Elementary! My Dear Watson.

 As a child, I always fancied being Sherlock Holmes or ব্যোমকেশ বক্সী . I always imagined myself in the role of one. I easily portrayed myself in a coat, hat and pipe in one hand. I am rushing down the stairs, and as I blow a whistle, a coachman draws his coach and waits for me to jump in. As a kid, I also directed most of my fictitious letters ( as a part of academics) to 221B Baker Street. 

This year, when I was heading down to London, Baker Street was obviously on my bucket list. It was a summer evening. Trust me, it was hot in London. There was no chill. I took the subway and got off at Baker Street station. I walked for a couple of minutes only to find I was standing in front of 221B Baker Street. I needed to pinch myself. 

Good Lord! this is no dream. I am seriously in front of his house. The greatest detective ever.  After following a short queue, I climbed up the stairs. I wondered if the maestro could hear the squeaks and describe everything about me. The next moment I was standing at the drawing room of 221B Baker Street. 

It was surreal. 

Was I hallucinating? Maybe yes. I could hear voices and see people. Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes. Smoking pipes and chatting away. The violin was there in a corner. The windows were open. Summer it was. I peeped outside and looked at the window panes. Pretty blossoms adorned the room. Petunias they were. I looked at the building across the street. 

Was someone watching us from the building? I guess I was being paranoid, but how can I help it? The ambience called for a suspicious mind. I walked into the next room. It was Holmes's bedroom. The evening sun rays were on the bed. How did that feel? Well, I do not know, to be honest. I think I have never practiced being mindful to that extent; what I was doing at that point. I wanted to feel, see, hear, smell everything around. I wanted to take it all in. I was being there in all my capacity. 

Obviously, time was ticking and I had to rush out of the house. I was no longer the woman who had walked into 221B Baker Street a few minutes ago. Somewhere between the squeaking staircase and Holmes’s bedroom, I had become that little girl again- the one with the imaginary pipe, the oversized coat and hat, waiting for a coachman to arrive. 

Outside, Baker Street was busy as ever. People hurried past, cars moved, and London carried on with its ordinary evening. I stood there for a moment, looking back at 221B.

Sherlock Holmes is considered the most popular fictional human character. But is he really fictitious? Heavens No. Mr. Holmes really exists. Maybe he does not stay at 221B Baker Street but in the consciousness of his fans and readers.