Ratan’s Diary

A Metaphysical Science Fiction Story by Dhrubo Neel

1

From the turn at Dailpotti in Sutrapur, the road that leads toward P.C. Banerjee Lane often plunges Ratan into mystery. After walking a short distance, he thinks the road has ended. But if he goes a little further, it stretches long again. Following that road for a while, there’s an abandoned house to the right—probably from the British colonial era. Vines cling to it, and stonecrop and money plants crawl up the brick walls. The house holds a secret.

Sanjay from Class Eight, Nurul Amin, and a few others know about the mystery. Ratan didn’t. The others hadn’t told him. Too much knowledge ruins the mystery.

“But I think we should tell him. He doesn’t understand anything outside school. Just reads books, blabbers, and stares at crows in the sky.”

“He can’t play any games. Why does he even watch crows?”

“Don’t know.”

“Hmm. We should make him a member of the Monkey Committee. Suman, call him. I’ll take him to the Haunted House today.”

To those who know the house’s secret, it’s the Haunted House. Others don’t call it anything because they don’t know its history.

Sanjay goes to fetch Ratan.

“We’ll tell you the secret today. Ready?”

“I’m ready.”

“Good. Don’t tell anyone. Swear.”

“I swear.”

“Look west, close your eyes, and say: ‘If I tell anyone, I’ll go blind.’”

“Got it. But what’s the story?”

“No one knows the story of the Haunted House. There’s a door inside. A door means a room. You’ll enter that room and come out. Whoever enters and exits becomes a member of our committee.”

“Understood.”

“Just go in and come out. Nothing else.”

“Are there ghosts?”

“We went in. Don’t remember anything. No one remembers. Maybe there are ghosts.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Then let’s go.”

Before reaching the Haunted House, they meet the spicy-muri (puffed rice) seller. The old man makes strange noises. They don’t understand most of them, but hearing those sounds makes them crave spicy muri (puffed rice). This, however, doesn’t feel like part of the mystery.

The muri-seller was the one who first told everyone about the Haunted House. Probably Nurul Amin heard it first, then the others. Though many who knew have already forgotten the house’s secret.

“Muri-uncle, we’re taking Ratan to the Haunted House.”

“Good! Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“What would you have done?”

“I’d have added extra spice to the muri! Hahaha! Here, Ratan Babu, take this. The Haunted House’s calculation.”

Ratan takes a jute bag. Though old, it isn’t dirty. Something square is inside. He doesn’t open it. Doesn’t want to know.

“Let’s go.”

“Not today. The crow told me to go to the market. I’m leaving.”

Ratan is like that—suddenly loses track. Sanjay leaves, disappointed.

2

As soon as Saidur Rahman steps out of the office, the red sun in the west unsettles him. It happens every day. He doesn’t pay much attention to his mind’s chatter.

“Shut up!”

When his mind gets too restless, he scolds it. He has a small job. He crossed thirty long ago. Never married. Stuck alone in Dhaka.

After work, he walks eight or nine kilometers home. Sometimes, before starting, he buys twenty-taka peanuts. After finishing them, he reads the packet carefully, then tosses it away and thinks about the past. Thinking too much, he loses himself.

“What even is the past? I can’t grasp it. To me, the past doesn’t exist!”

Saidur Rahman was a science student. Double first-class. But he decided against a big job. A big job wouldn’t let him walk home cheerfully, munching peanuts. There’s joy in a small job with a head full of knowledge. Sometimes, he enjoys flaunting his intellect before his bosses. Today, he babbled about gravitational anomalies and Feynman diagrams. The boss didn’t understand—just listened, mouth agape. That’s fun too.

There’s another reason Saidur walks. Often, he gets lost. Though it sounds funny, he enjoys it. He thinks: If only I could really disappear one day. He suspects that when he’s older, his mind will go completely. Then, if he gets lost, he won’t find his way back. Life will pass on the streets.

“The era that’s coming…”

But Saidur Rahman can’t disappear, no matter how much he wants to. Better to go home. Maybe he’ll think about solving an old riddle.

He pulls out a diary from the drawer. Scribbles fill the pages. On the first page, two large numbers stand out. A date too—some future date. In tiny letters, it says: “Not before this date.” What does it mean? What happens then? The end of the world? Saidur doesn’t know. He only remembers the scribbles are his. The numbers and date match his handwriting. But they’re written in expensive ink. He feels like he wrote it himself once. His memory fades day by day.

3

The scientist stops writing. As he writes the date, a satisfied smile appears. But a line of worry quickly covers it. Frowning, he tries to think, then bursts into laughter.

“I know what’s coming. I’ll rise again. I’ll be powerful again. I’ll turn everything upside down.” He says this in his mind. No one hears.

But in his imagination, someone replies:

“What you think may or may not happen.”

“You prefer balance?”

“I don’t prefer or dislike anything. I’m beyond your world.”

“Stay in your world. I’m leaving!”

“Goodbye.”

The scientist tucks his notebook under his arm and leaves. His destination is familiar now. Only one path ahead. He must become a guinea pig. He’s heading to a new world—an ancient one. There’s nothing much to do there. He’s decided: if nothing else, he’ll sell peanuts.

4

Lying on a greasy bed, Saidur Rahman closes his eyes and starts talking. In his imagination, he has two companions: Mr Time and Mr Zero.

“Mr Time, how are you?”

“I already answered that yesterday.”

“I asked now, but you answered yesterday? I don’t get it.”

“To me, now is the same as yesterday. Even if I answered a billion years ago, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Got it. Talking to you is wasting time. Understand?”

“Why must you understand me? Though you’ve named me anyway—seconds, hours… how ridiculous!”

“Lately, talking to you gives me a headache.”

“I knew that too.”

“You know everything beforehand?”

“What do you mean by ‘beforehand’?”

“Never mind. Get lost.”

No one replies. Did Mr Time leave before he said “Get lost”?

“Mr Zero, where’d you go?”

“Khuk-khuk-khuk.”

“Solve my riddle.”

“I don’t live in your world, child.”

“Which world do you live in? The elephant-horse world?”

“I don’t even have a clear concept of ‘world’ or space”

“Don’t talk nonsense. You exist in every corner of every world. You’re such a hassle. We’d be better off without you. We’d just be zero.”

“What did I do? I don’t even exist! Zero means nothing.”

“That’s in our known world. In your world, you’re the hero.”

“Not sure about that.”

“You don’t know because I don’t know. Humanity doesn’t know. You’re our imagination.”

“Imagination! Ha! Well said! But I know the answer to your riddle. I know everything because all knowledge resides in me.”

“Lately, you talk like poetry.”

“Your riddle is already solved. That’s why you feel happy. Because I’m your imagination.”

“How’d you solve it?”

“Imagine… imagine… this very imagination… is a particle. The smallest particle. Smaller than quarks. Much smaller.”

“Imagination is an electrical signal. Don’t overcomplicate it.”

“No… imagine you think of an elephant. That’s a particle. A tiny elephant particle.”

Saidur Rahman jumps off the bed. The riddle is truly solved. He grabs his notebook and starts scribbling, muttering: “Positive infinity… negative infinity… the smallest…” Then, nothing more is heard.

5

Ratan is upset. Sanjay, Johnny, and the others think he’s a bookish fool. What’s his fault? He loves reading. Loves thinking. But now he must hide this love.

He still hasn’t opened the jute bag from Muri-uncle. The man seems strange—like he knows many things but tells no one.

Ratan steps out. The moon glows bright. The neighborhood lost power a while ago. Sanjay, Johnny, and Nurul Alam must be out playing. He decides to join them at the Haunted House.

He tiptoes out, walking toward P.C. Banerjee Lane. Moonlight washes away his fatigue. Suddenly, he feels like he’s been walking this way for ages.

6

People in the city don’t care about madmen. Not that they care about anyone now. New viruses are everywhere. Everyone fights to survive.

The man has a thick beard, a torn coat. He sits by a dumpster, muttering complex words all day. No one listens.

Two dogs fight near the dumpster. A man chases one away with a stick. The city starves. Everyone hunts for food. The madman isn’t worried—he finds scraps.

“Where are you all?”

No one answers. He clutches his tangled hair and wails.

“Don’t leave me!”

A faint wind whistles through a ruined building in Dhaka. A scrap of paper flies into an alley.

“I’m here.”

“Who are you? Mr Time? Or Mr Zero?”

“I’m both. Time multiplied by zero.”

“What nonsense!”

“I’m here to console you. Beyond multiplication and division, I won’t explain more. You’ve thought enough.”

“But I’ve gained nothing.”

“You have, but you can’t explain it. Without explanation, humans find no peace.”

“Ah! Such beautiful poetry!”

“I have a gift for you. Across the universe, we’ve left tangled equations. One such number is yours. A simple number.”

“When did you give it?”

“I don’t understand the question. But I gave it to you. On the first page of your notebook.”

“Oh! You gave it to me back in the British era!”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t bother. What are the two numbers?”

“An address. In your world’s language. You wrote it. Don’t ask when. I don’t even understand myself. I’m returning what’s yours.”

The madman pinches his lips. He can’t remember when he wrote those numbers.

From his coat pocket, he pulls out a tattered diary. Runs his fingers over the two numbers on the first page. Sees the date and smiles. Today’s the date!

“Mr Time is such trouble. Never know what he’ll do!”

The two numbers are GPS coordinates. Searching the dumpster, he finds a broken Qphone. Inputs the coordinates—finds the address. Without delay, he sets off.

He’s thrilled it’s not far. Just a familiar alley.

7

The madman stands before a ruined house. More like rubble. Yet, a door stands straight inside. Confidently, he walks toward it and enters.

As Ratan pushes the door open and steps out, everyone surrounds him.

“Well? How was it? Tell us!”

“Can’t explain.”

“What do you feel like doing now?”

“No time.”

“No time for what?”

“Must play.”

“What game?”

“Blind man’s bluff.”

“Tag?”

“Call Nurul Alam. Tell him to climb the guava tree.”

While the power was out, the neighborhood buzzed about Ratan entering the Haunted House. Ratan tries to think. He just opened the door, went in, and came out. Yet, it feels like ages passed. Like the others, he doesn’t dwell on it.

When the power returns, his uncle calls: “Ratan! O Ratan! O Saidur Rahman Ratan! Come home!”

Exhausted, Ratan goes back. Later, he opens Muri-uncle’s jute bag. Inside, a worn-out diary. On the first page, just two numbers and a date. Nothing else.

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