Souradeep Dutta 1 Rain drummed steadily on the rusted iron roof of Subhro Dutta’s apartment in Shibpur, blurring the already smudged cityscape outside the window. The walls inside were yellowed with smoke, time, and neglect, just like him. He sat in his old cane chair, a half-filled glass of Old Monk dangling loosely from his hand, watching the flickering television news bulletin like a man watching ghosts dance. “Another body discovered in Howrah Maidan area,” the anchor was saying, tone flat, professional, unaffected. But what made Subhro sit up slightly wasn’t the death—it was the image that followed. A photograph…
