The Detective, The Drug Dealer & Babaji’s Assistant

A mystic sci-fi short by a short & mystic sci-fi writer

On those rare occasions when Babaji’s mere presence did not immediately awaken within me the sentiment of being a non-player character, I could almost always taste the distinctly untasteable flavor of magic.

“You decided to come back.”

He looked at me, as if a part of him wanted me to revolt against that one weird but obvious truth.

“…Despite what the agency told you about me.”

“What, that you eventually end up killing all your brightest proteges?”

It was true.

Two weeks back, two perfectly sinister gentlemen in midnight black supervillain tuxedos and questionably utilitarian sunglasses had walked into my two-bedroom bachelor pad of misery in Koramangala, demanding my assistance to nab the guy they called ‘the world’s most prolific manufacturer of natural psychedelics.’

Although, in fair hindsight, Agent Good’s personal testimony of the situation seemed rather dry and ineffable.

When he said it out loud, it seemed so un-precise, that I had to ask him.

“Wait, it’s like he made ALL the drugs, you say?”

Again, I had to ask.

“In a way, yes.” Came the reply. Dry.

“I’m sorry, Agent Good. You see, I am inclined to believe everything else you’ve told me tonight. I get that you represent this ancient intelligence agency, devoted to some kind of perpetual cease & desist order against every psychedelic known to mankind through the ages, through the very history of human civilization, and that you guys eventually came up with the concept of poisons in the first place to further your agenda… All of that, I can believe.”

I paused for a deep breath. Just as Babaji had taught me.

“…But saying that just one man is essentially controlling the manufacturing and supply of every known psychedelic on the planet, sounds a little far-fetched, even to an out of work detective like me.”

“He really doesn’t know when to shut up, does he?” Chimed in Agent Bald.

Needless to say, this guy’s scalp reminded me of pretty much every half-scary, half-ridiculous male authority figure I had ever encountered.”

But as Che had famously remarked, power doth indeed flow from the barrel of a gun, and these men were holding, so I decided to give them the benefit of my complete and undivided attention. Well, divided between the two of them, of course. You know how it goes.

“Wait, wait, wait.”

I waited.

“He got to you, didn’t he?”

Finally, the first practical assumption from Agent Goody-good Cop.

“I’m sorry, What?”

See, that’s just Babaji speaking through my ears and tongue. You speaketh through me.

“He got to you. He fed you that story, and now you’re going to waste your life away playing his dirty games, not giving two hoots about what really matters.”

Man, Agent Good really knew how to make things personal.

“Hey, Agent Good?” I interjected.

“Yes?”

“What are the things that do matter?”

“You know, you have a family to think about. Your parents need you, you have friends — and if I’m right about what I think you’ve committed yourself to execute with this man, you’re not just risking your own life. You’re pretty much putting everyone you know and love, in the very real danger of death or severe depression. Pretty much everyone you love.”

“It’s crazy that you’d talk to me about love, Agent Good. Is it not true, that when I really love someone, by default it’s literally impossible for me to actually hurt them, without, you know, physically hurting them? I don’t think I’m a danger to anybody. You, on the other hand, have a very fancy imagination.”

Always compliment them, Babaji had taught me well.

My question shut the two of them up, albeit in a way someone either says something truly disruptive or really stupid in the middle of a Monday meeting, and it’s almost always very scary but it wakes everyone up and leaves them speechless. Either way, everyone shivers.

“Fucking A. He introduced you to the girl, didn’t he?”

That shut me up for a while.

So, this is a pretty good intelligence agency, in terms of, like drawing conclusions and stuff.

But I’m a really good assistant, too.

“What girl?” I ask.

And as I utter the words and let them hang, expecting the agents to believe me, the inexplicably coconut and sandalwood-ish essence of her barely drizzled hair wafts through the air all around us. It’s a shame and a miracle the agents don’t smell it, really.

“What girl?” I ask again.

The two agents look at each other in exasperation. So either my jig is over or these guys really don’t have the first fucking clue about how to go about arresting or hurting me.

That, alone, truly, was Babaji’s lasting edict.

Let nothing touch you.

Let no one hurt you.

Even in your own head.

That’s where you win everything.

No pain, no pain.

The agents seemed to have reached some sort of agreement over the matter.

“We just have one more question. Is that okay?”

As if my opinion mattered?

Bah. Free will. The wicked assumption of unconscious NPCs — Babaji would’ve broken into a cold giggle.

I waited for the question, silently. It took Agent Good a while to come up with the words, which is exactly why I felt a tinge of guilt turning it down like I was the fucking US president nodding away at the correspondents dinner.

“Have you stopped… er, ejaculating, recently?”

“Okay, BOUNDARIES, guys. Something less personal.”

“Okay, how about this, then. How’d you get these glasses?” Agent bald pointed at my pretty, pretty and ugly face.

“What do you mean how I got them?” When playing a nerd be nerdy. Remember what Babaji said. Clark Kent is Superman. Clark Kent is Superman.

“You know exactly what we mean, lad! These round glasses — that’s the one unmistakeable chance that you’ve been recruited by the big guy.”

Agent Bald chimed in again.

“Yes. All his recruits had those same exact glasses.”

“What, these old babies?” I pretend to chuckle, pulling them out for a fleeting second and shaking them just long enough for me to hold my breath and put them back on again.

Remember what Babaji said. Never take the glasses off. Clark Kent is Superman. Clark Kent is Superman.

“How do you know they’re not, you know, prescription?” I counter.

“Never mind, lad. We’re out of here, anyway. Fair warning though.

Every one.

EVERY. ONE.

ENDS. UP. DEAD.”

Too much drama, really, to drive one point home. I mean, his eyes tried conveying this sense of… I want to say finality? But obviously, the truth wasn’t convincing enough for him, so he felt the uncontrollable urge to repeat himself.

“Everyone who works for him, ends up dead. Dead, lad!”

“Well, doesn’t everybody die anyway?”

At this point, the agents really decided to jump up and leave, surprising me, and my two year old rescued retriever pup, and he wasn’t ever surprised.

So that brings us back to this morning, in my disturbingly Kafkaesque living room, sitting two feet away from the most dangerous man on the planet.

He looks very detached. More than usual. And then he does something midway between a sigh and a yawn, as if my recollection meant nothing to him, which, knowing him, was probably true.This guy was like the Rick to everyone’s Morty.

I break his golden rule of silence over strength.

“Babaji, are you wondering why I’ve decided to carry on with you and our arrangement, despite knowing you will for sure kill me eventually?”

“Something to that effect. You know, you’d think that question would bother me, but too many people have asked me this already. Too many good people, I’m afraid.”

I laugh.

“For starters, you’re never afraid — and secondly, you’re the one who explained to me what it means to not be afraid of death even in the face of death!”

Like I said, I was a good assistant.

“Ah. You seek that one drug I don’t manufacture.” That’s Babaji. He’s pretty much always ahead of everyone’s intentions, despite training everyone to not reveal them in the first place.

“You seek that one drug, yes? And like so many before you, you still think that’s what I’m after in this heist!”

He wants me to ask about the heist.

But he’s the guy who taught me the benefit of not asking.

“And what drug would that be?” I venture into the unknown every time I play the innocent nerd with this guy. It comes out halfway between satire and bad acting, pretty much the worst part of being human. Or maybe he just gets me to do his bidding because it amuses him. Either ways, you don’t question the powers of a guy who can guzzle poison and just have his throat glow blue.

“Why, immortality, of course.”

That shut me up again. My mind reverts back to the question Agent Good had asked me over the phone, before they came over.

“We have some questions about the so-called king of ghosts. Care for a quick chat?”

…. To be continued.

(Concept & inspiration dedicated to Arpit Nik, who shared an interesting short story with me, Naresh, who reminded me that shipping is key, and Shah Rukh Khan, for dancing to those beautiful numbers in the 90s)