In the heart of Hyderabad, nestled among labyrinthine alleys and ancient havelis, stood a crumbling house that had seen better days. Its walls were cracked and weathered, adorned with fading murals of gods and demons from Hindu mythology. The house belonged to Mr Vishwanath Rao, known as “Vishwa the Illusionist,” a man whose life had always been defined by loneliness. Orphaned at a young age, Vishwa had learned to cope with solitude by creating his own world of magic and illusions.
Vishwa had once captivated audiences with his seemingly supernatural powers. On stage, he could conjure wonders that made people forget their troubles. But behind the curtain, he was just a lonely man, living in a house filled with memories that comforted him.

The kitchen, filled with the lingering scents of spices and incense, was the only lively part of the house. Every evening, Vishwa lit a diya before his tiny shrine to Lord Shiva, seeking solace from the loneliness that had shadowed him.

One evening, as the sun set behind the Charminar, casting long, eerie shadows through the latticed windows, Vishwa heard a rustling sound from the corner of the kitchen. It was a sound he hadn’t heard in years—not since his beloved cat, Chikki, had disappeared. Chikki had been his only companion, a sleek black cat with eyes as deep and mysterious as the night itself. But Chikki had vanished one stormy night, leaving Vishwa with a void that no magic could fill.

As the twilight deepened and the first call to prayer, the azan, echoed from the nearby mosque, Vishwa felt a familiar pang of longing. The azan had always been part of the city’s rhythm, a reminder of the divine in the everyday. Tonight, however, the azan seemed different, its melancholy notes weaving into the fabric of the evening, as if heralding something more profound.

Vishwa approached the corner cautiously, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and anticipation. As he lifted the edge of an old, frayed mat, his breath caught in his throat. There, sitting calmly as if it had never left, was Chikki. The cat’s eyes gleamed in the dim light, reflecting the flames of the diya that flickered on the shrine.

“Chikki?” Vishwa whispered, his voice trembling. The cat did not move, did not blink, but simply stared at him with those unsettling eyes. Vishwa felt a chill run down his spine. This was no ordinary reunion; something was deeply wrong.

As the night grew darker, Vishwa sat at the kitchen table, Chikki curled up on his lap. His mind wandered to the stories his grandmother had told him before she passed away, leaving him truly alone. She had often spoken of gods and demons, love and loss, and the fragile line between illusion and reality. One particular tale gnawed at him now—a tale of Lord Shiva and his beloved wife, Parvati.

Parvati, in her deep love for Shiva, had once created a son from the dust of her body, a protector named Ganesha. But when Shiva returned home and found Ganesha guarding the door, not knowing who the boy was, he severed his head in a fit of rage. Parvati’s sorrow had been so immense that it shook the heavens, and only after great effort did Shiva restore Ganesha’s life, but with the head of an elephant.

Vishwa had always been fascinated by this story, by the themes of creation and destruction, love and grief. He too had created illusions—not from dust, but from light and shadow—to protect himself from the harsh realities of life. But as he became more consumed by his illusions, he began to lose sight of reality itself.

But why had Chikki returned now? And why did the cat’s presence fill him with such dread?

That night, as Vishwa slept, he dreamed of Shiva, the god with the third eye that could unleash destruction upon the world. In his dream, Shiva’s eye opened, and from it emerged not fire, but darkness—a void that consumed everything it touched. And in the centre of that darkness, Vishwa saw himself, standing alone, with Chikki at his feet.

He woke with a start, his heart racing. The cat was gone, the kitchen empty save for the faint glow of the dying embers in the chulha. But the dream lingered, heavy in his mind, like a premonition of something terrible yet to come.

Over the following days, strange things began to happen. Vishwa would find objects moved from their places, his brass vessels overturned, and the flame of the diya snuffed out without a trace. Each time he sensed Chikki’s presence, even though the cat was nowhere to be seen. It was as if reality was closing in on him, forcing him to face the truths he had long buried beneath layers of illusion.

One evening, as Vishwa sat before his shrine, praying for guidance, he felt a sudden coldness in the air. The shadows in the room seemed to grow longer, darker, as if the night itself was closing in on him. He opened his eyes and saw Chikki sitting by the doorway, watching him with those inscrutable eyes.

Without thinking, Vishwa reached out to the cat, but as his fingers touched the fur, a sharp pain shot through his chest. He gasped, clutching his heart, and collapsed to the floor. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was Chikki’s eyes, glowing like two embers in the blackness.

When Vishwa awoke, he was no longer in his kitchen. He found himself standing at the foot of a great mountain, the peaks of which disappeared into the clouds. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and sandalwood, and in the distance, he could hear the soft hum of a damaru, the drum of Lord Shiva.

Vishwa knew he had crossed into another realm, a place where the boundaries between life and death, illusion and reality, were blurred. He walked forward, his steps guided by an unseen force, until he reached a clearing. There, sitting on a large stone, was Lord Shiva himself, his matted hair coiled atop his head, a crescent moon adorning his brow.

At Shiva’s feet was Chikki, no longer a simple cat, but a creature of divine light, its form shifting and changing like the flames of a sacred fire.

“Why have you brought me here?” Vishwa asked, his voice trembling.

Shiva looked at him with eyes that held the weight of the universe. “You, who spent your life creating illusions, became so consumed by them that you began to forget reality. Your magic shielded you from pain, but it also blinded you to the truth.”

Vishwa fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “I never meant to lose myself in my illusions. I only wanted to bring joy to others, to show them the wonder of the world.”

Shiva’s expression softened, but his voice remained stern. “Even the purest intentions can lead to sorrow if one loses sight of the truth. You lived a life of illusions, Vishwa, but now you must confront the reality you avoided.”

As Shiva spoke, the clearing began to dissolve into darkness, and Vishwa felt himself being pulled back, as if by a powerful current. The last thing he heard was Shiva’s voice, echoing through the void: “Remember, Vishwa, that all illusions must one day come to an end.”

Vishwa awoke in his kitchen, lying on the cold stone floor, his heart weak and breath laboured. He knew his time was near, and as he struggled to rise, he saw Chikki sitting by the shrine, staring at him with those same eyes, now filled with a sadness that mirrored his own.

With great effort, Vishwa crawled to the shrine and lit the diya one last time. He offered a prayer to Lord Shiva, asking for forgiveness, for peace, and for the strength to face his final moments with dignity.

As the flame flickered, Vishwa felt the weight of his years lift, and a sense of calm settled over him. He lay down beside the shrine, Chikki curled up next to him, and closed his eyes.

The next morning, when the neighbours came to check on him, they found Vishwa lying peacefully, as if asleep, a faint smile on his lips, the kitchen quiet and the air heavy with the scent of sandalwood, though they saw no sign of the cat, its presence was felt as it watched over the old man as he crossed into the next life. As the sun rose over Hyderabad, the call to prayer echoed through the city, mingling with the morning chants from nearby temples, uniting the city in a shared moment of spiritual reflection as Vishwa Rao, the once-great illusionist, finally discovered that life, like his magic, was an illusion, a fleeting moment of wonder before the inevitable darkness, and in that truth, he found the peace that had eluded him in life, a peace only the divine intervention could bestow.

As the azan and the temple chimes filled the air, Vishwa’s soul journeyed to the other realm, where all illusions end, and only the truth remains.