# Spellbound, Seeking The morning arrived wrapped in mist, the kind that clings to memory like a half-remembered dream. I stood at the threshold of my grandmother's house, watching the garden fade into grey, and felt the peculiar weight of inheritances we don't choose. She had left me everything—the house, the garden, the correspondence of forty years—but not the key to any of it. That, I think, was deliberate. The letters were bundled in the old sandalwood chest, tied with faded ribbon. Some had yellowed so completely they seemed translucent, ghosts of words rather than words themselves. I opened one at random. The handwriting was my grandmother's—the same precise, slanting script that covered the margins of my childhood books—but the voice was a stranger's. *My dearest,* it began, *the world believes what we allow it to believe. But in this room, in this solitude we have carved out, I am only myself.* I did not know who she was writing to. Over the following weeks, I reconstructed a love that had lived in the interstices of an ordinary life. A love that had asked for nothing—no public acknowledgment, no future, no more than the handful of afternoons stolen from propriety and consequence. The letters were signed only with initials. The replies, if they had ever been kept, were long since ash. What struck me most was not the romance itself, but the clarity of it. My grandmother had known exactly what she was choosing. Every word in those letters was deliberate, every silence a kind of fidelity. She had built a life with my grandfather—dutiful, decent, affectionate in its way. But she had kept another life burning somewhere else, a secret not of shame but of fierce, unapologetic truth. I found a photograph, finally, slipped between the final pages: my grandmother in a garden I didn't recognize, laughing at something just beyond the frame, her hand resting on someone's shoulder. The person had been cut away, but you could see the shape of their absence, the exact contour of what had been severed. I sat with this discovery the way you sit with grief that isn't entirely your own. There was a kind of envy in it, a kind of mourning. My grandmother had lived inside an elaborate fiction, yes, but she had also lived. Fully. Consciously. She had wanted something and taken it, not recklessly, but with the care of someone who understands the price and pays it anyway. The world calls this illusion. We build ourselves cages out of duty and call them homes. We learn to be content with the acceptable and forget the name of what we're missing. And sometimes, just sometimes, someone loves us enough to show us—through silence, through absence, through the deliberate burning of certain evidence—that there was always another way to live. I burned the letters on a clear autumn evening, feeding them to the fire in handfuls. Not because I wanted to erase her, but because I understood, finally, what she was asking of me. Not to judge. Not to explain. Not even to understand fully, because some things are sacred precisely because they remain half-known. But to remember that illusion and truth are not always opposites. Sometimes they are the same cloth, seen from different angles. Sometimes the way we deceive the world is the way we love ourselves. Sometimes the deepest secrets are not shameful at all—they are just the parts of ourselves we've been too afraid to claim. The house is mine now. The garden will grow wild if I let it. The chest is empty, and that emptiness feels like a kind of blessing—a blank page, a permission I hadn't known I was waiting for. I think often of that photograph, of the hand on the shoulder, of the person just beyond the frame. I think of my grandmother's laughter, directed at something I will never see. And I think of myself, still young enough to choose, still foolish enough to believe that love and integrity might not be enemies after all. The world is full of people living inside their own myths, convinced by their own stories. The trick—the only real trick—is to do it consciously. To know exactly which parts you've surrendered, and to keep burning, somewhere in the secret chambers of your heart, a light that belongs to no one but yourself. That is what she left me. Not answers. Not even a legacy, exactly. But the understanding that the greatest illusion is the life we live when we believe we have no choice. And the greatest truth is the life we claim when we finally do.

 
I'm not well, yet I'm still alive! Isn't that something!


Tell me—have I ever asked you for anything? Love, time? Have I ever asked you to message me, to call, to see me? I asked for nothing. I loved you as you were, with everything you brought. There were no expectations. None at all! Though I won't lie—there was one small hope tucked away in my heart, and it was this: that no matter what you could or couldn't do, you'd at least understand my love. That was all. But since father died, even that has faded, because how I feel... I can't explain it to anyone. Everything's been turned upside down. He was my greatest strength. He loved me more than anyone ever could. After him, I have to accept that no one will love me the way he did. I'm living through an unbearable truth.


I call my mother "you," but I called father "sir." Yet my love for him was greater. Sometimes I want to—so badly, in my heart—bury my head in your chest and scream and cry for ten minutes. I want to, so much... but I've never told you. Perhaps it's unfair of me to ask this of you... Let me tell you about a dream I have. I want, so deeply, to do something in both our names—something that helps the helpless, the poor, the forgotten people of this world. That's what I want. I've cherished this for nearly five years now. I've told no one. No one will know except me and my God. Yet today I've told you. I could have done it quietly, you'd never have known. I hope I do it. Some things you don't need to announce, some things you do without saying a word. But I can't keep quiet with you. I can't say nothing... What's wrong with me! I ask nothing of you. Just be well, be happy with the people you love.


One thing though... in your writing, there's always room for everyone. Have I ever had a place there? No. Not in your words, not in your heart—I've had no place anywhere. I know I never will. I need nothing... and yet... this is it... I love you! It hurts when you give others priority. It didn't before... now it does. Why, tell me? I want to hide from you! Missing you... always! My love for you is truer than love itself, I know. Not in words, but from my soul I'm saying it... you are my faith, believe that. You fill everything in me—you and only you. Having loved you, I am a beggar today!


Today is a precious day. So I wanted to write about someone precious. Today marks the day I first saw you. When that day came, we didn't speak of love. So I wrote four lines for you...
Love speaks truer than romance, I know,
Not in words but soul-deep, my faith in you I show.
When you alone fill every corner of my being,
Having loved you, I am poor—stripped of everything!


I wrote these four lines for you. You read them. Truth is, as I write, I'm thinking about what to write, why to write, what I gain or lose by writing—all of it. It would have been better not to write. And yet, I don't know why—my heart keeps winning over my reluctance. I don't know why. Even if I knew the reason, it wouldn't change anything. This is how I'll stay, no matter what! I'll keep loving you.

Next June will mark six years. Six years of what? I’ll tell you. Six years since I got to know you, since we became acquainted on Facebook. How did so much time slip away? Six years—many marriages don’t last that long, many friendships don’t, many loves don’t either. Some do, maybe…but rarely in a way as one-sided as this. And here I am, keeping track of years, nursing this same feeling for six years. There’s nothing there, and yet…keeping count of the years in such emptiness feels almost…never mind. Let it go. I’ve let it go. If you want to survive, there’s so much you have to let go of, so much you have to leave behind and move forward anyway. Survival is nothing but abandonment and surrender.

Dad died a little over two years ago now. June 17th. A few days before he died, I spoke with you. It must have been nine or ten days before. You said you’d come visit my city sometime. I actually took you seriously and told Dad about it. “Dad,” I said, “my teacher might come visit us here.” Dad was so happy. He said, “Your teacher is coming? I’ll go to the market myself. Whatever your teacher likes, I’ll cook it all. I’ll do the shopping myself.” I told him, “Okay Dad, you do that. There’s time. He’ll let us know when he’s coming.” Then Dad passed away not long after, and he never got to meet you. The man who loved me most, my father—I never got to introduce you to him. And now I never will. There’s so much we don’t do, so many places we don’t go, so many people we don’t meet…because of lack of time, or because of that thought—”I have time, but why should I give it?”—thoughts like that. Never mind. It doesn’t matter. If you want to live, you almost always have to say “never mind,” whether you want to or not.

When I first got to know you, I didn’t fall in love with you right away. I didn’t love you from that very first moment. But I never said anything bad about you to anyone. Even if I didn’t like something about you, I kept it to myself. I can’t speak things aloud. I try to keep them buried inside. But these days, somehow I end up saying everything. Things I shouldn’t, and yet I say them anyway. Listen, from the very first day I knew you until now, I can say with conviction that I never hurt you in any way. But I don’t know why—there are some people who can cling to others, who can pull at their feet and drag them backward. Those people have told you things to you in my name—things I never said. Never mind. Let it go. But sometimes, even if you wanted to let things go, you can’t. There’s only one thing I can say from my heart: those who spread rumors, who drag others down—they lack love. A person without the capacity to love others can do any wrong, commit any crime.

So let me go back to the beginning. I used to see you taking pictures with girls, liking everyone’s photos. You’d take pictures for so many girls too. None of it bothered me. I wasn’t even jealous, because there was nothing in my heart to make me jealous. I once asked you to block a girl. You didn’t do it—instead, you scolded me! Ha ha ha! And that girl won again. So be it. Never mind again! And yet, look—that very same girl, when you were in trouble, she spread ugly rumors about you. Do you remember that birthday program you organized for the children? Do you remember that?

Look, pay close attention now, will you? I told you those things, and I sent you the picture in your inbox. How was I supposed to know you’d post it? But you went ahead and posted it before I could even say anything. And because of that, some people got the wrong idea about me. They said, if you do something for someone, you have to post about it! So tell me—who posted it? Me or you? Then where did I say anything? I only told you, just you. Because it was a gift from me to you, for your birthday. I thought, what if you don’t accept the gift? So I decided to give it differently. The idea came to me—I’d take the children with me, pray for you, feed them something good, and ask for their blessings. God accepts the prayers of children first, before anyone else’s. Children are like angels, their prayers are heard before all others, that’s why I did it. There was no other thought in my head. We live among people with such strange minds. Whatever we think, they learn half of it, learn it wrongly, learn nothing at all—and then they go around talking about us however they please, on and on.

Believe me, from that day until now, I haven’t had a single bad thought toward you. Whatever happened, I don’t want to talk about all this. I want to stay quiet, but I don’t know why my hands won’t stay still today. I can’t help it. That’s why I’m frustrated. I don’t want to say anything to you, I don’t want to waste your precious time.

You haven’t been on my friend list for fifteen days. I blocked you myself. And listen, in this world, no one’s life stops for anyone else. Your life won’t stop for me, Facebook won’t stop—nothing will. So let someone else take my place on your friend list. Let someone else love you fiercely. Though many people love you fiercely already—I read that in your writing. That one piece you wrote…something about twilight, some other time or something…I can’t remember the title.

Anyway, let’s say it—many people love you fiercely, want to keep you well, are worthy of being seen with you, and certainly worthy of calling you. They should come first, shouldn’t they? My goodness, what more do you need in life when you have people like that! So if one or two people like me disappear from your friend list, what of it! I’m telling you, may your life be filled with love every day, may you be soaked in their love. Brother, how many days do we have in this life, tell me? Here, is there anyone who will love you without selfishness? Anyone who will wait for you on the road if you don’t answer your phone? Anyone who will fill their phone with your pictures even if you don’t want to see their photos in your inbox? Anyone who will remember to pray for you even if you don’t ask how they are at noon? Yes, such people exist! But what will you do with them? Make garlands? No, brother, you stay with those whose heart, soul, and eyes cry for you.

You know, after my father died, a senior friend of mine used to check on me often. Had I eaten, had I taken my medicines, was I doing alright. I told you about him, remember? That man, the one with a past…I mentioned him, didn’t I? We even met, and I told you about that too. Look, I didn’t love that man, I never called him, and he was never in my prayers. Yet he came looking for me on his own.

# From a Letter

I met him only out of courtesy. That was the sole reason. Anyway, we haven’t seen each other since. He knows I love someone fiercely. But he doesn’t know who that person is. I never told him the name. He said to me, Chaiti, whoever you love is so lucky!

Why am I telling you all this? I really have no desire to explain myself, especially not to you! Well, you’re from the Kashyap clan, aren’t you? I found that out from your younger sister during your difficult time. That was when I nearly lost my mind. I didn’t spare a single mosque, temple, church, or pagoda—I had prayers offered for you everywhere. I have a Hindu friend. I gave him money, everything, and told him to pray for your grandfather. Wherever priests perform rituals, go there. He went and found out your lineage. Later I told him to mention it to you. Did I never tell you this? Why must I tell you everything? So you’ll acknowledge it? Hold onto your acknowledgments and swell up like a frog! It means nothing to me. I don’t need your love. Give it to those who appear more often in your writings these days. There are people in this world whose capacity to love is boundless and shameless! I belong to that tribe.

Listen, if your mother ever calls you to invite you to my wedding, come. You mean so much to her. And I have no plans for marriage. I might never do it. And listen, I won’t waste any more of your time. I was going to recite some lines of poetry. But never mind, I’ll skip it. I won’t waste your time anymore.

You know, I’ll go far away. In this life I’ve received so much love. Even now, there are people in this world who love fiercely. I’m ashamed of having written you so much today. Because I don’t want to say anything to anyone! My God and I—we two are eternal companions in conversation. I don’t want to exist in your writings… or in your mind? When you don’t even think of me, how will you remember me? God hasn’t given you a heart that large. Because if He had, you would have given me your time, your calls… for no reason at all, so many times over. Anyway, sorry for writing so much. I always loved to write, but today I couldn’t bear it. Be well, live in love. You know… I love you! (Ignore that line.)

You once told me… if I ever misunderstand you, you’ll give me a beating. So, will you really? Come on, you’re not giving it to me! I am waiting for that blow of yours! Listen, when I blocked you on messenger in anger that day, soon after you posted a status saying… When the fight is with someone you love, losing is what matters; when the fight is with yourself, winning is what matters. You know, I truly understood those words that day. I understood that I’m not your beloved. So you won’t lose to me either. Fine! But if I win against myself today, will you put me in the dock as a criminal? If by mistake today I become “you,” will you misunderstand me?

You know, someone who couldn’t hold me in his heart all these years—I don’t want to exist in his writings, on his Facebook, or even in his memories. People are such prideful creatures. And yet look—these same people know how to love each other madly, to hold onto someone, to keep them in their prayers.

# Five Years of Unsaid Things

In these five years, God knows how much has piled up between us. So what more is there left to say? But why I’m saying this, why I’m writing it—I don’t even know that myself. I don’t really know why I love you. If I’ve ever been angry with you, or hurt by something you did, I’ve never posted a single word against you. You know why? Because if I say something in a status, and someone comments against you on it, then it’s *I* who will suffer. You see, our fights don’t happen only in inboxes. They happen in rooms, face to face. But if someone says anything against the person I love, then *I* can’t bear it.

I don’t even want to tell you anything anymore. What’s the use? Listen, don’t tell anyone these words of mine. I know you won’t. I don’t want to be in your posts either. You never really kept me that way, did you? If ever you feel like talking to me, like seeing me, just come. I’m here for you. I hope you’ll find me. If I change, then I don’t know what will be then. But even if I change, I hope you’ll find me still. You know, I almost left already! That’s what I meant—getting lost in the crowd of silences…

Listen, my love, my heart, my trust, my love, and my angry self! I love you, I love you… I still love you even now. If you love someone else, then love them. Love whoever you want, as many times as you want. Your life, your choice. I’ve never stopped you, and I never will. Who am I to say? I who couldn’t even hold a place in your heart in five years—what more could I possibly say? But I’ve seen it too: three months is all it takes for some people to become dear, to become cherished. There must be a reason for it then. If everything happened because of reasons, well, that would be nice. But I’m certain—in my case, there really was no reason at all. That I loved you is as true as this: you’ve never loved me even five percent of that. And the way I loved you—I did it knowing everything, accepting everything about you. Suppose I know all your secrets, and yet I love you still. What will you say? Even if you say something, I won’t take it. Why would I take sorrow from someone from whom I never took love? No, I won’t. Go on then, hurt me—I’ll take it. I’ll gather it in my lap and hold it close.

So why am I saying all this? I won’t talk to you anymore. I’ll only talk to myself, with myself. And it won’t hurt me if you don’t read what I write. Because for all this time, longer than any other, I’ve been beside you like a shadow. I’m the shadow you didn’t want, that you never noticed, even by mistake. Can I tell you something? There’s so much I want to say. You could do one thing. Whenever you have time on your hands, you could look at our old conversations. There you’ll see how many times I remembered you, and how many times you remembered me of your own accord. There you’ll also see how many times I said I love you, and how many times you… you never even said it by mistake. Would it really have hurt so much if you’d lied just once and said it?

…Never mind. You don’t need to. Say it to someone else instead. I need nothing. I’m not some worthless girl from a worthless family who’ll go begging at people’s doors for love. So why are all these old things coming up today? I didn’t want this. I want to slip away quietly from everyone. And one more thing: if we ever meet again, there are some things we’ll talk about, face to face. I’m saving those words for then.

I won’t say anything if we don’t meet again. Not even in my dreams! Listen, I’m leaving now. I have a terrible headache. Take care of yourself, will you? Should I give you a picture today? No, I shouldn’t! I took one this morning. Listen, as I leave, I’m taking a tight hug from you with me—in my heart. You know, I love you!

I hope you’re well. I dreamed about you all night. It hurts more than words can say. You were crying and kept saying that someone had hurt you terribly. I was genuinely scared seeing you cry. I’ve never seen you cry before, not face to face or even in a dream. But I’m sure someone has hurt you deeply. People are hurt by those close to them, by those they love, by those they cherish. And I am none of those three. So I haven’t hurt you—of that much I’m certain. Please, don’t cry. Not even in dreams. Enjoy life. It’s only two days long, this world! I know you do that every moment anyway. Remember what you wrote about that girl—the one farthest from me is the closest to me! She really is very close to you; one can tell from your writing. She’s very fortunate. Didn’t I tell you, some people don’t become family even in five years, while others become family in just three months! You have such a pull towards this girl. Even if she’s hurt you, give her your love. Anyway, it’s your personal matter, your choice.

The way I loved you, if you love someone else that way, the pain is immense. Even without pain, it’s not a good thing. I loved someone like that—I loved you for everything you were, and even knowing your flaws, I loved you with them, because nothing of yours was disposable to me. Both your good and bad sides were precious to me. I was always like a shadow beside you. But you could never see that shadow or bear it. That’s fine! There’s one more thing you should know—I never fell in love with a married man. I have no wish to break your home. I’ve known you since before your marriage, and our acquaintance began then. Anyone can suddenly fall in love, and such loves don’t last long either; they vanish just as suddenly.

Do you remember Subhra? Subarna Lata Rehman Subhra. She loved you so much, didn’t she? What happened after? I heard that this very girl fell in love with some boy and married him! What do you call that, I wonder? Love for marriage! The moment she realized she wasn’t going to marry you, she immediately fell in love with someone else and married him. And me—I was crazy for you—she laughed about it a lot. She indirectly said that she was the one close to you. I never told her anything. Today I really want to know where that love of hers went…

People actually love out of selfishness. I think there are few fools like me. I’m that fool of yours, the one who didn’t even want to marry you, who didn’t wait for your call, whose messages lay unread for a month and yet said nothing. I had no demands, no complaints. I’m leaving with just one regret—that you never understood me. I’m going now… Live in love!

(Many days later.) That piece you gave me a while ago—it’s much like the story of the woman who works at my place.

But do you know what the real difference is? The woman who works in my house—she’s managing quite well financially, even though she’s a woman. Ten, twelve thousand a month, sometimes even fifteen. Her elder daughter is married now, and her younger one just passed her SSC in Commerce last month—got an A-minus. She’s paid for every bit of her daughter’s schooling herself. Her husband used to drive a van once upon a time; now he doesn’t do much of anything. Whether he’s ill or not, she doesn’t really say anything about it to anyone.

She works like a madwoman. Comes in the morning, finishes work in town, goes home in the evening. Cooks for the little ones at home, for her husband, for everyone. Feeds them all. Not a word of complaint against her son-in-law, not against her fate, nothing. In fact, I’ve seen such impossible love and respect in her eyes for her son-in-law—it breaks your heart.

Yesterday she asked me for a hundred taka. When I have money, I usually give her some. I gave her a hundred and twenty. She was so happy. Then I asked her, what will you do with this money? She said, I’ll buy fish on my way home. Cook it for everyone at the house. It struck me then—what can you possibly buy with just this much? What can you cook? Some people’s entire lives pass with so little! Some people need a lot of money to get by; others manage on almost nothing. Human beings are the strangest creatures—they can adapt to anything, truly, if they just decide to.

One by one, she’s taken on every responsibility in her household. She’s played every role—father’s, mother’s—all of it. Yet not a single complaint. If you go to visit people like her, if you ever see them in their homes, you’ll find their houses overflowing with abundance. And this abundance is the abundance of love. It’s beautiful to witness. You’ll see how little people can get by on, how they can live with smiles on their faces. How much people can survive on—so very little—and yet be free of complaint, carrying love in their chests.

Listen to this! I love you… the measure of my love for you keeps growing every single day! You know that? In that poem you wrote yesterday, how many people did you put in it? You said it was written about me. Yet I see someone else entirely in there! You see? This angry heart of mine… you don’t love me one bit!

Good morning, Uncle with the Belly! I see you were on WhatsApp all night. Seems like you’re in love even at night. Hmm! Do you know what the saying goes—old rice makes more rice? That’s just like old love—why doesn’t it stay first in anyone’s mind?

Someone once told you… if you ever get angry, ever feel like scolding someone, or even feel like hitting them… then give it all to me. Remember? I’m not worthy of your love, but I exist to receive your hatred. Someone told you so many things… you remember none of it.

Well, mistakes seem to pile up… what can one do, tell me? I ask God for forgiveness every day. Some things I fix; some I can’t. But you know what? I have the moral courage to admit every mistake I make. Knowingly, I don’t do a single thing I can’t own up to. These days I’m seeing my own faults more and more clearly.

You can be loved, you can be trusted… but one can’t fuss over you. Ha ha ha!

You know, people often like to tell all sorts of personal things, even though I don’t really care much about their private matters. Like yesterday, my mother fell down from dizziness. Her vomit, cleaning the bathroom, washing and drying her clothes, watching what she eats, checking if the medicine has side effects… who’s going to do all this?

My sister-in-law works. My brother works too. If I marry and leave, what becomes of Mother? These thoughts, this whole situation — it takes away my courage to marry. If I truly wanted to marry, no one could stop me. I’d have done it long ago. But I don’t truly want it. And yet whenever I meet someone, they needle me about marriage. Nothing feels right about any of it.

Why do I tell you all this? Because you’re the one I can tell everything to. I don’t post these things on Facebook. It’s best not to share everything on Facebook. There’s no need to put every detail of your life on your wall. This is just my personal opinion, of course. Don’t mind me — I’ve mistaken you for someone close and spilled all these personal things. Forgive me. My head isn’t always right, you know. Sorry, I’m sorry!

I’ve started something. Once upon a time I used to design jewelry for myself, now and then. Friends would see and love it. Most of them asked why I wasn’t making it a business. Their words inspired me, so I started. It’s been three months now. I never imagined doing business. I feel ashamed. Why did I start? But there’s no turning back now. And I think it’s good to be occupied with something. I sent you some pictures of the jewelry. I made all of it. I know people will look and say all sorts of things behind my back. But I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m running a safe business from home. The profit isn’t much, though. I just get the satisfaction of making a few people happy. That’s the reward for my work.

This old man, this difficult soul — he doesn’t love me, yet he is my love, my whole world. Of course, someone else could come into my world if they loved me fiercely enough. But why don’t you understand, my old man, that I love you? For so long I’ve loved you, and still you understand nothing!

Let me ask you something. How many times do we unlock our phones in a day? Roughly? Seventy, eighty times? Or less? Let’s say fifty. Well, those fifty times I have to unlock my phone. And my password is your name. So think about it — how many times a day do you come into my life just through that? My Facebook password, my phone lock password — you’re in all of it. Now calculate how many years this has been going on? More than three or four years! You know, I could change it if I wanted to. But the way you stay in my mind, nothing else stays there. I don’t set any pattern to unlock my phone. I can’t remember anything. Only you stay in my mind, so that’s why the password is your name — for both my phone lock and Facebook.

This old man of mine! Don’t you understand how much I love you? Will you be happy when I’m dead? Then let it be so! I will die. You live in peace! Listen, I want you to be at peace. That’s why I don’t even want you to come into my life because of me. I’m afraid of causing you any harm. You know, when I see someone’s status about pain, about not having something, it hurts me. And if that person is you, it hurts even more. Don’t suffer. If you suffer, there’s a foolish girl in this world who cries all the time.