Lisa Chakravarty

Lisa Chakravarty is 31 years old and he is not from Calcutta.

His parents are Finnish. They came to India, looking for something they called ‘The greater truth’, whatever that was supposed to mean. Lisa wasn’t born in India. Chakravarty was the name of the old optician in Benares who rented out the top floor of his house to the young couple for a short spell of time. He would never look them in the eye and would mutter under his breath when they walked by. But he was kind to them in ways few people ever are.

Lisa Chakravarty is 31 years old and he has been a strange, old man since the day he was born. Strange things happen around him at strange times.

Eggs cracked open would spill rose water onto the skillet and the yolk was always a thick, pink glob of congealed rose petals. Wolf pups would be found standing outside the chicken coop, grey heads cocked to one side, clucking and cackling with the hens. Washing that had been put out to dry would turn transparent, like the colour had been dried out of them too.

And there, just a few steps away, would be Lisa. Standing vapid and water-like in his knee high socks with a raven perched on his hat. Strange things happened around Lisa Chakravarty. And if you watched him closely, you’d know why.