By Sayandev Chatterjee

Featured Art: Stephen Reichert, Untitled, 2013. Oil on canvas, 12″ x 12″. “Cirlce” series.

The jarring shriek of the alarm clock slapped Srinath into wakefulness. Fumbling through the tangled mosquito net, he wrestled with the timepiece, finally silencing its insistent bickering. Delicate strokes of sunlight filtered through the louvered windows, painting soft stripes across his cramped hostel room floor. He lay still, his heart thudding as fragments of last night’s dream clung to his mind like cobwebs on the peeling paint above. It was always the same dream.

The clock read 6:00 a.m. Gupta-ji, the boss, had demanded an early start. Srinath could almost smell the polyester and sweat from the Mickey Mouse suit waiting for him at the store. But first, there would be shelves to stock, floors to mop.

With a groan, he forced himself out of the cozy cocoon of blankets. The cold floor shocked him fully awake. A queue already snaked from the community tube well; he realized there would be no time for a bath. The bus to work arrived fashionably late, packed with double the usual passengers perched precariously at the door. He couldn’t afford any more delays and, muttering a quick ‘Jai Maa Kaali’ under his breath, resigned himself to the human sardine can.

The bus lumbered through morning traffic, vying for space amid taxis, rickshaws, matadors, and autos; their perpetual urgency marked by the increasing decibels from the impatient blare of horns. Squished between bodies like a commuter sandwich, Srinath let his gaze drift out the window, watching the city slowly come to life. As sweat beaded on his forehead, he saw them—a group of youngsters playing cricket on a passing field, their white uniforms radiating the morning light. One of the boys glanced up, and for an instant, their eyes met. The boy smiled, almost as if he saw something in Srinath that he himself could not see. A faint longing tightened in his chest, and his thoughts began to drift—to his dream last night.

A brisk early winter morning in his village, the air crisp and clean. The wiser folks of the village were still nestled in their beds, soaking in the last bit of warmth from the embrace of their quilts. But for a spirited troupe of youngsters, the cold was but a mere whisper. Who cares about comfort when a game of cricket is to be played, and dreams of becoming the next Sachin or Ganguly are at stake?

Their field overlooked the once majestic abode of the village’s zamindars, now a skeletal ruin, scarred by peeling paint, tendrils of moss, and weeds clawing through the cracks.

Makeshift stumps of worn-out bricks. A batter poised in front, clutching a bat etched with more stories than the village library, taking his sweet time to survey the opposing fielders. The bowler, anxiously waiting to unleash his thunderous torpedoes, snapped out, “Hey, Tendulkar in the making! Hurry up, we don’t have all day!”

But just as the words faded, a hauntingly beautiful melody drifted from somewhere unseen. Ethereal notes, as light as mist, wove through the sunlight-streaked haze, revealing a figure straight out of myth.

Emerging from the crumbling remnants of the palace walls, was the hue of the deepest ocean, draped in a golden veil that shimmered like the morning sun, while his dhoti swirled with saffron of the rising dawn. Atop his head sat a crown adorned with peacock feathers, while his lips coaxed life into a dancing flute. With each breath, the air stirred with the heady scents of jasmine, sandalwood, and rain-kissed earth. Time seemed to come to a standstill as Lord Krishna, the divine musician, stepped into the mortal realm.

The children, entranced by the sight, forgot their game and paused in wonder. Then, as if summoned by magic, they dashed toward him, chanting, “Bohurupi^[1] . . . Srinath bohurupi!” With his flute’s melody painting the air with magic, Mr. Bohurupi started his stroll through the village, a pied piper trailed by a throng of joyous children.

The group wove through yards, past the temple and along the road by the mosque. As they meandered through dusty alleys, more joined: young girls abandoning their hopscotch, excited children racing from doorways, and even a pair of curious stray dogs. And they continued, weaving a tapestry of joy.

Beyond the village, they followed him along a winding trail that snaked its way toward a precarious ridge. The path narrowed, twisting with each step, their breaths quickening as the ground sloped into a yawning drop below. Excitement sparked in the air, mixed with a shiver of unease, as the ridge loomed closer. The sky seemed thinner here, and the wind carried an eerie hush, wrapping them in silence.

Mr. Bohurupi stopped on his tracks, flute in hand, his gaze fixed ahead—steady, almost unblinking. For a moment, he stood motionless, as if weighing something unseen in the air. The children huddled closer, hands gripping sleeves, breaths shallow and synchronized, hearts hammering against their ribs. The silence stretched as he took one cautious step forward.

Then, with a faint click, the silence shattered as a loose stone gave way underfoot. Mr. Bohurupi stumbled, losing his footing. The group’s collective elation turned swiftly to gasps of horror as they watched their beloved guide tumble over the ridge’s edge and begin a perilous descent . . . into a yawning abyss . . .

………………………..

The bus jolted to a stop, jerking Srinath back to reality. This was the part of the dream where he would wake up.

He always wanted to be a bohurupi, like his father, and his grandfather and his father before him.

“Maharaja Krishnachandra was the king those days. He was so moved by your great-great-great-great grandfather’s performance that he awarded him a gold medal,” his grandma would recount, her hands folded in her lap, eyes soft with memory. Srinath was pretty sure grandma added a few extra “greats” just to be safe.

“Real gold, grandma?” he would ask, eyes wide. As a child, he had never seen real gold up close; his mother’s few pieces were imitation—thin coatings over copper, sometimes silver.

“Pure twenty-four karats,” she would reply, pride glowing in her face, her voice warm with old memories.

“Where’s the medal now, grandma?”

Grandma could not remember whether the medal had been stolen or pawned to pay for his great-grandfather’s cancer treatment.

Yet, amid the chaos of life, Srinath found solace in his craft. As a child, he delighted dressing as lord Shiva and dancing to the rhythms of damaru, the two headed drum. The rhythm would thrum through his bones, each beat echoing in his chest until the world around him dissolved. In those moments, nothing else mattered. And in his teenage years, when he dressed as lord Krishna, his best friend Ratan’s great-grandmother, ninety-five years young, would gaze upon him in wonder. “Baba, when I see you, it’s as if Lord Sri Krishna himself has graced this earth. God bless you, baba,” she would murmur, her voice barely louder than a breath, her eyes brimming with reverent tears.

And crowds would gather to witness his performances.

………………………..

The bus zig-zagged its way through narrow, single-lane roads, waltzing past centuries-old buildings and market stalls that boldly encroached upon the streets. Valiantly squeezing through tight openings that seemed to defy the rules of geometry, and nonchalantly brushing aside the side shops merely a whisper away, it ground to a near standstill.

“What’s the holdup?” an impatient passenger called out.

“Fish market up ahead,” a fellow rider sighed.

“Great. Why not just move it to the moon? This monkey business every morning . . . !” someone else grumbled, their complaint swallowed by the blare of horns and the morning commotion.

The bus turtled its way through the morning mayhem of the roadside fish market, navigating amid transactions that had spilled onto the main road. Bengalis take their fish very seriously; a pilgrimage to the market for the fresh catch is a daily ritual, kickstarting the day and honing their haggling skills. Securing the finest fish at the best price is about more than money—it is about earning bragging rights for the rest of the day.

Amid the buzzing car honks and cycle horns, and the animated chatter of fishmongers infused with the scent of fresh fish, Srinath took the time-machine back to his youth. The simple joys of trailing his father to the village fish market! The earthy aroma of fresh catch would liven the air, a memory as vivid as if it was just yesterday. He could almost taste those rich flavors from his mom’s kitchen: chingri malaikari, prawns smothered in a tango of coconut milk and curry, and sorshe ilish, hilsa swimming in the tangy warmth of mustard sauce—each dish spiced with warmth, care, and a touch of practical magic. These treats were rare in their modest home, made even more precious when shared with family. And his mom never wasted a scrap; the fish trimmings and bones would all be saved to make bati chochchori, a humble dish yet bursting with flavor.

Money was scarce, and he soon had to shoulder the responsibility of supporting his family solo. His dad, incapacitated by acute arthritis, could no longer venture out. By then, the village households had started getting their own TV sets and cable subscriptions with access to multiple channels. And video parlors began to sprout up around the street corners. And after paying for the cable bills and video parlor tickets, their entertainment budgets left little room to spare for the once-beloved street performer. Public transport and trains were good for business on some days, but soon enough Srinath found himself locked in competition with new-age performers armed with high-tech gear and flashy equipments. Modernity had crept in, and the rhythm of the world was shifting.

………………………..

Exiting the market, the bus veered onto a wider road and picked up momentum. The crowd had eased up and Srinath secured a seat as the bus surged forward, zooming past rows of light-posts and brick side-walls adorned with a kaleidoscope of ads, posters, and graffiti. He settled into his seat, his eyes wandering out the window. Amidst the rhythmic hum of the engine and the flickering scenery, he could not help but overhear snippets of a conversation from the front seat.

“I was at this international docu film fest yesterday,” a young man announced, his slick haircut, stylish French beard, and designer glasses—likely worth more than Srinath’s monthly rent—gleaming in the light. “Caught this mind-blowing flick called Man on the Wire.” He leaned back with a grin, as if he had just discovered the source of Kolkata’s finest caramel-sweetened yogurt.

His companion, nearly his age with thick-rimmed glasses and a scruffy beard that looked like it might come to life any minute, seemed intrigued. “Oh, really? Sounds interesting. What’s it about?”

“It’s all about this crazy dude Philippe Petit. Picture this: tightrope walking between the Twin Towers in New York City. It’s insane, right? The sheer audacity, the nerve—it’s enough to give you chills! The whole theater gave a standing O.”

The guy with the full beard nodded slowly, a slight smile playing on his lips.

“Wow, that’s impressive. But you know what the irony is—back in rural India we have so many performers pulling off equally jaw-dropping feats, yet nobody’s putting them in the spotlight.”

The first guy smirked, leaning back in his seat. “Ah, the rural Indian tightrope walkers! Cute, but let’s be real.”

“Ever heard of the village fair performers at Chaitra Sankranti festival?” the second guy countered.

“I didn’t know you had a tightrope walker between the Twin Towers in your village? Next time you have to give me a holler,” the first passenger started laughing hysterically.

The companion’s eyes narrowed. “This obsession certain educated types have with everything foreign. It’s . . . fascinating.”

“Here we go again with your so-called activism,” the first passenger shot back, an eyebrow arched in mock exasperation. “But tell me—what’s your government doing for these performers in rural Bengal?”

“Oh, more than you’d expect. But since we’re peeling back layers—” The companion leaned forward, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I’m genuinely curious. What’s your party accomplished lately in rural India?”

As their conversation took a new direction, Srinath’s thoughts veered to his run-in with a group of intellectual filmmakers while performing on a local train. Proloi Kar, their self-styled, magnetic ringleader, and his cohorts were so moved by his performance that just a few days later, they journeyed to Srinath’s village with grand plans to shoot a documentary about him and his art. Yet, once the film was completed, Proloi-babu and his crew vanished into thin air, leaving nothing but radio-silence in their wake.

………………………..

The bus shuddered to a sudden stop amidst a gridlock of stagnant vehicles; lights and sirens were flashing in the distance.

“What’s the holdup?” the bus conductor asked the traffic cop diverting cars to an alternate route.

“Major accident. Keep ’em moving,” the policeman snapped back.

The tedious detour frayed Srinath’s nerves, his eyes darting nervously to his watch, each tick of the second arm grating against his anxiety. His fingers drummed impatiently on his thigh. Would the store manager buy his explanation for the delay? His gaze flicked to the picture of Sai Baba behind the driver’s seat, and he whispered a silent prayer.

The chance to work at the city store fell into his lap unexpectedly. Ratan, his best friend, made deliveries to this sprawling, three-story emporium that catered to every conceivable need of the city’s residents. An opening appeared in the children’s section—a singular position that required dressing up as cartoon characters and greeting shoppers from the store’s entrance.

“Your main gig’s gonna be rockin’ these costumes. They’re a bit short on hands, so you might have to pitch in with some extras now and then—you know, like tidy shelves, sweep floors. But it’s just temporary ’til they find someone else for those jobs. Most of the time, you’ll strut around in those getups. And the kicker? You’ll bank in a week what you usually make in two months!!”

It was an exciting prospect indeed!

“What am I dressing up as?” he asked Ratan.

“Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, or something like that. Remember those Sunday morning cartoons on National TV?”

“. . . and what’s the deal?”

“Nothing too wild. Wave, hold up signs. If you feel like it, bust a move, dance a bit. But it’s your show, buddy, you do you.”

“And you believe I can pull it off?” A shadow of uncertainty furrowed Srinath’s brow. Could he breathe life into a Disney costume like he did portraying his revered gods: lord Krishna, Shiva, Rama, or maa Kaali? He had grown up with them; their stories were his essence, woven into his soul. They were not just tales—they were his family.

Ratan’s grin did little to ease Srinath’s doubts. “Trust me on this. Once you’re in that suit, it’ll feel natural.” Srinath wished he shared his friend’s confidence.

It had been his dream as a kid—performing to a city audience!

“To be real with you, most customers couldn’t care less. So, don’t sweat it! Just make sure you show up on time. It’s that easy,” Ratan was quick to add.

Seeing Srinath’s shoulders sag, Ratan got straight to the point, “Come on, man, you need to start thinking about that steady paycheck. Unless you want to keep hustlin’ with your bohurupi act?”

Ratan was right!

………………………..

When the bus reluctantly dropped Srinath off, a glance at the wristwatch made his heart skip a beat. His fingers instinctively touched the small locket of Ma Kali around his neck, as he sprinted towards the store entrance.

Paltu-da, the tea stall owner near the store, hollered, “Hey Srinath, fresh tea’s ready. Grab a pitcher before you head inside.” It was his one indulgence; his day would not truly begin without his morning ritual of sipping a clay pitcher brimming with the elixir of life—steaming milk tea.

“Later Paltu-da. I’m running late today.”

Hopefully Gupta-ji, the store manager, would be understanding. Or better still, perhaps Srinath could sneak in through the rear entrance without him noticing.

Alas, fate had other plans! Gupta-ji stood at the rear gate, ready to welcome Srinath with open arms. “Hey, look who’s here, our very own Michael Jackson! Didn’t expect to see you so soon, Sir-ji! Oh, and sorry for ruining your ninja entrance! By the way, that wristwatch—is it just for show, or does it actually tick?”

Srinath forced a tight smile, mumbling about the accident, but Gupta-ji waved him off. “I ain’t payin’ you to stand around and give me lame excuses, you lazy bum. I’m cutting half of your salary for today. Now, go get dolled up for your joker-act. And before you leave for the evening, make sure the damn store gets mopped!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then stop standing around like a lost sheep—move it! Or do you need me to hold your hand to find the floor?”

………………………..

Gupta-ji did not pull punches in private circles about the store’s gimmick to employ cartoon character impersonators. “It’s a dumbass idea! Hey we’re in India, not some Yankee-doodle-doo land. Who gives a rat’s ass about some fancy—dressed fools prancing around stores here? We’ve got bigger fishes to fry.” His voice was a beacon of reason among his confidants.

But fate had a whimsical twist in store for him—the brainchild originated from none other than the store-chain owner’s daughter herself. Armed with degrees in finance and marketing from the States, she had returned to helm the marketing ship. This was just one of her myriad schemes to overhaul the business and attract customers.

Her elevator pitch to the board was succinct: “We’re aiming to forge personal connections with shoppers and elevate the store’s ambiance. These impersonators will inject an extra dose of joy into young patrons and strike a chord with the youth and young at heart alike. We’re tapping into nostalgia and sparking curiosity, inviting passersby to explore our offerings. It’s been a Western trend for eons, and we’re blazing the trail here in India.” Though a tad overstated, she had swayed the powers-that-be just enough to greenlight a trial run in select outlets.

Gupta-ji could not help but scoff within his inner circle. “Owner’s NRI daughter thinks she’s the retail guru all of a sudden.”

“She has them fancy degrees from the US, boss,” someone would chirp by the side.

“Oh really!!! Well, she can shove that where the sun don’t shine! And you can borrow it to wipe that smug grin off your face too. I’ve been in this industry since I was in diapers, and let me tell you, it’s a dumbass idea! They might as well have flushed the money straight down the toilet.”

Gupta-ji did try to push back, only to be swiftly shot down by upper management. So, being the adaptable soul he was, he begrudgingly conceded. Reluctantly, he grumbled a half-baked compromise. “What we really need is a full-time janitor, willing to mop up this nonsense. Let him spin his wheels for when the boss lady shows her face—we ain’t in need of no extra frills. Just get the grunt work done, pronto,” he shared with his trusted confidants.

“So, basically a male Cinderella?” quipped somebody from the peanut gallery.

“Ain’t this the circus we’re in? Time to roll out the red carpet, boys!” Gupta-ji retorted.

“What if the boss lady picks someone completely different?” another asked. And just like he said, Srinath landed the gig.

“Golden opportunity,” Ratan had said, grinning like he had handed Srinath a winning lottery ticket. It did not take him long to realize the job was nothing like the glorious impersonator role he had imagined. Ratan had clearly oversold that part. Wearing the costume was only a brief daily stint—barely long enough for him to feel the itch of cheap fabric and warm up to the faint, sweaty, chemical smell trapped in the headpiece.

But for those fleeting minutes when he slipped into character, he felt alive. It just never lasted long . . .

The rest of the time? . . . Mastering the so-called “odd jobs”. It felt like steering a tram through rush-hour Calcutta traffic. And Gupta-ji’s patience wore thin. “Hey, junk fellow! I didn’t hire you to lollygag in that dumb costume all day. Get moving and do some real work! Those shelves ain’t gonna stock themselves. Move it, we ain’t got all day! Hey, someone, give this bugger a shot of Horlicks!”

Srinath would lower his head as Gupta-ji’s voice boomed. “And don’t forget to sweep and mop the floor before you clock out. Seriously, do I need to hold your hand through every little thing?”

Swallowing hard, he would pick up the mop. The sharp, acrid scent of the cleaning liquid stung his nostrils, rolling his mind back—to those evenings spent in the village square near the temple. The early summer breeze would gently caress his skin, whispering the honeyed fragrance of blossoming jasmine mingled with the earthy aroma of temple incense.

As he swished the mop into the cleaning liquid bucket, he could almost hear the crackling of fried dough in bubbling oil, with the rich, spicy notes of chickpea curry and potato dum curry wafting from nearby kitchens. And in the twilight the village would come alive. Evening worship at the temple would draw to a close with the chiming of bells and the resonating echoes of conches from nearby households. The laughter of children, the murmur of neighbors, and the distant clanging of temple bells played like a gentle lullaby, soothing the weary soul. The rhythmic humming of crickets and cicadas would set the stage, and the toddler in Srinath watched in awe as his father, bathed in the soft glow of lanterns, transformed into Lord Krishna, pouring his soul into the flute. The melody would weave through the cobblestone streets, beckoning neighbors from their homes. The memories of their applause amidst those lantern lights felt as vivid as ever. And he would wonder—could he ever recreate even a fraction of that magic?

Back in the present, his coworkers would nudge him back to reality with a hiss of urgency, “Srinath, pick up the pace, man! If that son of Gupta catches you dragging your feet, it’ll be a disaster!”

Srinath would nod, snapping back to focus, but his eyes betrayed him. They kept darting to the clock, his sideways glances a silent confession of impatience as he hurried through his other chores. His foot tapped a restless beat, his mind flickering between the ticking hands and the costumes hanging in the back, waiting for him to slip into character. Those few hours in costume were his escape, his chance to give everything he had, craving even a fleeting glimpse—a chuckle, a lingering glance, maybe even a bit of applause. But the shoppers darted past, their attention span for a random guy in a costume as fleeting as the memory of a goldfish. Occasionally, a passing kid would wave, perhaps out of casual reflex. And then there were those rare moments—a child would truly notice him and hit pause on life’s fast-forward button.

Like the other day, when a boy in the bustling crowd saw him and abruptly froze. Cue the mother, her voice tinged with frustration as she hurriedly backtracked to her wandering son. “How many times do I have to tell you not to let go of my hand in crowded places?”

“But, Mom, look! It’s Mickey Mouse!” the child exclaimed, eyes widening with excitement.

“We don’t have time for this, Jojo. We’re going to be late for your drama class. Let’s go! Hurry up,” the mom tugged the reluctant boy away. As one grows older, city life every so often snatches away the luxury “to stand and stare,” just as W. H. Davies had lamented!

And Gupta-ji was always watching, eyes sharp as a hawk’s, “He only got the job because the owner’s Americanized daughter saw him in some documentary. If it were up to me, that idiot would’ve been out the door long ago.”

………………………..

Gupta-ji’s assessment was dead-on—Srinath’s job at the store was indeed thanks to the one documentary by our esteemed Proloi-babu, the filmmaker introduced to us earlier. Turns out, the owner’s daughter had a personal link to Proloi-babu, recognizing Srinath straight from the screen.

Deep within Proloi-babu’s psyche simmered a conviction that greatness awaited him. Armed with his Western education, he burned to be the change society needed. But alas, fate had him relegated to sparking rebellions in idle coffeehouse banter; the right opportunities continued to play hide and seek!

Enter Srinath, the unsuspecting hero of our tale, performing on the train, unknowingly clutching Proloi-babu’s passport to glory! As Proloi-babu looked on, enlightenment struck—he saw it, his golden ticket!! Swiftly assembling an eclectic crew, he set forth to Srinath’s village. His mission? To capture the essence of Bengal’s bohurupis, those elusive specters, through his lens. His strategy? A documentary chronicling the tragic decline of a once-vibrant art form, now vanishing faster than a candy-colored ice-lolly on a sweltering, humid summer afternoon.

And he enthusiastically submitted his movie to the vast sea of film festivals worldwide, confident that his magnum opus would create a tsunami in the festival circuits. However, reality often writes its own script—the film struggled to generate even ripples.

Now, facing rejection is practically the baptism for avant-garde filmmakers. The Orson Welleses and Ritwick Ghataks of the world had all weathered similar slaps in their illustrious careers. However, resilience does not come with an inherent snub-proof shield. So, when the rejections started pouring in, Proloi-babu was so shocked that he momentarily blanked out on Srinath. I mean, who wouldn’t need a moment to regroup if their grand visions of world-saving unexpectedly hit a detour into rejection?

Yet, just as Proloi-babu was drowning in those letters, inspiration washed over him suddenly, like a tidal wave. After a tender moment of consolation, his girlfriend had casually tossed out her latest marketing brainwave for her dad’s stores. As he jumped into the shower and the warm water splashed over him, it struck like a bolt of lightning. His eyes lit up like that kid discovering grandma’s secret stash of homemade mango pickles.

With a sudden burst of excitement, he dashed to her, water dripping all over.

“What if Srinath performs his bohurupi acts outside your store? It could blend our fading traditional art with modern marketing. The publicity could be huge!”—it was as true an Eureka moment as can be. Genius, it seems, has a way of catching you with your pants down.

“You’re full of wild ideas, and I love that about you, babe. But let me handle the business. Our buyers might need a minute to warm up to these edgy concepts. Let’s start simple. Trust me, I’ve got this!” The puffs of smoke from her cigarette quashed his enthusiasm. “But hey, Srinath could totally land one of those store openings we’ll have.”

Proloi-babu, the dreamer, quietly dried himself, got dressed and departed—not everyone is gifted to embrace his revolutionary visions.

Nevertheless, Srinath had no hurdles getting the job at the store, thanks to a celestial endorsement from the upper echelons.

………………………..

Fast forward to the present, Srinath dashed up the stairs. The third-floor employee lounge was inconveniently tucked away for support staff needing frequent access to lower levels. Adding insult to injury, the elevator had chosen this morning to be out of order.

Inside, colleagues were discussing the morning road accident.

“Don’t you commute from that side of the city, Srinath?” one asked.

“Yeah, that’s why I was late this morning,” Srinath panted, snatching the Mickey Mouse bodysuit. “We’ll catch up later. Got to bounce.” He grabbed the mask and bolted downstairs.

Navigating those damn stairs in that oversized costume was a nightmare, but Srinath knew he had to hurry. He had begged for a smaller size but was told that the budget was tight. Today, the descent seemed like an eternity.

“Watch out . . .” The warning sliced through the air a little too late—WHAM! A force barreled into Srinath from behind, yanking him off balance like a ragdoll in a storm.

A teenager, caught up in the reckless euphoria of the moment, had attempted a selfie while backing down the stairs. His foot missed a step, and in an instant, he was rolling—a human tumbleweed hurtling out of control. Srinath, struggling under the weight of his ridiculous costume just a few steps below, had no clue what was happening above until the world exploded around him. The impact sent him careening down the stairs, his body a twisted mess against the unforgiving concrete. The thick fabric of his costume did little to soften the blows. Each step was a dagger of pain, the world spinning in a chaotic blur of noise and motion.

In the last heartbeat before his fall ended, he noticed her: a woman at the bottom, cup of coffee in one hand, phone pressed to her ear, oblivious to the disaster hurtling toward her. Her presence was surreal, like that nightmare you could not quite wake up from. His scream and the gasps of the spectators hit her too late. The collision was inevitable—the phone catapulted, coffee splashed, and for a moment, chaos and liquid brown painted the world.

Srinath lay sprawled on the ground, pain radiating from every bruised limb. His mind churned with emotions. Slowly, he gathered himself, hurrying to assist the woman. He apologized profusely. “I’m so sorry, ma’am.”

It took the lady a few long seconds to regain her composure.

“Oh, you careless idiot,” she blurted out even as Srinath and some onlookers tried to help her up. “Look at my cardigan! It’s ruined. Who’s going to pay for this? Where’s the manager?”

Gupta-ji was close by and came storming.

“You bumbling buffoon!” He was in no mood to listen to anything Srinath had to say. “You think you’re some kinda performer? Can’t even walk right! GET THE HELL OUTTA MY STORE, YOU TURD!” he yelled.

………………………..

Srinath’s steps felt heavier under the weight of the costume as he trudged away, Gupta-ji’s yelling still ringing in his ears. Customers had begun to trickle in. Uncharacteristically, Srinath felt an overwhelming urge to escape the prying gazes and inquisitive stares. Tears brimmed in his eyes as he stumbled out of the store, slumping onto a nearby bench at the tea stall, burying his face in his hands.

Paltu-da slid a steaming pitcher of milk tea across the counter. “Here, drink up. It’ll calm your nerves.”

Srinath took a sip, letting the earthy richness help him unwind, even as his mind lingered on the morning’s events.

His trance was interrupted by an unexpected cry. “NOOOO! I don’t want it.”

Srinath glanced up. Across the street, a child in a wheelchair was struggling with intense emotions, tears carving down his flushed cheeks. The woman beside him, likely the mother, tried to soothe him, but his anguish seemed overwhelming. A small crowd gathered nearby, watching from a distance.

As Srinath looked on, his granddad’s words echoed in his mind: “You’ve got it, kiddo! Picture our performances like those green coconuts. Some folks just want the water, some want the soft meat, and a few want the whole thing. And yeah, some will just walk right past! Doesn’t matter—our job’s to keep at it. Find the right people, and serve ’em the coconut they need. If you can bring a smile to even one face, well, that’s worth more than gold. That’s real success.”

His heart pounded as if trying to break free. He rose to his feet and took tentative steps across the street, the cacophony of honking horns and chattering pedestrians fading into the background. With trembling hands, he adjusted the oversized Mickey Mouse headgear, the familiar scent of sweat and polyester filling his nostrils. As the teary eyes locked onto him, something stirred inside.

In his best Mickey Mouse voice, he greeted the child. The child stared curiously. Srinath began his dance, clumsy yet funny. The tears slowly disappeared, and out came a smile. Then, a small giggle. Another. Then a clap. Srinath took a deep breath.

A nearby cassette store was playing Bollywood medleys; the stage lights had flickered to life, and Srinath’s heart raced as he began to dance and twirl.

“Again!” The claps became louder, more frequent. “Do it again!” The mom’s eyes brimmed with gratitude as she witnessed her son’s transformation. Srinath felt a gentle warmth bloom in his chest, something he had not felt in a long time. He had found his purpose.

The cassette store had started playing “Jeena yahan, marna yahan, iske siwah, jana kahan?” (A Bollywood movie song that roughly translates to “This is my home, my life, my final destination; where else to go?”)

Srinath proceeded to bust out the ‘360° Spin’ and ‘The Windmill,’ classic Mickey Mouse dance moves. He had sweet-talked Bishu-da from the store’s Media Center with bribes of delectable snacks of pakoras and cups of tea to secure late evening access to the video parlor. It had been ages since he had last seen those Mickey Mouse cartoons on TV, and he was eager to brush up his memory.

“Yeah, sure!” Bishu-da would chuckle hearing Srinath’s intentions. “Just keep it down, don’t make a mess, and clean up after yourself.”

Srinath would sneak in during the late hours, watch the cartoons and practice the voices and the dance moves. But he never had an audience to show them off—until now.

As he danced, the ground seemed to slip away beneath his feet. His movements grew lighter, smoother, until it felt like his body was not bound to the earth at all. He spun, leaped—his arms stretching as if they could brush the clouds, as if he might actually catch the kite that fluttered above, streaks of yellow, orange, and red swaying lazily in the breeze.

He barely noticed the murmurs of the crowd, heads turning to follow his every move. The mother’s whispered “Thank you” was soft, almost swallowed by the wind. But it was the child’s laughter, pure and bright, that wrapped around him like a song, a melody that moved through his veins. Every clap of the child’s hands sent a jolt of warmth through him, like a beat he could dance to. He had not felt this light, this free, in as long as he could remember. The applause rippled around him, now distant and unimportant. His feet kept moving, the rhythm of the moment pulling him deeper, the world beyond fading away. He was weightless now, carried by the magic that lived in each step, each breath, each twirl—lost in a joy he had almost forgotten existed, soaring far above the applause, the crowd, even the kite.

(inspired by Satyajit Ray’s “Patol Babu Film Star,” the many fiction and
non-fictional works on the life of ‘bohurupi’s on print, media, and silver
screen and their lives in general)

^[1] Masked street performers in West Bengal and other states in India

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Sayandev Chatterjee, a scientist by training, was born in Calcutta, India and now splits his time between Washington State and North Carolina. “Can Mickey Dance?” is his first published story and was a finalist in New Ohio Review’s 2024 Fiction Contest.

Stephen Reichert (American, b. 1975), Baltimore City, Maryland, is a multidisciplinary artist with recent solo shows at Hancock Solar Gallery, Co_Lab, Baltimore City Hall, and Sotheby’s Roland Park Gallery; a current show at The Fox Building; and group shows at Ellington-White Contemporary, The Peale Museum, American Visionary Art Museum, Arts Fort Worth, University of Maryland, National Art League, Cerulean Arts Gallery, Abington Art Center, Sebastopol Center for the Arts and many others. He is the editor of the poetry magazine Smartish Pace. Reichert is represented by K. Hamill Fine Art & Design.