Mridul Sharma
1
Aditi Sharma stared at her laptop screen as if sheer willpower could make the pending presentation design itself, but the only thing her willpower achieved was making her eye twitch for the third time that week. The Gurgaon office was as loud as ever — colleagues banged away at keyboards like they were fighting off demons, someone’s phone blared a Bollywood remix ringtone on loop, and from the adjacent cubicle came the unmistakable sound of someone noisily slurping instant noodles. Aditi exhaled, rubbed her temples, and took a sip of her now-cold black coffee, its bitterness mirroring her mood. The doctor had been clear during yesterday’s appointment: “Aditi ji, your stress is off the charts. Your blood pressure looks like you’re competing with the Sensex. You need to relax — try yoga, meditation, or something!” That “something” echoed ominously as Aditi scrolled through WhatsApp forwards later that evening, rejecting everything from pyramid power to crystal healing workshops. And then she saw it: a badly designed digital flyer with a lurid purple background, Comic Sans text screaming “AWAKEN YOUR COSMIC SELF: Free Yoga Trial! Ancient Secrets for Modern Souls!” There was a grainy image of a man who looked suspiciously like a saffron-robed Bollywood extra posing under a banyan tree. Normally, Aditi would have rolled her eyes, but desperation had lowered her standards. Besides, how bad could one free yoga session be?
So, on Saturday morning, Aditi found herself standing in front of a building that could generously be described as “under renovation” and more accurately as “abandoned except for stray dogs and dubious posters.” The yoga center was on the third floor, above a cyber café with a flickering neon sign that read “INTERNET & COLOR PRINTOUT”, and next to a dubious clinic promising instant weight loss. Climbing the narrow, dimly lit staircase felt more like approaching a shady deal than a spiritual sanctuary, but Aditi kept going, clutching her water bottle like a talisman. The “studio” door was a warped plywood slab with a peeling sticker of Om, and as she stepped inside, she was hit by a heady mix of agarbatti, cheap room freshener, and something that might have been over-fermented kombucha. The space was small, with mismatched mats, fairy lights strung randomly, and posters with slogans like “Your Aura Needs You” and “Breathe Like No One’s Watching.” And there, seated cross-legged on what looked like a faded bedsheet, was the guru himself — Omprakash Dube, or “Om” as he insisted everyone call him, complete with an elaborate fake rudraksha necklace, a kurta too bright for daylight, and a topknot that wobbled precariously every time he nodded sagely. His assistant, a man in a kurta with “Fire Falcon” embroidered on the sleeve (who introduced himself as Rahul Malhotra, kombucha specialist and “energy amplifier”), welcomed her with a toothy grin and a cup of what he called “elixir of the soul” — which tasted alarmingly like pickle juice. Aditi tried to swallow it without gagging, wondering how she’d gotten herself into this. Around her, a small group of hopefuls (or victims?) sat with expressions ranging from blissful ignorance to mild terror, and as the session began with a chant that sounded suspiciously like a mash-up of Om Namah Shivaya and a popular DJ track, Aditi realized this was going to be a very long hour.
The next sixty minutes unfolded like a bizarre fever dream. First came the breathing exercises: Om instructed everyone to “inhale positivity, exhale GST worries,” a line that made Aditi snort-laugh, earning her a disapproving glare from Fire Falcon. The stretching was more chaotic than calming, with Rahul knocking over a diya during a sun salutation and nearly setting his kurta ablaze, which Om solemnly declared as “the fire of transformation.” Priya, a dramatic woman who introduced herself as Crystal Peacock and claimed to channel universal energy through Bharatnatyam-inspired yoga moves, spent most of the session twirling and clapping at random, startling a pigeon that had wandered in through the open window. At one point, Om tried to align Aditi’s chakras by waving a plastic peacock feather over her head while humming what might have been the tune to an old soap ad jingle. As the class wound down, Om gave a longwinded speech about cosmic journeys and inner peacocks, inviting Aditi to join their special inner circle for seekers ready to “go beyond asanas into the realm of the soul.” She nodded weakly, too exhausted to protest, and left clutching a complimentary scented candle, a badly photocopied handout titled “Secrets of the Ancient Yogic Order”, and the sinking feeling that she had just been recruited into something far stranger than she’d bargained for. Walking home, the absurdity of it all began to hit her — the neon flyer, the kombucha, the chaotic chanting — but beneath the laughter bubbling in her chest was a small, persistent curiosity: what was this group really about? And why did she feel like this was only the beginning of a hilariously weird adventure?
2
Aditi had hoped that her first class was a one-off disaster, a cosmic joke played by the universe to teach her not to trust WhatsApp forwards. But as she sat at her work desk on Monday morning, sipping a lukewarm cutting chai that tasted faintly of the steel cup, she couldn’t shake the memory of that ridiculous rooftop “yoga studio.” It wasn’t just the clumsy fire-breathing sun salutations, or the kombucha that tasted like it had been fermented in an old dahi container — it was Om’s dramatic declaration that she had “a rare aura that glows like a hidden gem”. Aditi scoffed at the thought, but she found herself googling “hidden aura signs” during a break, only to be bombarded with ads for aura photography and healing crystals. Meanwhile, her office stress was unrelenting: an emergency client pitch was dropped on her team, deadlines loomed, and she managed to spill dal on her only clean kurti during lunch. By the time Thursday rolled around, Aditi was a bundle of nerves again — and so, against better judgment and with a mix of curiosity and desperation, she found herself back on that rickety staircase, climbing toward the fairy-light-strewn world of Om and his merry band of spiritual misfits. This time, Om greeted her like an old friend returning to her spiritual homeland, his wobbling topknot held precariously by what looked like a repurposed shoelace. Rahul “Fire Falcon” Malhotra offered her another glass of kombucha, now in a steel tumbler “to honor the ancient wisdom of metal” (or perhaps because they’d broken all the glass ones). The other members — a mix of overly sincere uncles, confused aunties, and two college kids who looked like they had wandered in by accident — sat in a circle on mismatched mats. The room smelled of cheap rose agarbatti and mosquito coil, an aroma Aditi silently named “divine dengue defense.”
This session began not with stretches, but with what Om grandly called a “Circle of Cosmic Sharing”, where everyone was invited to speak their deepest thoughts. The first speaker was a mustachioed man named Mr. Mehta who declared that since joining the group, his constipation had improved — a confession that earned an awkward silence and then enthusiastic clapping from Rahul. A middle-aged lady named Sunita spoke about how chanting “Om Wi-Fi Namaha” helped her forget her mother-in-law’s taunts, while a college student mumbled something about using the sessions as a nap opportunity. When it was Aditi’s turn, she tried to keep it simple: “I’m just here to de-stress a little… you know, work pressure.” Om nodded gravely, as if she’d revealed a profound universal truth, and proclaimed, “You are a seeker sent by the cosmos to remind us of balance.” Aditi tried to smile politely, but inside she was already plotting how to slip out before they made her chant or dance. The sharing circle morphed into an interpretive dance session led by Priya — Crystal Peacock — who waved her arms in slow motion and encouraged everyone to “feel the rhythm of the universe”. Aditi mostly felt the rhythm of the ceiling fan wobbling dangerously above them. To her horror, she was gently dragged into the dance by Rahul, who mistook her frozen expression for meditative bliss. She flailed awkwardly, wondering if this was what rock bottom looked like — interpretive dancing in a sweaty room, while a pigeon stared at her in judgment from the window grill.
As the session wound down, Om made a big show of dimming the lights (by yanking out the tube light’s plug) and lighting a large candle in the center of the room. “Tonight,” he announced, “we initiate our new soul companion — Aditi — into our inner circle of cosmic warriors!” Aditi blinked in confusion. Inner circle? Cosmic warrior? All she’d wanted was a few stretches and some peace. But before she could protest, Rahul handed her a plastic flower garland (that smelled suspiciously like bathroom freshener), and Priya smeared a dot of what she claimed was sandalwood paste on Aditi’s forehead — it felt a lot like Ponds cold cream. Om began a chant that sounded increasingly like he was improvising: “Om shanti kombucha… Om shanti Wi-Fi… Om shanti GST-free inner light…” The group echoed in varying levels of enthusiasm, while Aditi stood frozen, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Sanjay, the intern in charge of “digital vibrations” (aka filming everything on his phone), gave her a sympathetic look over his camera. When the ritual ended, Om pressed a badly photocopied scroll into her hands — “Ten Steps to Awaken the Cosmic Peacock Within” — and told her to study it before the weekend’s “special candlelight ceremony.” Aditi staggered out into the night air, plastic garland slipping off her neck, candle wax on her shoes, thinking: How did I go from a PowerPoint presentation to this in one week? But as she walked home, still smelling faintly of agarbatti and kombucha, a strange mix of dread and fascination tugged at her. Maybe, just maybe, this was worth seeing through — if only for the story she could tell afterward.
3
Aditi had barely recovered from her so-called initiation when her phone buzzed the next morning with a message from an unknown number: “Dear Aditi ji , The Cosmic Peacock has chosen you. Attend our Secret Circle tonight at 7 PM. Location: The rooftop sanctuary. Bring the scroll. Om blessings.” She stared at the message, torn between blocking the number and bursting into laughter. Cosmic Peacock? Secret Circle? Rooftop sanctuary? The only rooftop she knew was the one above that crumbling building, where pigeons reigned supreme and the only thing secret was perhaps how it hadn’t collapsed yet. Still, curiosity — and perhaps the tiniest hint of boredom with her own predictable life — won out. That evening, armed with her “scroll” (which still smelled faintly of Xerox ink) and a massive water bottle (in case she had to endure more kombucha), Aditi climbed those rickety stairs once again. The door opened before she could knock. There stood Rahul, now wearing a maroon kurta with a giant sequined peacock embroidered across the chest, as if a fancy dress costume had exploded on him. “Welcome, sister,” he intoned, his voice low and dramatic. “You are ready for the next level.” Aditi tried to respond but was pulled inside before she could even ask what the next level entailed.
The studio — if it could even be called that — had undergone a makeover. The fairy lights had been rearranged to form what looked like a lopsided mandala. At the center of the room sat Om, cross-legged on a faded yoga mat, surrounded by tea lights precariously balanced on empty pickle jars. The air was thick with smoke from incense sticks stuck in what appeared to be empty Limca bottles. Priya, aka Crystal Peacock, swayed gently to music playing from a Bluetooth speaker — a loop of tanpura and temple bells mixed with what suspiciously sounded like the theme from an old soap ad. Sanjay, the intern, stood in the corner holding his phone horizontally as he live-streamed the whole affair to what he claimed was their “global follower base,” but which Aditi suspected was just his friends laughing on Instagram. Om gestured grandly for Aditi to sit. “Tonight,” he announced, “you shall learn the Sacred Code of the Circle. It has been passed down through generations — from WhatsApp groups to Facebook communities to our humble sanctuary.” He handed her a slip of paper on which was scrawled in shaky handwriting: “Be kind. Drink kombucha. Believe in the Cosmic Peacock. Share memes that uplift the spirit.” Aditi blinked, unsure if this was a prank, but the others nodded earnestly as if she’d been gifted the wisdom of the ages.
The ritual began with what Om called the “Dance of the Awakening”, led by Priya, who flitted around the room waving silk scarves and humming tunelessly. Rahul followed, trying to mimic her but mostly knocking into things — a tea light toppled, a Limca bottle clattered, and at one point his sequined peacock got tangled in a fairy light strand. Om interpreted all of this as cosmic energy in motion and urged Aditi to join. With the grace of a bewildered office worker caught in an HR-mandated Zumba session, she shuffled awkwardly in a circle, wishing the floor would swallow her up. When the “dance” finally ended, Om handed out earthen cups of kombucha, declaring it the “nectar of higher consciousness”. Aditi took the tiniest sip and immediately regretted it — it tasted like vinegar had made friends with expired pickle juice. She tried to discreetly set her cup down, but Rahul caught her eye. “The more you drink,” he whispered, “the closer you are to peacockhood.” Aditi almost snorted kombucha out of her nose. At the end of the ceremony, Om placed a plastic crown — the kind usually found in birthday party return gifts — on her head and announced, “You are now one of us.” The group clapped, Sanjay zoomed in for his livestream, and Aditi sat frozen, crowned in plastic and confusion, wondering if perhaps regular yoga classes weren’t so bad after all.
4
Aditi had firmly decided that her next visit would be solely for amusement — like watching a so-bad-it’s-good movie — but somehow, as Saturday evening rolled around, she found herself once again ascending the crooked staircase to the rooftop madhouse. Maybe it was the sheer absurdity of the whole thing, maybe it was morbid curiosity, or maybe it was the fact that her neighbor’s loud dhol practice made staying home unbearable. Whatever the reason, there she was, greeted by Rahul “Fire Falcon” Malhotra, who was sporting a headband that looked suspiciously like a repurposed dupatta and holding what appeared to be a giant steel handi full of kombucha. “Ah, seeker Aditi!” he boomed dramatically, almost sloshing the kombucha onto his chappals. “Tonight is no ordinary night. Tonight, you will taste the Kombucha of Destiny! Brewed under the full moon’s cosmic rays… or well, as close as we could manage near the water tank.” Aditi stared at the murky liquid, noting with dread that bits of something floated near the surface — tea leaves? Fungal growth? Rahul’s leftover lunch? But the group, gathered around like disciples at a sacred yajna, watched expectantly. Never one to back down from a challenge (or at least not wanting to cause a scene), Aditi accepted a cup and took the tiniest sip. The taste hit her like a punch — sour, vinegary, with undertones of what she could only describe as old sock essence. Her face contorted involuntarily, but before she could recover, Om clapped joyfully, declaring, “The soul resists before it accepts purification!” The others nodded sagely, while Aditi plotted the exact moment she could pour the rest into a nearby plant when no one was looking.
The evening’s “ceremony” unfolded with the sort of chaotic energy Aditi was, by now, grudgingly accustomed to. First came the Cleansing of Vibrations — Om lit agarbattis sourced from the discount bin of the local general store and waved them in dramatic circles around everyone’s heads, causing several to cough and one poor college student to sneeze himself into a coughing fit. Next, Priya led what she called “The Dance of Detoxification”, a confusing blend of Bharatnatyam mudras and Zumba hip sways that looked less like cosmic harmony and more like someone trying to swat mosquitoes while avoiding potholes. Rahul joined in enthusiastically, knocking over two tea lights and a plastic water canister in the process, his dupatta-headband slipping down to cover one eye, giving him the appearance of a pirate who had gotten lost at a satsang. Throughout it all, Sanjay stood in the corner, live-streaming with deadpan commentary to his growing base of followers who tuned in for the laughs rather than the “wisdom.” Aditi, ever the reluctant participant, was coaxed into joining the dance, shuffling awkwardly and praying no one noticed her trying to inch toward the exit. But Om had other plans. With a flourish, he produced a giant peacock feather fan (clearly a leftover from a wedding décor supplier) and began fanning her, chanting, “Let the peacock within arise!” The fairy lights flickered, a pigeon flapped past in alarm, and Aditi bit the inside of her cheek to stop from laughing outright at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.
As the ceremony reached its so-called climax, Om announced that Aditi had shown “great promise in her cosmic journey” and would now receive the group’s ultimate symbol of trust: the Sacred Kombucha Starter Kit. Rahul handed over a battered plastic jar filled with what looked like alien slime — the kombucha culture — and detailed instructions scrawled on a crumpled piece of notebook paper. “Feed it tea. Keep it in a dark corner. Whisper mantras to it daily,” Rahul advised solemnly, as if bestowing the secrets of the universe. Aditi accepted it with the enthusiasm of someone receiving a dead fish as a birthday gift. The group clapped, Om beamed, Priya twirled dangerously close to a tea light, and Sanjay, catching Aditi’s eye, mouthed the word “Run.” But as she left the rooftop, Sacred Starter Kit in tow, Aditi couldn’t help but feel a strange affection for these bumbling cultists. Sure, they were ridiculous. Yes, their kombucha tasted like fermented disaster. But for a few hours every week, they offered a distraction from the endless deadlines, the client calls, the Gurgaon traffic. Maybe she wasn’t just going back for the comedy. Maybe, just maybe, she needed their nonsense as much as they needed another willing victim—er, cosmic warrior.
5
Aditi had promised herself, after The Great Kombucha Spill, that she would take a break. A long one. The kind of break that involved blocking Om’s number, ghosting the group chat titled “Cosmic Peacock Warriors”, and finding an actual yoga class with a certified instructor and clean mats. But as fate (or poor impulse control) would have it, she found herself climbing those rickety stairs yet again one muggy Friday evening. Her day had been a disaster — a client presentation had frozen mid-slide, she’d spilled coffee on her boss’s laptop bag, and the auto she took home played Dard-e-Disco on repeat. When Rahul’s message popped up — “Sacred Candlelight Ritual tonight! Aditi ji’s presence required for balance of energies” — she sighed, grabbed her water bottle, and went. If nothing else, their absurdity was better than her apartment’s slow ceiling fan and the neighbor’s screechy harmonium practice. The rooftop had been transformed (or at least that’s what Om called it). Fairy lights shaped into a crooked spiral glowed weakly against the darkening sky, and the mats had been arranged in what Rahul grandly called “a cosmic lotus formation”, though to Aditi it looked like random clutter. Dozens of candles flickered in jam jars, steel tumblers, and at least one old pickle bottle. The air smelled like melted wax, cheap rose agarbatti, and — inexplicably — Maggi. Om, seated like a wise sage atop two stacked plastic chairs (to give him “heightened cosmic vision”), raised his hands as Aditi arrived and intoned, “Welcome, seeker. Tonight, we journey through the light of the soul.”
The ceremony began with what Om called “Alignment of the Inner Flame”. Everyone was given a candle to balance on their palm while chanting a made-up mantra that went something like “Om deepak aatma shanti Wi-Fi namaha”. Rahul, ever the eager helper, went around adjusting everyone’s grip, knocking over at least three candles in the process. Aditi, terrified of dripping wax on herself (or worse, setting her kurta alight), tried to follow along without attracting attention. The chanting rose and fell in chaotic waves — Priya’s voice went sharp at random moments, as if she was auditioning for Indian Idol; Rahul kept forgetting the words halfway and humming Bollywood tunes instead; and Om’s deep baritone was occasionally interrupted by his own coughs, thanks to the clouds of incense smoke billowing around them. A strong breeze — possibly the universe’s way of trolling them — swept through, knocking over several candles, sending sparks into the night air, and causing Om’s topknot to unravel spectacularly. Rahul scrambled to relight candles, Priya tried to shield the flames with dramatic sweeping motions (looking for all the world like she was doing interpretive karate), and Sanjay, ever the documentarian, filmed it all for his meme page. The group tried to regain composure as Om solemnly declared, “The universe tests us. The flame that survives is the flame of true seekers.” Aditi looked at her candle — which had somehow gone out during the chaos — and decided that made her a false seeker, and perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing.
But the night’s comedy wasn’t done. The second half of the ritual was what Om called the “Walk of Light”. Each member was to walk slowly, candle in hand, around the rooftop’s perimeter while whispering their deepest wish to the flame. Rahul went first, moving with exaggerated care, nearly tripping over a coil of fairy light wire. Priya followed, gliding like a contestant in a classical dance contest, candle held high as she whispered what sounded like a shopping list to the flame. When Aditi’s turn came, she tried her best — stepping cautiously, focusing on keeping the candle upright, and murmuring, “I wish for peace… and no kombucha disasters… and maybe a good pizza.” The rooftop, however, had other plans. A sudden gust — Gurgaon’s infamous evening breeze — roared in, sending fairy lights flapping, toppling candles, and sending Om’s chair tower swaying dangerously. Aditi’s candle flew out of her grasp, landing safely (thankfully unlit) near the water tank. Rahul lunged dramatically to rescue a rolling pickle jar candle and ended up flat on his face, his dupatta-headband askew. Priya shrieked as melted wax dripped onto her foot. Om, trying to maintain gravitas, announced, “The universe has spoken. We must conclude.” As the group gathered to blow out remaining candles and salvage their dignity, Aditi couldn’t help it — she laughed. A proper, full-throated laugh that echoed over the rooftops. Because if the universe had spoken, it was clearly saying: You people are ridiculous. And Aditi, seeker or not, was weirdly glad to be there to witness it.
6
If Aditi had thought the candlelight ritual was peak absurdity, she was in for a rude awakening. Rahul’s message arrived on a humid Wednesday afternoon, as she tried to survive both a client call and a dying ceiling fan. The message, complete with far too many folded-hand emojis, read: “Aditi ji, the kombucha is READY! Sacred unveiling tonight. Rooftop, 7 PM. Bring good vibes.” Good vibes? All Aditi had were good excuses to avoid this circus. But the lure of what fresh disaster awaited (and, admittedly, the promise of material for her group chat’s entertainment) was too strong. And so, armed with an umbrella to ward off both the evening rain and bad kombucha karma, she trudged back to the rooftop sanctuary. The sight that greeted her was a disaster waiting to happen. At the center of the rooftop stood Rahul, beaming with pride beside a giant steel handi filled to the brim with kombucha. Fairy lights twinkled weakly in the breeze, and Om sat cross-legged on a plastic chair stacked atop an upside-down bucket — presumably for extra spiritual elevation. Priya fluttered about, placing marigold petals around the handi, and Sanjay was already filming, no doubt hoping for another viral moment. “Welcome, seeker,” Om intoned. “Tonight, we drink of the Cosmic Brew.” Aditi eyed the handi with deep suspicion — from where she stood, she could already see questionable floating bits and a layer of scum that did not inspire confidence.
The ceremony began with Om delivering what could only be described as a TED Talk gone wrong. He spoke of kombucha as “the drink of ancient sages”, mispronouncing every other word, and claimed it was invented by “mystic monks in Lajpat Nagar” — a statement so ridiculous that even Rahul blinked. The group formed a circle around the handi, hands raised as they chanted “Om shanti kombucha Wi-Fi namaha” in a ragged chorus. Rahul stepped forward dramatically, lifted a battered steel ladle like it was the Holy Grail, and began to stir. “We awaken the brew,” he declared. But in his enthusiasm, Rahul’s foot caught on the fairy light wire. Time slowed as Aditi watched in horror and fascination: Rahul stumbled, the ladle splashed, and with a sickening slosh, the entire handi tipped over. Kombucha cascaded across the rooftop like a tidal wave of bad decisions. The group froze. Om’s plastic chair throne wobbled dangerously; Priya let out a wail worthy of a soap opera climax; Sanjay whooped with glee as he captured every second. Aditi leapt back just in time to save her shoes, but not before a generous splash of kombucha soaked her dupatta. The smell hit her — sour, fermented, with a hint of something that should never have been brewed. The rooftop was now a kombucha swamp, marigold petals floating like wreckage on a sour sea.
For a moment, there was stunned silence. Then Om, trying desperately to salvage the moment, raised both hands and proclaimed, “The universe has… liberated the brew! We are blessed to witness such a cleansing!” Rahul, still holding the ladle like a sword of defeat, nodded solemnly. Priya dropped to her knees and began scooping petals out of the mess, whispering, “We can save some of it…” Aditi, struggling not to laugh or cry, stepped aside and tried to wring out her kombucha-soaked dupatta. Sanjay, grinning ear to ear, was already composing his next meme post. The group spent the next hour trying to mop up the mess using old towels, discarded mats, and, at one point, a broken dustpan. The rooftop smelled like a failed home-brew operation and disappointment. By the end, Om gathered the bedraggled crew and said gravely, “Let this be a lesson. The kombucha teaches humility.” Aditi, exhausted and sticky, thought the only lesson was never to trust a man in a peacock-embroidered kurta with a brewing recipe from YouTube. As she trudged home, drenched in sour liquid and regret, she resolved — as she always did — that this was the last time. But deep down, she knew she’d be back. After all, where else could she witness spiritual disasters of this magnitude for free?
7
Aditi should have known better. She really should have. When Rahul’s message popped up at 6:00 AM — “URGENT: Cosmic Celebration tonight! Om ji’s 51st cosmic birthday. Rooftop. 7 PM sharp. Bring positive energy + snacks if possible” — every cell in her brain screamed no. But by 6:55 PM, there she was, climbing the familiar, creaking stairs armed with a packet of Good Day biscuits (because positive energy came in many forms, and frankly, that’s all her pantry offered). The rooftop had been transformed — or at least, attempted transformation. Bunting made from old kombucha labels flapped in the breeze. A crumpled Happy Birthday banner hung lopsided between two rusting pipes. The fairy lights, tangled as ever, blinked at random, creating an effect that was more haunted house than celebration. In the center, Om sat like royalty on a plastic lawn chair draped in a bedspread featuring angry cartoon tigers. A plastic tiara sat crookedly on his topknot. Rahul buzzed around like an overenthusiastic wedding planner, rearranging candles and marigold petals while trying not to trip over the wires snaking across the floor. Priya, in what she called her “Peacock Goddess Attire” (a blue salwar suit covered in shiny sequins), twirled dramatically, nearly knocking over a pickle jar candle. Sanjay, as usual, had his phone out, documenting it all for their ever-growing audience of amused internet followers.
The “ceremony” began with Om delivering a long-winded speech on the “cycles of cosmic birthdays” and how he was “blessed to complete another orbit around the sun while guiding seekers on their journey.” His speech was punctuated by Rahul lighting sparklers (too early) and nearly setting a mat on fire, and Priya clapping at odd moments like a malfunctioning applause machine. Aditi stood at the back, clutching her biscuit packet like a shield, trying to look solemn while battling the urge to laugh. Then came the Dance of the Universal Peacock, a performance so chaotic that even the rooftop’s resident pigeons took flight in alarm. Priya led, flapping her arms and chanting something that sounded suspiciously like a Bollywood chorus. Rahul tried to follow, tripped over his own kurta hem, and collided with Sanjay, who barely managed to save his phone. The fairy lights flickered wildly, the wind picked up, and Om’s tiara flew off, landing neatly in a bowl of marigold petals. Ever the master of improvisation, Om declared it “a sign of divine surrender” and insisted they proceed to the cake-cutting. The “cake” turned out to be a large, misshapen mound of halwa in a steel thali, decorated with birthday candles of various colors and sizes, some of which wouldn’t stay lit thanks to the wind. Aditi found herself drafted to hold a plastic folder as a windshield while Rahul tried, and failed, to light the candles. When they finally managed, Om closed his eyes dramatically, made a wish (likely for fewer disasters, Aditi guessed), and blew out the flames — accidentally sending a shower of halwa crumbs across the group.
But the grand finale was yet to come. Rahul produced a large, battered plastic bottle and announced, “To mark this sacred occasion, we shall share the Kombucha of Blessings! Brewed specially for Om ji’s cosmic birthday!” The group cheered (or tried to; Priya’s cheer sounded suspiciously like a sneeze). Aditi watched in horror as Rahul poured the murky liquid into steel tumblers, handing them out like prasad. She accepted hers with the enthusiasm of someone offered boiled bitter gourd juice, eyeing the floating bits with deep suspicion. Around her, the group sipped solemnly, nodding as if experiencing divine revelations. Aditi took the tiniest sip — it tasted as awful as ever, like vinegar and regret. She tried to discreetly pour the rest into a potted plant, but Rahul caught her eye and grinned. “Embrace the blessings, Aditi ji! The brew connects us all!” Om raised his steel tumbler high, halwa crumbs still clinging to his beard, and declared, “Let this kombucha unite our spirits for the next orbit!” The group cheered, Sanjay zoomed in for a close-up, and Aditi, sticky, bewildered, and oddly entertained, realized something important: she was now in too deep to escape. Or maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want to. Because where else could she witness such cosmic comedy — and get free halwa — every week?
8
By now, Aditi had accepted that logic had no place on that rooftop. She told herself every single time that this was the last. But boredom, curiosity, and a certain fondness for watching chaos unfold always led her back. This time, it was Priya’s bright pink flyer — distributed via the Cosmic Peacock Warriors WhatsApp group — that roped her in. “Join us for the Great Cosmic Cleanse! Detox your soul, cleanse your aura, lighten your karma! Rooftop, 7 PM. Bring a towel. Wear white. Positive energy mandatory.” Aditi stared at the flyer and then at her overflowing laundry basket. White? The only clean thing she had was an old college t-shirt that said “Just Chill” in cracked letters. Close enough. That evening, as the sun dipped and mosquitoes rose in force, she climbed the familiar stairs, towel slung over one shoulder and a deep sense of foreboding in her heart. The rooftop was decked out in full chaotic glory. Buckets filled with cloudy water lined the edges, lemon slices floating in them for “purification.” A giant steel handi in the center steamed suspiciously. Fairy lights blinked at random, as usual, and agarbattis stuck into plastic cups filled the air with what Aditi could only describe as “temple meets roadside dhaba.” Om sat on his plastic throne (now reinforced with bricks “for stability”), looking like a budget guru at a wedding sangeet. Rahul paced like an overenthusiastic camp counselor, and Priya twirled as always, her white kurta already stained with what looked like turmeric.
The ritual began with what Om called “The Bath of Inner Light.” Each member was to dip their towel into the bucket water and gently pat their face, symbolically cleansing away “negative attachments.” Aditi eyed the bucket near her. The water had a faintly greenish tint and smelled like stale nimbu pani. She dipped the corner of her towel, patted her cheek, and tried not to gag. Around her, the group moaned softly as if experiencing true enlightenment. Priya dabbed her entire face with dramatic flair and declared she felt “lighter already.” Rahul splashed so enthusiastically that he soaked the mat beside him. Next came the “Aura Dust-Off,” which involved flapping one’s towel in slow motion while humming. The rooftop resembled a bizarre laundry dance, towels flapping like ghostly flags, fairy lights swaying, Om chanting “Om shuddhi safai namaha” in his deep baritone. Aditi flapped her towel half-heartedly, dodging Rahul’s near-miss towel swings, and wondered how she kept getting sucked into this madness. But the true disaster struck when Rahul, in his enthusiasm, knocked over the steaming handi in the center. Hot lemony water splashed across the rooftop, sending marigold petals and bits of agarbatti ash flying. Aditi yelped as a splash hit her foot, Rahul slipped, Priya shrieked, and Om — in what was becoming tradition — declared, “The universe tests our resolve!” Sanjay, ever the content creator, captured the entire debacle, already dreaming of the likes and comments.
As the group tried to mop up the mess with their now-damp towels, a new problem arose: the neighbors. For weeks, they had watched this rooftop circus with growing suspicion. Tonight, the smell of burnt agarbatti, steaming lemon water, and Om’s booming chants finally pushed them over the edge. First came the shouts. “What’s going on up there?!” “Are you people doing black magic?!” “Call the police!” Aditi froze. Rahul went pale. Priya tried to explain through the grill: “No no, aunty ji! We are just cleansing our souls!” This, of course, made it worse. The neighbor below poked a broom handle through the iron railing, attempting to swat at the fairy lights. Om, ever the improviser, raised both arms and declared loudly, “Let the negativity flow out! The universe purifies all!” The group hurriedly blew out candles, kicked over buckets to hide evidence, and tried to look innocent. Aditi grabbed her soggy towel and backed away, silently promising herself that next time, she’d stay home and watch Netflix like a sane person. But as she made her escape down the stairs, she heard Rahul call out, “Next week: The Great Gong Meditation! Don’t miss it!” And despite herself, she knew she’d be back. Because no corporate team-building disaster or office gossip could match the utter, glorious absurdity of the Yoga Cult.
9
The invitation arrived at precisely 7:00 AM — far too early for anything sensible. Aditi, groggy and mid-snooze, blinked blearily at her phone screen. Rahul had outdone himself this time. “TONIGHT: The Great Gong Meditation! A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to align chakras with the sacred vibrations of our community gong. Rooftop, 7 PM. Bring cushions + open hearts.” Attached was a picture of the so-called sacred gong: it was clearly an old thali, hanging from a rope tied to a rusty water pipe. For a full minute, Aditi contemplated deleting the message, blocking Rahul, and moving cities. But, predictably, 7 PM found her back on that familiar rooftop, driven by equal parts curiosity and a desperate need for comic relief. The setup was classic Yoga Cult chaos. The thali-gong swayed gently in the breeze, fairy lights blinked erratically, and Om stood barefoot on a wobbly stool, eyes closed, arms raised to the darkening sky as if conducting an orchestra only he could hear. Priya was dressed in what she dramatically called “her cosmic flow ensemble” — a salwar suit covered in so many shiny beads that she clinked with every movement. Rahul stood by the thali-gong with a battered wooden spoon, looking like a waiter who’d lost his way. Sanjay, as always, had his phone out, already live-streaming to his growing band of followers who tuned in purely for the trainwreck entertainment.
The ritual began with Om proclaiming, “Tonight, the gong shall sing the song of the universe! Its vibrations will wash away all worldly burdens!” He gestured grandly at Rahul, who promptly gave the thali a whack. The resulting clang echoed off the neighboring buildings, setting off a chorus of barking dogs. Aditi winced. Om swayed in place, as if moved by the “sacred resonance,” while Rahul, encouraged by the response, hit it again, and again. The dogs barked louder, a window slammed somewhere below, and someone shouted, “Kya tamasha hai yeh?!” Priya, undeterred, began a slow-motion dance, arms waving in what she clearly believed was divine grace, but looked more like she was conducting an invisible traffic jam. Aditi, sitting cross-legged on a borrowed cushion that smelled faintly of damp towel, tried to maintain composure. The thali-gong’s clangs came faster and louder, until Rahul’s enthusiasm finally did it in — with a mighty whack, the thali broke free of its rope, clattering to the floor with a final, pitiful clang. The group froze. Om, quick to recover, raised both arms and announced, “The gong has transcended its physical form! We are blessed to witness its liberation!” Aditi buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
As the group scrambled to salvage the session, Rahul tried to tie the thali back onto the rope, only succeeding in tangling it into the fairy lights. The lights flickered wildly, casting eerie shadows on the cracked rooftop walls. Om attempted to lead a “silent meditation” to save the moment, but between Rahul’s muttered curses, Priya’s clinking beads, and the neighbor’s broom handle poking through the railing in protest, silence was impossible. Aditi closed her eyes and tried, genuinely tried, to focus. But all she could think about was how she had willingly signed up for this chaos. How had this become her weekly ritual? Sitting on a rooftop with these lovable lunatics, dodging broken thalis, listening to Om declare cosmic truths while Rahul created fresh disasters, and Priya twirled like a disco ball come to life. And yet, as she sat there, sticky from spilled kombucha, ears ringing from thali clangs, she realized something: she wouldn’t have it any other way. Because in this madness, at least, she could laugh. And sometimes, that was all the peace she needed.
10
Aditi had promised herself — truly, deeply promised — that Chapter 9’s Great Gong Meditation would be her final foray into rooftop madness. But then came Om’s dramatic voice note, sent at 11 PM on a Tuesday, filled with enough cryptic mysticism to hook even the most skeptical soul: “Seeker Aditi… the full moon calls. The Moon Salutation under its sacred light will align all that is fragmented. Rooftop, midnight. Bring white flowers. The universe awaits.” Aditi, half asleep and too tired to protest, sighed. By the time midnight rolled around, she found herself, yet again, climbing those rickety stairs. The rooftop glowed faintly in the moonlight — or rather, glowed from Om’s attempt to hang battery-operated fairy lights in a circular pattern, which flickered unevenly, giving the whole scene the vibe of a haunted wedding reception. Om stood at the center, arms raised to the heavens, his kurta billowing dramatically in the breeze. Priya, wrapped in what looked like a bedsheet repurposed as a robe, clutched a small bowl of marigold petals. Rahul had fashioned a “moon staff” — basically a long bamboo stick with an LED bulb taped on top. Sanjay, of course, filmed it all, grinning as he whispered commentary into his mic for his followers. Aditi stood at the edge, clutching a sad, wilted bunch of jasmine she’d bought from the late-night flower seller at the corner. If anyone had told her a year ago that this would be her life — standing on a rooftop at midnight with people waving bamboo sticks at the moon — she’d have laughed. But now? Now she just braced herself for impact.
The ritual began with Om leading the “Invocation of Lunar Peace”. This consisted of a series of slow, exaggerated stretches that looked suspiciously like moves he’d copied from a YouTube yoga channel. The group mimicked him, arms reaching skyward, then folding inwards as they chanted, “Chandni shanti, Wi-Fi namaha…” Aditi tried to follow without knocking over the small brass diya someone had placed behind her, but the breeze had other plans. With a sudden gust, marigold petals flew everywhere, the “moon staff” tilted dangerously, and Om’s topknot came undone spectacularly, leaving his hair flapping wildly as if he were caught in a shampoo ad. Rahul, ever eager to help, tried to steady the staff but ended up whacking the fairy light circle, causing one section to go dark. Priya, not one to let chaos halt her performance, launched into an interpretive twirl that sent her bowl of petals flying over the side of the rooftop. Somewhere below, a startled dog barked. Om, unfazed, declared, “The universe accepts our offering!” Aditi bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing out loud, while Sanjay whispered gleefully into his mic, “And there goes the cosmic bouquet, folks!”
But the night’s true disaster came during the final phase: the “Silent Circle of the Moon.” The group was to stand hand-in-hand, eyes closed, as Om rang a small bell at intervals to “channel lunar energy.” It started well enough — hands joined, faces turned upward, a moment of actual calm. But then Rahul, in his enthusiasm, rang the bell so hard it flew out of his grip, ricocheted off the water tank, and clattered noisily down the stairs. The group’s silence shattered as Priya gasped, Om tried to cover with, “The bell has transcended sound… a true blessing,” and Aditi lost all composure, snorting with laughter. To make matters worse, the racket woke half the neighborhood. Lights flicked on in windows, people leaned out shouting, “Ab bas bhi karo!” “Raat ke ek baje tamasha ho raha hai kya?!” Aditi, tears streaming from suppressed giggles, grabbed her jasmine bunch and made a swift exit, Sanjay’s delighted narration trailing after her. As she clattered down the stairs, she thought to herself — that’s it, I’m done. But deep down, she knew better. Because no matter how bizarre, how chaotic, how utterly ridiculous — somehow, someway, the Yoga Cult kept pulling her back.
11
Aditi had decided. After the Moon Salutation Fiasco, she made the strongest, most solemn vow yet: she was done. Finished. No more kombucha floods, no more gong disasters, no more candlelight crises. She muted the Cosmic Peacock Warriors WhatsApp group, ignored Rahul’s frantic messages (which included memes of full moons and captions like “Your cosmic family misses you 🌝🙏”), and made plans for a proper yoga class at a reputable studio that didn’t involve fairy lights or flying thalis. For two whole weeks, she succeeded. Her evenings were blissfully quiet: no incense smoke, no spilled kombucha, no rooftop windstorms. She read books. She tried a guided meditation app. She even managed to do actual yoga, in peace, without being hit by a moon staff. But then it happened. A knock at her door. She opened it to find Rahul and Priya standing there, clutching a large, crumpled banner that read “COSMIC RETREAT: This Sunday, 4 PM, Green Valley Farms. Carpools available. 🌿✨” Rahul’s eyes were wide with desperation. “Aditi ji, please. It’s our biggest event yet! Om ji has planned it for months! We can’t do it without you.” Priya, ever the dramatic soul, clasped her hands together and added, “We’ll have a real gong this time! And organic snacks!” Aditi sighed the sigh of someone who knew she was defeated before she even began. Just this once, she told herself. One last cosmic misadventure.
The Green Valley Farms turned out to be a patch of uneven grass next to an under-construction banquet hall, with cows grazing at the far end and a dubious-looking pond in the middle. But the Yoga Cult had come prepared. Om arrived in what could only be described as his final boss outfit: a flowing white kurta with gold embroidery, a new topknot held together with what looked like a pencil, and a large rudraksha mala that kept slipping off his neck. Rahul had sourced an actual gong — borrowed, it turned out, from a school marching band — and set it up on a crooked metal stand. Priya had brought enough marigold garlands to decorate a Durga Puja pandal, and Sanjay was already live-streaming the setup to their ever-growing audience of fans, trolls, and curious onlookers. The ritual began with great pomp. Om declared, “Today, we ascend to the highest level of cosmic connection!” and waved incense sticks so enthusiastically that he nearly set his sleeve on fire. The group formed a circle, holding hands as Rahul struck the gong with what looked suspiciously like a cricket bat handle. The sound echoed across the fields, startling the cows and drawing curious looks from the construction workers nearby. Aditi, clutching a sad little cushion and trying to avoid a patch of cow dung, wondered for the hundredth time how she’d gotten herself into this. But then Om, with all the gravity of a man announcing the secrets of the universe, proclaimed: “Seeker Aditi… it is time. You shall lead the final chant.”
Aditi froze. She tried to protest — “Oh no, Om ji, I think Rahul or Priya—” — but it was too late. The group turned toward her expectantly. The camera zoomed in. The cows mooed in encouragement (or possibly confusion). So, standing barefoot in the grass, surrounded by fairy lights strung on sticks, under the setting sun, Aditi took a deep breath and began: “Om… kombucha… shanti… Wi-Fi… namaha…” The group echoed it with fervor. Rahul’s gong strikes became more dramatic. Priya twirled with reckless abandon, flinging marigold petals into the air. Om swayed as if caught in a divine trance. And then — as was inevitable — disaster struck. A sudden gust of wind sent the gong toppling over, crashing into a bucket of kombucha brew they’d set up for “after-ritual blessings.” The kombucha flooded the grass, the petals flew into the pond, and Om’s topknot finally gave up the ghost, unspooling like a dying spinning top. The cows fled. The construction workers applauded. Sanjay, bless him, captured every second in glorious HD. And Aditi? Aditi laughed. She laughed until her sides hurt, until tears streamed down her face, until even Om started laughing. Because this was the Yoga Cult. Chaotic, ridiculous, unforgettable. And maybe — just maybe — exactly where she belonged.
-End-
