Burning woman
I have heard that there is another Kolkata hidden within Kolkata itself. Every lane, every corner, every lamppost here carries a story.
Apu took a cab and got down at the address given on the GPS. It was an old house in South Kolkata—quite large, standing right by the roadside as if it was a challenging time itself.
After ringing the doorbell, Apu stood looking around. There were various ornamental plants and flowering pots neatly arranged. Seeing such a calm, serene house beside a busy city road made Apu feel strangely good.
The door was opened by Antara.
Apu suppressed her emotions and let her anger take over. She looked at Antara. Half of her face was still covered with a scarf. From what was visible, Apu could tell that Antara was very beautiful. Her hair fell below her knees, her eyes were long and expressive, and her complexion was milky fair.
Antara said, "Apu? Right?"
Apu replied in a serious tone, "Hmm."
"Come inside."
"No, just give me the phone. I have to leave. I don't have time to come in."
Antara smiled softly and said, "How can that be? Your friend helped me. You've come all this way, and you won't even come inside? Please, come in."
Without saying anything further, Apu stepped inside.
Everything in the house was neatly arranged. The aristocratic charm of old times still clung to the walls. Wooden beams, portraits of great personalities, and a large swing chair—everything carried the touch of another era.
"Sit, Apu. I'll be back in two minutes," Antara said and went inside.
Apu sat on the sofa and looked around. Suddenly, her eyes stopped at a half-open door. Through the gap, she could see a bookshelf.
Apu had always been drawn to books. She couldn't resist. Slowly, she got up and pushed the door open.
She froze.
The entire room was filled with books. Everywhere she looked—old, new, stories, poetry, novels. Wooden shelves were packed, and some books were even neatly arranged on the floor.
It felt like heaven to Apu.
She took out a book from a shelf. It was written by her favorite author—Antara Banerjee.
Just then, a soft voice came from behind—
"So, you really like Antara Banerjee, don't you?"
Apu was startled. She quickly put the book back and said,
"I'm very sorry, ma'am… I couldn't control myself."
Antara smiled gently.
"Why say sorry? Loving books is a beautiful thing. Come, have some sweets."
Apu returned to the sofa. Despite hesitation, she picked up a sweet and took a bite.
But she felt uncomfortable inside. She knew how personal books could be. Touching them without permission didn't feel right.
Seeing her sitting with her head down, Antara asked again,
"Why do you like Antara Banerjee so much?"
Apu looked up. Her eyes sparkled with emotion.
"Her writings… they feel like my own thoughts. She is my inspiration. Not just me—Kushal da is also a big fan of hers."
"Kushal da? The one whose phone this is?"
"Yes."
"What's your full name?"
"Aparupa Samanta. But everyone calls me Apu."
"You're younger than me, so I'll address you informally. Is that okay?"
"Of course."
Antara brought tea and placed it in front of her.
"Will you eat anything else? Shall I make something?"
"No, didi, I've already eaten. Please give me the phone."
Antara paused for a moment and then asked,
"Have you ever seen Antara Banerjee?"
"No… she never comes in front of people."
"What if you saw her someday?"
Apu smiled faintly.
"Then I probably wouldn't be able to say anything. I'd just keep looking at her."
At that moment, Antara's scarf slipped slightly.
Apu froze.
One side of Antara's face was completely burned. It looked as if fire had taken away her beauty.
Antara quickly covered her face again.
"Wait, I'll bring the phone."
Apu sat still, overwhelmed with fear, pain, and guilt.
Antara returned with the phone and said,
"Here. I thought maybe you had already left after seeing my face."
Apu said softly,
"I don't get scared so easily… but… how did this happen?"
Antara remained silent for a moment. Then she said slowly—
"Not all stories can be written in books, Apu. Some stories must be understood by seeing the person."
A sudden glance toward the sky—
and I was claimed by ruin's hand.
Love, its face disfigured and undone,
fell naked before the crowd.
Some hid their laughter behind their lips,
some felt a fleeting ache,
others cast crooked, passing glances—
then turned, and walked away.
I lay there, writing in agony,
my face, my chest—engulfed in flame;
and in the prison of a thousand palms,
I bloomed a spectacle—an instant fame.
"Save me…"—my trembling cry dissolved,
lost in the hollow air;
for pain has grown a pleasure now,
a cruel habit people wear.
Upon the dark, indifferent road,
my face melted into the dust;
they fled from me as from a curse,
as though I carried death's own touch.
Once called beautiful—now feared,
myself reduced to seared remains;
A woman—hailed as goddess divine,
yet burned alive in silent flames.
She looked out of the window.
"The man I loved… couldn't accept not having me. So he tried to destroy me."
Apu's heart trembled.
"Acid…?"
Antara nodded and gave a faint smile.
"Yes. When love turns into possession, people can fall to unimaginable depths."
The room fell silent.
Antara continued,
"That's why I don't go out anymore. People love my writings, but they get scared when they see me."
Apu said gently,
"Not everyone is the same, didi."
Antara looked at her.
"Will you come again?"
Apu smiled slightly.
"I won't just come again… I'll come to hear your story. Not your writings—your own story."
Tears filled Antara's eyes.
"Then from now on, you're not just my reader… you're my person."
Apu stood up.
"I'll come again, didi. Very soon."
Stepping out onto the road, Apu saw the busy city of Kolkata rushing as always. But she felt that today, she had truly discovered that hidden Kolkata within Kolkata.
And that Kolkata had a name—Antara.
To be continued....