Chapter 3: Oddities, Exercises, and Small Miracles

Another three days passed.

The sun rose and set, and each morning brought new oddities. Crows watched from the window, as if sensing mischief. Even old Pandey-ji the milkman shook his head, muttering, “Yeh ghar mein kuch toh gadbad hai.”

The wandering spirit had driven all my father’s old ailments away.

He could lift heavy buckets, shoo away stray goats nibbling our clothes, even walk barefoot on the hot mud path without a wince. Villagers whispered that maybe he’d found some hidden baba’s blessing.

He was excitedly doing strange exercises in the courtyard.

He flapped his arms like a crow, twisted his hips like in those filmi songs, sometimes hopping on one foot and grinning. Neighbours peeked from behind curtains, struggling not to laugh.

“Gardan ghumao, kamar hilao!”

He barked these orders at the sky, as if training invisible soldiers. I had to bite my lip to stop from giggling.

“Jaldi so, jaldi uth—shuru ho ja!”

It sounded like those government school posters, but from him, it was oddly comical.

I frowned, covered my ears, and watched him.

His antics were so loud, even pigeons on the roof flew away in annoyance. My head throbbed with the noise; I longed for a little peace.

Those moves were truly undignified.

No one in our family ever jumped around like that, not even at Holi. Ma would’ve fainted if she saw such tamasha in our courtyard.

But… I secretly practiced them at night.

When the moon was high and everyone slept, I crept outside to try those silly neck rolls and hip wiggles. It felt strange, but slowly, my body grew lighter, as if some old burden was lifting.

The wandering spirit’s powers were unfathomable—maybe these exercises were truly magical.

I thought of the TV yogis who promised to cure everything. Maybe the spirit knew secrets forgotten by the living.

After practicing for five or six days, my chest tightness and dizziness faded; I didn’t get winded fetching water.

By the sixth day, my breath was easy and my legs didn’t shake on the path to the well. Even the village kids teased me: “Arrey, kya raaz hai, yaar?” I just smiled.

But the wandering spirit never stuck to anything for long.

He grew restless, always peering down the road or muttering about big plans. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Once he could run and jump, he’d wander off all day.

Sometimes gone from sunrise to sunset, returning with odd things—half a guava, a broken comb, a faded playing card. I never asked where he went.

But today, he returned early…

Panting, forehead slick with sweat, kurta clinging to his back. His slippers slapped the mud floor.

Muttering curses:

“Uff, saari gali gobar se bhari hai. Yeh chappal bhi bekaar hai.”

He kicked off his slippers, glaring as if they’d betrayed him. His grumbling was pure desi—loud enough for the lane, but only I caught the choicest words.

He came in, saw me at the chulha, and lifted the pressure cooker lid.

Steam hissed out, making him jump back. He sniffed, wrinkling his nose like a child forced to drink karela juice.

His brows wrinkled, “Phir se jangal ka saag? Main toh hara hi ho jaunga khaate khaate!”

He eyed the bubbling curry as if it were poison, one hand on his chest in mock despair.

I looked at him, thinking: [What nonsense, you’re clearly turmeric-yellow.]

I almost rolled my eyes. His cheeks were yellow as haldi, not a hint of green. But arguing with a spirit felt like telling a cat not to steal milk.