The Package

Sudip was vigorously typing out the plot of his first novel. While working full-time on weekdays, it was obvious that Saturdays and Sundays had to be spent researching and accentuating his storyline. Sreejita was supportive of her husband’s eccentricities. She hadn’t protested when Sudip had suddenly popped the idea that he wanted to author a book. She took care of the household chores without bothering him. She put up with him elaborately discussing his thoughts on the plot in bed at night. In fact, she was the one who had suggested the broad storyline for this novel. Sudip had liked it and had started penning it down. She enthusiastically responded every time he asked for her advice on the plot even when she was busy. This weekend, she had to visit her ailing grandmother. She would be away for three days. Sudip had decided to stay back and work on adding pieces to the increasingly complex puzzle that he has set out to create- his novel.

Triiiiiing. Triiiiiing.

Sudip was left perplexed for a couple of seconds before he could identify the familiar sound as the doorbell. Irritated for having to leave his work mid-way, he got up and started zombie-walking towards the door.

Who could it be? He glanced at his watch. It was 2:35 PM.

As he reached the door, he peeped through the keyhole. There was either no one or the keyhole was naturally so hazy with dirt that he couldn’t make out if there was someone outside at all. Unlatching the door, Sudip peeked outside. There indeed was no one. But there was a package that lay unattended. Without touching it, he stepped outside and tried looking if anyone was around. It was an apartment that he lived in, and he could see the door of the flat opposite his, the staircase and the elevator. There was no one. He walked down a floor to the ground-floor, looking for the security guard. He was nowhere to be seen. Irritated, he mumbled something to himself. Sudip was not someone who would complain about missing security guards. He usually didn’t meddle in the matters of his apartment complex. Walking back to his door, he found the package still there.

Not sure what to do, he carried it inside. It was not as heavy as he had expected from the size. The carton was a cuboid about the size of a laptop along its length and height. Sudip lifted the package to see what’s underneath. There was a white paper-label pasted on the package. He turned it and put it upside down on the drawing room table. The label read his name in bold: Sudip Chattopadhyay. The address was listed in block letters. All in print. Not hand-written. The sender’s name was missing. Curiosity only heightened.

Sudip tried to tear open with his hands the tapes that wrapped the package. He made a mess of the tapes but somehow was able get through after an irritating several minutes long effort. He removed the cardboard flap and looked inside. It seemed to be a heap of papers. Carefully picking one sheet of paper from inside, he tried to make sense of what’s inside. It was a letter. He wondered why he was delivered this package. Emptying the package, he found all kinds of papers- some handwritten, others printed; some stamped and legal, others casual and friendly; some from banks, others from lawyers. Sudip did not know what to make out of all these. But there was one thing he knew: it was a mystery he had to solve.

When Sreejita called in the evening, Sudip carefully concealed the story of the mystery package. He didn’t want her to get upset. He spent hours reading through the multiple letters exchanged among several of these unknown characters, documents of will, property and marriage, and notices from banks and judges. This was a puzzle and he badly wanted to solve it. He took out an A4 from his drawer and started scribbling notes as he read through each of these papers a second time. He had almost forgotten his dinner. Sreejita had to call and remind him. Sunday was no different. The entire day was spent trying to understand what these documents conveyed. There was a message and he had to uncover it.

Late Sunday night, Sudip had started to make some sense of what was there. Contrary to what he had expected, he had started to feel very uncomfortable. The story seemed to fit largely to the plot that he was coming up with- with added condiments of mystery, seasoned with a dose of reality; or so it seemed. After all, the stamps and the letterheads could hardly have been counterfeit.  

Sudip took his glasses off and shut his eyes. He was disturbed. How could it have been possible that he was writing a story that had already occurred but of which he had no clue? But that was not his biggest worry. How would someone know of the story he was working on and the eerie similarity with events that had already taken place? The only person who knew of his novel was his wife.

Cringgg. Cringgg.

“What happened? Is everything okay? Why are you calling so late?”, cringed Sreejita, sounding worried.

“Did you tell anyone about my novel?”

“Umm, no, I don’t think… why? What happened?”

“Nothing”, and after a moment of pause, Sudip hastily said in a disappointed tone, “Go back to sleep. We’ll talk when you’re back. Good night!”

Before she could respond, he had hung up.

When Srijeeta got back from her grandmother’s the next day, she found sheets of papers lying all over the room. Sudip was sitting in the reading room, looking tense. The suspense was driving him crazy.

She smiled at him. He did not smile back.

“Do you know what happened?”, Sudip started off, trying to set the context.

“Yes, I do.” Srijeeta was calm as usual.

“This is no time for joke. I couldn’t sleep properly for the last two days. I skipped office today.”

Srijeeta held his hands and took him to his bed. As she caressed his forehead, the soothing touch made Sudip almost fall asleep. Srijeeta offered no explanation. She only said, “Let’s just say that I got inspired by a real-life incident in my family. Remember, this story was my idea? I decided to make your life a little easier; and two of your days a little complex.”

Sudip was speechless. Solving the mystery all by himself had done him more good, he had to admit. He was better equipped to write.

Sreejita continued, “I had an experience. You have the craftsmanship of an author. I have a story and you know the skills of the language. That’s why we make such a good pair. Good night!”