# Bachelor's Day The alarm went off at seven. Ravi switched it off and lay still for a moment, listening to the morning sounds of the city—the distant honk of a bus, someone's radio crackling to life, the slap of a wet cloth on stone from a neighbor's balcony. Then he got up. He stood under the shower for a long time, letting the water run over him while he thought about nothing in particular. The bathroom mirror, fogged with steam, showed him a face he didn't quite recognize—three days of stubble, eyes a little swollen. He looked away and began to shave. By eight o'clock, he was dressed and standing in his small kitchen, waiting for the water to boil. His wife had left for her mother's place in Kolkata a week ago. She'd asked him, before she left, whether he'd be alright alone. He'd said yes, of course. What else could he say? The tea was too strong. He drank it anyway, standing by the window, watching the street below come alive—vendors setting up their carts, schoolchildren trudging past with their bags, a stray dog investigating something near the drain. Ordinary Tuesday. Ordinary morning. His phone buzzed. A message from the office: a meeting at ten. He had time. He sat on the worn sofa and turned on the television. A cooking show flickered to life—a woman in a bright yellow sari, smiling with too many teeth, explaining how to make fish curry. He watched for a moment, then switched it off. The house was very quiet. He'd never noticed before how quiet it could be. Even when his wife was home, even when she was asleep, there seemed to be a kind of sound—her presence perhaps, the small noises of another person breathing, moving. Now there was only his own footsteps, his own breath. He picked up the phone and scrolled through his messages. Nothing new. He checked his email. Work, mostly—a report due on Thursday, a memo about the new filing system, a lunch invitation from Sanjay that he could ignore. He set the phone down. The apartment was beginning to feel like a museum of itself. He looked at the bookshelf—half his books, half hers, arranged in no particular order. He looked at the photograph on the wall, the two of them on their wedding day, both looking slightly terrified. Nine years ago. He looked at the coffee table, where her reading glasses sat next to a half-finished novel. She'd been reading it every evening before bed, always the same time, always under the small lamp in the corner. He picked up the book, read the opening line: *"The house had always been too large for just one person."* He put it down quickly, as if it had burned him. By nine-thirty, he was dressed for work—trousers pressed, shirt buttoned, tie knotted. He looked in the mirror again and this time he recognized himself. This was easier: the uniform of adulthood, the disguise of normalcy. He checked his wallet, his keys, his phone. Everything in order. The office was warm and humming with the usual chaos—phones ringing, printers grinding, people moving between desks with the hurried air of those who have important things to do. Ravi sat at his desk and opened his computer. The screen glowed to life, showing the same desktop photograph it always showed: a beach somewhere, very blue, very empty. "Morning, Ravi," Sanjay called out from across the room. "How's married life treating you?" "Fine," Ravi said. "Fine. She's at her mother's for a few weeks." "Ah," Sanjay grinned. "Bachelor's day then. Don't waste it sitting here with us." Ravi smiled back without meaning to. "Where else would I be?" The day moved forward in the usual way. He read emails, made a few calls, attended the meeting where nothing was really decided. By lunch, he was hungry but the thought of eating alone at a restaurant seemed complicated, so he bought a sandwich from the canteen and ate it at his desk while reading a report that didn't particularly interest him. At five o'clock, the office began to empty. He stayed until six-thirty, then gathered his things and left. The way home was crowded. The local train was packed with people—all of them going somewhere, all of them with their own reasons for moving through the city. Ravi stood by the window, watching the neighborhoods blur past. When he reached his stop, he stepped onto the platform and walked slowly, in no hurry. The apartment was exactly as he'd left it. He turned on the lights and stood in the doorway for a moment, as if seeing it for the first time. Then he changed out of his work clothes and sat on the sofa with the television on, but not really watching. He thought about ordering food, but couldn't decide what he wanted. He thought about calling his wife, but it was late and she was probably asleep. He thought about calling Sanjay, suggesting drinks, but the idea felt exhausting. Instead, he sat in the quiet apartment and listened to the building breathe around him—the hum of someone's air conditioner, the sound of a child crying somewhere above, the muffled murmur of a television through the wall. Around ten o'clock, he went to bed. He lay in the darkness for a long time, aware of the empty space beside him in the same way you become aware of a missing tooth—you can't stop touching it. When sleep finally came, it came in fragments, interrupted by dreams he wouldn't remember. The next morning, the alarm went off at seven. He switched it off and lay still for a moment, listening to the morning sounds of the city. Then he got up, and did everything again.

Let’s say today is February 29th. This day is four years younger than any other day. The young are young, so everyone cheats them. They understand less, misunderstand things. The burden of age. February 29th gets swindled by everyone too. And it swindles itself through its own fault. How? Let me tell you a couple of ways.

One. Today is the birthday of some people. Their hearts aren’t light. Why? Everyone’s birthday comes once a year; theirs comes once every four years. While everyone cuts four cakes, they cut one. They hear “Happy Birthday to You” only after waiting four years. In the time it takes others to receive this lovely wish a hundred times, they receive it twenty-five. This is how it goes—fewer birthdays, and a slow march toward death.

Two. No one forgets the birthday of someone born on February 29th. Everyone remembers it, waits for the day when they can exact the birthday treatment four times more gorgeously. Who wants to miss the sadistic joy of extracting money from a friend’s pocket? Birthdays come, expenses come. But alas, salary doesn’t multiply year after year, yet the expense of a leap-year birthday becomes four times as much!

Three. We who work jobs have our salaries fixed with the understanding that we will work for 365 days of the year and be paid accordingly. How? Say your monthly salary multiplied by twelve gives you 365 thousand taka. This means your daily wage is one thousand taka. In the year that is a leap year—with 366 days—what are you getting for that extra day? Where is the compensation for that day? Does the workload decrease on that day compared to others? Think about it: you’re not getting paid for that day, yet you’re working just the same. On that day you’re laboring without a single paisa! Why would you? Out of some misguided affection? Who has ever loved a job so much? Does your institution’s profit-making or service provision become zero on that day? Your labor brings profit to your institution. But where is the valuation of your work? An office on the 29th is nothing but unpaid corvée. I believe you deserve an envelope for today, and in that envelope there should be a thousand taka. That money can’t be given at month’s end, because it might create some bureaucratic complications, and you might be robbed of your rightful wage. Let the money be given now, this very moment!

Four. Money in the Bank

You deposit your money in a bank. The bank puts that money to work in various enterprises, earning profits. In return, you receive a small portion of those profits as interest. This interest is disbursed at fixed intervals through various bank schemes. The bank calculates time based on the calendar year. According to the contract between you and the bank, it will deploy your money in business and earn profits over 365 days of the year. In exchange, you receive a fixed amount of interest at a fixed rate. But in those years that have 366 days, when the bank conducts business on that extra day and earns extra profit, don’t you deserve a share of it? Your money is being used to conduct business, yet you are being deprived—entirely unreasonably—of your fair partnership in those profits. My question is this: why shouldn’t the interest earned in a leap year be higher than in other years? Even if it’s only a little more, shouldn’t it be? Everyone feels good when they receive what is justly due to them!

Five. For those who labor with their hands—the working classes—today amounts to nothing but an occasion for exploitation by capitalist interests. Their daily wages barely cover their household’s daily expenses. Bound by monthly salary structures, they work today only to increase their employer’s wealth. The core principles of International Labour Day are twofold: respect for the contribution of the working class and securing their just rights. By that logic, Labour Day should be observed not on May 1st, but on February 29th. Since that would be a public holiday, workers living below the poverty line—those paid on a daily basis—would see their economic rights more firmly secured. The reasoning is simple: they would have the chance to earn extra income by working those additional days that come once every four years. Here is another clever thing we could do after declaring February 29th International Labour Day. We simply wouldn’t declare it a public holiday. What would happen then? Daily-wage laborers would still receive their pay for that day’s work. But salaried employees would work without compensation. For one day, at least, the system itself would grant working people’s labor greater financial value than those who are not laborers. While others work for free, they would work for full pay. This is how we could honor them.

Six. Those of us who live in rented houses enjoy gas and water on February 29th without paying any extra charge. Yet the total cost of gas and water on that day is no less than on any other day. As a result, a substantial portion of our nation’s reserves of these two resources is consumed free of cost. The government receives no revenue for it. This unreimbursed use of resources hampers our country’s development efforts to some degree. If the government collected a fixed amount from citizens for that single day—once every four years—an enormous sum could be accumulated. With that money, a bridge could be built, the sanitation and drainage systems of several major cities could be upgraded.

Seven. In Taiwan
February 28th is observed as a birthday for those born on February 29th. In Hong Kong and England, all birthday formalities for those born on February 29th are completed on March 1st. Everything from driver’s license renewal to all legal matters related to birthdays follows this rule. Of course, this sometimes creates situations where leap-year babies and leaplings, mingling with others on that day, occasionally run into bureaucratic complications or face delays in accessing services. This has been going on for quite some time.

Eight. Those who don’t get to celebrate a birthday every year—for them, ‘age increases’ every four years. Their age doesn’t go up by one; it jumps by four. If a will is made in the name of such a person and specifies an age at which the beneficiary receives the property, they may face some legal trouble for two reasons. How so? Suppose a leapling is to inherit their father’s property once they turn 21. If it takes them three more years to reach that age, and their father dies before then, they cannot legally claim the inheritance immediately after their father’s death. Or this could happen: their age never reaches 21—it jumps straight from 19 to 23. What then? The person who made the will is gone. We even see such a case in Sherlock Holmes.

Nine. In Ireland
February 29th is celebrated as Bachelor’s Day. Of course, this Irish tradition has now crossed geographical boundaries and taken hold in several other countries too. The day brings quite a few troubles for bachelor men. Let me mention a couple. On that day, women dance and propose marriage to the man of their choice. If the man refuses the woman’s marriage proposal, he must buy her an expensive silk gown or a fur coat. In some places, there’s also a custom that if the man refuses, he must give considerable money or buy the woman clothes of her choice. In higher and aristocratic circles in Europe, the man must buy the woman a dozen gloves so that she can neatly conceal the discomfort on her finger that would otherwise be bare of an engagement ring. In the city of Aurora in the American state of Illinois, on February 29th, an unmarried woman can be authorized by authorities to arrest an unmarried man, and can even levy a fine of 4 dollars! In Greece, it’s believed that marrying on February 29th is inauspicious. In some places, the entire month of February becomes Proposal Month for women—all 29 days are proposal days! Oh, February 29th! What a carnival of colors and styles gathers on this day! A woman’s marketplace of dreams, a man’s marketplace of nightmares!

I’ll say no more. I’m stopping here. You find the tenth point yourself, won’t you!