Kabita's World ( A day in the life of a special child)

 

I see the world through different eyes. Colors are brighter, sounds are louder, and movements are slower. My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, but my body struggles to keep up.

I try to speak, but words get tangled in my throat. My parents look at me with sad eyes, wishing they could understand me. They think I'm trapped inside this body, but I'm not. I'm free in my mind.

Scooby, our labrador, is my best friend. He doesn't care that I'm different. He wags his tail and licks my face, and I feel happy. My parents smile when they see us together, and for a moment, their worries fade away.

But the world can be overwhelming. The sounds of the city are like a never-ending storm in my ears. I cover them with my hands, trying to block out the noise. My parents think I'm being stubborn, but they don't understand. It's too much for me.

At night, when the house is quiet, I lie in bed and think about all the things I want to say. I want to tell my parents that I love them, that I'm sorry I'm not like other kids. I want to tell Scooby that he's the best dog in the whole world.

As I think about my life, I wonder if it's indeed a poetry. My name, Kabita, means "poetry" in Bengali. My parents chose it carefully, hoping I would grow up to be a creative and expressive person.

But life had other plans. I was born with autism, and my words got trapped inside my mind. Yet, as I think about it, I realize that poetry is not just about words; it's about rhythm, melody, and harmony.

My life may not have words, but it has its own rhythm. The way Scooby wags his tail to greet me every morning is a symphony of joy. The way my parents' faces light up when they see me smile is a melody of love.

But like any poetry, my life also has its discordant notes. The sounds of the city are a cacophony that hurts my ears. The struggles of my parents to understand me are a harmony that's often out of tune.

As I drift off to sleep, I realize that my life is indeed a poetry – a complex, messy, beautiful poetry. It's a poetry that's still being written, with every moment, every breath, and every beat of my heart.

As I sleep, I dream of a world where everyone understands me. A world where words aren't necessary, and love is the only language. In my dream, Scooby is by my side, and we're running through a field of flowers, laughing and playing.

But when I wake up, reality sets in. My parents are struggling to understand me, and the world outside is still overwhelming. I feel trapped, like I'm living in a cage with no key.

That's when I remember the poetry of my life. I think about the rhythm of Scooby's wagging tail, the melody of my parents' smiles, and the harmony of our love. I realize that even in the midst of chaos, there is beauty.

I try to communicate with my parents, to tell them about the poetry of my life. I use my hands, my eyes, and my smile to convey the emotions that words can't express. And slowly, they start to understand.

They see the world through my eyes, and they realize that it's not just a place of darkness and silence. It's a world of color, sound, and beauty. They start to appreciate the little things, like the way Scooby snuggles up next to me, or the way the sunlight filters through the windows.

As they understand me better, our relationship changes. We start to connect on a deeper level, and our love becomes stronger. We become a symphony of three, with Scooby as the conductor.

And I realize that my life, though imperfect, is a masterpiece. It's a poem that's still being written, with every moment, every breath, and every beat of my heart.

The last laugh

 

It was a cold evening in New Jersey, and Saurabh sat in his small apartment, staring at his phone. The room, though warm, felt hollow, much like his life had become over the years. His wife had passed away some years ago, and his only son, busy with his tech start-up in California, rarely called. Saurabh couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a conversation longer than a few minutes.

His fingers hovered over the phone. He knew the voice on the other end would bring him comfort, even if just for a little while. He dialed.

“Hello, Saurabh! What a surprise!” Pradip’s voice burst through, warm and full of life.

Saurabh smiled faintly. “Hello, Pradip. Thought I’d check in and see how things are on your side of the world.”

“Oh, you called at the perfect time! We just finished a feast for Magh Bihu. You remember how it used to be, don’t you? The bonfire, the games, the food…”

Saurabh closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him. He could almost smell the roasted rice cakes and hear the chatter of the villagers. It had been decades since he had experienced anything like that. In New Jersey, his winters were spent in silence, the snow falling outside his window a stark contrast to the warmth of his childhood.

“How’s everyone?” Saurabh asked, his voice softer now.

“Doing well, doing well,” Pradip said cheerfully. “My youngest daughter got married last month—it was a celebration like no other! The whole village came together. Even the old tailor pitched in, sewing outfits for half the guests. And, of course, the musicians played until dawn.”

Saurabh couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy. Pradip’s life seemed so rich, so full. It wasn’t about wealth but about people—about being surrounded by those who cared, who showed up without being asked.

“You must be busy with your son,” Pradip said innocently. “How is he? Still in California?”

“Yes,” Saurabh replied, hesitating. “He’s doing well. Very busy with his start-up.”

“And what about you? How’s life there?”

Saurabh’s throat tightened. What could he say? That he spent his days fighting the silence? That he often called young Assamese families in New Jersey, hoping to feel a fraction of the connection he had once taken for granted? That even in their warmth, he felt like an outsider in their busy lives?

“It’s fine,” he said instead. “Different.”

Pradip laughed. “Different, of course. But don’t you miss the chaos? The noise? The people?”

“I do,” Saurabh admitted, surprising himself with the honesty in his voice.

“Then come visit,” Pradip said, his tone light but earnest. “We’ll sit by the river and talk about old times. You can stay as long as you like. The house is always open for you.”

Saurabh stayed silent, his heart heavy. The thought of returning to Assam filled him with a longing he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for years. It wasn’t just about nostalgia; it was about belonging. The West, for all its opportunities, had left him isolated. His success—once a source of pride—now felt hollow without someone to share it with.

“I’ll think about it,” he said softly.

“Do more than think,” Pradip replied with a laugh. “Life here isn’t going anywhere. And neither are we.”

After they hung up, Saurabh sat in the quiet of his apartment. The hum of the heater was the only sound, a stark contrast to the lively chaos Pradip had described. For years, he had convinced himself that he belonged here, in this land of opportunity and individualism. But what had it brought him in the end? A lifetime of achievements that now felt meaningless in the absence of connection.

His mind drifted to his wife. She had loved their life in New Jersey, but she had also loved Assam—the festivals, the people, the simplicity. Would she have wanted this for him? This empty apartment, this life of solitude? He didn’t think so.

For the first time in years, Saurabh allowed himself to imagine retiring in Assam. He pictured the fields, the tea stalls, the warm embraces of old friends. He thought of the bonfires and feasts, the sounds of laughter, and the knowledge that no one was ever truly alone.

As he stared out the window into the cold New Jersey night, a tear slipped down his cheek. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. Perhaps happiness wasn’t something you found but something you returned to.

He made a decision then, not with words but with his heart. Assam wasn’t just a place; it was a feeling. And it was time to go home.

Shopun shopun haan laagchi (It seems like a dream)

The early seventies in Assam were a time of serenity, a world untouched by the chaos that would come in later years. Ramphalbil, a quaint village near Kokrajhar, lay close to the Terai forests near the Assam-Bhutan border. The air was alive with the rustle of bamboo groves, the chirping of birds, and the gentle murmurs of a stream winding its way through the fields. It was here that I spent a magical year of my childhood—a year that remained etched in my heart like a dream I never wanted to wake from.

I was six years old when my mother had to leave for Guwahati to complete her teacher’s training. My father, was a deeply respected man who wore many hats. He was immersed in teaching and deeply involved in social and cultural activities, especially the dramatics in *Bitorai Afad,* a cultural organization that had sparked a renaissance in Boro theatre. His days and evenings were consumed by meetings, rehearsals, and lectures. With both parents unavailable, my family decided it was in my best interest to stay with my father’s eldest sister in Ramphalbil for a year.

My aunt, a strong and kind-hearted widow, worked as a weaving instructor at a government school in the village. The school was part of an initiative to teach local women the art of fine weaving, giving them a means to earn a livelihood. Her little campus, with its neat cottages, clattering looms, and shaded courtyards, became my home for that year.

It was there that I met Geetanjali.

Geetanjali was the daughter of another staff member at the school. She was just a few months younger than me, with quick, mischievous eyes and a laugh that could brighten even the gloomiest day. From the moment we met, we were inseparable. Together, we turned the simple, rural campus into a world of endless adventures.

Our days began with the soft light of dawn spilling through the bamboo groves. We would race barefoot across the grass, laughing as the dew clung to our feet. The litchi tree near the stream became our fortress. Its sturdy branches bore witness to countless hours of climbing, daydreaming, and the occasional scraped knee. Once, when I tried to climb too high and lost my footing, Geetanjali, standing below, cried out in panic.

“Bapi da, get down! You’ll fall and break your head!” she yelled, her little hands stretched out as though she could catch me.  

We spent hours crafting banana-leaf boats, setting them afloat in the stream, and imagining grand voyages to lands far away. On rainy afternoons, we turned the puddle-filled courtyards into battlefields, splashing each other until we were soaked and breathless with laughter.

One day, we discovered a hollow in the trunk of an old tree and decided it was our secret treasure chest. We filled it with little trinkets—a shiny pebble, a colorful feather, a piece of candy—and promised never to reveal its location to anyone. “This will always be ours,” she whispered solemnly. I nodded, feeling as though we had made the most sacred pact.

At night, under a sky crowded with stars, we sat on the school steps, counting fireflies. Geetanjali would point out constellations, her tiny finger tracing imaginary lines. “That’s the Big Bear,” she said one evening, though I had no idea if she was right. It didn’t matter. To me, she knew everything.

But like all beautiful things, that year came to an end. My aunt was transferred, and so was Geetanjali’s family. I was sent back to Kokrajhar, leaving behind the little kingdom we had built together. Life moved forward, as it always does, and the magical days of Ramphalbil became a cherished memory—a dream I clung to as I grew older.

Years turned into decades. I pursued my education, traveled far, and eventually moved to the United States. Life became a whirlwind of responsibilities and achievements. But even as the world around me changed, the memory of Geetanjali and those days in Ramphalbil stayed with me. Every visit to India rekindled the longing to know what had become of her. I asked around whenever I could, but with my aunt and father gone, the connections had frayed. Geetanjali seemed to have vanished into the folds of time.

Until last year.

An old acquaintance from those days reached out to me—a woman who had also spent time in Ramphalbil. When I mentioned Geetanjali, her eyes lit up with recognition. “I’ll try to find her,” she promised. Weeks later, I received a WhatsApp message: *She’s in a village near Nalbari. I found her.*

This year, I made the journey.

The drive to her village was long and bumpy, the roads winding through dense greenery and scattered settlements. When I finally reached her house—a modest structure with a tin roof and a small courtyard—I felt a mix of nervous anticipation and joy.

An elderly woman stepped out, her frail frame wrapped in a mekhela chador. Her face was lined with the marks of a life lived through hardship, her hands calloused from years of labor. Yet, her eyes held the same spark that had once lit up my world.

“Geetanjali?” I asked softly, unsure if she would remember me.

She looked at me, her brows furrowed in confusion. “Yes?”  

“I’m Bapi,” I said, my voice trembling. “From Ramphalbil. Do you remember the litchi tree? The stream? The banana-leaf boats?”  

Her eyes widened, and then, slowly, tears began to fill them. “Bapi da?” she whispered, her voice quivering with disbelief.

I nodded, my own eyes moist with emotion.

For a moment, she stared at me, as though trying to bridge the decades that had passed. Then, her lips curved into a trembling smile.  

“Shopun Shopun haan laagchi,” she said in her soft Kamrupia Assamese accent. “It feels like a dream.”  

We sat together for hours, talking about Ramphalbil and those golden days. She spoke of her life—of losing her husband, of raising her children in the face of hardship, of the simple joys that had kept her going. I listened, my heart heavy with both joy and sorrow.  

Before I left, I gave her a small envelope with money, slipping it into her hand. She resisted, her pride evident, but eventually accepted it with quiet gratitude. As I turned to leave, she placed her hand on mine.  

“Thank you for coming back,” she said, her voice breaking. “I never thought I’d see you again. Truly, it feels like a dream.”  

That night, as I lay in bed, her words echoed in my mind. *Shopun Shopun haan laagchi.* It truly did feel like a dream—those golden days in Ramphalbil, the innocent bond we shared, and the miracle of finding her again.  

Life, in all its twists and turns, had brought me back to where it all began, reminding me that amidst the rush of time, some moments remain untouched—pure, eternal, and waiting to be rediscovered.  

The Children of 2098

 

The year was 2098, but the seeds of the world’s collapse had been planted over a century before, in the early 1990s, when global fertility rates began their alarming dip below the replacement level of 2.1. For the first time in modern history, more people were dying than being born. At the time, economists and sociologists warned that humanity was marching toward a demographic cliff. Few listened.

The factors behind the decline were complex, shaped by technological, social, and cultural transformations. Women entered the workforce en masse, prioritizing careers over childbearing. The rising costs of living, particularly in urban centers, made raising children an unaffordable burden. People postponed marriage, choosing personal freedom over familial responsibility. Fertility technologies advanced, but rather than encouraging birth, they enabled people to control reproduction in ways that were unimaginable before. In time, having children became not a natural milestone but an option—one many opted out of.

By the early 21st century, governments had begun to panic. They introduced sweeping programs to reverse the trend: generous parental leave, free childcare, direct cash incentives for families, and tax breaks for each child born. In some countries, mothers were given life-long pensions just for having more than two children. However, the psychological shift was already too deep. People had come to view children not as blessings but as costly hindrances. No amount of money or government policy could change the way people felt about reproduction.

This reluctance to have children accelerated over the next few decades. In 2040, global fertility rates hit an all-time low of 1.2 children per woman. In many countries, it was far worse. Entire regions in Europe, East Asia, and North America reported fertility rates close to 0.8, meaning their populations would halve within two generations. The first real economic shocks hit: labor forces shrank, retirement ages were raised to unsustainable levels, and pension systems collapsed under the weight of elderly populations.

By 2060, the social order began to crumble. Countries began competing for young immigrants, offering citizenships in exchange for the promise of bolstering their declining workforces. But even immigration couldn’t save them. People simply weren’t reproducing at rates high enough to sustain society. Artificial Intelligence and automation were deployed to handle much of the labor shortage, but even machines couldn’t stave off the population crisis forever. By the 2070s, governments around the world started drafting policies that were once unthinkable.

The New Federation, the largest geopolitical bloc that emerged after the collapse of nation-states, became the first to adopt radical measures in 2080. Recognizing that voluntary incentives had failed, the government mandated compulsory sperm and egg donation for all citizens between the ages of 18 and 40. The eggs and sperm were harvested, fertilized in artificial wombs, and children were raised in state-run nurseries. The government framed it as an act of civic duty—For the Future, the propaganda said—but the truth was clear: reproduction had been seized by the state.

Now, in 2098, the world had fully adjusted to this new reality. Or so it seemed.

---

Laya stood in front of the genetic harvest center, her eyes scanning the towering metal structure that loomed against the gray sky. The building, with its cold steel exterior and biometric scanners, was just another cog in the massive machinery of the New Federation’s reproductive system. Inside, eggs were extracted from women, sperm from men, and children were grown in artificial wombs, their lives governed by algorithms long before they took their first breath.

Laya was twenty-nine and had delayed her compliance with the genetic mandate for as long as possible. Her assigned reproductive window was closing soon, and failure to submit meant she’d face severe consequences—prison, or worse. Everyone knew someone who had been 're-educated' after refusing to donate their genetic material. No one ever heard from them again.

"Time to comply," she muttered to herself, steeling her nerves as she entered the building.

The interior of the facility was as lifeless as the outside. White walls, white floors, bright fluorescent lights—it felt more like a hospital than a place where life was created. She checked in at the front desk, a hollow voice directing her toward cubicle 47-B.

As she sat waiting for her turn, her mind raced with the images she had seen in the underground networks. The resistance groups called the children born from these artificial processes The Engineered Generation. Raised by government-appointed caregivers in state-run nurseries, these children were designed for efficiency and obedience. There were no families, no mothers or fathers. The state was their parent, and they knew no other life.

"Laya O’Malley, your turn," a synthetic voice called out.

She took a deep breath, her hands clammy as she stood and followed the instructions into the cubicle. Inside, a nurse—a human one this time—greeted her with a sterile smile, her eyes glazed over with the boredom of routine. The procedure was quick, impersonal. Laya signed the necessary forms, laid down on the chair, and allowed the machines to extract what they needed.

"Thank you for your contribution," the nurse said, her voice monotone. "Your donation will help secure the future of our society."

Laya sat up, feeling a strange emptiness inside her as if something important had been taken from her, though she had no physical pain. She dressed quickly and left the facility, the world outside feeling just as cold and detached as the room she had just left.

---

The government had tried to make it easy—hand over your reproductive material, and you were free to live your life. But something about it had always felt wrong to Laya. She had grown up hearing stories from her grandparents about how things used to be. Back in the 1990s, people still had children out of love. They raised them in families, not in clinical government nurseries. Laya’s parents had her before the mandate was fully in place, but by the time she was old enough to understand the world, she had been indoctrinated into believing this was how it had to be.

Still, there were whispers of dissent. There were those who believed the system was wrong—that the state had no right to control the most intimate aspects of human life. Laya had never been brave enough to join the resistance outright, but she had secretly followed their movements. They had ways of intercepting genetic material before it entered the system, allowing those who wanted to have children naturally to do so, in secret.

But the risks were immense. If caught, the penalty was death.

---

The night after her procedure, Laya couldn’t sleep. She lay on her bed in her tiny apartment, staring at the ceiling. The hum of the city outside was dull and constant, a reminder of the world she was trapped in. She thought about the genetic material they had taken from her, the child that would be created without her involvement. The government would raise it, mold it into a perfect citizen. She would never see her child, never hold them, never be anything more than a distant biological contributor.

The thought gnawed at her, a deep unease settling in her chest.

There was a knock at the door.

Her heart leapt into her throat. No one ever visited unannounced. Carefully, she approached the door and checked the viewer. A woman stood there—Kayla, one of the underground’s most notorious leaders.

"May I come in?" Kayla’s voice was calm, but her eyes were sharp and alert.

Laya hesitated. Associating with the underground was dangerous, but curiosity and something deeper pushed her to open the door.

Kayla stepped inside, her presence filling the small room. She looked around briefly before turning her attention to Laya. "I know you just completed your donation," she said, her voice steady. "But you’re not like the others. You don’t want your child growing up in one of their nurseries."

Laya’s stomach churned. How could Kayla possibly know that? She had always kept her thoughts to herself, never spoken a word of dissent.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Laya said, her voice weak.

Kayla smiled faintly. "You don’t have to pretend with me. I know the look in your eyes. The system feels wrong, doesn’t it?"

Laya didn’t respond, but she didn’t need to. Kayla’s words hit too close to the truth. It did feel wrong. It had always felt wrong.

"Listen," Kayla continued, "we’ve developed a way to intercept the genetic material before it enters their reproductive program. If you want, we can retrieve your egg before they use it and implant it back into you. You’ll be able to have your child naturally, to raise them yourself, outside of the government’s control."

The words sent a shock through Laya. The very idea felt impossible. The government controlled everything. They monitored every transaction, every procedure, every life.

"That’s… that’s illegal," Laya stammered. "If they catch us—"

Kayla nodded, her expression grave. "I won’t lie to you. It’s dangerous. But people like you—people who remember what it means to be human—are the only hope we have left. If we don’t resist now, the future will belong to machines, not humans."

Laya sank into the chair, her thoughts swirling. The temptation was overwhelming, but so was the fear. Could she really go through with something like this? The government’s surveillance was near total. They would know if she tampered with the system.

Kayla knelt beside her, her voice soft but insistent. "The choice is yours, Laya. But I believe you’re strong enough to fight. We need people like you. Your child needs you."

For the first time, Laya felt the weight of the decision pressing down on her. This wasn’t just about her. It was about the future—her future, her child’s future, and perhaps the future of all humanity.

---

The days that followed were a blur of planning and fear. Laya joined the underground network, meeting in secret locations, learning about their methods and the intricacies of the state’s surveillance systems. Every step felt like walking a tightrope over a vast, dark chasm. One wrong move, and everything could come crashing down.

Kayla explained the plan: they would hack into the genetic database, retrieve Laya’s egg before it was fertilized and implanted into an artificial womb. From there, a doctor working within the underground would implant the embryo back into Laya’s body, allowing her to carry and birth her own child—a radical act in a world where natural pregnancy had become almost unheard of.

The risks were immense. If caught, the punishment would be severe—imprisonment, re-education, or worse.

The night of the operation came swiftly. Laya and Kayla crept into Facility 46A under the cover of darkness, aided by resistance hackers who had temporarily disabled the perimeter security. They moved quickly, their hearts racing with the tension of the mission. Laya’s mind buzzed with fear and adrenaline, but Kayla’s presence beside her was steady, unwavering.

They reached the data center, where rows of genetic material were stored in cryo-chambers. Kayla gestured to the one marked with Laya’s identification number.

"This is it," she whispered. "We take your material, and then we go."

Laya’s breath caught in her throat. This was the moment.

As Kayla expertly hacked into the chamber, Laya could only watch in awe. The woman moved with a confidence that seemed unshakeable, as if she had done this countless times before. A soft hiss filled the air as the cryo-chamber door slid open, revealing the small vial containing Laya’s genetic material.

Kayla carefully extracted it and handed it to Laya. "This is your future," she said softly.

Laya stared at the vial, her pulse pounding in her ears. The child that would grow from this—her child—was now within her grasp.

Suddenly, alarms blared, and the sterile white walls were bathed in flashing red light.

"They’ve found us!" Kayla yelled, her voice taut with urgency.

Laya’s heart leaped into her throat as they bolted for the exit, the sound of boots pounding the floor behind them. Government agents, clad in black uniforms, were closing in.

"Go!" Kayla shouted, shoving Laya toward the emergency exit. "Get to the safe house! I’ll hold them off!"

Laya hesitated for a split second, panic rising in her chest. But Kayla’s fierce gaze pushed her into action.

She ran, clutching the vial tightly in her hand as she sprinted through the darkened corridors. The world around her blurred as adrenaline coursed through her veins. Behind her, she heard the sounds of struggle—the clash of bodies, the shouts of the agents.

But she didn’t look back.

---

The safe house was a small, hidden bunker on the outskirts of the city. Laya arrived just before dawn, her body trembling from exhaustion and fear. She collapsed onto the floor, cradling the vial to her chest.

She had made it.

The next few weeks passed in a haze of tension. Laya remained in hiding as the underground worked to ensure her genetic material was safe. The government intensified its surveillance efforts, cracking down on anyone suspected of dissent. The city was on high alert, and rumors spread like wildfire about the resistance’s activities.

But Laya’s future—the future of her child—remained intact.

Soon, the time came for the implantation procedure. The underground doctor worked quietly, efficiently, ensuring the embryo was placed safely within Laya’s womb. The process was almost surreal—this tiny life, growing inside her, was something the government could never take from her.

Months passed, and Laya’s pregnancy progressed in secret. She could feel the life inside her, a small miracle in a world that had forgotten the beauty of creation. Every kick, every flutter reminded her of what she was fighting for.

But as the final weeks approached, Laya couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that hung over her like a storm cloud. The government was still searching for the radicals responsible for the breach at Facility 46A, and every day, the net grew tighter.

Then, one cold morning, as Laya sat in the dim light of her hiding place, cradling her swollen belly, the door burst open.

Government agents flooded the room, their faces cold and unyielding.

Laya stood, her heart pounding, shielding her unborn child with her hands. They had found her.

But as they moved toward her, something shifted inside her—not just physically, but mentally. This was the future she had fought for, the future they wanted to steal from her.

Her eyes blazed with determination, the same fire she had seen in Kayla’s eyes.

This wasn’t just a fight for survival anymore. This was a fight for humanity.

And as the agents closed in, Laya whispered to her child, "You are the beginning of something new."

Tapestry of randomness

 

In twilight's hush, where shadows play,

We wander through a garden's maze,

Where paths unfold, then fade away,

Like whispers of a distant sway.

Each step we take, a choice we make,

The landscape shifts, a new path's stake,

Forking endlessly, like branches high,

A labyrinth born of wonder why.

Yet, we're not sole architects of this maze,

The garden's grown, nurtured by time and grace,

Tended by hands that came before our own,

And those who presently, its beauty have sown.

The garden remembers every footstep light,

Every decision made, in endless night,

The trees, the flowers, the wind, the sun's embrace,

All whisper secrets, of the paths we trace.

In this ever-changing tapestry so fine,

We weave our thread, a moment's design,

A choice, a step, a breath, a heartbeat's pace,

In the garden's heart, a shifting, sacred space.

So let us wander, lost, yet not alone,

For in the garden's depths, a wisdom's sown,

That guides us through, the paths we cannot see,

To hidden truths, and mysteries yet to be.

The Game of Shadows - Sequel to Kiss of Death

Mohini Barua could still feel the weight of Mr. Sarmah’s body as it slumped to the floor, the kiss of death sealing his fate. Weeks had passed since the elite gathering in New Jersey, yet the memory remained vivid. The plan had gone off without a hitch; Mr. Sarmah, the man who had wronged her years ago, was no more. It was his fatal allergy to peanuts—delivered through her cunningly applied lipstick—that had done him in.

But Mohini wasn’t satisfied. The thrill of that night had awakened something inside her—a hunger, a need for control and power that she could no longer ignore. She had tasted blood, and now she wanted more. And in her mind, another name began to surface: Mr. Dutta.

The Barua residence in New Jersey was a fortress of opulence, a symbol of the couple’s success in the land of dreams. The mansion, with its sprawling lawns, grand columns, and shimmering chandeliers, was the crown jewel of the Assamese diaspora in the United States. Every year, it played host to the most prestigious gatherings, where the elite mingled, exchanged business cards, and spoke of their shared nostalgia for Assam.

Mohini Barua, with her striking beauty and sharp intellect, was a star hostess at these events. Her Wall Street career had earned her respect, and her looks had earned her attention. But beneath the surface, Mohini was a master of manipulation, a woman who wielded her beauty and intellect like weapons. She was aware of every lingering glance, every envious whisper, and she reveled in it. But her thoughts were far from the chatter and flattery that surrounded her.

She had noticed something different in Mr. Dutta's demeanor the last time they spoke. It was at one of these grand gatherings, amidst the laughter and clinking glasses, that he had made a remark that set off alarm bells in her mind.

"You know, Mohini," Mr. Dutta had said, his eyes narrowing slightly, "life has a way of surprising us. Sometimes, people aren’t who they appear to be. It’s funny how a single detail can change everything."

The words were casual, almost friendly, but Mohini sensed the underlying suspicion. Mr. Dutta was a smart man, and if he had started to suspect her, it could unravel everything. She couldn’t afford to let that happen.

Mohini’s relationship with Mr. Dutta extended beyond the social sphere; it was deeply intertwined with business. As a Private Equity expert on Wall Street, she advised wealthy clients like Mr. Dutta, guiding their investments with precision. But Mohini was always meticulous, and when Mr. Dutta’s subtle suspicion began to worry her, she decided to dig deeper into his personal life.

Her investigation led her to uncover the stormy relationship between Mr. Dutta's wife, Sagarika, and Gautam Payeng, a man originally from Shillong. Gautam was a striking figure—handsome, adventurous, and successful. His passions for wildlife photography, the study of primitive tribes, and his frequent trips to the jungles of Colombia, Amazonian rain forest and Africa painted him as a man of intrigue. But what caught Mohini’s attention the most was his connection to Colombia.

From her childhood, Mohini had been captivated by an Agatha Christie novel where a murder was committed using frog dart poison, a lethal substance derived from a frog found only in the jungles of Colombia. The Golden Poison Dart Frog's venom, also known as batrachotoxin (BTX), is a powerful and deadly neurotoxin that can kill a human being within 20 minutes if ingested, inhaled, or if it enters the body through an open wound. This potent poison is produced by the frog's skin glands and is used for defense against predators. BTX works by blocking nerve impulses, leading to muscle paralysis, cardiac arrest, and respiratory failure. Even a tiny amount of the venom, equivalent to two grains of salt, can be fatal. The indigenous people of Colombia have historically used the frog's venom to poison the tips of their hunting darts, hence the name "poison dart frog."

The pieces began to fall into place in Mohini’s mind. Gautam's frequent visits to Colombia and his relationship with Sagarika made him the perfect scapegoat.

With her skills as an investment banker and her training as an engineer, Mohini began to plot the perfect murder. She would use the frog dart poison to eliminate Mr. Dutta, framing Gautam for the crime. The financial benefits for Gautam, along with his affair with Sagarika, would provide the perfect motive, further distancing herself from any suspicion.

With her Electronics Engineering background, Mohini developed a small device designed to be both deadly and undetectable. This device, cleverly disguised as an innocuous object, had one purpose: to release a lethal dose of dart frog poison into the air, which would be inhaled by Mr. Dutta. The trigger? A simple spoken phrase: "Bhoot Jolokiya." The device worked with the same principle as a smart assistant device like Alexa, which gets activated with a keyword. And she programmed the device to deactivate itself after the only time it would be activated to release the poison, removing any traces to the keyword.

She knew exactly where to place this device—in the flower pot in Mr. Dutta’s office. But to remain above suspicion, she enlisted the help of an unsuspecting Cleaning Lady to plant the device, for a handsome payment, of course. The Cleaning Lady, oblivious to the true nature of the device, did as she was told. However, fate took a dark turn. Shortly after completing the task, the Cleaning Lady was tragically murdered in what appeared to be a random mugging and shooting in Camden, NJ. The incident was chalked up to a coincidence, erasing any link back to Mohini.

Meanwhile, Mohini's role as a trusted financial advisor allowed her to manipulate Mr. Dutta’s assets without raising an eyebrow. She advised him to transfer a significant portion of his wealth into an umbrella account in the Canary Islands, a move that seemed perfectly legal and advantageous. Simultaneously, she subtly steered Mr. Payeng, another client with whom she had fostered a rapport, into a similar arrangement. What Mr. Dutta didn’t know was that his death would inadvertently benefit Mr. Payeng, who had unknowingly been tied to the same account.

On the fateful night, Mr. Dutta was on a Zoom call with Mohini. The conversation was as professional as ever, with Mohini exuding her usual charm and expertise. They discussed a lucrative new deal, and everything seemed normal. As they were about to end the call, Mohini, with a smile, casually mentioned, “By the way, Mr. Dutta, you must try the new Ghost Chilly pickle I procured from Assam. It's simply exquisite. By the way, what was the Assamese word for Ghost Chilly? I couldn’t recollect it.”

"Bhoot Jolokiya" - responded Mr. Dutta.

The moment the words left his lips, the device hidden in the flower pot silently activated. Within moments, a deadly mist of dart frog poison was released into the room. Mr. Dutta, still at his desk, never saw it coming.

While the poison took effect, Mohini’s face betrayed nothing but concern. She watched Mr. Dutta’s expression change from confusion to panic as the venom gripped him. His breathing became labored, and his eyes widened in terror.

“I’m feeling strange, Mohini,” he gasped. “Something’s wrong… I can’t…”

“Oh my God, Mr. Dutta, are you having a heart attack? I’m calling Sagarika right now!” Mohini said, her voice dripping with urgency and concern.

She quickly dialed Sagarika’s number. “Sagarika! It’s Mohini. Something’s wrong with Mr. Dutta! I think he’s having a heart attack! He needs help, now!”

On the other end of the line, Sagarika’s voice was laced with panic. “What? A heart attack? Oh my God! Where is he? I’m on my way!”

Mohini stayed on the call just long enough to hear the panic in Sagarika’s voice, then ended it with a soft, reassuring word. She knew that by the time Sagarika reached Mr. Dutta, it would be too late. The poison would have done its work.

When the authorities arrived, the scene they found only deepened the mystery. Mr. Dutta’s death was initially assumed to be a heart attack, but the toxicology reports soon revealed the presence of a rare and exotic poison. The investigation led to the discovery that the poison was derived from a dart frog native to Colombia. Given Mr. Payeng’s well-known trips to Colombia, his connection to Mr. Dutta’s financial dealings, and the gossip surrounding his affair with Sagarika, he quickly became the prime suspect.

The police pieced together the financial motive: Mr. Dutta’s death would lead to a windfall for Mr. Payeng, thanks to the offshore accounts Mohini had carefully linked. Combined with the affair, it painted a damning picture.

As the investigation deepened, the pieces of the puzzle fell perfectly into place. Mr. Payeng, oblivious to the trap Mohini had set, found himself under intense scrutiny. The financial links, the affair, the poison—all pointed directly to him.

Mohini, meanwhile, was untouchable. The authorities never considered her involvement, not even for a moment. She had played her role flawlessly, leaving no trace, no suspicion. As the days passed, she watched with satisfaction as the investigation closed in on Sagarika and Gautam. They were both arrested and charged with conspiracy to commit murder, their lives destroyed by the evidence Mohini had so carefully constructed. And Mohini? She was nowhere in the picture. Her hands were clean, her name untainted. The satisfaction of executing yet another flawless plan washed over her. She had played the game to perfection, and once again, she had won.

---

Epilogue

Behind her serene facade, Mohini savored the satisfaction of a plan perfectly executed. The thrill of control, the power over life and death, had become her silent obsession.

The shadows in her life deepened, but so did her hunger for the game. She had won again, and now, her gaze turned towards the horizon, scanning for the next move in her deadly game. The world had become her chessboard, and she was the master, always one step ahead, always unseen.

She has tasted blood. Not once - twice, She wanted more of it. She began planning her next move.

Legend of the Naked Ghost at Kokrajhar

 

In the early 1960s, Kokrajhar was a sleepy little town nestled in the western part of Assam, close to the foothills of Bhutan. Unlike the bustling town it would later become, Kokrajhar was a place where everyone knew each other, and the pace of life was slow and unhurried. The town was surrounded by dense forests and streams that flowed through the landscape, giving the area a tranquil, almost mystical quality. 

But as the sun dipped below the horizon, a different mood settled over Kokrajhar. The hustle and bustle of the day gave way to a tranquil silence, broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl or the distant call of a jackal. The streets, once filled with life, became empty and still, as if the town itself was holding its breath. It was at this time, in the dim light of dusk, that Kokrajhar seemed to slip into another realm, one where the boundaries between the living and the dead blurred, and old tales of spirits and apparitions took on a life of their own.

One such tale was the legend of the naked ghost, a story that would become synonymous with Kokrajhar and its mysterious banyan tree.

At the very center of Kokrajhar was a corner that everyone in town knew. It was an unremarkable spot—a small clearing shaded by a peepal tree, with a rickety wooden bench and a chai stall that served the best tea in town. But it was here that the men of Kokrajhar gathered every evening, a ritual as old as the town itself. They came to escape the monotony of their lives, to share news, exchange gossip, and engage in the age-old pastime of storytelling.

The corner was a place where time seemed to slow down. The men would arrive just as the sun was setting, their voices rising and falling like the melody of a well-practiced song. There was Mr. Narzary, the schoolteacher with a passion for poetry; Mr. Gupta, the shopkeeper who knew the price of everything; and Mr. Basumaraty, the postmaster who could recount the history of every family in town. But among them, one man stood out—Mr. Dutta.

Mr. Dutta was a man of contradictions. He was short and stout, with a round belly that strained against the buttons of his shirt. His face was perpetually flushed, as if he had just run a marathon, and his thick mustache twitched when he spoke. He had a voice that could be heard from a mile away and a personality that demanded attention. But what made Mr. Dutta truly unforgettable was his penchant for storytelling. He had a tale for every occasion, and though most of them were wildly exaggerated, he told them with such conviction that even the most skeptical listener couldn’t help but be drawn in.

Mr. Dutta’s stories were a mixture of fact and fiction, with the lines between the two often blurred beyond recognition. He would regale the men at the corner with accounts of his adventures—how he had single-handedly caught a band of thieves, how he had outwitted a corrupt government official, and how he had once saved a drowning child from the Brahmaputra’s treacherous waters. The men listened with a mixture of amusement and disbelief, knowing that Mr. Dutta’s tales were more fiction than fact. But they enjoyed his company nonetheless, for Mr. Dutta brought a certain vibrancy to their otherwise mundane lives.

As the evening wore on, the men would play cards, sip on their chai, and lose themselves in conversation. But as the clock neared nine, the gathering would begin to disperse. One by one, the men would bid each other goodnight and make their way home, leaving the corner to the night and its shadows.

Mr. Dutta was always the last to leave. He had a habit of lingering, as if reluctant to let go of the day. He would tuck his deck of cards into his shirt pocket, adjust his belt, and set off on his nightly walk home. His route took him past the old courthouse, a crumbling relic from the British era, and the towering banyan tree that stood beside it.

The banyan was a tree unlike any other. It was ancient, its roots sprawling outwards like the tentacles of some mythical creature. The branches were thick and gnarled, twisting and turning as if in a dance with the wind. The tree’s canopy was so dense that even the moonlight struggled to penetrate it, casting the ground below in an eerie half-light. The banyan had a reputation, one that made the townsfolk wary of passing by it after dark. It was said that spirits resided in its depths, drawn to its ancient roots and the secrets they held.

Mr. Dutta, however, dismissed such stories. He was a man of the world, or so he claimed, and had no time for superstitions. He had walked past the banyan tree countless times, and never once had he encountered anything out of the ordinary. But on one hot summer night in 1964, that would change.

Mr. Hazarika and Mr. Rahman were young men with a zest for life that belied their academic pursuits. They had recently completed their master’s degrees at Guwahati University and had joined the faculty of the newly established Kokrajhar College. The two shared a small rented room near the courthouse, a modest abode with creaking floorboards and a leaking roof. But what the room lacked in comfort, it made up for in camaraderie. The two men were fast friends, bound by their love of literature, philosophy, and a good practical joke.

They had been part of the evening gatherings at the corner since they arrived in Kokrajhar, and it didn’t take them long to notice Mr. Dutta’s larger-than-life personality. They listened with amusement as he spun his tales, their eyes meeting over the rim of their chai cups whenever Mr. Dutta ventured into particularly implausible territory. It wasn’t long before the idea of playing a prank on Mr. Dutta took root in their minds.

It was a simple plan, born out of the sweltering summer heat and the boredom that often accompanied it. They would disguise themselves as ghosts—naked, save for the lungis they would drape over their heads—and wait for Mr. Dutta to pass by the banyan tree on his way home. The thought of the stout, self-assured Mr. Dutta fleeing in terror was too delicious to resist.

On the appointed night, the two men prepared for their prank with the giddy anticipation of schoolboys. They stripped down to their underwear, wrapping their lungis around their heads like makeshift turbans, and covered their faces with a layer of talcum powder to give themselves a ghostly pallor. Their hearts raced with a mixture of excitement and nervousness as they made their way to the banyan tree, taking care to avoid being seen by anyone who might give away their plan.

The night was oppressively hot, the air thick with humidity. Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves of the banyan, and the only sound was the distant croak of frogs in the nearby marsh. The two men crouched behind the tree’s massive trunk, their muscles tensed with anticipation. They didn’t have to wait long. Soon enough, they heard the familiar sound of Mr. Dutta’s sandals slapping against the road, accompanied by the tuneless hum that always signaled his approach.

As Mr. Dutta came into view, his portly figure outlined by the dim light of a streetlamp, the two men exchanged a quick glance. This was it—the moment they had been waiting for. As Mr. Dutta drew closer, they stepped out from behind the tree, their bodies swaying in an exaggerated dance, their voices rising in eerie wails.

For a moment, Mr. Dutta froze in his tracks. The sight that greeted him was something out of a nightmare—two ghostly figures, naked from the waist down, their faces pale and their movements otherworldly. His heart skipped a beat, and his mouth went dry. For the first time in his life, Mr. Dutta was at a loss for words.

“Maa Kali! Maa Durga!” he gasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. He took a step back, his hands clutching at the air as if to ward off the apparitions. But the ghosts only moved closer, their dance becoming more frantic, their wails more insistent.

“O Maago!” Mr. Dutta shrieked, his voice cracking with fear. His legs felt like jelly, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts. Was this it? Had the spirits of the banyan tree come to claim him? All the stories he had so casually dismissed now came flooding back, each one more terrifying than the last.

Without another thought, Mr. Dutta turned on his heel and fled. He ran faster than he had ever run in his life, his sandals flapping against the ground as he bolted down the road. Behind him, the two “ghosts” struggled to suppress their laughter, their plan a resounding success.

Mr. Dutta didn’t stop running until he reached the safety of his home. He burst through the door, slamming it shut behind him, his chest heaving with the effort. His wife, who had been dozing in a chair, woke with a start at the commotion.

“What’s the matter with you?” she demanded, eyeing her husband with concern.

“Ghosts!” Mr. Dutta panted, his face ashen. “There were ghosts—two of them, under the banyan tree!”

His wife raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Ghosts, you say? And what did they look like, these ghosts?”

Mr. Dutta’s eyes widened as he recalled the sight. “They were naked, save for the cloths wrapped around their heads. And their faces—they were so pale, so ghastly!”

His wife stifled a laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. She had lived with Mr. Dutta long enough to know when he was exaggerating, and this story had all the hallmarks of one of his tall tales.

“Well, you’re home now,” she said, patting his arm reassuringly. “No need to worry. You’ve scared them off, I’m sure.”

But Mr. Dutta was not so easily consoled. He spent the rest of the night wide awake, his mind replaying the encounter over and over. The next morning, as the first light of dawn filtered through the curtains, he resolved to share his story with the men at the corner. After all, they needed to know about the danger that lurked beneath the banyan tree.

Word of Mr. Dutta’s encounter spread through Kokrajhar like wildfire. By the time he arrived at the corner that evening, the story had already taken on a life of its own. The men greeted him with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism, eager to hear the details firsthand.

“Is it true, Dutta Babu?” Mr. Basumatary asked, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Did you really see ghosts last night?”

Mr. Dutta puffed out his chest, relishing the attention. “It’s true, all right. Two of them—pale as death, and naked as the day they were born.”

The men exchanged glances, their expressions ranging from amusement to disbelief. Mr. Dutta’s reputation for exaggeration was well-known, and while they enjoyed his stories, they were often taken with a grain of salt.

“But how did you escape?” Mr. Narzary inquired, leaning forward. “Surely, the ghosts didn’t just let you go.”

Mr. Dutta’s eyes narrowed as he recounted his tale. “I didn’t just escape—I drove them away. You see, I have a deep knowledge of ‘bhoot vidya,’ the ancient art of exorcising spirits. When they saw that I wasn’t afraid, they fled!”

There was a moment of silence as the men absorbed this new twist in the story. Then, almost as one, they burst into laughter. The image of Mr. Dutta, a portly man with a fondness for sweets, single-handedly exorcising ghosts was too much to take seriously.

“Bhoot vidya, is it?” Mr. Gupta chuckled, wiping tears from his eyes. “I never knew you were a ghost hunter, Dutta Babu!”

Mr. Dutta’s face flushed with indignation. “Laugh all you want, but I’m telling you, those spirits won’t be troubling us again.”

But the men were unconvinced. They knew Mr. Dutta well enough to see through his bravado, and while they didn’t believe his claim of exorcism, there was something about his story that struck a chord. The banyan tree had always been a place of mystery, and Mr. Dutta’s vivid description of the ghosts—naked and pale, their heads wrapped in cloth—was enough to plant a seed of doubt.

As the days passed, the story of Mr. Dutta’s encounter with the naked ghosts began to take on a life of its own. The townsfolk added their own embellishments, weaving the tale into the fabric of Kokrajhar’s folklore. Some said the ghosts were the spirits of British officers who had been executed during the struggle for independence. Others claimed they were the souls of criminals who had been hanged from the banyan tree’s branches. The more the story was told, the more elaborate it became, until it was nearly impossible to separate fact from fiction.

But while the legend grew, Mr. Dutta found himself becoming the subject of ridicule. His story of exorcism was met with disbelief, and the men at the corner began to tease him mercilessly. They would greet him with mock salutes, pretending to be terrified of his ghost-hunting prowess, and he would respond with a scowl, muttering under his breath about their lack of respect.

Yet, despite the teasing, Mr. Dutta took some comfort in the fact that his encounter had left a lasting impression on the town. The banyan tree, once a place of quiet contemplation, became a site of fear and fascination. Children dared each other to approach it after dark, and even the most skeptical adults found themselves avoiding the tree on moonless nights. The legend of the naked ghosts had become a part of Kokrajhar’s collective consciousness, a story that would be passed down from generation to generation.

Years passed, and Kokrajhar changed with the times. The small town grew, its population expanding as new families moved in. But the banyan tree remained, its roots digging deeper into the earth, its branches spreading wider across the sky.

The story of the naked ghosts persisted, though it was now told with a certain reverence, as if the passage of time had imbued it with an air of solemnity. Mr. Dutta, meanwhile, continued to hold court at the corner, though his stories had lost some of their luster. He had grown older, his once booming voice now softened by the years, and his tales, though still exaggerated, were met with more patience and less laughter.

But there was one group of people who knew the truth behind the legend—Mr. Hazarika, Mr. Rahman, and a select few of their colleagues at the college. The two young lecturers had revealed the secret to a handful of trusted friends, sharing the story of their prank with a mixture of pride and nostalgia. My father was among those who were privy to the truth, and as his son, I grew up hearing the real story of the naked ghosts—how a simple prank had turned into a legend that would outlive its creators.

It was a story that was shared with a wink and a nod, a reminder that sometimes, the most enduring tales are born not out of truth, but out of imagination and a well-timed joke. And so, while the people of Kokrajhar continued to believe in the presence of ghosts beneath the banyan tree, there were a few of us who knew better. We knew that the only spirits haunting that corner of the town were the ghosts of laughter and camaraderie, the echoes of a summer night long ago.

Even now, more than sixty years later, the legend of the naked ghosts is still told in Kokrajhar. The banyan tree, its roots entwined with the town’s history, remains a place of mystery and intrigue. On moonlit nights, when the wind whispers through the leaves, the people of Kokrajhar still speak in hushed tones about the spirits that dwell beneath its branches. Children are warned not to venture too close, and the older residents recall with a shiver the night Mr. Dutta encountered the ghosts.

But for those of us who know the truth, the story is a source of amusement rather than fear. It is a tale we tell with a smile, a reminder that even the most serious of legends can have their origins in something as simple as a prank. And as the years go by, the story only grows richer, its details more embellished, its characters more colorful.

So, the next time you find yourself in Kokrajhar, take a walk past the old banyan tree. Listen to the whispers of the leaves, feel the weight of the night air, and remember the story of Mr. Dutta and the naked ghosts. But don’t worry—there’s no need to run. After all, it was just a prank… or was it?