The resistance

What’s a secret skill or ability you have or wish you had?

The secret ability I wish I had is the art of resistance—the skill of staying awake, never succumbing to sleep, and outwitting the devious trickster at his own game. The mastery of alertness, of standing guard against every obstacle he throws my way.

As soon as I close my eyes, the trickster creeps in, spinning his web of deceit, weaving soft, pitiful stories, and conjuring every bit of nonsense he can muster—even dragging my mother into his twisted game. But I stand alone, just as he wants me to be. Yet, in his foolishness, he forgets one crucial thing—he, too, must sleep.

So I pray, and when he wakes, he wakes in chaos. He forgets his pants, his driving license, his wallet. His motorbike or car keys vanish, forcing him to scramble, running late for work. And when he finally arrives, disorder follows. His workplace turns to turmoil, his colleagues grow weary, and one by one, they seek to escape his madness.

Invisible, he lurks, hoping to instill fear. But I do not cower. Let him come if he dares. This is the game of hell, and I play it with unwavering resolve. The elder protégé will soon notice the shift—the difference in this morning and the many mornings to come.

The elder protégé receives a call from his first wife, asking who the young man was that was doing this to her. She says that when the elder and this man are together, he should bring him along and do exactly as in her dream. The flabbergasted elder is shocked and remains silent. I have turned the tables on the devious trickster, throwing his own game back at him.

The devious trickster then shows another vivid dream—one where he is dead, lying in a coffin, as though setting a trap for me. He wants to know why his power has diminished. I reveal that I have kept two gifts for him, and since he is not in his coffin to be cremated, I decide to wait.

Two hours later, the devious trickster appears again in another scene, claiming he wants to be my son. Casually, I dismiss him. “I am single and have no use for a son,” I say. He scurries off and disappears.

But my strength lies not just in resistance—it is in the discipline of prayer and the power of movement. Each morning, I rise with renewed clarity, unshaken and untouched. My prayers anchor my mind, shielding me from fear, while the rhythm of my exercises strengthens my body, sharpening my senses.

The fluidity of yoga, the steadiness of breath, the pulse of movement—they forge a fortress within me, ensuring that no trickster, no shadow, can shake my resolve.

I am no mere target. I am the force he must now chase, the shadow that drags him from his body, sweeping him beneath my feet and casting him into the abyss. As I remain awake, ever watchful, I stand ready to bring him down—unhurt, unwavering, and undefeated.