The Known Stranger

It was just another ordinary day at the law firm. Files were stacked high, the air smelled of stale coffee and printer ink, and my desk bore the chaos of a hundred unsorted cases. I had barely looked up from my paperwork when I realise I needed air—real, fresh air, not the recycled kind that hummed out of ceiling vents.

Outside, the city buzzed in its usual, indifferent rhythm. I found myself wandering to the park near my office—a small, serene patch of green I often visited when the stress became unbearable. Children laughed and chased each other across the grass, couples strolled hand-in-hand, and an elderly group performed slow, synchronise yoga in the shade. It was the kind of scene that should’ve been peaceful, maybe even rejuvenating. But all I felt was a hollow tug inside me.

With a sigh, I settled onto a bench beneath a neem tree, plugged in my old Walkman, and let the analogue hum of music numb my nerves. Music was the only escape I allowed myself. That, and the occasional park bench on days like this.

My name is Banibrata Sarkar. I’m thirty-eight years old and, depending on whom you ask, either a respected lawyer or an ageing bachelor with a stubborn attachment to his father’s 1977 HM Ambassador. I had made a name for myself in South Kolkata’s legal circles, but sitting there that day, watching the world go by, I couldn’t help but think,What an ugly life.

That’s when she appeared.

Out of nowhere, a woman—maybe in her late twenties—walked up and sat right beside me, as if we had planned this rendezvous. She wore a simple dress, her hair tied loosely at the back. There was something offbeat about her presence—unexpected, yet oddly familiar.

“Hey! What’s up?” she said casually, her voice laced with a teasing familiarity.

I turned, puzzled. “Do I know you?”

She grinned. “Oh yeah? Why do you think so?”

“Well,” I said, raising an eyebrow, “you sat down next to me and started talking as if we’ve known each other forever.”

She giggled—a sound that rang clear and carefree. “Looks like you never get tired of forgetting things so casually. You should get a quick check-up, see if something’s wrong with ya.”

“That’s kind of rude,” I replied, half amused.

She tilted her head and smiled. “You tend to seem like you.”

I frowned. “Well yeah! I am a lawyer, so I know it all.”

She gave me a knowing look. “Writer, actually. But close enough.”

That caught my attention. I gave her a curious glance. “Oh, so you’re a writer? What do you write? What’s your genre?”

Before she could answer, a young man approached, eyes narrowed suspiciously as he looked at us. He glanced at her, then at me.

“Who’s he? Your boyfriend?” he asked bluntly.

She hesitated. “No, he—”

“Yeah,” I interrupted, “I’m her boyfriend.”

He blinked in surprise. “Really?!”

She turned to him and nodded. “Haanji.”

He looked unconvinced but said, “Okay, but get home before dark.” Then he walked away.

I turned to her. “Who was that?”

“Well...” she glanced at her watch, eyes widening. “Oh damn! It’s already 7:00 PM! We need to leave.”

“Last bus’s about to leave,” I said, seeing it approach the nearby stop. “Let’s hop on.”

We hurried and got on the nearly empty bus. She sat beside me, arms folded, her expression unreadable. I could feel her gaze lingering on me, possibly irritated by my bold ‘boyfriend’ declaration earlier. The silence between us stretched, taut with unspoken questions.

When the bus neared my stop, I stood up, ready to get off. Just then, she reached out and gently poked my shoulder. I turned. She handed me a faded business card.

“Call me whenever you’re free,” she said, her voice low and serious. “Or at least leave an SMS.”

“Sure,” I replied, tucking the card into my wallet. “I’ll text you once I get home.”

I got off the bus and watched it pull away, the taillights disappearing into the dusk. Something about her lingered with me—like the scent of rain before a storm. I pulled out the card. The paper was yellowed, the ink faded. At the bottom, I saw the date printed in tiny font: 1993.

“1993?” I murmured. “That’s... old.”

The name on the card read:Kaushiki Dasgupta.A curious name. One that felt like it had once meant something, though I couldn’t place it.

At home, I changed into a T-shirt and pajama bottoms, sat at my desk, and typed her name into my phone.Hi! It’s Banibrata Sarkar here—the guy you met at the park listening to his Walkman.

A few minutes later, a reply pinged back.

Hello! Thanks for the formal introduction... So, what do you do for a living?

I work at a law firm in South Kolkata. Joined back in 2006,I replied.

I see. Well, it’s getting late. Grab some dinner and get some sleep. Good night,she sent.

I stared at the screen for a moment longer, my mind still trailing after her.

Who was Kaushiki Dasgupta? And why did it feel like I should already know her?