Maya and the Studded Cowry

By Whilhelmina Mathew

In an unfair world for girls, Maya is an iconic protagonist having learnt to balance riding on a trident with single minded focus in her quest for the Studded Cowry. This can set her free from her present state of affairs and she can seek her identity, ambitions and aspirations.
The Studded Cowry is symbolic with a precious gem inside that has a discrete substance with amazing powers. The gem can change any gem into the most precious gem: A magic formula that can automatically melt away all hurdles and set free her ancient and traditional beliefs.
The two in one “The Magical Elixirs” an alchemical, the discovery of a Universal concept to transform things for the better from the ancient world of social, cultural and religious taboos.
Mrs. Rumberstin Maya’s step aunt a crafty and ostentatious woman runs a Trident Riding school for girls. The riding school is a cover up, to distract Maya and keep her away from the Studded Cowry that had an unambiguous meaning to her.
Amulets, charms, magical formulas- Nothing could hamper her search. The Apartment Castle is abstruse with ancient Asian magical enchantments. Can she break the barrier of finding the Studded Cowry?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Oct 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543703580

Whilhelmina Mathew

Mrs. Whilhelmina Mathew, an Inspiring and Eminent Educationalist for the past three decades has vast teaching and administrative experience in Colleges and Schools set in multinational and multicultural environments. She is credited to have won the hearts and minds of children of all ages by imparting quality education and giving meaning to their lives. A native of the pristine Hill Station of Colonial Ooty, she has always been a keen observer of life and an ardent advocate of Girls’ Education and Children’s Rights. Empowerment of Girls and Children have always been a favourite theme close to her heart and “Maya and the Studded Cowry” is an assertion of this theme.

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Copyright © 2018 by Whilhelmina Mathew.

ISBN:       Hardcover        978-1-5437-0360-3

                 Softcover           978-1-5437-0359-7

                 eBook                978-1-5437-0358-0

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Contents

Chapter 1   Shadows of the Mountain

Chapter 2   Sophie’s Marble

Chapter 3   The Meadow of Secrets

Chapter 4   The Adventure Has Only Begun

Chapter 5   At the Underground House

Chapter 6   The Mid-Afternoon Contest

Chapter 7   A Castle of Underground Apartments

Chapter 8   A Door within a Door

Chapter 9   The Contest

Chapter 10   The Demon Effigy

Chapter 11   The Trident Gallantry

Chapter 12   The Monsoon Festival

Chapter 13   Cap’n Cankle

Chapter 14   The Empress of the East

Chapter 15   The Twin Celestials/

Chapter 16   The Miniature Donkey

Chapter 17   The Conch Blower

Chapter 18   The Triple-Headed Fish Fountain

Chapter 1

Shadows of the Mountain

M aya was incredible: she never grew up, she never grew old, she always remained a 10-year-old.Nothing much happened to her; she lived on like an everlasting flower that bloomed through every season. Being incredible, she had a lot of things going on inside her; she appeared when she wanted and disappeared in the same way.

All the while, she lived with her parents but spent most of her time on the Anderson farm, a small tea plantation surrounded by the mighty blue-eyed mountains in the Nilgiris. It was a farm owned by the Andersons, who were Dutch and lived their lives for more than three decades, hidden away deep down the Glen Morgan tea estate. Screeching crickets never seemed tired but screeched all throughout the nights, keeping the old chap Anderson alive. All he looked forward to was seeing Maya each day. When she entered the farm, things were different; it was as though she was a spell by herself. Grandpa depended on her so much that he could never stay a day without her.

Maya walked up the steep pathway that led to the big stone house that stood tall and lonely and overlooked the majestic hills that brought life to Grandpa each day. She glided up and down like a smooth trolley on wheels.

‘Grandpa! Are you awake?’ she shouted as she entered the gateway. Grandpa would come running out wherever he was, as she brought liveliness to the farm and, most of all, to Grandpa, who lived all alone. ‘Wake up, little old man, nothing can let you sleep. You are the old man from the soil. You have toiled so hard, and now you seem weary and bushed.’

‘I’m not tired, little girl, I’m unspoken and still. When I’m so, I have all the energy I want to transcend into the universe into different forms.’

‘Different forms! And what may these different forms be?’

‘Look around. Don’t you see everything around you? The hills, the mountains, the trees, the birds, the air, and also people like us—it can be any form. I may seem old and weak before you. Nonetheless, I’m as strong and as mighty as the mountains, which can never be destroyed.’

‘Grandpa’s dreaming,’ said Maya.

‘What are you saying? I can see you nowhere.’

‘I’m everywhere from today. You will only hear my voice, nothing else.’

‘Should I stay or go down to the village and wait for you there?’

‘Wait on the doorstep of my house, where you usually sit and smoke a cigar.’

‘I smoke a cigar! When did you ever see me do that?’

‘Many a time when you came down for a walk, you would talk to my mother and father, and all they did was smile or nod. They could never say a word in English.’

‘Maya, you are clever, you remember everything. Though you are a little girl, you know everything that happened in the village. All this while, I was Anderson and lived in the Anderson farm. Now I am a Dutchman.’

‘A Dutchman! What does that mean?’ Maya asked.

‘I’m from Zeeland, and this is Zeeland, a land of the wise.’

A strong breeze blew with a whirling sound, and all that Maya could see was a man’s wrinkled face and his long white beard blown about with the wind; his beard was so long Maya wanted to hold on to it and swing.

‘I know what you are thinking about,’ said the old man. ‘You want to hang on my beard. If you wish to, you may. You need to be careful. Once you get ahold of it, you have to cleave to it.’

‘Grandpa, you’re behaving so weird today.’

‘Do think I am weird?’

When Maya looked around, all she could see was a sea of the old man’s beard swirling into the sky and twirling around like a hurricane.

‘Come along with me for a journey around the mountains. You can ride on my beard and feel safe.’

‘Your beard?’

‘Yes, my beard—this happens only to the wise. The house where you stand can fall someday, and you may never be able to live in here again.’

‘This is your house, Grandpa. Why should I stay here any longer?’

Maya decided to walk down the narrow alley; before she could, she went into the house to make sure Grandpa was not asleep. She went from room to room; he was nowhere. Again a breeze blew stronger. Maya wondered if she was dreaming. She made her way to the door, and just as she was to step out, the doors shut. A bright light flashed, and she was blinded.

She sat on the floor, with her head in her lap and her eyes shut tight. The wind blew even harder.

‘How can I let go, child, when you are part of this journey?’

‘I’m on no journey. I just want to have myself out from here.’

From nowhere, a dark, brown-skinned curly-haired lad with a round face and a squint in his left eye stood before Maya, laughing aloud.

‘From where have you appeared?’ Maya asked, feeling quite surprised, as though things seemed to be astounding. ‘Something must be happening out here. All I want to do is run away from here.’

‘If you do so, then who would be part of this place? It’s only you who know everything around here.’ Maya looked at the little boy, who meant no harm but only wanted her to be part of something he wanted to do.

‘What do you want from me?’ Maya asked.

‘Wait and watch,’ said the boy. Then he took something out of his pocket; it was a long thick multicoloured thread that looked glossy and sleek. It was so long that the more he pulled it from his pocket, the longer it turned, and it was strewn all over the room. Maya wondered what the boy was doing and kept looking at the thread.

‘I’m sure this is not new to you,’ said the boy.

‘No,’ said Maya. ‘This is used during all festivals and everyday. This thread is of magic.’

‘Magic! What magic? Where magic? When magic?’

‘Hush, little boy, don’t get too excited. Tell me what you know about this thread. The temple and the festivals, the dances for gods and goddesses, they play the magic. Haven’t you seen people wearing threads of different colours on their wrists?’

‘No, I haven’t. I found this bit thrown on the threshold of Grandpa’s bedroom. The moment I picked it up, it began to get longer than ever. I can still see it getting longer.’

Maya thought for a while and slowly put her left hand across her right arm to see if the thread she had tied around was there. When she felt for it, she couldn’t find it. She was in a daze and wondered if it was hers and if it could have fallen off and Grandpa stepped on it and turned invisible. She again thought about his beard; the moment she had touched it, it had begun to grow longer than ever. She was sure that the thread that had fallen from her arm had some sort of mystic powers.

As he moved, the thread too moved very fast like a winding river from one room to another. The boy seemed to be worried, and he too began to move along with the thread. Maya followed the boy and went wherever he went. As he moved, there was severe lightning, and the thunder cracked so loud that the house seemed to shake from side to side. It was as though Maya was on a roller coaster. The boy walked on smoothly without being shaken. After a while, he stood still, and the thread also stopped moving. He pulled his hand up, and an old man with a thick twisted black moustache appeared before him; his forehead was smeared with thick yellow powder and a dark red circle in the centre of his forehead. He also wore a saffron turban with symbols of gods and goddesses. His broad wrinkled forehead showed deep cuts of thin and thick lines from the paste that was smeared on his forehead. The man seemed to be calm with the boy. It showed that the boy had something to do with the man; the man only moved his forehead sideways thrice, and the boy knew what he had to do. He turned round and round, and a funny creature like a mouse appeared and began squeaking.

The boy demanded, ‘Cut the thread. Oh, Ratty! Oh, Ratty! Cut the thread. Can’t you see how entangled I am? There’s something bigger for you when I see you again.’

Ratty tried hard; the thread remained the same. He pulled and pulled, and nothing happened for a while. Ratty sat on the thread and tried hard; he tried to scale up and down all along, trying hard to gnaw from some end, but nothing happened.

‘We ought to cut this into many pieces. Ratty, you are only responsible for this.’

Maya was surprised to see the little boy and Ratty having a conversation. It appeared that they both had known each other for a long time. Ratty was something very different; he had a long snout, a longer body that was sleek, and a tail much longer than any from the rodent family he belonged to.

Maya could clearly hear Ratty squeak the boy’s name: ‘Shravan.’

She was flabbergasted. This name she repeatedly heard in the village for every feast and festival—the boy with the magical powers. He appeared and he disappeared. Grandpa’s house was now the house of mystery. All this mystery was only with a string of many colours. He finally made his way here.

‘Once when I climbed in here slyly, I was chased down by a pack of dogs that growled and snarled and got me out, never to let me in. Now I have all that I want,’ said the little boy, who still kept himself known to Maya as the grandson.

‘I have all I want, and it’s here that things will happen.’

The boy moved on slowly. Ratty was not to be found; he went in from room to room, looking for something that he had come for, and he never seemed to feel satisfied.

‘Come away from there,’ said a voice. ‘This is not meant for you.’

The boy stopped to see who it was. He found no one; the thread he had in his hand kept rolling along with him.

When he looked down, the thread kept rolling and was caught on a small stump of a nail. The boy bent down to take it out when his finger got stuck on the stump.

‘Don’t pull too hard,’ said the same voice. ‘You can’t take that thread out from her. Within the thread lie strands of them that are intertwined, one with the other. Each one of those strands has a purpose.’

‘I know,’ said the boy.

‘Even a piece or a strand from that can change things for you,’ said the voice. ‘I need nothing to change for I have several of those with me.’

Maya only heard what the voices were saying to each other.

She knew what that thread was all about; it was hers that had fallen off, and now it had taken a new turn.

The boy kept trying to pull his hand up, and each time he did, it got stuck on to the stump. ‘Maya, where are you?’ the boy called out.

Maya tiptoed to where he was; she was a bit nervous. If she touched him, anything can happen.

‘Just say, Soul of the planet three times and see what will happen,’ Maya replied.

The boy said, ‘Soul of the planet.’ His finger immediately lifted up, and the coloured string started moving and creeping along.

‘Who is this soul of the planet?’ asked the boy. ‘It’s none other than us.’

‘Did you not see what happened when you said it thrice?’

‘Are we on a planet now?’ Maya asked.

‘Yes, the one we live on,….But everything here seems to be different.’

‘It’s the thread that’s confusing you,’ said Maya. ‘You have been using the threads too frequently, and now when you have it in abundance, you are unable to use it the way you want to.’

‘The threads!’ And the boy laughed and laughed hysterically! His face reddened, and for a while, he couldn’t control himself. ‘Threads, yes, the magical threads.’

‘How much do you know of me? You seem to know too much about me. Does that make you feel so uncomfortable with me? Is it that only you enjoy the power of the string? Can I not be a part of it?’

‘No, it can never happen to be so, especially when I am around. You being Maya, it shouldn’t be for you.’

Maya was confused by what he meant; it was not meant for her, whereas all the time she wore it around her arm. How sure was she that it was hers? It could never belong to anyone else, as she was the only one to visit Grandpa.

Everyone wore one: on their wrist, some on their waist, others on their necks.Some were plaited, some woven, and some very plain. It all depended on what everyone desired. Women, men, children, and infants—anyone that mattered wore one. Some wore only a strand, others wore two, some had their whole wrists twined and tightened with rich colours of hope.

The only things that differed were the colours: dazzling red, bright saffron, and the darkest of black that seemed to be the most dominant. They controlled every supernatural emotion that evolved around the string of strings that sometimes turned out to be the cords for the remedy that was a potion for the innermost emotion of being safe that evolved within the little cord, which is washed and worn out after each day’s shower then gradually lose its brightness and glossiness.

The more faded the string got, the greater were the chances of success. The string had its own magical powers. The magical thread evolved and advanced in the village. The wrinkled brown hands and long bony fingers of the many women who scrunched up their eyes and tied the thread between their fore toes and pulled and plaited the woven sacred threads, thought Maya with a wicked smile, had now become an enhancement of the unexplained.

Maya looked at the boy, and the boy unknowingly looked through Maya. Both of them could read each other’s mind; both were the enchanted.

The room where they stood turned a greyish dark as Ratty entered; his presence changed the colour of the room. Now, Shravan said, ‘Ratty, where is the string? Have you been able to break it to pieces? You know we made a promise. It’s in this string that many a thing will happen.’ Ratty squeaked aloud, and the string began to uncoil again.

Shravan said, ‘Maya, no, I’m not what you called me.’

‘You answered Ratty when he said Shravan, the temple boy—the boy who rang the bell ten thousand times, tied strings on the arms of the elders and children, blew the conch, washed the gods day in and day out and smeared their foreheads with the holiest of coloured powders, and lit the morning and evening lamp.’

‘No, it’s not me.’

‘Then who are you?’

‘I’m none but the boy, and the golden string I’m in search of.’

‘The golden string and here, this is an old bungalow. What can you find here?’

‘The old man is not far from here? He knows what I am looking for, the string. And the string is with him?’ The boy said in a low tone, ‘The power of the golden string, the golden string, the thick golden string woven with the purest of gold.’

The boy only thought of the golden string.

Maya knew that there was something very special with the golden string the boy kept talking of.

‘It’s the maker of many things. Strings of colour hang everywhere. Haven’t you seen it? It is not only with the maker but also as destroyer. A demolisher!’

Maya felt something tighten around her arm; she wondered what it might be.

When she lifted the sleeve of her blouse, she saw the multicoloured thread woven around her arm—it was a piece from the strands of it that lay below the boy. This was something unusual, thought Maya. Ratty gnawed and gnawed, and nothing much happened. Maya took one glance and quickly pulled her sleeve down. The string was too long for the boy to hold; the more he pulled, the longer it grew.

All he wanted was a piece from the strand that he found in the bungalow; this was something he needed. Again he pulled, and this time when he pulled hard, tiny creatures popped out of nowhere and laughed scornfully at him.

‘You mighty man! Can you not cut a piece from this? You are mighty, and now you struggle through to have a piece from this.’

The tiny creatures, with high-pitched voices of little girls, seemed to be very unhappy about the favouritism the boy showed between them and the young boys in the village.

The boy looked up, puzzled; the creatures had millions of coloured threads adorning them. ‘Why don’t you take a strand from us?’ laughed the creatures haughtily.

‘What wrong have I done that you mock at me so much?’

‘Mock at you! Who would and who could mock at you, young boy? Have you forgotten us and all the promises you made?’

‘Promises!’ The boy looked stunned. ‘Promises!’

‘Yes, the promise you made to all of us. Could you ever have one of them fulfilled? Now you look for the golden string.’

Maya silently watched the creatures scuttle around and have fun. ‘Tease the boy,’ said one of the creatures. ‘Your threads you have tied on the wrists of the many are the false promises you silently gave them, exciting them for a minute and disappointing them forever.’

‘Promises of all magical powers, the earth is magical, people are magical, and you were the most magical with the threads being the supremacy,’ unanimously said the creatures. ‘Now don’t put on an act and behave like you know nothing.’

‘Remember the threads, the coloured threads.’

‘We too have woven ourselves into threads to shield ourselves from the threat of dread, panic, and horror. We know not what awaits us—the thread covers us for the moment. It’s an armour of protection. It helps us fulfil our momentary dreams.’

The door creaked with the wind, the creatures quickly scuttled, and each one of them ran to different hideouts. Maya stood motionless and in doubt, the thread woven around her arm. Now it was only she who had a piece from the string that grew and grew, in a nonstop way.

‘Wait! Where do you think you are going to?’ said the boy.

Maya kept walking she gave a deaf ear and went into the room where Grandpa used to sleep. The boy tried to keep up with her. As he reached her, the door closed; he could in no way enter. He stood for a while and banged on the door with all his might, but the door remained closed.

The thread crept along with the boy; the boy was anxious to have a piece. He once again tried hard to break the thread; the more he pulled, the stronger the thread became.

‘I know what I can do,’ said the boy. He pulled the thread along with him till he came to a window; he stopped and opened the window.

Pondering for a while, he looked at the rusty half-painted iron bars that lay across, and he pulled the thread through the bars as hard as he could, wishing the thread to cut, but nothing happened. The thread remained as strong as it could. He pulled harder again, the bar gave way, and the boy landed in the barn, on a dry haystack.

The rustle of the haystack was a disturbance.

‘Wait!’ a voice said. The boy was mystified; it was another boy like him, and the voice sounded very familiar.

‘Shravan, it’s yourself that has brought you here.’

‘I’m not Shravan.’

‘Why, I have seen you down the village. Don’t you remember, you tied the holy thread on my arm and chanted the Holy Thing, now don’t you see where I am? Just in an old barn, looking after the cows for sahibs.’

‘You and the threads of many colours, the choice was yours, the crowds were many, and the chanting got louder. Chant now and leave.’

A boy like me, thought Shravan. He did see someone more or less like him when he looked; it was only the voice that he heard. After deep thought, Shravan shouted loudly, ‘I’m not Shravan. I’m the boy. The thread, the golden thread—it’s here and somewhere around here.’

The boy looked around, but the thread kept following him.

‘Alex,’ called a shrill voice. ‘Where are you?’

‘I’m here in the barn.’

‘Get away from there.’

‘Yes, Grandpa.’

Alex only heard the voice, but the presence of Grandpa was nowhere; the way in which Grandpa called out seemed to be a warning to him to leave at once. He had never heard Grandpa panic; he knew Grandpa felt there was some sort of difficulty.

The boy looked around and was bewildered to find in every corner of the barn hung long, knotted thick strings of different colours. Some were very old and faded; some were new and bright. Others had red and black cowry shells attached at the end of them.

Cowry shells and the knotted strings, thought the boy. They are mine. They are plenty in number, and it’s in one of them that a stone is embedded, a very valued one, if only did I know its worth. I know what it is. And he softly whispered to himself, ‘The golden cowry.’ The cowry of all glory and might.

Cunning old man, you paid for those cowries, thought the boy. Your lovable smile distracted me. It was the pretentious beam on your face that deceived me to give you the studded one. The crescent moon is also inscribed on it, the moon that sends signs out to me.

The secret chants I used to tie the strings of charm strengthened me; the glow from the cowry gave me the power to chant. Frenziedly now I recite no more. I have lost the charm. I am weakened, and everything around me is fading.

The boy was in a state of confusion that he decided to go to the bungalow; he wondered at first what made him come up. For some time, he thought about the cowry shells that were sold all at one time. He tried to think about the one inscribed and when it might have been sold.

His only intention was to get the cowry and the get golden string back; he remembered clearly the old man rummaging in the old wooden boxes that had a lot of antique things that belonged to his grandpa and were used on various occasions as a tradition and belief to ward away dread and fear from the villagers who often visited him even to cure a cough or a rash.

The boy was now worried about the peacock feathers that had never-ending magic. When his grandpa uttered a chant, the feathers danced in the air like a peacock dancing in the rain; this was another thing his grandfather used as a charm, to charm the nervous and worried villagers, who went back contented and at ease.

Alex went towards the door of the barn; the boy put his hand out and stopped him.

‘Shravan, what has become of you? What are you doing here?’

In a rage, the boy threw himself on the ground and screamed loudly, ‘I’m not Shravan.’

Alex looked down, and he saw the long coloured string ravel and unravel, coil and uncoil. ‘Here you are. This is what I have been telling you—the threads and your charming magic chants. It’s this thread and nothing else. Maya—you know her. There’s something with us. The threads she has worn several times. She has but one, and it’s the most sacred one with her. I feel weakened without it.’

‘You should feel weakened. Might cannot always be yours,’ said Alex.

‘Come along with me. All I need is the thread,’ said the boy.

Alex began walking away from the barn. He left the boy to be seated on the stack of hay, and he went towards the house.

Maya was about to leave.‘You are here,’ said Alex. Maya was pale for a moment; all she wanted to know was if the boy was anywhere around.

Both of them walked towards the barn; every nook and corner of the house was known to them. They knew all about Grandpa and how he could mesmerise anyone. There was an eerie silence as though Grandpa had transformed himself into several uncanny beings.

The boy looked all around; his thoughts were on the cowry, the studded cowry, with the gem, which was all that he wanted.

In the cowry lay the undisclosed, and only he knew about it. How long can the cowry stay away from me? It’s mine and what is mine is mine.

‘No, it belongs to the bungalow. It was here where you found it. Now it’s here, where it will stay,’ said a quivering voice. The boy was astonished with the voice; he knew it was the voice of the old man.

‘Come out and face me,’ said the boy. ‘Here shall we meet and here shall we decide about the cowry.’

Long strides of footsteps thundered as the old man walked. ‘You dare challenge me,’ said the old man.It took a while before the old man reached where the boy was; here he stood tall and strong and his beard far too long for his tiny chin to hold. His twinkling eyes and his face beamed with victory.

‘Cowry! Yes, it’s the cowry I have come for. It offers blessings, it offers curses.Which one do you want me to chant?’

‘The one that pleases you the most.In your blessings will I not gain? Nor in your curses do I lose. Let the curses remain with you and blessings overflow.’

Maya and Alex walked closer to the barn door and saw Grandpa change into someone else they had never seen; they wondered if it was the same grandpa they had been helping. Maya peeped, and the door swung open; she was forced inside.

‘Stand still,’ said the quivering voice. ‘Move not.’ Maya looked closely at the old man; through her eyes, she could see someone else, someone she had seen in the village and also visiting her father several times for favours from the cowry, as it was used as a dice of magic.

She could say nothing; each time she tried to say something, she felt herself choking.

The boy shouted with all his might, ‘Maya!’ He too could not say much.

The old man laughed and laughed so loud Alex wondered what the laughter was when he peeped in; he too was shoved in by a mighty force and thrust on the floor of the barn.

The old man became silent, and looked around.‘The wise say not much but act silently.Be shrewd, young girl, for you have the key to all the distraught. Maya … Maya … the grandest of all names, in your name is a world.’

Maya wondered what the old man was saying. She stood still and the boy looked at her vehemently; he knew what the old man was saying and what he said was true.

The boy knew the old man knew something about the name and how much the name meant to him. ‘Chant, Maya, chant. You have the chanting abilities. Have you not heard the boy chant? What keeps you from chanting what he has been chanting? Can you not chant the same?’

Maya looked up, surprised. Before her eyes, everything seemed to be different; it was not the same bungalow she used to come to. She felt she was somewhere else. It was a small kingdom, somewhere she had never been to.

The charm of the mighty old man confused Maya; Alex stood up and looked around. Everything seemed different. He moved closer to Maya and tried pulling her away.

‘I’m Augustus, the sage of this kingdom. I have been here for ages. Have you not seen me before?’

‘This is an old barn, old man. Why do you say it’s a kingdom?’

‘Anything can be a kingdom, young lad. This is a kingdom, the Andretta.’ The boy now felt quizzical, and thought for a while what the old man meant by ‘the Andretta’.

‘Be not wary, young lad, for your thoughts read your actions. I know the power of the cowry worries you.’

‘Every chant you made was made through the cowries. Now you are weakened. Chant now for me.Chant what you have been chanting. In everything there is a mystery, and in the mystery is secrecy.’

‘Now the thread, the sacred thread, feel your arm and find if the thread you tied remains strong.’

The boy was uneasy and ill at ease with himself and the old man.

‘You have chanted relentlessly day after day, and used magical powers over the village way down out there.’

‘This is the kingdom of charm I talk about. Everyone lives in a charm of threads.The threads are a charm to the little kingdom of princesses, princes, queens, and kings. Though so traditional they are, the glorious strings woven interracially and chanted upon fervently have made them believe and trust the melody of the chants, which are at times too long for some, too short for a few, and nothing for the others. It brought momentary happiness, trust, and faith for a while with the strings that you tied on their wrists, strings of chants and strings of wants, always wanting what can’t be got.’

‘How do you say so, old man? What do you know about me apart from the cowries and the threads I sold to you?’ the boy said in an angered tone.

‘I know. I know the secret of the charms. Now you cannot chant the same mantra you chanted for the little boys and girls in the village who so secretly have woven themselves with threads of colour and hidden away from the rest of the world.’

Maya and Alex looked around to see if there were little boys or girls who camouflaged themselves anywhere around. Nothing happened for a while till a strong wind blew so hard and the cowries that were tied together and hung around the barn began clanging together, making a very weird echo of an angry wave on the shore.

Whenever they clashed together, a mantra was heard, the same mantra that was repeated by the boy. Here lies the magic. The boy started making his way towards the cowries, and as he ran to touch them, they swung higher and higher like the speed of a windmill. He could hardly see them move.

‘You tiny weightless babes of the ocean, what makes you turn so hard on me? Did I not polish you day after day and treasure you as the soul of my body? Were you not wrapped in the finest of silken soft cloth and put away safely every night until the day you were sold? And now you move away as though you don’t know me.’

‘Stay away from us, you vagabond, you cruel and unkind mean-spirited gene, you are just that. From the oceans deep we lay washed and swept on the white clean shore.’ The boy was too stunned to hear this from the cowries.

‘I hide myself away from you. Look how worn I am and look at me dangling on a thread. You have misused my powers and used it only for yourself,’ said a cowry.

‘Don’t hide away from me.’ Now beside the boy stood an old lady hunchbacked, with a turned-up nose, a basket in one hand, looking for something anxiously.

‘What are you looking for?’ asked the boy.

‘The same as what you want. I now have with me as many as hundreds. They are a pair, and the one I am looking for is the one with the studded gem.’

‘Who are you, old lady?’ asked the boy.

‘Ask nothing of me. I’m here to capture what you want.’ The old man and the old lady laughed heartily together. She shouted loudly, throwing her hands up into the air, ‘Roll up and roll down, strike thrice on the ground.’ She immediately looked at the old man and signalled to him with her eyes towards Maya.

The old man grabbed Maya by her hand, and the woman repeated, ‘Roll up, roll down, strike thrice on the ground.’ Maya was struck with awe and dread.

‘No, she doesn’t come in my way.’ The boy reacted immediately. ‘What does she know of the cowry?’

‘Stay away from her,’ snarled the woman. ‘She knows more of the cowry than you.’ The old woman grabbed Maya on her arm. ‘Before I say the last word, do what I say. Strike thrice on the ground.’

Maya, with much difficulty, bent down to strike the ground, when the boy rushed towards her and stopped her from touching the ground even once.

The old woman blew thrice into the air with fury and rage, and the boy remained hunched and bent.

‘Chant, I say, chant.’ The boy looked around for the thread that kept growing longer and longer; it lay on the haystack where he sat.

‘The thread, Alex, the thread.’ Alex looked around; he could see nothing but the brightness of day that was very bright and unusual. Alex was blinded and