I touch the bedroom mirror groggily, more out of habit than hope. Suddenly, the mirror lights up green with magic, and I can see him. Across the open door of his bathroom, I see him sitting on a couch, reading a book. Which one is it this time—The Edge of Physics? Cosmos? I sigh! But then, I return to my senses and start shouting at him to get his attention. Nothing! Quickly, I turn to my right and grab the placard with my phone number that has been sitting on my bedside table for two months now and turn back to face the mirror again.
All I see is myself reflecting back in the mirror. The connection is already broken. Again…
All I want, all I hope for, all I desire in life has shrunk down into that mirror and that man who doesn’t know I exist.
I really shouldn’t have cooked that dumb cake! Why would anyone want to see their soulmate if they would still have to wait for them anyway? It is so painful to see the man destined to marry me one day go on with his life like I don’t exist.
Cooking a dumb cake on Halloween night is an ancient practice. It was also my last attempt to find my soulmate. With all the potential suitors hiding in the plain sight, it is too difficult to find a male witch now a days. It’s not that we are hiding because people might burn us at stake. It’s just that magic and witches are obsolete. Nobody needs our magical services when weather apps predict weather, daily horoscope apps tell the future, social media finds people, banks hold all the existing treasures, old recordings help commemorate dead people and fertility clinics are go‑to places for begetting children.
Technology has thrown us out of our conventional jobs. Hence, we have reinvented ourselves. Witches now use their superior intellect to secure higher education and obscene amount of salary. But we have to hide the reason for our abnormal level of talent, lest people accuse us of cheating, like sportspersons on drugs.
But because of all the hiding, our chances of meeting another witch are rather dim. Every single male witch I know is already either engaged or married to a prettier witch, while I, being a plain and nerdy scientist, am still single at the age of thirty-five. My family had set me up on dates with several men they know through family connections, but all of them seemed more interested in women with long legs and miniskirts than a woman with brains and an opinion. After I had run through what felt like all the eligible bachelors known to them, my family members stopped badgering me about my non‑existent love life.
But it is becoming difficult to attend family dinners—my brother and cousins bring their spouses and children. You’d think it would be crowded, but my heart never felt so empty before. All I need, if nothing else, is a hope that there is someone for me in the future.
Knowing this, my bestie and flatmate, Bree, keeps throwing around names of eligible bachelors,
“Why don’t you come with me to the party? There is this guy called Hans you would love to meet. He is an engineer.”
“Did you see the hot guy on the fifth floor? He’s a chef!”
“You know, Henry, our new neighbour? He was asking about you—saw you in one of my Facetime pics… Should I tell him you live right next door?”
My first response to all her suggestions is, “Is he a witch?”
I don’t mind marrying a regular guy, but honestly, will a regular guy want to marry a witch? And they will find out soon enough—we may have shunned magic, but magic hasn’t shunned us. We have magic of nature, and it runs in our veins with our blood, making them green. Closer to our heart, we are too green to ignore. We hide it with turtlenecks and dresses with sleeves. The only person outside my family who knows my secret is Bree because I wear tank tops at night.
I’m not ashamed of my colouring. But if a guy sees it, he will take flight. My bestie feels people don’t care anymore but I don’t want the issue to come up later, once I am in too deep.
So, rather than taking a 10 percent chance with a non‑magical person, I resorted to a dumb cake, which was a sure shot in finding a future husband. It is a family tradition that my great‑grandmother had used to meet my great‑grandfather for the first time, just like her mother and grandmother before her.
If a non‑magical woman makes a dumb cake, she dreams about her spouse, but she can’t speak to him. To make the Halloween magic strong enough to make contact at that moment, you require a certain amount of magic yourself—something that witches possess and practice. It felt like a really dumb idea at first but, with nothing to lose, I decided to take the drastic measure.
Well, it wasn’t really drastic, just desperate…
What’s the worst that could happen? Nothing. With no practice in magic whatsoever, there were pretty high chances of me seeing nothing. So, I reminded myself not to put any hopes on a cake even though I was giving it a shot.
On All Hallows eve, when Bree went to the Halloween party in the society’s club house, I cooked the dumb cake. She wanted me to come to meet Henry, but I lied about a headache. She left looking suspicious as if I was hiding a boyfriend in my closet. I wish!
The basic instruction of making a dumb cake is that I must work in complete silence standing on something no one ever stood on before. Well, I am no baking pro, so I asked Alexa for step‑by‑step instructions. As it droned in the background, I worked in complete silence while standing on something no one had ever stood on—my brand new, super‑pricey sofa. As I wobbled in the softness, I was scared I would burn holes in the material. I ground the flour, prepared the batter, shaped the cake, pricked my initials on the top and put it inside my microwave oven. Ideally, it should have been a fireplace instead. But, like witches, fireplaces are obsolete too.
Once the cake was ready, I pulled it out of the oven, trying to balance myself on the sofa. As I continued wobbling, it occurred to me that I could have simply bought a new rug to stand on instead. Stupid me! Then, I took a single bite from the cake, tried to chew it (a painful process) and walked backwards to my room, slid the rest of the cake under my bedding and tried to sleep on the now lumpy bed.
After this whole exercise, a regular girl would dream of her future spouse. She wouldn’t be able to communicate with him though. So, she would still have to wait until this certain person would meet her. Being a witch, my situation could be better. In theory, when I would rise from my bed at midnight, touch the mirror closest to me and chant the magic words, I should seen my future spouse who, of course, would be a male witch. Because who else would want to marry a witch? Then, I would leave a message with him. In theory, at least…
In practice, most witches waking at midnight are so confused that they can barely concentrate on the mirror, let alone remember the magic words to create the highly advanced magic for leaving a message for an unknown entity whose whereabouts are also unknown. With no practice in magic, I knew I was doomed from the moment I started.
So, I woke up at midnight (Phone Alarm), and walked to my bedside mirror, touched it and incantated the magic words (Google Notes). For a minute, nothing happened. So, I tried again, and yet again, willing to reach someone, anyone…
I never realised until that moment how much I wanted this whole thing to work; to have a chance at love just once in my life.
Suddenly, the screen lit up with a green light and there he was, standing in front of the mirror, looking dishevelled, like he had just returned from a party. His eyes were wide in surprise, and I think mine must be too. I fidgeted in my old tank top and shorts, knowing they weren’t really appropriate for the first meeting. I should probably have worn something fancier. Also, I should say something so he would know why we were here but before I could recover, the connection broke and the mirror started reflecting me again.
He was gone, taking with him my only chance at love. He probably mistook me for a trick of light, an alcohol‑induced hallucination or a ghost. But I knew I had seen a ghost—one that would haunt me for the rest of my life. After seeing him, knowing he was meant to be mine someday, I would never be able to love another. Because love it was—at first sight.
He wasn’t exactly handsome, but he had an intelligent and likable face—someone you could strike a conversation with on the subway and exchange numbers with, just to stay in contact. He was a little chubby and he wasn’t hiding six‑pack abs under his shirt for sure, but the crow’s feet around his brown eyes showed his love for laughter. There were marks on his nose where his glasses must have rested on his face, and his cheeks and chin had a one‑day stubble. He was real. And now that I had seen him, I could not un‑see him.
Anxious, I touched the mirror, and it lit up again. But he wasn’t there anymore. I wasn’t sure if my voice will go through, but I gave it a try anyway. “Hello! Anyone there? Hellooooo!” But nothing stirred on his side. I tried several times, but with each subsequent try, I felt increasingly more stupid—because every time I said those words, Alexa asked me what I needed, while rephrasing the question in a different way every time.
When I started feeling like an utter moron, I looked in the room, trying to get a clue regarding his whereabouts. He could be anywhere in the world. I realised I was looking inside his bathroom. The door to the next room was open and its lightest yellow wall was eerily like mine. From what I could see through the opening, the wall on the other side was adorned with a huge wooden shelf decorated with cute little things and sections of it were overflowing with books. Beneath it, a couple of comfortable couches sat behind a small coffee table. The room was meant for quite comfort in books and company.
I looked for something that would clue me in regarding his country. The decoration was regular stuff providing no clue. The lighting seemed low and artificial. And he had looked sleepy, so it was probably night where he was too. So, around the same longitude. Good! That left around one billion people to search from!
Running out of ideas, I wrote my phone number on a huge placard in an overly large handwriting and placed it in front of the screen, hoping he would read it when he returns to the mirror. At that moment, the light in the mirror dimmed and started reflecting me again.
After that, I tried many times, but the screen didn’t light up. I had a restless night, leading to a restless day.
The next few days, Bree kept talking about the Halloween party I had missed, bringing up different guys over and over, “You missed a blast, you know. And there was this very handsome guy who was dressed as a vampire. His canine teeth were so real! By the way, are vampires real?”
“You should have seen Henry’s face when he realised you weren’t coming. He didn’t even dance or drink. In fact, he left before the midnight blast. I really wanted to tell him that he could find you next door!”
“The party anchor was pretty brainy, and he seemed interested in beauty with brains too. Do you want me to set up a ‘chance meeting’ with him?”
But I was only half listening, my mind still on the face in the mirror.
For the coming weeks, I kept touching the mirror every now and then but only succeeded a few times. Once, he was touching the mirror too, looking lost, and twice, he was just fixing his tie. Once, he had looked into the screen with an intensity that gave me hope that he was looking at me. And during these few seconds of contact, I was surprised and unprepared, and before I could gather my wits and try sharing my contact number, the connection broke.
And then, a couple of times, I saw him sitting on his couch reading something. He read The Universe in a Nutshell with a smile that wanted me to tell him that it was my favourite book too. Looking closely, his shelf also had The Theory of Everything and loads of other books about science and stars…
They say you can judge a man by the book he reads. A man who seeks quiet comfort in stars and science on a Saturday is a match made in heaven for me. I can see us sharing books one day or sitting on those couches discussing them or even just sitting together over coffee…
The thought of the future comforts me. I just stand there looking at him, willing him to see me, waiting for him to acknowledge that I exist. But I can never make a contact.
When I finally spoke to my mother about it, needing advice for the first time ever since I moved out, I was sure she would be thrilled that I finally found the man I would love for the rest of my life. But all she said was, “Dumb cake? Well, you probably saw a neighbour.”
“What?”
“When the magic isn’t strong enough and you are desperate to see someone, you end up seeing a neighbour. I once saw Mrs. Briggs flossing her teeth; and on another occasion, Father Mathews washing his hands; and once I even saw somebody’s cat swatting at her reflection in the mirror.”
I hung up feeling crushed. Why would my mother not believe me. I had finally fallen in love, and all my mother had to say is that it is not my soulmate but a clueless neighbour! While I was never a people watcher anyway, I am actively avoiding looking around at my neighbours now, afraid I would see him and know that my mother was right.
Once, Bree cornered me, “Henry was asking about you again. At least let me give him your number…”
She has been talking about this guy non-stop for the past few days. I nearly blurt out to go date him herself. But deep down inside, I know I am being unkind and unreasonable because I am itching to go back to the mirror. “I’m not interested.”
“Look, he doesn’t care if you are a witch.”
“And how would you know that?”
“I told him because I know it is the only thing holding you back. He said he didn’t care as long as you would have him.” Well, at least she is looking properly ashamed.
“He will care once he sees me in a V-neck dress. It is not easy to accept the alienness of our colouring.”
“Is that the only reason here? You have been acting a little odd lately—too lost and too quiet. Is there something you are not telling me?”
Not sure how much I can tell her, I decide on a half‑truth, “I’m seeing someone, but it is too early to talk about it.” It is technically true, but my conscience pricks me. It is as much a lie as anything else. But it makes her happy.
“Is he someone from work? When can I meet him? At least show me a picture.”
“As I said, it is too early to talk about it. But once I am ready, I promise you’ll be the first one to know.”
In the coming month, I wouldn’t go out except for work. And when I do go out, I am not paying attention. I just itch to go back to my mirror. Mom and Dad even tried a locator spell, but the locater kept coming back to our building confirming my mother’s theory. Or maybe, their magic is not strong enough too. At least that is what I am rooting for…
Noticing my absent‑mindedness, my manager has reminded me a couple of times that I have to up my game at work. But I am too obsessed to concede defeat. My life had come to a standstill the day I fell in love with that man who still doesn’t know I exist.
It is weekend and I am home yet again, touching the mirror at regular intervals. Bree is out, trying to give me space, thinking I have a boyfriend I am chatting with. Suddenly, she sends me a text, “I just had a really weird chat. Help me make sense.” There is a screenshot of the conversation.
Henry: Hey! We need to speak.
Bestie: For the nth time, she is seeing someone!
Henry: I know. Can you just tell her that, sometimes, I see her in the mirror too?
Mom was right! I had seen my next‑door neighbour! It was all just an accident! He is not my true love or spouse, just a clueless neighbour.
We were not fated to be together…
All my hopes and dreams had been for nothing…
My mind is reeling. I had been holding on that last straw so tightly that now I am drowning with it. Someone is squeezing my chest! It is difficult to breathe…
I need air…
I walk dazedly out of the door and down the building corridor. Tears are blinding me. I can’t see the next door open and slam into someone’s chest.
“Hey, are you alright?” A familiar face gazes at me with concern; his expressions quickly turning into recognition and then delight. “It’s you! Bree just told me where to find you!”
I am both too glad and too sad to find him. While my skin still tingles where I slammed into him, I know it is just stupid, misdirected magic. “Henry…Uh…You are Henry, right? I need to apologize. I had cooked a Halloween cake, you know, to see my future spouse in the mirror…and something went wrong. We are not fated together,” I finish lamely.
There is a stunned silence at his end while he processes what he heard. When I am sure he would turn around and walk away from my life, he just smiles, “And how would you know that until you give us a chance?”
His eyes are understanding, but they also hold something close to adoration. I’m speechless. “At least, let me take you out on a couple of dates before you reject me?” He smiles and his eyes crinkle the way I love.
He still wants to go out with me, and I have to turn him down, “I’m a witch.”
“I know. Saw your green skin in the mirror the first time. It looks cool on you. Can you turn me into a frog?”
“What? No!” I choke out, horrified that he would think so.
“Good. In that case, are you free for dinner tonight?” He gives me a sunny smile and hope returns to the world.
Author’s note: This story comes from my new short stories collection, The Bracelet and other short stories (available for free on the Free Books page: https://fishinthetrees.home.blog/free-books/)
Picture credits: Photo by Julia on Unsplash
Short Stories | Fish-eye Perspective 