I've smoked a cigarette exactly twice in my life.
The first one came from Mishu, my beloved ex.
Years ago, one lazy afternoon, after devouring biryani from Ashik Mama's shop under the shimul trees at our university campus, we sprawled in front of the Central Library in that particular ease of midday. Mishu pulled two cigarettes from the wrinkled pocket of his Hawaiian shirt and offered them to me! There was nothing so remarkable about an eleven-taka Benson cigarette that it warranted such careful extraction and presentation to one's girlfriend!
Yet this cigarette did have something special about it, I must say. The nicotine wrapped in paper hadn't come from just anywhere—it had journeyed all the way from distant England. A friend of Mishu's, newly returned from abroad, had given him these two English cigarettes. But he hadn't smoked them. Foreign goods, you see! One doesn't smoke something precious alone. You share good things with people you love. So he'd carried these two slender cylinders of smoke all the way from home to campus—one for himself, one for his beloved.
Mishu's wallet held barely fifty taka, his feet were shod in ancient, fraying flip-flops, yet in his pocket he carried a pair of expensive foreign cigarettes for his love. When I took that cigarette in my hands, I stared at it in confusion—which end do you light? I think that very uncertainty, that panic about which way to bring the flame, is why I never could continue with cigarettes after that!
But Mishu knew. He lit it properly for me. Then we shared the pleasure of smoking. Not so bad, really! Being foreign cigarettes, you understand! That day with Mishu, I learned that the Bengali ones are quite harsh—foreign brands, by comparison, are lighter tobacco. Easier on the throat. In his words, foreign cigarettes were "ladies' cigarettes"—for those who can't handle the real thing.
Last year, our family welcomed a new member. My dashing brother-in-law. Though the playful teasing that typically passes between a sister and her brother-in-law doesn't exist between us—he's a serious sort, not given to such banter. Shortly after the wedding, he was leaving for a conference in Norway. He asked what I wanted him to bring back. In all seriousness, I said: "A packet of cigarettes."
And he returned with a beautiful packet wrapped in blue paper, cigarettes meant for me! True as day! But here's the thing: I couldn't find a safe, open place to smoke them. So I was forced into that age-old refuge: the bathroom. The last sanctuary of countless tobacco-chewers and smoke-breathers in this world.
And once again, after all these years, I faced the same old problem: which end to light? I fumbled about, tried both ways, and finally found the right one. I took a long, deep drag. Vast plumes of smoke curled from my mouth. But no—the taste of that foreign cigarette was gone. I'd finished one of the eleven. What do I do with the remaining ten? Who do I give them to? I sit there wondering, watching the smoke dance before my eyes. Ah, if only life could be like a cigarette—something you finish in one long, continuous drag! This bloody life!
We met again, nearly four years after the breakup. She'd been wanting to see me for a while—said she had a gift for me. Poor thing, she'd never been able to give me anything back then. Now her fortunes have improved. Her face has matured. She's married and settled into housekeeping. In her new home stands a gleaming refrigerator! And yet we'd once promised—a mud hut for us, she said, filled with earthen pots of cool water. We'd drown ourselves in oceans of rice, seasoned with dal and potato curry, each holding a dried red chili in hand. Where did all those dream-laden promises go?
'You're not bringing out a book of poems?' she asked, breaking my reverie.
# My Life, Unascended
A life without ascent—only descents, one after another. That book never got written. Perhaps it never will. I laughed without a word. Then I saw him—habit drew his hand from his pocket as always. But this time, not a cigarette. Crisp notes, thousands of them, gleaming. He forced them into my hands. “I’ve never been able to give you anything. You’ve always given. Once I had nothing—only you. Now I have everything. Only you are gone.”
You cannot refuse the gift of someone’s love. So I cupped my palms and accepted his love, even though I no longer loved him. Time moves. Age creeps in. Wisdom clarifies. After days of deliberation, I pulled out a pack of cigarettes—one stick short of full—brought back by my brother-in-law fresh from Norway. I placed it in his hand.
Years ago, for a single cigarette, I gave him back nine. I know Mishu-types better than to think his pleasure lies in a beloved’s hand rather than a cigarette pack. That’s why, four years ago, I told him: “I’d rather love a tree than love you.” And then—we broke.
The thing I’d made easy for Mishu that day, I repaid today by giving him back nine cigarettes more than he’d given.
From that day on, I made a vow: never marry a Mishu-type boy. In this regard, my friend was truly blessed. A government job—it saved him from the jaws of unemployment that devours people like us.
Late afternoon. We said goodbye and parted ways again. Same road, different destinations. This was the first time we sat in different seats on the same bus. Me toward the front, him toward the back. By the window—my old habit. I took that seat.
No air came through the glass. Only sounds drifted up. A failed lover’s eyes glistening with sorrow, voice cracking, words layered thickly one upon another—*Finding a girl like you is so tough. So tough.*
Before my eyes rose the face of a failed lover.