The smell

A tribute to all the victims of rape and murder cases…and to the humankind who can upgrade their moral values a bit.






Here, at this part of the city, the sky turns red early, not the whole of the sky though; just the horizon where the Sun is all set to go down for the day. Above my head there are colours like blue and yellow, floating and reflecting from the clouds. And the trees slim and long, dark and mysterious from all corners of the lake place stretch their branches to experience the last sunshine of the day at the end of their leaves. The birds return to their nests in the half-light of the dusk, breaking the silence of this place with their characteristic chattering. The blue water turns into perfect black in quick time. The other side of the lake becomes blurry in the darkness of the evening. There is a cricket coaching academy on the other side and it is the time for the players to return after a long practice session. The living and the non-living become one at this time. The day does not end silently, but it brings the dark like a ghost. When all the colours of the day are jumbled, when the blue of the morning turns into the yellow of the afternoon in turn making it bleed in the west, the ghost comes out of nowhere. It enthrals the dreams and then it becomes dark. It betrays us all.


And then I get the smell.

It’s the Chhatim flowers. The whole lake place is surrounded by these trees. My wife used to love these a lot, and so did I. It was when we walked together at the lake place a long time ago…I would hold the upper branches of the trees for her and she would pick the flowers. She would place the flowers at her palm and keep taking the smell with her deep breaths. I would keep looking at her at those moments and fall in love with her again with each and every moment. We would sit on one of the benches nearby and just keep sitting there. I would hold her shoulders and she would keep her hands around my waist. We would sit there…and just keep sitting.


“Victim’s right hand was broken, as if she was trying to avoid the negotiation…was treated hard. The head has been crushed twice, once at right corner and once at back…”


Now the rain came in, soft and gentle. Just like her. Sweet Rinita. Why is that whenever I think about you, my eyes become wet? Why is that whenever I think about you, I become so lonely, so quiet and so reluctant from the world? Look at this weather. Won’t you love having a shower in the rain? Look how these trees here miss you. Won’t you be missing them again? Won’t you be missing me?

Far away…on the other side of the lake, darkness covers the field and the narrow path. The drizzle continues. I become wet. The monotonous sound of the water dropping in from the sky on the leaves takes me away from the real world…in the world of her.


“They did it thrice. And once after the death.”


Tears rolled down my eyes. Rinita. My Rinita. Did you see how pathetic I looked when I begged for your body to the police? Did you see how hopeless I felt when my tears and the blood from your body mixed and I… I tried to cleanse all the blood you had on your body with my shivering hands…only in vain? I was alone on the cremation ground Rinita, so alone.

I knelt down, and found out thousands of Chhatim flowers lying on the narrow path. I picked up a couple of them…all wet from the rain.

They reminded me of her.

“I love Chhatim flowers.”

“And I love you.”

I always believed that when people die, they turn into Chhatim flowers.

And right then I was with her.


Love, I thought. How strange can it be? How can a person love anyone who is no more related to the world? How can a person love someone who kept on writing stories without even looking at his wife for years? What makes love so strong that no other charm can take you away from the person you love?


I stood up on my feet. And started walking aimlessly towards the opposite side of the lake through the spiral road. I shivered. It was the cold and the rain. Wild bushes around the path, all wild. Just like me. Hopeless, aimless, companionless, alone. I remember once a famous writer told me that my stories exactly reflect the three words I choose to describe my characters…lonely, silent and dark. What he forgot to mention…or maybe didn’t know that the same three words represent my life too.


Fifty metres away laid a steep part of the lake marking the border between the lake place and the railways station…the steep portion would lead to the rail lines crossing the stations.

I took the shortcut and came on the lines.


It’s not only just because she is not there anymore…but it’s also because there is a chance to meet her again. Ahh!! Look how I can’t feel the cold anymore. It’s the same me who was shivering a couple of minutes ago…is warm now in the thoughts of meeting with his wife.

The distant signal turned red now.

Love, Rinita. Love.

And then the whistle came in… The passenger we used to watch sitting on the benches from the other side of the lake…the neon lights from the coupes would reflect in the water of the lake and keep our eyes fixed on the train…marked its presence for one last time.

And then I get the smell again.

Is it you? Have you come for me now? She used to hide some of the Chhatim flowers in the extreme part of her favourite ‘Pongol’ sari. I can smell those now. But these are real old ones…I will give some fresh ones to you. Will you take me with you??


In the half light of the cold December evening, I fell unconscious on the rail lines…at the place where a month ago her body was found in a pool of blood, raped and murdered brutally, tortured like an animal… in a way waiting for my own death coming towards me at a speed of hundred kilometers per hour.














-Somsubhra Banerjee
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- Jan '11