In the carefree city of Kolkata, near the southern boondocks, I stumbled upon a rare botanical find. Life usually brims with surface phenomena that keeps folks on their toes, but this evening was different. First there was a cable fault, a massive power cut. And then this.
With the loadshedding a thick veil of shadows was cast over the city, and I found myself lost in the narrow streets, navigating entirely by the flickering light of hurricane lamps. It was in this sort of moment of semi-darkness that I came upon the Machiavellian Malanjan. I chanced upon a secluded, loony, phosphorescent corner where this essence of deception and intrigue thrived. It was a peculiar hirsute plant that stood tall, its lightly lit tendrils weaving an intricate tapestry against the backdrop like the hairs of a ghost. Three faces emerged, each whispering a tale in my mind.
At the very top, bathed in the ambient glow, was a face of unparalleled beauty—a captivating smile, that could entice the most guarded soul, a magical aura that exuded charm and allure, like the disarming duplicitous facade worn by those in positions of power. Its sparkling eyes concealed an abyss of deceit, enticing unsuspecting passersby closer and promising them a better life. This enchantress was a reflection of the corrupt politicians and rapacious business class; their smiles were as sweet as the city's beloved sweets, masking the venom that lay within. It spoke of backroom deals and unfulfilled promises, spinning a web of lies that ensnared the unsuspecting ordinary man, leaving them spellbound by empty rhetoric and false hopes.
Curiosity consumed me, and as I looked downward, I saw the second face of the Machiavellian Malanjan. Its hideous side, illuminated by the nervous glow of lamps, revealed teeth that mirrored the sharpness of a predator's fangs. This lower face, nestled within the shrubbery, held the essence of Kolkata's clandestine underbelly—a realm where corruption, deceit, and self-serving agendas thrived—the corrupt police officers, the conniving bureaucrats, the manipulative middlemen and exploitative officers. Its serpentine tongue slithered with the venomous whispers of bribery, extortion, and exploitation.
Yet it was the third face that sent a shiver through my spine. Positioned at the very bottom of the Machiavellian Malanjan, the face of religious fanaticism. Surrounded by thorny bracts mirroring Kolkata's crumbling infrastructure, this visage unveiled the rot within the city's social fabric—a society where prejudice and dogma overshadowed unity and compassion. Its wicked teeth bled with intolerance, while its slithering tongue dripped with venomous sermons, sowing discord.
Not merely a plant I saw, but a living embodiment of the city's trichotomy—a reflection of the human depravities that pervade its streets, beyond the smiles and promises, the intricate dance of deception that is this city. I fled. I ran as fast as I could in the darkness.
