From the flame rose a figure—tall, handsome, with eyes like burning amber. “I am Jinn,” it said. “My name—Shamshoon. I guard this grove for three hundred years.”

Rasheed wept. “No… I can’t lose you.”

“You have given me friendship,” Shamshoon whispered. “That’s more than a thousand years of solitude.”

One evening, Rasheed’s wife, Fathima, fell gravely ill. No doctor could help. Desperate, Rasheed begged the Jinn.

Kannur, 1963. Moonless night. Rasheed, a young toddy tapper, lost his way home from the Kallu shapp. The Areca grove whispered—not wind, but voices. He stopped. A flicker of blue flame danced near the old banyan.

Every night, they met. The Jinn spoke of ancient seas, Solomon’s seal, and the scent of musk from a lost world. Rasheed brought him tender coconut and stories of village love.

Rasheed wanted to run, but his feet were roots. “Don’t fear,” Shamshoon smiled. “I need a friend, not a slave.”

Shamshoon’s eyes dimmed. “To save her, I must give you my fire—but that will end my existence.”

“Who’s there?” he stammered.

He touched Rasheed’s chest. A warm light entered. Fathima woke, healed. The grove fell silent. The Jinn was gone—only a dried champaka flower remained.