March 23, 2009
Preetilata Hall, University of Chittagong
I am now between two people. I belong to both, yet neither belongs to me. I know I’m truly alone, and this is how it must remain. I’ll manage just fine—being alone poses no problem for me. Still, after everything, I keep sending him messages, one after another; when I call he doesn’t answer, so I send messages instead. Why I send them, I don’t know. Those messages that never get replies, glancing at them again and again every few minutes, waiting for an answer without any reason—it’s terribly painful. I feel no shame, no fatigue. Love makes people shameless, tireless. The more interest I’ve shown toward the one I thought had loved me, the more I’ve lost all interest in the one I loved most.
I love poetry. Despite many attempts, I cannot recite it well. The truth is, not everyone can do everything. I’ve accepted this. Because of this love for poetry, whenever I see people who love poetry, who can recite it beautifully, they seem like such vibrant souls—I long to be close to them. That date always stays in my mind. Poila Falgun. The spring festival was being celebrated. A former student of our university was a wonderful reciter. That day he came at our invitation and performed; I listened, I watched him, and I was completely undone. I got his phone number from an apu and, desperate to hear his voice, even called him. On the phone I remained silent, said nothing at all. An infinite rush of enchantment overwhelmed me.
At that time I was caught up in a relationship of three and a half years. I’m the kind of girl who never mingled with boys other than my boyfriend. I wear hijab, keep myself hidden from everyone as much as possible. Through a friend, I arranged to meet that reciter. He spoke beautifully. Right from our first meeting, he wanted to marry me. Hearing his words frightened me, but for some reason I couldn’t understand, I kept talking to him. Eventually I found myself entangled in a relationship with him.
I told my previous boyfriend that I was getting involved with someone else. I knew I was doing wrong, but I simply couldn’t keep myself away from him. Against my own will, I talked to him, met with him. Seeing him, hearing his voice, even just thinking about him made me lose myself completely. Hearing this, my boyfriend became very angry and stopped speaking to me. I couldn’t understand what to do. Yet I wanted to stay with him. But the new relationship wouldn’t let me go to him. I knew what I was doing wasn’t right. Yet the allure of wrongdoing kept pulling me back again and again.
Four months passed this way. I told the second person about my previous relationship too. She said to me, “Do whatever you think is best. But I can’t go back to my former relationship anymore.” Then she informed me that due to some problem at her home, it wasn’t possible for her to get involved in a relationship with me. Hearing this, the sky came crashing down on my head. But then what had been going on all this time? I heard her say, “Did I ever tell you I loved you? Then why did you just assume I was your boyfriend?” I said, “But you’ve been talking to me intimately day after day. You never stopped talking to me. There were times when you were busy, couldn’t answer the phone, yet even in that state you somehow found time to call me. You showed interest in me, and because of that I lost all interest in Kalpo. You kept in touch with me while she cut off contact. I want to marry you. You can’t turn me away. It’s not fair.” Hearing my words, she burst out laughing. “Are you stupid or what? Talking intimately means what? Why would I behave rudely with you? I talked to you, gave you time. You gave time too. Did anyone force you to give your time? Or did I ever exercise any kind of authority over you? We talk, sometimes even meet; we have a good relationship. Nothing more than that. Does love happen from just this much? Is it that cheap? Be practical! The question of marrying you doesn’t even arise! Is your head on straight?” “Why isn’t it possible to marry me? Am I unworthy of you? What do I need to do to become worthy of you? Tell me a little! I’m ready to do everything! Just don’t turn me away. I can’t possibly go back to her anymore. Please don’t turn me away!” She couldn’t give any reason for rejecting me. She just said directly, “It’s not possible! If you can continue like this, then stay, otherwise sorry!” I think, how easy it is to say “it’s not possible”! I can’t make my heart understand. I make call after call, send message after message, but nothing works. When we used to talk, I felt like she loved me. But whenever the topic of commitment came up, she would avoid me. She’d say, I never said I loved you! In my greed to talk to her, I wouldn’t say anything else. I’d accept all her conditions. Our undefined relationship continued this way. One day I told her, “There’s talk of marriage at my home. What should I do now? Please do something!” “Do something means what? Get married, be happy. Simple! I never told you to wait for me. Did I say something like that?” I couldn’t give any reply to this. I told my family, “I can’t get married right now in any way. If you pressure me about marriage, I’ll commit suicide.”
The marriage proposals keep coming. The greatest punishment for being born a girl is that everyone assumes an unmarried woman has no identity—this is taken for granted. A man’s identity lies in standing on his own feet, while a woman’s identity hangs around someone else’s neck. A man’s success lies in keeping a beautiful wife at home, while a woman’s success lies in going to an established husband’s home. Everyone in the house rallied together to make me successful. In the midst of all this, Kalpo once wanted to marry me. He went to my house and spoke with my mother, clung to my elder sister’s feet and acted all emotional. My heart didn’t agree. I said no. Whenever I used to bring up marriage with him before, he would always avoid the topic. I stayed with him because of my own patience, not because of his love. He never kept me happy. What guarantee was there that he would keep me happy after marriage? I won’t marry him. But it’s not as if I’m sitting around waiting to marry someone else. The truth is, I’ll have to be forced into marriage. If the decision about marriage is left to me, I’ll remain alone for the rest of my life. I don’t want to get involved in any other relationship—I’m afraid. I think, I’m alone, and I’m doing just fine! Being alone is much better than being in an uncertain, uncomfortable relationship.
My first boyfriend and I didn’t get along at all. He smoked cigarettes, drank with his friends, and his friends seemed like troublemakers too. He talked more with other girls than he did with me. I understood everything, but I couldn’t pull myself away from him. Kalpo never even prayed on Fridays, never kept a single fast, and always spoke using crude language. He was very carefree, never had a moment’s tension about the future. He never even thought about the fact that I was in his life. How our days ahead would pass, what we needed to do to build a good career—he had no headaches about any of these matters. All he understood was this much: I was his, and I would remain his for life. How to keep me happy, that we would have a family, that he would need to take responsibility for that family—such thoughts never entered his head. After learning about my second relationship, he started taking drugs. He had no responsibility toward himself, no love for himself. Someone who doesn’t love himself can never love anyone else. He didn’t have much money of his own, but whenever someone was in trouble, he would help them even if it meant borrowing from others. Once, for a girl suffering from cancer, he sold his mother’s gold bangles to give money. What’s the point of helping someone by stealing others’ wealth or borrowing money from others—I don’t understand. Is this magnanimity? Or shamelessness? He had no sense of responsibility toward his own family either. He loved me, but took no care of me, rarely called to check on me. He had no work, yet he couldn’t even find time to talk with me. When I was going to campus, or on my way home, he wouldn’t want to spend time with me. He was that busy! An unemployed man, busier than anyone!
I was the one who handled his finances. He was a nawabzada, after all—tutoring at people’s homes would apparently compromise his dignity. Whatever I earned from tutoring, I’d hand over every penny to him. He would then give me some “pocket money” from that. On the days I received my salary, he’d treat his friends. He’d blow my hard-earned money on alcohol. I couldn’t say a word. I was in love, you see! After prayers, I’d weep before Allah, begging Him to make my beloved a better person. Those prayers were never answered. Whenever we had a fight about anything and stopped speaking, I was always the one who had to call and break the silence. The silent treatment didn’t hurt him nearly as much as it did me—I couldn’t bear not talking, so like a shameless fool, I’d call him crying.
He preferred talking to my friends over talking to me. He’d do favors for my friends, take them out, spend time with them when they were upset, and buy gifts for my friends with my tutoring money. He never bought me anything with my own money—in fact, whenever I needed money for something and asked him, I had to justify myself extensively just to get it back. He maintained good relationships with all my other friends; I was the only one he didn’t really care about. He had this terrible habit. He’d start getting very close to several of my friends, spending regular time with them, taking great care of them. Eventually, some of them would fall for him, creating distance between them and their boyfriards. He was entirely responsible for two of their breakups. And right after the breakups, he’d disappear. It was all just a game to him. Since he didn’t really have any work to do, this is how he spent his time. How hard I tried to make him serious about his own life! If I’d spent even half that time on myself, I could have accomplished so much in life.
On the other hand, Shishir prayed regularly, fasted during Ramadan, didn’t smoke, and had no other bad habits. He bought many books of poetry and would read them aloud to me. He had this extraordinary gift for recitation—absolutely beautiful. He excelled in his studies, came from a good family background, was remarkably refined, and quite wonderful as a person. Anyone who spoke with him would inevitably fall in love with him, but he himself never fell in love. He was one of those rare people with the unusual ability to make others fall in love while remaining emotionally detached himself—someone with a hard heart, devoid of sentiment. He mingled with everyone very courteously. He had many talents: organizing events, handling situations, and so much more. He spoke slowly and beautifully, his gaze calm and serene; you could just keep looking at him and listening forever. He possessed an infinite capacity to enchant people. He was serious and committed about everything—his career, family, friends.
But what I admired most about him was that both he and his family were quite conservative. He’d had a relationship before, and there had even been talk of marriage, but that girl was rather liberal-minded, and despite his efforts, he couldn’t make her more conservative, so he ultimately didn’t marry her. He often told me, “Look, I’m like dry wood. I have rather little feeling or sentiment.”
Even so, I thought that surely, one day or another, the person I loved so much would change for me, would love me back. I didn’t understand then that people don’t really change—they either accept things for a while or keep pretending to accept them. The man who told me he’d marry me the moment he first saw me—how hard he became. Yet he never stopped talking to me, never once raised his voice to say a single harsh word. He never had any complaints about me; he liked everything about me. He was a thoroughly gentleman.
He would wait for me at the university gates, I could find him whenever I wanted, he’d take me out to eat, he looked after my comfort and convenience. And yet he claimed he didn’t love me. How do you explain this? I never saw any sign in him of not loving me. He was always by my side, took care of me in every way, remembered even my smallest concerns; but whenever commitment came up, he’d say, “Did I ever say I loved you?” Some people don’t like commitment but still want to stay in relationships. Was he like that too? Or was what we had not really a relationship at all?
I used to tell Kolpo all the time, “Come on, let’s elope and get married.” He would never agree. And yet, when you looked at him, he seemed exactly like the type of guy who would elope. I, on the other hand, am the sort that no one would believe could make such a proposal to him. I really don’t understand the male psyche. If women’s minds are difficult to understand, then I’d say understanding men’s minds is downright impossible! Once a woman enters that mysterious world, only death can free her! A man’s mind is like a book written in Hebrew—you can keep it open in front of you all day, but you’re guaranteed not to understand a single letter! Shishir won’t agree to marry me, won’t agree to call our relationship by any name, but as a human being, I’ve never found any fault in him. I often think I actually love both of them, but I found more mental peace with the second one. If I had married the first, I would have suffered my whole life—perhaps that’s why Allah didn’t want our marriage to happen. I feel so hurt that the second one, whatever else he does, could have at least not stopped talking to me. That’s what kept me alive! I know thinking about Kolpo is nothing but foolishness for me, because he can never trust me again. Where there’s no trust, what meaning does love have? My love for him has become largely buried. Even if I were to get him back, nothing could ever be the same again; instead, all I’d get would be unrest, distrust, and discomfort. What’s the point of thinking about him?
How did I become like this? I’m truly amazed when I think about it. First, my first love happened beyond my imagination, and the second love was the same. Being unfaithful in the first relationship and then entangling myself in yet another new relationship. Shishir doesn’t ask me to wait, but he doesn’t avoid me either. How many times have I said, “I’ll talk to my family, let my family make the proposal.” He won’t even let me do that. I say, “Why are you doing this? Is love something bad? Many families accept such relationships. Why won’t ours? Where’s the problem? Tell me. Don’t you love me? Or do you love someone else? Or is there some other issue here? Please tell me openly!” He says nothing. He just says it’s not possible. For a month and a half, he didn’t receive my calls. Why? I had asked, “If I mention marriage at home, should I mention you?” When I insisted, he cut off contact with me. He left without saying goodbye. After a month and a half, he suddenly received my call one day. When I cried terribly, he said, “I know my family won’t accept you. But if you want, I’ll talk to my family. Wait, let the time come.” I said resentfully, “Forget it, I don’t need it.” “Okay, fine,” he said and hung up the phone. A completely emotionless person! And I’m desperate in love with such a robot! The one I can’t keep, I can’t let go; the one who won’t keep me, won’t let me go. What kind of life is this?
Every day I think, I won’t write to him anymore, I won’t call him ever again. Sometimes I don’t call him; even when I do, it’s at times when my phone has no balance; but I can’t stop myself from sending messages no matter what. I understand I’m making myself small in his eyes; I’m crossing boundaries. Still, I can’t break free from this addiction. I betrayed my first love, so going back there isn’t possible. And in this love, because of one man, I’m losing faith in all men with every passing moment. I have only one question: if he truly doesn’t love me, then why did he keep talking to me even after understanding everything? Why did he leave so late, when I had ended my first relationship and grown dependent on him, when there was no way back for me? If he had to leave, he should have left from the beginning; if he had to hurt me, he should have done it right away. Even when he knew I was in a relationship, why did he keep acting like a devoted lover day after day? I know neither of these two will ever marry me, yet I’ve decided in my heart that even if one of them wanted to marry me now, I wouldn’t agree to it. Actually, this thought gives me a certain peace. Could I really refuse them? Probably not, which is perhaps why neither of them will ever come forward to marry me. The first one has changed his number. I’ve deleted the number he uses now from my contacts, so that even if I ever feel the urge to call him by mistake, there’s no way left open. But I know the second one’s number and Facebook by heart. Without realizing it, I call him, send him messages. Whenever I feel bad, my finger gravitates toward his number. Despite countless attempts, I can’t stop myself in any way. So many people give such beautiful advice! Giving advice is easy, but following it is terribly difficult. Unless you’ve been through a situation yourself, you can lecture about it all day. I let all these lectures go in one ear and out the other. On top of that, I’m at home with nothing to do, completely unemployed. I should study for job preparation, but I can’t even do that—I have no enthusiasm for any work, not an ounce of energy comes to me. At home they just say, get married, get married! But marriage isn’t a solution either. I still haven’t been able to understand myself, so how would I understand another new person if I got married? I need to give myself time. I was never this scattered before! When did I become like this? Why did I become like this? Am I going crazy?
One day,
without saying a word,
she blocked me
on Facebook too. Twenty-seven days later, she unblocked me and sent a text: “I’m a bit busy right now, have to take job exams in various places. I’ll talk again after the exams are over.” She sent the text and vanished again! I must have read that text hundreds of times. Then, swallowing my pride and shame, I called her. She picked up. “Alright, fine, if you want, we can talk like before, meet up, go out together. But marrying you isn’t possible.” I couldn’t survive without her. So inevitably, I accepted all her terms. She started reciting poetry to me again like before. Ah! The emotion she pours into her recitations—if even a quarter of that emotion were truly within her! We would talk for hours and hours. She never has any stories to tell me, but I have thousands of stories to tell her. My words never run out. I’m actually the one who calls her, who wants to meet. She’s an extremely cautious person—if she thought her image would be damaged or her studies would suffer, she would never agree to meet. I’ve learned from watching her that cautious and calculating people can’t truly fall in love.
I love her recitations very much. Because of her, I don’t feel like loving anyone else. But I know love isn’t that difficult. Hatred, on the other hand, is much harder. After my first love, it never even occurred to me that I would fall in love again. And before my first love, I never thought I’d be capable of love at all. But it happened! I think it’s much better to love after marriage—at least then you don’t have to suffer alone. You have someone beside you in your pain. But I hear that even after marriage, people stay alone together, suffer alone together, and find happiness alone together. Being alone with someone else is much more painful than being alone with yourself. Does this mean that even after marriage, people don’t escape the pain of loneliness and the loneliness of pain?
Kalpo was the first boy in my life with whom I had conversations that served no purpose at all. The two of us would stay up all night talking. When I went to university, I’d remember our endless conversations from the night before. In the early days of our relationship, he was incredibly caring—he truly thought about me. I learned so much about conversation from him, learned how to laugh. He taught me how to accept care. Wherever he went, whatever caught his eye and pleased him, he’d bring it back for me. Even when he had no money, he’d borrow from me if necessary just to buy me that thing. For the first three years, I didn’t even understand what “meeting” meant. We only talked. I couldn’t feel right if I didn’t talk to him. One day he was the first to say, “If you don’t have breakfast with me today, I won’t eat anything at all.” That’s how it began. After that, we’d have breakfast together every day before heading to university. I didn’t have my own phone then—we’d talk on my mother’s phone, my father’s phone. I loved his voice so much; just hearing it would make me feel dizzy with happiness. Perhaps that feeling has dimmed a little now.
Kalpo’s words had no fixed address. He might call me to meet, but when I arrived, I’d find he’d told me to come and then gone off to play. He’d completely forgotten we were supposed to meet that day. I’d be standing there waiting while he played in the field. This would happen. He’d scold me terribly when I fell sick, and scold me for poor results too. My first semester results were awful. During exams, he wouldn’t talk to me, but later I’d hear that he’d spent the entire night chatting with my friend. This would happen too. Even so, I couldn’t manage to stop talking to him, couldn’t stop loving him.
After the exams ended, I said nothing to him. Instead, I explained everything to that friend, told her about our relationship and cried so much, forbade her from staying in touch with Kalpo, and later treated her badly too. I was permanent in Kalpo’s life, while almost every day he’d be on the phone with new girls. He tutored one girl. Sometimes he’d spend entire nights talking to her on the phone. When I asked, he’d say he was discussing studies with her! He knew I didn’t like this, yet he’d still say it. I had become old news—what was the point of talking to me anymore? Yet my eagerness to talk with him never diminished even slightly. Every day I’d discover him anew.
I began to wonder, why was this happening? Had I done something wrong? Or was someone pulling him away from me? Suddenly I remembered that day when he had proposed to me—I hadn’t said anything then. Eleven days later, I had agreed to his proposal. For two months everything went smoothly. Then everything began to fall apart, somehow. His love for me started to fade, but he never lessened his control over me. No love, yet complete domination. I had to tell him where I went, what I did—nothing could be done without his permission. All the responsibility for keeping the relationship alive was mine alone. Holding onto him was my burden alone. One day I shared my pain with a friend. She listened and said, “What are you saying? You two are about to break up? He spends all day talking to Neela now, listens to everything she says. They meet every other day.” From then on, I lost my mind. After enduring it for a few days, I finally told him, “You can’t talk to Neela anymore.” Out of spite, he stopped talking to me altogether, but kept his relationship with Neela intact. I called Neela, even met with her, folded my hands and cried for a long time. But nothing worked. Instead, they became even more reckless. They no longer hid their friendship—they would roam around right in front of me. This continued until my second relationship began. In sixth semester, I didn’t take a single exam. I began gambling with my own life. I wouldn’t eat properly, wouldn’t go to class, wouldn’t leave my room, wouldn’t talk to anyone. He called my father and said, “Look Uncle, see what’s become of your daughter! She doesn’t study, she hangs around with bad people. Her life is ruined!” I had to endure so much scolding from my family. Everyone at home misunderstood me. Even then I loved him, forced myself to talk to him. I dreamed that one day he would realize his mistake and come back to me. I couldn’t sleep all night, would doze off in class. My memory deteriorated so badly that I couldn’t even remember what had happened the day before. This is how my days passed. Our relationship survived only on false promises. I had become accustomed to living recklessly. The truth was, our preferences didn’t match at all, our natures were different, our expectations from life were completely different. I knew all of this, and knowing everything, I still loved him.
Shishir’s appearance in my life was utterly unexpected. That evening, two days after Pohela Falgun. It had been ages since Kolpo had spoken to me. That evening, all of us in the room were having a good time together. The topic of the spring festival came up. Shishir’s recitation was mentioned too. Without thinking, I asked one of the seniors, “Could you get me Shishir bhai’s number?” She had it right there on her phone. I took it. That’s how it all began. I have no particularly happy memories with Shishir. I wanted to see him every day, wanted to cook for him and feed him. I wanted to feed him by hand, but he wouldn’t let me. In the beginning, he would meet me often, but later, not so much. We would meet on campus—between classes, after classes ended. He would come to campus just for me, making the effort. When I saw Shishir, I only wanted to love him. I would call him by name, but I couldn’t bring myself to use the informal ‘tumi’ with him. By then I had realized I was forgetting Kolpo and falling in love with Shishir. It’s impossible to forget someone and quickly fall in love with someone else. If something like that happens, it means the first love wasn’t love at all—it was merely habit. In truth, my first love was just habit; if not from my side, then certainly from Kolpo’s. Anyway, what was working inside me at that time was compassion for Kolpo, love for Shishir. Caught in this dilemma, intense guilt began to work within me. Eventually, my compassion for Kolpo was buried, and I lost myself in the current of my love for Shishir. Yet, what cruel irony of fate—I got neither of them. I feel terrible about myself. When Shishir avoids me, I think I’m suffering like this because of my unfaithfulness to relationships. I’m suffering because I hurt Kolpo. Sometimes when I run into Kolpo on the street, I can’t look him in the eye when we talk. At home, they keep pressuring me constantly about marriage. This is only natural. Sometimes I even want to get married. Sometimes, I want to study more. Occasionally I think, if I could get a job, I could stand on my own feet, then no one would force me to marry. Then again, I think about disappearing somewhere far away. I can’t stand anyone. I want to be rude to everyone. When I agree to marriage, Amma acts as if I’m her servant, as if I must marry whoever she tells me to, whenever she says. She won’t give any value to my likes and dislikes. The thought that I’m being given no importance makes me want to rebel and destroy everything. All my friends are marrying the men they love. Their parents are accepting it too. Seeing all this feels deeply disheartening. Even if my love affair had gone well, my family would never have accepted a love marriage. Why has my life been destroyed like this? I find myself unbearable. I love to practice religion, I pray regularly, I wear the veil. After all this, everyone else will get everything, and I’ll get nothing? Why did such an awful thing happen only to me? What kind of justice is this from the Creator toward me? I feel angry at the Creator.
Because of my second love, many people talked badly about me behind my back, thought ill of me. They said Pritha is a loose girl, dumped one for another. They questioned my character. Those who knew what I was really like would protest against such talk. I lived in constant fear that if the people close to me found out about my second love, they too would think badly of me like everyone else. I hadn’t fallen in love deliberately. What fault was mine? Though yes, I should have exercised better self-control.
Shishir would call me at times when Kalpo and I were having problems, when he wouldn’t give me any time. I enjoyed talking with Shishir. I could tell that what I was doing wasn’t right. But I couldn’t hold myself back. Some people are born with an infinite capacity to weaken others. Three days into talking with Shishir, I realized I was becoming vulnerable to him.
I called Kalpo to tell him about this, but he didn’t answer. I sent a message—no response. What was I to do? My world was very small. Go to class, return to my room—that was my entire universe. Being alone made me feel terrible.
Kalpo never took my talking with Shishir seriously. He thought I was there, would always be there. And by acting this way, one day I simply vanished from his life. When I realized I had fallen in love with Shishir, while Kalpo still wouldn’t speak to me, I told Shishir I was in a relationship. He replied, “So? What am I supposed to do? I didn’t ask to know! A person can fall in love with many people. Falling in love can happen many times in a person’s life. Why box love in like this?”
Shishir told me that if anything were to happen, he would marry me outright. He wasn’t into all this love-romance business. Hearing this made me happy, made me fall even deeper in love with him. When a girl falls in love with someone, she always takes her beloved’s promises as sacred vows. The same thing happened to me. Meanwhile, Shishir’s younger sister eloped and got married. This caused a lot of trouble in their family. From then on, he had only one refrain: he didn’t love me, he couldn’t marry me. Sometimes he’d speak normally, but whenever I got too emotional, he’d lecture me about harsh realities. I didn’t like hearing such things. Truth-telling has always been inappropriate as romantic conversation. I would cry and suffer hearing it. But even then, I would call him, try to talk. This went on for a year and a half. Kalpo didn’t reply to a single text of mine. Meanwhile, I kept talking with Shishir, meeting him. He would often neglect me, and when it hurt too much to bear such indifference, I would think I was being punished for wronging Kalpo, and the guilt would work even more intensely.
He would say, “I know you’re suffering because of me. Why don’t you just accept it! Every relationship is different. This is how I am! If you want to have a relationship with me, you’ll have to accept me as I am. What else can be done, tell me?”
My life became a kind of play between sun and shadow. Shishir was a very practical person. He understood that whenever I realized he didn’t love me, it caused me great pain.
He would try to keep me calm, encourage me in various pursuits. There was never any lack of sincerity or care in how he treated me. That’s why my love for him never diminished—rather, it grew stronger with each passing day. Hope would stir in my heart that perhaps this was just his way, that he truly loved me but couldn’t bring himself to say it. When I’d start acting crazy about marriage, he would tell me, “Let’s see, if such an opportunity ever comes, if having you is written in my fate, then we’ll see. But I can’t make you any promises.” Even those few words from him felt like being half-married already.
That’s how it was going. Everything seemed fine, yet nothing was truly right—that’s how I was living. A year later, Kalpa called and said he wanted to marry me, that he’d come to see me. My heart didn’t agree. I used to be the one pressuring him about marriage before, saying we could even go to the registrar’s office if needed. He would comfort me with false wedding preparations—telling me he was talking to his family, trying to arrange things, that he’d asked his friend to be our witness at the registry office. All lies. Gradually, worn down by such deceptions, I had slowly withdrawn from my own position. I told Shishir, “Kalpa wants to marry me. What should I do?” He said, “Go ahead and do it. But I haven’t made you any promises. Don’t come complaining to me about this later!” I thought about it for two days. No, my heart wouldn’t agree. Once again, normal conversation resumed with Shishir. Shishir gives me time too—when he’s busy, he explains it to me, and keeps the rest of his time for me when he’s free. Whenever Shishir’s number is off, or his Facebook account deactivated, I feel crazy, fall into despair. Sometimes I suddenly think of calling Kalpa, but I haven’t saved any of his numbers on my phone. The thought comes to me that I’m the one who can’t maintain relationships, it’s all my fault. I destroyed Kalpa’s trust. Destroying someone’s trust is a greater crime than not loving them. Let Kalpa do whatever he wants, but he trusted me. He thought I could never do such a thing, proudly told everyone, “Pritha is an extraordinary person. The world could start spinning backwards, but she would never leave me.” What he never imagined I could do, that’s exactly what I did. I’ve cheated myself far more than I ever cheated Kalpa. The version of myself I saw in my own eyes—I didn’t recognize her before. Both my self-confidence and self-respect have diminished. After all this, I’m still alone. What was the point?
I’m very bad now. I can’t get involved in any new relationship. I’m afraid—what if I mess myself up again in another storm? What would happen then?
I was never like this before—I wouldn’t even talk to boys without good reason. So why did this happen? I follow proper hijab completely, am quite strict about observing religious rules—I never miss a single prayer. In the early days of falling in love, I was even afraid to do good deeds. I thought, how strange—loving someone while also maintaining hijab, saying prayers? Later I understood, I wasn’t doing anything wrong, love isn’t a sin, so why couldn’t I do good deeds? If my heart remains pure, if I maintain sincere faith in Allah, if my intentions are pure, then why couldn’t I pray? How would I survive if I couldn’t do what I’d been doing since childhood? But some changes have come over me.
I used to be shy, couldn’t talk to anyone—now I can. My anger has decreased compared to before, my patience has increased. I didn’t believe in love before, now I do. This very belief in love destroyed me.
Belief in ghosts and belief in love are fundamentally the same kind of faith; neither has any concrete foundation, yet people remain restless in fear of both.
2
November 2011
Yokohama, Japan
Life flows on. Whatever happens, whatever comes to pass, life stops for no one. If you’re alive, somehow or other life moves forward—that’s the rule. Kolpo is doing well in his own way. He’s married, his child is a year and a half old. He’s changed a lot; he works at a private firm, runs his household with care and attention, loves his wife—or so I’ve heard. Shishir is still job hunting. Since he hasn’t found anyone quite “perfect,” the marriage hasn’t happened yet. It’s been nearly seven months since I came to Japan on a scholarship to do my master’s. I’ve been in the hospital for the past nineteen days; in a road accident, two toes on my left foot broke in half, a lot of flesh tore near my ankle, and at first the foot was starting to rot, but now I’m much better. I actually like being in the hospital. It’s beautifully organized, clean, neat, and tidy. Through the window by my bed, I can see a park. A lake flows past the side of that park. Swans flutter their wings on the lake, swimming along. Small children run around by the lakeside, floating paper boats on the water. Japanese children are masters at origami! They make such colorful, large kites and fly them in the park’s field. On the far side of the lake, there are several hills covered in carpets of green grass. Cloud-white herds of cattle graze there. The afternoon sun comes and plays on my cheek and rolls around on my bed. I often think, why didn’t I see this beautiful world sooner? Does beautiful love draw people away from all other beauty? Are all beautiful things jealous of one another? Now that there’s no love, I’m quite well. Wait, is there really no love? This urge to play hide-and-seek with beauty—isn’t that love?
Every day I wake to a handful of wildflowers from Dr. Sankiji. The flowers are so sweet, so gentle. Light blue, white, purple, and some wonderfully beautiful unknown colors. Each day there are specific flowers in specific colors, always the same number. I’m a bit surprised. Even when Sankiji can’t come in the morning, the flowers still reach me. Dr. Sankiji is a good person. Very polite, gentle, humble. He calls me Pri. When he says that name, his eyes, face, and whole body all smile together. And I call him Kiji.
Good morning, beautiful Pri!
I think maybe because I’m ugly to look at, he teasingly calls me beautiful. Still, it sounds nice.
I said, “Do you know, Kiji, your flowers won’t let me stay in a bad mood? Your flowers work better than your treatment! Hahahaha… I’m really doing very well. Why are you making me better so quickly? Don’t you want me to stay here?”
Hearing my words, Dr. Sankiji burst into laughter. Such a simple, heartfelt, open laugh. When he laughs he looks quite awkward, but still he always laughs with his whole heart. And it’s exactly this quality that makes him look beautiful. People who laugh openly are always beautiful.
“Pri, I’m very angry with you today…” Kiji’s voice was serious.
Kiji
When Kiji speaks rapidly in English, I can’t understand a thing. I just stare at her in bewilderment, and sensing this, Kiji repeats what she said, trying to speak as slowly as possible. Sometimes I deliberately pretend not to understand even when I do, staring at her blankly just to make Kiji uncomfortable. But Kiji explains it to me again and again without any fatigue or irritation, trying so earnestly to make me understand that I’m the one who ends up feeling uncomfortable instead. Kiji’s simplicity puts me to shame.
May I know, Doctor Kiji, why you’re angry with me?
Instead of answering my question, Kiji began examining the test reports with great concentration. As she looked, her brow furrowed.
I’m looking at the distant mountains through the window in the morning light. Day after day of watching them, these mountains of an unknown, unfamiliar country have become so dear to me. They too have embraced me as their own. Even those I’ve loved deeply in my life have never taken me so close to their hearts. Really, it’s not their fault. Human capacity for love is infinite. People get by perfectly well with what life gives them. But humans can’t remain satisfied with just that much—they want more, always more. This excess of desire destroys our capacity to love. The less one desires, the greater one’s capacity for love. The feeling of want damages our ability to love more than actual want itself.
Kiji, do you love the mountains? Do you ever talk to them? I sometimes even quarrel with them. Hahahaha……..
Listen Kiji, do you know how ugly that yellow tie makes you look today? I feel like grabbing your tie right now, yanking it and throwing you to the floor! Oh my! Why are you glaring at me like that? Smile, Kiji! You look so much better when you smile.
There’s something I wanted to know. Among the flowers you gave me, can that little bluish one be grown in Bangladesh? Could you find out for me? Do you have any idea about my country’s climate? Will you Google it? Or should I tell you?
Can you understand, Kiji, that you’re being unfair to me? You can bind me with rules, but how can you bind my heart, Kiji? I’ve worked so hard to get well. Love is a terrible mental illness. I don’t want to fall sick again.
You know Kiji, I often wish that like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, some flute player would come again and carry me away with the magic of his flute. I would lose myself in the enchanted melody…….to those distant mountains. Alas, look—those who don’t want to be lost, get lost; those who want to be lost, never can be! Can you tell me, Kiji, why this happens?
When I have Kiji near me, my words never run out.
One day, turning away from the window and glancing back, I see Kiji is gone; on my bed lies a damp tissue, soft. Tears are so very soft. I wrapped that tissue in another tissue and put it away. Nothing born of selfless love is insignificant to me. Did Kiji ever think I was crazy? Probably not. You can’t think someone’s crazy when you carry such pure simplicity in your heart.
Dr. Sankiji enters the room with a smile.
“How are you today, beautiful Pri?”
“I’m not well, Kiji.”
“Ohhhhh! Why? What happened? Tell me, what should I do? Did the pain in your leg flare up again?”
“Why did you take eight tissues yesterday and leave one in my room, making such a mess, Kiji?”
It’s as if an earthquake strikes through Kiji. Even in the air conditioning, she begins to sweat.
“How did you know I took exactly eight tissues?!”
Kiji suddenly becomes very serious.
“Oh Kiji! Come on! Just kidding! Did you really use all eight tissues? Are you okay, Kiji? You didn’t catch cold, did you? What’s wrong with you?”
Now Kiji seems to calm down a little.
“Yes yes yes! You’re absolutely right, Pri, I did catch a little cold.” (As if I prepared the answer for her and saved her myself!)
“Please let me breathe for a moment, Kiji. I’m suffocating. Could you give me some paper and a pen? I need to write so many things to Shishir. Please Kiji, please…”
“You’re getting so restless day by day, Pri. This isn’t good for your health at all. Yesterday your urine test showed an infection; a very mild infection though. Please try to understand, Pri. Don’t get so agitated.”
“And you’re getting worse and worse every day, Kiji. I hate you, Kiji! I really hate you!”
“Hahaha… That’s great! Go on, beautiful Pri! I do like it! Love or hatred! Anything from you will be my gift!”
Saying this, Dr. Sankiji leaves. This is the first time Kiji has left my room laughing.
Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned the eight tissues. I’ve always noticed that during check-ups, while I’m looking outside or lying there absent-minded, Kiji always leaves the room with wet eyes. Every day I take out the tissues from the box and arrange exactly ten tissues there, and I can tell how many tissues Kiji has taken. That day Kiji had taken seven tissues in her pocket and accidentally left one on my bed.
My suffering—makes Kiji cry.
Kiji’s tears—wound me.
Tell me, why is it so hard to bear love?
Living within four walls surrounded by countless machines and devices; amidst the crowd of melancholy’s many elements, even the weeping of things finds its place. As the gentle, sweet caress of weary sunlight scattered across the glass window touches my skin, I eventually drift into sleep, lost in some profound stupor.