Dreams slip away when I wake up. They dissolve, leaving nothing behind. But some stay, lingering in the mind for years. One such dream was at Sinthee More.
After the show, we took a taxi back—Shantanuda and I. Chicken from Bedouin, rum tucked away in Shantanuda’s bag. We were both like Hanuman, restless, high-spirited. The city drifted past through the window, blurred and half-lit. Returning home after a show was a routine by now. A familiar rhythm. We had done it before—again and again—watching our reflections in the city’s pale moonlight, as if looking at the other side of the moon.
At Sinthee More, our paths diverged. Shantanuda turned towards Baranagar Bazaar. I walked the other way, towards Binayak. The taxi took a U-turn. In the day, this place was chaos. Now, it felt like an old father watching his lost son come home. From here, I had to walk twenty minutes. Or maybe twenty-three. Twenty-seven, if I staggered.
No footpaths here. Just the dark, and bodies curled up against walls. A shape on the ground—half-covered with a blanket—rose like the curve of a woman’s breast. A sleeping corpse, or maybe not. It lay under the gate of a shut-down shop, near the steps of an apartment. I walked past. The air was thick. The dizziness made me want to vomit.
With clear eyes, I could have ignored it all. The woman sleeping by the hospital gate. Her child, awake, staring at me, measuring me.
Everything seemed pointless. The duty, the responsibility—whatever I had performed, whatever I had done—felt no different from the dull routine of a clerk. Was the boy hungry? I had nothing for him, except nausea. Was he cold? What was I even wearing?
He was shivering. I searched my pocket and found a matchbox. Just one matchstick inside. He looked at me, his eyes wide, waiting.
It was the only thing I could give him. The boy struck the match. The world burned.
I woke up.
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The views and opinions expressed in this novel are those of the characters and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of any agency, organization, or entity. Reader discretion is advised.
