TimTim

By Indrani Biswas

    The day is as ordinary as any other. Sitting by the window, staring at the blank page on my desk, I am lost in my thoughts. The thought is to discover a new world — a magical realm filled with many characters. But in this quiet battle of imagination, no one seems to emerge victorious. My eyes can no longer bear the blank page; they wander away in search of something real.

It is a winter afternoon, and the sunlight is slowly fading. The air feels heavy with stillness, and the distant cries of birds echo faintly from the trees. In that quiet moment, my eyes discover something new. Just a few feet from the window stands a tall coconut tree. As I look toward its trunk, my gaze stops there. At first, I mistake it for a mouse, but soon I realize — it is a baby squirrel, curled up at the base of the tree, its little tail twitching now and then. Its body looks so fragile that even the soft wind seems too strong for it.

Before long, I am not the only one drawn to that tiny creature. A little distance away, another passerby suddenly stops, sensing a faint movement nearby. It’s a cat — she seems to be pregnant. In Bengal, people say that a cat is the tiger’s aunt — and just like her wild nephew, she too hides from her prey’s sight, carefully planning her next move. She crouches low, her green eyes glowing faintly in the fading light. She is so focused on her target that she doesn’t even notice me watching.

I make a faint sound on the table, and the cat’s attention shifts from the squirrel to me. She realizes it isn’t alone here. Her steady, unblinking gaze fixes on mine — as if those eyes are speaking without words. There’s no anger in them, only an ancient patience. For a brief moment, she glance back at the squirrel. Then, slowly, it takes a cautious step forward — her eyes stay on me. Perhaps it wants to see what I’ll do.

I have no intention of joining this strange standoff, yet a fickle sense of pride stirs inside me. I pick up a stone paperweight from the table. The cat freezes. I rise from the chair, but even that doesn’t make her retreat. Trying to scare it away, I make a loud noise — still, it doesn’t seem to care. The little one, unaware of our silent standoff, stays perfectly still. Without thinking further, I throw the stone toward the cat. It steps back slightly, and I take the chance to slip out of the room.

The cat is still standing there. Her eyes follow me, but she doesn’t move. Slowly, I walk toward the squirrel. When I touch it, its eyes open. A faint spark twinkles in them, like a tiny star in the dark midnight. It looks at me with calm, enchanted eyes — perhaps it is the first time it has seen someone like me so close. A creature who carries the same warmth within. There is no fear in its gaze, nor does it try to run. Maybe it no longer has the strength.

I lift it gently. Its small body, cold from lying on the ground, begins to feel the warmth of my hands. Its eyes slowly drift into sleep again. Darkness settles completely. The cat still hasn’t moved, her eyes glimmering quietly in the night.

After bringing it to my room, the first thing I do is make a place for it to sleep. I find an old box and line it with some of my worn clothes to make a soft bed. The smell of fabric and warmth fills the air. Its tiny teeth are only starting to show, so I gently place a small piece of apple near its mouth. For a moment, it hesitates — then begins to nibble, I can’t help but smile softly as I watch.

The next morning, the sound of a squirrel reaches my ears as I open my eyes. My gaze goes straight to the box. The little one still has its eyes closed — the sound came from outside. I sit on my bed and look at the sleepy one beside me. When I gently touch it, its tiny eyes open and look right at me. It seems healthy now. All the restless thoughts that filled my mind the night before fade away. I know it would probably be better off with its mother, yet my heart doesn’t want to let it go.

“Timtim.”That name feels perfect for it — small, bright, full of life.

At first, there is some objection about keeping him in the house, but in the end, I win. After all, I am the one who saved him. He seems comfortable with me — so what harm could there be in letting him stay?

I am a nineteen-year-old village girl. Three months ago, I decided that I would become a writer. No one at home knows about this dream. Sitting alone in my room, building worlds out of imagination — that has become my new work. Most of the time, I’m in my room. Having this little companion with me makes me happy. Sometimes, when I write, Timtim climbs onto my arm and watches the moving pen as if trying to read the words. He becomes my quiet audience. When I’m not in the room, I keep him inside the new cage I bought — the one I call his little home.

In my room, another uninvited guest often appears — a clever little mouse. Under my bed, there’s a bag full of old books — and that is what drew its attention. I tried many times to catch it, but it always escaped. Eventually, I gave up.

Lately, that mouse has been visiting more often. Timtim spends most of his time sleeping, curled up comfortably in the palm of my hand, watching from a distance. Whenever he stays in his cage, the mouse sneaks closer. Timtim notices it too, keeping a quiet eye on it. Sometimes, I wonder if they speak to each other in ways I cannot hear.

One day, when I come into my room, I find Timtim restless inside his cage. Usually, he is calm and quiet, but today he jumps around with strange excitement. The moment I open the cage, he darts under the bed. Then I realize why — he has gone to meet our guest.

I call Timtim a few times, but he doesn’t come. I sit down at my desk to work. After a while, he returns on his own — curling up, as always, in the center of my palm. I stroke his soft fur gently. Soon, the mouse appears too, peeking out from under the bed. It watches us for a while, then slowly comes closer. But when I look at it, it runs back again. Meanwhile, Timtim climbs over me, wandering up and down my arm. The mouse peeks out again, creeping closer. Suddenly, Timtim leaps toward it, and the mouse darts away. Their little game continues every day — a secret friendship or a chase, I can never tell.

A week passes. Winter grows colder each day. Timtim still stays mostly with me, though I keep him in the cage at night. But tonight, when I try to put him inside, he refuses to let go of my hand. Each time I place him back, he wakes up and climbs out again. At last, I make a bed for him near my pillow — but that doesn’t please him either. He crawls back onto my hand and falls asleep there. Let it be, I drape a cloth over him and lie down, feeling his tiny heartbeat against my skin.

In the morning, when I open my eyes, my gaze goes straight to my hand. Timtim isn’t there. My sleepy eyes widen instantly — then I see him curled up quietly on my chest. A little smile crosses my lips. I lie there a little longer, just like that, feeling his faint warmth.

That night too, when I try to put him in the cage, he protests again. He looks at me with those magical little eyes. I can’t say no, but it can’t be done like yesterday. I place him back in his old box beside my pillow, but he doesn’t seem happy there either.

When I wake up, I find him resting under my blanket. He lies there so peacefully that I’m afraid to move. Though he shows no fear, my mind races with so many thoughts — a strange, unspoken worry begins to grow inside me.

The next day, I decide firmly — Timtim will sleep in his cage. He protests, of course, but I shut the little door and go to bed. Soon, he begins shaking the cage, making high-pitched sounds I’ve never heard before. When I open the cage’s door, he leaps straight into my arms, clinging tightly.

“All right… just for today,” I whisper. I wrap him in a thin blanket and place him beside me, tucking the corners around him carefully.

In the middle of the night, I feel something tickle near my feet. Timtim has escaped again. No matter how many times I try to keep him inside, he always finds a way out. We play our little game of chase all night, and by morning, I oversleep.

Sleep still lingers in my eyes. Timtim is hopping around the bed. As my eyes turn toward the door, I notice it’s slightly open. Since Timtim arrived, I’ve made sure to keep the door locked. I hurry to close it. Timtim comes running toward my feet. He tries to slip out the door, but I quickly hold him in my hands. I put him back in his cage and step out of the room.

That night, I keep him inside again. His cries fade after a while, and the house grows quiet. In the morning, when I open the cage, Timtim lies still. His little body feels faintly cold to the touch. He doesn’t run like yesterday. All day, he stays curled up in my hand. Sometimes whisper to him, tell him my silly stories, hum softly — but he doesn’t respond. His eyes remain half-closed, as if dreaming.

The next day, he doesn’t move at all. He neither eats nor plays — only lies quietly. The night grows colder. Before going to sleep, I cover him with another piece of cloth. He lies silently inside his little home. Perhaps he already knows he will have to stay in that cage now.

In the morning, when I lift him in my hand, his body is completely still. Even the warmth of my hands cannot bring him back.

Outside the window, a squirrel calls from the coconut tree. Its echoes faintly through the cold morning air. I close my eyes. Somewhere, in the quiet of my room, I imagine a small heartbeat still flickering — the sound of Timtim, still alive, somewhere in another world I have yet to write.

By Indrani Biswas