A Face in the Iris - Chapter 1
Ballygunge woke slowly, as if the air itself were reluctant to move.
The tram on Gariahat Road began its first run with a dull clang that startled a few pigeons from the wires, and somewhere, a newspaper vendor shouted headlines nobody truly heard.
The smell of overboiled milk drifted from a tea stall near the crossing, thick as fog.
Fern Road was already warm. Last night's rain still clung to the pavement, the puddles showing warped reflections of half-open shutters and peeling advertisements.
The city was awake, but looked as though it wished it weren't.
At ten minutes to ten, Mihir Bose arrived at the building with the faded blue signboard:
Mihir Bose, Optometrist (D.Opt, RIO Kolkata).
The front reception was already open;
Rupa must have come early. From the narrow hallway he could hear her
landline voice-measured, efficient.
"Yes, eleven-thirty will do. Yes, bring your old glasses too."
The receiver clicked down, followed by pencil against paper.
He unlocked the inner room, the metal door sighing open.
The smell of phenyl and dust greeted him like an old colleague who never learned new jokes.
The fan overhead spun once, groaned, then found its rhythm.
The chamber looked exactly as it had yesterday.
The slit lamp waited by the window, paint chipped at the base.
The retinoscope rested beside the open trial box, lenses nestled in brown velvet like small coins. The trial frame, chipped near the hinge, lay beside the wall clock that ran five minutes slow.
He wiped the chin rest with cotton dipped in spirit. The sharp, clean scent rose and faded quickly.Outside, through the half-open window, came the faint rattle of a cycle rickshaw and a fishmonger calling.
"Chingri maach, taaja chingri!"
The city carried on in its usual, weary rhythm.
Mihir poured water from the old Milton flask into a steel glass. It tasted of rust-like it always did.
He didn't mind.
Familiar flaws were easier to live with than new ones.
He looked toward the window.
From this angle he could just see the edge of his signboard hanging below the sill, its blue paint faded to the color of old jeans, the letters half-eaten by sun and rain.
He'd been meaning to repaint it for months.
He thought of it again, as he always did, and let the thought go, as he always did.
Morning light came in heavy stripes through the old iron grille.
A thin film of dust floated in it, catching and losing brightness as the fan turned above.
The smell of frying oil from the tea stall downstairs crept in, mixing with disinfectant, ink, and air thickened by habit.
He checked the appointment register-three names he knew by handwriting alone, and one blank line waiting, as if the day itself hadn't decided what to bring.
The ink from yesterday's entries had smudged slightly under his palm.
Same names, same lines, same day.
Rupa's voice floated through the half-open door.
"Dekhun, ager patient ta to early eshe gechhe!"
Look at that-the first patient's come early for once. Her tone carried mild surprise, the kind born from years of watching people arrive late and blame the traffic.
Mihir smiled and adjusted the slit-lamp focus until the beam sharpened.
Light behaved. People never did.
He leaned back and tightened the screw at the lamp's base, the way he did every morning.
The Appasamy slit lamp, second-hand and slightly temperamental, had beenwith him for years-its knobs loose, its paint chipped at the edges.
It always protested before obeying, a bit like
the city outside.
He switched it off, the filament dimming into a warm orange glow before vanishing.
Then he reached for the retinoscope, pressed the old battery into place, and heard the click that told him it still worked.
The beam it produced was narrow, almost apologetic, but steady enough for his
purpose.
From the velvet tray of the trial box, he picked out a few diopter lenses-minus 1.00, minus 2.50, plus 1.25-and began to wipe them one by one with a soft cloth.
Each lens caught the morning light, flashed briefly, then dulled again.
He placed them back carefully, in their worn
brown slots, like returning coins to a drawer.
Outside, the fishmonger's voice had already changed direction, growing fainter as he moved down the lane.
A tram bell clanged somewhere behind that sound, followed by the hiss of air brakes and a man shouting about newspapers.
Mihir sat still for a moment, elbows on his knees, eyes on nothing in particular.
The beam from the retinoscope made
a small white spot on the far wall, trembling with the fan's rhythm.
He watched it blink, fade, return. Sometimes he thought that tiny, unsteady light was the truest picture of his days.
He had just finished placing the last lens back in the box when Rupa's voice came through the half-open door.
"Sir, prothom patient eshe gechhen."
First patient is here.
Her voice had the calm of every morning, like someone who had done this a hundred times before.
Mihir nodded though she couldn't see him. He wiped the retinoscope handle with tissue, the scent of spirit rising as he did, and set it beside the trial box.
Then he straightened the Snellen chart on the wall.
He heard the slow, dragging sound of sandals on the stairs.
He didn't need to check the register. It could only be Mr. Sanyal.
Mr. Sanyal walked in with the slow, practiced steps of a man in his early seventies, one hand gripping his glasses the way some people hold onto railings.
"Same problem again, Doctor babu. Can't see far."
Mihir didn't correct him. He never did anymore.
Once, he used to explain-that he wasn't a doctor, that his work stopped where the scalpel began.
Patients would nod politely and forget before leaving the room. Some smiled as if indulging a child.
After a while, he learned silence worked better. The title cost him nothing, and no one wanted the lecture anyway.
"Sit," he said simply.
The man lowered himself carefully, groaning as he adjusted the seat height by a few turns, though he'd sat in it multiple times before.
He wiped his forehead with a folded handkerchief, the corners of his shirt collar already damp.
Mihir picked up the trial frame, loosened the side screw, and fitted it over Sanyal's nose.
It sat crooked, as always.
He straightened it gently.
"Look at the chart," he said, switching on the wall light.
Sanyal leaned forward and squinted.
"E... F... maybe P? The next one looks like an O, or D. They all shake."
Mihir wrote down 6/24 both eyes.
He turned the chart light dimmer, the room falling into half-darkness that always made him calm.
The fan ticked above them, scattering the warm air that smelled of spirit and dust.
He held up the retinoscope, the beam trembling as it passed across Sanyal's pupils.
"Look at the red dot on the wall."
The reflex moved sluggishly, the glow slow to follow his streak.
Mihir slipped in a +1.00 lens, watched the reflex brighten, neutralize, stop.
Right eye done. He moved to the left.
Same dull reflex, same neutralization point.
"Better?" he asked, switching the room light back on.
Sanyal blinked against the change.
"Ah... yes, clear now."
He leaned back, satisfied, then leaned forward again to read a few extra letters that weren't even asked for.
"E. F. P. T, O-there, see?"
Mihir smiled. He'd seen hundreds of patients do that: test themselves like schoolboys proving they hadn't forgotten the alphabet.
He wrote 6/9 with correction.
He took a near-vision card from the drawer and handed it across.
"Read this at arm's length."
Sanyal held it too close, then pushed it away until his arm
was stiff. "Blur."
Mihir added a +2.50 add over both eyes.
"Now?"
The old man's voice softened. "Perfect. Small letters too."
He lowered the chart, visibly pleased. "These eyes may be old, Doctor babu, but still loyal."
Mihir nodded, half-listening, already jotting the results.
He'd heard this kind of pride in so many old
patients-people measuring their life by what little their eyes still allowed them to do.
Mihir set his pen down and gestured toward the corner.
"Come to the lamp," he said.
Mr. Sanyal rose slowly, using the desk for support, and shuffled to the slit-lamp table.
Mihir followed, switching on
the power; the bulb came alive with a low hum.
The machine was old but reliable-an Appasamy,
second-hand, like everything else in the room.
"Chin here, forehead against the band," Mihir said.
The old man complied, blinking under the sudden light.
Mihir leaned into the oculars. The white slit cut across the cornea, glinting off the tear film.
He adjusted the joystick with his thumb, steadied the beam.
The cornea was clear-a few punctate epithelial spots, no staining.
Tear meniscus slightly low, typical for his age.
He narrowed the beam, moved deeper.
The anterior chamber was quiet, iris pattern fine and even.
Then came the lens.
The nucleus glowed yellow, scattering light like smoke behind glass.
A few cortical spokes stretched inward from
the periphery, stopping short of the visual axis.
He shifted to the left eye-the same pattern, maybe a little more haze.
Mild nuclear sclerosis, unchanged since the last visit.
He clicked the lamp off.
The room returned to its usual dull light.
"Same as before," he said.
Mr. Sanyal squinted, disoriented by the sudden darkness.
"No worse, right?"
"No. Just age. Stable cataract."
"Good. As long as I can still read the paper."
Mihir smiled. "Then you're fine."
He walked back to the desk, wrote neatly on the
prescription pad:
Final Rx - +1.00 DS OU |
Add +2.50 DS OU | Early lens
changes, stable.
He tore the page, folded it once, and handed it over.
The old man tucked it into his shirt pocket, nodded, and left.
The door closed softly behind him, the sound followed by the slow echo of sandals down the stairs.
Mihir picked up a pad of cotton, dampened it with spirit, and wiped the chin rest.
The sharp scent rose and vanished quickly, leaving only the low hum of the fan and the fading reflection of light on the table.
Outside, pages turned.
Rupa's pencil tapped twice against the desk.
A moment later her voice floated through the half-open door:
"Sir... Mukherjee-babu."
Mihir nodded automatically.
Mukherjee-babu came in with the careful posture of a man in his mid-fifties, thin shoulders slightly raised, spectacles pouch clutched to his chest as if it carried important
papers.
"Good morning, Doctor... ah-good morning."
A throat clear, perfectly on schedule.
"Sit," Mihir said.
Mukherjee lowered himself onto the stool with
exaggerated care, as though the seat might betray him.
He offered his glasses with both hands.
"Reading problem again. The newspaper lines... they're jumping today."
Mihir inspected the oily fingerprints and scratches, then slid the trial frame onto his face.
"Look at the chart."
"E... P... maybe F? That one looks confused."
Mihir adjusted the lenses +0.50, then a small +0.25-until the man's eyes sharpened.
"Yes. Better," Mukherjee-babu said, pleasantly surprised.
Near-vision was the same routine. Too close, too far, eventually correct.
"Ah... this is fine. Very fine."
Mihir wrote the minor change, tore the slip, and handed it over.
At the doorway, Mukherjee-babu paused.
"Doctor... building-ta khub chupchup lagchhe."
The building feels unusually quiet today.
Mihir glanced at the window.
"Maybe."
The man nodded once, cleared his throat again, and stepped out.
His footsteps faded down the stairs in a slow, steady rhythm.
Mihir adjusted the trial frame on the table and reached for the register.
Before he could read the next name, Rupa
appeared at the door again.
"Sir... Roy-boudi. Adjustment."
Roy-boudi came in like a small storm in a late-forties sari, pleats swinging as if she'd hurried through half of Ballygunge to reach him.
She held her glasses out the
moment she stepped inside.
"Eta abar loose hoye gechhe," she said, almost offended at the frame. It's loose again.
Mihir took the glasses from her.
The left temple was bent outward-probably from being shoved into her bag between keys, coins, and a week's worth of frustration.
He tightened the hinge screw with two quick turns, nudged the temple inward, and straightened the nose pads.
The frame clicked softly back into shape.
"Try kore dekhen," he said.
Try now.
Roy-boudi put the glasses on, tilted her head left, then
right, testing the fit with her usual precision.
"Haan, ebar thik achhe," she declared, satisfied.
She tucked the case into her handbag and walked out just as quickly as she'd arrived, leaving behind a faint hint of talcum powder and her usual whirlwind energy.
Rupa drew a line through her name in the register.
Rupa checked the register again, then leaned in through the door.
"Sir... new patient. Ranjan Ghosh. Bolche urgent."
Mihir looked up. Rupa didn't use that tone unless something about the person unsettled her.
"Send him."
The man who entered looked ordinary
enough-mid-thirties, maybe a little older. Shirt wrinkled at the elbows, hair flattened, the face of someone who hadn't slept well but didn't want anyone to notice.
But his right eye told a different story.
The lid stayed half-closed, blinking in short, sharp spasms.
His fingers hovered near it, not touching-just
tense, unsure.
"Mihir Bose?" he asked quietly.
"Mihir. Sit."
Ranjan sat with his shoulders tight, elbows close to his body, posture too controlled for a simple foreign-body complaint.
His knee bounced once, then stopped the
second he noticed it.
"What happened?" Mihir asked, picking up the torch.
Ranjan blinked hard, jaw shifting slightly before he spoke.
"Something got into my eye," he said. "Last night."
"Where?"
There was a noticeable beat not long. but long enough.
Then the words slipped out:
"Near... the railway tracks."
The moment he said it, his jaw tightened.
His gaze dropped to the floor, and he blinked
again-hard-the kind of blink people do when they regret letting a sentence escape.
A flicker of tension crossed his face, quickly swallowed by an attempt to sit straighter.
Mihir didn't comment.
People were always near tracks for reasons they avoided explaining.
"Look up."
Ranjan obeyed immediately-too immediately as if following instructions was easier than talking.
Lower lid: redness, tearing, faint irritation line.
Upper lid: the same, slightly worse.
"You were running?" Mihir asked, keeping his tone flat.
Ranjan froze-a small, sharp pause.
Then he said, "Yes," clipped and controlled, offering nothing more.
Mihir felt a knot form in his chest.
Pain didn't make people answer like that.
Fear did.
But he didn't push.
"I need to check properly," Mihir said.
"Slit lamp-e bosun."
Ranjan stood slowly and walked toward the slit-lamp tablewith careful, measured steps-not the steps of someone in physical discomfort, but of someone whose mind was
still stuck in last night.
Ranjan settled into the slit-lamp chair slowly, gripping the sides as if the plastic might slide out from under him.
Mihir adjusted the height with a few practiced turns.
"Chin here. Forehead against the band."
Ranjan did as told, blinking fast and shallow. His right eyelid twitched every time the lamp's shadow crossed it.
Mihir leaned in and steadied the joystick with his thumb. The Appasamy clicked softly as the beam came alive-a narrow, white line carving through the dim room.
"Don't move," Mihir said, bringing the beam toward the cornea.
Ranjan flinched once, then forced himself still.
The light hit the surface of the eye.
The tear film brightened.
The cornea came into sharp view-magnified, detailed.
Mild conjunctival redness. Watering. A thin vertical abrasion near the upper part of the cornea, exactly where
an eyelid-trapped particle would scrape.
Mihir nudged the joystick upward and asked, "Look down."
Ranjan blinked, hesitated, then obeyed.
The upper lid lifted slightly with the angle.
There.
A shimmer under the lid margin-a tiny metal flake, barely bigger than a grain of coarse dust. Railway debris.
Common enough.
Mihir shifted the beam, adjusting the focus to confirm-
And then-
Something.
Not a flicker of light.
Not a reflection.
A smell.
Wet iron. Warm asphalt. The sour-sweet stink of
overheated rail ties.
His stomach turned.
He blinked.
The smell didn't vanish.
It intensified.
Then came sound-muffled, distant, wrong-a thud like a sack of rice dropped from height.
A scrape.
Breathing-fast, panicked, not his own.
His hands tightened on the joystick.
The cornea was still there, magnified, clear.
But behind it-
No.
Not behind.
Through it.
A brief yellow wash of sodium light.
The geometric pattern of rail ties vanishing into
shadow.
And something dark on the ground.
Something wet.
A hand-pale, fingers curled-being dragged backward out of the light.
The smell surged-copper and fear and the humid warmth of fresh blood.
Gone.
Mihir yanked his head back from the oculars.
His breath came short and shallow.
The smell lingered. Faint but persistent.
Wrong.
Ranjan stiffened. "Something wrong?"
Mihir's mouth was dry. His pulse hammered in his throat.
"No." he said. "Keep looking down."
His voice didn't sound like his own.
He forced himself back to the oculars.
Forced his hands
steady on the joystick.
The foreign body was still there. Just a metal flake.
Normal. Explainable.
But the smell.
The smell.
Phantom odors meant tumors. Seizures. Strokes.
He tried to remember if he'd hit his head recently.
He hadn't.
He reached for a sterile cotton swab. His fingers trembled slightly as he picked it up.
"I'll remove it," he said.
Ranjan's fingers curled tightly around the edge of the chair.
Mihir lifted the upper lid with one hand and held the swab ready with the other.
"Blink softly... good. Now look down."
Ranjan's breathing turned uneven, but he managed.
Mihir swept once-gentle, controlled and the tiny metal particle stuck to the cotton.
He looked at it.
Just metal. Gray-black.
Maybe from a rail bolt. Maybe from
industrial dust near the tracks.
Nothing special.
Nothing that should smell like blood.
He checked the cornea again. The abrasion wasn't deep.
Watering was already increasing as the irritation eased.
"Done," Mihir said quietly.
Ranjan blinked several times, relief mixing with something
else-something guarded.
Mihir switched the lamp off and wheeled his stool back.
"You'll have some irritation for a few hours," he said, reaching for his prescription pad.
"I'll write drops. Use
them three times today. Come back tomorrow if it's not better."
Ranjan nodded, rubbing the heel of his palm against his forehead, not the eye-the gesture of someone overwhelmed, not someone in pain.
Mihir wrote quickly, mechanically:
Moxifloxacin 0.5% eye drops - TDS x 3 days
He tore the page and held it out.
"Pharmacy downstairs will have this. Fifty rupees for the exam."
Ranjan stood, taking the prescription with one hand while pulling out a folded hundred-rupee note from his shirt pocket with the other.
"Keep the change," he said quickly. "I'll... I'll come back if it doesn't improve."
He didn't wait for Mihir to respond.
He left with quick, careful steps-the kind of exit people make when they want to disappear without drawing attention.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Mihir sat still.
His hands were shaking.
He looked at them-his own hands-and they didn't feel
like his.
The smell was still there.
Iron and wet stone and
something worse underneath.
Wrong.
He stood up. Sat back down. Stood again.
The room felt smaller.
The walls closer.
Rupa's voice drifted in from the other room, talking to someone about appointment slots. Normal sounds.
But they sounded far away, like he was hearing them through water.
He pressed his palms against his eyes.
What the fuck was that.
Not out loud. Just the thought, loud and desperate in his skull.
He tried to slow his breathing. Counted to four. In, out. The way you're supposed to when panic comes.
It didn't help.
Because panic had a reason. A trigger. A shape.
This was something else.
He looked at the slit lamp.
Just metal. Plastic. Glass. A bulb. The same machine he'd used for eight years.
It hadn't changed.
He had.
He could test it.
The thought appeared unbidden.
He could call in the next patient. Examine them carefully. See if it happened again. His stomach turned at the idea.
No.
If it happened again if he saw something again-
That would mean it was real.
And if it was real, then-
He cut the thought off.
He sat there for a long time, staring at nothing.
Outside, a tram bell clanged. Someone shouted about fish.
Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
The clock on the wall ticked.
Five minutes slow, like always.
He realized he'd been sitting there for nearly ten minutes.
He cleared his throat.
"Rupa."
His voice came out hoarse. He tried again.
"Rupa... next patient."
It came out steadier this time. Almost normal.
A small victory.
Rupa appeared at the door a moment later, pen tucked behind her ear.
She looked at him for a second longer
than usual.
"Sir... apni thik achhen?" Sir, are you okay?
"Haan," he said.
"Ektu gorom." Yes, just the heat. She
nodded, though her expression suggested she didn't quite believe him.
"Sen-babu," she said.
Mihir nodded.
Good. An uncomplicated case. Something normal.
Sen-babu shuffled in, late fifties, mild paunch under a faded checked shirt, hair combed neatly like he still taught tuition somewhere. He held his old black spectacle case with both hands, like it was an exam paper he
hadn't prepared for.
"Mihir-babu," he said, settling carefully on the stool.
"Same problem. Distance blur. Near is fine."
Mihir forced a small smile.
"Show me your glasses."
The frame was scratched, the lenses oily. Mihir wiped them automatically.
His hands were steadier now. Almost.
"Look at the chart."
Sen-babu read confidently at first, then began guessing
letters with total faith in his own wrongness.
Mihir adjusted the trial frame.
His fingers slipped on the screw. He adjusted again.
Focus.
He switched lenses-all muscle memory-but he realized halfway through that he'd put in the wrong power.
He corrected it.
Sen-babu didn't notice.
Most people didn't notice anything unless it went badly wrong.
"Better now?" Mihir asked.
"Haan, yes, much better," Sen-babu said proudly.
Mihir checked reflex, switched lenses again.
He could examine Sen-babu more carefully.
Could lean in close during the slit lamp check. Could see if-
No.
He kept the exam perfunctory. Quick. Surface-level.
Safe.
"Better now?"
he asked again.
Sen-babu looked confused. "You just asked me that."
"Right. Sorry."
Mihir noted the power, checked near vision-N6
clear-and reached for the frame.
"Frame is crooked. Wait."
A quick hinge adjustment, a tightened screw, a bend at the temple-tiny things he could do in his sleep.
Safe work. Predictable work.
Sen-babu put the glasses back on and sighed with contentment.
"Thank you. I'll come again after six months."
"Hmm."
He gave the polite nod every middle-aged Bengali uncle had perfected, tucked the case under his arm, and left the room humming something off-key.
The door clicked shut behind Sen-babu. The room breathed once, then went still again.
Mihir sat back, palms flat on the table.
His pulse had steadied, but the space behind his eyes hadn't.
The day's sounds filtered in from the street-tram bell, someone arguing over tea, a rickshaw's tired horn-all the usual noise of Ballygunge pretending everything was normal.
He looked at the slit lamp.
Just a machine.
Second-hand.
Temperamental.
Harmless.
He tried to believe that.
He picked up his pen.
The tip hovered over the pad.
For a second-just a second-he couldn't remember
Sen-babu's prescription.
His mind was blank.
No not blank.
Full.
Full of yellow light and the wet sound of something heavy
hitting the ground.
Full of the smell of copper and fear.
He blinked hard.
The numbers came back.
He wrote them down: -1.50 DS
OU | Add +2.00 DS OU
He set the pen down and adjusted the trial frame on the
table, though it didn't need adjusting.
Small motions. Familiar. Safe.
But no matter how he arranged the objects around him, he
couldn't stop thinking about what he'd smelled
Not seen.
Smelled.
Iron. Asphalt. Blood. Fear.
Things that had no place inside an eye.
He told himself it was fatigue.
Overwork. A migraine coming on. The heat pressing down on the city like a hand.
He told himself that eyes don't hold memories.
They reflect light. They bend it. They don't contain it.
That's anatomy.
That's physics. That's fact.
But he'd smelled something.
And smell doesn't come through glass. Through a microscope.
Through air.
So what the fuck had he smelled?
He pressed his knuckles against his forehead.
Maybe he was sick.
Brain tumor.
Seizure. Temporal lobe epilepsy. Some
neurological misfire that created phantom sensations.
Olfactory hallucinations were rare, but they happened.
Usually they meant something serious. Something
fixable with surgery or medication.
That made sense. That was medical.
That was explainable.
He clung to that thought the way drowning people cling to debris. Outside, a tram rattled past, shaking the window for a moment before the quiet returned.
Mihir stayed still.
Tomorrow he would see a doctor. A real one. Maybe Dr. Mukherjee at Medical College. Get a referral for an MRI.
Rule out the obvious things first.
Tomorrow he would get this checked.
Tomorrow he would find an explanation that didn't make him feel like the ground had disappeared under his feet.
Tomorrow.
He just had to get through tonight.
The fan turned overhead, scattering dust in the afternoon light.
Rupa's pencil tapped against the register.
Outside, the fishmonger's voice rose and fell, calling out prices no one would pay.
Everything was normal.
Everything was exactly as it should be.
Mihir sat in his chair and told himself that over and over until the words lost all meaning.
The wall clock ticked, five minutes slow, like always.
He stared at the slit lamp for a long time.
Then he reached over and unplugged it from the wall. Just
for today.
Just to be safe.
He could use the old handheld torch for any remaining
patients. Keep things simple. Keep things distant.
He didn't need the lamp.
Not today.
Maybe not tomorrow either.
The machine sat there in the growing afternoon shadows.
dark and silent.
Mihir turned away from it and picked up the register.
Three more names.
He could get through three more.
He had to.
By almost two o'clock, the 8th patient had left.
Mihir sat at his desk, staring at the day's entries in the register. Four names more. Routine examinations.
Nothing unusual.
Except he'd used the handheld torch for all of them.
Kept his distance.
Stayed safe.
The slit lamp remained unplugged in the corner, its dark lens catching the last of the evening light through the window.
He'd have to plug it back in eventually. Tomorrow, maybe.
Or the day after.
He told himself that.
He didn't believe it.
By noon, he told Rupa to cancel the remaining
appointments.
She looked up from the register, pen hovering.
"Sir? Apnake ki kharap lagchhe?" Sir, are you feeling unwell?
"Headache," he said. "Migraine. Maybe."
It wasn't entirely a lie.
His head did hurt-a dull, persistent ache behind his eyes that wouldn't fade.
She nodded slowly, clearly unconvinced but too polite to push. "Ami phone kore bolchi patients-der."
I'll call and tell the patients.
"Haan."
She made the calls from the front desk-her voice calm,apologetic, professional.
Rescheduling for next week. No,
nothing serious. Just unwell today.
Mihir sat at his desk, staring at the morning's entries in the register. Four names. Four routine examinations. And Ranjan.
The slit lamp remained unplugged in the corner,
its dark lens catching the midday light through the window.
After the last call, Rupa appeared at the door again, handbag already on her shoulder. "Sir, ami jachhi tahole."
Sir, I'm leaving then.
He nodded. "Hmm."
She hesitated. "Apni... ektu onnyo lagchhe aaj." You seem... different today.
Not unwell.
Not tired. Different. She'd noticed.
"I'm fine " he said in English, then switched. "Gorom, ar ki." The heat, that's all.
She looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded.
"Baire theke dorja ta lock kore jaben."
Lock the door from
outside when you leave.
"Haan."
Her footsteps faded down the stairs, followed by the distant click of the street door closing.
Mihir sat in the silence. Alone. The fan turned overhead.
The clock ticked.
Outside, the lunch hour traffic crawled
past-horns, voices, the eternal rhythm of the city.
He should go home. But he didn't move. He sat there for hours. Staring at the unplugged slit lamp.
Thinking about what he'd seen. What he'd smelled. The afternoon light shifted across the floor, marking time he couldn't account for.
At some point, he realized it was nearly six o'clock. He'd been sitting there, alone, for six hours.
He should go home. He looked at the slit lamp. Just a machine.
He could plug it back in right now. Test it. Prove to himself that nothing would happen.
That it was all in his
head-a neurological misfire, a stress response,
something fixable.
He stood up. Walked over to it.
His hand hovered near the plug. Then he pulled back. Not today.
He grabbed his bag, turned off the lights, and locked the door behind him.
Fern Road had already settled into its evening rhythm. The tea stall downstairs was crowded-men in damp shirts
standing shoulder to shoulder, arquing about cricket scores and tomorrow's weather.
The smell of frying samosas mixed with cigarette smoke and overboiled tea.
Mihir walked past without stopping.
Usually he'd get a cup. Stand there for ten minutes. Listen to the noise without really hearing it. Not today.
Today the voices felt too loud. The crowd too close. He kept walking.
Gariahat Road was thick with evening traffic-buses, taxis, cycle rickshaws all jammed together in a slow, honking crawl.
The air smelled of diesel and dust and rain
that hadn't fallen yet.
A newspaper vendor sat on the corner, his stack of papers held down by a brick.
The headline was too far away to
read, but Mihir's eyes caught on it anyway. Something about a railway incident.
His stomach tightened. He kept walking. Don't look. Don't stop. Don't check. If he didn't read it, it wasn't real.
If he didn't know, he didn't have to
think about it. But his feet slowed anyway.
The vendor called out,
"Kal rate railway line-e lash paoa giyechhe, da. Porun!"
Body found on railway line last
night, brother. Read all about it!
Mihir's breath caught. Last night. Railway line. Body. His pulse hammered in his ears. He forced himself to keep
walking.
One foot in front of the other. Don't stop. Don't
turn around. Don't-
"Da! Kagoj neben?" Brother! Want a paper?
"No."
Mihir said too loud. He walked faster.
Behind him, the vendor's voice faded into the general noise of the street.
But the words stayed with him. Body
found. Railway line. Last night.
Same night Ranjan came in. Same place Ranjan said he'd been. Same.
No. Coincidence. Had to be.
Railway accidents happened
all the time. People fell. Slipped. Got hit by late-night freight trains.
It didn't mean- It couldn't mean- His
hands were shaking again. He shoved them into his pockets and kept walking.
His room was on the second floor of a narrow building off Ekdalia Road-one room, shared bathroom down the hall, a single window that looked out at another building's brick
wall.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The air was stale and hot. He switched on the fan.
It groaned once before finding its rhyth pushing the warm air around without cooling anything.
He dropped his bag
by the door and sat on the edge of the bed. His hands were still shaking.
He pressed them flat against his thighs
until they stopped.
The room was quiet except for the fan and the distant sounds of the street-someone shouting, a radio playing old Hindi songs, the wet slap of laundry being beaten against stone.
Normal sounds. Safe sounds. But they felt
far away, like he was hearing them through water.
He closed his eyes.
Immediately, the smell returned. Iron.
Asphalt. Blood. His eyes snapped open. The smell faded.
But not completely.
It lingered at the edge of his awareness, faint but persistent, like something rotting in
the walls.
You didn't see anything. It was a hallucination. Stress.
Fatigue. A migraine aura without the headache.
He repeated it like a mantra.
Olfactory hallucinations mean seizures.
Tumors.
Temporal lobe epilepsy.
Medical conditions. Fixable things.
He could see Dr. Mukherjee tomorrow. Get a referral.
Do an MRI. Rule out the obvious problems. That was logical.
That was rational. But. But.
What if it wasn't a hallucination? What if he'd actually seen something? Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. Seen. Through Ranjan's
eye.
Through the lens. Through the slit lamp. What if-
No. He cut the thought off before it could finish.
That wasn't possible. Eyes didn't work that way. Light didn't work that way. Physics didn't work that way.
He knew this.
He'd studied it. Four years of training. Eight years of practice. Eyes receive light.
They don't transmit memory.
They don't hold trauma. They don't-
The smell surged again, stronger this time.
Copper and fear and the humid warmth of fresh blood.
Mihir stood up abruptly, walked to the window, pushed it open.
The night air came in-hot, thick, carrying the smell of garbage and frying oil and distant rain.
He breathed it in. Let it replace
the other smell. The impossible one. Slowly, it faded.
He stood there for a long time, gripping the window frame, staring out at nothing.
Body found. Railway line.
Last night. What if the vision
was real? What if Ranjan had been there?
What if Ranjan
had seen something-someone-and now Mihir had seen it too, pulled straight from Ranjan's memory through the intimacy of examination?
That's insane. But. But. The details had been so specific.
The yellow sodium light. The geometric pattern of rail ties.
The hand-pale, fingers curled-being dragged backward into shadow. Not vague dream-images. Specific. Real.
His breath came faster.
If it was real-if he'd actually seen
a murder-then what did that mean? That he had a gift? A curse? Some kind of psychic ability that had suddenly activated after thirty-three years of being completely, utterly normal?
That's not how the world works. But then
how did smell travel through glass? Through air? Through the microscope?
How did sound? How did vision? It
doesn't. It can't. It didn't happen.
He pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars.
When he opened them again, the room looked the same.
The fan turned. The distant radio played.
Someone laughed in another building. Everything was normal.
Everything was exactly as it should be. Except him.
He sat back down on the bed. Tomorrow he would see Dr. Mukherjee. Get the MRI.
Rule out the medical problems.
Tomorrow he would read the newspaper properly. Check the details.
Prove to himself that the body on the railway
line was just a random accident. Nothing to do with Ranjan.
Nothing to do with him. Tomorrow he would plug the slit lamp back in and examine patients normally.
Prove that nothing would happen. That it was a one-time glitch in his brain chemistry. Tomorrow.
He just had to get through tonight.
He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The fan turned overhead, casting shifting shadows across the peeling paint. He didn't sleep.
Every time he closed his eyes, the smell returned. And with it, the image. The hand.
Pale. Fingers curled.
Being dragged backward into darkness. Over and over and over.
Until the night felt endless and the morning felt impossible and the space between sleep and waking became a thin, terrible place where nothing made sense anymore.
He lay there until the first light crept through the window.
Gray. Weak. Offering nothing. Tomorrow had arrived.
He didn't feel ready for it.