Magic

  An autumn rain depends on the night. A rickshaw pulled me, climbed up and down a few times between the steep slopes of the Omori area, and finally stopped in front of a small house surrounded by bamboo. The door was very narrow, and the gray paint had gradually peeled off. I saw the light on the driver’s door and saw the porcelain doorplate nailed to the door. It was written in Japanese: Indian Mattiam Mishra. Only this house number on the door is new.

  Speaking of Matillam Mishra, maybe you are no stranger. Born in Kolkata, Mishra has been committed to India’s independence for many years and is a patriotic. At the same time, he also learned from a famous Brahman, a man named Hassan Gan, who learned a set of secrets and became a master of magic at a young age. Just a month ago, after a friend introduced me, I had a relationship with Mishra and talked about political economy and other issues. As for his magic, I have never seen it once. So, I wrote a letter in advance, asked him to show his skills and show me the magic. So, tonight, I urged the rickshaw driver to rush to the end of Omori, the secluded Misra apartment.
  I was drenched in the rain, and by the dim light from the driver, I rang the doorbell under the house. Soon, at the door, a short Japanese grandmother poked her head out. It is the old maid of Misra.

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