How strange your life has become! You don’t even know what you want anymore. Alone in the world, utterly alone. You don’t care for anyone. Is such a thing possible? I think only of that lonely room of yours. Clothes scattered everywhere, books in disarray, the room itself untidy—no one to sweep it, no one to wipe it clean. Do you even make your bed each morning? Or do you just sleep in the same unwashed sheets day after day? Do you sleep properly at all? Why do you stay up so late? You have to wake early for the office! How can you manage on so little sleep? You rush to the office without breakfast, don’t you? How much work you have to do! When was the last time you hung up the mosquito net? If it was yesterday, that’s good at least. It’s such hard work washing clothes, isn’t it? Don’t let them pile up so much, will you? When you wash so many clothes at once, your back aches terribly! I wish so badly that I could set your life in order. It feels good to see the life of someone you love organized and proper. But I can’t do it anymore, you know? I can’t bear to see you suffering like this. I feel such tenderness for your mother, your father, your brother—for all of them. I want to leave everything and run to you this instant. To go there and make tea for everyone each morning. Plain tea for your father—at his age milk in tea is strictly forbidden—and milk tea for the rest. They’ll all wake to find the tea ready, breakfast ready. No one will have to worry about what comes next. Who wants what, what needs to be cooked, what each person prefers to eat—no one knows these things better than I do. They’ll all love everything I do, and I’ll be able to do everything the way they like. I could arrange your whole life the way everyone in your house wants it to be. How much I think about you! And what about you?
Look, don’t think about me—at least think about yourself and the people close to you! What a divided life you have. This job of yours keeps you away; you can’t stay home. Away all year round. What good is a life lived apart from those you love? The people accustomed to living under one roof have been split into two households! All for the sake of earning? What would happen if you found some other way to make a living? You should do something. Marry twice. Give one wife to the house and keep the other with you. Lately, something has come over me—I worry more about your family than my own. What is your mother doing? At her age, can she manage everything alone? Who reminds your father to take his medicine every day? When your brother wants something cooked just the way he likes it, who does he plead with? So many things! You wouldn’t understand. Believe me, God exists. He finds a way somehow, and He will again. Your family’s situation is the same as ours. Yet by God’s grace, nothing is going wrong. Otherwise, why hasn’t my grandfather found some relief even now? Why is my older sister still sitting in our house day after day after her marriage? There’s no one to look after Mother and Father but me and these two souls. My middle sister is dead, my eldest sister won’t even keep in touch with us. One day I won’t be here either. What will happen to Mother and Father then? I believe they’ll be fine even then. We’ve never had the capacity to understand God’s will, and we never will.
Listen, why won’t you just get married?
Find yourself a good wife, bring a Lakshmi into your home, and you’ll see—everything will fall into place. I worry about you constantly.
All day long I worry. What do you eat in the morning, maybe you grab something at the office for lunch, but at night?
When you stay up late, don’t you sometimes get hungry? How do you manage tea, coffee? Tell me, do you keep anything at home? Some snacks?
Biscuits, chanachur, things like that? You like chocolate. You could keep that around at least.
Do you keep anything at all besides water? I don’t think so. And you boys are so terribly careless about hanging mosquito nets! Do you even hang one? Or do you just lie in bed with your laptop and phone? Tell me honestly, how do you manage? How do you live like that? What difficulties do you face? I really want to know.
Nothing feels right.
I’m heartbroken for your mother and father. You know, there’s no difference between your mother and mine.
If you stood them side by side, you’d think they were sisters. Both equally beautiful. So fair-skinned
both of them! I often wonder, will I ever get to see your mother and mine together in one place? What a blessing that would be. Two extraordinary beauties standing beside each other.
I could just stand and look. These are the things I think about. The suffering you endure being away from her—I feel it, I really do. If I were in your place, I’d have been dead by now. Listen, won’t you give me your sorrows? In exchange, I’ll give you all my happiness.
If you gave them to me, I really would take them. I’d hold you so tenderly, so close. I wouldn’t let you worry about anything at all.
I’d keep you right here, in the center of my chest always. You could pour all your troubles onto me and sleep peacefully. I’m quite good at massage, you know.
I’d do it for you. Except for the things only you can do yourself, I’d manage everything else.
I’d make you completely dependent on me.
Enough.
I’ve woven far too many dreams. Can God bear so many dreams? What should I do, tell me—it seems to me I’ve entered your life without His blessing. Is that even possible? Such audacity, such presumption—how could I?
I torture myself with worry over someone
I’m not worthy of.
Worry is one thing, but this much
dreaming, this much fantasy—it’s not allowed. God hasn’t given me the power to pierce through you, to enter into your depths. You’ve wrapped yourself in such layers, such veils—I can only peek and watch in secret. But I cannot be caught,
cannot touch. Because
you don’t let anyone near you.
You don’t reveal yourself to anyone either. So who will be alone if not you?
I’ve learned from watching you
that too much success isn’t good. I’ve decided
I won’t aim too high—just a little success. A little success, and I’ll achieve something much greater. In life, meaning matters far more than success.
What do we really want from life? We don’t even know ourselves, do we? You don’t know what you want. You’ve convinced yourself of something, told yourself you desire it. But you don’t, not truly. You know what’s funny? I know what I want. My wanting is beautifully simple. I just want you to be well. So very, very well. Let your family be well. We can’t have everything just because we wish for it. Fine, perhaps not everything needs to happen. Just let you be a little better, please! Let Mother recover. Let Father be restored to health. So where will you settle down? When will you gather everyone close to you? When will everything go back to the way it was? A king and queen, their two princes. Doesn’t it feel wonderful to imagine? There’ll be one more, I know. I didn’t want to write about them, so I didn’t. I know what else will come later too, but I didn’t write that either. Why write it all down, anyway?
Oh, if only I could come to you one day a week! I’d set everything in order, arrange your whole life A to Z. But the way things are at home, who has time even to look after your books, isn’t that right? Your books are safe, though? The insects haven’t gotten into any of them, have they? ………… My head is throbbing terribly. My chest is clenching tight. I feel deeply unsettled. Why is this happening to me? Why do I think so much? The worst part is, I can’t stop thinking. Believe me, for days now my longing for you has only deepened. In your recent photographs, that old softness is gone—that peace, that beautiful quality. Your lips smile but your eyes don’t; your smile has become so artificial. I can see clearly in your pictures how exhausted you’ve become from forcing that fake smile, day after day. I understand your photographs so well because I work with them. I arrange them the way my heart desires. I can’t have you, so I arrange your pictures, organize them, and find peace seeing them as I wish to see them—like looking in my mind’s mirror. I take you out from among everyone else, according to my own heart, and bring you forth. I love doing this. But lately I’m not getting any such photographs. It seems to me you’re not well. This thought causes me such pain. Love doesn’t mean receiving love in return. Love means wanting what’s best for the one you love.
God! If only I could rush to you in a moment! I could scold you thoroughly! I could force-feed you three meals a day! I could straighten out your chaotic life—just a little, mind you, even if only slightly! If only God would grant me that chance! Listen, you’re not the only one in this world who isn’t doing well. There’s someone else, a nobody for you, who isn’t well either. Such a person that even if you tried, you’d never think of them, they never even appear in your thoughts, and yet they could give their life for you. One who dwells in such neglect, such disregard, such forgetting—are they suffering any less?
What are you doing? Sleeping? Or are you still awake? You’re all right, aren’t you?
Did you eat last night? You’ll go for the Saraswati puja tomorrow, won’t you? Where are you? At home, or still at your posting? Who will you offer flowers with? Do offer flowers, won’t you? You know, this is the first Saraswati puja of our acquaintance. During Durga puja I prayed to Mother for your wellbeing. I’ll do it again tomorrow. You’ll grow so much more. Listen,
you…you…you…listen,
what will you do tomorrow?
You have to tell me. From now on,
you can’t do anything without telling me. Everything you do, everything you don’t do—you have to tell me. I’m making this a rule. Oh, my boy! Why do I keep missing you so much? Of course, you just live in one place in my life, I mean, in my mind. Tell me—where does the mind live?
In the head, or in the chest? Something doesn’t feel right. My heart has become impossibly heavy.
Only because of you. How are you? What if it weren’t like this? You don’t even reach out once.
Not even once. I know you won’t reach out—there’s no reason for you to. And yet!
You didn’t reply to my SMS last night. Of course, I don’t really expect a reply. I tell myself that the ones I do get are the only ones that reached your phone, the rest must have been lost to network problems and never made it through!
Thinking this way brings me some peace. I’ve read your replies several times over, and I read them again.
They weren’t supposed to come at all, but they did.
They’re bonus gifts for me. I handle your replies so carefully, touching them gently.
Even when you scold me it feels good, when you say something kind it feels good too.
They’re my small joys, my happiness,
my smile for the whole day.
I wake up thinking of you, I go to sleep thinking of you. And all day long, of course, you’re there! You’re my only companion in these solitary hours now. For the last four or five months, it’s been this way. Nothing changes. I don’t even know why I’m writing all this…
Tell me—will I not see you again? Won’t I be able to touch you again? Won’t I hear your voice again? Won’t you reach out to me anymore? Have you never thought about me at all? I so badly want to know—what do you think of me? Or am I completely outside your thoughts? Tell me! I know I’ll never get answers to any of my questions. Just please—please stay well!
Why are you like this? Always going on and on about beautiful girls. Don’t you see that the plain ones who follow you, who care about you, they’re absolutely furious when you write like that? Of course, what does their anger matter to you? I know—nothing. And yet, how does it feel to spend all day just banging on about beautiful girls? I wonder what princess you’ll end up marrying! I’m just waiting for that day. The day when the whole world sings hymns to your new life. That day when you’ll be bound for seven lifetimes, or maybe forever, in the seven circles of matrimony with someone else. That blessed night when the stars align for you. That day when all the gods of heaven itself will arrive at the call of the sacred fire. When God Himself will be witness to your binding vows. That day, that very day when the flame of your auspiciousness will blaze bright with the fire god between you both. To the sound of the wedding pipes and drums, to the ululations of the women, your wedding song will spread everywhere. You’ll circle the fire seven times and gaze with those most beautiful eyes—God’s own gift to you—upon her, your dream-woman. The gods will come to bless you both. The celestial host will surely come bearing God’s blessings, because I know, I know it well, you are God’s darling. What’s left for me to understand? God Himself has fashioned you with the skilled touch of His own hands. You are made entirely of His will. And on your auspicious hour, wouldn’t God send His beloved messengers? Of course He would. I’m waiting for that day, believe me! After the auspicious moment begins, I can see each moment clearly. The chanting of mantras, the sacred fire, the seven circles, crossing waters, and finally, the vermillion mark………….Your new life! Just three fingers and a little vermillion powder—in this small play of color before all of society, with the fire god as witness, you’ll merge completely into her life! What power these rituals hold, don’t they? Can you imagine? Does that beautiful beloved know just how fortunate she is to have this life? As your three fingers apply that pinch of vermillion above her nose, it travels up to the part in her hair. Done! That’s it! For what a long wait—just a pinch of vermillion and a few moments of time, isn’t it? It’s not just you, oh no. I’m also here, waiting with bated breath to see that day, that moment, that auspicious hour, and that breathless, thrilling instant.
But why am I waiting? No, no, don’t think for a moment that I’m imagining myself sitting there. Nothing of the sort. I’ll be exactly where I am now, and I’ll stay exactly there. And from that very spot, with the eyes of imagination, I’ll watch your auspicious ceremony unfold. That night will be the cruelest, most anguishing night of my life. That night will be more terrible and dreadful than death itself. I wish God had taken me from this world before that night ever came! I know that day all of Facebook will explode. Wishes, love, blessings, smiles hiding secret anguish—the whole night will drown in it. That beloved face, familiar to so many, will be bound to domestic life come the next morning. That night will be the most intense, the most vivid, the most terrible night of suffering in my life—the night when you’ll no longer be you anymore. You’ll become someone else’s. I know you’re not mine now. And yet, as long as you haven’t become someone else’s, one can live on that thought alone. My ex-lover once sent me a small letter. Many days have passed since the breakup, but I still have that letter. Shall I read it to you?
“How are you doing?
Did you eat lunch?
Do you still
keep your hair down, then?
When you talk,
talk, do your eyes still drop like that, fluttering?
When you laugh,
do you still blush, even in front of him?
Let it blush, then!
But whatever you do,
don’t let anyone call you by the name I gave you, alright? That’s mine alone.
I know you won’t answer—you’ll just keep quiet about it. Keep quiet, then! What do I care?
So why don’t you just block me? You don’t love me, yet you won’t even let me believe that. What’s the point of all this??
Hilsa fish frying—
I can smell it. Such an impossibly
delicious, yummy smell! I’m thinking I’ll eat a few before cooking’s even done. Actually, how many fried hilsa can I eat one after another before I’m satisfied? Seven and a half should do it, shouldn’t it? I’ll give the other half to the cat. It’s far better than you, anyway.”
Who could have known that this letter of yours would come back to me as such a terrible truth in my life? I don’t want to bring that night to mind, and yet it keeps returning, unbidden, again and again. On that night, your heart will become his, and his heart will become yours—forever. In this life, in the next, you will belong to each other. No matter how I wish it, I will never have you the way I might have. I will never touch you, never gaze at you with unblinking eyes from so close. Of course, I cannot do these things now either. And yet—the thought that I could, that I might—it gives a kind of foolish happiness, you know? I do love you. When you belong to another’s love, how can I love you like this? I ask myself again and again: will I have the strength to bear this pain? Yes, it was I who once reached out my hand to help you. You asked me to find you a bride. If you had known—truly known—to whom you were speaking those words, could you ever have said them?
I showed you a path to finding one. And what am I doing now? What am I writing all this for? Life really is extraordinarily strange. Everything changes so much! Believe me, I had no intention whatsoever of falling in love with you. But from the day you uploaded those 167 photographs from your library, your name has been ringing in my head constantly. From that day until now, you are all that occupies my mind. Somehow, sometime, a creature called ‘you’ entered my head, and has been multiplying there, day after day. To love is for the creature called ‘you’ to burrow into one’s mind. To love is to die from the wounds of dreams woven around something that was not, is not, and will never be. To love is to feel—with all one’s consciousness—a creature that does not even exist. There is no more terrible creature in this world than this one. With its overwhelming presence and power, it dulls all reason and feeling. Pain and the anguish of not-having follow the path this creature shows. It tends ceaselessly to cries of despair or the intimate solitude of silent tears. This creature keeps me waiting at every moment—not for death, but for the day of your wedding. Will I be able to hold myself together that day? I tell God almost constantly to give me the strength to endure this suffering. But tell me—will God forget me on that day too? When He is busy blessing you, what if He forgets me by mistake? Where does one find a place in this merciless world when even God has forgotten you?
In your own world, I don’t exist anywhere—I know this all too well. And yet, I beg you, don’t turn my heart to ash in the fire of your wedding ceremony! I’ve been burning, you see, burning endlessly. Ever since the day I realized you’ve taken a piece of my feeling and made your home inside me. Still burning. Bearing the wounds of fire moment after moment, and yet I won’t let you know a thing about it. Not even if death comes knocking. So I’m asking you now—don’t invite me to that auspicious hour. Take a stick in my name and kindle the seven-circled flame, please! I’ll burn alone from afar, consume myself in solitude, and offer my prayers to the god of fire. You will be set ablaze by that burning flame. In the burning of my sacred heart, you’ll become an even more radiant, crowned Ram. And your Sita will only shower beauty’s rain through that blazing fire across the entire wedding hall. She’ll illuminate everyone around her, and with them, your life itself. What are you thinking? That just any wood will do for your wedding fire? No, no, not just any wood—take the wood my heart has carved, burn it and take the light it gives for your life. Until I’m reduced to nothing but ash, you and your beloved keep walking hand in hand, laughing, weaving the colors of life into your days. I’ve been burning for you all along. I’ll burn for you even in death. As long as you wish it, I’ll keep burning. If my burning brings happiness into your life, then that’s what I’ll do. Now I understand so clearly—submitting yourself to fire alone is not the trial by fire. I’m going through such a trial every moment. To burn alone in the dark rather than before all the world—the terrible pain of that, only those who’ve burned know. I’m burning! So I know. Perhaps I was born to burn. That’s why even as I burn and blaze, I somehow still live. I’ve merged into the darkness alone, let no one be with me. In this kind of walking, I search for joy. My heart and the way I exist—their connection—having you mixed into it is not exactly good, but this is how it is. What else can I do but accept it? Tell me, how much longer will I lose myself weeping alone in the dark for you? How much more must I burn before I’m made pure? Can I endure it to the very end? Why are you silent? Tell me!
What’s my Ram doing, eh? Thinking of his Sita? Or of the gopis? Krishna had his eight companions, but how many does my Ram have? Whether it’s Ram or Ravana, when it comes to keeping gopis, everyone becomes Krishna! No, no! You can be Ram in nature, character, and conduct, but will you find your Sita? Then you’d need a swayamvara. But that won’t happen, dear! You’re not waiting for princesses and their garlands anymore—the princesses themselves are frantic to place their garlands around your neck. You don’t need a swayamvara, you need a swayambau—a self-choosing bride ceremony! All the beauties of the world standing in a line while you go around with a garland in hand, deciding whose neck to adorn! He’ll need such a beautiful one! You stupid thing!
Will you bring me some poison? Is that the only reason I’m alive—to love you? Or did you come into my world just to be the cause of my death? With each passing day, the love grows deeper, more suffocating. Is this what they call slow poisoning? I can’t move forward anymore, not like this. Now I just want to sit and cry. I have no desire to smile. I’m writing this with you right in front of me, you know? You’re staring at me and I’m keeping my head down, writing away. It feels like you’re looking right into my depths, paying such close attention. At least it’s better than the exam hall! You know, sometimes the teachers stare at me with their mouths hanging open. It looks absolutely grotesque to me. They gaze so intensely, as if they’re drilling through my skull and pulling out everything I’ve ever learned. I start forgetting everything I’m supposed to write. Can’t write a thing then. Teachers do that anyway—they stare at every girl like that—but you? You’re standing here staring at me with your mouth open? Are you a teacher too? Hehehehe……. Listen, let me tell you something funny. The fact that you’re staring at me like that—I actually love it. Look, I’m writing such wonderful things about you, no trouble at all. Really, it’s flowing. But tell me, do you stare at girls the way the teachers do? From head to toe, I mean—you know, the way boys look at girls, here and there and everywhere! Or haven’t you shed that brahmacharya thing yet, that celibate air? Ugh! I don’t think you have. What? Do you just say “hmm” to everything I say? Won’t you say anything? Are you embarrassed to speak now? Or will you never say anything at all? (I just stuck three big love-sign stickers on my wall a while ago. One for you, one for myself, and the other one……. Oh no! I can’t say that! It’s a secret!)
You didn’t respond to me during Saraswati Puja. Not that I expected it. But what was that on the 14th of February? Why did you do it? For no reason at all? Without any cause? Or did you send messages to lots of people, thinking, why not send one to her too, it costs just a few paise! Or was it just for show, maintaining formality? Tell me! I must have read that message hundreds of times. I’ve thought about it endlessly and found no answers. Why are you so strange? Is strangeness a family trait? Are all of you like that where you come from? You know, when I saw the message at 8:55, I just froze completely. I locked myself in my room and wept like a child. Wept from sheer joy! Do you understand what a surprise is? You of all people should! Everyone’s always eager to surprise you. You undid me that day with just three words and three signs! You shook my entire world. The magic of words isn’t in the words themselves, you see—it’s in where they come from. That day you made me cry as much as you made me happy. And I’m still happy because of it.
I cannot explain in writing how a tiny corner of a phone screen made space for itself in my entire world. I’m so happy because of you. The fact that you wished me a Valentine’s greeting—it’s nothing short of an eighth wonder! I went mad that day, you know? I cried so much that night, I can’t even describe it. It took all my strength to hold myself together. When a girl becomes desperate just waiting for the smallest response from you, can you imagine how she loses herself receiving a text like that? That very day I got your message and called you right away. You were unwell, remember. You even sent me a message saying so. I felt like the entire world had become mine. If I could just receive a little kindness, a little compassion from you, I could forget everything and stay with you forever. Such joy, such happiness—it cannot be bought with anything in this world. I’m so grateful to God for stirring even a little feeling for me within you sometimes. I know these mercies are only God’s will, nothing else. Otherwise, why would you, my hero, ever text me? Why would you reply to my messages? What need would you have of me?
Your Valentine’s message… the greatest gift of my life. What was it? Three words. And??? Three love signs! Is that even possible? I can’t even think straight! Tell me, why three love signs? Why not one? Or two, or four? Why exactly three? I’ve conducted a little research on this, actually.
But I found no answers. I’m a failed researcher. Did you give three because it’s Valentine’s Day? Is the number three something special when it comes to love? But even when I imagine you beside “me and you” with your special someone, I die a little inside! Three could never be anything good in love. Or maybe, you just had to send something, or your finger slipped while typing and you hit it three times? Then why not just send the message itself—why three signs at all? What do three signs even mean? I love you? Three love signs, it’s lodged in my head! Won’t come out. Tell me, please tell me, why did you send them! What were you trying to say? What should I understand from it?
What I understood—does it matter to you anyway? I know there’s no answer to any of these questions. I know too that your message was just a token of gratitude from you to your admirer. Maybe you send those love signs to all your die-hard fans like that. It’s not a big deal, really. And yet, some things are relative. Just as not everything is for everyone, it’s not easy for everyone to accept everything either. That one message of yours has been chasing me through that night, the next day, the next night, the night after that, even now—a shadow so small it will never, ever leave the faintest mark on you.
What do you write on Facebook? Why do you write? What are you trying to prove? Your anguish, your sorrow, your desperation? You’re a liar!
Women across the kingdom go mad for you, yet you’ve never given a single one of them a moment’s notice. What do you want? A celestial nymph? Or does someone need to be ordered up, custom-made for you? Watching all this makes my skin crawl. Sometimes I’m disgusted with you. You won’t let anyone love you, yet you dangle love in front of them like bait? Why does all this talk of love even exist? Where does it come from?
You’re trying to prove to everyone that you’re some kind of successful lover, aren’t you? Wrong, mister. Dead wrong! No matter how much you dress up your declarations of love in literary language, I can challenge you before the whole world: you will never have the capacity to love the way I do. You’ll never learn it. You could never be as great a lover as I am—not now, not ever. You’ve achieved much, you’re achieving much, you will achieve much; but in this one way, you’ll remain a thousand leagues behind me. Still, yes, I thank you for understanding everything and saying it so frankly. When you took those words of mine and used them to finish that piece the other day—did I not feel something shift? I was happy. Somehow, at least, I got into that head of yours. I could never tell you—not ever—that I love you. If I said it, I’d rather die than diminish myself in your eyes. What honor is there in making a request you already know will be refused? Better to remain here as your unseen, nonexistent devotee! What good would it do to tell you? Nothing. I’d become just one more of five other girls to you. Or have I already?
I know I’m nothing special compared to them. And yet there’s one extra thing I have. What is it? This: I love you. I’m telling you the truth—no one has ever loved you the way I do, no one loves you now, and no one ever will. I don’t know if we’ll meet again in this life. But if your wedding gets fixed, please—just once more, at the very end, see me. I can’t give you anything. I’ll only bow to you. And I’ll take one strand of your hair. That’s all I can take. That’s all.
You’ll give me these two things, won’t you?
I know you’ll be stingy about even that. Still, I love you.
This love shouldn’t exist. I feel like grabbing my own heart and slapping it across the face. If I could really hit it, that would be something. I could pound this wretched heart into splinters.
There are two kinds of people in this world—one kind falls in love and becomes immortal. The other kind falls in love and dies. I am the second kind. I fell in love so that I could spend the rest of my life nursing this wound. When that sharp, gnawing ache starts in my chest, I can’t do anything anymore. Lately it happens every night. Your memory surfaces, you walk into my mind, and then I’m paralyzed. Your face keeps returning to my eyes with such stubborn insistence. Here, look—I have an exam tomorrow, and here I am writing all this nonsense! I can’t anymore. You’ve turned my life upside down. Is this love? What kind of love is this? What love? How strange! Why won’t it leave my head? Inside, it feels like everything’s breaking apart, crumbling to dust. I can’t breathe. Just a moment ago I thought of calling you from someone else’s number, of hearing your voice for a bit—you won’t take my calls anyway. Then I thought, no, that wouldn’t be right. I can’t even control myself anymore. How much further can I drag this broken life along like this? What madness! How am I supposed to study? I can’t concentrate at all. Sometimes I resolve that whatever you like, however you like it, the way you like it—I’ll do all of it, all day long. I don’t really know if I’m annoying. Right now, I don’t seem so annoying to myself. It feels like everything I’m doing, I’m doing it with love. I won’t be annoying to you. If I’m what you want, then you won’t find me tiresome. I could spend my whole life with you over books and movies and music. But that’s not possible without you. In the end, I only dwell on you. I don’t tire. No regret touches me. No irritation comes. But there is pain. I can’t put into words this pain of mine, this anguish. It’s beyond even your imagination.
Most distinctly,
I see you when you are nowhere near. The moment you appear before my eyes, you vanish. When I open my eyes, nothing else catches my gaze—only you materialize
out of nowhere! Ugh!! You come again and again before my eyes, in endless variations, for a thousand reasons. Even when I close my eyes, I see you! What a useless affliction this is! To harbor within myself someone who doesn’t even know what goes on in my heart. Know? That’s too much to ask—I exist in a realm entirely separate from their world of thought. In their universe, I am an uninvited alien. In their planetary existence, I am merely some insignificant satellite. Someone whose name they happen to know, whom they simply recognize. That’s all! And yet, my endless speculation about them knows no bounds. For four months now, every hour of every day, I’ve thought of them—and not once, not in a whisper, have they thought of me. Why should they? Who am I? What have I done? Why would they think of me? How absurd! What arrogance! Why on earth would they waste a thought on someone as worthless as me? I don’t think about just anyone. I circle around thinking of them—all day, every day. Because they are worthy of my thoughts, they are my subject and my substance. So thinking of them comes naturally, caring for them comes naturally,
but doesn’t loving them seem a bit excessive? Fine then, alright, if you’ve already fallen this far in love, so be it! You’re not harming anyone.
But have you wished them happiness? No, you haven’t! So why do you expect them to ask after you? Why would they? What obligation do they have? Who are you? Who the hell are you? What qualification do you have? You’re not even worthy of their fingernails. Fingernails are too much to mention—you don’t even deserve their leftovers. So how can you think they’ll ever give you a thought? Never! Impossible! So just love them in silence, don’t bother them,
you foolish girl! Write alone,
never let them know. Write! Keep writing! They already said it; don’t you remember? Don’t think on your mind. Do think on paper. Besides, in this whole world, only this paper has the capacity to hold your sorrows against its breast, doesn’t it? This blank, pristine
paper has selflessly offered its vast, expansive breast. That’s why you’ve found even this small space to lament. Otherwise, God would have to listen to your whining all day long.
“Still, fight on, until the very end. Even your last breath is utterly trustworthy. Hold on to faith and fight! With each breath you claim, live and see what miraculous magic awaits you!!”
I know,
you know very well too,
you will lose. I also know
what you don’t: those who die before death receive no salute after they’re gone. Even the stray dog on the road will sniff the corpse before tearing into it, checking whether the flesh suits its taste!
Truly,
a courageous person is born again and again, but dies only
once. In the first birth, no one extends a hand; every subsequent birth is a personal achievement. A death that wears no crown—waiting for such a death your whole life through is futile.
Listen, if death comes, let it come once—after that, not before. Until then, live. Fight, but fight with yourself; don’t give an inch to the fear of losing or being lost. Press forward, sworn by the last drop of blood in your veins, the way a consecrated warrior does. If you know you’ll die anyway, why fear battle? And if it’s true that you’re already dying, what is there left to lose? Sit idle and you’ll die; fight and you’ll die. So let it be battle today—the kind that makes your head bow in reverence just thinking of it, such mighty struggle!
Only a hero’s death does the world remember, never a coward’s. From one hero’s blood a thousand heroes are born; from a thousand cowards’ blood, history is only stained with shame. Why not gamble with life one last time and see what happens? Don’t sit there—play! You were born to play! If death must come, then let it come while you’re still in the game!!”
These were your words. And yet I cannot—cannot, cannot find peace. You told me to fight without surrendering. I have chosen to live by surrendering, by losing to myself, by losing to this love I have for you. Even with my last drop of blood, I cannot forget you; I have chosen instead to love you more. And I am alive with that choice. I follow all the techniques you’ve given me, yet my heart finds no rest. I must be the first Bengali woman who cannot bear to listen to Tagore’s songs. When I do, the tears come, streaming endlessly. They draw out every breath from my chest. Soft melodies are not for me, love poems are not for me, love songs are not for me, love stories and novels are not for me—do you know why? Because reading them, hearing them, understanding them, I weep without end. Even a chicken’s heart seems stronger than mine. I don’t understand why I’m so emotional. You say it’s better to feel pain than to feel nothing in life. Yes, that’s exactly what I’m getting. Today I am happy—only because of you. That’s why I thanked you quietly. Would you not take it if I’d thanked you loudly? Why should I make you bear this unbearable pain? What’s the point of troubling you? I’ve already done enough. So I kept it small. You don’t want to know anything anyway. Of course, why should you need to know about me? What burden is it to you? You needn’t carry it! I will go on suffering silently, forever resting my pain upon the heart of my dear companion.