In the Last Dream I Ever Had - By Anish Chatterjee

Written By: Anish Chatterjee

Category: Short Story

Competition: Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Anish Chatterjee, writing under the name "Subhash Sarobar," graces the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 with his evocative short story "In the Last Dream I Ever Had." This narrative is a tender exploration of memory, relationships, and introspection. Set in the serene surroundings of the Subhash Sarobar, the story invites readers on a reflective journey through the protagonist's dreams and cherished memories. Anish's work stands as a testament to the power of storytelling and the delicate interplay between past and present.

About the Work

"In the Last Dream I Ever Had" by Anish Chatterjee is a deeply nostalgic narrative that weaves together poignant memories and introspective musings. The story is rich with vivid imagery, capturing the essence of a dreamscape where past relationships and experiences converge. The mood oscillates between melancholy and warmth, inviting readers to ponder the complexities of life choices and the enduring bonds of love and friendship. Anish’s literary style is both lyrical and contemplative, offering a profound meditation on the passage of time and the search for personal peace.

Subhash Sarobar

Original Submission by Anish Chatterjee

In the last dream I ever had, we were all at the Subhash Sarobar.

It was bright and green. The sun sparkling off the bouncing leaves and placid water. The twigs crunching under my feet. No cars drove past on the road behind us. No sound but sparrows chirping and crows croaking. I love crows. They're the roosters of the urban jungle, the sound of life in the deadest of pitch-melt afternoons. One of them flew down onto my shoulder, fluttering unsteadily as it landed. A baby crow's temporary pit stop under their watchful, anxious mom on a branch above. Its black eyes shone deep, its feathers lightly ruffled in a vague breeze. The talons looked so tiny, so beautiful. I saw it in a shoe-box lined with cotton next to our roof door. Our hands would tremble as we fed it milk out of a dropper, some spilling off the side of its beak. I'd watch its body rise and fall with each breath. They told me it got better and flew away, I believed them.

I watched it take off determinedly and flutter away with mom, flying off low across the lake to the island in the middle. I knew I would see it again later.

No cars drove past on the road behind us. Beyond the road, behind a torn fence, lay the volleyball field. A line of children in yellow and green half-pant uniforms running laps around overgrown grass. The pitch disappeared, leaving only the leaning, rusted poles standing awkwardly. My eyes landed on a small girl with pig-tails staring at me with big eyes behind the fence. Mampi. She'd kick dirt at me and would serve straight at my head, laughing louder than the boys. She'd take me to the dilapidated office at the back and apply Savlon on cuts across my knee. It stung and my expressions made her pause and meekly apologise. She bent down and taught me how to tie my sneakers: one lace in a loop around the other, see? It's so simple you dummy! Baba knew hers and she'd ask me if I would come tomorrow. All the boys thought of her as one of them and she gradually stopped coming. The Bad Example mothers warned about.

Word got around the bazaar years later that Mampi'd run away with her lover to Dhaka and got married. I knew I would see her again later.

We were all at the Subhash Sarobar. My parents' neighbourhood friends were too - Jyotsna aunty, Fuchu kaku, Ranga kaku, Mamu jethu. They were having a picnic on the same blue bedsheet Ma'd packed for me for college. Buttered bread with strawberry jam and boiled eggs on silver paper plates. They pulled my hand, sat me down, and asked me to sing them a song. Something worthy of a day so beautiful. I told them I hadn't practiced in decades after I'd moved to Mumbai to find a job, but they insisted. You've such a beautiful voice: we all heard you sing at that Pujo function back in 2001. I nervously began singing the only Rabindra Sangeet I still remembered. They were clicking pictures in the audience, silent, smiling. I felt my nervousness melt away as my voice grew louder. They clapped when I was done, especially Ranga kaku who'd once pinned me down in their bedroom when I was 10. I got the sense that he'd been forgiven. It's been too long to care anymore.

Just as I would in these situations as a child, I looked around wondering where Ma and Baba were. Jyotsna aunty pointed off in the distance along the lake's edge, asking me to go call them before the food got cold. I knew I would see them again later.

The sun shone through the bouncing leaves, leaving sprites on the ground. I chased them till it led me to the abandoned house on the lake's edge. The haunted house. They'd threaten to lock me inside it overnight if I misbehaved. The door was missing. The windows were frame-less. The ground littered with empty bottles and plastic balls we'd hit inside there over the years. I saw Rohan from class 3 run down the stairs in uniform and ask me to come up with him. We'd hang with each other when no one else would. He'd point out caterpillars on leaves and the streetdogs outside the gate loved him. I ran up to the dusty second floor and followed him to the window overlooking the lake. He pointed out at the island. Did you know there's deer there? Of course I know: I was the one who told you! The fence around the dilapidated shed on the island had flattened and a giant banyan grew like a mushroom off the side. On one of the branches extending over the lake, I saw a bare-bodied kid in half-pants dangling his legs. Staring back at us.

I heard Rohan's mom's muffled voice from outside the house. Gotta run, see you tomorrow! I knew I would see him again later.

In the last dream I ever had, I finally met one of my heroes. There was commotion outside the abandoned house and I followed the noise. The crowd of distant cousins and old coworkers parted to reveal Kurt Cobain himself. Wearing a denim jacket and ripped jeans. He had his shades up on his head and shared his lit Four Square with me. The filter smelt like vomit. Too awestruck to respond, the crowd spoke of how I had his poster in my room until I'd moved out. That I was too embarrassed to admit my love for him because they'd ridicule me for liking that kind of music. Oh yeah...do you guys know he wrote me letters too? I couldn't help but blush and apologise. He remarked how beautiful the place seemed and of how it was seldom this sunny back in Aberdeen. He missed the comfort in feeling warm and wished he had the time to swim to the island on the lake, even though he hated swimming. I asked him if I could have something of his to know this was real. He gave me his shades and waved at the child on the island.

As he left with the crowd following him, I looked back at Jyotsna aunty, Fuchu kaku, Ranga kaku and Mamu jethu stripping down for a swim to the island. I felt a sinking feeling in my chest, but I knew I would see them again later.

The twigs crunched under my feet as I put on the shades, walking further up ahead. All the while, I'd felt the bare-bodied child's gaze on me from the island. Past the trees, I recognized an orange KTM parked by the roadside. It had my birth-date as its plate number. A familiar figure crouched down beside it, cleaning its engine. I put my hand on their shoulder and they looked up at me. Shivam's eyes widened and he sprung up to give me a tight hug. It's been years! When did I last see you? It was my fourth year, I think. These shades look great on you! We sat on the grass talking about how we used to ride out into the golden sugarcane fields on his KTM back in Noida, looking for a quiet place to smoke up and enjoy the sunset. I told him that I used to feel bitterly jealous at his luck with women; he told me he knew but that he always loved his bike more. I asked him if he'd patched it up with uncle after our placements and he said he tried. I confided in him that I still couldn't with mine and he clicked his tongue. We laughed a lot and I asked him if he had some. He told me that Abhay, Kunal and Genda had already gone ahead to score; he couldn't as his bike was acting up.

Listen, we're all swimming out to the island when they get back. And if you ghost us again...Even though something about the island seemed off, I told him I knew I would see him again later.

It was bright and green in the park by the lake. The swings had rusted. The see-saw had long snapped. The walls were all overgrown with ivy and the brush barely parted wide enough to reveal the path through. I walked along brushing the thin cobwebs off my face when an aloo bomb suddenly shocked me in my tracks. I heard laughter and saw Samrat and the neighbourhood kids jump out from behind the brush. I cursed and chased them around the park until we all got tired and agreed to a truce at the slides. Samrat pulled fist-fulls of aloo bombs out of his pocket, telling me the same old story about how his uncle had a fireworks factory up in Burdwan. I couldn't keep it in anymore and apologised to him for calling him a katua during a roasting session. He'd stopped showing up on the street and had drifted apart when the name caught on. He slapped my back for feeling bad, insisting that he was over it. Would you ever consider visiting Mumbai for a week? He'd think about it. We spent the next hour surprising unsuspecting members of our gang. We wrestled in the dirt and gunpowder, laughing uncontrollably.

When everyone was gleaming in sweat, they took off their clothes and jumped into the water. Samrat pulled me along too, reminding me of how much I'd wanted to swim to the island in the lake. But somehow I didn't want to. Besides, I knew I would see them again later.

Exhausted, I sat for a while by the placid waters sparkling in the lake. Then, I heard faint, beautiful humming from a clearing up ahead. The voice sounded familiar and I knew exactly who it was. I saw Debashri lying on her side in the grass, looking out onto the lake humming 'Ek Pal Ka Jeena'. Khaali haath ayenge hum, khaali haath jayenge. It was her favourite tune. She wore a blue skirt above the knees and had let her long hair loose behind her head, just as she used to in the park. I'd surprised her and her deep, brown eyes rolled up to mine, smiling. Even though it'd been years, we fit into each other on the grass perfectly as if we were meant to. She put on my shades and stuck out her tongue, reminding me of all the pictures I wish I'd snapped of her. Just like we did in her room before her dad got home, I laid my head on her breast and nearly drifted off to the sound. That entrancing sound. I felt her fingers gently stroke my hair. We spent what seemed like an eternity telling each other all the things we wished we could. Why did you leave? Do you know how lonely it felt? Was I just supposed to suffer? I reminded her that I didn't have any say in where I got sent for college. That I still didn't speak to my parents. She kissed my forehead and urged me to forgive them. I saw uncle and aunty just up ahead, by the way...they were calling your name. I didn't want to leave her ever again, but she convinced me that she'd still be there.

As I stood up and forced myself to let go of her hand, she told me she knew she would see me again later.

When I finally got to the spot where Debashri and Jyotsna aunty had told me my parents were, I saw them sitting on a bench. But they weren't my parents. Instead, they were teenagers who looked like them. I recognised Ma's birth mark on her neck, I recognised Baba's part-in-the-hair. Where were you? We'd been waiting for so long! I didn't say anything and sat next to them, looking out at the bare-bodied child still staring at me from the branch on the island. Baba resumed speaking to Ma about something he'd read in a magazine. About how the brain records Gamma wave surges for up to 15 minutes after one's heart stops. And if a second in real life can feel like a year in a dream, then it was entirely plausible that our lives were dreamed in someone else's afterlife. They exchanged stories and gossip about the things they'd read and heard as they walked along the edge of the lake. In their laughter, pinches and glances, I felt that each saw in the other what the other couldn't in themselves. Ma never comprehended her own intelligence the way Baba did. Baba never comprehended his own capacity for beauty the way Ma did. As they grew closer and their arms brushed against each other, they spoke of the things teenagers talk about when they get deep. She asked him if he would ever consider having children, he responded that he'd make a terrible parent. They both looked back at me and laughed. She drew me in closer by my hand, asking me why I wasn't speaking at all.

Why did you send me away to college? Away from all of my friends? My lover? I was miserable. I'd felt miserable for years, even after getting a job and a house. Friends came and went, dates came and went. Conversations dwindled down to smoke breaks at work and words lost in the booming bass of Friday clubs. Do you know I turned 35 recently? That I smoke so much that I can't breathe after 2 flights of stairs? I look at my ceiling at the end of the day and wonder exactly what I'd achieved. Of how every single person I meet can't help but point it out in how they talk and behave around me. Of how things could've been if I'd stayed back. Maybe life would've been just as tough but I could've had them to support me. I could've had you to turn to. But no...you had to drop me in the deep end! All I do is pay rent and grow tired. Why couldn't you just let me live the way I wanted to? Do...do you think I don't have it in me? Maybe it is my fault. I'm 35, I should've had it figured by now. I should have. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I let you down. When I see how beautiful you are with each other, I wonder what I must have missed. If you could make it, why couldn't I? Regardless, time's run out. I'm already too late. It's done for me. I ensured it would be tonight. I put in a mail at work and closed off all my windows. I tried calling Debashri but her number was no longer functional. I tried calling my friends but none of them picked up. It's fine, it really is. I'm sorry, but I just couldn't bring myself to call you. It'd have been too much. I love you. I really do love you. I'm so sorry.

They both stopped and consoled me as I broke down crying. I hadn't cried in years. I clutched Baba's arms and howled. His were as sturdy as mine when I was that age. I'm so sorry, I love you. I should've called you. She wiped the snot off my nose with her bare hands the way she did when I'd lost a local swimming competition at 7. He adjusted my hair and made me stand straight. As we resumed walking and I cleared my nose, he told me how every hell was once a heaven. Of how it was our job to find our own heaven in life, making the most of whatever we'd be dealt. Most importantly, they forgave me. Ma kissed me on the cheek and hooked my arm into hers. Baba walked between me and the lake, somehow making me feel safe. You tried, it's fine...that's what matters. I wish you wouldn't smoke, but we still love you. We will always love you. I told them about how permanence scared me. That the most reassuring feeling I'd had as a child was jumping off the first floor of our house when playing chor-police, because I always knew I could run back up to start again. They looked at each other, smiling, and said they understood that feeling.

I soon realized that we'd walked all the way back to where I'd started my dream. The blue picnic blanket with silver plates scattered across it. The bread had turned blue, the eggs had begun to stink. I looked up and realised that the sun had climbed to the middle of the sky. Everything was hot. I felt the sweat dripping from my hair and onto my shirt, which was stained with vomit. The sparrows and crows had stopped calling. Debashri showed up and began undressing, as did my parents. I got the sense that they were close friends too. Look! Baba pointed at the island, smiling. All of the people I'd met - Mampi, Jyotsna aunty, Fuchu kaku, Ranga kaku, Mamu jethu, Rohan, Kurt, Shivam and all the rest, Samrat and our gang - were already there, waiting for us. I looked up at the bare-bodied kid still on the branch and recognised the pair of half-pants I used to wear everywhere on summer holidays. Ma asked me what I was waiting for and took off my shirt the way she would on laundry days. I suddenly realised that I was scared of swimming to the island. That I could never come back if I did. As Ma made her way to the edge of the Sarobar, I pulled her back, pleading with her not to leave me. Why are you scared? She laughed. It's fine. You'll be fine. Debashri whispered in my ear that she knew a place on the island where no one else would find us for the rest of the afternoon. Her hand reached into my trousers, but Baba didn't seem to care. No, wait! But he'd already jumped. Debashri ran up and jumped in. I still pleaded with Ma, but she held my face and told me to calm down. It'll be fine. You'll see. I’ll always be there. I love you.

She jumped in. And in the blazing, oven-like heat, I followed her. I knew I would see them again later.

***

About the Competition

The Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious event that celebrates the art of storytelling and poetic expression. Participants from around the world share their unique voices through various genres, contributing to a rich tapestry of creative works. This competition provides a platform for emerging and established writers to showcase their talents and connect with a global audience, fostering a community of literary appreciation and artistic growth.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Anish Chatterjee for sharing "In the Last Dream I Ever Had" with us. His contribution to the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 enriches the tapestry of stories and voices that define this event. Anish's ability to evoke deep emotions and reflections through his storytelling is truly commendable, and we are grateful for the opportunity to experience his unique literary perspective.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.