Sometimes I feel like
sitting someone down in front of me and pouring
out everything in a torrent of words. But where is that ‘someone’?
I never knew before
that the agony of loneliness
could burn so much.
“You need someone beside you. Someone who looks good
to you. Someone you enjoy sitting with. Someone whose words you love to hear. Someone who makes you want to scream when they look away mid-conversation,
Why did you turn away?
Don’t you dare ever do that again.” These lines are from Humayun Ahmed’s novel ‘Tithir
Neel Towaley.’ Have you read it? Life really needs such a person, over whom I alone would have rights. Someone
I could love without having to wonder whether I have the right
to love them. And… I can’t really explain it. No one has ever understood, and perhaps you won’t either. You’ve probably already thought to yourself, why don’t you just get married!
But… the other day you wrote something: “There comes someone into every person’s life for whom they can never again fall in love with anyone else.” Perhaps I’ll never again
be able to fall in love with anyone. Even if I don’t fall in love, someone has to appeal to me! I feel no attraction toward anyone. I mean,
the situation has become this: I find it unbearable to live in solitude,
yet I don’t want anyone
beside me either. I’m living with such a dual existence. Does this make any sense? Though, given the state I’m in, what difference does it make whether I want something or not! I’m just babbling pointlessly. Perhaps you can’t understand
any of this. And even if you do, so what! Nothing changes. After enduring suppressed pain for so long, one feels like saying something. But to whom? Who will listen to my words? Why would they even listen? So… well, if I ever die, if I really do commit suicide, will you write a poem for me? Or even just two lines? Will you write something that gives me victory?
How many more experiences
will you hear? To use your own words again,
counting the hours until death has now become
a luxury for me. And in my understanding, there’s now only one definition of mother: she who bears a child and never abandons it despite everything—she alone is a mother. Many will probably laugh at my words. Only those who lose someone understand the torment of separation! Let me suggest a book or two for you to read. One is George Eliot’s Silas Marner, the other is Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Please read
these two books when you have time. You’ll like them. You will!
Many people ask me,
Hey, aren’t you going to see the Puja? I say, Durga is not my mother, does a mother act like this? Isn’t that right? My classmates have everything. Mother, father, boyfriends, husbands, happiness, money. And homes, of course! Never mind other things, I don’t even have a home. When I used to bring food from the campus
restaurant, they ate their mothers’ home-cooked meals, I would look at them, and then they would look at my
food and laugh, saying, You always bring rice wrapped
in plastic. Some would say, You live off tutoring money. Without tutoring you wouldn’t even be able to eat! Hearing this makes me want to die of shame. Still, to use your words, living by causing others pain is a kind of sin. If nature’s justice exists at all, this sin must be punished. I’m truly waiting. I don’t know
how many more days are left! How many?
And if anyone ever asks me whether I loved someone, I answer: Banalata Sen of Natore gave me two moments of peace! You know, those two moments in my life—I mean those 48 hours—were my only false refuge for staying alive. Like a wounded bird, I clung to her hands and feet, weeping, begging her not to leave me. In my eyes, Jibanananda’s Banalata Sen is not a woman at all, but rather the shelter for all wounded hearts in this world, a place of trust. She belongs to all those hearts who have houses but no homes. Who have people but no one who understands them. Who have birth-givers but no mothers. Isn’t that right? Now I have only one identity: a sub-human being. That day, the 2nd, was your birthday. If I had knocked, you might have thought I wanted some job tips. You would have been annoyed, would have misunderstood me. So I didn’t knock. Happy Birthday! People say when they respect someone, they call their birthday a “birth anniversary”! That’s why I said Happy Birthday to you! One of my university professors used to say it to me like that. She’d say, “Happy Birthday, Nirbhaya!” You know, just for the desire to hear words like that, I’ve stood in front of moving buses and then turned back. I thought, if I stay alive, maybe next birthday Ma’am will say it like that again! Today I realize, so many professors taught us so many things in class, I can barely remember any of it, but I remember that Ma’am, will never forget her. For the desire to hear that Ma’am’s small words, Nirbhaya once decided to stay alive. You know, we must love people, not hate them. With just a little love, many people need nothing else. Not everyone in this world is greedy; there are many whose desires are truly very small.
One person makes a mistake, another learns from watching it. But my sister learned nothing from seeing my situation; instead, she took herself into a comfort zone. She never protested even once against any of Mother’s behavior or decisions. She accepted the cruel reality and stayed with my mother. Sometimes I think she did the right thing. What was the need to walk my path? To live like a dog like that? Don’t you often say that an incredible amount of money and time has been lost from your life? Same with me. Twenty-one years. Twenty-one merciless winters or twenty-one could-have-been springs. When I look back, I can no longer control myself. The doctor has told me to stay tension-free! To stay happy. Of course the doctor would say that—it’s natural! He doesn’t know me, knows nothing about me. If he knew, he himself would be troubled, wondering whether one can really laugh when faced with such circumstances! I really wanted to hear your voice once. You came to our university, talked with everyone for hours and hours. Many people saw you, heard you speak. I couldn’t see you. Will you talk with me someday? Even for five seconds?
May 27, 2019.
That was the day she got married. I remember crying terribly. I wailed like a child, loud and uncontrollable. Ever since then, only I hear the sound of my tears. There’s really no point in crying for others to hear. No one values tears—they just get annoyed quietly. Crying is a personal matter; when you cry for show, people mostly just feel pity. Back in university, when I used to cry in front of everyone, how they would make fun of me! They called me the Goddess of Melancholy—always weeping! Perhaps no one before me ever earned such a grand title for their suffering. If only someone could have known that I had no hand in my own misery! When my father died, what could I have done to save him? What can a six-year-old girl do for anyone? Tell me, who wants to see themselves diminished by suffering that isn’t their own fault? Now, whenever I see a small child unable to cross the street, I take their hand and help them across. Because it reminds me that no one held my little hands that day. How small I was when my father died! Can a child that age bear such a blow? God never once thought of me! And nothing more—no one showed me even a little kindness by speaking gently to me then. Day after day, I cried from hunger and grief. Everyone kicked me like a dog. I reached out but found no one! I just groped blindly in the darkness. I was alone with myself! No one else!
One day I dropped all my certificates in the middle of the street and walked away. By accident. I’m almost always in a disturbed mood. I can’t remember where I’ve put things. That day I couldn’t either. I thought, this is the end of everything! The very thing I’d spilled my last drop of blood for—those certificates were gone too. You won’t believe it, but that day I just ran like a madwoman all over the streets. I’d completely forgotten you can’t walk from Puthia to Rajshahi on foot. How I ran! After nearly six hours, I found all my certificates intact at the university. The office staff there had found and collected them. A classmate went and brought them back. Just like that—as you say, God sometimes answers through silent action.
I grew up surrounded by so much love in my childhood. I probably never even had the chance to crawl—I was always nestled in someone’s arms. Back then, my father was alive. Is there anyone more blessed than a child whose father is living? As long as my father was alive, everyone showered me with affection and treated me with respect. The moment I seemed about to cry, everyone would rush to soothe me! My father was wealthy and helped everyone; two or three families depended on his money for their expenses. When a man pours out his wealth so generously for everyone, people naturally embrace his child close to their hearts. No one could even imagine neglecting such a child, and no one had the audacity to humiliate her. My father was like shade overhead, like a banyan tree. When my father died, my place became among the street dogs. The child who had once lived in everyone’s embrace now couldn’t find space even at people’s feet. After my father’s death, everyone celebrated as they squandered the money he had earned through his sweat, and what about me? Unable to bear the pangs of hunger, I even ate the half-eaten scraps left by dogs. If I somehow managed to get one meal, I never knew whether I’d be able to eat the next. I—a dead rich man’s daughter—was a girl who couldn’t even afford to buy a simple piece of bread to satisfy her hunger. How young I was, yet even then I had to endure the inhuman cruelty of certain beasts. Children whose fathers die must grow up far too quickly. Their childhood dies along with their father’s death! No one shows them affection or draws them close; everyone just drives them away like dogs. They have no one left to call their own. When the very person who should guide them through the world’s pathways is gone, it becomes incredibly difficult for them to find their way through their own efforts. No one tells them which paths bring harm, which paths to avoid. And if that child happens to be a girl, barely six years old—can you imagine how helpless she becomes, forced to take to the streets? It’s easy to hurt someone who has no father, easy to push them away, even easier to ignore them completely. Fathers are like a home, like a tree, like a roof. When someone’s father dies, their shelter, dignity, and security all die with him. My father had been like the sky to me; when he left, it felt as though the sky itself had come crashing down upon my head. Still, I had accepted God’s taking my father away from me as a natural tragedy. But how am I supposed to accept what happened next? My own mother wanted to sell me and my sister, still wants to—and I have to accept this too. Why? For what crime?
But you know what,
those who have no father don’t need to grow up—they seem to be born already grown. They learn ninety percent of the world’s reality and truth and falsehood before they even learn the alphabet, what people learn by reading millions of books… this selfish world and cruel life together teach the fatherless ten times more through bitter experience. Sometimes I feel like saying to my father,
Father, you left us, and you did well. Thank you for leaving! How I’ve managed to protect myself day after day—only my God knows that. I used to tell my mother, don’t let those men lay a finger on me, because if they do, what I might do in return, you can’t even imagine. Where I found such strength at such a young age, I don’t know. I always kept
knives, cleavers, bricks with me. I’ve stopped
many times, thought of ending
myself many, many times, but because of words from some divine souls like you, I’m still alive. To answer in your style,
I feel like saying it again,
so I’ll say—O God,
I don’t want years, I want to live. I still carry that lifespan
that’s unnecessary and surplus for everyone else.
Why would God give me anything unless it was surplus and disposable? I’m a broken winnowing basket, fit only for throwing ash!
I’m saying it again,
you will forget me.
You won’t remember my words. Let me remind you, even if you forget me, there’s no regret, but please don’t forget my sufferings.
You might be getting annoyed listening to my bitter experiences. Still I’ll speak. I must
speak. No one has ever wanted to hear my words, I know you’re one of them too,
yet I want to speak. Why
do I want to? I never had any obligation to make anyone listen to my words, I don’t have it now either, but I feel a certain obligation to tell you, so I’m speaking. What
is that obligation? This obligation
of still being alive, this obligation of survival.
I had just finished my SSC
exams then. Suddenly my biological mother, in the middle of a fight, bit my hand. She bit so hard that flesh came out, blood began gushing from my hand. Not knowing what to do, I went to my friend’s house. She took me to the hospital! The doctor looked and
said, how old was the person who bit this? And what
relation is this person to you? I was silent then. And from beside me my friend was saying, someone about 40 years old bit her! Even today, when I hold
a pen in this hand, I can still see that bite mark from 9 years ago
spread across my entire hand somehow! When I try to write, when I try to hold anything, my hand still hurts today.
On top of that, my spine has become curved too! I used to be beaten a lot,
perhaps something happened from that. The doctor said I need physiotherapy. Without tuition money, that’s not possible. I need
a week of therapy, if it doesn’t improve I’ll have to go to a bigger
facility, he said. Actually, because of that incident six
months ago, whatever little I was okay, even that is gone now. I’m
mentally very disturbed! Very much so! I won’t even be able to take the upcoming job exams
with this hand pain. Truly, my very birth is my lifelong
sin!
You’re thinking, how wretchedly the girl lives! Brother, don’t think about me! Let someone die who has no one to mourn them after they’re gone.
I do my tutoring with this wounded hand. I can’t hold a pen properly. I tell them,
you write. You know,
two months before her wedding
when I spoke to her for the last time, she didn’t mention her wedding. Why she didn’t tell me, I don’t know. But
she did ask, should I send you some money?
I didn’t take it. You know,
if I wanted, I could have lived
quite comfortably, if I had stayed on my mother’s
path. Then I would have had everything! I longed so much to build a household. During those few days when we were in touch, I wanted to
live again. Doesn’t the poet say, she gave me peace for just a moment,
Banalata Sen from Natore… I waited for a little peace, though my waitings
always remain trapped in waiting itself!
In many of your writings you mention Descartes’ philosophy, which I find deeply moving. “I think, therefore I am” — you’ve reimagined it in your own way: “People think,
therefore I am.” In our syllabus there was a novel, Tess of the
D’Urbervilles. The first line of the final paragraph was: “‘Justice’ was done,
and the President of the Immortals, in Aeschylean phrase, had ended his sport
with Tess.” Tess was a soul tormented by fate, with whom even God
played like a plaything. Through her death came the final journey of all her misfortunes.
So in that final paragraph, “the President of the Immortals, in Aeschylean
phrase” — the President
is God himself! Some of your words, some of your writings bring smiles to my face. If I were to expand on this smile
a bit like in the novel ‘Noukadubi,’ I’d say that love makes people
quite selfish… That’s why I too, for the sake of
that little smile, keep staring at my phone to see if you’ve replied! In one lifetime, surely one can be this selfish! The day you replied, I laughed with tears in my eyes. You couldn’t
see it! When my heart grows heavy, will you give me a tiny reply? Please, don’t leave like everyone else! Everyone leaves me behind! Though even if you leave, I’ll still keep breathing. Whatever happens,
through everything I’ve learned to breathe. In this world, one must breathe. That’s the rule!
I often wonder,
what if I too had a home
like everyone else! Tell me, if I got a good
job, would I have a home? In that home would I
find new parents? Would those new parents
love me? Would I get another sister?
Could I shower her with affection?
In that home, could I laugh
with all my heart? Since childhood I’ve gazed
at everyone else’s homes, when parents on the street hold their children’s hands, I stare at my own empty hands! Tell me, what exactly does this feeling feel like?
I had thought that you would speak with this ignored sub-human being, even if just once. That you would get to know her once, and wonder whether this innocent face truly possesses the strength to bear so much injustice! Somehow I feel you only think of me as someone on social media. The person who today, after going without food all day and still tutoring, has taken up books again after five months with an indomitable courage, with only a bottle of water by her side—when that person finds no place beyond Facebook in your world, today’s feeling is itself mute! Perhaps you’re thinking, what’s that to me, brother! Whether you eat or don’t eat, what difference does it make to me! You’re absolutely right! Nothing I do affects anyone. But life isn’t all about calculations, is it? There’s always something beyond, isn’t there? If I unknowingly make you the person of my incalculable heart, where’s my fault in that?
Don’t think I’m saying all this in anger. First of all, one certainly can’t be angry or hurt with just anyone. You sent a text on mobile. Asked how I was. If I say I’m not well, what could you do for me? Would you think of me when you sit down to eat? Would you remember me in some gathering, wondering what I’m doing? You wouldn’t. And from a person who couldn’t think of me as anything beyond Facebook, beyond being a follower, it’s better to leave silently. And if you have time, please read the last line of this follower’s message. It is this: among all the well-wishers in your life, close people, distant people—did any of them ever say to you, “Please, don’t leave like everyone else does”? Don’t leave me! Such a simple phrase, but the weight is enormous. You can’t say this to just anyone. Not everyone would say this to you either. I did say it. Didn’t I? How helpless must a person be to say such words to another human being—someone like you should easily understand such a plea. Anyway, I have a sick childhood, an adolescence. I never got the joy of watching sunrise in the morning or the beauty of moonlit nights. I am a defeated soldier whose ruined story can only be told in cheap places like Messenger. And I will never knock on your door again to speak of sorrow. Rest assured. Actually, everyone troubles you so much, they forget that beyond Facebook you have a personal life, some disappointments, gains and losses. They want you for their own interests, not for you. If you were ever gone, they would miss your writing, your work, not you. Still, when you’re not there, a few people will feel it. Among them, this nobody will be there too—you can check and see from above.
I thought I’d at least free you from reading my sorrowful complaints! And the last sentence—did anyone ever say—please, don’t leave like everyone else does? They didn’t, did they? They won’t. People leave everyone behind before going to the crematorium, detach themselves, become light. I asked you to stay—it takes a lot of courage to say that. You won’t understand this feeling of mine.
You’re the one who says
we shouldn’t go to those
we love too much. Even now, when I close my eyes, I remember that day when I stood among everyone on the university campus
defending the logic of everything you said. You weren’t wrong, I would insist passionately. But those who wouldn’t listen to me
that day are now your followers, all for the lure of a job. How strange life is, isn’t it? The one I can’t stand is the one I can’t let go! Perhaps this is their punishment!
You’ll get millions of followers, many loved ones,
but no one will say,
Please, don’t leave like everyone else. No one will say that.
Check for yourself. You analyze so many films so beautifully, so why did you want to know about the film of my life? You’ve watched so many films,
tell me honestly—
doesn’t my film surpass even
the greatest ones? Their stories may have
come from a writer’s ink, but I had to write my story
with the blood from my body! Can’t you truly understand my feelings?
You don’t need to talk to me.
Know this: among your millions of
followers, you won’t find a single one who will say like me—Don’t leave me! Such precious words! So precious! It takes courage to say them! Well, a child in their mother’s shelter
says exactly that to her,
doesn’t it? …don’t leave me… But I don’t even have a mother! Who can I
say that to?
You know, yesterday I spent the whole day looking at pictures of your family
and thought, the Creator showed no
stinginess in writing my fate! Like Binodini from Rabindranath’s ‘Chokher Bali.’ Isn’t that right? I should tell you, for your child’s sake you must live properly, mustn’t you? Take proper rest between work. You need rest too. I overstepped my bounds. I will never bother you again.
I knew too
that the message wouldn’t be seen. That doesn’t matter to me. Because I’m inherently shameless. The man I loved,
one day in the park among hundreds of
people, I was crying holding his feet, begging him not to leave me. Of course, I reaped the fruits of those tears too. That man got married with such pomp and show! So much music, so much color, so many dreams! Since then I listen to the sound of my own crying. There’s really no point in letting others hear your weeping. When you break down the sound of crying,
how many meanings it holds! And yet people only see misfortune in it! Everyone only hears the
sound of crying, but who understands
the sorrow of the one weeping?
What’s the point of crying out loud? I’m apparently worthy of a Nobel Prize for shamelessness, according to my
well-wishers! The one whose life is… never mind! You never need to trouble yourself to call me. As I said, Binodini’s story
only suits messenger apps, while households are made with the Ashalatas. People don’t have time to think about Binodini like Rabindranth did! Another thing, aren’t you watching the film ‘Hothat Brishti’? That song… Still when a handful of happiness touches me, I think, this is like sudden
rain! So these past few days, because of your few lines of text, I wiped away my tears, picked up a book and sat down to study. (Though I didn’t ask for job tips!) I thought I would escape this toxic environment, so that your words would come true—People think,
therefore I am.
Whatever it is,
it may never be possible
again. My sympathy remains with you………like that poem………setting aside
the beauty that’s near to gaze upon beauty in the distance. I mean, aren’t you caught up in analyzing some imaginary
stories instead of listening to the tale of a man who somehow survives by losing battle after battle in life’s war? One thing—when you insult me with your words, I cry,
so please don’t insult me
in your last message. This is why
I don’t comment on your public posts, because I couldn’t become the kind of devoted follower
who can bear your insults. Even your most trivial words I consider with great importance. I feel a kind of heavenly pull toward you. I am just a tearful, insignificant follower of yours.
I hope the Creator
will bring an end here to our two days of forced virtual conversation. Still,
you will remain silently, secretly in my mind, in my consciousness. Sometimes I’ll check to see if there’s a green light beside your name, whether you’re active or not. And yes, you look wonderful in that Punjabi! I’m not saying this to get job tips though! I don’t have any life anyway, what would I do with a job! What I want is for those I love to be well, to look beautiful, for their lives to be wonderful. For some reason I feel
you don’t even read
my long messages in their entirety! Please, read today’s one.
May your child grow up to be a person just like you.
I believe in something
like a sacred truth: no one in this world is actually busy, everything depends on importance. I’ve understood my
importance! You can’t feel my pain even a little. Quite
natural! Only those who lose understand.
By the way, I spent
all day today staring at my phone for you. Your memory regarding me is quite poor.
You just keep forgetting me. Well, what if I call you
one day! I’ll spend the money myself. How would that be? I’m certain you’ll never call me in this lifetime.
Let me tell you something, with a slight correction to your words—I will never again share my pain with anyone. And let me tell you something more: read these lines very carefully… You occupied a very emotional place in my heart. Very much so… Even after visiting Rajshahi University several times, I couldn’t see you. So I would search for you on YouTube and listen to your voice. I had thought perhaps someone in this world would help me, say a few kind words, stand by my side, help me find a healthy life. And that’s why I sought you out to speak of my unspoken shame, my suffering. I am sincerely sorry for bothering you these past seven or eight days. I am strange, I am rude, I am shameless—all these adjectives can be applied to me. You must have seen my picture on my day, haven’t you? In today’s world, couldn’t someone with such an innocent face as mine have had a family too? Didn’t I deserve a family? Couldn’t someone have loved me? But no one did! False love stories can be created about me on Facebook, while those who have mothers and fathers can build families. Wonderful! I have no mother, no father, no brother, no sister, so I have no right to live either! No one ever looked into my eyes and understood that these two eyes need nothing more than a little love! You’re wondering why I’m begging like a beggar? What else can I do, tell me—I’ve never received love! Before I die, I want to see just once whether anyone ever loved this unfortunate soul!
No one understood how neglected I was while growing up! Someone my age, far inferior to me in beauty and virtue, happily runs a household with vermillion in her hair, while I return from tutoring at nine in the evening! You know, lately I find even the Creator unworthy of my complaints. Actually, Manik was right. God truly lives only in respectable neighborhoods, nowhere else! You can never feel my pain because what I’ve lost, you haven’t lost. There’s no compensation for my irreparable loss. To you, twenty-one is just two digits, but to me it’s a xerox copy of my devastated life. It’s been six months since her marriage, and I don’t know when morning comes, when night falls. I have no family, so I’ll never have a household either. Like Augustus Caesar, I’ll say: I came, I saw, and I departed from this world. I could never conquer anything, so I can only leave. And you will never text me “Good morning.” There is no morning in my life. I once held someone’s feet and begged them not to leave me. Still they left. And that day I told you, “Sir, don’t leave like everyone else.” I was wrong to say that. I withdraw my plea. You may go. Leave! And let me tell you, you could have at least not kept me just within Facebook. You think your followers’ tears are just drama to get job tips. Tears fell from my eyes for you. You didn’t see that. I wept profusely. These past two or three days I haven’t read any of your posts. Did you look for me even once? You didn’t. But I did look to see if you were active. That’s the difference between you and me.
I failed every exam even while passing them—this will write a new chapter in history! I too was meant to receive so much. Nothing came my way. Nothing at all! Someone could have written a fresh Bonolata poem about me too. I too can love and give peace. There’s no one to accept my love, no one will ever seek solace from me. I too could have had parents, could have served them, could have felt their love. I received nothing in life! I am merely a living corpse! Six months ago I watched my beloved marry someone else. That girl has everything. All I ever had was that one love! That’s why I say—homes are built with the Ashalatas of the world, while the Binodinis like Nirbhoya mark the beginning of misfortune’s chapter. This is fate. Who can escape destiny, tell me? I was wrong to knock and disturb you, sir. I’m sorry! You will never see me again in this life. Not even as your follower. May you and all fathers in this world live long and stay well. May no one ever have a life like mine.
P.S. You wrote in your text that you’re afraid of me, that’s why you don’t knock. This truly makes no sense. Still, if this gives you some mental satisfaction, I have nothing more to say. Do I look like a ghost that you’re afraid? The truth is, you never think of me at all! You say you fear me, that I’m something terrible—hearing such words from a writer’s mouth, one must understand he lacks any real insight. Someone who writes so beautifully shouldn’t speak such things. You can’t think like ordinary people. For the first two or three days I waited for your call, tears streaming down my face. Of course, I’m no longer waiting. In these past few days I’ve managed to read you somewhat. My success lies here, and your failure to understand me is proven by this talk of fear! Emotion must exist not only in writing, but also in understanding another human being even a little. Like everyone else, you saw only my anger—didn’t you see the pain? I’m often absent-minded and scattered, so sometimes I say terribly foolish things! You saved my life. I truly miss you, I wish you well. Let me remind you—you may gain hundreds of thousands of followers, but you won’t find another one like me.