Don’t be afraid.
I’m angry with you. I want to hit you. I want to tear out all your hair. I want to punch you hard in the belly. That’s why sometimes, to express my rage, I address you as “you”—formal, distant. We don’t use formal speech with those close to us. But when I call someone by that formal “you,” I can tell myself a story: I’ve pushed them away. This story brings us joy. And when that person—the one I usually call by the intimate “you”—hears the formal “you” from my lips, they too feel the sting of it, and that brings us joy. How strange our hearts are. I’ve been calling you by the formal address all this while just to console myself. I’m hoping you’ve felt at least some disappointment. Perhaps you don’t love me at all, yet here I am, keeping you at a distance—this thought must surely have unsettled you. Am I not right?
The foolish boy still doesn’t understand how selflessly I love him. I may envy the heroines in your stories, but in reality I love them dearly. Do you know why? Because I love the thing you love.
Tell me, trickster,
have you ever seen a living corpse?
I have. That girl—light as a bird, fluttering, restless—who loved so completely that today, having lost all her dreams, she exists as nothing but a hollow, bloodied thing, a living corpse. I know you haven’t seen her; of course, you wouldn’t have. Her desires were simple, ordinary—the kind that doesn’t match up with the loves of this age. She only wanted to spend at least one morning of her life with the person she loved. She wanted her morning to begin when the sun, answered by the calls of birds, chases away all the darkness from the world—and at that very moment her beloved’s touch would brush her forehead. In the fierce heat of noon, when the sun rages and wants to devour the earth itself, she wanted love to fall upon her life like a sudden shower, cool and gentle. In the fading evening, by the edge of some pond, she wanted to stand with her beloved in the cool wind, hair loose and flying, watching a flock of white herons. At dusk, in that twilight of half-light and half-shadow, she wanted to be drenched by the soft, tender touch of her beloved’s fingers. She only asked to receive the care of pure, untainted love. And what did that girl get instead? Now she stays awake through the night, just as your kind prefers, searching for even a moment of peace—even if it’s a lie! Even now she dreams in her sleep, thinking: this time her beloved will come, will press kisses to her eyes and lull her to sleep with perfect peace. Just as the thirsty cup their hands with water to quench the fire in their chest, so too did she carry that thirst within her—a thirst she could never satisfy. Even now she writhes with that thirst, and sometimes, in confusion, she wonders: did she ever truly want to quench it? How can thirst be satisfied when doubt surrounds it? Even now she speaks with the night sky, weaves dreams in the moonlight, loses herself in resentment among the procession of stars. The silence of night itself grows intimate with her, and she keeps her ears open… thinking: this must be the sound of her beloved’s footsteps! Surely this time he’ll return, bringing the boundless peace of love, and when he comes, he’ll hold her in the sweet, deep embrace of happiness.
Look, I believe you’re a good person—truly, you’ve helped me find my way through so much of my personal life. But there’s one habit of yours that I can’t seem to like. You know what it is, I’m sure you do. And I’ll admit, it’s unfair to judge someone by a single flaw. Your coldness used to wound me terribly; now, I suppose, I’ve grown used to it. I used to cry like a fool after we talked, but I don’t anymore. I’m a little more grown up now than I was then. People suffer most from what they don’t see coming. Now I understand you better than before, so your coldness doesn’t cut the way it once did. Now I can almost predict what you’ll say, so perhaps it doesn’t even hurt anymore. These days I’m slowly, carefully pulling myself away from you—piece by piece. There was a time when I dreamed of being your wife, wearing that vermillion mark with pride. Now the thought just makes me laugh. I was such a fool, wasn’t I? Tell me I was. When you come to my city, something in me always feels as if you must be living in the house next door. That’s why I can’t help but reach out. I knew what would happen—two possibilities, nothing more. Either you wouldn’t answer, or you would, but only to return to that same subject. I don’t want to talk about it, yet I found myself picking up the phone anyway. I’d deleted your number from my contacts after so much inner struggle. I thought I’d forgotten it entirely, but somehow my fingers found the digits and dialed them perfectly. I tried, and you picked up. And just as I knew you would, you wanted to steer the conversation right back to the same place. It hurts so much, you know? How can it hurt this way for someone who doesn’t even recognize the color of my pain?
I’m actually doing just fine on my own.
I listen to music, I cook,
I go to dance class,
I study, and I write in my diary. I’m doing well, aren’t I? You talk to everyone, you talk so beautifully to everyone,
only with me—only me—you’re stiff, unnatural. With everyone else you’re lovely, at ease. I’ve accepted it. Perhaps I don’t deserve beautiful words from you, which is why you don’t give them. There’s something I want to ask. Please don’t read hidden meanings into anything I say. I’m a simple girl; I say whatever comes to mind. My thoughts are one thing, what I write is another—I’m not clever enough to make them match. You’re so good, your heart is so large. Let me tell you something. Anyone who doesn’t love you simply doesn’t know how to love. Love has always been selfless, and when I called you yesterday, there was nothing in it for me—I called only because I needed peace of mind.
Think of me however you will.
I don’t care.
I’m only happy knowing that you came to my city and I got to talk to you, to ask how you were. Nothing more than that, trust me! You’ve instilled one bad habit in me, and that’s staying awake until midnight. But I mean, if it were just midnight, that would be manageable, but now I stay awake until the entire morning arrives! I used to stay up for you, but now I don’t even know why I stay awake. Look—writing all this and the morning’s already here. I couldn’t stay awake before; you kept me awake. Now I can’t fall asleep; you’re asleep—at least in my mind. Anyway, there’s no anger, no grievance in me. The way I’ve treated you is how you’ve treated me in return. What you’ve given me is what I deserve. It’s not your fault. I simply couldn’t present myself properly to you. So there’s nothing more to say about it.
You know, sometimes I wonder—what makes you do this to me? Your words, they hit right at the heart. I’ve given you so much space in my life. No matter how much you dislike me, no matter what you do, I can’t bring myself to say anything to you. I just sit there in silence, swallowing every cutting remark, every jab, saying nothing. The other day, I knew beforehand that you’d say those things to me, and still—I walked right into it. I’m a fool, maybe a somewhat clever fool, but around you that cleverness abandons me entirely. And there’s only one reason why—because you’re you. The truth is, when I found out you were coming to the city, the anxiety just spiraled. What are you eating? Where are you staying? Are you okay? Do you need anything? My head wouldn’t stop. It kept circling back to you. So now, when you finally come here, I’ll probably be gone. I’ll leave the city before you arrive, so I don’t have to burden you with my presence anymore. I know I’m capable of killing your mood sometimes. You want to know what’s funny? In all my life, no one has ever treated me the way you do. You know perfectly well that whatever you say, I’ll stay silent. I won’t object. I won’t fight back. So why do you speak to me like that? Why do you hurt me so much? There was a time I used to chase after you, cry for you. I don’t do that anymore. I don’t weep so easily now at every word. I’ve learned to hold myself together better than before. I don’t spend my days wondering anymore—why did you do this to me, when I never did anything to deserve it? Why? Why? All those endless whys.
I just keep thinking,
you’ve helped me so much in my personal life. Whatever I’ve had of you has been more than enough. You treated me the way you would treat your own daughter, and I felt it. I swallowed my pride for the sake of my own peace of mind, knowing full well what I was doing. That’s just how things are.
My blood type is A positive. I know you’ll probably never need me. Still, I’m telling you anyway—if you ever do need something, please just call. Again and again I tell myself I won’t contact you anymore, yet I can’t seem to stay away. You know, I’m so happy today! I can’t remember the last time I felt this kind of joy. And it’s only because of you. You’ve made me this happy without even being in my life! So if I didn’t thank you, it would be a terrible wrong. I like to be clear with myself about things. I thanked you because you helped me see myself clearly. I know you’re doing well, because you know how to be well. Whatever you are, however you are, you’ll be the hero of my life forever. What you are! Every time I think of it, I fall for you all over again. Anyway, my chest is bursting with such joy that I don’t even know what I’m writing anymore, what’s spilling out.
I never know if these words of mine will even reach you, if you’ll even read what I’ve written. But I write anyway, because you’re like a notebook where I can write whatever poems I want. I’m happy because I get to thank you, because I can tell you how much joy you’ve brought into my life. You know, when people saw me, they used to call me small, and ask when I’d grow up. But now I’m slowly growing. I think there are many advantages to staying small. The biggest advantage? The small don’t know what real life is. There’s a strange pleasure in living in real life without actually knowing what real life is. But life can’t go on that way—I wouldn’t have understood that if I hadn’t gotten caught up in this one-sided relationship with you. When I see all those loving comments from your fans on your wall, I can’t even tell you how much it makes my heart sing.
Look at me go! There I am, rattling on again! I’m just so damn happy I can’t keep a lid on it. Sorry about that, really. How are you, anyway? You’ll be fine whether I ask or not, but I’m asking anyway, see? I hope you stay happy like this forever. God, it does something to me when I see you smiling. And if I start talking about your eyes, we’ll be here all night—I could go on till dawn. But when you see my messages, you don’t just say goodbye. You make me feel like a dog. It hurts, you know? You won’t understand that hurt. I’m the one who came running after you, so I’m the one paying the price now. That’s not your fault. It’s fine, really. I can handle it. You’ll see—I’ll be happy. Just fine. But now let me say something harder, alright? I’ve lied to you, yes; but haven’t you lied too? From the moment I started showing too much interest in you, you’ve been quietly indulging me, haven’t you? What does that mean? It means you’re letting me into your life, right? But you don’t want to let me go, and you don’t want to claim me either. You know what that does to a woman? It’s humiliating. I love you, so I never make excuses to you. I have my own problems, plenty of them, but I manage everything and keep this going day after day however it suits you. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? I have thousands of your photographs, endless videos made from your pictures. I’m always looking at them, and it’s destroying my mind. You never once tried to understand how I feel. You never wanted me for who I am—I’m the one who’s wanted you as you are. I mean, I’ve remade myself and shaped myself to fit your heart. I don’t have an identity anymore. You won’t understand that pain. The pain of losing yourself—it’s immense. I’ve lost who I was before. I know that in this life, I can never think of another man the way I think of you. So I’ve always presented myself the way you wanted, even if it meant betting my whole life on it. I’ve heard terrible things said about this at home, but I never let you know any of it. And still you’ll call me a liar, selfish, shameless?
I asked for a scolding,
and you gave me love instead—what kind of thing is that? Why won’t you tell me: look, if you don’t study, you won’t even get the chance to hold my hand in reality, I won’t give you a single thing, I’ve made that clear, girl! So you have to study, you have to gain so much more knowledge. When you said things like that, I’d sit down and study with my cheeks all puffed out! There’s something about it, no? Why don’t you understand? Back then everything tasted wonderful, but you didn’t do that, you’ve ruined it all! Poof! I’m different, I need different discipline. Movies or book therapy—they don’t work on me! Think of it this way: I’m an invisible woman to you, someone you can discipline, someone you can think of a little, and besides, it’s your gain—when you grow old, even if everyone abandons you, I’ll linger in your imagination. That’s the most fun mind game of all! You spend all day dispensing knowledge to people, so couldn’t you write me a little lecture? I’d be forever grateful! Call me crazy if you like, I don’t mind. When someone you love calls you crazy, it apparently lifts the depression. I know how hard everything is, yet even so—studies, family, reality—I want to live on with brand new dreams, false ones if need be! Just teach me the secret of living like this and show me how to dream a few dreams from your basket of dreams! More than anyone else, you can take better care of me—maybe through discipline! Why don’t you say anything? It’s strange, really! If I could get my energy back through your scolding, that alone would be such a victory! “Sometimes I find you in my sight……” Eeeee…… Wow! That even someone like me, so temperamental, is remembered by someone in this world—thinking about it feels so very strange! Thank you for all of it! Lately I don’t even feel like studying, I feel like I’ve lost myself, so I don’t bother you either. Lately I can’t find my own self anymore. You know everything—tell me, why is this happening?
Give me a scolding, won’t you! You scold so sweetly………Your scolding might actually work on me! Are you doing well? Hmm! If you are, why haven’t you posted anything? You don’t know how desperately I crave your posts. Those things are sometimes like medicine to me, sweet, sweet medicine! Ha, ha, and ha! Listen, you must never scold me. I can’t bear the scolding of people I love. Your body seems to be fine, but my texts are making you very angry! Isn’t that right? So, are you truly happy? I told you beforehand anyway, I’d mix up calling you “you” formal and “you” informal. I’ve kept my word!
So how do you do it—just tuck your pain away like that, without a trace? Will you teach me? You know, it’s been ages since I’ve felt this small spark of joy talking to you. When I chatter away with you, I feel so incredibly alive. I’m terribly selfish, aren’t I? The way I keep shutting you up all the time—you see it, don’t you? Hehehehe… There’s a peculiar pleasure in savoring someone you love from a distance! Are you well? You must be so angry with me, mustn’t you? Tell me—have you forgotten me? If you have, I’ll bite your hand, I’m mad after all, that’s just how I am. You’re my box of secrets, my hiding place—promise you won’t ever leave me, please! And you never even asked why I torment you when there are so many others around. You know, I’m terribly, terribly fond of you! No reason needed, no hope required—I just am. No one else delights me anymore; everyone else just irritates me the moment I see them. Am I truly going mad? Maybe! Don’t become like everyone else, or I’ll suffer unbearably. I love you… this much and this much!
A memory just surfaced. Once I went riding on a friend’s motorcycle. Just the two of us. A long way out. By a river. Evening fell. He wanted to kiss me. I wouldn’t let him. Why should I? Is he my boyfriend? Strange! Later he got angry and just left me there. I’d never been alone in such a desolate place before. He was a close friend, said let’s go for a ride, and I went along. That’s the reward trust got me from him. Why are boys like that? Can’t a boy have even that much self-respect? Someone doesn’t want to kiss you, and you have to be so thoughtless about it? Even so, I could never bring myself to resent him. Maybe that’s why he’d suggested the ride in the first place. Why did I agree? Why couldn’t I read his mind? That day, I made it home with great difficulty and cried all night thinking about it. I found no answers, and I felt terribly foolish.
So you’re supposed to be in Chattogram, but you’re saying you’re in Pabna? How clever you are—making sure I don’t bother you! I used to peek at your old profile, wondering what that person thought, what he said. I know perfectly well I’m mad, but I’m not stupid. If I’m too much trouble, just tell me and I’ll stop talking altogether—though I can’t bear lies, even with that. It’s not like I’m going to show up at your door and need to lie to you, is it? Our words carry our souls; if you look closely enough, you can find truth even in lies. So is it true that winter mornings there feel even colder than ice cream? Ice-cream mornings! Yummy, yummy!
Still I love you!
Do you know how much I love you? Even today I picked a fight about you at the journalists’ club. Please, show them all again that you’re the best! I didn’t love the wrong person. Not every relationship has a name, maybe ours doesn’t either, but that doesn’t mean you’re the wrong person in my life! Now listen here, when I grow up—I mean, when I’m older, the whole family will sit me down and marry me off whether I like it or not. By then, someone’s got to find me a prince! I don’t believe in all this romance and dating nonsense, it feels pointless. I would’ve married you and brought you home, but you’re not mine to take.
Anyway, that’s not my fault, what else can I do! You don’t have to be as romantic as you are, but I need someone who won’t trash-talk you. Someone who can tolerate my first love—you—that’s who I want. Ha ha ha! When I grow up I’m going to take you to see the mountains. If you won’t come, I’ll drag you there by force. I didn’t skip classes two and four just because I was angry. Don’t believe me? Fine, you don’t have to. When I grow up I’m going to have so much fun, just pray for me, sir. I love you. Everything will be all right, you’ll see! Whether anyone else stands by your side or not, know this: this crazy girl loves you so much, maybe even God doesn’t love you this much!
Hey, what’s your problem? Why are you wishing me well all the time? Is my wedding happening or something, like yours, that I need your constant blessings? You keep your blessings to yourself! Just post pretty pictures, that’ll do. Meow, meow! It’ll be much better, understand? If you don’t, go soak some puffed rice in Sprite and eat it. Ha ha ha ha he he ho ho. So, are you angry with me?
Be angry then! When I think about you getting married, the amount of rage I feel makes your anger look like nothing. If you get married before the book fair and bring your wife along and walk the entire fair holding her hand, I’ll tie you to a bamboo pole so I can get a good look at you. Don’t suddenly show up like a genie the way you did last time—next time, give me a moment to put on some powder. I like to look pretty too, you know! He he he!
Why don’t you understand my heart? You don’t understand, you just don’t!
Hey Ailsa! Your health—is it not well? It’s been ages since you posted something, and now there’s nothing at all. So just a job and managing your own life—that’s enough? I’m here, you’ve forgotten about me! Maybe you’ll ask, who even are you? Listen… I’m your follower! Can’t you write something once in a while for this madwoman? I love you for no reason at all! You’re useless, you know that! You can’t even take proper care of yourself, can you! When your health fails, can’t you at least take your medicine? You’re such a miser! But I’m missing you so much, honestly. Just finished my exams, and now if you don’t put up something inspiring, my studies feel hollow somehow. Who else is there who wastes their beautiful time thinking of us? Love you. Even though I know you think of me as a donkey deep down, when I read your words, something in me wants to study too. You’re the first person I’ve ever looked at and thought, why, why, why can’t I do half the things you do? And let me tell you now—when I grow up and get a good job, I’m not giving you a share of my salary, absolutely not! Here you are, writing out all the wisdom for landing a job with such effort, and if I give you a cut of what I earn, what will I buy my powder with, my lipstick, my mascara, my jewelry? Truth is, I’m not really beautiful—just fair-skinned. But yes, sir, I’ll send you a bright red rose as a bribe every month, and throw in a letter as tax! Think I’ll forget? Never! Whoever comes into my life after you, I’ll tell them straight—you’re first, he’s second. I know you don’t take bribes from anyone, but I want to make you a corrupt one! I wish I could force you to stay with me forever, but I’m such a donkey, so what good am I?
Hey! What’s wrong with you? Are you unwell? I MISS YOU, I MISS YOU, I MISS YOU! So, are you punishing me by not posting? I can live without you, but I absolutely cannot live without your posts, I’m telling you! Don’t send me messages. What am I supposed to do with messages? Post something—your posts are medicine for my aching heart. They’ve become my cure! These days psychiatrists aren’t worth much either; you go to their chamber and they say things that ruin your mood. You’re far better than them. Don’t think I’ve gone mad and ended up in an asylum! As long as you stay out of the asylum, I won’t go in. Hee hee hee. Hey! Is there Cinderella-tale magic baked into your keyboard? Whether my sorrows ease or not, your posts—they’re pure medicine! Do you know the Cinderella story? It’s all magic there, but the problem is the magic only lasts a short while! Isn’t our life a bit like that too? So when will my dark-horse prince come? You can explain anything with your magic—just tell me, go on! Have you watched that Frozen cartoon? Everyone who comes for me wears a mask, so I can’t find my prince. You tell me—there’s only one prince, right! It’s like this: you’re a prince, but unattainable, and on top of that you’re going to marry someone else! Where’s my prince gone, where he’s died—God only knows! I could never find him, not once! All I do is cry! These days I think of each of your posts as a fairy tale with wings, and I’m happy for a while. A little happiness for a bit of time—that’s still fun! Hee hee hee. And you? You’re such a miser, you don’t want to give anything! Hmph!
So why is everyone such a mess except you? You know, you’re so damn good at all this! Sometimes I just want to grab you and shake you till your teeth rattle. Why, why, why didn’t you end up being mine? And who told you to be so romantic anyway? You know I’ve liked you for three years? You don’t know anything about it, which is why I almost told you the other day—I’d turn into Ravana and abduct your wife just like Sita! Listen, listen here, there’s no one like you in the world. Go on, take yourself down to the photocopier and make a copy!
Hehehehe! Listen, my heart’s in such a bad place today. Why does it happen like this? Whoever I love just drifts away from me. Why am I so poor? I can’t hold on to anyone! Why is it a sin to be a woman? Relationships are like houses of cards! Didn’t I tell you about my friend? Her grandmother calls her Tuk-tuki, so affectionately. But her new stepmother treats the old woman terribly. Today she just shoved her grandmother, knocked her down. The old woman’s so helpless, couldn’t do anything back. It’s hard enough for a girl to protect herself, so how can she save her grandmother?
And her father—he’s become something else entirely! Look, how can a man hurt his own mother so much just to satisfy his biological needs and keep his new wife happy? Nothing in life ever really works out right—we just learn to adjust. You know why I tell you everything? Because I have no one else to tell! The people who come close to me, they only want me—they don’t want my pain! And I’m incomplete without my pain! So what good will it do anyone to accept someone so broken?
Tell me, after I marry, will I also hurt someone else’s mother like that?
When people grow old, they become so helpless. I don’t know where her grandmother is now. I’m hurting so much. Can you imagine what she must be feeling?
You’re right. Boys are just like that! You know what the fundamental difference is between men and women? Boys think of love as economics and affection as literature. Girls, on the other hand, think of love as literature and affection as economics. Boys pass in economics, so the poor girls go and fail in literature! That’s where all the mess comes from! I want to die soon. I can’t carry my own pain or anyone else’s anymore in this life.
You rascal chimpanzee! Listen, I love you so much, you know! Plain chimpanzees can be really cute. You can’t even love that little meow-meow of yours properly, because you don’t know what I know—angry cats can cause a real disaster when they’re riled up! Look, I could address you formally with all that “you” business, but I’m telling you straight—no way! And I could call you all sorts of loving names, couldn’t I? You’re such an important person, so I can’t tease you a bit—is that it? That doesn’t make sense!
And anyway, I’ve got something important to discuss with you. Come on, you’re only about thirteen or fourteen years older than me—what’s the problem with saying “you” instead of “you”? You don’t even have to reply to me, so why make such a fuss? The important thing is this—beautiful women don’t know how beautiful they are, right? Well, you don’t know how good your writing is. But that’s not the important thing. The important thing is………
Tell me, I’m nothing but a minor servant of the state—what can I possibly do? But think about it for a moment: Tagore and Nazrul wrote such magnificent books without much formal education, and look at you, studying all these years. I’m telling you straight—you could write something better than them. I guarantee it! Not a business proposition, mind you, but a guarantee nonetheless—pure, selfless, disinterested. Last year I watched some uneducated writer at work, and I saw how they were cruelly making literature itself weep! I believe in you. I truly do. You could write a book such that whether it’s read by a mason or a scholar, everyone would learn how to live well from it. Just give yourself a chance! When your book comes out, it won’t be merely a book—it’ll be a treasury of dreams. I’ll make sure of that. What do I mean? Simple. I’ll publish it myself! If the book isn’t good, just say so, and I’ll take my losses, pull every copy from the market. Perhaps you’ll think, how can a small fellow like me find the money to publish? Don’t worry about that—it’ll be arranged. I trust in the power of my love. I’m not asking for much. Just one book, in the name of the person I love, where I can see your name in big, bold letters. Can you imagine how happy that would make me? It would be a witness to my love. Please, just think about my request for a moment. God rewards those who make fools happy. Whether you see it as a demand or a plea, whatever you call it—just keep it close. If needed, I’ll help you select which pieces to include, I’ll proofread everything. I’m not entirely uneducated, you know!
You know, Blue Crook, you teach me how to live, and yet why did I name you ‘Blue’? Blue is the colour of sorrow! Without you, I would have died long ago! You teach me that even after such suffering, one should speak well of one’s own family. Even though you won’t want to understand that I’ve finished witnessing the harsh faces of this world, still I’ve told you. But it’s true that if you weren’t committed to someone about marriage, I would have pestered you relentlessly into marrying me! Ha ha ha! I know what you’ll say in reply. You’ll say, I would never have married a phantom like you! But you don’t know how much of a mischievous girl I am—I would have proposed to you with flowers of twenty-three hues! Now you’ll surely say, I wouldn’t have agreed even then! So what then? I would have cast spells in the cremation ground and made you agree! I am dead, you are dead. How could you refuse me! Hee hee hee—there, in that place, fate holds sway, so love alone will have to do the work! Hmm! Now? What will you say now? That tolerating me is difficult? Listen, people don’t tolerate because tolerance is possible—they tolerate because they’ve fallen in love. Since I love you, I would have borne it all just fine! You’ve escaped from my hands! Otherwise, every morning when you woke, you’d have to recite a poem for me! Those who love you can wait. And if you don’t get likes, you lose the fun? Fine, I have a solution for that too! Just write that you’re publishing a book, see what happens! Hey, if you simply write even just this—how is everyone?—there won’t be any lack of likes, and that’s good news! Believe me, everyone loves you so much—you’ll gain nothing but! Trust me, you’ll see!
‘When a small man grows tall,
he makes his friends weep.’ That saying of yours—it tells such a quiet story! Let me give you something amusing to think about. You don’t even know how rich you are. Otherwise, people wouldn’t read such lengthy notes for their exams with the effort they pour into reading your work. Know what’s funny? So many people envy you that they learn from YouTube how to get auto-likes, and then they flood their walls with all sorts of drivel, making it look like everyone loves it. But every single like you get—you’ve earned it honestly! And you know how it is: people prefer nasty posts, and since you write so little that’s ugly, they can’t quite love you the way they might. There’s another reason your posts get fewer likes—Bangladeshis are obsessed with judgmental posts, and you never judge anyone or write with malice toward them. A Bengali can’t find meaning in his own life unless he’s judging someone else. Auto-likes, auto-followers—these are cheap tricks these days. Why did I even say all this? Let me not, actually. You know everything already! But tell me, why do I like you so much? Honestly, I’m not entirely sure myself, but I know for certain that I like you tremendously. It’s absurd, isn’t it? Keep writing in good health, because this country needs people like you far more than it knows. What you’re doing—it’s greater than intoxicating us through your words. You’re teaching our depressed generation to think about the songs from films starring Uttam and Suchitraa—to find beauty in them.
So you called me ‘thick-headed’ in your post, didn’t you? Hmm! Even if I am thick-headed, I understood the whole thing just fine, let me tell you. Listen here, sir! You’ve drawn up such a massive list of qualities your girlfriend needs to have—by the time she spends all her energy fulfilling those, where’s the time for love? For actually being together? Look, you’re quite the demanding one, aren’t you? You should have been born a woman! Women don’t even ask for that many conditions! Oh my God! Do I always have to send you necessary texts? Why? Can’t I just call or text you because I feel like loving you, because I want to say “I love you”—without needing a reason? If I feel like telling you ‘I love you,’ that’s hardly my fault, is it? There’s no one else I prefer but you. And on top of that, you’re such a cheapskate—you won’t even return discounted love, even by mistake! You’ll never be my boyfriend, so how am I supposed to fall in love with you, tell me that! If you ever became my boyfriend—even in a dream—I’d just blurt it out: I love you! You know, that boy texted a friend request today, the same one who said he’d let me know when you came to our college. There’s no reason to tell you this. But what can I do? I want to tell you everything! The ones who talk big don’t actually do anything—you’re right about that. That’s why that girl everyone gang-attacked in Facebook comments two years ago, two years later those same people send her friend requests from new accounts! The world is so strange, isn’t it? You know, just like your account, someone deleted mine too! One thing—even if you love me, don’t ever block me. A crazy girl like me would lose the chance to see you. It’s hard for me to open fake accounts. Learn to bear a little heat in exchange for love, won’t you? And it’s only sometimes anyway! If you knew how much you mean to me, you’d end up falling in love with yourself.
So listen, I need an answer to something. Tell me, O genie of Aladdin, sir! Say you’re floating alone in a little boat on the blue Atlantic, drifting along. There’s nothing around, and your destination is far, far away. You have nothing but the boat itself. The mermaids are tormenting you unbearably with their enchanting voices and their seductive, anguished cries, inviting you to dinner. You can’t even cover your ears, because there’s a hole in the boat—and you’ve got your finger plugging it. If you take both hands off, you’ll sink. And you can’t move forward either. Now please, tell me—how will you reach that destination? It’s a bit of a mad question, I know, but I need the answer. Please!
Ha ha ha!
You’re scared now! You can’t answer it, neither can I, meaning your success is fifty-fifty! Never mind, the other fifty for another day! Listen, you don’t think I’m rotten, do you? Don’t think anything like that at all, okay? In real life I’m quite a scamp, but a good scamp, not a bad one. Look, what if someone came to you every single day saying only “I love you”—would you get very angry? Love with no romance in it, just affection, just love—do you like that kind of love? You know, I don’t enjoy talking to anyone but you. Brother, are you listening? Why are you so cute? Even though you’re a grown man, I still want to grab your cheeks and go “googlimuggli mush” with you! I lied the other day when I said you were a naughty chimpanzee—you’re actually a cute teddy bear, the kind that makes your heart feel better just to play with.
I had an exam today, and it went badly, and now I’m convinced I’ll never pass an exam again in this life. You tell so many lies, sir. As a child I was the thieving sort of student, and I still am. Life doesn’t change—we do. Since I haven’t changed, my life has stayed exactly as it was. Now look, someone with a heart that thinks such beautiful thoughts surely hasn’t gone without flower proposals—that’s absolute nonsense! Maybe plenty of flowers have come and gone, but I didn’t feel like taking them! Am I right or not? Why did you write that silly story on Facebook? Fishing for attention from pretty girls? Huh! Listen, I’m the only person in the world who doesn’t like flowers. Hey, you imaginary man! Take flowers, will you? Blue, purple, yellow, green flowers—if you want them, I’ll bring them all! Whether it’s a flame of the forest or a moody bakul, or even paper flowers! Anything! Just for you! Isn’t that something? When you just sit there silent, doesn’t it feel good? When you don’t talk to me at all, doesn’t it hurt? When you’re silent, I love talking. It feels like I can enjoy you with some sixth sense, on my own terms.
You know what one of my college teachers says? That I’m mad, that’s why the other girls can’t stand me, because nobody can stand mad girls. Why does sir say such things, you tell me! I get along with everyone just fine, and yet they dislike me so much. They like my pictures, they even like copying my style. Whether I’m getting praised or slandered, I can’t even tell, but what’s there to dislike so much about me! In this great big world I feel so alone, I can’t even ask anyone to be my friend on my own, listen, won’t you be my friend? My phone’s out of battery, so you’ve had a lucky escape today! Hoo hoo hoo! You’re happy, I’m not! You know what, when you smile you look so silly… and I absolutely love it! Won’t you smile a little bit more… hee… hee
Listen, here’s the thing—
you once said that even knowing you’ll never have them, there’s a kind of peace in writing a love letter to someone you want. That’s actually a useful thought, but without you? I can’t even bring myself to write a hate letter to anyone else. Well, look, couldn’t you just change that word in your post? Make it a letter of affection instead? I really don’t like the word “love”—not one bit. Affection is a beautiful word, but “love” has this… this clingy, grasping thing about it! Can I ask you something without you getting upset? Everyone’s always pestering you—do this, say that. I’m not doing well, what should I do? Give me a plan, give me advice! Suggest songs, suggest books! But we’re so selfish, aren’t we? No one ever asks you—is your heart okay? Are things going smoothly at the office? I mean, is someone hurting you without saying it out loud? I’m sorry on behalf of everyone, all right? And listen, not everyone can be like you. Sure, some might have money, but that’s not everything. Not everyone can be a peddler of laughter like you, making everyone smile. So take care of yourself. You’re public property, you know—keep trying to stay well for all of us.
You really do need someone to hit you! Is your body not doing well? Why are you still writing all this? Why are you even online? I don’t expect replies from you—I know you have ten other things on your plate. But here’s the thing, you see, I know a bit of magic, and I just have this feeling your health isn’t good, so I’m telling you: get off Facebook and rest, please. You might ask—what am I doing on Facebook at this hour then? Well, if I don’t bother you, my food won’t digest, so why should I sleep with indigestion, tell me! Don’t worry, I’m not marrying you. My theory is: no love, no marriage; yes love, yes marriage. Got it? Meaning, I won’t marry without love. I can’t love you, so I can’t marry you either. I have so many dreams about my own marriage—I won’t ruin that for anyone. And I can’t keep calling you “brother” all the time, not unless I’ve really burnt my bridges—would anyone call their crush “brother”? My bridges haven’t burned yet, have they? Don’t you think “Blue Tether” is a beautiful name? Even if you don’t like it, that’s what I’ll call you. I’ve been stubborn since childhood and I still am. What can I do about it, really! Sometimes I’ll overstep, but always with respect!
All right, I read something of yours once and it frightened me, I told you. It happened again today. I hadn’t read your work like this before. The kind where it’s one person’s story, you know? I used to read the universal ones, the social ones—stories about one that speak for many. I read one today. After reading it, I was in two minds about whether to write to you or not, and that uncertainty made me hesitant. And something else occurred to me after reading it—you know what? Your words seemed to align with so many of mine. While reading, it felt as though the very things you’d written, the thoughts you know and have shaped into words, or your way of expressing them—I’d said those same things to you before, or I’m saying them in that very moment! I was astonished, truly! Then it struck me: whatever I say will be something you already knew or had already heard. So why would you want to hear the same things again? I’m no craftsman of words like you, after all—I can’t string together new garlands of thoughts. I can’t even grasp the full meaning of what you write. And yet here I am, daring to speak to you! You can imagine how I feel! I love reading what you say. But as a thoroughly ordinary person, speaking to someone as gifted and brilliant as you naturally stirs up fear in the corners of an ordinary mind. It happens without my knowing. Let me hold onto your words.
Which piece frightened me? I’ll tell you. But let me say one more thing first, if you don’t mind.
Another thing, I mean—another particular fear. Shall I speak of it?
I’m saying it. There’s another fear too—that whatever I write to you in this open space of yours (your inbox), if sometime those words take the form of a story and find their way to that special place again! If something like that happens, then I won’t be able to write to you ever again. I’ve said this before, but I have to say it again: when I first wrote to you, it occurred to me that even though I was sending you something knowing your name and address, it wouldn’t actually reach you. You wouldn’t even see it, because so many people write! It would become a stray letter, drifting about in the air, and no reply would come—that’s what I thought then.
But it did come, which is why I’m afraid. Because what if these words turn into one of your stories and I don’t know what becomes of them! I hope that doesn’t happen, don’t you think? Of course, I myself have borrowed lines from your writing in some of my posts. If something of yours appears in my work, please take it in a positive light—it comes from admiration and respect. I’ve seen how you get upset when someone copies your writing. If I were in your place, I’d dance with joy! Many of my early poems are attributed to a famous Bengali poet from Bangladesh as if they were his own. I’ve never minded it. Rather, I’ve felt grateful to him. I read that piece you wrote the other day—you’re a wordsmith, and after words like those, finding what to say next is difficult for me. Yet I’ll say what I feel. I have at least fifty pieces in some English blogs. I used to write in English once. Those writings bear the names of many famous people. I don’t mind at all. It makes me happy that so many people are reading my work. I was thinking of sending you those pieces of mine that you haven’t received or that I haven’t sent you. I would feel grateful, honored, and happy if you read my letters.
Perhaps you’re thinking to yourself right now: Oh! But how can that be? Someone else uses your writing under their own name and you just let it happen in silence! Even if you’re that generous and that good, surely that can’t be right! There’s something amusing about this whole thing. If I were to explain it fully, I’d have to say much more. Many world-renowned creative people are plagiarists. It would take many words to write about all of that. I’ll tell you sometime later. Let me give you a small fact. Almost all the poems in an entire book by Shakti Chattopadhyay were actually written by his friend Tanmay Datta. Many of Premendra Mitra’s poems were written by someone named Nishikant Roychoudhury—an extraordinarily gifted but utterly indifferent poet. Tanmay Datta later went on to take a high position in a multinational company. About him, his friend Sunil Gangopadhyay once said that if Tanmay had continued writing poetry, none of us would have had readers. Nishikant lived in the Pondicherry ashram of Sri Aurobindo. He was a disciple of Sri Aurobindo. This poet of remarkable talent could write endlessly once he put pen to paper. But after writing a poem, he wouldn’t care about it in the slightest. In this way, many of his manuscript fragments were lost through sheer indifference. You can imagine the rest. Of course, these literary debates still haven’t ended—they continue, and will probably remain unresolved forever. Perhaps you’re thinking: Really! Can people actually do such things! What an odd world! What’s the gain? I tell you, there is a gain! So many people read it! That’s the gain. The reading itself is the gain. People steal the writings of a small person like me as if they were stealing puffed rice. I used to get angry about it before. As I’ve grown older, I don’t get angry anymore—I feel joy.
You may not call this a gain, perhaps,
but I do think of it this way:
let people find joy in reading,
however they can!
Never mind. But I’m angry. At you too. So be it. Anger is good. You know what they call people who do wrong and people who endure it! And you write so much against injustice, against wrongdoing, yet you’re indifferent when it comes to your own dealings. Why did they come to your wall and say whatever came to their mouths? I do wrong too. If you start keeping accounts of sin and virtue, it takes forever, and nothing real gets done. Just writing a single piece takes so much time, reading books is even harder, and then there’s your job on top of it all! And after that, keeping track of who did what to whom! Oh, for heaven’s sake!
I understand everything, but as I said—it makes me angry! Whatever it is, you sin too, I accept that. I’m no spotless holy leaf either. Everyone does something wrong. But there’s a difference between wrongs. Fine, no need for accounting. Go ahead, no need to protest either, no need for action. No need for fights, marches, quarrels, or chaos. Do something preventive, so it doesn’t happen again. Keep some antivirus protection. Hahahaha! I’ll steal more of your writing. Let everyone see! How beautifully you write! Let them read and find joy in it. And on this matter—should I speak or not? Say someone copied my writing. I’d dance with more joy than you, if I knew how to dance. (You know how to dance—I’ve seen it with my own eyes.)
But these texts of mine—I haven’t written them for everyone, only for you. I’m certainly not for everyone. So please, don’t do that. If your inbox feels heavy, delete all my letters. That’s fine too. You have more than enough talent to write beautiful things that bring joy to all. And if you feel your inbox is getting unnecessarily cluttered, you can tell me without hesitation. I’m being serious—I won’t mind one bit. I won’t burden your inbox anymore. You can send me whatever you want to write. That won’t make my inbox heavy; it’ll enrich it. My point is this: let the total amount of writing in this world increase. Let everyone read according to their taste. You think, “I labored so hard to write this, and now someone else will steal it!” I used to think like that too. Not anymore.
All these Upanishads—do you know who wrote them? Do you know why we don’t? The sages who composed these repositories of wisdom, these Upanishads, they felt no hesitation in refusing credit for their priceless creations. They had strict orders for their disciples: never tell anyone who wrote which hymn! Knowledge is created for the welfare of mankind, not to inflate one’s own accomplishment. But please, don’t let anyone know about my writing! You’re a terribly dangerous person! That’s why I’m trembling with fear—what if you decide to publish my work to punish me? Oh my God! Your writing is more than enough for everyone to read and enjoy. Are you and I the same? You’re extraordinary; I’m ordinary. That’s why it’s so hard for me to digest extraordinary things! You won’t, will you? I was afraid before, but then—from nowhere—came this infinite courage! I don’t want courage to grow any further. The courage I have for living an ordinary life will do. Please, please, please. I don’t know enough language to make you understand. If you would kindly try to understand my situation on your own, it would mean a lot to me. When I talk to you—I mean, when I write to you—my heart races. When I get tense, or excited in anger, my Sylheti dialect comes pouring out. Even normally, I can’t speak proper standard Bengali very well. Add fear, anger, tension to the mix, and I can’t manage it at all. That’s why speaking becomes so difficult then.
In your writing, I found that you’ve said Sylheti is a very cute and sexy language. I absolutely love it. Sylhet. Sylheti people. The Sylheti language. Sylhet means love itself! After Chattogram, there’s no place more beautiful than Sylhet. How much I love Sylhet—no one could even imagine! I love it so much! A Sylheti girl once loved me in the most extraordinary way. But she told me too late. She’s married now. There was nothing I could do. That regret will stay with me until I die. She loved me so selflessly, so completely. Even now I think—what if I dropped everything and took her hand! When someone says anything bad about Sylhet, it hurts me terribly. If Sylhet were my second home, it would be wonderful!