It was an ordinary Monday morning. I was halfway through my commute when my phone rang.
“Harish, come by my house for ten minutes,” said the familiar, excited voice of Professor Paul.
Paul wasn’t just any professor. Back in my days at the National Institute of Technology, he was the man everyone admired. His lectures in Electronics weren’t lessons; they were performances of logic, clarity, and curiosity. Even after retirement, while most professors fade into leisure, Paul kept inventing. Every few months, I’d get a call from him to witness his latest creation, each one wilder than the last.
“Sir, it’s already eight,” I said, glancing at my watch. “If I leave now, I’ll barely make it to the office by nine.”
He chuckled. “You’ll reach faster than lightning. I’ve invented something that will make traffic obsolete. Come quickly.” Then he hung up.
Curiosity overpowered practicality. Within minutes, I was standing at the gate of his old bungalow, the kind of place where history and madness coexist. I walked past his garden, through the narrow path that led to his backyard lab.
There it stood: a massive machine shaped like a wardrobe, covered in wires and humming faintly. It looked like something from a half-finished science fiction film.
“Harish,” he said with childlike pride, “you’re looking at the world’s first teleportation device. This can take you anywhere in an instant.”
I laughed, thinking he was joking. “So, I could use this to get to my office immediately?”
“Exactly,” he replied, eyes gleaming. “Think of it like a Xerox machine, but in three dimensions. It scans you, recreates you elsewhere, and transfers your consciousness. Simple.”
I frowned. “And what happens to the original me?”
He waved his hand dismissively. “The original dissipates the moment your duplicate appears. Gone, like vapor. Nothing to worry about.”
It sounded ridiculous, but the thought of skipping traffic was too tempting to resist. I stepped inside the machine. The walls were cold. I typed my office address into the control panel and pressed the green button.
A bright light flickered. A low hum filled the air. Then silence.
Nothing happened.
Paul muttered under his breath, pressing switches and frowning at his monitor. “Strange. Must be a software glitch. I’ll fix it later.”
I stepped out, disappointed. “Maybe next time, sir. I should get going or I’ll be late.”
He nodded, already lost in his calculations.
Forty minutes later, I reached the office, frustrated and sweaty. As I walked in, I froze.
Standing near my desk was someone who looked exactly like me. Same shirt. Same watch. Same confused smile while talking to my manager.
My heart raced.
The machine had worked.
Just not the way either of us expected.