# Still Waiting / Six I was sitting alone in my room when the phone rang. At first I didn't answer—I was in that particular mood where the ringing felt like an intrusion, even though I'd been expecting a call all day. By the third ring, I picked up. "Hello?" It was my mother. I could hear the hesitation in her voice before she spoke, that small pause that always meant something was wrong. "Are you coming home this weekend?" she asked. "I don't know yet," I said. "Why? What's happened?" "Nothing. I just... your father has been asking about you." That wasn't true, and we both knew it. My father never asked about anything—he simply existed in his corner of the house like furniture, present but untouchable. But my mother had a way of remaking the world into something she could bear, and if it helped her to say that my father was asking for me, then I let her have that small lie. "Tell him I'll try," I said. "When?" "Soon. I don't know exactly when." There was silence on the line. I could picture her standing in the kitchen, the phone cord wrapped around her fingers, looking out the window at the street below. She had been doing that for years now—looking out windows, waiting for something to arrive that probably never would. "Your father isn't well," she said finally. "What do you mean?" "Just... he's older. We're both older. I thought you should know." I wanted to ask her what she expected me to do with this information. I wanted to ask her why she was telling me this as though it were a revelation, when time had been doing its work for decades, wearing us all down in the same patient, merciless way. But instead I said nothing. "I'll come," I said. "Next weekend, maybe." "Promise?" "Yes," I lied. "I promise." After we hung up, I sat for a long time without moving. The room was exactly as I'd left it that morning—unmade bed, yesterday's clothes on the chair, a cup of tea cold on the desk. Outside, the city was doing what it always did: rushing forward, indifferent to any of us. I thought about my father. I couldn't remember the last time we'd spoken to each other. Not because of any great argument or rupture—there had been none. It was simpler than that. At some point, we'd simply stopped. He'd retreated into silence, and I'd learned to live in my own small corner of solitude. My mother had become the bridge between two shores that no longer had anything to say to each other. The city lights were coming on now, one by one, like a child's drawing coming to life. I watched them without really seeing them. Somewhere in this vast, indifferent sprawl, my parents were aging. My father was becoming more distant, my mother more anxious. And I was here, in this room, doing nothing to stop any of it. I picked up the phone again. I thought about calling her back, telling her I would come this very weekend. But I didn't. Instead, I sat in the gathering dark and waited for something—though I could no longer have said what.

 
The night before we'd meet, we talked like any other evening. Rumi said she doesn't like loud voices—I shouldn't speak loudly, and I shouldn't repeat myself. I shouldn't layer other words on top of what she says. She told me about her ex-girlfriend. A school friend. Ten years ago, they got tangled up in a relationship through Facebook. It lasted just two months. The girl was stunningly beautiful, from an enormously wealthy family. She was excessively talkative and swore constantly. She smoked cigarettes and weed, so Rumi broke it off. After the breakup, the girl apparently tormented her for ages. Called in the middle of the night. Would get angry at the drop of a hat, cut her arms and legs, drink, smoke—all of it. The girl was apparently psycho! I didn't want to hear about her, but Rumi didn't pick up on that and went on at length. She's beautiful, she's tall, she's this, she's that… I just sat there quietly, because if I said anything and she got upset, then what.


That night I couldn't sleep. Tension, excitement. What would the person I was about to meet be like face-to-face! She doesn't like talking much, and I talk a lot! What would happen! Consumed with worry and anticipation, I didn't sleep a wink. Though I was confident that when she saw me, she wouldn't disapprove. The next morning she called at nine. I left around ten. The bus was a bit late. A local bus. She was standing there. I was pretty tense. Keeping her waiting all this time! I got off and hung around awkwardly. After a while I spotted her. I felt a bit let down too. That sparkly person from Facebook and the real person standing before me didn't look anything alike. Yet I recognized her. She was standing there talking on her phone with someone. I went closer. I looked at her face and smiled! This was a smile of recognition. She couldn't manage any greeting. Just stared at me with helpless eyes. She finished her call. By then I was apologizing repeatedly for being late. I was so nervous.


On her end, she was hugely impressed when she first saw me. From the way she looked, it seemed she'd gone crazy seeing me! Couldn't figure out what to do. Out of embarrassment, I couldn't meet her eyes. From what I caught in sidelong glances, her getup disappointed me deeply. After that I took her straight to show her my department. Then we found a quiet spot near the cafeteria and sat down. I pulled out the gifts from my bag. She was overwhelmed with joy and said no one had ever given her a gift in years. She'd told me once before that she hasn't bought her own clothes in twelve years. Her mother buys everything for her. She never expected anyone would love her. Because most people hate her, and she's gotten love from very few. Everyone misjudges her when they see her. They all think she's psycho, and then they keep their distance. It's easier to misunderstand her than to try to understand. What people think when they look at her from the outside isn't who she really is. She deliberately presents herself that way. She enjoys it when people get it wrong about her.


We started walking. I was a bit afraid. Such a reserved person! And me—an open, forthright girl!

I told him, almost like I was making an excuse in the voice of a guilty person, that I actually didn’t use to talk this much before—it’s only since Mother died that I’ve become so talkative. He said, I’ll listen to everything you say, tell me everything. Some of my fear eased. Seeing him so mad, so beside himself for me, I felt a sudden surge of pity for him! Apparently he doesn’t like wandering around or sightseeing; he prefers sitting in one place. Yet here he was with just two hours to spare, and this man walked around my campus for hours and hours wanting to be with me, wanting to explore. I was quite disappointed by his physical appearance—that utter lack of polish. But his caring attitude completely won me over! He had very little hair on his head. Very fat, his body shape unwieldy, massive. The most absurd thing was that he’d come to meet his girlfriend for the first time unshaven, his face covered in jungle-thick beard. Wearing a tucked-in white t-shirt and a pair of patched, baggy, stone-age khaki tetron pants with holes everywhere. Along with ancient, torn shoes, brown-colored. Even in this scorching sun, he wore a black fur coat—and it wasn’t even his own, it was his older brother’s! What kind of mad, bizarre, deranged idiot did fate saddle me with!

I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how a BCS cadre doctor could dress like that! And here I was meeting him wearing yesterday’s smudged kohl under my eyes, a tiny black mark on my forehead, wearing a black shirt and no kajal or lipstick! As we walked, we talked. He said he’d never once taken a local bus. His father died in 2008. His father had been a contractor for various government projects. After his father’s death, they’d had to struggle quite a bit. They sold the car. He had some loans too. He paid them all off. And so on. I asked him, what’s the difference between me virtually and visually? He said I’m far more beautiful in real life than on Facebook. On Facebook, when his mutual friend Jaman Bhai comments on my photos saying, “Mind-bendingly beautiful, fiery-beautiful,” apparently I didn’t seem all that impressive to him then. And as temperamental as I look on Facebook, in reality I’m the opposite—a very gentle girl! As we walked, we sat down beside a beautiful lake. Wind whistling all around. Beautiful nature. The place was called ‘Kashmir Valley.’ He kept my heavy bag slung across his own shoulder. We took off my bag and his coat, hung them on a branch of the tree in front, and sat on the grass. He took off his shoes! I stared, mouth agape, at his red socks! His big toe was completely visible through holes in the sock! And there was a massive tear near the heel. On both feet!

His entire heel was showing! Cracked, fissured heels. At one point he was half-reclining on the grass telling stories. To me, he looked completely mad! The pleading in his eyes and face that day—that childlike desperation, that madness with which he loved me—from that moment, there was no turning back for me. I fell in love with this mad man. After that we took a rickshaw. I would show him the whole campus! Even the rickshaw-wallah was in high spirits! My face was constantly breaking into smiles! The rickshaw-wallah joined in too! ‘What do you do, sir? You two look perfect together. Next time you come, do visit my place!’ Just like in movies when the hero and heroine meet and rain falls to create a romantic atmosphere, the same happened to us. It actually began to drizzle, a light, fine rain. I coughed. He took off his coat and put it on me. My head was playing a song then… *Rim jhim gire sawan*… He was Amitabh, I was Moushumi… Ah!

He kept every word he said to me. Every word but one.

She wouldn’t eat at the campus canteen under that banyan tree. She wanted somewhere better. We took a rickshaw outside campus and sat down at a Chinese restaurant. The two of us began to talk. It was February 26th. We decided: in six months, in August, we would marry. She would take me home in the traditional way. Now we would call Hema ma’am—the one who had introduced us—and let her know. She said she would tell ma’am whether she had liked me or not. I would also tell her that I had liked you very much. After that, I told her my decision. Since our wedding is six months away, I don’t want to meet or talk to you until then—not once. She said, I understand, you don’t want to get attached right now. Then she arranged an Uber. She would drop me home. Around four in the evening, we arrived near my house by Uber. She forced some money into my bag. I refused—wouldn’t take it for anything—but she forced it on me anyway.

When I got home, I found three thousand taka. After evening, I called to make sure she’d reached safely. I even scolded her a bit—why had she given me so much money? She said it was for my Uber rides. Then she said she had hoped to come to me first, and be the first to ask how I was doing. The first wish came true, but not the second. While talking on the phone, she noticed something: “A stunningly beautiful girl, sunlight falling on her face, looking at me and smiling. But at that moment I couldn’t say anything! After the call ended, I looked at you properly. All my worries vanished seeing your smile! I was so tense about my own appearance, but your smile took away all my fear! When you gave me those gifts, my eyes filled with tears. I wanted to hold your cheeks in my hands. And it kept coming back to me again and again—Hema ma’am has given me the greatest gift of my life!” The moment he first saw me, he realized: this is the girl I need, this is the girl I have to have! And he kept looking at me with wonder, over and over. I told him that though I didn’t feel much at first sight, I was completely won over by his caring nature. He said any boy in his place would have been that caring towards me.

That night I called Hema auntie. I told her about his strange fashion sense! I told her how caring he was towards me. I shared our decision—we wouldn’t contact each other for six months. Auntie said, no no, don’t stop talking to each other. Out of sight, out of mind. You should meet. Watch movies together. Cook noodles for him and go to Chunarkhali, wander around, talk—just don’t have a physical relationship for now. The next morning, Hema auntie called me and said, I messaged with Rumi last night. He told me, ma’am, we met yesterday. My heart’s wish has been fulfilled. I fell in love the moment I saw her. Then Hema auntie asked, how did you find her? Rumi replied, she’s incredibly beautiful. Humble. Without ego. Kind. She likes to express her feelings openly. I’ve heard everything he says, just one thing I didn’t hear. Hema auntie asked, what? He said, he wanted to feed me at the canteen under the banyan tree. What a shabby arrangement that would have been!

I feel sick just looking at it! Such a beautiful girl, yet she wants to eat rice and chaat at a street stall! There’s no proper atmosphere for dating there! Besides, I’ve had hepatitis B twice. I can’t eat just anywhere.

Hema auntie read the entire chat to me. The next morning, Rumi called. She’d already told me the night before. Today she’d take me to her place in Dhanmondi. We’d have breakfast together. Then we’d buy a dress for Madam from Aarong. After that, we wouldn’t see each other again. Today was the end. She was waiting outside my house first thing in the morning! When I arrived, she booked an Uber and we headed to Dhanmondi. My head was pounding something terrible. She sat me down at a restaurant and bought me medicine. Hand sanitizer too. We had breakfast. Then Aarong. I bought a dress for Hema auntie from there. She told me to get myself something small. I picked some earrings and a neck piece for two or three hundred taka—the cheapest thing available. Then she took me to the tallest building there. A mobile phone showroom. She asked, what color do you like?

I was stunned. I realized she was buying me a phone. I refused outright. She said, don’t say anything here. Just stand quietly. She spent thirty-one thousand five hundred taka on a magenta phone for me. I felt terrible! I took her to the food court upstairs. I said, I can’t possibly accept this right now. Do you think I’m like other girls, that I’ll be happy if you buy me an expensive phone? Just garland my head with jasmine flowers and I’m happy! She said, I know very well you’re not like other girls! You have to take this. I don’t want anything in return. The jasmine garland will do. If you don’t take it, I’ll throw it away. I’m a very stubborn person. I’ve seen how much trouble your old phone gives you. The pictures come out blurry. This will make writing so much easier for you—you’ll be able to type properly. I said, I wanted to earn a salary and buy my first phone myself with my own money. I can take this from you, but on one condition: I’ll pay you back once I get my salary. And I won’t use the new set now. I’ll keep it exactly as you’ve given it to me. I’ll start using it after my BCS exam in three months.

She just laughed in reply and said nothing more. Then she dropped me off at home in an Uber. She told me to call once I got there. I was completely blinded by all that care, all that love. I forgot about the world. I even forgot about my Creator! It felt like there was no one else in this world but her, nothing else. Every evening, every night, we’d talk for hours and hours. She became my entire world!

Just the day after we met—Thursday—she told me my shoes had gotten shabby. She’d buy me a new pair. I said fine, get them. I’ll need new shoes when I start at my school; buy them then. She said she was starting her job in Dhaka on Sunday. She wouldn’t have time after that. We kept messaging on Imo constantly. Saturday morning, I woke up and was talking to her on Imo. In the course of our conversation, I asked, how intimate did you get with your ex? She said it happened only once. Two months into the relationship, the girl apparently forced Rumi to her empty flat. Rumi was in her final year at private medical college then. The flat was right next to the medical college. The girl lived there alone.

After that, Rumi himself breaks off the relationship, thinking of his family—because the girl simply isn’t marriage material.

Hearing all this, I’m devastated. I am what I am, and I deserve exactly that. I never wanted this. I told him, I had a ten-year relationship with the most virtuous, pious man in the world, and not once did he ever treat me with discourtesy, and here you are, undoing everything in two months! That’s the difference between you and me. When I got angry, he tried to pacify me. Right then, he called and said, I’m coming over to your place to buy you shoes. And off he went. I asked him to wait at the bus stand. When he arrived, there he was, standing exactly where my bus would stop. He had a few garlands of jasmine flowers in his hands. The moment I stepped off the bus, he handed them to me. I was enchanted—all my anger just melted away.

We went to a shoe shop together. I bought a pair of fairly comfortable shoes. It cost a thousand taka. He got a little upset that I’d bought such cheap ones. Then we sat down at a restaurant. When the food came, he tore up onions for my soup, piece by piece. He transferred chicken from his plate to mine. I was still sullen. He said, Young men and women fall in love with adventurous types of the opposite gender. But when it comes to marriage, boys look for homebody, sweet girls. Girls don’t marry chaotic, disorganized boys either—they only fall in love with them. I have no interest in your past. Whatever I heard from Madam about you, about your family—that’s enough for me. I don’t want to know anything else about you. Saying all this and that, he tried to cheer me up. Casually, I mentioned that my teeth have been aching lately. Right away, he insisted on taking me to a good pharmacy. We went. I have a dentist aunt I know. He asked me to call her and ask which toothpaste to get. I called. I got the paste. Right next to the pharmacy was a cemetery. My father, mother, and older sister—all three of them are buried there. I wanted to show him. He agreed.

We went to the cemetery together. I walked him around and showed him everything. On the way back, I plucked a money plant from the cemetery wall for my balcony garden. He got angry. Why would I tear away someone else’s property like that? I could have just asked him—he would have bought one from the nursery. He quickly washed my hands at the cemetery tap. He took off his jacket to dry them. Then he applied sanitizer to my hands. Otherwise, they’d itch. So much care, so much love, so much affection—how can I bear it! I felt absolutely out of my mind! He walked me all the way home. As we were walking, I said, This is it—the last time we’re meeting. After this, we won’t see each other again. He got furious. He said, Why do you keep saying the same thing over and over! He must have realized by then that from now on, I wouldn’t say no to anything he asked. Anyway, I got home. He called after lunch to check if I’d reached safely.

And so it went on like this. He was sometimes short-tempered, sometimes wonderful. I spoke to him with such trepidation. I could never figure out what would make him angry and what wouldn’t! When I first met him, he was terrified—worried whether I’d like him or not. Because he’d picked up from my words that I like handsome, good-looking men.

But I was overwhelmed by his sincerity and love. He never spoke to me without saying ‘babuyi.’ “Have you eaten, babuyi? Have you come, babuyi? Have you slept, babuyi?” What joy I felt hearing that—there are no words for it. I lived then in the most beautiful dream the world could offer! Two passages from Manik Bandyopadhyay come to mind. One from *A Novel of Day and Night*: “Love is an unbearable, life-crushing agony.” And another from *The Boatman of the Padma*: “He who dwells in darkness, his eyes are scorched by even the gentlest light.”

Indeed, his unbearable love had scorched my eyes, suffocated my breath. Fear crept in—what if I lost this much love? Meanwhile, I couldn’t hide it at home. I have no privacy. Such frequent meetings, phone calls, I couldn’t hide anything. I told my sister and brother-in-law everything. I realized they didn’t quite approve of all this visibility. Besides, my sister wasn’t on board with the boy at all. His paternal grandfather’s house was in Chittagong, and our relationship was entirely virtual—we hardly knew anything about each other. But since I was an adult, they couldn’t say much to me.

He’d wake up early and go to Dhaka Medical from Dhanmondi. In the afternoon or evening he’d come home and call me. In the evenings we’d both sit down to study. Then at nine or ten at night he’d call and we’d talk for two or three hours. This way my studies went completely to pieces! I couldn’t stop myself from talking. It was an unbearable love! An addictive love. There was no way to free myself from this addiction. I kept saying, “Right now I’m home, that’s why I’m talking to you. Once I start school, I won’t talk anymore.” I don’t know if I was really telling him this or just consoling myself by saying it. When people fall in love, they start making excuses to themselves.

After I met him, I received shocks in many ways. He wouldn’t take a local bus with me—he’d take an Uber. He wouldn’t eat at shabby roadside stalls. He’d sit in expensive air-conditioned restaurants because he was rich! He lived on credit cards! And I had imagined him a poor, honest doctor doing free clinics in villages! What hurt most was that he was good at Bengali and I’d thought him a literature lover, and he could write beautifully too. But his interests lay in mass communication, law, BBA. He tells me to study those subjects. That way he’ll pay for my education. He tells me to go into business or banking. Hearing this, I felt like I’d fallen from the sky! I love teaching. You get love from the students there. It’s an honorable profession. And whatever profession I take up, my whole life’s intention is to earn honestly, by the right path. God willing, I’ll never take interest or bribes.

Still, despite all this, I was utterly captivated by his love. I wanted to travel after marriage. He said he had no time for such things. I’d said, “I really want to honeymoon at Sajek.” I said it two or three times. But he had only one answer—he wouldn’t go there. I wanted to love him slowly, thoughtfully. But what he wanted wasn’t love, it was something else! I wanted to argue with him about countless things in this world, about different ideologies. We’d ride around in rickshaws together, eat fuchka and chaat. I didn’t even want to call him “you” instead of the formal address before marriage! One day on the phone I told him, “Being with you, I’ll become a doctor!” From the other end he said, “And I’ll become a poet!” That was the most beautiful dialogue of our fleeting love, the thing I treasured most.

I’ve crafted a piece based on this dialogue that I plan to write after our wedding!

I wanted metaphysical love, or perhaps platonic love. And he kept fumbling through the dark alleys, holding my hand, groping. A love with no ‘love’ in it—only ‘desire.’ Pure libido. Carnal affection!

I stay home all day. No work. Can’t bring myself to sit at the desk. After evening, when I’d talk to him, I’d open the floodgates. Words would pour from my mouth like a cascade! On top of that, with the state of things in the country, I was so panicked—anxious about him too. Perhaps he grew tired of so much talk. The poor man would come home from the office and hear my endless fretting and whining. He’d offer nothing but “yes” or “mm-hmm.” It hurt, but he wouldn’t say anything beyond what was necessary. He never asked me anything. Didn’t even bother to remember when my birthday was. I had to force-feed him information—what he liked, what I liked. What does his mother wear? Where does his brother study? Where does his sister-in-law study? Such womanish questions I asked. When he was home, he never went anywhere except his room. Just sat there reading. He said only one thing that I loved: we’ll study together. Funny thing—he had no idea how many uncles he had, how many aunts. No contact with any of them. Ask him about his family and he’d get annoyed.

But here’s what struck me—on trivial matters he’d barely nod, yet in emotional conversations, I saw real interest! Within weeks of knowing each other, he was already into intimate, erotic talk. I didn’t want that. He’d say, lighten up a bit. I’ve always preferred to find beauty in everything. I’m not accustomed to ugly talk or ugly love, and I don’t want to be. Some of the things he said felt grotesque to me. He seemed hyper-sexual. One day, mid-emotional conversation, he said—in his first relationship, he’d made the mistake of being intimate outside marriage, and he wouldn’t repeat that mistake. If I wanted a physical relationship now, he’d secretly marry me with two witnesses. I refused. I told him the blessings of elders matter in marriage. We won’t marry without their blessings. He never brought up sex again.

But there was one thing I kept raising. I’d say, can I ask for something? After we marry, I don’t want our wedding night at your place or mine—somewhere far away. He’d say nothing. He’d say we’ll see about that later. And he’d tell me never to talk to him like that, never to push him on anything. He hates being forced. He wants to be left to himself.

One early morning. In the middle of our conversation, he sent me a picture. Asked me to look. My skin crawled. I deleted it immediately. I couldn’t believe it myself. Within such a short time of knowing each other, could a boy be so brazen? Has his body no value? No shame? His body as cheap as merchandise? Should I ask my close friends if their boyfriends send such pictures right at the start? How twisted people can be! How tasteless! I told myself maybe he did it because he loves me, because he wants to marry me. That evening, I scolded him harshly.

# I Don’t Want Love So Bare

I don’t want love so bare! Everything should hold some mystery. When mystery disappears, love disappears with it. To me, love is like the columns that circle a temple. Just as there is distance between each pillar, there should be distance in love too. When the columns press too close, they cannot spread their branches freely—and love is the same.

Since I’d lost my Facebook account by then, all our communication had to be through email. I had a fake ID, something he didn’t know about. I used it only for group study. Once I’d sent him a friend request from that account. He never accepted it, so I didn’t say anything. He gave me his password and told me to use his account. I was astonished—he’d given me his own password! I didn’t want to take it, didn’t want to use it. But he insisted. A brand new account! An official one he’d been using for just two months! I was happy with that. When I logged into his account, I would never like or comment on anything—I’d only look. One day I searched for his ex-girlfriend’s ID from his account. I don’t know if God made me slip that day or if it was my own mistake! My finger somehow landed on the follow button on her profile. I removed it immediately. She sent him a friend request right away. I deleted it. Then she messaged through message requests: “What’s going on? You followed, added me, but won’t accept? Are you going to block me?” I deleted the message immediately. The next day, when he found out about it, he asked me: “What did she write? Why did you delete it? She has a habit of using abusive language.” I told Roomi everything.

After just a few days of us being together, when he wanted to get closer to me, I felt a twinge of doubt. Though he’d never wanted to see me—he only wanted me to see him. I often asked him: “Do you do this with others in the virtual world too?” He’d naturally deny it. But still, a thread of doubt, a knot of conflict, kept working away inside me. I had no reliable source to actually investigate him. Even the people I knew, I found it difficult to fully trust. All his friends were virtual. So I had no way of knowing or understanding what he was really like, or whether he was actually psychotic or not. Only one friend—now an enemy—knew him visually; he’d been on my real account’s friends list. But with this new ID, I couldn’t find him to ask anything.

Driven by suspicion, I went through his account and searched for the women on his block list one by one. Why had he blocked these girls? I found nothing on Messenger either. No chat history, or he’d deleted it all. When I tried to block them again afterward, I couldn’t. You can’t re-block someone before forty-eight hours have passed—I’d completely forgotten that rule or didn’t know it then! After that, I didn’t dig into it anymore. He didn’t say anything to me about it either. I was relieved, thinking he hadn’t made me uncomfortable about it. But I didn’t know what was waiting for me ahead.

*(To be continued in the next part.)*