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Trans. from Assamese by Anannya Nath.
First Published in Gariyoshi, June 2023

I am a living dead. I can feel it. Believe me.

“Yesterday, he came again. With the same story. And right before my eyes, jumped from the open terrace. I could not stop him. He died, again. He dies often, mimicking the trajectory of his first death. But, why does he keep coming back to me with the same story? He is dead! He calls himself the ‘living dead.’ Is that possible, doctor?”

Martha looks exhausted. She leans on the couch, puts her head on the brim and gives me a pale look. My phone dings. Rajita has left a text - Ankita and Dadul are fighting again. She needs me. Pick Imon up from school.

“Martha Neog.”

“Actually, it is Mallika Neog. My father studied in Shillong. Martha was his first love,” she speaks without emotion.

“Did your mother not object to it?”

“She was not alive to protest. Died three days after my birth.”

Martha Neog. An MBBS student. Schizophrenic.

“Are you attending classes?”

“Our professors are made for classes, not for us.”

“Did you sleep well at night?”

“When he dies after every visit, I too think that I am a living dead. Alive, but dead,” Martha says, ignoring my question. She moves her gaze to the calendar hanging on one of the cabin walls.

“You have not taken your medication, have you?”

“What do you think, doctor? Are medicines strong enough to sedate the human mind completely? Those pills. Sure, they can pacify the body, but can they placate the mind? Nothing can immunize the mind, or overpower it.”

Martha rises from her seat. She walks to the window behind my chair. The window has no grills and my chamber is on the third floor. My veins contract and shivers run down my spine. Last week, Martha recounted how he had jumped from a similar window. I scamper to my feet and rush towards her.

Martha gives me a weak smile and says, “Don’t worry. I won’t jump. I can see how little you trust your own medicines.”

Trust! Is Rajita playing with my trust? What exactly is this problem between Dadul and Ankita? Is it her?

I stand near the window long after Martha leaves. Imon’s classes are about to end. I have no more patients waiting. Yet, my feet are frozen, I am unable to move. The window hypnotises me, I am in a trance.

Mugdha stands beside me and says, “A window can only show you as much as you wish to see.”

What am I seeing through this window now? A woman on the third floor of the building opposite mine is hanging her wet clothes in the sun. What correlation exists between her errand and me? Yet, here I am, witnessing it. Because my mind wants me to see it. But, why?

Mugdha says again, “We cannot ensnare anyone. We try to contain all moments of boundless joy and insufferable pain in our conscience forever and fool ourselves into calling that stagnancy, longing.”

Right now, I feel no joy. Does that mean I am distraught? Am I drowning in some inexplicable ache? I feel nothing of that sort either. The phone rings. It is Rajita. She complains, “Where are you? There was a call from Imon’s school. Classes were over long back. How can you be so irresponsible?”

I disconnect the call and leave the room immediately. From the door, I look back at the window. Mugdha smiles. “All of us hoard secrets,” she says.

I am about to pull my car out of the parking area when I see a dead dog on the ground. People listlessly walk past it.

Dadul was Rajita’s first lover. Now, he is married to her best friend, Ankita. Ankita is a short story writer. Dadul keeps no account. Rajita is her first reader. Before sending her stories for publication, Ankita sends them to Rajita’s WhatsApp. Before any editor, Rajita reads them. Dadul remains busy with his job and the stage.

A character from one of Dadul’s plays loses his job. Lay off at a private company. The wife leaves him. In Mina Bazaar, the character snacks on crisp chickpeas, staring at a merry-go-round. A soldier returns home after six months from the border. His wife is three months pregnant. He picks up his gun and storms out of the house.

On the merry-go-round, two loners spin. One is a loner because his wife leaves him; the other, because his wife stays.

A character in one of Ankita’s short stories loses sleep. Sitting at the edge of her bed, she stares at the fan rotating above. On the bed, her husband enjoys a profound, sound sleep. He snores. She did not consent to it. Jugal, her co-worker, was run over by a truck in front of the office. She is unable to shake away the sight of his dead body soaked in blood with his sluggish insides exposed. Her husband tries to assure her, saying, “Sex is the greatest medicine to all pain.” He reeks of a peculiar smell, which, emanating from his naked body, suffocates her. She gets down from the bed and goes to the window. She opens a pane and draws in a deep breath…

“Papa, I love Jinki!” Imon confesses, right after getting into the car.

“That new girl?”

“Yeah. She is very pretty.”

“Did you not have a class test today?”

“I got nine. Jinki got ten. But Kabir stopped at eight.”

The signal turns red. I must stop. Kabir stopped at eight and I stop at a traffic point…

The lonely characters of Dadul’s play meet. As one continues to munch on his snacks, the other polishes his gun. Suddenly, the former offers the latter a strange proposal, “Shoot me, please!”

The soldier looks at him with disbelief.

“I know, no matter how hurt or outraged you are, you cannot shoot your wife. Because you still love her. And I? I do not own a gun to kill someone. Yet, I have the liberty to get shot and you have a gun. It all seems destined, doesn’t it?”

Without prior planning, the woman character of Ankita’s story goes to her best friend’s parlour instead of her home after work.

“You? Here?”

“Body spa.”

A girl comes forward. Looking at her best friend, the character says, “But by your hands…!”

“Papa, green signal!” Imon shouts.

Ritupan gets a migraine every time he sees a green signal. Green lights! Unbearable for him. He is surrounded by the cacophony of vehicles blowing their horns in unison. His head turns into a ball of slime, ready to burst.

Ritupan Dutta. PTSD. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Ritupan is on his way home from school with his mama driving the car. The traffic light turns red. His mama stops the car, waiting for it to become green. A boy, about his age, comes to them. He is selling fried peanuts and candies. The candies resemble the orange moon. The boy brandishes a packet in front of him. He takes it. His mama pays. The signal instantly becomes green. He screams, “mama, green signal.” His mama presses the accelerator. Just then comes an excruciating, terrible sound...

The coins the boy gets after selling the candies drop from his hands at one of the car wheels. He bends to pick them up. But the car has already begun to move. Everything happens very fast, too fast for anyone to stop it. The boy dies on the spot…

Ever since the green signal has been chasing Ritupan. I look at my watch. Five past three. I have an appointment at four.

I park the car near a restaurant and ask Imon, “Are you hungry?”

“A lot.”

“Maa isn’t home. We will eat something here.”

Cucumber sliced into green circles served at diners unsettles Ritupan. He recalls his elation on receiving a packet of gems as a kid. When he opened it, the green candies began to frighten him. He wept in fear…

“Papa, where is Maa?”

“At Ankita Aunty’s place.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask Ritupan.

“She broke up with me. I wanted to propose to her. But it did not work”

“Why?”

“We were both very happy that day – I felt light. She was wearing her favourite colour. Everything looked pink. Out of the blue, I felt as if the fan above would collapse on her. It began to rotate violently. I looked at it. All I could see was green lights beaming around. The sound of horns clogged my ears. My girlfriend was saying something. But I could not hear her over the sound bursting in my ears. I began to run away from the place.”

I look at the watch again. It is three thirty.

“Imon, I have an appointment with a patient. Could you stay at Jeena Mahi’s place for some time?”

“Don’t worry, Papa. I like it at her place. I will play video games with Bumon.”

On the spa bed, her eyes are closed. The woman character of Ankita’s story says, “I miss you. I just want to sleep peacefully for one night. I need your warm hug and nothing else.”

“Bhindeo, you are becoming extremely indifferent. Why don’t you say anything to her? Her constant interference in Ankita and Dadul’s lives is not good for you and Imon. I have heard that Dadul wants her back on stage. On the other hand, Ankita calls her for the pettiest of excuses. This is complicated. Dadul wants her to work in his plays and Ankita wants Rajita in her life. If she keeps on going further down this rabbit hole, her own marriage would lose meaning.”

Before starting the car, I look at Jeena and say, “The more we react, the more things become complex.”

I hit the ignition.

The soldier in Dadul’s play holds the gun with both hands and runs. The other character runs after him, screaming, “Please, shoot me, shoot me…”

Mugdha, sitting shotgun, says, “Let things be. Some things might end, or certain things might begin.”

The dead dog is still lying there. The flies that fan over it also attack the sweets displayed on the stall nearby. Nobody minds the contamination. The vendor keeps selling, and the flippant customers keep on buying. It appears as if no one could smell the air going rank. Not a single soul thinks about moving the dead animal away.

“Neither have you. You too have not thought of removing many things.” Mugdha laughs, getting out of the car. She walks by my side.

Rajita has begun painting again. She paints a woman’s figure covered with flowers and leaves. Half of the image is blue, the other half pink. When I stand in front of it, she covers her work and says, “Not finished. If I succeed in completing it, I will show…”

“We all have two individuals within us. One is the ‘I’ and the other is an ‘I’ within the ‘I’,” Rajdeep begins, immediately after sitting on the chair across mine.

Rajdeep Choudhury. Poet. Bipolar with three unsuccessful suicide attempts. Two of those attempts involved splitting his wrist with blades. For the third, he tried to hang himself.

“Have you started bike racing again?”

“This ‘I’ within my ‘I’ keeps spilling out all my secrets.”

“Bike racing can be harmful to you.”

“Doctor, your wall clock is slow.”

“It might be so that your watch is fast.”

“The colour of your curtain is also boring.”

“Every colour has some significance.”

“Meanings of insignificance disturb me. Lots of mess!”

Two years ago, Rajita and I discussed setting up phone pin codes. She said then, “If only there was anything in my cell phone to protect!”

“Still, there is something called security.”

“No need. One who has nothing to hide has nothing to lose.”

“Life can be beautiful when it is dangerous. But the fear of losing something! Why is being happy such a complex formula? Life is messy and horrible. Death can be easy,” Rajdeep explodes, restlessly.

Now, Rajita has a password on her phone. What is she hiding from me now? What is she scared of losing?

After Rajdeep leaves, I receive Rajita’s call, “Imon’s class teacher called. We have been called to school tomorrow. He did something terrible at school today. He kissed the new girl. Jinki’s mother complained.”

“It’s not a big deal. He is just a kid”

“This is not something to be ignored. Why are you apathetic towards everything? It is awful. How can someone alive be so detached?”

I cut the call.

“Apathy is refusing to see the obvious,” Mugdha tells me, staring out of the window. Through the gap, I see that the dog is still there.

“Oh god, even the vultures have not come,” I say to myself but Mugdha overhears.

“Perhaps god has also become apathetic like you. The question is, does it make living easier?”

“No. But it takes to another easy.”

“And where is it?” Mugdha asks.

I hold her hand tightly and say, “If we keep going down this window, we will reach that easy.”

The next day’s newspapers publish bold headlines; the news channels shout the same: Psychiatrist Dr. Arnab Duwarah Died by Suicide.

Looking at the news, the storyteller mutters, “Do not let your heart melt. It is a brainless story written by a brain which is out of mind.”