Look, I am not saying I believe in black magic, voodoo, jadu-tona, etcetera.
But the facts speak for themselves.
I spent over eleven years hunched over my laptop, engrossed in work. During that time I gained mastery over the art of Bad Posture™. My contorted spine could make a yogi gasp and an orthopaedic wince. If, in those eleven years, I’d been wheeled into an operating room after my back having given up on me, it would’ve been no surprise. In fact, I would have looked forward to the opportunity to take a few days off from work.
But, as you well know, that fate befell me after I’d stopped hunching over my laptop, engrossed in work.
Since the surgery, I've suffered a shoulder injury, had my face ravaged by an acne outburst of biblical proportions, and now, fallen inexplicably sick, hours before my wife’s birthday.
The doctor believes it is a case of sinusitis, or to use its scientific name: Horrible Death. The road rollers of the city appear to have taken a fondness to the right side of my head and have abandoned their construction sites to mill about on my forehead. The Tunnel Boring Machines, which recently concluded work on the subterranean Colaba-Bandra-SEEPZ Metro line, have now been deployed on the left side of my head and are drilling into my skull with zest and vigour.
As I writhed in bed gripped by fever, I had a revelation. Someone - somewhere - has my simulacrum and has decided they’ve had quite enough of my crowing about how pleased I am to no longer have to write legal opinions that express no opinion. What else could so perfectly explain my freakish streak of ill-health in these past few months?
A few years ago, I had lost my umbrella. Well, not lost. Someone in office had shamelessly stolen it. I could have let it go, but it was not just any umbrella. It was a totem, a symbol of my home; an accesory no Bengali gentleman can do without. It was a K. C. Paul & Sons umbrella. So, I had complained about the theft to everyone in office - and on social media - and urged the purloiner, whoever they may be, to heed the call of humanity and return my precious Paul. My umbrella was back on the stand the next day.
In that spirit, I now beseech my tormentor to desist. Whoever you are, please stop. Discard the simulacrum and the spells. I apologise for any wrongs I may have committed. Let us meet and put an end to this. You may place your demands and I shall do my utmost to meet them. If not for me, do it to save my marriage. I have already ruined my wife’s birthday and I fear there is no greater sin - in her eyes - that I could have committed. I hope this entreaty will move you to mercy.
To all the other readers of this newsletter, I thank you for your patience and your indulgence. I had started writing a different piece but this one was all my febrile brain could muster. Let us hope my persecutor has pity on me, and I have more palatable content for you next time.
:(
I have my death note ready, we'll get instant revenge as soon as we find the culprit