Null: A Novel of Infinity
Tanzim Rahman
Translated by Manjira Dasgupta with Soham Guha
Null combines the creeping dread of Jeff VanderMeer's Annihilation with the cerebral intensity of Stanisław Lem's Solaris.
Full Synopsis
A speculative blend of spacebound thriller and philosophical meditation. A reclusive writer embarks on a mission aboard the Ocean of Time, accompanied by a sentient aide whose cryptic insights blur the line between machine logic and human intuition. Darkness, alien echoes, and existential questions converge in this surreal exploration of perception and reality.
Rights.aboutAuthorHeading
Tanzim Rahman is a Bengali writer whose work combines science fiction with literary surrealism, positioning him among the most innovative voices in speculative fiction.
Excerpt
“Speaking is like breathing,” says the young man to the boy. The boy’s pupils are weird, almost transparent, as if a planet, mimicking a singularity, has been drawn on the white canvas of his eyes. And around that planet has been drawn the circular, narrow orbit of the satellite. The boy looks as if he has just struck the border, not quite able to cross over to the next level. He is nearing his adolescence, and slightly on the plumper side. His dress is almost appropriate, but he should have worn a somewhat looser shirt to go with his blue loongi. He has worn a tight fotua, instead. The walls of this room are important. Indeed, they are distinguished personalities in the World of Walls™. The ordinary walls perform their responsibilities with impassive faces, like laborers. They know that their work is important, but they themselves are not. They stand, silent, bearing the roof on their shoulders. But the walls of this room have been given a coating of grey, to look as if they are made of stone. Because stone walls are dignified, pompous, and important, like they were born in the royal palace. This room needs that pompous, regal air. Because they are guarding something far more important than the roof—they are guarding the outer space. Gazing upwards, one no longer feels alone. On the other hand, maybe, it feels terribly lonely out there. The stars flicker and glimmer just like the boy’s eyes. Countless blueshift stars—they are reassuring him: You are not alone; the space is really not a vacuum. But the stars are far, far away; and to feel the presence of something from this far is even more painful than non-existence. The young man is sitting in front of the bed, on a sofa shaped like a quadrilateral. “We can, if we wish to, pay attention to breathing,” he says. “We can control, to some extent, how quickly, or slowly, we breathe. But we don’t do that, most of the time. Our body draws in the air that it needs, into the lungs. It is the same with speech. We can control it if we wish to, but don’t do so usually. The mind guesses its own needs and the surrounding situation, and keeps throwing sound in the air.” He pauses and adds, “Do you breathe?” “Yes, I do.” The boy looks, for an instance, at his stomach. “Actually, it doesn’t matter whether I breathe or not. But I do.” The young man knows some things that the boy does not. For instance, he knows that the room actually has a roof. Above their heads has been laid an absolutely transparent sheet, more translucent than glass. One can lie in bed and gaze at the forest of stars before going to sleep. “Do you know how to dream?” asks the youth. “Do you remember any dreams?”
