Chapter 1
In the hazy half-light of dawn, Paanwala closed his eyes and drifted back to a memory. Under a sprawling banyan tree stood his father, whose strong hands guided his small fingers as they folded betel leaves around slaked lime, coconut shavings, and tender areca nut. The air smelled of burning oud and jasmine. His father laughed — a deep, warm sound that seemed to echo off every leaf. Paanwala could still feel that steady confidence in his palm.
Now, more than ever, he needed that certainty. His shop, painted the same emerald green his father chose, stood on a cramped lane off Lakshmi Chowk. Rickshaw horns blared in bursts, andchai vendors shouted offers of adrak chai. Narrow alleys pulsed with life — families shared rooms no bigger than closets, walls mottled by monsoon dampness. From the stall’s faded glass counter, Paanwala arranged his ingredients: bright tulsi leaves, fiery supari, cardamom pods that snappedwith each crush.
At seven sharp, he tiptoed into their one-room home. His mother, frail after last year’s hepatitis, slept on a thin mattress. He braided his younger sisters’ hair, the braids as neat as his father once made. “Bhaiya,” giggled the elder, “today I told Sultana Aunty I miss Papa.” He smiled but pressed a finger to his lips. He balanced half-boiled eggs, roti wrapped in cloth, and her sweet,damp smile. The girls shouldered their worn backpacks, and Paanwala walked them to the neighborhood school.
By eight, he sat at a battered desk under a single LED bulb. Matric Physics notes lay open beside Urdu couplets plastered on the wall. He reviewed the orbital diagrams, scribbled chemical formulas, then paused and looked at the calendar. His matric exams were only three months away, and he was studying all by himself — no school, no teacher. He breathed in the scent of ink and dust and remembered how he’d compelled his mother to let him study privately after his father’s death. He could not go to school and manage the paan shop at the same time. Outside, the mosque’s speaker announced the funeral timing of a neighbour while Paanwala jotted downyet another past matric paper question, determined to master every variable.
At eleven, he lifted the metal shutter of the paan stall. The clink of glass bottles on wooden shelves was his morning anthem. Fellow shopkeepers nodded in greeting; regulars from Samanabad arrived for his signature “khajoor pani” paan — dripped in tamarind, dotted with ginger bits, and a dash of black salt. He wrapped each leaf with precision, sealing in the sticky sweetness that clung to fingers. He rarely spoke, but his hands articulated every respectful nod.
A rival stall across the street blasted its speaker with Bollywood hooks. Kashif, the owner, smirked as he watched Paanwala. “Soft-spoken, are you?” he called. Paanwala didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed fixed on the gleam of cardamom and the swirl of coconut. Every perfect fold, every tempered lime paste delivered, felt like a small triumph.
When the lunchtime rush eased, his elder sister slipped into the shop. She clasped his hand and whispered, “Bhaiya, I topped my class again. Ma cried happy tears.” Her voice trembled with excitement and worry — her thoughts drifting to their mother’s hospital bills. He hugged her, tasting the sweet pulse of triumph and anxiety. She pressed a folded exam paper into his palm; smudged ink told of long nights studying beside him.
After sunset, the lanes grew quieter. Paanwala climbed to the flat roof of his house and deployed his brass telescope. He wiped dust from the lens. The first star pierced the haze. He peered through, catching a glimpse of Orion’s Belt — three bright dots aligned against smoky skies. Inwinter, they shone clearer, and he waited for those months like a promise. He tracked the Moon’s rough contours and searched for Jupiter’s faint shimmer, best glimpsed before dawn when thecity’s lights slept.
He scribbled dates for lunar phases in a worn notebook. He cross-checked with YouTube lectures in English and Urdu on his battered smartphone. Every observation, every scribbled note broughthim closer to his dream: to trade Lahore’s narrow lanes for an observatory dome. One day, he’d map the constellations more clearly than pollution allows now.
Before sleep, he closed his eyes again and saw his father’s smile. The banyan tree. The warm laugh. Here, in the mix of shop dust, damp walls, and starlight, Paanwala carried the weight of his family — and the spark of the universe — on his young shoulders.
Chapter Two
The Red-Cloaked Messenger
It was the third last night of Ramadan, and Lahore’s streets glowed with colorful paper lanterns. Paanwala paused on the top step, inhaling warm, jasmine-scented air before climbing the narrow wooden stairs to his rooftop. His legs felt leaden from fasting all day, yet he welcomed thestillness. From below, the distant echo of Isha prayers drifted up, a steady heartbeat beneath the festival hush.
He sank onto his old charpai, its woven ropes creaking under him. His back ached, and he meant to rest his head for just a moment — but exhaustion tugged at his eyelids, heavy as stones. In thecorner, his beloved brass telescope stood dark and untouched.Just as the night’s quiet began to lull him toward sleep, a soft tap brushed his shoulder. He startled upright, heart hammering. The breeze carried jasmine and cooling air against his face.
He blinked into the lantern-lit gloom, expecting only the mosque’s distant chant. Instead, he discovered a tiny figure beside his cot. Draped in a vivid red cloak that shimmered in lantern glow, it stood barely two feet tall. Its skin was pale, yet its hands and delicate face appeared as dark as charcoal.The creature leaned forward and spoke in gentle Punjabi:(Mennu oh pān de — Give me the paan you make.)
Paanwala froze for a heartbeat — then memory of his silver tray and brass cutters flickered in his mind. He rose, trembling, and gathered fresh green leaves, sweet tamarind, crushed cardamom, fiery supari. Each ingredient fell into place with the practiced rhythm of years spent at his stall.The air filled with the warm, spicy scent of paan.
When he finished, the visitor watched quietly. Paanwala said softly in Punjabi: (Pān dukān band hai — The paan shop is closed.) A frown creased the creature’s tiny brow. It slipped a hand into its crimson cloak pocket and produced small packets stamped “Kasur Bazaar.” In soft English, edged with Urdu accents, it murmured, “I found these by your stall. Only your hands know the secret.”
Pride bloomed in Paanwala’s chest. He laid out another leaf, folding ingredients as neatly as at his counter. The creature tasted the first paan. Then it smiled, its black eyes glowing like embers. In a breath-thin whisper of Punjabi it said, (Main Mārīkh tūñ āyā āñ — I’ve come from Mars.)
Paanwala’s breath caught. Mars existed only in books and astronaut dreams. Before his eyes, the tiny figure shimmered. Its red cloak melted into the dark weave of a shalwar kameez. It stretched upward, becoming a boy of Paanwala’s own age, his eyes still glowing pitch black.“I am Phoebus,” the boy said calmly. “My mother named me after Phobos, one of Mars’s moons. I serve Olympus Mons, ruler of the great volcanic peak. He heard of your paan and sent me as his envoy.”Phoebus knelt beside the cot and unrolled a tiny scroll written in red symbols. “Olympus Mons adores Earth spices,” he explained. “He invites you to Mars for two nights to prepare paan in his honor. In return, you will receive gold from Valles Marineris.”
Thoughts of his mother’s cough, his sisters studying by candlelight, the unpaid bills swirled through Paanwala’s mind. He stared at Phoebus, torn between wonder and worry. Phoebus placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. He said in soothing Punjabi (Dar mat — Don’t be afraid.)
A soft breeze drifted through the iron railings. Phoebus raised his palm; silver stardust drifted into view. “At midnight,” he continued, “this stardust will open a glowing door in the sky. Walk through it, and you will stand beside Olympus Mons on Mars.” Paanwala closed his eyes, thought of his family, and felt a quiet resolve settle in his chest. He opened his eyes and nodded. “I will go,” he said, voice steady.
Phoebus smiled and scattered the stardust across the charpai. A thrill of wonder lifted Paanwala’s spirit. Soon, he would step through the stars — guided by the taste of paan and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.
