Once, after evening, on the footover-bridge in front of Dhaka Regency, I tried to take a photograph with car lights behind me, and I was humiliated greatly for it, and at one point even beaten. Of course, his friend Dulu had taken a photo that way, and when I tried to do the same after seeing him, he called me names—slut, whore—right in front of his friend, but said nothing to his friend. When the friend told him, 'Leave it, forget it,' he said, 'If only you knew what trouble this useless girl is giving me, you'd understand!' I just stared at him in silence. I really couldn't figure out what to say at a time like that.
Anyway, he never clearly explained why he'd gone silent. Samina—my older sister-in-law—asked me if he ever talked about it. I said, 'Yes, Samina is always going on about her uncle. Whenever someone comes to the house, she tells them, "My uncle married my auntie to someone named Nayel. My uncle's an engineer (she actually means 'engineer'). He's in Dhaka. He'll bring my auntie lots of potatoes and chips."' This time I took his hands and looked him straight in the eyes. 'Baby, don't you love me anymore?'
- Why wouldn't I?
- Then why don't you answer my calls? Why won't you call? What did you promise me, and what did you do when you went back home?
- Hmm...
- What do you mean, hmm? You don't want me anymore?
- Whatever the house decides, that's what will happen. I have no say in the matter.
- Let the house do what it wants! But tell me, please—what's in your heart? Don't you love me?
- Why wouldn't I?...It's strange!
- Can you live a month and a half without someone you love?
- Look, whatever the house says, that's what will be. I have nothing more to say.
- Why do you have nothing to say? Why? Then why did you say you love me? Is that a lie? That mosque was a witness to our love. You made so many promises touching it. What was all that then? Can you say it again now?
Our two hands touching the mosque at once. I'm telling him, 'Say it now. What's really in your heart right now?' He said, 'Why wouldn't I? It's strange!' And then he said, 'Listen, Sanjida! Love isn't just about one girl. Being well isn't just about one boy and one girl. Love includes everyone.' I said, 'I wanted everyone to be well and to love everyone together. I've always preferred a joint family. I never wanted to be alone!'
Maybe he was trying to say that no one in his house wanted me. So if he took me, everyone would abandon him. But my foolish heart doesn't want to understand any of this. I tried so hard to make him see. After a month and a half with him, I feel like I want to split my belly open and keep him in there. So no one can take him away. I try so hard to convince him, but nothing works. Mother called and asked where I was. I said, 'I'm at the stand, Mother. Nihal has come. Please, try to make him understand!' And I put the phone to his ear.
I see him speaking to Mother with such disrespect. Mother had asked, 'Nihal, do you really not want her? Or do you want her? If you want her, you can take your wife and go. But if you don't want her, why are you tormenting her like this, playing these games? Even if you don't know us, you know Sanjida, don't you?' To this he reacted loudly and rudely.
“Oh, was it wrong of me to come see you? Did I make a mistake? And what does it matter what I want? Who am I supposed to bring? Why? Explain it to your daughter — why are you telling me all this? Do I bother her? She’s the one who bothers me! Don’t you feel ashamed? I don’t have time to talk to you. You hang up the phone. All this nonsense!” And with that, she thrust the phone at me and said nothing more. I kept pleading with him, “Please, sweetheart, calm down. Don’t be angry.” That’s when Nihal said, “I’m leaving. Coming here was a mistake.”
I dropped to the floor and gripped his feet. “Please, don’t go. You were going to anyway. But not like this. Just tell me once — do you want me? Do you love me?” I asked a thousand times but never got a straight answer. He had only one thing to say: “Whatever the family decides will happen. I have no say in it.” I held his feet and cried — for nearly half an hour, maybe longer, I didn’t keep track of time. After that, I stopped watching the clock. Holding his feet, I tried so hard to make him understand. I cried in every way — gently, bitterly, in wounded silence, in helplessness. I said, “I have no one but you. Father is so ill. Where would I go? Don’t leave me.” I was saying this while sobbing, my whole body shaking.
After I’d held his feet and cried for a long time, he suddenly kicked hard and wrenched free, then turned to leave. “Not another moment here. I’m going. Coming was a mistake,” he said. The kick sent me sprawling. But I quickly scrambled up and grabbed his shirt from behind, still crying, pleading, “Please, don’t leave like this. At least answer me…” A couple of people nearby noticed the commotion. They came over and stopped him, asking, “What’s happening here?” At first, they thought it was some kind of romantic catastrophe — someone running away. They said they’d been standing behind our bus for a while, watching us talk, watching me hold his feet, watching me plead, watching me cry, watching him kick me. They came to us and listened. When they heard the story, one of them grabbed his collar. He said he’d hand him over to the police. I became furious with that man. I said, “Let go of my husband’s collar. He hasn’t done anything to you. Whatever he’s done, he’s done to me. What’s your problem? Why are you insulting him?”
These men then went to the bus stand and called some respectable-looking people over. They put him in a room and questioned him — what did he want to do with me? Nihal made it clear to them: “I don’t want her. She’s just bothering me. She forced me to come here. After bringing me, she’s holding me hostage. Now I’ll do whatever my family tells me to do. That’s what I want too.” Then they called me and said, “Look, sister, we were thinking of handing him over to the police. And you’re angry at us! He doesn’t even want you.” Then they told me what else Nihal had said to them. In that moment, I couldn’t trust my own ears. I said, “No. He couldn’t say that. He loves me.”
Then they called me into that room and made me sit in front of him, and they asked him again. Nihal lowered his head and spoke again, his voice small and quiet: “After all this, I cannot build a life with her.”
And if my family desperately wants her, then that’s another matter. If they don’t, there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ll be satisfied if she just stops bothering me.’ That’s when rage and sorrow and suffering made me vomit.
The entire 27th—day and night—then all through the 28th, and now night is falling, and I haven’t been able to touch a drop of water. Just a few days before, I’d had my blood pressure checked. It was ninety-nine by thirty-five. Starving, crying, wound up with anxiety—I’d practically buried myself halfway in the grave. My head was pounding, I was losing my mind, and I did something foolish. After I vomited, I went back into the room and said, ‘What have you made me hear? You monster! How can a person be so vile! No one could be this cruel. Why didn’t you just kill me before making me listen to this?’ And saying that, in rage and fury, I kicked at his feet. I couldn’t bear it, so I did it.
From there, some people wanted to take me to the hospital and him to jail. I pulled myself together again and said, ‘I’ve already been through a month and a half of stress, and for the last two days I haven’t even touched water—that’s why I was sick. Please don’t take me to the hospital. If I go home, I’ll get better.’ When they heard this, they rushed off and brought me bread, a banana, water, some potato chips, and a Mister Twist, urging me to eat. But I couldn’t eat anything without water. When I drank the water, I felt something worse. I was better off hungry. Now I could feel my whole body trembling. He didn’t come near me once—just stared with irritation. I saw him looking toward Nihal and shouting, ‘Grab him! That bastard son of a bitch! We’ll throw him in jail today. Get his father on the phone.’ That’s when I ran forward and threw myself in front of him. I sat on his lap, raised both my hands toward everyone, and said, ‘Please, none of you do this to my husband. Please, don’t talk about jail. We’ll work everything out together, the two of us.’ But nothing was working.
At the bus stand there were many senior sisters and brothers I knew. Everyone was waiting for the bus back to Khulna after finishing their exams. But many didn’t recognize me in that state. Some probably did. Long after the divorce, a friend of mine, Ferdaus, who studied economics and was my classmate, called and said he’d seen everything that day. But because he didn’t want me to feel ashamed, he didn’t come forward or say anything. I said, why didn’t you come? You should have come. You should have come up, laughed out loud, and said, ‘Sanjida… see? This is the price of your mistake. You reached for the thorn when there was a flower. Go on, learn your lesson the hard way!’ That boy’s full name was Ferdaus Islam. My classmate. A brilliant economics student. Round-faced, fair-complexioned. His family too had lost everything in the cyclone like ours, and rebuilt their lives from scratch with nothing but the currency of education and a chest full of dreams. Six brothers they were. All of them—all but one—topped their respective classes. Ferdaus was the oldest. He was among the best athletes in his discipline too. A wonderful player. And straight as an arrow as a person.
From the moment he learned to understand the world, he liked me without ever having seen me. He lived in the same room as one of my uncles. My uncle would talk about me to him. He’d say I understood nothing but studies, that I wasn’t into gossiping or quarreling or the neighborhood roughhousing.
The school my father and grandfather attended—where no one had ever scored first division or gotten an A-plus—I became the first to earn an A-plus after the cyclone, living in a roadside shack on NGO relief. Channel 24 ran a report on me. Daily Prothom Alo, Dainik Purbakone Disha—I made the news in their “Undaunted Genius” column. I got a scholarship from Dutch-Bangla Bank. Listening to all this, he fell in love with me without even knowing it.
Uncle didn’t know what discipline I studied. So he just went searching through the batch list with nothing but my name, found me that way. That’s how we met. Later he told me all of it. Whenever I came to campus, he’d call me for this reason or that, trying to spend time with me, trying to be close. He’d invite me to Ferdous Library on the pretext of solving Syful’s math problems. One day he even proposed. But I told him straight out about my relationship with Nihal. I love Nihal deeply. I can’t erase him from my mind. Even after I told him all this, he kept caring for me. He’d always listen to me talk about Nihal and say, “This relationship won’t last. He won’t appreciate you.” Hearing that, I’d get angry with him. I’d think he was saying these things out of jealousy, that he didn’t want our relationship to survive. When I’d fight with Nihal and my heart would be heavy, Ferdous would call and ask me to come to campus, then cheer me up with funny stories. When I’d fight with Nihal, I’d break my phone. Ferdous heard about that too and lent me an extra smartphone for four or five months. When my laptop had problems, he’d come to my house and leave his own laptop with me.
I told Nihal everything. Nihal called Ferdous “Aloo” and spoke to him with such contempt. My mother liked Ferdous too. But I was committed elsewhere. And I didn’t feel that way about Ferdous—not at all. My only thought, my only knowledge, my only dream was Nihal. After I got married, Ferdous cried for a whole year. He even got sick and saw a psychiatrist. Later he married a girl from National University. He passed his 40th retake, got a job as a cash officer at Rupali Bank, and now he’s in Rangpur with his wife. He’s doing very well. So I told him, “Why didn’t you come forward that day? You should have. You should have come and laughed in my face. I’m the one who lacked wisdom!” Ferdous said then, “No. You didn’t cheat me. You told me everything. What fault is yours? And if I had come forward, you would have felt humiliated, so I didn’t.”
Anyway, since they weren’t listening to me, I called my mother and before handing the phone to them, I told her, “Tell them not to put Nihal in jail.” My mother told them, “You’ve done so much already, thank you. But please don’t send him to jail. He’s our son-in-law. We’ll handle it.” Nihal was also pleading with me, “Please, I’ll come to Khulna with you. Don’t let them put me in jail. Just see to it, will you? We’ll be together our whole lives. I love you.” They listened to my mother. We survived that ordeal. But those people said Nihal should come to Khulna with his family and settle everything. Nihal agreed. After that, they called his house. When Nihal got on the phone, he started making up stories again. He told his family that I had come to Dhaka on the pretext of an exam and hired thugs to keep him locked up.
# And She Set Fire to Everyone’s Heads Back Home
Over there, the people weren’t banking on Nihal. Everyone was saying the boy would abandon the girl halfway and bolt. He wouldn’t make it to Khulna. Just then, some young man stepped forward. He said to Nihal, ‘Listen, brother. Need’s served, the girl’s face is ruined, the girl’s gone bad? You need to drop her right now?’ This man was supposed to head to Khulna that same night anyway. He came forward and took responsibility for getting Nihal safely to Khulna. Neither I nor Nihal knew him. The people there agreed that this boy would bring the two of us to Khulna. Tickets were bought. A bus at two in the morning. The very last trip. There were no seats left. Nihal on the engine cover, that man on the conductor’s small seat. Later I learned the man’s name was Mustafa. And I was sitting in the very last seat of the very last row.
A bit before the bus left, two or three people from there took my number. They also gave me some food. Normally I wouldn’t take it. But they insisted so hard. They had sisters like me, and seeing me that way broke their hearts. They called me sister. That’s when I agreed to take it. I thanked them and got on the bus. Once on board, I handed the food to Nihal and said, ‘You haven’t eaten anything in ages. Here, eat this.’ He took it with angry eyes and placed it on his lap.
The bus pulled away. Me in the last seat, Nihal on the engine cover. Like going from Teknaf to Tetulia. All I could think was, *If only I could hold him for a bit!* Meanwhile, I was feeling nauseous, but there was nothing in my stomach to bring up. We reached the ferry terminal at two in the morning. But there was massive congestion. The ferry had been shut all night because of the storm and rain. The moment the bus pulled up at the terminal, I rushed over to Nihal. I was trying to make him understand.
Everything I said bounced off him like water off a duck’s back. *’I’ll go around the whole village and beg forgiveness at everyone’s feet if you say so. I’ll never use a phone again, forget Facebook. I’ll do whatever you tell me, take care of everything outside the house, feed you—you won’t even have to provide for me. Just don’t destroy what we’ve had together. Let the bond stay. At least keep me as your servant, Nihal! Please!’* On and on I went. He just stood there, concrete-hard. No answer at all, just *’Whatever the family decides will happen’* over and over.
When we got off the bus, I clung to his feet in the dark. Every moment I begged him to keep our relationship. *’I’ll win everyone’s hearts with how I treat them. People often don’t like someone on first meeting. But with time, you see, that very person becomes the most beloved. I’ll do five daily prayers, read the Quran, pray at dawn, fast—I’ll set everything right. If you want, I’ll wear a full veil, or if you want me in jeans and tops, I’ll wear that too. Whatever you say, I’ll do it. Just don’t abandon me.’* To everything I said, he had just one answer: *Whatever the family decides will happen.*
There are a couple of people who know me, people who know me on Facebook or phone—Nihal had already told them, long before, after dropping me off on August 18th when he went home: *’Don’t talk to Sanjida, don’t you dare. If you do, I’ll divorce her.’* The Chairman once told me that Nihal’s brother-in-law had said to him: *’There will definitely be a divorce. Either Nihal’s or his sister’s.’* Meaning if Nihal wanted to keep me, his brother-in-law would divorce his own sister.
# Nihal’s Calculations
So perhaps Nihal wanted to move forward, but in the next moment the calculations would pull him back again.
If he divorced me, he’d find another woman easily enough. But if he kept me, his sister would have to remain a divorcée, would have to depend on him for life. His sister wasn’t educated enough to stand on her own two feet. His salary wasn’t high enough to shoulder his sister’s burden. And if she came to stay with him permanently, there’d be one problem or another constantly brewing in the house. His sister wasn’t exactly easy to live with! These were the very things Nihal himself had told me over the phone, after the divorce.
On the bus, I’d convinced the man sitting next to me to give up his seat so Nihal could sit with me. Then he was so sleepy that I let him rest his head on my lap. Soon I was dozing off too. After that we both sat leaning against each other’s shoulders, sleeping. From two in the morning till six, we waited for our bus to board the ferry. In between, his big sister was calling, his younger sister was calling, one brother-in-law, then another, this friend, that friend—and he was telling everyone that he was trapped, that I’d come to Dhaka under the pretext of an exam and hired goons to forcibly abduct him. He was saying this to everyone—even to Kamal bhai. He’d called his office and told them. He was telling relatives, everyone in the house. He was messaging people on Facebook one by one, trying to convince them.
I told him, “What are you saying? Why are you lying? Will this do anything but make things worse? It won’t hurt anyone. But if you destroy our relationship, everything—yours and mine—will be lost. It won’t affect anyone else.” He was calling his office, saying, “Sir, I’m sorry to call you so late at night! I’m in serious trouble. Please pray for me, sir. My wife is forcibly taking me away with hired goons. If I survive, I’ll come to the office, sir!” Doesn’t it happen sometimes that women complain to their husbands’ offices and ruin their jobs? So he was doing this preemptively, to ensure that even if I went to his office and said something against him, he’d already protected himself. But after six years, this is all he knew about me! Where do I put this grief? What he’s doing is like falling into a manhole full of mud and filth and screaming that there’s fire—utter madness. But it only causes harm! He turns a gentle breeze into a storm in an instant!
We arrived in Khulna around ten, ten-thirty in the morning. The bus stopped at Sonargaon. The bus stand was right in front of the police station. My brother came forward to receive us. The motorcycle was parked at a tea stall nearby. As soon as he got down and saw the three of us, he went toward the stall to get the bike. That’s when Nihal whispered to me, “Your brother has probably gone to the police station. He must be doing something to frame me.” I said, “Nonsense! What are you imagining? Even if he does something, I’m with you—what can they do to you? I won’t let anything happen to you.” My brother brought the motorcycle. Seeing it, Nihal realized that my brother hadn’t gone to the station.
Then Nihal called an uncle—the uncle of his younger brother-in-law. With my brother and this uncle present, a man named Mustafa Bhai asked Nihal directly what he intended to do about me. I was standing there still holding Nihal’s hand.
Nihal looked down and spoke clearly, ‘After all this, I don’t want any of it anymore. I can’t continue anything with her.’ Hearing those words from his mouth, I felt as though I had ceased to exist in this world. Water streamed from my eyes. I couldn’t even find the strength to pull my hand away from his. My whole body had gone numb. I stared at Nihal’s face with my mouth hanging open. I had lost all power to move.
Nihal said to that uncle, ‘Uncle, take me with you. I’ll stay with you until someone comes from home.’ The uncle said, ‘Are you mad? No, that won’t work.’ And Mustafa Bhai said to Nihal, ‘You’re still the groom from that house. So take your bride home now. Wash up, eat, and rest. Your family will arrive in due course.’ An aunt from the next-door neighbour had also come with my brother to receive us. All of us together helped load me, Nihal, and that aunt onto an auto-rickshaw.
We were on our way home. I stared blankly out at the street. When the aunt nudged me gently, I looked toward Nihal. I saw he was preparing to get down from the auto. Then the aunt, raising both her eyebrows together, asked him something wordlessly—’What happened?’ I looked at Nihal’s face and burst into tears. He gripped my hand tightly and said, ‘You silly girl, I love you, don’t I!’ I said, ‘But you said you didn’t want me anymore! Why did you say that? Tell me, why, why?’ He said, ‘I say so many things when I’m angry. Not all of it’s true. So what if I said it? Does just saying it mean we’re divorced?’ I asked again, ‘So then? You do love me? Really?’ He tilted his face with such tenderness, nodding up and down twice. I understood—he was saying yes, silently.
I said, ‘Now what do we do…??? What you’ve told everyone all this time—how will we resolve all that?’ He reassured me and said, ‘When everyone comes, I’ll tell them in front of all of them that the two of us want to stay together. I’ll ask for everyone’s help. When Father comes, I’ll hold his feet and say, “I want Sanjida.” Sona, will you be able to say that to Father along with me? Will you do that for me?’ I said, ‘I’ll do anything with you. But don’t leave me. Don’t abandon me.’
We got down from the auto and came home. At home were my uncle, my brother, and that uncle of Nihal’s—the one he had brought along. We made Nihal rest when we got home. I insisted several times that he shower since he’d been through tension and traveling all night. But he didn’t shower. I went straight, bathed, and came back to sit right beside him. My longing to sit beside him, to be beside him, had not been satisfied. There was a certain peace in being near him, even though he seemed somewhat annoyed by my presence. Whatever was happening or going on, I paid no attention to it all—whenever I got a chance, I would rush over and hold his hand, would gaze into his eyes and face.
I fed him. As for me, I hadn’t eaten anything. It was around eleven, half past eleven on the morning of the 29th. I still couldn’t bring myself to drink even a drop of water. Nihal was eating rice, and I sat beside him, watching. I felt such joy just looking at him.
And whenever anyone in the house speaks negatively about Nihal, I lose my temper and protest at once. I lock the door and feed him extra rice. As he eats, holding a fistful of rice in his hand, he says, “I swear by this rice—I’ll take you with me. Won’t you come with me?” I kiss the center of his forehead and say, “Oh, my darling fool! Why wouldn’t I? Of course I’ll come with you.” Then he asks, “What if your brother won’t let you go?” I tell him, “My husband is my guardian. If my brother won’t let me, then I don’t need a brother. For you, I’m willing to sever ties with the whole world.” He says… “Remember that, my dear.” I say, “Alright.” Now Nihal, eyes dancing with emotion, says, “Why just Dhaka with you—I’d go to Sri Lanka if I had to. If we live, we live together; if we die, we die together—remember that.” My heart swells with such pride then. I think to myself, “My life has meaning. I will never leave this man. There’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do for him.”
When these memories come back to me, my heart says, after all this, I cannot live leaving him. Yet all he says is, after all this, he can’t stay with me anymore. And he’s made such a mountain out of a molehill himself. My heart only tells me he should come back. He must come back! I don’t know what fate holds.
Anyway, let me return to what happened that day. Soon after, his family showed up at the door. Once they arrived, he was called in front of them. He was leaving the room. As he stepped out, I stood at the doorway, caught his hand, and asked, “What happens now? What will you do?” He answered, “Let me see. I’ll handle it. I’ll tell everyone, ‘We want to stay together. Don’t worry, silly.’” Saying this, he pulled his hand free and went into an empty room next door—the walls there still weren’t finished—in front of everyone. Meanwhile, I sat in the room, reciting Allah’s name over and over. He went and sat with them. That day, Mustafa bhai had also come as a mediator with his family. His father and uncles had spent a long time convincing Mustafa bhai that divorce must happen. Divorce MUST, MUST, MUST happen!
So when he arrived there, they asked him, “What does he want to do about this?” Nihal, once again, spoke clearly in a small, measured voice, “After all this, I don’t want to stay with her anymore.” Then I was called to that room too, so they could hear my side. I sat to Nihal’s left. He asked me, “Sanjida, after all this, if you go to my house, will you be respected? And can you even leave on your own?” I burst into tears and said, “Why can’t I? I can. I can do anything, only I can’t forget you, I can’t live without you. Please don’t leave me.”
(To be continued…)