HubFlix

In the sleepy village of Thazhekkad, nestled between green paddy fields and the slow, lazy river Periyar, lived a boy known to everyone as Kunjuttan. No one remembered his real name—not even Kunjuttan himself. The name had stuck since he was a toddler waddling behind his grandmother, calling out, “Kunju! Kunju!” to the hens in the backyard.

But what made Kunjuttan special—what made him unforgettable—was not his name. It was a number.

916.

The number followed him like a whisper, like a shadow. His grandfather, who was a goldsmith, claimed Kunjuttan was born at exactly 9:16 AM on the 9th of June. His mother once told the priest that when Kunjuttan cried for the first time, the temple bell rang by itself—nine times. And then, after a pause, once. And then six more times.

Superstition? Maybe. Coincidence? Perhaps. But when Kunjuttan turned nine, the village astrologer gasped and said his birth chart had a rare alignment. “He’s marked by 916,” the old man whispered. “This child… he will bring gold to someone. Or he will become gold himself.”

The number stuck. “916 Kunjuttan,” they called him. Like the hallmark on pure gold.

As Kunjuttan grew, he proved to be just like his name—small, curious, and surprisingly precious. He had a habit of fixing things no one else could. Broken transistor radios, leaking clay pots, even a neighbor’s cataract lens that had fallen out of alignment—Kunjuttan would silently study, twist a wire, melt wax, or stitch banana fiber, and somehow, it would work again.

But he never asked for payment.

He would just smile, his eyes twinkling like a dragonfly’s wings in the sun, and walk away.

People said Kunjuttan had a gift. Others said he was lucky. But no one, not even Kunjuttan, could explain it. He just knew how to fix things.

Then one day, something happened that changed the course of his life.

It was a stormy evening in mid-June. The kind of rain that comes down in sheets and washes the entire village clean, leaving behind a scent of earth and mango leaves. Kunjuttan was helping his uncle patch the tiled roof when he saw something glint in the mud by the side of the pond.

It was a small, round locket.

Old. Rusted. But etched with delicate design and the unmistakable numbers: 916.

Heart pounding, Kunjuttan picked it up. The locket felt warm—despite the rain—and for a moment, he felt as if it pulsed like a heartbeat.

He opened it.

Inside was a tiny rolled-up piece of paper, protected from water and time. He unrolled it carefully. The handwriting was faded, but still legible.

“To the one marked by gold,
If you find this, it is your time.
The village once lost something dear—
You must return it, and be free.”

The locket snapped shut by itself.

Kunjuttan stood motionless. Rain washed down his face like tears he didn’t understand. What had the village lost? What was he supposed to return?

That night, he didn’t sleep.

Over the next few weeks, Kunjuttan wandered the village. Not aimlessly, but as if drawn by invisible threads. He began to ask elders strange questions.

“Did anything important go missing from the village?”

They smiled. “Many things, Kunjutta. Our youth, our innocence, our temple bell rope!”

But then old Ammama, who had lost her memory long ago, whispered something strange: “The idol… the little Krishna… they never found it, did they?”

The words struck him like lightning.

The story unravelled like a myth. Years ago, during a robbery at the ancient Krishna temple on the hill, a golden idol—small and beloved—was stolen. It was never recovered. Over time, people stopped talking about it, as if ignoring the wound would heal it.

But now, the wound itched again.

Kunjuttan became obsessed. He dug through old temple records, asked about past goldsmiths, followed whispers. His hands grew calloused, and his hair longer. He was only 12 now—but people said he looked 16. Or 61. It was hard to say. The number 916 danced before his eyes everywhere he went.

And then, one day, in the forgotten storeroom behind the temple, under a loose floor tile, he found it.

Wrapped in red cloth, barely four inches tall—a golden Krishna, eyes wide, flute poised.

It was marked.

916.

The idol was returned. The village rejoiced. Bells rang again—not nine, not six—but together, as one sound that filled the sky like birds in flight.

But Kunjuttan? He had changed.

He began to speak less, smile more. He grew taller, but remained boyish. People asked if he wanted to be a priest, or a goldsmith like his grandfather. He only shrugged.

One day, someone offered him a gift—gold, money, anything he wanted.

He simply said, “Keep it. I am already gold.”

From that day, they didn’t call him Kunjuttan anymore.

They called him 916.

Epilogue

Years passed. Tourists came and went. Technology crept into Thazhekkad like a curious mongoose. But 916 remained. Older now, still fixing things, still smiling. They say he talks to trees. They say he knows when the rain will come.

Children gather around him like bees around a mango. He tells stories. Of lost idols. Of the whispering locket. Of a number that turned a village boy into something rare and priceless.

Not gold.