That he saw was nothing. And nothing saw him. It was all set in a dark shabby one hundred-and-twenty rupees-a-month rented room. You know, better than I, how it looked in early eighties in suburbs of the city. A family of five, and, a ten-by-little more than ten, stinking room. Stinking with no further possibilities. A kitchen bare with accessories. And a passage that led to a hell of a four by four where stood an Indian washbowl.

He was diddling himself with his left hand. He knew when to stop and how. And he then digged into the mirror. Mirror that hanged on a strip of the wall between two windows through which hardly any air passed or light but, the stink of failures.
He was scared of one tiny thing if anyone could read whatever the mirror shot. It was all lack of light in the corridor he ran along. He ran and ran until he stumbled and found the little earthen goddess, all stained with red vermilion that his mother worshipped most and his father barked at.
He knew that she was so little but beautifully curved. He knew it, too, that she was she who would pick him up, sing him into sleep, caress him in his dream.
Lullay! Light lit in the world of little idols. There were many. As many as he could never fancy of.
He lived that world and shut the rest.
However, he grew. Grew his father’s anxiety, not his wages; mother’s perplexity, not her fortune, and a Hasnuhana on the passage that left their ragged room and worn kitchen and disappeared in a doom. There must be a reptiledom, he imagined. So many of them crawling on their bellies. They would get into him through his orifice, tear him apart and dare him bleed. The ferny floor seemed to be all blemished and full of stench.
He ran, ran and ran again. There was the flower tree on its one foot with no bloom. He got head on to it and entered the room, attempted the mirror and, when failed, crashed it. It was all rusty glass. Shitty and scary.
He lost his dolls’ house for ever.
Do I know him? You must.
However, each piece of him brings me closer to a futurity which is nothing but expansion of the past.



About the Author

20160112_151534-1Rajarshi Chattopadhyay started writing in the early 1990s. He has five books of poems, two of proses and a novel to his credit. He edits an online magazine Journey 90s since 2010. He has been awarded a junior fellowship by the Ministry of Culture, Government of India for his research work on Literature. A graduate in Arts, Rajarshi was born in Kolkata (1970), India.