachers had handed them out that morning, and he’d carried them around all day like papered guilt.
He had passed most subjects. Average marks, unremarkable. Enough to keep a mother smiling, if only that were all. But maths—maths had done it again. A 25 out of 100.
He sighed and pulled out the crumpled maths paper, smoothing it across his lap with slow, careful hands. The other papers he stacked neatly and pushed to the side, like guests he didn’t want to deal with right now. This one needed his full attention.
There were two reasons he went through the sheet again. First, to verify if the teacher had added the marks correctly—just in case, by some miracle, they’d missed a step, a figure, a formula that had deserved a point. A miscalculation in his favor. A clerical savior.
And second—perhaps more curiously—to understand how on earth he had ended up with 25. He had walked into that exam expecting no more than 10, having scribbled half-baked answers and stared blankly at questions that looked more like riddles than arithmetic. But now, here it was, printed in red ink: 25.
Karthi gently placed the maths paper aside and slid his school bag over it, anchoring the thin sheets against the whispering breeze. The last thing he needed was for those cursed pages to take flight across the pond. That would be a different kind of catastrophe altogether—one his father might consider intentional sabotage.
The light was dimming now. The sun, like him, was inching closer to the edge of the world. The clouds had thickened into shades of charcoal, and the air had taken on that strange stillness just before dusk properly settles in. It was time to go.
But Karthi hesitated.
Just five minutes, he thought. Five minutes of something good… before depression takes over.
He reached beneath the bench and picked up a handful of smooth stones, cold and round in his palm. He arranged them beside him like a tiny treasure trove. The pond’s surface reflected his face back at him—quiet, calm, untouched by the troubles of school, family, or fear. For a moment, it was a different Karthi, the kind he wanted to be.
He tossed the first stone.
The water danced. Ripples broke across his reflection, scattering his features in trembling waves. Within seconds, the pond settled again, his image returning slowly, as if rising from underwater sleep.
He smiled.
He tossed a second stone. This time, the waves curled wider, playful, like laughter on a silent afternoon. The same quiet miracle unfolded—the face disappearing, then returning. A little boy chasing his own soul in the ripples.
He picked up a third stone.
He aimed straight at the heart of his reflection—and just as he released it, a flicker in the water caught his eye.
The ripples began to fade… and there, beside his own face, appeared another.
A man’s face.
Old. Long white beard, a high ponytail at the back of his head, and dressed in a black waishty and shirt—someone who didn’t belong anywhere in Karthi’s world. His presence was calm, unbothered by the laws of nature or logic. The man was staring back at him with quiet intensity, eyes deep and knowing, as if they’d been watching him long before he’d arrived.
Karthi’s heart kicked. He turned sharply to his left.
Nothing. The bench beside him was empty. No footprints, no sound.
He looked back into the water. The reflection was still there—unmoving, eternal—and the man’s gaze now seemed to meet him not through the water, but through something beyond it.
Karthi froze, mouth slightly open.
The man didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. He just… looked.
And it didn’t feel frightening.
It felt holy.
Karthi’s palms grew slick with sweat, the stones forgotten beside him. His heartbeat surged into his throat, each pulse louder than the last. Panic had him by the collar now, whispering flight into his ears. For a fleeting second, he was ready to bolt—to abandon the bench, the answer sheets, the bag, everything.
Even the dreaded stretch of human waste between the pond and the main road no longer seemed like an obstacle. He would have run right through it, eyes shut tight, if it meant escaping this—whatever this was.
But something stronger than fear held him back.
A deeper instinct. One rooted in years of surviving in his father’s house. One brutal truth rose above the chaos in his mind: No ghost, no spirit, no demon could ever be worse than Appa.
And so, with trembling fingers, he forced himself to breathe slower. His chest rose and fell like he was dragging weight with each inhale. He reached for the maths paper, his hands fumbling at the edges. He began sliding the sheets back into his school bag, barely noticing how the corners bent and crumpled.
Then it came.
A voice. Not from behind him, not beside him—but everywhere.
“Don’t worry, Karthi,” it said. “I won’t harm you.”
It wasn’t a whisper. It wasn’t menacing. It wasn’t even loud. It was calm—deep, ancient, and strangely gentle, like someone placing a warm hand on his shoulder without touching him.
Karthi froze.
His hands hovered just above the zipper of his bag. Slowly, against the scream of his instincts, he lifted his eyes and looked down into the pond again.
The old man’s reflection remained.
Still there.
Still watching.
And still… kind.
“Who are you?” Karthi asked, his voice low but clear, eyes locked onto the water.
The pond shimmered faintly, but the reflection of the old man remained unmoved.
“I shall reveal that soon,” the figure replied, his voice echoing not in the air, but somewhere within Karthi’s chest. “But first, tell me—how are you going to handle the situation at home today?”
Karthi hesitated, then gave a crooked half-smile. “I don’t know… I guess I’m just prepared. Mentally, physically, psychologically,” he said, almost mechanically, as he reached for the zipper of his school bag.
“Wait, wait…” the voice called again, gentle but firm. “Can I take a look at your maths answer sheet?”
Karthi blinked. “You want to see my paper?”
The reflection nodded, eyes twinkling.
“Of course,” said Karthi, puzzled but oddly trusting now. He unzipped his bag, pulled out the crumpled maths paper, and walked toward the pond’s edge, holding the sheet out as if the water might somehow read it.
“Done?” he asked after a moment, the paper still hovering over the still surface.
“Yes,” replied the old man, simply.
Shaking his head, half convinced it had all been a daydream born of fear and fatigue, Karthi packed his bag once more and slung it over his shoulder.
Then he turned and walked home.
Karthi had learned a trick.
It wasn’t from a teacher, or a tuition master, or even his mother. It came from Bipin—his classmate, comrade in mediocrity, and fellow sufferer under the cruel reign of mathematics. Like Karthi, Bipin barely scraped through most subjects, stumbled over numbers, and bore the scars of strict parenting. But unlike Karthi, Bipin had something to redeem him—he was good at cricket. Unfairly good. Opening batsman, opening bowler, local hero.
And, as it turned out, a self-proclaimed master of psychological manipulation.
“One simple technique,” Bipin had whispered across the lunch table one day, a conspiratorial gleam in his eyes. “It’s all about how you present the marks to your father.”
Karthi had leaned in, curious.
“You place the answer sheets in order,” Bipin said. “Start with the lowest mark. Then put the average ones. Slip the failed one in there somewhere—but end with the highest mark. Always end with the best.”
Karthi had squinted, unimpressed. “How does that help?”
Bipin grinned. “Anger is like a matchstick. It burns fast, and it burns out. You show him the worst first, his temper will spark, maybe even explode. But then, slowly… average… better… and finally—boom! Highest mark! Redemption!” He paused, then added with a sage-like nod, “The good always wins over the evil.”
Karthi hadn’t understood half of what Bipin said. His friend had a habit of quoting Freud, Nietzsche, and Jung as though they were part of his extended family. He’d throw around names and concepts he barely grasped himself, stitched together with phrases like “repression of violent urges” and “unconscious ego balancing,” as if that explained anything.
But logic or not, Karthi wasn’t in the mood to take risks.
So now, back home, heart thudding in the quiet evening, he arranged the answer sheets just the way Bipin had instructed. Least marks first—social studies. Then the average ones—English, Science. Then the failed subject—Maths. And finally, the shining star of the stack—Computer Science, 76 out of 100, a small miracle.
He weighed the pile down with a smooth black paperweight, aligned it perfectly on the center of the table, and stepped back.
Now, all that remained was the wait.
His father would return soon from the office. Leather belt. Black briefcase. A thousand worries on his brow. And now, these papers.
Karthi sat down on the sofa, his feet not quite touching the ground, and stared at the door.
He didn’t breathe too deeply. Didn’t let his mind wander.
Just waited—like a soldier in a trench, listening for the thunder.
The bell rang. Twice.
Sharp. Unmistakable.
It was him.
Karthi’s spine straightened on instinct, as if his body had been wired to react to that exact rhythm. No guest, no salesman, no neighbour ever rang the bell twice like that. Only one man did. The man of the house. The judge. The executioner.
From the kitchen came the hurried shuffle of feet. His mother emerged, wiping sweat and steam from her face with the end of her faded cotton saree.
As she walked toward the front door, she threw a brief glance at Karthi—just a flick of her eyes, a silent exchange filled with everything unspoken.
She knew.
And he knew she knew.
Tonight, sleep would not come easy.
Not for her son.
Not for anyone.
She reached for the latch, the brass handle clicking louder than usual in the quiet. Karthi remained frozen on the edge of the sofa, staring at the answer sheets on the table like they might rise and shield him.
The door opened.
And the silence of the house cracked wide open.
Vishwanath entered the house like a stern police inspector arriving at a crime scene—measured steps, eyes scanning the space with habitual authority. He slipped out of his black leather sandals without a word and made his way straight to the table. The ceiling fan overhead hummed and spun lazily, sending soft gusts of air that made the answer sheets tremble slightly under the paperweight.
“Oh, you got your answer sheets? That was fast,” he remarked, his voice flat and unreadable.
He placed his weathered briefcase down with a soft thud and picked up the stack of papers in one motion. Karthi’s body reacted instantly. His armpits prickled with sweat, and a strange pressure gathered in his bladder as if every molecule of fear had turned into liquid.
Sensing the shifting atmosphere, Vimala darted back into the kitchen, burying herself in the tamarind rice that was nearly done. She didn’t want to be in the line of fire.
Vishwanath flipped through the sheets, his eyes moving quickly over the marks scribbled in red ink at the top of each one. If the careful psychological arrangement Bipin had recommended was supposed to work, Vishwanath gave no indication. His face was unreadable.
Then he spoke.
“Good. Very good.”
Karthi braced himself. He knew sarcasm when he heard it. This was the calm before the knuckle storm. His muscles tensed.
“I never expected you to score ninety-five in maths,” Vishwanath said casually, slipping a hand into his shirt pocket.
Karthi blinked. Ninety-five? What?
Out came a neatly folded ten-rupee note.
Vishwanath waved it lightly in the air, then gestured for Karthi to come over. “Go get three double-decker chocolates.”
Karthi didn’t move. He couldn’t. His brain had stopped processing.
In the kitchen, Vimala heard the conversation, and something about it didn’t add up. She turned off the stove and hurried into the hall. Her eyes darted from her husband to her son, and then to the answer sheets in Vishwanath’s hand.
She looked at Karthi, squinting. “You told me you failed maths again,” she said, half in disbelief.
Vimala walked over and pinched his cheek. Not hard. Just enough to say you little rascal without using words. “Liar,” she said, smiling as she turned back toward the kitchen, a small spring in her step now.
Karthi stood still for a second longer, staring into some invisible void. This couldn’t be happening. Was he dreaming? Had he misread his own paper?
He bent down, and pulled out the maths paper.
There it was. Clear as day. 95/100 in red ink, circled.
“What the—?” he whispered under his breath.
Before the universe could change its mind, he slipped on his slippers and bolted out of the house like a man on a mission.
The clock ticked past 1 a.m.
The house lay in a blanket of silence, broken only by the rhythmic, guttural snore of Vishwanath echoing from the master bedroom—steady and unbothered.
In the adjoining room, Vimala slept curled on her side, her breath slow and deep, a worn cotton blanket rising and falling with the weight of exhaustion.
But Karthi… Karthi lay wide awake.
His eyes were fixed on the ceiling above him—unblinking, unseeing, his body stiff beneath the thin sheet. The shadows of the spinning fan carved faint shapes across the walls, hypnotic but offering no peace.
95 out of 100.
The number glowed in his mind like it had been branded there.
How?
He replayed the evening a hundred times over, rewinding every second, trying to remember if he had missed something—if perhaps there was another maths paper and he had mistaken someone else’s for his own. But he remembered the handwriting. The roll number. The rough edges where he had nervously torn the paper out of his notebook to solve problems.
It was his.
Was that wise man for real? he thought.
The reflection in the pond. The white beard. The black waishty. That voice—serene, like a lullaby sung by the wind.
Is this what people call magic? Or… a miracle?
The next day Karthi couldn’t hear a word in class.
The teachers spoke, chalk scratched against the board, and benches creaked with shifting students, but none of it entered his mind. His gaze was fixed on the window, though he saw nothing beyond it. The clock ticked slower than ever.
Lunch came and went. His tiffin box stayed unopened. Bipin, who normally plopped beside him with his cricket-scarred elbows and Freud quotes, was ignored completely. Karthi didn’t have the patience for borrowed philosophy today.
All he wanted was the day to end.
And finally, it did.
The last bell rang like a war trumpet, and he was the first out the gate. No dragging of feet today, no cricket detours, no dragonfly games. He made his way straight to the pond—the same secret space, tucked behind the stench-ridden path that no one else dared to cross.
This time, he was cautious. Paranoid, even.
He glanced over his shoulder more than once, scanning for anyone who might be watching or following him. It felt too strange, too intimate to be shared with another soul.
He reached the bench, heart hammering, and gently placed his school bag down. The pond shimmered in the fading light, a few frogs splashing around noisily, one mounted over the other in nature’s most awkward ballet. But the water—still, silent—reflected nothing.
No beard. No black waishty. No saint.
Just frogs. And algae.
Karthi slumped onto the bench, disappointment pooling in his chest. Maybe it had all been a dream. A hallucination born out of fear. Maybe someone had played a prank on him, or the teacher had genuinely made a mistake in marking.
Then suddenly—stones.
He jumped to his feet, remembering.
He crouched down and gathered a handful from the dusty ground beneath the bench. Smooth, flat ones—the kind that skipped and rippled.
He walked to the pond’s edge and began the ritual.
One stone—splash. Ripples. Wait. Stillness.
Second stone—splash. Ripples. Wait. Nothing.
Third stone—he took a breath, aimed, and let it fly.
Splash.
Ripples bloomed across the surface like tiny earthquakes. And then… clarity.
And there he was.
The wise man. Smiling.
Serene as ever, his long white beard dancing with the water’s shimmer, his black waishty crisp as though untouched by time or wind.
Karthi froze. A jolt ran down his spine. But this time, it wasn’t fear.
It was fascination.
“So,” said the wise man with a twinkle in his eye, “how was the double-decker chocolate yesterday?”
Karthi blinked, startled. “Huh? How do you know about that?”
The man’s reflection smiled gently. “I know… somehow.”
Karthi narrowed his eyes, half suspicious, half in awe. “What’s your name, anyway? How do I call you?”
“Whatever you feel like,” the man said with a shrug so casual it sent tiny ripples through his watery form.
Karthi scratched his head, and then said, without thinking, “Ghibli Mama?”
The old man laughed—a rich, echoing laugh that made even the frogs nearby pause mid-croak. “Ha ha! You can, yes. But do you know what ‘Ghibli’ means?”
Karthi shook his head. “Nope. It just came out of my mouth. I blabbered it.”
“Well,” the man said, eyes twinkling, “Ghibli is actually a Japanese animation studio. Based in Japan, obviously. And its AI—artificial intelligence—will take the Internet by storm in the year 2025.”
Karthi’s eyebrows lifted. “AI? Internet? What are they?”
The wise man paused, then waved a hand dismissively. “Ah, it’s too early for you to understand that now. You’ll know when the time comes. All I can tell you is—”
He leaned forward, the pond water trembling slightly beneath his shifting form.
“—you will publish your memoir with me, on your blog site, in the form of a short story… in the year 2025.”
Karthi stared. “My what? Memoir? Blog… what?”
But the wise man only smiled again, cryptic and kind, as if he had said too much already.
The frogs resumed their chorus in the background, and a cool breeze rustled through the trees.
Karthi didn’t understand most of what he heard.
But he liked the sound of it.
“Tell me your problems,” said Ghibli Mama, his reflection calm and open, “and let me see if I can help you with them.”
Karthi let out a sigh that felt like it had been waiting all year to escape.
“Oh, don’t ask me,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s like God created me with a special curse—to deal with the whole world’s problems. Everyone around me seems happy… rejoicing… living their best lives. And then there’s me.”
He paused.
“I’ve got a long list, Ghibli Mama. Just reading it would take you a lifetime.”
Ghibli smiled, patient as ever. “Okay then… just tell me the top three things you want to change. Or deal with.”
Karthi squinted, thinking. “Alright… let me compose them in my mind first.”
He raised a finger.
“One: I just cannot get up at 4 a.m. to study like my father wants me to. I’ve tried. I feel pukish. The books look like monsters. My mind is blank. My head spins.”
“Mmm…” murmured Ghibli, as if logging the complaint into the universe.
Karthi lifted another finger. “Two: I’m terrible at sports. I can’t run fast. My knees are funny—knocked knees, they call it—and I’m fat because, well… I love to eat.”
Ghibli nodded again, the way old monks acknowledge the ordinary sufferings of young hearts.
“Three,” Karthi continued, his voice lower now. “I suck at studies. No teacher even knows I exist. The boys? They ignore me. The girls? Forget it. I might as well be invisible.”
“Next?” asked Ghibli, his tone softer, more attentive.
Karthi sighed and gave a small shrug. “That’s all I can think of right now. Those are the top-of-the-mind worries. The rest… they’re there, but sleeping.”
Ghibli chuckled gently. “These aren’t as big as I imagined.”
Karthi looked at him curiously. “So… are you going to give me a mantra or something? You know, to fix my life?”
“I can,” said Ghibli, his voice suddenly serious, “but only if you promise me something.”
“What?”
“You must never speak of me to anyone. Not a soul. And the mantra I give you… you must never share it.”
Karthi nodded, without hesitation. “Okay. That’s easy. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Come closer then,” said Ghibli. “Bring your ear close to the water.”
Karthi quickly looked over his shoulder. The path was empty. No one watching. Carefully, he leaned in, lowering his ear until it was just above the surface of the pond.
The water shimmered, and Ghibli leaned forward in his reflection, his mouth moving—but no sound came through the air.
Only Karthi heard it.
A soft whisper, as though the pond itself was humming a secret tune, wrapped in ancient breath.
Then silence.
“Before reading a book… before playing a game… and before writing an exam,” Ghibli instructed, “chant that mantra. Say it three times.”
And just like that, the reflection disappeared.
The pond returned to its usual stillness, frogs unbothered, the sun dipping behind clouds.
Karthi stood there frozen for a moment, his mouth parted, heart racing. He clutched the mantra silently in his mind like it was a treasure map.
And slowly… a quiet smile crept across his face.
That night, well past midnight, the house was cloaked in silence except for the rhythmic ticking of the old wall clock.
At exactly 2 a.m., Vishwanath stirred and turned to Vimala, who was still half-awake beside him, her body curled loosely like a comma in the darkness.
“Vimala,” he whispered, nudging her lightly. “Come to the other room. I need to talk.”
She blinked, groggy but alert at once. They both knew this odd hour wasn’t strange in their world. Ever since Karthi was a baby, his sleep had been erratic. Even now, as a fifth-grader, he was often wide awake while the rest of the house lay still.
Inside the other room, Vishwanath sat on the edge of the cot and gestured for her to sit beside him.
“From tomorrow—that is, from today,” he began, “don’t wake Karthi up at 4 a.m. Let him sleep.”
Vimala frowned, her eyes narrowing with disbelief. “What? Why? When will he study then? Don’t go by those fluke marks he got. He’ll fail the next time for sure.”
“If I’m saying something, Vimala, you should know I’ve thought about it,” Vishwanath said, calmly but firmly. “One of my close friends—he’s deeply into scientific journals—showed me an interesting research paper. It was submitted to a foreign university. The study explained how some humans are naturally more alert at night than in the early morning.”
Vimala squinted, confused. “Speak in English, please.”
Vishwanath chuckled under his breath. “It means… some people are night owls, not early birds. Their brains work better after sunset.”
She didn’t respond immediately. Her silence wasn’t agreement—it was the kind of pause that came when old rules were being challenged.
“It’s not the final exam season,” he added, softening his tone. “Let’s try this for just one semester. If it doesn’t work, we’ll return to the 4 a.m. routine.”
Still, Vimala didn’t look convinced. She got up wordlessly and walked toward the bed. Before slipping under the sheets, she muttered, “Okay… as you say.”
Vishwanath stayed seated for a moment longer, staring into the night, the image of his son’s quiet, confused face lingering in his mind.
He sighed, turned off the light, and followed her into the shadows of sleep.
There was a strange energy pulsing through the school compound that morning. Murmurs rose and fell like waves, snatches of conversation carried through the corridors—excitement, gossip, nervous laughter. Something big was happening.
A team from an international federation had arrived. They had come to handpick students for an upcoming global sporting event. The buzz wasn’t just about medals or glory—there was more. The chosen ones would be granted the rare chance to travel on a youth exchange program to Canada. For most kids in the village, this was like a golden ticket to another world.
Teachers had already lined up their favorites. The usual suspects. Bright students with polished shoes and polished accents. Top scorers and teacher’s pets. The school’s athletic prodigies were also herded together—cricketers with flowing strokes, basketballers who could leap like deer, the fastest swimmers, the table tennis champs with quick wrists. They were ready, primed to perform, to impress the foreign selectors with their talents and smiles.
Karthi entered the school compound with his usual dragging footsteps, a bag slung carelessly over his shoulder, his shirt already half-untucked. His eyes scanned the flyers pasted on the walls and the bright banners draped across the gates. INTERNATIONAL YOUTH TALENT EXCHANGE – SELECTIVE SCREENING TODAY. Just one glance, and he knew—this wasn’t for him.
He walked past the commotion like it was another school festival that didn’t need his presence. Karthi knew the drill: the spotlight never shone on him. He wasn’t the boy who broke records or solved math problems in front of the class. He couldn’t throw a ball straight or swim a lap without gasping halfway.
But today, something was different.
As he plopped into his usual seat in the third row from the back, he couldn’t stop the grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
He had woken up at 8 a.m. For the first time in years, no shouts, no alarm bells, no buckets of water or 4 a.m. math drills.
Just sweet, uninterrupted sleep.
“Thanks, Ghibli Mama,” he whispered under his breath for what felt like the hundredth time that morning.
Just as Karthi was about to let his gaze drift dreamily out the window, the classroom door creaked open—and in walked a group of tall, unfamiliar figures. They carried themselves with the confidence of people who knew exactly why they were there. Light eyes, pale skin, neat suits. Their arms held neatly stacked papers, and their presence instantly silenced the class.
The murmurs died. Heads turned. Even the ones usually glued to their benches sat up straighter.
The strangers began speaking, their words crisp but tangled in a thick Canadian accent that left most of the students blinking in confusion.
“Good mornin’, eh—we’re here to conduct a preliminary psychometric…uh, aptitude-based…”
Karthi stared, not in confusion, but curiosity. The foreign words flowed in a rhythm he couldn’t fully decode. But something about this wasn’t like the cricket team or the swimming trials. This was different.
Their class teacher, Ms. Kanchana, stepped in quickly, offering a warm smile to the group before turning to the class.
“Dear students,” she began, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “These dignitaries have come all the way from Canada. They are here to identify students who may have a natural talent for chess.”
A few heads tilted.
“Yes, even if you’ve never played chess before, don’t worry. Through a simple aptitude test, they will assess your logical reasoning and decision-making abilities. If you’re selected, they will offer to train you further for their international program.”
The class was still processing her words when she added, “All the best to each one of you.”
And with that, she stepped down from the small platform and began handing out the sheets.
Karthi sat upright, alert now. Chess? He had heard of it, of course, and maybe even watched a game or two being played at the local temple festival. But he had never once moved a pawn in his life.
Still, something about the word aptitude buzzed in his head. This wasn’t about running fast. Or solving equations. This was about the way your mind worked.
He reached for the paper.
For the first time ever, he might stand a chance.
Karthi looked down at the answer sheet, the sharp tip of his pencil resting at the edge of the first question. His fingers trembled slightly, not with fear, but with anticipation. Then, just as Ghibli Mama had instructed, he closed his eyes and chanted the mantra—softly, reverently—three times.
The moment the final syllable left his lips, something inside him shifted. A quiet confidence bloomed.
He opened his eyes and began.
He didn’t analyse too much. Didn’t question every thought. He simply trusted the first answer that came to him, moving from one question to the next like a leaf carried gently by a stream. Logic and instinct seemed to dance together inside his mind, working in tandem without conflict. What used to feel like a battlefield now felt like music.
Each problem he faced, he approached with a strange familiarity. It was as if he’d taken this test before—not once, but many times in another life, or another dream. The fear that usually clenched his stomach during exams was gone. In its place was a quiet thrill.
This wasn’t a test anymore. It was play.
And for the first time ever, Karthi felt like he was winning.
The announcement came just before the final bell, echoing through the old speakers mounted high on the school walls. Only 4 children got selected from the entire lot that day and Karthi 8 B was one of them.
“Thank you, Ghibli Mama,” he said under his breath, with a quiet smile that refused to leave his face.
Every evening, as twilight wrapped the village in a soft lavender hue, Karthi made his pilgrimage to the pond. It had become a ritual now—something more sacred than even prayer. He’d wait for the world to slow down, collect three small stones, and throw them one after the other, like coded keys unlocking an ancient portal. By the time the third stone rippled the water, Ghibli Mama would appear—his face gentle, patient, almost glowing against the water’s surface.
Karthi would smile, not with awe anymore, but with the familiarity of an old friend.
“Training’s going well,” he’d say, sometimes placing his chess workbook beside the pond for Ghibli to ‘see’. “The coach says I’ve got a ‘natural pattern-spotting eye’. Whatever that means.”
Ghibli would listen with the same stillness as always, occasionally offering a nod or a half-smile that twinkled in the reflection.
Karthi never brought up the remaining problems from his list—the things he once thought would take a lifetime to fix. They didn’t feel urgent anymore. Life had gently shifted around him. Teachers who once ignored him now stopped to ask about his practice games. Boys who never picked him for cricket invited him to the canteen for samosas. And girls… well, even they had started to greet him with smiles and the occasional question about chess or classwork.
He shared only the little things with Ghibli now—riddles he had learned, philosophical questions he didn’t fully understand, or the silly joke Bipin cracked at lunch. And Ghibli, always calm, always present, listened like every word was worth remembering.
Karthi never asked for more. He was just grateful for the space to speak and be heard. And perhaps, somewhere in his heart, he knew Ghibli had given him far more than a mantra or a miracle. He had given him something Karthi never even knew he was looking for—Belief.
The semester had tiptoed into the calendar, and this time, Karthi was ready—not with overconfidence, but with something deeper. Clarity. Between night studies that suited his rhythm and the chess lessons that sharpened his focus, a strange calmness had crept into his routine. It wasn’t perfect, but it was his.
Still, one thing continued to gnaw at the edges of his confidence—his handwriting. That chaotic scrawl that even he struggled to decipher on some days. No teacher had ever spared him from the sarcastic red marks or the occasional “Write neatly, please!” sprawled across the margins.
He had thought about changing it, practising loops and curves, but it felt too late now. So he let it go. “I’ll attempt every question,” he told himself as he slipped into his seat for the English exam. “And leave the rest to the Almighty.”
The question paper came—a crisp stack of printed pages. Karthi held it between his palms, closed his eyes gently, and whispered the mantra Ghibli Mama had given him. Once, twice, thrice.
Then, like always, he didn’t scan the paper or strategize. He simply began with the first question.
The pen touched paper. But it was not the same. Today, something had shifted.
His hand slowed down—not out of fatigue, but like it was being guided. Each letter formed with intention. Curved. Clean. Almost artistic. Karthi blinked and leaned slightly forward. Was this his writing? The lines on the page looked like they’d been printed by a newspaper press. Not one loop out of place. Not one wobble or tremor.
He paused for a moment and chuckled under his breath, the image of Ghibli Mama’s long white beard flashing in his mind.
Karthi didn’t overthink it. He simply surrendered to the rhythm. Word after word, line after line, he followed the flow. For the first time, he wasn’t racing time. He was dancing with it.
Karthi had just seen the results posted on the notice board—his name gleamed in second place out of sixty-two students. And there she was, Varsha, the perennial topper, glancing at him from across the corridor. She walked toward him, her steps unsure but determined, and he could feel his heart thudding with a rhythm he hadn’t heard since the second grade—since the day he first liked her.
For the first time in eight years, Varsha spoke to Karthi.
“Hi, Karthi,” she said, her voice soft, almost shy. “What’s your plan for the holidays?”
Karthi blinked. For a moment, words escaped him. He tried to look composed, but the sudden attention from Varsha, the girl he had admired from afar for nearly a decade, had scrambled his thoughts.
“Oh… hey… ahh, Varsha,” he managed. “My dad is taking us to Bangalore and Mysore day after tomorrow. It’s a small family tour. And after we’re back, my chess training will begin.”
There was a pause. Varsha smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “We have a small party at home this evening,” she said. “Why don’t you come?”
Karthi stared at her, stunned. No one had ever invited him home before—especially not a girl, and especially not Varsha. For a moment, the world seemed to shimmer.
“Yes, I’d love to!” he blurted, trying not to sound too eager. “What time?”
“The party is at six,” she said. “But you can come by five. I’ll show you around the house.”
“Okay,” Karthi replied quickly, nodding. “I’ll be there.”
He turned and walked briskly toward Bipin, who stood waiting by the classroom door, still unaware of the strange magic that had just unfolded.
Karthi stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of his best shirt for the third time. It wasn’t new, but it was the cleanest and crispest one he owned. He’d combed his hair carefully, even dabbed a little of his father’s cologne—just enough to smell nice but not enough to get teased.
By 4 p.m., he was out the door.
He didn’t want to be late. Not for this.
His mother watched him leave, her hands still wet from rinsing the rice. There was something different in the way Karthi walked that day—measured, focused, and with a sense of anticipation. Not the usual restless energy of a boy chasing butterflies or catching dragonflies, as he had just a few months ago. No, this was something else.
She wiped her hands on her saree and stood silently, watching the fading figure of her son turn the corner. A gentle ache bloomed in her chest—part joy, part melancholy. Karthi was growing up. And he was growing up fast.
Varsha looked like she had stepped out of a dream.
Her pink frock shimmered in the soft light, and the red heels she wore gave her a grace Karthi had never imagined on anyone their age. Her hair was neatly done, a touch of gloss on her lips, and her eyes sparkled with the energy of the evening. The house behind her was alive—music floating through the air, laughter rising from the hall, and the warm buzz of close relatives filling the space.
When Karthi arrived at her doorstep, nervous and breathless, Varsha greeted him with the finest smile he had ever seen on her face.
“Come,” she said gently, her voice kind, as though she’d been waiting just for him.
She led him through the entrance, past a tall flower arrangement and a line of shoes from the other guests. The house smelled of incense and sweets, the kind only made during special occasions. Karthi followed her silently, soaking in every detail—until they reached the staircase.
She glanced back at him. “Let me show you something.”
Curious, Karthi climbed behind her, their footsteps soft against the wooden steps. She opened a door at the end of the corridor.
“This is my study room.”
Karthi stepped in—and stopped.
“Wow!” he gasped, his eyes widening. “So many books?”
The walls were lined with shelves, each stacked with books—most of them hardbound, some leather-spined, others worn from use. There were encyclopedias, classics, journals, and novels. The sunlight filtering through the windows caught on the gold lettering of some of the titles.
“My grandfather is a voracious reader,” Varsha said, her tone modest. “Then my mother. I read sometimes.”
Karthi turned to her, his eyes still full of wonder. “This isn’t a library,” he said, his voice soft with awe. “It’s a temple of knowledge.”
Varsha moved gracefully toward one of the taller shelves, her fingers skimming across the spines until she stopped at a worn but well-kept book. She pulled it out and turned to him, her expression warm, almost secretive.
“Bobby Fischer Teaches Chess,” she said, holding it out. “Keep this. This is for you.”
Karthi blinked. He stared at the book, then at her, as if trying to decode whether this moment was real.
“What? For me?” he asked, almost in a whisper, his voice thick with surprise and something deeper—gratitude, awe.
She nodded.
Karthi reached for the book, then paused suddenly. “Oh, wait,” he said, closing his eyes, and chanted the mantra thrice.
When he opened his eyes, Varsha was still watching him, head tilted in curiosity. “I’ve noticed you do that in the exam hall too,” she said, smiling. “What is that anyway?”
“It’s a mantra,” Karthi replied, gently taking the book from her hands, as though it were something sacred.
“What mantra?” she asked, stepping a little closer.
He looked around, almost theatrically, then leaned forward. “Bring your ear closer,” he whispered.
She hesitated for just a second, then leaned in. Her hair brushed against his cheek. He whispered the mantra—low, deliberate, and steady.
“Holy cow… what have I done?” Karthi muttered, panic clutching his throat like a vice.
He tightened his grip on the chess book, his knuckles whitening around Bobby Fischer Teaches Chess. His mind was spinning, heart racing far ahead of him.
“Varsha, I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, his voice cracking. “I need to leave now.”
Varsha stepped forward, concern flashing across her face. “Wait—what happened? What went wrong?”
“I’ll explain later,” he said quickly, already turning away, already vanishing from the warmth of the lights and the faint echo of music downstairs.
And just like that, he was gone.
He ran.
He didn’t care about the road—didn’t care about the potholes or the stench of the drains, the cow dung smeared across the footpath, or the human filth piled in corners. None of it mattered today. Not when something inside him had cracked open, and he knew it was urgent.
Karthi didn’t stop until he reached the pond.
It was still.
The lilies floated gently on the surface, half-asleep in the dusk light. Dragonflies skimmed over the water, dancing aimlessly, and frogs croaked from somewhere behind the bushes. The world was calm—but Karthi was not. He was huffing and puffing, bent over, gasping for air.
He placed the book gently on the old cement bench—the usual bench, the place he always came when life stopped making sense.
Then, as always, he picked up three stones.
The first one—he threw with purpose. The stone cut through the air and hit the water with a soft plunk. Ripples spread across the surface, distorting his reflection. Then the waves faded, and there he was again—alone, staring back at himself.
The second stone—he threw harder. It landed with a dull thud. But this time, the ripples came and went without much resistance. Nothing changed.
And now, the final one. The one that mattered most.
“Come on, Ghibli Mama,” he whispered. “Please. I need you.”
He threw it with hope. With trust. With belief. The stone sliced through the air and landed.
The water stirred. But this time no figure appeared. No old man with a long white beard or black waishty stood near his reflection.
Just Karthi.
Only his own reflection.
Alone.
He placed both his hands on his head, dropped onto the bench, and sat still. The book beside him and the silence around him.
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