Beloved bird, where are you? How far from here? Even if I wished, I cannot touch you, cannot shower you with all the tenderness my heart holds. I think: just a few more days, however I manage it, and I will see you! To be held in your care, in your love, to see myself endure a few more days—good, happy—I want it desperately. I miss the warmth of your chest, your maddening love, every pain you've given me. I want to live a little longer carrying this ache of longing to be near you. I don't know what will happen, what is to come—I don't know. I've lived all this time on nothing but waiting and a heart full of hope. All these years I've steadied myself with this one consolation: if I lived, somehow, someday, I would have you. But now comes this time—the time when one fears death—and I don't want to die. You know much of my life: how many sleepless nights I've kept, how many days I've spent swallowing my rage. The wounds dealt by those around me, their cruelty, their neglect, their selfishness—they've burned me in countless moments. For so long I was never well; I began to think of mere survival as life itself. I was always prepared, mentally braced for death to come and claim me at any moment. This weightless body—I thought no one would miss it, that when I was gone, there would be no one to grieve. There was even a strange comfort in that: that after my death, there would be no one to suffer by remembering me. Now I have that wealth. Now there is someone to ache with my aching. Now there is someone to draw me close with tenderness, someone to scold me fiercely in love and claim me as theirs. Now I thirst to live just to hear that scolding. Now I want to live, amid all my failures and all I've lost, for just one person. Through countless ages, through countless moments, passing through the stars of a thousand dark nights—now I want to live loving only one human being. I have lived through countless moments thinking death a trivial thing, believing I would leave this world soon enough, accepting that as truth. I thought: someday I must leave everything behind, so why not sooner? I had only one prayer for my Creator: that I not feel the pain of dying. But that hard truth frightens me now. If death beckons, I want to hide, to find a way to escape and live on. I want to live even on the smallest scrap of life, even on the thinnest thread of hope—believe me, I want it desperately. How long it's been since I saw you, how long since your touch, your scent hasn't left me numb. Yet I've kept this hope alive all this time: if I live, I might have you after all. But now the fear of death has stolen even this luxury—this right to live by that hope. I've made myself guilty before my own heart. All these years, all these moments gone—why didn't I tell you I loved you? And here I've gone and done it at last, unable to bear not having you. I've run to you, unable to hold myself back. I've sought shelter in your love! So why did I torment myself for so long? I was never well, so why didn't I reach out first? The burden of this love is mine more than yours. My pride kept me away from you and made me suffer.
My pain’s own nails have gouged raw wounds across my chest, yet I let no one see how much I was suffering! And suffer I did. Would you have given back those hands if I’d reached out sooner? If I’d been shameless a little earlier, what would have been the loss? A bit sooner still, and perhaps I might have lived like the rest of them, a little better? Did I not have the right to live, the right to want something more? Then why did I willfully torment myself? Why did I cheat myself? Why didn’t I go begging for love, claiming at least a small happiness? If you were to refuse, to turn me away—well, even then I could have told myself: I went, I tried. What do I console myself with now? Today, my own pride has finished me off—by my own hand, by myself. On my small shore, only your emptiness remains.
You love me so much these days, your love is hardly something one can put into words. It’s like this: we eat every day, we go on living every day, we don’t die—so this thing or that thing we get, perhaps it’s nothing special really. This is what we think to ourselves. And then we go on living, taking life and survival for granted, until death comes and knocks at our door, and only then do we feel it—how terribly, how intensely precious this human life is! Your love to me is exactly like that. You care for me so much these days, doing everything you can from where you are. You search and search for time to send me the books I love. I’d longed for a laptop for years and truly needed one, yet somehow I could never bring myself to buy it. I never asked you, never wanted you to, and yet you went and bought it for me. Do you know, when I brought it home and was taking photos to show you, such joy flooded through me that I couldn’t hold back the tears. Though any luxury is worthless to me, this was a thing I’d yearned for so long.
I never thanked you. Truth is, thanks—the very language of gratitude—is utterly unworthy when it comes to you. Why should I thank you? When you saw it as your duty, I took it as my due. There were many trees around me all this time, plenty of shade from them too, yet somehow there was never even a sliver of space for me beneath any of them. Why was it that with me, everything always fell short? I would see what this one and that one needed, and though I’ve given them my very best, I’ve never managed to please any of them. And when I’d give up my own rights, my own needs for them, I’d feel so noble to myself, you know? And who wouldn’t want to be noble when given the chance? Really, I’ve always walked forward, hands raised to my Creator, gathering strength from hope. I knew it, I always knew—my roof was rickety, the ground beneath my feet loose. Without my Creator’s help, believe me, I couldn’t have taken another step.
There are many trees, but not all give shade. You drive me mad with this and that, with your gifts piled so high I can barely breathe, and then… your emptiness grips me again. I’m afraid. Terribly afraid.
# On Love and the Brevity of Time
For so long I was afraid—afraid of what I might do, what I might say, that would make you angry and leave me behind. Even then, I hadn’t truly faced the thought of death. But now it strikes me, now I’m afraid…will I not feel your touch one last time, before the end comes? I’ve shown you so much anger, hurled so many accusations at you. I’ve sat in proud silence, nursing my wounds, deliberately trying to hurt you with my coldness—and yet in doing so, I’ve only hurt myself more. Can you understand this? Now I see, now I understand with utter clarity, how wasteful those moments were, how carelessly they slipped away. You know what? From this day forward, you can scold me as much as you wish. You can neglect me for your other work, your more urgent tasks elsewhere. You can give me no time at all. I won’t complain. I won’t sit here sulking, my lips pursed in offense. I won’t be angry. I won’t wish to leave. I will accept everything you are, everything you do.
My time now is so terribly brief. What little remains, what little I’m given—I will spend it only in loving you. Just as fiercely as you touch me, as tenderly as you hold me, touch me with that same intensity now. Say whatever you wish to say to me. Do whatever you wish to do. All the small, subtle mistakes that escape me in my daily movements—point each one out to me. Punish me. Shame me. I will say nothing in return. I want all of you now. I want everything we can share. However many days remain to me, I want to live them wholly with you, in your entirety. This wish may seem small and trivial to your eyes, but for me it is the sum of all I have received in a lifetime. Don’t ever—not even for a moment—imagine that you will leave before me. If you do, I will stand before my Creator on the Day of Judgment itself and demand justice. I will tell Him: this person made me a promise. We were to live together. But they broke their word. On that final day, I will call for your reckoning. Tell me—is there anyone else in this world who belongs to me, as you do?
How can you leave me alone? If anything, if I go first, you’ll find some excuse, some reason, to go on living. My only excuse has always been you. For so long I wept under the weight of sorrow and resentment. But now I weep—I weep with joy, with a kind of trembling elation. The tears are still there; only their source has changed, their meaning transformed. Don’t think for a moment that leaving me behind will free you. Will you truly be well without me? I used to watch the sky full of stars alone, night after night. Now, even when you’re not beside me, in everything I see, I feel you. Today my eyes perceive all things as transparent, beautiful, tender, soft. My solitude is gone. I no longer wish to die with every other breath. How swiftly a person’s reckoning changes in this life! I’m doing well these days, with you beside me. Perhaps I’ve achieved no worldly success, but I have you—what would you call that? And one more thing troubles me: the thought of leaving you here, alone in this world, fills me with dread. What if your breath should fail you someday? What if you suffer again? Then who will hold you? Who else can draw you close with such tenderness as I can? If someone could, then I need not worry. But if they cannot—if no one can—then on what hope can I leave you, solitary and unguarded?
I cannot bear to watch you suffer. Know this—a season may end, but true love persists through any excuse, any circumstance.
Listen, shall I give you some of my old letters? In hurt, in pain, at different moments, whatever came to mind—I wrote it all, those letters…the ones I never sent…shall I give them to you?
How are you? Now you don’t want me to know, or perhaps you don’t want to know yourself either…! Why should you…? I am nobody to you after all! You must be so busy with work now, isn’t that so? And family too? No more sleepless nights alone now…you wake early enough! You’re fulfilling your duties, but what have you done with the you inside, tell me? I miss you terribly…sometimes far too much! How much, perhaps you’ll never know! Why don’t you write anymore? I understand—I am nobody to you. So you can neglect me without effort, but writing—that was always so close to you, so precious! Why such neglect toward it too?
You know, when I miss you most, I close my eyes and talk to you, alone. That version of you doesn’t avoid me like you do. Your laughing face comes back to me again and again. You probably don’t remember me at all! Once I thought only boys fall in love with girls’ laughter; now I’ve learned the reverse through myself. Today I watched an interview with Samaresh. He considers Tagore his god, reads his works like scripture. Same homo sapiens, yet so many gods, so many kinds of faith! And what all follows from that!
Look at me now! Like a rude person, I just blurted out ‘Samaresh’! But he doesn’t feel like my friend to me! Along with being shameless, I’ve become ill-mannered too! Why don’t you add a few more adjectives to describe me? Then it would become something like the Four Ps and Seven Ps of marketing theory. Childhood was nice. Why must one grow up! And then fall in love! And if you love someone difficult like you, there’s no end to it! Why do you push me away like this, dear? I haven’t asked you for anything—just let me love you, all my life, that would be enough! Why must you take even that away? Neglect and silence don’t have the power to erase my Uttam Kumar from my heart! You will be so much better off, and that will make me happy too! May God always keep you well! I love you!
How are you? Perhaps you’ve forgotten me by now, haven’t you? It’s only natural, after all! Hum aapko hain kaun? Why don’t you write poetry anymore? I haven’t been on Facebook lately either—I don’t even know if you’re writing or not. The days are flying past, and my thoughts are getting more complicated. But nothing is getting done. You’re moving away on purpose too, aren’t you? When you lose someone you don’t want to lose, how does it feel? Once I thought I could never love anyone else, but knowing everything, I still threw myself at you a second time! The first time there wasn’t even fire—what it was, I don’t even know myself. Everyone says I don’t know how to love, that I only know how to show pride. Does it seem that way to you too—that I don’t know how to love? I was alone enough as it was; why hollow me out further? I didn’t even let go of my self-respect! I—who never looked back at anyone who showed me the slightest neglect—I, for you…
Tell me truly, am I nothing to you? No one can force a relationship to survive, after all! If I move away, will you be so much better off?
Please don’t say it! Then I promise I won’t torment you ever again! I love you—that’s my problem, not yours! I didn’t love you to gain something. I only wanted you to be well, that’s all I ever wished for! I learned to be alone from eleven years old; I didn’t want to, yet I had to learn. I’ve let only a handful of people into my circle, and the one I placed at its center—I could do anything for them! Be well always. I love you! A line from Nazrul comes to mind…
Your breast has no room, oh distant, separated heart,
What matters the knowing?—who can fathom the fathomless deep?
Hidden you come, descending low,
In my verses, in my love’s glow,
In this joy shall I live, need I see the shore’s smart?
I sing like a distant bird and have built no nest—depart!
When the day of farewell comes, it matters not if I gained nothing then,
Remember me or not as you please—that alone is my domain, dear men!
The day you try to forget me,
My beloved, it will haunt you, you see,
I shall live in that forgetting—that is my very breath, my pen!
I gained nothing, I desired, I sang my song—and again, again!
Have you decided never to speak with me again? It truly hurts me deeply. You will never understand. If only I could forget everything as easily as you do… The truth is, only the one who suffers truly knows! How can the cause of suffering ever understand? Is this the rule—that when you love someone, you wound them as much as you can? Your rule? The fault lies only with the one who loves! You’re magnanimous, wise, eloquent, noble… stretch out your hand and how many surround you, wish to be your first… to be someone’s beginning is nothing at all to you! But when an insignificant person sits far away, burning day after day in pain, what does it matter to you? When inflicting wounds, no one remembers what it means to burn yourself. Your fleeting satisfaction against one person’s lifelong cry! How easy life is! How effortlessly we dwell in our reality, how readily we cover ourselves in impenetrable veils! All our relationships are so happy! How truthful, just, virtuous, faithful we all are… and the rest? They don’t even understand what greatness means!
Wasn’t life already full of wounds? Did you have to take on the burden of adding to them? Don’t you know that suffering born from imagined pain cuts deeper than any other? I wanted to lie at your feet as an offering, and you trampled me with disdain! Oh, my god! Look, let me say something plainly. You know that everything I feel for you—the pull, the love, the anger, the respect—I lay it all bare before you. I speak of my love. And please, don’t treat my love as a joke. I have no time to watch who else is with you, what others do, who inquires after you more than I do… I’ve set one thing firmly in my mind: I live for myself alone. Don’t treat any of this as entertainment. You don’t have to love me back, but there’s no doubt about the truth of my love. Do you know what? This didn’t come suddenly. It has been built slowly, carefully, over time. So understand what love truly is!
Look, some eternal truths one wants to hear again and again from you—like these words: I love you. My ears have been starved for that phrase for five years now. But if I see that love means nothing to you, then better I don’t hear it. In matters of love, before the beloved… we become children! You truly don’t know—I love you terribly, fiercely. I swear by my God, I truly love you deeply.
If you could see the extent of it, your own hands and feet would go cold. And truly, if you saw this love, you would be afraid.
I told you something once, and you were hurt by my words. Right then, I cut my hand with a knife. My mind was fixed on one thought alone—how could my hand cause pain to someone I hold dear! I spoke the words with my mouth, yet I don’t remember why I turned my anger on the hand. Anyway, I had it treated and healed, but no one knows the rest of the story. Listen, your wife in your home—she loves you because you are her life’s companion, the father of her children, the man she loves. Behind each of these there lingers a reason. Say she loved you even before marriage; even then, must we not say she loves you because she has you, because she received your love? People want to have their beloved near. That is not wrong. I have never, truly I say, asked you for marriage, for love, for anything. I never even hoped for it in my heart. But now… something has happened, you see, my pull toward you has grown so much. And it is driving me mad, day by day. Seriously!
Did you not say in your post today that you wanted to run away? Yes, truly! Now I wish it too. Where shall I go with you, where there is only you and me! And a few others like us, those who know how to love. The two of us will be each other’s companion. A companion in writing, in conversation, and finally in life. In our home, there will be more abundance of love than of money and things. Let there be a daughter, yours and mine! She will be a good person, just like you. And she will know how to love, like I do. I will tell her, be like your father. Be a person of good heart. Let our daughter not learn jealousy, politics, the excesses of religion—let her at least become a good human being. I keep thinking of these things. It has not been long, just these days I have been thinking. You know I like your writing. And I want your hand to keep writing. If for this I must stay by your side all my life, you will have me.
Listen, let me tell you something. I love you—how much, I myself do not know. Even if you do not love me well, please do not laugh at my love. Listen, let me tell you one more thing: I love this old pot-bellied man of mine so much. You do not understand how much I care for you. If you did, then why do you see only my anger? Can I be angry with everyone, tell me? You are my sickness, you are my medicine! All my questions are you, and the answers to those questions are you too.
Did you read my last poem? Why didn’t you? Everyone else has! Many have even liked it. Only you never find the time to read. And yet I wrote that poem for you alone. I want to write you so many letters. I have no habit of staying awake at night. Truly, I don’t. But if it is for you, I am willing to spend a whole lifetime without sleep. There is only one condition—I want you by my side. It is you I want! I want nothing else. I want only one thing: you. These days you are very busy, aren’t you? And those girls, whoever they are, the ones you write about? Yes, they send you many messages in your inbox, don’t they? Does it not bother you at all? So is it only with me that everything bothers you? Have you thought about it once? In every way, how are you pushing me away?
Why are you doing this? I can’t say anything. The moment I speak, you counter me or judge me. Look for yourself—do you really have time for me? Did you ever, before? I’m asking this with a cool head. Will you give me an answer? Did I really wear you down, pestering you constantly with “I love you” or “darling, darling”? Not once in all these years. There’s so much I can’t do. And I’m truly shy. When you were there, you’d have seen—I’d sit like a modest girl, head bowed, saying only “yes,” “okay,” “mm-hmm.”
You remember, one morning you got a message from me on your phone? “I love you so very much”—I wrote that line. I sent it a month after my best friend died in a road accident. It was a raw, piercing cry from inside me. I simply couldn’t hold myself back. Unable to bear it, I texted you. When a person becomes helpless, who do they think of—do you understand? That evening you said you’d spent the whole day thinking of my words and written a poem. “Mirror-life in another light.” Though it seemed to me there was someone else present in it. Love poems are strange things. What’s said in a poem for one woman can be said just as easily to any woman at all!
I could never tell you anything. Time passed, and so much happened. Your wedding, your children, and so much else. I never could tell you a single thing from my heart. It wasn’t that you had no time—you had time, you always have time—but only for people you chose. Why were you so harsh with me? You’re still the same even now. It may have served you well, keeping me at a distance. There are so many kinds of gain in this world! So tell me, when you call the others, ask about them, scold them—you enjoy that, don’t you? Of course you do, since they’re your favorites! Every barrier, every wall was only for me! I read your writings and so much becomes clear. Whether you’ve seen her or not, whether you’ve called her or not—so much else! I don’t know who she is. But I think of these things.
Who was yesterday’s poem about? It must be one of your lovers. That poem—”torn scraps”—what was it at the end? I can’t quite remember. I never had you, and I don’t expect to. You’ll stay with those you love. You won’t remember my name, not by accident. Why would you? You can’t even see me! Well, you were never told anything. Shame kept so much unsaid. What more can I say now, to whom? And what’s the use of saying it? It could be that you love my writing, not me. But you know, I loved all of you—the whole of you. I was gone for fifteen days. Did you miss me? I don’t think so. Perhaps you didn’t even notice I’m no longer on your friends list, let alone that I was missed!
But why don’t you remember me? I never asked you for help, never burdened you with my troubles or my needs. Unlike the others, I didn’t wear you out talking about my exes. Though I never had an ex, never had an X, Y, or Z—not then, not now. Everything was caught up in you alone. Still is. Do you remember the first day we met? Your hand touched me! I still feel your touch.
Do you remember? That day, when I brought my face so close to yours and got lost in your eyes for what felt like forever? Then suddenly the waiter came and said, “Sir, your coffee!” At that, I jerked my eyes away from yours. Your breath was falling on me that day. Do you remember? No, probably not. How could you? You’ve forgotten me anyway! That day, seeing your eyes from so close, staring at you for so long—it hurt me terribly inside. You are not mine, and I’ll never be able to lose myself in those eyes again, not in the mornings or evenings or when my heart is heavy. Those eyes where my heaven lives, my entire world—I was never meant to belong to the one who owns them in this life.
Why are you like this? You’re driving me absolutely mad! All this time I couldn’t say any of it. And now I’m dying because I can’t hold it back anymore. Are you awake? Or are you busy chatting with someone? Hey, hey, hey! My darling! Are you listening? Don’t let sleep steal into my eyes! You’re the person I love, the person I’m in love with, the person of so many years of feeling. You are everything to me! Everything, I mean *everything*! Since I’ve said it, you understand what the world means to me. Of course, I think you either don’t understand me or don’t want to. Should I leave? What else can I do? I’ll just fall asleep then! Do you have so many other people to talk to like me?
I started a business, but I’m not putting much time into it. Yet if I did, I could get ahead of everyone else. I don’t know why nothing feels worth doing anymore. I can’t even figure it out myself. And on top of it all, my mother’s eyes aren’t doing well. She needs cataract surgery. How am I even? How do I explain! I really don’t know. Tell you something about her? That person I mentioned on the phone the other day…should I tell you about it?
When I was talking to her, she said to me using your name, “So, isn’t he your friend? I’ve heard he cheers people up, I’ve heard he even counsels some people. Your mood’s been off—doesn’t he say anything to you?” I told her then, “Look, when someone’s feeling down, nobody can take responsibility for that. And it’s not his job to cheer people up. Besides, I’m not close to him. We’re just Facebook friends. That’s all!” Then she said, “No no, that’s just what I felt, so I told you. And look, Biva, you’re an angel. Angels should never have sad days.”
You know, what she said that day taught me something—that there’s always a time to listen to someone’s breakup story, to someone’s love story, to someone’s depression. But she never found the time to listen to Biva’s story. Funny thing, isn’t it! I realized it later myself. Of course! I’ve always been there in your Facebook friend list, and nowhere else. You know what, I told her about myself. I told her I love someone deeply. I’ve been loving them for five years. I could never love anyone the way I love them. Then you know what she asked? She asked, “What’s the person’s name?” I said to her, “Well, if I tell you the name, would you know them? Do you know everyone in the country?”
Then she said, so what’s the problem with knowing the name? I told her, please, don’t ask me to tell you the name. Then she said, the person you love is incredibly lucky, in my opinion, because he has your love. I told her then, but the person I love doesn’t love me back. He doesn’t even like me!
She fell silent for a long while after hearing what I said.
That status you posted—you said such beautiful things in it. You don’t need to give me time. I was never beside you anyway, so don’t give me time. Be careful, dear. I don’t need time, I don’t need anything. The reason I write to you is because I can’t help but write. The things in my heart come pouring out sometimes, and I can’t tell you anymore, so I have to write. But I promise I won’t bother you again, I’ve said it already! But do you know something?…It’s been almost 6 years now. Slowly, so slowly, you’ve gotten tangled up with me without even wanting to. No, you were never anywhere near, but somehow you were wound through everything. I’ve locked away my love now. Do the math—365 days times 24 hours in 5 years, how many days and hours is that? Even in all that endless time, you never understood time, you never understood me. Stay with the people you love. I never loved anyone well, that’s all I know for certain now.
One day I’ll kidnap you. Then we’ll have so much fun. Your dear ones will cry their hearts out then.…No, forget it! You can’t even see me! Later we’ll see—you’re the one crying your heart out for their sake! I’ve never even touched you. You give the ones you love such beautiful permission to hold you. Why were you so harsh with me! You didn’t have to be this way at all! You keep the person closest who keeps you farthest away! When you see someone new, you think, let me draw them a little closer! And yet, look—I was new once too, and still I could never get close to you. I was always careful that not even a whisper of my pain would fall on your shoulders. You really are capable of so much! As the days pass, I believe so many things now. But never mind all that! What good does it do you anyway, tell me!
Call the people you like, meet them, go out with them. What’s it to me! I’m not the kind to cry my heart out over such things. But someday later, if you ever think that you have no taste to speak of, that day thinking of you will hurt terribly. Yes, I don’t love you anymore. I used to be angry, used to judge you, used to bother you. But I don’t do any of that now! My job is to let you be as you are, just as it always was in my heart.
You can’t make someone your own by investing tears. But for the one I loved, I cried to the Creator for their wellbeing. I cried so much. I don’t know if you’ll believe it. My brother always says about me that I’m a strong girl. And look—this strong girl spent days and days crying over you, tears streaming down. And yet I never made life difficult for you. That much you have to admit yourself.
I have loved you—this does not mean I need to emotionally blackmail you or cry and coax my way into your heart. Lately, I’ve read some messages from certain girls to you, and I’ve felt nothing but shame. How do people abandon one person only to hastily grab onto another? How does love change colors so quickly? You’re wondering how I know all this? Wonder away, but don’t ask me to explain.
If you suddenly can’t make time for them for some reason, they’ll fall apart! Before you make someone a habit, you have to understand: none of us will be here forever. So in this brief world of two days, perhaps it’s better to think about how to live well by tempering emotion rather than drowning in it. Do you remember—back in 2015 or whenever it was—when you posted something before a relative’s wedding? It was terribly sad, that status. I can’t quite recall the exact words, but it was that kind of sad. I messaged you right away and asked if you were really upset. You said: *Hmm.*
That was all. Nothing more. But the pain of knowing that—it was beyond words. The next morning, a beggar woman came to the house. I gave her money. After I gave it to her, she said, “Daughter, it’s been so long since I’ve eaten rice with beef. Will you give me some meat to eat one day? We can’t afford to buy it.” I said, “Yes, I will.” I had cooked vegetables in the fridge. I brought them, warmed them, and gave her beef, lentils, and fried fish. So she wouldn’t feel bad, I sat down with her on the ground—on a little stool. I couldn’t bring her inside the house. She wouldn’t go in under any circumstances.
When she finished eating, I saw her raise both her hands and make a prayer—for me. In her prayer, she was saying: “Allah, because of this girl, you gave me something good to eat after so long. Bless this girl, Allah!” And suddenly, you came to my mind. You had told me the night before that your heart wasn’t well. You know what I did? I asked her, “Grandmother, will you pray for someone very dear to me? Allah listens to the prayers of the elders.” And oh! She began another prayer and said, “Allah, this girl is praying for someone—bless that person. Keep them well. Fulfill all the desires of their heart.” She was so happy to have eaten beef!
Now let me tell you about her. Do you know her age? Nearly ninety. She can barely walk, her hearing is poor, she moves with a cane. What can I say? After her husband died, her brothers-in-law threw her out of the house. She has a son and a daughter. The son doesn’t even check on his mother—he’s married, lives far away with his wife. She lives with her daughter and her grandson—her daughter’s child. The boy studies in a madrassa. Her daughter works in people’s houses for meager wages, barely enough to get by. The girl’s husband married again elsewhere and doesn’t even inquire about his wife. At nearly ninety—or perhaps older—asking her to beg breaks my heart. When I can help, I do. When I can’t, I listen to her for long stretches. It eases her suffering a little, even if only a little. My means are limited. I can’t do more than this.
I have her photograph.
I will send you word. Now I don’t know if he is still alive. For two years he hasn’t come begging anymore. I’ve heard they’ve moved to some village. Can’t find a place to stay in the city. This is how some people simply disappear from our lives. One day I too shall vanish as a star in the sky. Will you remember me then? I doubt it. Because your heart isn’t large enough to keep me within it.
I didn’t love you, or perhaps I did—but you are not the one I loved. Where has that beloved gone, can you tell me? That’s who I’m searching for! That’s who I want to love. That’s who I want to hold close and tell all my joys and sorrows to. If I had told that beloved of mine that I wished to see them, they would certainly have met me. The way they met me at KFC back then. Their taste was quite refined, from what I knew. So, can you find that beloved for me?
One more thing. I don’t fully know where you are now. The other day I asked you for your address. Why didn’t you give it? If I want to send you something, where should I send it? Or is giving me your address forbidden? Who have you given it to? Someone special? Give everything to them then! Give yourself to them too! I have not even a grain of love left for you anymore. It has all died.
Don’t you know this? You are my shameful love! How can anyone kill a love that has been built up, piece by piece, over all these years? How can anyone else dwell in that heart where I should be? Isn’t that my place? Then where is my place? In someone else’s heart? Very well, then I won’t come to your heart anymore!
Be careful. Be good to someone. Someone is waiting for you—someone whose love has not yet ended, someone who has hoarded many tears to cry with their head on your chest, someone who has not let anyone else touch them because you alone will touch them, someone who has not married because they will love only you, someone who waits for you all 365 days of the year, hoping you will come, someone who hasn’t put flowers in their braid waiting for you to bring them jasmine, someone who hasn’t let anyone hold their hand in these five years because you will hold it again, someone who has never let lips meet theirs except for you alone.
My foolish man! You don’t know how much worse this broken angel of yours has become because you haven’t come! I still believe that before I die, I will receive your love at least once! Give me all the wounds you have, hurl all the curses, inflict all the pain, strike me as much as you wish—for in everything I am only yours!
Someone is truly waiting for you…
When you asked me that day whether I love them or not, I was silent, said nothing. I asked you in return—even in your writing one can see that you love someone, that you spend mornings and evenings with them! You answered no. But only God knows what the truth is!
Well, you’ve been writing for so long. I haven’t been reading your words just from today—I’ve been reading them for years. Surely I know you at least a little? Or will you tell me now that I don’t know you at all? You say I’ve changed! But have you even looked for the reason behind my change?
# On Neglect and Love
What, you found the fault first of all? Listen—people don’t change through indifference! If someone gives you constant neglect and coldness, you will change. You *will*. That’s the rule! No one escapes it.
You won’t believe me, will you? But listen anyway. Say you plant a tree with great care. But then you never look after that tree again. How much will it grow, tell me? You’ll probably say now, plenty of trees grow without care, in neglect. Yes, fine. Mark this—those trees, nobody planted them. Those trees, nobody planted with love. Those trees, you’ll find, mostly come up on their own, grow in neglect, and eventually, they end too in neglect, in carelessness. Many weeds are born this way, and end this way too. But it’s not so with people. People are the exception. People cannot live long without love, cannot live well without it. Who wants to live without love, tell me? And yet here I am, alive without your love. Think a moment—what pain do you suppose I lie awake with every night?
Look, I’ve noticed lately in your writing, someone else around. If I were to assume you’ve created some fictional character for everyone to see, I’d be wrong. No, this time you haven’t invented anything fictional. Everything adds up—with you, with your family. Please don’t call me out, don’t think I’m judging you. I’m just saying what I think, nothing more. I don’t remember anything. Even if I have ugly thoughts about you, I blurt them out. What can I do, tell me?
Now come to that policeman from the 27th BCS. You wanted to know if I love him or not! Prant, do *you* love anyone? I have a counter-question. You said you see someone else in my writing lately. Yes, you were right. I wrote two pieces about him alone. Well, here’s another question back at you. Who’s in your writing these days? Which girl? That one who colors her hair? Or the one who’s furthest from you, yet closest to you—that person? Who are they? Fictional? Who calls you ‘Babui’? Never mind some obligation’s demands—who are you writing about? Who calls you, gets impatient on hold, loses their temper? Whose scolding do you have to bear? Tell me all of it!
I’ve never scolded you like that. I’ve never called you up like that. I let you be yourself. Why didn’t you understand? Why did you assume, just from my silence, that my love had lessened? I know my Prant. If my Prant loves someone, he will love them. I haven’t said anything before, I won’t say anything now. And I’ve been writing about you for years anyway. Poems, songs, so many letters. Diary entries. The other day I found some poems about you from 2018. You know, I’m very patient. But I cannot bear anyone beside you. Lately it’s grown much worse. What am I to do?
Prant, we’ve come to a time when there’s no guarantee we’ll even live. Death is a beautiful thing. There’s no farewell more beautiful than it. If I truly leave you, you won’t cry, no—you’ll say to yourself instead, good riddance! That person who judged too much, they’re gone.
# Letter to the Beloved
Good, then. No one will bother me now. You’re not the sort of person to weep because I don’t love you well enough!
Look, I’m stubborn—terribly stubborn. Yet this stubborn girl keeps letting you win, again and again. You went to Dhaka and said you didn’t want to meet me alone. And you know what? After hearing that, I stopped meeting you. I let you win. But now a question remains—after that, didn’t you meet some other girl alone? In your own city? Not with anyone at all? Put your hand on your heart and answer yourself honestly, please. Your writing gives it away—you see someone every day, and she lives in your city. Right around you. If I say this again, you’ll say I’m judging too much! And so what? Look, I’ve stepped back! Can you see the change? I really have stepped back, truly!
Why am I saying all this now, anyway? When I said goodbye that time—for fifteen days—did I say anything? Or did I just slip away in silence? It was my mistake to knock on your door again. But you know, that night, after I dreamed of you, I really couldn’t hold myself back anymore. You were crying like that—I was truly frightened by your tears. So I knocked at once. I always understand when you’re upset, but I don’t say anything to you. I want you to tell me something yourself each time, or tell me everything. I’m here for you, beside you. Why this hesitation to speak?
Lately, I feel something is wrong. You’re truly not well. What is it? Will you tell me? Or can’t you tell me? I didn’t wait for this day. I never imagined I’d see you suffering. Can you be patient for a while? Just a little while! The way I’ve loved you and carried us through five years—like that. No, you won’t have to wait five years. Everything will be set right long before that. Life is so short, you know? Don’t keep this pain locked inside.
Listen, that day when you were so angry, I wanted to come to your house. Sit before you and take your scolding. Oh, who else would scold me but you, tell me? What beautiful words you said—I should report you to someone in my name! Truly, you don’t know me. Even if you beat me, I wouldn’t tell a soul. This is between us two. Because I love you. Why should others know our business? Hmph! Is my love so cheap that all of it becomes the talk of the town? If the person I love understood even a little of my heart, what a different thing it would be!
You said so many things that day. I’ve heard rumors about me—that I’m not good, and what not! You know, I’ve known for a long time that one day I’d have to hear such things. So I was prepared. I don’t know who the person is who told you all this about me. But I wish from my heart that God blesses him well. It doesn’t matter! But you know one thing—a tree that has a name also has a reputation! Keep this in mind: the sweetest fruit on the tree is always the one the birds peck at! Did I ever claim I was good? Did I say that anywhere?
The person who speaks your faults to me will speak mine just as readily to another. But why torment yourself with such thoughts? It only makes you ill.
If when I’m with you I see that you’ve lost the greatest virtue of all—the capacity to love people—then I will move away from you. Why? Listen. We live among people. If instead of loving them we merely catalogue their failings, then life becomes unbearable. Impossibly hard. And if you spend time with someone like that, you’ll watch your own virtues curdle into something dark. Before you even realize it, they’ve planted a seed of suspicion in your heart that grows without your knowing.
But you should know—I haven’t accused you of anything. I’ve only told you what weighs on my own heart. From the day I began to love you, I dug a grave within myself, and there alone I bury all your faults. One cannot love another person without doing this.
But tell me, will we not meet again? When will I rest my head on your chest and weep? When will I tell you everything? I have been tired for so many years. Truly exhausted. If death comes now, I will have lived far too long.
You never made room for me in your heart.
Yet in the kingdom of mine, you are the sovereign of every corner!
I tried to forget you, but could only remember—
I love you still, and shall love you now!
Know this one truth… even if death itself comes calling.