Submitted by Sara Bardhan
Once upon a time, an old faqir set out on a long journey to meet the King of Bengal. Days passed beneath a pitiless sun, and by the time dusk had come, the faqir found himself stranded in the middle of nowhere.
The basti he stumbled upon lay eerily silent — mud lanes empty, doors bolted shut, smoke absent from every chimney. Only at the very edge of the settlement, where the shadows grew thickest, a faint wick lamp flickered inside a crumbling hut.
The faqir walked to the house and knocked gently.
An old woman opened the door a crack, her face sharp with suspicion and exhaustion.
“Ma,” the faqir said softly, folding his hands, “would you grant a weary traveller a little shelter for the night?”
The woman clicked her tongue in irritation. “Shelter? Look at me, faqir. I barely have enough to feed myself, and you expect me to house you, warm you, feed you too? Useless old wanderer. Go knock elsewhere.”
“There is nowhere else to go,” the faqir replied patiently. “I ask for nothing except a small corner where I may rest my bones till dawn.”
The woman stared at him for a long moment. Then, with a tired sigh, she pointed toward the narrow threshold beside her door.
“There. Sleep there if you must. But don’t expect blankets or lullabies from me.”
The faqir bowed gratefully and settled into the corner as though it were a king’s chamber.
Inside, the old woman bolted the door and lit her chulha. Soon the crackle of firewood filled the hut, and vegetables hissed inside a blackened handi. The rich aroma of frying onions and spices drifted through the cracks in the wall and curled into the night air.
The faqir inhaled deeply and exclaimed with childlike delight, “Ah! If only I had a few banyan leaves, I could make the softest rotis in the world — sweeter than wheat itself!”
The old woman paused mid-stir. “Rotis from banyan leaves?” she barked. “Have you lost your mind?”
“You do not know, Ma,” the faqir continued dreamily. “People waste their lives eating wheat. The finest rotis are made from banyan leaves. And the finest curry…” — he lowered his voice reverently — “is made from stones.”
The woman stared at him, utterly confounded.
Yet somewhere beneath her annoyance, curiosity stirred.
“What nonsense are you muttering?” she grumbled. “Still… if you truly wish to cook your madness, there’s a banyan tree nearby. And stones are free for fools. Come.”
The faqir rose at once, humming an unfamiliar tune as he followed her through the moonlit lanes.
When they reached the great banyan tree, its roots hanging like ghostly curtains in the dark, the faqir clasped his hands in delight.
“Oh, Ma! Look at these tender leaves! They’ll make the softest rotis imaginable. And these stones!” He crouched eagerly, picking smooth pebbles from the earth. “Perfect for curry. Tonight we feast!”
The old woman watched him carefully. Even in the dim night, his face glowed with an almost unsettling joy. She distrusted him — yet could not turn away.
Back at the hut, the faqir built a small fire while the woman placed her handi upon it. He poured five glasses of water into the vessel and gently dropped the stones inside.
Soon the pot began to simmer.
And then, slowly, impossibly, a mouthwatering fragrance rose from the boiling water.
The old woman’s eyes widened. Her stomach tightened with hunger.
The faqir sighed wistfully. “Ah… if only I had a few tomatoes… perhaps some potatoes and chillies… this curry would rival a royal feast.”
Without a word, the old woman hurried inside and returned with vegetables and spices from her own meagre stores.
“Here,” she muttered. “Use these.”
The faqir smiled knowingly and added them to the bubbling handi.
Meanwhile, he pressed the banyan leaves beneath a rolling pin with surprising care, roasting them gently over the flame until their edges curled golden-brown.
“How much longer?” the woman asked, unable to hide her impatience.
“Patience, Ma,” the faqir replied warmly. “Good food reveals itself only to those willing to wait.”
At last, he handed her a steaming roti.
The old woman tore off a cautious piece and placed it in her mouth.
Her eyes widened instantly.
The roti was impossibly soft, delicate as clouds, with a sweetness that melted across her tongue like fresh cream and honey. It tasted richer than anything she had eaten in years.
“What… what have you done?” she whispered. “What kind of magic is this?”
The faqir only smiled. “Wait till you taste the curry.”
He ladled the stew into a small bowl and handed it to her with closed eyes, as though offering a sacred blessing.
The woman lifted a piece of stone to her lips.
The moment she bit into it, she nearly gasped aloud.
The stone yielded like tender meat. Rich, savoury, succulent — each bite melted in her mouth like slow-cooked mutton steeped in spices. She ate greedily now, unable to stop herself.
“This is impossible,” she cried. “Leaves becoming rotis… stones tasting like meat! Baba, tell me your secret! Tell me!”
The faqir leaned back calmly beside the dying fire.
“I will,” he said, “but only if you promise me one thing.”
“Anything,” the woman said breathlessly.
“Then never again turn away a weary traveller who knocks at your door.”
The woman lowered her gaze in shame.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I promise.”
The faqir leaned close and whispered something into her ear.
At once, the woman’s eyes filled with astonishment. Then slowly, they softened with understanding.
The next morning, the faqir was gone.
No footprints. No trace. As though the night itself had swallowed him whole.
The old woman stood outside her hut for a long time, thinking about his words.
Just then, she spotted a lone traveller approaching along the dusty road.
This time, before he could even ask, the old woman smiled to herself, lit her chulha, and began preparing a meal.
About Sara
Sara is an applied social scientist and qualitative researcher.
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