Plaster on the Wall of Thought: 108

Thought: Seven Hundred and Fifty

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One. Most of us think like this:

Whether you are good or bad in the eyes of the whole world is not for me to see. If you are good with me, then you are good; if you are bad with me, then you are bad. That's it!

Two. All my likes and dislikes are bound to you hand and foot,

Where exactly can I escape to—can you tell me that much?

Three. So you want to know about my lover? Listen then: even when he gets the chance to touch me, he doesn't touch me; and when he doesn't get the chance to touch me, he doesn't touch anyone else either!

Four. Our joys are written on our eyes and face,

Let our joys lie beside our souls.

Let some other destruction coil around the heart,

Let life be crammed into some other country.

Five. I always thought you were the greatest achievement of my life, that you had poured life into me. But sometimes, for some reason, I feel that you haven't quite set things right by coming into this life. The way I was before, the circumstances I was in, I could have managed just fine with those deprivations and sufferings, complaining all the while—but what's the point of life showing me something I'll never have? What was the need to tempt me with something I'll never attain?

Everything feels chaotic. Nothing works out right. Nothing fits together; instead, things become more ruined day by day.

I want to become a very bad person. But I can't. I've seen that bad people, even by cheating others, by beating and killing, manage to claim what's theirs. Though they are bad people, though society calls them demons, inhuman, they still live happily; they never lose anything they love. Those who give up everything and want to stay good by keeping everything right—they are the ones who end up truly destitute.

Think about it—even now there's someone to torment you. If I weren't here, who would torment you? You still exist now; if you weren't here and I still remained, then this thought would pain me: when the person was here, I had so much time to say everything, but I never told them anything. Then even if I wanted to reveal everything, how would I know if those words would ever reach you?

Better to scold and be scolded, to take whatever I want. Who knows when time will suddenly arrive at its final moment?

Instead, if I leave first, whatever I say in leaving, keep those words of mine carefully preserved. When I no longer torment you, if you ever feel a terrible longing, if you terribly miss the unrest I gave you, then open up these words and look at them. For as long as I've stayed with you, am staying—in all this time, I've given you more unrest than happiness!

I'll never have you close to me, never get the chance to lie beside you and talk with you; and even if it happens once or twice, perhaps the words won't come that day. You can't have everything whenever you want it, unless it comes from within. Today I felt like speaking, so I spoke. I don't know if I'll ever speak like this again, or if I'll be able to speak at all.

Being able to tell you everything feels like great good fortune to me—holding words inside the mind is such painful work!

When words are held back, they begin to grow inside us, and when the heap of accumulated words becomes heavier than the person himself, that person starts gasping for breath and thinks, ah, if only these could be given to someone! Words that cannot be given to anyone gradually kill what is within us.
What I know, what I have understood — these are my acquisitions. I have no desire to enchant you or to be enchanted by you. You have already figured out how foolish and overly emotional a girl I am, I know that too. That is why I don't suppress anything. Since you know me anyway, what's the point of presenting myself differently! Even if I hadn't said anything, hadn't let you understand, wouldn't you have grasped what I really am? You're not that foolish — simplicity and foolishness are completely different. You are simple, but not foolish or uncomprehending.
People protest injustice to try to keep human conscience awake. And I, by speaking of my love to you, by displaying it, by wanting to prove it, try to keep my love alive. In case you forget by mistake someday, I remind you — I still love you, in the same way, like a madwoman!
Six. You speak in such a way that I cannot understand which direction to go. I cannot go anywhere else, yet I have no place near you either. I don't know what to hold onto, what to let go of, or what to do at all. I don't like so much anxiety.
You will always do this to me, I know. But I cannot figure out what I should do, how I should do it. Then nothing else works in my head. I feel like going somewhere else entirely, where there would be no opportunity to go to you, but also no compulsion to go anywhere else. Such a place would be wonderful.
When I remain in such doubt, it destroys me. When I forget everything, forget even myself, then I am well. Doubt is the most potent weapon for destroying a person!
Seven. The gap between reality and dreams is like heaven and earth. To dream, one need only sleep and close one's eyes and feel, but to want something in reality requires effort and time as necessities. Everything else is secondary. Secondary means secondary, period. You cannot have all pleasures at once. For one pleasure, you must give up hope for another. In this life, most of the failed people I have seen, though they failed to get one pleasure, succeeded in getting another pleasure that perhaps many others never got. From this perspective, both success and failure are really just lifestyles, nothing more. You will often see that the pleasure you are enjoying before becoming successful, successful people enjoy that same pleasure after success has come to their lives. This is what should happen when you take later pleasures earlier. Accept it — in life you will not get all pleasures together; for one, you must let go of another.
Thought: Seven Hundred and Fifty-One

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Yesterday I spoke a few words to you, and today you couldn't even find time to call. You know that no matter what happens, I will still wait for your call, yet you had no time. You won't have time either, I know, because I have become a complete thorn in your throat now. Nothing about me is bearable to you anymore. All you see is that I complain, I nag, I whine. You know I am unwell, my headache isn't getting better, yet you didn't feel the need to call and check on me, to speak with me. You know that if you had called, even if I weren't completely well, I would have been half-healed mentally, I would have gained some mental strength—you know all this, but you don't care about any of it.
Even after I got COVID, you spoke with me for just a few minutes one day and then hung up. After that, forget calling—you didn't even have time to check on me through messages. For several days now, I've asked you at least five times to send me two of your t-shirts to wear. Do you think I asked because I don't have nightclothes? I asked for your own used ones because I never get to have you close—if I wore your t-shirt, I would feel like you were with me, I could feel you a little more. That's why I asked. You even said you would send them, but it's been ten to fifteen days since I asked, and not once in all this time did you find the time to send them. If you wanted, you could have easily arranged to send them through your office peon or your driver, but the truth is you simply don't want to.
Before this, I had asked for a nose pin. I didn't ask you for a diamond nose pin—I asked for a small nose pin that I could wear all the time. Since metal ones get ruined after some use, I asked for a very small gold one. I asked you to go and buy it yourself, because I wanted something bought by your own hands. Besides, women wear nose pins after marriage, and it's always that special person who buys it for them. You are everything to me, which is why I asked you. A very small gold nose pin would have cost at most fifteen hundred rupees—you couldn't afford even that much for me, though my nose pin would have cost far less than many of your books.
You yourself mentioned diamonds—I never said it, never asked for it, don't ask for it now either. I only wanted a nose pin from you, one I could wear always, made of whatever material, but as long as it was from you, I would have been delighted and stayed happy with it. Yet I know you keep putting it off, saying "I'll give it today, I'll give it tomorrow." Even after all this, understanding everything and enduring it all, I'm the one who reaches out first to talk, I'm the one who constantly convinces myself that the fault is mine, that I'm the one who fights and quarrels with you, who creates trouble—that's why you're not caring about anything concerning me. Even then, when I try to come close, you push me away, you try to keep your distance. I understand that you want to move away, yet I pretend not to understand and go back again, again and again. And still, I'm the guilty one!
When a person buys something for themselves, they feel a certain happiness, but when they can adorn their beloved, when they can give them something, the joy is a thousand times greater. A satisfaction works from the heart—that they are wearing something I gave them. One's beloved feels even more one's own, and there's a desire to claim: they are mine.
That day I said, I will make a punjabi for you, just tell me your size. For a long time I've wanted to give you a punjabi of my own choice, made by my own hands, but because of corona, because of my own illness, two Eids passed and still I couldn't give you anything. Only I know how painful this was for me. I had never told you about this before, but I thought, when I give it, I'll let you know then. Now everything has become somewhat normal, and your birthday is coming up again. If I sew it by hand, it will take another month to complete even after getting it from the tailor's shop, which is why I wanted to work on it little by little from beforehand. You know, I have a lot of work at home, studies—even if I want to, I can't just finish something suddenly. I have to move forward little by little.
That day I asked you so many times to just tell me the size, but you still wouldn't say. Perhaps you thought that I had finally chosen this path to hold onto you, to make you happy, but even if I tell you that I had been thinking about this beforehand, you won't try to understand. How much money does a punjabi cost anyway—I would have given it with my own money. I wouldn't have gone to Abbu asking for money to buy a simple punjabi. I wouldn't have given you anything you couldn't wear—I would certainly have given something standard. At least you could have given me the chance to see what I would do!
But you didn't let me do even that. I know you keep saying "later," but this "later" will never come again. I have become a burden to you in every way. Otherwise, yesterday you couldn't have said it the way you did—that instead of love, I should just keep a dog! When I want to know something from my beloved, it becomes interrogation, demanding explanations—yet I hear that beloved ones have the right to know so many things! I am your beloved only in name, but I could never reach you in any other way. You always create a very subtle wall between us—I understand this, but you don't let me understand, you think I won't comprehend. I will never again approach you with any claim, any plea, any wish, anything at all.
I try to become what your heart wants, but I keep failing again and again. I could never truly become yours. If I were yours, you wouldn't deprive me of everything this way. Whatever you say, everyone else has their place—everyone else in your family is perfectly fine with you, they receive your complete attention and support. You only say that you don't give them any explanations, and so many other things you say, but I know that they will ask you for explanations, and you never give them the opportunity to do so.
They get everything from you—your attention, your care, your companionship, your love—all of it before they even need to ask, while I remain something external, an outsider. Perhaps you even give your friends higher priority than me. In your eyes, there's no difference between me and any five strangers on the street. If doing all this makes you feel that you're right, that whatever you do is correct, then do as you see fit, because I've tried hard enough all this while, but I won't anymore. Do whatever you think is best, whatever you believe is right.
I'm trying very hard to fall completely silent, but I can't break free from my habits. You've merged so completely with my blood that separating you now would mean inflicting some damage upon myself, because I may no longer have the strength to bear this trauma—that's why I fear for myself. I never imagined I'd find myself in such a situation, where I'd become a stranger to myself. I was never this uncontrolled, not ever. I always had complete power over myself.
So much has happened in life, yet I've never felt this helpless, alone, and detached. My inner core was always strong; I could handle anything with strict discipline, I could manage without hesitation. But that I would one day become so helpless and numb—this was beyond imagination. Whatever else happened, I never broke down mentally over anything, yet here I am, transformed like this! I look at myself with such bewilderment, and I feel so cheap, even to myself. The person whom no one could ever shake even slightly with anything—that very person would be defeated by something as cheap as love, it's astounding to contemplate. Yes, love is indeed something very cheap. Otherwise, no one would cast it aside so carelessly. Because it's so cheap, it's worthless, and in that cheap snare I've finally become trapped! How strange, isn't it! That such a strong person could be defeated by something as cheap as love—the very thought fills me with infinite self-contempt!
Reflection: Seven Hundred Fifty-Two

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One. All day long everything goes fine for you, but the moment it's time to talk with me, that's when all the troubles of your kingdom arise. Each day you show up with a different kind of problem. One day it's your own problem, another day your friend's, yet another day your friend's mother's. You have all the records of the days we've talked—listen to each one, one by one, and see how I speak and how you react. How many days have you actually had a proper conversation with me? If you listen to this, you'll find all the answers to your questions yourself.
Now tell me something—why are you so forcibly keeping this relationship alive? You have so many problems talking with me, this problem and that problem—has someone forced you to stay with me? Why are you here so forcibly? Every time I miss your call for some reason, you immediately get busy on another phone. What is all this, tell me? Last night too you told me you would do the nebulizer, and I called you a full hour after that minimum time, only to find you busy on another call! Yet when it's time to talk with me, your condition is such that you seem to suffocate and die right then! Who you were talking to—only you and the Creator know that.
I've noticed many, many times before—you don't talk with me, but you stay awake all night just fine. Yet when it's time to talk with me, all sorts of novel excuses spring up! If you can't give a relationship even a minimum amount of time, then what's the point of keeping that relationship hanging? Can't you just say straight that it's no longer possible for you? I'll create a hundred problems because you have no attention for me, you always try to avoid everything. And today you're telling me you don't even know how you behave with me!
One cannot hold onto someone like this, nor let them go. What kind of quicksand have I gotten stuck in—only Allah knows! I want freedom. I can no longer bear this daily unrest. I truly want liberation from this. I want my open sky back. In this closed room I suffocate, I'll suddenly collapse and be finished! I want nothing else, I want freedom from this. Just show me the path to my liberation. When the heart makes an error, the heart itself pays the price for that error.
Please show me a path. Otherwise just keeping myself alive will become a challenge. I feel like I'm going mad all the time!
Two. You keep telling me one lie after another, and you know very well what lies you've been telling me all this time. What did you think? That I would cry for you? That I would suffer? That I would try to forget you and keep forgetting you, and torment myself day after day?
Ha ha ha! I'll kick myself if necessary, but I won't cry for a deceiver. I knew all of this beforehand. I know who deserves my tears and who doesn't.
If there isn't a single person in my world who deserves my tears, I will still spend the rest of my life with great joy, without a trace of regret. I harbor no self-reproach, no despair toward myself. My parents are still alive, and for these two people alone, I can spend the remainder of my life in solitude without regret, without complaint. Rather, thank you for showing me all this beforehand. When things are revealed before it's too late, one can escape much harm, and I offer millions of thanks to my Creator for opening my eyes.
Thank you for everything you have done to me. I feel so fortunate and strong now. It feels as though life has taught me something new again, shown me something fresh. I am grateful to my Creator. Just know this much: the pain that lived in my heart all this time for you, thinking of you, in the absence of your love—that longing and desire, that place of reverence, profound love, and respect—has been washed clean and clear. And for this I thank you, because even if you didn't intend it, your actions, your behavior proved that for someone like you, pain, emotion, love—these are just playthings.
I will never again allow my love, my emotions to be wasted and spent on the wrong person, not even in the final moments of this life. However much you may have toyed with my love, my emotions, for that I am deeply, deeply grateful, because otherwise I would have kept you in a place of hollow sentiment for a lifetime, continuing to humiliate and diminish myself. For all that you did to me, thank you so very much.
Love!! What utter nonsense!!
Had I known that love was such a difficult task, I would have done a hundred ear-pulling exercises every day as discipline, but I wouldn't have loved anyone. Love isn't really work for humans. It's the work of demons and spirits. May Allah forgive me. I seek forgiveness. I made a mistake. I mistakenly fell in love, and now I seek pardon. Only Allah knows by what error I once loved! There is no greater crime than love.
Reflection: Seven Hundred Fifty-Three

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One. Somewhere far away there would be such a place,

where I could have a very small and simple life,

away from crowds,

distant from clamor,

I would have such a place of my own,

where I could easily spend

the remaining moments with myself, by myself!

A peaceful life!

This is all I had asked of life—such a modest existence,

nothing more than that!

But why I ended up in such a Ravana's pyre, alas, who knows!
Two. I am not so much of a child. You always keep me hungry, thirsty, feeding me half-portions, which is why I constantly cry for food like a child before you. And my food is your love, your affection, talking to you on the phone, receiving your messages—these are what nourish me.

Someday give me my proper meals and then see if I still act like such a child. Just as a child understands everything—affection, love—I too understand everything. When there is incompleteness in what I receive, that's when I torment you like this. Depriving me of my love is truly a crime. When you deprive me of your love, keep in mind that you are committing an offense against me. I certainly have the right to receive complete love from the person I love. Now if you don't give me that, then that's your affair.
Three. Tell me, does a snake lurk within every human being? When I look at myself, it doesn't seem so, but when I look around, why does it feel that way? Is this merely a delusion of the mind? Or is this how it is? I often feel that everyone around me is lying in wait like this, ready to raise their hood at the first opportunity—they just haven't found the right moment yet!
Four. Souvik, I miss you terribly, you know? Your hair, lips, smile—I wonder if these will change with time. Whether they do or don't, I love you, and I will love you. I want to bring all the happiness in the world and lay it at your feet. I want to cherish you in my heart, and also cling to your chest. How wonderful it feels to stand before the mirror dressed as a bride! Perhaps it feels so good because I'm imagining what isn't mine as mine! People live by thinking of distant things as near, don't they? Tell me?
Oh, we were supposed to have such a beautiful wedding, weren't we? A registry marriage. First without telling the family, then after two years, letting everyone know and having a proper wedding. Our engagement—or you could call it a blessing ceremony—would have been lovely. Nothing grand, just family and close friends—we had planned together to keep it simple.
Many people would have said many things, thought many things. After all, we were from two different faiths! So what? I would have convinced everyone somehow. Of course, neither your family nor mine would have agreed easily—I know that well. But somehow the wedding would have happened anyway. Even on the wedding day I would have gotten scolded by you about this and that. But still, I would have married this person who kept me on edge all day long. In the blessing ceremony, the ring I put on would have been on your hand. Oh, how beautiful it would have been!
Even on the wedding day I would have been mischievous, laughing, dancing. You would have said, "When will you ever grow up, Rai?" And I would have said, "Never.
'Hee hee hee.' Even on our wedding day, I kept telling you through gestures and glances, 'I'm going to be a mother.' I kept saying it, whispering it in your ear. Everyone would ask, 'What is she saying?' You'd turn red with embarrassment. I'd laugh my most blissful laugh. And on that day, you'd fall in love with my laughter all over again.
When it came time for me to leave, I wouldn't cry at all, not a single tear. After all, I wasn't being marched off to prison with some stranger—why would I cry? I was going to my own person. Why would I cry? We wouldn't go to your family home, because most people in both our families wouldn't accept our marriage anyway. We'd move into a two-room flat. Some flat where both our offices would be nearby. I'd come home and cry my heart out. Tears of joy—my happiness, our domestic happiness. I think somehow we must have been husband and wife in some previous life. No one could feel this way just for a lover! And what fool loves his girlfriend this much?
I would never sleep without you. We'd have so many little quarrels. You'd often stop talking to me when you were angry. But still, I would never stay alone without you, never sleep alone at night. Neither would you. We'd become habits for each other. Even after fighting and going to bed angry, you'd still place your right hand over my body so I wouldn't fall off the bed in my sleep. Hee hee hee. Neither of us would speak during our fights. But still I'd wait to sit and eat with you at night. We'd both be busy with work all day. Even when you were angry, I'd keep talking all by myself, making you even angrier!
The nights would be so cold. I'd lie pressed against your back. I'd hint that I wanted it. You'd respond too. Together we'd pour water on all my sulking and your ego. We'd talk so much during those times. And I'd say, 'When will I become a mother?' You'd laugh again. You'd say, 'Good grief, can't you think about anything else?' I'd immediately bite your lip. My lips would disappear inside yours. You'd hold me so tightly, and I'd claw your back even tighter.
I would completely lose myself inside your chest. I'd sink like a pearl into the sea. Into my own sea, my very own, my one and only sea—I'd plunge in with a splash!
Thought: Seven Hundred Fifty-Four

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One. Dearest Mother,

You never came to this planet called Earth, and you did well not to.

Here, as evening slips into night, every human being becomes like a solitary island. The more glitter and color one sees on the city walls, the more profoundly gray and colorless are those very walls, down to each brick and stone! In every speck of dust there mingles sorrow, sorrow, and more sorrow.

Here people mask their melancholy with shields of laughter, paint the wings of dreams with false decorations. Truly, every person here suffers from a strange malady. This disease is utterly incurable.

You never came, and you did well. Yet sometimes I think, had you come, I would have filled your little room with dolls upon dolls. I would have kept the whole house stocked with all your favorite foods.

You know, when your mother was very small, theirs was a household of great want. She ate one meal and couldn't manage the next. How many nights, how many days she spent lying on a mat spread on the ground, going without food—you couldn't even imagine. Your mother could sense how much anguish your mother's mother felt at being unable to feed her children. That sorrowful mother covered her face with her sari's edge and wept through countless sleepless nights, and no one knows of it even today.

O Mother, I would never have allowed such deprivation in your home!

I would have watched you grow little by little before my very eyes. Your mischief would have filled every nook and corner of my house, every inch. Each morning I would have braided your long hair, and you would have swayed and danced off to school in your plump little body while I gazed at you with enchanted eyes.

I would have taught you that love itself means the world, humanity itself means life, and death itself means art. I would have taught you more—that being free of greed means glory, being selfless means strength, and being compassionate means being immersed in divine wealth.

Alas, none of it came to pass!

Yet even today, my days revolve around you. Thinking of you, I live with a certain happiness painted on my face and eyes. All my imagination, all my peace, all my lifespan... revolve around keeping you in my mind, brain, heart, and soul.

I see you and think that death doesn't mean non-existence, being lost doesn't mean being forgotten, failure doesn't mean the final word. You will be well, I will keep you well.
Two. In this sorrowful soul you still wander about like a restless spirit. In our home, in spring... never call that man who has forgotten me close! I have completed you within myself in my most joyful realm. But the most tragic thing is that I did this work without love!

How do you stay with them, caring nothing for their continuous efforts at hatred? About you, one can only say this much—you are a floating island. That island flies across the sky, doesn't drift along water's surface. You are indeed a soul, not a lover!

How do you live with such a simple woman, without the company of gods or demons? When you were enthused to become emperor of the throne, didn't descending from it truly pain you? Even today, taking responsibility for immortal obscenity, how do you manage people impoverished in mental wealth?

Faith and obstacles—this is enough to live! I will rent a house for myself. How you live with love, I often wonder. How well do you know love? How do you live with a stranger?
Three. Yesterday, when I was lying under a soft blanket, a dream was born in my eyes. In every dream, someone wins, someone loses.
Who won in my dream? And who was defeated?

I have changed my mind again; weary today from wanting to win, wanting to win. That is why I push the word 'victory' aside, and in the dreams I dream these days, there is mainly love.

In that dream, who was the hunter? And who the prey? When love arrives, everything turns gray! I have not yet calculated who was vanquished by whom in the struggle between desire and power.

What someone wants or what someone grieves for depends fundamentally on whether they have fallen in love or not. Those who weep without loving well—whatever they may gain, none of it is love, nothing like love at all.

Evening came, and since then only this image has clung to my eyes—only us—you and I, together we have brought forth a poem of sorrow. The intoxication of devotion has bound us more firmly, more than others.

When such inspiration passes, some connect with affection. Some can no longer pray, yet when they want to love, even after everything they do not rush into the current of condemnation, but accustom themselves to the awakening of the soul.

Four. For all the mischief you make, I should forget you for at least ten days. But I can't manage even one hour properly. It feels like a hundred years. And this is the advantage you take. You are an excessively roguish and frivolous and wicked and devilish person and a mischievous person. I will file a case against you.

I truly want to change myself. This being stuck only on 'you' is destroying everything for me. My well-being, my studies, my career, my happiness...everything.

For me you are just a busy person, and for you I am just the cause of your irritation. Hearing your constant displeasure and disapproval, I am forgetting my own preferences and habits. What I am habituated to, you are unaccustomed to.

Listen, everyone has their busyness. Some show it, some don't. Because busyness is not something to be explained to everyone. This is my psychology. Even when I am in great trouble, if you call again and again—a thousand times—I don't get annoyed at all, rather I become very happy. I cannot even imagine living without talking to you.

When I sometimes cannot answer your call, I feel bad that I couldn't pick up your phone. You think about how long one can talk in a day, how many times one can call. And I think about why I cannot hear your voice all day long, why I cannot have you all the time!

I miss you so much! When I have to be without you, even one minute feels like an hour. Only because of this difference in our concern, priority, and affection for each other—yours for me and mine for you—so much trouble happens. I don't matter at all to you, but without you I cannot think of anything else.
Reflection: Seven Hundred Fifty-Five

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One. All day and all night I remain absorbed in just one person. Yet I don't even cross their mind! What kind of life is this!
Fine then, I'm sorry!
Oh, the burden of being born male! Men never know what their fault is, before or after saying sorry. This is what you call fate!!
Two. I thought, if I keep my phone on, I'll want to call you constantly, text you non-stop. I'll keep asking whether you've eaten, whether you've bathed. In the evening and at night I call at least seven or eight times just to check on you. And then there's all the additional torment that follows.
What's the point! The person who tolerates me so much, who accepts everything I do—surely I can change myself this much for them. So I keep my phone off, because otherwise you'll think of me and call, you'll check on me. Then I'll have to talk to you! If texts come, you'll have to reply, it'll be inconvenient for you. You don't like this, it interferes with your work. You're not used to taking on so much trouble. Then why should I burden you with all this hassle?
I never want to force you to do anything. I just want you to live in peace.
Enough, enough! My love is unbearable to you, so there's no point saying all this. This is better then. Stay busy with your work. Write me a few lines when you feel like it, how's that?
You are an updated version of a tormentor. You torment a girl named Orani—a child, cute and extremely good—completely without reason. The girl cries because of your senseless cruelty. But still you continue to behave this way.
Nothing about the girl affects you at all. But still the girl loves you deeply. You too once loved her very much, but you don't anymore. Broken heart, sad life!
Three. I might go mad without you! How will I live? What will I do? Everything is over! Didn't I tell you once, happiness doesn't suit my fate! I have to think about so many things. I have to think, because reality is harsh, very harsh.
Don't stop me. If you speak like that, I'll never be able to leave you. I'm far too crazy about you. Say something very cruel to me and send me away.
Such tenderness has grown in me for you that I can never imagine talking to anyone else! I'm leaving. You won't have to think about me anymore.
You must stay well. Take care of yourself. Look after yourself, please. Not being able to watch over you and care for you—nothing could be more painful! You can't keep me, you don't have that option, dear! Whether you want it or I want it, nothing can be done here.
You can't keep me. Someday or other you'll have to tell me to go. The pain will only increase. Both of us will suffer. Suffering will be our only destiny. If we can't part now, we'll have to die later, literally! Day by day the pull will grow stronger, more attachment will form.
You can neither keep me with you, nor tell me to leave. Life will become even more difficult. The pain will be terrible. Darling, please understand! Hurt me deeply, treat me badly and drive me away with harsh words.
Please, imagine that I'm dead. If I had actually died, wouldn't you have taken care of yourself?
Even when I am not there, you must take care of yourself. You will work and fall asleep thinking of me. You will take your medicines. You will eat your meals. You will do everything properly. You will go to the office, return home and read your books.
And when you are much happier with everyone else, you need not tell me about it—just be very, very happy. Don't make me so helpless, my darling! What am I to do when you honor an insignificant girl like me this way? Please send me away! Send me away, my darling!
I cannot bear to cause you pain. Yet I cannot bear to live without you either. And you cannot keep me for a lifetime, I know. There will be so much suffering ahead. There will be! I don't know if I'll be able to endure it at all.
I will stay awake, while you sleep peacefully like a good boy, taking responsibility for yourself. I will worry, just as I always do. Perhaps I won't call, but I will keep thinking of you. And please, my darling, take care of yourself. Take your medicines regularly, don't worry about anything. Stay well. You feel better when you read, so do read.
I have never spent a single day apart from you. I will miss you terribly. Living itself will be painful! You will take care of yourself, won't you? Promise me?
**Thought: Seven Hundred Fifty-Six

.............................................................**
One. You are leaving me, and my mind truly isn't right! I've even forgotten my mobile password! I had to flash the phone out of desperation. All the passwords and the phone's contents are gone. Everything else will follow.
It won't be possible for me anymore—I'll have to start everything from scratch. Everything shattered, everything finished. You never knew, never could know, what you meant to me!
What I've lost is beyond your imagination. I can neither return to you nor live without you. Tell me yourself what I should do. What should I do?
Only in dying could I have found release. But I can't even do that. If I died, my parents would weep themselves into madness now—there's no doubt about it.
Even without me, everything in your life will continue just fine. I don't want you to suffer for my sake either. Causing pain to one's own person while going away is the hardest thing of all. So whether I remain or not, may everything in your life continue just as well.
But what will I do now? I truly cannot go on without you! Really, absolutely cannot. I know all this is only my affair. I pray that this may never become 'our' affair from just 'my' affair in your eyes. Because then you couldn't bear that pain, just as I cannot.
Two. What you really want is for me to go mad, abandon everything, and wander the streets. I send so many messages, you sit silently without replying to any of them, yet on the other hand you post statuses saying grand things. When anger rises to my head, you say it's all my fault! I really should have quit Facebook for life. I keep coming back to you only to see all this.
Replying to a message takes two seconds at most. Don't you have even that much time to give me importance? You've become so busy! I'm nobody to you anyway, so when I asked, what was the difficulty in just telling me so? You have no answers to any of my questions. That's why you don't want to talk. Stay as well as you please, be completely at peace. I won't come here anymore.
I know I've been behaving very childishly for quite some time now, but didn't it ever occur to you that you've become completely different, become unrecognizable? Does that mean you can do whatever you please whenever you want, but if I say something, it's wrong? If you won't give me time, if you don't love me, or if I exist only for passing time, then what's wrong with saying that straight to my face? Tell me there was never any love here, that you were simply passing time for a few days—then everything becomes clear, and I won't keep chasing after you like a madman under false assumptions.
Why do you say nothing, yet keep silently swallowing everything? Why do you do this? I behave this way with you only because I'm still all right. If I had once decided never to come to you again, no matter what happened, then nothing could have brought me back to you.
The pain you inflict by keeping a person under such pressure—it perhaps never even crosses your imagination how much it hurts me when you behave this way. If it were anyone else in your place, I would never have looked in that direction a second time in my life. You diminish my emotions, treat them as trivial! No matter, do it more.
I will remain alone my entire life, but I will not go to any other home, will not will not will not. Let whatever happens happen. If you kick me out and drive me away, then perhaps I won't come to this home anymore, but still I won't go to any other home. I don't follow anyone else's philosophy of love. My philosophy of love has only one principle: the one I love—apart from them, I will love no one else, I will not let anyone else come near me. If necessary, I will hurt myself every moment, inflict as much pain on myself as I can, but still I won't go.
What would it cost you to speak to me a little kindly? I wait all day for a single message, a single phone call, day after day—you know this, yet why do you deliberately keep causing such pain? I don't want to create trouble with you all the time, yet even when you understand, you always pretend not to understand everything, deflect the conversation, and walk away under the pretext of work.
The moment I say anything, you leave. Why I'm constantly irritated with you—even that you pretend not to understand though you do. Do I ever truly have you? Then why shouldn't I be irritated? On top of that, when I ask for something—like this, for instance—that you give me a little more time, instead of doing that, you completely stop talking altogether.
Now I can't accept these things anymore. Not because I'm jealous and can't accept it—no. It hurts me. I suffocate when you don't speak to me lovingly. This constant messaging I do, messaging and messaging, yet you don't come, you don't reply, not even once the whole day. If you do reply, it's just some brief, perfunctory response before you disappear. Don't these things cause me pain?
I keep poking at you constantly, if I quarrel I quarrel, but at least I message, at least I talk. But you—entire days pass when you don't message, don't speak. If I had behaved with you the way you do, if I didn't create trouble, didn't keep messaging constantly, then you would understand what kind of pain it causes. You have me constantly before your eyes, so nothing registers with you. If you can somehow scribble two lines and escape, you're saved.
You don't write anything special for me anymore! You announce everything in your status! Wonderful! Now I'm just another member of your audience! Truly, what excess have I committed that you should treat me specially! Now you come and go online, perhaps you have time for many others even on messenger, while my messages just keep getting buried under the weight of a hundred other messages! What am I to you but just another incident!
I don't see any Bengali text to translate in your message. You've provided detailed translation principles and context about translating Bengali philosophical/reflective prose to English, but there's no actual Bengali content included.
Could you please share the Bengali text you'd like me to translate? I'm ready to apply those principles to create a literary translation that captures the essence, voice, and emotional truth of the original work.