# Jeta The scorpion was dead. It lay belly-up on the kitchen tiles, its tail curled in the final posture of surrender. Anita stood above it with the slipper still raised, breathing hard as if she had just run a great distance. She had seen it first near the water pot—a quick, terrible flash of movement. Her scream had brought Ravi from the front room, but by then she had already killed it. The slipper lay beside the creature now, its sole bearing a small dark stain. "Don't touch it," Ravi said, though she had made no move to do so. He fetched a newspaper and carefully slid the scorpion onto it, carrying the bundle outside to the courtyard. Later, as evening fell and the house grew quiet except for the sound of traffic from the main road, Anita found herself returning to the spot where it had died. The tiles had been wiped clean. There was nothing to see. Yet she stood there anyway, her arms crossed, as though standing guard. "You killed it," Ravi said, appearing behind her with two cups of tea. "It's gone now." But she was thinking of how fast it had moved—faster than thought, faster than fear. One moment it wasn't there, and the next it was, and then it was dead. The whole thing had taken perhaps five seconds. She took the tea from him and sat on the kitchen step. Outside, the city hummed with its evening song: car horns, distant voices, the call of the vegetable seller who came by every day at this hour, though no one ever seemed to buy from him. "I've never killed anything before," she said. Ravi sat beside her. "Everyone kills things. Mosquitoes. Ants." "That's different." "Is it?" She didn't answer. She was thinking about the moment of decision—if it could be called that. There had been no decision, really. Her body had acted while her mind stood aside, watching. The slipper had come down almost of its own accord. "I wonder where it came from," she said. "Does it matter?" "I suppose not." They sat in silence, drinking their tea. The evening grew darker. Lights came on in the neighboring houses. Somewhere a child was crying, or perhaps it was just the sound of a television turned up too loud. Anita could not tell the difference anymore. By the time they went to bed, she had almost forgotten about the scorpion. But in the night she woke suddenly, her heart racing, convinced she could feel something crawling across her skin. She switched on the bedside lamp and examined her arms and legs carefully, knowing even as she did so that there was nothing there. Ravi slept through it all, undisturbed. In the morning, the incident seemed unreal, like something from a dream. Anita moved through her day—washing clothes, preparing lunch, sweeping the floor—with the strange sensation of having crossed some invisible threshold. She had killed something. She had held power over life and death, however briefly, however small the creature. It was not a triumphant feeling. It was not even particularly sad. It was simply a fact, like the fact that the sun rose in the east or that water was wet. She had been tested in some obscure way and had passed, or perhaps she had failed. She could not quite decide which. That evening, she found herself listening more carefully to the sounds of the house—the tick of the ceiling fan, the hum of the refrigerator, the small creakings and settlings of the structure itself. The city beyond the walls seemed very far away, though she could still hear it: the endless murmur of millions of people going about their lives, indifferent to scorpions and slippers and the strange awakenings that came in the night. She did not speak to Ravi about any of this. There seemed to be no words for it. Instead, she went about her business and tried to remember who she had been before the scorpion appeared. But that person seemed very far away now, on the other side of something she could not name.

From Arun’s diary…..

“Excuse me, I’m Arun. Could we talk for a moment?” “Sure, go ahead…..” The girl spoke without expression, her eyes fixed on something beyond him. “Why are you releasing the birds like that?” “Like what?” Now she turned toward him with a sharp, questioning gaze. “You buy them and then set them free. I’ve been watching from across the street this whole time. I was just curious, that’s all. Nothing more.” “Since I’ve bought the birds, I surely have the right to set them free……don’t I?” “No, no—ugh, that came out wrong—please, don’t mind me…..I just meant……” “It’s okay.” Before Arun could finish, the girl called out sharply to a rickshaw, “Hey uncle, are you heading out?” and was gone.

Toward the end of the year, on a fading autumn evening when a tender sunlight pierced the sky, after university classes, I was walking down Kantabagan Road. I had some work to do in that direction, anyway. Suddenly, I noticed a small crowd gathered outside a bird shop. Drawing closer, I saw a girl standing with three birdcages. One by one, she was opening the cages and releasing the birds. Everyone stood watching, their eyes wide with wonder.

And I stood there, astonished, looking at her. Those eyes—impossible eyes, deep and radiant with such profound satisfaction as they traced the flight of the freed birds. An ordinary girl, really—hair falling past her shoulders, her dupatta draped neatly, nothing fancy about her—a string of beads at her throat, a small black dot on her forehead, glass bangles stacked on her wrist—that’s all that caught my eye. Plain in appearance, plain in bearing, yet something distant and absent in her face. I tried again and again to read what her eyes were saying, but failed……all that ordinariness had somehow gathered around her that evening and made her extraordinary. Within moments, I felt drawn to her so strongly. It struck me then that I’d seen her before, that she wasn’t a stranger—that I wanted to believe I knew her somehow. I just stood there and watched. In the end, swallowing hard through a flush of hesitation, all I managed to do was tell her my name. I couldn’t bring myself to ask her anything else. Right before my eyes, she climbed into a rickshaw and left. I looked back, hoping—just hoping—that she might turn around, even by accident, one last time from the back of that rickshaw. ……..She didn’t. She left—the rickshaw, and she with it.

From that day on, a single question kept turning over in my mind like a wheel—“Why did she let those birds go like that?” It couldn’t have been mere whim. And certainly not born from some simple affection for birds in flight. Who was this girl really? What lived behind her eyes? What made her happy about setting birds free? Yet whatever she was, whatever she believed, her gaze was telling me something else altogether—that the depths of what she’d done lay elsewhere. Why would eyes lie?…….After that, I found myself taking that same road again and again, for no reason at all except this one—the hope that I might see her again!

I didn’t even learn her name that day. The moment she heard mine, she climbed into a rickshaw and left without a word. I don’t know what was in my name, but somehow, in that instant, something pushed her away—just like that! Ah! If only I’d known her name that day! How many days passed like this. Everyone at every tea stall along that street became like family to me. A black dog began keeping me company every day. The moment it saw me, its tail would wag with joy, and it would come close and rub itself against my pants. I felt a kind of love for that dog. It waited for me every day. On days when I didn’t come, who knows what it did, but the next day when it saw me, it would jump—whether from joy or from hurt, who can say? What does it understand when it jumps? I can’t read the language of anyone’s eyes anymore—somehow I’ve forgotten how. Though I remember, before that day, I could read them a little. One day I go to that shop and ask about the girl. They can’t tell me much, but they say this: “If you come back the same month next year, you might just see her. Most likely, she’ll come that month. It’s been two years since she last came.” But they couldn’t tell me the exact date. Those whose business is catching birds wouldn’t be expected to remember the date they released them. I grew restless. What date was it that day? The time was around quarter to four, I think.

As I was thinking, it suddenly came to me—that day I’d bought Rashed a copy of ‘Joddipi Amar Guru’ from the Concord Emporium’s ‘Modhomma’ section. On the first page of the book, I’d written: ‘Some people are born with infinite talent only to ruthlessly squander it—Rajjak is one such person…….Read it carefully.’ I’d given it to him. I remembered now that I’d written the date below. I called him right then and found out what date it was that day. And for this old habit of giving books as gifts to myself and others, I felt a kind of boundless joy all over again.

After that, I began to wait. For that day. The calendar pages ran out, the marker ink ran dry, yet the day would not come. Then, after all that waiting, it finally arrived. I went early in the morning and stood a little distance from that shop. So many people came and went, but the girl—she did not come! Each second felt older than I was myself. I grew restless again and again, but I did not move an inch from that spot—what if she came and left while I was gone? Suddenly, around midday, I saw her—the girl came hurrying in, breathless, and entered the shop. Today she bought only one cage of birds. Why? Would she never buy the other two cages? Or perhaps she didn’t have enough money with her today? Standing at a distance, watching her, turning these thoughts over in my mind. The transaction was almost done when I approached her, my legs heavy with hesitation, moving with great care, and then—”How are you, Nikhilesh? I’m Mrinmayi. I didn’t introduce myself that day.”—I received a tremendous shock. Not only did the girl recognize me, but she had remembered my name! How was it possible? It struck me then that simply being alive was happiness! I had received everything in this life—if nothing else came, that would be enough for me. I tried hard to push words out of my mouth, but none would come. I stood frozen in the infinite enchantment of that moment, as if time itself had stopped! She must have sensed the state of my heart, for she did not ask me anything more. Instead, she spoke on her own: “I love someone selflessly. His name is Nikhilesh. Today is his birthday. I wish I could give him so many things—but he doesn’t like that. The truth is, even accepting gifts is beside the point; I don’t even know if he cares for me. Whether he does or not, I do. That is my joy. So every year on this day, I release some birds into the sky. They fly away, so happily—it brings me such delight to see it.” “Oh really? What does he say when he hears all this? Is he pleased? Or…?” “No, no, there’s nothing to tell him about this. I like doing it, so I do it. My madness, my joy, my life—all of it belongs only to me. I like living this way. That’s all! Well, I should go now, yes? And listen—don’t do any of this on my account anymore. I don’t want you to. Take care of yourself.” With just these words, Mrinmayi got into a rickshaw and was gone. I stood there, frozen. I strained to hear the tinkle of the rickshaw’s bell. The sound faded, and eventually the rickshaw itself disappeared from sight. I remained where I was meant to remain, in that very spot. Sometimes a rickshaw can make a person feel terribly helpless. There were other thoughts gathering in my mind—I cannot recall them now.

Mrinmayi had said so much more about her love—I don’t remember it all, but it was something like this……”Do I need him to know that I love him? Does it matter if he knows or doesn’t? Will my love diminish if the news reaches him, or increase? Everything I do, everything I don’t do—all of it springs from love, but it isn’t necessary to tell him that. In my prayers, in my habits, in what brings me joy, in the way I live, in what I believe—his presence is woven through it all, and will remain so. For me, love is a matter of the heart. Love, to me, isn’t something vaporous—I can touch it whenever I wish.

Every feeling of love, I keep carefully in a corner of my heart, nurturing that consciousness with infinite tenderness, the consciousness that makes me think: I am not alone, I will never be alone again—this is my destiny. I may not be able to do much else in life, but I have loved. God must love me, otherwise why would He give me such a capacity? I am grateful to God. In my path through life, in my thoughts, Nikhilesh’s presence is undeniably real. It’s impossible to live forgetting this truth. He never had me, but I have truly found him—this belief is what has kept me alive.” And she went on like this, saying things I can’t quite recall. But I kept thinking: “Is it really possible to love someone this much, knowing they will never be yours! Today I made a vow—no matter what, no matter the suffering, no matter how long it takes, I will find Nikhilesh. I’ll speak to him, learn what’s really happening, understand why he doesn’t want Mrinmayi. How can someone be so cruel to a heart so pure! I’ll make Nikhilesh understand.” I could have asked Mrinmayi for his address, but for some reason—whether it was pride, or anger, or perhaps jealousy?—I didn’t want to. From that day on, I set out searching for that unbearable, mysterious Nikhilesh. Without an address, without knowing what he looked like, knowing nothing about him except one thing—I would find him. I was certain of it.

Arun’s search came to an end seven months later. Toward the end of the year, on that very day, Mrinmayi returns to the shop. “Are you Mrinmayi?” “Yes, tell me… but who are you?” “I’m Nabanita. Do you remember Arun?” “Oh, yes… Arun.” “I’m Arun’s friend……” Saying this, Nabanita places some torn pages from a diary into Mrinmayi’s hands. “If you have time, please read these.” From Nabanita, Mrinmayi learns that Arun used to go out constantly searching for Nikhilesh, wandering the streets like a madman looking for him. That’s how it was. One evening. Near the Kakrail intersection. Thinking he saw someone, mistaking them for Nikhilesh, Arun runs toward them—and that’s when the road accident happens. A local bus comes, strikes him, throws him onto the pavement, crushes him. On the way to the hospital…Nabanita continues. “No, please—stop!” Mrinmayi’s eyes fill with tears, her chest heaves. She weeps and weeps, sobbing in front of that birdcage, until consciousness leaves her and she collapses onto the street.

Days passed. And somehow, a new belief took root in her heart. Perhaps Arun would find Nikhilesh and tell him of Mrinmayi’s love. Mrinmayi knew well that Nikhilesh had never been one to be caught. No matter how hard one tried, Arun could never hope to pin him down. Yet she had never imagined—truly never—that such a day would come when she would have to face him. But Arun did find Nikhilesh! Even that aimless, fugitive flight came to rest at its destined address! What if Arun truly told him everything? At last, Mrinmayi decided: not for herself, but for Arun’s sake, she would lay it all bare to Nikhilesh.

That unwanted inheritance of dying with a smile—the burden Arun had wrested from Mrinmayi’s hands—that same inheritance, today, Mrinmayi would take back. Nikhilesh could not go on living. The things Mrinmayi had never been able to speak, the moment to speak them, to confess them, had come at last…and one day, she truly did.

Three people who had won lay at peace, side by side in sleep—Nikhilesh Samaddar, Nikhil. Nikhilesh Chowdhury, Arun. Mrinmayi Ganguli, Mira.