I would have never thought how magnified our senses could be when we are on the brink of death. I can feel nothing except for the two pairs of eyes staring at me from behind. I have no one to talk to, no one who would believe what I am about to say. If I do not survive, let this be the last message I share with the world.
I am Arya Thakur - I was born in Mumbai but I have been living in Kolkata for the past ten years. I would not go into much detail about my life because I don’t believe I have much time remaining - but last year, I was able to briefly sense a world beyond what the normal human eyes can see.
It was in the aftermath of losing someone I had entrusted my heart to and it was accompanied by crippling depression. It is to honor her memories that I am writing this to you all now - it’s my last fight against my destiny. Believe it or not, it fills me with a sense of achievement as I type these words on my phone in a rickety old bus - three seats away from what would probably claim my life.
Bijoy Guha was supposed to be a man in the clutches of depression. He had lost his wife to suicide and is left with two sons - the younger of them dumb with mental agony. It was supposed to hallucinations when he saw the wall in his younger son’s bedroom bleeding - the police confirmed there was nothing, his own sons confirmed there was nothing. If it was all as it was supposed to be, what is this abomination following me ever since I left their apartment?
I am sorry, I understand this must be confusing to you - I should mention before that my maternal aunt runs a very well-known investigation business in the heart of North Kolkata. She had been there for me when no one else was and Bijoy Guha was one of the files sitting on her desk that I had chosen to personally visit. Perhaps I found myself in the brief description that I read of him - perhaps it was the calls of destiny which would lead me to my ultimate end. But when I was standing in front of his small run down apartment, I could feel my senses telling me to run - to run and never look back. I can sense despair and death - in one circumstance my vision had allowed me to see a world which existed after death. Ever since that, my soul had been craving for another glimpse again. Perhaps somewhere down the line, I had made that the sole purpose of my existence.
And so I stayed, smiling at Bijoy Guha as he led me in. I had sat down and listened to his story for almost half an hour, gulping down cups after cups of chai that his elder son made in their small kitchen. Perhaps, in the minutest of chances that I survive tonight, I will tell you all about Bijoy Guha’s life but till then, I will only give you the gist.
Bijoy Guha’s wife killed herself in the same apartment some years ago - their younger boy, Joy, in the bedroom next was the sole witness of his mother’s death. Some days later, Joy was found in the abandoned apartment next door, sitting in a pool of his own excrement - terrified and lost. The boy lost his ability to speak that day and till present, still communicates through a small slate board he keeps to his side.
Since the past week, Bijoy Guha has been the only one who apparently sees Joy’s bedroom wall bleeding - as absurd as it sounds, it has driven the man to the brink of insanity. The smell of copper and pungent death has surrounded and misted the man’s vision. He wasn’t completely wrong though, since the police found two small holes behind the portrait on the wall of Joy’s bedroom facing his bed. The wall connects to the abandoned apartment next door - and stashed against the wall from the other side were rotten corpses of birds and street animals. However despite the apartment being completely cleaned next door and the holes on the wall cemented shut - Bijoy Guha still sees blood flowing down the cemented holes - constantly puddling on the floor of the room.
The man in the seat behind me has gotten up. It is a middle aged man and he has walked to the front of the bus. I can feel my chaser getting up and m0ving towards the empty seat. I am not hopeful about completing the post. I will tap on the post buttten eith3r way.
The first thing that stRuck me about Joy Guha was his sheeer size. He was supposed to be a fourteen year old bOy, but he did not look like the average fourteen y3ar old Indian kid in any way. The boy was barely four feet four inches tall or perhaps even shortr but seemed to weigh nearly 200 kilos. I have never, in my twenty three years of exstence seen such an obese child. Bujoy Guha might have forgotten to mention about his boy’s peculrity but what he had said otherwise ws true.
The wall opposite Joy’s bed Was ble3ding - constant streams of bloood flowing down the wall puuddling to the floor - inching close t0 our feet. The blood seemed to be alive, pulsating with the rhythm of a hertহৃৎপিন্ড . The smell was overwhlming, the damp and humid air insid3 was chilly despite the Kolkata heat outside. But nothing seemed to r3gister in my head other than the overwhelming feভয় r of death. Joy was not alone, rather, there seem3d to be an existence - undefined by w0rds - sitting on Joy’s shoulders - forcing the body of the child to cave in deeper within himself. In those minutes inside Joy’s bedroom, I could never force myself to look upwards and ackn0wledge that m0nster. It was gigqntic - thin and gnqrly with a spineশিরদাঁড়া that b3nt into a curve as it l3aned its head upside down to touch mine. It was barely cotained within the ro0om, the middle of his back was peobably touching the ceiling - small stubby fet pressed d3ep into the child’s shouldes, rotten pungnt breath falling down on y hair.
I still feel it - it’s doing the same now, just that its host seems to be different, someone unknown. It’s staring deep into the phone as I type the words in - I am sure, d3spite its intrigue, it does not understand the languaভাষা in which I am conv3rsing here. I ap0logize for the mjstakes, it’s difficult to typ3 when yor hands are sh\aking as much as mine a5e.
Joy had talked to me, despite everything, the boy’s face was full of smiles - but I was not able to smile back. When I had yearned for a second chance to witness the mysteries of deatমৃত্যু I