8 November 1972 — Jorasanko, Kolkata
On the morning of the eighth of November, 1972, Abhishek Banerjee woke to the slow, rhythmic sound of his mother's shankh echoing through the corridors of their ancestral haveli in Jorasanko. The sound rose like a white bird lifting itself from the water, expanding and contracting through every verandah, brushing against the fluted pillars, making the dust motes shimmer faintly in the early pale light.
He should have woken earlier. He knew this even before he opened his eyes. But his dreams had been heavy, soaked in some indistinct melancholy—a sensation he could never quite describe but had carried with him for years, like the faint scent of an old book.
He shifted under the cotton sheet and blinked at the room around him—his sanctuary, his museum of obsessions. The walls, painted a fading duck-egg blue, were covered with portraits: Rabindranath Tagore's serene gaze, Shakespeare's brooding eyes, the unmistakable sternness of Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay. Their expressions, framed in old wooden panels, seemed to watch him with differing degrees of disappointment at his late rising.
On the shelf to his right sat stacked volumes—hardbound, softbound, some with torn edges: Gitanjali, The Tempest, Anandamath, Aeneid, The Prophet, and dog-eared anthologies of poetry he had read too many times. Between the books sat heirlooms passed down the Chatterjee side of his family: an ivory comb, a rusted pocket watch his great-grandfather carried during the Swadeshi movement, and an oil lamp whose wick had long dried.
His mother's footsteps approached his door—unhurried but firm, accustomed to carrying rituals older than her marriage, perhaps older than herself. A faint smell of incense and sandalwood entered before she did.
"Abhishek," Gautami Chatterjee called, sliding open the wooden shutter with one practiced push. She wore a crisp white saree with a thin red border, her hair tied in a low bun still moist from the morning bath. On her forehead, a fresh streak of vermilion glowed softly. "Ekhono ghumaachho? It's almost eight-thirty. You will miss your class at Presidency."
He groaned into his pillow. "I know, Ma… I know."
"You always know," she replied, lighting the brass incense holder. "But you do not wake. Tagore also woke early, remember that."
He smiled faintly. His mother had a way of scolding with reverence; every reprimand carried a literary reference, a cultural reminder. She believed it was her duty to keep the old world alive in him. Perhaps she had succeeded.
He sat up finally, pulling the shawl around his shoulders. The cold of late autumn crept through the cracks in the old haveli walls. From the courtyard below, he heard the clattering of utensils, the splashing of water from the hand pump, the caws of crows perched on the balcony grills, waiting for morning scraps.
Gautami placed a cup of tea—light, sweet, with a hint of cardamom—on his desk. "Drink. And don't skip breakfast today."
"Ma," he said softly, holding the cup, "how do you manage to do everything so early?"
She laughed gently. "Practice. And responsibility. Two things you will understand when you are older."
He wondered when exactly "older" began. At nineteen, he felt suspended between obligation and freedom, culture and rebellion, silence and the urge to speak.
After she left, he dressed quickly—a simple white kurta, slightly frayed at the sleeves, and dark trousers. He combed his hair, grabbed the nearest book (a thin paperback of Eliot's poems), slung his satchel across his shoulder, and rushed downstairs.
The haveli, with its ornate arches and patterned red tiles, smelled of hibiscus flowers and old memories. The front courtyard held an ancient peepal tree whose roots extended like knotted veins. Neighbours often said the house carried the shadows of generations; Abhishek sometimes wondered whether he, too, was expected to carry one.
He stepped out into the lane that opened toward Rabindra Sarani. The morning of Calcutta was unfolding in its familiar symphony—tram bells ringing, cycle rickshaw pullers shouting for space, vendors calling out gorom singara, the pleasant coolness of November softening the usual humidity.
It was a day when the city seemed freshly washed, rinsed in a muted sunlight that made the red buildings glow like old letters kept in moth-scented cupboards.
As he walked toward the bus stop, he felt a strange mixture of peace and urgency. Presidency College was not far, but he would still take the double-decker bus, as he always did. There was something fascinating about sitting on the upper level, watching the city pass beneath him in slow procession.
The bus screeched to a halt, painted in the familiar red and yellow. He climbed up the narrow steps to the top deck, where the seats were half-broken but carried the scent of students, dreams, and rain-soaked afternoons. A breeze rushed in through the open windows, carrying with it the distant aroma of muri and the metallic tang of the tram lines.
From the height of his seat, Calcutta
appeared as a palimpsest—layers of history written over one another. Colonial columns beside shattered walls, modern billboards beside fading hand-painted signs, the Victoria Memorial dome glinting faintly in the distance.
He reached the College Street crossing and got down, joining the river of students flowing toward Presidency College. The gates were crowded today—unusually so. Placards were raised; slogans were half-heartedly shouted. Members of the NSUI were arguing loudly, pamphlets flying from their hands, accusing the communist student body of ill reforms and authoritarian politics.
This chaos had become routine, almost predictable. Abhishek paused for a moment, watched the agitation from a distance, then walked past it. He had neither the temperament nor the desire for political entanglement. Literature had always been his revolution.
He slipped into the corridor, the sound of his footsteps merging with the murmurs of students. He reached the classroom, slightly breathless, and saw that the door was closed.
A sinking feeling pressed on his chest.
He knew exactly what that meant.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open a fraction. The hinges creaked, betraying his presence even before he stepped in. For a brief, stretched moment, the classroom stilled.
Every student turned.
Some hid their smiles, some their sympathy.
A few smirked knowingly.
At the centre of the room stood the man whose nickname had captivated and terrified generations—Professor "Stalin" Sen.
He wasn't an imposing man by height, but by demeanor. He wore a light pink shirt tucked neatly into grey formal trousers. His hair, peppered white at the temples, was combed back with strict intention. His glasses lay on the desk beside him, not on his face. The sunlight pouring through the tall windows struck the lenses, casting twin sparks onto the wooden surface, as though marking the exact line between indulgence and discipline.
He held an open copy of Paradise Lost—a familiar, worn edition whose spine seemed permanently bent.
"So," the professor said, not looking away from the book, "as I was explaining, Beelzebub stands beside his master, plotting what next evil may be wrought…"
Only then, very slowly, he lifted his gaze.
It fell upon Abhishek with a precise, devastating softness—like a scalpel pressed gently against skin.
"Mr. Banerjee," he said, voice calm yet tight with meaning, "Milton once wrote—'The mind is its own place,' though clearly yours is not here on time." His eyes glimmered with something unreadable: amusement, annoyance, or perhaps a reluctant affection.
The class erupted in scattered laughter.
Abhishek's ears burned.
The professor tilted his head. "Since you are already late, you may as well complete the entrance with dignity instead of that startled-pigeon expression."
With a small gesture of his hand—an elegant flick—he allowed him in.
Abhishek walked to the back, sat alone, and opened his notebook. He scribbled without looking, his mind replaying the moment at the door. But he lifted his head when the professor resumed speaking.
"Evil," Professor Sen said, pacing, "is attractive not because it is powerful, but because it is persuasive. Remember that. Even the fallen angels argued beautifully."
He asked the class several questions—sharp ones, piercing ones. Most students stuttered. Some offered half-answers. A few simply looked away.
The professor's disappointment hung in the air like humidity.
Toward the end of the session, he paused, tapped the edge of the desk with the book, and asked the final question—one so layered, so abstract, it silenced even those who usually liked pretending they knew things.
"What," he asked slowly, "is the first moment in Paradise Lost where Milton makes you pity Satan, not fear him?"
The room went still. Even the crows outside seemed to pause.
Abhishek stared at his notebook, fingers trembling slightly. Something rose inside him—an impulse, a clarity, a memory of every line he had read the night before because the epic had kept him awake.
He lifted his hand, almost without realizing it.
"Yes, Mr. Banerjee?" the professor asked, expression unreadable.
Abhishek swallowed. "When Satan sees the sun again after being cast out, sir. His first reaction is grief, not rage. He remembers what he used to be. That moment… it makes him human."
A subtle shift occurred on the professor's face.
A smile, restrained and thin as a single stroke of ink, appeared.
It was impossible to tell whether it was pride or disappointment that he had expected more.
But it was a smile.
"Sit properly," he said quietly. "And next time, Mr. Banerjee, don't make Milton wait."
The bell rang. Students exhaled collectively.
Professor Sen closed the book with the softness of someone closing a wound.
As Abhishek gathered his satchel, he wondered—for reasons he didn't yet understand—why the professor had smiled like that. A firm smile? A scornful one? A secretive one?
He had no way of knowing that the smile
was stitched to an older grief—
a story the professor had hidden between the folds of time, waiting for the one student
who would finally hear it.