After Illness The body remembers everything. Even after recovery, it carries within itself the memory of that time when breath came short, when each step felt uncertain, when the familiar world suddenly seemed strange and distant. I am well now, or so the doctors say, yet something has shifted—like a house that has been shaken by an earthquake and settles back into place, but not quite the same place as before. In illness, we discover how much we had taken for granted. The simple act of walking to the window, the pleasure of tasting food, the luxury of sleeping through the night—all these small freedoms we had possessed without thinking suddenly become precious beyond measure. Health, it turns out, is not merely the absence of disease but a kind of unconscious grace, a state of being so natural that we notice it only in its absence. People say I look the same as before, that the color has returned to my cheeks, that my eyes have regained their brightness. They mean well, these friends and family members who watched my struggle with such helpless concern. But I want to tell them that something has changed that cannot be seen in the mirror. There is a new awareness now, a heightened sensitivity to the fragility of everything we call normal. The illness taught me languages I had never learned before—the language of patience, of surrender, of asking for help. These were hard lessons for someone who had always prided herself on independence, on being the one others leaned upon. Lying in that hospital bed, I had to learn to receive care, to let others do for me what I could no longer do for myself. It was perhaps the most difficult curriculum I had ever encountered. Now, in this space after illness, I find myself changed in ways I am still discovering. Colors seem more vivid, as if someone has adjusted the brightness of the world. Conversations with loved ones carry more weight; I listen differently now, hearing not just words but the precious fact of presence itself. The morning light through my bedroom window—how had I never really seen it before? There is grief in recovery too, though people rarely speak of it. Grief for the person I was before, who moved through life with such confidence in her body's reliability. Grief for the innocence that allowed me to plan far into the future without the whispered caveat that everything could change in an instant. And yet, alongside this grief, there is something else—a kind of gratitude so profound it sometimes catches me off guard, leaving me breathless with its intensity. I think of all the ordinary moments I rushed through before, all the sunsets I missed because I was too busy planning tomorrow, all the conversations I half-listened to while my mind raced ahead to the next task. The illness stripped away the illusion that time is infinite, that there will always be another chance to pay attention, to love fully, to be present. Recovery is not simply about returning to who we were before. It is about integrating what we learned in that dark country of illness and bringing it back with us into the land of the healthy. It is about becoming someone new—scarred perhaps, but also deepened, someone who knows in her bones how precious and precarious this whole beautiful, terrible business of being alive truly is.

(There’s really nothing special about this Facebook status that deserves to be preserved. Yet looking at the number of likes and the nature of comments on the post, it seems the writing turned out well—let this too not be lost. How greedy I am, aren’t I? Greedy indeed! Would I ever write if no one liked my posts or said my writing was good? Friends say it’s good—whether out of love or not—they like, share, talk about my writing, and only for that do I write. If a day comes when no one wants me to write, from that day I’ll stop writing. Like many others, I too write for the greed of comments, likes, and shares.)

Over the past two days, something has etched itself deeply into my mind. I will most likely die with a smile on my face. Even at the moment of death, no matter how much agony there might be, I won’t cry a single tear, won’t even feel sad. I can endure so much pain—when was the last time I realized this, I can’t remember.

I’ve always been accustomed to smiling through illness. Keeping the people around me in anguish is simply not in me. Because I believe I alone am responsible for all my suffering. High fever—say 103—and I’m posting cheerful writing on Facebook; this has happened many times. What’s the point of saying “I’m not well” on Facebook? Nothing comes of it. The prayers in comment boxes dissolve right there in the comment boxes.

I’ve never had the desire to live long, nor do I now. What’s the point of living long anyway? Better to live a short life with a smile, in harmony with everyone, then depart. During the time I’m alive, I’ll live fully—there will be no regrets, or few. But when it’s time to die, some regrets will remain. Like not being able to read more books, watch more good films, drift in more beautiful melodies, visit more lovely places, repay even a little of my loved ones’ affection, live a bit more on my own terms, hurt fewer people, write something truly good, tell the people I like that “I like them,” do my job a little less, things like that. Perhaps even during the last meal before death, I’ll crack some jokes. No one will understand anything. It would be nice to die in sleep—I won’t suffer, others won’t either. Everyone will wake up to find I’m gone. Isn’t that amusing? While I’m alive, I refuse to let others see me suffer.

Night before last, around midnight, I couldn’t sleep due to severe pain from my neck down to the middle of my back. Those who’ve never had back pain will never understand what it is. I’ve had this pain before a couple of times, but none as intense as that night. I don’t do much physical labor. My pain is from nervous strain. Last Thursday, while doing extensive writing, I sat in front of the laptop for at least 12-14 hours. What agony—eye strain, nerve strain, mental anguish, physical pain! Yet once you start writing, once the writing demon perches on your shoulders, getting up becomes more torturous than all the physical and mental anguish of writing combined. Writing is such a cruel magician that shows writers a wondrous world, a world whose allure becomes impossible to resist, yet this magician never reveals the rules for navigating that world. Those who don’t write—who only read or steal—will never understand this. They have no clue about the tremendous pain of writing. That day I kept feeling my entire body and mind going numb, my head spinning, thinking I might collapse from dizziness any moment; yet I continued writing. When the mind refuses to heed the body’s demands, sometimes the body rebels so fiercely—when did I last experience this so intensely, I can’t quite recall.

The amusing thing is, that night while I was writhing from neck and back pain, tears soaking my pillow, I was laughing to myself—just laughing and laughing. I didn’t want to call my parents or my younger brother, though I usually don’t call them anyway; I thought, let me see what this pain is like, gritting my teeth. A strange feeling. Getting from bed to the attached bathroom took at least 15 minutes. Yet I kept thinking, this too is part of life! I opened the window, gazed at the night sky, and cried from pain. Seeing my smiling face, perhaps in rage—I don’t know—my body’s rebellion had completely taken hold that night. I couldn’t sleep anymore like this. When mother came to my room in the morning, I told her about the pain with a smiling face. I spoke with the doctor. He prescribed some medicine, along with hot massage with garlic-mustard oil on neck and back, and hot dry towel compress. My younger brother was doing the massage—mother doesn’t have that much strength anymore. My brother massaging me, mother sitting beside kissing my forehead, eyes, and face, and I, in some bashfulness, laughing continuously—this was happening. Their pain over my pain was troubling me more than my own pain. Father kept saying, “Son, don’t join in Khulna on Tuesday, do it two days later.” Mother was saying, “Don’t you dare sit on Facebook! You never have to write anything again.” My wonderfully foolish younger brother said, “Oh mother, don’t scold him. If he doesn’t write, how will people steal? And how will he go crazy cursing people?” I just kept laughing and laughing; occasionally, gritting my teeth from pain, I’d tell my younger brother, “Pappu, next time keep the towel in the oven 30 seconds less, okay? My skin is burning!” He said, “Shut up! Who told you to laugh like a braying donkey?” (Do donkeys bray while laughing? I’m not sure. It would be good to tickle a donkey and find out.)

Life really wouldn’t seem so bad if one could give family a bit more time! When you’re very ill, who else stays by your side? When you’re delirious with fever, who else cries but family? And those who are self-contained like me can’t even tell anyone they’re feeling unwell. Only your family will understand you’re not okay. If others knew, they’d rather be annoyed, though some would show sympathy. Accepting that someone has gotten into trouble for my sake and is showing affection is also very difficult. These two days I haven’t written much on Facebook—but hardly anyone asked how I was! Life is like this. Everyone’s busy, who keeps track of whom? I don’t keep much track either. But why should anyone keep track of me? Given the chance, I mistreat people. Don’t they suffer? Don’t some of their curses get answered sometimes? Whether people’s prayers are answered or not, their curses often are! Alas! Until becoming helpless, humans don’t learn to love. When humans become helpless, they understand what close people mean. What it feels like not to receive love!

I’m a bit better now. The pain of not being able to come to Facebook, not being able to write, not being able to read books is immense. Otherwise I’m very well. Pappu is doing all my work, even forcibly washing my clothes despite my protests! Mother comes and strokes my head. Father keeps asking, “How are you feeling now, son?” Some people, learning of my condition, are calling to inquire. Truly, the pain of all this is not insignificant! When have I ever done anything for anyone? Nothing at all! Then why would anyone love me like this? Love causes great pain! Hatred can’t give even a fraction of this. What joy there is in smiling through pain without any complaints or grievances! When I’m gone, it won’t matter to anyone—this thought brings great comfort during illness. How strange we are! When healthy, we believe we’ll never fall ill. When ill, we prefer to think we’ll never recover. I remember once my voice was completely gone—so completely that I couldn’t speak to anyone for nearly two weeks. This was during MBA, I lived in IBA hostel. The agony of not being able to speak! I felt so strongly that I’d never be able to speak again. Only mother understood me then, no one else. At the canteen, I’d write on paper what I wanted to eat. When I could speak, I’d think sadly about all the nonsense I’d spoken, wasting the opportunity to speak. Being able to speak seemed like the most beautiful thing in the world. Actually, when ill, you realize how precious this body is! Ask someone who can’t walk—they’ll tell you how beautiful legs are as organs of our body!

Giving yesterday’s thoughts the finger, I’m gradually recovering. Full credit goes to the doctor, the good wishes of some people who love me, mother’s, father’s, and of course Pappu’s care. When ill, two thoughts torment most. One: my loved ones are suffering because of me. It would be much better to die quietly on some distant island. Two: there’s no one who would call and say, “If I see you active on Messenger even once more, I’ll absolutely murder you.” It’s not that no one has said this at all. That makes the pain worse. Isn’t it self-deception to encourage love that I can’t shelter? Love makes one too guilty. Love is such that not having it is trouble, and having it is great trouble! People wander desperately seeking love, and once they find it, they run away. As long as one doesn’t learn to feel love, one remains comfortable with love. Once you learn to give and receive love, all the guilt in the world comes and messes everything up completely!