A Face in the Iris - Cha
Mihir woke with the feeling that something had been taken from him during the night—something small, but essential.
He couldn't name it, couldn't even point to where it had belonged, only that its absence left a faint emptiness under his ribs, an unfamiliar space in a body he'd lived in for thirty-three years.
He pressed a hand over his face, felt the stale warmth of his own breath, and tried to focus on one simple thought:
Medical College today.
Dr. Mukherjee.
Answers.
But the thought didn't steady him the way he hoped.
Instead it moved through him with a quiet tremor, as though even his mind doubted its own ability to make sense of anything anymore.
Wednesday. The day after.
He'd slept, eventually. Two hours, maybe three, in fragments that felt more like falling than resting. Each time he'd closed his eyes, the smell returned—iron and asphalt and something worse underneath. Each time he'd opened them, the room looked unfamiliar in the dark, the angles wrong, the shadows too deep.
Now, in gray morning light, everything looked normal again.
The narrow bed beneath him. The thin mattress that had developed a permanent depression in the center where his body always lay. The single pillow, cover yellowed from years of use and washing.
The wooden chair against the wall with yesterday's shirt draped over it—or was it from two days ago? He couldn't remember. The fabric looked wrinkled, but everything looked wrinkled in this humidity.
The single window, open just enough to let air in but not enough to invite the city's dust. Through it he could see the building opposite—brick wall painted a faded cream color, water stains running down from the roof like old tears. A few windows with iron grilles, their bars casting shadows in the morning light.
On the far wall, the calendar. September still, though October was halfway through. A landscape photograph—some hill station he'd never been to, green hills and white clouds and a sense of space that felt impossible from this small room.
He'd been meaning to change it since the first of the month.
Kept forgetting.
Or maybe not forgetting. Maybe just not caring enough. When had he last cared about small things like calendars?
He sat up slowly, the springs of the bed creaking under his weight. The sound was familiar, comforting in its predictability. This bed had been here when he'd moved in eight years ago. The landlord had offered to replace it. Mihir had said no, it was fine. And it was fine. Everything worked. Everything functioned.
He swung his legs over the side and sat for a moment, feet on the cool concrete floor.
It was a hallucination. Stress. Overwork. Something medical.
He repeated the formula the way he'd repeated it all night—trying to build a wall between himself and what he'd seen.
Olfactory hallucinations. Temporal lobe epilepsy. Migraine aura. Brain tumor, maybe. Fixable things. Medical things.
But underneath, quieter: What if it wasn't?
He pushed the thought away and stood.
His body felt heavy—not the pleasant heaviness of good sleep, but something thicker, like moving through water. He flexed his fingers. They responded normally. Opened and closed. Made a fist. Released. All working as they should.
He walked to the small mirror hanging on the wall beside the chair.
His reflection looked tired. Dark circles under his eyes, deeper than usual. His hair was sticking up on one side where he'd been lying on it. Stubble on his jaw—two days' worth, maybe three. When had he last shaved?
He touched his face, and the reflection touched its face at the same time.
Same person. Same body. Same Mihir Bose, thirty-three years old, optometrist, ordinary man.
So why did the reflection feel like it was looking at a stranger?
He turned away and picked up his towel from the hook by the door.
The bathroom was at the end of the hall, shared with three other tenants. Mihir walked the corridor barefoot, the concrete floor cool under his feet. The building was old—must have been built in the fifties, maybe earlier. The walls showed their age in cracks that had been painted over multiple times, each layer of paint visible like geological strata.
The man from the room next door—Subir, a bank clerk—was leaving the bathroom as Mihir arrived. He nodded, wiped his hands on his lungi.
"Water's cold today," he said. "Geyser niye kichu korar nei?"
"I'll mention it to the landlord."
A lie. The landlord wouldn't fix it. He never fixed anything unless it was absolutely necessary.
Subir nodded and walked back to his room, his wet footprints darkening the concrete for a moment before evaporating in the morning air.
Mihir stepped into the bathroom and locked the door.
The small room smelled of damp concrete and phenyl. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, unshaded, casting harsh light on the cracked tiles. The mirror above the sink was spotted with age, the silvering peeling away at the edges.
He set his soap and towel on the small shelf and turned on the tap.
Water sputtered, coughed, then flowed in a thin stream.
Cold, like Subir had said.
He splashed his face once, twice. The shock of it helped. Made things clearer. Made him feel more present.
He looked at himself in the mirror again.
The same tired face. The same dark circles.
But something else too. Something in his eyes. A tightness. A wariness.
Like he was waiting for something to go wrong.
He looked away and stripped off his undershirt.
The shower was just a tap mounted on the wall above a drain in the floor. He turned it on, stepped under the cold stream, and closed his eyes.
The water ran over his head, down his back, pooling at his feet before disappearing down the drain with a wet gurgling sound.
Cold. Sharp. Real.
He stood there longer than necessary, eyes closed, trying to wash away the feeling that had settled into his skin overnight.
But when he closed his eyes, the smell tried to return.
Faint but persistent.
Iron and asphalt.
He opened his eyes quickly.
The water was just water. Clear. Cold. Nothing wrong with it.
He finished washing, turned off the tap, and stood there dripping, breathing carefully.
The bathroom was quiet except for the sound of water dripping from his body, the distant voices of the building waking up, someone coughing in another room.
Normal sounds.
He dried himself with rough, mechanical movements. Wrapped the towel around his waist. Picked up his soap and walked back to his room.
---
He dressed carefully, taking his time with each piece of clothing.
Blue shirt—his work shirt, one of three he rotated through. He checked the buttons before putting it on, making sure none were loose. They were fine. All attached firmly.
He slid his arms through the sleeves, feeling the familiar weight of the cotton, slightly stiff from line drying. The shirt smelled faintly of Rin soap and sun.
Brown trousers—pressed last week, the crease still visible down the front. He stepped into them, pulled them up, fastened the button, zipped the fly. Belt through the loops, buckle fastened.
The routine of it was comforting. Buttons through holes. Belt through loops. Things that required no thought. Things his body knew how to do even when his mind was elsewhere.
Socks—slightly worn at the heel but clean. Shoes—brown leather, polished on Sunday like he did every Sunday.
He looked at himself in the mirror one more time.
Professional. Presentable. Normal.
Mihir Bose, optometrist, ready for work.
He could do this.
He picked up his bag from beside the door—the same brown leather satchel he'd been carrying for years, worn smooth at the handles, one corner slightly scuffed from being set down on rough pavement too many times.
He locked the room, tested the door to make sure it was secure, and walked down the stairs.
Third step creaked. Seventh step creaked. Eleventh step made a softer sound, more of a groan than a creak.
The same sounds they'd made for years.
Predictable. Reliable. Safe.
---
Outside, the heat was already building even though the sun had only been up for an hour.
The street was filling with the morning rush. Office workers in pressed shirts hurrying toward the bus stop. Schoolchildren in uniform, some chatting, some walking alone with their heads down. Vegetable vendors setting up their displays—pyramids of tomatoes and potatoes, bundles of leafy greens, small piles of green chilies that would grow throughout the morning as more stock arrived.
A tram rattled past, its bell ringing twice as it approached the intersection. People hung from the doors, packed too tight to move, their faces blank with the practiced boredom of daily commute.
Mihir walked toward Gariahat Road, letting his feet carry him along the route they knew by heart.
Left out of the building, past the paan shop that wasn't open yet, past the small Kali temple where an old man was already lighting incense, the smoke rising straight up in the still air.
Right at the corner, where the tea stall was doing brisk business—men standing shoulder to shoulder, arguing about something, their voices loud this early, energized by the first cup of the day.
Straight down the narrow lane where buildings crowded close on both sides, their upper floors almost touching across the gap, clotheslines strung between them like spider webs.
The city was familiar at this hour. Predictable. This was the Kolkata he knew—the sounds, the smells, the rhythm of morning unfolding the same way it had unfolded for decades.
He passed a woman sweeping the pavement in front of her shop, the jharu making soft scraping sounds against the concrete. She'd drawn alpona patterns near her doorstep—white rice-paste designs, traditional, auspicious. They'd be gone by evening, worn away by feet and time, and she'd draw new ones tomorrow.
Continuity. Ritual. Things that repeated.
The newspaper vendor was at his usual corner, sitting on his wooden stool beside his stack of papers held down by a brick.
Mihir's eyes caught on the stack before he could stop himself.
The headline was too far to read clearly, but he could make out two words.
Railway. Body.
His stomach tightened.
He kept walking, not slowing, not stopping, eyes forward now.
Don't read it. Don't confirm it. Don't make it real.
But his heart was beating faster, and his hands—calm until now—had started to feel strange. Not shaking exactly. Just too aware. Too present.
"Kagoj neben, da?" the vendor called out.
"No," Mihir said without turning.
His voice came out normal. Even. No tremor.
Good.
The vendor was already turning to another potential customer, his voice rising again with the practiced enthusiasm of someone who'd been selling newspapers for thirty years.
Mihir walked faster.
The street was more crowded now. People moving in both directions, some hurrying, some ambling, everyone absorbed in their own morning thoughts and routines.
Someone bumped into him—accidental, the street was narrow and crowded—a man carrying a large bag of vegetables that swung as he passed.
"Sorry, sorry," the man muttered.
Mihir flinched.
Just slightly. Just enough that he noticed it himself.
The man had already moved on, disappeared into the crowd.
Mihir stood there for a second, breathing carefully, then forced himself to keep walking.
Pull yourself together. It was nothing. Just someone passing. Normal. Ordinary.
But his hands were trembling now, just slightly, and he shoved them into his pockets to hide it.
By the time he reached Fern Road, his shirt was damp with sweat that had nothing to do with the morning heat.
The hardware store downstairs was just opening, the owner rolling up the shutter with a loud metallic rattle. He nodded at Mihir.
Mihir nodded back.
The tea stall was already full—men arguing about cricket, their voices loud and certain.
Normal morning sounds.
He climbed the stairs slowly.
The signboard came into view: Mihir Bose, Optometrist (D.Opt, RIO Kolkata).
Blue paint faded to the color of old jeans.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The smell of phenyl and dust. The familiar creak of the floorboards. The reception desk with yesterday's register still open.
Rupa hadn't arrived yet.
He walked to the inner room and switched on the light. The fluorescent tube flickered twice before settling.
Everything was where he'd left it.
Trial box. Snellen chart. Retinoscope.
And in the corner—the slit lamp.
Still unplugged.
He looked at it for a long moment.
Just a machine. Metal and glass and a light bulb.
He set his bag down and turned away from it.
Started his morning routine instead—wiping down the chin rest with cotton and spirit, arranging lenses in the trial box, straightening the chart on the wall.
Familiar motions. Safe work.
He heard footsteps on the stairs. Rupa's quick, efficient rhythm.
He arranged his face into something professional and turned toward the door.
"Good morning, Sir."
Her voice was the same as always—calm, measured.
But when she looked at him, something flickered in her eyes.
"Morning," he said.
She set her bag down, took off her dupatta, hung it on the hook with the same precise motion she used every day.
Then she looked at him again.
"Sir... ghumaote parenni?"
"I'm fine," he said automatically.
She didn't look convinced, but she nodded and went to her desk in the front room.
Mihir listened to the familiar sounds—pen against paper, register pages turning, the street noise filtering through the window.
Normal. Manageable.
He reached for the trial box and began arranging lenses.
One patient at a time.
He could do this.
At ten o'clock, Rupa's voice came through the door.
"Sir, Mr. Chatterjee."
Mihir looked up from the lens he'd been wiping for the past five minutes.
"Send him."
Mr. Chatterjee was in his late fifties, slightly stooped, carrying his old spectacle case like it was important papers. A regular patient. Routine presbyopia check. Mihir had seen him three times before.
Easy. Uncomplicated.
"Good morning, Doctor babu."
"Sit," Mihir said.
The man lowered himself onto the stool with his usual careful movements.
"Same problem. Near vision. The newspaper is getting harder."
Mihir nodded. He'd heard this exact complaint from Mr. Chatterjee six months ago. And six months before that.
"Let me check your current glasses."
He took them, inspected the scratches and fingerprints, cleaned them with the cloth.
His hands were steady.
Good.
He fitted the trial frame over Mr. Chatterjee's face, adjusted the nose pads.
"Look at the chart."
"E... F... P?"
Mihir switched lenses methodically. Plus 0.50. Plus 0.75. Testing, adjusting, finding the point where the letters sharpened.
"Better?"
"Ah, yes. Much better."
Near vision next. Mihir handed him the card.
Mr. Chatterjee held it too close, then pushed it away until his arm was straight.
"Blur."
Mihir added the reading addition. Plus 2.50 over both eyes.
"Now?"
"Perfect. Even the small print."
Mihir wrote the prescription, his handwriting neat and controlled.
+0.75 DS OU | Add +2.50 DS OU
He tore the slip from the pad and handed it across.
"Same as last time," Mr. Chatterjee said, pleased. "These eyes are consistent."
He stood, tucked the prescription into his pocket, and left with a satisfied nod.
The door closed.
Mihir sat there, pen still in hand.
That had been fine.
Normal examination. No problems. No—
He realized his other hand was gripping the edge of the desk.
He loosened his fingers and set the pen down carefully.
One patient done.
Four more scheduled before lunch.
He could do this.
Between the second and third patients, Rupa appeared at the door with tea.
"Sir."
She set the glass on his desk. Steam rose from it, carrying the smell of overboiled milk and too much sugar. The way he always drank it.
"Thank you."
She hesitated.
"Sir... kal je patient ta—Ranjan Ghosh—uni follow-up-er din mention korenni?"
Mihir's hand stopped halfway to the tea.
"He said to come back if the irritation didn't improve."
"But corneal abrasion-e usually ekdin pore—"
"If there's a problem, he'll come back."
Rupa nodded slowly. "Fifty rupees change ekhono achhe. Uni bollen neben."
"Keep it for now."
She turned to leave, then stopped.
"Sir... kal je newspaper vendor chillachilo..."
Mihir looked up.
"Railway line-e... kono accident."
She said it casually, like mentioning any other piece of news. But her eyes were watching him.
"I didn't hear," Mihir said.
"Cholti prayer dike. Park Circus line. Body paoa giyechhe."
The room felt smaller suddenly.
"Accident?" Mihir heard himself ask.
"Newspaper-e details deini. Shudhu accident bole likhechhe. Kintu area-r lok bole..." She paused. "Suspicious."
Mihir picked up his tea. Took a sip. It was too hot. He swallowed anyway.
"These things happen near railway lines."
"Hmm." Rupa didn't sound convinced. "Anyway. Third patient five minutes-e ready."
She left.
Mihir set the tea down.
His hand was shaking now.
Park Circus line. Body found. Suspicious.
The words circled in his head.
Coincidence. Has to be. Railway deaths are common. This has nothing to do with—
But he couldn't finish the thought.
Because Ranjan had said: Near the railway tracks.
And Ranjan had been running.
And Ranjan had been terrified.
Mihir stood abruptly and walked to the window.
From here he could just see the edge of Gariahat Road. The usual traffic. The usual chaos. Everything continuing the way it always did.
Somewhere out there, near the railway line, police were probably standing around a spot where someone had died.
Taking photographs. Making notes. Drawing conclusions.
And what had Mihir seen?
Yellow sodium light. Rail ties. A hand being dragged backward into shadow.
He pressed his forehead against the window frame.
The glass was warm from the sun.
Real. Solid. Here.
It was a hallucination. It has to be.
But the timing.
The location.
Ranjan's fear.
Coincidence.
Had to be.
The third patient was Mrs. Dasgupta. Mid-sixties. Cataract follow-up from last year.
She sat down with a soft grunt, arranging her sari pallu carefully over her shoulder.
"Eyes are fine, Doctor babu. But I wanted you to check anyway."
"Good," Mihir said. "Let's take a look."
He should use the slit lamp for this. Proper fundus examination, check the posterior capsule, make sure there was no inflammation.
He looked at the lamp in the corner.
Still unplugged.
"Just a moment," he said.
He walked over to it. Stared at the plug.
It's just a machine.
His hand hovered near the socket.
Behind him, Mrs. Dasgupta cleared her throat.
"Something wrong with the equipment, Doctor babu?"
"No. Just... checking something."
He picked up the plug.
Hesitated.
Then plugged it back in.
The lamp hummed to life.
See? Just a machine. Nothing happens.
He walked back to the chair.
"Come to the lamp, please."
Mrs. Dasgupta rose with effort and shuffled over, using the desk for support.
"Chin here. Forehead against the band."
She settled into position, blinking against the sudden light.
Mihir leaned into the oculars.
Adjusted the joystick.
The beam cut across her cornea—
And then—
Something.
Not like yesterday.
Weaker. Briefer.
But there.
A flash of—
—a kitchen, steam rising from a pot, a man's voice saying something, the smell of dal, a hand reaching across a table, wedding ring catching light, then gone—
Mihir pulled back sharply.
Mrs. Dasgupta blinked. "Something wrong?"
"No. I—" His voice came out hoarse. He cleared his throat. "I just need to adjust the angle."
He leaned back in.
Forced himself to focus only on what he was supposed to see.
Anterior chamber: clear.
Lens: posterior capsule intact, no PCO.
Retina: healthy.
Normal examination.
He clicked the lamp off.
"Everything looks good. No problems."
Mrs. Dasgupta smiled with relief. "Thank you, Doctor babu. I was worried."
She got up, gathered her things, and left.
The door closed.
Mihir sat very still.
It had happened again.
Not the murder. Not violence. Just a fragment of memory—a kitchen, a voice, a moment from her life.
Her dead husband, probably. The sadness that followed the image told him that much.
But it had happened.
Without the foreign body. Without the trauma. Just normal proximity during a normal examination.
It's not just Ranjan. It's not one-time. It's—
He couldn't finish the thought.
His hands were shaking again.
He looked at the slit lamp.
It sat there, humming quietly, the light still on.
Waiting.
He reached over and switched it off.
Unplugged it again.
Then he sat at his desk and pressed his palms flat against the wood until his hands stopped shaking.
Mihir didn't examine any more patients that day.
He told Rupa he wasn't feeling well. Migraine. Could she reschedule the remaining appointments?
She looked at him with that same concerned expression and said yes, of course, she would take care of it.
"Sir, apnar ekta doctor dekhano uchit."
"I will," he lied.
She made the calls. Her voice drifted in from the front room—calm, apologetic, professional.
Mihir sat at his desk and stared at the unplugged lamp.
He could ignore it. Pretend it hadn't happened. Use the handheld torch for all examinations from now on. Keep distance. Keep safe.
But he'd still seen something with Mrs. Dasgupta.
Less intense than Ranjan's vision, yes. But it had been there.
Which meant—
Which meant what?
That he was having a psychotic break?
That he'd developed some kind of neurological condition?
That he could suddenly see into people's memories through their eyes?
All three options were impossible.
But one of them had to be true.
He heard Rupa finishing the last call. Then her footsteps approaching.
She appeared at the door, handbag already on her shoulder.
"All rescheduled, Sir. Tomorrow-er list ta heavy hobe."
"Thank you."
She hesitated again. "Sir... ami jachhi tahole. Apni barite jaan. Rest korun."
"I will."
But he didn't move even after she left.
He sat there as the afternoon light shifted across the floor, marking time he couldn't account for.
The city sounds continued outside—trams, voices, bells. The usual rhythm.
Everything the same.
Everything different.
Finally, when the light started to fade, he stood.
Locked the drawer. Turned off the lights. Locked the door.
Walked down the stairs and out into the evening heat.
But instead of turning toward home, his feet carried him in a different direction.
Toward Rashbehari Avenue.
Toward the railway line.
He needed to see it.
The place where it happened—if it happened.
He needed to know.
The sun was low when Mihir reached the area near Park Circus.
He'd taken a tram most of the way, then walked, following the railway line until he found the spot.
He knew it was the spot because of the small crowd still gathered there.
And the police tape.
And the dark stain on the ground near the tracks.
He stopped at the edge of the crowd. Five or six people—locals, probably. A few were talking in low voices. Others just stared.
"Kal rate," someone was saying.
"Train accident bole, kintu..."
Mihir moved closer, careful not to draw attention.
The sodium streetlight was there. Just like in the vision.
The railway tracks ran straight into the distance, the geometric pattern of ties exactly as he'd seen them.
The spot where the body had been found was cordoned off with sagging yellow tape. Someone had tried to wash the blood away, but the stain remained—darker than the surrounding concrete, still visible even in the fading light.
His stomach turned.
He looked away, breathing through his mouth.
It's real. The place is real. The details match.
But that didn't prove anything. Coincidence. He could have seen this spot before, forgotten it, and his subconscious mind reconstructed it during the hallucination.
That was possible.
That was rational.
But his hands were shaking again, and the smell—faint but present—was returning.
Iron. Asphalt. Blood.
"Apni ki family member?" a voice asked.
Mihir turned.
A middle-aged man was looking at him with concerned eyes.
"No," Mihir said quickly. "I just... heard about it."
The man nodded. "Bhishon durghoshna. Body ta... kharap obostha te paoa gechhe."
"Did anyone see what happened?"
The man shrugged. "Eka hotai onak night-e. Ke dekhbe?"
"No witnesses?"
"Police ke kichu bolle na keu."
But someone had seen, Mihir thought.
Ranjan had seen.
And now Mihir had seen what Ranjan saw.
Or imagined he'd seen.
Or—
He couldn't think about it anymore.
"Thank you," he said to the man, and turned away.
He walked quickly, not sure where he was going, just needing to move.
Behind him, the crowd's voices faded.
The sodium light flickered on as dusk settled over the city.
And Mihir walked until he couldn't see the railway line anymore.
But even when it was out of sight, he could still smell it.
Mihir sat on the edge of his bed, staring at nothing.
It was past ten. He'd walked for hours after leaving the railway tracks, letting his feet carry him through streets he barely recognized.
Now he was back in his room, and the city sounds filtered in through the window—distant music, voices, the occasional horn.
Normal sounds.
But they felt very far away.
He had seen the place.
The exact place.
The yellow sodium light. The railway tracks. The spot where someone had died.
And the details—the ones only someone who'd been there could know—they matched.
Which meant either:
His hallucination had been impossibly, improbably accurate.
Or it hadn't been a hallucination at all.
Both options were impossible.
But one had to be true.
He pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars.
When he opened them again, the room looked the same.
Fan turning. Calendar on the wall. Window showing darkness and distant lights.
Everything exactly as it should be.
Except him.
He reached for the notebook he kept by his bed—the one he used for random notes, patient reminders, things to remember.
He opened it to a blank page.
Stared at it.
Then wrote:
Wednesday. The day after.
Mrs. Dasgupta—brief flash. Kitchen scene. Dead husband. Less than three seconds.
Railway line—confirmed location. Body found Tuesday morning. Matches vision details.
He stopped.
Read what he'd written.
It looked insane.
He tore the page out, crumpled it, threw it in the small waste bin by his desk.
Then he lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
Tomorrow he would see Dr. Mukherjee.
Tomorrow he would get tests done.
Tomorrow he would find a rational explanation.
Tomorrow.
But tonight, the smell wouldn't leave him.
And the image of the hand—pale, fingers curled, being dragged backward into shadow—played on repeat behind his eyes every time he blinked.
He lay there until the sounds of the city faded and the night deepened.
He didn't sleep.
He just waited for morning.
Because at least in daylight, things made sense.
At least in daylight, the world followed rules.
Or it used to.