An intriguing and enigmatic story by Atrayee, a wonderful storyteller. She fictionalises the famous Mullick Bari, featured in many Bengali films, exclusively for Different Truths.

Chewing on his favourite Montecristo #4 cigar, Professor Dwijen Mishra doubled his pace. He crossed the long-wooded driveway of Mallika Estate and noticed some labourers jostling to load a cot in the truck. The packers and movers were at full swing. The watchman at the gate had asked him to search for Badababuin the main hall where the last set of packing was going on. Clasping a jute bag in his hand, Professor Mishra headed towards the hall. Being a Good Samaritan, he wished to bid an eloquent goodbye to his long-term neighbour, Poraan Mullick.

“Good Morning… Badababu.” Professor Mishra stood at the threshold and called out. His feeble voice reverberated in that baronial beauty of architecture; even that little pause perhaps, that Mishra took, before referring his Poraan da as Badababu.

“Good Morning… Badababu.” Professor Mishra stood at the threshold and called out. His feeble voice reverberated in that baronial beauty of architecture; even that little pause perhaps, that Mishra took, before referring his Poraan da as Badababu. He looked around; shocked to see this windswept fettle of a grandiose mansion. The dazzling chandelier that had once decked up the soul of Mallika Estate; it was gone. As far as he knew, the chandelier was exclusively designed under the aegis of Her Highness, Mallika Chaudhury. They seemed to have been crafted using some Mongolian superstitious techniques that could usher in prosperity to the family. And it really did, as often talked about by the locals.

“Areyyy… Professor Mishra!” Poraan Mullick looked at Mishra and replied. “Come…Come inside…Have a seat… Little careful… Too much of dust.” He finished and sneezed a couple of times.

It was too dusty. Actually, when years of heritage get uprooted, the only thing that remains rooted is mere dust. They linger everywhere. On those barren walls helping out some spiders to knit their niche.

True. It was too dusty. Actually, when years of heritage get uprooted, the only thing that remains rooted is mere dust. They linger everywhere. On those barren walls helping out some spiders to knit their niche. Covering the deserted floors, gambling with the mischievous breeze and even on those insatiable emotions of humans where they rot like an old blank journal, incessantly urging someone to write the tale of a long-lost legacy.

Professor Mishra came inside. Now, where to have a seat? Those regal pieces of furniture carved from real Burmese Teak were gone. Many evenings he had spent over a cup of coffee and a game of cards. Now, wherever Mishra looked, his eyes were deterred by some packed boxes. Probably, those beautiful furniture pieces were also fastened inside one of those claustrophobic boxes. Hibernating, until an ardent admirer found their way to them! Professor Mishra exhaled a dismal sigh and walked towards the small table and chairs placed on the left corner.

“Bishu… Oi Bishu!” All of a sudden Poraan Mullick yelled out. “Haramzaada…Kotha shonosh na ken?” (Treacherous fellow…Why can’t you listen?)

Once offended, Baangal dialect would sweep their tongue and they wouldn’t balk before proceeding to verbally slit your entire dynasty.

Mishra sat down and snuffed out his cigar on the ashtray and smirked at Poraan da. That was so obvious of him; or to be precise, of anyone of this family. Once offended, Baangal dialect would sweep their tongue and they wouldn’t balk before proceeding to verbally slit your entire dynasty.

Mishra peeped from his chair. Poraan da was incensed on seeing some of the sculptures still lying bare inside the store room. Within a couple of blinks, Bishu materialised in front of Poraan Mullick, all bogged down like some archaic slave bending to the will of his master. Be it scolding or instructions. Nothing unusual for Mishra. He had witnessed much more than this before. This manner of mastery and slavery, had been the concrete for Mallika Estate.

Poraan da delivered his final word to Bishu and walked towards Mishra. A crisp whitedhoti, torso covered in a black printed pashmina shawl and a ski hat on his head; that was his usual winter attire.

“Everything should be over by 3…E-v-e-r-y-thing.” Poraan da delivered his final word to Bishu and walked towards Mishra. A crisp white dhoti, torso covered in a black printed pashmina shawl and a ski hat on his head; that was his usual winter attire. More he walked closer, the tap of his walking stick turned distinct and Mishra could also find a childish pleasure on his face.

“Sooo! Professor Dwijen Mishra… I briefly doubted if I would be able to meet you or not… And here you are.” Poraan da chortled and sat on the other chair.

“Since when did I become Professor Mishra for you?” Mishra raised his eyebrows.

“Hmmm!” Poraan da looked at his watch and said, “5 minutes ago.” He carried his no-nonsense mien. And before Mishra could grasp the bargain, Poraan da burst out laughing. Aloud. So much so, that the labourers and even Bishu mistook it as yet another verbal tirade.

“Five minutes ago, you called me Badababu, so in turn I called you Professor…Like others call you… Squaring the accounts, what say?” Poraan da laughed again.

“Five minutes ago, you called me Badababu, so in turn I called you Professor…Like others call you… Squaring the accounts, what say?” Poraan da laughed again. “We are businessmen dear… Pay proper tax…All accounts are accountable.”

“You and your jokes Poraan da.”

“You’ll have coffee no?” And without waiting for a yes, Poraan Mullick ordered Bishu to get two cups of coffee.

Mishra eyed the packed cartons and asked, “So, Poraan da! Permanently leaving? Everything packed it seems.”

The mist of grief which was well concealed, suddenly flared up inside Poraan Mullick.

The mist of grief which was well concealed, suddenly flared up inside Poraan Mullick. Reluctant and recluse, his thoroughbred Zamindari genes was indeed fighting a tough battle within.

“What to say? So far so good.” Poraan da mumbled. His weakened nerves were frayed for sure.

“I am being promoted as the dean Poraan da. Will take charge from next month.” Mishra changed the topic for the good.

Poraan da looked happy. “Is it? Great Dwijen…Really the good news…There should be a celebration then…What say?”

Mishra nodded and took out his bag. “Here’s something for the toast.”

Off late, Poraan Mullick’s mannerisms was much that of a frail lion, badly afflicted by old age. In his mid-70s now, putting up a brave front against arthritis, GERD and bronchitis; perhaps medicines had become his only true friend.

Off late, Poraan Mullick’s mannerisms was much that of a frail lion, badly afflicted by old age. In his mid-70s now, putting up a brave front against arthritis, GERD and bronchitis; perhaps medicines had become his only true friend. Few years ago, he was bereaved when his wife left for the heavens and his children pledged to be away from the family business. Traders’ acumen seemed mundane for them. They all gladly accepted to be a corporate slave. All alone, grinding under the lofty demands of the glitzy world of cinema, he was made to recognize his waning strength and also the fading business of renting out big palaces and antiques for film shooting.

His wrinkled eyes, behind those round rimless spectacles, stared at Mishra not knowing what was in store.

“You got something for me?”

Mishra took out a beer stein, two bottles and a small box and kept them on the table.

“What are these?” Worry lines creasing his already furrowed forehead, Poraan Mullick was confused. “Foreign Medicines?”

“…I got something better for you… German tea from East Frisia, German wine from Saxony, Sauerkraut juice and a beer stein.”

Mishra giggled. “Not medicines Poraan da…That your doctor anyway gives you…I got something better for you… German tea from East Frisia, German wine from Saxony, Sauerkraut juice and a beer stein.”

“What is this Dwijen? You…Kind of made a small Germany for me?”

The old man was truly flattered by this unexpected kind gesture of his neighbour. Quite natural. After all, Poraan Mullick was almost ill-reputed as The Selfish Giant in the locality. Hardly anyone spoke to him.

“What better can a historian give you Poraan da?” Mishra giggled.

“That too, one who has spent a whole life researching on Hitler. What say?” Poraan da held the sauerkraut juice bottle and read out the name. Ineptly and wrong of course.

“History will be garbage without His-story.” Professor Mishra smiled.

“History will be garbage without His-story.” Professor Mishra smiled.

“Badababu!” Bishu placed two cups of coffee on the table. Poraan da asked him to take Mishra’s gifts and pack them along with his personal belongings. Bishu nodded and left for his duties.

Somewhat lost and gulping down the last sip of coffee, Poraan Mullick uttered. “You know Dwijen…Now a days, I feel history is not valued at all.”

Pointing towards an armchair he said, “My great-grandmother’s father gifted her this one. She used to knit sitting on this…You know Satyajit Ray took that for Feluda shooting…Even Rituporno Ghosh hired it quite a couple of times…

Pointing towards an armchair he said, “My great-grandmother’s father gifted her this one. She used to knit sitting on this…You know Satyajit Ray took that for Feluda shooting…Even Rituporno Ghosh hired it quite a couple of times…Now a days…Cinema world has changed you know…Everything can be drawn on a computer.” Seeing Mishra silent, he pressed on his views again. “Really Dwijen…They sit on a plastic chair and later in the film…You see…It is like a throne.”

Mishra understood his concern. “That’s true Poraan da. Graphics…Rather computer is eating away at many businesses.”

This sofa-that film, that clock – Rituporno Ghosh used in so and so film, this scene of that film was shot in this room and many more. And finally, Poraan da spelled out his anguish. “Nobody values history. Nobody values old things…Zamindari has all but vanished. Therefore, its integral ingredients also lost their charm.”

Mishra’s consent served as a soothing balm and Poraan Mullick invited Mishra for a stroll along the stacks of cartons packed there. And soon, a long stream of furniture identification began. This sofa-that film, that clock – Rituporno Ghosh used in so and so film, this scene of that film was shot in this room and many more. And finally, Poraan da spelled out his anguish. “Nobody values history. Nobody values old things…Zamindari has all but vanished. Therefore, its integral ingredients also lost their charm.”

Professor Mishra was short of words. He stood in silence, his ears paying rapt attention to the poignant tale of a lost fame.

“I am ruthlessly uprooting my ancestral inheritance. The whole world runs behind artificial. Authenticity no longer matters, Dwijen. Everything is artificial.” He paused and murmured again. “Emotions as well.”

“Are you selling this house Poraan da?”

“Arey! No no…Who buys a white elephant? It shall be renovated as a traditional Bengali cuisine restaurant…Mallika Estate has been our source of income since ages…and it shall remain so.” Poraan Mullick looked at the towering roof and quaffed in his surging emotions.

Yes, maintaining Mallika Estate was a real hole-burner on the wallet. Not only now, even during the bygone times. Those days it carried a different name though; Rajbaari. Or sometimes Mullick Baari. The British rule fleshed out the landlords and even they faced its rough bristle.

Yes, maintaining Mallika Estate was a real hole-burner on the wallet. Not only now, even during the bygone times. Those days it carried a different name though; Rajbaari. Or sometimes Mullick Baari. The British rule fleshed out the landlords and even they faced its rough bristle. Income was slowly but steadily falling, or rather getting shared. Mullick family’s sole inheritor, Rajathabha Mullick was then an eligible bachelor. How much eligible? Debatable. Only the name carried some weight. Otherwise, as lazy as a sloth, sloshed in alcohol, he hardly knew anything about the world. Princess Mallika Chaudhury was brought in as the new daughter in law. Hundreds of years ago, when women hardly showed their face, she tossed an argument over changing her surname. It would sound ambiguous she declared. Mallika Mullick was not acceptable to her and she fearlessly retained her maiden name. The annals of history were rewritten when she let her husband be with alcohol and took over the reins of the business herself. And gradually, the erstwhile Rajbaari became Mallika Estate. More recently, Mallika Estate was involved in the antiquity business and later rented out its antiques and other belongings for cinema shooting. Many movies were shot inside the premises as well.

Bishu came running. “Badababu.” He was panting.

“Dhurrr Shaala… hoilo ta ki?”  (What happened?) Poraan Mullick was disgruntled.

“That mirror…Nobody wants to lift.” Bishu paused. “I convinced the labourers but then…”

“What?” Poraan Mullick and Professor Mishra asked together.

“That lorry fellow won’t drive if the mirror is to be loaded.” Bishu finished. Confused and tired of persuading the workers, he waited impatiently for further instructions.

“That lorry fellow won’t drive if the mirror is to be loaded.” Bishu finished. Confused and tired of persuading the workers, he waited impatiently for further instructions.

Professor Mishra smelled a thrill. “What’s there in that mirror?”

Poraan Mullick surmised Mishra’s keenness and asked him to come along.

Through the imposing white marbled stairway, all three of them came to the first floor. Bishu was ahead of them, guiding them towards the room where the mirror was kept. Mishra found four labourers standing outside. They hung their heads seeing Poraan da’s miffed face.

The room was small, at least compared to the other rooms in the house. Nevertheless, with nothing inside, it looked spacious. Towards the right most corner, that so-called mysterious mirror was standing upright; happily reflecting the winter sunrays prancing on it.

The room was small, at least compared to the other rooms in the house. Nevertheless, with nothing inside, it looked spacious. Towards the right most corner, that so-called mysterious mirror was standing upright; happily reflecting the winter sunrays prancing on it. What was wrong in that? An intricate work on the wooden frame, the glass was taint-free, dent-free; it looked newly bought instead.

“Dwijen…Kristallnacht…Heard about it? Huh! Who will know this better than you?” Poraan da grinned.

Mishra felt an unseen hand pulling him towards the mirror. He walked nearer and lightly ran his fingers on the frame. “Beautiful!” He whispered.

Professor Mishra seemed clueless as to what Poraan da uttered. Mishra felt an unseen hand pulling him towards the mirror. He walked nearer and lightly ran his fingers on the frame. “Beautiful!” He whispered.

“Isn’t it?” An unusual excitement filled the air as Poraan da spoke. Professor Mishra looked at himself in the mirror. Just a few seconds would have passed staring at his own eyes and he felt queasy. His stomach churned and he felt something eroding within. The coffee perhaps? He walked back to Poraan da and asked, “So what were you telling about Kristallnacht?”

“That is the story behind this mirror.” Poraan Mullick muttered.

Mishra was now certain it was an outright rumour. “That’s a little too much Poraan da.” His tongue caught in his throat as he fell silent.

A little miffed by that statement of Mishra, he said, “Whole of history has never fit inside a single book… Keep the ‘too much’ to yourself…Huh! There are many leaflets which remain crumpled somewhere in the past and never get into print.”

“Maane?” (Meaning) Poraan Mullick grumbled. A little miffed by that statement of Mishra, he said, “Whole of history has never fit inside a single book… Keep the ‘too much’ to yourself…Huh! There are many leaflets which remain crumpled somewhere in the past and never get into print.”

Professor Mishra realised his mistake. Whether he believed Poraan Mullick or not was not essential here, but he should have restrained from making that remark. At least for the sake of Poraan da’s age.

“Poraan da…Don’t get me wrong… I have spent decades here…Never had you told me about this.”

Poraan Mullick had perhaps set up a secret auction for that mirror. He was an errant penny-pincher. He could extract money by selling mere sand as gold. But, then why such a precious mirror was left alone?

Of course, he wouldn’t. Why anyone would reveal such rare and precious possessions in public, be it real or a figment of imagination? Poraan Mullick had

perhaps set up a secret auction for that mirror. He was an errant penny-pincher. He could extract money by selling mere sand as gold. But, then why such a precious mirror was left alone? Top it all why these labourers were hesitant towards it?

“Bishu…You go.” Poraan da instructed. “And ask those labourers also to leave.”

Mishra was left in an awkward situation. Should he leave too? While he stood there, pondering what to do, Poraan da asked an innocuous doubt.

“What’s the date Dwijen?”

“10^th November…Why?” Mishra replied and was taken aback. They both stood there in absolute silence. Poraan da wiped his spectacles with his shawl and was lost in his musings.

“Same date…Same month. The year was 1938… When the Jews were brutally thrashed… One overbearing fanatic, just one, decided to undrape humanity… Just to parade to the world, his superiority.” Poraan Mullick muttered.

“Same date…Same month. The year was 1938… When the Jews were brutally thrashed… One overbearing fanatic, just one, decided to undrape humanity… Just to parade to the world, his superiority.” Poraan Mullick muttered. Mishra never imagined that a high school dropout like Poraan Mullick would even know an iota of this.

“The streets were paved with a layer of broken glass…They shone like crystals under the moonlight… Hard earned properties lay splintered and shattered and scattered on the roads and there, those wicked Nazis attached a ridiculous title to it…Kristallnacht…Night of crystals!”

“Poraan da.” Mishra couldn’t believe his ears.

Poraan Mullick pointed at the mirror and said, “One of those Nazi officers found this mirror in a Jewish businessman’s house…A small girl was protecting it. That Nazi monster stabbed the girl to death and was about to break the mirror. However, he was mesmerized by the intricate work of the frame. He gifted it to his Commander… Following the custom of licking the boss’s arse, this mirror exchanged a few hands and went on to grace Hitler’s own collection.”

Mishra was flooded with qualms. Poraan da looked at him and exclaimed vehemently. “What? Not believing? Nobody did.” Poraan da sighed suddenly and continued in a sombre tone. “Until that fateful day.”

At last, Mishra stuttered. “Which day?”

“We never gave this for shooting… Actually, nobody used it… If one were to believe the stories and circumstances…”

“We never gave this for shooting… Actually, nobody used it… If one were to believe the stories and circumstances… One of our grand aunts turned insane after using this mirror for a couple of days.”

Poraan Mullick stole a quick glance at Mishra. He seemed to be still cluttered.

“She became very inhuman it seems” Poraan da continued. “And then this mirror was abandoned along with other unusable stuffs. One day, a young cinematographer came to me and requested for an antique mirror… God only knows how he got to see this one and immediately paid the full amount for the rent.”

“Then?” Professor Mishra was more eager now.

“I-I was okay with it… Never had been harmed by that. Then why shouldn’t I use it for my business? But things turned bad at the set it seems. The actress lost her cool and some accident or murder happened revolving this mirror… And that was the end of that! This mirror got the tag of Satan.”

Professor Mishra couldn’t control his laughter.

“Laugh all you want… You, foreign graduate… Don’t know how pitiable life becomes around superstition.” Poraan da grumbled.

“Laugh all you want… You, foreign graduate… Don’t know how pitiable life becomes around superstition.” Poraan da grumbled. Mishra paused for a second and smirked, “So that’s why these labourers made it ‘touch-me-not’?”

“Hmm!” Poraan da was worried.

“Give it to me.” Mishra was prompt and his voice steadfast.

“What?” Poraan da was startled. “You’ll take it?”

Mishra never wished to take anything for free. That too when selling antiques was Poraan da’s job.

“I might not be able to give you its real price…” Mishra paused hesitatingly.

Poraan da was embarrassed. “Can I not gift you this? After all diamonds are valued only by the jewellers and not the miners, isn’t it?”

“Oh boo-hoo! Who’s talking about money?” Poraan da was embarrassed. “Can I not gift you this? After all diamonds are valued only by the jewellers and not the miners, isn’t it?”

The story of the mirror seemed destined to continue, as it exchanged one more hand and was relocated to Professor Mishra’s house. To avoid any further controversy, Mishra himself did the needful. No labourer, no lorry, so no fuss.

***

A couple of months wrapped up. Poraan Mullick was now busy catching up with Mumbai’s nerves. Family by his side, children and grandchildren, he was at peace. Professor Mishra too was engaged with the expansion of his research work.

A couple of months wrapped up. Poraan Mullick was now busy catching up with Mumbai’s nerves. Family by his side, children and grandchildren, he was at peace. Professor Mishra too was engaged with the expansion of his research work. But how much at peace? That was quite blurry. A man who was least bothered about dressing up, now a days spent hours staring at the mirror, preening himself and strutting regally in front of it; all the while admiring his own self. Soon, the college hallways were rife with speculation that Professor Mishra was often talking to himself. In his cabin, all alone, chewing on his cigar, pointing out places on world map and instructing random people to thrust forward in pincer formations. To whom? Where? None could surmise.

Scenario was similar at home as well. He would stand in front of the mirror; argue, shout, would send out orders, warn. Helpers at home were somewhat terrified. Some thought he was trying his luck in acting judging by the way Mishra took interest in combing his hair and moustache.

While other departments went with the prescribed norms for admission, an unwritten freakish rule was implemented in the department of history, violating the rules of reservation. Physically challenged candidates were vehemently denied admission.

The new academic year commenced in the varsity and students enrolled for their doctorate degree. While other departments went with the prescribed norms for admission, an unwritten freakish rule was implemented in the department of history, violating the rules of reservation. Physically challenged candidates were vehemently denied admission. Denial continued for lower castes as well. And nothing went unnoticed. Mild whispers about his weird behaviours were now growing cacophonous. And things turned bitter during a panel discussion, where Professor Mishra justified the ambiguity of Aryan Blood, condoned the acts of the Nazi upper strata, and accredited the poor epigenetics of physically hindered people.

What was wrong? Professor Mishra, who sketched his career graph through condemnation of Nazi atrocities was now defending them. That too loud and clear with no regret, no apology. Mishra was suspended; although his close associates pressed on his deteriorating mental health and pleaded with the University Board for consideration. In either case, Mishra was sent back home and on indefinite sick leave.

Days passed. Weeks passed. And the weirdness paced up as well. The jovial curly haired professor was gone, replaced with an imposing figure having straightened hair, neatly parted with the curtain-cut. Stubbles were gone, and only a toothbrush moustache remained.

Days passed. Weeks passed. And the weirdness paced up as well. The jovial curly haired professor was gone, replaced with an imposing figure having straightened hair, neatly parted with the curtain-cut. Stubbles were gone, and only a toothbrush moustache remained. Adolf Hitler way? Even a khaki jacket took refuge in his wardrobe. Fragment of Hitler’s speeches were heard coming out from his room. ‘Incapables have no place… Jews are scum of the Earth… More living room… Eradicate the inferior… Heil-Hitler’; they all swathed the walls.

Professor Mishra had a domestic help. Nitaai. A teenaged boy, plagued by some innate mutation. Little short of hearing and comprehension skills, he used to do the odd household jobs. Professor Mishra had always been very kind to him. Never posed a complaint. However, over the past few months he couldn’t withstand Nitaai. He abused Nitaai, quite often; be it verbally or physically. Unaware of the cause, Nitaai trod within the house quite fearfully.

One-night Mishra didn’t come out of his room at all. Nitaai peeped through the door ajar and realised that Professor was busy. What to do? Considering the time, Nitaai took dinner to Mishra’s room. Gosh! What was going on? Nitaai was appalled by the sight of the room.

One-night Mishra didn’t come out of his room at all. Nitaai peeped through the door ajar and realised that Professor was busy. What to do? Considering the time, Nitaai took dinner to Mishra’s room. Gosh! What was going on? Nitaai was appalled by the sight of the room. Mishra was busy painting ‘Swastika’ symbols all over the wall. Mishra rested his hands on the table and yelled in the air, as if pitching for a cause. But to whom? There was absolutely no one.

Nitaai was petrified. Trembling in fear, he could no longer hold the crockeries in hand and dropped. Plates broke, rice splattered and water streamed away all over the floor. Professor Mishra was intruded. Angered; maddened, the remnants of sanity that he still possessed slipped in an instant. He took a heavy metallic flower vase from the table and struck Nitaai on the head.

Nitaai just fell on the floor. His limbs shuddered for a minute, until the last breath and then, he simply collapsed. Eyes wide open, staring at Professor Mishra, Nitaai’s lifeless body lay prone, spilling out blood from the head.

What had the Professor done? Nitaai’s blood streamed down from the gaping wound and flowed on to the scattered dinner. Everything was now draped in a shade of crimson, smeared with an innocent’s blood. On the wall; over the swastika. On the floor; over Nitaai’s body. That poor soul passed on, never knowing his mistake.

Professor Mishra bent down over Nitaai. His shaky fingers felt the blood. Did he just kill a human? Mishra lost his balance and plonked on the floor.

Professor Mishra bent down over Nitaai. His shaky fingers felt the blood. Did he just kill a human? Mishra lost his balance and plonked on the floor. And there he heard a whisper. A gruff one at that. Creepy; corroding out every essence of his humanity. Mishra looked behind. It was the mirror speaking; urging him to kill more, to eradicate the useless, and erase the inferior. The whisper steadily gained prominence. Now it was loud and clear; constantly hammering inside the professor’s head. He could no longer bear it. Mishra held the vase again and threw it on the mirror.

The mirror broke. With a deafening clap, the glass, instead of cracking, shattered into a million pieces. Littered all over the floor, the silver coating on the broken glass glittered like the crystals. A million reflections of the macabre sight stared back at him; his own face contorted in a sickening smile. Professor Mishra shuddered in fear and kept muttering, Kristallnacht… Kristallnacht… Kristallnacht!!!

Photo from the Internet