The Djinn are spirits of light. Not light as you and I know it — but light as energy. They are in tune with the forces make the world go around. They exist on a level close to that of thoughts. This is why wish-granting is natural to them. As natural as picking up a pen or opening a door is to us.

Because of this, throughout history, Djinn have been drawn to the needy and the passionately desirous. What may appear coincidental to humans is merely the way of the universe to the Djinn.

There was once a juggler. He was known across the land for his skills. He could juggle practically any number of things for as long as he wanted. It was said that he had never made a mistake and was, in fact, incapable of making one.

His fame grew as he travelled far and wide and performed in palaces, royal courts, and town halls. Because he made juggling look like the easiest thing to do, many tried their hand at the craft. They gave up when they were bored or became too acutely aware of their limitations. Funnily enough, no one had ever asked the juggler to teach them.

In the beginning there was water. God, fed up, emerged from it and created an island. He filled it with lush green grass, tall trees loaded with the juiciest fruits, and flowers so sweet their fragrance swept the entire island.

All manner of wondrous creatures ran loose in the island. They shared the gifts of the island in peace.

Then God made people in his own image. He loved them very much, so he threw them into the water, far from the island.

Hanuman sat up abruptly and realised with relief he was not falling from the skies. He had never been a light sleeper. Quite the opposite in fact. Until a few months ago, when life was predictable, even his afternoon naps had been legendary. Then the two princes turned up at Rishyamukh Mountain and things had changed.

Ever since his leap to Lanka and back, he had been particularly twitchy. Even last night, he had woken up after an uncomfortable dream involving Singhika, the sea demoness he had to fight and kill on his way to Raavan’s land. Besides, he always felt like a fool sitting up sweating and breathless in the centre of a camp full of snoring vaanars.

There is an enormous backyard somewhere. It is full of dogs. Every dog has his day. They are all seeking theirs. Actually, they are all chasing their tails, convinced that the day they have their tails between their teeth, will be theirs.

Dogs of all ages strain themselves. Some are more determined than others. Some are really not into it. They are just doing it because everyone else is. Many have been doing it for years and think they can’t stop now. In any case, everyone is going round and round.

The goat chewed absent-mindedly as a small group on the other side of the stable made merry. A bull, flanked on either side by a brown horse, was saying, “Her skin was like milk and her neck was like marble.” His friends approved of the direction the story was going in by mooing and bleating their general appreciation. The bull continued, “She nuzzled my neck, ‘Mahabali, take me! Make me a cow,’ she said.”

“This is what Ayodhya is coming to,” said a displeased voice from behind the goat. The goat turned and momentarily stopped chewing. A beautiful cow stood in front of him. There was hay in her mouth but she wasn’t chewing. She looked holy.