MR. ECCENTRIC HARSIMRAN KAUR HK An Imprint of Harsimran Kaur Publications

MR. ECCENTRIC Illustrated by Harsimran Kaur Copyright © 2025 Harsimran Kaur All rights reserved. No part of this storybook may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form- whether by printing, recording, or digital copying- with- out written permission from the illustrator/author, except for brief passages used in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Characters, events, and places are imagined for storytelling purposes. Any resemblance to real individuals, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental. Printed in India First Storybook Edition

I found this diary in a hotel in Darjeeling

Editor’s Note I found this notebook one damp afternoon in Darjeeling, inside the bottom drawer of a desk at the old Alice Villa. The caretaker said it had been left behind decades ago by a man who never returned to claim his belongings. The paper had yellowed, the corners softened by years of fog, and the first few pages smelled faintly of rain and tobacco. At first, it looked ordinary — a traveler’s journal filled with neat handwriting and sketches of the hill town — but the later entries felt different. The lines grew restless, the ink heavier, the sketches darker. There were drawings of small, ordinary things: a button, a glove, a broken lens, a walking stick. Each was numbered, as if catalogued, and beside them were fragments of stories about accidents, drownings, and deaths. The writer never mentioned his name, only another man’s — Mr. Eccentric.” The entries suggest that he met this Mr. Eccentric during a brief holiday, and that what began as curiosity became something far more disturbing. Some pages are torn. Others end mid-sentence, as if the writer’s hand had stopped suddenly. I have copied the contents here exactly as they were found. Wheth- er this notebook is a confession, a case study, or a hallucination, I cannot say. But if you choose to read on, do so carefully. Objects remember things, and sometimes, when we touch them, they remember us back. 1

Chapter One I never managed to find out Mr Eccentric’s full name. All I did learn was that his surname was Mukherjee. His appearance was quite unforgettable. He was nearly six feet tall, his body was without the slightest trace of fat, his back arched like a bow; and his neck, arms, hands and forehead were cov- ered by innumerable veins that appeared to be bulging out of his skin. What he wore almost every day was a white shirt with black flannel trousers, white socks and white tennis shoes. And he always carried a stout walking stick. Perhaps he needed it because he often walked on uneven, unpaved roads and amongst wild plants. I met Mr Eccentric ten years ago, when I used to work for a bank. That year, I had taken ten days off in early May, and gone to Darjeeling— my favourite hill town—for a holiday. I saw Mr Eccentric on my very first day. At about half past four, I had left my hotel for a walk, after a cup of tea. In the afternoon, there had been a short shower. Since there was every chance that it might rain again, I had put on my raincoat before stepping out. As I was walking down Jalapahar Road, the most pictur- esque and quiet road in Darjeeling, I suddenly spotted a man about fifty yards away. He was standing where the road curved. His body was bent forward, and he was leaning on his walking stick, gazing intently at the grass by the roadside. At first, none of this struck me as unusual. Perhaps he was interested in some wild flower or insect. Perhaps he had seen one of those in the grass. I cast a mildly curious glance in his direction, and kept on walking. 2 Chapter One

As I got closer, however, I realized that there was something odd about him. It was the intensity of the man’s concentration. I was standing only a few feet away, staring at him, but he did not appear to have noticed me at all. He was still bent over the grass, his eyes fixed on it. Now I could not help asking a question: ‘Have you lost something?’ There was no reply. Was he deaf? My curiosity rose. I was determined to see what happened next. So I lit a cigarette, and waited About three minutes later, life seemed to return to the man’s limbs. He bent further forward, and stretched an arm out towards the grass. Then he pushed his fingers into the thick grass, and a second later, withdrew his hand. Between his thumb and index finger was held a small disc. I peered carefully at it. It was a button, nearly as large as a fifty-paise coin. Perhaps it had once been attached to a jacket. The man brought the button closer to his eyes, scrutinized it thoroughly, turned it around several times, then said ‘Tch, tch, tch!’ regretfully, before placing it in his shirt pocket, and striding off in the direction of the Mall. He ignored me completely. Later in the evening, on my way back to the hotel, I ran into an old resident of Darjeeling, Dr Bhowmik. He was standing by the fountain on the Mall. Dr Bhowmik was my father’s classmate, and very fond of me. I couldn’t help telling him about my encounter with the strange man. When I finished my tale, Dr Bhowmik said, ‘Well, from your description, it appears that you met Mr Eccentric.’ ‘Mr who?’ ‘Eccentric. It’s a sad case, really. I can’t remember his first name, his surname is Mukherjee. He’s been in Darjeeling for nearly five years. He rents a room in a cottage near Grindlays Bank. Before he came here, he used to teach physics in Ravenshaw College in Cuttack. I believe he was once a brilliant student, and has a German degree in physics. But he left his job, and came to live here. Perhaps he inherited some prop- erty, or has some private income, so he gets by.’ ‘Do you know him?’ ‘He came to me once, soon after he got here. He had stumbled and fallen somewhere, and cut his knee. It had turned septic. I treated him, and he recovered.’ ‘But why is he called Eccentric?’ 3Mr. Eccentric

Dr Bhowmik burst out laughing. ‘He acquired that name because of his peculiar hobby. I couldn’t tell you who was the first to think of that name!’ ‘What’s his hobby?’ ‘You saw it yourself, didn’t you? He picked up a button from the road- side and put it in his pocket. That’s his hobby. He’ll pick up any old thing and keep it safe in his room.’ ‘Any old thing? How do you mean?’ For some reason, I began feeling increasingly curious about the man. ‘Well,’ said Dr Bhowmik, ‘I call it that, but he claims that every object in his collection is most precious. Apparently, there is a story behind all of them.’ ‘How does he know that? Dr Bhowmik glanced at his watch. ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’ he suggested. ‘He’s always pleased to have a visitor, for his stories are endless. All of it is pure nonsense, needless to say, but he’s always glad to tell them. Mind you, whether you will be glad to hear them or not is a different matter!’ The following morning, I left my hotel soon after breakfast and went looking for Mr Eccentric’s house. It proved quite easy to find it, since most people near Grindlays Bank seemed to know where he lived. I knocked on the door of house number seventeen. The man himself an- swered the door almost at once and, to my astonishment, recognized me immediately. ‘You asked me something yesterday, didn’t you? But I couldn’t reply. Believe me, I just couldn’t speak. At a time like that, if I let my atten- tion wander, it can spell disaster. Do come in.’ The first thing I noticed on entering his room was a glass case. It cov- ered a large portion of a wall. On each shelf was displayed a range of very ordinary objects, not one of which seemed to bear any relation- ship to the other. One shelf, for instance, had the root of some plant, a rusted padlock, an ancient tin of Gold Flake cigarettes, a knitting needle, a shoe-brush and old torch cells. The man caught me staring at these objects and said, ‘None of those things will give you any joy,since only I know 6 Chapter One

what they are worth.’ ‘I believe there is a story behind everything in your collection?’ ‘Yes, there certainly is.’ ‘But that is true of most things, isn’t it? Say, if you consider that watch you are wearing . . .’ I began, but the man raised a hand and stopped me. ‘Yes, there may be a special incident related to many things,’ he said. ‘But how many of those things Would I continue to carry memories of the past? Of the scene they have witnessed? Only very rarely would you find anything like that. This button that I found yesterday, for example . . . !’ The button in question was placed on a writing desk on the opposite end of the room. Mr Eccentric picked it up and handed it to me. It was a brown button, clearly torn from a jacket. I could see nothing special in it. ‘Can you see anything?’ he asked. I was obliged to admit that I could not. Mr Eccentric began speaking, ‘That button came from the jacket of an Englishman. He was riding down Jalapahar Road. The man was almost sixty, dressed in riding clothes, hale and hearty, a military man. When he reached the spot where I found that button, he had a stroke, and fell from his horse. Two passers-by saw him and rushed to help, but he was already dead. That button came off his jacket as he fell from his horse.’ ‘Did you see this happen yesterday? I mean, all these past events?’ ‘Vividly. The more I concentrate, the better do I see.’ ‘When can you see such things?’ ‘Whenever I come across an object that has this special power to take me back to the past. It starts with a headache. Then my vision blurs, and I feel faint. Sometimes I feel as if I need support, or else I’d fall down.But almost immediately, various scenes start flashing before my eyes, and my legs become stead yonce more. When the whole thing’s over, my temperature rises. Every time. Last night, until eight o’clock, it was nearly 102. But the fever does not last for more than a few hours. Today, I feel absolutely fine.’ Everything he said sounded far too exaggerated, but I felt quite amused. ‘Can you give me a few more examples?’ 7Mr. Eccentric

I asked. ‘That glass case is packed with examples. See that notebook? It con- tains a detailed description of every incident. Which one would you like to hear?’ Before I could say anything, he strode over to the glass case and lifted two objects out of it. One was a very old leather glove, the other a spectacle lens. He placed them on a table. ‘This glove,’ he told me, ‘is the first thing I found. It’s the first item in my collection. Do you know where I found it? In a wood outside Lu- cerne, in Switzerland. By then I had finished my studies in Marburg, and was touring the continent before coming back to India. That day, I was out on a morning walk. A quiet and secluded path ran through the wood. After a while, I felt a little tired and sat down on a bench. Almost immediately, my eyes caught sight of only a portion of that glove, sticking out from the undergrowth near the trunk of a tree. At once, my head started throbbing. Then my vision blurred. And then . . . then I could see it all. It was like watching a film. A well-dressed gentleman, possibly an aristocrat, was walking down the same path. In his mouth was a Swiss pipe, on his hands were leather gloves, and he was carrying a walking stick. Suddenly, two men jumped out from behind a bush, and attacked him. The gentleman tried to fight them and, in the struggle, the glove on his right hand came off. Those crim- inals then grabbed him, killed him mercilessly and looted what money they could find in his pockets, and took his gold watch.’ ‘Did something like this really happen?’ ‘I had to spend three days in hospital. I had fever, and was delirious. There were other complications, too. The doctors there could not make a diagnosis. But, a few days later, I recovered as if by magic. After leaving the hospital, I started making enquiries. Eventually, I learnt that two years earlier, a wealthy man called Count Ferdinand was killed at that same spot, exactly as I had seen it. His son recognized the glove.’ The man told this story so easily and naturally that I found it hard not to believe him. ‘Did you start building up your collection from that time?’ I asked. ‘Well, nothing happened for ten years after that first incident. 10 Chapter One

By then I had returned home and was teaching in a college in Cuttack. Sometimes I went on holidays. Once I went to Waltair. That’s when the second incident took place. I found this lens stuck between rocks on the beach. A South Indian gentleman had taken his glasses off to go and bathe in the sea. He never returned. He got cramps in his legs as he was swimming, and drowned. I can still see him raising his hands from the water and shouting, ‘Help! Help!’ It was heartbreaking. This lens, which I found four years after the in- cident, came off his glasses. Yes, what I saw was true. It was a well- known case of drowning, as I learnt later. The dead man was called Shivaraman. He was from Coimbatore.’ Mr Eccentric replaced the two objects in the glass case and sat down. ‘Do you know how many items I have got in my collection? One hun- dred and seventy-two. I’ve collected them over thirty years. Have you ever heard of anyone with such a collection?’ I shook my head. ‘No, your hobby is unique. There’s no doubt about that. But tell me, does each of those objects have something to do with death?’ The man looked grave. ‘Yes, so it seems. It isn’t just death, but sudden or unnatural death— murder, suicide, death by accident, heart failure, things like that.’ ‘Did you find all these things simply lying by the roadside, or on beach- es, and in woods?’ ‘Yes, most of them. The rest I found in auctions or antique shops. See that wine jug made of cut glass? I found it in an auction house in Russell Street in Calcutta. Some time in the nineteenth century, wine served out of that jug was poisoned. An Englishman—oh, he was so tall and hefty—died in Calcutta after drinking that wine.’ By this time, I had stopped looking at the glass case, and was looking closely at the man. But I could find nothing in his expression to suggest that he was lying, or that he was a cheat. Was he perhaps insane? No, that did not seem to be the case, either. The look in his eyes did seem somewhat distant, but it was certainly not abnormal. Poets of- ten had that look, or those who were deeply religious and spiritual. I did not stay much longer. 11Mr. Eccentric

As I said goodbye and started to step out of the room, the man said, ‘Please come again. My door is always open for people like you. Where are you staying?’ ‘The Alice Villa.’ ‘I see. That’s only ten minutes from here. I enjoyed meeting you. There are some people I just cannot stand. You appear to be sympathetic and understanding.’ Dr Bhowmik had invited me to tea that evening. There were two oth- er guests. Over a cup of tea and a plate of savouries, I couldn’t help raising the subject of Mr Eccentric. Dr Bhowmik asked, ‘How long did you stay there?’ ‘About an hour.’ ‘My God!’ Dr Bhowmik’s eyes widened with amazement. ‘You spent nearly an hour listening to that fraud?’ I smiled. ‘Well, it was raining so much that I could hardly go out and enjoy myself elsewhere. Hearing his stories was more entertaining than being cooped up in my hotel room.’ ‘Who are you talking about?’ This question came from a man of about forty. Dr Bhowmik had intro- duced him to me as Mr Khastagir. When Dr Bhowmik explained about Mr Eccentric, Khastagir gave a wry smile and said, ‘Why have you allowed such people to come and live in Darjeeling, Dr Bhowmik? They do nothing but pollute the air!’ Dr Bhowmik gave a slight smile. ‘Could the air of such a big place be polluted by just one man? I don’t think so!’ he remarked. The third guest was called Mr Naskar. He proceeded to give a short lecture on the influence of frauds and cheats on our society. In the end, I was obliged to point out that Mr Eccentric lived in such isolation that the chances of the society in Darjeeling being influenced by him were extremely remote. Dr Bhowmik had lived in Darjeeling for over thirty years. Khastagir was also an old resident. After a while, I just had to ask them a question. ‘Did an Englishman ever suffer a heart attack while riding a horse on Jalapahar Road? Do you know of any such case?’ 14 Chapter One

‘Who, you mean Major Bradley?’ Dr Bhowmik replied. ‘ That happened about eight years ago. He had a stroke—yes, I think it happened on Jalapahar Road. He was brought to the local hospital, but by then it was too late. Why do you ask?’ I told them about the button Mr Eccentric had found. Mr Khastagir seemed outraged. ‘You mean that man told you this story, and claimed that he had some supernatural power? He appears to be a crook of the first order! Why, he’s spent a few years in Darjeeling, hasn’t he? He could easily have heard of Bradley’s death. What’s supernatural about that?’ To tell the truth, the same thought had already occurred to me. If Mr Eccentric had heard the story from someone in Darjeeling, that was hardly surprising. I changed the subject. The next few minutes were spent discussing various other topics. When it was time for me to leave, Mr Naskar rose to his feet as well. He had to go past my hotel, he said, so he wanted to walk back with me. We said goodbye to Dr Bhowmik and left. It had started to get dark. For the first time since my arriv- al in Darjeeling, I noticed that the thick clouds had parted here and there. Through the gaps, the light from the setting sun broke through and fell, like a spotlight, on the city and its surrounding mountains. Mr Naskar had struck me as a man in good health. But now, it became obvious that he was finding it hard to walk uphill. Nevertheless, be- tween short gasps, he asked me, ‘Where does this Eccentric live?’ ‘Why, do you want to meet him?’ ‘No, no. Just curious.’ I told him where Mr Eccentric lived. Then I added, ‘The man goes out often for long walks. We might run into him, who knows?’ Amazingly, only two minutes later, just as we reached a bend, I saw Mr Eccentric coming from the opposite direction. In one hand, he was holding his heavy walking stick. In the other was a packet wrapped in newspaper. When he saw me, he did not smile; but then, nor did he seem displeased. ‘There’s something wrong with my electric supply,’ 15Mr. Eccentric

16 Chapter Two

Chapter Two ‘There’s no power at home. So I came out to buy some candles.’ Courtesy made me turn to Mr Naskar. ‘This is Mr Mukherjee. And this is Mr Naskar,’ I said, making introductions. Naskar turned out to be quite western- ized. Instead of saying ‘Namaskar’, he offered his hand. Mr Eccentric shook it quietly, without saying a word. Then he appeared to turn into a statue, and just stood there, rooted to the spot. Naskar and I both began to feel uncomfortable. After nearly half a minute, Naskar broke the silence. ‘Well, I had better be going,’ he said. ‘I had heard about you, Mr Mukherjee. Now, luckily, I’ve had the chance to meet you.’ I had to say something, too. ‘Goodbye, Mr Mukherjee!’ I said, feeling somewhat foolish. Mr Eccentric seemed truly insane. He was standing in the middle of the road, lost in thought. He did not appear to have heard us, nor did he see us leave. He might have taken a dislike to Naskar, but didn’t he behave in a perfectly friendly fashion towards me, only that morning? We left him behind and continued walking. After a few minutes, I turned my head and looked back. Mr Eccentric was still standing where we had left him. ‘From what you told us, I thought the name “Eccentric” might be suit- able,’ said Naskar, ‘but now I think it’s a lot more than that!’ It was nine o’clock in the evening. I had just had my dinner, put in a 17Mr. Eccentric

and was toying with the idea of going to bed with a detective novel, when a bearer came and told me that someone was looking for me. I came out of my room and was most surprised to find Mr Eccentric waiting for me. What was he doing in my hotel at nine o’clock? He still looked a little dazed. ‘Is there anywhere we can sit and talk privately?’ he asked. ‘I wouldn’t mind talking to you outside, but it’s raining again.’ I invited him into my room. He sat down, sighed with relief and said, ‘Could you feel my pulse, please?’ I took his hand and gave a start. He was running a fairly high tem- perature. ‘I have got Anacin with me. Would you like one?’ I said, concerned.The man smiled. ‘No, no tablet is going to work now. This fever won’t go down before tomorrow morning. Then I’ll be all right. But I am not worried about my temperature. I have not come to you looking for medical treatment. What I need is that ring.’ Ring? What ring? The perplexed look on my face seemed to irritate Mr Eccentric. ‘That man—Laskar or Tusker, whatever his name is!’ he said a little im- patiently. ‘Didn’t you see his ring? It’s an ordinary, cheap old ring, not set with stones or anything. But I want it.’ Now I remembered. Yes, Naskar did wear a silver ring on his right hand. Mr Eccentric was still speaking. ‘When I shook his hand, I could feel that ring brush against my palm. Immediately, I felt as if my whole body would explode. Then the same old thing happened. I went into a trance and began watching the scenes that rose before my eyes. But before the whole thing could fin- ish, a jeep came from the opposite end and ruined everything!’ ‘So you didn’t see the whole episode?’ ‘No. But what little I did see was bad enough, let me tell you. It was a murder. I did not see the murderer’s face. I only saw his hand, moving forward to grasp his victim’s neck. On his hand was that ring. The vic- tim was wearing a Rajasthani cap, and glasses with a golden frame. His eyes were bulging, he had just opened his mouth to scream. One of his lower teeth had a gold filling. That’s all I saw.I’ve got to have 18 Chapter Two

that ring!’ I stared at Mr Eccentric for a few seconds. Then I said, ‘Look, Mr Mukherjee, if you want that ring, why don’t you ask Mr Nas- kar yourself? I don’t know him all that well. Besides, I don’t think he views your hobby with any sympathy.’ ‘In that case, what good would it do if I asked him? It might be better if you . . .’ ‘Very sorry, Mr Mukherjee,’ I interrupted him, speaking plainly, ‘it wouldn’t work even if I went and asked him. Some people are very attached to some of their possessions. Naskar may not wish to part with that ring. If it was something he was not actually using every day, he might have . . .’ I broke off. Mr Eccentric did not waste another second. He sighed, got to his feet and left, disappearing into the dark, damp night. His demand was really weird, I thought to myself. It was one thing to pick up objects from the roadside. But to ask for something someone else was using, just to add one more item to his collection, was certainly wrong. No one could have helped him in this respect. Besides, Naskar did not ap- pear to be a man with any imagination. It was stupid to expect him to understand and just give away his ring. The next morning, seeing that the clouds had dispersed and the day was bright, I left for a walk after a cup of tea. My aim was to go to Birch Hill. The Mall was full of people. I had to walk carefully to avoid colliding with people on horseback, and others walking on foot, like me. A few minutes later, I found myself in the relatively quiet road to the west of Observatory Hill. Mr Eccentric’s sad face kept coming back to me. If I ran into Naskar by chance, perhaps I would speak to him about that ring. It might not mean a great deal to him, he might not mind giving it to me. I could well imagine the look on Mr Eccentric’s face if I handed the ring over to him. When I was a child, I used to collect stamps; so I knew something about a collector’s passion. Sometimes, one’s passion could turn into an obsession. Besides, Mr Ec- centric did not meddle with anyone, he was happy living alone with his crazy hobby. He was not trying to harm anyone else, and this was probably the first time that he was coveting someone else’s posses- sion, although it was nothing valuable. 19Mr. Eccentric

To tell the truth, I had come to the conclusion the previous night that Mr Eccentric had no supernatural powers at all. His collection was based simply on his peculiar imagination. But if that brought him joy and con- tentment, why should anyone else object? I spent almost two hours walking near Birch Hill, but did not see Naskar. On my return through the Mall, I had to pick my way through the crowd once again. How- ever, this time many people in the crowd appeared agitated about something. Knots of people were scattered here and there, discussing something excitedly. As I got closer, I heard the words ‘police’, ‘inves- tigation’ and ‘murder’. I spotted an old gentleman in the crowd and decided to ask him what had happened. ‘Oh, they say a suspected criminal fled from Calcutta and came here. The police followed his trail and are looking for him everywhere,’ the man told me. ‘Do you know his name?’ ‘I couldn’t tell you his real name. I believe he calls himself Naskar.’ My heart jumped into my mouth. There was only one person who could give me more information: Dr Bhowmik! As it happened, I did not have to go to his house. I ran into him and Khastagir near a rickshaw-stand. ‘Just imagine!’ Dr Bhowmik exclaimed. ‘Only yesterday, the fellow came to my house and had tea. He had come to me some time ago, complaining of a pain in his stomach. Said he was new to the city. So I treated him, and thought I’d introduce him to some other people. That was only yesterday, for heaven’s sake. And now this!’ ‘Has he been arrested?’ I asked anxiously. ‘No, not yet. The police are looking for him. He’s still in Darjeeling, so they’ll find him sooner or later, never fear.’ Dr Bhowmik left with Khastagir. My pulse started racing faster. It wasn’t just that Naskar had turned out to be a criminal. That was amazing enough. But what about Mr Eccentric? He did say that ring was worn by a murderer. Could it really be that he had some super- natural power, after all? I had to go and see him. Had he heard the news about Naskar? I must find out. When I knocked on the door of house number seventeen, no one opened it. I tried again, with the same result. I couldn’t really 22 Chapter Two

afford to wait outside, for the sky had become overcast again. So I left, and walked briskly back to my hotel. Within half an hour, it began raining very heavily. The bright, sunny morning had become a thing of the past. Where was Naskar hiding? Who had he killed? How had he killed? At half past three, the manager of my hotel, Mr Sondhi, gave me the news. The police had found the house where Naskar was staying. Right behind it was a deep gorge. In that gorge, Naskar’s dead body had been discovered. His head was crushed. Various the- ories were being put forward, including suicide, momentary insanity, and falling to his death while trying to escape. Apparently, there had been some disagreement with his business partner. Naskar had mur- dered him, hid his body and run away to Darjeeling. The police had eventually found the body in Calcutta and begun looking for Naskar. Now I absolutely had to see Mr Eccentric. I could no longer dismiss his words. Events in Switzerland and Waltair might have been made up, he might have heard about Bradley’s death in Darjeeling, but how did he know that Naskar was a murderer? Around five o’clock, the heavy rain settled into a drizzle. I left my hotel and went to Mr Eccen- tric’s house again. This time, the door opened immediately. Mr Eccen- tric greeted me with a smile, and said, ‘Come in, my friend, come in. I was thinking of you.’ I stepped in. It was almost dark. A single candle flickered on the table. ‘There’s no electricity,’ Mr Eccentric explained with a wan smile. ‘They haven’t yet reconnected the supply.’ I took a cane chair, sat down and said, ‘Have you heard?’ ‘About your Tusker? I don’t need to hear anything, I already know the whole story. But I am grateful to him.’ ‘He has given me the most important item in my collection.’ ‘Given you?’ My throat suddenly felt dry. ‘There it is, on that table. Look!’ I glanced at the table again. Next to the candle was the notebook and, placed on an open page, was Mr Naskar’s ring. ‘I was recording all the details. Item number 173,’ Mr Eccentric said. ‘Well, naturally he didn’t give it to me voluntarily. I had to use force,’ Mr Eccentric sighed his stick were nothing but marks left by dried blood. 23Mr. Eccentric

This book would not have been possible without the support, guid- ance, and inspiration of many people. I would like to express my heartfelt gratitude to the Unitedworld Institute of Design and my faculty mentors, Lopamudra Ma’am and Nagesh Sir, for their constant encouragement, insightful feedback, and belief in my creative journey. I am thankful for the tools that supported my process, especially Grammarly for refining the text, and I extend my deepest respect and admiration to Satyajit Ray, whose brilliant story formed the foundation of this project. My sincere thanks to Harsimran Kaur Publications for publishing this book, and to Siddhi Printech for their excellent printing and crafts- manship. I am grateful to my parents and friends for their unwavering support. A special thank you to my roommate, Palak Singhal, for being an honest reader, a thoughtful critic, and an expert guide throughout the making of this book. This project is a reflection of the encouragement and love I received from all of you. Harsimran Kaur ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 27

WW During a misty monsoon walk in Darjeeling, the narrator meets Mr. Eccentric, a thin, intense man who spends his days searching the roadside as if he sees things no one else can. What begins as a curious encounter slowly grows into an eerie mystery, revealing secrets that linger long after the holiday ends. Cover illustration Harsimran Kaur Cover design Harsimran Kaur www.harsimrankaur.co.in HK An Imprint of Harsimran Kaur Publications