The air inside Sinha & Sons Corporate Headquarters didn’t move without permission. Double-height glass walls, spotless marble floors, and the scent of imported leather. This wasn’t just an office — it was a statement, a testimony to vision and power.
Behind a perfectly symmetrical mahogany desk sat Amar Sinha — early forties, sharp suit, sharper instincts. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed back like it carried the burden of legacy. The man didn’t just own wealth — he embodied it.
A framed photograph of his father, Late Nilmohan Sinha, watched from the corner of the desk. Black-and-white. Regal. The man who had built the great empire, the man who had always been highly respected in the society.
Amar’s voice echoed in the room, smooth as silk and just as calculated. “You see,” he said to the two investors seated across him, “my father gave me a business. I turned it into a brand. That’s the difference between nostalgia and legacy.” Amar never fully was ready to accept that it was entirely his father’s credit.
The woman smiled. “And we’re ready to be part of that legacy, Mr. Sinha. Business giants like Nilmohan Sir are rare in this world. The multi-storeyed mall proposal excites us indeed. And we’re ready for this joint venture. But the only concern is—”
“Legal formalities?” Amar asked before the woman could complete her statement.
“Yes. I mean, ours is not that big a firm as yours. And at this point, we don’t wish to invite legal battles.”
“Yes, they’re always concerned. I have my own sources- they’ll handle everything. Let the lawyers chew on it. We’ll cut the ribbon before they finish dessert.”
“Well then, let the mall be an epitome of affluence and stature in the city. Nice to meet you, Mr. Sinha.”
A chuckle followed. Deals were best sealed with laughter and vague reassurances. The investors left, pleased. Amar turned slightly in his revolving chair, his eyes lingering on the city skyline. The Sinha logo gleamed across rooftops — a familiar crown over unfamiliar lives.
Just then, Ravi walked in. Early 30s, efficient, silently exhausted with work. He had been Amar Sinha’s personal assistant for the last seven years. “Congratulations, Sir. That’s a great victory for the Sinhas.”
“Absolutely,” Amar said. “Big win. Sen Sisters have been our rivals for a long time. A joint venture will sort it out entirely. Go, get sweets distributed among my employees. Tell them that we’ve won a great deal.”
Ravi hesitated. “Sir… staff was expecting something else. It’s been five years. No increment. They’re starting to talk ill about the firm.”
Amar leaned forward, smile fading. “Ravi, I’m running a company, not an NGO. I know how to handle business and I won’t learn it from my middle-class slaves. You want me to raise salaries every time someone’s birthday comes up?”
“No, sir, but—”
“Listen, I don’t have money to waste. They’ll have to wait for the increments. And I want no further discussion regarding this.”
The irony didn’t escape Ravi. He didn’t argue. He knew the pattern. Amar stood up, stretching his arms like a king surveying his kingdom.
“Listen, book me a break next week. So much pressure at work- I need a good vacation. An exclusive suite. Quiet hills. Himachal, maybe.”
“Sir… Himachal?” Ravi blinked. “After everything that happened last time? Hilly roads aren’t dependable, Sir. Prone to accidents.”
“Neither is life dependable, Ravi” Amar said softly. “But we take it anyway. And what is life that has got no thrill, no unpredictability, nothing to live for?”
Ravi nodded, tapping into his tab. “Ok, I will have it done. But, before that. Two things, sir. First, riots in our Hemantpur unit. The factory’s partially damaged. Might be sabotage or protests for the increments or maybe, rival groups. And second — business excellence awards tonight. You’re nominated. Both need an immediate response, Sir. Either you do this or that.”
Amar barely blinked. “Tell the driver we’re going to the awards.”
“Sir, but Hemantpur—?”
“If one factory burns, I’ll buy ten more. But if I miss the cameras tonight, I miss the front page. Front page matters, Ravi. Memories don’t.”
“Very well, Sir. Your car will be here within an hour. Should I order your lunch?”
2
The film ‘Killbill Society’ had barely reached the part where the hero was about to reveal his secret when reality decided to steal the show.
Quite literally!
A loud scream cut through the air. A second later, a thief in a fake Marvel hoodie bolted out from the movie hall, pushing past kids, dropping a large tub of caramel popcorn in slow-mo horror, and clutching a stolen gold chain like it was a trophy.
From behind came Vaibhav Mishra, early 30s, sharply dressed with a lean build, and a scar across his forehead that suggested either a heroic past or a very clumsy childhood or none of them.
“Wait! You son of a second-hand sandal! Stop right there!” Vaibhav yelled, running after the thief like he’d trained for this moment his whole life. “Bastard, I swear on my EMI bills, if I catch you, I’ll smash your head like an overripe mango in Holi! I’ll cut apart your head and let little boys play football with it.”
People looked up. Some applauded. Some recorded.
And then, the ultimate drama. The thief stopped, turned around, and pulled out a knife — a big, shiny one that screamed: I’m not in the mood for fair fights.
Vaibhav skidded to a stop like a cartoon dog and blinked. “Fine, keep it, Sir. Take the chain with you. My life’s more important,” he said quickly, retreating in reverse.
He ran straight back to the woman still standing outside the theatre door — arms folded, face set in rage, and wearing the unmistakable expression of a newly married woman questioning all her life choices.
Jheelum, his wife of two months, stared at him like she could summon thunder just by blinking.
“You ran back?” she asked.
“He had a knife, Jheelum. A real one. Like from Crime Patrol. This wasn’t part of the wedding vows,” Vaibhav gasped.
“That was my mother’s chain,” she said, stone-faced. “He snatched it. And you just—ran?”
“I confronted him,” Vaibhav said, panting. “Then I assessed the situation. Then I ran. That’s strategy.”
Jheelum folded her arms tighter. “You're a fearless idiot. With zero execution. Are all the IT firm guys like you?”
“I’ll go to the police,” he offered, straightening his shirt.
Jheelum scoffed. “Please. Everyone gets their cut. The guy at the desk will ask which model the chain was. If it’s not at least 22 carats, he won’t even finish the complaint.”
“Wow. Your trust in the system is truly the stuff of bedtime stories.”
“I’ve grown up around realities, Vaibhav. You’ve grown up thinking sarcasm can fix everything.”
Vaibhav held up his hands. “To be fair, sarcasm got me you. So… kinda works.”
She tried to stay angry. But the dimple gave her away.
They walked out and landed at the mall’s food court. Neon menus. Children screaming for fries. Teenagers fighting over who paid last time. Life’s chaos, in full Dolby surround.
They found a corner seat. Jheelum slumped into it.
“Life has been so different after we came back from honeymoon, isn’t it?” Vaibhav said, sitting opposite. “Ever since we got back, we’ve had: one flooded apartment, one burnt toaster, a cockroach invasion, and now, a chain-snatching. Problems and problems. Life feels different.”
“And a man who thought threatening a thief with a ‘mango’ metaphor was enough.”
He smiled. “But you’re here. So I think I’m still winning.”
She looked at him — the fool, the lovable fool. “I swear, Vaibhav, you’re the kind of man who’d gift me a cactus and say ‘It’s low maintenance like our love life.’”
“That’s brilliant. Remind me to actually do that for our next anniversary.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
They sipped on two very overpriced milkshakes, watching people pass by. Vaibhav leaned forward.
“You know what I love? That even in your anger, you look like someone who’d win courtroom battles just by the stare.”
Jheelum smirked. “And you? You look like someone who’d cry if the judge raised his voice.”
“Only if the judge is taller than six feet. I have my limits.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t marry you for your courage.”
“Clearly.”
“I married you because no matter what chaos happens… I never feel alone when you’re around. We were good friends, in fact, the best friends for life.”
There it was. The real stuff — not flowery, not dressed in violins. But real.
He touched her hand across the table. “You make life weirdly beautiful. Like badly translated Japanese instructions. Confusing, but kind of poetic.”
She laughed, full and loud. They stood up. “So?” he asked. “Shall we try and have a peaceful dinner or are we aiming for another heist?”
“I want dumplings.”
He grinned. “We’re getting dumplings. But let’s be quick. It might begin to rain anytime soon.”
And hand-in-hand, they walked off — scar and sarcasm, fire and steel — two messy humans trying to love right in a world that keeps tripping over itself.
3
Evening wrapped its golden fingers around the towers of Livingstone University, Kolkata. The aged structure stood like an old king with a bitter sense of humor, its red bricks seasoned with politics, research papers, and a touch of mediocrity that clung like moss.
Inside the central library, a silence hung like a court’s judgment.
Near the ‘Philosophy and Thought’ section stood a man who had made many students cry without raising his voice. Professor Devnarayan Mukherjee — starched formal shirt, tie knotted with moral precision, eyes that had read more books than emotions, and a moustache that could qualify as a discipline policy.
Beside him, Prem, mid-twenties, carrying three different notebooks and the burden of his father’s untimely demise, stood like a schoolboy caught cheating with only guilt and Google as backup.
Dev took out a book titled ‘Visions Beyond Minds’ with the same grace with which a magician pulls out a dove.
“Enough time I’ve given you, Prem,” said Devnarayan, voice sharp like chalk screeching a deadline. “I told you: find me your person of interest, about eight months ago. Someone with great visions. Greater mind. And what do I get instead? Delays and dead ends. This is not how things work here.”
Prem cleared his throat like a failed engine. “Sir… after my father passed, things have been… a bit chaotic. I had to take care of problems and missed a few lectures—”
“Few?” Dev raised an eyebrow so high it probably saw the third-floor archives. Then came the smile — the kind that made students feel like they'd just failed at life’s test paper.
“When my daughter died… it was a Sunday. You know what I did on Monday?” he said, flipping through the book like flipping through a painful memory. “It was the last day before Durga Puja vacations. I still walked into this campus. Delivered all three lectures. On time. Without missing a single comma.”
Prem looked at his shoes. They looked disappointed in him too.
Just then, footsteps echoed from behind the shelves. A younger professor — Dr. Arindam Banerjee, charming in the way politicians shouldn’t be — approached with a nervous smile.
“DM Sir…” he said.
“What shall I DM you now, Dr. Banerjee?”
“Sorry, Dr. Devnarayan Mukherjee. I forgot that you hate abbreviations. The principal assigned a student under your mentorship. His name’s Rehan Aftaz.”
Devnarayan froze mid-page-turn. “What?”
“Rehan Aftaz. First-year MPhil. Bit of a troubled background, but the kid’s got something. He seeks your guidance badly, Sir.”
Dev’s eyes narrowed, and thunderclouds gathered in his tone. “The principal knows everything, yet he keeps throwing these trash at me. I worship Vishnu, Sir. I can never allow them under my mentorship, I’m sorry.”
Arindam blinked awkwardly and nodded, and disappeared quicker than a bonus in government jobs.
Dev turned to Prem again, the emotional detour already archived. “Now, as I was saying. I want the primary presentation this week. No more missed buses. No more personal excuses. And for subject selection—”
He checked his watch — a vintage one, ticking with both time and contempt.
“We’ll go to the National Library after class. The real library. Not this government-funded graveyard of torn indexes and underlined regrets. I heard a storm’s going to come tonight. Lets get there quickly.”
Prem opened his mouth to tell something. Then closed it. He knew better than to argue with a man who could quote Nietzsche and Newton in the same breath and make both sound sarcastic.
They walked off together, the professor with purpose, the student with pens and panic.
Outside, the library lights flickered. Inside, among the books that smelled of ambition and failed UGC forms, the dust settled.
4
The old ceiling fan groaned like it had seen too many summers. The walls, painted a pale yellow years ago, now bore the tired stains of time, resignation, and cheap adhesive posters that had once tried to liven them up.
Room 104, First Floor, Ballygunge Lane.
A man in his mid-sixties, wearing an old sweater despite the heat, sat hunched over a small desk. His chair creaked every time he shifted — which was often, thanks to the stubborn ink of his pen and the more stubborn thoughts in his head.
Pages lay scattered across the desk. Scribbled lines. Crossed-out paragraphs. Doodles of waves. He sighed. The kind of sigh that holds stories, not air.
From his window, Kolkata was in full swing — honks, hawkers, sun blazing over sweating heads and shared frustrations.
And then, as if nudged by instinct or a forgotten habit, the man stood up. He turned to the small iron door beside the window. The kind that, logically, should lead to a rusty, pigeon-infested balcony.
But he opened it.
And instead of the chaotic urban sprawl, there was a beach.
Not a metaphorical one. Not a dream. A real, breathing, salt-smelling stretch of coastline, endless and blindingly beautiful. The sun here was softer. The air cooler. The waves crashed like a symphony — unrushed, unruly, unbothered.
He stepped forward, barefoot on the sand. He walked as though he belonged there. As if he had once known this sea in another lifetime — or perhaps in a story he never wrote. The wind tousled his greying hair. For a moment, he closed his eyes and let the world fall silent.
“These waters, so silent and heavenly, as though they’ve bathed in peace. They don’t know which shore they’re hitting, but never fail to wash the aching lands. They run across lives, forgiving sins, unbound, unrestrained. They never know if the lands be scarred by silent wars. They never know if people on those lands have wealth enough to afford their flow. Or, are they just silent thinkers and fateful souls like me, whom destiny never bothered to spare?”
Then, without drama, he turned back. Back through the door upon the beach. Back into the dusty room.
The noise of Kolkata returned like a slap. He sat again. Picked up his pen. And finally, without crossing it out, he wrote something. Then he signed beneath it, as if concluding a letter only he would understand.
“S.Y.A.”
He placed a paperweight on the page. Leaned back. The fan spun above with the rhythm of a lazy metronome.
5
Late evening descended like an omen.
The sky cracked open — not with light, but with a sound that could split bones. Kolkata was sinking into darkness, one power cut at a time. Even the street dogs had gone silent, as if they, too, were waiting for the city to catch its breath. A violent storm was on its way.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
The integrated radio system in an air-conditioned car said, “Cyclone Rivan on its way to strike the City of Joy. Request to all pedestrians and car-drivers out there. Please go back to the safety of your homes before its late. The dangerous storm shall be here any time soon.”
Amar Sinha, who’d never been forced to stop for anything but champagne breaks and press conferences, finally gave in to nature. He had been coming from the award functions. His luxury sedan swerved gently toward the side of a lesser-known bylane, as the road ahead was now a collage of uprooted trees and flying signboards.
He muttered curses at the weather and Ravi in equal measure, whom he had been speaking to over phone.
Parking the car beside two other stranded vehicles, he stepped out — his leather shoes splashing into rebellious puddles — and ran across the road, blazer over his head like a crown that refused to surrender to rain.
The deserted two-storey building stood at the end of the lane. It didn’t look like it had welcomed guests in years. But tonight, it had no choice.
Inside, flickering candlelight played tricks on walls that had forgotten what paint looked like.
There were four others already gathered:
— A man and his wife, the former trying to light a cigarette with a matchstick that kept dying before it could serve.
— A professor, with sharp glasses and sharper silence and a young man- probably his student, flipping through a soaked diary like it was a holy book.
Amar walked in, shaking off water like a rich, offended Labrador. “Bloody weather. Makes you realise we’re all just insects in God’s ashtray,” he said, half-joking, half-angry.
The man with the cigarette looked up, unimpressed. “Well, this insect’s ashtray has leaks on every side. Welcome to democracy.”
His wife elbowed him. “Don’t start, Vaibhab. Not here.”
Amar looked around, wiping his face with a silk handkerchief. “Is this place abandoned?”
The professor replied without looking up. “Technically. But storms are great equalizers, Mr…?”
“Sinha. Amar Sinha,” he said, expecting a gasp of recognition.
None came though.
Only the young man in the hoodie looked up curiously. “Sinha… the mall guy?”
Amar smirked. “Among other things.”
The woman chuckled. “Well, tonight you’re just another wet man with nowhere to go.”
The professor finally looked up. “Devnarayan Mukherjee,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “And this is Prem, my student. We were on our way back from the National Library. Until God decided to turn the city into a swimming pool.”
Prem smiled awkwardly. “At least now I know why I always carry extra socks.”
Thunder roared again, and one of the windows banged shut on its own. Everyone flinched.
The professor stared for a second too long at the window, then muttered, “Old buildings like these… they keep secrets. Don’t they?”
Amar, ever the rational tycoon, scoffed. “They keep rats and property disputes, professor. Everything else is just rust and bad plumbing.”
Vaibhab, still trying to light his cigarette, mumbled, “And sometimes, bad memories.”
His wife shushed him again.
“What is it, Jheelum? Why do you keep stopping me always? I mean, do I speak rubbish?” Vaibhab asked angrily.
“No, I never meant that,” Jheelum said, feeling a bit awkward.
“Hey!” said Dev. “Can we keep marital matters out of here? I mean, there’s bit of a bad situation. The giant tree outside has blocked the entrance. We can’t get out of here till the rescue teams come in.”
“And that wont probably before tomorrow morning. No one is going to come during the storms.”
“Rubbish!” exclaimed Amar. “Just one phone call and ten teams will be here to rescue me.”
“No they won’t, Sir,” said Jheelum. “There’s no network here. Our phones are jammed. There’s no other option than to spend an entire night here with four other people not of your class.”
“Hey, girl! Do you even realize who I am? A man of my stature, power and affluence- I am, in no way going to spend a night in this beggar’s house. Back in my man, I had a team of ten attendants to serve me dinner and ten more to sing me off to bed.”
“Typical Capitalist mentality!” Vaibhab whispered.
“Did you say something, young man?” asked Amar.
“No, nothing, Sir.”
“I mean, have you people seen the condition of the house? It stinks of poverty. The ones who lived here might have been the worsts of insects on God’s ashtray. Bloody cheap devils.”
“I think you’re disrespecting people now,” said Dev. “They’re poor but doesn’t mean they’re devils. You own an industry, right? Labourers, factory workers, staff- without them, do you think you still could’ve been the business giant that you are? Cut short them and what are you, but a bag of notes?”
“How dare you say like that? I hate them the most. My father hated them too. Blood-sucking bugs they are in my empire. And I don’t know about the rest but I cant stay here like a beggar in his godforsaken cottage.”
“So, where do you plan to go, Sir?” asked Vaibhab. “To die in the storm outside?”
A silence settled in — not uncomfortable, but heavy, like a question nobody had yet asked. Somewhere in the shadows, a broken wall clock ticked despite no batteries. A sound that didn’t belong.
The storm howled outside like it was trying to get in.
Five strangers. One stormy night. A deserted house.
And somewhere in that house — in the cracks between the thunder and the flickering candlelight — something was listening.
6
The sun had faded behind dark clouds in the western sky. It was a pleasant day in the month of April.
A boy, in his early twenties, had been writing something in an old piece of paper back in his room. The house was a two-storeyed building, and by its very appearance, seemed to be an ordinary settlement, standing with pride in the bustling city.
His eyes were magical indeed, sheltering a thousand dreams and breeding a thousand more. He looked at the boundless sky as his pen drew heavy words upon his silent canvas.
“They love chaos and chaos is what they shall have.
- Yusuf Afzal (S.Y.A.)”
Outside his home, neighbours had gathered with sticks and rods. By the look on their faces and anger in their eyes, they didn’t seem to be quiet a friendly lot. They yelled and screamed until Yusuf’s father, a simple man, came out to look what the matter was.
“What is it, Panditji?” asked the man, his hands folded before them.
“How many times have we warned you that your son shouldn’t publish his works?” asked a man in saffron clothes. “Don’t you take matters seriously?”
“Sir, I have stopped sending my son to college for almost a year. What else will I do? Being a father, I can’t chain his dreams to the pillar. He loves to write. And I promise you, he shall write nothing that goes against your religion.”
“Listen. We have let you live in this Hindu neighbourhood because you had no money to afford elsewhere. Shouldn’t you remain ever indebted for that, Afzal?”
“I’m sorry, Sir. Won’t happen again.”
“Better keep that in mind. If we need to come again here, I will not be able to tell the mob to keep back their rage.”
The mob went away. Yusuf’s father closed the door. But back in the first floor room, the young boy had seen everything from his window.
7
The wind outside screamed like a flute denied a mic at a rock concert. The city groaned under the weight of falling hoardings, uprooted trees, and power poles that bent like elderly gymnasts.
Inside the house, the five temporary refugees sat scattered like reluctant relatives at a boring family reunion.
The power hadn’t returned.
Candles flickered like nervous servants awaiting orders. The room smelled of damp plaster, nostalgia, and Amar Sinha’s overpriced perfume trying its best to dominate.
Amar stood by the window, puffing on a cigarette like he was writing poetry in his head — though his mind was more concerned with who would pay insurance for the tree that just committed suicide on his bonnet.
Vaibhab, meanwhile, had decided boredom was a bigger enemy than the storm. He moved to the shelves, running his fingers along dusty spines and cobwebbed corners.
Then he pulled out a faded, crumbling book. Leather-bound. Smelled of mothballs and forgotten histories.
“They Who Lived,” he read aloud. “By… S.K. Yusuf Afzal?”
Jheelum leaned over his shoulder and frowned. “That name rings a bell. I also saw a couple of old Qur’ans in that wooden trunk. This house definitely belonged to a Muslim family.”
The words hadn’t even fully left her mouth when Devnarayan Mukherjee sprang up like a jack-in-the-box cursed by colonial trauma.
“O Good God! Are you joking? A Muslim household? I knew I felt impure! Why, oh why, did fate toss me here? I’d rather be killed in the storms outside!”
Everyone turned. Silence. Only the thunder dared interrupt.
Vaibhab blinked. “Excuse me, sir? Did I hear that right?”
Before Dev could offer another episode of his internal soap opera, Prem mumbled, “He’s… a little allergic to secularism.”
Dev scoffed loudly. “Little? LITTLE? Young man, if you call a volcano a matchstick, then yes. I can’t stand them. And now I’ll have to purify myself by taking a dip in the Ganges tomorrow morning itself!”
Amar, turning away from the window with a lazy drag of his cigarette, said: “Professor, you do realise you’re sitting on a floor once cleaned by a Muslim broom, under a roof that once heard Azaan, and perhaps peed in a toilet where some Yusuf ji probably had thoughts more noble than yours? So, you’re my team now, right?”
Vaibhab snorted. “What’s next, sir? You’ll burn your shoes because they might’ve stepped on a Muslim’s shadow?”
Dev gasped, scandalised. “Don’t be so casual about sins, young man. The ones for whom, you are shouting out baseless unity talks are the ones who have burnt down our temples, left us homeless, and slaughtered our women.”
Vaibhab, breaking his silence while adjusting his crooked spectacles, said: “I knew professors had egos. I didn’t know they came with full-blown caste-compliant egos. And then they teach us nationalism in classrooms. Quite of an irony, isn’t it?”
Prem chuckled silently and whispered under his breath, “Storms outside bring water. But storms inside? They reveal the mold in your walls.”
Dev turned red, being questioned by a bunch of strangers. “I’m not going to justify my beliefs. I’ve seen what I’ve seen. People like me have values. Culture. Not gutter-water philosophies shoved down our throats in the name of unity. Why do you people support those terrorists so much?”
Jheelum, who had been quiet all this while, said, “Listen, Mr. I don’t know what exactly have you been thinking of yourself. But I needed to say something. My Hindu parents had left me in the care of my uncle when I was a child. They flew abroad to fulfil their dreams. My uncle left me in an orphanage soon after. And it was there that my Muslim parents found me. They loved me and raised me up like their own daughter. And I never bothered to contact my own parents any further in my whole life since my Abbu and Ammi had become the ones my maa and baba could never be.”
“So, just one case you present before me in millions,” said Dev. “And tell me to believe that I was wrong?”
Jhelum smiled and tells, “What if the entire history you knew had only these exceptions? What if we were taught along with Aurangzeb’s betrayal to the Maratha kings, his contributions to the empire? You teach philosophy, right? Have you ever heard of great men like Al-Farabi, Ibn Khaldun, Al-Ghazzali besides Chanakya, Shankara, Ved-Vyas? You know what people like you make the 42nd Amendment Act of our Constitution a useless one.”
Outside, the storm roared louder. But inside, the real thunder had already struck. A strange silence spread again. Not awkward — more like the air had paused to take notes.
And then suddenly—
The lights flickered for a second. Then died. As though they didn’t wish to live anymore in the world of differences, the world heavily wounded by borders.
8
The walls of the drawing room were faded green — once rich, now receded into memories. A slow, tired fan creaked above, stirring warm air that carried the smell of old books, undrunk tea, and quiet poverty.
Yusuf’s father, dressed in a faded kurta and well-worn slippers, sat on an old wooden chair. His posture was straight, yet his hands trembled ever so slightly — as if they bore the weight of too many dreams dropped halfway.
Across him sat a man in a navy blue blazer, silk handkerchief neatly folded in his pocket, leather shoes still shining despite the muddy streets outside. His presence didn’t match the modest furnishings — a diamond centerpiece at a thrift store sale.
Afzal said nothing at first, only stared. The man smiled softly.
Afzal said, “Sir, who in this city doesn’t know your name. But then why, I wonder, has a man of your stature walked into a house that smells of books and broken fans?”
The man leaned back with confidence. “Is it a crime to be ordinary?”
Afzal chuckled dryly. “In my world, yes. Ordinary is invisible. And invisibility is death.”
A pause. The businessman adjusted his wristwatch. “I’ve come here to speak about… my daughter. She wants to marry your son, Yusuf.”
The fan creaked louder. The air suddenly grew heavier.
“She’s been fond of him since school,” the man added. “Says he’s the only one who ever saw her beyond her surname.”
Afzal’s lips pressed into a thin line. He opened his mouth to respond — but was interrupted. Yusuf himself had entered. Wearing a plain kurta, sleeves rolled up. His eyes sharp, tired, and distant. Like a man who'd been fighting wars no one saw.
“Father,” he said gently. “Can I speak with you in the other room?”
Afzal looked at the guest, then at his son, then stood up with a quiet sigh. “Excuse me, sahab. We’ll be back in a moment.”
The two walked into the adjacent room — darker, quieter, filled with files and faded photographs. Afzal closed the door. Turned to his son. “Do you know who’s sitting outside? That man owns a chain of hotels, godowns, and half of the city’s gossip. He wants to marry his daughter to you. Marriage will bring back what we lost, Yusuf. It’s not just about love. It's legacy. It’s chance.”
Yusuf looked at him. Slowly. Carefully.
“Abbu,” he said, voice low, “there’s something I need to tell you before you say yes.”
Afzal frowned. “What is it?”
9
The wall clock struck midnight — slow, echoing chimes that slipped through the cracks of the storm-ridden silence. Outside, the downpour refused to pause. Thunder rolled like a prelude to something unsaid.
Inside, under the dim emergency light, Vaibhab stood near the old wooden cupboard, brushing off years of dust from a rusted metal box. Curiosity had always been his vice.
He opened it. Old photographs, partially burnt. Three, maybe four, charred around the edges — but the faces were clear.
Yusuf, youthful, eyes radiant with dreams. Beside him, another boy, smiling. Too close. Too tender. Arms not just around shoulders, but around silences that spoke louder than a thousand words.
Vaibhab stared for a second. Then frowned. "What the hell is this?" he muttered, tossing them onto the table.
Everyone gathered around. Amar Sinha picked one up. His eyes narrowed, then widened in realization. "Well... that explains a lot," he said. “About your idol, this Yusuf guy.”
"Looks like the owner of this house was in love... with another man."
There was a pause. Then, Jheelum spoke, her tone sharp. "Unbelievable. We’ve been stuck in this cursed house all night, and now this?"
Vaibhab’s voice sharpened. "We’re sitting in the middle of a house that held... this kind of sin?"
Amar snapped. "Sin? You talk like love has to ask for permission. I’m sorry but you’re being too sceptical."
Jheelum crossed her arms. "Don’t twist it, Amar. You know what I mean. It’s unnatural. Disgusting, even."
Devnarayan Mukherjee slowly stood up from his chair, his expression unreadable. But when he spoke, it was with quiet fire. "Disgusting? The only disgusting thing I see here is how comfortably you spit judgment over something you don’t even try to understand. And a few moments ago, you were questioning my nature."
Vaibhab scoffed. "Don’t turn this into a lecture, Professor. Some things just aren’t right. Call it belief, call it upbringing—"
Prem said nothing but kept looking at his wristwatch often. These heated round-tables never attracted him much.
"No," Dev interrupted, stepping forward.
"Let’s call it what it is — fear. Fear of difference. Fear of losing control over the world you’ve been told is ‘normal.’”
Jheelum’s voice rose. "So now being uncomfortable with homosexuality makes us monsters?"
Dev’s eyes burned with restraint. "Being uncomfortable is human. But ridiculing it, calling it ‘sin,’ denying someone the right to love — that’s not discomfort. That’s cruelty dressed as tradition."
Amar leaned against the wall. "You think Yusuf had it easy? Loving someone the world refused to even acknowledge? While people like us sit in safety and throw stones from our glass lives? When we haven’t lived in his shoes, we have no right to speak that way."
Vaibhab looked away. "You’re romanticizing it, now. It’s not practical."
Amar replied firmly. "Love doesn’t need to be practical. Lots of things in life already are. And when society slaps boundaries around it, it stops being society — it becomes a prison."
Dev turned to Jheelum, gently this time. "You know what, I had a daughter, somewhat younger than you. She wasn’t normal either, according to your definition. And the society never left an opportunity to scoff at her. When I lost her, I mean, to suicide, I realized — the world doesn’t need more laws. It needs more listening. If Yusuf loved... and that love made him a little more alive in a world that constantly tried to kill him — then God bless that love. Such love stories should ever be glorified, not remain bound to hushed dinner table conversations."
Silence.
From the corner, Prem still hadn’t spoken. He just kept looking at his watch, the ticking louder than the rain. He was waiting eagerly for the night to end.
“Am I right, Prem?” asked Dev.
“Yes, Sir. Absolutely. But I have something else to say. May I?” Prem asked.
10
Room No. 104, Ballygunge Lane, Kolkata.
The clock ticked somewhere in the background, but time inside the room had a stillness of its own.
A soft bulb hung from the cracked ceiling, flickering with uncertain electricity. Papers lay scattered across the desk, ink bleeding onto their edges, as though even the pages couldn’t hold the weight of the truths written upon them.
The old man — frail, hunched — sat by the rusted desk, his breath slow and shallow. He had just signed a page in his leather-bound notebook. ‘S.Y.A.’
The initials sat proudly at the bottom. Sk. Yusuf Afzal.
He looked at the ink as though it was the last time he would ever write his name. Maybe it was.
And then — without warning — a sound tore through his memory. Not of thunder, not of the present, but of the past.
Flames. Screams. The night his world ended. The house ablaze. Molten orange swallowing the walls, the curtains, the photos, the faces. Yusuf, much younger, dragging his father out of the inferno. His father's hands trembling, their shadows flickering like ghosts.
And above all of it — the mob. “Get away, you monsters!” “We won’t let your filth stay in our city!” “Burn it all!”
The smell of kerosene. The crackle of hatred. He had run, but something inside him had stayed behind. Had burned with the walls.
His eyes snapped open. The room came back. The smell of antiseptic. The dim light. His notebook.
And... someone standing by the door. A familiar silhouette. Tall. Eyes searching.
Yusuf blinked. Slowly, almost like a whisper, he said— "You've come."
The man stepped forward, his voice trembling. “I didn’t know if you’d still remember me. I mean, you tend to forget everything lately.”
Yusuf smiled faintly. “How could I forget my own son?”
“Ay! Your adopted son, by the way.”
Prem.
It was Prem who stood before him. The revelation was silent. Earth-shattering. And yet... natural.
“Listen, I’ve paid the bills for this month. And I had a talk with the doctors too.”
“For what? For an extension of days in this miserable life? That wont be needed. My life’s already a mess. Let it be like that. I can feel very well that my days are numbered.”
Prem collapsed at his feet, holding Yusuf’s frail hands with trembling fingers. "Why, dad? Is it necessary for you to go" he whispered. A tear escaped Prem’s eye, but he wiped it away with the back of his hand.
Yusuf looked away, his eyes distant.
“My life’s been nothing but unfinished poems and unanswered doors. But I hold no grudge, Prem. Not even against those who made me run away, those who destroyed me. I’ve already suffered enough to know... that bitterness is just another form of dying.”
Prem squeezed his hand, softly. "Don't go now. I have no one in this world but you."
Yusuf smiled. And in that smile, there was every sunset he had never watched, every song he had never sung. “I can feel death walking near me, my boy. And I welcome it, like an old friend late to dinner.”
Prem leaned in. “Do you want me to call a doctor?”
Yusuf shook his head slowly. “No. There’s just one thing I need before I leave. Just... one last wish.”
11
“What was it?” Amar asked with inquisitiveness. There was pin-drop silence within the room.
“We’ll come to that,” said Prem, sitting upon an armchair, lighting up a cigarette. “But first, I need to know something from each one of you, who had been fighting so ruthlessly for identity in my father’s burnt home and abusing the man whose very residence had sheltered you this stormy night. And my first question is for you, Great industrialist, Mr. Amar Sinha.”
“Me?” asked Amar with surprise. “Ok, go on.”
“21st December, 2023. You had gone to visit the mountains of Himachal, right? And there you ended up in a sudden accident, an unforeseen landslide. Your car fell off the road and you were heavily injured.”
“Yes, but how did you know all these?” asked Amar. “This was never published in the papers.”
Prem smiled and said, “My next question is for Vaibhab and Jheelum. 5th March, 2025. You had gone for your honeymoon in Goa. Mahabaleshwar Road accident, couple heavily injured, act of road rage and careless driving. They were you?”
Vaibhab and Jheelum were left completely shocked. Vaibhab touched the scar upon his forehead and Jheelum said, “Yes, it was us. But what’s the point?”
Prem smiled once again and turning towards Devnarayan, said, “1st January, 2024. Sir, you had been away to a bar to drink with your old school friend and celebrate the New Year together. A group of burglars had hit you after a small quarrel and you were left to die. Right?”
“I am not bound to answer your stupid mind-game questions,” replied Dev, his eyes red in anger.
“I am not into playing mind-games, Sir. Just answer me, yes or no?”
“Yes. I was.”
“Very well. Now, you all must be thinking how I, a complete stranger, got to know of secrets as deep as these. All of you having one thing in common and that is three strange but deadly accidents. And this brings me to the most interesting part of this story, my father’s last wish.”
“Yes, tell us. What was it?” asked Jheelum.
“Memory transfer. He had wished that his memories, of loved, of grief, of pain, of joy, of fear, to be donated after his death, to people who needed them. Each of you, here in this room, had at one point in life, suffered immense brain damage, had lost part of your memories and had applied for memory transfer. And thereby from your medical records, I have known each one of you. This night, when by strange, no, in fact, by strangest coincidence, just the four of you were locked in my father’s ancient house, I decided to wait until the time was right to change your perceptions of life.”
Vaibhab said in weird disbelief, “That means we were able to live just with your father’s memories.”
“Not just, live, Vaibhab,” said Prem. “You loved with his memories, you felt pain because he had felt it, you were happy because of him. And then, what you did was abusing him, judging him with your baseless narrow-mindedness. He still lives in this world inside each of you or else, I would have prayed what came out tomorrow morning from this house were just four corpses.”
Jheelum burst out into tears, clinging on to Vaibhab’s hands. Amar sat down upon a chair, realizing the weight of the grave crime that he had done.
Turning to Devnarayan, Prem said, “So, thereby I wish to conclude my initial presentation, Sir. Thank you all for being my sincere audience. In loving memory of my father, Yusuf Afzal, a great vision, a greater mind and the greatest heart.”
Saying so, he walked towards the window, still smoking the cigarette, held between his fingers. He didn’t say a word further. But a silent tear drop slid down from the corner of this eyes. The night was coming to an end, making way for a bright lovely dawn. The storms had died down long ago. Rescue teams would be coming any time soon to rescue from trapped zones, those who lived still. But what about them who couldn’t?