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Crystal Hexagons on Windowsills

by Prashanth Srivatsa

I was the only one among my friends who did not get the letter. Which is a real shame, because I was the only one who could snap a finger to conjure a flame.

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It’s been seven weeks. I’ve stopped checking my phone. At first, when Priya and Faraz received their letters to join the supposedly prestigious University of Magicals for the Great Preservation, I assumed it was just a matter of time before I got mine. It felt good to celebrate with them. Karmic. Honesty from the heart without any of that posturing.

I mean, who wouldn’t? Nobody knew how the Senders worked.

Mahima got one next. Then Karthik, whose attendance in school was so low, you’d imagine the Senders would admonish such indiscipline instead of dishing out invitations. Karthik, however, had a…knack for appearing harmless and genuine, I suppose. And he’s nice to the elders. Who doesn’t like people who are nice to elders? But, then they went and sent one to Akash!

That was the whole of our little ruffian group that had endured since second grade. Thick as fevicol.

Priya calls me every day. She means well, but it honestly doesn’t help. She agrees it’s preposterous that Akash got the letter and I did not, especially when so few did. We don’t talk about it much, but it’s hard to avoid after a point. Not an elephant in the room anymore: it’s an immense dragon, wings twenty feet wide emerald eyes glaring at me from below the ceiling, smoke snorting out of its nostrils. I cower, and look away, but the floor and the walls are made of glass, and I see the dragon reflected everywhere, until all I can do is close my eyes and be swept away in time’s endless drift.

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There are no e-mails or phone numbers to contact the Senders. When Priya found hers stuffed inside a crystal hexagon on her windowsill one morning (she was the first), we thought it was a prank. The letter was addressed from a location that did not exist on Google Maps.

Look, there’s manipulation and fake news everywhere, pouring down like rain in July. Normally, nobody would bat an eyelid when you’re invited to be a practitioner of the University of Magicals for the Great Preservation. It’s obviously a fraud. Your best bet would be to urge your parents to check their credit cards and saved passwords.

But the day after the first letters were sent, news broke across the country. TV cameras struggled to remain focused as the skies parted and women with six foot braids emerged from the horizon on flying carpets, shattering our hold on reality.

Everyone panicked or prayed or celebrated or unearthed conspiracies.

What a day!

I thought they were coming for me.

I mean, why wouldn’t I? Nobody else I knew within a twenty mile radius could spark a flame on the tip of their fingers, or twinkle their eyes to blur all the depressing content on Instagram.

I was delighted for Priya when she got the letter, but you can’t blame me if I secretly nursed a hope for that feeling.

Trust me when I say this – there’s not a trick in the book that I didn’t employ. I asked Amma to remove the potted plants that ran across our windowsills after Priya found her crystal hexagon. Karthik claimed he had found his on the doorstep, so I forbade Amma from drawing any kolam in front of the door for a fortnight, lest it dissuade any Sender. No incense sticks in the puja room. No lamps burning. I asked Appa to switch to the newspapers that Faraz’s parents read. I put jasmines in my hair, swore myself off potato chips, and helped Amma cut vegetables for lunch. I pretended to be a jerk like Akash, and like the walking contradiction that I am, even helped an old woman cross the road.

I clung to superstition and went to bed with it.

Nope. Nothing. Just a pigeon that came and shat on the windowsill.

---

I’m now a week away from losing my closest friends to the University. I’ve read their curriculum, their odd list of requirements, and what they will become when they graduate. Like a knife in the gut.

I grew up reading about magic. I fell in love with worlds of beauty and color, believed I was as much a part of those worlds as the characters I read about, to a point where I did not even blink in surprise when the flame first came alive on my fingertip. Or when a wasp emerged from the tiny jasmine in my hair. Or when I scratched my nose and the sewage drain running across my house began to smell like the wet earth of a rainforest.

Gosh, that girl deserves to be there, you’d think, wouldn’t you? Well, clearly, those long-braided women riding the pashmina carpets thought otherwise.

Okay, look. Normally, I’m not the jealous type. I find it best to accept what my parents give me. Amma and Appa are nice people, although a bit too…dramatic for their own good. They pray, watch a lot of TV, and gossip with the neighbors just like every other middle-class Indian family.

And I get it. Some are more talented than others. Being average isn’t a bad thing. I’m average, but I also know most of those who got their letters are too. I’m not being bitter, I just know it. That nincompoop, Akash, most of all. In his effort to open the window and retrieve the hexagon, he let it slip off his hand, fall three floors and shatter on the sidewalk into a hundred pieces before the letter within threatened to be carried away by the wind. That boy got a letter. He is, in a week, going to be sharing dormitories with my friends in a palace of gold, and walking through gardens of wondrous flowers. He will chant ancient hymns, wave blessed sticks, cause objects to soar and potions to brew to magical ends. He, who thought Narnia sounded like a Punjabi food joint.

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Appa senses I’m losing my mind thinking about it all the time. He’s tried talking to Karthik’s dad, but they’re just clueless as we are. The crystal hexagons showed up without warning on doorsteps and windowsills, and every parent was terrified at first. They’d much rather their children study science and math and history, and grow to be doctors and coders and lawyers and consultants. The middle-class dream. Security and marriage. Kids, traffic jams and theme parks, and routines that eat the soul.

Then something unexpected and totally cool happened.

The Senders spoke to every house in the country at the same time, their voices seeping through the walls like bad plumbing. The carefully chosen cohort of youngsters would serve the nation in a way that would fill up their parents’ quotas of pride for the next seven generations. The myths and fables, long buried in neglected pages and corridors of school libraries and closed bookstores, were trickling out and coalescing into something solid and terrifying, like that scene in the Terminator.

Or at least that’s what Appa told me. I couldn’t hear what the Senders said. Everything was garbled to my ears. Probably just negative content.

Anyway, now we know. The Senders are recruiting for their prestigious schools and universities and guilds, places wrapped in mist, hidden away from the eyes of those who did not find little, crystal hexagons on their windowsills or doorsteps.

Away from eyes like mine.

There’s no choice for the parents whose pride did not get stroked and tickled. Letters from the Senders cannot be exchanged. Those not sending their kids have been advised to burn the letter, collect the ashes and scatter them after six in the evening.

There can be no substitutes. Only the chosen can go.

And most of them, since the initial reluctance, are going. Priya is going. And so are Faraz, Mahima, Karthik and Akash. It had to be my entire gang, didn’t it?

At one point, I hoped that one of their parents would put their foot down. Now? I feel there is a price to pay for receiving a crystal hexagon on your windowsill. I have never been good at pride, least of all for my country.

I switch off the lights at night, lie on my bed and click my fingers. A tiny flame appears at the end, and I stare at it.

It still hurts. It’s magic, after all.

---

Priya comes home one day after school. Only a few days left for her and the others, and she is wary of asking me to accompany her to go shopping. Will I lash out? Will I be too stunned to respond? I merely shrug, surprised at how quickly I’m hardening.

She has convinced Mahima to give her letter to me for the day, which I can use as an identification. I have forged a photo of mine on her ID Card. I feel oddly rebellious and in the mood for some law-breaking.

Word in school is that the Senders use the bazaars across the city as Gateway points to their world, away from the eyes of the Rectangulars. That’s what they call us – Rectangulars – those who did not get the letter.

Priya and I squeeze into the crowd. The flower market attracts people in throngs. The air is rife with the fragrance of cardamom and jasmine; ginger curling out in wisps of steam where the chaiwalah has set up their shop. I don’t see anything unusual, but Priya, it seems, knows where to go. Something unseen guides her, and I’m reluctant to question her instincts. I feel like a snoopy ghost.

She stops outside a clothes shop. Shawls of silk hang from the crossrope, beneath which swings a bell. Blocking the entrance to the shop sits a man with a long, gray beard and a taqiyah over his head. He appears to be stitching a sweater, but his fingers do not move in consonance with the needle. There’s magic involved. I gasp and avert my gaze from him.

Priya displays our identification and after a moment he stands and gives us his name. Abdullah bhai. He whittles a delicate bow, steps aside, and lets us pass.

We brush the curtain aside and walk in, but I’m alone inside the shop. Priya is suddenly not with me. Before my hammering heart hurls me out, Abdullah bhai steps in behind me, his enormous frame blocking the doorway, and his frown is frightening.

He says I must leave my slippers outside before I enter the shop.

I apologize. The frown melts into a smile. He’s got a father’s smile: harmless, but all too expensive.

It’s a lame trick, he says, trying to forge your identity. A servant of the country cannot resort to such chicanery.

I realize Priya is on the other side – the side that has not invited me – where she will buy all the items for the university that she needs. I am alone in Abdullah bhai’s shop, which sells kurtis and salwars under dim flickering bulbs, and flimsy dupattas and perfectly sized leggings that college girls flock to buy in discounts.

Abdullah bhai is calm. He asks me if I want something from his shop. I can tell he sympathizes with me, he pities me for not receiving the letter. But all I feel is nausea. Bile rushes up my throat. I choke and scamper out of the shop, back to the familiar scents of marigolds, chai, and spinach wholesaled in bulk.

---

On the eve of my friends leaving for the University, Amma and Appa offer to take me out for dinner. We go to this local South Indian place and order some rava dosas and uthappams.

I thank them. I smile, and it’s real. I don’t feel too heavy tonight. The restaurant’s playing some old Ilayaraja music, and I feel attuned to the rhythm. The others are on the opposite side of town, attending a Last Day of Being Ordinary party near the beach. I wonder what Faraz would do there. He hates parties.

I want to be involved, even if I don’t want to see any of their faces or be the one left alone on this side waving goodbye while they disappear through a clothes shop or past the revolving doorway of an antique emporium, dragging their suitcases and the University’s odd paraphernalia.

And so, when the dosas come, I take a picture and put it up on our message group with a comment – you’re all going to miss this from tomorrow :).

There’s no reply, not at least for a couple of hours, by which time we’re back home and I’m in bed, staring at the empty notifications bar on my phone. I don’t care for my friends’ pride and their ancestral jingoism. I care for their presence beside me, I care for our good times that we are being forced to abandon.

I blink, and conjure their ghosts in front of me. Standing beside my bed, grinning at me. I could keep the ghosts with me forever, and maybe sharpen my mind to solidify them as the days pass. But then I snap out, and send the ghosts away.

Faraz chimes in with a bored hi when I almost give up. My hand fumbles in desperate response. I ask him about the party. He’s gotten back home early because he wants a good night’s sleep and to spend time with his grandfather before he leaves in the morning. The others don’t respond. Probably still there. Dancing and exchanging gifts and items brought in the hidden bazaar.

Or, probably, not that interested in responding. It’s understandable. Time’s running out, and there’s a lot to pack, and a lot of goodbyes to convey. I hear phones do not work in the University. How will they communicate, then?

More hexagons, perhaps.

At midnight, I get Akash’s text. I’m sorry. And I’ll miss you.

---

It takes me a week to master my self-pity and decide that I cannot look like the loner that I appear to be. It’s most difficult in school, where I have now attempted to befriend prideless Pratibha, who also lost two of her friends to the University.

We bitch about what they’re missing out on – mostly home-cooked food, the local trains, going to the cinema, and scrolling through their phones. It’s a feeble argument, but we ride on small victories in our golden chariot of pettiness.

Our class topper, Rohit, is also left behind. The look on his face is priceless. He dedicated his entire life of fourteen years to academic excellence, and now, he’s in the same boat as the rest of us average, Netflix-watching rectangulars. He swears he will spend his vacation trying to decode the University’s process of selecting magical candidates. I’m tempted to tell him what I have suspected for a few days, even if it doesn’t stop me from feeling like shit. It’s a twisted outcome of what I grew up reading.

---

I have permitted Amma to return to her god-fearing ways. The smell of incense swirls in the house once more, and the kolams beyond the doorstep have gotten larger than before. The tape recorder plays devotional songs that shatter the peace of early mornings.

I watch a movie alone that weekend, and it’s more enjoyable than I expected it to be. Later that afternoon, I meet Pratibha. We buy ice creams and then walk to the station. Unbeknown to her, I flick my fingers to refill the chocolate topping on her vanilla.

When she leaves, I don’t feel like returning home. It’s still five in the evening, and the bazaar would still be open.

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I buy myself a vada pav with an extra green chilli and stand several shops away from Abdullah bhai’s emporium. My eyes do not leave the curtain swaying at the entrance. I glance at the silk shawls, at the diamond-beaded buttons on the shirts, and at the handcrafted kerchiefs dangling from the rope.

Every few minutes, the curtain parts, and someone strides out. Someone who I’d never seen walk in.

They merge into the crowd and disappear before I can identify them. I stare anyway, until it’s dark and I remember my mother’s curfew time.

The Senders are careful about their communication. The media on this side is relentless in their itch to discover more, but there’s only so much you can fabricate. The secrecy is both terrifying and exciting. Those whom the University took in have sent letters home, but Faraz’s mother tells me there isn’t much Faraz is allowed to say. Karthik’s post is on my desk, but I haven’t opened it.

Priya was smart. She didn’t send me one.

I feel less vindictive towards Akash. He’s dumb and he’s the kind who stands erect whenever the national anthem plays, but he’s still a friend of habit and years. Sometimes, those are the ones who stick, the ones who glue themselves to the time that wraps around you in coils, like a dragon around gold. I hope he is not faring too badly.

One evening, I buy a birthday gift for Pratibha. We have a lot more in common than I first thought. I let her in on why I think we have not been chosen, to make her feel a little better. She agrees. I don’t show her the flame on my fingertips, though, or the wasp in my hair.

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It’s 6 pm. I finished my vada pav ten minutes ago, and the crowd in the bazaar is thick as spaghetti.

Abdullah bhai was there in front of his shop one moment, and now he isn’t.

The curtain of his emporium sways against the evening breeze, and a pamphlet flies out from within. It rolls on the street, and a dozen people stamp on it. Hammered with shoe marks, but still exhaling like crumpled parchment, it lodges beneath a rickshaw tire and sighs in relief. I sneak towards the rickshaw, pick the paper up and brush away the dirt. My touch smooths the wrinkles and clears the footprints.

It’s an advertisement for flying carpets. 10 percent off on full moon nights. The seller’s name is blurred to my eyes. There’s a warcry beneath; it’s a weapon. Or at least a transport for war.

I want to crumple the parchment again, before discarding it for garbage. On the other hand, maybe I should return it to Abdullah bhai. I’m not sure if he remembers me. Or if he’s noticed me prowling around his shop over the last few months. I have promised myself today will be the last. Next week, everyone from the University will return for their Diwali holidays, and the media will spatter themselves on their apartment walls and stuff cameras into their windows.

Priya and Karthik will switch on their phones and send me texts. Or worse, photos and videos. Today is all that stands between not knowing and knowing.

This time, I remember to leave my slippers outside before entering Abdullah bhai’s shop. The shelves are lined with cottons and silk salwars and dupattas. A feeble bulb flickers overhead. There are no windows, and the air is heavy inside. The soles of my feet tickle the carpet underneath.

I clutch the flier and stroll within. My fingers graze over the material of the salwars. Better than most I own. I fiddle with the buttons and the glass beads on the kurtis. I sample a few tops against the mirror.

A cough makes me drop the salwaar. Abdullah bhai enters and, this time, his frown does not transform into a smile. He glimpses the flier for the flying carpets that I’m holding. After a long moment, when I feel I’m going to be punished, or something worse, he offers me some water and asks me if I have any favorite colors.

Blue, I say. He proceeds to spread a few salwars and kurtis on the glass surface of his table. A second tubelight flips on, and the shop grows brighter. My hand courses through the cerulean silk, while I feel his eyes on me. It’s soft, I say. But I don’t have any money.

This one’s on me, he says. I shake my head. That’s unfair. But he doesn’t want to listen. He folds it and shoves it into my hand and shakes his head when I open my mouth in protest.

He then asks me how I’m doing.

It’s a simple question that often holds impossible answers. It takes me by surprise.

I do not think about Priya, Karthik and the rest of my gang that often these days. They’re always in the back of my head, of course, but most of my thoughts are reserved for my family, a new friend or two, the latest movies and my studies. I did well in math last month. I wanted to prove myself.

These excursions to the bazaar are all that is left of my obsession.

In one year, I’ll be old enough to go to college, and my average brain requires training and patience. And focus. Focus, most of all. I cannot afford to get distracted by magical Universities and flying carpets and causes like fighting for my country with magic.

I’m on the regular side for the long haul.

I don’t know how to respond to him, though. At that moment, the wasp in the jasmine on my hair soars out. I try to catch it, and a flame sputters out of my fingers. The wasp, annoyed by the singe, begins to circle over my head.

I gulp and conceal my hand. Abdullah bhai’s brows furrow, ignoring the wasp. I tell him that I want to leave. He casts a knowing look.

The carpet beneath my feet suddenly feels rough.

I could take you to the other side for an hour, he says finally. You can have a look around. Maybe you’ll change your mind.

It’s my mind, I realize, that has to be changed, not theirs.

My mind drifts. I imagine the hidden bazaar on the other side of the curtain is not as crowded as its rectangular counterpart. Most people walking around are probably older than me. Men and women in embroidered gowns or outlandish lungis or turbans wound in seven layers over the head. I dream of a shop next to me that sells floating books with forked tongues that fold as bookmarks. On the opposite side, against the footpath, an upside-down fountain, the stonework latticed to the walls of the street, and the water held away from the ground in a gushing cloud so that mist from the pool trickles around my feet. In the distance, I conjure the silhouette of a sand palace, its minarets and domes gleaming, the sun behind them cast like a halo.

The flying carpet shop is open, its glass window displaying a sample – a green silk carpet with golden weft, an image of a mountain inscribed on the surface. The plaque beneath references its lineage from Solomon’s inventory and its price is in units I cannot fathom.

I close my eyes and open them again, back in the emporium.

So rough the carpet. I want my slippers, I tell Abdullah bhai. I bid goodbye, stifle a tear, and push the curtain to step back out. The wasp follows me and dives back into my hair.