Ever since that incident, my elder brother-in-law has held firm: he won't look for any match for me anymore. I can find and marry someone myself if I wish. Yet his circle is vast. He's got his PhD admission to Germany. Attends conferences at home and abroad. Teaches feminism at university! But here's the thing—speaking about feminism and actually believing in it are two entirely different matters. In my experience, most self-proclaimed feminists are two-faced and hypocritical. One face in public, another in private. There are plenty of feminists who present themselves as champions of women's rights only when women are around—it's all performance. Some feminists crave nothing but media coverage. And many feminist women wear one face outside their homes and a completely different one within. But I can't say my brother-in-law has any problem with womanizing or character weakness of that kind. I've never seen such a flaw in him. He's actually quite a good man, all things considered.
Anyway, those days I kept thinking about Rumi's brother. One day, chatting with Hema Auntie, I mentioned that I liked Rumi's brother and told her the whole story. Proposals have come to the house, and because I rejected them, I've had to endure so much talk. Though there was another proposal before that—a friend of my brother-in-law's had suggested it for his brother-in-law. They saw me. I liked the boy well enough too. Though as a profession, a banker wasn't really my preference. He called me on the phone and asked. But after seeing me on Facebook, he lost interest. Because I don't wear a hijab. He told his friends this. One of his friends is my cousin, and that's how I heard about it. So many boys in our country think girls who wear hijabs are fixed commodities of a certain character. I know many of my hijabi friends in different lights, and I know myself too. If someone's character is flawed, you could wrap them in a hijab or bury them in cloth—the flaw remains. What's the use of talking about all this anyway!
Perhaps many people who see me on Facebook are actually frightened to marry me. My close friends tell me to stop writing. Boys, they say, don't want to marry girls who are too intelligent. Yet they know me in real life—I'm soft-natured, a fool of sorts, the emotional type, a bit mad! But on Facebook I present myself as some sort of tough character! The truth is, I lack intelligence, so I project intelligence. Let people say what they will; I'll write as I please, follow my heart. Whether anyone likes it or not. Of course, I've received love proposals from many people—both near and virtual—who don't quite appeal to me. Among them is an English literature boy who's been deeply in love with me for three or four years now. He still writes poems about me. He's two or three years younger than me. Though that doesn't bother me. We met once at a coffee shop. While talking, he broke down and wept. I've tried so hard to make him understand, but nothing works. He says he can't live without thinking of me. I genuinely hurt for him, but I don't feel that way toward him. He still loves me—selflessly, knowing he'll never have me. He writes poems about me and sends them by email.
Anyway, I told Hema Auntie: my family is pushing me to marry, but my heart won't cooperate. I like Rumi's brother. But would he—someone so accomplished in his own right—ever marry an ordinary girl like me?
Doctors usually marry doctors. When it comes to marriage, they don’t want to step outside their own profession. That’s when he said she’d never mentioned anything like that. I told him he could ask about me. If she likes me, fine; if not, let it go—that’s all. I said he could play matchmaker for me. But he mustn’t let her know in any way that I like her. I’d be terribly ashamed. You should approach it as if the idea came from you, as if I know nothing about it. He said he’d go about it in his own way.
After that, I didn’t ask Hema Aunty anything more. Just went on as before. One day she knocked on my door and told me Rumi had sent her a friend request from a new account. I felt deeply hurt when I heard that. I was his old virtual friend all these years, and yet he hadn’t sent me a request! It wounded my pride. I made a decision—if he didn’t send me a request, I’d tell Hema Aunty not to say anything to him. I said, since Rumi hadn’t sent me a request, there was no need to tell him anything. He probably didn’t want to stay in touch with me. Aunty said she’d already told him about me. He would send me a request. He was thinking about me.
He sent the request on January 31st. I accepted it the next day. For the first time in all these years, he knocked me in the inbox and started speaking with careful deliberation. After that he liked my posts. One day I posted a picture from campus with some friends. He commented. In one place, I’d written mischievously about my two girlfriends like this: ‘One’s a future BCS officer, the other can cook really well.’ He commented on one of my solo pictures: ‘What all can she cook? I’m interested. I’ll get posted to Dhaka in just six months.’ I still couldn’t quite understand his moves. I wondered if he was flirting with me or not! After that, he sent me his own picture in the inbox and said he’d gained a lot of weight. It might take six months to get back in shape. If I wanted more pictures, he’d send them. I couldn’t make sense of what he was up to. Maybe I was too shy to believe things were easy. At that time I was caught up in a flurry trying to arrange a test for myself at the hospital. One night when I was free, I messaged him. We chatted about this and that. I was too embarrassed to bring up the real thing.
In the end, he said it first. I think something’s going wrong somewhere. What I’m thinking probably isn’t right. For the last two days I’ve been approaching you boldly about something. Maybe the mistake is mine. Then I broke through my shyness and told him: ‘One day when I was talking with Hema Aunty, your name came up. She asked me, how do you feel about Rumi? I said, I like him. She said, should I tell Rumi about you? I said, yes, you can.’ When Rumi heard this, he flatly denied everything. He said, ‘I’ve never discussed any of this with Madam. You can be sure of that.’ I was taken aback. That ended things for the day. Right after, I showed Hema Aunty screenshots of everything. She said, how strange! Why did you tell him? She also said, just tell him directly—I love you. I told her, even if my heart breaks, I can’t say those words to his face. Can you just tell someone like that—’I love you’? Later she directly asked Rumi about me. Rumi said I don’t say things directly.
Sister mentioned me to him, and apparently he got nervous.
After that, I decided to tell him myself. He used to post constantly—his wife would need to know how to cook all these things. Or she’d cook for him. Or he’d show her YouTube videos and ask her to learn these recipes and cook them for him. And so on. I approached him the same way. I said, ‘I can cook this and this and this. Will that work?’ He replied, ‘Yes, it will work. But before that, let’s meet. When we meet, I might not like you. I don’t look in real life like I do in my Facebook pictures.’ After that, we spoke on the phone for a day or two.
During these conversations, one day my ID got disabled for some reason. That night, he pinged me on Imo. We talked. Right at the start, he said, ‘You’re making a mistake. You’ll regret it. You’ll find much better boys. Facebook has created a false perception of me in your mind.’ It’s worth noting—he had only posted a profile picture on Facebook. He started sending me photos. He said, ‘Look, how ugly I am.’ But I didn’t see anything much, just slightly less hair on his head. Lots of boys have less hair—it’s not like he was bald! He said he looked unattractive in real life. I said, ‘That’s not a problem. When you like someone, you like everything about them.’ Then he told me about some of his concerns.
First: his room in the flat in Dhanmondi was very small. And he got homesick easily. He never went out, just stayed in his room all the time. Wouldn’t that suffocate me?
Second: he would give me the mahr right at the wedding, but he couldn’t arrange anything for the ceremony itself. Because right now he couldn’t afford it. It would be a very simple, home-based wedding.
Third: he would marry me in six months. He couldn’t do it before that.
I was confused! What guarantee did six months hold? And every girl dreams her whole life about having a proper wedding ceremony, about henna celebrations. I had misunderstood. I thought he didn’t have the means for a celebration now, that he’d save up money and have a proper wedding in six months. So I agreed to everything. Later I realized that in these matters, it’s better to ask directly rather than make assumptions on your own. The real situation might be nothing like what I imagined!
One day he pinged me on Imo and asked in English if I had any objection to being intimate with him. I said no. I was eager to meet him. He said he was too. He also said that I wouldn’t like him at all when I saw him. I said, ‘Physical appearance means nothing to love. Why do you keep testing me like this?’ Then I quoted him that famous John Donne line… *For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love…* The next morning, he woke up and replied, ‘You’re up? I love you.’ I wrote back, ‘I love you too.’
A stream of love flowed through my heart! If the story ended here, it would have been a beautiful one! But life doesn’t follow the contours of beautiful stories! Life is lived like life, not like a story. Even the most beautifully written fiction in this world fails to do justice to life itself.
The day he first told me he loved me, when he called me *tum* instead of the formal address—I think it was February 9th. A memorable day in my life. This heart—drum, drum, drumming!
# The Weight of Waiting
My eyes won’t stop burning. I’ve walked this long road alone, I’ve waited, I’ve endured—and now my time for happiness has come! I won’t look back at the past, not ever again. I’ll rest my head on his shoulder with absolute trust, and blow away everything with one breath. Ahead of me now is only happiness, only happiness. I crave it so desperately. I am selfish, yes, terribly selfish. They say God sends happiness after suffering. But why must suffering follow suffering in my life? Why won’t happiness come? When I scroll through Facebook and see my friends rising, day after day—their happy families with mothers, fathers, husbands, children—my chest tears open with pain! A knot of raw ache gathers at my throat. Am I envious then? Petty? God has blessed me with food and clothing enough, no real want or worry, yet why do I feel so miserable, so utterly alone?
I’ve had two best friends since school. Chaiti and Shirin. Chaiti married the man she loved. A perfect family—father, mother, two younger sisters, their husbands. Complete, whole. The only thing missing is her job hasn’t come through yet. And Shirin did her MBA from a private university, walked straight into a government primary school, then got married. A son was born, now a daughter. Her husband’s a banker. He’s already built a two-story house at his age. Her life is full, overflowing. Yes, they have flaws too—Shirin’s eye tilts slightly, the tip of her right index finger was cut off as a child. But if I compare, and though comparison is wrong, still I do it—I got a job, God blessed me with that. He hasn’t cursed me with their kind of marks. Then why? Why do I feel so helpless? Why does doubt collect like sediment in my heart?
Yes, I feel a monstrous, towering loneliness. I miss having a family, terribly. I want to live loving someone with all my heart. I want desperately for one person to love me deeply. I can give and receive love in abundance. If I love someone, I can make them the happiest person on earth. For one person, I can remain faithful my whole life long, even unto death, even if it cost me my own existence. God has given me the infinite capacity to love. But is it true that one must love someone to live, or that one can only live if loved in return? Yet my stubborn heart wants to settle somewhere, wants to belong to someone. I want to walk far beside someone’s hand. I want to see mountains and oceans, but not alone, not with friends—only with the person I could truly love.
I once asked God for an ordinary life, like anyone else’s. I didn’t need wealth or comfort. Just one person, made for me. Someone ordinary, poor even—it wouldn’t matter. They would love me greatly, I would love them greatly. Our small hut would overflow with happiness, handful after handful of it. I would rest my head on their chest and live out this little life smiling, smiling till the end. That’s all I asked for. Just that. And even that God won’t give me. I don’t know—perhaps He means to give me some extraordinary life instead?
I want to escape life itself. I’ve done the math: if I die naturally, I have at least thirty, forty more years of living to drag behind me like chains. What will I do with such a long life? I want to be done with it all in one breath.
# An Unburden Heart
I haven’t even lived half my life, yet in these years I’ve already lost more than half of the closest people in my family. There’s such deep resentment toward the Creator. Does Allah—God, the divine—truly exist? Or is this happening as punishment for my sins? I don’t know anymore. It feels like I’m being burnt repeatedly by the consequences of wrongdoing, melting down into pure gold. But then another thought comes: perhaps God has given my eight or ten friends around me ordinary lives, while He’s chosen to give me an extraordinary one instead of an ordinary one. I’m no longer afraid of any sorrow, any suffering. There’s only one life—how much more pain can it inflict? I accept my destiny. If Allah wishes to give me more suffering, let Him. I’ll face it all with my chest bare.
These days nothing brings me joy anymore. The long confinement at home has infected both my body and mind. I’ve lost all faith in myself. Memories of pain keep surfacing uninvited. I feel like a failure, like someone drowning in sorrow. The closing chapter of my life is what torments me most these days. I want to forget the pain, but I cannot. Even if I were to die from COVID, I’d have no regrets. Only one wish remains—that when I die, I go with faith intact.
Sometimes I feel an urge to become violent. Not the urge itself to commit violence, but to die by police bullets. By now, I’ve understood that in this life, being happy isn’t everything—survival is. Survival with strength. In this society, whoever has the most money and capability is most honored. The poor are born to endure insult and contempt. I don’t want that life. People say many things aloud, but the truth is simple: the poor and the incapable have no value in this society. There’s a line by Bernard Shaw I love—*There are two tragedies in life. One is to lose your heart’s desire. The other is to gain it.* Both happened to me. First I received, then I lost what I’d received. Everything in this life that I never wanted, things I never dreamed would be my lot—God gave me exactly all of that!
When I started conversing with Rumi, I discovered that despite posting so much on Facebook, the man barely speaks three words in real life beyond yes and no. And me? I’m the talkative sort, a real chatterbox. I babble endlessly, day in and day out. Anyway, through our talk I learned he’d unfollowed me a long time ago. The reason? Seeing beautiful women stirs his desires. Since our contact is only virtual and he’ll never have me, why unnecessarily stoke his cravings? His plan, apparently, was to marry after two more years. He’d take his MRCP exam, get a foreign degree, and marry some expatriate girl, then move abroad. But when his much older brother explained the necessity of marriage, he decided to get married in six months instead. That’s when Madame proposed me for him. He liked everything about me—just one condition gave him pause. He wouldn’t marry a girl four or five years younger than him. He wanted someone his own age or older. Later, in conversation, I learned I was just one year younger. When he found that out, I saw him light up.
One day I asked him, why are you so keen on delaying six months? He said there’s no reason he can explain to me for that.
Because what matters to her might not matter to me. Perhaps she has an exam coming up. She can’t handle multiple pressures at once. I shouldn’t force her into these things. She said that many girls on Facebook had sent her their CVs, and because she couldn’t give them time, none of those connections ever led anywhere. Now a doctor’s daughter wants her CV. She’d asked for three months. Because she couldn’t give her CV before those three months were up, it fell through. She doesn’t like things decided in advance. I shouldn’t tell anyone at home, or my friends, about our relationship. Otherwise her guardians will pressure her into marriage. Meanwhile, I hadn’t been able to trust anything for six months. This was supposed to be my time to settle down. If we break up within six months, and I’ve already turned down all the other proposals, what then? What do I do?
I begged her—after Eid, just come home and say yes. You don’t need to have any ceremony. After that, whenever you want, take me away. But even that she wouldn’t agree to. She’d promised that exactly six months later she’d come to my house with a marriage proposal. She doesn’t even have the means for any ceremony. Just take me away quietly, at home. I had no assurance, no confidence in anything. She said, fine, if you want, I won’t even contact you for these six months. I’ll contact you about marriage after six months. And then she said something more—if I find a good man in the meantime, I should just go ahead and marry him. After that, when I tried to explain things to her, she got furious and fought with me about all sorts of things. I was the one who’d told Hema Apu, now I’m denying it. Hema Apu has such a big job—why would she go and talk to him about marrying me for my sake? Let me say something here. Hema Apu betrayed me. She sent all my messages to Rumi as screenshots. Of course, she did it all for our love, so that Rumi would take me seriously. She thought if she showed him how desperate I was, he’d become serious about me.
But he uses that against me now. He even fights with me over trivial things. Why did I want to know about his family? I wanted to decorate his house with plants, make a garden, but there’s no space in his place! I wanted to meet him on campus, but he wants to sit in expensive restaurants. He has no interest in coming to my campus. These are ridiculous things. Finally he says, you think about it—either continue the relationship or decide after meeting me. Whatever you’re going to do, tell me everything within an hour. I didn’t know what to do. I was in terrible pain from the way he was treating me. Last year on Facebook I got to know a senior from my campus’s IBA—a big brother. He’s a poet. Such an innocent, gentle, brilliant, good person. He thinks of himself as Himu. He carries the sorrows of his depressed friends on his shoulders, bears them with him. By coincidence, when I met him, I was deeply depressed. He has many students. Their ages range from eighteen to fifty. He teaches them all kinds of subjects. He explains life’s various philosophies. He tries to lift their despair.
I called that brother. Told him everything. His wife spoke to me. She said I should meet Rumi first. After that, I shouldn’t be in any contact with him for six months.
Within these six months, if a good proposal comes along, I should say yes. I accepted the logic of not speaking for six months. But the idea that I’d get married if a proposal came—that I couldn’t accept. Because I won’t betray anyone. Once I give my word, I try to keep it. If he deceives me, he deceives me; I won’t be the one to deceive. Because the person I love, I love with all my emotion, not with logic. I didn’t call him again. He called after ten at night and asked for forgiveness. His words melted me. I forgot everything. Instead, I even told him, ‘My head suddenly gets hot. Then I say all sorts of nonsense. I get angry and block people. If I make a mistake, scold me right then. Point out my faults. I don’t understand things very well. If I do something wrong, you explain it to me. But you can’t say anything to me in anger.’ And I said, ‘My anger doesn’t last long. It just dissolves like water. If you speak to me with affection, in ten minutes you can make me understand what would take two hours of angry arguing—and I still wouldn’t get it. Because I love you!’ We decided we’d meet soon.
Dear reader, I’m writing all this and crying. But don’t think I’m a crybaby! My emotions run deep. When you’re writing about what’s relevant, so many irrelevant things slip in too. A person who doesn’t cry while writing isn’t a writer—they’re a journalist. That’s what I believe. Today my heart feels very light. For some reason I feel so blessed. How easily I’m eating my rice! It pains me to waste even a single grain. My legs aren’t crippled, I don’t stammer. I’m a healthy, normal person. I heard about a girl who was crippled, who stammered. Compared to her, I have it so much better. Forgive me, I’m rambling. I don’t really know what to say right now that won’t sound scattered.
I’m remembering a senior from my department. He’s a police SP. He’s always been kind to me like a younger sister, calls sometimes. He has so much regret about becoming a policeman! Even a vegetable seller would be happier than him. I didn’t believe it then. But I think poor people don’t really know sorrow. How do they have time for the kind of luxurious grief we indulge in, we who eat well and still go looking for suffering? They’re content with so little! The less someone needs to be happy, the more fortunate they are. So many things in our lives are unnecessary. Even a beggar has surplus things. Say he has both a plate and a bowl for begging. When it’s time to go out, he’ll hesitate—should he take the plate or the bowl? This kind of hesitation troubles him for a moment, makes him unhappy for that brief time. But our surplus things are countless. So our unhappiness is also countless. The more surplus one has, the less happiness. These extra things are enough to keep us miserable all the time. They’re not essential to us, but they slowly erode our very souls.
When I used to see on the overpass every day a woman holding a little girl with a massive tumor-stricken head in her lap, I’d feel such mental anguish! I’d want to die!
When people say God’s wrath is falling, I look around and see it’s the children of Palestine and Kashmir who bear the heaviest blow! And that’s when doubt creeps in, you know? Does Allah even exist? And if He does, why does He torment the innocent, the guiltless, age after age? They never get justice, never! I can’t find an answer to this. God knows I probably lack understanding in so many ways! But Shakespeare’s words have cut deep into me: *Some rise by sin, some by virtue fall!* Some ascend through wickedness, others fall precisely because they’re good. What truth is greater than this in all the world? People commit sins and climb to the summit of success, while others do good and drown in suffering! When this thought takes hold, I look toward the Creator again; then I think, no, it’s alright—I just haven’t understood it yet.
Anyway, I return to my story. The decision was made: I would meet Rumi again. She doesn’t like kohl or lipstick. But I love wearing kohl. I decided I wouldn’t wear any of it. Just a small bindi on my forehead. She says my forehead is beautiful. I asked her what color bindi I should wear. She said black. And I’d also asked her to wear a black shirt. Black is my favorite color.
I’m trembling with excitement, bursting with it. After so long in my quiet, empty life, someone has come. Someone I’ve called “you.” I broke through a thousand hesitations and told her plainly, “I love you.” For me, saying this means something enormous. I’ve never been comfortable saying the word “love”—it’s not something you speak, it’s something you feel, something you perceive, not something you expose. And we were about to meet for the first time! What could I give her as a memory of that first day? A week before, I was already consumed with worry! I don’t know much about gifts for boys. I don’t even know his size. That day I went out with fever and cough. I walked through every gift shop on campus. Nothing felt right. From there I went to the handicrafts market opposite the campus monument. I adore clay things. I decided that’s what I’d give him. I went shop to shop and bought two pen holders, a clay fish, squirrel, rabbit, cat, elephant… everything. The next day I went back to campus to buy a beautiful red shopping bag and colored paper. Each item I wrapped carefully in colored paper, writing his initials on each one with great care. I noticed then—spending money on him made me so happy!
*(To be continued…)*