Magic
St. Margaret’s Co-Educational English Secondary and Primary School: Secondary Section
Secondary, Neel Lalwani, Fiction Group 4
B
lank. All blank. A green, forest green, and leather paperback with the words Travel
Journal in italics at the cover, for a more antique and peculiar finish. This was a
birthday gift given from my dear mother when I was boyish and young, 11 to be exact.
My father was never there starting from my eighth birthday, but mother always told me
that he was always watching you, protecting you from evil spirits. Back then, I always dreamt of
traveling. Exploring distinct and dark caves, cruising over mystical and eerie seas, trekking high
mountains and perhaps volcanoes as well, to see the world in my point of view. Thinking about
them all just never cease to enchant me. But after the years flew by, programs, was it Nationless
Geographic? It doesn’t matter. Such programs started appearing and all I ever dreamt for was just
there, on a black box with buttons for changing channels or volume. They seem to satisfy me
after a hard day’s work at a magazine company called Globe, across Queen’s Road, where I just
sit down and enjoy myself a cup of hot milk and a plate filled with Nam’s Bits cookies. Then, I
realized. I was forgetting the whole point of my desire, to see the world in my point of view. Alas,
it’s too late now, for I am 47 years old. I kept the travel journal back at the wooden shelf carefully
and got ready for work. I wore my favorite tie from Burberry, a crimson velvet tie with flashy
orange stripes. On my way to work, on the subway, something noteworthy caught my eye. Graffiti
on the wall which says “Gobi Desert”, a mistaken spelling in which I think the artist wanted to
say Gobi Desert. Underneath, a remarkable piece of art. A rich golden brown desert painted with
perfection, and the sky was orange red mixed with dark blue. A beautiful lake is brushed in the
middle of the desert, reflecting the gorgeous sky. The detail was so precise, as if the wall was the
desert itself. It felt like the painting was drawing me into it. I asked myself, “How can someone
paint something like this with such excellence? And why would anyone paint the Gobi Desert?”
I admired it for a few more seconds and left for the train to work. I entered the skyscraper and
was greeted by the lovely receptionist. “Good morning, Damon!” “Good morning, Debra. Fine day,
isn’t it?” She nodded with a smile. I entered the elevator and met a few colleagues and exchanged
greetings. “Have you heard about Walter?”, Simon, a great friend of mine, whispered. “He’s fired!”
I gasped with surprise and asked why. “The boss said he was too inscrutable and “mittyesque”, for
whatever that meant.” The elevator bell rang. “19th Floor”. I waved goodbye to Simon and went
for the office pantry to make myself a refreshing cup of Nescafe coffee. I couldn’t stop thinking
about the graffiti. What was so special about that desert? It just couldn’t leave my head. This
graffiti felt like it was meant for me, for some reason, but I just couldn’t figure out why. “Ahh,
forget it.”, I thought. I finished making the cup of coffee and the natural smell of coffee provoked
me to work. After a good day’s of work, I returned home happily, forgetful of the thought of the
graffiti. At home, I made myself comfortable and had dinner. Roasted chicken with baked potatoes
and beans. “Lovely.”, I said to myself. I turned on the TV and switched to the Geographic channel,
whatever you call it. Then, it hit me. The Gobi Desert was on TV, and I suddenly remembered that
graffiti. I turned off the TV, and thought about something. “Why is the Gobi Desert coincidentally
and occasionally appearing today?” I scratched my head, shrugged, and continued munching my
dinner. All of a sudden, the travel journal I was appreciating before work dropped from my shelf. I
