THE WAR OF THE WORLDS

THE WAR OF THE WORLDS (PART 6) THE INVITATION

Boredom consumed me as I walked from the garage to my entrance, tired of the monotony within the four walls of my home. It had been too long since I last saw Lekha, and a thought crossed my mind. Maybe he would agree to accompany me to the city center for an evening stroll and a cup of coffee.

Messaging him swiftly, I didn't have to wait long for his response – he was up for it. Changing into a pair of comfortable jeans, slipping on a sweater with a long collar, and throwing on a jacket, I stepped out to the elevators, where Lekha was already waiting, cigarette in hand, its ember casting an orange glow.

Driving was never my cup of tea. Unlike those who relish the thrill of the road, I considered it a mere necessity. To avoid unnecessary hassle and headache, I proposed that Lekha and I make use of public transportation. A short bus ride and a couple of subway stops would take us straight to the bustling heart of the city.

After savoring a cup of coffee at Jardi, we set off on our traditional route, which we fondly referred to as the "Great Circle of Honor." In truth, the circle was more like a triangle, consisting of the city's three most opulent streets and luxurious real estate, aptly named the "Golden Triangle."

As we strolled, the chilly mid-January air penetrated our clothes, reminding us of the less-than-ideal timing for an outdoor adventure. The wind, though not forceful, carried a biting edge that made us reconsider our ambitious plans. Opting for a smaller loop, we turned into an alley, following it along the canal until we reached the subway station.

Midway through recounting a story to Lekha, fate intervened, and I found myself slipping on an icy patch of pavement, crashing down with a forceful impact to the ground. In the chaos of the fall, my glasses were sent flying in one direction, my hat in another, and miraculously, the coffee remained firmly gripped in my hand. Lekha, seemingly taken aback by the sudden turn of events, hesitated before extending his hand to help me up. However, his attempt to lift me with a single hand proved disastrous as he, too, ended up sprawled on the asphalt, sliding down the canal like a rollercoaster.

Spitting out a mix of laughter and disbelief, Lekha hastily chased after me. Finally reaching a small pavilion adjacent to the metro, I managed to regain my footing, brushing off the snow and dirt. Lekha, concerned, bombarded me with questions about potential head injuries and dizziness, recalling my vigorous head shaking during the fall. Reassuring him, I lightly tapped my head and responded, "Don't worry, it's as sturdy as a rock. You'd have better luck breaking through hell itself."

At that moment, a window in the pavilion swung open, and the head of a curious teenager emerged. "Are you alright? Do you need any assistance?" he inquired, genuine concern etched across his face. "I saw you fall."

Appreciating his kindness, I replied, "Thank you for your concern, my dear friend. We're perfectly fine, no harm done. We truly appreciate your consideration."

"Alright then," the young man smiled warmly before retreating back into the pavilion, shutting the window behind him, leaving us with a sense of intrigue.

As Lekha and I resumed our journey towards the metro, the pavilion's window unexpectedly reopened, and the same young man's head reappeared. "Allow me to help you with something. Keep these two invitations for the evening gatherings," he said, handing the invitations to Lekha before swiftly closing the window.

"Center for Spiritual Assistance," Lekha slowly read aloud, syllable by syllable, examining the printed words on the invitation.

"The Spiritual Center offers free support to those in our city who have lost one or more family members and have received the scroll," I recited from memory.

Simultaneously, Lekha and I dismissed the invitation as another money-making scheme, a cynical ploy to exploit people in vulnerable moments.

Lamenting the absence of a nearby trash bin, I tucked the crumpled leaflets into my back pocket, intending to discard them later at home.

The evening walk had drained me, and my head throbbed incessantly, a testament to the impact it had suffered on the unforgiving asphalt. Deciding to forgo a shower, I undressed and slipped under the covers, surrendering myself to sleep.

Morning arrived with the blaring horn of a passing car, incessantly signaling for someone throughout all six entrances of the building. After a refreshing contrast shower, I prepared a modest breakfast of two sandwiches and a glass of tea with milk. The time had come to dress for work, and as I retrieved my jeans from the chair, I absentmindedly emptied my back pocket, discarding a handkerchief, a lens cloth, a gum wrapper, and two crumpled invitation cards.

Three items clattered into the kitchen trash can, but something compelled me to straighten out the second leaflet with the palm of my hand. As I read the contents of the invitation once more, curiosity sparked within me. I couldn't help but wonder about the faces behind this cunning deception, those who boldly swindled people in their most vulnerable moments.

Considering myself a sensible and rational individual, albeit struggling to comprehend the recent happenings in the world, I resolved to visit the Center after work, believing that I, unlike the deceived masses, possessed an immunity to such schemes.

The anticipation ofconfronting these manipulative individuals simmered within me, beckoning me toseek the truth hidden within the enigmatic walls of the Center for SpiritualAssistance.