A story

It was a morning like any other except Ramen Mallick was not particularly in the habit of checking his mails. When he walked out the old wooden door and opened the rusty letter box he found the morning sulky, the sky overcast. The sunshine was yellowish and the shadows blurry. Eden Street was bustling as usual. People making their way to office and the tea shop crowded with elders. He opened the box and found three envelopes. He glanced and made his way back to his house and shut the door closed.

He showed no signs of hurry as he carefully prepared his tea. The letters lay on the wooden table, unopened and he concentrated on the tea he prepared. A hint of green leaves and a hint of black , carefully brewed with a spoon of milk and few ingredients unknown to others. When the froth was distinct and the tea leaves had become one with its host he would add the sugar and stir gently so as not to disturb the lovely romance of the leaves in the pan. He waited and gazed out and imagined what would tomorrow be like and the day after and the day after that. He turned the gas off and poured it in a china cup and made his way to his study. On the way he collected the three envelopes that he had earlier collected.

He let the tea cool down before he took a sip and looked at the first envelope. He carefully took out his pen knife and opened it.

The matter seemed to amuse him as he let out a chuckle and folded the letter back in. He took another sip and rested back before he lit up a cigarette. The city was settling down from the morning chaos. He looked at the calendar. It was only the twenty second. He laughed and nodded his head in appraisal of the irony. He opened the second letter.

The cheque of Rs. 990 was indeed there in the envelope. He carelessly examined it and then put it aside. He took a moment back. There was anger and disappointment showing up now. He looked at the pile of ten copies of his latest work ‘A work of passion’ that was collecting dust now. He re-read the letter , elven copies it said. A consolation.

The tea had gone cold now. The morning was heading to noon and the house was silent. He was feeling a wonderful feeling of tiredness. The sleep was not indeed adequate as he had lay awake last night pondering over his decisions of his next course of actions. The sheer passion he had put in when he had written his last piece , unpublished, seemed to shudder him. A lunatic of his kind a man so fierce and hated by the little children and his peers alike. He was feeling sleepy now.

He carefully examined the manuscript before heading on to the third letter. This would be the masterpiece, people would remember Ramen Mallick for.

He opened the third letter as he lit another cigarette. It was written out of a shabby piece of paper in handwriting.

He read the letter again and then once more. The one copy he thought.

He rearranged his manuscript now with his trembling hands and aching body.

There was no definite guarantee that he would achieve what he craved. There was a more probability he would go down the history as a lunatic as he was always known as.

His heart seemed to beat faster now. He held on to one of arms of his broken wooden chair. A raven on his window was now looking at him. The sun seemed to grow dim. Darkness was engulfing him now. He looked at the cup of tea and grinned in his stiffening body. He succumbed to his passion and he closed his eyes.

Ramen Mallick lay lifeless on his study. The raven flown away the manuscript of his latest work neatly stacked.

The tea cup now empty all poison consumed. A small piece on the wall of his study read …

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