M.Macabre's Hallowe-e-ners #2 - The Writer
-1-
‘May I ask you a question?’
The man was immersed in the piano playing some Gershwin jazz
when the woman in front of him asked the question. Coming out of his reverie,
he said, ‘Hmm? Oh right. Say.’
‘Why were you absent for so long? It’s been like five months since you
have been seen on the road. You’re such a popular figure – everyone’s been
dying to meet you?’
The man gave off a little laugh. ‘Is it? Well, I never really considered
myself that famous. After all, how can a writer..’
The woman interrupted. ‘A writer who has written 29 internationally
famous novels has to be a bit ‘famous’, Sir.’
They both laughed a bit.
Outside, evening had began to fall on the day of 29th
October, 2018. Park Street was now beginning to liven up. 2 days later it was
Halloween, and anyone knew by this time the enthusiasm of the Calcutta people –
give any occasion, and they would rush about like children after school…
His writing’s got style.
Seated opposite to man was Amrita Bhatta – a young woman who was in her
twenties. A tall, slightly dark and slim figure, Amrita worked in the literary
section of the ‘Anandabazaar Patrika’ – the popular newspaper which sat on the
table next to the morning Bengali tea. Although she was 24, yet she had taken
so many interviews of writers – and other personalities – that she quickly
became famous in her department. There was a certain thing about her talk –
some thing which the Editor also has failed to guess what it is.
Just like the writer, her talk got the style.
‘You like jazz?’ she asked her next question.
‘Me?’ Ananish said, as he sipped onto the cold coffee in front of me.
‘Indeed I do. I always like the modern forms of music. Jazz, bebop, R&B,
blues…’
‘Yet you seem to show your disapproval in ‘The Dark Alley’…the book
about two Naxalites where one shares his taste of music…’
Ananish gave off a laugh. He really looked ‘heavenly’ when he laughed.
‘My dear madam, have you ever pictured yesteryears’ Calcutta? You would
then find out that the people didn’t have the time to give listen to music –
let alone have a taste! Their lives were always filled with revolution…revolution…revolution...
He repeated ‘revolution’ absent-mindedly three times…
Amrita remained silent for some time – something which she didn’t do at
all. She usually would ask such questions which would always keep the person in question in a
see-saw – one wrong answer and that was it. The paper would be flooding with
some bitter criticism – this trait made Amrita stand out of all the female
reporters in her department. But today it wasn’t happening. Ananish Dutta had
been answering the questions quite correctly.
Like really to the point – something which made her worry. Nowadays some
hot and spicy criticism here and there will sell the newspaper – lacking it
will create the problem. There was another problem – she couldn’t create that
impromptu – it was against her nature…
She was still engaged in her thoughts when it got interrupted with the
writer clicking a coin next to the cold coffee glass.
‘Waiter! Bill please!’
Then, after paying the amount of 450 rupees, he gave off a slight burp,
and said, ‘Let’s go over to my place. I wanna show you something?’
‘What? Some unpublished drafts? Well, I really don’t…
Amrita’s speech got interrupted. ‘No, not that. It’s just…I have a
secret. It’s not something I want to disclose to the public…’
The reporter now sat up in her seat. That’s it! A secret – exactly what
she was looking for. Without hesitation, she said, ‘On second thought, I would
love to actually. Please don’t mind my previous comment. I would really love to
see some of your other works...’
(and perhaps cook up some meat to sizzle ya Mr. Writer)
Wearing the coat over his purple shirt and stepping outside in the bright street, Ananish
replied, ‘I didn’t say that about my works. It’s something more than that…’
‘What is it exactly?’ Amrita asked.
The writer looked at his watch. ‘6.30.’ he muttered.
Then, he said with a smile, ‘You’ll see madam…you’ll see…something which
you can fill the newspaper with…’
***
-2-
As she walked past the writer down Park Street – among the numerous
people walking under the streetlights – Amrita couldn’t help but have a
sinister feeling. It was kind of a ‘power’ she had – she could predict the
nature of something which would happen soon. She didn’t know what, but could
feel it – whether it was happy, sad, disturbing, she could get it beforehand.
And now, it was something – no, it was something…something…
‘Careful! There’s a pothole!’ Ananish cried out, as he quickly yanked
Amrita onto the pavement with her right hand. The reporter was so lost in her
thoughts that she didn’t notice the black hole in front of her. Jeez, Calcutta
roads these days! Can’t even.
Amrita suddenly shuddered. The hand which yanked her out was cold.
Icy cold.
‘What? Oh, my hands? Must’ve been the cold….winter really hit in early,
eh?’ Ananish laughingly said.
(must be the cold)
Fifteen minutes later, when they reached Ananish’s complex at the near
end of Park Street, it was seven o’clock in the evening. Entering through the
gates and walking, Amrita asked,
‘Um, can you tell me one thing?’
‘Sure. What is it?’
‘Why are you giving out this secret? You want some sparks, huh? We
reporters as you know are very good at it, so…’
(salt the bait salt the bait)
The writer laughed out. ‘No, It’s got no reason to be precise. You
remember asking me why I was absent these five long months? Why the public was
dying to see me?’
As they entered the lift of the ‘D’-Block of the complex, Ananish said, ‘The
answer lies over there – in my flat. It should be arriving…yep, now.’
The lift stopped as the duo reached the fourth floor. Outside, the
darkness was beginning to grow, and Amrita had that ‘sinister’ feeling yet
again. Why was this happening today? Why was it that she couldn’t bring this
guy in her tackles? Nearly forty interviews have been done by her – every single
one had been the talk for some days…
And today?
They moved towards the last door in that floor – D7. As Ananish clicked
the key in the lock, he said with a smile, ‘You shall now have something to
write about in the paper. Go ahead to make your own spice – I might have cared
for the criticism, but not anymore now…not anymore…’
He clicked on the light and asked Amrita to come in. It was spacious –
the walls were covered with a cool shade of blue mixed with some red here and
there. The room was lit only by a solitary yellow lamp. There was coffee table
in the centre of it – accompanied by four chairs. Ananish pulled up one and told
Amrita to sit over there.
‘So, where’s your ‘secret’?’ Amrita asked. ‘I am kinda dying to see it.
My interview is almost over…just that…’
‘Yes yes I will! Of course you’ll have a scoop! But first, might I treat
you to a dish of scrambled eggs? I have that every evening…helps in the writing
and plot collecting…’
‘Sure. Anything.’
‘Alright. I’ll come back in 10 minutes.’ Ananish said, as he moved into
the dark interior of the house.
Amrita began her waiting. As she did so, she took out her phone and
began to scroll across today’s recordings. It was a total of 50 minutes, and
some cuts here and there would reduce it to forty – perfect to fill up nearly 2
pages in the literary section. Besides, she would also be getting the thing for
which she moved her legs from Park Street to the writer’s house.
The spice. All for the spice.
She kept back the phone in her bag and sat silently in the dim light. The
writer hadn’t come back yet. Five minutes had passed…
Ten minutes, fifteen minutes…twenty minutes…twenty-five-
Amrita had drifted off in a microsleep
(god what was taking him so long)
when suddenly she git aroused by a creaking sound. It was the door being
opened. Through it, a silhouette entered the room.
‘Who’s there? Who is it?’ the reporter cried out.
The silhouette turned to her. Upon closer look, she saw that it was a
man. He was around her age and was wearing a blue T-shirt.
‘Who are you?’
‘First tell me who are you.’ the man said. ‘How did you enter Sir’s
house? I’m his secretary.’
‘Secretary right? Then you should be knowing that your ‘Sir’ had offered
for a interview. It had been done at a restaurant, after which he invited me to
his house…’
The man remained silent for a few moments, then said,
‘Extremely sorry, ma’am. I wasn’t actually present the last three months
– I was in Kanpur at my brother’s house, so…’ he gave off a smile.
Amrita gave off a sigh. This darkness was playing tricks on her!
‘No problem, but can you please go and check on Mr. Dutta? He told that
he would be back in ten minutes, but it’s now nearly half an hour...’
‘That’s strange.’ the man said. ‘Sir never usually kept his clients
waiting. Wait, I’ll check…’
Then, before turning, he said, ‘Silly me! I have not introduced myself!
My name is Pradyut Das – Ananish ‘The Writer’ Dutta’s secretary (well kind of a
friend to be honest) for nearly three years now. You must be Amrita Bhatta,
right? You really write some good interviews seriously!’ having said this, he went
towards the dark interior…
And seconds later, Amrita got the fright of her life as she heard a terrifying scream from the secretary.
Running to the source, she found herself
in the kitchen. It was spacious as the room – with the modern and western
appliances here and there. Just beside the fridge, he found Pradyut standing –
his eyes nearly popping out and his body trembling with fear.
‘What’s the mat-‘ Amrita began, but the words stopped in the throat as
the reporter’s eyes fell on the center of the kitchen. She gasped at what she
saw.
Laid on the marble tiled floor was a body – which was rotting and giving
off a very vile smell. But that wasn’t the thing which scared the two living
beings…
The body was wearing a purple shirt, with rimless spectacles covering
his eyes.
Purple shirt, and rimless spectacles.
They both backed away towards the exit – backed away from who was now
lying in the kitchen – who was a successful writer of 29 novels which ranged
from social to the paranormal, from the dark corners of history to alternate
universes – he had everything under his belt. To tell the truth, no other
writer had amassed this amount of fame with a time span of four eyes.
It was the writer -
Ananish Dutta, whose face had a sinister smile on his face –
as if in death there was some happiness he found…
***
M.Macabre
29.10.2021
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