By Samrat Roy Choudhury
It was a typical Sunday morning. Geeta, our domestic help, was busy frying puris in the kitchen. Dad sat engrossed in the newspaper while I tackled the crossword and sudoku puzzles. Suddenly, Maa walked into the room, launching into a monologue without pause:
“Have you heard the news? The entire neighborhood is buzzing about it! Nirmal Chatterjee’s daughter, Jinia—though her proper name is Prakriti or something—Naina’s mom called to tell me. Can you believe it? We were just discussing her behavior—it was always peculiar, wasn’t it? Sure, our daughters wear fashionable clothes, but that girl? Every time you saw her, you’d wonder what she’d wear next! And we didn’t say a word—after all, her parents didn’t seem to care. But now, look at this mess!”
At this point, Dad lowered the newspaper, fixing Maa with a steady gaze—not curious or questioning, just calm, as if Maa had interrupted a crucial train of thought. Undeterred, Maa continued, “She went to New York to study, didn’t she? And now, she’s back and causing such an uproar—can you even imagine?”
Before I could hear more, Maa’s eyes landed on me, sitting quietly in a corner. She abruptly fell silent, then, with a hint of irritation, asked, “What are you doing here? Don’t you have SAT classes?”
I replied, “That’s in the afternoon. What’s wrong with Jinia?”
Maa shot back sharply, “Mind your own business. If there’s something you need to know, I’ll tell you. And don’t you go discussing this outside with anyone.” She exchanged a quick glance with Dad before storming out of the room as abruptly as she had entered. I buried my face back in the crossword puzzle.
Jinia and my sister had been classmates at Diocesan, Calcutta. When my sister moved to Brabourne College, Jinia left for New York City to study Economics.
I liked her a lot. She was my sister’s friend but often played cricket with us boys. Jinia stood out for so many reasons—her wavy, shoulder-length hair, her torn jeans, and the “DKNY” t-shirts she wore when walking down our street. She rode a scooter, excelled at aerobics, and danced beautifully. But it was one cultural event that made her extra special to us. She played a princess in a dance drama, and that evening elevated her to movie-star status in our eyes.
Her circle of friends was mostly boys, a mystery we found fascinating. Once, I asked her, “Why do you have so many guy friends?” She laughed and said, “Boys are nicer by heart than girls. They don’t quarrel over little things. No drama—just no tension.” That Jinia saw us boys in a positive light thrilled us.
Ladies in my mother’s circle didn’t share our admiration for her, likely because of her dozen or so male friends. Her father, however, often socialized with my dad. When Jinia left for New York, both Maa and my sister went to her house to see her off. After that, there was no news about her for almost a year.
That’s why Maa’s attempt to hide the details only piqued my curiosity further. What had happened to Jinia?
That afternoon, I went straight to my sister’s room. After some small talk, I asked, “What’s the deal with Jinia?”
Hesitating, she replied, “Jinia came back yesterday. She’s in really bad shape—you wouldn’t recognize her. Whatever trouble she got into has started spreading as gossip. They’re planning to take her to Vellore this week.” Impatient, I asked, “What happened? Did someone do something to her?”
In truth, I wanted to ask, Was she raped? My sister replied, “No. Jinia’s probably not going to survive. She’s been diagnosed with AIDS.”
The word hit me like a bolt—AIDS? I exclaimed, “What??” Both of us fell silent for half a minute. Composing myself, I asked, “How did this happen?” My sister didn’t respond, burying her attention in a magazine instead.
I pressed on, “So, what’s going to happen now? Aren’t you going to see her?” Her face showed a mix of surprise and reluctance, as if to say, Why me? Finally, she added, “We’re not supposed to go near Jinia right now.”
Back in my room, I grabbed my biology book and opened the chapter on viruses and bacteria. The single bold word—AIDS—jumped out at me. I read with a mix of thrill and dread, as if I were poring over a forbidden novel.
The chapter expanded: Acquired Immuno-Deficiency Syndrome—a zoonotic disease originating in vervet monkeys and caused by the Human Immunodeficiency Virus (HIV). The virus initially causes mild symptoms, like the flu, before hiding in white blood cells for months or years (the clinical latency stage). When the immune system finally detects it, a battle ensues—antibodies versus the virus. But the virus, having mimicked the structure of our own antibodies, fights like a deceptive warrior, leaving the immune system confused and defenseless.
I stopped reading. Jinia’s face flashed in my mind.
The virus’s biology felt irrelevant compared to the neighborhood’s whispered judgments. “She must’ve been shameless!” “It’s a punishment for immorality.” Even Geeta, our maid, had her own theories, mixing rumors with half-truths.
Amid my studies, I pictured Jinia—bald, smeared with soot, laughing mockingly: “Boys are much better than girls—no drama, no arguments, just no tension.”
Her makeup, once glamorous, now seemed like the mask of a villainess.
I’d glance at her house every time I passed by, my eyes drawn to her second-floor window. It remained shut, the lights always on. One day, I heard she’d been taken to Vellore for treatment. Soon after, my exams came, and in the chaos, Jinia—Prakriti Chatterjee—faded from immediate memory.
Five Months Later
I had scored well on my SATs and been accepted to Caltech for an undergraduate program in Electronics. My family was overjoyed.
One day, likely returning from my visa interview, I heard someone call my name.
“Nikhil!”
I turned and saw Jinia leaning over the railing of her balcony, looking down at the street. Surprised and unexpectedly happy, I responded, “Hey, Jinia, how are you?”
“Come up!” she replied.
For a moment, hesitation crept in. Memories of the past months flashed through my mind. Should I go? What if Maa saw me? What if someone told my parents?
Noticing my hesitation, Jinia said, “You’re scared, aren’t you? Don’t worry, Nick. I’m much better now, and my illness isn’t contagious.”
Shame washed over me. Without another word, I walked straight to her house and pushed open the door.
Jinia’s room was immaculately organized, with large Donald Duck cutouts adorning the walls. A sweet, lingering fragrance filled the air. In one corner, a computer hummed softly, its fan spinning busily. As I stepped inside, my gaze fell upon a large framed photograph on the opposite wall—Jinia holding a white cockatoo, her face illuminated by a cheerful smile. Before I could look away, her voice interrupted my thoughts.
“Hey, Nick, have a seat!” she called from behind.
I settled into a chair and asked, “How are you now, Jinia?”
She looked at me directly, offering a faint smile before replying, “Still surviving, brother.”
We exchanged small talk—my admission to Caltech, neighborhood cricket matches, updates from home. But the conversation quickly dwindled into an awkward silence. Breaking it, Jinia said, “Listen, the reason I called you—could you ask Titir to visit me sometime? I feel so bored. No one comes here, and I can’t go anywhere.”
Her words trailed off into another pause. Unsure of how to respond, I asked, “What are you doing now? You were studying Economics, weren’t you?”
She gave me a strange look before replying, “Yeah, I quit—or rather, I was made to quit. Anyway, I probably have just a few months left, so it doesn’t matter anymore.”
Her words filled me with a deep, uncomfortable sorrow. Still, I managed to say, “No, no, everything will be fine.”
She didn’t respond, and silence hung heavy between us. Moments later, the housemaid brought in a plate of chicken sandwiches and sweets.
“Go ahead, eat,” Jinia urged softly.
After finishing, I stood up. “Jinia, I have to leave. I’ll ask Titir to come.”
She accompanied me to the stairs. It was only then that I noticed her properly—her frail, skeletal frame wrapped in a sleeveless maxi, her sunken, hollow eyes. The only thing unchanged was her short, wavy hair brushing against her shoulders.
Later, I told my sister about my visit—how I had spoken to Jinia, someone battling HIV. Titir’s reaction was sharp and incredulous, as if I had crossed some unthinkable line.
“She wants to see you,” I told her, adding that Jinia seemed excited about this year’s cultural play and wanted to participate.
Titir flared up. “Are you out of your mind? If the parents find out, none of us will be allowed at the rehearsals anymore. Besides, is she even well? Sure, AIDS isn’t contagious, but people won’t take it well. And you better not go there again. If anyone at home finds out, it’ll be a disaster.”
I didn’t argue. Instead, I retreated to my room, immersing myself in video games. But Jinia’s words wouldn’t leave me: “Nick, won’t you include me in the musical play this year?”
The following days became a strange game of avoidance. Each time I passed her house, I instinctively lowered my head, checking from a distance to ensure she wasn’t on the balcony. Yet, one day, our eyes met. Despite my attempts to look away, I couldn’t. Jinia stood on the balcony, wrapped in a woolen shawl despite the heat outside. Pale and weak, she gestured with her hands, asking, “Why haven’t you all come?” Hesitating, I nodded, pretending to promise, “We’ll come.” Whether she believed me, I couldn’t tell. I hurried away, feigning busyness.
As Christmas approached, we busied ourselves with rehearsals at the community hall. One afternoon, an unusual hush fell over the group—a ripple of discomfort. Turning toward the stairs, I saw Jinia slowly climbing up, one step at a time.
She wore an awkward smile, exhaustion etched across her face. “I came to watch your rehearsal,” she said, her grin widening with effort. “You’re not upset, are you?”
Before anyone could respond, she sank into an empty chair. “I won’t disturb you. I’ll just sit quietly and watch. Every year, I’ve been a part of this play. Who knows if I’ll be here for the next one?”
Her voice trembled as she continued, “Don’t be mad at me. I can’t stand being cooped up at home anymore. I can’t sleep at night. The medicines make my body crawl with discomfort, and the ticking clock in my empty room reminds me how close I am to the end. I know I’ll go, but I don’t want to die consumed by fear. So, I’ve come to you. Please, let me stay for a while.”
Her skeletal frame seemed to shudder with tears. The Jinia we had once adored—the confident, modern girl who spent countless afternoons with us laughing and playing—now stood before us, fragile and pleading.
In that moment, something shifted within us. Devi and Titir ran to her, embracing her tightly.
“Will you have some water?” they asked gently.
Wiping her tears, Jinia managed a faint smile. “Only sterilized water for me,” she replied.
From that day on, Jinia began attending rehearsals regularly. Despite her frailty, she threw herself into the production with enthusiasm. Amid rehearsals, snippets of her story emerged, painting a picture of the vibrant, fearless Jinia we once knew. She spoke of her days in New York City, the friends she made, and her first love, Adam—a bittersweet, incomplete chapter of her life.
Once she mentioned “I felt so free, living in a dorm with many of my friends in the neighboring rooms. The pain of being away from my parents faded quickly. I made so many new friends, and as you know, I’ve always been passionate about friendships.
One day, I met Adam, a final-year fine arts student at our college. There was something so unique about him—his way of walking, his manner of speaking—completely different from anyone else. Rumors swirled that he was a ‘bad guy,’ into questionable habits and constantly surrounded by girls. I thought to myself, Well, that doesn’t bother me; I have lots of male friends. So, I didn’t pay much attention to the gossip. Adam, however, was renowned for his art, even holding exhibitions.
When we first met, he immediately labeled me, saying, ‘You’re a Bengali-Indian—timid and snobbish.’ I protested, but he responded with a sly smile, as if he derived some peculiar pleasure from teasing me. Somehow, we grew incredibly close. You could say Adam became my so-called first love. My life felt transformed—I was always with him, sharing everything. Despite his reputation, believe me, he never once crossed a boundary, which I found both puzzling and comforting. I felt safe around him. Sometimes, he’d tell me to stay away, warning me he was a bad influence and frequented the wrong places. I knew he was a free spirit, but there was an undeniable pull that kept drawing me back to him.
Then, one day, he disappeared. He stopped coming to college, and no one seemed to know where he was. I grew restless and decided to search for him. After much effort, I found his address—a small, rented apartment in Queens. When I arrived, I discovered him burning with fever. The moment he saw me, he hugged me tightly. I was unsure how to react. I insisted he take medicine or see a doctor, but he brushed it off, saying it was just a viral fever that would pass.
The next day, I visited again, and sure enough, the fever was gone. He admitted to taking medicine the previous day and said he was feeling better. That day, Adam said something deeply touching: ‘You’re just like my mother.’ Then, he gently covered my face with his hands. In that moment, he seemed so vulnerable, so achingly beautiful. I can’t explain it, but something about him changed for me that day. He became… something I still struggle to put into words.
Then, I didn’t see Adam for a few days. He didn’t come to college, his phone was switched off, and no one knew anything about him. I went to his apartment again, but found it was locked. The next day, the same thing. I was scared. I started getting really anxious. After two weeks of this, I went and spoke to the business office. That’s when I found out he had already moved out. I figured out that he had moved to Michigan, where he is originally from, but I didn’t have any clue about his contact information.”
Tears streamed down her face as she spoke, a storm of regret and pain. We sat in silence, realizing how deeply we had wronged her with our fear and prejudice. Jinia wasn’t just a friend or a memory—she was a fighter, clinging to life and the joy it still offered.
She continued, “When it became known in the dorm, it was devastating. No one would even walk by my room. They called my parents. Despite people asking, I didn’t tell anyone about Adam. But when they started investigating me like a criminal, I had nothing left to hide. While I wrestled with myself every day, I overheard that Adam was critically ill in a tertiary care hospital in Michigan. That day, I felt like he was the lowest of the low—a complete cheat! Later, I thought, maybe he didn’t even know that while searching for art, he had caught the disease from some brothel.
The doctor in New York told me this disease isn’t contagious, but still, everyone avoided me. They wouldn’t let me into the dining hall, feeding me through my room’s door as though I were a prisoner. I didn’t know what to do. All I could do was lock myself in my room, crying for my parents and calling out to them.”
Jinia paused, coughed deeply, and fell silent again.
Some of us asked in unison, “Is there no treatment for this?”
“My doctor in New York said there’s a medicine called ART, antiretroviral therapy. If you take it, you can live a long time, and the virus can’t spread. But it’s not readily available in India. If we try to get it here, it’ll cost a lot.”
One Saturday afternoon, my sister and I secretly went to Jinia’s home. We found her lying on the bed, draped in a Kashmiri shawl, writing something. The moment she saw us, she quickly sat up, a smile breaking across her face.
“Oh my, what a surprise! Come on in!” she exclaimed.
My sister, eager to embrace her, stepped forward and asked, “Are you writing in your diary now?”
Jinia hesitated, looking momentarily shy, before admitting, “Yes, I’ve been writing. I feel like I won’t be here for much longer, so I write everything I can—not sure for whom, but I write. When I’m gone, will you burn my diary?”
Without missing a beat, my sister stopped her, a stern look on her face. “I’ll give you a tight slap if you ever say such nonsense,” she retorted.
We all laughed, but the heaviness in the air was undeniable, and the conversation shifted.
It was December 12th, around 5:30 in the morning when the shrill wail of an ambulance horn pierced the air, shaking the stillness of dawn. I had been awake, but lazily lingering in bed. The sound jolted me upright. I threw off my blanket, hurriedly moved the curtains aside, and saw a large white ambulance with its flashing blue lights swirling above like a rare gemstone.
It didn’t take long for me to realize why the ambulance had come to our neighborhood so early. I opened the door and found my sister standing there. Our eyes met, exchanging a familiar yet unspoken fear.
Dressed in our nightclothes and slippers, we hurried downstairs, only to be stopped midway by Mom’s voice. “Don’t go anywhere. You have no business there.”
But we didn’t listen. As we continued down, my sister said, “Don’t stop us today—they’re taking Jinia to the hospital. I don’t know if we’ll ever see her again.”
Mom hesitated, then, in a softer tone, said, “Go, but don’t get too close.”
My sister paused briefly, turned, and said, “Don’t worry, Mom. AIDS doesn’t spread by touch. Just read Nick’s high school biology book once.”
Outside, on the street, an unusual scene unfolded—neighbors crowded their doors and balconies, watching the spectacle. My sister and I quickly joined the others. Soon, our childhood playmates—Banya, Devi, Jeet, Tuhin, Trisha, and Tutul—joined us. Despite the crowd, we slipped through and entered Jinia’s house. We didn’t need to go far.
Two large men were lowering Jinia onto a stretcher. Her mother stood at the foot of the stairs, her eyes glistening with tears. The men struggled to maneuver the stretcher down. Jinia lay still, wrapped in a green sheet, a mask over her nose. She was clearly in pain. At the foot of the stairs, our eyes met briefly. My sister gently squeezed Jinia’s fingers, and Jinia whispered something.
“Please take care of my diary. Don’t worry; I’ll come back for the function.”
Moments later, the ambulance sped off, its horn echoing like a dirge. My sister returned about an hour later, silent, holding Jinia’s diary. She placed it in her cupboard. One day, when my parents and sister went shopping, I secretly read it.
Jinia’s diary read:
“This is my first time at the Vellore hospital with my parents. Everyone says it’s not contagious, yet the department is called Clinical Infectious Diseases. We all sit, waiting for the doctor. My parents keep their heads lowered, and I feel like a terrible criminal. Occasionally, when our eyes meet, the others smile at me, and I smile back. I overhear people complaining—some about itching, others about constant diarrhea or constipation. The doctor recommended that I stay in the hospital for a couple of days.”
“One day, while sitting in the patient’s lobby, a soft voice from behind said, ‘Hi, how are you doing?’ I turned and saw a boy about my age. His name was Shubham. He looked sweet but as lean as me. He was also admitted for HIV treatment. We became friends. One day, he confided that he was homosexual and that one wrong night had led him to the same disease as mine. That day, I learned AIDS could spread through anal intercourse between men.”
“One night, a terrible burning sensation overtook my body. I thrashed on the bed, screaming, and felt like everyone had forced an injection on me. I fell asleep with tears in my eyes. The next morning, I woke to see a faint pink dress sitting on a stool in front of my bed. Weakly, I asked, ‘Who is it?’ The pink dress replied, ‘Anand.’ He said, ‘I came to talk, but no problem. I’ll come back later.’”
“The next day, feeling better, I was reading a magazine when Anand walked in, saying, ‘Hey princess, how are you today?’ Before I could ask anything, he added, ‘I know you have questions. I’m Anand Srinivasan, a doctor by profession, but I love talking. When I heard a sweet girl was in this room, I came right away.’ I didn’t say anything but just looked at him. He smiled and said, ‘Your name is Prakriti, right? It means nature—what a wonderful name.’”
“I asked, ‘Will you treat me?’ He replied, ‘Pfft! Didn’t Dr. Panigrahi say you’re perfectly fine? You’re going home next week, so I thought I’d come and chat.’”
“We started talking—about everything except my illness. He asked about my favorite flower, my favorite color, my favorite song. One day, I asked, ‘Are you married?’ He said, ‘If I find a sweet girl like you, I’d marry her.’ I blushed. But as soon as I returned to my hospital room, I broke down crying. I felt like I wasn’t going to make it. Tears streamed down my face, and I screamed, ‘Nurse!’”
I couldn’t read any further. With a heavy heart, I closed her diary.
It was the grand evening of our musical play. From noon, the stage had been meticulously prepared—large flowerpots borrowed from various neighborhood homes, a vibrant backdrop painted in multicolored hues, and spotlights and fog machines sourced from the local electrician’s store. The air was thick with excitement and anticipation as the final touches were put in place.
The program began promptly at 7 p.m., and the audience, already brimming with eagerness, watched intently. Their eyes remained fixed on the stage, captivated by the magnificent performances unfolding before them. Reena, who played the princess, looked ethereal under the dazzling interplay of red, blue, and yellow lights. Her face, adorned with makeup, glowed in the spotlight, while her glittering costume shimmered as she moved gracefully across the stage. Alongside her, my sister and her friends seemed almost otherworldly in their radiant costumes, every movement a delicate dance in the glow of the stage lights.
The atmosphere was electric, but amidst the lively energy, my attention was drawn to a commotion outside the gate. Elders paced restlessly, gesturing animatedly, and a small crowd had gathered. Curiosity tugged at me, prompting me to walk closer to investigate. As I stood at the edge of the group, it didn’t take long to piece together the cause of their agitation. Naveen was speaking to my father in a hushed but urgent tone: “Yes, someone just confirmed—Jinia passed away this evening.”
The words struck me like a thunderclap. A wave of shock and grief crashed over me. Overwhelmed, I couldn’t bear to stay another moment in that place. My legs carried me, almost involuntarily, to the empty street. Gasping for breath, I stopped in front of Jinia’s house. The once-vibrant home now stood shrouded in darkness, and the balcony where she often sat was vacant. Tears welled up in my eyes as I stared at the empty space. The rawness of the moment overwhelmed me, and I found myself rubbing my eyes, realizing only then that I was crying. For a few moments, I stood frozen, gazing blankly at the lifeless house. I knew I had to return to the play. I had to deliver the news.
I turned, forcing my legs to carry me back toward the stage. As I pushed through the crowd, something strange caught my eye. Was my mind playing tricks on me? I rubbed my eyes, but the image before me remained unchanged. The stage, once bustling with performers, was now bathed in a surreal flood of light and mist. Everything around me seemed to dissolve into darkness, leaving only the illuminated stage in focus.
And then I saw them. A line of women stood, draped in black shawls and red-bordered sarees, forming a striking red path. Through the haze, Jinia appeared, walking gracefully as though she were a princess, bathed in the glow of a thousand lights. She was no longer the girl we knew. In that moment, she had become something else—an ethereal vision of elegance and grace. The sound of thunder reverberated in the background, its rumble blending seamlessly with the vision of her luminous procession down the red path.
Samrat Roy Choudhury, Ph.D., is an Assistant Professor of Cancer Epigenetics whose research focuses on the molecular underpinnings of acute myeloid leukemia. Born and raised in India, he draws on a rich tapestry of cultural experiences spanning both Eastern and Western worlds. A lifelong writer, he explores complex human relationships against diverse sociological backdrops through fiction and literary essays. In addition to creative writing, he enjoys composing freestyle popular science narratives that bridge science and storytelling.