The Almanack of Naval Ravikant

Ravi found the gnome behind Salim’s compost bin, lying face down in wet grass with one red shoe missing.

“You put it there,” Salim said from the back door.

“I did not.”

“You put it in Mum’s bathroom in 2008.”

“That was a different gnome.”

Salim came outside in socks. The gnome had a blue pointed hat, a fishing rod, and a crack through one cheek. Their sister had bought it at a car-boot sale when she was fourteen and announced that it looked more like their father than either of them did. Since then it had appeared in wardrobes, sheds, passenger seats, and once in the freezer beside a bag of peas.

“Priya is coming tomorrow,” Salim said. “We should throw it away.”

Ravi picked up the gnome by its hat. “You throw it away.”

“It is in my garden.”

“Because you moved it from mine.”

“Because it was looking through my kitchen window.”

Ravi carried it to the side gate. Beyond the fence, Mrs D’Souza’s new extension rose over the hedge, pale and square. Salim followed him with his arms folded.

“Don’t,” he said.

“I’m only moving it.”

“That is always what you say.”

Ravi set the gnome on the low brick wall between the houses, turned it toward Salim’s garden, and stepped back. From there it looked ridiculous: too small for the wall, too pleased with itself, fishing rod pointing at nothing.

The security light next door clicked on.

Both men froze.

The gnome’s blue hat shone white. Its fishing rod cast a long shadow across Mrs D’Souza’s new patio doors.

“Wrong house,” Salim said.

Ravi reached for it, but the light went off before he could decide whether that made it better or worse.