u/bappa158

The Language of Violence, Padmavat, and the Horlicks of Lapdog Media

​

Debashis Chakraborty

​

"You know only emptiness. You do not know how many waves live within that emptiness."

​

The line, perhaps not exactly but in spirit, echoes Shankha Ghosh. In any meaningful work of literature, violence does not appear merely as an event or a narrative device. It serves to expose, often brutally, the structures of violence embedded within society itself.

​

Why, despite all his virtues, does Harihar die? Why do we encounter, in Saadat Hasan Manto's writing, characters who seek their own answers to oppression, however flawed or tragic those answers may be? Violence in literature is rarely about violence alone. It reveals the deeper architecture of power, exclusion, and domination.

​

For that reason, there is little point in writing cautiously merely to avoid discomfort. The task of literature is not to sanitize reality but to strip away its disguises. Yet much of our contemporary cultural production has settled into a peculiar form of safe art. Everything becomes a disposable story, a polished spectacle, or a stylized fantasy—violence included.

​

This culture of safety turns everything into statistics. Crime thrillers, ghost stories, and political dramas alike become endless exercises in chase and escape. Eventually, they conclude with a simplistic sermon against violence or some hollow proclamation that redemption is just around the corner. A perfectly packaged ending.

​

It is precisely within this depoliticized space that communal and fascist forces construct new narratives of violence. Historical distortion becomes the master password through which hatred against minorities is normalized and democratic values are buried.

​

The frenzy surrounding Padmavat is a striking example. What often gets forgotten is that Malik Muhammad Jayasi's Padmavat is a work of imagination, not a historical document. Its real concern is power. Jayasi portrays a deeply authoritarian and hierarchical world in which love itself becomes a form of possession. Woman becomes an object to be conquered and controlled.

​

Long before Michel Foucault, Indian intellectual traditions were already grappling with profound questions about power, politics, desire, and domination. Padmavat reveals an awareness of the intimate relationship between sexuality and power. Moreover, the historical era of Alauddin Khalji and the literary world of Jayasi are not the same. Confusing the two is both poor history and poor criticism.

​

It is time to remove the communal lens and learn to see history as history. How long will we continue consuming the comforting Horlicks served by lapdog media and state-sponsored narratives?

​

India's intellectual traditions have often been far more sophisticated than the simplistic myths now being sold in their name.

​

If this piece resonates with you, you're welcome to suppott my other writings here:

​

buymeacoffee.com/bappa32532a

​

Sharing only for interested readers—not intended as self-promotion.

​

​

​

​

​

​

Debashis Chakraborty

​

"You know only emptiness. You do not know how many waves live within that emptiness."

​

The line, perhaps not exactly but in spirit, echoes Shankha Ghosh. In any meaningful work of literature, violence does not appear merely as an event or a narrative device. It serves to expose, often brutally, the structures of violence embedded within society itself.

​

Why, despite all his virtues, does Harihar die? Why do we encounter, in Saadat Hasan Manto's writing, characters who seek their own answers to oppression, however flawed or tragic those answers may be? Violence in literature is rarely about violence alone. It reveals the deeper architecture of power, exclusion, and domination.

​

For that reason, there is little point in writing cautiously merely to avoid discomfort. The task of literature is not to sanitize reality but to strip away its disguises. Yet much of our contemporary cultural production has settled into a peculiar form of safe art. Everything becomes a disposable story, a polished spectacle, or a stylized fantasy—violence included.

​

This culture of safety turns everything into statistics. Crime thrillers, ghost stories, and political dramas alike become endless exercises in chase and escape. Eventually, they conclude with a simplistic sermon against violence or some hollow proclamation that redemption is just around the corner. A perfectly packaged ending.

​

It is precisely within this depoliticized space that communal and fascist forces construct new narratives of violence. Historical distortion becomes the master password through which hatred against minorities is normalized and democratic values are buried.

​

The frenzy surrounding Padmavat is a striking example. What often gets forgotten is that Malik Muhammad Jayasi's Padmavat is a work of imagination, not a historical document. Its real concern is power. Jayasi portrays a deeply authoritarian and hierarchical world in which love itself becomes a form of possession. Woman becomes an object to be conquered and controlled.

​

Long before Michel Foucault, Indian intellectual traditions were already grappling with profound questions about power, politics, desire, and domination. Padmavat reveals an awareness of the intimate relationship between sexuality and power. Moreover, the historical era of Alauddin Khalji and the literary world of Jayasi are not the same. Confusing the two is both poor history and poor criticism.

​

It is time to remove the communal lens and learn to see history as history. How long will we continue consuming the comforting Horlicks served by lapdog media and state-sponsored narratives?

​

India's intellectual traditions have often been far more sophisticated than the simplistic myths now being sold in their name.

​

If this piece resonates with you, you're welcome to Support my other writings here:

​

buymeacoffee.com/bappa32532a

​

Sharing only for interested readers—not intended as self-promotion.

​

​

​

The Language of Violence, Padmavat, and the Horlicks of Lapdog Media

​

Debashis Chakraborty

​

"You know only emptiness. You do not know how many waves live within that emptiness."

​

The line, perhaps not exactly but in spirit, echoes Shankha Ghosh. In any meaningful work of literature, violence does not appear merely as an event or a narrative device. It serves to expose, often brutally, the structures of violence embedded within society itself.

​

Why, despite all his virtues, does Harihar die? Why do we encounter, in Saadat Hasan Manto's writing, characters who seek their own answers to oppression, however flawed or tragic those answers may be? Violence in literature is rarely about violence alone. It reveals the deeper architecture of power, exclusion, and domination.

​

For that reason, there is little point in writing cautiously merely to avoid discomfort. The task of literature is not to sanitize reality but to strip away its disguises. Yet much of our contemporary cultural production has settled into a peculiar form of safe art. Everything becomes a disposable story, a polished spectacle, or a stylized fantasy—violence included.

​

This culture of safety turns everything into statistics. Crime thrillers, ghost stories, and political dramas alike become endless exercises in chase and escape. Eventually, they conclude with a simplistic sermon against violence or some hollow proclamation that redemption is just around the corner. A perfectly packaged ending.

​

It is precisely within this depoliticized space that communal and fascist forces construct new narratives of violence. Historical distortion becomes the master password through which hatred against minorities is normalized and democratic values are buried.

​

The frenzy surrounding Padmavat is a striking example. What often gets forgotten is that Malik Muhammad Jayasi's Padmavat is a work of imagination, not a historical document. Its real concern is power. Jayasi portrays a deeply authoritarian and hierarchical world in which love itself becomes a form of possession. Woman becomes an object to be conquered and controlled.

​

Long before Michel Foucault, Indian intellectual traditions were already grappling with profound questions about power, politics, desire, and domination. Padmavat reveals an awareness of the intimate relationship between sexuality and power. Moreover, the historical era of Alauddin Khalji and the literary world of Jayasi are not the same. Confusing the two is both poor history and poor criticism.

​

It is time to remove the communal lens and learn to see history as history. How long will we continue consuming the comforting Horlicks served by lapdog media and state-sponsored narratives?

​

India's intellectual traditions have often been far more sophisticated than the simplistic myths now being sold in their name.

​

If this piece resonates with you, you're welcome to support my other writings here:

​

buymeacoffee.com/bappa32532a

​

Sharing only for interested readers—not intended as self-promotion.

​

​

​

​

The Language of Violence, Padmavat, and the Horlicks of Lapdog Media

​

Debashis Chakraborty

​

"You know only emptiness. You do not know how many waves live within that emptiness."

​

The line, perhaps not exactly but in spirit, echoes Shankha Ghosh. In any meaningful work of literature, violence does not appear merely as an event or a narrative device. It serves to expose, often brutally, the structures of violence embedded within society itself.

​

Why, despite all his virtues, does Harihar die? Why do we encounter, in Saadat Hasan Manto's writing, characters who seek their own answers to oppression, however flawed or tragic those answers may be? Violence in literature is rarely about violence alone. It reveals the deeper architecture of power, exclusion, and domination.

​

For that reason, there is little point in writing cautiously merely to avoid discomfort. The task of literature is not to sanitize reality but to strip away its disguises. Yet much of our contemporary cultural production has settled into a peculiar form of safe art. Everything becomes a disposable story, a polished spectacle, or a stylized fantasy—violence included.

​

This culture of safety turns everything into statistics. Crime thrillers, ghost stories, and political dramas alike become endless exercises in chase and escape. Eventually, they conclude with a simplistic sermon against violence or some hollow proclamation that redemption is just around the corner. A perfectly packaged ending.

​

It is precisely within this depoliticized space that communal and fascist forces construct new narratives of violence. Historical distortion becomes the master password through which hatred against minorities is normalized and democratic values are buried.

​

The frenzy surrounding Padmavat is a striking example. What often gets forgotten is that Malik Muhammad Jayasi's Padmavat is a work of imagination, not a historical document. Its real concern is power. Jayasi portrays a deeply authoritarian and hierarchical world in which love itself becomes a form of possession. Woman becomes an object to be conquered and controlled.

​

Long before Michel Foucault, Indian intellectual traditions were already grappling with profound questions about power, politics, desire, and domination. Padmavat reveals an awareness of the intimate relationship between sexuality and power. Moreover, the historical era of Alauddin Khalji and the literary world of Jayasi are not the same. Confusing the two is both poor history and poor criticism.

​

It is time to remove the communal lens and learn to see history as history. How long will we continue consuming the comforting Horlicks served by lapdog media and state-sponsored narratives?

​

India's intellectual traditions have often been far more sophisticated than the simplistic myths now being sold in their name.

​

If this piece resonates with you, you're welcome to support my other writings here:

​

buymeacoffee.com/bappa32532a

​

Sharing only for interested readers—not intended as self-promotion.

​

​

​

​

The Language of Violence, Padmavat, and the Horlicks of Lapdog Media

​

Debashis Chakraborty

​

"You know only emptiness. You do not know how many waves live within that emptiness."

​

The line, perhaps not exactly but in spirit, echoes Shankha Ghosh. In any meaningful work of literature, violence does not appear merely as an event or a narrative device. It serves to expose, often brutally, the structures of violence embedded within society itself.

​

Why, despite all his virtues, does Harihar die? Why do we encounter, in Saadat Hasan Manto's writing, characters who seek their own answers to oppression, however flawed or tragic those answers may be? Violence in literature is rarely about violence alone. It reveals the deeper architecture of power, exclusion, and domination.

​

For that reason, there is little point in writing cautiously merely to avoid discomfort. The task of literature is not to sanitize reality but to strip away its disguises. Yet much of our contemporary cultural production has settled into a peculiar form of safe art. Everything becomes a disposable story, a polished spectacle, or a stylized fantasy—violence included.

​

This culture of safety turns everything into statistics. Crime thrillers, ghost stories, and political dramas alike become endless exercises in chase and escape. Eventually, they conclude with a simplistic sermon against violence or some hollow proclamation that redemption is just around the corner. A perfectly packaged ending.

​

It is precisely within this depoliticized space that communal and fascist forces construct new narratives of violence. Historical distortion becomes the master password through which hatred against minorities is normalized and democratic values are buried.

​

The frenzy surrounding Padmavat is a striking example. What often gets forgotten is that Malik Muhammad Jayasi's Padmavat is a work of imagination, not a historical document. Its real concern is power. Jayasi portrays a deeply authoritarian and hierarchical world in which love itself becomes a form of possession. Woman becomes an object to be conquered and controlled.

​

Long before Michel Foucault, Indian intellectual traditions were already grappling with profound questions about power, politics, desire, and domination. Padmavat reveals an awareness of the intimate relationship between sexuality and power. Moreover, the historical era of Alauddin Khalji and the literary world of Jayasi are not the same. Confusing the two is both poor history and poor criticism.

​

It is time to remove the communal lens and learn to see history as history. How long will we continue consuming the comforting Horlicks served by lapdog media and state-sponsored narratives?

​

India's intellectual traditions have often been far more sophisticated than the simplistic myths now being sold in their name.

​

​

​

Rosa Luxemburg is highly relevant today as well. But after scenes of party offices being vandalized in West Bengal, after the smashing of Lenin statues, and after witnessing various incidents of terror, many theorists are now writing—using Paulo Freire and Antonio Gramsci—that it is the oppressed people themselves who legitimize their own exploitation. In other words, as if the entire episode is solely the work of the oppressed? Or at the very least, it continues with their consent! Perhaps this very question is the real hero of this article.

​The question arises: Did only the oppressed people carry out the vandalism of party offices in West Bengal? Or, wherever Lenin statues have been toppled across the world, have the oppressed rushed there in droves to smash them? The matter is surely not that simple. In reality, a very small section of the intensely deprived is mobilized to perform these acts. They often do not even properly understand why they are doing it. And while these acts continue, the rest of society remains neutral. That is, it offers a silent consent to these actions. Yet even in giving this consent, the primary concern for the oppressed remains roti, kapda, makaan (bread, clothes, shelter). Still, they give their consent or accept these events because it makes no difference to them. Whether a party office stands or a statue is broken is irrelevant to their lives. They have nothing to say about it, nor do they think much about it—because these things have no connection to their existence. The so-called Marxists have never truly worked to awaken the oppressed. At best, they have organized some economic movements around them (barring the 1970s or a few specific movements). This is perhaps the reality.

​There is a very powerful scene in Aravind Adiga’s The White Tiger. On TV, it is announced that the Socialist Party has won. At that very moment, a supporter of an extremely reactionary party is slapping the driver. Meaning, no matter which party wins, beating the driver is always justified. In such a situation, the oppressed have no alternative, and thus the terror of power becomes normalized. As a result, Gramsci or Freire’s theories do not translate verbatim from the pages of books into Indian conditions. That said, what they argued is true: exploitation creates an ideological foundation. This is why we see that even today, those who imagine a “good state” cannot conceive of a state without police and military. It proves how deeply they themselves are oppressed, even in their imagination. And this mindset is stronger among the so-called civil society than among the most deprived. It is civil society that creates the language of this exploitation, nurtures it, and waters it. Therefore, the issue cannot be explained by referring only to the oppressed.

​

​Rosa Luxemburg is highly relevant today as well. But after scenes of party offices being vandalized in West Bengal, after the smashing of Lenin statues, and after witnessing various incidents of terror, many theorists are now writing—using Paulo Freire and Antonio Gramsci—that it is the oppressed people themselves who legitimize their own exploitation. In other words, as if the entire episode is solely the work of the oppressed? Or at the very least, it continues with their consent! Perhaps this very question is the real hero of this article.

​The question arises: Did only the oppressed people carry out the vandalism of party offices in West Bengal? Or, wherever Lenin statues have been toppled across the world, have the oppressed rushed there in droves to smash them? The matter is surely not that simple. In reality, a very small section of the intensely deprived is mobilized to perform these acts. They often do not even properly understand why they are doing it. And while these acts continue, the rest of society remains neutral. That is, it offers a silent consent to these actions. Yet even in giving this consent, the primary concern for the oppressed remains roti, kapda, makaan (bread, clothes, shelter). Still, they give their consent or accept these events because it makes no difference to them. Whether a party office stands or a statue is broken is irrelevant to their lives. They have nothing to say about it, nor do they think much about it—because these things have no connection to their existence. The so-called Marxists have never truly worked to awaken the oppressed. At best, they have organized some economic movements around them (barring the 1970s or a few specific movements). This is perhaps the reality.

​There is a very powerful scene in Aravind Adiga’s The White Tiger. On TV, it is announced that the Socialist Party has won. At that very moment, a supporter of an extremely reactionary party is slapping the driver. Meaning, no matter which party wins, beating the driver is always justified. In such a situation, the oppressed have no alternative, and thus the terror of power becomes normalized. As a result, Gramsci or Freire’s theories do not translate verbatim from the pages of books into Indian conditions. That said, what they argued is true: exploitation creates an ideological foundation. This is why we see that even today, those who imagine a “good state” cannot conceive of a state without police and military. It proves how deeply they themselves are oppressed, even in their imagination. And this mindset is stronger among the so-called civil society than among the most deprived. It is civil society that creates the language of this exploitation, nurtures it, and waters it. Therefore, the issue cannot be explained by referring only to the oppressed.

​

​Body: Hi everyone! I am an independent writer and audio storyteller based in Kolkata. I recently released a new psychological mystery and literary noir audio series, and I would love to share the premise with this community.

​If you enjoy slow-burn mysteries, aging detectives, and a touch of magical realism, I think you might enjoy this:

​"Feathers seemed to be falling from the sky like rain. Not whole feathers — torn ones. Shredded remnants of birds drifting endlessly downward through a colourless evening."

​Just as water endlessly circles back to remain within the boundless depths of water, the mystery wraps itself around the unfamiliar alphabet of life. Turning the pages of this very alphabet, sixty-year-old Detective Kamalesh realizes that nothing in his life has truly added up. Yet, the sheer, fragile life of a butterfly resting on the open jaws of a hippopotamus continues to fascinate him.

​But the mystery returns. One by one, people are being murdered across the city, dragging Kamalesh back to the haunting memories of a serial killer from twenty years ago.

​Much like the way Gabriel García Márquez’s magical realism effortlessly paints clouds, rivers, and mountains into existence, this story transcends its genre. It is not merely a mystery; here, life converses with life. The memory of a woman murdered two decades ago, the lingering scent of her old perfume—altogether, it is not just a gathering storm of suspense, but a narrative that walks steadily toward a profound human discovery.

​Where to listen: The immersive audio adaptation of this story is currently streaming on Pocket FM under the 'Night Series'. I would be incredibly honored if you tuned in and gave it a listen.

​(I will drop the direct link in the comments below so I don't break any formatting rules here!) Would love to hear your thoughts on this premise!

THE PARK AT TEN-THIRTY

A Literary Noir Novella

Feathers seemed to be falling from the sky like rain.

Not whole feathers — torn ones. Shredded remnants of birds drifting endlessly downward through a colourless evening. Across a stretch of grey earth lay scattered cartridge shells, dozens of them, glinting faintly like dead insects beneath a dying sun.

Everything was slowly becoming brown and ash-grey.

Then Kamalesh saw nothing at all.

His afternoon sleep broke apart abruptly.

For several seconds he remained still on the bed, staring at the ceiling fan rotating above him like a tired thought refusing to die. Then he turned toward the clock.

4:30 PM.

Another six hours remained before the city arrived at ten-thirty at night.

This year Kamalesh would turn sixty.

Once, long ago, he had been known as an amateur detective. Not famous exactly, but remembered. People used to lower their voices while speaking about him.

You are very intelligent, Kamalesh.

Now the sentence sounded like something spoken beside a grave.

Sometimes he felt life began with obsession and ended while trying to justify it. A hobby slowly became identity. Identity became failure. Failure eventually became habit. Perhaps death itself was merely the final habit — disappearing quietly from the earth.

He rose from bed and splashed water onto his face.

Looking into the mirror he muttered softly:

“So tell me, Detective Kamalesh… after all these years, what exactly did you solve?”

He had always come close.

Painfully close.

But every truth in his life stopped before completion, as though reality itself preferred unfinished sentences.

A song drifted back into memory:

Beneath such a vast sky, why is human life so small?

He opened the refrigerator and reached for a bottle of water.

On the fridge door was an old sticker of a hippopotamus with its jaws spread wide open. A butterfly sat delicately upon its snout.

The hippopotamus could crush the butterfly the moment it closed its mouth.

But Kamalesh knew the butterfly would fly away at precisely the right second.

Timing.

That was the real secret of detection.

Not intelligence.

Not observation.

Timing.

To remain as light as a butterfly while navigating a violent and complicated world. To know exactly when to escape.

After drinking water, he turned toward the newspapers scattered across the table.

Again the headlines belonged to the serial killer.

The city had become obsessed with him.

A murderer who stalked public parks at night, killing homeless people in their sleep.

The victims were first poisoned, then their throats slit quietly, almost gently.

Five dead so far.

Three women who worked at flower stalls during the day and slept in parks at night.

Two beggars.

No witnesses.

No pattern.

No motive.

Television channels screamed nightly about “urban terror.” Politicians demanded arrests. Journalists built careers out of panic.

Only the homeless remained unimportant.

And they were dying one by one.

The bell rang.

Kamalesh smiled faintly.

Inspector Sanyal.

Nobody else rang the bell like that.

One proper press. Then a second soft shove that made the bell whimper weakly like a kicked stray dog.

Kamalesh opened the door.

Sanyal entered carrying food packets and bottles of cold drink. He looked exhausted. His hairline had retreated sharply over the years, and his stomach pushed against his shirt buttons like accumulated disappointment.

“At your age,” Kamalesh said dryly, “you should be drinking whisky. Not cola.”

Sanyal collapsed onto the sofa and wiped sweat from his face with a handkerchief.

“There’s enormous pressure,” he sighed. “Do something.”

Kamalesh almost laughed.

Instead he replied calmly, “Honestly, I still can’t understand these murders completely. But someone clearly wants the city afraid.”

As he spoke, a memory from twenty years earlier surfaced slowly through his mind.

Back then both of them had still been young.

Kamalesh had just begun working as a private investigator. Sanyal had recently joined the police force. They were ambitious then. Hungry. Sleepless. Convinced intelligence could defeat corruption.

That was the year the prostitutes began dying.

Women from brothels. Streetwalkers. Forgotten bodies from forgotten neighbourhoods.

Each victim was found with a bullet wound on her forehead and a white rose placed carefully inside her hand.

The newspapers called the murderer The White Rose Butcher.

Kamalesh had nearly solved the case.

A wealthy old man had orchestrated the murders. His son had died slowly from AIDS, and grief had rotted into hatred. Killing sex workers became the final entertainment of his dying life.

Kamalesh had traced patterns, timelines, motives.

At first even Sanyal believed him.

But systems were systems.

Soon invisible pressure entered the investigation like poison entering blood. Evidence disappeared. Witnesses changed statements. Senior officers intervened quietly.

Finally the police arrested a mentally unstable truck driver.

Case closed.

A week later the truck driver was found hanging inside prison.

Officially: suicide.

Unofficially: nobody cared.

Days later the wealthy old man supposedly “fell” from a rooftop and died.

The murders stopped.

The department celebrated.

The file went cold.

Kamalesh noticed Sanyal staring absentmindedly toward the aquarium in the corner of the room.

Inside, a golden guppy kept circling a plastic soldier holding a tiny rifle underwater.

Round and round.

Like ritual.

Like history.

Then suddenly Sanyal said:

“Tiyasa blocked me.”

Kamalesh looked at him silently.

“There was an argument online,” Sanyal continued. “She said the police are useless. I explained things aren’t simple. We manage a massive country with too few officers. Political pressure, public pressure… after that she blocked me.”

Something about the remark irritated Kamalesh deeply.

Even now, after coming for help, Sanyal’s voice still carried authority — a subtle ownership embedded inside his personality like old rust.

Why mention Tiyasa now?

Tiyasa Roy.

Journalist.

Former wife.

Back when Kamalesh still believed he would become a great detective, she had entered his life like sudden weather.

Then came marriage.

Perhaps desire had been too strong back then.

Later Kamalesh understood something simpler:

In chess, horses move differently from bishops. Pawns move slowly and die first.

Somewhere along the way, he himself had become the pawn.

Tiyasa eventually moved to Mumbai with another journalist named Arka.

And the person who had introduced them?

Inspector Sanyal.

Kamalesh lit another cigarette.

On the seventh page of the newspaper lay tiny headlines about broken love and violent death. Lovers murdering lovers. Men killing women they once swore they loved. Women poisoning husbands beside whom they had slept for years.

Smoke drifted slowly through the room.

Suddenly he remembered something the truck driver had once told him during interrogation twenty years ago.

“People are frightened creatures,” the man had said quietly. “That’s why they crawl inside shells. Like wounded birds hiding beneath broken roofs during storms.”

At that moment another memory surfaced.

Tiyasa used to say something similar.

“Happiness lasts like a glass of water,” she had once whispered beside a rain-stained window. “Clear for a moment. Then suddenly life throws everything into a washing machine.”

Kamalesh stared at the cigarette burning between his fingers.

Maybe both of them had been right.

Human beings spent their lives searching for tiny moments of warmth while the world kept spinning like a machine built to crush softness.

And yet birds still crossed the evening sky every day as though none of it mattered.

Then he thought:

Life was terrifyingly short.

Human beings barely had enough time to kiss each other properly.

So where did they find the time to kill?

He suddenly wondered whether his entire life had become an addiction to justifying failure.

Every unsolved case.

Every lost relationship.

Every disappointment transformed into philosophy because philosophy hurt less than truth.

Was that why Sanyal irritated him so much now?

Because Sanyal reminded him of unfinished things?

Then Sanyal leaned forward impatiently.

“You’re getting old,” he said. “You’ve lost your sharpness. Why is this case taking you so long?”

Outside, evening birds crossed the sky.

Just before sunset, the heavens resembled a strange floating scarf — blue, orange, silver clouds stitched together by fading light.

Birds returned home in slow motion.

For a brief moment Kamalesh wanted nothing except to stand outside and watch the sky.

Instead Sanyal growled:

“At least tell me how we proceed.”

Kamalesh inhaled smoke quietly.

“The biggest problem,” he said, “is motive. Why kill harmless people? Solve that, and everything else collapses.”

Sanyal shrugged bitterly.

“It’s always the weak who die first.”

At that moment Kamalesh noticed the WhatsApp group on his phone exploding with images of war.

Burning lakes.

Bombed buildings.

Birds still flying calmly above fire.

He wondered whether he should show them to Sanyal.

But he didn’t.

---

Two hours later Sanyal left.

In another thirty minutes the clock would strike ten-thirty.

Tonight would not resemble yesterday.

Kamalesh slipped his revolver into his pocket and checked it carefully.

For three days strange handwritten notes had been appearing inside his old mailbox.

Nobody even used mailboxes anymore.

But childhood habits survived longer than love.

The first note had read:

You came alone. You will leave alone. But words remain.

The second:

Meet me.

And today’s message:

Come to the park at 10:30 PM.

Kamalesh remembered that the murders twenty years earlier had also occurred between ten and ten-thirty at night.

Only the locations had changed.

Back then: brothels, abandoned roads, forests.

Now: parks.

The streets were nearly empty as he walked through the city.

In small towns, ten o’clock already felt like midnight.

Add a serial killer to the atmosphere and silence became complete.

Under yellow streetlights two stray dogs slept peacefully.

The park gate creaked open easily.

No police.

Strange.

Just then a patrol car sped past the park without stopping.

Kamalesh had sensed it for several minutes now.

Someone was following him.

And then he smelled it.

Perfume.

Old perfume.

Exactly the same fragrance he had noticed on the body of the first murdered woman twenty years earlier.

Suddenly he felt unbearably tired.

He wanted, absurdly, to rest his head in someone’s lap.

To see that dead girl’s face once more.

Then something tightened violently around his throat.

A rope.

Pulled hard from behind.

Kamalesh instantly understood there would be no time to draw his revolver. He was thrown onto the ground, choking, dragged backward like an animal toward execution.

The perfume became stronger.

As his vision blurred he saw the attacker behind him — face covered in black cloth.

Then suddenly—

A violent impact.

Someone slammed into the attacker from the side.

The masked figure stumbled.

Before he could escape, armed men emerged from darkness and surrounded him instantly.

Civilian clothes.

Detective branch.

Police.

Kamalesh rose slowly from the ground, breathing heavily.

Then he looked directly at the masked man and said:

“It’s over, Sanyal.”

Silence filled the park.

Twenty years ago, Sanyal’s distant uncle Mrityunjay had indeed murdered women seeking revenge for his son’s death.

But Sanyal himself had protected the crimes.

Destroyed evidence.

Manipulated reports.

Because nobody cared enough about dead prostitutes to question the official story.

Kamalesh continued quietly:

“But guilt survives strangely, doesn’t it? Your uncle’s crimes kept living inside you.”

The officers forced Sanyal onto his knees.

“I knew,” Kamalesh said, “that if you discovered I was coming here alone, you’d try to finish me. So I informed the detective department in advance. You arranged police patrols carefully — moving from one park to another — leaving small windows of emptiness where you could hunt safely.”

Above them the moon floated through thin clouds like a tired witness.

One of the younger officers asked softly:

“Sir… how did you know?”

Kamalesh looked toward the sky.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Maybe because I kept walking at night.”

Then another memory returned suddenly.

The first murdered girl from twenty years earlier.

Inside her room he had once discovered numerous handwritten scraps filled with fragmented thoughts and strange symbols.

And then he remembered the rose.

Not entirely white.

The first rose had contained faint black stains near the stem — the same colour as old mailbox paint.

His breathing slowed.

A terrible realization unfolded.

Maybe the murders from twenty years ago had not all been committed by the same person.

Maybe after the first killing, somebody else had copied the pattern.

A copycat killer.

Slowly Kamalesh turned toward Sanyal.

“So tell me,” he whispered, “was your uncle really the original murderer?”

The wind moved softly through the empty park.

Far above the city, birds crossed the moonlit sky like fragments of unfinished memory.

And for the first time in twenty years, Inspector Sanyal looked afraid.

Where to listen: The immersive audio adaptation of this story is currently streaming on Pocket FM under the 'Night Series'. I would be incredibly honored if you tuned in and gave it a listen.

Feathers seemed to be falling from the sky like rain. Not whole feathers — torn ones. Shredded remnants of birds drifting endlessly downward through a colourless evening."

​Just as water endlessly circles back to remain within the boundless depths of water, the mystery wraps itself around the unfamiliar alphabet of life. Turning the pages of this very alphabet, sixty-year-old Detective Kamalesh realizes that nothing in his life has truly added up. Yet, the sheer, fragile life of a butterfly resting on the open jaws of a hippopotamus continues to fascinate him.

​But the mystery returns. One by one, people are being murdered across the city, dragging Kamalesh back to the haunting memories of a serial killer from twenty years ago.

​Much like the way Gabriel García Márquez’s magical realism effortlessly paints clouds, rivers, and mountains into existence, this story transcends its genre. It is not merely a mystery; here, life converses with life. The memory of a woman murdered two decades ago, the lingering scent of her old perfume—altogether, it is not just a gathering storm of suspense, but a narrative that walks steadily toward a profound human discovery.

​Dive into a tale of dark alleys, the weight of failure, and an unshakable melancholy.

​🎧 A special request: Please tune in and experience the immersive audio adaptation of this story on Pocket FM's 'Night Series'.

​"No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main."

​When John Donne wrote these lines, he spoke of human interconnection. But standing amidst the current digital reality of India, one wonders—is the 'Main' now merely a map of division?

​In the current Indian digital landscape, we are witnessing a massive 'ideological battlefield'. On one side, the state and its echo chambers have coined the term "Cockroach Janata Party"—a derogatory label used to dismiss laborers, activists, and the common man who dare to question the system,. On the other side, we see the rise of Gen-Z, who are fighting back. They are turning the internet into a space of ideological resistance, rejecting the attempt to 'delete' their existence and their right to dissent,.

​The Architecture of "Cockroach Democracy":

Today, when a laborer or a struggling job-seeker asks for their rights, they are branded as 'cockroaches' or 'incompetent'. This is a strategic move to delete their labor and their democratic value from the narrative. It is a form of 'silent genocide' of dissent, where voices aren't countered by logic, but erased by labels.

​The Digital 'Sepoy Mutiny' of Gen-Z:

The youth, branded as 'cockroaches' by those in power, have initiated a new 'Sepoy Mutiny' online. For Gen-Z, the internet is not just for entertainment; it is the frontline of an ideological war. They are asking: "By what right do you label the common people as cockroaches? Who gave you the authority to decide who is a citizen and who deserves to be deleted?"

​For Whom the Bell Tolls:

Donne warned: "Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee." Does the bell of this digital boycotting, the erasing of accounts, and the branding of humans as 'cockroaches' toll for all of us? When the voices of the marginalized are erased, the very foundation of our citizenship trembles.

​We are living in an era where political issues are reduced to mere trolls and ridicule. Are we recognizing the horror of this ideological warfare, or are we becoming silent participants in this "Cockroach Democracy"?

​Think, speak, and debate. Because democracy ends the day a curfew is imposed on our minds.

​#CockroachJanataParty #IndiaDemocracy #GenZ #IdeologicalWarfare #DigitalResistance #ForWhomTheBellTolls #SocialJustice

https://youtube.com/live/Mjo0WAnVHk0?feature=share