They lived in paradise, where swirls of creamy clouds tinged with rose sought each other out in a backdrop of pale bluegreen and where witches made fragrant concoctions of spices to fill the days. Their skies were blue, foliage abundant, food delicious and the weather was just right.  Their beloved or otherwise land was full ofspice trees, shrubs, vines and wild clumps of herbs. Every witch born in to this paradise dreamt of crafting the most original spice blend.

The smell of dried red chili induced energy and sneezing. Cumin soothed the body and ushered in sleep. Nutmeg relived pain and blew the cobwebs away. Cloves promised eternal youth and freshness. Beebells, dainty red flowers with a piquant touch increased sexual prowess and left you slightly dazed. Cinnamon was a rare find and a much sought after bark in many recipes for a number of charms.

In their folklore each recipe held a part of the key to truth, peace, joy and universal acceptance. Exceptional recipes gave birth to poetry, adulation and mass worship.

There was just one problem with paradise, they were all jaded in general. The witches had tried out all the possible combinations and there was nothing left to do but pressure the up and coming witches for original recipes. That was the only solution to the mass ennui that had settled over the population. So, they pressured their young. The generation of pampered witches were in for a shock. They had to raise the bar of spice blends to an unprecedented level, in order to pay for all the positive reinforcement theyhad received from babyhood.

One young boy with a red eye and a mole on his upper lip, tried his best. As a young boy, he had been one of the best students, a little eccentric but not too much, a little out-of-the-box-thinker but not too much, a little blue but not too much, and most importantly he possessed a lot of heart and stomach for spice blends. His teachers predicted a bright future for him.

The red eyed, mole sporting boy expected instant success and much praise for his first spice blend. He braced himself to receive both with the correct blend of humility, dignity and creative genius.

But, Alas! The paradise was too jaded for his ‘genius’.

“The same old mix in a different bottle”, reported the nation’s widely and wildly circulated news.

“Though I applaud the work he has put into the recipe, I can hardly conceal my disappointment at its banality,” aired one famed critics, rubbing his ancient beard that touched his pot belly.

A woman in green with short cropped hair, tasted a sip of his concoction and shook her head in dismay. “I expected better from such a bright young mind’, she said.

Grumbles hung in the thick air of paradise like a bad odour.

The red eyed, mole sporting boy hung his head in shame. He soaked his wounded heart in a haze of age old spice blends that promised to send one to blissful oblivion. He lost his heart and stomach in a land of vivid colours and dreams where spirits roamed telling him he was the best.

One fine day, while he rambled on a lone path filled with misty spirits, the red eyed, mole sporting youngster came up with the most original recipe of all.

‘A pinch of beebell, a thorn from a star fruit, a dash of cumin, a handful of heartbleed, all the root spices and flowers of spice trees and a jarful of lemon juice is all I need,’ said the young bright mind. I will concoct the one and only, pot full of dreams, smashed into one ball and soaked in sour lemon. I will invite all of them to taste my pot full of dreams, smashed into a ball and soaked in sour lemon. They will love the smell and I will let them approach my chef d’oevure and let it explode, annihilating all of them, along with paradise. And I will smell the lemons in the air afterwards.’