I can imagine you all thinking, ‘What’s so scary about ‘Fizzy Cherry Cola?’ and to be truthful nothing

much really, but having said that, please look carefully into the picture of the bottle, before coming to your

final assumptions…

Well? Did you see anything? Did you see all those troubled souls trapped inside of the bottle? Did you see

the expressions on their poor pitiful faces, knowing they have no hope of ever escaping, and the only

release they might hope for, is to be drunk by someone who might happen to find the bottle, with a thirst?

Mr Singe – Gupta – was an old man who had seen many changes over the course of his seventy-five years

on this earth. At the still tender age of sixteen, he had left his native India, when his family had emigrated to

the cold climes of old England. Along with his parents and brothers and sisters, Gupta began a new life in a

county so different from the hot, tropical one that he was used to, and so loved.

Snow. Snow was one of the first things the notoriously fickle English weather hurled at the Singe family after

their arrival on a cold, dark and wet December day in nineteen sixty-two. It began snowing on New Year’s

Eve and the snow remained stubbornly on the ground until mid February. Gupta thought it might never melt.

Nineteen sixty-three will always be remembered as the year of the big freeze, and a time when the whole

country came to a standstill. But as the days, weeks, months and years slowly passed, the Singe family

settled down well into their new life and, despite feeling homesick for the old ways and the warm sun of the

tropics, they all carved out a grand new life for their growing families.

Four years after his arrival in England, Gupta met a beautiful young Indian woman called Sonita whom he

fell madly in love with and married. Two years later, after the arrival of a baby son, Gupta and his wife were

about as happy and contented as they could possibly be.

Having opened a shop, a convenience store that soon became indispensable to the local community Indian

and English alike, Gupta worked day and night to make is a success. Yes, life was perfect for the Singe’s,

and they looked forward to a long and happy life together.

One day, however, all of this changed, it changed completely, when a man – a newly arrived immigrant –

entered the shop, enquiring if Gupta knew of anyone who had a room to rent.

Happy to help a fellow countryman find his feet in a foreign land, Gupta said, “I have a flat for rent over this

shop.” Gupta pointed skyward. “Mind you it is quite small.”

His eyes beaming with excitement, the man replied, “Small is okay, if I have as much room in heaven I will

be so happy.”

“Would you like to see it?” Gupta asked. the heavily bearded man.

“Yes, please,” he replied as he offered Gupta his hand, saying, “My name is Ali, and I am very pleased to

meet you.”

Gupta returned the greeting and then led the way outside, to the separate door into the flat. Turning the key,

Gupta invited Ali to follow him up the narrow stairway leading to the flat.

“It is perfect,” said Ali as he wandered around the small rooms, and then back again to Gupta.

“I haven’t yet told you how much the rent is,” warned Gupta.

“How much?”

“Three pounds per week, and a month in advance.”

The smile on Ali’s face all but disappeared, and he said, “That much?”

“It is the going rate,” said Gupta, apologetically.

Buttoning up his coat, Ali apologised for wasting Gupta’s time, saying, “Thank you for showing me your

wonderful flat, but it is, sadly, more than I can afford…”

At this point Gupta felt so mean, he felt so far removed from the teachings of his religion, where each one of

us is encouraged to help our fellow man, wherever we can. As they walked down the narrow stairway, Gupta

thought about is some more, and when they reached the bottom of the stairs, he said, cheerfully, “I will tell

you what I will do…”

Ali listened with interest.

“For the first six months, I will rent you the flat for only two pounds per week, after that it will return to the

original three – I can’t be more fair than that!”

Smiling again, Ali quickly agreed to the terms, but promised to help in the shop during his spare time, as a

way of making up for the shortfall in rent.

“If you give me a hand at the busy times, when I really need it, that will be much appreciated,” said Gupta.

So it was agreed, and within the week Ali was comfortably settled into his new flat.

For a while everything went swimmingly, with Ali gladly helping out in the shop whenever he was needed.

However, this happy situation failed to last, with Ali making more and more excuses as to why he was

unable to help Gupta, when he was called upon. The kind-hearted Gupta readily accepted Ali’s excuses,

thinking how he might feel if the tables were turned. Although Sonita had some doubts as to the validity of

Ali’s excuses, she also accepted them in the spirit of genuine Indian hospitality.

One particularly busy evening, just after Ali had made another weak excuse as to why he was unable to

lend a hand, Gupta decided to look further into the situation of their lessee.

“You can’t be serious, Gupta,” said Sonita after she had heard what her husband had planned. “Suppose

that he finds out what you are doing? What will happen, then?”

“Don’t worry, my wife,” Gupta replied, trying to calm Sonita’s concerns. “I just want to find out who we really

have living above us…”

“But– ”

“It will be okay, I will be watching him from afar, and I will be extra careful that he does not see me.”

Nothing more happened for over a fortnight, and Sonita had almost forgotten about her husband’s plan to

follow their lessee, to try and find out what he was getting up to in his spare time, until one evening when

Gupta came down from the flat with another lame excuse why Ali was unable to help. Tearing off his shop

coat, Gupta grabbed his raincoat and hat, putting them on in a flash.

“What are you doing?” Sonita asked as her husband closed the venation blinds on the door, and then

peeped out through a raised one.

“Watching,” Gupta replied in a whisper.

“Watching what?”

“Shush, I think I can hear him…”

There was a muffled bang as Ali pulled his front door firmly closed.

“I am going to follow him, so I am,” said Gupta as he carefully opened the shop door, to see Ali turning the

corner at the end of the rain soaked street.

“Be careful, my husband, Sonita warned as her husband disappeared into the night.

In you had been watching Gupta as he secretly trailed Ali, you would be forgiven for thinking that he did it for

a living, so good was he at invisibly following his objective.

As he made his way along the cold, wet streets, Ali had absolutely no idea that he was being spied upon.

Even when he reached his destination, a large red brick house, where he knocked once, then twice and

then once again, Ali noticed nothing unusual to give away the fact that he was being followed. After a couple

of minutes, a young woman opened the black painted door and, greeting Ali, she invited him in.

“That’s it,” said Gupta from his position of concealment across the road, behind a pillar-box, “a woman, and

a rich one at that judging by the size of her house!” Happy that he had solved the case, that Ali was only

seeing a young lady, that he was not the dark, shady character that he was beginning to imagine he was,

Gupta made his way back to his shop.

“Well?” asked Sonita as Gupta took off his rain-soaked coat and hat.

“Well what?” Gupta teased, with a small laugh.

“Ali – where did he go?”

“Oh, Ali,” said Gupta, pretending he had all but forgotten about him.

“Come on,” Sonita warned as she grabbed hold of an egg.

“No, not the stock,” Gupta cried in fake concern for his profits.

“You have one second, and then you get it,” said Sonita, laughing and raising the egg, ready to throw.

“All right, all right I will tell you,” laughed Gupta as sat down behind the shop counter. “There is nothing to

worry about, my wife,” he explained, “Ali has been making himself busy with – a woman, that’s all, only a

woman.”

“A woman?” Sonita exclaimed, “then why all the secrecy?”

“He must be a shy lover, I guess.”

For a while the Singe’s stopped asking Ali to help out in the shop, thinking he had other, more amorous

things on his mind than baked beans and cornflakes.

Despite being let off the hook, Ali never once asked why they had stopped asking him. And whenever he

came into the shop, when they were particularly busy, he never offered to help, no, he simply paid for his

purchases and got out as soon as possible.

As the days passed, Ali withdrew further into himself and his secret life. He never spoke to the Singe’s

about it, until one quiet evening when he came down to the shop, to buy a pint of milk…

“Hello, Gupta,” Ali said when he entered the brightly lit shop.

“Hello, Ali, Gupta replied with the welcoming smile he offered to all of his valued customers.

“I’m need some milk,” Ali explained, “it’s thirsty work, trying to study.”

“You are studying?” Gupta asked, surprised that Ali could actually find the time, considering his work

commitments and busy social calendar.

“Oh, yes, I am studying the Cryptic Agenda for improving one’s whereabouts in the order of life,” Ali proudly

informed Gupta.

“Hmm, that is a mouthful…

“It is more than that, Gupta,” said Ali as he placed the bottle of milk onto the shop counter, and rummaged

in his pockets for some change.

“Then what is it?”

Sorting the money from an assortment of buttons, coins, keys and small pieces of paper that he had taken

out from his pocket, Ali placed the correct amount onto the counter, and said, “It is a complete way of life –

a life change. Oh, Gupta, I am so happy…”

“I am pleased for you,” said Gupta, with the same customer-welcoming smile he had offered Ali only

minutes earlier.

Over the coming weeks, Ali visited the shop on a growing number of occasions, and each time buying only

milk, cheese and eggs.

“My, you do like your protein,” Gupta exclaimed one evening, when Ali purchased two pints of milk and a

dozen extra large eggs.

“We must all eat protein,” Ali replied in all seriousness, “for the Transmigration…”

“The trans what?"

“The Transmigration,” Ali repeated, raising a finger to his lips lest the customer at the rear of the shop might

hear, “is when we pass on to the next stage of existence – to Alocyrrehcyzzif…”

“Alocyrrehcyzzif?” asked Gupta, struggling to pronounce the word, let alone understand it.

Smiling from ear to ear, like he had just won a million pounds, Ali proudly proclaimed, “It is Nirvana –

Heaven, or whatever you wish to call it. In our case we call it Alocyrrehcyzzif .”

“Confused, Gupta asked, “Who, who is calling it this?”

“The Cryptic Agenda, Gupta, I have so much that I wish to tell you and your lady wife… You see, why I have

been unable to help you in this wonderful shop of yours, is because I have been taking my studies.”

“I know this, you already told me.”

“Yes, I have already told you, but I must now tell you all about it…”

“Try and relax, Ali, have a drink of cola – it’s on the house.”

“No, I cannot drink cola,” said Ali, horrified at the mere suggestion of drinking such a concoction. “Cola is

reserved for the Holy Ones.”

“The holy ones?”

“Yes, at the centre, where I have been taking my studies, I have learnt that cola, and the bottle in particular,

are a part of our Transmigration – we cannot partake of it until we are absolutely ready…”

“But everyone drinks cola,” said Gupta, scratching his head in frustration at the, apparently, pointless

conversation he was having.

Jean Walters – my Numinous – has explained it to me; she has shown me the way to Alocyrrehcyzzif. All

that I have to do is eat pure protein and follow the true ways of The Cryptic Agenda.”

“It sounds like you have been sucked into a cult.”

“No, no,” Ali insisted, “it’s not a cult – It’s the true path to perfection.”

“Doesn’t every religion say that?” asked the customer at the rear of the shop, who had been listening with

growing curiosity.

Neither Ali nor Gupta had any intention of answering him, Gupta because he fully believed in his religion,

and Ali because he fully believed in the Cryptic Agenda, Transmigration and Alocyrrehcyzzif.

“I will speak with you tomorrow,” said Ali as he opened the shop door and left the shop.

“That’s a weird one,” said the man who had been listening from the rear of the shop as he approached the

counter.

“I beg your pardon,” said Gupta, his mind still on his obviously brainwashed countryman.

“I said, he’s a strange one, spouting all that mumbo-jumbo. I always say you can’t beat the established

religions.”

“And which one might you be a part of?”

“Me – none – I’m an atheist,” the man proudly professed, “but if I were in any, it would be an established

one, not one of those new-age things – here today and gone tomorrow – that he is certainly a part of.”

With that piece of profound thought, Gupta handed the man his change and thanked him for his custom.

True to his word, Ali returned to the shop the next evening, but all that he did was try and convince Gupta

that he and his wife should join the Cryptic Agenda. He went on and on about how happy they would be after

they had joined. In the end Gupta had to ask him to leave, saying he was quite happy with his own religion,

and he told Ali to leave him and his wife alone from there on.

After leaving the shop, without getting any new converts, Ali made his way through the quiet streets to the

large, red brick house where he worshipped and studied.

When she opened the door to him, Jean Walters, the assistant Grand Master, was disappointed to see Ali

alone. “I am sorry,” he said quietly, “but I was unable to convince my friends to come…”

“The Grand Master will not be pleased,” Jean replied, bidding Ali to enter. “You know the way through,” she

said as she left Ali alone in the hall.

After taking off his shoes Ali walked quietly into a small, dimly lit room where he spent most of his free time

studying the word, and meditating. Seeing six other people (three groups of two) who were already seated

upon the floor on their large cushions Ali joined them.

After several minutes in quiet contemplation of the Bottle of Transmigration (it appeared strikingly similar to

a bottle of Cherry Cola) displayed on a small table at the front of the room, Ali could hear noises from behind

the thick purple coloured curtain used as a backdrop. Suddenly a hand appeared, which pulling the curtains

open, allowed Jean and The Grand Master to enter.

“We welcome you all,” said Jean in her usual slippery smooth voice, “…despite one of you failing in you duty

to the Cryptic Agenda…” In the near darkness all eyes rested on Ali. He smiled nervously.

After Jean had finished welcoming the three new people, she brought everyone up to date on the Cryptic

Agenda’s recent activities. After a short session, for any questions, Jean handed over the proceedings to the

Grand Master, a tall, beared man going by the name of George Ducket. As Jean disappeared behind the

thick curtain, the group welcomed the Grand Master with a small round of applause.

“Thank you, thank you, the Grand Master said as he inspected the seven people sitting on their cushions

before him. “Thank you so much for coming out on so chilly an evening.”

The Grand Master welcomed the three groups of two, but ignored the lone group of one. He praised the

newcomers for having the faith and insight to join them on their Cryptic Agenda, which would culminate in

the Transmigration of the Soul towards Alocyrrehcyzzif.

Although Ali was totally committed to the cause, he felt increasingly awkward as the Grand Master

continued to heap praise on the real followers, and not a bit on him. After listening for a good fifteen minutes,

with seemingly no end in sight of the Grand Master’s praise for the real followers, Ali was unable to take any

more, and he stood up, shouting at the top of his voice, “I have tried to get two converts – Gupta and Sonita

Singe – but I need more time to convince them to come… I am sorry, I am so sorry that I have let you and

the church down. If there is any way that I can make amends for this terrible thing, Grand Master, please,

please let me know!”

The Grand Master stared to the front of the room as if he had heard nothing at all. The thick curtain opened

again, revealing a sullen faced Jean as she walked slowly across to the Bottle of Transmigration, before

carefully picking it up.

“Ah, so you have the Bottle of Transmigration,” the Grand Master said cheerfully when Jean stood next to

him with it. “That is good, very good…”

Ali was puzzled. Had the Grand Master not heard what he had said? And if not – why? He watched the

bottle with acute interest.

“Ali,” said the Grand Master beckoning him closer, “Ali, it has been decided to give you the chance of full

Transmigration, and, perhaps, in Alocyrrehcyzzif you will find your true place.”

Ali was ecstatic, to think he was being offered Transmigration – And now!

“Approach us,” the Grand Master ordered, “approach the bottle of Bottle of Transmigration. Your time is

now, it is your time”

Hardly able to believe his luck, especially after failing to get even a single convert, Ali stepped toward the

front of the room where the Grand Master beckoned him to stand in front of Jean who was holding the bottle

of Transmigration.

“Ali, have you any last words?”

“Last words?” Ali thought, in shocked surprise, “I don’t like the sound of THAT!”

“Jean, please unscrew the bottle top,”

With increasingly curious and, to be honest, somewhat frightened, eyes, Ali watched Jean unscrew the

bottle top.

“Do you have anything to say, Ali?”

Ali’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

“Very well,” said the Grand Master, “undo it…” With that command, Jean finished unscrewing the bottle top

and then pointed the bottle at Ali. No sooner had she done this, a vortex (or was it a whirlpool?) exploding

from out from the bottle, took hold of Ali and began pulling him kicking and screaming back into the bottle.

It was all over in an instant; Ali was gone, and silence returned to the darkened room.

Screwing the top onto the bottle, Jean carefully returned in to the small table in front of the curtain.

“That, my dear people, is how we Transmigrate,” said the Grand Master as he began to take off his official

garments. “The only problem, however, is that in order for it to work properly you must first have died …” He

stared into the bottle, and saw the contorted face of Ali floating around on the inside, with so many other

like-minded souls who had fallen foul of the Cryptic Agenda, failing to find their quota of converts. “As you

can see,” the Grand Master explained, “if you enter the Bottle of Transmigration before your physical body

has actually died, you are cursed to remain within it for all eternity…”

When everyone had finally gone home, the Grand Master, calling Jean over, said, “What were those names

Ali called out before he so untimely left us?”

“Jean replied, “Gupta and Sonita Singe.”

“Do you know where we can find them?”

“I do,” Jean replied, smiling, “they run a small convenience store, not too far from here.”

“That’s good,” said the Grand Master, “I think we might pay them a little visit…”

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