Arvind Sutradhar did not look like a man who shook the foundations of magical secrecy.
He looked like someone who argued about train ticket refunds.
Balding, bespectacled, perpetually sweating, Arvind had been the first muggle ever allowed into Bhargava Vidya Mandir for Arcane Arts, a floating school hidden above the Nilgiri forests.
He entered not because of talent, but because someone accidentally mistook his railway reservation form for a scholarship application.Once inside, he somehow survived by sheer stubbornness and a scientific habit of writing everything down. He noted spells phonetically, drew diagrams of wand angles, measured potion viscosity with kitchen spoons, and broke every rule by asking the forbidden question:
“But why?”
Wizards hated him.
Naturally, the internet loved him.
After returning home, Arvind opened a channel called MAGIC FOR MORTALS, WITH ARVIND SUTRADHAR.
His first viral video:
“How to Grow a Mini Thundercloud in Your Kitchen (Using Only Table Salt and Anger)”
He gained 18 million followers in three months.
And today, he was sitting in the studio of Good Morning Galaxy, India’s most watched breakfast talk show.
Lights. Cameras. Applause.
On the opposite sofa sat Meghna Mirza, the show’s glamorous host, calm on the outside, but mentally rolling across the floor laughing.
She smiled professionally, hair perfect, mascara like sharpened blades.
“Welcome, Arvind ji,” she said. “We’re honored you chose our show for your first TV appearance.”
Arvind leaned forward. “Thank you, Meghna madam. I am here only to spread truth, knowledge, and general safety. Because some spells can burn your eyebrows clean off if you mispronounce…”
“Aaaand we’re demonetized,” Meghna muttered under her breath.
In her earpiece, the program coordinator screamed:
“KEEP GOING. KEEP GOING. TRP IS SPIKING. DON’T YOU DARE STOP THIS MAN.”
Meghna straightened immediately.
“Please continue, Arvind ji! Our viewers are fascinated.”
“Let us start simple,” Meghna said smoothly.
“How does one… make a broom fly?”
Arvind’s eyes sparkled. He lived for such questions.
“Oh, it’s very simple actually.”
Meghna nodded politely.
Inside she screamed: What the hell is happening?
“So,” Arvind began, “you take a wooden broom, preferably one with natural bristles. Synthetic strands cannot hold enchantments unless treated with celestial cow butter.”
Meghna choked.
Arvind continued, “Step 1: Stand the broom upright. Step 2: Whisper ‘Udd Chal Beta Udd’. Correct pronunciation is essential.”
She blinked. “Sorry… what language is that?”
“It’s from the ancient Gravitational Persuasion dialect. Very rare.”
Meghna’s brain: Bro invented a language.
He went on.
“Then you rotate the broom clockwise thrice while shouting motivational slogans.”
“Slogans…?”
“Yes, like ‘You can do it! Believe! Fly like your ancestors who were trees!’ Brooms respect emotional encouragement. It activates the aerodynamic ego.”
The control room was howling with laughter.
“Then,” Arvind said, lowering his voice dramatically, “you mount it gently. Never slap it. It remembers.”
Meghna covered her mouth to stop herself from exploding with laughter.
Her earpiece buzzed again:
“DON’T LAUGH. KEEP HIM TALKING. WE HAVE HIT HIGHEST TRP IN NETWORK HISTORY.”
“Arvind ji, what about potions? Many homemakers want simple magic tips.”
Arvind nodded sagely.
“Of course. My most popular potion is the ‘Calm Your Husband’ elixir. Very easy recipe.”
Meghna couldn’t breathe.
“Take one cup warm water, one teaspoon turmeric, and whisper a lullaby to it. Turmeric is naturally truth-binding. Then add three drops of disappointment.”
Meghna blinked. “Three… what?”
“Disappointment. You know, think about all the things your husband promised but didn’t do. The potion absorbs the vibe.”
The cameraman fainted.
“Arvind ji,” Meghna said, regaining composure, “some people say magic isn’t real.”
He sighed deeply. “I understand. Many wizards didn’t believe I was real either.”
“Oh?”
“In the magical school, I was the only student who took detailed notes. When I asked why their library had no index system, they accused me of witchcraft.”
Meghna snorted.
“I also reorganized their potion shelves alphabetically. They fainted. Apparently, ‘systematic arrangement’ was forbidden magic.”
More laughter backstage.
“But the real problem,” Arvind said, “was that I kept asking why their flying castle was held up by one goat standing on the roof.”
“A goat…”
“Yes. Named Harishchandra. Very reliable goat. They said he was the load bearing source. No one questioned it for 700 years.”
Meghna bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.
“What about spell deciphering?” she asked.
“Ah, yes. Unlike wizards, I use logical methods. For example, levitation spells often begin with vowels. Destruction spells end with ‘-aka’ because it sounds explosive.”
“Fascinating,” Meghna lied.
“But recently,” Arvind said, “I cracked a major secret.”
“Which is?”
“That most spells are actually badly pronounced Sanskrit words.”
Meghna frowned. “Explain?”
“Take the spell ‘Leviosa’. Actually ‘Le Vinsha’, ancient for ‘Lift slightly, but not enough to hit the ceiling fan’.”
Meghna lost all composure.
Suddenly her producer yelled:
“BREAKING NEWS: #BroomChallenge has crossed 20 million posts! People across India are shouting ‘Udd Chal Beta Udd’ at brooms!”
Meghna stared at Arvind.
He looked proud. “See? Magic is for everyone.”
“But isn’t this… dangerous?”
“No no, madam. Ninety percent of brooms are emotionally unmotivated. They won’t fly.”
The control room was screaming.
A studio assistant rushed in and whispered to Meghna.
Her smile froze.
“Arvind ji… there seems to be someone backstage asking for you.”
“Oh? Who?”
The assistant gulped.
“He says he is your… professor?”
Arvind went pale.
From behind the curtain, a dark figure stepped out.
Beard long. Cloak swirling. Eyes glowing faintly.
Professor Shyamal Dev, one of the top wizards of Bhargava Vidya Mandir.
The studio gasped.
He glared at Arvind.
“You fool. You exposed magic to the world.”
Arvind gulped. “Sir… I… I was spreading awareness…”
The professor raised his wand.
Meghna shot up. “NO MAGIC IN MY STUDIO.”
The professor blinked.
Arvind blinked.
Then Professor Shyamal Dev lowered his wand and said:
“Actually… can I sit? My knees hurt. I flew here on a goat.”
Arvind whispered, “Harishchandra?”
“Yes. He’s parking on the roof.”
The camera operators nearly died laughing.
Meghna cleared her throat.
“Professor ji, your student has become quite the celebrity.”
The professor sighed.
“Yes. Our entire school is trending on Twitter as #GoatPoweredCampus.”
Meghna turned to Arvind.
“So… is he here to take you back?”
“No,” the professor said. “I’m here to correct him.”
He looked dead serious.
“Brooms fly anti-clockwise, not clockwise. Everyone is shouting at brooms in the wrong direction.”
The control room erupted.
“And also,” the professor added, “the ‘Calm Your Husband’ potion actually uses cardamom, not turmeric. Turmeric stains.”
Meghna had tears down her face.
After the show ended, Meghna removed her mic and collapsed laughing.
Arvind looked embarrassed. “Madam, did I… offend you?”
She shook her head.
“No. You gave our audience the best morning in years.”
The professor stepped forward. “Arvind, you should return with me.”
“But sir,” Arvind said softly, “the world is finally listening. I want people to know magic isn’t something mysterious. It’s messy, funny, illogical, and very human.”
The professor paused.
Then he sighed.
“You know… maybe you are right. Wizards take themselves too seriously.”
He placed a hand on Arvind’s shoulder.
“Stay here. Tell them our stories. Just… please correct the broom rotation.”
Arvind beamed. “Of course, sir.”
As the professor left (summoning his goat from the roof), Meghna shook Arvind’s hand.
“You know,” she said gently, “you may be the first man to bring magic to everyone… just by being completely, confidently ridiculous.”
Arvind smiled proudly.
“And that,” he said, “is the greatest magic of all.”
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