It was a dark and stormy night. The scrabble tiles lay scattered on the floor, half lit by the candlelight and Shomir’s hands were on Kittu’s neck. “I swear I won’t speak a word about it,” Kittu choked under the pressure of his roommate’s hands that gripped even tighter. “Let go,” he croaked, “I thought we were friends.”
Bipin and Bashu who were the only other two in the dark room pounced on Shomir and ripped his hands off Kittu’s neck, throwing him on the ground and leaving the other boy coughing and gasping for air. “Dude, you’ll kill him too,” Bipin hissed. The candlelight flickered. The room fell silent and for a few seconds it was just the drumming of the loud rain ringing in their ears.
Shomir buried his face in his hands, “it’s over, it’s all over,” he whimpered and made himself as small as he could. Bashu was inching towards the door. “Stop it Bashu,” Kittu told his roommate and then looked at Shomir, “it’s not over yet.”
Kittu slowly stood up. He walked over to Shomir, extended his hand to rest it on Shomir’s shoulder, hesitated for a moment and picked up the scrabble tiles beside him instead. Bipin who was still standing on guard knelt beside Kittu and began collecting the tiles with him. Kittu eyed Bashu who then joined them hesitantly. Shomir had diminished himself into no more than a trembling lump in the room. His shadow on the wall towered over him as if it would gobble him up. It wavered violently as the candle’s flame quivered.
Kittu thought about 2 years ago, when they were all still university freshmen. When he had come to live in the chummery, it was already Bipin and Bashu’s third month there. Their daily lunch and dinner used to be rice, dal and some fried vegetables easily cooked on a portable gas stove that Bashu had got from some second-hand dealer. Bashu was an expert at getting hold of deals and stuff. He made their university life a little bit easier and definitely more fun. Occasionally on weekends, they used to eat out and drink if they had saved up enough on their monthly spendings.
On some weekends, it used to be the cinema. Bashu always used to get hold of the tickets from somewhere and came back beaming, waving the tickets above his head. Bipin and Kittu were always delighted to tag along.
It was in Kittu’s second month with Bipin and Bashu that Shomir entered the chummery. They were all excited to welcome their new comrade in their chummery life. The more the merrier, they thought. He seemed to enjoy the food that was made but was never the one to cook on the portable stove. The three did not mind. They always saw Shomir seated at his desk, checking his wristwatch every ten minutes or so, he would either be doing the extra economics assignments or would be reading a really fat book with tiny fonts or there would be times he would just stare out of his window, in which case the three of them left some lunch aside for him without calling him to eat.
Shomir never came along when they dined out. The first and last time they had asked him, his reply was simply “no, I’m good,” and then he would adjust his wristwatch. The same went for the cinemas although Bashu always got an extra ticket for him.
For the holidays, they would save up and even ask their families whether they could go on trips. For the trip to Darjeeling, Shomir said he would stay back and he remained all alone in the chummery. As for the last semester’s break, in which they planned to go to the Sundarbans, Shomir had said he would return home to meet his family.
Shomir lost his parents during the break in an accident. One fine Sunday, when his three roommates were idling about in the lounge of the chummery, he had come up to them. Kittu remembered the moment. All three of them had stared at him blankly, waiting for what was going to come. Shomir had never really walked up to them before. The statement came and they all exclaimed in dismay. Shomir stood still and heard what they had to say. When they were done, he turned and walked back to his desk, rubbing his watch that was always on his wrist.
Their daily cooking had gradually started becoming more creative with occasional fish curry or at times they would try to make noodles on the small gas stove. Shomir had offered to cook one day. Kittu almost choked on his own spit, Bipin dropped the bowl he held and Bashu exclaimed, “it will snow today!”
“I had learnt to cook from my mother,” Shomir had said, “she was a chef in the house.” The first day he had ever cooked for them, he made them burnt chapattis. “Shomir’s ma please come back! Your son needs more cooking lessons!” They had joked. Shomir laughed at that.
From then on, he joined his roommates for the dinners outside and went with them to the cinemas. He said he went with his parents too. “I had even gone to the huge cinema halls in Bombay where my dad used to work,” he had said. When they had gone out to dine at the tiny canteen called Mama’s Kitchen, Shomir boasted about his trip to Agra. “I had eaten the most delicious dinners when we had stayed in the Taj hotel” he had said. When the four of them were cramped up in an autorickshaw and were going around town he told them about his dad’s BMW. “We used to go for great rides,” he had said regretfully. Shomir’s dad seemed to have been a rich man. It must have been a great loss for him, they had thought then.
Kittu’s hand stopped picking up the tiles. It hit the floor instead, forming a fist. He wished the storm had never come and wished the powercut had never happened. He wished Bashu hadn’t brought out the scrabbles out of nowhere like he always used to do with things, maybe he should have summoned a few more candles or some torches instead. Then maybe he could have finished his pending assignments and Bashu and Bipin theirs. Shomir could have continued reading another of his big fat books like he always used to do. And he wished that Shomir hadn’t forgotten to wear his wristwatch that night, under which he had been hiding an ugly scar all along.
“I-it’s a dog bite!” Shomir had stammered pulling his hand back immediately after he had placed his last tile on the grid. ‘Family,’ the tiles spelled. “Tch,” Kittu had clicked his tongue, placing his brow in his hand and shaking his head. Then he looked straight into his friend’s eyes. “Tell me the truth, that is no dog bite,” he had said calmly. Shomir clenched his jaw but had kept his expression unchanged. “How can you tell?” He asked. His face was half hidden in the dim candlelight. Bipin and Bashu watched the both of them intently with knitted brows. Shomir squeezed his wrist harder. The downpour of the rain had seemed louder in their ears.
“It’s a cigarette mark,” Kittu had replied slowly, “isn’t it?” He had realized then that Shomir’s dad had never had any jobs in Bombay. There had never been any cinema halls, luxury hotels nor any BMWs. In reality, there had never been any accidents at all. “How did you kill your dad?” He asked quietly. “Or did you do them both?” Bipin and Bashu sat wide-eyed and Shomir had pounced across the scrabble board.
Kittu let out a long, deep sigh. He stood, walked across to where Shomir still hunched himself over. “Shomir,” he called out. The candlelight flickered and the roar of the rain had never seemed louder. Shomir looked up at last to the ugly scar that wasn’t on his own wrist but on his friend’s bare stomach.
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