A Shy Foray into the Book of Silver Silk: My Reading Experience of Rajorshi Patranabis’s “Whereabouts of the Invisible: Explorations of the Anonymous” by Jagari Mukherjee

Between 11 PM and 12 am on a December night, I am rereading, for the second time, Rajorshi Patranabis Da's newest book titled "Whereabouts of the Anonymous: Explorations of the Invisible." I have taken Wicca classes and I am aware of portals opening in to the other dimension, but to live through it all with Rajorshi Da's words as a medium, makes me feel profound emotions that I don't know I am capable of. I am on a flight back from Delhi to Kolkata, and because it is late night, passengers around me are mostly asleep. As I mentioned, I am rereading this book for the second time. Knowing Rajorshi Da personally, he had narrated many events in the book to me before, so I was familiar with most of them..... And yet, as I read page after page, I am consumed with a fierce emotion that I cannot fathom. I am weeping and wiping my tears on my purple scarf. I am crying like a hurt woman in the arms of a comforting lover...

The spirit of the man at Tarapith crematorium, the Bhairav and Bhairavi and the three forms of the Goddess of the Blue Hills, the pretty girl in the mirror in the hotel room at the temple town near Bay of Bengal--they become more real than the plane-load of folks around me. They come to life in Rajorshi Da's lucid, succinct yet detailed narrative, a jewel-encrusted mine revealing gems at greater depths. I cry clutching the precious book to my side like the priceless treasure it really is. My throat burns, my teary eyes are blurry and my nose is as red as Rudolf's.

Whereabouts, the volume, reads as fine as if it is etched on silver silk with blue-black ink. The author's sensitive language unveils unending compassion and respect for all, whether the living or otherwise. Each word is a tear-shaped pearl, or a smooth blue lace agate, and as each story builds, Patranabis Da gently holds your hand and coaxes you to cross over to the eternal. You are wrapped in the scent of a cinnamon candle, protected by the obsedian carried by the narrator, the glow of a rose quartz emanating from the crisp leaves of the book. It is a heady intoxication on a cold winter night. A gift to us all.

I need to write this now, the gift still clutched to my heart.

Jagari Mukherjee is a poet and writer from Kolkata, India. She has an MA in English Literature from the University of Pune, and was awarded a gold medal and several prizes by the University for excelling in her discipline.

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