That brother's profession was sorcery. By which I mean: severing ties between people, afflicting bodies with disease, commanding spirits, driving someone to madness and dragging them away, subjugating someone's will, striking someone down with invisible arrows toward death—he did all of it. And those cattle, goats, ducks, and chickens—every single one of them worked according to his designs, as if blessed by his hand. They all sat in a circle around him. When the man saw me for the first time, he asked at once, 'Who's this?' They said, 'The bride.' He scoffed, 'Come on! Are you joking?' They asked, 'Then what does she look like?' He said, 'A servant girl from the house. That's the kind of clothes house servants wear—not a bride fresh from two days of marriage.' Hearing this, they all burst into laughter. But I felt no shame. I felt only numb.
After bringing me into the midst of these tales, Nihal's mother asked, 'Kishore, tell us—who among all these has the most wicked heart?' Kishore said, 'Auntie! No one in this whole bunch has mischief in their heart like your son does. He speaks with a smile. But where he should have blood corpuscles in his body, he has three times as much devil. He's wickedness incarnate, this son of yours.' They had thought he would speak about me. But the situation turned around. They quickly laughed and said, 'You're quite the jokester!' To change the subject, they said, 'All right then, you tell us—what does our bride have in her heart?' He looked at me and said, 'The girl is devoted to her father, simple-hearted, wants to do something for people. She prefers giving to taking.'
Hearing all this, Nihal's sisters said, 'Brother, don't say such things anymore. Sanjida will be frightened.' That brother reassured me, saying, 'No, no, dear girl, don't be afraid. You're my younger brother's wife. Why would I do such things to you? Don't fear me.' And Nihal said, 'Brother, everything you do is negative work. You break bonds, destroy lives—clearly you're hell-bound. You don't do a single good thing.' The brother said, 'What do you mean? When I separate children from parents by their words, the parents are happy. That's a good deed, isn't it?'
That night at dinner, his father and mother, his older sister and her husband, his younger sister and her husband, the older sister's son and daughter, the younger sister's son, Nihal, and I—we all sat down to eat together. We were nearing the end of the meal. I and my mother-in-law had taken rice. His younger brother-in-law was eating slowly on purpose, deliberately taking his time. After Nihal finished, he went to another room and lay down. Nihal's younger brother-in-law pointed me out to his son, saying, 'Son, do you know who this is?' The boy, embarrassed, said, 'My aunt.' But right away his mother corrected him, 'No, if anyone asks, you tell them: she's the maid who works at my uncle's house in Dhaka.'
Her brother-in-law had been looking for a long time for a chance to catch me out. Now, slowly, he began to speak: 'Sanjida, take more rice and curry. Your father's home is in the south, isn't it? Nothing grows in salt water—or does it? Look at us here—we lack nothing. Mangoes, jujubes, jackfruit, bananas, lemons—everything grows. We eat all of it. If such things grew in your father's home, you could have eaten them there. And buying food—that costs money. That's why you've wasted away to this state! We have everything here in our house. Eat for just a few days and you'll put on weight. There's no pleasure in being this thin.'
He went on like this, speaking endlessly, words that struck deep into the heart.
My father and mother are talking about my dowry too. The others are laughing at it all. And the rice I’m kneading in my palm seems to turn back into individual grains within my grasp. A tear drops onto my plate. I quickly wipe it away. Then I pretend to laugh along, forcing rice into my mouth somehow. But deep inside, it feels like I’m forcing the deadliest poison down my own throat.
They keep talking for nearly twenty minutes. I find myself thinking, *If only Nihal were here now! If he could cleverly change the subject!* They see me kneading rice, or sitting there holding it, unable to bring it to my mouth anymore. Again they’re telling me, ‘Eat, eat. Take big mouthfuls! There’s no shortage of food in this house. Eat as much as you can.’
Then I said, ‘Forgive me, I need to use the washroom.’ And I left. I called for Nihal and took him out. I’m already terrified at night; on top of that, all this talk. Outside, I told him, ‘Look, they keep saying these things—it’s hurting me. Won’t you come out here, be among them?’ Nihal got angry at his brother-in-law in his heart and told me not to go back in there. He held my hand and pulled me into the room, made me sit. And because I didn’t go back, his brother-in-law’s anger only grew. People cannot bear not being able to make the helpless listen to them. Here I am, caught in the middle, being crushed between them.
The moment it’s past five in the morning, my younger sister-in-law shouts, ‘Sanjida, hey Sanjida, what time is it!’ I jolt up and start cleaning the room, then work all day long. This is how it’s been going on. On August 14th, his older sister, his mother, his father, and he told me that Nihal and I would go to Khulna on the 15th of August, but his younger brother-in-law and sister and nobody else should know. We’d have to leave in secret. Everyone would think we’re going to Dhaka.
Early in the morning we slept, and the next day we woke before dawn, did all the chores, and that day again—three kinds of rice cakes, bread, goat meat, innards and everything else, one after another, fed everyone, went about packing our things in a frenzy of joy, and forgot to take two of my scarves and one of his pants. I touched everyone’s feet and said goodbye and left. Before leaving, his younger sister was saying, ‘Give Nihal some meat. Sanjida will cook it for him.’ But nobody in that house agreed, because they all knew we weren’t going to Dhaka—we were going to Khulna. Instead, my mother-in-law told Nihal, ‘Drop Sanjida at the Khulna bus in a few days. She’ll come back. And you come home. Eat the meat.’
After we left, his younger sister, checking things, found one of my scarves and one of his pants. My father-in-law gave them to us on the way. On the road, a distant relative of his was joking, ‘Did you take your petticoat and blouse? Or did you forget those too?’ I said, ‘No, sister, those are single pieces, so even if by mistake, I’ve worn them.’ I saw his older sister seemed to mind at my words. When we were leaving, his older sister and his mother came with us to the road. On the way, an uncle of theirs pointed at me and hurled a crude remark, insulting me. They said nothing to him.
She told me, ‘Don’t breathe a word of any of this to anyone at your father’s house.’
The way they look at me in everything I do, in every movement—it’s pure contempt. They humiliate me in every way they can think of. There was nothing I could have done anyway. So I left for Khulna. August 15th. I arrived in Khulna at four in the afternoon. It was a Thursday. His sister had told me that Nihal would leave for Dhaka Friday night. And Friday is when the Dakbangla Market in Khulna shuts down. So I came home, ate, and went straight out shopping for him. He’d asked me beforehand. I couldn’t tell him to wait. He has his office. I went shopping and bought him a beautiful shirt and a pair of trousers to be tailored. They said they’d give it Saturday. A light pinkish solid-colored shirt and black trousers. After leaving it with the tailor, my friend and I went to her place. We had lunch there and came back home in the evening. Nothing but irritation on his face. He doesn’t smile. His eyes and mouth are always scrunched up. As if nothing pleases him at all.
Now I need to pause. When I remember my own story, or when it surfaces in my mind unbidden, I’m afraid of it—and yet, it breaks my heart. I want to find the courage to run to him and bring him back. I can’t bear it. I’m in pain all the time. He can’t belong to anyone else. He’s sharing a bed with another girl now, calling her ‘baby’ and ‘sweetheart,’ surely caring for her the way he cared for me, and just thinking about it makes my head burn. I imagine strapping a bomb to myself and going to him, holding him somehow, no matter what. Let me die, let him die too—just so long as he’s not with another woman! That day I called him from my friend’s number. The moment he heard my crying, he hung up and turned off his phone. But I heard his breath! Just that—his breath!
I sent him some texts. Of course, he didn’t reply to a single one. I’ve read my own messages thousands of times over. I sat holding my phone, hoping he’d write back, hoping for something! He didn’t send anything.
You’re so happy with your wife! And yet, just two days before the wedding, you said you wouldn’t even touch another girl. And now? You’ve stabbed me in the chest and buried yourself in another woman’s! This is what six years of your love amounts to! I called you from another number—you picked up just fine. The moment you recognized my voice, you hung up! Six years ago you said hello to me that same way, and today you said it the same way. What haven’t I done for you? And yet you brought another girl and forced her into my place! That girl picked up the phone and told you, ‘Babe, your phone!’ She calls you babe too! She adores you just like I did! Damn you, Nihal!
Today you threw away six years of love because my father is ill! My six years of selfless love lost to a house with a rooftop next to his father’s! Oh, what a life! You forgot the oath you swore on the Quran, baby. When you married for the third time, my face didn’t cross your mind even once! I couldn’t believe you’d actually married—and during this corona time, no less! And now, hearing the joy in your voice, I still can’t believe my own ears!
Oh God! Does this really happen in this world? I never understood it before! Do you give your love the way you received it from me? How can a new body make someone forget six years of love in an instant! That’s the kind of person you are, baby! You never let me see it before.
# The Text
You’re so enslaved to money—I never even glimpsed it, not for a moment! Listen, you mustn’t wound someone with such cruelty! She’s a girl too! If she knew even ten percent about me, she’d never—never—have claimed a stake in another girl’s devotion, in her rights!
You married her wrapped in lies! How could you do it? Maybe love is a toy to you people, but for a girl like me it’s an entire life! You’re so practiced in deception! Couldn’t even wait for this corona to pass—went ahead and married her right in the middle of it all! Sahana once stood in this very line, and now it’s me. I don’t know if one day Zakia will have to stand here too. Now I understand—you don’t need a special face to be a deceiver! All you need is a deceiver’s heart! Disgusting!
When she gets angry at your messages, do you soothe her rage the way you did mine? Do you exercise dominion over her the way you did over me? Your voice betrays it all—you’re having such a good time! How are you managing it? So pleased with your new body! Some people are just like that! Disgusting! A voice you once couldn’t sleep without, and now you cut the call the moment you hear it! That’s what you men are, isn’t it?
I’m writing about you, so remembering how you’d look at me with that tender gaze—I’ve cried so much over it! I was dying of thirst to hear your voice, so I called! Listen, you shouldn’t wound anyone like this, so deeply! There’s an afterlife beyond this world of sex and flesh! You’ll have to face it—all of us will. No one deserves such suffering. Fear Allah, please. Your new wife knows nothing. If she knew, she couldn’t live with you this way. You’ve drowned her in lies too, haven’t you?
…More messages like this. I really can’t think straight anymore! I want Nihal back at any cost. The more I think about all this, the more I’m losing my mind. Past the Kuril Flyover there’s a beautiful place. A walking path along the lake. I wanted to take pictures there after Eid, once I came back to Dhaka. It didn’t happen. I’ve never touched a train in my life. That’s why he wanted to take me on the train from Kamalapur to the airport. The chance never came. The road past the Kuril Flyover to the airport is so beautiful. I wanted to walk along the pavement on that road after Eid. His last four profile pictures are all mine—I took them, I edited them. The cover photo has the yellow t-shirt I bought him. His bio still says in Arabic—Sanjida’s heart! He hasn’t changed it yet, maybe he forgot.
So many memories! I was his wife once, now I’m not. His wife now will also stop being one someday, perhaps. What if he comes back to me then? I’m willing to wait. Even if he comes back disabled one day, if he calls for me just once, lets me touch him, lets me see his face, if he finds his way back even when lost…Oh! What’s my fault? I can’t find it. I’ve thought about this endlessly, nothing comes to mind. If I had a fault, I could reason with myself, accept it. Now how do I convince myself?
We have so many pictures together on Facebook marked “only me.” The pain keeps rising up, again and again. I can’t bear it anymore. What will become of me?
# The Weight of Silence
No matter what number I call from, she blocks it. I tried her aunt. She wouldn’t talk to me either. My head isn’t working properly anymore. Later I called her aunt from another number, begging her to put me on the phone with her. I found out she’s gone to her in-laws’ place today. And she didn’t tell me anything about it. Why would she? Who am I to her now? How is it possible! The man who said just days ago he wouldn’t marry—he’s lying with another woman now! That familiar person! Those same nose, mouth, eyes!
My crying has my mother furious. Today she flung the door open and started screaming. Some quarrelsome woman next door accused me of drug abuse and called the police. They came, said their piece, told us to vacate. There are two such women in this building. They pick fights every single day. It’s almost professional. Mother got annoyed at my crying and scolded me. The door was open. They came rushing in trying to start trouble, hurling abuse at us. Then her husband called 999. They did the same thing to the neighbors on the other side the day before yesterday too—threatened them with the inspector, then called 999 and disconnected.
I don’t want to live anymore. Today even my mother didn’t speak to me properly. And they brought the police and humiliated us. I’m carrying so much pain inside just to stay alive! What do I have to live for? One day Father and Mother will leave me too. Whether tomorrow or the day after. Then what? What will I do then? There’s nothing left in this life of mine. If only someone could tell me how to get him back! I know myself. If I like something, I just can’t let it go. No matter what it is! I saw yesterday—all those girls Nihal was with before, he’s added them back to his profile.
I can’t bear it. I can’t shake off this attachment to him no matter what. I swear I could die any moment! I can’t…can’t…anymore! So many memories, so many words! He’s doing fine, of course. What didn’t I do for him? And he still deceived me like this! I can’t forget him. Thinking about him, I’ve stopped bathing, stopped eating. Over and over I think: dying right now would be the best decision for me! I’ve been struggling since childhood and now I’m just exhausted! Anyway, let me get back to my real story.
August sixteenth. I was planning to go to my cousin Komal Apu’s in-laws’ place that day. We grew up together from when we were tiny. She got married in 2013. I’ve only been to her place once, and that was for just one day. Haven’t been since. Her son is in play school. She’d call and ask me to come over, but I wouldn’t go anywhere—I’d stay home studying. It’s only forty taka by bus from our place, ten taka by van. Still I never went.
That day I was supposed to go to Apu’s. She knows about it. But Nihal has some fear about it. The way he wanted to take me to his aunt’s place and introduce me—he was thinking I’d do the same, take him to Apu’s and maybe lecture him or something. From morning Apu keeps calling once, my brother-in-law keeps calling once, and him—he keeps repeating the invitation to him on the phone, being formal about it all. The plan was to eat lunch and come back by evening.
I’ve been telling him since I woke up—’Come on, get ready, take a bath,’ and all that. He just lies there. Won’t budge. I grab his clothes, his feet, his hands, his pants, trying to pull him up. He won’t get up.
Meanwhile, his sisters keep calling. On the phone they’re telling Nihal not to go anywhere, to get to Dhaka quickly. Mother has made his favorite prawns—big ones, small ones, fried and ready. I feed him a bit now and then. But on this one thing, I can’t get him to agree to anything. At some point he shouts, ‘As long as there’s a drop of blood left in my body, I won’t get off this bed.’ I’m bewildered. ‘Why are you being so serious? Why are you talking like this?’
A girl in the house across from ours is getting married. I went over. The aunty there and her daughters are happy to see me. They’re asking where the son-in-law is, why I didn’t bring him. The aunty says things like that. I thought, all right, let me go get him. I come back and poke at him again. ‘Come on, let’s go. Don’t go to your sisters’ place, let’s go to that house instead. Look how beautifully they’ve dressed the bride—go see the bride, see the groom’s face. Come on. Everyone wants to see you too.’
I see he’s just annoyed. And there’s something like restlessness and fear spreading across his eyes and face. A frightened face! His only refrain: as long as blood flows in his veins, he won’t get off this bed. Now I’m starting to get angry. I don’t even get time to talk to him properly. His sisters just keep calling over and over. People say, a thief’s heart hears police everywhere. They think that because they’ve tormented me, surely I’ll take revenge or do something like that to them.
I shut the door now and tell him, ‘Listen, will you never understand me? Why are you doing this?’ I’m speaking softly so Father and Mother won’t hear. I bring up my sacrifices again. Ever since coming here, he hasn’t been able to relax for a moment. Always this restlessness! Now finally he’s found an opening. Right away he starts scolding me. His life is over because of me. All his losses are because of me—that sort of talk. A quarrel breaks out between us.
In anger and sorrow, I kick the stool beside me like I’m trying to knock it away. And it goes, careless aim, toward his feet. And right then he shouts, ‘Why are you hitting me? What have I done? Why did you hit me? She beats her husband—what kind of woman is she?’ Hearing this, the landlord, my mother, my brother, everyone comes into the room. A small commotion starts. He’s grabbing his bag and bolting out saying, ‘I’m leaving. I’m not staying here another moment.’
As he’s leaving, I tell Mother, ‘Mother, please, don’t let him go. I’ll go with him. Please, don’t let him go.’ He looks ready to abandon everything and run. I go and take his hand and say, ‘Forgive me. Why will you go alone? I’ll come with you.’ He pushes me and leaves. Just keeps saying, ‘Not another moment here. I’m leaving. Let me go, I’m leaving.’ I grab his hand again and he shoves me hard. I’m crying and wailing. I’m consumed all the time with the fear of losing him.
I don’t know why, but I felt that if he left this way, he wouldn’t come back. Not ever. So in a frenzy I bit his hand—hard enough that the pain might make him stay, just for a moment. Though not as hard as I could have.
He shrieked even louder then: “I have to go to the hospital, I’m hurt, I’m hurt! Everyone move aside. Sanjida bit my hand.” Hearing this, my brother came forward and made him sit down, rubbed oil and water on his hand. Then he slapped my cheek. I spun around, and my brother kicked me twice in the back with terrible force. I cried out “Allah, oh Allah” and wept. Because even now the pain from the beatings at their house hadn’t left me. My arm still couldn’t reach my shoulder because of it.
My brother wanted to teach his sister a lesson through her, wanted to make a point to his brother-in-law. He was saying, “You come to my house and argue with my son-in-law. Where do you get such nerve?” He kicked me so hard I thought my breath stopped. Then Nihal came running and grabbed my brother’s arm, saying, “Brother, don’t hit her. She’s my wife—I’ll take care of her. You don’t need to worry about our affairs.” And he pulled me into his chest. I was so tired of looking at the shape of the world around me. My mind felt like it was breaking more and more each day. I held onto Nihal and wept. “Mother, brother—they’re not my people. I got beaten at my husband’s house. I got beaten here at home too. Where do I go?” I kept saying these things. Nihal held me and said, “My poor girl, our lives are full of suffering. No one wants us. Come—let’s leave. We’ll live our own way.” I said yes. I called out to Mother, “I’m never coming back to you. Never.”
My brother came and said to Nihal, “You were just running away from Sanjida a moment ago, that’s why I disciplined my sister, and now you’re brainwashing her like this? Where will you take her?” Nihal said, “We’re leaving for Dhaka tonight.” My brother said, “You left Sanjida in our house the day after the kabhin and beat her—I heard about it but said nothing. She didn’t say anything either. Then you found her alone in Dhaka when she went for her exams and beat her there too, broke her phone, brought her back alone. The things you did to her at home! Then you took her to Dhaka. In those two months you beat her many times. So what guarantee do I have that you won’t beat her again?”
Nihal said, “What guarantee do you want? A written one? You want me to write something for you?” My brother asked, “You’ll give me something written?” Nihal said, “Yes, take it.” Hearing my brother’s words, I thought, *He’s right. It’s all true.* I asked Nihal again, “You won’t leave me, will you? Ever?” There was a Quran there. He picked it up in one hand, took my hand with the other, and placed both our hands on the Quran. Looking at me, he said, “By this Quran, I will never leave you.” I asked again, “Really? You’ll remember?” Nihal said again, “Yes, I’ll remember. I will never leave you.”
My brother went to his room and came back with a stamp. With a pen, he wrote down my address and Nihal’s, and our relationship. Then he wrote: “As the husband of Sanjida, Nihal bears complete responsibility for her physical and mental welfare.”
# The Stamp
“If anything happens to Sanjida, Nihal is responsible.” When I asked him to sign there, he refused. He said, “Then write that I’m responsible for her too.” My brother said, “You’re our responsibility as long as you stay with us. And Sanjida is your responsibility if you keep her with you. Fine, I’ll write that too, whenever you want.”
Still he wouldn’t sign. My brother got angry. “You’re the one who wanted a written guarantee in the first place. Now you won’t sign. Then why did you get me to write all this? Don’t force me to say something I’ll regret, or I’ll show you what I’m capable of.” Meanwhile, I was scolding my brother for speaking so harshly to my husband. Eventually Nihal signed. But instead of signing properly, he signed in some twisted way. My brother said, “Is this signature correct?” I looked too. The signature wasn’t right. I felt disgusted. How could he do such a thing! I’m with him, after all. What difference does that paper make! But even then Nihal pulled this trick! I said to him quietly, “You’re even cheating on your signature?”
He signed and told me, “Come on, let’s go outside. Get some air. And tonight we’ll leave for Dhaka. Our life is ours alone.” We both went out. There was a rice field beside the house. A narrow brick path ran through it. A whistling wind. I said there, “Let’s sit here.” He said, “No, no. We’ll sit at Sonadanga bus stand.” I said, “There’s too much crowd and noise there. It’s not quiet at all. We’re fine here.” But I saw he wouldn’t sit. So I grabbed his hand and hung on it to make him sit. Then he sat down.
Two minutes later, sitting there, he said, “How could you all do this to me? Why did you take my signature? Why on a stamp?” I said, “Look, you’re the one who first mentioned the signature and the written stamp. And besides, what can a stamp do? I love you. I even told my family I won’t come back. I’m leaving with you for good. So what can your brother do with that stamp? And it was my brother who took it, not me. Now take a stamp from me too. I’ll write that no one is responsible for any harm to me. And you love me. I’d consider myself blessed even if I died by your hand.”
I saw his anger only grew. He said, “Now I’ll show you what I can do. Either my entire family will eat prison food and hang from the gallows, or yours will.” I said, “What are you saying!” “You’ll tear that stamp from your brother right now, or I’ll show you such fun as you’ve never dreamed of!” he said. I agreed at once. “I’ll go home right now and ask for it. If they won’t give it, I’ll scold Mother. I’ll get it. Then you tear it yourself with your own hands. But please, don’t let this trouble grow. Stop it, baby! I love you!”
“Look, I’m angry and I won’t forgive you. I’ll show you!” Saying this, he called his house, speaking in such a secretive way, as if he were hiding while calling. He said, “Father, where are you? Go to the Chairman’s house right now with the phone.”
They’ve got me locked in here. They’re going to kill me today. By morning, they’ll have disposed of my body too. You might not find anything left of me by sunrise. Go to the Chairman right now.’
I stare at him like an idiot. Hearing him make that call, I don’t know what to do with myself. My mind goes blank. I tell him, ‘For God’s sake! What have you done! They’re so far away! They’ll have a stroke from the worry alone. What were you thinking! How could you do this? God help us, what happens now!’ Then he says, ‘Look, what else can I do!’
He calls his older sister and a few others with the same story, same theatrics. Then I see him get up and start running down the street, shouting loudly, ‘God, I value my life, they’re going to kill me, I’m running!’ The left side of the road leads to the main highway, but he’s heading right instead—the wrong way. He’s doing this just to make a scene, to create some kind of spectacle. And I’m running after him in shock, pleading, ‘Please, stop this, they’ll worry themselves sick. You’ll cause real harm. Stop, don’t go anywhere. What will anyone do to you! For God’s sake!’ I keep shouting, ‘Stop, Nihal, stop!’
After running like this for two minutes, we’re on an unpaved road. Two men are walking toward us from the other direction. I’m begging them, ‘Brother, please grab him!’ But they’re too stunned by the sight. They don’t do anything. Then he finally stops. I grab his hand, but I can’t say a word. I’m crying like a fool and dragging him back toward the house. Every few seconds I’m calling out for my mother. The truth is, what he’s showing me right now, moment after moment—I’ve never imagined anything like it in my life, and if anyone else had been in my place, they wouldn’t have done it either, they couldn’t have.
Meanwhile, someone who saw all this goes to the house and tells my mother, ‘I just saw something strange—your daughter and son-in-law were having a race. The son-in-law was running, and your daughter was chasing after him. Very odd sight. Been coming to my in-laws’ house for years, never seen a new son-in-law run like that before.’ Hearing this, my mother, my brother, and a few neighbors come rushing over. My brother arrives and says, ‘What is this! How could you tell such a horrible lie! Who’s holding you back! You were supposed to go to Dhaka tonight. Who’s going to kill you or make you disappear!’ Nihal says, ‘I said it in anger. But it’s all lies.’ Then the people around us say, ‘We know it’s a lie. But how are you going to take back what you’ve already told your family!’
(To be continued…)