Abhi’s Tender Resentment

Author: ​Biswajit Chatterjee

Biswajit Chatterjee is an engineer-turned-writer whose fiction fuses memory, myth, and the cadence of lived landscapes into lyrical prose. Author of Tales of the Tidal Times, he writes in Bengali and English, paints expansive canvases, and seeks stories that shimmer in the quiet folds of nature.

Abhi is my friend—Abhimanyu Sanyal in full. To me, Abhi has always been a wonder of a boy. Same age, same class, yet carved from a different universe than the rest of us. He never quite cared for studies, and whenever the history teacher Bijoy Sir found the chance, he unleashed his hands’ pleasure upon Abhi. Abhi would bow his head, endure the blows, and carry an expression as if nothing at all had happened. As though it was normal. As though this was exactly what was meant to be.

During a class test in history, while the rest of us drowned our answer sheets in the flood of Emperor Akbar’s benevolent deeds, Abhi was gazing out of the window, observing two crows weaving a nest on a tree branch. At the end of class, he asked me, “How does a crow’s nest become round? Do crows know geometry?”
Ayan, our class monitor, overheard and said, “Wait. I’ll ask Madhu Sir in the math class next.”
Despite Abhi’s endless pleading and coaxing, Ayan announced the question to Madhu Sir anyway: “Sir, Abhi wants to know if crows know geometry.”
Madhu Sir shot a sharp glance at Abhi, and chewed his words deliberately: “Is there jesting about geometry going on here?”
There had never been even the faintest hint of jest in Abhi’s question. He shook his head vigorously, trying to proclaim he meant no mockery. But Madhu Sir refused to listen. The rest of the conversation was conducted by the glossy bamboo cane in Madhu Sir’s hand. Amid this dreadful torment, Abhi cast just one look—one glance filled with wounded pride—towards Ayan.
A fortnight later, Abhi brought me a notebook, whispered like a conspirator, “Come, I’ll show you something today. I’ve found the proof, understand?”
During the tiffin hour, when the classroom lay empty, Abhi handed me the notebook and said, “See. I had sensed it right.”
Each page held a drawing of a bird’s nest, accompanied by measurements—diameter, circumference, height. Twenty-one such illustrations.
I stared, astonished. “What is this, Abhi?”
Abhi’s eyes shimmered with excitement. “I climbed neighbourhood trees, found 21 crow nests, and measured them with scales and tapes. I saw they know geometry remarkably well. Look—here is the proof. Even when crafted by beak and claw, all the core of the nests are nearly round. Only this tiny difference. Even that—I calculated.”
At the appointed hour, the news reached Madhu Sir. He snatched the notebook and flung it outside the classroom in a parabolic arc.
The next day he asked the class, “What do you want to be when you grow up? Speak one by one.”
We answered—doctor, physician, engineer, lawyer, singer, hero—dreams rehearsed from childhood. When Abhi’s turn arrived, the sir said, “You needn’t speak. I’ll speak for you.”
“Crows and geometry… your name is Croji. And you—you shall be a rickshaw-puller.”
The class erupted in unfiltered laughter. From that day forth, everyone began calling him Croji.
Abhi’s heart brimmed with tender resentment. He stayed away from school for two days.

***

Five years rolled past. Abhi was now in the second year of college, enrolled in Zoology honours—biology being his favourite subject. Meetings between us reduced, for I pursued a different discipline in a different college. Occasionally we crossed paths at bus stops or the market. College, however, had changed nothing in him—still unkempt, still delightfully lost in his own world, still a touch unhinged from the ordinary.
One day at the market I met him and asked, “How is college treating you?”
He replied, “Higher education in name alone. They teach nothing. Only memorised notes and exams. Classes are irregular. Even when held, I’ve found no professor who can ignite interest in a subject. Asking questions feels like committing a crime. And you know—I carry a thousand questions in my mind. I seek answers. But there is no one to show the way. I dislike it utterly. There is no friend like you either, to whom I can at least voice the questions swirling inside me.”
I said, “You can still tell me. No issue at all. Zoology may not be my subject, but I’ve always loved listening to your questions.”
Abhi leaned in: “For instance…Oxytocin.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“A wondrous hormone. Magical things like it are few.” He sat on the wooden bench of a tea shop, gestured for me to sit, ordered two teas.
“What magic? Explain a little.”
“It is called the love hormone. The tingling bells of joy that play within our bodies when love blooms—that is this hormone’s doing. Not only in us, but in all vertebrates. Love and affection happen under the influence of this hormone, that’s all.”
“Ah! Tingling bells of joy! You’ve nearly turned poet in college, I see. So…have those bells begun ringing in your own body too?” I teased, sipping my tea.
He frowned theatrically, “Wait. Let me finish the oxytocin topic first. You always leap from one topic to another.”
“Fine. Go on.”
“The moment one falls in love and believes his beloved to be the most beautiful woman in the world, or grows restless to claim her against all society and norms—that is the nervous system responding to the hormone’s command.”
“Understood. But what is your question?”
“If oxytocin’s presence in blood can be detected in a laboratory, that would be a biochemical proof of falling in love. Can that be said? I’m searching for this answer.”
“Why do you need proof? Have you fallen in love?”
“You could say so. Something like that has happened.” He finished his tea, tossed the cup aside.
I cried, delighted, “You too, Abhi! Who is she?”
“Kakoli. First year.”
“Magnificent!”
“Don’t leap. It happened, yes, but I’ve had no response from her yet. I must know if she carries any feeling of love for me. Girls keep it hidden. They don’t reveal it easily. That’s why I need to know.”
I said simply, “Why so complex? Just go to her and confess. See what she says.”
“Fool! She’ll say ‘no’ instantly. She is a serious type girl.”
“Then write a love letter. Smear it with poetry.”
“I write one almost every day. But the hour to deliver them hasn’t arrived.”
“Then what is your plan? How will you prove she loves you?”
“What I’ve thought is… love must be proven by blood.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning—after meeting me, if her blood shows oxytocin, it means she has fallen in love with me. If the levels rise in blood and urine, it is unquestionable proof. So I need her blood, and a little urine.”
“Speak softly. Asking for blood sounds like murder. But where will you get it?”
“A blood donation camp is coming. I’ll persuade her. Then if I pay the lab boy, I hope to get the sample.”
“And her urine sample?”
“Still thinking. But I’ll find a way soon.”
Our conversation ended for the day, strung tight with tension. I spent days thinking of him. What fate awaited this love?

***

Many days passed without news. When I had nearly decided to visit Abhi’s home, I saw him at the bus stand—face clouded, joyless, enthusiasm dampened. I asked, “What happened? How far did Kakoli progress?”
He snapped, “Never utter Kakoli’s name before me again. I want to erase her from my life.”
“Why? Tell me.”
“True love does not exist. It lives only in your silly storybooks.”
“Fine. But what happened to the tests?”
“I got the blood sample. But not the urine. So I asked her directly for a sample.”
“You said that? Are you serious?” I was really curious.
“Yes! Is it forbidden to establish a scientific truth?”
“And then?”
“She slapped my left cheek with full force and left. Never met again. She was unworthy of me.”
Abhi was drenched in tender resentment. He tore all the love letters into pieces and fed the dustbin.

***
​
Fifteen more years passed. We dispersed across the globe. Communication faded like mist. Yet, I would sometimes remember Abhi’s wounded, proud eyes. Where was he?
On the pavement of Dharmatala, after nearly fifteen years since college, I suddenly saw Abhi again. I could hardly recognise him. Hair unruly, attire a faded pyjama and panjabi, a Wills cigarette in hand. He was bent over, bargaining with an old book seller.
“Hey—Abhi, is that you?” I called from a distance.
He turned, looked at me briefly, then returned to the book, asking the shopkeeper, “These two books—how much?”
He began haggling, offering a little less than half the quoted price. I started walking away, convinced I had mistaken the man.
Then from behind came a broken yet familiar voice: “Wait. Coming.”
He lit the cigarette slowly, calmly, and said as though we met every day, “What brings you here, Bishe?”
“You recognise me? After so many years?”
“Why not? A hanging nose like yours belongs only to you and the proboscis monkeys of Indonesia.”
I swallowed the jibe and asked, “Where do you live now? How are you?”
He said, “I live everywhere, nowhere. I know no time but now. This moment is precious. Past and future are lies. The grain of time between them—not zero, yet near zero—that is the present. The present alone is true. Yet see—we wallow in past and future.”
“Where are you employed now?” I asked.
“Those jobs are for sheep and goats. I’m free. Why should I do work for other companies?”
“Then what do you do?”
“A question indeed. Right now, I dwell on ghost ants.”
“Ghost ants? Dead ants turned ghosts?”
“No no. Very alive. Tapinoma melanocephalum. Their social structure and relationships can teach us more than humans can.”
“Still crows and ants?”
“And bees’ dance, caterpillars’ songs, birds’ love. They do not deceive. Humans died long ago— acting, copying, consuming. I am glad that you still remember the crow incident.”
“Off course I do. How can I forget the crows’ geometry. And Madhu Sir’s cane.”
He smiled a sad smile, took me into a narrow lane to a tea shop. “Sit. This is Bankim’s Special Tea. You won’t find it anywhere else.”
He returned balancing two cups, gave me one, “You have no blood sugar, right? Even if you do, this cures diabetes. Anyway, you did well to recall the crow topic. Let me show you something.”
He unfolded carefully creased pages from his sling bag, like a man offering relics.
“What is this?”
“A research paper from the American magazine ‘Science Advances,’ 11 April 2025. Read.”
The title read: “Crows recognize geometric regularity.”
I skimmed the lines, realised crows could identify geometric forms.
I looked at Abhi.
He said, “I took this to school, searching for Madhu Sir. But I was late. He died two months ago.”
“So sad... But this proves your point, this is your achievement.”
“Achievement? No one will ever know I said it long ago. Many such truths I predicted later proved.”
“And the proof of falling in love by blood-urine test? Could you finally test Kakoli’s blood sample?”
He sighed, “Yes, I got her blood tested through a research lab with great difficulty. Oxytocin level was found high.”
“Oh, is it? That’s incredible!... she was in love with you!”
He paused.
“Yes she was in love but not with me. She loved Atanu, a final year student. I found that out later.”
In that spring afternoon, even amid concrete wilderness, somewhere a cuckoo poured its melancholic kuhu call.
Abhi’s tender resentment stirred again. Leaving his tea unfinished, he rose and walked away without a backward glance.