Waiting
The smell of dead sighs roams this room, ancient and circling. Only when Dipankar is alone does he sense it. A room means four walls and a roof. In the materialist’s philosophy, a space fenced by four walls means solitude and secrecy—individualism. A middle-class room means household; for saints it becomes a house of prayer. In this room, along the four walls, the idols of knowledge have risen in ranks—in the shape of books. Those books carry a faint sour-salty taste, like a tongue sliding along a brass plate— which, after a while, turns sweet upon the tongue. Thus this becomes a place where a person can rightly accuse himself. Beyond the tri-boundary of this room begins the indivisible world, and with that whole Dipankar keeps a single electric connection: upon the room’s only tea-table sits a pitch-black, ancient telephone. To dial even one digit on its wheel, you must spin it at least seven times. Dipankar’s hair stands to the left, defying gravity. After an afternoon rice-sle...