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Strange tales have been told before; this tale is hard to tell. Some years back, I wandered the  crowded streets of Calcutta…the smell of curry and orange spice so heady it made me sick; Hindu cigarette smoke circling in waves above my head…bees and swarms of brutal insects hissing–hiding somewhere in the bright colored bizarre; plucked chickens hanging in the shade of awnings. A deadly heat. Shiny brass dishes for sale. Old sailor that I am, I had no use for this or that.I was looking for someone. That was the only reason I had come back. The sea was my home. Calcutta had become a strange world.

The one who I was seeking would be old now; his heart a shadow, He had been a poet, a sage, and prophet.  We had parted in silence many years before my return. A silence that was the song of doom ;an empty horror that left him smiling at his admirers and not a nod to me. He knew why I was leaving. No concern to him. His admirers would give him gold and food and friendship. I had become unnecessary.

Once, we had walked these streets together. His white suit and long black hair stirred the senses of men as well as women. His face a chiseled regal beauty. We had grown up together. I was his shadow. He spoke of opulent palaces where he would be invited.  But, he seemed fascinated by the red tinted windows of an opium den. You could see shadows through the windows. Slow motion… as if the people were asleep. He stood before the house and sang his songs to them; discordant melodies, listening to their tomb like whispers,ghastly forms, a hideous throng of rotting flesh beckoned him from the pale door. He would smile and walk away. Then enter some dark salon with me and order absinthe and for a time just dream. I had suspicions.