# The Ache of Joy The old man sat on the bench by the window, watching the rain. Not the sort of watching where you're really looking at something—the kind where your eyes are open but your mind has wandered off to some other place entirely. The rain fell in steady sheets against the glass, blurring the street beyond into something that looked like memory itself. His daughter had called that morning. She was coming to visit. That was three hours ago, and his hands hadn't stopped trembling since. He'd prepared nothing. The house was as it always was—books stacked on chairs, a cup of cold tea on the side table, the silence thick as dust. He thought of making it nicer somehow, putting flowers in a vase, sweeping the floor. But his body wouldn't obey. All he could manage was to sit here by the window and wait, and feel this strange sensation spreading through his chest like something between joy and drowning. She hadn't been here in fourteen months. He'd counted the days without meaning to, the way you count stitches in a familiar sweater without looking. When had she become someone he didn't see? How had that happened, so quietly that neither of them had noticed until the distance was already immense? He remembered when she was small—five years old, standing in the kitchen while he made tea, her nose barely reaching the edge of the table. *Papa,* she'd said, *why do you close your eyes when you drink tea?* He'd laughed then, genuinely laughed. *Because*, he'd told her, *tea tastes better when you're not looking at anything else.* She used to follow him everywhere. Into the garden, into his study, into his sorrow. She was the only one who asked him about his writing, really asked, the way a person asks when they genuinely want to know. Everyone else just smiled politely. But she—she'd sit cross-legged on his desk chair and listen like his words mattered, like they might contain something necessary. When had that stopped? When did she start writing letters instead of visiting, and then emails, and then the messages that came once a month, brief and polite, the kind of messages you send to an obligation rather than a person you love? The rain continued. A car hissed past on the wet street. The city moved on with its ordinary urgency, indifferent to the fact that an old man's daughter was on her way to see him, and he didn't know whether to be grateful or terrified. He'd tried to write something for her once, years ago. A story, a letter, something. He couldn't remember what now. It didn't matter—he'd torn it up. What was the use of putting words on paper when the words themselves seemed to be the problem? They were always too much or not enough, saying what they weren't supposed to say, leaving unsaid what was loudest. His phone showed 4:47 PM. She said she'd be here by five. He stood up slowly, his knees protesting in that language that only the aged truly understand. He should change his shirt. He should comb his hair. He should do something to show that he'd been living, that he hadn't just been existing in this house like some object left behind by mistake. He climbed the stairs to his room. The mirror showed him a stranger—a thin man with white hair, eyes the color of old water. Is this what she would see? This collection of wrinkles and absences? He changed his shirt. Not for her, he told himself. For himself. For the dignity of the moment. Back downstairs, the house felt different. Emptier, somehow, or fuller. He couldn't decide which. He made fresh tea—habit, comfort, something to do with his hands. The water sang in the kettle, then fell silent. He waited for the tea to steep, counting the seconds like they were a kind of prayer. The knock came at 5:12. He stood still, listening. There was no going back from this, no way to unknow that she was on the other side of the door. All the months of preparation, all the things he'd meant to say and never did, all the silence between them—it was all about to become a conversation, or an attempt at one. He opened the door. She was there, rain-dampened and slightly breathless, looking exactly like herself and also like a stranger. She was thinner than he remembered, or perhaps he was simply forgetting what she'd looked like, the way memory is always dishonest in its details. "Hi, Papa," she said. Just like that. Two words. As if she hadn't been gone for fourteen months. As if time was something that could be folded up and put away. "You're wet," he said, and immediately wanted to take it back. Such a stupid thing to say. She smiled—that old smile, the one that had survived across all the distance between them. "It's raining." "Yes. Come in. I've made tea." She stepped inside, and he closed the door behind her. The sound it made was final, complete. Now they were shut in together, the two of them, with nowhere to hide and nothing but words to build a bridge across all that emptiness. She sat at the kitchen table while he poured the tea. Her hands wrapped around the cup the way his used to, when she was small and his hands would wrap around hers, teaching her to hold something warm without letting it burn. "How was the drive?" he asked. "Long," she said. "I left early, but the traffic was terrible." He nodded. These were the words people used when they didn't know how to speak to each other anymore. Safe words, armored against meaning. But then she looked up at him, and her eyes—they were his eyes, looking back at him with something like hunger. Like she'd been waiting too. "I wanted to come sooner," she said quietly. "But I didn't know if you... if you wanted me to." The cup shook in his hands. He set it down, afraid he might drop it. "I've wanted you to come every day," he said. "Every single day." She looked away first, her jaw tight. When she spoke, her voice was smaller. "I didn't know that." "I should have told you. I should have said many things. I'm not good at... at reaching out. At asking. I never have been." "I know," she said. And then, softer: "But I could have tried harder. We both could have." The rain drummed on the window. Outside, the world continued its indifferent turning. Inside, in the small circle of lamplight, an old man and his daughter sat with tea cooling between them, and neither of them said anything for a long time. Finally, she reached across the table and took his hand. Her palm was warm, alive. "I'm here now," she said. "I'm going to stay for a few days." He turned his hand to hold hers properly, and felt the weight of all those months pressing down, and all the years before that, and the weight of everything left unsaid. It was unbearable. It was the most precious thing he'd ever held. "I'll make dinner," he said. "Something good." "You still remember how to cook?" "Some things," he said. "You don't forget everything." She squeezed his hand, and he understood, in that squeeze, an apology and a forgiveness all at once. Not an ending to their troubles, but a beginning—small and fragile, but real. They sat there in the kitchen, drinking tea that was growing cold, while outside the rain fell on the city and all its lonesome people, and inside, a father and daughter began, once again, to find their way back to each other.

Only four years.

If that span of time were to be reckoned not in days counted cleanly, but in days dragged through with the weight of exhaustion and suffering, then the word “only” could never be written at all. The measure of “only” has always been troublingly ambiguous. For some, four years flies past in a blink; for others, four years limps along. Time’s accounting has been absurd since time’s very beginning. When does the fullness of happiness in a relationship arrive? Has anyone ever truly witnessed such completeness? Has the arc of a relationship ever followed a perfect rhythm in anyone’s life, not even by accident? Sometimes, as long as a person remains a stranger, that is the extent of happiness. How much time must pass before the inscrutable algebra of familiarity resolves itself? How far must one walk before the weariness of walking ceases to be felt? What if this is the case—walking together for so long now, introducing yourself and then not, accepting and then refusing, living out your days in the lingering notes of walking’s joy and the song of the path, staying even in a little darkness, yet in that darkness’s light your eyes blazing bright with happiness moment after moment—is it wrong then to spend a life wandering thus lost? What if it is? If a life lived down a path of tremendous error still ends beautifully, what is the harm? After death there is no sin to account for, no ledger of merit to settle, no burden of mistakes from the time of living left to carry. Walking down a wrong path with a stranger in a strange place—that is the most wonderful thing of all. The moment familiarity begins, suffering begins. And suffering brings its trusted servants, countless numbers of them, arriving one by one to crowd in.

From when Purbi was very young, her restlessness far exceeded that of most children her age. There was no girl in the house like her—so fidgety, so full of life. Everyone called her a rascal. That little girl was so beautiful that even the finest dolls could not match her. What craftsman could surpass God’s creation? Her grandmother’s beauty was known throughout at least ten villages around. Everyone said that Purbi was her grandmother’s reincarnation. If someone looked at her once, they would keep looking, could never bring themselves to scold her even for her mischief. A strangely beautiful little idol was growing up. Among five sisters, she was the fourth. Purbi was prettier than the others. This bred a subtle jealousy among her sisters that worked constantly beneath the surface. Generally, no girl can bear another girl’s beauty—whether that girl be her mother or her sister. Deep, pulled-taut eyes, a round face, a thin straight nose, fine silken hair. Like the sound of a waterfall, her laughter flowed in an unending stream. She reveled in her own joy, and that joy spilled out everywhere. Because her other sisters kept somewhat apart, little Purbi played with herself all day long. She wasn’t always first or second in school, but she was always in the top five. She mischieved too much and gave little time to studies, yet she could finish a lot of learning in that short time. Purbi’s mother couldn’t give her much attention, couldn’t keep close watch, but she was very pleased with her results. In private, she would tell everyone: my Purbi is very good at her studies. See, when she grows up, she’ll go far.

Purbi was the most beautiful girl in the entire family, and so everyone’s eyes lingered on her far more than on the other girls. Even the most generous parents cannot stomach a child when the whole world calls another girl more beautiful than their own. That is why Purbi’s relatives never looked upon her kindly. Behind her back, they found satisfaction in disparaging her in various ways. If they could broadly declare that Purbi was unattractive, perhaps their own daughters’ beauty might grow by a fraction—this hope made many of them rehearse their criticisms often. When Purbi’s mother spoke of her dreams for her daughter, they said nothing to her face, but inwardly they seethed. When Purbi alone in their entire locality passed the SSC exam with an A-plus, some of those relatives may have felt their hearts sink with genuine sorrow. But from that moment onwards, everyone began to regard her with a measure of respect. This is only natural. Every parent prefers to believe their own child is “better at studies” than others. When a parent, taking refuge in the natural thought—”She doesn’t study, but if she did, she could”—suddenly finds themselves face to face with someone bound by their own blind conviction of “She couldn’t do it, but managed it because she studied hard,” then no matter how much internal turmoil they feel, they cannot help but conjure an artificial show of regard on their face and lips, if only for the sake of social propriety!

A few days after her SSC results, Purbi’s mother died of cancer. Their financial circumstances had never been comfortable. The illness went largely untreated. Purbi’s mother could not be at her side during the SSC exams. She had been taken to Dhaka for treatment in her final days. Purbi never received as much of her mother’s love as she might have. In a household of five daughters, the youngest always receives somewhat less affection than she might have otherwise. Yet even within these constraints, whatever love her mother gave was considerable enough for Purbi. For some, even boundless care can feel insufficient; for others, mere absence of neglect is everything. Purbi was never neglected at home, not in any measure. She grew up without being deprived of care, whatever form it took. When Purbi sat for her SSC exams, her mother, lying ill in a hospital bed in Dhaka, would perform her prayers and ask God that her daughter pass with an A-plus. A mother’s prayers and her sighs—both are among the most faithful witnesses in this world.

Purbee’s father was not a man of means. After his wife’s death, he grew indifferent to worldly affairs. The girl who had once been so lively and full of chatter fell suddenly quiet. She spent her days drifting through novels and books, one after another. During her college years, the lack of money meant no private tuition, no help with studies. She passed her HSC with 4.90. While her classmates were taking coaching for university entrance exams, Purbee didn’t even know if anyone would give her money for the application forms. After much persuasion, she finally convinced her elder sister. The sister bought her forms from Dhaka University and Rajshahi University. She took the exams. Her name came up in Sociology at Dhaka University, and she ranked 7th in the Law faculty at Rajshahi. “So what? Will you just pass and settle down? Or should I look for a boy for you?” Her aunt had taunted her with these words after her HSC results. The aunt’s daughter was Purbee’s age. She had gone to coaching but didn’t get into any good university, eventually enrolling at a college under the National University. When word got out that Purbee ranked 7th, the aunt went around telling everyone, “Purbee is 7th on the waiting list.” She wielded this barb with practiced skill right up until Purbee was admitted. The weak always make the most noise. What else can you do?

Purbee’s father initially hesitated to let her study law, knowing the profession was fraught with complications and challenges. But her elder sister convinced him after much persuasion. First year of honors is when wings first sprout. How well one learns to use those wings determines much of what comes after. Purbee was naturally cheerful, quick to laugh, and had a gift for keeping everyone around her in good spirits. She chatted and hung out with a few classmates, but she carried within her a deep resistance to becoming too close with boys, too familiar in that way. “Is Purbee blind or something? Doesn’t she see, apparently.” Because of her strong character and self-respect, no boy dared risk anything cruder than this mild jab. Some would poke fun by saying she kept her head down, trying to get under her skin. Many boys in her class liked her, yet none had the courage to say so outright. Around her, no one could venture into indecent humor, and yet she was a spirited, vibrant girl. Through her character, her honesty, her cooperative nature, her youthfulness, and her easy, natural manner, she had won everyone’s heart in a remarkably short time. Classmates, professors, seniors—even the third and fourth-grade office staff in the department adored Purbee. And so the days passed.

Poorbi paid for all her studies herself—through tutoring and translating work online. While the other girls in her batch spent their late afternoons falling in love, she spent those hours tutoring. She studied through the nights, took on whatever online work she could find.

The first three semesters went well enough. Her grades were solid. In the fourth semester, one night while scrolling through Facebook, Poorbi noticed a friend request from someone named Abni. She didn’t usually accept requests from strangers, so she left it hanging. About a week later, in class, she spotted a new boy and asked her friend, “Who’s that?” Her friend told her his name was Abni, that he was enrolled with them but rarely came to class—only showed up for exams because he didn’t like being there. Poorbi watched him for a long time when she thought no one was looking. Handsome, smart, with a decent face. She opened Facebook on her phone right there in class and confirmed it: yes, that was him—the one who’d sent her the request. She accepted it and started to type “Hi,” but then saw that a “Hi” was already sitting in her message requests, waiting. She just marked it as seen and said nothing. A boy that handsome, accepting a friend request from a pretty girl and sending her a hello first—it couldn’t mean anything real. After that, whenever Poorbi went to class, she found herself searching desperately for Abni in the crowd. But he came so rarely that disappointment became routine. Three days later, when tutorial sheets were distributed, Abni wasn’t there either. Seeing her chance, Poorbi typed into his inbox: “Hey, why don’t you ever come to class? They gave out a sheet today.” And that’s how it began. Without any preamble, any casual greeting, she just started talking to him as if they’d known each other for years. People who keep themselves hidden either don’t speak at all, or they speak too much—they overshare in ways that feel strange. But Poorbi fell into something natural, something easy. She started checking messenger constantly. Even when the chatroom was full of others, she only really spoke to Abni. They both waited for each notification with a kind of hunger, every moment of every day. When Abni finally came to campus, they met in person for the first time. The two of them walked the entire campus for almost an hour, but their actual conversation barely used forty or fifty Bengali words strung together. The most beautiful sentence either of them managed was when Abni said, just as she was getting on the bus: “Here, have some ice cream.” “Yeah, okay,” Poorbi said, taking it from his hands, and she left quickly. It was the coldest ice cream she’d ever tasted in her life.

Day by day, they grew increasingly dependent on each other, their attachment deepening with every exchange. They talked constantly on messenger. All day, all night—every waking moment. Purabi used to sleep in the afternoons once, working on various assignments through the night. But everything changed after she met Aboni. Her thoughts about life, her daily routine, the rhythm of her existence—all of it shifted. They messaged back and forth, yet in nearly six months, they had never spoken on the phone. Then one day, Aboni asked for her number. Purabi, being somewhat conservative, refused point-blank. “You attend classes regularly, I don’t. It’s your responsibility to keep me updated on what we’re studying.” “I can do that here, can’t I?” “No, it doesn’t work like that. Not everything can be shared this way.” Despite Aboni’s persistent pleading, when Purabi still wouldn’t relent, she suddenly said, “Purabi, I can’t find my phone. Can you give me a missed call? Please! …………Here’s my number.” Purabi laughed and played along. “Sure, I’ll give you a missed call. Did you get it?” “Yes, I got it. Thanks a lot!” Purabi thought Aboni had simply been joking around, the way she sometimes did. But the truth was far different.

A few days later, in the course of conversation, Purbi asked, “So, do you have a girlfriend?” Abani sidestepped the question with, “Let’s be good friends first, then I’ll tell you.” And that was that.

Despite Purbi’s repeated insistence, when Abani refused to budge, she grew angry and stopped replying. Shortly after, she deactivated her account and logged out of Facebook. She kept it closed for nearly a fortnight. During this time, unable to reach Purbi any other way, Abani became terribly anxious. When he finally tried calling that number, he realized it wasn’t hers at all.

What had happened was this: on that very day, right in the middle of their conversation, a call had come through to Abani’s phone from an unknown number—pure coincidence. Abani had naturally assumed it was Purbi’s number and saved it. When Purbi reactivated her account and told him about the misunderstanding, she called him immediately herself. The moment Abani heard her voice, he was overwhelmed with joy. He spent nearly an hour apologizing to her. Purbi found herself loving him even more. After that, they were almost constantly on the phone. Their closeness deepened with each passing day.

The mere prospect of seeing Purbi in class made Abani attend regularly—he didn’t miss a single lecture. He studied only for her, gave every test for her. Purbi helped him in every way imaginable. She took notes for him, copied down the professors’ lectures, prepared suggestions—she took on almost complete responsibility for his studies. Their bond grew stronger. Abani’s results began improving, his interest in studies kindling. His parents noticed the transformation in him. Abani would often tell them, “It’s only because of Purbi that I’ve changed so much. It’s only for her that studying feels worthwhile.” Abani’s family lived in Nawgaon. One day his parents came to the university campus to meet Purbi. They called her over and spent a long time talking with her. Abani’s mother had prepared an abundance of food to bring for her. Later, back home, she told Abani, “Purbi is an extraordinary girl. We’ve grown very fond of her.” From that point on, they began calling Purbi regularly for news. They always addressed her as “ma”—daughter. Every week, Abani’s mother would prepare different kinds of food and send them, and Abani would feed them to Purbi with his own hands.

And so those beautiful, happy days unfolded.

One day, holding Poorbi’s hand as they sat together, Abani spoke between various stories: “I’ve liked you for such a long time now. You barely glance at boys, so you never noticed — but I used to watch you, quietly, all the time. Your nose is so beautifully long, it makes you look like some Iranian girl. I’ve never seen a girl as beautiful as you. No one else has eyes like yours. No one could say what color your eyes really are. Sometimes brown, sometimes grey, sometimes the color of ash — and then, all of a sudden, there’s this blue shimmer running through them.” Abani would gaze at Poorbi’s eyes with an infinite tenderness. He spoke often of her simplicity, her honesty, her moral strength. “You’ve lost your mother, you carry that grief, and yet — there’s no way to know it from your playfulness, your joy. You just keep laughing and playing, always like this.” Their attraction grew irresistible. They were always together — sitting, wandering, eating side by side. Abani would never eat anything without Poorbi; he cared for her so deeply. He made every effort to do things the way she liked them, to live the way that brought her joy. He thought constantly about what she liked and disliked. Because he understood even her smallest gestures so easily, he presented himself to her the way her heart desired. Poorbi was enchanted, captivated by Abani’s behavior, his words, his courtesy, his humility — everything about him. He listened to her every opinion with care, respected her thoughts, tried to understand her as she wished to be understood. In Poorbi’s eyes, Abani was the most beautiful, most courteous, most smart and refined boy in the world. She thought him perfect in every way.

They were a well-known pair around campus because they were always together. Everyone knew them — from the puffed-rice seller to the canteen uncles. The teachers knew it too; they were always inseparable. One day, a teacher joked with Poorbi: “Is Abani just your friend?” Everyone in class speculated about them. “Are they really just friends? Or are they a couple?” Because they seemed like friends, everyone was confused about them. Abani called Poorbi his friend, but he’d saved her number in his phone as ‘Babui’ — and called her tenderly by that name, ‘Babui bird.’ They always sat next to each other on the bus, going and coming. The whole journey they’d sit hand in hand, talking endlessly. They never even noticed how quickly the time flew by.

Their Third Year

A few days before the third-year exams, one morning Purbi went through Aboni’s Facebook wall, scrolling through her old posts one by one. In the comments of a post from March 6, 2010, Purbi found it: Aboni had written to someone named Abni Keya, “I love you, babusoña.” After digging through a few more months of posts, Purbi understood that this girl was Aboni’s girlfriend, and she was still on her friends list. Purbi sent her a friend request. When the girl accepted, they exchanged a few polite, ordinary messages in the inbox.

That very evening, Aboni called Purbi. “I need to tell you something important. Listen carefully. The truth is, I like a girl. I think you should know.” Purbi laughed on the phone, teased her about the relationship, even wished her well—but the moment she hung up, she broke down and wept uncontrollably. That weeping would stretch across the rest of her life. It never truly stopped. Proud Purbi had decided then and there: she would never let Aboni know about her pain.

That day, for the first time, Purbi understood how much she loved Aboni. But she never let her see it. During the third-year final exams, she stayed by Aboni’s side just as before, always hurting herself in the process. She encouraged her in every way with her studies. Because Purbi knew all too well: without her there, Aboni’s results would be as poor as they’d always been. A few days after the exams, one evening while they were talking, Purbi started crying as she spoke about her mother. The next day would be the anniversary of her mother’s death. Crying desperately, she finally broke and said to Aboni helplessly, “I love you. I love you so much. Tell me, what should I do?”

Aboni pulled Purbi’s head down and held it tight against her chest. “I already knew you loved me. But I thought you were such a strong girl—you could handle it on your own. I’m weak too, you know. I can’t bear to live without you. I can’t even imagine a world where I’m not yours, believe me. But I can’t betray my girlfriend like that. What’s her fault, tell me? We’ve been together for six years. She’s been waiting all this time, only for me. Don’t think about anything. I’ll fix everything for you if you stay with me. Never leave me, babusoña. I can’t live without you. You’ll stay by my side your whole life; if need be, as a friend.” “But that’s impossible. If I’m near you, if I see you, I’ll never be able to forget you. You’ll suffer, I’ll suffer. And your girlfriend—she’s being wronged too. This can’t work. Please, try to understand!”

That evening dissolved into night, and with it went two helpless souls, their meaningless tears flowing endlessly into darkness.

Abani had to coax Purbi with great effort to agree to keep no contact with her for at least a month. That very night, when Abani got home, she posted anguished status after anguished status. For three or four days, Abani’s blue wall of thoughts wept under the weight of all her gloom and pain. Unable to bear Abani’s suffering, Purbi called her herself. After talking for a long time, she calmed her down. From then on, they would go through stretches of cutting off all communication between them. But neither could stay silent for long. One or the other would end up calling. Abani also stopped coming to class as much as before. When Purbi asked, she would say, “If my being here causes you pain, then I shouldn’t come.” And so it went on.

A few days later, Purbi’s father suddenly had a stroke and died. At that time, they weren’t in contact. When Abani heard the news of Purbi’s father’s death from one of Purbi’s friends, she wept like a child. She wanted to rush to their house in Dinajpur again and again. She begged Purbi’s friend to tell her, just once, to call Abani and talk to her. Five days after her father’s death, Purbi called Abani. As she spoke to Abani, Purbi’s breath kept catching. She told Abani to come to campus the next day. That day they wandered together as before, talked, passed the time. Later, at some point, Purbi told Abani that she couldn’t go on like this. She couldn’t survive without Abani. If this kept happening, she would fall ill and die. Abani tried to make her understand—she loved Purbi deeply. To her, life meant Purbi, but she couldn’t betray her girlfriend, so she couldn’t accept Purbi that way. She wanted Purbi by her side for life, as a dear friend. After her own mother, Purbi was the most selfless girl she had ever known. She couldn’t bear to lose her. With these and other words, Abani tried to make Purbi understand. At one point, as Purbi began to cry, Abani held her tight against her chest and kissed her forehead, her eyes, her head, her cheeks, all the while offering various kinds of counsel and comfort. From that day on, both of them tried to move forward a little more carefully. They had sworn to each other that they would remain just friends, no matter what.

But in cases like these, people break their oaths with twice the conviction with which they make them. They slowly began to sink into a deeper bond. Night after night they would chat, talk on the phone. Almost every night their conversations would stretch until the call to dawn prayer. They would sleep at seven in the morning. Abani could sing beautifully. Whenever Purbi asked, Abani would sing for her—whether it was night or day. She would often record songs and send them to Purbi. Whatever Purbi asked of Abani, no matter how much it cost her, Abani would try her best to do it. She was always planning something to make Purbi happy. Buying her this and that, taking her to doctors, being there whenever she needed—Abani did everything.

Meanwhile, without Purbi’s knowledge, her sisters at home had been searching for a suitable match for her wedding for quite some time. A boy had noticed Purbi on Facebook, looked into her background, and sent a marriage proposal to her house. The boy had done his BBA and MBA in Finance from Dhaka University and worked at a multinational company. He owned a house and car in Dhaka. He was a courteous, humble, and handsome young man. His family was respectable too. It wasn’t until the day before the wedding that Purbi’s family informed her about the marriage. When Abni heard this over the phone, she rushed to Purbi’s hostel like a madwoman. She repeatedly begged Purbi not to go through with it. “If you marry him, your career will suffer tremendously. I won’t let that happen, not while I’m alive. You have to stop this wedding, no matter what.”

“Abni, I can do anything for you. I love you. Perhaps I’ll never say this again, but always believe it.” Holding Purbi close and kissing her, Abni went on, “I love you too, so much more than you know. But because I’m already in a relationship, I’ve never had the courage to say it out loud. I’ve made a promise to my girlfriend. I can’t betray her. And yet I can’t live without loving you. I can’t even imagine my life without you. The thought of you belonging to anyone else—I can’t bear it. Please, break off this wedding, my love.”

For a girl who has no father, no mother, to go against her family’s decision is among the most difficult things in the world. Enduring the family’s endless reproaches, their cutting remarks, the sharp arrows of suspicion, their barbed words—Purbi bore it all with tremendous pain and broke off the wedding. It was a Sunday. The wedding was supposed to happen on Monday. Purbi didn’t tell Abni that she’d called it off. She didn’t even speak to her for the next two days. Then on Tuesday, at exactly 12:01 in the morning, at the moment of cutting the birthday cake, she called Abni and sang, “Happy birthday to you!” Only after that did she tell her. Purbi’s plan had been to give Abni a wonderful surprise on her birthday by sharing the news. When Abni heard that Purbi’s wedding had been called off, she screamed with joy. “Darling, my love, I’ve never received such a big birthday gift in my entire life. I love you with everything I have. You’re mine, only mine, forever and ever.”

In Purbi’s eyes, Abani was an extraordinary person, a genuinely good man. Whatever he did, it seemed to her there could be nothing better. Yet there was one thing that caused her immense pain. Whenever Abani went home to Nawgaon, he barely had time for her. When she asked, he’d say he couldn’t call because he had to spend time with so many friends and his parents. Even though Purbi understood the situation, she couldn’t bear even the smallest separation from him. So she’d sulk terribly—cry, stop talking to him altogether. Then Abani would coax her gently, dissolving her hurt. If he didn’t, Purbi would start talking to him again on her own. The truth was, she’d never known a boy better than Abani. She couldn’t imagine her life without him, not even in her wildest thoughts. Abani loved her deeply, cared for her in every way, kept track of all her joys and sorrows. That a boy could love so completely—Purbi had never thought it possible. She was captivated by everything about him. Only Abani in this world understood her. And she understood him just as well. He was like an irresistible addiction to her. She could predict what Abani would do, what he would do, what he was thinking, what he would think—everything. They were remarkably alike. Such incredible telepathy between two people—no one had ever seen anything like it. Purbi would often marvel: how was such coincidence even possible? She believed Abani was her one true soulmate in this world. So whenever she thought that she might lose him, that he might belong to someone else, she would suffocate. Her heart would shatter and the tears would come. Her entire body and mind would convulse in the agony of death itself. Just when she was on the verge of madness, thinking of Abani’s wellbeing and her own, she would stop speaking again. Abani would try to explain to her, saying that if he couldn’t talk to Purbi, he’d die choking. Sometimes Purbi would become immovable in her resolve. Then, failing to convince her, Abani too would cut off contact with her. With pain weighing on his chest, he’d walk on.

Once, they didn’t speak for quite some time. Then, when Purbi realized that there were only five days left until the semester finals, yet Abani still hadn’t returned to the hostel—he was sitting at home in Nawgaon—she called him crying, begging forgiveness, and brought him back to the hostel. As long as there was a drop of blood in her body, Purbi would never let anything harm Abani. If Purbi hadn’t intervened, Abani had actually planned to drop the semester. He wasn’t listening to anyone at home. Purbi herself gathered all the notes and suggestions, and without studying herself, spent hour after hour on the phone explaining everything to Abani, getting him through the exam. Abani’s parents had absolute faith in Purbi. They’d often call her and say, “Ma, we’ve placed our son in your hands. You’ll look after him, always keep an eye on him. You’re our last hope, Ma. Because in this world, Abani only listens to you.” Abani’s parents knew Purbi as a very good friend to their son, and they also knew about their relationship. They had already accepted it. In any case, after seeing Abani through the exam well, Purbi cut off contact with him again.

A few days later, worn down by Abni’s persistence, Purbi talks to Abni on Skype video call till half past three in the morning. The next day, Purbi herself calls Abni first, asks for a selfie, sends one of her own too. Two days later, Abni comes to campus for some departmental work. Before coming to campus that day, she doesn’t call Purbi. Purbi suddenly recognizes Abni from behind—just by the sight of her hands. Then she goes up to her and speaks in a slightly raised voice: “You tell me yourself—you come to the department only for me. So why didn’t you call before coming? And you won’t ever talk to me again. From today on, you won’t even step on my shadow.” Knowing she won’t have Abni, Purbi pours out all the rage and hurt that has accumulated inside her onto Abni. Abni says nothing. She understands Purbi. She knows Purbi loves her madly; selflessly. So she swallows everything and stays silent. She doesn’t lodge a single complaint, just stands there with her head bowed, calm and still. After this, for a few days Purbi notices that Abni no longer calls her as she used to, no longer mingles with her. She doesn’t even initiate conversation of her own accord. Purbi cries again about this, feels hurt again. Then Abni tells her that she’s only keeping her distance from Purbi exactly as Purbi told her to. So what’s there to question about it? In that moment, Purbi truly doesn’t know what to say.

Some people are born only to die before they die. Perhaps Purbi is one of them. Four years ago, when she learned she would never have Abni, she died that very day. Since then, she has died countless times. All this while, she has been dragging her corpse along with her, carrying it. Fleeing from her own existence with every passing second. When she thinks of the agony of death, she no longer recoils—she has grown used to it, worn out by it, devastated by it. Without Abni, Purbi cannot think of anything else, not even for a moment. She has forgotten how to think of anything else, forgotten for so very long. She thinks of Abni so much that if the Creator were remembered even half as much, perhaps He would have granted her paradise. She has no separate self, no distinct existence of her own. If people didn’t survive on the mere current of breath, she should have died long, long ago. Every night Purbi weeps through the entire night. Weeping, she sometimes loses consciousness, sometimes vomits. Her most faithful, stillest companion through every moment is unbearable pain. She believes Abni too is in great, terrible suffering. Without Purbi, she cannot be well in any way. Not for a single moment. But thinking only of Purbi’s wellbeing, she endures the pain herself and keeps herself at a distance from Purbi. Only for Purbi’s sake, for nothing else.

And then, in the very next moment, a question blooms in Purbi’s mind: “How is this possible? This boy who would grip my hand tightly whenever he got the chance, even in secret, who never let a single tear fall from my eyes, who kept watch over my joys and sorrows with absolute faithfulness, day after day—he who wouldn’t listen to his own parents, yet listened to every word I spoke with eyes closed and heart open, bearing countless griefs—this boy whom others know as serious, commanding, formidable, the kind of man people respect from a distance, yet who cries like a child when he sees my pain, whose entire world turns upside down if I’m not beside him, whom I love so wildly, so madly that I forget my own existence—how can he not be mine? How can our union never happen? What more love, what greater sacrifice could two people need to be together? Has love itself now become a question of survival?…” Purbi finds she cannot think anymore.

Now Purbi deliberately keeps her distance from Abani. Perhaps he’s living contentedly with Kea. Purbi knows that the more she stays away from his life, the better path he will find. As long as she remains beside him, Abani will never be able to move toward true happiness. So, however much it costs her, even if it demands her own life, she will bear every sacrifice for Abani’s sake, and will go on bearing it for all her days. Purbi wishes for Abani to be well. To be happy, to be at peace. She loves him with the certainty of her final breath.