In the end, Potol did manage to write a story about a thief. But he had to pay a heavy price for it. The fault, after all, lay at the root. Shakespeare was completely wrong when he said, “What’s in a name?”
What kind of name is Potol Purkayastha anyway? Because of that name, most editors wouldn’t publish his writing. No editor could proudly say, “I discovered Potol.” And honestly, “discovering Potol” doesn't sound like something worth bragging about. Film stars, famous players, or renowned writers often have a director, coach, or editor behind their success. They too eventually become famous. But Potol was in a tough spot. Though his stories had been published in a few places, real success still eluded him. His name had ruined it all.
As if that weren’t enough, his surname was the icing on the cake—or rather, the boil on the sore. If you’re a Purkayastha, are you a half-Kayastha? Then what did the one-fourth Kayastha ever do wrong? Brahmins, Vaishyas, and Shudras don’t get these strange fractions in their caste titles. With half from above and half from his great-aunt, he’d been doomed. Just because his grandfather liked eating potol (pointed gourd), did they really have to name him after it?
Still, thanks to his writing, Potol was now getting published here and there. By profession, he was a math teacher. Though he had an MSc in Biology, he refused to teach biology because of his name. Once, a cheeky student asked him what the scientific name of Trichosanthes dioica was. With a straight face, he replied, “That’s my name,” and stormed off to the headmaster’s office. Since then, he only taught math.
Between solving equations, Potol thought of plots. Between two class periods, he mentally rehearsed his characters’ dialogues. Even while calling roll numbers, he would wedge bits of plot between the names. Once home, after washing up, he would sit at his laptop. It usually took him four days to finish a story. Then two more days to polish and title it. On the seventh day, he’d bow to his great-aunt, email the story to a magazine office, and offer prayers at Siddheshwari Kalibari. This had been his weekly routine for years. Sure, his work was getting published occasionally. But no publication had yet asked him to write something.
Recently, he had begun receiving the occasional invite to literary events. Meanwhile, those who had started writing with him—Indrajit Mukherjee, Gautam Singha, Soumi Sarkar—were now established names. He still met them now and then. Just the other day, Indrajit said that the magazine Juger Donka had requested a ghost story from him for the Puja special. Soumi looked at Potol over her glasses and announced that her novel would soon be serialized on the Mahananda Bazar app. Potol listened with his mouth slightly open. Then there was Tamal Bandopadhyay—already a celebrated writer, though much younger and quite humble. One day, Potol blurted out to him:
“No one ever calls me.”
Tamal must have mentioned this to an editor somewhere. Within two days, Potol got a call from the editor of Ghotoman magazine. They wanted a story from him—for their upcoming “Thief” special issue. But he was told strictly not to reveal that he was invited. Otherwise, the editor’s name might get dragged into it.
Fine. But is “thief” even a proper theme? You find some excellent thieves in Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay’s stories. But no one can be compared to him. Potol was deep in thought. He firmly believed that unless you know a character personally, you can’t do justice to them in literature. And he had never, in his life, taken anything from someone without asking.
The next day, while teaching class seven, Potol suddenly asked, “So, who among you has ever stolen something?”
The whole class fell silent. A few moments later came a unified protest —
“None of us copy answers in math by looking at others’ notebooks, Sir! Is copying even considered stealing?”
Potol muttered to himself, “I wasn’t talking about that kind of stealing.”
The school’s cricket team captain, Shantanu, stood up and said that Sachin, Sourav, Rohit, and Kohli have scored many centuries.
This crowd won’t do, Potol decided. After school, he resolved to visit the police station.
The officer-in-charge, Sushobhan Tarafdar, was extremely busy.
Potol introduced himself and said he had come to discuss theft.
Without looking up from his file, Sushobhan told him to speak with someone named Nabin.
Nabin was picking his teeth with a toothpick. Still holding it between his teeth, he said, “Just write the FIR.”
Potol was in a real fix now. Clearing his throat, he explained that the theft hadn’t actually happened yet, he had come to talk about thieves in general.
Now Nabin looked at him with narrowed eyes. “You should probably go see Dr. Dayal Mukherjee.”
“Why? Was Dr. Dayal’s house recently robbed?”
A sly grin spread across Nabin’s face. “Dr. Dayal is a psychiatrist. You’re the first person to come file a diary before a theft happens.”
Feeling quite embarrassed, Potol returned home. He sat with his laptop for a while, but no story came to mind. Maybe he should ask someone for advice. Would Tamal mind if he called him? Desperate, he finally made the call.
Tamal spoke kindly. He suggested that if Potol couldn’t find any thieves nearby, he should at least observe their working hours —meaning, he should go out late at night and look around.
Potol really liked the idea. He set an alarm on his phone for 2 AM and went to bed after eating early. The night was cool.
When the alarm rang at two, he really felt like going back to sleep. But somehow, he dragged himself up, threw a shawl over his kurta, and stepped out.
The streets were completely deserted. A couple of stray dogs looked at him suspiciously. But the night air felt refreshing to Potol. Taking a few deep breaths, he walked into a nearby park. The park was supposed to be empty. But to his surprise, a man was sitting on a bench.
Potol slowly approached him.
The man, dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans, had a strong build and furrowed his brows as he looked at Potol.
Oh no — Potol wondered if the man thought he was the thief. He quickly greeted him and explained the reason for his nighttime walk. The man sat up straight.
“What a coincidence! I’m a writer too. My name is Giridhari Gorgori. I’ve come out at midnight hoping to write a ghost story.”
Potol had never heard of Giridhari. The name itself was bizarre. Potol coughed in sympathy. “So, have you seen any ghosts?” he asked.
“I have,” Giridhari replied. “Ghosts, spirits, witches, headless beings, Brahmaduttis — all swarming around here. If I hadn’t come out, I wouldn’t have known there were so many kinds of ghosts in the world.”
A chill ran down Potol’s spine. He suddenly felt the urge to pee. And then things got worse.
Giridhari whispered, “There’s a restless soul sitting right next to us.”
Startled, Potol scooted a little closer to Giridhari. Stammering, he said, “Would you mind walking me home?”
Giridhari turned out to be quite a kind and brave person. He accompanied Potol to his house. Before leaving, he advised him to shut all doors and windows tightly.
“There aren’t any broken ones, are there? Ghosts love entering through broken doors.”
Disaster. The door to the staircase was wobbly! What now?
Giridhari told him not to touch that door after evening. Wishing him goodnight, Potol hurried inside and lay down. It felt like someone opened the rooftop door. Terrified, he kept chanting “Ram Ram” until he fell asleep.
He woke up to loud yelling and shouting. There had been a huge theft at the house. The door to the staircase had been broken, and the thief had taken everything — even Potol’s beloved laptop that he used for writing.
He stood there, completely stunned. He couldn’t even tell anyone that he knew the thief. With a heavy heart, he called the editor of Ghotoman magazine.
“The story is ready,” he said.
“But is it okay if I write it on paper and send it, instead of emailing it?”