The Shadows of Time

It had been two weeks since Arjun left the city behind. He had come to the hills with one purpose: to escape the crushing weight of writer’s block, that invisible force that made his mind feel like a dry well. His bungalow was perched on a hill, far enough from the town to guarantee solitude but close enough for him to venture out whenever he needed a change of scenery. The days were quiet, filled with the sounds of rustling leaves and the occasional chirp of distant birds. His laptop, however, remained stubbornly silent.

On his first morning there, he decided to go for a walk in the woods. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. As he wandered deeper into the forest, his thoughts drifted, unfocused, the emptiness of his mind only matched by the stillness around him. 

That’s when he saw her.

She was standing by a stream, the sunlight filtering through the branches and casting an ethereal glow around her. Naina. Her name came to him later when he saw her again at the quaint café in town. She smiled at him as though they had known each other for years, though he could tell she was a stranger to everyone here. She was beautiful, yes—her features were sharp yet soft, a blend of strength and serenity—but it was something else that drew him in. Her presence was magnetic, her calmness so profound it felt almost unreal.

Over the course of the next few days, Arjun found himself bumping into her repeatedly. She was always alone—never with friends, never engaged in anything that would distract from her own quiet contemplation. In the woods again, in the public library tucked between shelves of forgotten novels, and once more in the café, she seemed to appear like a phantom at the edges of his life, always just out of reach. He couldn’t stop thinking about her.

One evening, after an unexpectedly long conversation about books and art in the library, she invited him to her home. Arjun hesitated but eventually agreed. He had no reason to be suspicious—why would he be? This was a small town, and Naina was nothing short of captivating.

Her house was at the edge of the town, nestled against a cliff that overlooked the valley. It was a beautiful, ancient place, more a mansion than a cottage. She greeted him with a glass of wine and led him to a sitting room that was eerily quiet, the only sound the crackling of a fire in the hearth. The walls were lined with paintings—some beautiful, others strange, disturbing even. There was one in particular that caught Arjun’s eye: a portrait of a woman, her eyes wide with terror, standing before a backdrop of twisted trees. It reminded him of the woods where he had first seen Naina.

As the evening wore on, Naina’s conversation became darker, more fragmented. She spoke of things in a way that seemed both distant and intimate, as though she were revealing pieces of herself but hiding just as much. She spoke of loss—of a life she once had, and of a tragedy she was still trying to understand. But there was something off. The way she avoided certain topics, the way her eyes seemed to flicker with unease whenever a certain name was mentioned.

“I’ve never been able to get rid of it,” she said quietly, almost as if to herself. “The guilt. It’s like a shadow that follows me.”

The atmosphere grew heavy, and Arjun, feeling a strange unease, asked, “What happened to you, Naina?”

For the first time that evening, she looked directly at him, her eyes unnervingly sharp. “What do you really want to know, Arjun?” she asked, her tone almost a challenge.

Before he could respond, there was a sharp knock at the door.

Naina’s face changed. The calm composure she had worn all evening cracked, and a brief, almost imperceptible look of panic flashed across her face. She stood up quickly, but not before Arjun noticed the look in her eyes—something dark and fearful. She walked to the door, and he heard a hushed conversation before Naina returned, her expression tightly controlled.

“I’m sorry, I think I need to go,” she said, her voice now too calm, too smooth. She looked like someone trying desperately to hide the cracks in their facade.

Arjun stood up, confused and unsettled. “I can walk you out,” he offered, though he had no real reason to.

But Naina shook her head, smiling faintly. “No, thank you. I’ll be alright.”

As he stepped outside, he felt the night air grow colder. The shadows of the trees in the distance seemed to stretch longer, as though reaching for him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed, that something had shifted in that conversation. He turned to leave, but something stopped him—something in the back of his mind.

He needed to know more about Naina.

The next day, he visited the local archives and found an old article—one he hadn’t noticed before. The headline read: Tragedy Strikes Hilltown: The Disappearance of the Lawrence Family. His eyes narrowed as he read on. The article detailed the mysterious disappearance of an entire family—parents and their daughter. The case had never been solved, though there had been rumors of a cult, of some dark ritual in the woods. But what caught his attention were the last words spoken by the police officer assigned to the case: “We never found the body. Just a woman’s watch—engraved with the name Naina.”

Arjun’s blood ran cold.

He had seen that watch. On Naina’s wrist.

Suddenly, he understood. Naina wasn’t who she seemed. The calm, serene woman who had captivated him was hiding something—a past so twisted that it threatened to consume her. But more than that, he realized she was not just running from her past. She was trapped in it. The events from years ago hadn’t just followed her—they had changed her. In a cruel twist, Naina had never left the hill town at all. She had never aged.

She was the daughter who had disappeared all those years ago.

And now, as he pieced together the horrifying truth, Arjun understood what it meant: Naina had been trapped in a cycle of time, endlessly replaying the same days, the same encounters, with everyone she met—including him. She was stuck—an unwilling passenger in her own tragedy, bound by forces she could never escape.

And the worst part? He, too, was now part of that cycle.

When he returned to the bungalow that night, he found a letter waiting for him, sealed with an old, familiar watch. The writing inside was hers, and in it, she confessed everything. But the final line sent chills through his body:

“Remember, Arjun—you’ve been here before. And you’ll come again. There is no escape.”

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2024. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used instead

The Ticking Clock

The room buzzes with a humming silence, the kind that weighs heavy on your eardrums like pressure at the bottom of the ocean. Two detectives sit across from him at a chipped wooden table, their eyes scanning every twitch, every movement. A digital clock on the wall ticks in sync with the fluorescent light that flickers just slightly out of rhythm. He sits there, handcuffed, the chain dragging slightly against the table. His clothes drenched in sweat, though the air conditioning is on full blast. His eyes? Vacant. It’s as though the world left him days ago, and only his body remains, waiting for the inevitable.

“You’re going to have to help us understand,” one of the detectives says, tapping a pen against the pad in front of him. “Why’d you do it, Anirban?”

Anirban doesn’t answer immediately. He looks at his own hands—palms dry and cracked, fingers trembling slightly from the handcuffs cutting into his skin. For a moment, there’s silence. The detective leans forward. “It wasn’t just an impulse, was it? You planned this. You chose that mall, thatmeeting room full of executives. What were you thinking?”

Anirban’s lips curl, not into a smile but something resembling one—a broken, ironic twist. “Thinking?” His voice is hoarse. “That was the problem. I was always thinking… thinking about them, thinking about what they needed. And you know what? They didn’t even notice.”

Two Months Earlier

At work, Anirban was the man no one saw. The one with a desk by the bathroom door. When he spoke up in meetings, his ideas were interrupted, co-opted by others, and laughed away like paper airplanes thrown in a storm. “Stick to spreadsheets, Anirban,” someone said one day. Laughter filled the room, and he laughed along with them, like a trained dog unaware it was the butt of the joke.

His manager, Mr. Chatterjee, enjoyed belittling him in ways that felt too personal to be coincidence. “I don’t know how you make it through the day, Anirban,” Chatterjee would say, patting his shoulder too hard. “But hey, someone’s gotta be at the bottom, right?”

And every time Anirban went home, he knew exactly what waited for him. His wife, Anindita, was a whirlwind of contempt disguised as disappointment. “Why do you think we’re stuck in this two-bedroom hellhole?” she’d ask, her voice sharp with the sting of years lost. “Because you can’t be a man. You can’t even keep your job stable enough for a promotion.”

His kids? They treated him like an ATM. To them, he was only relevant when they needed allowance money or a ride to a party. They never asked how his day was, and he never offered.

Then there was Rini—his “best friend” for years. Rini was charming, successful, and utterly selfish. She’d show up when she needed a loan, a favour, or just someone to vent to after her social gatherings. And Anirban would listen, because what else was he good for? It was easier to be needed, even in that hollow way, than to be entirely alone.

One evening, when Rini borrowed money again, Anirban dared to ask when he’d get it back. Rini chuckled, clinking her wine glass against his. “You? Man, you’re too soft for money games. Just let it go, Anirban. It’s not like you have anything else to invest in.”

That was the night Anirban sat awake until dawn, staring at the ceiling, feeling every invisible thread of his life snap one by one.

Interrogation Room

“You think it just happened one day?” Anirban’s voice cracks as he stares at the detective across the table. “It doesn’t work like that. It’s like… like a string stretched tighter and tighter until it finally snaps. And when it snaps—” He taps the table with two fingers. “It doesn’t care where the tension came from. It just breaks.”

The younger detective glances at his partner, shifting uneasily in his chair. “So you’re saying… everyone just pushed you into this?”

Anirban chuckles darkly. “Pushed me?” He shakes his head. “They didn’t even notice I was falling. I was drowning in plain sight, and they kept taking away my anchors.”

The Spiral

It started with little things—forgetting meetings, snapping at Anindita under his breath, staying up late scrolling through job boards he knew he’d never apply to. One morning, his son asked him for new shoes, and something inside him cracked. “Why don’t you ask your mother?” he said, voice colder than he intended. His son stormed off without a word, and Anirban felt strangely relieved.

The distance between him and everyone else grew. Chatterjee wrote him off as dead weight at work, assigning him menial tasks as a way to sideline him without the hassle of firing him. Anindita stopped pretending to care about his moods. Rini stopped calling altogether.

Then came the day in the mall. He went there out of habit during lunch—walking mindlessly through the corridors, watching the professionals with their lanyards and tailored suits. They were people who had purpose, or at least looked like it. And that was when he saw them—a group of executives from a rival firm, gathered in the glass-walled meeting room of a café.

They were everything he wasn’t: loud, confident, important. They laughed with ease, the sound like nails scraping against Anirban’s mind. In that moment, something snapped. He stopped feeling invisible and started feeling… inevitable.

The gun was already in his coat pocket. He had bought it weeks earlier, thinking maybe he’d use it on himself one night. But now, here, in the heart of this clean, polished mall filled with people who mattered, he found a strange, terrible clarity.

He stepped inside the meeting room. They noticed him now. All of them. He was in a combat position as he pulled out the gun. And for the first time in years, everyone stopped and looked at him.

Interrogation Room

“How did it feel?” the detective asks, his voice low.

Anirban meets his gaze, eyes empty yet full of some deep, dark knowing. “It felt like… silence. The kind you only get when everything that’s been screaming in your head finally stops.”

The room falls silent again. The detectives exchange a glance, both unnerved by the sheer ordinariness and coldness of the man before them. There’s no rage, no regret—only a quiet acceptance, as if this was always where Anirban was meant to end up.

The older detective leans in. “What do you think happens next?”

Anirban shrugs. “Does it matter?” His voice is eerily calm. “It was always going to end like this.”

The clock on the wall ticks loudly, each second dragging them closer to some unknown conclusion. Outside, the world goes on. Executives meet in cafés, children demand new shoes, friends borrow money and forget to return it. Life continues, indifferent and unyielding.

But in that tiny room, with the dim fluorescent light flickering overhead, Anirban sits still, watching the minutes slip away. And for the first time in years, he feels absolutely nothing.

The clock ticks.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2024. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used instead

The Last Stop

He had spent the last ten years dragging himself through a life where he was invisible. His wife barely looked at him without complaint, his children forgot his birthdays, his boss saw him as nothing more than a cog in the corporate machine, and even the few people he called friends rolled their eyes at his presence. The only woman outside his marriage who shared his thoughts—a companion of sorts, tethered to him by unspoken understanding rather than romance—treated him with thinly veiled disdain.

He wasn’t a bad man. He was simply ordinary, and in a world that demanded brilliance, being ordinary was unforgivable.

One day, after enduring yet another humiliating exchange at work, he left the office without telling anyone. He went home, packed a small bag, and walked to the nearest train station. He bought a ticket to nowhere in particular and boarded the first train out.

When the train slowed at a sleepy little town he couldn’t even place on a map, he got off. It wasn’t planned—just an impulse, like a quiet surrender. The town was quaint, with narrow lanes, modest shops, and an old hotel that seemed to have lost its charm long ago. It suited him perfectly.

He checked into a room with a creaky bed, threadbare curtains, and walls that smelled faintly of damp wood. He didn’t care. The plan was simple: indulge for two days—eat, drink, make merry—and then, when the buzz wore off and the sadness returned, end his life.

For two days, he roamed freely. He ate lavishly, drank whiskey in the morning, and wandered the town without purpose. For the first time in years, no one knew him. No expectations. No accusations. It was liberating. But beneath that fleeting freedom was the knowledge that it wouldn’t last—just two days of borrowed peace before the final curtain fell.

On the evening of his last day, he sat alone at the hotel’s dimly lit restaurant, nursing a glass of scotch. The weight of finality sat beside him, heavy and cold, as familiar as an old friend. He was ready to leave it all behind.

Just as the waiter placed his plate on the table, a soft voice broke through his thoughts.

“May I join you?”

He looked up and saw a woman standing beside his table. She wasn’t striking in any conventional way—her dark, untidy hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and her eyes held the tiredness of someone who had lived through too much. Yet there was something gentle in her presence, like the warm embrace of an autumn breeze.

Without thinking, he nodded.

They talked, at first about little things—how strange the town felt, how hotel food always disappointed, and how trains seemed to take you places you didn’t expect. Slowly, the conversation drifted into deeper waters—her broken marriage, his feelings of being unseen, their quiet loneliness.

“It gets lonely, doesn’t it?” she said softly, her eyes meeting his across the candlelit table.

“It does,” he whispered.

Time slipped away unnoticed. There was no past, no future—just the two of them, sharing a fleeting moment that felt eternal. For the first time in years, he felt something stir within him, something he thought had long since withered. He smiled, even laughed, and it startled him. When was the last time he had laughed? He couldn’t remember.

When the waiter brought the bill, she leaned closer, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. “There’s a lake outside town. It’s beautiful at sunrise. Come with me tomorrow morning?”

He should have said no—he was supposed to be gone by morning. But something had shifted, an invisible thread pulling him toward life. Toward her. He nodded without hesitation.

“Yes,” he said, barely recognizing his own voice.

She smiled, her eyes sparkling with something he couldn’t name. Then, without another word, she rose from the table and walked away, leaving him with the strange sensation that life—messy, unpredictable, and unfinished—might still hold some magic.

He didn’t sleep that night, watching the hours pass with a restless anticipation he hadn’t felt in years. When the first light of dawn began to creep through the curtains, he dressed quickly and went downstairs to the hotel lobby.

But she wasn’t there.

Confused, he asked the night manager if he had seen her.

“There was no woman,” the manager replied, frowning. “You’ve been dining alone every night.”

The words hit him like a wave, and for a moment, the world tilted. He felt disoriented, unsure of what was real. Had she been a dream? A figment of a weary mind desperate for connection? But it had felt so real—the laughter, the warmth, the conversation that had pulled him back from the edge.

Then, as he turned to leave the hotel, something caught his eye. On the counter, beside the key rack, was a single pressed flower—delicate and pale, the kind that only grew near water. Attached to it was a folded note in a handwriting he didn’t recognize.

“The lake is waiting.”

His heart pounded in his chest as he stepped out into the cool morning air. He didn’t know if she was real, a ghost, or a trick of his own imagination. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the promise of something more—a thread of possibility leading him toward a new beginning, however fragile.

And so, he walked toward the lake, following the quiet pull of hope. For the first time in as long as he could remember, the thought of tomorrow no longer frightened him. Something had shifted, as if life—mysterious and unpredictable—had whispered in his ear:

“Stay a little longer. There’s still more to see.”

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2024. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used instead

Two Weeks

Kabir sat at the edge of the bridge, staring into the quiet river below. It wasn’t the roaring kind that would drown your thoughts; it was the gentle, murmuring kind that made you feel like you were floating, suspended between two worlds. His feet dangled over the edge, as if one step away from vanishing, and he felt like he was ready to take that step. The breakup had shattered him, but it was the rejection—the constant dismissal by family and friends—that had taken the last bit of his will. He had no fight left in him.

His phone buzzed beside him, but he didn’t bother to check it. What could another half-hearted message of “You’ll be okay” or “Things will get better” do for him now? They didn’t understand that the small threads keeping him connected to the world had snapped.

That was when he saw her.

She was sitting a few feet away, as though she had always been there, unnoticed until now. Her face was illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlights, her dark hair moving lightly with the evening breeze. There was something serene about her, something that made it hard for Kabir to look away. She wasn’t staring at the river like he had been; instead, her eyes were fixed on him, almost as if she had been waiting for him to notice.

“You shouldn’t be sitting so close to the edge,” she said, her voice calm but firm. It wasn’t a scolding, just a statement, as if she already knew why he was there.

Kabir’s throat tightened. “I’m not sure it matters,” he muttered, staring back at the water. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to slip away quietly, unnoticed.

She didn’t move closer, but her presence somehow felt heavier, more real than anything he had felt in weeks. “It does matter,” she replied softly, her gaze never wavering. “You’re about to make a decision you can’t undo. But before you do, why not give it two more weeks?”

Kabir blinked. “Two weeks? Why? What’s the point?” His voice cracked, the exhaustion in his heart spilling into his words.

“Two weeks is all I’m asking,” she said, a small smile playing on her lips. “Just hand over your life to me for those fourteen days. Don’t make any decisions. Don’t think about what’s next. Let me take the reins. If nothing changes by then, you can come back to this bridge. No questions, no guilt. But if things get better…” She trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.

Kabir was silent, confused by her calm confidence. “Why do you care?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her. “You don’t even know me.”

She shrugged lightly. “Maybe I’m someone who believes that life has a funny way of turning around when you least expect it. Or maybe I’ve been in your shoes before.”

He hesitated, then asked, “And if I say no?”

“Then you won’t know what you’re missing,” she said, standing up. “But if you give me these two weeks, I promise you’ll see something different.”

Against his better judgment, something inside him stirred—a flicker of curiosity. He felt like he had nothing left to lose. “Alright,” he whispered. “Two weeks.”

The days that followed felt oddly liberating. The mysterious girl—whom he learned was named Maya—took control in unexpected ways. She didn’t push him into therapy or force him to talk about his feelings. Instead, she invited him to simple things. A walk in the park. Coffee at a small, hidden café. Late-night conversations that had no destination, yet they felt like an escape.

With every passing day, Kabir began to feel lighter. His mornings weren’t weighed down by the dread that used to greet him the moment he woke up. The small joys—the smell of fresh coffee, the sound of Maya’s laughter—began to seep into the cracks of his heart. He didn’t know how she did it, but her presence made it easier to breathe.

Soon, Kabir found himself looking forward to the next day, the next moment. He couldn’t remember when it happened exactly, but somewhere along the way, he started to feel something for her—something warm, something hopeful. The idea of falling for someone after his heartbreak seemed impossible at first, but Maya made it feel natural, like it wasn’t about replacing his past but about creating something new.

On the twelfth day, they stood on the bridge where they had first met. The night was cool, and the river still flowed quietly below. Maya was leaning against the railing, her hands resting lightly on the edge.

“It’s almost two weeks,” she said, her voice teasing but gentle.

Kabir chuckled. “Yeah, it is.”

“You’ve changed,” she added, looking at him with those knowing eyes again. “You’re not the same guy I saw sitting on the edge of this bridge.”

Kabir smiled, the warmth inside him growing. “That’s because of you.”

She looked away for a moment, as if hiding something. “No, Kabir. You did that yourself. You just needed someone to remind you of what you’re capable of.”

He wanted to tell her. He wanted to admit that he had fallen for her in these two short weeks, that she had given him something he thought he’d never feel again. But before he could say anything, she turned to face him, her expression soft and serious.

“I need to tell you something,” Maya began, her voice quieter now. “There’s a reason I asked you for two weeks.”

Kabir felt his heart tighten, his mind racing with the possibility of what she might say next. “What is it?”

She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. “I’m not really… here, Kabir. I’m not alive.”

The world seemed to stop. Kabir’s breath caught in his throat, his pulse pounding in his ears. “What do you mean?”

“I was like you once,” she said, her eyes misting over with something distant, a memory he couldn’t reach. “I stood on this bridge years ago, ready to end it all. But no one came for me. I didn’t get those extra two weeks. And ever since… I’ve been here, waiting. Waiting to help someone like you. You’re the first person who’s seen me.”

Kabir’s head spun. “But you’re real. You’re here.”

She smiled sadly. “I’m real to you. But I was never meant to stay.”

“No…” Kabir’s voice broke, the realization crashing over him. He reached out, but his hand met only air. She was fading before his eyes, like mist in the morning light. “Maya, please…”

“I told you I’d be here for two weeks,” she whispered, her voice softening like a breeze. “Now, it’s your turn to live.”

And with that, she was gone.

Kabir stood alone on the bridge, his heart aching in ways he didn’t think possible. But the weight that had crushed him before no longer suffocated him. Instead, there was a warmth in his chest, a promise that even in the darkest moments, there was light.

Maya had given him something precious—time. Time to heal, time to remember who he was, and time to live. And as he looked out over the quiet river, he knew one thing for certain: those two weeks had saved him in more ways than one.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2024. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used instead

Dashami

The fragrance of incense filled the air, and the rhythmic beats of the dhaak reverberated through the bustling pandal. It was Shasti, the first day of Durga Puja, and the city of Kolkata was draped in lights, laughter, and celebration. Abir stood at the edge of the crowd, watching the colourful festivities unfold. He loved the energy of Durga Puja, but this year, something felt missing.

And then, he saw her.

She stood near the idol, draped in a simple saree, her face glowing under the soft light of the pandal. She wasn’t just beautiful—there was something magnetic about her presence. Their eyes met, and for a brief moment, the chaotic world around them seemed to slow down.

Compelled by a force he couldn’t explain, Abir walked up to her. “Hi, I’m Abir.”

She looked at him, a hint of surprise in her eyes, before offering a warm smile. “Ishita,” she said simply.

They fell into an easy conversation, finding common ground in the shared joys of the Puja, the love of Kolkata’s streets, and their similar tastes in music. The evening passed in a blur of laughter and connection, and by the time the night was over, Abir knew he had to see her again.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asked, feeling a rush of hope.

She smiled, her eyes twinkling. “Definitely.”

Saptami, Ashtami, Navami—the next few days flew by in a haze of pandal-hopping, egg rolls, puchkas, and moments stolen in the midst of Kolkata’s most vibrant celebration. With every passing day, their bond deepened. Abir had never felt so comfortable with someone, and yet so nervous at the same time. There was something undeniably special about Ishita, and he knew he was falling hard for her.

By Navami, he had made up his mind. He was going to tell her how he felt on Dashami. He would ask her to be a part of his life beyond these few magical days. He imagined their future together, the moments they would share, and the love that had already begun to blossom between them.

“I have something to tell you tomorrow,” he said that night as they stood by the river, watching the soft glow of the moonlight reflect off the water.

She looked at him curiously, her lips curving into a gentle smile. “Tomorrow, then.”

The morning of Dashami arrived, tinged with both excitement and bittersweetness. The day marked the end of the Puja, the departure of the goddess, but for Abir, it also signified a new beginning—a chance to confess his feelings.

As he reached the pandal, his heart raced. He scanned the crowd, searching for her, until finally, he spotted her. She was dressed in a stunning red and white saree, her hair neatly pinned back, a vision of beauty amidst the festive chaos.

He was about to approach her when his phone buzzed. Abir glanced at it absentmindedly, expecting a message from a friend, but what he saw made his blood run cold.

The message was from an unknown number, and attached to it was a picture of Ishita—smiling, just like she had smiled at him so many times over the last few days. But she wasn’t alone in the picture. A man stood beside her, his arm wrapped around her shoulders.

Underneath the photo was a single line: “She’s lying to you.”

Abir’s heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the image, trying to process what it meant. His mind raced with questions. Who was this man? Why had Ishita never mentioned him? And why would someone send this message to him now?

He looked up at her again. Ishita was still talking to some people, oblivious to the turmoil brewing inside him.

Gathering his composure, Abir approached her. “Ishita, can we talk?”

Her face brightened when she saw him. “Of course! Let’s step outside. It’s a bit loud here.”

As they walked to a quieter spot, Abir’s mind was in overdrive. He couldn’t shake the image of the message and the man in the photo. His heart ached at the thought that everything they had shared could be a lie.

When they were finally alone, he hesitated for a moment before pulling out his phone and showing her the photo.

“Ishita, who is this?” he asked, his voice fraught with emotion.

Her smile faltered as she looked at the image. There was a long, tense pause before she finally spoke.

“Abir… I was going to tell you,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “That’s my brother.”

Abir blinked in confusion, unsure of what to make of her words.

“My brother passed away last year. This was the last photo we took together,” she continued, her voice trembling. “The person who sent you this message is someone who’s been stalking me for months—someone who’s been harassing me since my brother’s death.”

Abir’s breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t expected this. His mind raced as he tried to piece everything together.

“He’s been trying to scare me, control me, and when he saw us together these past few days, he must have felt threatened,” she explained, her eyes filling up. “I didn’t want to burden you with this… but now it’s out of my hands.”

Abir felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He had jumped to conclusions, let his insecurities cloud his judgment. He reached out, gently taking her hand in his.

“I’m so sorry, Ishita. I didn’t know,” he said softly.

Ishita looked at him, her expression a mix of relief and sadness. “I wanted these days to be happy, free from that part of my life. But I guess you can’t run from everything.”

They stood there, the world around them bustling with the sounds of celebration, but in that moment, it felt like time had stopped.

Abir pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her in a silent promise. “You’re not alone in this. We’ll face it together.”

As they stood amidst the chaos of Dashami, watching the goddess make her way toward the river, Abir realized that while fate had thrown them an unexpected twist, it had also given him something far more precious—someone worth fighting for.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2024. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used instead

The Bag of Cookies

She always reached the airport much before her flight. She loved waiting there and reading her paperback and munching on something. Maybe crisps maybe cookies. Today she had a pack of cookies with her. She sat in the waiting lounge, the faint hum of announcements and the soft rustle of travellers around her blending into white noise. In her hand, a paperback—a comforting companion for the next hour until her flight. Beside her, an unopened packet of cookies sat on the empty seat, waiting for when her hunger would inevitably surface.

After flipping a few pages, she felt a slight movement beside her. A man, nameless and quiet, had taken the seat next to hers. He didn’t acknowledge her, didn’t glance her way, but what he did next sent her blood pressure spiking. He reached over and, without hesitation, slipped his hand into the packet of cookies, pulling one out casually and taking a bite.

Her eyes widened in disbelief. *Did that really just happen?*

She was no stranger to rudeness, but this was a first. Who just helps themselves to a stranger’s cookies without asking? She thought of saying something, but instead, her jaw tightened, and she decided to let it go. Maybe it was a misunderstanding, maybe he thought the cookies were complimentary or something. So, she quietly took one herself, hoping he’d get the message.

He didn’t. He simply reached for another.

*The nerve!* She glanced sideways at him, but his face remained impassive, eyes fixed on his phone. He was acting as if it was the most normal thing in the world, sharing her cookies without so much as a word. 

One cookie. Then another. They went on, alternating—her with simmering rage, him with silent indifference. With each cookie that vanished, her fury deepened. How could he?

The packet grew lighter, and with each passing moment, she fantasised about confronting him, demanding an explanation, maybe even a public scene. But she remained silent, her frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.

Finally, there was only one cookie left. This is it, she thought. Surely he wouldn’t be so bold as to take the last one.

But, to her shock, he reached into the packet, broke the cookie in half, and handed her one half with a slight nod. Then, without another word, he popped the other half into his mouth and stood up as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired. 

Her face flushed with indignation. The audacity! She opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind, but at that precise moment, her flight was called. Too stunned to speak, she gathered her things and marched toward the gate, fuming at the injustice of it all.

Once on the plane, she settled into her seat, still stewing over the bizarre encounter. She reached into her bag to retrieve her glasses, intending to finish the last few pages of her book. As her hand fumbled inside, it brushed against something unfamiliar.

Her heart skipped a beat. She slowly pulled out the object—

Her unopened packet of cookies!!!

For a moment, the world around her blurred into an uncomfortable haze of realisation. Oh no…

Her mind flashed back to the lounge. The nameless man, sitting beside her in silence, hadn’t been stealing her cookies. He had been sharing his.

She stared at the packet in her hand, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. All that anger, all that silent fury, had been over nothing. She had eaten *his* cookies—cookie after cookie—and he, without a word of complaint, had quietly shared them with her.

A small, self-deprecating smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she leaned back in her seat. 

Life, she realised, had a funny way of humbling you when you least expect it.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2024. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used instead

Idle Cinema Musings #6 Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s Jurmana – 45 years of quiet excellence

Jurmana (1979), directed by Hrishikesh Mukherjee, is a film that explores themes of redemption, guilt, and the consequences of moral recklessness. The film is notable for its emotionally resonant storytelling, supported by strong performances from its ensemble cast. While the film aligns with Mukherjee’s signature style of simple, yet profound human dramas, Jurmana carries a more intense emotional undercurrent compared to some of his other lighter works.

At the centre of the film is Amitabh Bachchan as Inder Saxena, a character that stands out due to its moral complexity. Inder is wealthy, charming, and successful, but his moral compass is skewed by arrogance and a sense of entitlement. Bachchan, known for his ‘angry young man’ persona in many films of the 1970s, brings a different flavour here—playing a character whose hubris leads him to toy with the emotions of the vulnerable. Inder’s journey in Jurmana begins with him recklessly wagering that he can seduce the principled and idealistic Rama (Raakhee), an action that sets off a chain of events with severe consequences.

Amitabh’s performance is brilliantly layered, oscillating between charisma and eventual guilt. His portrayal captures Inder’s gradual realisation of the damage he has caused, as the character is forced to confront his actions and their devastating impact on Rama. The transformation from a confident playboy to a remorseful, guilt-ridden man is subtly conveyed, and Bachchan brings a maturity to the role, ensuring that Inder’s repentance feels genuine, despite the harm he has inflicted.

Raakhee as Rama serves as the moral core of the film. Her portrayal of a woman who faces betrayal with dignity and strength is one of the film’s most moving aspects. Rama’s simplicity, goodness and her ethical principles are tested, and Raakhee’s nuanced performance ensures that the audience feels the emotional weight of her suffering and eventual forgiveness. Her chemistry with Amitabh adds depth to their dynamic, making her a powerful counterpart to his morally ambiguous character.

Vinod Mehra, as Prem, plays a more understated but essential role. His character represents a contrast to Inder—he is steadfast, compassionate, and emotionally mature. Mehra’s calm and composed demeanour anchors the film’s emotional beats, offering a sense of stability and reliability that counters the turbulence of Inder’s actions.

Dr. Sreeram Lagoo, A.K. Hangal, Asrani, and Farida Jalal provide strong supporting performances, each contributing to the film’s emotional richness. Dr. Lagoo’s character, in particular, embodies wisdom and paternal concern.  Asrani and Farida Jalal lend warmth and lightness in moments where the narrative threatens to become too heavy, maintaining the balance typical of Mukherjee’s films.

The music by R.D. Burman is integral to Jurmana‘s emotional impact. Burman, collaborating once again with the lyricist Anand Bakshi, crafts a score that is both lilting and poignant. Songs like “Sawan Ke Jhoole Pade” and “Chhoti Si Ek Kali” capture the emotional transitions of the characters beautifully, underscoring their internal struggles and moments of realization. The music serves not just as a backdrop, but as a reflection of the characters’ inner worlds, with Burman’s melodies providing a tender counterpoint to the film’s moral and emotional tensions.

Hrishikesh Mukherjee, known for his ability to combine social commentary with deeply personal narratives, crafts Jurmana as a meditation on the price of moral misjudgments and the possibility of redemption. The film reflects Mukherjee’s belief in the essential goodness of people, even when they falter. While it may lack the overt simplicity of his other films like Anand or Chupke Chupke, Jurmana stands out for its emotional depth, offering a more complex portrayal of guilt and repentance.

Jurmana is a compelling drama about the consequences of a man’s careless choices and his eventual path to atonement. Amitabh Bachchan’s complex portrayal of Inder, paired with Raakhee’s dignified performance as Rama, creates an emotionally charged narrative that remains touching and thought-provoking. The supporting cast and R.D. Burman’s music elevate the film further, making it a significant entry in Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s rich body of work.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2024. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used instead

The Meeting

The evening sun was gradually dissolving into the horizon, casting a golden hue over the quaint little cafe that had been their spot. It was tucked away from the hustle of the main street, a place of warmth, intimate corners, and memories that lingered like the faint aroma of coffee beans in the air. He hadn’t been there in months. Not since that day.

The breakup.

But today was different. She had called him after all this time, her voice tentative, unsure, asking if they could meet. “Just like old times,” she had said, her words carrying a soft ache that he couldn’t ignore.

As he pushed open the familiar wooden door, the little bell above chimed the same way it always had. There she was, seated at their usual table by the window, fidgeting with her cup. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and for a moment, neither spoke. The sound  of all those unsaid words, all the months of silence, hung in the air between them.

“Hey,” she smiled softly, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He smiled back, a little cautiously, taking the seat across from her.

For the first few minutes, the conversation was light, awkward even, as they discussed the small things — work, the weather, new movies. But as the evening wore on and they settled into the rhythm they once knew so well, the conversation drifted to the past. To the times they had laughed at this very table, sharing stolen glances and inside jokes that no one else could understand.

“Remember that time we stayed here until they had to kick us out?” she asked, her voice soft with nostalgia.

“And you tried to convince the barista that you could make better cappuccinos than him,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “You were terrible, by the way.”

She laughed, a genuine sound that warmed the space between them. “I wasn’t *that* bad.”

“You nearly broke the machine.”

“Fine, I was terrible,” she admitted, smiling. “But it was fun, wasn’t it?”

He nodded, his gaze drifting to the window, where the light outside had softened into twilight. The laughter died down, leaving a quiet, wistful silence in its place. For a moment, the memories felt so real, so close, that it was as if no time had passed at all.

They had been so foolish, they realized now. The fight, the breakup — they all seemed so trivial in the light of these shared moments. The arguments that once felt so monumental had lost their meaning. They had loved each other deeply, and it seemed ridiculous now that they had let it slip away.

Her hand reached across the table, brushing against his. “Maybe we were wrong,” she whispered, her eyes searching his. “Maybe we made a mistake.”

His heart skipped a beat. He had missed her — missed this. The familiarity, the connection. For a moment, he allowed himself to believe that maybe they could turn back time, undo the hurt, and find their way back to each other.

But just as he opened his mouth to respond, his phone buzzed on the table, the screen lighting up with a text message.

Without thinking, he glanced at it — and froze. The message was from Bidisha.

“Can’t wait for our dinner tonight! 🙂 See you soon x”

He stared at the screen, his mind suddenly swirling with guilt, confusion, and the sharp realisation of what this moment really was. This wasn’t a reunion. It wasn’t a second chance. It was the end of something they had both outgrown without fully acknowledging it.

Her eyes followed his, landing on the phone, and the message that shattered the fragile hope hanging between them.

“Bidisha?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper, though it carried the weight of everything she feared.

He looked up at her, his jaws tightening. He hadn’t wanted this. He hadn’t expected it to end like this. But this was the moment of truth.

“I… I didn’t know how to tell you,” he started, fumbling for the right words. “We’ve been… I’ve been seeing her for a while now.”

Her face paled, the softness in her eyes replaced by a quiet, hollow shock. The realisation hit her like a wave — the memories, the laughter, the connection they had once shared — it was all in the past. She realised she had lost him long before this meeting.

“I see,” she said finally, her voice steady but distant. She pulled her hand back from the table, wrapping her fingers around the cup instead, as if holding onto something, anything, that was still familiar.

For a few long moments, they sat in silence. The cafe around them, once so full of warmth and shared moments, now felt cold, as though time itself had shifted between them.

“I should go,” she said quietly, standing up and gathering her things. Her movements were deliberate, but her eyes betrayed the emotions swirling inside her. “Thank you for coming.”

He stood up too, wanting to say something, anything, to make it right, but no words came. What could he say? He hadn’t meant to hurt her — but he had.

She offered him a small, sad smile before turning towards the door. As she walked away, the bell chimed softly again, a final note in the soundtrack of their story.

He watched her leave, knowing that this time, there was going to be no coming back.

And outside, as the dusk settled in, she stepped into the street, the gravity of what was lost pressing heavily on her heart. The world around her felt the same, but she knew, in that quiet moment, that everything had changed. Forever.

What they had once shared would now only live in memories — as the memories of a love that had slipped away when neither of them were even aware of it.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2024. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used instead

Two Worlds

Ananya hadn’t planned on falling in love with the mountains. She had simply needed a break—a pause from the rush of her daily life. Her marriage to Veer was comfortable, steady, and safe. They had built a good life together, full of routine and stability. But lately, something had been missing. The quiet yearning she could never quite articulate to him or even herself had grown too loud to ignore. So, she booked a solo trekking trip, craving solitude and space to breathe, far away from the endless noise of deadlines and obligations.

On the second day of her trek, as the mist clung to the peaks, she met him. His name was Ayan, and from the moment they crossed paths, she felt the pull of something unexpected. He was nothing like the people she knew back home. With tousled hair, worn hiking boots, and eyes that held a thousand stories, Ayan seemed to carry the world lightly. He was a traveller in the truest sense—always moving, never staying. His life was a series of fleeting moments, and he seemed content that way.

Their first conversation was brief, exchanged over a shared campfire with other trekkers. But it was enough for Ananya to sense the quiet magnetism that drew her toward him. Ayan spoke of the world as if it were his playground, his heart untethered, his soul unanchored. He didn’t ask too many questions about her life, nor did he offer much about his own. But in the silences between their words, something lingered, something neither of them could ignore.

They kept running into each other after that—on narrow paths winding through forests, on rocky trails that led to breath-taking views. And each time, they lingered a little longer. Their conversations deepened, and with each shared story, Ananya found herself slipping further away from the person she had been when she arrived. Ayan, too, seemed to soften in her presence, drawn to the quiet grace with which she carried herself. 

The mountains became their sanctuary, a world suspended from time where the outside didn’t exist. The days they spent together felt like stolen moments, fragile and fleeting. Ananya could feel something stirring in her, a restlessness she hadn’t acknowledged before. Ayan made her feel alive in ways she had long forgotten—his spontaneity, his ease with the unknown, the way he saw beauty in everything, from the simplest wildflowers to the vastness of the sky.

One evening, after a long day of trekking, they found themselves alone, the others from their group having drifted off to sleep. The fire crackled between them, casting flickering shadows on their faces. Ayan told her about his travels—about the places he had seen, the people he had met, but also the emptiness that came with never belonging anywhere. There was a sadness in his voice, one that she hadn’t noticed before.

Ananya listened quietly, her heart tightening. She told him about her life—her marriage to Veer, the love she still had for him, but also the growing distance between them. She confessed that she felt lost sometimes, like she had forgotten a part of herself along the way. Ayan didn’t say anything for a long time, and when he finally spoke, his words were soft, almost tender. “Sometimes, we don’t realise what we’re searching for until we find it.”

The words floated between them, laced with meaning. Ananya’s breath caught, and in that moment, she knew. She knew that what she felt for Ayan was not just admiration or fleeting attraction. It was something deeper, something that tugged at the very core of her being. But she also knew that this could never be more than a beautiful, fleeting moment in time. She had a life to return to—a life she had chosen, and a love that was steady, if not always thrilling.

The days passed in a blur of stolen glances and lingering touches. They never spoke of the future; they didn’t need to. Both of them knew that this was temporary, that the mountains would not follow them back into the lives they had left behind. But the unspoken longing between them grew heavier, like a storm waiting to break.

On the last morning of the trek, the sky was a soft shade of pink as the sun rose over the peaks. Ananya stood by the edge of the cliff, her heart aching with the knowledge that this was the end. Ayan came up behind her, his presence warm and familiar. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“I’ll miss this,” she whispered finally, her voice breaking just slightly.

“So will I,” Ayan replied, his voice surprisingly emotional, something he hadn’t allowed himself to show before.

They turned to face each other, the distance between them both huge and yet unbearably close. Ananya wanted to say something, to ask him to stay, to ask if he would ever come back. But she knew better. They were from two different worlds—his, full of movement and freedom; hers, bound by love, commitment, and anchored in responsibility. Asking for more would break the delicate beauty of what they had shared.

Instead, she reached for his hand, holding it for one last time. The weight of his touch sent a wave of longing through her, a sadness for what could never be. Ayan’s eyes were soft, filled with the same unspoken emotion. 

They didn’t say goodbye, because goodbye felt too final. Instead, they stood there, in the silence of the mountains, knowing that what they had found would stay with them long after they parted.

When Ananya returned home, her life resumed as it always had. Veer greeted her with warmth, and she slipped back into the routine of work, of marriage, of the life she had chosen. But something inside her had changed. The mountains, and Ayan, had left their mark. She thought of him often, of his laughter, the way he made the world feel lighter. But most of all, she thought of that moment by the cliff, of the ache that had lodged itself in her heart the day they parted.

And somewhere, out in the world, Ayan kept moving. He travelled to new places, met new people, but he, too, carried that moment with him. He thought of her—of her quiet strength, the way her eyes reflected the mountains when she smiled. And though he continued to wander, a part of him longed for the stillness he had found with her, if only for a little while.

They lived their lives, separate but connected, forever reminded by the echoes of a distant moment that had changed them both in ways they couldn’t fully understand. It was a love that was never meant to last, but one that neither of them would ever forget.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2024. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used instead

Idle Cinema Musings #5 Hrishikesh Mukherjee – My Personal Favourite Top 5 films

Hrishikesh Mukherjee, one of the finest filmmakers in Indian cinema, holds a special place in the hearts of many for his ability to depict simple, human stories with warmth, humoUr, and moral integrity. On his birth anniversary, it is a fitting tribute to explore his cinematic genius through the lens of five of his timeless films that exemplify his craft, gentle storytelling, and empathy for human nature.

1. Musafir (1957)

“Musafir,” Mukherjee’s debut film as a director, is an innovative and poignant tale that highlights his humanistic approach to storytelling. The narrative is structured around three stories, all set in the same house, each exploring different stages of life—youth, marriage, and death. This film stands out because it is emblematic of Mukherjee’s signature: simple yet profound depictions of human relationships. The house becomes a metaphor for life itself, where different tenants leave behind memories, joys, and sorrows. Mukherjee’s use of subtle humour and layered emotions laid the groundwork for the kinds of intimate films he would go on to make. For me, “Musafir” is a touching meditation on life’s impermanence and the transient nature of our connections.

2. Anupama (1966)

“Anupama” is an emotionally resonant film that highlights Mukherjee’s sensitivity in portraying complex relationships, particularly familial bonds. The story revolves around Uma (Sharmila Tagore), a reticent and emotionally scarred woman, and her strained relationship with her authoritarian father. The film beautifully explores her journey towards self-expression and emotional freedom, catalysed by a poet played by Dharmendra. For me, “Anupama” is a masterpiece in understated emotions. Mukherjee masterfully captures the unsaid through silence, minimal dialogue, and subtle gestures. The melancholic mood, haunting soundtrack, and Sharmila Tagore’s tender performance elevate this film into a poignant reflection on parental expectations and emotional repression.

3. Satyakam (1969)

“Satyakam” is arguably one of Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s most serious and hard-hitting films. Based on the novel by Narayan Sanyal, it examines the life of an idealistic man, Satyapriya (Dharmendra), who struggles to uphold his moral principles in an increasingly corrupt world. Set against the backdrop of post-independence India, the film is a deeply philosophical exploration of truth, integrity, and disillusionment. What I admire most about this film is its stark portrayal of how unyielding idealism can lead to personal and emotional devastation. Mukherjee does not offer easy answers but presents a thought-provoking character study that resonates deeply with anyone who has grappled with the compromises required in life. Dharmendra’s career-defining performance and Mukherjee’s sharp critique of societal hypocrisy make “Satyakam” an unforgettable cinematic experience.

4. Anand (1971)

“Anand” is undoubtedly one of Mukherjee’s most beloved films, and for a good reason. The story of a terminally ill man, Anand (Rajesh Khanna), who spreads joy and optimism wherever he goes, is a celebration of life in the face of death. For me, the beauty of “Anand” lies in its balance of humor, pathos, and philosophical reflections on life. Mukherjee’s genius here is in crafting a film that, while centered on tragedy, never feels heavy or depressing. Rajesh Khanna’s infectious charm and Amitabh Bachchan’s introspective performance complement each other perfectly. The dialogues by Gulzar and the soulful music by Salil Chowdhury make this film a timeless ode to friendship, mortality, and the enduring human spirit.

5. Chupke Chupke (1975)

In contrast to the emotionally intense films, “Chupke Chupke” showcases Mukherjee’s flair for comedy. This delightful farce revolves around a newlywed couple (Dharmendra and Sharmila Tagore) who engage in a hilarious game of mistaken identity and linguistic humor to play a prank on the family. What makes “Chupke Chupke” a standout is its intelligent humour, witty dialogue, and impeccable comic timing by its ensemble cast, including Amitabh Bachchan and Om Prakash. Mukherjee brings out laughter not through slapstick but through situational humour and wordplay, all the while keeping the narrative grounded in a sense of familial warmth and affection. For me, this film reflects Mukherjee’s versatility and ability to create joy and light-heartedness without ever straying into the realm of the absurd.

In Retrospect

Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s films have an enduring quality because of their humanistic approach, relatable characters, and exploration of universal themes like love, integrity, and the fragility of relationships. His cinema is devoid of the glitz and glamour often associated with Bollywood; instead, he focuses on the quieter, more meaningful moments of life, making his films timeless in their simplicity and profound in their emotional resonance. These five films, each distinct in tone and style, are testaments to Mukherjee’s unparalleled contribution to Indian cinema and his ability to capture the complexities of human existence with grace and warmth.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2024. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used instead