The Night People - By Anish Chatterjee

Written By: Anish Chatterjee

Category: Short Story

Competition: Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Anish Chatterjee captivates readers with his short story, "The Night People," featured in the Short Story category of the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar. Chatterjee's narrative delves into the intriguing and sometimes eerie world of night shift workers at a local bar. His tale offers a vivid portrayal of the diverse and enigmatic characters that populate the night, presenting a unique exploration of human interactions and the hidden stories that unfold after dark.

About the Work

"The Night People" is a richly detailed exploration of the nocturnal world within a bar setting. Chatterjee skillfully captures the atmosphere, blending elements of the surreal with the mundanity of night shift work. The story is imbued with a sense of mystery and introspection, inviting readers to ponder the lives and secrets of those who inhabit this shadowy realm. Through vivid imagery and compelling dialogue, Chatterjee reveals the complexities of his characters and the night-time environment they navigate.

The Night People

Original Submission by Anish Chatterjee

Up until the year before I married you, I used to work the night shift in that bar up the road over there. A friend of mine who I haven't been in touch with since vouched for me with Mr. A, the owner. Neglecting to mention the fact that it'd gotten busted -- thus leading me to require this lower-paying job in the first place -- he brought up my experience in dealing with irate customers as part of my call centre job, where we convinced gora uncles to pay us up to $200 to avoid losing their Google Business profiles. He also lives just 10 minutes away, sir!

Turns out: I didn't need vouching. They've never not been in need of an extra pair of hands. After all, Kalua told me as he watched me hurriedly set up a previously-occupied table the way he'd taught me to, you never knew what the evening shift would bring. You needed to stay prepared, especially for the dreaded night shift. Do not expect hand-holding, he told me.

It usually began around 4 PM -- an hour before my shift was supposed to begin -- when the early bunkers would begin trickling in, scattering themselves across the tables on the outside of the bar. Smoking. Scrolling. Nursing rum and Thums Up. They've convinced themselves that they need the dutch courage for a rush hour Fast Train into the outskirts where they live. By the time I'd walk in, they'd already be hanging their heads stumbling their way out past me, half-wearing a backpack. This is around the time that the younger, uniformed IT crowd would come in, their groups settling in threes and fours both inside the AC room and out. They'd drink beer and laugh, ranting about their managers and project heads or trading in sexual gossip. By the time these conversations would splinter and take a turn towards their quieter personal lives, the slightly older crowd would begin walking in after their shifts at this mall over here. Some were work mates, some were work couples, some desperately looked like they needed it. Just as Kalua'd told me, we always seemed to be short. I couldn't walk either outside or inside without at least two to three tables calling me simultaneously. OK...a Blue Riband and Sprite over here...an RC and chilled water over there...and no one's even served the table in the corner! Yes sir, let me follow up with the kitchen on your chili paneer. Would you like me to serve up the rest of this Old Monk? Three or four? Ice? Another packet of chakli, OK. Yes ma'am, I'm getting you a new fork...sorry for the delay. Where did the napkins on this table go? Who's smoking in the AC room? Occasionally, one of us had to rush into the blinding white neon of the kitchen and walk out with trays of plates in our hands. I'd walk past those of us negotiating higher tips whilst attempting to get the QR scanner to work and those of us rushing out to buy cigarettes from the shops nearby. Someone smashed a glass. Another burst out laughing way too loud. The argument at that table outside was about to escalate into a fight. Someone just whispered in my ear that one of the urinals was overflowing.

Only occasionally, I'd recognize a lone regular or two occupying whole tables to themselves, deliberately ignoring the standing groups of four or five eyeing their half-drunk quarters from a few metres away. They were my favourites to serve: they tipped handsomely and nicknamed affectionately. In exchange, I let them have up to 5 minutes more than usual or relocated them if I could, asking them about their day. I'd strike up conversations with a bald marketer named V. whose lower belly spilled onto his black formal trousers. He once talked about how his marriage saved him:

"I turn forty in a few months and I swear...having nothing beyond work is dangerous. It just does something to you...I know because I've been there. I don't know how much time you get to yourself working a job like this, but you really should cherish it. Never, ever lose it...it might be the only thing that saves you."

The people pouring in through the gates usually peaked until around 10 PM, followed by a sharp decline. It's finally getting late. The match is over on the big TV on the wall over there; it's been changed to 9XM. Bills are called for, cabs are booked on phones, slow drinkers are encouraged to bottoms-up. I'd wipe down the plastic table-tops and reset everything else. Our guard would smile and wave all of them goodbye as he'd guide them to their autos.

The bar looked a lot emptier around 10:30 PM. This calm before the storm was our dinner break. We'd find a big, empty table and eat with the cooks, barely having the time to gossip or vent as I'd watch giant rats dart out of the washrooms and under some table. Cockroaches would begin trickling out of long crack in the wall above the kitchen sink and fly onto us as we attempted to catch up on the unwashed dishes. The smell of rotting meat from the barely-covered garbage pail inside there still makes my stomach turn.

By the time we were done, it'd usually have begun.

Back when I was starting out, I'd expected the kind of people my mother always told me to avoid in and around our neighbourhood whilst I was growing up. But surprisingly, we attracted no gangsters at all, even though Kalua whispered that Mr. A paid his cut without fail at the end of each month. Instead, these formally-dressed night people -- regulars and men, every one of them -- looked like they sat at air-conditioned office desks all day. Just look at the way their heads never straighten up on their shoulders! By the time I'd get around to taking their orders, I'd look in their darkened eyes and see something that I'd never seen before. Something blank, empty. I'd feel shivers on the back of my arm under my uniform sleeve. They'd ash their cigarettes in the very Schezwan they dipped their chakli in. They didn't care. They waited patiently for us at each table, as if they really were in no rush to get anywhere. They drank prodigiously, but the conversations seldom got overheard, let alone heated. Instead, they seemed to sit around silently staring at very specific points around the bar that we'd identified: some on the wall, some on a potted plant bordering the outdoor tables, some on the path leading inside the gate. We never understood why. When they laughed, they laughed under their breath as if we were genuinely eavesdropping around them. I sometimes got the sense that they were hearing something we couldn't. When you did manage to hear snatches of conversation, all they seemed to speak of was the alcohol or the fact that they had to be in office by 10 in the morning tomorrow. Some of our younger waiters would be afraid to approach them, thus requiring one of us to accompany them as we took down orders. One of them buried their head in their arms on the plastic table-top; when the new waiter was sent to check up on him, he yelled and jumped back after the man groggily raised his head. None of the others were bothered by the sound. He was shivering as he was walking back to us, refusing to serve that particular table and stepping outside for a smoke. When I headed outside to check up on him, he told me the man's face was nearly exactly the same as his father's. Yet, there was something...off about him. After finding his glass empty, I walked over to him for a refill and realized that the black of his eyes bled into the dark underneath them.

By 12, these night people would begin pouring in through the gate. In numbers that initially alarmed me. Where would they sit? We don't even have that many tables! The older ones would tell me to calm down: most of them aren't even real. They always seemed to be settling down or even winding up at some table or the other. Did they even pay? When I followed up and asked one of them for their receipt, he got up in my face with eyes I still can't get out of my head and told me that he'd already paid the price. That we were asking too much. How much more do you want from me? I've given everything away! I love my job! I love my manager! I see myself in him! Kalua eventually pulled me away as I watched him stumble out the gate like an injured dog. The overlapping murmurs would get overwhelming by now, thickening the air. When I'd step into the blinding white of the kitchen with a tray of empty plates from some table I could've sworn was occupied just minutes earlier, I'd find the crack above the sink disappearing under the swarming mass of cockroaches that seemed to get more agitated as the night wore on. I'd step into the AC room and momentarily freeze when the chill hit. When I'd reach for the AC remote on one of the tables, I'd find one of them staring at the spiralling digits on the display. Hypnotised. I learned not to look at it and tried to avoid the room entirely for the rest of the night. Back outside, one of them once pulled at my arm and called me by a name I did not recognise. You're my brother...don't you recognise me? I'm sorry I missed your wedding night, I had a client meeting. I promise I'll make it up to you. I promise. I love you. Pulling away, feeling disoriented and numb, I'd walk over in front of the bathrooms and find something leaking out from under the door. Something dark, blue. Which one of us idiots decided to clean the toilets at 1 in the night? I'd hurriedly get the floor wipe leaning against a corner to try and push it in. I swear to you it wasn't Harpic. I still don't know what it was. Its consistency reminded me of the kind of ink they'd use in printers back in our hometown's cyber-cafe. But I knew better than to ask any questions, especially when I'd find one of them stumbling mechanically out of the same bathroom, bumping into my shoulder as if I wasn't there. Suddenly, we heard violent rattling from the false gate along the wall outside. I found our guard pulling back one of them from prying the false gate open. He claimed he'd discovered the door to his childhood home in Bareilly. That's what it all meant. That's what led him here. Back inside, I'd overheard one of them waxing lyrical about how their MD had glanced at them during a morning boardroom meeting. One of them was petting one of the kitchen rats on their lap, offering it his little-finger to nibble on and talking to it about his day at work. I'd walk past one of us pulling away his fist from their grasp or jerking the ice machine that had been working just fine during the evening shift.

And then sometime around 1:30 -- again, this happened every single night I was there -- one of them would walk up and flip a series of switches on the board near the TV (we were instructed not to interfere). The whole place would be plunged into red. This is when the thickness in the air reached its peak. Even the howling and whimpering street dogs outside felt it. We simply couldn't reset the tables fast enough. This is when I'd developed these terrible migraines I still have. My ears would begin ringing through the 2000s Bollywood heartbreak hits from my childhood that still played unabated on the TV screen. The red light -- somehow concentrated on the spots we'd find all of them staring at around the bar -- would grow deeper and deeper in shade...and then they'd go out. We'd stand around paralysed, looking around in the dim glow of our phone screens, until they'd come back on again a minute later with the generator's faint hum. In the white back-up lights, we'd find most of the tables finally empty. The street dogs outside fell silent. Some were still scattered around: either too drunk to move or passed out against the backs of their chairs. I eventually learned to identify them as real. We'd bring them their bills, tell them we were closing up for the night, and finally closed shop, all said and done, just after 2.

Like I told you, I couldn't sleep very well back at my PG. So much tossing and turning. No dreams: sleep felt like my consciousness finally yielding to the migraine. I'd find myself waking up at 8 in the morning and feeling too lethargic to do anything but scroll. The sound of Facebook and Instagram reels being swiped one after another would bleed into the overlapping chatter of thick air. In the dark of the phone screen, I even found my eyes beginning to resemble theirs. I sent myself all the manifestation content I could:

"Love. Money. Success. Peace.

All of this is coming your way.

Comment \"Yes\" to affirm."

Looking back, I think what bothered me the most is that I couldn't talk to anyone about any of this. My attempts at bringing it up during our dinner breaks would be met with short, single-word answers, especially from Kalua. Attempts at pleading with Mr. A to have my shift changed amounted to nothing. I'd find myself pulling at loose strings dangling from my uniform sleeve before the night shift began. My parents? They simply wouldn't believe me. My brothers were always busy. And I hadn't been in touch with most of my friends aside from the occasional WhatsApp forward in our groups. In the dark of late-night blackouts in the bar, I wished to see the moon the way we did during blackouts in my hometown. With no light to study in, we'd all pour onto the streets and chase each other up and down the narrow alleyway. Remember our roof? We'd trade stories with each other there under moonlight that seemed to pale in comparison to what I went through every day. They felt comforting, even. Sometimes, I'd wish there was someone next to me: next to me when I'd find my hand being pulled by someone laughing about how their appraisal had been deferred by yet another year or when I'd come across one of them casually stabbing their arm with a fork till it bled.

One rainy July evening, when the bar was far emptier than usual, I sat down with V. and confided in him about my experiences. He believed me, thank God, and urged me to speak to all the people I'd wanted to. Just try their numbers...I'm sure at least one of them will pick up. You'll never know until you try. It feels so much better, trust me. The first person to pick up was my mother. To my surprise, she believed me too, even the incredulous details. In fact, all of the people I'd begun calling up before the night shift commenced believed me. But I soon realised that I cared more for their lives and all that I'd missed in them after moving here before COVID: marriages, break-ups, promotions, gossip, reminisces. One of my friends was struggling with parenthood. One of my older brothers had gone on a trip to Rishikesh with his friends and swam the rapids there. A girl I used to know from school told me about one of her coworkers collapsing dead from a heart attack at home. I learned from my mother that my father had finally retired...and that I was missed by my relatives at the party.

Eventually, I'd begun taking breaks during the night shift. 5-minute breaks where I'd step out for air and simply call someone or the other from my long contact list. These breaks annoyed the rest and, a year into the job, I'd made up my mind to quit if I didn't get a raise. And so I did. I found this call centre job through one of my PG mates who was burned out and looking to quit himself. He warned me about the state of the industry, relaying horror stories of entire workforces being laid off because of the rise of AI, but I knew I just needed to make the jump. The government college BBA degree I'd relegated to the dustbin of my trunk came through in getting hired. We began at 9 in the night and worked till 5 in the morning. It really was no different than my older call centre job: same stupid customers, same smoke breaks, same toxic politics, same clueless managers. Someone would get yelled at or fired every other night. The migraine was still around, peaking around 1 to 2. I'd take the carpool home with others whom I'd identify as one of them. I made it a point to keep my distance even though, strangely enough, I gradually began to empathise with them too. It was on one of these carpool trips amongst them that I met you for the first time. I remember it'd barely been a week since you'd joined. I don't know if you remember this, but you were nodding off and leaning forward in your sleep. When I shook you awake and you looked at me with barely-opened eyes, I thought your face looked like the full moon itself, and I began asking you about your day to keep you from dozing off again.

***

About the Competition

The Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious event that showcases the talents of writers worldwide. It provides a platform for both emerging and established authors to share their work, offering a diverse array of poetry, short stories, and creative writing. The competition celebrates the art of storytelling and the power of the written word, encouraging participants to express their unique voices and perspectives.

We extend our gratitude to Anish Chatterjee for sharing his captivating short story, "The Night People," with us. Your contribution to the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 is greatly appreciated. We hope to see more of your insightful and engaging storytelling in the future.

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.