Companion

Siliguri, 1942

When Professor Sukumar Chaudhuri, a fastidious and mildly irritable orthopaedic, received a complete human skeleton in the mail, he didn’t expect companionship. Certainly not the kind that would  alter his life completely.

The skeleton—was couriered by a former student in Bombay—was of a woman. Mid-20s, well-preserved, and oddly dignified, even in bone. One silver toe ring glinted on the right foot.

"A bit dramatic," he muttered. "Who sends skeletons with accessories?"

Along with his house help Chotu , he placed the skeleton in a selected corner in his study.

At first Chotu was scared and wouldn't touch it. He only reluctantly touched it after being rebuked by his master. 

"Ram, ram, ram.." he chanted.

"Arre buddhu..it's just a skeleton; most harmless."

Chotu left the room in a hurry after placing it appropriately in its designated spot.

Satisfied, Sukumar stood front of it.

"You are in fine shape..good for my studies and research." He said . "Let's call you Anaya."

---

Sukumar lived alone in a dated colonial bungalow that creaked like an old man clearing his throat. His only frequent visitor was Chottu, the house help who came four times a week, mostly to gossip and reorganize the kitchen incorrectly.

"Sir," Chottu said, narrowing his eyes at Anaya, "this lady gives me the creeps."

"She’s quieter than you," Sukumar replied. "Which I appreciate."

---

DAY 8: First Signs

Sukumar woke to find his spectacles perched neatly on his bedside table, cleaned. His notebooks neatly stacked.

He blinked.

"Why, thank you", he muttered to himself.

---

DAY 15: Domestic Partnership

Every day brought something novel. Papers sorted. Socks paired. Tea made.

"Anaya," he said one evening, swirling his cup, "you’ve reorganized my thesis notes. Also, your taste in Assam tea is excellent."

The skeleton, of course, said nothing. But he could swear the lower jaw bone tilted, amused.

That evening, Chottu found him humming Rabindra Sangeet while dusting the skeleton’s collarbone with a peacock feather.

"Sir," Chottu whispered, backing out of the room, "I think you’re getting drawn to the bone lady."

"Don’t be ridiculous," Sukumar snapped. Then, softly, to Anaya: "Not until she makes luchi."

---

DAY 27: Guests and Ghosts

A surprise visitor arrived—Dr. Nandini Sen, a former student turned government health officer.

"Still living with bones, sir?" she teased.

"She has a name - Anaya" he said. "Quite loyal."

Nandini peered at the skeleton. "Is that a... flower in her hand?"

"She likes hibiscus."

Nandini leaned in, raising an eyebrow. "And lipstick on that teacup beside her?"

"Hmm..what to say..."

That night, as Sukumar settled into bed, a voice drifted through the shadows.

 “She was wearing rose oil. You never liked rose.”

Sukumar sat up. The voice was unmistakably female—faint but firm. He looked at the skeleton.

"Anaya...?"

No response. But the faintest scent of cardamom lingered.

---

DAY 40: The Saree

That night, thunder cracked. Sukumar lit a candle.

In the flickering glow, he saw it—an outline. Bare feet. Yellow saree. A woman standing by the window - a feminine silhouette.

He didn’t move.

She came closer. Bent. Touched his cheek with a cool hand. Then vanished. He stiffened momentarily.

Her face, though not clear, held softness. A nose pin shimmered faintly through the haze.

He poured two cups of tea the next morning. Cardamom. Light milk. She preferred it that way.

---

DAY 51: Fever

Sukumar fell ill. A harsh fever gripped him, confining him to bed for two days. Chottu was out visiting his aunt, unaware.

He drifted in and out of sleep, burning with high fever . But one moment stood out:

He opened his eyes at midnight and saw her.

Anaya. Seated next to his head, not in bone, not in shadow, but something gently luminous. Draped in a soft saree, her spectral fingers dipped cloth in water and pressed it to his forehead.

In a state of delirium, he reached out and held her hand—or thought he did. It was cold, but soft.

And in a whisper, he muttered, "Will I ever know about you?"

 “You already do,” came the faint reply. “More than most ever will.”

No words after. Just a presence.

The soft clinking of bangles. Light breaths - almost inaudible.

Then silence.

When he awoke in the morning, a folded cloth sat in the bowl of water. A fresh cup of ginger tea steamed gently on the side table.

Though still weak, he managed to walk to the study and glanced toward the skeleton.

"You make decent tea." He said, feeling grateful to his "companion".

After that, on numerous nights Sukumar felt her presence on the other side of the bed; soft ruffling of bedsheet, light tossing and turning - all indicated Anya's closeness.

"You are here , aren't you?" Sukumar would ask sleepily.

A soft chuckle would be the response.

In the mornings, the bed would feel warmer.

---

DAY 58: Intimacy

There were no confessions. No longings spoken aloud.

Only gestures. A folded shawl. A cleaned inkpot. A fingertip on his shoulder when he coughed too hard.

"Anaya," he said once, pausing mid-writing, "you’ve ruined me for real women. They expect conversation."

The skeleton tilted slightly on its hook.

“You talk enough for two.”

Sukumar froze. Then smiled, wide-eyed.

"So you do listen."

 “Only when you’re talking sensibly.”

He laughed till he wheezed.

---

DAY 100: Coexistence

The house was spotless. The garden bloomed. Chottu now bowed to Anaya when he mopped.

"Sir," he said one day, solemnly, "I think she runs this place."

"I know she does," said Sukumar, adjusting his shawl. "I just pretend to be in charge."

---

Social backlash also followed. A few people labelled the bungalow as haunted; Sukumar was belittled with monikers like lunatic, tantric and what not. But he took everything sportingly and brushed away all negatives.

--

Spring came. Sukumar, now gently greying, sat reading Tagore aloud in the study.

On the table, two teacups steamed. A butterfly sat still on her collarbone.

Chottu walked in, stopped, stared. Then nodded and said:

"Good evening, Professor. Good evening, Boudi."

Sukumar looked up.

"See, Anaya? Even Chottu agrees. We make a fine couple."

 “He’s not wrong,” came the soft voice, warm as a hearth. “Now stop pretending you can sing.”

And from somewhere between shadow and sunlight, the scent of jasmine enveloped the room.

---

A few years later, Professor Sukumar Chaudhuri officially retired from his post at the Government Medical College. Some former students and colleagues came to his bungalow to felicitate him.

One of them brought a camera.

They insisted on a photograph—Sukumar seated on his favourite old chair, shawl draped neatly, a half-smile on his face.

When the photo was developed a few days later, silence fell.

Beside Sukumar, standing just behind him, was the faint image of a woman. Hazy but unmistakable. One hand rested gently on his shoulder.

The outline was soft, almost like mist—and the faint glint of a nose pin shone on her blurred face.

Chottu stared at it, then simply said:

"Boudi wanted one last portrait."

And Sukumar, holding the photograph, whispered:

"Perfect framing, as always."

---

New Delhi, 2025

Reema Sen visits the house of Pradosh Mitra , her fiance. They are set to tie the knot in December.

A room in the house is dedicated to photographs - mostly the forgotten, sepia-toned ones. 

Reema stands in front of one particular frame.

"Hey, this seated gentleman has a resemblance with you." She nudged Pradosh. "But the lady's face along side him , is not very clear. They made a lovely couple, though. Who were they?" She asked.

"Oh .. that's one of my great grand father; lived in Siliguri. Come , let me tell you a beautiful story ". 

----

Shadows

 Arav glanced at the clear, blue sky as he steered his car toward Dehradun. 

He had been invited by the Dehradun Literary Club to be felicitated for his recent bestseller — a story collection blending dreams and reality, memories and myths. It was a proud moment, one his mother had insisted he attend, though deep down, Arav cared less about accolades and more about escaping the noise of his thoughts, and the city's hustle and bustle.

The organiser had offered a round-trip, first-class train ticket, but Arav insisted on driving to Dehradun instead.

The highway stretched empty ahead, framed by dusty fields and restless winds.

Suddenly, a storm began to rise — a wild, whirling curtain of dust. Arav slowed down, visibility dropping to almost nothing. The world outside became a furious blur of brown and gold. He stopped, waiting it out, when, through the swirling chaos, figures began to emerge.

The first was a stocky man, scowling under the shadow of a worn cap.

As the dust thinned, Arav realized the man was watching him closely. Their eyes met briefly — a flicker of coldness, a flash of recognition. It was Raman Raghav, a notorious South Indian gangster, whom Arav had once written into a forgotten draft.

Shaken, Arav pressed the accelerator to drive ahead, but almost immediately had to brake hard.

Another figure stood in the road — a woman in a khaki uniform, her badge gleaming through the dust.

Kiran Ahluwalia, it read.

Arav’s heart thudded. He knew that name — another character, a tough police officer he had once given life to on paper.

Kiran glanced at him, sharp and brief, before waving him through. No words exchanged, but the impact left Arav rattled.

The storm passed as suddenly as it had come.

At noon, Arav stopped at a roadside dhaba to refresh and fill his hungry stomach. Though a dhaba, the ambience was on par with any modern restaurant. It was reasonably occupied.He quickly found a corner table and settled there comfortably.

While waiting for his order to be served, he swept his glance across the dining area, making mental notes of the various people who were seated around him.

His gaze stopped at a particular table; he looked with intrigue at the middle-aged, balding male figure. Zorawar Khan - the name struck him instantly - a cunning and despicable politician, he had penned a few years back. The man was sipping from a beer can and speaking inaudibly into his phone. Each of the fingers on his right hand was adorned with a gold ring. His sly gaze didn't spare even a single woman who was present at that moment. 

The mannerisms were eerily similar to the fictional character. Infact , too similar to be true.

Arav promptly finished his lunch, paid the bill, and stepped out of the place.

When he neared his red Hyundai, he was amused to find a parrot perched on the bonnet. Upon seeing the approaching human figure, it squawked and flew off. It had a white dot under the left eye. 

Arav grimaced and shook his head in disbelief - the parrot's appearance was similar to a parrot that he had written about in a school magazine, many years ago.

A day of coincidences.. he said to himself.

**********************

He reached the outskirts of Dehradun just as twilight began to settle in. Guiding his car into a nearby empty field, he stepped out to stretch. The quiet surroundings and cool breeze helped calm his nerves. He took a deep breath and stood still, listening to the silence, broken only by the occasional passing vehicles.

Just then, a low but distinct humming sound caught his attention, and he instinctively looked up. A UFO? The oval shape and the eerie bluish pink light it emitted bore an uncanny resemblance to the spacecraft he had written about just a few months earlier.

Before he could react, the spacecraft zipped away toward the distant horizon. Shaking his head in disbelief, he climbed back into his car.

Arav drove on, mind racing, reality and imagination overlapping each other.

Reaching the hotel at Dehradun, Arav checked in and retired to his room. Some of the members of the literary club were present in the venue, who helped him to complete the formalities.

The hotel buzzed with preparations for the evening's felicitation dinner. The lobby gleamed under chandeliers. Elegant guests floated by.

As he moved toward the elevators, a faint floral scent—sweet and wild, caught him off-guard.

He paused, scanning the room.

There, near the vintage piano, sat a young woman, alone, in a simple crimson blouse and jeans.

Not flashy, but compelling.

A chill ran through him.

She resembled Scarlett, a character from an old,  but controversial story — a high-end escort who had drifted across his pages like a ghost made of fire and longing.

But this woman was different — ordinary, modest.

Only the physical features matched: the curve of her cheekbones, the restless glimmer in her eyes.

She isn’t Scarlett, Arav told himself. Just someone who looks like her.

Still, fact and fiction folded into each other, leaving him disoriented and more confused than ever.

The felicitation ceremony passed in a daze. Speeches, claps, smiles — Arav floated through it mechanically.

At the post-event dinner, he found a quiet table and was soon joined by Mehr, a cheerful young woman he had noticed earlier among the guests.

Mehr was just an attendee — not an awardee — but Arav found her easy to talk to.

They spoke about books, films, favorite places, and childhood memories.

Mehr laughed easily, a musical sound that somehow soothed his frayed mind.

Just when Arav began to relax, something tugged at his senses.

His gaze drifted across the hall and froze.

Near the far corner, Scarlett — or the woman resembling her — stood quietly, watching them.

There was sadness in her smile, a strange farewell in her eyes.

Arav rose instinctively, murmuring an apology to Mehr, and made his way toward her.

She lifted her hand in a soft wave... and before he could reach her, she turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Arav searched, but she was gone.

When he returned to his table, Mehr too had vanished.

Puzzled, he asked a staff member if they had seen where the lady from his table had gone.

But they looked at him blankly — no record of a guest matching her description attending the event.

A chill prickled his skin.

Too much — it was too much.

His head felt heavy. Beads of sweat enveloped his forehead.

The last thing he remembered was the ground moving beneath him as he collapsed.

---

Arav woke in a hospital bed, the ceiling whirring with the dull sound of a fan.

The doctors told him he had suffered a bout of stress-induced collapse.

"Nothing serious," they assured him. "Just fatigue. Rest, young man."

A mild tranquilizer was administered, and Arav slept deeply through the night, dreamless, for once.

He woke feeling lighter, refreshed.

At 8 AM, his phone buzzed with a WhatsApp message:

"Doctor has cleared discharge by noon. We will pick you up. Cheers, DLC Team."

He smiled faintly, called his mother, and reassured her that all was fine.

While speaking, he didn’t notice a nurse entering silently.

She was short, stocky, with quick, practiced movements — and left-handed.

Features that oddly matched a minor character he had created long ago: a gruff but tender-hearted nurse.

"Routine check-up, sir," she said softly, recording his temperature and blood pressure.

Before he could ask her anything, she was gone.

Vanished like a ripple across a still lake.

Do I exist in their world, Arav wondered with a weary smile, or do they exist in mine?