One.
Coffee bar. Sunday.
Smoke—cigarette, coffee. Mozart and
conversation.
: There are some
tragedies in my life.
: What kind?
: My life isn’t as
smooth as everyone else’s.
: Smooth lives are
very boring, you know?
: My life isn’t like
the lives of good girls either.
: I don’t like
good girls. They are so colorless. You’re not among them, it means your life must be colorful! I love
color! Tell me your story, I’ll listen.
: Very different.
You wouldn’t even be able to imagine!
: How so? You got married at a very early age. Something like
that? Or was raped?
Or met some personal
accident?
: You’re thinking in
very typical ways. Nothing like that. One painful thing is that I’ve been searching for my parents for a long time,
especially my father. I wanna meet that guy! Those I live
with are my foster
parents, but the debt of
their love for me can never be repaid.
: I see. What else?
: I’ll tell you the
rest of my story another day.
: You can email me
your story if you want.
Sushantadtsecustomsatgmaildotcom. I love knowing
life stories.
: I don’t remember
the password to my own email ID. But I’ll write the whole thing out for you someday. Actually, not someday—I’ll write it tonight. I have to leave now.
: Take your time, there’s no rush.
: I’m going. I’ll knock
tonight. Take care.
: You too.
That night there was a
knock on messenger.
: I more or less
know everything about myself.
: You don’t have to
write everything today. Take your time.
: No, today itself. When people lose their emotion about something,
their interest in telling it also diminishes. Later I might not feel like telling it at all. Including you, I’m
sharing this with a total of two people of my own accord. I don’t
share my story with anyone. Everyone in my area knows more or less. This
reason is also behind why I stay in Mymensingh.
: I see. Tell me
your story. Lighten your burden by telling it, that is, if you don’t object! Where is your original home?
: In Calcutta.
Barasat.
: I see. Then what?
: I’m writing it out
for you. It’ll take some time.
: Let it take time. No
problem. Write.
: My birth mother’s home is in Gafarganao upazila. I don’t know the name of the village. My mother’s family consisted of two brothers and their mother. My mother’s name is Sarvani Islam. My mother’s mother—my maternal grandmother—died long ago. My grandfather remarried. Their financial situation wasn’t very good at all. They managed somehow, that’s how it was, and it’s still the same now. My grandfather used to trade cattle. So naturally, he had to travel back and forth to India! Sometimes people from there would even come and stay at grandfather’s house for many days. That’s how things went. My mother was probably in class five then. She wasn’t particularly beautiful to look at. But she was very lively in conversation. My grandparents were quite poor, and on top of that, grandfather was an honest man. So grandfather married my mother off to a cattle trader. Then my father took my mother to India. I’ve heard that my paternal grandfather’s house was in Barasat. I don’t know anything more than that. My mother was very young when she married, maybe 12 or 13 years old. Shortly after the wedding, I came into her womb. In time, I was born. When I was 17 days old, my father brought my mother back to Bangladesh—to my maternal grandfather’s house. Then my father told my mother, “You stay here, I’ll come back for you in a few days.” Days, months, years passed like this, but you know what—my father never came looking for us again. My father’s name is Azad Abdul Kasem. Oh yes, I was also named at my grandfather’s house. I was given the name Muhurta Islam Sandhya. I don’t know if I was born in the evening or not. Then when I was 6 months old, my step-grandmother told my mother that they wouldn’t take responsibility for both of us. I mean, they couldn’t take responsibility for me. They didn’t feed me properly at that time. I’ve heard that my mother would hide me under the bed to feed me. And during that period I was very thin, very sickly, with many wounds and sores on my body. Later my step-grandmother would make my mother suffer even more because of me. Then my mother, along with me, came to stay with her deceased mother’s brother—my mother’s maternal uncle.
My mother’s uncle’s house was in Gauripara. They too were very poor. Then everyone together decided that I would be given to an orphanage.
By chance, my present father was looking for a baby girl at that time. My current father’s cousin had married into a family near my birth mother’s uncle’s house. So this aunt came to inform my present parents about me. My current father wasn’t home then, but my mother was there. When the aunt came and said, “A baby girl has been found, sister-in-law; will you take her? She’s such a lovely little thing,” my mother said, “Bring her, let me see!” Then they dressed me up very carefully and brought me there, you know—like a cow being decorated for the cattle market! They put a black dot on my forehead and kohl around my eyes. I was 9 months old then.
A 9-month-old living commodity was taken to that house.
Perhaps my fate was good, because when everything was almost settled for me to go to the orphanage, at that very moment my present mother accepted me. Perhaps this was God’s will. That day was March 20, 1995, a Monday. I learned this date from my mother after I grew up.
I’m told I was born on June 20, 1994. How the date matched up so perfectly, I don’t know.
Whatever the case, my new naming ceremony, my aqiqah—everything was done within two days. My new name became
Dehli Zarin Durba. The surname: Hakim. Father chose the name Dehli, and my youngest aunt gave me Durba. My youngest aunt had kept the name Durba ready for her daughter, but she had a son instead. So seeing that her brother now had a daughter—me—she happily bestowed the name Durba. She was the most enthusiastic about giving me a new name. She kept saying over and over, “Our daughter,
we’ll name her too.” My birth mother
had named me Chaitali Marzia Sniti. In those days I wanted for nothing—food, comfort,
care without end, only happiness and love.
My father here was one of nine brothers. My father was the fourth. Anyway, my days passed in careful tending. Laughing and playing, I slowly
grew up. Eventually I was enrolled in school—in play group. After play group I entered primary school,
class one.
When I was being taken into that
family, my father’s father—my grandfather—
was saying, “The frog from the well
has fallen into the pond!” I didn’t understand what he meant then. After growing up I understood why he used to say that.
For fifteen years, no one outside that family accepted me. No one would mix with me. I was very
quiet by nature, I loved being alone. Apart from my mother and father, I barely spoke to anyone else, and I didn’t go out much either. My father’s family here
was very well-known in the area, we had a good reputation in several
neighboring areas too. My mother’s father’s family was also upper class.
My real mother who left me there—after that she never
came again, and no one even knew where she was. Like everyone else, my uncles would say, “Listen Durba, we found you
on a train, you were crying so much, so we brought you home.”
I thought they were just
teasing me with these stories. Their words didn’t bother me at all. Meanwhile, when I was in class three, my birth mother came to our house,
but I still didn’t know
that I wasn’t their daughter. Mother used to come like this quite often, just gazing at me. When I’d ask
who this woman was, my parents here would say, “She’s your aunt,” and I’d call her aunt too. One day like this
turned into two days until my youngest aunt let it slip, “Durba’s mother came—does Durba know?” I was in the room then, but aunt didn’t realize. The fear I saw that day in my
mother’s eyes—I never
saw anything like it again. That day I didn’t say anything to anyone, not to mother, not to father. I
remained as I was—acting like I hadn’t heard anything.
Every day like usual I ate breakfast and went to school, attended tutoring and came home. My heart felt heavy, I felt tired. Mother said nothing to me, didn’t ask why I was upset; she probably thought I was just tired from study pressure.
But it’s true that the truth never stays buried—I’ve believed this since that incident. A certain distance grew between my mother and me. The outside world began to whisper, as they always do! They’d ask me, “What’s wrong? Why doesn’t your mother talk to you?” I’d say, “Why wouldn’t she?” They’d reply, “Well, they’re not really your parents, are they? You’re their adopted daughter,” and many other such things! One day when father came home, I threw my arms around him and cried and cried. That day, father told me the whole truth. You know, hearing everything didn’t hurt me one bit—rather, I felt joy thinking that I had found such wonderful parents! There’s a Tamil movie by Mani Ratnam, the English title is A Peck on the Cheek. Do watch it when you have time. There’s a girl like me in that movie.
Anyway, I received a scholarship in class five. I was quite good at studies—I’d come first or second in class, and the teachers adored me. Eventually everyone in the neighborhood came to know about my adoption. The school teachers found out too. Everyone would bombard me with questions. Common people always have an excessive interest in others’ affairs. I’d grow weary answering everyone’s questions. Still, I’d answer them. No matter what people said after hearing my story, I tried not to let my spirits drop and attempted to answer everyone’s questions. I’d return home after weathering this storm of questions and snide remarks, still smiling. My only sorrow was this: why did the mother who gave me away to someone else then fall in love with and marry that man’s brother? Why did she stay with the very family she’d given me to? Yes, my own mother had become my aunt. What kind of farce was this! I hate my mother!
My real mother is now my aunt by relation. As much as I like thinking of her as a mother, I prefer thinking of her as an aunt even more. Whatever conversations I’d had with her before knowing the truth, I’ve never spoken to her again since finding out. She tells everyone, “You know, my daughter is so beautiful, she looks just like me. I looked exactly like her when I was her age,” and many other such things! Every time my ‘aunt’-‘mother’ has come to our house, I’ve humiliated her. Seeing this, my grandmother wept bitterly and said, “You don’t know how much your mother loves you, and here you are treating your mother this way!” I thought to myself, I don’t need to learn anything more—I’ve learned very well to distinguish what is love and what isn’t. Everywhere—college, school—everyone says the same thing: “Durba, you never speak to your mother. If you did, Allah would be angry.”
We used to have a good relationship with my uncles. But ever since my father transferred all his property to my name, my uncles have harbored great resentment toward us. Driven by greed for the property, my middle uncle has tried desperately to arrange my marriage with his son. Whenever he sees me, he calls me “mother” with great affection, speaks so sweetly, but there’s something else lurking in his heart. I can never forgive these people. However, yes, everyone in my stepmother’s family loves me dearly. My maternal uncles care for me more than their other nephews and nieces. My actual mother—I mean my aunt—has two children from her subsequent marriage: one son and one daughter.
That’s it! This is my story. This is the story I live with.
: How heartbreaking. I feel pained by it.
: Pained by what? I have great patience; I don’t feel pain.
: I can see that. It takes courage to accept so much and keep moving forward.
: My aunts and the local people say all sorts of things about my mother. They say, “Durba will leave one day. Other blood means other blood.” As if blood can be different! So many such words. I tell them that the bond of love is stronger than the bond of blood. I will overcome the weakness of blood ties with the strength of my parents’ love. I will never leave them behind.
: Let them talk. People find such joy in idle chatter!
: You know, I’ve grown up surrounded by great luxury. I don’t think any other girl in this area has been raised with such indulgence. There are many who speak nonsense about me behind my back, yet fall at my feet seeking friendship. I knowingly speak well with them, amused by their pretense. Through one blow after another, I’ve grown from a small child into someone much older. People grow up through adversity. The age of my mind has far exceeded the age of my body. I can now anticipate many complex situations beforehand and keep myself away from them. The elders in the area like me, but my peers always look at me with different eyes. I don’t know why.
: Perhaps they’re jealous of you!
: Despite all my misfortunes, I remain alive as an object of envy! How wonderful! I rode to school on my father’s shoulders until class five—none of them ever received such affection. So they have every right to envy me a little. They envy me because none of them are like me. I don’t envy any of them, because I’m quite happy being exactly who I am! I feel pain when I see helpless children. I keep thinking, oh, I too was supposed to live my life in such dire circumstances, yet how well Allah has kept me! I am well, I have an identity, I have wonderful parents. How happy I am! What more could I want! They have given me freedom, they’re educating me. I have never received less than any of the other children in the house—in fact, I’ve received more. My family loves me more than the rest of the world does, and I believe this family is my universe. The bond of selfless love is far stronger than the bond of self-interested blood!
Two.
I’m writing to you about my life this late at night. I’m writing rather helplessly. I really don’t know what I should do or what would be right for me to do! I can’t trust anyone, yet everyone needs someone to rely on in life, so I’m writing to you. We don’t know each other at all, so after I write my story, I’ll simply assume that what I’ve written has disappeared. It’s very easy to tell all your heart’s secrets to a stranger. I want to lighten myself by writing down what has accumulated in my mind—that’s why I’m writing.
Since childhood, I’ve always seen my father as somewhat different. Bad-tempered, harsh by nature. He has no sense of duty or responsibility toward anyone. Father studied only until his SSC before going into business. From that time, he stopped listening to anyone—he does only what he thinks is right. My grandfather’s family was quite well-off financially. Mother was very beautiful. She studied up to her BA. After grandfather’s death, grandmother’s family’s financial condition began to deteriorate. Mother joined a primary school and even supported my uncles’ expenses. Mother has always been very stubborn by nature. A relative from my father’s family brought a marriage proposal to grandmother’s house. Though mother initially refused the marriage, she agreed to it at grandmother’s wish.
After the wedding, my parents’ relationship began to deteriorate. Everyone said that having a baby would fix everything. My parents decided to have a child. Father wanted a son. So he wasn’t happy when I was born. As a result, my parents’ relationship didn’t improve either. I truly don’t understand why people decide to have children to improve their marital relationship! Rather, children should be born after the relationship improves—this way the child avoids some unwanted experiences.
Mother was working in Dinajpur then, and father was doing business in Naogaon. I was 4 years old then. My grandfather told mother to get transferred to Naogaon. To save the marriage, mother took a transfer to Naogaon. She left me at grandmother’s house in Rangpur. She said there weren’t good schools there, my education would suffer. Besides, she wanted to raise me in the city, away from the rural environment.
There was a major reason for keeping me in Rangpur—my mother ran the household at her parents’ home. All her salary had to be given to her family. If I hadn’t stayed with them, it wouldn’t have been possible for her to give that money. By keeping me at my maternal grandparents’ house, my father couldn’t object to giving that money either. In Naogaon, at my paternal grandparents’ house, they lived together for some time. Then my mother got transferred, changed schools, and moved to Naogaon town. Mother rented a house in town and lived there. Father stayed in the village at my grandparents’ house. Sometimes Father would come to town to see Mother, or Mother would go to the village to my grandparents’ house. They still live this way.
I enrolled in school at my maternal grandparents’ house. I grew up in the care of my uncle, aunt, and grandmother. My childhood at my maternal grandparents’ was fairly good. Grandmother loved me dearly, but Uncle used to beat me. Even if I scored 19 out of 20 on an exam, I’d get beaten when I came home. I lived in constant fear—wondering when I’d get beaten next! If I lost a pencil, a pen, a hair clip, anything at all, Uncle would beat me severely. Severely, I mean severely! Actually, Uncle was unemployed then, so he took out all his anger and frustration on me. After beating me, when Uncle saw me crying, he would start crying himself. My father never came to Rangpur. But Mother would come—during school holidays. When Mother left, I felt terrible pain, I would cry. Still, I had neither the opportunity nor the courage to ask Mother to stay with me a few more days. I desperately wanted to hold her tight and say, don’t leave me, stay with me! I would clench my teeth and swallow my tears. From a very young age, I learned to survive by swallowing my tears.
I was good at studies, came first or second in class. My younger uncle taught me. He had a terrible temper. He was also unemployed, so all his rage against God, he took out on me. Almost every day when I sat down to study, I would get beaten. Not for not studying, but he would beat me for one excuse or another. At one point, studying itself became something frightening for me. I slipped from first and second place to outside the top ten.
When I was in class five, preparing for the scholarship exam, I used to read the Quran with a religious teacher. That teacher would call me to his quarters under various pretexts and sexually abuse me at different times. I could never tell anyone about this out of fear. That man tried to rape me—he couldn’t, but he tortured me in the most vile ways day after day, which left deep scars on my young mind at that time. I told no one about it. What could I have said—at that age I couldn’t understand anything. I had to go there to study, and I lived in constant fear, cowering all the time. Because of this mental trauma, I didn’t get the scholarship. Everyone would insult me whenever they got the chance. My mother would come to Rangpur whenever she got leave. She too would beat me severely every time for some excuse or other, scolding was just routine! Her real anger was about why I didn’t get the scholarship! My days passed enduring humiliation, neglect, and constant scolding. There are some events in the world whose causes you can’t tell anyone. Yet those very events cause the most pain.
My father never came to visit me. I was the one who would go to Naogaon to see him. He would somehow always try to make me understand that studying at a city school, I wasn’t learning anything. I was a fool, everyone was better than me. But the teachers at school loved me dearly. They would encourage me so I could achieve good results.
I always saw my parents busy with their egos and quarrels. They had no time to look my way. My father never gave money for my education. Mother would give money, but because father wouldn’t contribute, she’d be in a foul mood about it and curse me terribly. From childhood, I had understood that to them I was nothing but a burden. They had wanted a son; by some ‘cruel twist of fate,’ I had arrived in their home instead. I never got to study under any good math or English teacher. I would go to one teacher’s batch and study all subjects there. I’m grateful to that teacher, but there’s one thing I can never accept—before or after the batch started, he would touch my body inappropriately in the most vile way. He continued this for nearly two years. Since I couldn’t pay his fees, I never protested. Having a private tutor for me was a luxury my parents couldn’t afford; even for the batch classes I attended, they never spent a penny. I never asked for nice clothes, toys, or cosmetics. I had only two requests of them: that they treat me a little kindly, and that they not stop my education.
From constantly receiving poor treatment from everyone, I developed some psychological problems. Sometimes it would happen that if someone asked me which class I was in, I couldn’t even answer that—I’d give confused, wrong answers. Or I’d call a rickshaw but couldn’t tell the driver where I wanted to go. Such problems would occur from time to time.
In class eight, first term, I scored 96 in math; second term, 29. From then on, fear of math entered my soul. When I went to the exam hall, I couldn’t solve even the math problems I knew. Once I left the exam hall, I could easily solve those same problems. Because of my math phobia, I enrolled in humanities for SSC. Everyone mocked me, teachers felt sorry for me. I never said anything to anyone, bore it all with stoic silence. In SSC, I was the only one from Police Lines School to get A+ in humanities. I received a talent pool scholarship and ranked 38th in Rajshahi Board. I got admission to Rangpur Cantonment Public. Since admission required 10,000 taka, my parents didn’t enroll me there. My father had property worth millions, mother had a job—both had the means to pay, but neither did. One of my uncles borrowed money and got me admitted to Police Lines College.
I came first among 465 students in the HSC test exam. But I got 4.70 in the finals. I was very confident I’d get A+, but I didn’t. This disappointment was constantly destroying me. I took university admission exams everywhere—Dhaka, Rajshahi, Sylhet, Rangpur, Dinajpur—but didn’t get admitted anywhere. I started studying again to take the exams a second time. I caught jaundice toward the end, so I couldn’t study for many days. I was on the waiting list at Rajshahi University. Serial number 1143. They admitted up to 1137, and I was left out. The second time, except for Rajshahi University, I couldn’t even take the exams anywhere else. My mother wouldn’t let me. I got admitted to statistics at Rajshahi College on my first try and completed my honors from there.
My parents told me they couldn’t afford to send me to Rajshahi College, and I should transfer to Naogaon College. I was forced to stop taking money from them then. I managed my expenses through tutoring. Three days a week, I would travel by bus from Naogaon to Rajshahi for classes, then return to Naogaon after classes ended. I wasn’t even sure if I’d pass first year. By the end of fourth year, with a CGPA of 3.43, I’m among the top 20 in the department. I got admitted to master’s in 2017. That same year, I joined the police as an office assistant. I couldn’t attend master’s classes. I don’t even know if they’ll let me take the final exam. Financial necessity forced me to take the job. Tutoring doesn’t preserve one’s dignity.
In this life, I’ve received nothing but humiliation, abuse, and pity. At the end of each day, I face one ultimate truth: in this world, I have no one to call my own except myself. I feel terrible for myself. Working at the office, tears well up in my eyes. I don’t know who named me ‘Nilakshi.’ But this much I know—these two eyes are no longer blue, they turned gray long ago. I’ve always fought to continue my studies. I’ve loved learning. Yet today, I’m at the point where my education might end. I still haven’t been able to create a place of dignity for myself.
When I entered life’s battle after intermediate, I found a male friend by my side—his name was Satyaki Basu. Our religions were different. He used to inspire me greatly. He’d say, “Look around you, see how many boys and girls mock you—none of them will achieve anything in life, but you will. They’ll all disappear, but you’ll survive. Don’t give up, I’m here with you!” When I worried whether I’d even finish my honors, he’d say, “If anyone from Rajshahi College can complete honors, it’ll be Nilakshi.” This might have been pure exaggeration, but even those few words gave me tremendous courage at the time. I had no one else to say anything good to me! Hearing such things made him feel very dear to me. Satyaki helped me in many ways. Some books weren’t available in Rajshahi, so he’d buy them in Dhaka and send them to me.
Satyaki’s family situation was just like mine. His father used to speak to his mother in the most vulgar language. He would hurl obscene abuse at him, claiming that he had a physical relationship with his own mother! Satyaki could never go home. His father would mercifully send him some money each month. He completed his honors and master’s in English while living in a hostel in Dhaka. Happy people don’t forge the kind of strong bonds that develop between those who suffer. When people share the same kind of sorrow, an invisible thread binds them together. That bond is unbreakable. We began to love each other as we shared our griefs, sometimes as friends, sometimes as lovers. It’s been seven years now that we’ve been together.
My family had been pressuring me to get married right after my intermediate exams. One marriage proposal after another kept coming. Satyaki would tell me, “Wait a little, let me finish my honors.” I counted the days. I thought once he completed his degree and got a job, all my troubles would disappear. I’d been urging him to think about his career since his first year. This caused a lot of tension between us. I’d call him in tears, saying, “Get a job.” By then his honors were finished. I’d tell him, “Take the SI police exam.” He wouldn’t listen to me, never even applied for a single job.
Satyaki never thought about me. He always prioritized his own life, career, education, results, opportunities, and advantages over mine. He never cared about my studies or job prospects the way I worried about his future, the way I wanted what was best for him. When he desperately needed to get a good job, he was busy with his master’s degree. He didn’t even apply for a single position! I accepted everything, thinking he was preparing for the BCS exam, and no matter how much I suffered, I would stand by him. I took a third-class job just to help him. My dream was that he’d become a BCS cadre, and I’d do whatever it took to make that happen. He took the teacher registration exam. He couldn’t even pass that. He took the BCS. His expected marks in the preliminary were only 40%! I realized he was simply wasting my money, not studying properly. I’d get furious with him, but because I loved him, I could never let go of his hand. I used to think, if I abandoned him, who would look after him!
Meanwhile, for the past five years, I’ve been struggling with hormonal problems. Every three months, I lose blood from my body at an abnormal rate. The doctor has said, “Get married—this problem will resolve itself after marriage. As long as you take medication, you’ll be fine, but then the same condition will return.” I’m waiting for Satyaki to become a BCS cadre officer. I can’t bear to see him cry. I have only one wish—that Satyaki live with dignity, holding his head high. That his mother’s helplessness come to an end. But Satyaki keeps deceiving me. He tells me he’s studying. I believe his words and hold onto the hope that perhaps he really is trying his best. But when he can’t pass even a single job exam, I feel that all this inhuman labor I’m doing, all my efforts are going down the drain. If Satyaki had gotten a job right after graduating with his bachelor’s degree, I could at least have started my career with a second-class position. Now everything is ruined!
He always tells me he can’t live without me. I know that like me, Satyaki has no one he can truly call his own. Still, I often think—how can I be happy in life with a boy who doesn’t understand the value of my suffering, who doesn’t study properly to build his own life? Now he says again that he supposedly hasn’t tried hard enough before. That he’ll try from now on. I wonder, what does this mean? What has he been doing all this time then? Just fooling around? Does my sacrifice have no value to him at all? Haven’t all my sorrows, struggles, and anguish touched him even a little? If they had, why has he been sitting idle all this time without trying? What gives a poor person the audacity to play games with his career? And Satyaki is both poor and unfortunate. How can he wander around so carelessly like the children of wealthy fathers, acting as if he hasn’t a care in the world?
It occurs to me that if I marry, I should marry someone who may not have looks, but has qualities. Someone whose personality is captivating. Someone who has humanity in him. He would study extensively, work tremendously hard, and earn his place through his own merit. Satyaki is not such a person! He’s completely different. He can never become what I want in my heart. Should I leave him and take someone else’s hand? When I think such thoughts, Satyaki’s sorrowful, helpless face keeps floating before my eyes. I begin to feel like a traitor. What should I do now?
Three.
Nothing feels good to me anymore—it’s painful just to be alive. Life has become somehow unbearable! I have no desire to do anything new; I want to keep living with the very mistakes I’m living with. What I have as my own are my mistakes.
I got a golden A+ in my SSC exams. Everyone knows I was a good student. My mother, father, brothers and sisters—they all had such high hopes, so many dreams built around me. My HSC exam is just a month away now. But despite being the kind of student I was, I haven’t studied anything accordingly. I feel utterly helpless, tears keep coming. If my exam results turn out badly, I’ll just die. I don’t want to live anymore. But I’m also afraid to die. For the past three months, I’ve been too scared to study at all. What can I possibly do in this one month? I don’t know. It feels like I’m incapable of doing anything anymore. I can’t go on, I’ve already lost.
But I have so many dreams. I dream that my disappointments will fade away. That I’ll become someone great. Since childhood, I was always first or second in class. But now I’m nothing—not even worth a speck of dust. I can’t share anything with my family. I feel like if they heard everything, they’d be devastated, they’d misunderstand me. I’m so afraid, I feel like a criminal. Only one month left. What can I do in such little time, how can I prepare—nothing comes to mind. Just thinking about it paralyzes me with fear. For the past 3-4 months, I’ve been living with unbearable anguish and pain. I can’t use a single moment properly. I keep thinking everything is over, I’m finished. All my dreams, all my hopes, all my trust—gone. Day after day, I’ve deceived my parents, I haven’t studied.
I see only darkness ahead. There’s no light anywhere, no path open before me. Someone as failed as me might as well be dead. No one is helping me at all. I’m spending my days in utter helplessness. I don’t want to live anymore. Everything feels unbearable somehow. I feel like I’m suffocating! Life is becoming so complicated, none of life’s equations are adding up. If I don’t get a golden A+, I’ll kill myself. What will happen—I don’t know anything. My life was so beautiful once, everything was so organized. Today it’s all chaos. My life has been ruined like this! What will become of me, who knows! Everyone in my family is so educated—I’ll be the only one who can’t achieve anything. I’ve become so helpless! I want to make something of my life. No one believes this. Whoever I tell my sorrows to just laughs at me. I was such a good student once—everything seemed memorized. Whatever the teachers asked, I could answer. Today I can’t do anything. I don’t study now, yet I desperately want to study. Still, I can’t. I can’t do anything! I’m just constantly afraid. It feels like this beautiful world might not be meant for me. Everyone except myself seems happy to me. Happiness, peace, comfort—they’ve all fled from my life!
I long to dream so many dreams, but I lack the courage. Today I feel a surge of strength in my chest, and I want to write down all my dreams one by one. I want to become wildly brave. A nobody like me has no place anywhere in this world. Perhaps writing all this will accomplish nothing, but driven by a hunger for some small self-satisfaction, I’m writing whatever comes to mind. My back is against the wall. Now I understand how thoroughly everyone ignores you when you slack off in your studies. I’m being humiliated at every turn, withdrawing from society and becoming more antisocial by the day. Even when Tarzan lived alone as a man in the jungle, he had many animals and birds with him. But I have no one except the Creator. Well, there is one other—my mother. No one else loves me. Tears stream down my face when I stand before the mirror. So I’ve made a major decision in my life. Whatever else may or may not happen, I’ll copy-paste everything I’ve learned about careers into my own life. Whatever will be, will be—there’s truly no point in living this way.
Tell me, how do successful people discipline themselves? Take my case, for instance—I can’t control myself sometimes. Intense anger, resentment, and frustration take over, and I can’t even begin my work. Exams are coming up, but I can’t discipline myself! Every time I try to motivate myself, anger suddenly flares up inside me and ruins all my plans. Take today, for example—I sat at my desk all day but didn’t study at all. I’m falling apart. Outwardly I seem fine, but inside, rage against myself keeps rising constantly. I can’t figure out what method I could use to discipline myself… I want to add my own words to Socrates’ saying: “Know thyself, punish thyself, enslave thyself!” I know what I’m thinking, I know what I need to do, but I don’t know how I can do it! I often feel like all hope is lost! There’s an American heavy metal band called Slipknot with a music album called All Hope Is Gone—it’s my favorite, the songs really help when I’m feeling bad. Anyway, even if it means constantly punishing myself, I want to reach my goal. I’m sure I’m not saying anything crazy! Or am I?
Four.
My family is very conservative about love. Romance is absolutely forbidden—they’re extremely strict about this. Girls from strict families fall in love very quickly. Whether because of all this strictness or some other reason, I’ve had two relationships. The first was when I was in ninth grade. The boy’s house was right next to ours. Because he lived so close, everything became known at home. Then my mother beat me severely and, through reasoning and explaining, pulled me away from that boy. Out of fear of being beaten, I never spoke to that boy again. My childhood love ended right there. But here’s the thing—that boy still loves me, he’s gotten hold of my mobile number and still calls me from time to time. Whenever I realize it’s that boy calling, I immediately block the number.
Anyway, my second relationship started during Inter second year. In first year, that boy and I were just friends, later friendship turned into a relationship. He was quite good-looking and well-spoken. We were the same age. Everything was going well. We took our Inter exams. Both of us. I was a decent student, but while being in love, I didn’t even realize when second year slipped by.
Anyway, the results were worse than expected. I got an A, he got an A too. Now getting an A isn’t really anything to boast about. Donkeys, cows, goats, sheep—everyone gets an A. Then, following my mother’s wishes, I enrolled in medical coaching. Meanwhile, he was going to do IELTS and move to Australia. I only did coaching in name—couldn’t focus on anything properly. All my time was spent talking and hanging out with him, staying up late chatting, talking with him day and night. His name was Kaustav Rahman.
I took the medical exam, didn’t get in. At home they said to take the exam a second time. I enrolled in coaching again. Meanwhile, he also enrolled in coaching for IELTS. My second attempt also failed. He took the IELTS exam and scored a 7. He would leave for Australia—he was only staying in Bangladesh as long as it took to get his paperwork ready.
I took my SSC in ’13, HSC in ’15. Our relationship started from the beginning of ’15, with a one-year gap in 2016. His three sisters, my friends, his friends—everyone knew about our relationship. Even his family knew, only no one at my home knew anything. He had two female friends. Kuhu and Mukhor. He had told me that before me, he used to have some kind of feelings for Kuhu, which he no longer had. So I took this naturally. He didn’t have any feelings for Mukhor, but Mukhor liked him—I had heard this from him too. So I thought, anyone could have feelings for him, it wasn’t a big deal. He had told me all this in the early days of our relationship. And as for my male friends, there were just casual ones on Facebook, two in real life, but after I got into this relationship I didn’t talk to them as much, so eventually a gap formed between us. I mean, in my life, the only boy was Kaustav!
Then came 2017. I didn’t get admission anywhere, so reluctantly my parents dragged me and enrolled me in a private university. Meanwhile, his documents were getting ready—once everything was done, he would leave for abroad. I got admitted to the university on January 6th, his documents were ready within a day or two, his flight was on the 29th. Two days before leaving, he gifted me a mobile phone so I could stay in touch with him—before this I used a basic phone. In the months before leaving, he spent a lot of time hanging out with his friends, barely gave me any time, to be honest. Sometimes I would see photos of him with Mukhor on his phone. He had gone out with Mukhor, but I didn’t know—when I asked, he would say, “Oh! Don’t even mention it! She called suddenly, I was free, so I went! I thought I’d tell you later, but then forgot to mention it.” That kind of talk. So I believed everything. Whatever he explained, I understood exactly that.
He left for Australia on January 29th. Within a week of arriving there, he told me he didn’t love me anymore. I simply couldn’t believe what he was saying! What was he talking about! Had he lost his mind! When he was doing his IELTS coaching and applied to that Australian university, for some reason his application got rejected. He thought maybe he’d never be able to go, that his life was over, that he’d never be able to do anything with his life, that he wouldn’t even be able to marry me—so he wanted to break up with me. Later he came back on his own, saying he couldn’t live without me, that he’d make something of his life somehow, and asking me to stay by his side. If need be, we’d live together under a tree, eating simple rice and vegetables. Then he applied to another university, got accepted, and finally left.
Anyway, this was the second time he told me he didn’t love me, that he wanted to break up. At first I thought maybe it was because he’d just arrived in a foreign country, was dealing with all sorts of problems, so he was saying such things. I didn’t believe him. I mean, I absolutely refused to believe him. After talking back and forth, he finally said, “Yes, I do love you, but I need a break. I can’t handle the responsibility of a relationship right now. My family is depending on me. I have to manage my own tuition fees here. Being here, I’m beginning to understand what life really is. A plate of ready-made rice appears in front of you—for me, forget rice, even an empty plate doesn’t show up.” He told me so many heartbreaking things. So I asked, “What do you want now? What should I do?” In response, he said, “Of course I love you, but I need a break right now.” I asked, “How long a break?” He said, “One year.”
When I heard “one year,” I was devastated! How could I possibly manage! It wasn’t possible to go that long without talking! Later he said to me, “You just don’t understand my situation. Do you even really love me! I’m asking for a break, and you can’t even give me that!” Then he explained to me again. He said, “It’s just one year! It’ll pass in the blink of an eye. A year from now, on this very date, everything will be back to normal.” On February 8th he said he didn’t love me; then just two days later, on the 10th, he said he loved me but needed a gap. During those two days, I couldn’t sleep at all. I’d wake up in the middle of the night and go cry in the bathroom.
Whatever the case may be, I believed she truly loved me! Because twice in a row, even when she wanted to break up with me, she couldn’t stay away and came back on her own. So our gap began. I’d go to university and come back, but my mind wouldn’t settle on anything. We stopped talking from February 10th. Three days later, on February 14th, I saw her Facebook post—she’d gone somewhere on a trip. I couldn’t bear it anymore and sent her a message. She told me, “Please, don’t do this. I really need this gap. Give me some time to sort everything out.” Like this, every three days I’d message her—I just couldn’t stay silent. She said, “What is this? I asked for a gap. You just keep rambling on!” Then I told her through tears that I couldn’t live without her. What was I supposed to do! After that she said, “Fine, go! We’ll talk every 15 days.” I agreed again. But 15 days couldn’t pass—within 8-9 days I’d send another message. We used to talk on WhatsApp. The day she mentioned the one-year gap, that same day she deactivated her Facebook account.
So I kept messaging her every few days like this. Two months passed this way. She took the break on February 10th, March and April went by with me messaging every few days. Then on the morning of May 2nd, I saw her profile was active again. I asked her, “You activated your account and didn’t even tell me once?” She said, “What’s there to tell about this? Do I have to tell you everything I do?” As we argued back and forth like this, at one point she said, “I don’t love you anymore.”…Another thing. The previous time when she said she didn’t love me anymore, I had repeatedly asked her whether she loved someone else. She had answered no. But this time she said, “Yes, I love someone else.” Hearing this, I laughed a lot. I thought she was just saying this again to get rid of me. So I asked while laughing, “Who do you love?” She said, “Mukhor.” Hearing the name ‘Mukhor,’ I laughed even more, because she had told me that she used to like Kuhu at one time—that was just a simple liking. And she didn’t feel anything special for Mukhor; rather, Mukhor was the one who liked her.
I didn’t believe a word she said. But within two or three days of not believing, I realized that what she had told me was true. I messaged Mukhra. The girl said, “I’ve known for ages that Kaustav likes a girl, and now I know that girl is me. So what’s your problem?” The sky came crashing down on my head. I fought with Mukhra for a while. Later, she blocked me. After that, I told all of Kaustav’s friends about it, laid everything bare before them. His friends spoke to him and informed me that everything Kaustav had said was true. He really was having an affair with Mukhra. The story that had begun just fifteen days after he left for Australia ended on May 5th. I blocked him from everything. No one who didn’t see with their own eyes what state I was in after he left would believe it. I couldn’t eat or drink, was constantly thinking about when I would message him, when I would talk to him a little. I was always wondering when that one year would end. I cried for him all the time and prayed.
Later I met one of his friends and heard his story. Kaustav and Mukhra’s relationship had nearly started even when he was still in the country. Kaustav had told Mukhra to wait for him, the same thing he had told me when he left. Everything he had said to me, he had said to Mukhra as well. For several months before leaving, the two of them had spent a lot of time together, going places. I knew Kaustav was spending time with friends, but I never had the slightest inkling that he was spending time with Mukhra. During our relationship, I never once felt that he didn’t love me. He had cried in front of me many times for my sake. Seeing Kaustav, I realized that boys too can shed false tears very easily. Mukhra had had a relationship before this too. They had been very close. That boy was also Kaustav’s friend. We all knew about that relationship. And it was with that same Mukhra that he had been in a relationship for the past year!
His friends told me that Mukhra was in a relationship with Kaustav only because he had gone to Australia. Mukhra’s dream was to marry Kaustav and move to Australia herself. Kaustav had been friends with Mukhra even before I came into his life. Mukhra had always liked him a lot, but since he didn’t reciprocate as much back then, nothing had happened between them. I often think now that when I was in ninth grade, when I caused that boy pain and left his life because of my parents, it’s for the pain I caused that boy that I’m now getting back all this suffering with interest. At home now, they’re desperately trying to get me married. I keep breaking off engagements with various excuses, because I simply cannot remove Kaustav from my heart. I’ve cried so much. From crying so much, tears don’t come anymore, only regret remains. I feel like it’s all my fault! Through my own fault, my own life has ended! If I hadn’t gotten involved in such a worthless relationship, my intermediate results would have been better too, maybe I would have gotten into medical school. If not medical, at least I could have studied at some public university!
Whenever anyone at home mentions a boy for marriage, I don’t like any of them. I keep thinking I need someone better than him. Otherwise, I simply won’t get married at all. This kind of mindset has taken hold of me. I can’t understand anything anymore. Why did this have to happen to me? I wasn’t at fault in any way! I was completely faithful to him! All my faith has been shattered. I don’t trust anyone anymore. Then sometimes I think, well, Kaustav will remain just as he is. Even after marriage, he’ll get involved in multiple relationships. I could never accept that. If these troubles had started after marrying him, then suicide would have been the only path left open to me. What was meant to happen has already happened. This is for the best! When there’s neither time nor opportunity to recover from a blow, it’s far more fortunate to receive that blow early rather than when you’re unprepared to handle it.