Chapter 1 — The Man Who Regretted Everything
Rain poured endlessly over kolkata.
The narrow streets glistened beneath yellow streetlights while muddy water flowed through broken drains carrying leaves, plastic cups, and cigarette packets into the darkness.
Inside a small apartment above an optical shop, Riddhiman Paul sat alone in front of the television.
The room smelled faintly of:
mustard oil,
fried fish,
old books,
and rain-soaked clothes.
A ceiling fan rotated lazily overhead with an irritating clicking sound.
On the television, cricket highlights played repeatedly.
The commentator shouted excitedly:
"Another unforgettable innings from Sachin Tendulkar!"
The crowd erupted.
Tens of thousands screaming one name.
Riddhiman stared silently at the screen.
On the table beside him sat:
cold rice,
untouched pabda macher jhol,
scattered office papers,
a cracked pair of spectacles.
Usually fish curry made him happy.
Especially pabda or hilsa.
His mother joked that he loved fish more than people.
Tonight even food tasted meaningless.
He leaned back slowly against the old sofa and rubbed his tired eyes.
Twenty-nine years old.
And already defeated by life.
Downstairs, the shutter of the family optical shop rattled loudly.
His father was closing for the night.
"Paul Vision Centre."
A tiny neighborhood optics store.
His father spent his days:
checking eye power,
adjusting spectacle frames,
listening patiently to customers complain.
A simple man.
A hardworking man.
And somehow that terrified Riddhiman.
Not because the work was small.
But because routine had swallowed his father whole.
The same way life had swallowed him.
The downstairs door opened.
Wet footsteps echoed up the staircase.
Then his mother's voice floated upward:
"Eto brishti hocche, taratari esho!"
(It's raining heavily, come upstairs quickly!)
Riddhiman closed his eyes briefly.
This house was painfully Bengali.
Every corner carried familiarity:
framed picture of Kali,
old wooden furniture,
Rabindra Sangeet on Sunday mornings,
fish frying in mustard oil,
incense smell during evening prayer.
A normal family.
A peaceful family.
So why did he feel so empty inside it?
The television replayed Sachin's cover drive in slow motion.
Perfect balance.
Perfect timing.
Immortal.
Riddhiman's chest tightened slightly.
He wasn't jealous.
He envied certainty.
The certainty of becoming unforgettable.
His eyes slowly moved toward the framed image of Maa Kali hanging near the television.
Dark eyes staring back at him.
Terrifying.
Protective.
As a child, he used to pray there every morning beside his mother before school.
Back then his wishes were stupid:
new cricket bat,
fewer exams,
India winning matches.
Now he only wanted one thing.
Another chance.
His father finally entered the room carrying a wet umbrella.
Thinning hair.
Tired shoulders.
Strong glasses resting low on his nose.
"You're still awake?" he asked.
Riddhiman nodded silently.
His father glanced toward television and smiled faintly.
"Sachin again?"
"Hm."
"The whole country worships him now."
Then after a pause:
"You used to love cricket too."
Used to.
The word hit strangely hard.
Because somewhere along the way, Riddhiman had stopped loving things.
He had started surviving instead.
His father disappeared into the kitchen where his mother immediately began scolding him:
"Again you worked late!"
"Customer chilo."
(There were customers.)
"You'll ruin your own eyes checking everyone else's!"
Their familiar argument continued softly in the background.
And suddenly Riddhiman felt unbearable sadness.
His parents had ordinary lives.
But at least they lived honestly.
What about him?
He spent years trapped between:
fear,
hesitation,
unfinished ambition.
Always planning.
Never daring.
The commentator's voice rose loudly again:
"Cricket will remember this forever!"
Forever.
Riddhiman stared at the screen.
Would anyone remember him?
No.
He already knew the answer.
He had done nothing worth remembering.
Outside, thunder shook the windows violently.
Rain intensified.
His mother entered carrying reheated fish curry.
"Eat before sleeping," she said softly.
Hilsa.
His favorite.
Even now she remembered little things like that.
Something painful twisted inside his chest.
"What happened?" she asked immediately.
"Mukh ta eto chinta chinta lagche keno?"
(Why do you look so worried?)
Riddhiman forced a weak smile.
"Kichhu na, Ma."
(Nothing, Ma.)
Mothers always knew when that was a lie.
But she simply touched his head gently before leaving.
That tiny touch almost broke him.
Because suddenly he realized:
He had wasted not only his own life—
but also the love people gave him.
The room became quiet again.
Rain.
Television.
Fish curry growing cold.
And regret.
Endless regret.
Sachin raised his bat again on television while crowds screamed his name like prayer.
Riddhiman whispered softly into the darkness:
"Some people become immortal…"
His eyes lowered slowly.
"And others disappear before they even live."
For several moments he simply listened to the storm.
Then suddenly something inside him snapped.
Quietly.
Dangerously.
He stood up abruptly and grabbed his jacket.
His father looked up.
"Kothay jacchis ei brishtite?"
(Where are you going in this rain?)
"Ektu haatbo."
(I'll walk a little.)
His mother protested instantly:
"Pagol hoyechis? Eto brishtite?"
(Have you gone mad? In this rain?)
But Riddhiman had already left.
Cold rain slammed against him outside.
Roads flooded ankle-deep.
Tea stalls closing.
Neon lights reflecting across wet asphalt.
He walked aimlessly through the storm.
Alone.
Completely alone.
At a crossing near a sports shop, he stopped.
Inside the shop window, another television replayed cricket highlights.
Again: Sachin raising his bat.
The crowd worshipping him.
Immortality.
Riddhiman stared through the rain.
Then slowly closed his eyes.
"If I get another life…"
His fists tightened unconsciously.
"This time…"
His voice trembled slightly.
"I'll become someone the world cannot ignore."
A horn screamed suddenly.
Blinding headlights tore through the storm.
Riddhiman turned instinctively—
Too late.
The impact exploded through his body.
Pain.
Noise.
Darkness.
He crashed onto the wet road as people screamed nearby.
Rainwater mixed slowly with blood beneath him.
The world blurred.
Sounds faded.
Breathing weakened.
And in those final moments, one truth became painfully clear:
His greatest failure was never losing.
It was never daring enough to chase greatness completely.
Thunder roared above him.
And as darkness consumed everything, his final thought echoed silently:
"Maa Kali…"
"If you truly give second chances…"
"Then next time…"
"I will stand above everyone."