Nira And the God Who Misplaced Magic: Part 1

THE DOOR THAT APPLIED FOR PERMISSION

The day I discovered Ulto-Pulto-Lok, I had been sentenced to clean Grandmother’s storeroom. Mother delivered the sentence at exactly nine in the morning, with the calm firmness of a judge who had already heard every possible appeal.

“You have been searching for your blue mathematics notebook for six days,” she said. “Perhaps it is hiding in the storeroom with all your other lost civilisations.”

I protested that civilisations were usually buried beneath deserts, not behind pickle jars. Mother replied by placing a broom in my hand. The argument was therefore officially closed.

Grandmother’s storeroom smelled of old paper, dried chillies, brass polish and the faint sweetness of forgotten festival sweets. It contained three broken chairs, a harmonium that coughed instead of singing, a great-grandfatherly trunk with iron corners, nineteen empty sweet boxes that Grandmother considered historically important, and an old red umbrella leaning in the darkest corner.

The moment I touched the umbrella, it sneezed. “Mind your fingers,” it said. I dropped it. “Mind my ribs too,” it added from the floor. “People assume umbrellas have no feelings merely because we open up easily.”

“You can talk!”

“And you can repeat obvious information. We both have talents.”

The umbrella introduced himself as Chhataram. He claimed that he had once served as Royal Weather Adviser to the Cloud Kingdom but had resigned because clouds never followed advice. According to him, thunder ignored memoranda, rain arrived late for appointments, and the wind refused to sign attendance registers.

“Where is my mathematics notebook?” I asked. “How should I know? I specialise in precipitation, not multiplication.” Before I could question him further, the great-grandfatherly trunk began to knock from the inside. Knock-knock. “Who is there?” I asked. “Permission,” said a muffled voice.

“Permission who?”

“Permission to come out.” The trunk lid opened half an inch. A polished brass doorknob peeped through the gap like a suspicious eye. “Are you Nira Sen?” it asked.

“Why?”

“I cannot tell you until you confirm that you are Nira Sen.”

“I am.”

“Can you prove it?”

I showed it my school identity card. The doorknob examined the photograph with bureaucratic seriousness.

“This girl has two plaits.”

“I cut my hair last month.”

“Then you are no longer identical to your identity.”

Before I could argue, the trunk gave an enormous yawn. Chhataram, the doorknob and I tumbled over its edge and fell inside.

We dropped through a long tunnel crowded with floating commas, runaway slippers and teaspoons shouting railway announcements. A cloud overtook us from the left without signalling. A disappointed potato floated past, muttering that it had trained all its life to become a samosa but had been assigned to stew. Somewhere below, an invisible orchestra played half a tune and then forgot why it had begun.

We landed in a mustard field before an enormous blue door standing entirely by itself. It had no wall, no house and no sensible reason for being there. On it hung a painted board:

OFFICE OF ENTRY INTO ULTO-PULTO-LOK  OPEN ON ALL DAYS EXCEPT DAYS ENDING IN “DAY”

Behind a desk beside the door sat a mongoose in a white coat. His spectacles were tied to his ears with red thread, and his desk was piled so high with forms that only his nose and official stamp remained clearly visible.

“Purpose of visit?” he asked.

“Accidental falling,” I replied.

“There is no category for accidental falling. We have deliberate falling, ceremonial falling and falling with agricultural intention.”

“What happens if I choose the wrong category?”

“You will be promoted to a different queue.”

There were seven queues in front of the desk. Nobody stood in them because each queue was waiting for permission to begin. The mongoose introduced himself as Deputy Assistant Temporary Door Inspector Mangaldas. He handed me Form 99-U, an application seeking permission to apply for permission. “Attach two copies of your shadow,” he instructed.

“My shadow is attached to me.”

“Then detach it.”

“Suppose I cannot?”

“Submit a declaration explaining why you failed to submit the explanation regarding your inability to detach what was required to be attached.” Chhataram leaned towards me and whispered, “This is excellent weather for rebellion.” I looked at the great blue door. A tear was sliding from its keyhole. “Why are you sad?” I asked. The door sniffed. Its brass hinges trembled.

“I have been waiting seventy-three years for permission to open.”

“But you are the entrance.”

“That is precisely the difficulty. An entrance may be authorised to permit entry, but I have not been certified as an authorised entrance.” Mangaldas adjusted his spectacles. “The object lacks documentary evidence that it is a door.” “It has hinges, a lock and a sign saying ‘door’!” “The sign was issued by the door itself. Conflict of interest.”

“Can’t you simply open it?”

“Without proof that it is a door? Suppose it turns out to be a disappointed window?”

At that moment Professor Bhokambol emerged from behind the desk. He was a green goat wearing six pairs of spectacles, one behind another, so that his eyes appeared to be living at the far end of a glass tunnel.

“A fascinating administrative dilemma,” he said. “I wrote my doctoral thesis on objects that cannot prove they exist.”

“What did you conclude?” I asked.

He chewed thoughtfully.

“I ate the conclusion. It lacked fibre.”

Professor Bhokambol explained that Ulto-Pulto-Lok had once been full of magic. Rivers climbed mountains to improve the view. Songs grew on bushes and had to be harvested before they became too sentimental. People could borrow extra Tuesdays when Mondays became unbearable.

Then the God of Magic disappeared.

In his absence, the Collector of Certainties declared that everything must be properly defined. Birds needed flying licences. Fish required certificates of wetness. Dreams had to announce their destinations before entering anyone’s sleep. Even shadows had to remain the correct distance behind their owners.

“Where is the God of Magic?” I asked. “No one knows,” said the professor. “But an old prophecy says that a question-loving child will follow eight impossible clues to the Palace of Unfinished Wonders.” Mangaldas coughed disapprovingly. “Prophecies must be filed in triplicate.” I turned back to the blue door. “What would prove that you are a door?”

“An official opening certificate.”

“And what would prove you can open?”

“Opening.”

“So open.”

“I cannot open without the certificate.”

“Then close.”

“I am already closed.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Only a door can be closed in a way that prevents someone from entering through it. If you were a wall, nobody would say you were closed. If you were a window, Mangaldas would climb through you to avoid work.”

Mangaldas looked deeply offended. “I climb through windows only during official emergencies.” Professor Bhokambol’s front spectacles clouded with excitement. “The child has produced reverse evidence!”

The door gasped. Its panels straightened and its hinges shivered.“But will it be accepted?”“Accept it yourself,” I said. “You have spent seventy-three years waiting for strangers to certify what you already do every day.” For a moment the mustard field became completely still. Even the forms on Mangaldas’s desk stopped rustling. Then the blue door declared, “I hereby recognise myself as a door.” Mangaldas leapt to his feet. “Self-recognition is not listed in the manual!” The manual on his desk suddenly opened its stained cover and spoke. “Neither are mango chutney marks,” it said, “yet I have seventeen.”The blue  door flung itself open.

A roaring wind swept across the field. The seven queues tangled together and became a skipping rope. Forms flew into the sky and turned into white pigeons. Rubber stamps stamped one another in panic. Mangaldas’s desk sprouted four wooden wheels and escaped towards the mountains, still carrying half his paperwork.

Then the entire office began to hiccup.

HIC! The mustard flowers jumped. HIC! Mangaldas’s white coat divided itself into a flock of handkerchiefs. HIC! A tiny silver bubble emerged from the door’s keyhole, smelling faintly of cardamom. Professor Bhokambol caught it inside a medicine bottle and held it up to the sunlight. “The First Impossible Clue,” he announced. “The Hiccup of an Unopened Door.” Letters formed upon the bottle:

WHEN THE DOOR THAT NEVER OPENED HICCUPS,  FOLLOW THE KING WHO HAS NEVER RIPENED.

“A king who has never ripened?” I said. “A raw mango, perhaps,” said Chhataram. “A young idea,” said Professor Bhokambol. “A badly planned government,” muttered Mangaldas. Beyond the open door stretched a road paved with yellow leaves. Far away, drums beat, slogans rose into the afternoon air and fruit sellers sang campaign songs in several competing tunes.

I could have gone home. Mother would be waiting. My mathematics notebook was still missing, and I strongly suspected the disappointed potato had taken it for further education. But somewhere beyond the yellow road was the God of Magic. I stepped through the doorway.

Chhataram hopped after me, his red canopy held high. Professor Bhokambol followed because the prophecy sounded academically nutritious. Mangaldas came too, claiming that somebody had to inspect whatever happened next and issue the appropriate objections.

Behind us, the blue door called, “Will you return?”

“Yes,” I promised.

“Can you prove it?”

“No.”

The door laughed so loudly that three nearby mountains took off their hats. That was how my journey began: without permission, without a map and without the faintest idea why the hiccup of a door smelled of cardamom.