I began blaming that uncle, my parents, even Allah. Why so much suffering in my life? Father sick, my brother turned into something else through his wife, my own uncle—he died in a motorcycle accident, my aunt died too. Hena auntie was another shelter for me, and she died in childbirth. So many deaths, none of them natural. Each one a strange, terrible story. Everyone who was an umbrella over my life has left this world one by one. I trusted my husband. After five years of relationship, one year of marriage, two months of living together—I married him twice, swearing on the Quran, once in secret, once with family. And now I'm going to lose him too from my life like this? How will I bear this grief? Oh Allah, send someone who will understand me a little!
My aunt died middle-aged from uterine cancer. Then grandmother had a stroke and took to bed, and days later father had an accident and took to bed, and days after that my only uncle, at twenty-eight, died in a road accident on the third of February, and on the eighth of March my Hena auntie died in childbirth. Some doctor in Chalna, Dr. Bishwanath, made a mistake and tore the wrong nerve. None of these deaths were natural. Though life and death are in the Creator's hands. I told Nihal too—so many deaths of people close to me in my life have caused me so much pain. And on top of that, sick father is still here. Father is mentally unbalanced, surviving only on people's prayers. He spent twenty-two days in Dhaka Medical and came out somehow. I cannot bear to look at my father's face. My heart tears because I've always seen my father playing the leader in the neighborhood, and now—what suffering is etched on his face! I cannot look at that helpless face. At least it's something that Father doesn't have to see his mother's darling, his beloved little girl, suffering so much. And even if he did, he wouldn't understand. His mind is gone now. I told him everything openly. I begged him, saying that after all this, he shouldn't cause me one more sorrow like this. He only said calmly, "Call upon Allah, everything will be fine."
And here—alas, all my admit cards were on Nihal's laptop. I watched and memorized them. So he knows my roll number. He knows which seat I got. I was probably being thrown out of home for the fifth or sixth time, staying at a friend's place. Yet my exam was on the twenty-eighth of September. I wasn't even thinking about it. I only looked for a chance to call Nihal a little. My friend reasoned with me, "So you haven't studied—what's done is done. Just take the exams. It's just preliminaries; even with basic knowledge you can get through. Whether you pass or fail, you have to move forward anyway."
Before the exam, Mother calls me in secret. Father is crying a lot for me. If I don't come home, Father says he won't even drink water. So I came back home. In all this, many things are happening, like byproducts. Some show pity, some take advantage, some harass or make fun. One or two men try to stand by my side, wanting to support me mentally. I understand everything and cry even more for Nihal. I came home, got ready, and on the night of the twenty-seventh of September I boarded the eleven o'clock bus for Dhaka to take my exam. This was my first trip to Dhaka alone, with nobody by my side, nobody ahead of me. There was no one to tell anything to.
# The Departure
I won’t return, and it won’t matter to anyone. I could lie dead somewhere and no one would look for me. No one wants me anymore. And besides, I don’t even know my way around Dhaka.
I’m just trying to tell you what happened. But the feelings—I could never make anyone understand those. I’m probably terrible at expressing feelings. That’s why I can’t. But always, it felt like four or five angels of death were tugging at my soul every single moment, trying to wrench it out of me. My breath would catch. I couldn’t breathe. I’d grab my mother and beat her. I’d pummel my own chest with my fists.
Our house was deep in the village then. Rural surroundings. You had to walk through a brick-lined alley for seven minutes, and only then could you find an auto-rickshaw. Alone, I bought a ticket and got ready to leave at half past ten at night. I caught a bus to Dhaka. A friend of mine was coaching for the IBA entrance exam in Dhaka back then. She’s working now as an MTO at GPT. She’d told me that if I needed anything, I should call and she’d show me the way. I left that night alone to catch the bus, yet my brother didn’t come even once. He’s always running around to some quack doctor with one of his relatives—his wife’s older brother, actually. That’s his addiction.
Before, when I’d go to Dhaka, I’d send photos of all my clothes from home. After she’d seen them all, I’d wear whatever she told me to and leave. She’d keep asking which bus, what time, whether there was a boy or girl in the next seat. Every few minutes she’d ask how far I’d gone. When I’d reach the stand, she’d take me with her to her place or to a hotel. I’d rest that day, and the next day she’d take me to give the exam. I’d take the test without worry, and that evening she’d take me out. The next day she’d see me off on the bus. This was the first time I had no one to tell. I cried the whole way there, covering my face.
I reached Dhaka. A bus dropped me off at a corner just before Gulistan Bus Stand at five in the morning. I couldn’t recognize anything. I didn’t understand Google Maps well either. After asking the traffic police, I went to the bus stand and sat down in a waiting area nearby. There are always lots of people like me sitting around there. That’s where I used to sit with Nihal. I’d take the return bus a bit late so I’d reach Khulna in the morning. And for as long as the bus didn’t leave, he’d sit next to me fooling around. I’d hold his hand and walk. Down below we’d eat guava-covered snacks, amra-covered ones, bhelpuri, fuchka, chanachur—all of it. Finally we’d have tea and sit down again. When his place would call, he’d lie right there next to me, saying he’d come downstairs to buy something. He never told them I was with him.
During my exams, he’d sneak away from work to take me places. Once the boss tracked his SIM and caught him. He got into real trouble that time. During the journey, I’d sleep leaning on his shoulder and he’d lean on mine. As long as I was beside him, I wouldn’t let go of his hand for even a second. I’m sitting here now, thinking about that mosque visible through the window down below—how many times he promised while touching it that he’d never leave me. And now? Thinking of all this, I’m crying alone.
The day before—the 27th—I didn’t eat anything all day. Now it’s morning, September 28th. Still, I’m not hungry. Just weak. When it gets a bit lighter, I go down looking for a bus. I recognize nothing. I’ve gotten a seat to Agargarh.
I don’t know which bus goes where. I can’t board a bus alone. I’m standing under the flyover. I’ve stood here waiting before—many times. Nihal would get on the airport bus and leave with tears wiping his eyes, then message me: *”Nihal’s body is leaving, but his heart stays with the girl under the flyover. My crazy one!”*
I keep picking up my phone to check. I keep thinking, *If only she’d send a message!*… While lost in these thoughts, I notice the rickshaw driver calling out, “Hey lady, you’ll wear out that phone!” I’ve heard all kinds of things from distracted people on the street, in all sorts of ways. I asked a policeman. He pointed me toward where I’d find the bus. I went there and stood looking to see if “Agargaon” was written anywhere on the buses. I spot one. I climb up with great difficulty. A seat right in front, directly above the engine.
I’m sitting there at the front, crying. Streaming tears. I don’t recognize anything. I’m scared too. I called a friend. She reassured me a little. She said, “They’ll drop you at the right place, there’s nothing to fear. Everyone steps into this city as a stranger.” Outside, it was drizzling lightly. As we move forward, I see several buses I recognize. Nihal and I rode these buses together so many times. My heart is tearing to pieces. I feel like these buses are ours. My father’s inheritance, my grandfather’s—Nihal’s too. I’m crying. I feel like he’s sitting on one of these buses somewhere. I’m searching for him desperately. If I catch even a glimpse of him, I’ll jump off and run to him.
His place is in Khilkhet, his office in Mirpur DHA. I don’t know which way those are. The whole city of Dhaka looks the same to me. Still does. I’ve called him. He’s not picking up. Familiar intersections keep appearing—places I’ve gone with him to exams or errands. I feel like each one belongs to me. It’s my intersection. My father’s intersection. No one else’s. I keep checking my phone through the tears. Suddenly—his message! *”Found a bus, crazy girl? How far have you come?”* I go mad. My eyes are wet the whole journey. I call him again. He doesn’t pick up.
This time I message: I don’t know where I am. I describe the intersections I’m passing. Can’t read the signboards to know the names. But I got on about ten or eleven minutes ago. Such and such bus. Such and such color. He messages me every few minutes asking, “What intersection now?” and I describe it in the message, and he tells me how much longer it’ll take. I feel like Nihal is traveling with me. Oh, oh! I said then, “Should I come to the house?” He says, “Don’t you dare! Not for anything.”
I told a couple of other friends where I was. They guided me over the phone to the exact place. I got off and forgot the school’s name. The school’s right on the main road. I met this guy. A Facebook friend of mine, actually. That’s how I found out he’s an older brother. Saw him for the first time that day. Studies at Mirpur Confidence Coaching. Back then he wasn’t taking any exam except BCS. Lives in Agargaon. Was heading to coaching. I’d told him on messenger that I was in Agargaon. He came.
He gave me a lot of time. Found me a place to sit and told me to study. Meanwhile Nihal keeps sending me message after message. There was an exam in the afternoon. Two hours before the exam, Nihal called me. Without saying anything, he just made these sounds—crying. Weeping sounds.
I said, ‘Why are you crying? I’m yours! I do everything for you! Don’t abandon me. I’ll manage everything—the house, everything outside. You won’t have to worry about a thing. I’ll handle everyone.’ Through her tears, she asked where the school was, which school had a seat, when the exam would start, when it would end, what time I’d enter the hall, what time I’d leave, and so on. I told her everything. And as I spoke, I too began to cry uncontrollably.
Worried someone would see us, I went to another empty spot with that brother. I gave him a brief account of all my tragedies. Now I’ve stopped studying and just sit crying. My friend and Nihal keep calling me every few minutes. I decided I wouldn’t take the exam. The mental torture I’m putting myself through feels unbearable. If I try to sit for the exam in this state of suffering, I think I’ll simply faint. I called my friend, still weeping. I told her, ‘Friend, I won’t take the exam.’ She tried to convince me. She said I should take it. ‘You’ve spent so much time, money, and energy getting here. Just take the exam. Whether you pass or fail is another matter.’
I called home and told Ma, ‘I won’t take the exam.’ Ma was indifferent. ‘Do whatever you want. Why are you telling me? Money doesn’t grow on trees, that’s why you spent it. So what?’ Ma’s words didn’t register. All I could think about was Nihal. I kept imagining what he would have done, what would have happened if he were beside me now. I told the brother next to me, ‘I won’t take the exam. Because I’m certain I won’t pass. I can’t even remember my own name half the time. How can I take an exam?’ He said nothing.
Later, I remembered my father’s illness. I remembered how helplessly he looks at me when I enter the house. Then I thought again—I will take the exam. Even if I die. I won’t skip it. That fifteen hundred taka spent from the application fee to getting here could have bought my father’s medicine for a month. I won’t waste it. If God wills it, even if I fill the circles blindly, He can make them correct. I’ve already accepted that there’s no way around fate. I don’t study anyway. And even if I did, with all this suffering, nothing would stay in my mind. I’m deeply grateful to that brother. Seeing my condition, he was trying to forcibly take me out to eat. As we turned the corner, it struck me—I came here with Nihal to this very spot. Straight ahead, to the right, was the old airport, the museum. And to the left corner was the trade fair. Right next to it was where Sabur bhai, who studies medicine, lived.
At the trade fair, Nihal bought me four or five pairs of earrings, twenty taka each. When I got home, I gave them to my two sisters-in-law and two cousins and told them Nihal had remembered all of them and bought these. Everyone was so happy that he had thought of them and brought them gifts. I asked the brother ahead to confirm it was the air museum. He said yes. Now I felt a burning sensation spread through my entire body, from my head to my feet. This was that very road! I was walking holding his hand. At the corner, he pulled my hand so suddenly that my heel twisted and I fell. And the girls standing nearby laughed. After that, I limped while eating crab cakes. I never found a bus.
I walked that day on a throbbing foot, dreading the rickshaw fare. And he should have been here! Where was my Nihal? These thoughts kept spiraling, and suddenly I broke down crying right there. The new brother I’d just met looked deeply uncomfortable.
Nihal had wanted to take me to the airport museum. But the ticket prices had gone up, so we never went. I sat for hours at that corner bus stop. It took forever to catch a bus. All this runs through my mind, and besides, I have no appetite at all. I need my Nihal! Where is my Nihal? Just crying and thinking—surely Nihal will come here today! Because he’d brought me here once before. And today, for the first time, I’m here alone. I kept calling Nihal over and over, weeping, falling apart. On the other end, Nihal was crying too.
Then came exam time. The NSI exam day brought fresh trouble. They wouldn’t let me carry a bag or phone—nothing. Seeing this, the brother told me to leave my documents with him and go take the exam. I’d go in. In all my previous exams, before I’d enter, Nihal would show me the seating chart and point out a spot outside. After the exam, I’d go stand there waiting. Today I’m pushing through crowds alone trying to find my seat chart. Before, I’d give Nihal a pinch on the arm as I went in. But today…
Eventually I entered the exam hall. The brother said I should try to wait outside afterward. If I couldn’t, he pointed out an aunty and said I should leave my documents with her. I sat down in the exam hall. My mind wouldn’t settle on the questions. I felt unsettled, restless. Nihal kept creeping into my thoughts. I kept imagining he was waiting for me outside. Still, I pulled myself together thinking of Father’s face.
The exam began. I felt like no one in the world was as helpless as me. Thirty minutes in, I couldn’t go on. I broke down crying. Silent tears. Drop by drop falling from my eyes. I kept thinking Nihal had come downstairs. He was waiting for me. Searching for me. He’d even arrange my room for me. Whether the person next to me was a boy or girl, he’d check through the window. If it was a boy, he’d signal me to move farther away. Then he’d leave. This is the first time I’m taking an exam alone. Every single second, I’m drowning in memories of him, and I’m not myself anymore. I feel like I’m going mad. All I can think is: this can’t be happening. Nihal is mine. Only mine. Without Nihal, my life is worthless. There’s nothing else.
Fighting with myself, I managed maybe thirty minutes of the exam before I stopped. There are levels to despair. I don’t even feel like I took the exam—there’s no question of it being good. I spent the rest of the time in the hall with tears streaming down my face. I turned in my answer sheet and came out to find it pouring. Huge drops of rain. Everyone was standing in the corridor. No one was leaving. I pushed through the crowd and came out. No one else was coming out. Yet I couldn’t stand still. All I could think was that Nihal was looking for me. I remembered how he used to stand there, peering through the crowds searching for me. Surely he was doing that now too. I was certain—Nihal had to be out there! He couldn’t not come!
Everyone was waiting. And I was pushing through, stepping out into the downpour, scanning every face. In a sea of thousands, I was searching for just one face. My familiar, beloved face. My own person! Soaking wet, I’d come out. My eyes were burning, desperate to see one familiar face after the exam. I stared at everyone.
This time I’ve got you! Some people walked past with umbrellas held high. Then I spot someone—sturdy, built like my Nihal—hurrying forward under an umbrella. I bolt after him in one desperate breath, grab his shirt from behind, and exhale in relief.
When he turns around, it’s not him. Not the one whose absence has cracked my eyes open like the parched fields of Chaitra. Someone else. I don’t even remember to say sorry. I don’t know what that man thought of me that day. Maybe he took me for a wild girl, a beggar, or mad. He doesn’t linger in the downpour either. He leaves. None of it touches me. I’m only searching for Nihal! I can’t take it anymore. I sit down in the mud. The big raindrops mix with tears streaming down my face. I can’t see anything. My face is completely swollen.
After a while, I see a man standing under a shelter, calling me. He comes over, lifts me up, and takes me there. By Allah, I’m still sobbing, still weeping. An aunty asks, ‘What’s wrong, dear?’ The man cuts her off, saying, ‘She had high hopes for the exam. It didn’t go well, that’s why she’s crying.’ I’m saved from the aunt’s curious stare! That day, the support that man gave me—it was no less than what blood relatives could have offered. I don’t know what would have happened without him.
After that, we started walking toward Chandrima Udyan. Walking along the pavement, I told him everything. Why I was doing this. He explained so much to me. Then I waited for his call for a long time. But it never came. After waiting nearly two hours, I called him myself. He didn’t pick up. After calling several times, he finally answered. His very first words came in an angry, harsh voice: ‘What’s the problem? What happened?’ I was genuinely shocked. Without answering, I asked, ‘Before the exam, you called so many times. Now you won’t even pick up. I thought, since you were asking about everything so much, surely you’d come to the gate. So I left halfway through the exam and looked for you. Didn’t find you. I had so many hopes for you today. You didn’t come. The way your mother is your father’s wife, the way my sisters-in-law are my brothers-in-law’s wives, by all customs I’m still your wife. Couldn’t you have come just once? You didn’t. I won’t expect anymore. Maybe we’ve already said our last goodbye. I won’t bother you anymore.’
Hearing me, he fidgeted and asked, ‘Where are you now?’ I said, ‘I’ve gone further past the signboard that says Chandrima Udyan.’ Then I asked, ‘Will you come?’ No answer. I said, ‘Didn’t you even want to come once, or to see me?’ He says, ‘You’ll take your exam with your brother and uncle. What am I?’ I tried to make him understand. ‘If you were in my uncle’s or brother’s place, you’d do so much more for me than they do. I need you, not them. If you didn’t want to come, why did you call before the exam crying?’ He said, ‘I liked you then.’ I said, ‘You don’t like me anymore?’ Then he got angry, yelled, made a face, and said, ‘Why are you acting high and mighty? What’s this arrogance of yours? If you show up here, I’ll bury you alive, you shameless whore!’ And he hung up on me.
I called him back several times. He kept hanging up.
# The Station at Gulistan
I’ve left Chandramala Park behind and found myself standing in front of Parliament House. My friend keeps calling, asking where I am. And I’m telling her everything through tears — everything Nihal said to me. She grows worried and scolds me for crying in such a public place, tells me to come to her house. But I feel so helpless right now, like I need to see my mother this very instant. Right now! Some passersby notice my madness and laugh.
That older brother is still with me. He can’t bring himself to leave me alone and go home. He suggests something. He tells me to message Nihal: *I’m not taking Gulistan, I’m leaving through Gabtoli for Khulna. Take care of yourself.* I send it. Almost immediately, Nihal calls back. Frantic and insistent, she says, “You silly girl, will you never understand me? Don’t you dare leave without seeing me.” I tell her, “My ticket’s already booked.” Nihal cries and pleads: “Change it right now. Tell them you’re taking the next bus. Forget the money. I’m coming. Please, I’m begging you, don’t go like this. Just see me once.” I say it stubbornly, “Why should I? You only cause me pain.” She says, “Even if we fight, please come see me.” And then I break, emotional now: “I’m coming. I lied. I’m taking Gulistan. How would I even know where Gabtoli is!” She exhales with relief: “I knew it! You could never leave without seeing me. My crazy darling! Come on, I’m here.” Over the phone she tells me which bus to take, tells me to get on it.
Meanwhile, unable to find a bus, I’ve been walking with the brother, and now we’re at Farmgate. I call my mother, crying: “Mother, my heart is burning for you.” She asks if someone’s with me. I tell her a kind older brother is. Mother wants to speak with him. She tells him on the phone that I don’t know Dhaka at all, that this is my first time here alone, that my mind is troubled. She asks him not to leave me alone. Then she takes down his number.
Around eight in the evening, the brother finds us a bus to Gulistan. During the ride, Nihal keeps messaging me — how much longer, how much further. We crawl through traffic for a full hour and finally reach Gulistan at nine. I tell the brother not to stand beside me, to stay nearby instead. Otherwise she’ll spin some wild story about the two of us. He waits at the corner. I go to the stand. When I get there, she’s standing talking to someone. The moment I appear at the bottom of the stairs, she catches sight of me and holds my gaze. I move forward a step, she steps toward me too. She says, “Come, let’s stand over here.”
We go to the back of the stand where the broken, abandoned buses are parked, and we stand there. Both of us just looking at each other, quiet. We both blurt it out at the same time: “You’ve gotten so thin.” With tears still in my eyes, I laugh and say, “See? This has happened to us so many times before.” There were times when I’d call and my call wouldn’t go through, and the very next second her call would come. I’d ask, “Why does this happen?” And she’d say, “We’re both calling at the same time, so neither call gets through.”
Later, I sent it.’ And often it would happen that way—I’d send a message, ‘What are you up to?’ and before it even went through, his would come: ‘What are you up to?’ In those moments, we’d think to ourselves, Allah must have sent us two to each other, that’s why this happens. Otherwise, how could it work—Khulna and Narayanganj so far apart! How would we have ever met!
Anyway, I said to him, ‘I’m supposed to be wasting away. I’ve lost my husband, lost his love. But you left me so you could be fine without me. Why did you have to do that?’ He said, ‘I’ve lost four kilos.’ ‘Four kilos!!! How??? You who couldn’t lose fifty grams even when you dieted, you just kept gaining, weighing yourself every three or four days, but never once did the number go down—only up. And now you’re telling me you weigh only sixty-nine kilos???’
He used to weigh seventy-three kilos. When I was there, I’d even feed him his rice—lift it to his mouth myself. From the moment he’d come home to the moment he’d leave, he had nothing to do. His jobs consisted of finding movies on the laptop and using the bathroom. Everything else was literally my responsibility. I loved doing his tasks. Even removing his pubic hair was my job. He never had to go to a salon; I cut his hair and beard for him. Because of my care, his weight never came down. Meanwhile, my weight kept dropping until I became a skeleton.
Nihal once told me that if I came to Khulna, everyone would look at me and blame him for not feeding me properly. I’d said, ‘My family isn’t like that. They’d never even ask such things.’ Of course, he took it the wrong way. He thought it meant nobody loved me. He said it straight to my face: ‘Sanjida, your family is thrilled to have handed you over to me. They’re relieved. You were actually a burden to them. You’re of age now!’ I said nothing when I heard that. I thought, if I say something, it’ll escalate. There’ll be more trouble. Let it go!
He was five foot four, and weighed seventy-three kilos. For his height, he was quite heavy. So as he walked, his thighs would rub against each other until they bled, and his toes had hard calluses. I had to apply ointment to both places twice a day, morning and evening. Even though I found it repulsive to apply ointment to my own wounds, I never felt that way when applying it to his. I did everything with so much love. Yet when we went to his house for Eid and the sacrifice, his mother and sisters would put their hands to his face and say, ‘Oh no! Moni, you’ve become so thin! Sanjida must not be able to manage the housework, or maybe she can’t cook properly. You’re not eating enough, are you?’ He didn’t protest that day, just laughed. And meanwhile, nobody noticed how skeletal and dark I’d become.
Once he had a fever. During those days, I’d stay up through the night, dipping a cloth in water and placing it on his forehead. I’d massage his hands and feet. And every night before sleep, I’d part his hair with my fingers so he’d sleep well. Once he fell asleep, I’d lie there staring at his face with my mouth open. How I loved just gazing at Nihal when he slept! When he was asleep, his eyes and face seemed to hold all the beauty of the world! And I’d think, what a mystery love is! Here was someone with no blood relation to me, no family connection whatsoever—and yet I felt such a pull toward him!
I can’t photograph him with me when he’s awake—he hates it. But when he’s asleep, I kiss his eyes, his forehead, and snap selfies from every angle I can manage. The irony isn’t lost on me.
Once, after an exam, he took me to Yamuna Future Park. On the way out, near the entrance gate, there was this green tree, and I watched people of all ages and dress gathering in front of it, taking selfies. I wanted one with him there too. He refused. Called me stupid, unsmart, a village girl—all of it. I was so hurt I unstrapped my watch and threw it down in anger. He picked it up from the street and led me to the side of a thick pillar. Told me to remove my sandals. When I did, he crushed my feet under his boot—hard, grinding them with all his strength. Hissing: “Listen here, don’t you dare make a sound. One peep and you’re in for it today.”
I said, “It hurts so much.”
“Shut your mouth,” he spat. “The pain is your feet—not mine. Bear it. Keep your face normal. Or I’ll give you something to really cry about.”
My feet bled. Skin was visible where the flesh had torn. After that day, whenever he wanted a selfie with me, I’d think twice—a hundred times over.
There are so many stories about selfies. Six years’ worth. I can’t tell them all. But I can’t help myself—let me tell you a few more.
*(To be continued…)*