The Flatulent Fakir

When Sivaramakrishnan was two years old and inflicted with horrid intestinal gas, his mother found him ricocheting on the walls of their small hut. “You had better stop that this instant, Siva,” his mother shouted as she chased after him, stopping every other step to ineffectually wipe at the sprays of bowel matter.

“It is a matter of control. You cannot wear diapers forever,” the old man chided. Sivaramakrishnan is now seventeen years old, mentored for the past fifteen years by this wizened fakir. Siva is folded up in the lotus position, hovering above a square of white, fine linen. “If you must fly without shame, Siva, you must do this.”

The rakshasa hurled the amma, whose robes flowed beautifully, into the air. Sure to smash to her death into a Mumbai restaurant, gentle hands grasped her arms and wafted her to the ground. “What is that smell?” the amma cried, wrinkling her nose.

The Flatulent Fakir turned apologetically away and went to battle with a firebrand and his signature move, the Flamethrower.

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