~ WHEN DESTINY FEELS MORE LIKE A JINX

Kismet walked back home after another failed meeting. He stared at the eviction notice slapped on his flat door.

FINAL WARNING. PAY OR VACATE.

“Oh, great. Love a good deadline.” He rubbed his temples. “Really gets the creative juices flowing. Maybe I should pitch this as a writing prompt in my next meeting: ‘Write a story where the main protagonist has three days before they get fwooshed onto the street.’”

His stomach growled. He had seventeen hundred in his bank account, a cupboard full of instant noodles, and a fridge that contained nothing but takeaway ketchup packets - because, apparently, he lived in a post-apocalyptic wasteland and could survive better than a cockroach. Meanwhile, his pile of unpublished, unsellable manuscripts collected rejection emails the way his mom collected tuppewares and plastic bags - except his had no resale value.

Kismet slammed the door shut behind him, leaning against it like he’d just escaped his nosy neighbor auntie asking for a bowl of sugar and a full update on his flourishing career.

“Maybe it’s time to change my name from Kismet to Mr. Jinxie.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Oh wait… you need money for that. Which I clearly don’t have.”

He kicked off his shoes, one of them bouncing pathetically against the wall before flopping onto the floor. Much like his life.

“Fantastic. I can't even afford a new identity—let alone escape this country. Or even this city.”

He let out a sigh, rubbing his face. Even if he wanted to vanish, where would he go? His bank account had enough for maybe three cups of cheap coffee and a bus ticket to nowhere.

It wasn’t that he was a bad writer—he was just too good. Too careful. Too obsessed with getting every sentence perfect. A perfectionist writing his own slow-burn tragedy.

Meanwhile, AI - his online nemesis was handing out stories like participation certificates to anyone with a Wi-Fi connection. Who cared if they couldn’t tell a metaphor from a simile, as long as they knew how to type?

He hated them.

Or rather—he hated it.

"He hated how hacks were out there clicking one button and churning out bestsellers while he lovingly handcrafted every syllable—only to get emails that began with ‘Dear Author, unfortunately…’ and ended with him contemplating a career in pyramid schemes."

His laptop sat open on the table, cursor blinking inside an empty document. He was supposed to be working on a book for a contest—$20,000 prize. Enough to cover rent, bills, and maybe even afford a meal that didn’t look like it had been scavenged from the back of a grocery store dumpster, nestled between expired yogurt and suspiciously leaking dosa batter packets.

But every idea felt stale. Dead on arrival.

The blinking cursor mocked him.

Then, his phone buzzed.

Nikhil: "Drinks tonight? You need a break."

Kismet sighed. A break from what? His wildly successful career in unpaid suffering? Still, sitting alone with his thoughts wasn’t helping. Maybe a drink would numb the existential dread, knock some sense into his writer ’s blocked brain cells, and convince them to finally crawl out of hibernation.

~ MAYBE I SHOULD HAVE MAJORED IN SCAMMING

An hour later, Kismet sat across from Nikhil at a dimly lit bar, nursing a beer he couldn’t afford.

Nikhil, on the other hand, glowed like a man who had just signed a six-figure book deal.

Which, in a cruel twist of fate, he had.

“Dude, it’s insane,” Nikhil said, practically vibrating with excitement. “I plugged my outline into this AI tool, and boom—finished the novel in weeks. Publishers loved it. Said it’s "eerily relevant" to the modern reader.”

Kismet took a slow sip of his drink, willing himself not to choke.

“Oh wow. Just like the real thing. That’s… inspiring.”

“Right? It’s like a cheat code for writing! No more writer’s block, no more second-guessing. I barely had to edit. It just knows what works.”

Pragmatism over Plagiarism. How poetic.

Kismet wanted to argue. To tell Nikhil that writing was supposed to be painful. That bleeding over every sentence was what made it real. But Nikhil wasn’t bleeding. Nikhil was cashing checks. Meanwhile, Kismet was rationing toothpaste and coffee.

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” Nikhil said, smirking. “AI is the future of writing, Kiz. You might as well get on board.”

Kismet forced a laugh. “Yeah. And self-driving cars are the future of driving. But somehow, people keep dying.”

“Will you please try it for me once?”, Nikhil pleaded softly.

"I’ll think about it," he agreed half-heartedly. "And it’s not like I have to constantly watch my back for Professor Gupta, aka ‘Why Are Your Commas and Periods All Wrong Kismet?’ lurking behind me, grading my every sentence and always ready to deduct points from my existence."

Shifting from Master in Literature to Master in Scamming wasn’t exactly on this year’s bingo list—but then again, when had planning ever worked in his favor?

~ HOW TO SELL YOUR SOUL IN ONE CLICK

Later that night, back in his apartment, Kismet couldn’t shake Nikhil’s words.

AI is the future of writing.

So… what’s the worth of people like me in the future? He contemplated.

The contest deadline was looming. The eviction deadline was looming. His hunger was on it’s way to a touchdown on his stomach lining, clapping it’s hands with acid reflux. His dignity? Already out the window, wandering the streets, begging for alms.

“Okay. Just this once. A single step into the darkness. A tiny handshake - not a friendship - with the devil. Like that time I played with an Ouija board with my cousins ‘just for fun’ and definitely didn’t invite a demon into our grandparents' home.”

The ad for the AI writing tool stared at him like a smug used-car salesman.

He clicked.

"Describe your story idea in a few words."

His fingers hesitated. Then, with a mixture of defiance and resignation, he started typing, keeping the contest theme in mind: "When the lines between fiction and reality get blurred."

A struggling writer uses AI to create a book, only to watch as it starts controlling people’s thoughts.

He hit ENTER.

The words appeared. Perfect words. The kind that usually took him weeks to write—except now they were spilling out faster than a vending machine spitting out popcorn.

Kismet stared. He was either witnessing, “A literary miracle… or a soul auction. Hard to say what dropped faster - his morals or the fancy words.”

If breakups were a speed sport, AI had just outpaced his ex, who once text-dumped him before he could even type "Wait."

Kismet’s breath caught in his throat.

It was perfect. Like the summer of ’99—sticky mangoes, sun-warmed pond water, laughter echoing through power cuts, and nights without bedtime warnings.

"Oh, crap. I'm in trouble. Big trouble. Saving my morals didn’t pay—let’s see if selling them does."

~ SO THIS IS HOW A CULT STARTS?

Two weeks later, Kismet sat in his apartment, eyes wide, pulse racing.

His AI-generated novel had become a sensation.

Titled - The Path of Rooh, the book followed Mahzura Rooh, a revolutionary leader in a dystopian world where hesitation was a crime and second-guessing marked you as weak. Rho’s mantra was simple: Doubt is the disease. Certainty is the cure. In his society—The Lightened—once a decision was made, it could never be questioned. Hesitation was a threat to progress. True freedom, Rooh claimed, came from surrendering to certainty and rejecting self-doubt.
And for a while, it worked. Until the cracks begin to show.

People quoted it like scripture. Halloween decided to show up six months early this year—April, to be precise. Suddenly, theme parties popped up everywhere, packed with people dressed as Rooh, passionately reciting monologues about the sins of hesitation while struggling to pick between Pepsi and Coke.
Lines from The Lightened were everywhere—on posters, wall hangings, and motivational calendars. Mugs screamed "Doubt is a disease." Notebooks promised "Certainty is the cure." There was even a line of scented candles called "Smells Like Unwavering Conviction."

If it could decorate a door, a table, or a gullible mind, you bet there was a version of it.

Kismet was already working on the second part of the series—or rather, AI was, and he was diligently instructing it.

One day, a news anchor signed off with: "Doubt is a disease. Goodnight, and stay strong."

Kismet nearly choked on his pizza.

What he thought was just another ridiculous internet trend had mutated into a full-blown phenomenon.

TV debates. Viral hashtags. Billboard campaigns. Every influencer suddenly swearing by The Lightened like it was the next Bitcoin. It should have stopped there.

And here I thought social media influencers wouldn’t preach a life philosophy unless there was a brand deal involved. So who the hell was funding this grand enlightenment—Rooh himself wiring payments from the fictional afterlife? He thought.

Governments started slipping their ideology into policies. Corporations turned it into their latest workplace mantra—HR emails now ended with “Hesitation is failure.” Self-help gurus sold overpriced courses on “The Certainty Mindset.”Even coffee shop loyalty cards promised a “doubt-free experience.”

Then came the riots.

And the worst part?

His mother called him

~ MY MOM IS IN A CULT AND IT’S MY FAULT

“Beta, I always knew you’d be famous!” Her voice was thick with pride. “Kismet! What a name! Destined for success, just like I said. Now tell me, should I be using a catchphrase? Everyone in my book club is doing it.”

He rubbed his temples. “Ma, you don’t need a catchphrase.”

“Oh, but 'Let the world burn if the truth demands it' has such a nice ring to it!”

Kismet’s blood ran cold.

That was a line from the book.

And she wasn’t the only one.

~ PANIC, PARADOXES, AND LEADERSHIP

Kismet was now a target.

His own fans accused him of hesitation.

Cult-like fan clubs had formed on social media—Rooh KISMET, The Lightened Movement, Followers of Certainty. What started as book discussions evolved into something strange. People began blurring the line between fiction and reality, forgetting the difference between Mahzura Rooh and Kismet Gupta. To them, he wasn’t just the author—he was Rooh. The revolutionary leader on the rise. The visionary set to cleanse the world of hesitation. The one destined to lead the country toward a better, stronger future.

At first, it was online comments. Then came the messages. Then the real-world encounters. Strangers approached him in coffee shops, on the metro stations, outside his apartment. They didn't ask for autographs—they asked for guidance. They urged him to join their movements, to give speeches, to lead. Fanatics sent him invitations to speak at events where they dissected his book like scripture. Some even pleaded to be part of his "cause." They wanted action. They wanted change. And they wanted him to bring it.
The line was disappearing, and Kismet felt himself slipping into a world he never meant to create.

Then, the worst moment of all—a live interview he had been dodging lately until he got the call from her.

Vaani Sharma, the sharp, opinionated senior TV host Kismet had long admired, smiled at him. For once, Kismet allowed himself to breathe. Vaani, someone reasonable would see through the madness. She’d call it what it was—a ridiculous, overblown joke that had spiraled out of control, he thought.

“You seem quite at ease, Kismet,” she began smoothly.

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Proud, actually. Managed to file my taxes correctly and on time this year.”

The audience laughed. He exhaled. Maybe—just maybe—this wouldn’t be a total disaster.

Vaani tilted her head. “Kismet, do you truly believe in The Lightened?”

Her voice was calm, but her eyes held the weight of a question that could turn his world upside down.

Kismet forced a laugh. “It’s just fiction—”

Vaani leans in. “So you hesitate to embrace it?”

Somewhere in the audience, a man in a hooded cloak gasped—like Kismet had just confessed to eating soup with a fork.

Kismet adjusted his collar, eyeing the sea of cloaks, tunics, and—was that ceremonial armor?

In his crisp blazer, a button-down, even polished shoes he’d dressed for an interview. But they looked like they were either members of a secret society or extras from a dystopian film set.

Had he overdressed? Had they underdressed? Or was there a secret memo, and he was the only one who missed it?

Then someone whispered:

"Doubt is a disease."

Kismet gulped.

He broke into a sweat. Two choices: double down or fake his own death. Only one of those involved less paperwork. For once, money wasn’t the issue—just his collapsing survival instincts. “Where are Darwin’s survival tactics when you are in dire need of them??” he mumbled.

And one by one, the audience stood up.

Their eyes locked on him.

Then, in perfect unison, they all said:

"Hesitation is failure."

As if searching for an escape, Kismet turned to Vaani, hoping—praying—for a lifeline. An ounce of sanity.

Instead, he caught the slight movement of her lips, the whisper barely audible.

"If Kismet himself is weak, shouldn't we cut him loose?"

His stomach dropped.

He must have misheard. Right?

~ THE FALL OF The Lightened

Kismet had never considered himself a strategist. He was the kind of guy who forgot to pay rent until his landlord started texting in all caps. The kind who spent more time browsing movie lists than actually watching anything—only to fall asleep before making a choice. The kind who agonized over what to order at a restaurant, only to panic at the last second and blurt out, "Uh… just fries?" and then immediately regret it.

"And now? Now he had to outmaneuver an entire ideology—one he himself had so graciously unleashed. The only question was: who gets the thank-you card first—the AI creator’s office or Nikhil?"

Maybe next, he’d try outsmarting gravity. Or winning an argument with his mother. You know, just to challenge his life further.

There was only one way out of this.

He had to embrace the insanity—and then break it from within.

~ KISMET JOINS The Lightened

The next morning, Kismet posted a video on all his social accounts.

"I have seen the truth. Doubt is a disease. Hesitation is failure. I am ready to take my place among The Lightened.”

The response was instantaneous.

Praise flooded in:

- Kismet has finally accepted the truth!
- The leader of The Lightened speaks!
- He hesitated before, but even hesitation can be overcome!

His ex liked the post. Guess she did like something about him after all—and turns out, it was public delusion.

Vaani dropped a comment of approval on his post. Just a single 🔥.

Strange, isn’t it? One emoji from someone he’d quietly admired meant more than all the thoughtful advice his parents ever gave him.
Classic fan behavior—we fall, and we fall hard. P.S. He screenshotted it, obviously. In case she deleted it later… or it got lost forever in the chaos of the internet.

Even his mother called.

"I’m proud of you, Kismet."

He swallowed the bile rising in his throat. “Yeah, Ma. Me too.”

He hung up and stared at his phone. "Wow. There’s truly no shortage of love—just a shortage of shame. Betray your entire moral compass, and suddenly everyone loves you. Good to know.”

Now, he just had to figure out how to break their minds before they completely broke his.

~ DOUBT. EXE

For weeks, Kismet studied them. Their behaviors, their justifications, and the way they twisted logic to fit The Lightened’s teachings. He watched them online, in interviews, on the street. He attended gatherings, spoke their language, and nodded in all the right places. They loved him, they admired him. They were so sure of themselves. So certain. So fragile.

And then, he knew what had to be done, so he issued a new declaration:

"Mahzura Rooh once said: ‘To hesitate is to suffer.’ But he also said: ‘The Lightened must never contradict themselves.’ So tell me…

If someone hesitates between two choices… and chooses wrong… isn’t it also failure to act without thinking?

“If hesitation leads to the right choice… is it still failure?”

It was a perfect paradox.

Their leader had spoken. And for a moment, the world was silent.

Then, confusion. Panic.

Then, chaos.

People froze mid-sentence, their brains short-circuiting. The most devoted followers started shaking their heads, muttering "No... no, that’s not… but… wait—" like malfunctioning robots.

In chatrooms and on social media, debates exploded.

"Hesitation is failure!"

"But if we act without thinking, we could fail too!"

"Then… hesitation isn’t failure?"

"Then what Is failure???"

Kismet sat back in his chair, watching the comments scroll in real-time.

"Yep. That oughta do it."

~ THE FALL OF THE LIGTENED

It started small.

News anchors hesitated on live television—for the first time in months.

Talk show hosts, once devout believers, fumbled over their words, second-guessing their arguments.

People started questioning. Some denied ever being part of the movement. Others angrily doubled down.

And then, as if infected by a virus, self-awareness spread.

Vaani’s comment disappeared.

So did half the fanbase.

But he had proof.

Screenshotted, saved, archived, and backed up.

Because in the age of goldfish memory, backup isn’t a habit - it’s a survival instinct.

So Kismet did the unthinkable.

He wrote a second book, this time using his master’s in literature over his master’s in scamming.

~ THE BURDEN OF THOUGHT: A REBUTTAL TO THE LIGHTENED

It dissected every teaching, exposed every logical contradiction, forced readers to confront their own cognitive dissonance.

Every line of The Lightened had made people feel certain.

Every line of The Burden of Thought made them doubt.

It shattered the movement from the inside out.

People burned copies of the first book. Bookstores pulled it from shelves. The cult disbanded. The movement collapsed. People deleted their old posts, scrubbed their bios, and pretended they never called him “leader Kismet.”

Kismet?

Kismet disappeared.

Not physically—he still lived in his tiny apartment, and still had to figure out rent. But as far as the literary world was concerned, Kismet was a ghost.
Nobody wanted to talk about The Lightened.

Nobody wanted to admit they had once believed in it.

Nobody wanted to say his name.

His mother called again.

"Kismet, what have you done?!"

He exhaled. “I saved you, Ma.”

She didn’t respond.

For the first time, she hesitated.

Kismet smiled.

A month later, it was over.

~ KISMET AND AI, ONE LAST TIME

One night, Kismet sat at his desk, staring at a blank document.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Finally, he sighed, opened the AI program, and typed:

"Write a novel where I don’t ruin the world."

The AI processed.

Then, it responded:

"No promises."

Kismet groaned. “I figured.”

Kismet stared at the screen. The AI-generated words were smooth, polished, and unnervingly instant—like fast food for the literary soul. Efficient. Predictable.Devoid of struggle.

But as he read them back, something gnawed at him. The words were right, yet they felt… wrong. Too perfect. Too clean. Like they had never known doubt or hesitation. Like they had never known doubt or hesitation. Like they had never second-guessed themselves at 2 AM, wrestled with a stubborn sentence, or debated whether a comma was a life-or-death decision. Like they had never been rewritten a dozen times, only to end up right back where they started.

Too smooth. Too perfect. Too…soulless.

Oscar Wilde wasn’t coming out of this. Neither was Jane Austen. Hell, even his own messy, neurotic, overcaffeinated voice was missing.

This wasn’t writing. It was assembling. And for the first time, Kismet wondered: Was speed really worth the trade?

Because there was a kind of magic in the mess.

He shut his laptop.

"He hesitated… then sighed. Fine. He’d write his own damn book.

At least this time, he’d fail with dignity. Maybe he wouldn’t have fan mails, gifts, clubs, or fake endorsements, but he’d have a clear conscience. And if he had to survive on noodles a little longer, so be it. Honor was cheap, but at least it didn’t come with a side of moral indigestion.