Eyes In The Dark -1
1366 Words
Saturday, 11:04 p.m.
Kolkata
The room was dark. The only light came from the television, a faint, cold glow flickering across the walls. The sound was low, a dull hum filling the silence without really breaking it.
Arnab sat still, eyes half-focused on the images, smoke, crowds, sirens.
He hadn't slept since the previous night. Not since the airport explosion.
The voice on the TV rose slightly, the anchor's tone urgent:
"BREAKING NEWS! Eiffel Tower Destroyed in Series of Explosions! Thousands Feared Dead."
For a moment, Arnab thought he'd misheard.But then the images appeared, the tower twisted, burning, broken against a crimson sky.
People on the screen screamed in languages he couldn't understand. Cameras shook. Sirens wailed.
And still, the sound in his room was low, muffled, almost peaceful in its dissonance.
He barely noticed when the red ticker changed again.
"National Headlines."
"Authorities have confirmed the airport explosion in Kolkata as deliberate sabotage. Several are still missing, investigation continues under tight security…"
Arnab's chest tightened. The words blurred together, Kolkata, explosion, missing.
The hum of the TV filled the room again, soft and hollow.
Then his phone buzzed. Once.
Then again.
He stared at it for a moment, unwilling to move, then picked it up. It showed 'Unknown Number'. Hesitant, he swiped to answer.
"Hello?"
A voice, measured and official, came through. "Mr. Arnab Ghosh?"
"Yes, speaking."
"This is Sub-Inspector Nirmal Roy from Lake Town Police Station. Am I speaking to the son of Dr. Amal Ghosh?"
Arnab straightened. "Yes. What's this about?"
There was a pause on the line, a quiet hesitation, like the officer was choosing his words.
"Mr. Ghosh… I'm very sorry to inform you. Your father was found dead near the Eastern Metropolitan Bypass shortly after midnight."
Arnab blinked. The words didn't make sense.
"…Found dead!? What do you mean found dead?!"
The officer exhaled softly. "The body was discovered around 12:10 a.m. by the police. Locals noticed it near the barricades and called us. There was a wound, a deep one, in the chest. We recovered his wallet and ID at the scene."
Arnab gripped the phone tighter. "So it's… confirmed?"
"Yes, sir. We verified with his office records. We tried to reach your family last night, but the lines were unstable after the airport incident."
He didn't answer.
The officer's tone lowered. "Please come to the station tomorrow morning for formal identification. Around 10.If possible. Bring a recent photograph of your father."
Arnab's voice broke.
He finally whispered,
"How… how did it happen?"
"That's still under investigation, sir," the voice said quietly. "We're treating it as a possible homicide."
A long silence followed.
The faint hum of the television filled the room again.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Ghosh."
The line clicked dead.
Arnab sat there, unmoving.
The phone was still in his hand.
The TV light flickered across his face, cutting through the dark.
Somewhere far away, a news anchor kept speaking.
But to Arnab, everything had gone silent...
Sunday, 8:56 p.m.
Kolkata
The rain had stopped, but the city hadn’t dried.
Streetlights shimmered on the wet asphalt like broken glass. A café sat at the end of the lane, half its signboard flickering, the smell of stale coffee and cigarette smoke clinging to the air.
The whole city felt heavier now, quieter in the wrong places. Police vans crawled through the streets like ghosts, their red lights spinning across empty intersections. At every corner, men with rifles stood under dripping tarpaulins, their eyes scanning every car that passed. Checkpoints had become part of the scenery. The usual chatter of the markets was gone; shutters closed early, buses were half empty, and people spoke in whispers as if the air itself was listening.
Kolkata was breathing but not living. The airport blast had burnt more than glass and concrete; it had scorched the rhythm out of the city.
Arnab sat in a corner booth, staring at the empty cup in front of him. His reflection in the window looked older, colder.
Across from him sat Gaurav.
A plain black hoodie. No expression. Just those calm, unreadable eyes that seemed to watch everything at once.
They hadn’t spoken for almost a minute.
Then Gaurav said softly, “You look worse than last time.”
Arnab gave a dry laugh. “Thanks for the observation.”
Gaurav leaned back. “ The airport, you were close?”
Arnab nodded slowly. “Close enough to feel it.”
A pause. The silence between them wasn’t awkward, it was heavy, like two men sitting beside a truth they couldn’t say aloud.
Arnab finally muttered, “You… took care of it?”
Gaurav’s jaw flexed slightly. “Yeah. She won’t be a problem anymore.”
Arnab’s eyes flickered with pain, anger, and relief, all at once. “She had it coming.”
“Everyone does,” Gaurav said. His tone didn’t change, but something dark lingered in his voice.
Arnab met his gaze. “Shubhendu Banerjee.”
Gaurav’s eyes hardened instantly, a flicker of rage buried beneath restraint. “He’s gone.”
“I know,” Arnab said. “I read about the ‘accident'.”
A faint smile crossed Gaurav’s face.
Arnab’s gaze drifted to the window, watching the blurred lights. “You’re sure they aren’t connected to… the airport thing? Or Paris?”
Gaurav looked at him for a long moment. “No. That wasn’t us. Too messy. Too loud.”
Arnab turned back, searching his face. “Then who?”
Gaurav gave a faint, humorless smile. “If you find out, let me know.”
Another moment of silence. Then Arnab asked, almost casually,
“The delivery?”
Gaurav nodded once. “Handled. You’ll get it tonight. It’s clean, untraceable.”
They both fell silent again. The air smelt faintly of rain and old coffee.
After a while, Gaurav spoke again, this time quieter.
“I have something for you.” He reached into his jacket and slid a thin envelope across the table. It was unmarked, heavy with folded paper. “Names. Places. Not much more. This is local.”
Arnab’s fingers hovered before he took it. On the first sheet, written in a precise hand, were three short columns; names, roles, places.
Arnab read once, twice. The names landed, like stones.
Arnab looked at him. “This… you trust it?”
Gaurav’s eyes never left his. “Trust isn’t the point. Survival is.”
Outside, the streetlights blurred through the mist, a reflection of uncertainty.
“Two things,” Gaurav said, his voice cutting the café’s quiet. “They’re sloppy. That’s your advantage. And… watch the shadows that watch you. The night devours what the day pretends to protect.”
Arnab nodded. His hand closed around the envelope. A pulse in his chest quickened.
After a while, Gaurav spoke again, this time quieter.
“I’ve got a new job. Two days. Out of town.”
Arnab looked up. “Where? ”
Gaurav stood, sliding his hands into his pockets. “You don’t want to know.”
Arnab exhaled, nodded. “Just come back in one piece.”
Gaurav smirked, a rare, almost human expression. “Always do.”
Sunday, 11:42 p.m.
Outskirts of Kolkata
The highway was empty, swallowed in mist.
Gaurav’s bike roared through the dark, its headlight slicing through the fog like a blade. He wore a black tactical jacket now, his face half hidden behind a mask.
He pulled off near an abandoned airfield, the grass overgrown, the buildings long forgotten.
But the ground trembled.
From the far end of the field, lights flared, white, cold, and blinding.
Something massive descended through the mist: a hovering carrier, sleek, angular, its engines whispering like thunder muffled by clouds. The hull shimmered with faint blue lights, armoured panels shifting with mechanical precision.
A ramp extended, touching down softly on the ground.
Gaurav revved his bike once, then sped forward and rode straight into the open bay.
The ramp folded up behind him. The engines deepened their hum, the field below shrinking into darkness.
Within seconds, the craft rose, vanishing into the night sky, leaving behind only a trail of disturbed wind and bending grass.
Its destination: Tokyo!
- Writer
