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by Sayan Chaliha
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… always a spring in his step.” A tear ran down the boy’s cheek as he continued with his story. “My grandfather always waits for him to come back… hoping that he would rise from the dead one day and come to see his father.”
Just then, the old man, awoken by the sound of voices, remembered that he was to expect the fakir. He washed up and came downstairs to find his grandson and the fakir in the sitting room.
“Ah, we’ve been expecting you. I see you’ve already met my grandson. His father should be here any moment now. We will talk then. In the meantime, let me fix you a cup of tea.”
The fakir looked at the boy. “I see what you mean little boy. Perhaps you could give me and your grandfather a moment.”
“Sure. I’ll just go to my room.”
The old man came in with a tray. “My son should be here just about now,” he said to the fakir. Just then, the back door clicked, and a man walked in humming ‘Raindrops keep falling on my head.’ He was cheerful, and his clothes were dirty from a hard day’s labour. The fakir jumped up in his place and looked at him in horror, and in a split moment he was out the front door, running like the wind.
“And what’s wrong with him, dad? He looked like he’d seen a ghost. I told you it wasn’t a good idea to call that fakir here. There’s |
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