It was a winter evening.
Palash sat in front of a small stall (gumti), sipping his tea. He was not in a good mood. Given how the day had gone, he couldn't help but curse his luck a few times.
Just then, a deep voice spoke out—
"Could you give me something to eat?"
Palash didn't look up at first. It was already dark around the stall, and the man seemed to be a part of that very darkness. As he stepped into the light, his figure became clear.
He wore a light sky-blue Panjabi with a brown sleeveless sweater over it and a white dhoti. There was a strange calmness in the man's appearance, something rarely seen in ordinary beggars.
Surprised, Palash said, "You don't look like a needy person."
The man smiled faintly.
"I will tell you everything. But please give me something to eat first. I haven't had anything since morning."
Without saying another word, Palash bought an egg toast from the shop and placed it before him. The man ate in such a way that it was evident he wasn't making it up. Within moments, the plate was clean.
After finishing the food, the man said slowly, "My name is Bhavanicharan Chakravarty. I am a resident of Rampurhat in Birbhum."
Palash listened silently.
"I came here for some work," the man's voice dropped a little. "My money bag got stolen on the way. I don't even have the money to return home."
"How much do you need?" Palash asked.
The man hesitated a little. "One hundred and fifty rupees should be enough."
Palash felt around in his pocket. There was only a fifty-rupee note. He took it out and held it out to him.
"This is all I have. Keep it; it will come in handy."
Chakravarty didn't want to accept it at first. But the situation eventually forced him to give in.
After putting the money in his pocket, Palash asked, "What do you do? What work did you have here?"
The man remained silent for a few seconds. Then he said, "I am a Brahmin. I came here to meet a family."
Suddenly, Mr. Chakravarty changed the topic and said, "Son, the restlessness in your mind will go away very soon. You don't have to flatter God for that. He is merciful."
Startled, Palash said, "How did you know what is going on in my mind?"
Mr. Chakravarty smiled faintly. "Your eyes are proof enough. Give me your hands."
Palash hesitated a bit but held out both hands. Mr. Chakravarty examined them carefully for several minutes. Slowly, his face began to turn pale. A frown appeared on his forehead. His lips started trembling.
He muttered, "How is this possible... is my calculation wrong? Or are the lines... no, nothing matches! Can a fate line be like this? While going towards the Mount of Jupiter, why did it curve towards the Mount of Saturn, proceed a little, and then stop..."
Palash's throat went dry.
"What happened, Thakurmashai? Why are you acting like this? Tell me, what did you see?"
Just then, the last bus to Rampurhat arrived.
Mr. Chakravarty hurriedly took out a piece of paper from his Panjabi pocket and shoved it into Palash's hand.
"My number is on this paper. Contact me very soon. There is great danger ahead. I have to go now."
Saying this, he boarded the moving bus.
The bus slowly moved away from the stall. Palash stood frozen. Only one question kept swirling in his head—what did Mr. Chakravarty see that made his face change color? And what was the danger?
Thinking about all this, Palash looked at the clock in the shop. It was eight o'clock at night. Due to the cold, the surroundings were almost deserted. He started walking slowly towards home. But the restlessness did not leave him.
Part -Two
For the next few days following the incident, Palash did not step out of the house. His meals became irregular. Sitting at home, he kept thinking about those questions and tried to convince himself—"The man standing at the stall, his pale face, his sudden escape—it was all just a coincidence. There is no shortage of strange people in the city."
But can a restless mind be calmed so easily?
One evening, Palash's mother noticed this strange change in him. She said, "What has happened to you? I have been watching you for a few days; you are not eating properly, nor are you going out. Is something wrong?"
Although Palash initially dismissed the matter, unable to avoid his mother's stern questions, he eventually opened up to her about everything that had happened that day.
Though his words created a deep sense of dread and apprehension in her mind, outwardly she laughed it off.
"Don't pay heed to the words of such madmen. Their job is to scare people to earn money."
Palash said nothing more.
But that night, he noticed his mother seemed somewhat restless. During dinner, she forgot to add salt to one curry, while the spices in another remained raw. The rice was half-cooked too. This led to a minor squabble between his father and mother.
The first dream came three days later.
In the dream, he was sitting inside a room. The room was dark, but the darkness was not natural—there was no space for light to enter.
A sound came from one corner of the room.
Crying.
It was a stifled cry, as if someone was weeping with their mouth covered.
Palash woke up with a start, his heart pounding. He looked at the clock—it was three-twenty in the morning.
He drank some water and lay down again. He told himself, 'It was just a dream.'
The next night, the same dream. The same room. The same darkness.
But this time there was a difference. On the floor, right in front of him, were spots like water droplets. In the dream, he couldn't understand where they were coming from. The sound of crying was now heard from closer by.
Waking up, Palash saw that a corner of his pillow was wet.
Had he been crying? He couldn't remember.
On the third night, before going to sleep, he kept the lights on out of fear. Yet, the dream came.
This time he was standing in front of the door of that room. The door was open. Crying was coming from inside. Within the dream itself, he knew—if he entered, something would change.
The crying suddenly stopped.
Then, a whispering sound came from the darkness—
His own name.
He woke up wanting to scream but couldn't. No sound came out of his throat. He looked at the clock—three-twenty at night. The exact same time.
In the morning, he noticed a faint reddish mark on his right palm. As if someone had held it tightly.
He didn't tell his mother anything anymore. Everything seemed normal during the day. But as evening fell, the corners of the room felt unnecessarily heavy. Sitting alone, it seemed as if a distant, stifled cry was floating into his ears.
On the fourth night, he didn't even try to sleep. Yet, at some point, he dozed off.
A dark room. But this time he was not alone. Someone was sitting in a corner of the room. The face was not visible. There was no sound of crying. Only heavy breathing.
Suddenly, the breathing stopped. A brief silence.
Then someone whispered from very close— "Now you must see it."
Palash woke up and sat up with a jump. His cheeks were wet. The taste of salt.
He didn't wait anymore. Like a madman, he started looking for Chakravarty Mashai's number.
Opening the drawer, he took the paper out of his old pant pocket. His hands were trembling.
He dialed.
One ring. Two rings.
A voice came from the other side— "I knew you would call, Palash."
Palash said in a trembling voice, "You knew?"
A moment of silence. Then, in a very low voice, Mr. Chakravarty said, "That room won't let you go anymore."
"What do you mean by 'that room'?"
No answer came from the other end. The line went dead.
Palash put the phone down. The lights were on in the room then. Yet, he felt as if the darkness was slowly creeping inside.
Part - Three
The next morning, as soon as he woke up, Palash realized—something was not right.
The air in the room was heavy. There was a strange damp smell. It was as if a room that had been closed for a long time had suddenly been thrown open.
As he got off the bed, his eyes went to the right corner of the room.
There… was a mark.
At first, it seemed like a damp patch on the wall. But as he looked closely, his heart shuddered. The mark was long, even, with faint dark lines on both sides. Exactly the shape of a door.
Palash slowly walked towards it. He reached out to touch it but stopped. The door he had stood in front of in his dream—this mark bore an astonishing resemblance to it.
"How is this possible..." he muttered to himself.
Just then, his mother entered the room.
"What happened? Why are you staring at the wall like that?"
Swallowing hard, Palash said, "Right there... in that spot?"
His mother looked. A few seconds passed. Then she said in an annoyed voice, "Where? There is nothing there. Tell me, what kind of nonsense is getting into your head again!"
Mother left.
But the mark remained. Palash was certain—only he could see it.
That afternoon, he couldn't hold back anymore. He dialed the number given by Mr. Chakravarty again.
This time the phone rang... but no one answered.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
Finally, the call disconnected on its own.
Palash suddenly did something strange. He searched the number on Google.
"Bhavanicharan Chakravarty, Rampurhat"
At first, nothing appeared. Then, a link to an old news report appeared at the bottom.
Date—almost fifteen years ago.
Reading the headline, he felt a strange twisting sensation inside his chest.
"Mysterious Death of Unidentified Brahmin in Rampurhat"
His hands were trembling as he opened the news report.
The report stated— A person named Bhavanicharan Chakravarty, aged approximately fifty, was found dead in an abandoned house. The cause of death was unclear. Locals claimed that the man used to visit various places to read palms and tell fortunes.
The last line read— "Before his death, the man reportedly kept saying repeatedly—that room is not letting me go."
Palash put the phone down. A ringing sound seemed to echo inside his head.
"I knew you would call."
"That room won't let you go anymore."
Everything matched. It matched terrifyingly.
In the evening, his mother behaved abnormally again. While serving rice, she suddenly stopped.
"Palash," his mother said slowly, "Did you come to my room last night?"
Palash's throat went dry. "No... why?"
Mother remained silent for a while. Then she said, "I saw, while half-asleep, someone standing in front of the door. There was no light. The face wasn't visible either. But I know... he was staring."
Palash didn't say another word. He knew—this was no longer just about him.
At night, he sat with the room lights on. He couldn't take his eyes off that mark in the corner.
Silence spread all around.
Suddenly—the sound of something falling on the floor.
Palash looked down—a mark like a water droplet on the floor. Then another. And another.
He slowly raised his head.
The mark on the wall that looked like a door... was now slightly ajar.
Cold darkness was spilling out from inside, along with a damp, musty smell in the air.
A very familiar whisper floated into his ears—
"No more over the phone... now come face to face."
Palash retreated with lightning speed. But his back was against the wall of his room.
And in front—was that room.
Part - Four
Palash could not move. His back was against the wall. In front of him—that gaping darkness.
The light in the room was still on, but it seemed to falter at that very spot. It halted right at the threshold of the door.
His breath was trapped inside his chest. The palm of his right hand suddenly started burning. That reddish mark was getting hot, as if someone was pressing it from within.
Just then—
A sound came from inside the room. Very distinct.
Footsteps. One. Then another.
Palash could not avert his eyes. The gap in the door widened a little more.
Cold air rushed out from inside. Along with it came that damp, rotten smell. The odor of a room kept closed for ages.
"Who... who is there?"
He could not recognize his own voice.
No answer came. But the footsteps stopped.
Then, very slowly, from very close, someone breathed out. Right down his neck.
Palash whirled around with lightning speed.
There was no one behind. The room was empty.
At that exact moment, the light flickered and went out. Total darkness for a second. Then it reignited.
But the room was no longer the same.
The mark on the wall was no longer just a mark. It was now a clear door. Neither made of wood nor iron—the material was indiscernible. There were handprints all over the door. Many of them. Small, big, and with crooked fingers.
Palash wanted to step back. He couldn't. His feet seemed rooted to the floor.
A voice came from inside the door. Not a whisper this time. Clear.
"Did you think you wouldn't enter?"
It was a male voice. But the age was indeterminable.
Palash tried to open his mouth but failed.
Suddenly, an image flashed in his mind—the man standing in front of the stall. The pale face. Trembling lips. "That room isn't letting me go."
The door handle turned on its own.
Just then, his mother called out from outside— "Palash! Why did the light go off?"
Palash wanted to scream. "Ma, don't come inside!"
But no sound escaped his throat.
Through the gap in the door, the darkness now spilled onto the floor. Slowly. Like something alive.
Mother's footsteps were approaching.
The voice from inside the door spoke again— "Not alone. Two people this time."
Summoning his last bit of strength, Palash tried to free his feet. Just then, the mark on his palm turned cold.
He slumped to the floor with a jerk.
The room door slammed shut with a thud.
Mother's voice came from outside— "Palash? Why aren't you opening the door?"
Absolute silence inside.
That door on the wall was still standing there. But now, it was wide open.
There was no darkness inside anymore.
Inside—there was a room.
And in the middle of the room, a mirror.
Palash slowly lifted his head.
In the mirror, he was no longer alone.
Final Part
Looking into the mirror, the first thing Palash realized was—it was not fear, but a mistake.
The man standing in the mirror was not trembling. There was no terror in his eyes. There was only the accumulated fatigue of many days settled beneath them.
The mirror placed in the middle of the room was not ordinary. No cracks, no dust. Yet, looking at it, it seemed as if no one had looked into it for years.
Palash slowly stood in front of the mirror.
He was alone in the reflection. No shadow. No unknown face.
Suddenly, a heavy voice floated inside his head. Not a whisper. Nor a dream.
"This is exactly the problem. You always think you are alone."
Palash was startled. He looked around. There was no one in the room.
The voice came again. Clearer this time.
"This room is not about ghosts, Palash. This room is created only when someone becomes exhausted from constantly trying to convince themselves."
His heart skipped a beat. "Who are you?" he whispered.
His own lips moved in the mirror. But the sound originated from his head.
"I am you. And I am him."
Suddenly, the scene before his eyes changed.
He was no longer in his room. An unknown, abandoned room. Damp marks on the walls. Windows shut.
A man was sitting in a corner. Aged around fifty. Disheveled hair. There was no fear in his eyes—only the weariness of resignation.
The man was muttering— "The room is not letting me go... the room is not letting me go..."
Palash understood. This was Chakravarty Mashai.
"You..." his voice choked.
The man raised his head. Eye contact for the first time.
"I was no saint," Chakravarty Mashai said slowly. "I didn't see the future. I saw people."
The scene changed again.
The scene—in front of the stall.
Palash saw himself sitting with tea in hand. And Chakravarty Mashai standing in front of him.
"I was scared seeing your hand," Chakravarty Mashai said. "Not because of the lines. Because of your eyes."
Palash was stunned.
"I know those eyes. I died with these very eyes."
Suddenly, everything started becoming clear.
The fate line. Its sudden halt. Curving towards the Mount of Saturn.
That was not a story of planets. That was a familiar path.
Belittling oneself for a long time. Making failure one's identity. And slowly building a room inside oneself—where light does not enter.
"The room is born inside people," Chakravarty Mashai said. "The person who loses while trying to convince himself, the room occupies a large part of him."
"Then why did you come to warn me?" Palash asked.
Chakravarty Mashai smiled. A bitter smile.
"No. I saw myself in you. And I knew—this room spares no one until they take ownership of themselves."
Suddenly, the vision shattered.
Palash was back in his room. In front of the mirror.
Mother's voice, the quarrel with father, the curry without salt—he remembered everything.
He understood—those were not supernatural. When fear spreads, people become disorganized. He had mistaken everything for the room's influence.
The red mark on his palm caught his eye.
He realized—it was no sign. It was the imprint of his own pressed fingers. He had clenched his fist tightly in his sleep at night.
"You spoke on the phone..." Palash whispered.
Chakravarty Mashai's voice was calm. "No. That was your mind. I was no longer there by then."
Palash looked into his own eyes in the mirror. For the first time, he admitted something. Aloud.
"I am not a failure. I had accepted myself as a failure."
The air in the room changed. The door on the wall trembled. Slowly, cracks appeared.
No darkness came out from inside. No voice either. Only a void.
"The room breaks only then," Chakravarty Mashai said for the last time, "When a person takes responsibility instead of blaming fear."
In an instant, everything vanished. The mirror. The door. The damp smell.
The room became an ordinary room again.
Palash sat down on the floor. He took a deep breath.
Mother's call from outside— "Palash?"
Opening the door, they saw Palash's motionless body lying on the floor.
Immediately, Palash's father rushed in from the next room hearing his mother's scream.
Laying Palash on the bed, his mother started splashing water on his face, while his father rubbed his cold feet with his palms to warm them. At that moment, Palash opened his eyes and saw tears streaming continuously from his mother's eyes; looking towards his feet, he saw his father hugging his legs and sobbing.
Seeing Palash open his eyes, his mother hugged him to her chest and said, "What happened to you? Are you okay?"
This time he answered in a calm voice.
"Yes, Ma."
Palash looked around the walls of his house. There were no marks on the wall anymore.
But Palash knows—the room never dies completely. It waits.
The day a person thinks of themselves as worthless again, that day, somewhere, inside someone, a room will be built again.
But not today.
Today, Palash has recognized the door.
And he who knows the door is no longer trapped there.