I remember the old man so much. Let me tell you a little about him—please don't be angry.
For the old man, an ocean of love will remain in this heart until death. When I went near his office once, he threatened to turn me over to the police. Am I the kind of girl who fears anything? Seeing him afraid that day made me laugh so much. He thought I would harm him. But when I love him so, could I ever think of causing harm, even in death!
I love the old man so much that...yes, if he belonged to someone else, it would pain me, but if he were happy, then even seeing him making love with another woman in front of me wouldn't hurt—rather, I'd be glad that he was happy. Who says women can't share their lover with another woman? For his happiness I can do anything—all my own joy lies in his joy alone.
Every Thursday he goes home; I used to not let him go. But now when Thursday comes, on Friday night I imagine him intimate with his wife...! He's happy, not suffering at all, though I love him as boundless as the sky.
I want to kiss his cheeks infinite millions of times. I think, if I could see him just once, what happiness I would feel!
The last day we met, he had taken me for an exam. On the way back he was saying his right finger was hurting. Hearing this, I wanted to touch his finger. When we got home he said, why didn't you touch my finger once? I kept wanting it, touch it a little. If you had touched it, all the pain would have gone away.
The anguish of not touching his finger still weighs in my chest today.
I want to go and ask him: "Does your finger hurt? May I touch it a little?" Really, would his pain have healed if I had touched it?
I think, doesn't he feel empty without me! Can this emptiness be filled by his wife's touch? I know it never can. I like to think that I know the old man very well.
Going up to the roof, sitting in a chair, watching the moon in the eastern breeze, he surely says to himself, Supta, you are my slice of moon, you still live on in this heart. You cannot be forgotten.
Can I really be forgotten! Then why has my old man become so cruel!
Middle-aged love—rising above society, family, everything—cannot be expressed openly; one must love in hiding. That love is like the fragrance of flowers, like night-waking birds, like the thudding sound within one's own ribs. This love cannot be separated from oneself.
I love another woman's husband.
Coveting another's belongings is sin, isn't it! But as punishment for this sin, what am I receiving—so much happiness bathed in it! Even in not having the old man, there's infinite joy. It feels as if he's somehow mingled within my heart!
I love such an elderly man, thirty years older than me! Can you imagine! When he was thirty, I came into this world...a tiny thing! And he was already married then, with her of all people...!
The old man's daughter is my friend, the old man's wife is my sigh, and the old man is my breath. This was my fate!
He never seems old to me. I want to forcefully embrace him to my chest!
He often talked about Humayun and Shaon, talked about marrying me. I never thought about such things, but I also never thought he was lying.
Really, how does he ignore a girl like me! How does he stay away from me! Where did he get such infinite power to ignore?
I don't like young boys anymore...young meaning those under thirty. Is indifference then love? Love makes some people enchanting, others cruel.
This irresistible attraction of mine for a middle-aged man. This isn't mere desire, this is love. This is such beautiful, tender, intense love—where there's intense longing, where there's joy in not having.
I want to kidnap him, keep him imprisoned at home; then shower him with all the affection I please.
At this old age, to have the good fortune of receiving a young woman's intense love and yet ignore it—what is he but wretched! I am that wretch's yearning, passionate lover.
I didn't ask for a home, only sought a little shelter—and didn't even get that!