By Neel Anil Panicker
As Dhiraj Meiti slowly waved the flame high over his shoulders, the darkness disappeared, and what beheld his wonderstruch eyes were nothing short of a magic—a massive almost half a story high wall stared back at him—an imposing all stone vertical edifice the colour of burnt charcoal, and surrounded on either side by an equally majestic arc the a shade higher than the lone Pentecostal Church entrance a stone’s throw from his one roof tenement in impoverished Singhamitra village tucked somewhere in the back of beyond of rural Upper Nagaland.
A voice, soft and velvety as the sound of wind rustling past autumnal leaves falling on lazy, late evening reverberated in his ears: Son, keep the fait, and one day by the riches buried deep in a cave inside the jungles of Jeykarayati will be all yours.
The twenty year village lass closed his eyes in solemn prayer as he realised what he had stumbled upon, and what that meant—gold silver, diamonds, and priceless precious stones—incalculable wealth that could feed no less than ten generations, and then some more.
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