Abdul Malik came home walking, or running, because the buses were burnt. As he ran, he kept massaging his left buttock which had and swollen reddened after a lathi had landed at a speed of 42 m/s in response to his stone at 40 m/s. "Open the door," he screamed on reaching home.

Salma, his better one-fifth, opened the door. "What happened?" she asked, as he came in. He wondered if he should tell her the whole story, how he entered the peaceful university, picked up some peaceful bottles, joined the peaceful crowd, and peacefully torched a few buses.

"I slipped," he lied, for the peaceful cause was greater. The other better one-fifths came in. Safia, the youngest, said, "We know what happened." "How?" he yelled. "She told me," said Safia of Saba. "She told me," said Saba of Sabrina. "She told me," said Sabrina of Salma.

Abdul Malik writhed in pain. "You went to the university again?" asked an angry Salma, who was the highest in the pecking order. "Didn't we all get the message on Friday?" he yelled. "It's our holy war against Hin...violence." "Yes," said Sabrina, "but let's all go together."

The next day they went together, each with a backpack full of petrous but peaceful projectiles, and the better four-fifths carrying asinine but peaceful placards. The fog, which once the better four-fifths had used to escape from Abdul, hung menacingly.

From the top the mob looked like someone had opened a paper punching machine and spilled the contents onto granite floor. One portion of the mob, as planned meticulously, gave flowers to the cops, and this was shared through MIASMA*. *Mastodon, Instagram, Assorted SM Alliance

Another portion, which dreamed of green springs from cold winters in their hearts, held placards with messages that ranged from a simple "Fuck Hindus", which was ironical, to a complex "Fuck Hindutva", which was not even ironical. If Jack were there, he would've gladly held two.

On the other side cameras clustered like flies on stale meat as eminent intellectuals mouthed constitutional banalities as if their life depended on them, which was, perhaps, also the case. "Yes, your good name, sir?" asked a reporter. The intellectual almost broke the camera.

Away from this was the arena where Abdul Malik and his better four-fifths were busy, hidden bravely in the anonymity of a riotous mob, as planned, drawing peaceful parabolas with projectiles while their friends elsewhere indulged in cawing hyperboles. The police encircled them.

As the mob dispersed, because of what their friends would later call as police brutality against peaceful protesters, Abdul Malik found himself suddenly alone and confused. "Come here, Salim ke Abba," shouted Safia, and they both vanished into an alley. The police chased them.

As Abdul Malik was running he thanked his star and his moon for bringing back his better four-fifths from the clutches of the saffron Jinn. Of course, he also thanked Nehru. He wondered where the blasted Jinn was nowadays. "Who is Salim?" cried Abdul.

As they stood panting where Safia had stopped, the police approached them cautiously. Abdul Malik bravely hid behind Safia, who raised her finger against the police in an act of defiance. Saba, who had been waiting, as planned, quickly snapped a photo and shared it on MIASMA.

Back home a beaming Abdul Malik looked lovingly at his better four-fifths. "You were fiesty," he said excitedly. "It was all planned," said Safia. "When I met Green Ghost..." "Green Ghost is back?" he interrupted, his eyes twinkling with fond memories.

"Yes, she is back for now," said Salma, "but have you forgotten what happens to those who are close to her?" Abdul Malik snapped out of his thoughts. "Perhaps," he opined expectantly, "she has changed now." "No," they replied together. "Be very careful."

At moments of great stress, he always turned to the one who had made his life as colorful as the rainbows that were now seen more on placards than on skies. Dia Mirza. "She is not feeling well," he thought after reading her tweet. "I must stand by her."

The next day Abdul Malik and his better four-fifths walked towards the arena to merge into the mob. At a distance he saw a familiar figure. "Is it the Jinn?" he asked, more to himself. On the horizon he could now see the Jinn's saffron robes fluttering.

"We meet again," thundered the Jinn. Abdul Malik was perplexed, one strand of his thoughts wondering where the Jinn had been all these years, and another asking him if the Jinn had become stronger. "Look at you, Abdul Malik," said the Jinn. "You have become like Torn Kurta."

"What?" asked Abdul Malik, still confused. "Your eyes once held curiosity," said the Jinn. "Now, they only hold malice." Abdul Malik twittered. "How are your better four-fifths?" asked the Jinn. "Enjoying their return? Where is Salim, by the way?" "Who is Salim?" cried Abdul.

Suddenly there materialized another Jinn nearby the one now smiling at him, and another, and another, and soon, Abdul Malik stared at what looked like an akṣauhiṇī of saffron Jinns. "Do you know why our Gods and Goddesses have many arms?" asked the Jinn. "I don't think so." //

@jogakhichudi As tweeted yesterday, the thread. 😁

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