Nira and the God who Misplaced Magic: Part 4

THE RUMOUR BAZAAR AND THE COW WHO SWALLOWED TOMORROW

Rumor Bazaar opened at midnight and closed three minutes before anyone discovered the truth. Its shops sold whispers in paper cones. “Fresh scandal!” cried a vendor. “Collected this morning from a neighbour’s curtain!”

“Imported suspicions!”

“Two kilograms of gossip for the price of one fact!”

A woman sold bottled opinions in six flavours: angry, superior, offended, patriotic, mysterious and “I knew it all along.”

The Chalk-Dust Compass pointed towards a large black cow sitting in the middle of the market. She wore a clock around her neck and looked worried. “I am Bhavishyabati,” she said. “I have swallowed tomorrow.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Someone told me that tomorrow would rain laddus. I opened my mouth to catch one. The entire day fell in.”

Inside her stomach, morning bells rang. Trains departed. Children complained about waking up. A newspaper announced events that had not yet happened. Without tomorrow, the citizens of Rumour Bazaar had become extremely reckless.

“Why repair the bridge?” said the mayor. “There is no tomorrow.”

“Why return borrowed money?”

“Why brush one’s teeth?”

Dentists protested that this argument was damaging both morality and business. 

The market’s most powerful merchant was Seth Sunasunaya, a giant ear wearing a silk waistcoat. He bought ordinary information and stretched it into alarming shapes. A dropped spoon became an earthquake warning. A cat’s sneeze became a foreign conspiracy. A missing sock became proof that the moon was stealing laundry. “Truth is a small product,” Seth Sunasunaya explained. “Rumour has better expansion potential.”

He offered to help us retrieve tomorrow. “For a modest fee, I will announce that Bhavishyabati has not swallowed tomorrow.”

“But she has.”

“Reality is often discouraged by confident advertising.”

The Chalk-Dust Compass pointed towards a narrow lane called Verified Street. It contained only one shop. The shopkeeper was an elderly mirror named Sach-Much. A cloth covered his face. “I can show the truth,” he said, “but only when nobody looks at me.”

“How can we see it, then?”

“That is why business is poor.”

Professor Bhokambol examined him. “A philosophical manufacturing defect.”

Sach-Much explained that tomorrow could be removed from Bhavishyabati only by finding the original rumour. Every repeated version had added something. We followed the rumour backwards.

A parrot had heard it from a barber. The barber had heard it from a radio. The radio had heard it from a window. The window had heard two clouds discussing condensation.

“Did you mention laddus?” I asked the clouds.

“We said ‘large drops’,” replied one.

The window had reported “laddu-sized drops.” The radio changed this to “laddus dropping.” The barber added “free laddus.” The parrot added “unlimited free laddus.”

Seth Sunasunaya had announced “Government-approved unlimited celestial laddus, tomorrow only.”

Bhavishyabati heard the announcement and opened her mouth.

“This should be simple,” said Mangaldas. “We issue a correction.”

A correction was printed:

CLARIFICATION: TOMORROW WILL NOT RAIN LADDUS.

Nobody bought it. “Too short,” said the newspaper. “Not exciting,” said the parrot. “Does it contain danger?” asked a customer.

“No.”

“Then why should I forward it?”

Jhilmil the firefly appeared above us, shining furiously. She led the Night Workers’ Union: fireflies, moths, owls, dreams and people who remembered urgent work after bedtime.

“You cannot defeat a giant rumour by whispering a correction,” she said. “Truth needs better lighting.”

We organised a performance in the central square. Chhataram played the cloud. Tipu played a laddu. Professor Bhokambol played the public and demanded several encores.

We demonstrated how “large drops” had become “unlimited free laddus.” Each character added one ridiculous detail. By the end, the rumour claimed that the laddus would hatch into golden elephants, open bank accounts and marry eligible umbrellas.

Chhataram objected to the final detail. The audience laughed. Seth Sunasunaya grew nervous. Rumours prefer frightened listeners; laughter makes them lose weight. He shouted a new rumour: “Nira plans to steal tomorrow and sell it to yesterday!”

The crowd turned towards me. “How do we know that is false?” someone cried.

“You don’t,” I said. The crowd murmured.“Not yet. So ask for evidence before deciding.”

Seth Sunasunaya produced a photograph of me holding a sack labelled TOMORROW. “That sack says potatoes,” I said. “It has been respectfully edited.” The potato inside shouted, “I object to being tomorrow! I have career plans.”Professor Bhokambol looked at the crowd.

“Which is more useful: a statement that arrives first, or one that survives questions?”

Seth Sunasunaya began selling a rumour that goats were secretly intellectuals. Professor Bhokambol bought three copies.

Meanwhile, Bhavishyabati groaned. Midnight was approaching inside her stomach. If tomorrow completed itself there, it would become yesterday without ever reaching us.

Sach-Much the mirror had an idea. “Turn your backs,” he said. Everyone turned away from him. In his unseen surface, the truth appeared.

We could not see it, but Bhavishyabati could. Cows have an additional stomach for invisible reflections. She saw herself listening to a rumour, opening her mouth and swallowing a day. She also saw something else: a small golden minute stuck between tomorrow’s noon and afternoon.

“The Missing Minute,” she mooed. To release tomorrow, she had to admit why she had believed the rumour. Bhavishyabati lowered her head. “I wanted something wonderful to happen without anyone having to grow grain, grind flour, heat oil or wash utensils. A sky full of laddus seemed easier than a kitchen.”

The market became quiet. Even Seth Sunasunaya stopped rustling. Bhavishyabati gave one magnificent burp. Tomorrow flew out. It unfolded over the sky like a fresh bedsheet. Dawn appeared at one corner, evening at another. Trains, appointments, unfinished homework and opportunities to apologise returned to their proper places.

A golden minute remained floating before us. Letters appeared around it:

THE MINUTE THAT TOMORROW MISPLACEDWALKS BAREFOOT WHERE SHOES RULE BY RANK.

The minute entered Tipu’s teacup. His tea glowed. The citizens renamed Rumour Bazaar Ask-Again Market. Rumours were still sold—banning them only made them wear disguises—but every packet had to display its ingredients:

Thirty per cent overheard conversation.Twenty per cent assumption.Ten per cent evidence.Forty per cent added for dramatic effect.

Seth Sunasunaya opened a verification counter. He complained constantly that truth had narrow profit margins but excellent repeat customers. Bhavishyabati promised to chew every announcement at least twice before swallowing it. As we departed, I asked Sach-Much why he showed truth only when nobody looked.

“Because,” said the mirror, “people often stand before truth looking only for themselves.”

Then he removed his cloth. For one second, I saw a tall shadow behind my reflection. It wore a coat stitched from straight rulers. In its hand was a cage containing something that sparkled like trapped laughter.

The Collector of Certainties.

Before I could turn, the shadow vanished. On the road ahead, hundreds of shoes marched beneath a sign:

WELCOME TO PADUKAPUR:

WHERE EVERY PERSON IS JUDGED FROM THE ANKLES DOWN