Assalamu alaykum.
This Arabic phrase means, may peace be upon you. Say, sometimes you could greet me with salam too, couldn’t you? You’re the one living in peace, brother! It’s me who needs peace. Please give me your salam. Just say it in your mind if you want. I’ll receive it just fine and live in peace. Alright, truly Allah hafez, Douglas. Tata. Stay well and keep everyone well.
Don’t forget me when you’re beaming at your own photo in the papers! Okay, I won’t bother you anymore. Bye. Doughssss! I mean The Great Great Great…est Granthik! Hah! Tata! Taaaa-ta! Tatta! (Have you noticed something? Earlier, the moment I said tata I would take my leave, but as time passes, I keep saying I’m going-going yet can’t easily leave. What does this mean? You’re a wise man, spend a little wisdom and tell me what it means!)
The Granthik!
I’m writing today—now, I mean at night.
I couldn’t write yesterday. I was feeling low. I don’t know why, but I was. I often feel down for no reason. Is this the fault of age? But I’ve already crossed the age that’s supposed to be at fault. Then what? Or can any age be guilty of age’s fault?
If you told me not to eat for three days, not to sit but to keep standing, I could do it, but if you made me feel low, I couldn’t stand for even five minutes, let alone sit. Look at the day before yesterday—even after traveling I managed to write so much for you (I didn’t send it though, won’t either.) Yet yesterday after coming from campus I couldn’t do anything. Yesterday when I came home I just cried my heart out. I’ve given my parents nothing but dishonor! Maybe I never will. You don’t know how terrible my basics are! At this age it’s impossible to start something new. I got a good job, true enough, but I’m giving up. If you knew how awful my memory is, how awful! You know me all wrong! Everyone thinks I can remember everything. No one would believe my true condition.
I’ve never attended any seminar in my life. I did some things in our department, but never anything about career stuff. I didn’t know anything about these things, had no interest either. I went just to hear you speak. I’d read so much about your career sessions on your FB profile that I really wanted to see what actually happens there!
When I went to the auditorium, oh my goodness what a crowd, and I didn’t know anyone—what to do, where to sit, I couldn’t figure out anything at all. I knew Foysal was terribly busy, but still I called him, and then I saw—well, heard—from far away: “Shanu apu! Shanu apu! Come this way! I saved you a seat!” my little brother was shouting. Ah! That fair, sweet boy! God saved me! Thank you, Granthik, because of you I got a little brother like Foysal. What would have happened if he hadn’t been there! You can’t even imagine how wonderful Foysal is. He stayed with me the whole time like a bodyguard. Whatever he would do for his own big sister, he did the same for me. Anyway, coming to what you were saying—you speak well, as you know. The very first day I said hello, I understood right away that you’ve done a lot of presenting. On the phone your voice sounded exactly like that presenter from Bhoot FM. I thought it was a wrong number! Though later you did cackle now and then too. I mean, your pronunciation isn’t exactly perfect, flawless, or error-free either! Anyway, much of what Granthik said that day I’ve read in your writing, and much I haven’t read. But you made me laugh so hard! And you made me cry too! Why are you like this? You do all this on purpose! I understand everything.
I’m a really tough girl—I mean, I appear tough on the outside, that’s all! So what goes on inside me, no one in the world has the ability to understand except me. I can have fun even when carrying deep sadness within. So at one point—no, not one point, several times—tears were welling up in my eyes, but no one noticed. But remember that story you told? When everyone had to say what they did for a living, well, at that moment the tears came a bit more freely! And I was so embarrassed you can’t even imagine. It would have been wonderful if I could have pushed those tears back into my eyes. But that’s not possible—God, in His enmity, didn’t leave us with that system. I couldn’t push the water back in, and I was so scared! What if Foysal saw! Thank God! Because, you see, Foysal’s eyes were teary too! There’s no problem when everyone cries together, but crying alone is embarrassing! Seeing that I’d found a crying partner, I wept in relief! I was so afraid because Foysal had been really annoying me, talking about you constantly! All the things he was saying! Though those weren’t really anything serious—just silly little mischief, you know! I really hate having to call people bhaiya this, apu that! I had to force myself to say it in front of them! You don’t say it though! I feel that same irritation with everyone. Still, I’ve called you bhaiya and made a mess of it! That was just courtesy, nothing more. Anyway, you speak well. So beautifully. If you weren’t my twin cousin from a previous life, I would have fallen in love with you. Oh, the person who came with you—I mean Setu bhai—he’s quite good actually. I love hearing regional dialects. The way he speaks, that’s pure Rajshahi regional language. On top of that, with his hiccups and spilling his tea—I mean making his words even more, I don’t know what to call it, I mean he was deliberately making his words all… what should I say instead of ‘all’? I don’t know, I’m weak in Bengali, but I mean that ‘all’ in a positive sense. He’s a good person too. You’re all good, I suppose! Tell me, if the word ‘all’ hadn’t been invented in Bengali, everything would become quite messy, wouldn’t it?
Now let me tell you something that didn’t reach your ears… shall I? Two girls were sitting beside me, and when they got up, a fake holy man came and sat next to me. When you paused your speech, some vote-seeking boy whispered something from behind, didn’t he? Then that holy man thought that perhaps the boy was telling you to cut your speech short. (What did that boy actually say?) So the holy man got really angry! Furrowing his brows, he said, “What’s the matter! Why did he stop talking? I was enjoying it! Let him speak as long as he wants! Why are they making him stop!” That’s what he said.
And during the prayer break, you should hear what the girls behind me were talking about. They were saying, “Did you see? I had to force you to come! You didn’t want to come at all!” The other one says, “Yes! How was I supposed to know! I made a mistake, I’ll come from now on.” Things like that. There was some similar chatter in front too! And you know what I heard from someone else? You know her, so I won’t mention her name. She says, “You know how much income Granthik Bhai made? He took away lakhs of rupees!” For the first time, I sang your praises behind your back. (It pained me a little, but I still did it. What else could I do! If it had been something else, I would have stayed quiet or had some fun with it, but hearing this, I painfully tried to break the misconception.) I told her some things from your status updates, what you say, what your seminar conditions are, all that. So she says, “Well, he won’t take anything from us, but he’ll definitely take from the organizers!” Hearing this, I got a bit worried! That’s right! And then I remembered that someone who… who doesn’t even need to be given bus fare, how would he take money! Anyway, I sang some more of your virtues to her. She understood too. But she didn’t say where she heard this from. Just said, “It’s going around.” Anyway, since I corrected people’s misconceptions on your behalf, shouldn’t you thank me! If you’re too embarrassed to say it out loud, at least give it mentally. Okay? And you should come to Rajshahi again. Come after I get my second job. (But that has to be before your wedding! I really dislike handsome, smart married men.) Then I’ll be able to make you tea with my own hands. Oh my, I can make such beautiful tea! But I make it very thick, it becomes like pudding! If your stomach gets upset, don’t blame me, okay?
Alright, goodbye for now.
Oh wait, Granthik, give me a solution—I want to quit Facebook, but I also want to read all your writing. What should I do?
Well, do read this one at least—you don’t have to read the next letter if you don’t want to, that one’s just silly nonsense. What happened was, after coming back from the riverbank I had nothing to do, no one was home, and I was going to eat dinner with aunt later. So what else was there to do? The whole day kept coming back to me, so I wrote it down. First I say whatever comes to mind, scribbling away helter-skelter. (Otherwise what’s the point—I’d forget what I even said! Though I don’t write you letters, I talk to you.) Writing doesn’t take me long, I just put down whatever comes to mind. (I don’t have to think it through like you do.) So almost every word has mistakes. ‘Ka’ instead of ‘Kha’ or ‘Ga’ instead of ‘Gha,’ that sort of thing. Then I have to spend ages fixing all that. Yesterday after writing the letter—I mean, just as I’d started checking the spelling and all—I got news that my sister’s baby wasn’t moving in her belly! It hadn’t moved since noon, but they still hadn’t told the doctor anything. Later when they called the doctor at night, he said she’d need an ultrasound! At that hour! You can’t imagine the state our house was in! On the phone mother kept crying, aunt was crying here, uncle was crying—trying to comfort them all nearly finished me off! Who was going to comfort me? I get very affected by tears, especially when it’s family members crying! You can imagine the state I was in! I just kept thinking it was all because of me! Because I’d deceived my parents and wandered around like this without telling them, maybe God was punishing us! But really, what had I done wrong? I’d only gone a little distance away. If I’d done this same thing for work after getting a job, going around with colleagues, nothing would have happened then, would it? Anyway, later it turned out the baby was perfectly fine. 100% healthy. You see how naughty the little devil is? I don’t understand why people get so crazy with worry having babies! Just adopt one instead! God knows! I don’t understand human psychology. What if I end up marrying some dark ghost and have a pitch-black baby—what then? Why take such risks? Better to just adopt a beautiful baby after taking a good look! No pain either, and a healthy, normal, beautiful child!
Anyway, the next letter is just foolishness. I thought about not sending it, but then I realized that nothing would happen if you didn’t read it, but you might get angry if you did, so I went ahead and sent it. You’re not even in Rajshahi anymore! What’s the worst that could happen if you get angry? Though honestly, no problem if you don’t read it—it’s really nothing much.
Alright, for real this time—goodbye!
Ta-ta again. And a bye-bye too.
I wrote some things in my diary yesterday. Should I show you?
If you must,
don’t love me—hate me instead,
but please don’t expect
anything. I love you because you love me. But in return, I expect nothing from you. Whatever you give—care or neglect—I accept both, kneeling with outstretched hands. Even if you gave me indifference in exchange for my love, I would take that too, believe me—even if you caused me pain,
I would still give love in return! My love breeds no expectations; my love breeds only love.
Love holds not just remembering, but forgetting too.
The expectations born from your love make me feel terribly guilty, because what you expect, I cannot give—though I know you’ve given me happiness and peace far beyond my hopes, again and again, when I wasn’t worthy of even a fraction of it,
and still am not. My indifference doesn’t mean the absence of love,
yet how easily you misunderstand me, and so the guilt
works with such sharp intensity. Don’t understand me if you must, that’s fine too, but don’t misunderstand me. It doesn’t matter if someone doesn’t understand,
but when they misunderstand, life becomes
difficult. Don’t remember me, forget me,
but don’t bind me in chains of expectation like this. I promise you, even in the moment before death I won’t expect a drop of water from you. Death is better to me than expectation.
If you have time, come and bid farewell to my lifeless body, the way
we used to cry in childhood over a broken doll after play was done—cry a little like that if you will, to console yourself…….nothing in this world would be lost if you didn’t do any of this, but as long as there’s life in this body, I will never bind you
by expecting anything from you.
I love you,
so I have only one wish: be well.
Why do I love you? Because loving you brings me joy. The happiness I feel in my heart when I care for you—that’s why I care for you in the first place. If I don’t seat you in the chambers of my mind and shower you with affection, my heart grows so melancholy that I simply must offer that tenderness. Just as your indifference toward me keeps you well, my attention toward you keeps me well. When I can do something for you, my mind fills with joy, with peace, with happiness—that’s why I try to do things for you. In truth, I do it all to keep myself at ease. What I mean is, everything I do, I do for myself. You’re merely the pretext! I convince myself that I’m at least honest with myself! Both the joy and the burden of this honesty belong to me alone. Perhaps my sincerity means nothing to you, but I need it for myself. I know perfectly well that my care, my affection—none of it is essential to you. You get along just fine without any of it. Whether my heart holds love or hatred for you makes no difference to you whatsoever. Yet I cannot be well without looking after you! What am I to do, tell me! Whether you love me or not barely crosses my mind, because I don’t love you in exchange for your love or your indifference. I love you because I haven’t yet found any other way to live well besides loving you. Loving you, thinking of you, watching over you—all of this keeps me alive in my world. I don’t take care of your tasks to give you a little comfort, but rather because believing that my taking care of your tasks might allow you to live in comfort—that belief helps me survive. Whether you want it or not, I will go on loving you, because if I don’t, I’ll burn constantly in a kind of inner torment, burn and burn. What’s the point of that, tell me? When there’s such a simple way to keep myself well, why would I needlessly cause myself suffering? Loving you isn’t selfless—I love you to keep myself well. That’s pure selfishness, isn’t it? The one who loves is not selfless but selfish. If you prevented him from loving, he might very well die of heartbreak. He loves in order to stay alive. He loves to keep himself beautiful, to keep his mind pure, to keep his heart cheerful. When he sees the happiness of the one he loves, he too becomes happy. Perhaps the story of that happiness will never even reach the person he loves, but to live, he needs that happiness, so he loves that person and tries everything possible to make them—and by extension, himself—happy. In this way he keeps himself well, keeps himself joyful, keeps himself happy… keeps himself living in peace!
That’s all I’m writing in my diary. Nothing more. And yes, that “you” isn’t formal—don’t take it personally. Ha!
Hey Granthik,
Assalamu alaikum. Don’t you want to know the story behind why I call you Dagash? Well, I feel like telling you anyway. “My heart wants to give you something, even if you have no need for it.” Let me show you parts of my diary—you’ll understand why I call you Dagash… How many times do I have to ask what I should call you? I’ve given you plenty of chances, but no more. Now I’ll decide what to call you myself. I’ve figured out what to call you. Dagash!!! ‘Da’ from ‘The’ (though in English it becomes ‘da’), ‘Ga’ from ‘Great’ (could have been ‘Gre’ but that would be hard to write, so ‘Ga’), and ‘S’ from the English letter for Shanayar. How’s the name? Dagash! Dagash! Dagash! Eeeeeeee… I absolutely loooove this name. Please don’t refuse, brother! Don’t you like it? Then tell me what I should call you instead? What do you care about liking anyway! Whatever suits your fancy! Ehhhh!… So that’s the story of the name Dagash.
There’s one thing I couldn’t understand—what a contrast! What’s the point of wearing a shirt with patches made from one piece of fabric, sorry, two pieces of fabric, near the elbows? God knows! I’m a simple girl, I don’t understand all these style things. You looked fine yesterday, but not up close—from a distance. Up close, you’re not that handsome. I think boys look better when they’re a bit darker. Of course, looking good to me isn’t particularly important for you. You’re neither dark, nor tall, nor can you make people laugh! You’re nothing at all! You’re a complete dud! I’m totally disappointed! All you can do is pose and take pictures. I actually observed you several times (very carefully)—though I didn’t always remember to do it, I’d forget—but whenever I tried to look at you, I’d get such uncontrollable fits of laughter for no reason, what can I say! Because of this, the thing I’d planned to check out beforehand never got properly examined! In photos, I see your ears are quite large, I was tremendously interested in that, but I never got to look at your ears properly! And your singing? Maybe you do sing well, but I was expecting a bit more. (Like Hemanta… ha!) You can sing quite loudly and with good control, but your voice isn’t that sweet—I mean, not the goosebump-inducing type. Whenever I listen to Hemanta’s songs, the hair on my body stands up. Want to know something funny? Those two Kishore Kumar songs you sang one after another—they come consecutively in my Kishore Kumar folder too. I like Kishore’s Hindi songs better than his Bengali ones. Especially the ones tuned by RD Burman. Panchamda (RD Burman’s nickname) is a bit crazy like me. He’s got a touch of madness in his head, which I absolutely love. All geniuses are slightly mad people! If you read the stories about his friendship with Gulzar, you’ll have great fun. You’ll understand what kind of person Burmanji was! All those hurrrr-furrrr type bizarre sounds mixed with sorrow, and those strange voices he’d use to sing so many songs—I love that. He’s done many beautiful Bengali songs too, of course, but those are well-behaved. I used to sing, but I’ve caught some cold and my throat’s in such a state now. My sister sings so beautifully that everyone laughs when I sing. So I don’t sing anymore. When two sisters in one house can sing, comparisons inevitably arise. But when I sing with a guitar master and his guitar, even my ridiculous voice becomes a bit less ridiculous. The big problem is, I can’t remember any song lyrics at all! How do people sing without looking, keeping lyrics in their memory!
Douglas, I had told you to introduce me to the kids as your older sister. You didn’t listen, did you! You’ve created such a mess! Well done—now I had to explain to three people that I’m not Hindu, I’m a completely genuine Muslim. I was thinking whether I should recite the Kalema-e-Tayyiba for them! Want to know something true? I really enjoyed talking about you with the kids. I wouldn’t bring up your topic myself, but I’d very carefully get them to bring it up instead. I love talking about you. No one in my circle knows you, so I can’t really talk about you with them. But I make up various excuses to talk about you, fabricating stories. I told my mother a few things over a couple of days. All made up! Ha! I told her you’re a very poor, struggling, brilliant boy! You don’t even have a decent shirt to wear. Ha! Funny how the word “brilliant” automatically brings “poor” along with it! Why do you think that happens? When someone dies in an accident, why do people automatically say, without even knowing, “Brilliant student dies in road accident”? What if that boy had been failing year after year? Do we have to make someone sound good, even if we have to fabricate it, just because they died? Isn’t it a sin to lie about the dead? Anyway, what I was saying—if I’d called you rich, mother wouldn’t have felt sympathy, and the conversation wouldn’t have continued. Your habit of giving money to beggars in such a lordly style burns me up. I would never do that in my life. I’m poor, you see! I buy them tea, samosas, or eat with them and chat. (I don’t have friends at university now, only they’re there!) But the condition is they have to be doddering old men or women and not too greedy—meaning they can’t be scheming.
I think I understand people! Ha! So why couldn’t I figure you out? Face to face you’re so beautifully gentle, polite, tailless, so why do you seem so aggressive on Facebook? You haven’t hired some extra person to handle your Facebook, have you? Who knows, man! Rich people’s affairs are different after all! I’m a foolish blockhead, so just as I avoid the wise, being poor myself I also avoid the rich. You’re both, yet here I am running after you! I’ve become completely unprincipled! My father was in non-cadre service, but the scale was the same, and dad was senior to you, meaning his salary was a bit higher at least (higher salary always feels so senior to me)—but I never saw dad like this! Okay, forget dad—my relatives, those who are cadre officers and all senior to you, when we go out with them they don’t just give tips because they don’t have change for fifty taka! Douglas, you don’t take bribes, do you? Please don’t say yes! I’ll jump off the tenth-floor roof right now! And if I die, I’ll become a ghost and torment you. The way I torment you as a human… imagine what I’d do as a ghost? And a female ghost at that! Better tell me it’s because you don’t have a family yet, so money gets saved up. Say that! This is the truth. Isn’t it?
Today’s return journey was so utterly boring! Why didn’t you bring Panth bhai along? That brother tells such wonderful stories and makes everyone laugh! Look, you don’t tell stories, you can’t make people laugh, but surely you could have managed not to sleep with your mouth hanging open and not snore so thunderously? What? You couldn’t? You look absolutely ridiculous when you sleep in the car! Fine, I’m just teasing. You’re such a spoilsport… I have to announce when I’m teasing, otherwise you’ll start explaining again—oh no! Actually I was a bit tired, I was taking a power nap, it helps me work more efficiently, I don’t sleep much at night, so… blah blah blah! And then you claim women have no sense of humor! What face do you have to say such things! Look at yourself! Hmph!
I liked your driver. He chatters as much as I do. In looks and speech, he’s exactly like our Karim Kaku, though this one’s a bit taller. Karim Kaku was my father’s driver. He didn’t talk quite this much though, and never swore in front of Abba or us. Karim Kaku still secretly brings chocolates for us, though now he rarely comes—maybe not at all—just on Eid. When I say chocolate, don’t think chocolate bars, I mean candy. You know, so I can’t say “candy-fand.” To me, chocolate is chocolate, candy is also chocolate. Your office bathroom isn’t that great, but I liked the breakfast. Oof! We walked around so much! Thank you, Douglas! You’re not related to me, yet somehow it feels like you’ve become someone! No worries! Little brother! Little brother! No, twin cousin from a past life. Oh right, apparently everyone got stomach troubles from eating sweets? Ha! Allah saved me! Stomach troubles are rather undignified for women! Just running to the bathroom constantly is no big deal for men! I ate everything everyone else ate! So why? Maybe the driver saheb cursed them! He didn’t curse me though, baba! I was his only listener, after all! Wait, it’s not like when you were sleeping with your mouth open, a fly went in, is it? Well, you got stomach troubles because you wolfed down puchkas by the river! I was certain that… never mind! See, I’m stronger than all of you! I didn’t sleep, didn’t get tired, nothing happened to me. And here I am, back home, sitting down to write again.
Tell me, I didn’t seem crazy to you, did I? When I got home, my little sisters laughingly said, Apu, you were walking around with your hair like that the whole time! What can I do? Both days I packed everything—combs, clips, all of it—in my bag, yet couldn’t find any of it either day… Then back home, one day I found it right at home, another day it was in the bag all along, but I couldn’t find it. When I’m in a hurry, I mess everything up completely, do more harm than good. And it’s better this way—I don’t need to stay artificially neat and tidy. I like everything casual. I can’t manage all those airs and graces! I wanted to tell you something else. Those two sisters of mine are 10 and 12 years younger than me, and the older one is even fatter than me and almost as tall as me, the younger one is slimmer than me but an inch and a half taller! Did I scare you? Hehehe…
See how lucky I am—you came too, and here I am all alone in Rajshahi again! Ahh, bliss! No one to keep tabs on me, no one to scold me—do whatever I please! Living like royalty for a few days! Though at night Khalamoni does come to sleep and bothers me! She’s the serious nagging type. Still, what I’ve gained is pure profit! I told Ma that everyone’s coming for the convocation form-filling, so I’ll roam around with them a bit. If anyone knew I’d gone this far with some unknown boy, acting all carefree like this, first they wouldn’t believe it, and second, what they’d do to me—I have no idea! I have absolutely no clue what they’d do to me if they found out! Actually, no one would believe it. But how can I blame them? None of them know you!
Wait, you didn’t take me to church! Though I already knew that! You’re a bit of a hypocrite, Douglas. Oh right, I almost forgot the main point—we talked, you even asked me to come, so why on earth were you all planning to go off touring, leaving me behind? Why is your self-confidence so low? When I say I’ll come, I’ll come, and if I can’t, I’ll definitely let you know. I’m not a celebrity like you, I’m not busy like you, I’m not a hypocrite like you, I’m not complex like you. What’s the point of all this pretense? Or are you afraid? Can’t handle being as smart as me? Oh come on, why do you keep forgetting! I’m your admirer, aren’t I! Nothing else, Douglas! Is your only complexity that I’m a girl? Should I go get a sex change and become a boy then? Is that what you’re saying? Should I get gender reassignment surgery? Ritu didi taught me this English term. Tell me, who knows more English—you or Ritu didi? What’s the English for spiral stairs, you know, winding stairs? Even if you say “banana tree,” I won’t argue, and if you say “Google-etu,” I’ll accept that too, because I don’t know the English for it. Tell me, haven’t you ever thought, even once, “Hey you brat, when you keep finding all these negative things about me, what about yourself?” Haven’t you thought that even to yourself? That’s exactly the fun of it, Douglas! You want to be a celebrity and think everyone will just let you off easy? Kabhi nahin! Listen Douglas, we’re talking way too much these days. What should I do, tell me? My mouth just won’t stay shut! Well, tomorrow’s Motivation Day! We’ll meet for the last time. Douglas, look, I’m really crying… wah… wah… Okay, khuda hafez. Wah… wah…
I want to donate a book to your personal library. I couldn’t read even a single line of this book. Such an awful book! Not meant for people like us to read. The book is real, but also not real. I mean the book is old, but not 100% ancient—it’s a new edition, or new print, who knows what they call it! Why did I feel like giving it to you? Not to you, really—to your library. Even when I used to inbox you just to scold you, I used to think I’d give a book to your library. Just like that. I don’t give gifts to show off, brother—I even feel shy giving anything to anyone. So I can’t give either. Oh right, but first I’d have to get that gender reassignment surgery, right? But the surgery would cost a lot of money! Who’ll pay for it? You? Then that’s fine.
Oh wait, Douglas, I forgot to mention—when you weren’t snoring with your mouth agape like a foghorn, there was this transparent liquid substance dripping steadily from your mouth! Ewww! Yuck! And this fellow thinks he’s some sort of celebrity! Claims he can’t ride anything without a pillow and cushion! Huh, what a show-off! Alright, bye now. You won’t say anything to me about this, will you? Okay, sorry. I won’t tease you anymore. Really! (?)
Dear Granthik!
What have you done! You had to go and announce that you have a crush on Charulata—was there any need to say that? And here I was, taking cute pictures on the elephant swing, and now everyone’s teasing me calling me Charulata! I was going to make it my cover photo with some caption about Charulata underneath. And now? Damn! Now I can’t do it. It’ll look like I’m copying you. I was already bragging to my roommates about how the swing didn’t break under my weight, and now I’m in trouble over that very picture! What am I going to do now? I’ll have to go with Mrinalni! But I’m such a chubby thing! Pale, sickly Mrinalni won’t suit me at all! An elephant with a little goat… how ridiculous!
Listen, Granthik, when I hang out with you again tomorrow, should I keep my mouth shut? I mean, I often can’t tell what I should and shouldn’t say, and I tend to speak very directly. I don’t understand what’s embarrassing or what might embarrass others. Someone has to teach me. That’s why when people take me somewhere, they advise me to keep my mouth shut. Can you handle my direct way of speaking? And what will you tell the guys from the ’37 batch? That I’m your fan? I’m certainly a fan, that’s fine, but everyone will think—what a forward girl… how far she goes with strangers! Just because I’m being casual with you, do you have to announce it to everyone? Say I’m your big sister, okay? I look older anyway, so if you said little sister, no one would believe it, so say that instead. And Granthik, about that status you posted? That one? Wait, let me read it once more.
Dear Granthikooo…! Ohhhh… why are you so romantic? You still dream such dreams? I mean, you haven’t aged at all. When you dream, surely you think of Suchitra? (Or do you drag Sunny Leone into it?) Brother, listen, the real Suchitra used to fight with her husband too! You want to get married, fine. But are you ready to endure a wife’s tantrums, troubles, nastiness, and bossiness? Wives aren’t such wonderful things, brother! She’ll squeeze all the juice out of your life and turn you into a wreck! In front of your wife, you’ll be going “yes ma’am, yes ma’am,” rubbing your hands obsequiously until the very lines on your palms disappear! You won’t understand your wife, your wife won’t trust you. And thus begins the comedy-drama! Marriage is a battlefield! Think carefully whether you want to enter that saga! All this girl-crazy madness you’re in now—you’ll understand the real deal later! Girlfriends and wives are completely different creatures!
All that movie-watching has probably addled your brain for real! But still… your words came out quite sweetly, very romantic indeed! Listen, I’ll tell all the Hindu folks I know about you so they can hunt for a girl for you. I have this uncle Joydev, a teacher. Everything you’ve asked for, he wanted the same exact things, but oh what trouble finding a girl! They just don’t exist! Though that uncle of mine isn’t a celebrity like you, nor is he fair-complexioned. Say, would a girl from Pabna work? And listen, will you invite me to your wedding? You people really know how to celebrate weddings. All those shehnais and dhols playing all day long. I absolutely love it. The rhythm is so beautiful, so beautiful that it just makes you want to dance when you hear it. But if you don’t play coy or pretend to forget and actually invite me, and I actually show up, I won’t be able to dance! Because then the dhol’s sound won’t reach my ears — all I’ll hear is the mournful melody of violins! Pyap-pyap-pyap-pyap-pyaaaa… Wait! That turned into some keyboard-made music! How does one write out violin music anyway? I have no idea! Anyway, that’s the tragic background music to my feelings! Brother, I’m in pain…
So, my dear Great Romantic, does life really unfold the way you write it? Many like you probably think it does. But does it really? It does. In the beginning, that is. But later, when the boy can’t lift the market bag and when the girl can’t pick up the spatula anymore, that’s when the real picture emerges! These aren’t my words—I’ve heard this from various earnest Laili-Majnu type lovers. My parents’ love story was famous too, of course. Dad loved it when Mom wore vermillion, so she always did. She was doing it until just recently. Again, I remember when I was in ninth grade, Dad got dengue. I was with him in Dhaka at BIRDEM. Mom was so upset, crying quietly, and then I’d see her coming to the hospital wearing Dad’s favorite colored sari and the two of them talking such romantic nonsense! I’d lie on Dad’s bed pretending to sleep and eavesdrop with mischievous delight. I was quite the little devil, brother. I’d secretly take out their letters from the trunk and read them, then put them back feeling embarrassed. If I were to write my parents’ love story, it would become a whole novel! And now, I mean recently—not even a year has passed—what a change in Dad! When I was little and would go around acting in plays and reciting poetry, Dad would be more enthusiastic than me. When I started doing radio dramas, I didn’t want anyone to listen to them because they were so terrible! Just looking at the scripts made me want to vomit at that age! But Dad would still come to listen. Even when I’d skip school for these things, Dad wouldn’t say anything. I grew up a bit differently, I mean compared to other girls, I mean just a little bit in the Chitrangada style. I didn’t grow up as a girl in childhood, but as a human being. There was no “boy’s work” that Dad wouldn’t let me do. Now Dad comes to teach me the difference between boys and girls. What’s the point now? He won’t let me learn guitar! I can’t play music loud! Yet he used to listen, he taught me to listen too! He won’t let me dance, won’t let me walk making noise with my feet. If I speak looking him in the eye, he tells me to lower my eyes while talking. In his early life he was a free-thinking person, later he’s become bound by the chains of orthodoxy! Does it make any sense? I somehow feel I’m responsible for this. I mean, because of me, Dad has taken so much mental pressure that he’s become such a maulvi now. Extremely orthodox! The old man has become a complete stick-in-the-mud! If I see my middle uncle, Moni uncle or younger aunt change like this too, I won’t have any faith left in humanity. Ugh! What have I started! Disgusting! Disgusting!!
What I was saying is, reading your writing made me think like that, made me want to fall deeply in love with such a boy, but after a while that desire faded too! Because those things will never come true. At least not for me. What will happen? Maybe in the beginning there’ll be a little lovey-dovey romance here and there, then after two days you’ll see that what’s in the heart starts coming out of the mouth. I won’t want to cook anymore, then Boga (pseudonym for a stubborn fool) will say,
– Why are you putting on airs? If you won’t cook, should I cook then?
– What? What’s the difference between you and me that I can do something you can’t?
– You’re a woman and I’m a man, have you forgotten that? Cooking isn’t men’s work, it’s women’s work. Get that through your thick skull. Understood?
– Oh really? Then go on, buddy, head to your favorite restaurant and eat there, and strip the chefs to see if they’re men or women!
– Get lost! That kind of work suits you perfectly. You’re starting your nonsense again, aren’t you? You look like a witch, and you talk like one too!
– Oh… and you’ve become my very own Salman Khan! Such a handsome devil that just looking at you makes me want to throw up. Bloody fool! And you’ve got the nerve to keep a fancy name like Boga! Hah!
– If looking at me makes you sick, then why do you look, you elephant? Look at someone who makes you feel better instead. If you dare look at me, I’ll pluck your eyes out!
– You think I want to look at you, you donkey? I’m forced to look! Marrying you has ruined my entire life! Look what I was and what I’ve become! Ever since you came into my life, I can’t think about anything productive! Now my thoughts have become animal-like, focused only on food, and even then you can’t bring home groceries the way I want! You shop like a beggar! But you want to eat like a king! Don’t you have any shame?
– I do shop like a king, but a dog’s stomach can’t handle ghee, so you waste it all carelessly and then I have to eat like a beggar. Hey, what would you understand… if you earned money, you’d get it! And you say you can’t think productively! What productive thoughts could you possibly have? Apart from eating, sleeping, and watching TV, do you understand anything? You can’t even fulfill a woman’s real production! Girl, marrying you has made my lineage start flowing backward. I should have married some girl I found randomly—by now I would have built a football team! I would have been so happy.
– You damn old fool! How dare you say that? If I had known you were impotent, would I have married a loser like you? I would have married a handsome macho man and built fifty teams!
– Shameless! Indecent! Ill-mannered girl! I should grab you and slap you right now, but I’m civilized, not uncivilized like you, so I’m just telling you to leave my house quietly! Right now! Quickly!
– Yes, if you say nothing, it’s fine, but if I say anything, I become rude and shameless, isn’t that right? I’m not civilized like you—I’m uncivilized, so I would have given you not one but ten slaps, but what can I do? If I hit you, the black color of your skin would rub off on my hands, so I’m backing off! And listen, why should I leave? I work harder than you in this household. I have more claim to it. You should leave. Go fool around with loose women! Get lost! I don’t need you anyway. You’re ruining my life.
– Your life is doing just fine. You’re the one ruining mine!
– No, you are.
– You are!
– You are!
– You are!
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It will go on like this, it will keep going… you, me, you, me… this is what they call marriage! Is there any point to it, tell me?
Then when parents come to make peace, and then after treatment and all that, there will be children, and then comes new tension! Because the kids will inevitably be little devils! Children mean—ungrateful, selfish, rude, cruel little brats. Now begins the phase of squeezing out sugar like ants and selling it to make money, spending all the money that was saved earlier! The boy will become a drug addict and the girl will either quit studying after being a victim of eve-teasing, or she’ll go around having affairs with fifty different people. Then the “you-me” arguments will start again. One will say it’s because of your pampering, the other will say it’s because of your excessive strictness. If the son is good and daughter is bad, they’ll say “she’s your daughter, how good could she be?” If it’s the opposite, “your son was bound to become a thief!” And if both children turn out bad, “you’ve given birth to two pigs—could anything human ever come from your womb?” Then you’ll age some more. Then begins pouring the remaining sugar-selling money after doctors. Even then the “you-me” fighting continues! Then at some point, whoever is lucky dies with a thud! And whoever is unlucky lives a bit longer. Live alone! Get a bit more sick. Now begins the bed-soiling phase. If you’re lucky—meaning if your bastard son develops some sense—he’ll hire a caregiver. Occasionally the caregiver will come, clean up, and leave after cursing the old man or woman a hundred times, asking why they won’t just die. Will the old man or woman die easily? No! They won’t die! Their quota of enduring the world’s abuse isn’t over yet. They’ll live a bit longer and suffer more!
Oh Allah! I’m scared! Oh God! Please Allah! I’m holding your feet! Let me never see such days! If necessary, I’ll live twenty years less, but I’ll live well. Allah, no matter how handsome the man who comes, don’t let anyone sweet-talk me, Allah! Don’t let my parents emotionally blackmail me into marriage, Allah! I’m terrified of an ugly life, Allah! Please Allah, just stay with me through all troubles as you always have!
Sorry, Great Author, I got a bit emotional there, so I had a quick word with Allah. What I was saying… Yes, your dream is very beautiful. Since you’re a good person who helps others, your dream might even come true. And my dream is as ugly as I am. Yuck! I’m bad, so this is probably how it should be! Pray that I can quickly get a good job and escape from home. I have to prove my disgusting dream wrong! There’s no other way except getting a job. Please pray for me. Oh Allah! Please, keep me just as I am! If there’s a path that would shatter beautiful dreams, I won’t go down that road even if I have to. If necessary, I’ll go abroad. That would be better.
I’ve babbled on too much. Sorry. I won’t do it anymore, you go ahead. God bless. And, Assalamu Alaikum.
I don’t want to leave. I feel like making up more nonsense and saying all sorts of random things! But I have to think about you too! How much more can I torment you? Isn’t that right? Alright, I’ll stay good, but I’ll come back to torment you again later! Is that okay? Bye-bye! Stay well and keep everyone else well too. Yes?
It’s quite cold in Rajshahi today! Ugh! I don’t want to go!
Oh Allah! Save me! The Author, what have you written? I’ve fallen off my chair laughing several times. Here’s what you should do – become a “don’t care” type of guy. Then you can keep twelve wives at once! You won’t have to see the same face twice in any week. But there are eight candidates! Do this – eliminate number 3, the pretentious one. Even though she doesn’t giggle like before, I was put off right from the start. And why does that brat call you a cat? It makes me angry to hear it! I hate cats! They’re very rude and shameless. Donkeys, monkeys, apes, Ganesh are much nicer. And Bholanath is absolutely charming! Of course, numbers 3 and 4 among those pretentious ones are the same type of people. You’re too smart, that’s why you couldn’t figure it out. Well, do you like being called a cat? Alright, forget about them. But keep number one as number one, please. I like her the most! That language she writes her letters in – where is that language from? Do this – make number 5 into number 1’s servant. You weren’t thinking before. Honestly, it can be done. Just try it! Wait a moment, let me have some Horlicks and gather some strength. I’m giving advice to a mastermind, man! I have to drink Horlicks to boost my energy and prepare properly.
I’m coming back again! But there’s no Horlicks at home, so I made myself a new drink. Hot water + powdered milk + tea + instant coffee + filter coffee (these were all donated, I mean, various people bring them when they visit our house! Don’t think we’re that pampered) + hot spices + ginger + a little salt + tulsi leaves + Pep-Sweet (instead of sugar). With all this, what I concocted was so bad that even if I’d vomited after drinking it, it wouldn’t have felt this terrible, but the stench was so awful I couldn’t drink it at all! I had to throw it away after making it with such effort! But I did manage one sip, and that alone boosted my courage, so here I am with great bravery!
Now let me tell you. Number 2
says Hanuman, who’s the brother of monkeys,
right? And number 5 says, you’re shy, right? See how beautifully I’m putting one and one together! You haven’t been to Dinajpur, have you? Claims to be a wanderer but hasn’t been to Dinajpur, hasn’t come to Rajshahi, hasn’t been to Rangpur, went to Kushtia just 2 days ago! If this is what you call a travel maniac,
then… what else can I say!
If I had gotten that job, I would have shown you what traveling really means!
Oh my… where did I drift off to! So I was saying that in Dinajpur there’s a special kind of monkey
you can find. Smaller than ordinary monkeys and fair-skinned like you, a bit fairer than the others, I mean the ordinary monkeys.
They have a special trait – they don’t want to come in front of people, people almost force themselves to see them and torment them! How wicked people are! They cover their faces with both hands
and sit huddled in a corner. They don’t say anything to anyone. Their name is shy
monkey! I swear to Allah such monkeys exist! Really! If you don’t believe it, go ask someone from Dinajpur! So the clever idea
is, instead of calling you monkey
and shy separately, tell your heroines to combine the two and lovingly call you shy
monkey! That way your heroine will also be satisfied and you can fulfill your wish too! See how clever
I am! Come on, give me two taka, my consultancy
fee!
Oh dear, I’m feeling quite drowsy. Can’t go on anymore. Staying up all night
has made my eyes puff up like old women! How awful! Alright, I’m off. Bye-bye.
Should I say it your way? Take care! Those are
gentlemanly words!