Nira And the God Who Misplaced Magic: Part 8

THE PALACE OF UNFINISHED WONDERS

The crooked path led through places that refused to remain places. A desert became a library whenever we looked away. A staircase climbed into its own pocket. Mountains exchanged positions because one had a better view of the river. At last we reached the Palace of Unfinished Wonders. It had seven towers, eight shadows and no visible entrance.

The silver hiccup bounced against a wall.

HIC!

A door appeared. The song of the unripe star made it glow green. The Chalk-Dust Compass pointed towards LOOK AGAIN. When I looked again, the door had become a question. The Missing Minute slipped into its keyhole. The invisible footprint walked through. The bottled thunder knocked. The unsolved laugh answered from inside. The palace opened.

Its entrance hall contained incomplete miracles. A rainbow waited for its final colour. A tiger practised becoming brave. Half a poem searched beneath the furniture for its rhyme. A stone had grown two feathers but could not decide whether to become a bird.

“Where is the God of Magic?” I called. The palace echoed: “Magic?” “Magic?” “Did someone misplace magic?”

A thin servant approached. He was made entirely of dust brushed from forgotten objects. “I am Dhuloram, Keeper of What People Almost Noticed,” he said. He examined our clues. “You have brought the Seven Signs.” “Seven?” I counted. “The hiccup, song, compass, minute, footprint, thunder and laugh. Yes.” “There should be eight.” “The prophecy said eight impossible clues,” said Professor Bhokambol. Dhuloram nodded sadly. “The eighth clue belongs to the traveller.” I searched my pockets. I found a button, two tamarind seeds, the crown, a pencil, three biscuit crumbs and my school identity card. “None of these seems impossible.” “Identity cards frequently are,” said Mangaldas.

Dhuloram led us through seven chambers. In the first, doors waited for permission. In the second, crowns chased heads. In the third, answers examined questions. In the fourth, rumours grew legs. In the fifth, shoes argued over invisible feet. In the sixth, air sat inside a cash box. In the seventh, the Great Machine repeatedly declared, “I do not know,” and seemed happier each time. “These chambers contain the magic you released,” said Dhuloram. “Each act weakened the Collector’s rule.” “Then where is the God?” “In the eighth chamber.”

The eighth chamber had no door. Only a blank wall and a brass plate:

ENTRY RESTRICTED TO THE PERSON WHO IS NOT CERTAIN WHO SHE IS.

“I know who I am,” I said. “Nira Sen.” “Can you prove it?” Chhataram asked. I showed my identity card. The photograph had two plaits. I touched my short hair. The first door’s question returned to me. Was I less myself because I had changed? I thought of the journey. I had been a student, an accidental traveller, an election adviser, a smuggler of questions, a defender of tomorrow, an unregistered barefoot person, an air striker and an enemy of perfect calculation. Which was the real Nira? Perhaps all. Perhaps none completely. “I am Nira Sen,” I told the wall. “But I am not certain what Nira Sen may become.” The wall smiled. I had not known walls possessed teeth. It opened.

Inside stood the Collector of Certainties. He wore a white coat divided into perfect squares. His hair was parted with mathematical accuracy. Behind him hung a glass cage. Inside the cage was an old woman sleeping upon a floating carpet of newspapers. Her hair changed colour with each breath. Flowers grew from her fingertips and immediately became butterflies, spoons or small thunderstorms. “The God of Magic?” I whispered. “Goddess, god, grandmother, child, rumour, weather,” said the Collector. “The title varies. Her name is Maya.” The sleeping woman opened one eye. “You took your time,” she said. “You are awake!” “I am the God of Magic. Sleep is not an obstacle. It is an office.” “Why don’t you escape?” The glass cage had no lock. Maya yawned. “Because he has convinced Ulto-Pulto-Lok that I no longer matter. A god ignored is more securely imprisoned than a god behind iron.”

The Collector raised a silver ruler. “You have seen what magic causes, Nira. Disorder. Argument. Disobedient rivers. Inconvenient questions.” “I also saw doors open, orchards heal and children think.” “At what cost? Uncertainty.” He pointed at the unfinished wonders around us. “Magic leaves things incomplete. A predictable world is safer.” “Safer for whom?” asked Kabir. “For everyone.” “That usually means someone else chose the meaning of ‘everyone’,” said Dharti the sandal, who had somehow travelled in our luggage without mentioning it. The Collector ignored her. He opened a book called THE FINAL DEFINITION OF EVERYTHING. “As soon as I write the last sentence, every object, creature and person will possess one permanent meaning. A child will be only a child. A tree only timber or property. A question only disturbance. A mistake only failure. A story only the words already written.”

The palace trembled. The unfinished rainbow began losing colours. Perhaps shrank to the size of a comma. The Collector dipped his pen into black ink. I released the Seven Signs. The door’s hiccup made his hand jump. The unripe star sang inside his ruler. The compass pointed his book towards LOOK AGAIN. The Missing Minute hid between two seconds. The invisible footprint walked across his final sentence. Thunder shook the ink. The unsolved laugh made the pen giggle. Still the Collector continued writing. “There are only seven,” he said. “The eighth clue is missing. Your journey remains incomplete.”

Maya watched me through the glass. “What did you carry through every adventure?” she asked. “My questions?” “More impossible.” “Myself?” “Even more impossible.” The Collector’s pen approached the final full stop. I remembered the blue door laughing without proof I would return. I remembered the roots voting, Blackboard admitting fear, Bhavishyabati confessing her wish for effortless laddus, the barefoot crossing, the leaf strike and the Machine’s courageous “I do not know.” Each world had changed when someone imagined that the rules were not the only possible rules. “Imagination,” I said. Maya shook her head. “Imagination creates possibilities. What makes you enter one?”

I looked at my companions. Chhataram had followed me into rain though he feared weather. Tipu had become brave while trembling. Mangaldas had broken procedures he once worshipped. Professor Bhokambol had risked electrical indigestion. Kabir kept singing a song without knowing its end. “Courage?” I asked. “Closer.” The Collector laughed sharply. “Courage can be measured. Soldiers, climbers, rescuers—” “It is wonder,” said Jhilmil. The palace lights brightened. Maya smiled. “Wonder notices the impossible. But why did Nira keep travelling?” I finally understood. “Because I cared what happened to people who were not me.” The eighth clue rose from my chest as a tiny warm light. It was not a heroic flame. It resembled the lamp Grandmother kept near the household shrine during power cuts. Curiosity with kindness.

The Collector stepped back. “That is not a clue!” “It cannot be owned,” said Maya. “It cannot be standardised,” said Perhaps. “It cannot even be properly invoiced,” said Mangaldas. The warm light touched the Collector’s Final Definition. Every sentence changed.

A CHILD IS ONLY—became:A CHILD IS STILL BECOMING.A TREE IS PROPERTY—became:A TREE IS SHADE, BREATH, MEMORY, HABITAT, WOOD, ROOT, MYSTERY AND WHATEVER THE BIRDS KNOW.A MISTAKE IS FAILURE—became:A MISTAKE MAY BE A DOOR WE ENTER SIDEWAYS.

The Collector tried to close the book. The book bit his fingers. “You cannot defeat certainty!” he shouted. “We do not need to defeat it,” I said. “We need it to stop pretending it is everything.” Maya stood. The glass cage dissolved into rain. She stretched her arms. The unfinished wonders awakened. The stone with feathers flew three inches, decided that was enough for its first day and landed proudly. The tiger admitted he was frightened and roared anyway. The rainbow selected a final colour nobody had seen before. The Collector’s perfect squares became crooked. His ruler softened into a ribbon. His straight shoes curled at the toes. “What will happen to me?” he asked. Maya considered. “You will become Minister of Reliable Measurements.” His face brightened. “Under the supervision of Perhaps.” His face dimmed.

The Palace celebrated. Doors danced with roots. Questions married answers but kept separate surnames. The river arrived carrying free air. Bhavishyabati brought real laddus made by an actual kitchen. The Great Machine told a joke nobody understood and recorded the failure as promising research. Kabir sang his unfinished song. Maya listened to the final silence. “That is the ending,” she said. “But there are no words,” he replied. “Some endings open their mouths towards the next story.” I asked Maya the question that had carried me across Ulto-Pulto-Lok. “Did you misplace magic?” “No.” “Did the Collector steal it?” “No.” “Then where was it?” Maya pointed towards every creature in the palace. “Magic was distributed so widely that everyone assumed it belonged somewhere else.”

I should have felt satisfied. Instead, the Chalk-Dust Compass began spinning. The palace shook. The blue door from our first adventure appeared in the air. It was not laughing now. “Nira,” it said, “something has entered your world.” Beyond it lay Grandmother’s storeroom. Only it was different. The walls were covered with numbered instructions. The harmonium sat silently beneath a sign forbidding unauthorised music. Grandmother’s historical sweet boxes had been measured, labelled and arranged by size. Mother stood motionless, wearing a numbered helmet from Ganakpur. At the centre of the storeroom stood another Nira. She had two long plaits, exactly like the photograph on my identity card. She held my blue mathematics notebook. Beside her stood a second Collector of Certainties. This one was made not of rulers but mirrors. The other Nira looked through the door and smiled. “You found the God of Magic,” she said. “Good.” She opened my mathematics notebook. Every page was blank except the last. Upon it were written eight words:

ONLY ONE OF YOU CAN RETURN AS NIRA.

The mirror Collector raised his hand. The door began to close. I leapt forward. So did the other Nira. And before either of us reached the threshold, the entire universe sneezed.

END OF THE FIRST CYCLE

THE JOURNEY WILL CONTINUE IN:

NIRA AND THE REPUBLIC OF BORROWED FACES