Chapter 2: The First Wish

Rohan stared at the message on his phone, eyebrows furrowed. He snorted, muttered something about another WhatsApp prank, and deleted the message before finishing his chai.

Typical, I thought. Just like my mother ignoring those endless “Congratulations! You won a free car!” SMSes. For a moment, I almost felt offended on behalf of my new godly avatar. What sort of devotee deletes a divine message so quickly?

I was surprised by how lifelike his response was—but this wasn’t the reaction I’d hoped for. So I did what any persistent prankster would do: I sent more messages, spamming him with the relentless energy of a chacha forwarding “Good Morning” images to the family group. My own phone buzzed in sympathy, but curiosity kept me going.

WhatsApp notifications chimed again and again, turning into a digital jingle, but Rohan was quick—he’d blocked the sender, just like you block that one relative who keeps sending fake news.

He had the reflexes of someone used to dodging insurance agents and DTH salesmen. Part of me admired his efficiency—delete, block, move on. Routine, almost.

Clearly, WhatsApp wasn’t going to work. Time to try something a little more… desi. I rewrote the code, masked my number as one of Rohan’s contacts, and called him directly.

The ringtone was a slightly off-key Bollywood song—probably set by a friend as a prank. I waited, picturing his confusion as he saw the familiar caller ID but heard a stranger’s voice. Classic filmi twist.

“Hello.” Before he could speak, I put on my best serious, god-like tone—channeling Amitabh Bachchan from a mythological serial. The echo made it sound even more dramatic.

Rohan, confused, answered, “Hello?” His voice was wary, the way you answer when an unknown number calls late at night.

“I am an all-knowing, all-powerful god. Do you have anything you want to ask?” I repeated, trying to sound like a bored deity.

My heart pounded. I half expected him to laugh, or threaten to call the police. Instead, he snapped, “Pagal ho kya? Kaise ghus gaya mere phone mein? If you keep harassing me, I’ll go to the police station!”

I nearly burst out laughing. Typical Delhi boy—ready to threaten with the police at the drop of a hat. I pictured him pacing his tiny flat, waving his phone like a weapon.

“Your name is Rohan, born December 31, 1997. You’re single, you work at Brightway Garments Pvt Ltd. Your father is Rajeev, your mother is Sunita…” I read out his details, adding, “You’ve got a crush on Priya and can’t stand your boss Khanna after that office humiliation…”

I added a CID-style dramatic pause. The silence that followed told me I’d finally got his attention.

“How do you know all this?” Rohan looked around, clutching his phone, probably checking behind the curtain. For a second, he looked exactly like my cousin after a night of scary WhatsApp forwards.

“I told you, I’m all-knowing and all-powerful.” I tried to sound both bored and mysterious—like an overworked god fielding yet another prayer for a cricket match win.

“Who are you really?” Rohan still sounded terrified. I pictured him sweating like before an exam result.

I deepened my voice, channeling Om Puri: “I am a god. Don’t bother looking for me. You can’t see me—we’re not even in the same world.”

The pause was pure Bollywood. I wondered if he’d faint. In a Hindi film, this is where the hero rushes to the temple for a sign.

Rohan fell silent, clearly shaken.

“Can you… prove it?” His voice was shaky, like asking for another plate of biryani at a shaadi, not sure if he’s pushing his luck.

“Prove what?” I absently picked at my teeth, holding back a laugh. My stomach rumbled, reminding me I’d skipped dinner.

“Prove you’re a god.” He clung to reason, voice stubborn.

I rolled my eyes, glancing at the snack wrapper on my desk. Why does everyone want proof, as if this was a court case? I let my irritation show: “What kind of proof do you want? Wasn’t all that enough?”

He shook his head, as if I could see him. “Unless… you can do something only a god could do.”

His tone was almost hopeful. I wondered what impossible wish he’d blurt out.

“Like what?” I tried to hide my impatience. Would he ask for immortality, true love, a new iPhone?

“For example… give me some money.” Rohan didn’t hesitate, as if he’d rehearsed this all his life.

I blinked. Of all things, he wanted cash? Typical! Even in the face of the divine, the first instinct is to fix the bank balance.

Now I was the one stunned. I sighed at his greedy, materialistic wish. Like those relatives who show up only for weddings, always eyeing the mithai box.

“How much do you want?” I half expected him to start bargaining like at the bazaar.

“You’re a god, you decide. But… of course, the more the better.” He sounded like he was ordering extra butter chicken at a dhaba.

All right, let’s show him. I opened the terminal, pulled up his bank account, and typed a long string of zeros, feeling like a movie hacker with a dramatic soundtrack in my head. The amount was enough to make any lottery winner jealous.

Without even looking, I said, “Check your account now.” I tried to sound casual, as if granting impossible wishes was a daily chore. I imagined him fumbling with his phone, eyes bugging out at the new balance.

Rohan set down his phone, opened his banking app, and refreshed the screen. Suddenly, his account balance flashed with over ten billion rupees.

For a split second, I wished I could screenshot his face for my WhatsApp DP. The disbelief was priceless—like someone winning the jackpot on KBC. He double-checked, tapped his forehead, then shouted towards the kitchen, “Maa, dekh toh, mera account mein kuch gadbad ho gaya!”

“How about that?” I stretched, feeling smug. My arms ached, but my spirit soared. This was better than any hack or prank I’d ever pulled.

“Arrey yaar!” Rohan rubbed his eyes. “How did you do that?”

I could hear his amazement. For a second, I imagined what he’d do with the money—maybe buy his parents a flat, or finally sponsor that cousin’s wedding in Patna. The possibilities must have been spinning in his head.

“You wouldn’t understand. Just answer me—do you believe I’m a god now?” I tried to sound mysterious, but couldn’t help being playful. The drama was too much fun.

“Of course, of course!” His voice was full of awe, like a devotee whose wish had just come true. I laughed—Rohan was hooked, and so was I.

For a moment, I felt an odd pang of guilt—like my mother’s warning not to tempt fate echoed faintly in my mind. But I brushed it aside. What harm could there be in a little mischief, especially when sab toh code hi hai, na?

Watching Rohan’s delight, I felt a rush of satisfaction. Maybe that’s why I loved playing god—nobody here to tell me I’d gone too far.