The Listener
1048 Words
Wednesday, 8:10 P.M.
Grand Ballroom, The Oberoi Grand, Kolkata
The chandeliers of The Oberoi Grand spilt molten gold across the polished floors. Waiters drifted between the guests with trays of wine, shrimp, and quiet gossip, their smiles polished, voices soft. Everyone here was polite, restrained, and civilised. Outside, Kolkata roared. Inside, we were all trapped in our own ambitions.
This gathering that appears to be a charity event for the victims of the airport blast—was just theatre. It smelt of perfume and politics, but it had teeth. Politicians pat themselves on the back while disaster creates chances for power. Arunava Sen moved through the crowd, shaking hands, nodding politely, each gesture measured, each smile calculated.
Kolkata runs on fear, money, and secrets. I intend to have all three.
He adjusted his sherwani, pearl buttons gleaming under the light. Cameras flashed. Glasses clinked. Hands shook. Smiles were exchanged. But under that silk-and-gold mask, he watched and listened. Names. Loyalties. Threats. Opportunities. Every whisper was a thread in a web only he could see.
Noise hides truth. Masks hide ambition. And everyone here thinks they’re untouchable. I see the cracks. I see who bends and who breaks. They will play their parts, and I will move them like pawns.
Around him, the conversation floated like smoke. Complaints about damaged terminals, halted flights, and stranded ministers. Everyone seemed annoyed, no one afraid. Politics in Bengal rarely paused for tragedy; it only adjusted its mask. Beneath polite smiles, hidden transactions and quiet exchanges of information went unnoticed. Perfect distractions. Perfect covers. Arunava let his smile linger on a group of young party workers. They think loyalty is bought with chai and smiles. They have no idea how fragile their positions are.
A man approached from behind. Tall. Blond. Blue-eyed. His suit was too simple for the occasion, but his presence drew attention. The faint English accent in his “Mr. Sen” cut through the noise like a blade through silk.
Arunava turned, smile widening. “Mr Edgar Holt. You made it after all.”
“Wasn’t easy,” Edgar replied, taking a slow sip of red wine. “Security’s a nightmare since… the blast.”
“Yes, yes.” Arunava gestured to a quiet corner table, away from the crowd. “We’ll talk there. Too many ears here.”
They moved under the shadow of a large Rabindranath Tagore portrait.
They sat under a portrait of Rabindranath Tagore, its shadow falling across their table like a curtain. The waiter poured more wine and left without a sound.
“Your city”, Edgar said softly, “is very loud these days.”
Arunava’s smile didn’t fade. “Noise hides truth, Mr Holt. It keeps people busy.” He paused, letting the words sink. “It’s a convenient disguise. The public sees charity; we see efficiency.”
'And efficiency is power. Let the cameras think they catch me; they see only the reflection I allow. I move pieces they cannot imagine,' he thought, swirling the wine in his glass.
“So, when is the next consignment of 'white cloth' arriving?”
Edgar raised his glass, the amber light bending through it.
“The shipment’s arriving tomorrow night. Usual route, same docks.”
Arunava nodded, his tone smooth and assured. “Good. Raghav will handle it for now.”
“For now?” Edgar tilted his head, a faint edge of amusement in his voice. “You still trust that man?”
Arunava smiled, a politician’s smile, polite but distant. “Trust isn’t the word, Mr Holt. Let’s just say he still serves a purpose. And purpose, like this party, can be flexible.”
Edgar chuckled quietly. “Purpose is a fragile leash.”
“So are partnerships,” Arunava replied, eyes flicking toward the crowd where cameras flashed and laughter rang. “But both can last if one knows when to tighten the rope.”
The orchestra swelled again, a slow, elegant waltz filling the grand hall. Waiters drifted past with trays of champagne. The noise of conversation rose around them like warm fog, masking what truly transpired in corners where no one else looked.
Arunava glanced at his watch, finishing his drink.
“Excuse me, Mr Holt. Enjoy the evening. I have a few hands left to shake.”
“Of course,” Edgar said, standing with a courteous nod.
As Arunava moved back into the crowd, Holt watched him go, thoughtful, unmoving. Then he took out his phone and typed a brief message.
Shipment confirmed. Local liaison: Raghav.
Cameras flashed. Hands shook. Smiles were everywhere. Beneath the silk, tension stretched like a taut wire.
“Ah, Sen-babu!” A young worker exclaimed, holding a half-empty glass. “Still no flights from Kolkata. I had to drive twelve hours to Delhi last week!”
Arunava smiled politely, voice dipped in dry sarcasm. “We must thank our efficient government,” he said. A murmur of laughter followed, but his tone cut like a blade.
He moved through the throng, noting small details: a crooked tie, a security officer scanning too nervously, a photographer lingering too long. Every action was a clue, every distraction a tool.
They will dance. They will toast. They will trade secrets like children swap sweets, careless, delighted, and certain of their own cleverness.
I will stand where the light falls best and listen. Not to answer, only to count. A flick of a wrist, a pause too long, the way a laugh ends, those are the ledger entries I keep.
Tomorrow night the consignment moves. Raghav will handle things at the docks. Edgar will follow the paper trail and think he sees everything. Let him think that. I leave room, not for error, but for advantage. A misstep arranged carefully becomes someone else’s panic.
I bend them by degrees: a nudge here, a quiet question there. Ministers, aides, and officers – they are useful instruments, not confidants. Use is cleaner than trust.
Tonight the hall shines; they mistake glow for power. Tomorrow, that glow will light a different map.
Arunava sipped the last drop of wine, adjusted his sherwani, straightened the pearl buttons, and then disappeared into the crowd. Cameras flashed. Glasses clinked. Laughter echoed. And underneath it all, Kolkata whispered. And he listened.
- Writer
