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A chat with Death : A short story by Sayantan Basu

 

‘Chatter-box’. Yes, that was exactly the adjective that fitted him to the T. More than a mere adjective, it had become his name.

So common was his ‘name’ in the locality, that even the informal letters he received, bore the name ‘Chatterbox’, written in bold and capital on the section of the receiver’s name.

What he spoke could neither be termed as gossip nor as rumour. What he spoke was exactly the thing that was not to be spoken at that time or at that place. Suppose you are in a place where you ought to cry irrespective of  whether you know the reason or not. No sooner would your face and eyes dry up than your ears would hear the whispering, “Bose, have you seen the latest ‘Tom and Jerry’ show?” And he will narrate its contents in such an amusing way that it would be a matter of a few seconds before you find yourself breaking into peals of laughter.

Believe it or not, he had even gone behind the bars, all thanks to his chatting. The Mayor of our city had come for inspection. That day, all were busy doing their chores. Moreover, we the local people had kind of become immune to his chatting and so talking with us gave him no new pleasure.

The Mayor was a new one to him. I still remember the day when he went straight up to the Mayor and made him the victim of his chatting. The three stern warnings of the Mayor could not stop his chatting. The next day he was arrested. Guilt? ‘Causing persistent disturbance to the Mayor and interfering in his work’. The ‘chatter-box’ was evidently annoyed when the Magistrate  termed his talking to be ‘unnecessary’ for he spent a full hour to explain the difference between his talks and ‘unnecessary talking’!

But suddenly all these came to a full stop. It was 1st September. Autumn had just set in. He and some of his other friends decided to go on trekking in the mountains. He left on 1st September. Ten days later we saw a news on the television that a terrible storm swept across the Mankru hills. Mankru hills…..it sounded familiar to me. Was it not the same place where the ‘Chatter-box’ had gone to trek? What does this mean? There was no doubt that whoever was there on the mountains on that day had been blown away by the storm. No one knew where.

A monstrous silence engulfed the locality. The ‘chatter-box’ was gone. Forever. We did receive an issued death certificate of our dear friend. And what struck us the most was the name part. For it was written in capital and bold-Binod Paul. The real name of the ‘Chatter-box’ which I can never again forget.

Sayantan Basu is a student of Funlish, class X


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