Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

The monsoon season was waning in the village of Chorao, leaving the air thick with the scent of wet earth and blooming jasmine. In this small coastal village, nestled between the lush greenery and the meandering river, life moved at a languid pace. Children played cricket in the narrow lanes, women chatted as they hung brightly colored clothes to dry, and old men smoked beedis outside the tea shop, their conversations a mix of gossip and grumbles about the weather.

It was on such a typical afternoon that he arrived. No one saw him come into the village; one moment the village square was empty, and the next, there he was. He was an ordinary-looking man, middle-aged, with a thick salt-and-pepper beard and wearing a simple kurta that fluttered in the gentle breeze. But it wasn’t the man himself who drew the villagers' attention—it was what he brought with him.

In the center of the village square, he set up a large, colorful tent. The fabric was patched in places, and the paint on the wooden poles was chipped, suggesting many years of travel and many stories to tell. On the side of the tent, in bold, flaking letters, were painted the words “Kathputliwala”, the puppeteer. Below this, in smaller script, a promise: “Magic, wonder, and tales from the forgotten corners of the world.”

Veer, a bright-eyed twelve-year-old with an inquisitive nature, watched from a distance. He was supposed to be helping his mother at the market, but the sudden appearance of the tent had pulled him, like a magnet, towards the square. His friends, Arjun and Meena, joined him, their faces equally lit with curiosity.

“Who is he?” Arjun asked, nodding towards the man who was now busily unloading boxes from a rickety cart.

“I don’t know,” Veer replied, “but look at that tent. It looks ancient. Do you think he’s been to many places?”

“Definitely,” Meena said, her eyes wide with wonder. “Maybe even outside India. Look at those patterns and the faded paintings on those boxes!”

As the afternoon wore on, more villagers gathered around the square, drawn by the novelty of the arrival. Children tugged at their parents' sleeves, pointing excitedly at the puppeteer, who was now setting up a small stage inside the tent. The elderly whispered among themselves, a mixture of suspicion and intrigue in their hushed tones.

By evening, the puppeteer had finished his setup. He stood at the entrance of his tent, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the crowd with a calm, almost unreadable expression. Then, in a voice that resonated deeper than his unassuming appearance suggested, he announced, “Tonight, under the stars, the puppets will dance and the stories will come alive. Bring your children, bring your elders. For tonight, we celebrate the magic of storytelling.”

The promise of entertainment was irresistible. Veer felt a tingle of excitement, mixed with a slight unease he couldn’t quite place. As the villagers dispersed to fetch their families, Veer stayed behind, watching the puppeteer—Putlewala—as he disappeared back into the tent. There was something about him, something old as the stories he promised to tell, that intrigued and unsettled Veer.

Tonight, he decided, he would find out just what kind of magic Putlewala had brought to Chorao.