Muddy lane in a quiet neighborhood of Northern Avenue. I walked across the streets to the park, avoiding the hoard of myageh children playing in the rain. They were jumping about, counting something, chanting without aim.

Silly, silly myageh. I smiled, my mouth curled up into a gentle, contemptuous sneer. For they didn’t know who walked among them, who would be their Lord and Master, the person who they would all bow down to, respect, and call ‘babu’ or ‘syar’.

For I was he. The one who would rule one day.

I sat down, waiting for the right time. Evening was fast approaching, and as the sun went down, conch shells from around the neighborhood, followed by a plethora of short songs, mostly sung in a female voice, heralded the approach of the favourite past time of the myageh, when they sat glued in front of that short, squat box they called the Teebhee, as if they were all controlled by it.

I promised myself that one day I shall show myself to these imbeciles whose days began and ended trying to figure out the lives of others. I shall show them the true extent of my power, and make them fight to come close to me.

And once they did, I would incinerate them all!

*  *  *

I could see the tall figure recline against the park bench. I knew who he was – a name long feared and never forgotten. I quickly wrapped the end of my sari around my waist, tucking it in, and felt for my wand, lost inside the infinite space of my jhola. Enchanted jholas had this tendency of hiding things – although they were rather perfect for carrying everything I held dear.

He had found me. I was not surprised, though. The dark mark always found the wearers, and no matter how many times I tried to camouflage it under pretty henna designs, the mark was present, mocking me at times, making me think of my own indiscretions. I watched him flex his fingers as he looked at the hoard of myageh children, mumbling a curse here and there to give someone a bad case of petkharap in the middle of their game. One suddenly tripped and fell, and a couple of the older, female myagehs immediately came over, pulling the young one away, cursing and promising a rub of Boroline. I hoped that wasn’t another curse – I never really got over the entire deal with these creatures, and besides, He Who Must Not Be Named has hammered it into us that we were to never mix with them.

He turned as I neared. I reached down and touched his feet, and he placed his hand briefly over my head. I closed my eyes, counting my blessing, as I heard him say my name.

“Ah, Bella Bose, how thankful I am your number was the same, and I could reach you.”

Disclaimer: This blogpost is an entry to the Blogging contest, a part of the book launch of Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, in association with Kolkata Bloggers. For more check out hashtag ‪#‎KolkataBloggers‬ ‪#‎OxfordBookstore‬ and ‪#‎ChosenOne‬ 

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Written by Poorna Banerjee

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