# An Unalloyed Love / Part One The morning light fell slant across the veranda, turning the old wooden railing the color of honey. Rishita sat with her tea growing cold in her hands, watching the sparrows peck at the scattered breadcrumbs she'd thrown out earlier. She had thrown them out of habit, not kindness—habit being the closest thing to kindness that the years had left her. It was a Tuesday. Or perhaps it was not. The days had begun to blur together some time ago, each one indistinguishable from the last, like pages in a book that had been left in the rain. The postman came at nine-thirty, as he always did. She heard his bicycle bell before she saw him—that thin, cheerful sound that belonged to a world she no longer inhabited. He handed her a letter without meeting her eyes. People rarely did anymore. They seemed to sense something in her, some quality of absence, as if she were already half-gone. The letter was from her daughter in Delhi. Rishita recognized the handwriting before she opened it. She had not opened the last three letters. This one she turned over in her hands several times, as if it might reveal something new if examined from different angles. It would not. It would say the usual things: that she should come stay with them, that the house was too much for her, that she was not getting any younger. These words had become a kind of music, familiar and unbearable. She placed the letter on the small table beside her chair and did not open it. Instead, she found herself thinking of Arjun, as she often did without meaning to. Forty-three years had passed since his death—she had counted them, one by one, like beads on a string. Forty-three years, and still, at unexpected moments, his absence would arrive in her chest like a physical thing, a stone dropped into still water. They had been married for only seven years. It was not a long time, perhaps, but it had been a complete time. There were some lives that contained entire universes, while others stretched across decades and remained hollow. Theirs had been the former sort. She had understood this even then, even in the midst of it, even when she was young and did not yet know the vocabulary for such things. He had been a man who noticed small things. The way light fell through a window. The particular silence that came after rain. The exact shade of sadness in a person's eyes. He would tell her these observations as if offering her gifts, and she would receive them as such. She had not known, then, that this was love—this attention, this tenderness of perception. She had thought love was something more dramatic, more insistent. She had been wrong. When he died—suddenly, a fever that became something worse, a body that could not be reasoned with—she had discovered that love was precisely this: an attention so complete that its sudden absence felt like blindness. Forty-three years later, she was still learning to see in the dark. The sparrows had finished the breadcrumbs. They scattered into the air with a sound like silk being torn. Rishita watched them go. The house around her was very quiet. It was the kind of quiet that accumulated over time, that built itself into the walls and the floors, until silence became almost solid. She sometimes wondered if other people could hear it when they visited—this substantive quiet, this weight of absence. The letter from her daughter sat on the table, still unopened. She would open it tomorrow, she thought. Or perhaps the day after. Or perhaps she would simply leave it there until it yellowed at the edges, until it became part of the house's accumulated silence, part of the sediment of a life lived alone. For now, she rose slowly—her knees made small sounds, like old wood settling—and went inside to brew fresh tea. The old cup had long since gone cold.

Today I want to tell you about my friend Madhurimā Chakraborty. Why? Because I must. I can't keep it in any longer.

Let me introduce myself first. I'm Shilā, Shilā Rahmān. Madhurimā and I finished our SSC together at Rājshāhi Government PN Girls' High School, passed our HSC together from Rājshāhi Government City College. After that, I got admission to Rājshāhi University for Bengali, but Madhu didn't make it anywhere. She was on the waiting list at a couple of places, but she never followed up. Instead, she got herself admitted to Rājshāhi College for Finance—out of pure stubbornness, it seemed. We all told her, take something else, Finance will be tough. She wouldn't listen to anyone. Though I suppose Madhu was always like that. Like what, exactly? Well, to be honest, I could never quite figure it out myself. And yet I knew her so well, I was so close to her...

First year didn't have much studying, but somehow time just slipped away. I went into second year. And suddenly I missed Madhu terribly. We were in two different places now, and I couldn't even remember the last time I'd seen her. Nearly a year, probably. We didn't even call each other. Then one day I came home from class and there she was—Madhu had come to our house. She'd become so beautiful! Not that she wasn't always pretty, but today she seemed even more so. That dark, musky tone to her skin—I'd grown up alongside her, yet somehow I'd never really noticed it before. Though how much can one woman's beauty truly register with another woman's eyes? While she sat sipping tea and chatting with my younger sister, I watched her the whole time. There was something different about her, something that had changed. Of course, she'd always been a bit quiet, always careful with her words. But today she was speaking as if weighing each word. It didn't feel like it had been so long since we'd last met. When she left, she pulled me aside and said, 'I need to talk to you about something important. Can you make time tomorrow?'
- What is it? Tell me now.
- Shilā, are we still in school? I can't talk about this at home. Come to Star Café tomorrow.

And with that, she left. Before going, she told my mother, 'Aunty, it's been so long since I've been to this house. I'll never forget the taste of your nimki.' Mother walked her to the gate, laughing and smiling. I was struck by the way Madhu spoke—something felt different about it. Anyway, tomorrow was Friday, no classes. I could go. But she hadn't even told me what time! I went to my room and found a message from her: 'Ten in the morning.' I reached exactly on time the next day. The moment I walked in, I was startled. Madhu was wearing a sāṛī. She'd dressed up so carefully, so elegantly. When I asked why the sāṛī all of a sudden, she just laughed.

“So, how are you doing, Shila?”
“Getting by. Just overwhelmed with everything. Nothing but restlessness. How about you?”
“Who’s letting me have any peace anyway? Though at my age, restlessness is practically the job description.”
Madhu said this with a little wink and a laugh.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Have you fallen in love?”
Her sudden question caught me off guard.
“You still remember that childhood crush business or what?”
“Ha ha ha ha…. And if someone falls in love at twenty-two?”
“If they do, they do. So what? They’ll fall and then—bam—straight into pain. Falling in love is just another word for getting hurt. Has anyone ever fallen in love without feeling the pain?”
“Ha ha…. Look at you, getting quite the philosopher!”
“No more than you.”
“Oh listen! They’re playing a Samye Chowdhury song on the speaker! On a day like this, with coffee and Samye’s voice… ‘the fire in your eyes you cannot see’… Do you remember, Madhu? Back in college you were absolutely mad about this man, the things you used to do! Is he still your favorite singer? God, you’d drive us all crazy just saying his name. Though every era has its obsession, doesn’t it. When one star fades, another takes its place. That’s just how it goes!”
“The things I used to do? Have I stopped? And what do you mean ‘fades’? What are you talking about? Stars don’t fall, Shila. It’s only our eyes that lose their light, day by day.”
“Why are you being so defensive? He’s undoubtedly talented. Writes songs, composes them, sings them himself. But he’s a public figure, and we all say something or other about public figures—that’s only natural!”
“No. Not a public figure. He’s mine. He’s from my home, my roof, my veranda. He’s the man of my heart.”

When she said this, I saw such defiance flash across Madhu’s face that my chest seized.
“What are you saying, Madhu? What is all this?”
“I’m saying yes. Yes. He’s my lover, my love, my person. Just wait—you’ll see!”
I stared at her in disbelief. What was she about to show me? What was she even talking about?
She handed me her phone. I began reading the conversation in her messenger.

Samy Choudhury, with the messenger nickname set to ‘My Song’. And Madhurima Chakraborty’s, set to ‘My Tune’.

Samy wrote: You doing okay?
– Well, I’ll be fine if you let me be!
– What strange things you say!
– And who’s giving me the chance to say anything?
– You’re coming today, right?
– Where else would I go?
– What did you tell your mother? She let you go?
– Told her, “I’m going to heaven today, Ma! Dress me up like a goddess.”
– Oh my! How shocking! What did your mother say to that?
– Don’t know, didn’t hear. These days, what do I even hear anymore?
– So what do you hear?
– Some tunes, some sounds, some words… and a voice.
– And?
– I can’t even rest my own head on my own chest anymore, so even if I feel the rumble, I can’t quite hear it.
– Okay then, let me be the one to listen! Has the sulking melted a bit now?
– I can’t even see it, and here you are bringing up hurt feelings again!
– Oh please! I came just last Friday!
– I’m a solitary person—I don’t understand the happiness of two people, and I don’t keep track of Fridays and Saturdays.
– Starting your mischief again?
– I want to end things, but how can I?
– What are you wearing today?
– Black sari, maroon locket, and maroon lipstick.
– You brought the lipstick with you, right… or did you?

I went silent after reading that far. I handed the phone to her. It pinged again. Madhu was replying to the message and laughing hard. But I couldn’t understand any of it. My head was spinning.

– The things Samy says. Last Friday, you know what she did? She kept pulling me by the hand, saying…

Ping, ping, ping. Messages kept coming one after another.

– Hey Madhu, why do you have two phones in your hands?
– Oh, oh, oh… what, this?

Shila raised her left hand and showed me the other mobile. I took this out to show you too. If I only showed you the messenger, you wouldn’t believe me anyway. See, check the inbox on this phone—Samy sends messages on the phone almost all the time. We do talk, though not much. How much time would someone like her have to talk, right? She sends me songs, plays me melodies. When she writes songs, she sends me the lyrics before anyone else. When she’s recording, she calls and leaves the phone beside her—I listen to everything from my end. With a mixture of reluctance and curiosity, I checked a few messages in the inbox. Madhu tucked the other phone into her bag. The messages were old. From last year’s Puja season.

– Samy, won’t you come see our goddess?
– I will. I have so much work, I barely have time to step out!
– Come on Bijoya though. I’ll be wearing a banana-leaf-colored sari that day.
– I heard everyone wears red and white that day.
– Everyone and I are not the same, when will you understand that?
– Okay, I’ll come.

Inside, I saw many more messages like these. For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to read further! I was genuinely frightened! Samy Choudhury—such a big star in the country—and she was… with Madhu like this! And from what I knew, the woman was married! So what was all this about?

– What? Still don’t believe me? I’ve brought you here today to convince you. She has a concert on your campus today. Will you come?

# [Translated Text]

Then it struck me—oh yes, there’s supposed to be a concert today. I’d heard people mention it. But I hadn’t heard whose concert it was. I’ve never much cared for such things anyway. Music, all that—I don’t really understand it, so I don’t bother keeping track. Madhu had been mad about music since childhood. Me, I don’t know why, everything felt scrambled somehow. Was Madhu playing some kind of joke on me? But she wasn’t the type to joke around.

Nearly two hours had passed. In that time, Madhu drank several cups of coffee, one after another. I just sipped cold water every so often. During all this, Madhu and I hadn’t exchanged another word. Her manner was strange—as if this weren’t really a matter of consequence, as though this was exactly what was supposed to happen. The whole time, she typed away on her phone with her right hand, and because of the heavy drape of her dupatta, her left hand remained hidden from view.

“Shila, I forgot to bring my nail polish—it’s in my bag though. Can you do my nails for me?”

“Madhu, my hands shake. I can’t paint nails or apply henna. You can do one hand with the other, or lift your hand up and I’ll show you how.”

“No, no, never mind. It’s not like the nails absolutely have to be painted!”

We left the café. Madhu said, “The concert starts at three, so we still have about an hour. Come on, let’s go to RUET’s campus, have a look around. Will you? We can see Sinthi and Maliha and them too.”

“Let’s go.”

After we entered the RUET campus, Madhu said, “Oh, it’s Friday today! I’d completely forgotten. Ugh! Did you forget too?”

“Huh…? Yeah, I didn’t remember either.”

“Ha ha ha… Well, since we’re here anyway, let me call them.”

Madhu called them one by one. When she hung up, she said they were coming to the concert too.

“Look how Samya Chowdhury has everyone wrapped around her finger, and here you don’t even keep up with the news. All you do is bury yourself in your studies your whole life. What’s the point of all that studying? What good is a brilliant result if someone like Samya never comes into your life? Ha ha ha… Come on then, let’s go to your campus now. You can show me around your own campus, can’t you? Or can’t you do that either?”

“Yes, let’s go.”

We were walking down Paris Road. Madhu said, “Your campus has this road—it’s absolutely beautiful. Have you ever walked down it after the rain? Ah, how much emotion is tied to this road for me and Samya! We’ve walked it so many times together. We’ve wandered all over the campus too. The auditorium, the stadium—he showed me everything, took me everywhere.”

# The Concert

The concert was supposed to start at three. Slowly, the crowd began to swell. They said the program would be held at the ‘Iblis Square’ on campus. We moved in that direction. Madhu pulled me through the throng. Since we’d arrived early, we managed to secure a spot in the third row. Samya Chowdhury took the stage at three twenty-two. He began with the first song: ‘I search for your eyes in the stars each night, you call to me in the evening’s glow…’ For the second song, he sang: ‘I run through darkness on some unknown path, have you forgotten, once we were together…’ He ended with his most popular number—the one that had made him an overnight celebrity across the country.

‘You cannot read the fire in my eyes, you cannot hold the bleeding of my heart,
My sky-vast love you cannot bear,
You cannot know me as I am.’

Throughout it all, Madhu seemed lost in the music. Watching her, it was as if nothing else existed in the world but this song. Then it suddenly struck me—Madhu could sing too. She used to sing, once upon a time. Whenever there was a small program, she’d always volunteer to perform. She had quite a good voice. Whether she still practices, I really couldn’t say. Her eyes remained shut through the entire concert. Not once did she open them. It seemed as though she was trying to feel something, to reach for something beyond the music. The more I looked at this girl, the more bewildered I became. No, this wasn’t Madhurima—not at all. This was someone else entirely. The concert ended at exactly four-oh-seven.

Madhu took a moment to collect herself. Then she said, “I’m going to step away for a bit.” The crowd began thinning out gradually. Fifteen minutes later, Madhu returned and said, “Still didn’t get to see her. Didn’t have time. Look, she sent a message.” I read it. ‘Got a glimpse. Black suits you wonderfully! Why did you keep your eyes closed? Don’t you want to see me? No chance for a proper meeting today—there’s another program. Sorry. We’ll see each other again. Take care, my song’s melody!’ Reading that, I became one hundred percent certain that everything Madhu had been telling me all along was true.

– Look, as far as I’ve heard, Madhu, isn’t he married?
– You’re only asking this now? Should’ve asked sooner!
– I mean, what I’m trying to say is…
– Oh come on, he had to do it because his mother pushed him into it. Otherwise, would a plain, ordinary girl like that ever appeal to someone with Samy’s taste?
– Are you calling yourself extraordinary?
– I’m beautiful enough, aren’t I?
– Yes. And?
– I understand music, I understand melody, I understand him, I can read his mind, read his eyes. I can sing in the same key as him. I’ve broken myself into pieces and built him back together with my own hands all these years. I’ve created him a little bit each day using myself. You don’t become a Samy Chowdhury in a single day. He didn’t just fly down and land in this position. When he was singing on stage today, I was right there beside him. Only I can see him in that state, and Samy can see me. And listen, this is nothing—just the beginning of his journey. With my entire being, I’m going to take him places you can’t imagine! Not just you, but one day everyone will see it.
– Look, Madhu, isn’t Samy Chowdhury’s wife being cheated here? Maybe that poor woman loves her husband very much.
– Keeping someone at peace is far more important than love. Anyone can love—but how many can keep someone at peace? What that woman started with Samy, if I hadn’t come along at the right moment, Samy Chowdhury might have been lost by now! His wife wasn’t letting him grow at all. You can’t mentally torture a creative person like Samy! A creative man’s wife’s first duty is to let him live his own way, let him grow. If you can’t do that much, you have no right to be with him at all, that’s what I believe.

I had lost all words by then. Madhu held my hand and walked me to the university’s second gate. I felt as if I’d suddenly stepped into another world altogether. I couldn’t understand what was happening, any of it. We got into a rickshaw. She insisted we had to go to her place. I followed her like an obedient child.

– Madhu, whatever kind of woman she is, she’s still his wife—on paper at least, she’s his wife! And how are you forgetting? She’s quite beautiful too.
– If you don’t have the nerve to be someone’s lover, you end up being someone else’s wife. Being a lover is hard, so she couldn’t manage it; being a wife is easy, so that’s what she became. Simple! Listen, Sheila, you won’t find any wife’s name in history—history is filled only with the names of lovers. Ha ha ha. Get it? And has anyone ever held on to a man for life with just her beauty? If someone ever does, then I’ll start singing the praises of beauty too, not before. You know what’s the worst excuse women have? This beauty! She has zero talent, yet here she is as Samy Chowdhury’s wife! Utter rubbish!
– Madhu, can you really speak about a person with such disrespect?
– The person I’m sharing my life with every single day—I can’t show him any more respect than this! And I am not sorry for it!

I had lost all words by then. Madhu held my hand and walked me to the university’s second gate. I felt as if I’d suddenly stepped into another world. We got into a rickshaw. She insisted we had to go to her place. I followed her like a helpless child.

# The Weight of Injustice

Her arguments had a way of making everything I said collapse like a house of cards. I felt helpless against them. But I was a woman, and no matter what, I couldn’t bring myself to accept the kind of life Samy Choudhury’s wife lived. Again and again, the thought kept returning: *This is wrong. This is unjust.*

By the time we reached Madhurima’s house, evening had fallen. Masima came rushing toward me almost at a run.

“Shila! How long it’s been since you visited, dear. Have you forgotten your aunt entirely?”

“No, Masima. I just haven’t had the time lately, so I haven’t been able to come.”

“How is your mother? Everyone at home?”

“Everyone’s doing very well.”

“You go sit in Madhur’s room, I’ll be right there.”

I stepped into Madhur’s room and was taken aback. Where on earth had I walked into? It was a studio! The harmonium, the tabla, the sitar—I’d seen those before. But today I found the bamboo flute, the manjira, a guitar, the khanjri, a violin, a mouth organ—really, it seemed nothing was missing! And countless other instruments whose names I didn’t even know, things I’d never even laid eyes on before. I began handling them, turning them over in my hands, examining each one.

“Madhur, can you really play all of these?”

“What are you saying? Does everyone know how to play every instrument? I learned the harmonium and sitar when I was small, and for the last six months or so I’ve been learning guitar. I like fiddling around with the mouth organ, but I can’t really play it. And the violin—it’s terribly difficult. It’s just not for me, I’m afraid!”

Just then Masima arrived with tea. Madhur had three siblings—Dibyendu the older brother, Madhurima herself, and Kabya.

“Masima, where is everyone else in the house?”

“Dibyendu’s been in Calcutta for some time now, and Kabya’s gone for private lessons. If he were home, he wouldn’t let me have a moment’s peace with you here!”

I laughed at that. Kabya was just like that. In the old days, when I used to visit regularly, Kabya would follow me around constantly. He was in Class Five then. He would tease me endlessly, saying things like, “Look at the lord’s play, with a name like Shila!” And I’d retort, “Kabya, oh Kabya, you’re absolutely uncouth!” Everyone in the house would laugh at our banter. But today, something about this house felt different. It had lost all its vitality. A strange heaviness hung over it, a silence that hadn’t been there before.

Madhur’s entire room seemed bathed in a golden glow. She’d hung some kind of decorative lights in the four corners—they gave off a soft, diffused light that shifted colors every few moments, and with each change of the light’s hue, the very mood in the room seemed to transform. There was something almost magical about the way those lights played. The moment Madhur stepped out to take the teacups away, Masima came and sat beside me.

– Shila, do you know anything about Madhu? Have you heard anything?

By then Madhu had arrived, and she answered for herself.

– Yes, Ma. I’ve heard it all.

– And you speak with such a puffed-up chest—aren’t you ashamed? Do you keep track of what sins you’ve been committing day after day?

– When did I ever tell you, Ma, that I’m so keen on doing many good deeds to go to heaven?

Aunt was trembling with agitation, her eyes wide as she said, ‘Do you hear that, Shila? Did you hear what the girl said?’

– You foolish thing, don’t you know that man is a householder, that he has a wife?

– Yes, I know. So?

There it is. I was just telling Madhu the same thing—becoming someone’s wife is the easiest task in this world, you don’t have to do anything for it. You can love one person and still manage a household with someone else quite easily, and Ma, you know this better than anyone…

Madhu was shouting all this out.

– Hush, don’t say such things, don’t even speak them. Fie! Fie! Fie!

– Ma, but you stayed quiet too. What did you achieve by keeping quiet? That’s how you put a garland around Father’s neck, and yet whose house were you supposed to live in?

– Oh, be quiet, you uncouth girl!

Aunt left the room. From that room I heard Madhu’s father’s voice.

– What’s wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?

– I’ll cut your daughter into pieces and throw her in the Ganges! This girl will drown my caste, my lineage, everything!

– Be quiet, Divya’s mother. What are you saying! Madhu is my only daughter! She is the goddess of my home.

– Your goddess—do you know what calamities she’s been causing? I won’t keep such a girl in this house. I have sons to carry on the family name. I don’t want this girl.

I heard everything from where I was. I understood then that such discord happened in this house every single day.

– Listen, Shila, when a song comes to my mind, I light all those lamps, or I put out all the lights—that’s when I can write properly.

– What do you mean? You write songs?

– Yes, I write them and send them to Samy. He sets them to music and plays them back for me.

– How do you write a song? Where did you learn all this? How did you learn so much in just one year, Madhu?

– Ha ha ha!

– Shila, these things aren’t something you learn. If it’s inside you, it comes naturally. When I write a song, I become the song itself. There’s no distance between the words and me. It’s the same when Samy composes—he becomes the music. Do you understand?

I listened to her without interrupting. Nothing made sense. I kept thinking either I was mishearing her, or Madhu was saying something wrong.

“Shila, shall I show you my diary? Come on, let’s sit out on the veranda. Here, take it with you. I’ll be right there.”

I went out to the veranda and sat down. She’d decorated it so beautifully. Little potted flowering plants everywhere. It was hard to make out the details in the dark, but it looked lovely. Against one wall, near the edge, sat a neat little tea-table with a small stool beside it. A soft lamp was lit there too. I could see a few more diaries on the table, several notebooks, papers scattered about. Before I could even open the diary I’d brought out, my eye caught a black diary lying on the table—I was about to open it when Madhu came rushing in. She practically screamed at me. “Shila, did I ask you to look at that? Why are you touching that diary? Why do you think I wrote ‘PERSONAL’ on it?”

“Sorry, Madhu. I haven’t even opened it, I promise!”

“I believe you. I trust you. Look, you were asking me earlier—how do I write songs for Samay? Here, read this conversation.”