LIGHTSPEED presenta: 'Bhatia, PI' de Shiv Ramdas

io9 se enorgullece de presentar la ficción de LIGHTSPEED MAGAZINE . Una vez al mes, presentamos una historia del número actual de LIGHTSPEED. La selección de este mes es “Bhatia, PI” de Shiv Ramdas. Puede leer la historia a continuación o escuchar el podcast en nuestro sitio web. ¡Disfrutar!

Faltan unos minutos para las siete de una tarde fría de octubre y estoy buscando en el cajón inferior de mi escritorio El viejo monje y mi copia bien manoseada de El sueño eterno cuando escucho pasos que suben las escaleras a toda prisa. Un nuevo caso, tiene que ser. Suspiro, le doy al cajón una mirada arrepentida y lo cierro de nuevo. Me siento, esperando el golpe. nunca viene En su lugar, la puerta se abre, golpeando la pared, enviando pedazos de yeso por todas partes. Entonces la veo de pie en la puerta.

Puedes saber mucho sobre un cliente al mirarlo. Cómo caminan, hablan, se visten, todo eso te dice algo. Como cuánto puedes cobrar. La mujer en mi umbral es bajita y de pelo plateado. La típica tía de West Delhi, del tipo que exige que su hijo deje el trabajo para jugar a ser conductor cuando va a comprar verduras y luego pasa una hora negociando un descuento de una rupia en guisantes. De alguna manera ha superado a mi secretaria. Hago una nota mental para hablar con Sandhya más tarde. Volviendo a la mujer en mi puerta, lleva un salwar-kameez rosa pastel, aretes de oro falso y un ceño feo. El tipo de mirada con la que estoy demasiado familiarizado. Una placa en su kameez deletrea su nombre.

Me pongo de pie. "Sra. Bhatia, supongo.

“¿Supones? ¡Soy tu madre, patán bueno para nada! ¿Ya solicitaste un trabajo?”

"¡Pero mamá, este es mi trabajo!"

“¡No, no lo es, Zorawar! Un trabajo paga. en dinero Ni promesas ni carteles publicitarios tontos. 'Ningún caso es demasiado pequeño', parece. Qué frase tan cliché. Casi tan estúpido como pagar tarjetas de presentación tontas que no tienen sentido”.

“¡No es mi culpa que hayan impreso mal mis tarjetas! Los estoy usando de todos modos, ¿no?

Será mejor que lo hagas. No voy a pagar para que imprimas nuevos. ¿Solicitaste trabajo o no? Te lo digo, si no empiezas a pagarme el alquiler al final de la semana, puedes ir a buscar otro lugar para quedarte, ¿entendido?

"Sí MA."

"¡Podría estar alquilando este piso por tanto dinero!"

"¿Plano? Es un estudio de una habitación sin baño.”

Ella me mira. “¡Es una excelente ubicación!”

"¿En Vikaspuri?"

“Bueno, tiene una gran vista. La gente paga mucho por ver”.

“Tiene una ventana. Eso da a un matadero.

“Suresh de Mother Dairy dijo que conoce a alguien que me dará 5000 rupias al mes por ello. Si no me das al menos esa cantidad para el final de la semana, le digo que se lo puede quedar. ¿Estamos claros?"

"Sí MA."

"Bueno. Ya he tenido suficiente de ti fingiendo ser un investigador privado o lo que sea aquí arriba.

Me enderezo y la fijo en una mirada que espero sea tanto fría como herida. Brusco.

“Te lo he dicho tantas veces, no soy un investigador privado, mamá, soy un investigador paranormal. Bhatia, investigador privado”.

“Eres un dolor en mi trasero, eso es lo que eres. Paranormal parece. Anormal, más bien.

Ella se ríe, complacida con su propio ingenio. “Peor que anormal. Qué decepción has resultado ser. Con tan grandes expectativas, tu querido difunto padre y yo te llamamos Zorawar, pensando que tú también harás grandes cosas como ese general de la historia, en lugar de eso, has desperdiciado por completo tu nombre, thoo .”

“Te digo mamá, una vez que se corra la voz, mis servicios estarán en demanda. Va a ser la próxima gran cosa. Seré el pionero en la industria”.

“Oh, qué gran pionero. Ve a explorar otro lugar entonces. ¿Y por qué está Sandhya aquí? Le pago para que me cocine, no para que pierda el tiempo actuando contigo.

“Ella ya ha terminado de cocinar para el día. Y ella es mi secretaria.

"¿Secretario? ¿Incluso le pagas?

“Lo hago, de hecho. Ella es un socio igualitario en la firma. El cincuenta por ciento de todas las ganancias.

"¿Asi que nada?"

“Bueno, en realidad, lo que pasó fue—”

“Durante los últimos tres meses has estado okupa aquí fingiendo ser un detective de primera, pero ya es suficiente. ¿Alguna vez ha tenido una persona que contrate sus servicios?

"Sí, de hecho".

"¿Aparte de ese tipo que vino aquí por accidente pensando que eras un agente de bienes raíces?"

La miro con frialdad. “Te pagaré el alquiler para el final de la semana”.

"5000 rupias".

“No voy a pagar 5000 por esto. 3000.”

“3500.”

"¿Eres una madre o un señor de los barrios bajos?"

"¿Eres un hijo o un repollo?"

Nos miramos el uno al otro durante un largo minuto. Finalmente, asiento con la cabeza, los ojos convenientemente bajos. ella me tiene

"Bien, 3500".

Ella emite un gruñido satisfecho. O tal vez es un gruñido, es difícil notar la diferencia cuando tu mente está consumida por preocupaciones financieras. Ella se da vuelta para irse, luego se detiene. Ah, y tira esa estúpida novela de detectives. Eso es lo que está poniendo todo este kachra en tu cabeza”.

Me enderezo mucho, reuniendo la poca dignidad que me queda. —No estoy discutiendo contigo mi gusto por la literatura —digo. Tendrás tu alquiler para el domingo.

Ella me mira fijamente por un momento. "Domingo, Zorawar".

Y con eso, finalmente, afortunadamente, se ha ido, aunque puedo oírla gritarle a Sandhya abajo por no alentar la tontería.

Me acerco a la puerta y la azoto. Se abre de nuevo. Lo golpeo de nuevo. Se abre una vez más. Ahora veo que una bisagra está rota, no se cierra, como si también se estuviera burlando de mí.

Ignoro la puerta insubordinada y vuelvo a mi escritorio. Busco en el cajón, agarrando el Viejo Monje y un vaso. Me sirvo una clavija, la bebo y siento el agradable ardor del ron barato. Con una mirada a la puerta en caso de que haya regresado, busco mi copia de The Big Sleep desafiante . Luego vierto otra clavija.

Estoy llevándome el vaso a los labios cuando oigo que llaman a la puerta y veo a Sandhya asomando la cabeza, con el pelo negro y espeso aceitado y recogido cuidadosamente en una trenza, un par de ojos brillantes e inquisitivos que me miran desde arriba de una boca que como siempre, tiene la insinuación de una sonrisa, como si su portador estuviera perpetuamente al borde de la diversión. La invito a entrar; ella no se mueve

Me doy la vuelta para mirar con tristeza mi bebida. “¿Escuchaste todo eso? Esto es todo, Sandhu. Estamos bastante jo-”

"Sí, sé que estamos llenos, señor".

"¿Completo? Lleno de tristeza, eso es. No, lo que quise decir es que estamos jod…

Se aclara la garganta ruidosamente, interrumpiéndome de nuevo.

"Podemos discutir la programación más tarde, señor Bhatia".

Algo está mal. Énfasis aparte, ella nunca me llama señor. Me vuelvo hacia ella de nuevo y, mientras lo hago, retrocede para darme una buena mirada al hombre que está detrás de ella.

"Tenemos un nuevo cliente, señor".

Se necesita todo mi autocontrol para no apresurarme y chocarle los cinco.

“Ah, sí, por supuesto”, balbuceo, apoyando rápidamente el libro contra mi vidrio, con la esperanza de ocultarlo de la vista.

Sandhya conduce al hombre adentro. Es alto, delgado, de cincuenta y tantos años, con un rostro preocupado solo parcialmente oculto por su prolija barba de chivo. Lleva un impecable traje hecho a mano. Hecho a mano, fíjate, y tampoco me refiero a uno de esos masterjis con las máquinas de coser portátiles en la estación de metro. Mientras avanza, con los zapatos de piel de serpiente dejando un rastro de huellas en el suelo polvoriento, echa un vistazo a un reloj de oro. Definitivamente no de Vikaspuri.

"Toma asiento", digo en lo que espero sea un tono casual, agitando una mano en la silla de jardín de plástico al otro lado del escritorio.

Lo mira con disgusto. "Creo que me quedaré de pie".

"Por supuesto por supuesto."

"Usted es el Sr. Bhatia, ¿lo entiendo?"

“Sí, sí, el único. Bueno, no solo, estaba leyendo un artículo en el Times of India hoy que dice que Bhatia es el tercer apellido más común en Delhi, pero soy el único aquí”.

Me río. el no Esto no va tan bien como había planeado.

“Toma, toma mi tarjeta”, le digo, entregándole una. Lo mira, con la frente arrugada como espinacas que se marchitan en un tawa.

“¿No hay solo una N en la palabra investigador?”

—Un error de imprenta —digo apresuradamente. “No importa, puedes quedarte con la tarjeta. ¿Y qué puedo hacer hoy por usted, señor...?

“Duggal. Amit Duggal. Y no estoy seguro si en realidad estoy en el lugar correcto-”

Thankfully, Sandhya takes charge. “Of course you are, Mr. Duggal. Now don’t be shy. If you came all the way here, it’s because you have a problem, and a serious one. As paranormal investigators, we’re the last resort, and our clients know this. As do you, Mr. Duggal. How did you hear about us anyway?”

“I saw a poster. No case too small, it said.”

I file away a triumphant glare to throw at Ma later. Meanwhile, Sandhya’s still talking to him. “. . . and I can promise you, if anyone can aid you, it’s Mr. Bhatia here. It’s what he’s best at, helping people.”

She’s even said it with a straight face. What a marvel this woman is. And she isn’t done yet.

“But we can’t help you if you won’t let us, can we, Mr. Duggal? Now, just stand over here, like so, and I’m going to sit here, and write down everything you tell Mr. Bhatia, OK? Don’t worry, everything you say is strictly confidential.”

The man sighs and wipes his forehead with a fancy lace handkerchief. I glance at Sandhya, who gestures towards Mr. Duggal with her eyes.

“Yes, tell me,” I say.

He sighs again. “It’s my son.”

“Yes, what about him?”

He shakes his head. “It started about two weeks ago. And it’s been getting worse ever since. My wife is beside herself with grief.”

“What’s getting worse?” I ask.

He wipes his brow again. He’s actually sweating, I realise. In October. He leans down over the desk, eyes locked on mine. When he speaks he’s whispering so softly I can barely hear him.

“Mr. Bhatia, do you have any experience dealing with possession cases?”

I wave a nonchalant hand. “Oh yes, many times. The trick is to never admit it’s yours and then unless they can prove—”

“I think Mr. Duggal is referring to demonic possession,” says Sandhya hastily.

I stop and look at Mr. Duggal. “What? Are you sure it’s demonic possession?”

“Of course I’m sure!” he snaps at me. “He rages, he screams, he blasphemes, he uses the foulest language at us, his own parents!”

“How old is your son?”

“Nineteen.”

“Well, it could just be typical teenage behaviour.”

“Could a typical teenager levitate? Or pick up a grand piano and throw it on a roof three stories up?”

I ponder the question. “Well, not a typical teenager,” I admit. “How did this begin? Tell me everything you can remember.”

“We thought he was just acting out, but it got worse and worse. We called in doctors, specialists, psychiatrists, nutritionists, everyone we could. None of them could do anything. But once I discovered the truth it all made sense.”

There’s a heavy silence in the room.

“We can’t even stay at our own house anymore. We’re desperate, Mr. Bhatia. Can you help us?”

Before I can answer, Sandhya does. “Of course we can! This is what we do, Duggal saab.”

“So you’ll take the case?”

“Certainly we will,” says Sandhya, glancing at me. My turn.

“Yes, yes, certainly, certainly,” I say, wearing my best welcoming smile.

He looks like he’s about to cry in relief, but recovers himself.

“Excellent. Follow me, please.”

“It’s like Sandhya said, this is what we—wait, you mean now?”

“Of course. My car is outside.”

I blink. There’s something about the way Mr Duggal’s been talking, like this isn’t the sort of easy job I’d envisaged. I shoot a worried look at Sandhya but she’s already following him down the stairs. With some reluctance, so do I.

We descend the stairs in single file, because they’re too narrow for anything else. Right before we reach the bottom, Sandhya turns to face me, beaming, and flashes a triumphant thumbs-up sign. I don’t return it, I’m too busy recalling what Duggal said about chucking pianos onto roofs. I can feel some sort of obstruction in my throat.

“Hold on,” I call out. “I just remembered something.”

I scamper back upstairs, head straight to the desk and knock back the abandoned drink.

A minute later I’m back outside, where a uniformed driver is opening the door of a luxury car. I get in, enjoying the feel of plush leather against my back. Quite the welcome change from my plastic chair. Then I realise there’s someone else in the car, a tall, stately woman, dressed in a chiffon sari.

“This is my wife Noor,” says Mr. Duggal. “Noor, this is Mr. Bhatia and his secretary, Sandhya. They’re ghosthunters.” He hands her my card. Her face assumes a familiar disapproving expression as she reads it.

“Investigator is spelt with only one N.”

“A minor printing error,” I start to say, and then realise I’m talking through gritted teeth. Sandhya once again leaps in to fill the breach. I leave her to it and, for the umpteenth time, make a mental list of all the things I want to do to Sapna Printing Press.

“Where to, sir?” asks the chauffeur.

“Home. The Aurangzeb Road house, Nitin. Fast as you can.”

I whistle. Aurangzeb Road. We’re in some high-flying company. As we drive, I turn to the Duggals.

“When did you realise your son was possessed?”

Mr. Duggal sighs. “We didn’t, not for a long time. Until my son fought off the beast long enough to send my wife a message from his phone.”

“May I see it?”

Mrs. Duggal looks at me, reaches into her purse and pulls out a cellphone. She hits a few buttons and hands it to me.

“Poor baby! He fought the demon long enough to send me this. My Monty’s still in there, I just know it.”

I take the phone and start reading.

“No more doctors. Find an exorcist. Please.”

“GO FUCKING DIE YOU OLD HAG”

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t me. Please help. It’s getting worse.”

“YOURE UGLY!!!!”

“I’m getting weaker. Hurry! Please!”

That’s it. I hand the phone back.

“Well?” says Mr. Duggal.

“It clearly appears to be written by two authors. You’re right, he’s fighting it. What happened next?”

“I did what it asked,” says Mrs. Duggal. “I called in the family priest to look at Monty and he told us our son had been possessed by a demon.”

Mr. Duggal interjects. “Then Panditji went back into the room and never came out. We never saw him again. When we sent Nitin to the temple looking for him, his wife said he hadn’t been back.”

I gulp again, glancing out the window. The car is picking up speed.

“Then I screwed up my courage and went upstairs to Monty’s room. And do you know what I saw, Mr. Bhatia?”

“Tell us,” says Sandhya. I shoot her a look but she ignores it. She’s actually enjoying this.

“Blood. The pandit’s blood. Everywhere.”

I make a high-pitched, involuntary squeaking sound, and turn to the window once more. We’re on the highway now, and the car’s moving too fast for me to jump out. Plus, the doors are locked. We draw alongside another car, a blue sedan. I lean against my window and stare hopefully at the sedan driver, a kind-looking elderly gentleman. He turns to face me. Our eyes meet.

“Help me,” I mouth.

He looks sadly at me for a moment, then gives me the middle finger as we overtake him.

The car keeps going, faster and faster. And I’m trapped in it.

It’s over two hours later when we pull up in front of the large iron gates on Delhi’s most expensive street. I’m so sick of the traffic by now, I’d almost rather face this demon. While we make our way down a winding, paved drive to the big white house, I work on our exit speech. The Duggals lead us up the portico stairs to a large front door. Its designer had not lacked diligence, judging by the intricate nature of the hideous coat of arms in its centre. As a finishing touch, the not-so-original motto of “Together Forever” was emblazoned underneath. I turn away from the nightmarish door, eyes squeezed shut, but when I open them again, it’s still there.

Mrs. Duggal notices me staring. “Oh, you like it?” she says proudly. “We designed it ourselves. We’re in the real estate business, you know, so we really understand these things. You’ve heard of Amit’s company, I’m sure. Duggal Enterprises? We do all the best work. You like the design?”

“Very nice,” I hear myself say weakly.

Mr. Duggal unlocks the door with a large key. He reaches to push it open, then hesitates. I don’t blame him, I wouldn’t want to touch that door either.

As he does, from somewhere in the house, a low howling sound resonates. I jump, and when I return to earth, I see both the Duggals looking shaken.

“Your dog?”

“No,” says Mr. Duggal. “We don’t have a dog.”

“Wolf?” I suggest hopefully. They shake their heads.

“We don’t have any pets,” says Mrs. Duggal. She points up at the second floor. “It’s coming from Monty’s room.”

“I see.” And I do, because as far as I’m concerned that pretty much settles it. I look at Mr. Duggal.

“Look, sir, there’s been a mistake.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You see, I’m not sure we can take this case.”

“You have to take it! Save my son! I’ll pay whatever you want. How much do you want, anyway? Ten lakhs? Twenty? It’s yours!”

“No, the thing is we’re—did you say twenty lakhs?”

“Not enough? Twenty-five then.”

“I am at your service, sir,” I say, bowing with a flourish. “Don’t you worry, we’ll be—”

I’m interrupted by a high-pitched shriek.

“Maybe we should take it from here,” says Sandhya quickly.

“Didn’t you hear that, Sandhya?” I say.

“Yes of course. Time to go to work. Now you both just wait in the car, okay? We’ll be back shortly.”

I open my mouth to protest, and then it hits me. Smart girl. She’s found a way for us to sound professional while saving face too. Now we can get in, wait on the other side of the hideous door for a few minutes, then get the hell out of here, hopefully with a consultation fee.

“Yes, indeed,” I say.

Mr. Duggal’s face collapses with relief.

“Are you sure?” says Mrs. Duggal.

“Of course they’re sure,” snaps Mr. Duggal. “Let’s not argue with professionals. We’ll wait in the car. It might be dangerous inside.”

Sandhya pushes the door open and we go inside, entering a large drawing room.

The inside of the house looks like it’s been done by the same artist as the door. For the interior, he’d apparently been given free access to several buckets of colours and one of LSD, with instructions to make sure he finished them all. I hear Sandhya gasp audibly and with some effort, I shut my mouth.

“Who . . . did this?”

“The Duggals,” I inform her.

“Are we sure it wasn’t the demon?”

Right on cue a bloodcurdling scream comes from upstairs, followed by a voice raised in obvious pain. Apparently he’s noticed the decor too.

“I can’t take it anymore!”

“You and me both, buddy,” I mutter.

“Help me! Please help me!”

The voice breaks off, replaced by a constant, low moan.

“Let’s wait he—” I say, then stop talking, because Sandhya’s already started up the staircase towards the moans. I hurry after her. No way I’m staying alone in that drawing room.

“What are you thinking?” I hiss. “This is clearly something beyond our—”

I stop, surveying the carnage around me.

Books lie scattered on the floor, torn pages fluttering in the breeze from smashed windows. The carpet and paintings are stained all over with spots of something dark and crusty. Deep scratches mar the paint on the walls, running all the way down to the closed bedroom door at the far end of the hallway.

The moans are coming from behind it.

I quickly grab Sandhya by the arm and point. “Over there. That window’s big enough to squeeze through, it’s not too far down and with a bit of luck we could be well clear of this place while those two are still sitting in their car and dreaming about their door.”

“Why? This is what we wanted.”

“To die in the world’s ugliest house? Speak for yourself.”

“Well, you started this detective agency.”

“Sí, hacer algunas vigilancias en casas abandonadas, exponer a uno o dos astrólogos fraudulentos, ese tipo de cosas. ¡Este es un verdadero demonio!”

"Si es un demonio real".

"¿Crees que es un engaño?"

Ella se encoge de hombros. "Esa es la explicación más probable, ¿no?"

“¡Tiró un piano al techo!”

O eso creen. Tal vez sea una estafa de seguros elaborada o el chico la fingió para los exámenes de literas. No lo sabremos hasta que entremos allí y miremos.

Con eso, libera su brazo y sale por el pasillo.

Con una última y anhelante mirada a la ventana, la sigo. Realmente no hay nada más que hacer, excepto abandonarla a lo que sea que haya allí. Por mucho que se lo merezca, no puedo hacer eso.

Con cada paso, las palabras de Sandhya cobran más y más sentido. Los demonios no son reales. Debe ser el adolescente que hace bromas a sus padres para evitar la universidad. Una parte de mí lamenta no haber pensado en esto cuando estaba en la escuela. Cuanto más me detengo en el pensamiento, más sentido tiene. Cuando llego al final del pasillo me siento positivamente rejuvenecido. Tomando una respiración profunda, giro lentamente el pomo de la puerta y la sigo adentro.

Lo primero que noto es al chico, tumbado de espaldas, levitando en el aire medio metro por encima de lo que parece una cama empapada de sangre.

Puedo ver la escritura en la pared. No, literalmente. Letras rojas macabras, deletreando algo indescifrable en una escritura antigua.

Una creciente sensación de terror crece en mi pecho mientras me quedo congelada, con los ojos paralizados en las palabras en la pared. No es hasta que me encuentro pronunciando las palabras que me doy cuenta con una emoción horrorizada de que de alguna manera, imposible, insondable como es, estoy parado aquí leyendo un lenguaje místico que nunca supe que existía. Entonces me doy cuenta de que esto se debe a que la escritura en la pared no es una escritura antigua, solo una oración con una letra muy mala:

“TRÁEME LA PLAYSTATION 5”.

Miro acusadoramente a Sandhya. "Estafa, ¿eh?"

Mientras hablamos, el niño se sienta. Sus ojos se abren y están completamente blancos. Una lenta sonrisa se extiende por su rostro. "¡Al final! Alguien finalmente está aquí.

Es una voz profunda, baja y retumbante, y sin embargo es frenética de alguna manera, como si alguien pusiera piedras en una licuadora y la subiera al máximo. Retrocedo, girando hacia la puerta. El niño-demonio hace un gesto y se cierra de golpe.

“No querría que nos molestaran”, dice el chico.

Está flotando hacia nosotros ahora.

Sólo queda una cosa por hacer. "¡Ayuda! ¡Ayuda!"

"Exactamente", está de acuerdo el niño-demonio. "Después de todo, es por eso que envié por ti".

"¡¡Ayuda!!"

Sandhya da un paso adelante. “¡Atrás, demonio!”

"¿Demonio?" dice indignado, girando la cabeza 180 grados para fruncir el ceño. “ ¿ Demonio ? Aquí no hay demonios. Djinn, por favor.

"Lo siento, ¿dijiste djinn?"

"Dije djinn".

"¿Djinn?"

“Djinn. ¿Ahora te callarás y escucharás? Nos estamos quedando sin tiempo. Estoy manteniendo a raya a esa criatura por ahora, pero podría regresar en cualquier momento.

Incluso con todo lo que está pasando, esta noticia exige mi atención.

“¿Reteniéndolo? ¿Así que no eres el demonio?

“¡Otra vez me llamas demonio! ¿Qué demonio? ¿A quién crees que llamas demonio? Te lo dije, soy un djinn.

Me aferro a Sandhya. "¡Él está de vuelta! ¡El demonio ha vuelto!

“¡Por ​​última vez, soy un djinn! ¡Y no cualquier djinn, tampoco! Traté de no decirlo, la atención se vuelve tan vergonzosa, pero no me dejas otra opción, así que lo haré”.

Se aclara la garganta.

“Mortales, estáis en presencia de Wahid el Grande. Sí, el mismo, el único y único…

"¿Quién?" dice Sandhya.

"¿Perdóneme? ¿Dijiste quién?

"Sí, ¿quién?"

“Wahid el Grande. Probablemente has oído hablar de mí.

"No en realidad no."

"¿Nunca has oído hablar de Wahid el Grande, Encendedor de Llamas?"

"No."

“Bueno, probablemente me conoces por un nombre diferente. ¿Qué hay de Mahasura, el ladrón del tiempo?

"No me suena, lo siento".

“¿Nagadanga, Rompedor de Muros?”

“Nunca he oído ninguno de estos nombres”.

Su sonrisa se desvanece. "Típico", murmura. “Mira, no importa. En pocas palabras, necesito tu ayuda.

Parpadeo. " ¿ Necesitas nuestra ayuda?"

"Exactamente. Verá, ha habido un pequeño accidente administrativo. Una chapuza burocrática, por así decirlo. Incluso podría llamarlo una catástrofe de coordinación. En pocas palabras, hubo un error y he estado atrapada en este chico desde entonces y ya he tenido suficiente”.

"¿Te refieres a Monty?"

Una mirada de angustia se extiende por su rostro. ¡No digas su nombre! ¡Si te escucha, podría despertarse!”

"¿Quién, Mon—"

“¿No me escuchaste? He tenido suficiente. Él es horrible. Absolutamente insufrible. La experiencia más traumática de cualquiera de mis vidas. No lo soporto más. Necesito salir."

“Let me get this straight,” I say. “You need our help getting out of the body you possessed in the first place?”

“Yes, exactly. You have no idea what it’s like, being stuck in here inside this kid! All he does is complain and whine, and demand things he’s done nothing to deserve, and say horrible things to hurt people and look for attention over his imagined problems and be awful to everyone. It’s unbearable. Do you have any idea what it’s like sharing a mind with an internet edgelord?”

“Who, Monty?”

His face contorts, like it’s fighting with itself, and then settles into a self-satisfied smirk.

“Feminazis! Fuck your feelings!”

His features contort again. “No, I won’t be silenced! Freedom of speech! This is reverse casteism! Fuck you, beta cucks! I’ll—”

He stops, mouth jerking from side to side like a centrist politician asking for civility, and then emits a low howl. Finally, his face stops moving around and settles into an annoyed look.

“Didn’t I tell you not to say his name?”

Sandhya and I look at each other.

“That was the Duggals’ son?” I ask.

“Yes! He’s an absolute monster. Get me out of here, please! I’m begging you!”

“Wait—so it wasn’t him who sent for us?”

“No! What’s wrong with you people? Why would he send for you? He’s sharing his body with Wahid the Great!”

“So it was you?”

“Well, duh!”

I turn to Sandhya.

“I think it was this djinn who sent for us.”

“That’s Wahid the Great to you, thank you very much.”

Sandhya studies the boy’s face. “Well, Wahid doesn’t seem evil.”

“No, not at all,” he says, floating closer. “Far from it.”

“Oh yeah?” I say. “What about the priest then?”

“What prie—oh that one? He jumped out of the hallway window and ran away.”

“And this blood?”

“Fake. From Amazon. Look, if I was evil, I wouldn’t even be allowed here. Even us supernatural beings of immense power have to follow the rules.”

“Hold on,” says Sandhya. “If you’re a supernatural being with all these powers why don’t you just leave?”

The boy’s head droops a bit, looking defeated. “It’s not that simple. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“What do you mean?”

He pauses. “That’s personal.”

“And the rest of this isn’t?”

“Well, it’s like—Look, do I have to tell you?”

“If you want our help.”

“Fine, fine, if you really must know, the spirit realm is a little beyond my means these days. There was a time I could afford to live beyond the veil, but those days are over. And there are plenty more like me, I’ll have you know. Just way too many supernaturals and not enough room. The market’s gone through the roof.”

So Wahid too had fallen prey to a spirit-Suresh who’d rendered him homeless. I nod sadly. “Rent is a curse.”

“A stain on the supernatural realm,” agrees Wahid.

I pause. “A pox on people.”

“A plague on paranormal society.”

I beam at him. “A blight on beings everywhere.”

“A curse on the cosmos.”

“Yes, I already said that.”

“No, you said curse. I then vastly broadened the scope by introducing the concept of a cosmos.”

I’m no longer beaming. “Yes, well obviously I meant cosmos when I said—”

“Hold on, you two,” says Sandhya quickly. “Wahid, when you say there are plenty more like you, you mean here? Around us?”

“Where else? If you lot only knew just how many of your fellow humans were a lot more than that, well . . .” He chuckles briefly. “But that’s enough about that, I’m not going to recite the history of every event to have befallen me since my . . . ah . . . departure, yes let’s call it that, that’s a nice way to put it.”

“So you can always recognise if a human is possessed by a djinn?”

“Can I? That isn’t half of it! I mean, I knew times were hard, but I had no idea just how many folk had moved here. Some you’d never have expected to see here either. Why, just the other day I saw, well, anyway, you wouldn’t know, would you, you don’t even know Wahid the Great.” He sniffed.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” says Sandhya. She sure cares about the vagaries of the djinn housing economy all of a sudden. Me, I have more pressing issues to worry about. Such as the housing economy here and the twenty-five lakhs that will prevent me from becoming Wahid 2.0, but without powers or the ability to possess anything. More like Wahid 0.02. Time to cut to the chase.

“So what do you want us to do?”

He beams. “Now. You’re talking. That’s simple. You’ll just need to find me a new host.”

“Come again?”

“A new host,” says the boy, speaking very slowly. “Look, I know you lot aren’t smart or anything, but this can’t be that hard to follow.”

“Why can’t you just find another for yourself?”

“Consent.”

“Huh?”

“Consent. Don’t humans have the concept? I need my new body to consent to me being there, or it’ll just be me forcing my will on whoever I inhabit, and let me tell you that never turns out well. I mean, look at my situation now. It’s not like one just takes over a body, you know? It’s a constant effort at collaboration, cooperation, you often have to discuss and negotiate. Not an easy task, no sir. I’ll need a body I can work with, one that’s suited to my personality.”

“Your personality. I see.”

“Yes, exactly. It’ll be easy as anything, I’m sure there’s no shortage of mortals desperate to share with Wahid the Great. Who wouldn’t want the benefit of my talents, after all, and mind you, I’m supposed to share them.”

“Supposed to?”

“Yes, by law. Djinn with hosts must compensate for the hospitality. If we don’t, well, we have to, there’s no choice. We can exercise discretion in the how, but we must compensate or else.”

“I knew it,” I mutter. “Rent is a curse.”

Sandhya rolls her eyes.

The boy seems about to go on, but then his face twists up, nose lurching about from side to side, eyes rolling violently.

“He’s coming back!” he shouts. He waves a hand, and the door flies open. “I’ll try and hold him off as long as I can. Get out, now! Hurry!”

We start moving towards the door.

“And don’t forget my new body! I’m counting on you!”

We get out of the door, and there I pause, glancing back at him.

“Cocksucker!” he snarls at me. The next moment a potted plant is flying at my head. I duck, and it smashes against the wall, sending earth and disemboweled flowers everywhere.

“Run!” I yell at Sandhya.

We race down the corridor and pound our way down the stairs and through the house, ignoring the screeches and banging noises behind us, not stopping till we’re back at the car, collapsing into the backseat next to the Duggals.

The iron gates to the compound are rattling. I can hear the screams all the way from the house.

Mr. Duggal looks startled. “What’s happ—”

“Drive!” I yell. “Drive! Now!”

Nitin hits the accelerator and we zoom off, screeching down Aurangzeb Road and back into the bustle of traffic, leaving the hideous house with its even more hideous heir in the distance.

My cellphone is ringing. I glance at it, then set the ringer to silent and flip it back over on my desk, face down.

“Mr. Duggal again?”

“Who else?”

We’re back in my office-cum-flat, where I’ve been ever since we got the Duggals to drop us off and leapt out of the car, mumbling promises of how we’d get back to them.

“He’s been calling you for three days. Don’t you think you should answer it?”

“No.”

“You can’t avoid answering the phone forever, you know.”

“I can try. Anyway, I’m still not done trying to find a solution.”

“You mean a body.”

“It’s not a body if it’s alive, Sandhya. It’s a person. And you’re not being very helpful, you know.”

“Because you playing around on Facebook all day is helping?”

“I’m not playing, I’m recruiting. I’ve posted in job offer groups, Help wanted groups, real estate groups and even in one writing forum.”

“How’s that working out?”

“Way better than I hoped. I’ve had at least two dozen responses. Just let Duggal put down the phone and I’ll show you.”

We wait, and then when the ringing ends, Sandhya peers over my shoulder at my phone as I pull up the Facebook app.

“Okay, that’s quite a few.”

“And most of them have even posted their phone numbers. Time to start making some calls.”

“Who will you start with?”

“This guy here. Rahul Srivastav. Look at his profile picture. Smart, well dressed, and it says here he’s a financial expert specializing in investments. That’s just what we need, a career man with drive and verve. Could be just the match we’re looking for.”

I dial the number. Nobody picks up. I hit redial.

It rings for a while and then a bright, enthusiastic voice answers.

“Hi!”

“Am I speaking with Rahul?”

“Good afternoon, sir! Thank you for calling!”

“Hi Rahul, this is Zorawar Bhatia, calling from—”

“Are you a father or mother with kids?”

“What? No.”

“Looking for a secondary source of income?”

“Well, more like a primary source but here’s why I called, Rahul. You responded to my post on the Jobs For YOU Facebook page and so I’d like to discuss whether—”

“If you want to support your financial situation through binary, you’ve come to the right place!”

“What does that even mean? Am I speaking to a person?”

“Just contribute 5000 Rupees and within one week get back 15,000 Rupees guaranteed and tax-free!”

“I—”

“We also have a Special Offer Just For You! If you invest 50,000 Rupees you can take home over five crore Rupees within just seven days!”

I hang up.

“What happened?” asks Sandhya.

“He’s a scam artist. No matter, I’ll call the next one. Plenty to choose from.”

The next number turns out to be a woman who wants me to know I could make up to 3000 US dollars a day posting social media accounts. The one after that wants me to send him 25000 Rupees for a special shipment of a single bottle of Available For First Time Ever And Guaranteed To Work penis enlargement pills. The next two calls I make are both answered by Rahul again. The third one goes straight back to him too, only this time he’s also offering penis enlargement pills.

I start to throw my phone across the room and then I remember I can’t afford another. I toss it disgustedly on the table instead and turn to Sandhya. “Is everyone in Delhi a scam artist?”

“You’re sounding like an American tourist now. Maybe you should talk to him.”

“I don’t want—”

A dull banging sound interrupts me. I cock my head to the side, and we both listen for it, but just as quickly, it’s gone.

I turn back to Sandhya to finish my sentence.

“I don’t want penis enlargement pills.”

It sounds even more ridiculous without the immediate context of her question, but to her credit, she only smiles a bit.

“No, I don’t mean Rahul. Mr. Duggal. At least tell him.”

“Tell him what? That for some inscrutable reason literally nobody’s willing to sacrifice their body to free the djinn that’s trapped inside their hellspawn? It’s hopeless, I tell you! We’re fuc—”

The phone rings again. I sigh.

“Fine, I’ll tell him.”

I flip it over and hit a button. “Mr. Duggal! I’m afraid I have some bad news. You see, we—

“Duggal? Calling me Duggal now? I’ll give you Duggal, you ungrateful wretch!”

“Ma?”

“Ah, he remembers his mother’s voice. I should feel so honoured.”

“Listen, Ma, I can’t talk now, I have a client—”

“No, you listen, and don’t feed me your lies about clients! I need you to vacate the flat by tomorrow, OK?”

“Vacate the flat by tomorrow?”

“Yes, by tomorrow.”

“What? But, Ma, you said Sunday!”

“Yes, but that was long back.”

“Long back? It was yesterday!”

“Yes, anyway, doesn’t matter, I’ve changed my mind.”

“Changed . . . your mind.”

“Exactly. And stop repeating everything I say, Zorawar, you sound like an echo. Anyway, I’m giving it to Suresh’s friend, he’s increased his offer to 6000 but he wants it immediately.”

“But Ma!”

“Ma, ma, ma! You sound like a goat! It’s my flat and I can give it to whoever I want, can’t I? Yes, I can! And I’m giving it to Paras. He seems like a really nice young man, and unlike you, he has a real paying job. Works with a real estate firm. Duggal Enterprises, I think it was called.”

“Did you say Duggal?”

“Yes, that’s what it was called. Very good company, I believe the owners actually live on Aurangzeb Road or something. They have a beautiful house there, Paras was telling me.”

“Beautiful.”

“You’ve started repeating everything again, is it? Anyway, I already took deposit from Paras, so make sure you’re gone by twelve tomorrow, OK?”

“But, Ma—” I start, but she’s already hung up. I start to throw the phone across the room, then remember I don’t have the money for another so I toss it onto the desk in disgust.

“Well, we’re screwed now, aren’t we? She wants me gone by noon tomorrow. With nowhere to go. Me, her own flesh and blood!”

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t go around boasting about that bit.”

“But what do I do? I have nowhere to go. I’ll be as homeless as that djinn if he left the hellchild’s body. And probably die faster because I don’t even have superpowers, like not freezing, and what, what is it?”

I stop because she’s clutching at me, positively quivering with excitement.

“I’ve got it.”

“Got what? The ague?”

“No, I know how to fix everything.”

“You do? How?

Sandhya’s eyes narrow, and now she’s smiling at me.

“You, of course,” she says.

“Me? What do you—Oh no! No way! Absolutely not!”

“It’s the best option.”

“It’s not an option! I’m not giving myself up to be some receptacle for a demon!”

“He’s not a demon, he’s a djinn. He was rather insistent on that point, if you recall”

“I’m still not doing it.”

“Because you’d rather freeze?”

“I’ll find another way.”

“No, you won’t. This is the only way we can fix this—and make some real money for a change. Money with which we can open a real office, in a real proper area, and open a real business with real prospects.”

“And you know all this because?”

“Because you heard the djinn. He can recognise other djinns. There’s lots of them. More streaming in every day, looking for compatible hosts. And a city full of unhappy people we can connect them to. Statistically, at least some will be rich, see? Rich enough to give us lots and lots of rupees to help them out. It’s not just win-win, it’s win-win-win.”

“Easy enough for you to say. You’re not the one who has to give up your body as to a dem-ah- djinn like a bloody supernatural guest-house.”

“Just think of yourself as a paranormal innvestigator then.”

I fall silent, musing at the injustice of it all.

“Oh come on, It’ll even mean you won’t need new business cards!”

And that’s when it hits me. She’s right. This really just might work.

Right then, we’re interrupted by my phone ringing. I look at it. It’s Ma again. She’s reconsidered! I knew it. She might be crotchety and mean sometimes, but a mother’s love always shines through in the end.

“It’s Ma”, I say triumphantly to Sandhya. “So much for this scheme of yours. Excuse me, I need to talk to my mother now.”

“Hi, Ma,” I say, answering the phone.

“Zorawar? I just called to say don’t forget my desk and chairs. Bring them before one, I have a kitty party to go to. Okay bye!”

There’s a click, and I’m left holding a phone on a line that’s almost half as dead as me on the inside.

This time I do throw the phone across the room.

“Good thing we cancelled the plan then.”

“Oh, shut up.”

We sit in silence for a while, while I go over scheme after scheme in my mind, each more guaranteed to fail than the last. Finally, my shoulders slump, I hang my head, and from that position I look up at Sandhya.

“Fine, I’ll do it. I hope you’re happy.”

“I am. And you’ll be too, trust me.”

“I don’t know about this supernatural matchmaking idea.”

“As opposed to the booming paranormal detection trade we just spent three months in? Think of it as real estate if it makes you feel better. We’re borrowing from our friend Mr. Duggal. Paranormal Properties—come to us, and no being will ever live rent-free in your head again. Even the ads write themselves.”

“I’m really glad you have this all figured out,” I say bitterly.

“Oh, I do now. All of it. “

“What do you mean?”

“There’s one little thing I’ve been wondering about this since the beginning and I think I’ve finally figured it out.”

“So now we go talk to the djinn?”

“No, now you call Mr. Duggal, tell him to get that twenty-five lakhs ready. Tell him we want it in cash.”

“Cash?”

“He’s a Delhi property dealer, what do you think?”

“Cash it is.”

“Also tell him we’ll be there to pick it up soon.”

“And then?”

“Then we go talk to that djinn.”

We’re back in front of the World’s Ugliest House, exiting the sleek black car.

“Should I wait, sir, madam?” asks Nitin.

I shake my head. “No, it’s fine.”

“Very good, sir,” he replies.

“Just a moment, Nitin,” says Sandhya.

“Madam?”

“I just had one quick question for you.”

“Yes, Madam?”

She leans forward, so her head is almost through the driver’s window. “How much did that priest pay you to say he was missing, Nitin?”

“Madam!”

She smiles. “It’s ok. I won’t tell your employer.”

She pauses. “Unless you lie to me, of course. Did he pay you to say he was missing?”

Nitin looks exceedingly unhappy. A bead of sweat appears on his forehead. His eyes flicker from side to side, like he’s looking for somewhere to run to, which is pretty silly, considering that if he really wanted to run away, all he had to do was hit the accelerator.

“No Madam.”

“Nitin. Do you want me to talk to Mr. Duggal.”

“6000 rupees, Madam. To say he was vanished and in case Mr. Duggal wanted me to file police complaint, to say I had done that also.”

Sandhya smiled with quiet satisfaction. “I thought so. Thank you, Nitin. You can go now.”

She’d barely finished the sentence before the car zoomed off with a screech, leaving behind a tyre trail and the smell of rubber. Nitin had been only too eager to comply.

I look admiringly at Sandhya. “How did you guess?”

“Well, there had to be some explanation for the missing priest. For one, his family didn’t seem too concerned, did they? Just said he was missing and that was it? I’m not that stupid, even if the Duggals are. Also, what happened to the body? There was no smell in the room, or anywhere in the house. Bodies rot. This one hadn’t. And Wahid didn’t strike me as the sort to be murdering priests anyway.”

“I’m so impressed right now.”

“Why, thank you, Zorawar Bhaitoa. Now, let’s go talk to our djinn, shall we?”

A few minutes later, we’re walking into the room with the levitating boy again. He sees us enter and immediately begins showering us with abuse.

“SJWs! Beta cucks!”

“Hey, Wahid,” says Sandhya. “If you’re in there, we need to talk to you.”

“Snowflakes!”

“Wahid?”

Once again, the face does its left-right-left quick march before settling into a look of equanimity. Wahid beams at us.

“Ah, you’re back. Finally! I thought you’d abandoned me. Wouldn’t be the first time a human’s been a disappointment, you know. Brought me a body?”

“Maybe.”

He’s no longer beaming. “Maybe? What happened to our deal?”

“It’s not a deal if only you get something out of it.”

“I saved you from Monty! Twice! Thrice counting just now!”

“After begging us to come back? I think not. You’ll have to do better.”

Wahid’s face falls. “Typical,” he mutters bitterly. “Just like a human to kick you when you’re down. And they call us djinn mercenary.”

“Who does?”

He waves a dismissive hand. “What does it matter? You’ll just use it against me. What do you want? Money? Jewels? Beautiful lovers?”

“You can get us those?” I hear myself ask.

“No, of course not. I mean, I could steal them, but I’d still need a body. But isn’t that what humans usually ask for?”

“Not these humans,” says Sandhya.

“Now hold on a minute,” I say quickly.

“He literally just said he can’t get them.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Excuse me, shouldn’t you be talking to me instead of each other?” says Wahid. “A little attention here, hello? Thank you. Now, what are your terms? What do you want from me in return?”

“Cooperation,” says Sandhya.

He eyes us suspiciously. “What does that mean?”

“It means that if we give you a new body, you’re going to help us find other djinn.”

“You wish me to point out others like myself to you?”

“Exactly.”

“Certainly not! You think I’d just betray my kind? My brethren? My very family? Just to benefit myself?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’re right. But I want it known that I only do so reluctantly.”

“Well, we wouldn’t actually need you to out all djinn. Just the ones looking for hosts. And the ones who, like you, are trapped with incompatible hosts. And we’ll help them find a match . . . um . . . ‘better suited to their personalities,’ I believe the phrase was. And I’m sure you’d be pretty good at figuring that out too.”

“I’m good at almost everything. So I do everything? What do you do?”

“Put up with you. Think of it as the rent we pay if it helps.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Yes, rent is like that. So, do you agree or not? It’s this or Monty.”

There’s a long pause and then he sighs heavily.

“I agree to your terms.”

“So, we have a deal?”

“Yes, we have an accord.” He smiles. “Well, at least you’ll be a more interesting mind than most I’ve had to suffer with.”

“Yes, of course, your new host.” She points at me. “Here he is.”

The smile vanishes. “Oh.”

I’m feeling mildly insulted by the lack of enthusiasm, but I swallow my pride. “Yes, I’m game. I’ll be your host.”

“No, hold on. Is this really the best we can do? Is there no one else?”

OK, now I’m properly insulted. “What’s wrong with me?”

“What isn’t? I’m used to higher standards, you know.”

“Like Monty there?”

“Yes, take advantage of a poor djinn in a terrible situation. That’ll get you classified as a good soul for sure.”

“Hey, he’s not so bad when you get used to him,” says Sandhya. Even she’s miffed. The thought makes me happy at first, until I recall we’re literally negotiating handing my body over to a supernatural creature.

“So no deal? Ok, fine, we’ll just be off then.”

She turns, and I follow suit.

“No, wait!”

We turn back around, looking at Wahid.

“I accept your terms,” he says, somewhat sulkily. “Now, are you ready?”

“Yes. No, wait! You’re sure I can share space with you, right?”

“Of course.”

“And you being there won’t hurt or anything?”

“No, no, not at all. The pain will be all mine, I assure you. But this is how one learns humility, I suppose. As for you, you won’t want me gone. After all, I am Wahid the Gre—”

“Yes, yes,” I say hastily. “I get that.”

“Very well, then. We shall commence.”

The boy’s eyes roll over and over in his head, like marbles rolling down a slope. A strange blue light begins to build, bathing his face in an eerie glow.

“What the—” I say.

And as I do, a ball of blue light courses from the boy’s face, into my mouth. I can feel it, bouncing around my throat, like a gob of very warm rum.

“Oops,” says the voice of Wahid in my head. “Wrong turn.”

I feel the bouncing move upwards, back up my throat, through the roof of my mouth, and into the top of my skull, where it settles. Slowly it settles, leaving me with this slightly lightheaded, warm, fuzzy sensation, like I’ve just taken a big puff of ganja, and I mean actual ganja, not that crap Mathur sells me for ten bucks a pudiya.

“There we go,” says Wahid in my head. “Lots of empty space here, huh? Nice, I like it when there’s room to spread out a bit.” I can hear, no feel a wet, squelching sensation, spreading across the inside of my forehead.

“Here, what are you doing?” I ask

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m fine. We’re fine. We’re a team now, you see?”

“Zorawar!” cries out Sandhya, a warning note in her voice.

Miramos hacia arriba, Wahid y yo, juntos, como uno, y vemos a Monty, con ojos normales, con una expresión en su rostro lo suficientemente fea como para haber sido parte de la decoración de la planta baja.

"¿Quién diablos eres?" el grita. "¡Sal de mi habitacion! ¡Voy a llamar a la policía!”.

“Ya he tenido suficiente de este mocoso”, murmura Wahid. Y estoy de acuerdo.

Levantamos una mano, una onda de choque la deja, arrojando al niño de vuelta a la cama, donde rebota en el colchón y cae al suelo.

"¡Zorawar!" dice Sandhya.

"¿Qué hiciste?" le grito a Wahid.

“Lo siento”, me murmura Wahid. "Solo necesito calibrar las cosas un poco, no debería tomar mucho tiempo".

"¡Tú lo mataste!"

Mientras lo digo, Monty se pone de pie de un salto, con el rostro ahora contorsionado por la ira. “¡Hijos de puta! ¡Hijos de polla! ¡Malditos yihadistas!”

“Desafortunadamente no”, dice Wahid.

“¡Mierda! Antinacionales! ¡Inmigrantes!”

“Nos vamos ahora”, dice Wahid. Y luego, sin palabras, sé lo que quiere hacer, y acepto.

Nos estiramos, agarramos a Sandhya y salimos disparados por la ventana, con tanta fuerza que la corriente de aire lanza y tira a Monty de la cama otra vez. Y luego estamos volando, a través de la ventana, volando hacia arriba y afuera. Y estamos volando, elevándonos más y más, hasta que comenzamos a reducir la velocidad y finalmente dejamos de movernos por completo.

Ahora estamos cayendo, cayendo en picado hacia abajo, puedo ver a Sandhya gritando, solo que no puedo escucharla porque estoy gritando más fuerte.

Luego, con una sacudida desgarradora, nos detenemos, a unos tres metros del suelo, flotando en el aire de Delhi como partículas nocivas.

“Ups”, dice Wahid.

"¿Qué diablos estás haciendo?"

“Creo que me gustaría caminar”, dice Sandhya con firmeza.

“Relájate, relájate, estará bien”, dice Wahid, mientras empezamos a ascender de nuevo. “Te lo dije, solo necesitamos algunas calibraciones. ¿A donde?"

“Hogar”, le digo, y nos desviamos, sobre los jardines y Aurangzeb Road. alejándose de esa horrible casa y su horrible ocupante, navegando por el cielo y de regreso a casa.

"¡Esperar!" grita Sandhya. "¿A dónde diablos crees que vas?"

"Hogar."

“¡No, dirígete a ese hotel! Tenemos veinticinco lakhs para cobrar.

Ella tiene razón, así que giro a la izquierda, hacia un futuro más feliz.

"¿Y después de eso?" pregunta Wahid.

"¿Después?" me hago eco

Sandhya sonríe. “Después de eso llegamos a la parte buena. Vamos a ver a tu madre.

"Pensé que dijiste que era la parte buena".

"Está. Porque le voy a decir que necesita encontrar un nuevo cocinero. Y luego le vas a decir que puede encontrar un nuevo ocupante para ese piso. Por cierto, hay un gran espacio de oficina disponible para alquilar en Malviya Nagar”.

Ella sonríe. “Hice una llamada antes. Nos esperan mañana para revisarlo.

"Eres increíble", le digo.

"Lo sé", dice ella.

Tomo una respiración profunda, llenando mis pulmones. No sé cuándo fue la última vez que me sentí tan alegre.

“Hola, Wahid,” digo. “¿Cómo te gustaría conocer a mi madre?”

"Yo no lo haría".

"Bueno, lo vas a hacer".

Todavía discutiendo, navegamos lejos, a través del cielo lleno de smog.

Y así fue como terminé con Wahid the Djinn viviendo en mi cabeza. Y la capacidad de volar, y disparar rayos de mis dedos, y mucho más, incluido un nuevo departamento, oficina y carrera, y todo lo que vino con ellos.

Pero esa es una historia diferente.

Shiv Ramdas es un narrador indio. Su breve ficción especulativa ha aparecido en Strange Horizons, Fireside, Podcastle y otras publicaciones, y ha sido nominado a los premios Nebula, Hugo e Ignyte. Actualmente vive y trabaja en Seattle, Estados Unidos. Puede obtener más información sobre él en shivramdas.net o encontrarlo tuiteando como @nameshiv.

Visite LIGHTSPEED MAGAZINE para leer más ciencia ficción y fantasía. Esta historia apareció por primera vez en la edición de marzo de 2022, que también presenta el trabajo de Merc Fenn Wolfmoor, Nicole D. Sconiers, Daniel David Froid, Maria Dong, Robert Reed, Alyssa Wong, Julianna Baggott y más. Puede esperar a que el contenido de este mes se publique en serie en línea, o puede comprar el número completo ahora mismo en un conveniente formato de libro electrónico por solo $ 3.99, o suscribirse a la edición de libro electrónico en este enlace .

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