“Sir, the townsfolk are headed here with a couple Sufis. What should we do?” The security officer entered the District Collector Ahmad Farooq’s office without permission and asked worriedly.

“It’s good that they ended up coming here... we can bring this whole thing to a conclusion today,” the collector said as he got up from his chair and pulled the window curtain back and looked down.

Down below were the villagers, and in front of them stood a couple of old people wearing long tunics, and sporting big headscarves, long beards, moustaches, and hair.

“Mr. Ashok, was it these old men that the security called Sufis?” The Collector asked his private secretary Ashok with a scornful look.

“Sir, those old men are the spiritual heads of the Samarkand village.” Ashok added that the old men were respected by people regardless of caste and religion.

“Oh, that’s great. Then they can explain things to the villagers. As you know, Mr. Ashok, there is already a lot of pressure from the government to evacuate Samarkand. Our job is to carry out orders, and that is what we must do now.”

“Sir, but still, what are the government and that multinational company going to do there after evacuating Samarkand?” Ashok asked doubtfully.

“Who knows. Like I said before, our only job is to obey the orders that come from above,” the Collector said as he sat back down in his chair. “Mr. Ashok, in any case, tell just the old men who have gathered below to come in here. They can then be the ones to explain things to the rest of the villagers.”

A little later, the old men who were standing outside arrived inside the Collector’s office. As soon as he saw them, the Collector stood up and immediately began speaking with a grave voice.

“Please note that everyone in the village of Samarkand has been encroaching on government-owned land for generations and has been living there illegally without adequate residential documents. Therefore, the government has decided to evacuate the place. We don’t want any unnecessary trouble from either you or the villagers. If it comes to that, we will have to deal with it accordingly. You must talk to the people and make them understand.”

One of the old men said that the land was gifted to them long ago by the Sultan, but the Collector interjected with scorn, “Ha ha! Sultan? Which Sultan?”

Sultan Firoz, another one of the old men replied.

“Hahaha,” the Collector was unable to contain his laughter, “India gained independence

on 15th August 1947, and before that many kings must have given away this and that. What is the use in bringing that up now? I am giving you my final decision: you have one month to take your things and leave. If you don’t, the place that you Sufis go to rest, the Farooq choultry—and I don’t care that it bears my name—it will be the first thing I demolish,” the Collector said, his face reddening with anger.

 “Now everyone go back outside and disclose the matter to the villagers immediately. There will be no further notice.”

All the old men lowered their heads and stepped outside, save for one man who stood unmoving. This prompted the Collector to ask, “What, why aren’t you leaving?”

The old man lifted his head and looked straight at the Collector. He snapped his fingers. Tick tick tick, the clocks in the Collector’s office began turning backwards and a strong wind from outside blew in, filling the Collector’s eyes with what felt like darkness until he was completely alone in that pitch-black darkness. All the noise outside stopped, and in that pitch darkness, and pitch silence, he began screaming loudly, “Someone save me!” But only his own voice echoed back loudly in response. In the distance, he could see a glimmer of light, and he began running towards it. After running for a long time, the light began getting bigger. As soon as he got near the light, he jumped straight into it, the strong light forcing him to cover his face with his hands. When he eventually opened his eyes and took a look, he understood that he was in a very big cave. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of horses approaching him. The people on the horses looked like kings in old paintings. One of the men threw a rope and tied up his legs, while another man hit the Collector on his head, knocking him out cold.

When he regained consciousness, the Collector realized he was trapped inside a palace. Everyone there was staring at him carefully. The Collector looked around him and saw that everyone was clothed in clothing from over six hundred years ago. Above him, he could see a man sitting, in all his glory, on a throne made of gold.

“Where am I? What happened to me?” The Collector asked, with both excitement and pain.

Breaking the short silence, one of the soldiers began speaking, “My Liege, we found him in the vicinity of our princely state of Samarkand. We found him in strange clothes, but he was also talking in a language similar to our own.”

“Who are you? Why have you come into our land?” The Sultan asked.

“My name is Farooq and I am a Collector, a government officer, of India,” the Collector managed to say, shivering.

“India? Government? Collector? I don’t understand some of these things that he is saying.”

The Collector then explained everything that had happened to the Sultan.

“Oh, so is that how things are done in your land? You who was appointed to serve the people, you yourself are the one depriving them of their own land? Who is there? Throw him in a dungeon.”

Many years had passed by when the Sufi, wearing his long tunic, came by his prison cell.

“You? Please release me from this world. In their eyes, I am but a madman who blabbers things. You know the actual truth,” the Collector begged.

“Farooq, you will be useful to the new Sultan Firoz. Beg the soldiers and ask to see the Sultan. That is the only way to your freedom.”

“Please, stay. Where are you going, leaving me all alone in this world?” The Collector cried to the Sufi who started walking away.

The Sufi left without responding to his pleas.

The next day, the Collector advised the king in the royal court. He suggested they build a dam as a solution to the periodic flooding and the subsequent agricultural devastation. The Collector’s idea was well received. The Sultan freed the Collector from his imprisonment, and then named a newly built choultry after him. The now free Collector entered the Samarkand cave once more, and then ran ahead, with the light in the distance becoming his goal.

“Sir, sir, what happened?” The Collector’s secretary asked, filled with fear.

“Where am I?” The Collector asked.

“Sir, you are in your own office. It’s only been a minute since the Sufis left. Sir, you

fainted just now.”

“Ashok, I want to go to Samarkand. I need to ask them for their forgiveness. I object to

this secret plan from the government to push the people out. Come what may, I will object.”