Shyam barged into his room—one hand clutching his backpack—closed the door behind him, and sat on his chair. The chair groaned below him. He placed the backpack on his lap and swept all his books off the study table. He unzipped the backpack quickly and carefully took out something that looked like a stone. He placed it on the table and stared at it. The stone—if it could even be called that, with its black shiny coating, and glowing green streaks—had been lying on the side of the road when Shyam rode his bicycle past it on his way back home from school. He had braked to a screeching halt, scraped his feet like a toddler on the asphalt as he pushed the bicycle back towards the stone, and had stared at it—glimmering under the afternoon sun—just as he was staring at it now.
The green glow pulsed steadily on the table. At some point, Shyam felt that the stone was breathing—in perfect tandem with his own. It sort of felt that the stone was meant to be found by him and no one else. He owned the stone.
It is yours, a voice in his brain assured him.
He would keep it safe, away from others, especially after he found out what it could do. Almost an hour earlier, he had stepped off of his bicycle and had picked up the stone. It had felt cold in his hands. He had immediately understood, as if from some cosmic reasoning, that the stone was special. He had looked around to see if anyone had been watching. He had been alone. For some reason, maybe because of a murmur in his head from the same cosmic origins as before, he had thought of Aladdin—and his lamp. He had rubbed the stone three times, its breathing green reflecting in his dark irises, and had hoped for something to happen. But nothing did. Five, a voice had spoken in his head. He had rubbed the stone two more times. What he had not realised at that moment, and what the cosmic power had not told him, was that his life would never be the same from that point onwards.
He picked up the stone from the table and admired it. He rubbed his hand on the stone. It gleamed green. He rubbed it again and it whispered—a cosmic buzz. He raised his hand again—
‘Shyam!’ yelled a woman’s voice from somewhere beyond the door.
‘Yes ma!’ Shyam replied, his eyes breaking away from the stone.
‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ Shyam’s ma replied. Her voice was much calmer now but it still held weight, the kind that all mothers possess. ‘Come down, I’ll make some chai.’
‘Coming ma,’ Shyam turned his gaze back at the alien object in his hand. ‘Just a minute!’
He rubbed the stone two more times. The green streams were beaming now and Shyam’s face basked in the colour. The stone vibrated in his hands. His heart vibrated with it. His palm holding the rock felt colder. His other hand hovered above the stone and then quickly brushed against it. His room stretched around him as he stretched along with it. The beige walls and the white floor coalesced. His body intertwined with the strands of colour that used to be his room once. It did not hurt—in fact, he did not feel anything. He had not felt anything back there on the side of the road too. The colours zoomed past blackness. He was in it, and at the same time he could see himself in a multicoloured river meandering its way through space. The strands started to separate and merge with like colours. Soon, Shyam found himself—a younger version of himself—in the backseat of a car. He saw his mother’s black hair peeping from behind the co-passenger seat in front. He turned his head towards the driver’s seat and there he was—his dad. His pa. He looked up at the rear-view mirror and saw his father’s eyes—just like how he remembered them; calm yet powerful. The eyes shifted and caught Shyam’s eyes.
‘Hey buddy,’ his pa’s warm voice said. ‘All set for your first day?’
Shyam clutched the school backpack at his side. ‘Yes p—’
The car stretched and the colours mixed. Shyam tried to scream no, but no sounds came out. He stretched along with the car.
He opened his eyes with a gasp. The stone lay on the table; it had fallen from his hands at some point. He felt a tear drop make its way down his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. A coldness swept across his body. As he pondered this, he realised that his bag was gone. It was right here on his lap, but now it was gone. He looked around and saw no one. The stone had taken his bag, like it had taken his bicycle when he had used it the first time.
Give one, take one, the voice in his mind whispered.
It had said the same thing after it had shown him his father the first time he had used the stone, on the side of the road. He had been taken to a beach at that time. His father was in front of him, his back to Shyam, crouching down on the sand, trying to build back a sand castle that Shyam had toppled over. It had been exactly like how he remembered it. This was from a few years back—before his father had slipped and fallen from that godforsaken building. Another tear rolled down his cheek.
Shyam had been at the beach for just a few seconds before being pulled out into reality. He had turned around, slightly disoriented, and saw that his bicycle was gone. He had run back home with the stone kept safely inside his backpack.
‘Shyam!’ his mom screamed from downstairs. ‘Where are you? Don’t make me come up there.’
‘Sorry ma! Just one more minute.’
Shyam looked at the stone and sniffled. He was grateful towards the being who whispered in his mind. He did not question the stone’s origins. He did not care how it worked. He missed his father. The stone gave him only a few seconds with his father—and that was enough, but if only he could see his pa’s face in those memories. He had to keep trying.
He rubbed the stone a couple of times. His ma would be mad, but just one more time—at least for now. He rubbed it a few more times, until he reached the golden number five, and the surroundings started to stretch. This time he ended up in his kitchen downstairs. He was looking up at his mother, her pretty brown eyes staring back into his. It seemed like a memory from long ago. He could not figure out from when.
‘Look who’s up bright and early!’ his ma exclaimed, her beautiful smile radiating in the warmth of the morning sun that seeped in through the windows. She extended her arms and Shyam fell into the embrace. She picked him up and Shyam rested his chin on her shoulder. He saw his father, facing the stove with his back towards him.
‘Want some hot milk, buddy?’ his father asked and slowly started to turn.
Shyam waved his hands at his father and blabbered. He just about saw the side of his father’s face, with his black beard, and those brown spectacles, when suddenly the room started to shift and turn. He was being pulled back. He clutched onto his mother as tight as he could but he was soon stretched out of that memory. Shyam opened his eyes to his room. The stone had once again fallen out of his hands and now it lay on the table.
Shyam got up and looked around. He saw the posters on the wall—all of his favourite superheroes and football players were still on his wall. He looked at his toys scattered about the room, some lay on the floor, some on the bed, some on his table—it all seemed to be there. He walked outside his room and looked around. The pictures on the wall, the pots with the plants—it was all there. He walked down the stairs and looked around the living room—all good, except for the smell. He walked into the kitchen. Milk was boiling over on the stove. White foam gurgled out of the pot and sizzled on the fire below. The aroma of burnt milk was nauseating. He looked around and saw no one. Dread rose in his chest.
No, it can’t be, he thought. No.
He ran out into his ma’s bedroom. No one was there. He ran back out into the living room, his head spinning and his breathing heavier.
Give one, take one, the voice whispered.
‘No, no,’ he sobbed. ‘Please don’t.’
Shyam stumbled up the stairs, eyes cloudy. He rushed into his room, sat on his chair, picked up the stone, and rubbed it five times. He prayed as he got warped into another memory.
He saw his pa. This time he was sitting on the couch downstairs, reading a newspaper, his face hidden behind it.
‘Pa,’ Shyam called out. His voice sounded much younger—an old memory again.
His father lowered the newspaper. ‘Rise and shine, buddy.’
Shyam admired his pa’s face—it looked just how he had remembered.
‘Your ma’s in there,’ his pa flicked a finger in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Go have breakfast.’
Shyam walked down the last three stairs and towards the kitchen. His pa’s face was back behind the newspaper. He stood at the doorway into the kitchen and stared at his ma. Her back was to him.
‘Ma, whe—’
The kitchen twisted and turned and Shyam was spat back into his reality. He opened his eyes, blurry and wet. The stone had once again fallen off. He looked on the table—not there. He looked under the table on the floor—not there. He stood up with alarm. His chair tumbled backwards and crashed onto the floor. Shyam looked around the room and did not see the green glow anywhere. His legs started to tremble.
‘Please,’ he whispered in between sobs thick with guilt and hopelessness. ‘Please, God, please—’
The silence that followed was broken by the voice. Give one, take one.
