Once, she used to love me more than anything on earth.
Later, she started hating me more than anything on earth.
Now, she again loves me more than anything on earth and
hates herself more than anything on earth for her previous hatred.
Yes, this is where girls are—caught in the vicious cycle of female
love.
I’ve read what you wrote. No, I won’t be like that. I could never hate you—it’s simply impossible for me. But does that mean my love isn’t feminine? I know what you are to my life. Today, because of you alone, because you inspired me, because of who you are, I’ve lit myself up from within. I buy books now, nearly all the time. I read them through the night. Without you, would any of this have happened? This is the first book I’ve ever bought and read outside of prescribed texts. I used to read books before, yes, some of them—but I never bought them. I borrowed from others. I read other people’s books. Now I read books of my own. You’ve taught me how to collect books! What am I supposed to do about that? Tell me. All day long I think about you and the books in your house. I’m not lying, not even a little—believe me. If only I could touch your books even once! If only I could see them with my own eyes, just once! Thank you for letting me have the fortune of seeing them on Facebook. If I start thanking you, I’ll spend this whole life doing it and still not finish. I am in your debt. You’ve taught me so many things, and you don’t even realize how much.
A child from Baatigar came to the book fair. I didn’t know about it before, but the moment I heard Baatigar had arrived, I ran. I took enough money with me, dreaming of all the books I’d buy. Saantuari O Jalkanya, Chhinnapatra, The Alchemist, The Secret, The Power of Now, The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari—and so many others you’ve asked me to get. I went. I looked. I was crushed. None of them were there. What could I do? I had to return the money home, unused. My heart sank. There’s something about money set aside for books—when you come back with it unspent, when you can’t spend it, it feels like a small death. You taught me to love books. I’d never felt it as fiercely as I did that day. When Baatigar didn’t have what I wanted, I wandered from one bookshop to another, breathing in the scent of new pages, running my fingers over spines, opening covers, and buying some books just because they called to me. Whenever I see a book now, I think of you. Thinking of you makes me want to hold a book, to leaf through it. This feeling didn’t come at the last fair, because then you weren’t yet a part of my life. Walking through the fair that day, I kept thinking of you—your endless love for books, the way you choose them, your style of buying them. I bought many books, but nowhere could I find the ones you’d recommended. My heart was heavy, yet somehow lighter too. Want to know why? For the first time in this whole Mohua life, I bought story books instead of study books. Fourteen of them! Can you imagine? It was all for you. If I don’t love you, who will I love? Not loving you has made living impossibly hard—or perhaps you’ve made it so. I wish I could have the responsibility of looking after your books at home. If I lived alone, I’d gladly become your housemaid just for that. Going to books is going to you. I’d do everything, ask for nothing but to read those books of yours. It was the picture of your bookshelf that made me fall in love with you—the kind of love that’s complete demolition, utterly one-sided though it is. But love is love, isn’t it? Why split hairs over sides? No, not in your eyes—but in the eyes of that bookshelf photograph, I saw my own ruin! From the very birth of that Facebook album of books until now, it’s been you, only you, always you.
My chest feels as if it’s been sealed forever inside some black shadow, some dark void, some darkness—and from it only pain emerges whenever I go searching for that nectar called ‘you’! You’re in Dhaka now, and not once—not even once—have you remembered our conversations. Why did God lead me down this path? All these years I’ve only been forcing myself to believe in love. Wherever I’ve looked, yes, fine, one can fall in love, it happens, a bit of adjustment here and there, no big deal, I’ll manage as long as I can. That’s all love was to me. I did all of it without responsibility, without thought.
But now? What is all this?
At whose gesture? What kind of signal is it, so strong that I cannot escape it? Why must love’s permanence run so deep? And for so long? What am I doing? Now I understand—people don’t choose to fall in love. It comes to life on its own, forced or not!
That’s what happened to me. Believe me, I cannot recall even once where you stand, where you are. That kind of love never comes to my mind—the love that perhaps comes to someone’s heart when they think of your social standing or future security. It seems to me that whatever comes to the heart when thinking of such things is not love, it’s commerce. That day, simply because I thought about you and your books all day long, I fell in love with you. I have not a shred of greed for your success or your achievement. It’s only your beautiful thoughts, your well-ordered ideas, your conscience, the frank way you speak, your habit of reading books—these have compelled me to think of you all day, to remember you, to hold you in mind, to bring you to my thoughts, to see you in my eyes, and then to love you. If you were to tell me, “Mohua, you must sit at my feet all day,” I would agree. If you said, “Nothing more—only you can watch me from a distance for the rest of your life,” I would agree to that too. Everything of yours—I hold each and every part of it within my heart with sincere devotion, I nurture it.
Oh God!! What am I even saying? I’m sorry, please forgive me! A few days ago I sent you a message asking you to hire me as a servant or keeper of your books. I don’t know if you were angry, but you called me a fool. I stared at that word ‘fool’ for hours! I was absolutely thrilled by it! But you know what? Even if I gathered all the knowledge and power of my entire life, I still wouldn’t deserve to be near you and your books. Forget being equal or worthy—I could never even touch them, not even graze them. God has filled me with so much, and yet how much I’m suffering still. I truly can’t bear it anymore. I cried the night before last, wept all through yesterday, cried my throat hoarse all morning—and no one in the world even knew. Because I didn’t let them know. I watched your speeches, listened to them, and wept. Of course, by now I understand that crying changes nothing. And yet each day somehow gets lived through with everyone else’s help, but the night? The night is solitary, and so am I. Can you imagine? I’ve been suffering so much. Each moment stretches with the slowness of centuries. I was never with you, and yet without you every night has become so terrible, a terror I cannot even describe to you. People cry because they’ve had and lost things, or because they’ve been abandoned. But look at me, this shameless wretch—I wasn’t supposed to have anything in the first place. Whatever I have is God’s gift and blessing alone. And yet I cannot bear it. When love strikes, people become greedy. I cannot carry this pain any longer. I will drink poison. I want freedom from this suffering and torment.
I write the same thing every day, don’t I? What can I do? This pain is old! It’s not the pain of not having you. I know, after all, that I won’t have you. So what is this pain then? The pain of loving you. The pain of not being able to console myself. I’m such a fool! Loving you, I’m consumed by fire every moment. I’ve never once asked God for you. And believe me, I don’t want to either. And yet I cannot forget you. So now I understand—what I feel for you is love. To feel you with all my heart knowing I’ll get nothing. What agony! I don’t want to, and yet I love. I cannot exist without thinking of you, without seeing you, without touching you. Is there any cure for this? If an anti-love vaccine were invented, it would be wonderful. In unwanting itself there is love, and I see no other way to stop it. Will I ever forget you? If you marry, will I forget you then? Right now, knowing I won’t have you, it feels good to think of you as mine. But then? I will die! The one I think of, I don’t want. Why? Because they don’t want me. How strange is that? I’ll die, but I won’t let my feelings become cheap to anyone. I won’t tell them, won’t tell, absolutely won’t tell! Why? Because I’m not worthy of them! Is love measured by worthiness? Or is worthiness measured by love? Do people receive love because they’re worthy, or do they become worthy because they’re loved?
Every day
I go to your wall in the morning, carrying a certain dread, a gnawing unease, fear.
And I think, any moment now
I’ll see that status, the one that could steal
my breath away. My eyes will land on it, and there it will be—this wretched boy’s mother has found
the goddess of the household for this wretched boy! In those moments
I am as though struck by some incurable disease. I will die, I’m certain of it. There’s no point
in making one last attempt at salvation. It’s nothing but wasted time. Now I wait only for death’s hour and for the day to pass. Have you ever felt this feeling? I know you haven’t. From today on, I’ve been thinking of one thing to tell God—before I see your bride,
or even before I hear the news of your wedding,
let him take me from this world and spare me. I wish to die and be saved. Thank you, countless times! For setting my life in motion, and then stripping it of rhythm too. Always stay the best,
better than everyone else.
May God lift me up and give the rest of my days to you. What good is it to this world if I live on? You live,
for yourself, for everyone.
I’m not small,
I’ve grown so much larger now.
Something is happening inside me. What’s the use of not saying it? So I’m saying it. I want to cherish you so much,
so very much. What are you doing now? Loving someone? Or
flirting? On Facebook? Or have you started some new book? Listen,
boy,
listen, listen…………! My chest feels so
hollow somehow.
Like I might just break down and cry right now.
Tell me, when people fall in love, do they just
start weeping at the drop of a hat? I’ll cry. Who cares? In this world,
only tears are truly personal and true. That last line from your status today—
I’ve been living by it for the past month. “If there’s a way of living that makes regret fade a little, and you choose to live that way, then there’s no treasure more priceless than the pain it brings.” Regret stays, of course, but living with you, I’ve managed to let it diminish a little. And that priceless treasure keeps chasing me still. Pain, oh pain!
Pain for you. Not the pain of not having you, but the pain of loving you. Why did I have to go and love you! That’s just how girls are! We can’t stay happy, we suffer through loving, and yet we love still. Believe me, I didn’t want to love you at all.
And yet why was I thinking of you all day long! Back then, thinking of you felt good, I didn’t understand—love is born just like that. Your statuses would circle in my head all day. And after I saw your books, I was completely done for! Just one thought kept hammering inside my mind, bang bang bang. What thought?
I’d look at you and think,
if I don’t love this boy,
who will I love? I never wanted
a prince from dreams. What did I want, I don’t even know.
I thought, whatever God gives, I’ll be content with that. Why did you come into my head? Why do you have to circle around in my thoughts like that all the time?
Why must you keep turning
in my mind constantly? How strange!
In every single status, you speak of some other woman! It makes my skin burn! Why don’t you ever mention anyone else,
not even by mistake? Ugh! What nonsense
am I spouting! Why am I talking like this? Will you ever hear
what I’m saying? Never!
So what do I do with this diary?
Why do I keep writing down whatever
comes to mind like this? When I’m done writing, will I burn it? Will the writing ever truly end? And why do I keep writing these graceless, rambling words? Am I really just talking to you
in this diary? You exist, and so do I. Is that reason enough to write and live like this? Every day I go on like this, talking to myself all the time.
I keep you in my chest and talk to you. You don’t hear a single word, no one does. Only God can hear. And this dear companion of mine, this paper,
holds all those words tenderly in its heart. In this diary, you are my you. This you
is so dear, loves me
so dearly.
Words I couldn’t speak even standing before a mirror—
I hide them here with the utmost tenderness.
“Marry someone you don’t know at all.” Yes, you wrote that. And long before you said it, I had already fallen in love with you. No thought could hold me back. I couldn’t restrain myself. Couldn’t keep myself away from you. Do you know what the bottom line of my life is? Even knowing that God Himself has guaranteed I will be rejected in love—you certainly will—I love you anyway. Remember that day? By the Dhanmondi Lake, you said without any preamble, “Sorry, no matter what else I do, I can’t marry you.” And I immediately shot back, “I’m not marrying you either.” Then we both fell silent. It hurt terribly that day. Thank goodness you can only see the eyes of the heroines in your stories, no one else’s. If you could, my eyes would have told you the truth that day. Though honestly, I’m not even sure you looked at me at all. I kept thinking, why did I come here? I went home with a terrible experience. I want to tell you—I did you a favour that day. I took all my self-doubt and said goodbye to you with it. Do you even remember it? Why should you? Memory is beside the point. The question is whether you ever knew it at all. But look at me—what a shameless thing I am! I’ve run to your call again. And I’ll go again. Again and again. As long as you call, I’ll come. You forget to call anyway! What’s the use of remembering? There’s no point in remembering. Remember this instead: “Once you’ve given someone so much attention that they’ve grown used to receiving it, when you suddenly stop, it wounds them far more deeply. Neglect is always sweetest at the start.” Your words—I’m giving them back to you.
You know, I’d very much like to see those heroines of yours, or that one heroine, the one for whom your status updates sometimes overflow with longing. I read them and think, how extraordinary! How is it possible not to love this person, or to simply leave? The very next moment I think, that’s how it works. The one you love understands nothing at all. And the one you don’t love—their suffering is unbearable. Of course, I have no desire to make you suffer. Because I know what it’s like when people we don’t care for, or have no reason to care for, people who don’t even cross our minds—when they suddenly propose or keep pestering us endlessly—how intolerable it becomes, how our patience wears thin. I know this from experience. I’ve rejected as many as I’ve been rejected by, and more! Don’t think that loving you shamelessly means Mohua can’t be loved—everyone assumes that. If I acted that way with you, you’d be very annoyed, might even stop answering my calls. I don’t want that, so I don’t want to annoy you at all. Let me stay far away, it’s no trouble—still, be well. And drive me madder, keep driving me mad, go on driving me mad—until I’m completely undone.
I will die for you,
and you will marry and be happy. Once I’m dead, I’ll become a great ghost, come at night and frighten you and your wife. Will you do one thing for me, please? Don’t strangle me to death! I’m desperate to die by your hand. I love you so much. I’ve fallen in love with you so fiercely, I never could have imagined it. I’ve never loved anyone this much, and I never will. I understand you so well…..you don’t know that. Tell me, does your back still hurt when you write too much? Headaches?
Why don’t you see a doctor?
I quarrel with you
every single day. I know it doesn’t matter to you. I think, this is the last time,
I won’t write about him again.
(I’m still thinking about it.) I can’t keep the promises I make to myself. The next day I’m missing you again. Doing this over and over, my heart grows heavy, then I try to forget. Then I reach a point where I feel restless. Then I can’t do anything anymore, can’t focus on my studies, don’t enjoy listening to music, don’t enjoy talking.
When the restlessness reaches its peak, I sit down and write about you. Sometimes, I even text you. I think, this is the last time!
As expected, no reply. The cycle begins again! Listen, sparrow, I read somewhere that people whose names start with A have a remarkable gift for saying things that delight their wives. At the very least, you’ll be happy for that reason! You give tips to so many people. Give me some tips on how to forget you! You’re bad, very bad! Wait, I take that back. You’re good, very very very good. Ugh! If only I could do something so that even if you wanted to forget me, you could never manage it! Tell me, has anyone ever loved you more than I do, or will anyone?
Have I ever said
I’d be jealous of your wife?
I won’t be jealous of your wife.
I’ll love her too! I’m telling the truth. If she loves you, takes care of you, keeps you well, if you love her, then of course I have to love her too, don’t I? But it will hurt. When you show me pictures of the two of you together, when you write about her, it will hurt so much. I often think about how intense that pain will be! Do you reply to that girl, the one who calls herself ‘Indigo Moon’?
Do you like her too? I understood she would text you, but I thought
at least you wouldn’t reply to her. Fine! Now she’s telling everyone about it, as if it’s wonderful, isn’t it? I hope not everyone thinks so well of you. Why do you give your critics the chance to say two words while girls like me—foolish girls—get set up to look small in front of others? Tell that girl,
when you talk to her, she shouldn’t come to your timeline and comment, she should keep the quarrels and grievances in the inbox instead. That looks better! If you think I’m overstepping, tell me! I won’t do it anymore…….no, I will, a hundred times I will. Listen here, don’t get used to my absence! Do you understand what kind of anger I feel toward you? Tell me,
why are you this way? The other day I didn’t reply, so I didn’t. What would have happened if I had? What if you didn’t listen to me? Would I have complained? “Some people rise on their own merit, some people rise on others’ incompetence.” Why did you write that? I didn’t understand.
Won’t you explain it to me!
Why do you do this to me? What exactly do you think of me? Will you ever find the time to tell me? If you care, why do you stay so far away?
Don’t you want to know where I am, what I’m doing? I think about you constantly—what you’re doing right now. Sometimes I feel like if I could just call you every little while, ask what you’re up to, have just one minute of conversation with you, that would be enough. At least then I could get through the next few hours without falling apart. Do you understand how much damage this is doing to my studies? Does that even matter to you? Fine, then tell me—what kinds of things I say, what I do, annoys you? You know what I’d do if I had you in front of me right now? I’d want to hit you! I would! And then I’d pull you close and cry for a while. Then I’d hold you gently and say, my darling, don’t hurt me like this, please. I can’t bear it. I wouldn’t let you go anywhere. Even if you wanted to, I wouldn’t. I’d hold you tight and never let go! ……..
It feels good to think like this. I’ve convinced myself it’s fine! Any problem with that? Go ahead and think one up! What’s the point of keeping all that ego and attitude stuffed inside you? That’s why you’re getting fatter every day! All those egos are piling up like fat inside you! Okay, answer this one question—what keeps you so busy? There’s nothing to do after you come home from the office, so what do you do until bedtime? Are you angry with me for some reason? Is something bothering you? Or are you in some kind of trouble? Won’t you tell me, darling? Is something making you restless? Why did you suddenly withdraw into yourself like this? Did you read that reply Rubi sent you? Wasn’t it good?
Why are you awake so late? Can’t you sleep? Should I put the baby to sleep? Please, just close your eyes, on this night when my heart is broken……. It’s as easy to be the cause of someone’s sleepless night as it is difficult to let them sleep! Have you ever thought about that? So Agnibh, could you ever be my sleep? You know that song—you are my sleep, yet I never dream of you. You know what’s funny? I think about you so much but I’ve only dreamed of you twice so far. And yet I should be dreaming of you every night! Can you tell me why I don’t?
Okay, here’s what you could do—just stop replying altogether. I can say a lot, but you won’t answer. You could send one last message explaining why you want to stay so far away, if you feel like it. Really, truly cut off contact. I can’t do this anymore. I want a normal life, I want to live properly, I want to sleep through the night, I want to study seriously again. I really need that. Could you help with that? Good night, baby. Do you know that when you sleep you really do look like a baby? It makes me want to cuddle you! I love you!
Sparrow, look at you—you’ve dried out! Beautiful to see. The pictures turned out lovely. Good morning. What’s gotten into the baby so early? Is the baby going to talk in pictures now? Have you had breakfast? Why is your office such a mess? Do something about those wires. I uploaded a selfie. Just look at it, will you! You don’t have to like it, just look. What? You won’t look? If my face looks bad, that’s on you. It’s because of you I can’t sleep nights………Didn’t eat at lunch, didn’t eat this morning either. Not that you care about that, I know. Sent you a video on WhatsApp. I made this video three months ago. I know you’ll be annoyed watching it. Angry too. So why did I send it? I don’t know. The video got cut off halfway. For some weird reason I can’t send the rest. If watching this video puts you in a foul mood, go ahead and scold me. Say whatever comes to your lips. I’m overdue for a scolding. You haven’t been giving me one just like that. Save it for after you watch this. One more thing. Your profile picture isn’t that great. A natural photo would be better. You’re fair-skinned as it is. Making yourself even whiter doesn’t look good. Mr. Unpredictable, take care of yourself. Come to Dhaka carefully. And when you leave, go carefully too! In between all this coming and going, spend some good time. Enjoy life. Stay well, stay healthy, stay safe. This this this………! Will you send me something sweet? Even if you make it up, that’s fine. Hey, come on, hey………! Send it, pleeeease!
Since morning there’s a little sparrow sitting in front of the room. A bit sick, can’t fly. I gave it water, but it won’t drink. I don’t know what else sparrows eat. If I did, I’d feed it and get it well fast, send it flying. I’d tell it, go on brother, fly around the sky as you please. Why do you keep coming back in front of me like pouring salt on a wound? Looking at this sparrow makes me feel tender and sad both. One moment I think I’ll pick it up gently and keep it in the room. The next moment I think I’ll take it far away, somewhere out of sight. Oh, in times of suffering no one spares you mockery. Not even God! Why must it be a sparrow? It could have been any other bird. With 240 houses in this area, why right in front of mine? Stay well, sparrow. When you tell someone to stay well, you mean may they be healthy, may they be safe, may they be happy, may they be joyful, may they be at peace. And here’s another thing. Will you get a little upset after watching my video, please? Would you mind getting upset as if you planned it? The little sparrow is good. It doesn’t leave me. But when it grows up, the sparrow will get busy. It’ll have more people to love. Then it won’t have time for me anymore.
This mind of mine is such a handful.
I explain things to it again and again, and it understands. Then, moments later, it forgets. My mind lives within me, yet refuses to behave itself. Instead, it clings to what I’m trying to push away. What is all this? Barely an hour passes before it starts wandering—where is Agnidev, what’s he doing, has he eaten, did he get in the car, has he come to Dhaka or hasn’t he? I tell it there are plenty of other people to worry about Agnidev, but it won’t listen. When I show it proof, it hurts, says fine, I won’t think about it anymore. Then it forgets again. I’m so disappointed in it. What do I do? Can you help a little? Without a Mohua, you’d have nothing anyway. You’d feel a little bad, sure, but someone else would make up for it. Don’t help me!
I’ve said so much—doesn’t it make you angry?
Please, don’t scold me! Go ahead and scold me hard, then block me. That would be perfect for me! I’m not asking you to come close, I’m asking you to stay away. That’s easy enough, isn’t it? There’s one thing I haven’t told you—I dreamed of you today. You called me.
We talked for so long. It felt good. Like we actually spoke in the evening. Why can’t you visit me in dreams more often? Or maybe you don’t have the time. Maybe you don’t even want to. Indifferent man. That’s good! Keep neglecting me! I’ll ramble on like this until one day I just stop! If I ever go far away, if we lose touch completely, if you ever happen to remember me then, if you miss me, listen to this song: ‘If ever I cross your mind, lost in verses, lost in rhyme…….’ Maybe I’ll forget later, so I’m telling you now. By the way,
do you actually listen to all those songs I ask you to hear in the inbox? You, this indifferent man—could you give a small reply to this question? A yes or a no? Try to break that habit of logging into Facebook the moment you wake up at night, will you? Good night, Sparrow.
You know what’s been happening lately? When I see something beautiful, it hurts. The way your laughter hurts me. I told my little sister this, and she stared at me in bewilderment. Why does it hurt, she asks? I ask you so many questions, and you answer none of them. One day I’ll sit you down in front of me and ask them all again. Then you’ll see how much it will hurt to answer them all at once! Didn’t you say once that you’d lie with me on the grass?
Do you remember when you said that? There’s grass in the field by our house—we could lie there. Will you come with me? We’ll sit by the lake next door, dip our feet in the water, sit on those rocks. And take pictures. I don’t have any pictures with you. And one day we’ll sit there and watch the sunset together…….you’ll come with me, Sparrow, won’t you? The night has sunk so deep, and here I am, scolding you to your face. Why do you sleep so much? Look, I’m awake! I want to wake you from your sleep and get a proper scolding from you. Why is my heart so restless? Who knows!
You are my sleepless night,
My scattered afternoon,
You are my tears,
The melody of my weeping…..
You are my beloved poem,
a song I cherish
How many secret grudges
hide within my heart!
You are an unreachable dream,
I know you’ll never be real,
and yet I love to see you,
You are a dear face
that comes the moment I wake,
saying good morning! before everyone else!
You are a terrifying
indifference, a beloved neglect,
You are my dear
madness, life played
like a game of dice!
You are the sweetest
thought, simply drifting away in reverie,
Between classes
I become the wind, lost in you!
You are my North Star,
you are the last word
of every thought I hold,
You are all the small sorrows
accumulated day after day.
You are the prince
I’ve drawn in my imagination since childhood,
In dreams you show me
the formula to paint life with color.
You are the summer storm,
tangling everything in its path
You are the grey evening,
utterly, perfectly silent……..
You are a sliver of moon,
the patter of rain,
Words that cast a spell,
eyes that intoxicate!
You are a beloved moment,
a cherished memory of affection,
A dear guest, however brief,
along this journey called life…..
You are a mischievous text
that makes me smile—playful, tender,
For you alone
I keep ‘waiting’ like a sacred thing……….
You are the crossroads,
a hand held in a hand,
You are misunderstanding,
a lonely night of sorrow!
You are a deep sigh,
we will never become one—
this dusty life,
Leaving in wounded pride,
yet returning again and again,
this restless heart!
You are the face I search for
on the streets every day,
You are a dear person,
a lantern in my hands, your beloved name.
You are the sound of laughter
that trembles through my chest,
You are that melodious voice—
I am enchanted again and again!
Affection, the echo of love itself—that is what you are,
A deep forest,
in which I lose myself
with every moment!
Even so I tell you this: you’ll never know what you were to me……you don’t need to scroll Facebook this late at night, my dear!
You silly creature! Good morning, sparrow! Why won’t you come close? Why are you taking so long? Hurry, come quickly—won’t you get wet in the rain? If the rain arrives, what’s the harm in getting wet? “Some doubts, some fears, some hesitation………..you have to shake them off, the way you dust the pages of a book………before it’s too late!!!
One single ego can change the entire course of a life. It can stop and suppress everything—nothing else stands a chance. Do you understand, girl??” Yes, I understand! But do you truly? Or are you just being clever with your words?
I know I’m doing you wrong again—why should your words make my eyes flood like this? There’s so much behind it all……..so many rooms of pain, all locked shut. No, it’s not your fault. If there’s any fault at all, it’s mine—every bit of it. I know this too, maybe you’ll find it tiresome, but I say it anyway: I can hide myself from the whole world, everyone in it, but I cannot hide from you. You never asked for this, it’s true, yet I’m the one carrying this wretched habit around. While you’re out there weaving threads of new connections, where am I dragging myself to? Maybe I don’t even know. It’s just become this way. Perhaps I’ll never show my face before you again, and that’s why all of this. I don’t want to keep you tangled in riddles anymore. I’ve done so much just to know you. Maybe I shouldn’t have done it that way. Maybe what I’m writing makes no sense at all……it’s all scattered, and I don’t really know what any of it is. I’ll just say this: what I’m doing, what I’ve done—none of it is right, perhaps. But I’m a defeated man before myself, so from you I’ll only ask forgiveness, nothing more. I can’t even organize my words properly, can’t write them straight; because my eyes keep blurring over and over. It happens, it’s just that suddenly it becomes unbearable. Why, I don’t know.
How many days pass without anyone asking how I am. I know, I’m fine. But I wish someone would ask me—how am I? I know they won’t. Listen, if I died, would you ever know? No, you wouldn’t. Who would tell you? And if before I die I want to, could I see you one last time and go? Would you come if I called? I think about it often—why am I still alive? To love you? Why? Why? Why? Why do I keep you in every feeling I have? Do you know what impossible, terrible pain that is? I see only you. Believe me, I’m not lying one bit. I can still see you. Why aren’t you ever out of my sight? People say, out of sight, out of mind. I think people talk such nonsense! You’re out of my sight, yes—but how have you rooted yourself so deeply in my mind? With such intensity! No one knows. No one sees. You’ve dug in so thoroughly that I can’t pull you out no matter how hard I try. Please, give me some relief. Give me some peace. My breathing is so difficult. Is love just a habit? Then what am I nursing all day long? I can’t remove you from my heart even once. And all day I just drown myself in your profile, your pictures. Where is the end of this? Will it even end? Kill me, please! Nothing brings me joy anymore.
Sometimes I read, and I think: if I just keep reading, if I lose myself in books long enough, maybe you’ll stop haunting me. But what agony! I see you even there, between the lines. What is this? I stop reading, look at you for a moment—really look—then go back to the pages. God! And still I can’t breathe. My head grows heavy. You sleep so peacefully, your breathing steady as a child’s. And I—I burn in unbearable pain because of you. I don’t want to live. I can’t even die. I cannot forget you. What can I do then? I should never have loved you! And yet I cannot stop. Tell me a way out, I beg you. Please, don’t. Won’t you rest your hand on my head for a moment, my love? Won’t you place your hand against my chest? If you did, if you really touched where my heart breaks, your beautiful hand would burn. It truly would. The heat of my suffering—you could not bear it. I cannot tell anyone. No one knows. No one sees this pain of mine. And you—the very reason for it—I cannot even speak to you about it. To tell you anything feels harder than death itself. The pain of not being able to show my pain is infinitely, infinitely worse than the pain itself. Why don’t I die? Why do I love you? I have no answers to these questions. I don’t even know what words to write, what confession would release all this anguish onto this page. I only know: I am in tremendous pain. Only for you. For you, for you, for you. And from such pain, shouldn’t anger be born? And from anger, hatred? Hate you? The very thought would drive me mad! Better that something happen to me—something worse than death, that brings more suffering than death itself. Why is there so much love in this world for you? God has blessed you so completely that everyone goes mad for you. You’ll never know how many people love you impossibly, desperately. Do you sit there wondering how to increase their number? How to make more people love you?
But happiness has no connection to Facebook followers, Facebook friends, or the number of people who love you. No connection at all. You’ll grow more famous day by day, and grow only more miserable. Oh, you fool! Do you know what it is to not receive love from the one you love most? No, you don’t. You know nothing! Doesn’t shame touch you at all? All these people weeping for you, and you sleep on, reading your books! Do you understand? Do you have any idea what pain I’m in?
I can’t get you out of my head. Why? What do you call this thing? Love? I can’t forget you. You’re there all the time, constantly. Why do you have to be here? Don’t you belong anywhere else? Is this what they call love?
I think of you alone, in silence. Only you. I worry about you, think of nothing but you. I go to your profile, look at your pictures and save them. You’re my constant companion, my only one! I read our conversations every day. Every single day, the same routine, the same pattern—I’ve fallen into it completely. I don’t know what to call this. I don’t know how to explain it. If this is what love is, then yes, it is.
I love you. I’ll love you from the shadows, for all my life. It hurts, though it does. Because there’s no way out of this. No way at all. I ask God to let me slip away from the world like this. And there’s one thing I’m waiting for—waiting for your wedding.
But what if my wedding comes up first at home? What will I do then? Where will I run to? Since my sister doesn’t have a child, she doesn’t push me about marriage at all. But the moment she has a baby, they’ll rush to marry me off at home. Yet I genuinely want my sister to have a child. If she had a baby, I could run away from everyone. Listen, will you give me a baby? Your baby—he’ll be my baby, our baby, our little treasure. I’ll bring that child into the world, hand all the burden to my sister, and take him far away. So far away. I’ll carry all his weight, all his burden. I’ll bear all the shame. No one will ever know anything. If I have to die for this, I will.
I promise you, you won’t have any burden because of me. Let people think what they want. I don’t care. I’ll leave this world anyway. I’ll leave behind our child. He’ll grow up, and I’ll find peace watching from the other side. If my presence means our child has to live with disgrace, then I won’t be here.
Let our child be like you. Let him become a great man. Let him work for the good of people. I can die in peace knowing this much—that your child was in my body. That I had a piece of you, that I carried you inside me. I’ve thought about all this many times, and today it spilled out from my heart onto these pages of my diary.
What am I to do?
God, the pain is unbearable!
I can’t take this anymore! Why won’t death come for me? O God! Either grant me death, or take away my consciousness. Free me from these twisted, sickly thoughts. What can I do to find even a moment’s peace? Will you never come to me? Will you never be mine?
I know you won’t. And yet I don’t know why I keep writing these things. When you marry someone else, what will become of me? Can’t you hear these senseless, out-of-place words I’m speaking?
I’m calling to you,
from the depths of my being, with every
shred of consciousness I possess, wringing out
every last drop of feeling to reach for you alone. Listen! Listen! Listen! Can’t you hear even a whisper of it? Don’t kill me, please! If God were to grant me one wish,
I would ask Him this:
I want to die by your hand.
I would pray, “Lord, just tell him to strangle me, to murder me with those hands. Give him that power. You’ve given him so much already. What’s one more thing—a dark power—so that he can end this torment of his life by his own hand, keep it all within himself, and be done with it. Give him the chance to kill me with those hands, Lord. Just say the word! We can’t live together, I can never have him. Very well then, deny me that!
Just let me die by his hand. Give him the strength, command him, fill him with every reason and justification to end me.”
But alas! Sometimes God seems impossibly stingy, cruel, indifferent. And yet I am well. God has kept me well. My endless thanks to Him. He gave me the chance to love you. I learned from you. How incredibly, impossibly lucky I am! I’ve had you so close, so very close. Without you, I can’t bear to think of anything else. Perhaps I love you far, far too much. Loving you as I do, I’ll waste away to nothing someday. Forgive me. In this one small life, I’ve committed the terrible sin of loving you.