There was once this boy. Of our times. The time of dust and traffic jams. An ordinary boy. His name is not important. Let him be every boy. If this problematises the situation, we could call him “X” or maybe “Tom, Dick or Harry” perhaps? But then again…let us familiarise him. He is from a place called Kolkata. So let him be a “Rahul”.

So this Rahul. A common name for a common boy. What could he do? He is a student. A “good” student. One might now ask the question: What could one write about a common “Rahul”, that too a “good student”? Well as it so happens, stories happen everywhere…

It was a cool wintry evening. The dust from the day's snarling traffic had not yet settled to colour the pavements grey. The streetlights had been miraculously lit at the appropriate time, and jackets and blazers and cardigans and shawl were roaming the street for unimportant reasons.

Important to them perhaps.

The time beeped “six” in someone’s little fast watch. While someone else’s dial showed ten minutes were left. The time was public, at that moment. Amidst the not so crowded street of a not so crowded part of a place called Kolkata, a city from the eastern part of the land of the Kamasutra as someone had said, an ordinary boy, our ordinary boy, a boy called “a Rahul” was walking back from somewhere, perhaps his tuition, perhaps an evening coffee with friends, perhaps from nowhere in particular. He did not have a watch on his hands. Time evaded him. It was public. His hands were in his pockets. He wore a jacket on his black T-shirt. But then again, perhaps it was not black at all. Between his two fingers he held a smoke. It was not lit. He just liked the feeling of it. Perhaps he would light it someday. Not today.

Rahul walked slowly. His ordinary mind impregnated with ordinary thoughts of great importance to him. What was he thinking? We do not know. He stared towards his left. An old bookstore was open. He stopped. Looked at the rich and dirty treasure shelves. Contemplated going in. A drowsy old man was sitting on an over-sized wooden chair. The man was asleep. A lazy fly buzzed about his face before resting on the table in front of him. Rahul dropped the unlit smoke from his partially tainted hands. He took a step towards the old and dusty book shop. Stopped. Checked himself. Turned back. Picked up the cigarette from the dirty pavement. There was no turning back now. The inevitable hour on this ordinary boy had inevitably come. The world. The world.

Rahul resumed walking in a certain direction. He was perplexed. He did not notice a fire engine go rushing past him. Neither did he notice the braggart fight going on between neighbors, an ordinary sight in this part of the world. Ordinary thoughts bugged his ordinary brain. Rahul did not think what politics would do to his life tomorrow. Or what would his life be ten years down the line. He did not think about cricket, or football, nor did he contemplate his very existence. He simply thought. Deeply. What he thought. Perhaps he knew. Perhaps…just maybe..he did not.

The world might end tomorrow. Rahul cared less. His father might scold him. Rahul cared a bit more. But that is not what he was thinking. Rahul stared towards his right. The road was empty. It seemed for a certain moment all cars had ceased to exist. His eyes grew wide. He saw something. Perhaps. Perhaps a shiny coin. Perhaps something else. A blaring honk from a passing taxi soon awoke him from his ordinary trance. More cars followed. Rahul spit on the side of the road. It was getting colder. His shoes squeaked a bit. He entered a by-lane..walked on it a bit… entered a smaller lane. Kolkata is filled with these labyrinth of “gullies”. He was sweating a little now. Perhaps due to the walking. Perhaps due to his ordinary thoughts. He stumbled a little before turning towards a dark part of a darker street. He entered an archway leading to the green door to his red house. This ordinary boy..”a Rahul”..is now lost to us forever. We do not meet him anymore. He exists somewhere else. Perhaps…and we stare back at the dark lane…Passers by passed on.. somewhere else someone did something else…No one cared a bit.

The old man of the book shop woke up with a start as a certain lazy fly buzzed near his ears, and with a swipe of his hands, killed it.