In the northern lanes of Kolkata, where the houses lean toward each other like gossiping relatives and the streetlights blink as if they are unsure about their own existence, there lived a rumor.
People said that at night, a strange man walked through Shashibhushan Dutta Lane. Some claimed he was a detective. Others whispered he was a ghost. A few declared confidently that he was simply mad.
The night I first saw him, it was raining in thin silver threads. The air smelled of wet earth and unfinished arguments. I was walking home with an umbrella that was doing a poor job of protecting me from anything, including reality.
Then I saw him.
Tall. Long black coat. An old-fashioned hat. A walking stick that tapped the ground like it was sending secret messages to the earth.
He looked at me and said in a deep, dramatic voice,
"You are late."
"Late for what?" I asked.
"For life," he replied gravely.
I blinked.
Then he added, "But don't worry. I had my tea on time."
And he laughed.
It was not an ordinary laugh. It began like the rumble of distant thunder, then twisted into something almost foolish, and ended in a bright, contagious sparkle. I found myself smiling without permission.
"My name," he said, adjusting his hat, "is Jahurul Jahar. But people call me Mr. Mystery. Though I must confess, I have no idea why."
"Are you a detective?" I asked.
He spun his walking stick dramatically.
"No. Detectives solve mysteries. I create them."
And before I could ask anything else, he stepped backward into the rain—and vanished.
I stood there, wet and confused, with the uncomfortable feeling that my peaceful life had just resigned.
The very next morning, chaos erupted.
The old wall clock from the Ghosh family's courtyard had disappeared. It was said to be from the British era, which meant it was either priceless or completely useless—depending on who was speaking.
The Duttas accused the Ghoshes of staging drama. The Ghoshes accused the Duttas of jealousy. Suspicion floated in the air like overcooked rice steam.
And there, at the corner tea stall, sat Mr. Mystery.
His coat was perfectly dry. His hat gleamed with confidence. As if the rain from last night had been a personal hallucination.
"Do you know who stole the clock?" I asked.
He stirred his tea thoughtfully.
"The clock ran away."
"Ran away?"
"Yes. A clock that holds time all its life may one day wish to escape from it."
The tea seller leaned toward me and whispered, "Yesterday he told me tea stains can predict the future."
Mr. Mystery heard him.
"Not the stains," he corrected. "The silence between sips."
Before I could recover from that sentence, he stood up.
"Come," he declared. "Let us not find the clock. Let it reveal itself."
At the Ghosh house, everyone gathered around the empty wall. A pale circle marked where the clock had once hung.
Mr. Mystery examined it with theatrical seriousness.
"Does anyone in this house sing?" he asked suddenly.
Everyone stared.
"Because this mark suggests the clock was removed rhythmically. Perhaps to music."
They were about to argue when—ting!—a metallic sound came from inside.
We rushed to the storage room.
There it was. The missing clock. Sitting innocently on top of a cupboard.
Mr. Ghosh scratched his head.
"I… I think I took it down for cleaning."
Silence.
Then Mr. Mystery spoke solemnly,
"Memory is the greatest mystery of all. Especially when it begins to retire."
And he laughed.
Everyone laughed with him. Suspicion dissolved. Peace returned. The lane breathed again.
But peace, in Shashibhushan Dutta Lane, never lasts long.
A few nights later, a strange light began flickering on the roof of the Dutta house. No one lived upstairs. The stories grew rapidly. Ghosts. Thieves. Secret signals.
By evening, I found him standing on the roof, staring at the sky as if negotiating with the moon.
"Why is the light turning on?" I asked.
"I am asking the light why it insists on existing," he replied.
"And?"
"It says someone forgot to turn off the switch."
We checked the wiring. Loose connections. The wind was playing with the cables, making the bulb flicker like a dramatic actor.
Again, fear turned into laughter.
Again, he saved the day—not by solving a mystery, but by gently exposing the absurdity hiding inside it.
Then one day, he disappeared.
No dramatic rain. No vanishing act. Just absence.
The lane became quieter. No rumors. No sudden philosophical interruptions. Even the tea tasted slightly less interesting.
The tea seller sighed. "Where did Mr. Mystery go?"
I had no answer.
Just then, a piece of paper fluttered down onto the table.
It read:
"Life is amusing only when it contains questions.
As long as you wonder, I exist."
Signed,
Jahurul Jahar
(Mr. Mystery, Self-Appointed)
I smiled.
Perhaps he never created mysteries at all. Perhaps he simply inflated ordinary confusion until it looked dramatic—then poked it gently with humor.
Even now, when I walk through that lane at night, I sometimes hear a voice behind me.
"You are late."
And I reply confidently,
"No. I arrived exactly on time."
Somewhere in the darkness, that strange, thunderous, foolish, brilliant laugh echoes again.
And the lane feels alive.