When I was younger, I used to love sleeping next to my grandmother. She knew exactly two stories and would narrate them with a lot of passion. Over the years, the stories underwent subtle changes according to her creativity but the central themes remained unaltered. Although I loved listening to her stories, they put me right to sleep; no matter how interesting they were. On sleepless nights, she asked me to chant duas (prayers). I don’t know if it was because of God or the devil, but the prayers always worked.

Now, years down the line, my childhood is a vivid yet distant memory. I seldom visit my grandmother. The memory of her stories have faded into an emptiness and more of my nights are endless. At times, when I lie awake staring at the stars, her old trick comes to my mind; like many things in life, it betrays me. I still cannot understand whose prank it is or if my lost faith is the culprit. In what did I lose trust? The stories or God? The devil, maybe.