And then…? The last-bencher from a Bengali-medium school, who once found solace behind dog-eared notebooks and broken ceiling fans, finally closed the chapter on academics and somehow stepped into the Big Boys’ Club. His only real asset? The BENGALI language. And a heart full of guts — like Shankar from Bivutibhushan Bandyopaddhaya’s ‘Chander Pahar’.
But once he got on the field, he realised this game was rigged — and the pitch? It clearly belonged to the old-school elites. The salt-stained walls of his North Kolkata home and the grease-streaked shirt could probably win a battle back home, but here? Everyone was polished, clean-shaven, smart, sharp. Every move came with the fear of a lion’s roar — or a black mamba’s strike like Africa. The corporate jungle didn’t take kindly to dreamers who woke up late and binged on luchi-aloor torkari before writing. Still, he thought, “Well, I’ve landed here — might as well stay a while.” And then came the chaos. Missed deadlines. Last-minute article edits. Speed-writing scripts with a ticking clock overhead. Clients glaring, snapping —
“This is ad copy? Where’s the product hook? You think creativity is a sandbox?”
But somehow, gasping for air, he kept swimming. And slowly, he adapted. He realized the back alleys of the Bengali language he once strutted through so casually — they weren’t just shortcuts. They were a treasure map. A whole world of storytelling awaited in those syllables.
He could live a lifetime as a humble wordsmith and never run out of stories. So he kept writing — in his own rhythm. Because though the deadline was unknown, time itself… felt infinite. But one day he will climb Mount Richtersveld. And there, he’ll stumble upon an endless mine of diamonds, just waiting to be found.