It is still a 6X8 ft room.
There is still the same small single grayish yellow light is on. The upper half of the bulb is totally dark. No light is passing through that fraction, the ceiling is black. The floor and surroundings are equally dark and sad. The 60 watt blackish bulb is unable to lighten his room.
All the corners and ceiling are full of spiders’ webs. Each of those is carrying lots of dark gray environmental waste. Ages old. Lots of dead insects are hanging. Some of them are probably hanging there from the very first day of the room itself.
There are still the same six almirahs there. Three on this side, three on the other. Don’t remember if the doors were working earlier, but now most of them do not exist. He doesn’t need to open the doors to bring out those tiny bottles. Or may be he doesn’t need to bring them out at all.
Once there were glasses on those doors. You can make out looking at the remains of the infrequent broken glasses here and there. He knows where the glasses are broken, where not. He does not need to be careful to fetch any of his products for his very limited visitors.
Top of three almirahs are having photos of various Gods and Goddesses. You wonder the photos should be directly from the age when the Gods were walking on the earth. The glasses of the photos are gone, the frames are unable to contain themselves, leave containing the photos they were given responsibilities to. The faces of the Gods are hardly visible. Time does not spare even Gods.
Top of two of the remaining chests are having things that nobody would make out. You have few old pairs of spectacles, some tools like scissors, hammers, bundle of pens & pencils, some copies, some books, a umbrella, couple of torches, a few candles, a fan made of “talpata”, a hurricane lantern (kerosene lamp), even a magnifying glass. And who knows what else. None of these things work. Thick and very even layer of dust and dirt is caressing them.
The last almirah does not have a top at all. He has probably spared that chest from any extra burden. The topmost rack of that almirah does not have any medicines. Instead there is a shawl lying there, along with a muffler, a bunch of keys, and a “Gita”.
The back side of the room is now almost gone. The wall was made of local bamboo branches. Lower section of the wall is eaten by rain, water, soil, time. He has put an even older cloth to cover the holes of the wall. If you examine carefully, you probably will make out that the cloth was white once.
His working table is still the same. Now it is jet black. You can never make out its original color now. Two legs of the table are essentially non-existent. He has put two bricks under one leg, three bricks under another. The bricks are generation old, one of few still remaining specimens from the first production of the brick manufacturer in the town. Third leg is very shaky, can withdraw any moment. But surely it is in the same condition for at least a few years now. Surprisingly the fourth leg is intact, like a loyal servant carrying the whole burden of his master for decades.
On the table you have four-five old books, old enough to be called as almost manuscripts rather. You have an old stethoscope, box of the stethoscope have long retired from the job. You have a box of matches, a four cellar torch, three-four candles, one is ready and standing to serve, thirty percent has been utilized. You have at least ten pens, only one does work, that one is nearer to the bearer. You have a pad, simple writing pad, no names, no registration numbers, no phone numbers, no degrees, no histories, no details. You have a box for spectacles, the box is now incapable of closing down and opening as normal. He has used a small length of thin plastic rope to tie it in, to contain the two separated covers together. He uses this box to store his current pair spectacles.
Beside the table, a small plastic stool is sitting, brown. Proudly declaring that he is the youngest and the only intact member of the room. He arranged this stool to make his visitors to sit down near and in front of him. There is also an equally old bench lying on the left side of the room, again sitting on a pair of old broken bricks. It seems nobody has used this bench since long, a couple of nails are alarmingly showing their heads on each side.
He still sits on that same wooden chair which did not have the left armrest. Does not have even now. The right armrest is also broken now, someone tried to manage it by binding it using an equally weak and thin plastic rope. He knows how to use it. He carefully places his right hand on that armrest on a very specific angle when he needs the support.
He still sits there wearing his old faded white kurta and dhoti. Still wearing those pair heavy thick black pair of spectacles. Still reading the day’s bengali newspaper putting so very near to his eyes, much like smelling the paper than reading it.
Still not bothered about whats happening just outside of the 6X8 chamber of his.
He is a homeopathy physician. He was our family doctor. He was the family doctor of lot many families like ours. Those families are gone, his patients are gone, his friends are gone. His name has gone. His time has gone.