Magic

The rhythmic click-clack of the train on the tracks was a familiar lullaby, but a new sound cut through it—a high, enchanting metallic clang. It was the music of a spoon hitting a tin box, a sound that pulled me from my reverie and into the present. I saw him then, a hawker with a weathered smile, his hands moving with a practiced grace. I called out to him, wanting to be a part of his creation.

​He worked like a true artist, his movements swift and sure. He started with a handful of puffed rice, then added a handful of spicy mixture, a spoonful of tangy pickle, and a pinch of boiled potato. With each ingredient, his hands blurred, mixing them into a magical concoction. A final, exquisite touch—a thin slice of coconut, placed like a jeweled crown on top. As he handed me the newspaper cone, the aromatic steam rose up to greet me, a fragrant promise of the flavor to come. I took a bite, the crunch of the puffed rice followed by a burst of spice and tang. In that moment, with the taste of home on my tongue, the weight of returning to the hostel simply melted away.

​My gaze drifted back to the open window. The train raced through a vibrant canvas of green fields under a vast, blue sky. It was as if the world outside was a different kind of magic, a silent spell cast by nature itself. It was a spell that soothed the mind and heart, a gentle balm for any worry. The wind, carrying the scent of damp earth and fresh air, whispered secrets of the world as the fields unfurled like a scroll.

​I thought back to the time I went to a magic show with my father. The grand finale was a spellbinding illusion, and after the show, my father had arranged for me to meet the magician. I asked him, "What exactly is magic?" He just smiled. "Magic isn't about disappearing acts or pulling rabbits out of hats," he said. "Magic is anything that pulls you away from your troubles, anything that makes you smile, that captures your attention and leaves you spellbound."

​Just then, the train slowed to a halt at a station. A torrent of people streamed out, while another tide rushed in. The platform was a chaotic dance of hurried movements—hawkers with their urgent calls and travelers with their hopeful eyes. Yet, amidst the chaos, there was a sense of purpose, a shared rhythm. This train journey, this passage from one world to the next, was a kind of magic, too. It transported us not just through space, but also through time—offering fleeting moments of solitude and connection.

​And as the train began to move again, leaving the station behind, I looked out the window. I thought about the spicy puffed rice, the endless green fields, the boy with his chocolate, the magician's words. I thought about all the little things that made me feel so connected, so alive. I had my answer.

​Isn't the world itself a magic?