Mr Sibanand Chatterjee was a renowned philosopher and artist who wrote many poems and stories revolving around a girl he was obsessed with. "I am fond of her" he'd say. Every Monday he would sit at the place where both used to meet, cursing her death or memorizing togetherness, humming a song, mimicking some old times.
I met Mr Chatterjee when he was too old to remember his own name, but was curious to tell a story. A story of his life. "Whenever people ask about me, I tell them about her. The
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And when everyone is gone, I sit down to cut you out of your photographs and paste it next to mine. I have made a whole album now, it works better than those sleeping pills.
This girl, I met next door, yesterday. Broken and drunk. In bed, she moaned like a cry in agony and ended up hurting herself. The cigrattes never left her fingers, she would look directly into my eyes making me uncomfortable.The instruments in her wooden shelf were, so that men can hurt her every night. Her pain cannot be s #story
Nothing makes him happy. The four-month marriage is a rotten piece of reality now, like a beautiful life dripped into cruelty, he is made to face, every day. Sometimes I try to sneak in his past to look for the answers, a deliberate attempt to hold on instead of running away from him.
He would come back home and share a continuous glance on the cracks of the walls as if asking for validation to erase himself and start over again. The cigarettes are his better companion than me, continuously whi #story