The overhead fan creaked with each rotation, pushing humid air across the small shop in lazy circles. Ajay Mallick sat on the wooden stool behind the counter, Wings of Fire open in his lap, his finger marking his place on page 127. The evening rush had passed—three customers in the last hour, all buying the usual: rice, dal, mustard oil, perhaps some Parle-G biscuits for the children.
Outside, the sky was turning that particular shade of orange that came just before the mosquitoes emerged in full force. From somewhere down the village path, he could hear Ramu kaka's buffalo lowing, probably being led back from the pond.
"Ajay!" His mother's voice cut through from the back room. "Did you mark down the coconut oil sale in the register?"
"Haan, Ma!" he called back, though he'd have to do it in a minute. His eyes returned to the page. Kalam was describing his childhood in Rameswaram, the poverty that hadn't stopped him from dreaming. Ajay had read this section twice already. There was something magnetic about it—the idea that someone from nowhere could become something.
Not that Ajay had grand dreams exactly. But sometimes, when he looked at the rows of dusty packets and the weighing scale that needed calibrating every other day, he wondered what else was possible.
A customer shuffled in—Padma didi from three houses down, her pallu pulled over her head against the evening sun.
"Ae Ajay, give me half kilo rice. The Lalat brand."
He closed the book with his thumb still holding the place, rose from the stool. "Only quarter kilo bags left, didi. You'll need two."
"Thik achhi, give two then."
He pulled the bags from the shelf, weighed them on the scale to confirm—yes, 250 grams each, the packaging was honest enough—and handed them over. She counted out the coins slowly, her callused fingers careful with each rupee.
"Your father coming back tomorrow?" she asked.
"Day after. The medicine from Cuttack takes time."
She nodded sympathetically. "Thik hai. Tell your mother I asked about him."
"Will do, didi."
The shop fell silent again after she left. Ajay returned to his stool, opened the book. Page 127. Where was he? Something about Kalam's teacher, the one who'd encouraged him despite everything.
His eyes traced the lines, but his mind had wandered. How many pages were even left in this book? He'd been reading it for two weeks now, bits and pieces between customers and after dinner. Felt like he should be near the end, but—
How many pages are left in Wings of Fire after page 127?
The thought formed idly, almost like talking to himself.
And then, as clear as if someone had spoken directly into his ear: 179 pages remaining. The edition you're reading is the 2000 Universities Press printing, 306 total pages including acknowledgments and index.
Ajay blinked.
He looked down at the book. Turned it over. The back cover didn't list total pages. He flipped to the end, thumbed through. His count was approximate, but... yes, roughly that many pages. Maybe 175, maybe 185. Close enough.
Strange.
He shook his head. Probably he'd noticed the page count when he'd first bought the book last month from the shop in Kendrapara town. Just forgotten he'd seen it. The mind was funny that way, storing random things.
He tried to focus on the reading again, but the words blurred. The heat was getting to him. He could feel sweat gathering at his collar, making the cotton stick to his neck.
What's the exact temperature right now?
Again, that idle curiosity. The thought barely formed before—
34.7 degrees Celsius. Humidity 78%. Barometric pressure 1011 hectopascals. Light easterly wind at 8 kilometers per hour.
Ajay sat up straight. The book slid off his lap and hit the floor with a slap.
What the—?
He looked around the shop as if someone might be hiding behind the rice sacks, feeding him information. But there was no one. Just the walls lined with shelves, the posters for Tata tea and Lux soap fading in the sunlight, the old weighing scale, the glass jar of churan.
His heart was beating faster now.
How many people live in this village?
He didn't know why he asked. The question just came.
327 permanent residents as of the 2001 census preliminary count. 164 male, 163 female. Average household size 4.8 individuals. Approximately 68 households total.
This was impossible.
He'd lived here his entire life and couldn't have told you that number within fifty people. The census hadn't even been completed yet—the officials had only come through last month, going house to house with their forms and questions.
Ajay stood up, the stool scraping against the floor. His hands were trembling slightly.
What is this?
No answer came. The silence in his head was complete.
Of course. Because that wasn't a question with a factual answer, was it? It was... what, philosophical? Personal?
He paced to the front of the shop, looked out at the dirt road. A bicycle went past, Binod bhai from the panchayat office, probably heading home. Everything looked exactly as it always did. The banyan tree across the way. The hand pump where Sita didi would come to fill water in the morning. The electrical wire strung between poles, providing the intermittent power that kept his single bulb lit and the fan turning.
Nothing had changed.
Except something in his head had cracked open.
What is the capital of France?
Paris. Population approximately 2.1 million in the city proper, 11.2 million in the metropolitan area. Located on the Seine River.
What happens when you mix baking soda and vinegar?
Acid-base reaction producing sodium acetate, water, and carbon dioxide gas. Chemical formula: NaHCO₃ + CH₃COOH → CH₃COONa + H₂O + CO₂.
Who won the cricket World Cup in 1983?
India defeated West Indies by 43 runs at Lord's Cricket Ground, London. June 25, 1983. Kapil Dev captained the Indian team. India scored 183 runs, West Indies all out for 140.
Questions poured out, and answers came back, instant and precise. Geography. History. Science. Cricket scores. Recipe measurements. Train schedules. Chemical compositions.
It was as if his mind had been connected to... to what? An encyclopedia? But encyclopedias didn't know the current temperature. They didn't have census data that hadn't been published yet.
"Ajay, are you closing up?" His mother emerged from the back, wiping her hands on her sari. She stopped, looking at him. "What happened? You look like you've seen a ghost."
He realized he was standing frozen in the middle of the shop, staring at nothing.
"I—nothing, Ma. Just tired."
She frowned, the way mothers do when they don't believe you but won't push. "Go eat something. I made dalma. You've been sitting here since four o'clock."
"Haan, coming."
But he didn't move. His mother returned to the back, her footsteps fading.
Ajay looked down at his hands. They looked like his hands. Same calluses from lifting rice sacks. Same scar on his thumb from when he'd cut it on a tin edge two years ago.
What is happening to me?
No answer. Because that wasn't the right kind of question.
What are common neurological conditions that cause auditory hallucinations?
Schizophrenia, bipolar disorder with psychotic features, severe depression with psychotic features, temporal lobe epilepsy, brain tumors affecting auditory cortex, Charles Bonnet syndrome, hypnagogic/hypnopompic hallucinations, drug-induced psychosis—
Okay. Stop.
This wasn't a hallucination. Hallucinations didn't give you accurate census data. Hallucinations didn't tell you the exact temperature.
This was... something else.
He picked up Wings of Fire from where it had fallen, brushed off the dust. Kalam's face looked up at him from the cover photo, that gentle scientist's smile.
What would Kalam do with something like this? Probably something brilliant. Something that helped people.
But Ajay wasn't Kalam. He was just a guy running his family's grocery shop in a village where the biggest excitement was when the electricity stayed on for a whole day.
He sat back down on the stool, the book in his hands.
What should I do?
Nothing. Because that question assumed he knew what this was, what it was for, whether it was permanent or temporary or—
Ma called again from the back: "Ajay! The dalma is getting cold!"
"Coming!"
He closed the shop front shutters, pulled down the rolling door halfway—the signal that they were closed but would reopen if someone really needed something. Then he walked through to the back room where his mother and younger sister Priya were already eating, sitting on the floor with their plates.
Priya looked up. "What took you so long?"
"Customer," he lied automatically.
His mother served him dalma and rice, the lentils and vegetables still steaming. It was his favorite dish, but he barely tasted it. His mind was racing, questions and answers tumbling over each other.
How many grains of rice are in this serving?
Approximately 4,780 grains, accounting for the specific variety—
He stopped himself. This was going to drive him insane if he didn't control it.
After dinner, he lay on his cot in the small room he shared with the shop's storage, staring at the ceiling. The fan above turned in its endless circle. From outside came the sounds of the village settling into night—a dog barking, someone's radio playing a film song, the distant chug of the irrigation pump.
Is this permanent?
No answer, because—right, not a factual question.
What is the longest recorded duration of acquired savant syndrome?
Cases have persisted for decades. Orlando Serrell, struck by lightning at age 10, retained calendar calculating abilities for life. Daniel Tammet, synaesthesia and numerical cognition abilities since childhood epileptic seizure. Derek Amato, acquired musical ability following concussion, ongoing for 15+ years as of 2000—
So potentially permanent. If that's what this was—some kind of acquired condition.
Except he hadn't been struck by lightning. Hadn't hit his head. Nothing had happened. He'd just been sitting in the shop, reading, thinking idle thoughts, and suddenly...
This.
He turned on his side, staring at the stacked sacks of rice against the wall.
His father would be back day after tomorrow with the medicine for his blood pressure. His mother was already worried about how they'd pay for it—good medicine from Cuttack wasn't cheap. The shop made enough to keep them fed, keep Priya in school, but not much beyond that.
And now he had... what? A superpower? That seemed like a ridiculous word for it. Like something from the comic books Ramu kaka's son read.
But if it was real, if it lasted...
What are the current wholesale prices for rice in Kendrapara market?
The answer came instantly, detailed by variety and vendor.
What are the profit margins on packaged goods versus bulk staples in rural retail?
Numbers flooded his mind, percentages, comparisons.
What product mix optimization would maximize profit for a village grocery store in coastal Odisha?
The answer that came was complex, nuanced, accounting for seasonal variations and customer purchasing patterns and storage limitations and—
Ajay sat up in the darkness, his heart pounding again.
Maybe he wasn't Kalam. Maybe he'd never be anything more than a village shopkeeper.
But if he could ask any question and get the answer...
What couldn't he do?