Chapter 4: Failing Fortunes and Reed Salt

The wandering spirit father couldn’t sit still for a minute.

Even at the hottest part of the day, when the whole village napped, he’d pace and mutter, gesturing wildly. He reminded me of the madman by the railway tracks, always talking to invisible friends.

Sometimes muttering nonstop, sometimes crying and laughing by himself.

He’d burst out laughing at the old calendar or weep over a broken cup. Neighbours kept their distance, whispering about madness and possession.

I worried there was something wrong in his head.

Once, I even thought about asking Pandey-ji to fetch a tantrik. But then I remembered—we couldn’t even afford a proper meal, let alone exorcisms.

Just listen to what he says—

“Reincarnators’ three treasures for getting rich: sabun, sheesha, aur reed salt.”

He’d say it as if giving a college lecture, hands waving like writing on an invisible board. Who talks about ‘reincarnators’ in a place where most dream only of the city?

“But I’m empty-handed, all alone, can’t get the raw materials… Chhodo, chhodo.”

He’d sigh dramatically, collapsing onto the charpai, staring at cobwebs on the ceiling.

“How about setting up a food stall?”

He’d rub his stomach, give me hopeful eyes, then shake his head.

“…Tch, bas khana aur dekhna aata tha, recipe kaun yaad rakhta hai? Chhodo.”

His disappointment was so childlike, I almost pitied him. It was as if he’d once been a great cook in some past life.

After a few such rants, I just shook my head and walked away.

No use arguing with someone lost in another world. I focused on chores—scrubbing pots, sweeping floors, anything to keep busy.

This wandering spirit wasn’t meant for a stable life.

Even a wandering sadhu is more grounded. Maybe the gods made a mistake sending him here.

Didn’t chop wood, didn’t farm, just sneaked around all day, idle and lazy.

He’d return with tales of hidden treasures and secret plans, never a coin or grain. Sometimes, I wondered if hunger would force him to work, or if we’d vanish like morning mist.

Sooner or later, he’d starve.

I braced myself, counting the last rotis, hoping the monsoon would come early. Amma always said, hunger makes you strong.