Friday, 9:06 a.m.
Arnab jolted awake from a deep sleep. The bed felt unusually comfortable, with the air conditioner humming softly in the background. As his senses returned, panic struck; he hadn't gone to college yesterday! He had to go today.
He snatched his phone from the bedside table, and the screen nearly made his heart stop. Thirteen missed calls, nine from Shanchayita, and the rest from Gaurav, his best friend.
Arnab shot out of bed. One glance at the wall clock made his stomach drop. 9:10 a.m. The college started at 9:30.
He rushed to the washbasin, splashed cold water on his face, threw on fresh clothes, grabbed his bag, and ran out the door. There was no time for the bus today; he flagged down a taxi.
He checked his wallet: ₹720.
"Guess it's another day with Flake" (a cheap 5-rupee-per-stick cigarette), he muttered under his breath.
Just then, his phone rang again. It was Shanchayita.
He answered, and before he could speak, a burst of angry words exploded through the speaker.
"Where are you?! I've been calling you since forever! You're unbelievable, Arnab! I told you to call me in the morning! Did you forget today's the project submission?! You must've stayed up watching movies again till 3 a.m., right?"
"What's the point of shouting so much? I'm on my way. And relax, the project's with me," Arnab replied, cutting the call.
His heart was pounding. It always did that after talking to Shanchayita. He'd loved her since high school: her smile, her eyes, her wild energy, her madness. Arnab had fallen for everything about her. But he had never confessed it. Maybe he never would.
Friday, 9:34 a.m.
The taxi screeched to a stop in front of the college gate. Arnab jumped out before it fully halted, tossed a hundred-rupee note at the driver, and sprinted toward the entrance.
The guard gave him a sharp look.
"Late again, Arnab? Third time this week."
Arnab just smiled awkwardly and slipped inside before the man could note his name in the register.
The corridor buzzed with the usual Friday morning chaos. Students shouting, laughter bouncing off walls, and the faint smell of cheap perfume and notebooks. Arnab's shirt clung to his back with sweat as he rushed toward Room 203.
He spotted Shanchayita standing near the door, arms crossed, her expression somewhere between relief and murder.
"You made it," she said, narrowing her eyes, in an ice-cold tone.
"Barely," Arnab replied, catching his breath while trying to give her a smile.
She snatched the project file from his hand, checked the pages quickly, and let out a small sigh.
"Good. At least you didn't forget this time."
"Hey! When did I ever…"
Shanchayita gave him a sharp look.
Arnab smiled faintly. He wanted to say, "You look beautiful when you're angry." But of course, he didn't.
The teacher walked in before he could even sit. Submission began. Arnab's heartbeat slowed, the immediate danger over. But that strange unease in his chest, the one he couldn't name, lingered.
The hours dragged on, each lecture a blur of half-heard words and restless thoughts. Arnab sat near the window, his gaze occasionally drifting outside where the sun blazed over the college courtyard. Something gnawed at him, a faint pulse of unease that refused to fade.
When the final bell rang, he felt relief more than anything else. He packed his things slowly, letting the crowd thin before heading out. The campus was loud again with laughter, gossip, and the buzz of weekend plans, but Arnab moved through it quietly, like he didn't quite belong to the same world.
He didn't know why, but the day felt wrong. Like something was about to shift.
Friday, 12:40 p.m.
Somewhere near Park Circus, Kolkata.
The city moved at its lazy afternoon pace, buses groaning past, the tram bell echoing from far away, and a humid breeze pushing through the narrow lanes.
At a corner tea stall under a rusted tin roof, Gaurav sat alone on a wooden bench.
A cigarette burned slowly between his fingers. A half-finished glass of tea stood before him, ringed with stains.
His phone buzzed once. He picked it up.
A brief conversation, a voice at the other end, low, hurried, spilling names and details.
Gaurav said nothing. Just listened.
When it ended, he slid the phone back into his pocket. The cigarette was almost done. He lifted it, stared at the faint trail of smoke curling against the dull light, then flicked it away. The spark arced through the air and vanished into the dust.
"Dumdum Police Station," he muttered to himself. "New transfer. IPS officer Subhendu Banerjee."
He rose, leaving a few folded notes beside the glass on the table, no counting, no words.
The stall owner's eyes followed the movement, expressionless. Like he had seen this ritual before.
He stood, pulling on his gloves. Under his jacket, the matte glint of a submachine gun caught the dim light. Two pistols rested snugly at his waist.
"Enough," he said softly, as if answering an unseen question. Then he swung a leg over his bike, the engine growling alive. The tea stall owner watched wordlessly as Gaurav vanished into the noise of the street, leaving behind the faint smell of smoke and diesel.
Friday, 1:37 p.m.
College Cafeteria, Kolkata.
The cafeteria was half full, buzzing with post-class chatter and the clatter of plates. Ceiling fans spun lazily, pushing around warm air and the smell of fried rice and tea. Arnab sat at a corner table, tray untouched, his mind drifting somewhere between exhaustion and silence.
He'd barely sat down when Shanchayita appeared, her steps quick and light, eyes glowing with excitement. She looked… different... brighter, almost. Arnab felt that familiar pull in his chest even before she spoke.
"Arnab!" she said, slightly breathless, sliding into the seat opposite him. "You won't believe what just happened!"
He looked up, forcing a small smile. "What happened?"
She grinned, her voice dropping just a little, as if sharing a secret too good to keep. "Ashmit proposed to me."
For a second, Arnab didn't react. The noise of the cafeteria seemed to fade into a low hum. His fingers froze halfway to the water bottle.
"You mean... you said yes?" His voice barely rose above a whisper.
Her cheeks flushed pink as she nodded. "Of course! You know I've liked him for a while. He's… different, you know? Kinda reminds me of Timothée Chalamet, that whole quiet, mysterious vibe."
She laughed softly, unaware that every word pressed deeper into Arnab's silence. Something inside him cracked; not loudly, but cleanly, like glass under cloth.
"That's... great, Shanchayita," he said after a pause, eyes fixed on his plate.
She kept talking, her voice a melody of excitement. Ashmit wanted to take her out that weekend—lunch near the lake, maybe a movie after. Arnab half listened, half disappeared into the noise in his head.
After a few minutes, she stood up, still smiling. "I have to go tell Shreyoshi! She'll lose her mind when she hears this."
Arnab nodded absently. "Yeah, you should."
And just like that, she was gone—leaving behind her perfume, laughter, and the echo of words he didn't want to remember.
The seat across from him was empty now. His food had gone cold. He stared at the tray, then at nothing. His thoughts felt heavy—a strange mix of pain and calm, like a wound that had stopped bleeding but refused to close.
Then the noise around him shifted.
A TV mounted in the corner of the cafeteria flickered with breaking news graphics. The volume rose slightly. A reporter's urgent voice filled the air:
"Breaking news from Dumdum Police Station: IPS officer Subhendu Banerjee and eighteen other officers were found dead earlier this afternoon. Sources confirm the use of automatic weapons in what appears to be a brutal, targeted attack. The victims suffered severe gunshot wounds... and signs of post-mortem mutilation. The officer's eyes were reportedly gouged out. Police officials are calling it a massacre..."
The anchor's voice blurred as Arnab's gaze fixed on the TV. The screen showed flashes, the police station cordoned off, bodies covered with white sheets, and glimpses of chaos. Then the face appeared: the photo of Subhendu Banerjee.
Arnab's lips curved into a smile: slow, dark, and deliberate. It wasn't joy. It wasn't satisfaction. It was something colder, something that came from deep inside.
He pulled out his phone and dialed a number.
When the line connected, he spoke quietly, almost gently.
"Good job, Gaurav," he said. "Now Uncle and Auntie's souls can finally rest."
He ended the call before the other end could reply, his eyes still fixed on the TV, the faint smile lingering on his face as the world moved on around him.