You shall need the following:
A safe haven wherein you forge your spell:
A bubbling bazaar under an overzealous sun with dusty, red brick lined shrunken lanes, cunningly tucked in banal corners; their narrow veiled entrances visible only to a pair of eyes curious or habitual enough. Dark heads, chattering tongues, clammy bodies crawl like insects everywhere, sucking in the sweat and perfume filled air of the streets. This is my territory, the place where I conjure.
Collect the ingredients:
A lost boy, A young thief, An ambitious lady preferably in her mid thirties and An old man with a hunched back.
Then wait for the opportune moment:
A lost boy about six years old wanders the streets, searching for the hint of white clothes that was his mother. Squeezing between the giant bodies of the crowd, he pushes forward, wiping his eyes and nose with his hands. He can’t breathe; it is so tight. The streets circle endlessly under his tiny feet. He is thirsty; he is tired and mother is lost but he searches and I wait.
A young thief of eighteen, born and raised in my lands prowls the marketplace, hunting for unsuspecting targets and the riches they hold. Blind to the color and wondrous haze, he leans on the electricity pole outside the corner purse shop. Spotting a woman engrossed in her shopping he starts following her and I wait.
An ambitious woman in her mid thirties enters the bazaar with urgency in her steps. She speeds past the cluster of shops selling shoes, the one with steel utensils of every kind, the tiny cloth covered shed selling lace, the hawker pushing a cart full of jewelry, the corner purse shop. Her eyes scan everything but her heart still yearns and I wait.
An old man with a hunched back and age masked by wrinkles, stops suddenly as he drops the pair of socks he is carrying in a white paper bag. He looks at the bag for a few minutes then reluctantly bends down to pick it up, while cursing his fused joints. As he rises again a crying child in the middle of the market catches his attention. He waddles towards him with a melting heart and I wait.
When the time is right you cast the spell:
I whirl, I twirl, in corners I curl;
an evil laugh, a soft moan;
I stun, I run, the spell is begun.
Enter your observations in your spell book for future use:
The old man finds the lost boy. He holds his hand, squats down and asks why he cries. The young one says “mom” and continues crying. With promises to find the lost mother both of them join the crowd. A pink candyfloss is offered and accepted, crying ceases and mother is forgotten. In front of a small shop displaying sequined colourful jackets embroidered with diamond shaped mirrors a dust devil forms sending them both inside the shop, rubbing their eyes.
The young thief follows the rushing woman with ease. She doesn’t suspect; an easy target. She doesn’t stop, nothing interests her. The thief starts making his move; walking fast towards her, his eyes fixed on her purse but she stops in front of a small shop displaying sequined colourful jackets embroidered with diamond shaped mirrors with a triumphant gleam in her smile. A dust devil suddenly forms sending her inside the shop with the thief following her.
Introduce yourself to the reader of your spell book:
I am the dust beneath their shoes. I coat their skin. I invade their breath. This is my land on which they roam.
I was their ash and now their sire;
I know their heart’s deepest desire.
The little boy jumps with delight seeing the offerings of the shop. The whirlwind is now a distant myth; the rhomboid mirrors reflecting back his cherubic face the only truth. Everything is a djinn’s whisper, full of wonder and allure.
The young thief is not deterred. He nicks the woman’s purse and pockets the money with practiced ease as she is immersed appraising the bejewelled fabric. A hungry id and aberrant morals are everything.
The arduous woman finds what she seeks; a way to shine, to stand out and make her mark in the world. Trying on the jacket she feels unique. The world is her and her alone. The desire to conquer is everything.
The old man smiles while looking at the jubilant child. He must find the young one’s mother but for now he is content with the child pulling him along to show the marvels. The warmth of a touch is everything.
And herein your spell is done.