There was a small request. Please, never reply to me, not even by accident. Please, please, and please again! I want to talk to you alone, so much—and I mean so very much. But if you respond, I won’t be able to say anything at all. I’ll keep searching for you on my own, knowing full well I’ll never catch you. There’s a kind of joy in that. I like to imagine that I’m the heroine in most of your stories. With that thought, I’ll keep writing you my reflections. But I want to know this: you must never, not once, write a single line about me. That’s where my happiness lies—in these unwitnessed thoughts of mine.
Let me share something that happened. All day yesterday—from morning till night—I was out running errands. At night, I finished a three-hour CCNA exam in two hours, and was heading back to Shamoli on the bus when the clock struck eight. A gentleman in the vehicle was telling the boy next to him, “………I’m in Red Crescent now; Naogaon, Natore, Pabna………need to look into that area. Got back day before yesterday……..there’s so much to do. Have to tell stories of the defeated. You know that one, yes, (he said your name)……. have to share their story. How many times they failed, have to tell that!”
Made me smile!
The funny thing is, at that very moment I was reading your ‘The Wound of Devotion’ on my mobile screen. Your name had become an example long ago, but hearing it suddenly like that, in the real world—it felt good.
And look, you’ve managed to change things just as you said you would. People don’t hold onto the scandal—they remember the good, at least those who thought about the good from the start. Your accomplishments always fill me with so much pride.
By the way, the heroine in your story ‘The Doll’s Wedding’—she’s actually a friend of mine! The difference is, no one died in her case, but her mother left her and married again elsewhere. The rest of the story is pretty much the same. She asked me if you knew magic or something. Actually, do you even know if I’m on your friends list or not? I read what you write, and I keep losing to myself. Why do you make me cry like that? Can’t you let me win just once or twice? Sometimes I feel like the story you’re writing will happen in my life in the future. Why do I feel that way? Will you write a book? I can arrange publication, I can even buy all the copies myself. Why aren’t you my best friend? I can’t stand being alone anymore. Thinking about all this just makes me cry.
Be my best friend, will you? Just one condition: I do the talking, you stay completely silent. Not a word. If you break this rule, I’m blocking you. I don’t badger you about the civil service exam, so why are you upset with me? Look, if I don’t get a job, I can’t win over some boy’s parents, can I? So what—no job means no marriage, is that the logic? If I don’t marry, society loses more than I do. Society will lose sleep wondering why I’m not getting married. Because our society here has too much time on its hands, too little real work to do. We don’t live in a busy, developed world. We’re always anxious about why there’s a stain on someone else’s toilet seat, while our own reeks so badly you can’t even go near it! I have an uncle whose daughter got divorced. Now, apart from eating and sleeping, my cousin’s only job is watching serials on JiBangla. My uncle’s daughter has a bachelor’s degree—so why doesn’t he just marry her off to any decent boy instead of pestering her father to death with all this fussing about finding the *perfect* match? He’s got plenty of good boys lined up, apparently. And get this—he picked his daughter’s husband himself, thought he was a good catch. Isn’t that breathtakingly stupid and irritating? Fine, then—why do you have to study so much just to get a job? What if someone who’s studied a lot turns out to be a bad person and gets hired anyway? Wouldn’t it be better to give the job to someone with less education but a good heart? What comes first for good service—a good education? Or humanity?
Do you get terribly angry with me for pestering you like this? What else can I do, tell me! I read what you write and my head fills with all these questions buzzing about like insects! I only feel that you write with me in mind! But there’s a difference—I could never accept things the way your heroines do. Girls aren’t that docile, no girl just takes everything lying down. You exaggerate a bit in your writing. And anyway, I’m dating myself! You know what you call it—master-dating! If there’s no food in the belly, love doesn’t come. Why don’t any boys understand this? If they did, why wouldn’t they try for a decent job or business? But no—the moment they see a pretty girl, they go crazy! Bloody fools! Where is it written that jumping at the sight of a beautiful woman is mandatory? I’m getting too preachy, aren’t I? Don’t worry, go ahead and crack my skull and throw me out! But before you do, keep in mind—I’m quite tall!…………Girls are something else too! They fall for some utterly worthless boy and feed his ego! What’s the point? When a girl likes a boy, his value goes up! When the value goes up, boys develop this crude kind of attitude. Boys are cute when they’re well-mannered. That’s what these donkeys don’t understand! You know why I’m telling you all these random things? Because I know that no matter what I write, you won’t read it anyway! So whatever comes to my mind, I send it to you and put my heart at ease. Do you know why people write diaries? So they can write and forget! People lose all interest in what they’ve written in a diary. People write diaries to expose themselves to themselves, and then they run away and live. Why don’t you just be my diary?
Is it because you’re so clever that you can’t love anyone without profit? I don’t need all that profit, honestly! Does that mean I’m stupid? I think well of you because no matter who you are, you can only be as bad to me as I allow you to be—I have that confidence. And listen, light blue, I mean sky blue shirts suit you perfectly. Pink shirts don’t suit you at all. You’re never wearing a pink shirt again, alright? It makes you look girlish. I had another question—should I ask? Why can’t I tolerate other girls? Think hard and give me a few possible reasons!
Why do I keep thinking of you? Who are you to me? No one! Then why must I think of you all the time?
Listen, why do you torment me so much with those photographs of yours? Even casting a vote doesn’t require showing your picture that many times! You’re a ghost—perched right on top of my head. Now I see you everywhere! Even when I’m drinking water, I catch your reflection in the glass. I’m serious about this! God help me, what will become of me! I’ve gone and fallen for you at such a level. I’m in real trouble now! Tell me, how do I get this ghost of yours out of my head? I want to be your sweet-B! But it’s all so one-sided. You won’t even make me your ugly cockroach! That’s why Kaspia Apu keeps telling you to marry quickly. Please, just give me one way to forget you!
Telling you that I love you is just inviting needless irritation. You’ve put yourself in a place where everyone can want you in their own way. There’s nothing abnormal about that. In that world, I’m utterly worthless. Be well in your own fashion. And yes, I do love you—truly, deeply. Nothing more is possible for me to do. So I’ve made certain promises to myself. I’ll try to live each moment anew. I’ll read plenty of books. I’ll listen to good music. I’ll watch good films. And these things will be how I express my love for you to myself.
A person needs at least something to their name—something that gives them an identity. I don’t even have that. I haven’t been able to make any identity for myself yet. In that sense, I have no right to trouble you at all. Of course, there are many advantages to having no identity. The biggest advantage is that someone with no name, no address, never gets arrested by the police. Police are terrifying things. Even worse than cockroaches! Tell me, have the police ever caught you? If they had, you’d understand why people foam at the mouth saying ‘Sir, Sir’ the moment they see a policeman! Listen, every song on your wall is extraordinary. How do you find such beautiful songs! Your Maamni’s smile is so lovely! Just looking at it, you feel like the whole world is laughing at once! And your head has become a complete crow’s nest. Tomorrow morning, won’t you get a haircut? I mean, get one, won’t you? Do you get lice in that beard of yours? Grow it a bit longer, and then you could braid it. A beard braid! That would be so funny! Today you had so much time to love Kousiki and Subhmita! That’s good! Isn’t it good? So, that older sister—the one you call Purna when you talk to us—does she still message you? Tell you about all those beautiful songs? How beautifully she loves you, so orderly, so thoughtfully! I have such a wish to love someone like that, all organized and deliberate. But how? I’m such a mess myself! Tonight I’ll read ‘3 Years from Now, in the Rain’ again.
I tried to know you. Stupid, that’s what I am! No one does this sort of thing otherwise. I know you’ve never cared much for love expressed so openly. For the last two days I’ve been pestering you like some rude person, wasting your precious time. Forgive me, please. Where are you, and where am I! I’m not even worthy of your fingernails. Perhaps this is nothing but infatuation. I want that to be proven. And if it isn’t, then I must certainly prove myself worthy enough. Ah! How selfish I am! Even when I love you I trouble you, and when I hate you I trouble you still! But you belong equally to everyone! Some are fortunate, those who can carve a place in your heart. Knowing all this, why did I let my heart love you—tell me! And why did the urge to confess even arise? I don’t know……..
Opening a fake account goes against everything in me. It’s a crime to my conscience. But what else could I do, tell me! I couldn’t have spoken from my real account. You’ve invaded my imagination. I can’t even begin my day without waking up and scrolling through your wall. Your family feels so dear to me! And that thing of yours I covet most—your library. You are to me what a whetstone is to a blade. When I think of you, I feel the urge to be humble, to be articulate—that is you. You are accomplished. You are unique. I am no one. I have no business telling you these things. No necessity for it either. Nothing at all! There are countless others like me who love you this way or even more. Loving you comes easier than hating you. But wait—do need and necessity mean the same thing? Then why did I write it twice? Why am I such a fool?
That video of yours on your YouTube channel, “I”—it’s quite good. I’ve watched it several times. Among the career talks, the ones from Jagannath University, Jahangirnagar University, and Rajshahi University are the best. Your voice is so beautiful. One could easily have a crush on it for several years! Your post about choosing a wife somehow slipped past my eyes. I noticed it just a while ago, quite by chance. One thing I understood from it. When a person faces a problem, they can’t tell what they should really do. But then the Creator presents their surroundings in such a way that the answer lies within—which path they should take. I didn’t exactly mean it the way I said it, mind you. But if you cleverly manage to extract some meaning from my words, I won’t mind at all.
The way you don’t read messages—that decision not to read them is a very good one. But the song I sent you, surely you could have listened to that, no? Or would listening to a song from me give you a stomachache? I’ve sketched your eyes. Here, look. I know it’s not good at all. I didn’t sketch them with any particular intention. I just suddenly felt like drawing those eyes. So…….well, let me confess—I wanted to draw your eyes a bit cross-eyed. But then, I don’t know why, I felt a strange tenderness, so I ended up drawing them properly after all.
I am nobody to you. Just an admirer, that’s all. Your words give me life. I watch your videos. That’s it! Your voice reaches us. People like me, who haven’t made it, we too have feelings worth telling you. But if you’d rather I didn’t, I won’t bother you again, don’t think that.
I’m sorry for drawing such a mangled picture. I didn’t mean to. My hand isn’t skilled at drawing. But I drew those eyes with so much love. Don’t hunt for my technique—look for the love instead. Your eyes are so beautiful to me, but they didn’t translate that way through my hands. That’s my limitation, not yours. Girls should hate famous people! When do girls understand this, do you know? Only after falling in love with someone famous. Then there’s nothing left to do but eat puffed rice and brood. Girls willingly ask for heartbreak. What a strange creature womankind is!
So, have I annoyed you terribly? Why did you throw that salt in my wound? Though posts like this aren’t bad. They’ll make some people unfriend or block you. Your acquaintances will shrink, and it’ll be easier to know who your real friends are. Let acquaintances fade from life—let friends grow instead. Most of the people we call friends are really just acquaintances, nothing more.
Well, at least you wrote something! I thought writer’s block had you. Even after 43 hours and 57 minutes, thank you for writing something. I read your work with such care—at least since the day I found you. I try to live by your words. I’ve changed so much from within. I’ve learned to think about life differently. I used to be so angry, quick to lose my temper. Reading your words taught me restraint. I never really understood what humility meant. Trying to be humble has brought me so many other good qualities. I used to rush to defend myself against critics. Now I just swallow it quietly. Praise or blame—neither touches me the way it used to. I try to understand every word you say. But yes, I haven’t stopped driving you mad. There’s one question I’ve wanted to ask you for so long, just out of curiosity. Do you still keep in touch with Radha didi?
You’ve been quietly giving me a medicine. And yes, I’m swallowing it whole. The medicine’s name is indifference. The wise seem to use this remedy to dismiss unwanted affections. I’m not sure about that, though. But I’ve cursed you in my heart many times. You’ll understand someday. You won’t find anyone else to shower you with praise. There, I’ve said it. I hope my advice does you absolutely no good!
I thought I wouldn’t message again. Girls think one thing and do another……..I want to hold on to you so badly and live! Why do you belong to someone else? Why do I feel so helpless?……..Are you afraid? If not, why haven’t you shown it?
If after reading a book you feel like telling me ‘I love you,’ well, that’s certainly not my fault. Not one bit. It’s all the writers’ fault. And yours. Go ahead and get married, and later you might not get another chance to say it. I operate on this logic, you see. I’m not equipped for your grand, complex reasoning—my little head just doesn’t work that way. And no, I’m not an attention-seeker. Whatever I say, I mean it. If you don’t feel like replying, don’t. I don’t care at all! Here’s a thought: block everyone! Block me too. Then you don’t have to listen to anyone.
I have a plan. I’ll print out your posts, keep them safe, and when I have a daughter, I’ll hang them on her bedroom wall and tell her, “Look, look, beta, these are the wise words of your learned uncle. Follow them and you’ll never fall in love.” But the truth is, she won’t listen to me one bit. She’ll fall in love anyway and get her heart broken. I’ll be beside myself trying to stop her crying. Why don’t mothers just beat their heartbroken daughters senseless? They give them all sorts of vaccines as children—preventive shots for this disease and that—but why doesn’t anyone think about the one vaccine we really need? A love-proof vaccine! How has no one considered this most incurable plague?
“I write poetry so that all the beautiful women in the world will fall in love with me. But what does reality say? My female readers fall into two categories. One: those readers who comment ‘like’ or ‘wow’ without even reading my poems, hoping it might somehow help them pass the BCS exam! Two: those who write in the comments—’Brother, I’m very weak in English, which guide should I read to do well in BCS English?’—this whole sacred herd of theirs! But yes, there are some cultured female readers who actually read my poems. The problem is, none of them are particularly good-looking. A beautiful reader brings more joy than a cultured one. It’s all fate! Fate’s other name is destiny!”
What on earth have you written? You are absolutely, utterly insufferable! Rrrrgh………
I don’t have many people I like. I don’t really talk to anyone like that. I love you—I can’t imagine not talking to you. Don’t be too angry, please. Though if you feel like it, you can be a little angry. You’re absolutely impossible! How many more people’s minds will you drive mad? What’s the need for all this brilliant writing anyway? You’re dreadfully mischievous. You want everyone to spend their whole lives crushing on you while everyone else gets left out in the cold. Look, I can’t carry on like this. I have a future too, you know, don’t I? By the way, were you going into Khan-‘n’-Chatni restaurant in old Dhaka the other day around half past twelve? A friend of mine says she saw you. And you were wearing a watch on your right hand that day. Did she really see you? Or was it someone who just looks like you?
You love saying rotten things,
and spending time with you, I’ve learned to love saying rotten things too. I can spend all my time thinking about you now, and I don’t feel alone anymore. You think I’m a rotten student because I don’t study at a public university, don’t you? You know, I actually wanted to get into a private university when I didn’t make the cut for public. People value those who study at private universities more than people like us. That’s why I pestered my father so much! But he wouldn’t listen! Our financial situation is actually quite good. We’re not poor by any measure. But Father dug in his heels: “I’ve never taken money from home for my studies in my life. In fact, the scholarship money I received more than covered what I spent. I won’t educate my daughter on money either. If you can’t study on your own merit, then stop studying altogether. I’ll find you a husband!” Marriage? What is Father saying! Oh Mother! Oh Father! I couldn’t get into a private university after that. Many of my friends who scored lower CGPAs than me got into prestigious private universities and suddenly became brighter and more accomplished than me in everyone’s eyes. Do you also think of us national university students as donkeys, like everyone else does?
You don’t know it, but you’re a strange kind of magic. Your existence is a magic lamp that lights up the heart when rubbed. You know when I rub it the most? When my heart is at its lowest. But you—people like me—you should never reply to. Because we women are like snakes: we don’t hesitate to coil around you with affection, nor do we hesitate to strike and wound. Don’t be afraid, I’m not coming near you. I’ll just love you from a distance like this. I know you don’t want to hear any of this from me. But even if you don’t want to hear it, I will speak, and speak, and speak. And another thing—I’ve never bothered you about the BCS exam, and I never will. My studies are my responsibility; what sense is there in troubling you with them? I keep my intelligence a bit dull, because too much of it in my head gives me headaches. You’re like glass gleaming beneath sand—it looks beautiful when left buried in the sand, but once you pull it out, there’s no magic in it anymore. Everything about you—good or bad—that’s what makes you you. Strip away the bad and the good stops looking good too; it just seems hollow. Whenever I see a purely good boy, I get an urge to slap him. Why, I don’t know.
Why do you reply to every comment on your wall? You don’t have to reply to anyone’s comments. Why not just stay silent? Don’t you understand that people love to provoke? All these worthless types jump at anything without understanding a thing. That jumping is what gives them joy. They’re angry at you because that’s all they’ll ever be. They don’t like you because they’re not you. Yet they still come to your wall, because they love abusing you. Abusing you gives them a kind of happiness. Abuse needs no logic, only desire. Why, understanding all this, do you torture yourself looking for reasons behind their behaviour? Some people have always been quarrelsome. You’re giving them the chance to fight. There are people in this country who could stick a knife in someone’s belly and nothing would happen, but if the one stabbed tries even the slightest self-defence, that becomes the crime. You don’t need to act so tough. When your mood gets too bad, sit still and listen to Tagore songs for an hour, or some flute instrumentals—you’ll see, your mood will cool down! I wish I could play you some songs. But the problem is, with a voice like mine, listening to my singing might make your mood even worse. Don’t be annoyed reading my messages, alright?
If you find a good boy, tell me about it, will you? A girlfriend of mine has suddenly taken a fancy to getting married. What about your own wedding news? All your friends are getting married and having children, and here you are still roaming around aimlessly. Why not just marry someone who comes with ready-made kids? You’ll save yourself some trouble and hassle. Don’t marry someone who doesn’t have a younger brother. I’ve decided—I’ll marry your brother-in-law. Do you understand what that means? It means you’d be old, yes? Make sure your brother-in-law is cultured, knows how to cook, and has a bit of mischief in him. Why don’t you marry someone from outside the district? Then you’d learn a new culture, and so would I. Marry a girl with lots of hair, so she stays busy picking lice out of it all day and bothers you less. And in the process, some lice will transfer to your head too. You’ll be scratching your head all the time. I like imagining you scratching your head. You two will be a louse-couple and your family will be a louse-farming family. Funny, isn’t it?
Hey, you! Listen! Why don’t I pull out a ghost from that old sheodar tree—that “Why are your eyes so red” by Nirmalendu Guin, just for you?
I’m not saying you have to reply. What I want is—
Someone to care about me—
The pain of reading my message and leaving it unanswered.
Out of fear or shame, I’m worn out collecting messages.
I’m not saying you have to reply. What I want is—
For no one to curse me. I’m not asking anyone to sit in my inbox
With a bouquet of roses.
I know it’s the age of Android phones—
The search for the real rose
has freed everyone from that burden.
I wish someone, just one person, would understand me in silence,
whether I’m feeling low
or if I’m thinking of them,
along with the last light
of evening
a few more fragments
of sun-soaked cloud. I’m not asking for any of this, and yet………
This handkerchief stained with tears—
I can wash it myself.
I’m not saying
you have to reply. What I want is
for someone to read my message
from the other side of the inbox,
to smile at it, even mockingly. For someone to understand me, even a little.
Not to be my companion
in joy and sorrow—just for someone to ask me,
“Hey girl, why are you so shameless?”
I’m saying it again:
I really don’t want
you to reply. The person I’ve invented lives in my inbox, and that alone brings me so much joy. If I hide in some corner of your inbox, it shouldn’t cause you any trouble at all. I know you’re quite the somebody on Facebook! I promise—I’ll never comment on your posts with anything that hurts you or diminishes you. That I like you—surely that’s not my fault, is it? Tell me! I like your smile because you have beautiful teeth. It’s not your fault that worms haven’t eaten them, is it? I should have told Rabindranath—O poet, I love your Dismarked beard so much. He died before I got the chance to say it, and that’s not my fault, is it? So many crazy people text you, and no one blames them, but I do it and suddenly I’m the villain, right? Is this justice? You tell me! If someone didn’t like what you wrote, would they drive you mad?
When I see you
I feel such envy, and such joy all at once.
You don’t even know it yourself, but you are one of the most fortunate people in the world. How could anyone suffer who has such loving parents, who is loved by so many? I have a friend, and when I look at her, my own sorrows seem to dissolve into nothing. When she was three, her mother left her for another man. After that, her father never spoke to her properly again. Her stepmother showed her more affection than her own father ever did. She loved that stepmother dearly. A few years later, even the stepmother abandoned her, chasing some dream of happiness elsewhere. She never contacted the girl again. She grew up surrounded by neglect, betrayal, and loss. A girl who cannot trust her own parents—how can she ever trust anyone else in this world? When I see her, I count myself so lucky. I can love you when I choose to, rage at you when I choose to. There’s no chance of you causing me pain. Since I’m not coming into your life, you won’t even have the opportunity to hurt me. I have no expectations of you, so the sting of disappointment will never touch me. Silent love, you know, has far more power than love spoken aloud. Why do you calculate everything so carefully? What’s the harm if someone loves you freely, generously, and you simply accept it with quiet grace? So stay silent, and I’ll remain your devoted, your mad, I mean, your deranged admirer.
I wrote to you once about it.
You know, today I went to a place of peace. Can you guess where? You answered: the toilet. I laughed for five straight minutes after reading that. Do you remember? ………… When you arrive, the sun rises; whenever you leave, the day ends. Tell me, why does the heart ache so for what it can never have? Twice I wanted to cry so hard I’d clench my teeth, bite down on the sorrow itself. Perhaps you’d say it’s nothing—that’s just the style of it, crying through gritted teeth! There’s no heart in that chest of yours! Truly! The first time I saw you, I couldn’t speak at all. Again and again I thought you were thinking: Look at this shameless girl, trying so hard to talk to me! That day I understood—you can hold so much pain behind clenched teeth and tears, and yet our society’s rules are so rigid, so cruel, that you cannot simply call out to a stranger and speak.
I watched your video. If you want my honest take, it was cute, but I didn’t care much for the background sound and music. Though that’s not your fault—it’s mine, really. My taste is a bit different. I look for cuteness in everything, not just what’s appealing. I had certain expectations of something cute from you. Never mind. Don’t let me down—I want our bond to last until death claims one of us. Not everyone likes everything, you know that! I would’ve been happier if you hadn’t sent a video at all. If you could write me a beautiful poem instead, I’d be far more pleased. A poem where every line carries your feelings. I’d cherish that in my memory. What cannot be seen, what cannot be touched—that is pure love. I hope next time you’ll send me something to my taste, not to your own liking.
Take proper care of yourself, take your medicine on time, stop being stingy with yourself, laugh more, and stay happy. If this message feels too silly after you read it, if it seems like a waste of time, then just ignore what I’m saying. The truth is, I just want to talk at length with someone, but there’s no one like that around. So……
A friend of mine is heartbroken today. She can’t bear this pain anymore. Her ex contacts her whenever he feels like it, asking when exactly they broke up. Then another time he’ll say they were never together in the first place. He claims he was doing her a favor by dating her! Then out of nowhere he suddenly appears to hurt her all over again. She can’t take any of it anymore. Now this fool is telling her that no one will ever marry her because she’s so ugly and has such a terrible personality. No matter how plain a woman may be, words like these cut deep. Boys will never understand just how deep.
This friend of mine has gotten into a romantic relationship with a married man. You want to know why? Because she actually likes him? Not in the least! She’s not the kind of person who breaks up with someone and then jumps into a relationship after just one or two phone calls, no matter how much she likes someone. I know her. If she were like that, she could’ve had plenty of relationships by now. She can’t even hold a proper conversation with any boy. What she really wants is to forget her ex. So she got involved with someone else—a relationship with no real commitment, no strings, but something that would help her forget. She’s convinced herself that she loves this man, and therefore nothing from her past can touch her anymore. But no, she’s mixed up dreams, fantasy, and reality all together. She never calls him by the informal “tu.” You know why? Because she knows perfectly well that if she did, she’d grow weak for him, and then she’d only suffer more.
She doesn’t know where life is taking her, and right now she has no idea what kind of spell she’s fallen under.
Her Ex’s Humiliation
I can’t bear it anymore—neither his humiliation nor her pain. I don’t know what a graceful breakup looks like. But she did break up with him in the most graceful way possible, so that he’d never get another chance to hurt her. She sent him a few gifts along with a letter. And with it, her diary. She had the habit of keeping a diary, most of it filled with words about her ex. Today there’s no one left for her to write her diary for. At the end of the letter, she wrote those exact words you’d written on your ex’s birthday cake: I love you, be well.
Proposal Style
Breakup. Cute, isn’t it?
Even if I wanted to like or comment on your posts, it’s nearly impossible. You’ve become a celebrity just by sharing your writings on Facebook. It would’ve been better if you hadn’t shared those handsome-guy photos of yourself. In my bloodline, falling in love and getting married is forbidden. It’s irrational to think like this, but it’s a strange habit most people have—they love thinking irrationally and doing irrational things. So responding to your posts means trying to catch your attention. If such logic were sound, you’d have to fall in love with at least five or six people every day! Ha ha ha ha! From some of your posts, I understand that many beautiful women write beautiful things, very beautifully composed. From reading some of their work, I learned that you’re a very kind-hearted person. And what I’ve gathered is that you reply to some messages but not to others. And again, some of these beautiful writings you present on your wall without naming their authors—you present them so beautifully that reading them feels like reading a beautiful story. It’s amusing to think about—many people have turned your inbox into a notebook for their hearts, where they freely, without hesitation, pour out everything on their minds. Ha ha ha ha! It seems like you’ve created a kind of public service sector! So I’m taking my chance too. As long as you don’t get annoyed and block me, I’ll keep rambling like this. I wonder what bizarre things, what peculiar people with strange behaviors keep knocking on your inbox! And now there’s one more. Since so many people use you the way they do, I couldn’t help but choose your inbox as a place to speak too. Where some odd behavior and some words won’t matter to anyone. No one will say anything, no one will judge. I don’t need to expect a response to what I say—there’s no obligation, just the chance to speak is enough! Anyway, I have a request for you: please don’t be so kind-hearted as to respond to me. If you do, my hands and feet will start trembling again and I’ll lose consciousness. You must understand why that would happen! Oh my God, my God! I won’t be able to do anything that day or any day after. And another request: please never share this sender’s nonsensical words with anyone. Oh my God, my God! It’ll create such terrible turmoil in my mind. It will be a very terrible sensation!
Hello Sir!
Why did you say good afternoon to me? All morning until now, nothing but your thoughts have been spinning around in my head—even when I was working at the office. Since morning, it’s felt like maybe that argument I had with you yesterday didn’t really happen, that it was all some dream. So I’ve checked maybe 5-6 times since then, and still I can’t shake this doubt—did I really talk to you, or did I talk to someone else and just convince myself it was you? Are you really you, or someone else? Oh my God, if you keep responding like this every now and then……..I’m sorry, I don’t even know what to say anymore! Everyone says Sylhetis are fools, and Sylheti girls are even bigger fools. And honestly, we are foolish! Which is why Sylheti girls take what’s true and call it false, and take what’s false and swear it’s true. We don’t trust the ones we should trust, and we place our faith in those we have no business trusting. And sometimes even when the mind understands something, the heart refuses to accept it. And when the heart insists something is impossible or unreal, even if it happens right before our eyes, we still call it unreal. Or we think, “This impossible thought shouldn’t have become real.”
In such moments, I find myself and my own judgment inadequate compared to the world around me. The fact that someone like you would reply to a simple, foolish girl like me—ha ha ha—now you’re starting to feel unreal to me! I’m sorry! Oh my God! But you’re the one, aren’t you! From what I’ve gathered from conversations of your countless followers, it seems you don’t take offense easily. I’m rambling on in the comfort of believing you won’t take offense at me either. Yet if, for some reason, you did end up taking offense, I don’t want to cause you any unpleasantness, so I’m asking for forgiveness in advance. That you are indeed you, that I really did talk to you in reality—if you don’t give my heart a little more time to accept this truth, it will feel like I’m still lost in a dream! Because you’re not someone I can accept this easily. If I accept that you’re really you too easily, then everything else will feel like imagination. Because my heart had already accepted, from the very beginning, that I would write day after day, for many days, but there would be no reply from your side. And there shouldn’t be. My heart had made peace with that, so now it struggles to accept that I am no longer just me…..
So many words, so many sentences, so many lines, so much rhythm, so many stories, so much meaning, so much craft, so much of everything that………where does it all come from in you?
I had read yesterday’s piece before. I also read the one from a few hours ago. Oh! Now I see you’ve posted another one! I didn’t see this one until now. I saw it after you mentioned it. What to do before and after the next violation. How shocking! But true!
I had held a quiet grudge that you hadn’t written about this. I’ve been meaning to bring it up for a long time. The moment you say anything in defense of women, you’re branded a feminist. Even little girls bear the blame for their clothes in this country. It cuts deep. And yet, even if these girls wore nothing at all—even if there were nothing to show—they would still fall prey to the carnal hunger of those beasts. But I expect from you something sharper, something clearer, something more forceful on this matter. And I have no choice but to expect it from you. Still, you needn’t strain yourself to fulfill that expectation. Because I believe—truly believe—that if you keep writing, one day you will arrive there on your own, and the expectation will simply be met without your even trying. So don’t burden yourself with the thought that you must fulfill this hope. It will happen naturally. If my words offend you, tell me directly. I won’t mind. I’m not easily offended. I won’t come to you with commissions or requests for particular pieces. In fact, if I ask you to write something, you’ll no longer be able to write it. Just let the writing come. And one day I’ll find that through your words, you’ve given me something far greater than what I was hoping for. This has happened many times. I’ve found myself silently wishing for something from you on some subject, and then suddenly, without warning, you’ve delivered something that exceeded my longing by far. Do you know why I refrain from hoping much from you? Because it might breed irritation in you. And doubt, despair, hopelessness would take root in me. You understand? Yet there have been other times when I’ve thought: here they are, writing on so many subjects, so why nothing on this one? And then, days later, I come across your detailed, magnificent piece on that very thing I was pondering!
That station, this city! But why did you send me the link to your piece? Goodness! Even earth becomes the moon when it’s for the Brahmins, I see! Thank you.
My pen and my voice birth no words anymore….. It’s as though they exist only for that one piece of writing—so that in reality, it might never happen again.
Reading some of your work, the heart grows somber and wanders into the land of sorrow.
Many live out their lives turning a dustbin into the god of plenty; hard as it is, still they live on!
They have no religion, only hunger. They have no god, only a dustbin.
Who could hear these words without their heart sinking? Why must human life be so difficult? And worse—difficult because of humans themselves! For some, life is a paradise. For others, life itself becomes a glimpse of hell. Yet God has bestowed upon certain rare people an extraordinary gift: though they themselves may not dwell in that torment, their capacity to feel the suffering of the afflicted knows no bounds. As if because these wounded souls cannot speak for themselves, their innermost language finds voice through the pens of these gifted few! Those who cannot hear their cries reach them in an instant through these writers’ words—as if time itself collapses between silence and understanding. And whatever else may come or go, surely at least a few unknown strangers will think of them, won’t they? So your notion that “words bear no fruit anymore” cannot be allowed to be true. I don’t arrange my thoughts prettily—I haven’t the skill for it. Whatever comes easily to mind, I simply say. Of course, with some people I’m forced to be measured and careful, but with you, I feel no such compulsion. You’re a craftsman of words—if I tried to prettify my speech with you, my words would lose all meaning! Yet sometimes I’m afraid to speak with you. What if you see right through all my words? Good heavens! How terrifying that would be!
But there’s more than one reason for fear—there are many—and so it’s becoming difficult to overcome it. Only now, feeling fear so intensely, do I understand why it’s not easy for humans to conquer fear! And today your writing has stirred this fear anew. Let me examine the cause or causes… one, or rather, more than one.
I’ll come to the fear shortly. But first, let me settle my debt to Pohela Boishakh!
As if in the new song of a new day,
In fresh rhythm and measure,
New dreams scattered wide,
Beyond the light of a new dawn,
All stories, all words, once more anew
May pour from every heart
Like a procession of dark letters
Falling, falling in the rain!
Write more in the year to come than in the year gone by—this is my blessing to you.
With everyone else,
I have to weigh every word, calculate before I speak. Even when my heart isn’t in it, I have to smile and say pretty things. I have to think ten times over whether something is right or wrong before I let it out. But with you, it seems to me, I don’t need to be so careful, so calculating, so measured. I don’t have to rehearse or polish or deliberate a dozen times before saying something. Whatever comes to my mind—whether it’s wrong or right, messy or clear—I can just say it, without hesitation, without fear. I know this is an irrational notion of mine, and please, I’m asking you not to mind it. If you don’t feel like replying, that’s fine, you don’t have to—but please don’t take offense. Thank you, truly. But if there’s ever something I say without meaning it, or something that hurts you, please give me the chance to know it and apologize. Whether it’s something you speak or something you write, whenever I encounter it, I feel as though it comes straight from your heart—or perhaps you’re speaking the unspoken feelings of someone else’s heart through your own. And I want to tell you what I think about those things. I hope you’ll bear with me a little. How does that sound?
Why are you like this? Everyone else seems smaller than what they say, but you seem greater. Good heavens! And now I’m giving you too much credit too. It’s all rather suspicious, but thank you anyway.
Before people thank someone, they say, “I don’t mean to diminish you by saying thank you.” I can’t understand—if gratitude somehow made a person smaller, why would we use the word at all? What other word could we use instead? That’s why I’m confused about whether I should thank you. I don’t want to make you small, but I can’t find any other word either. So I’m using “thank you” in the hope that someone like you—a celebrated person, a person of great soul—cannot be diminished by a word so easily. Thank you. And so you don’t worry or overthink it, let me tell you this beforehand: I won’t bother you too much. You’re terribly busy, you have so much to do, so many places to go, writing to complete, and so many people to give your time to. So if you never reply to something I say, I won’t mind at all. I’ve already deactivated my Facebook. Only you know this ID. I’ll uninstall Messenger very soon. I’ve turned off my phone. Maybe I’ll get a new number later, but not now. I’ve cut off contact with the whole world. When all of this is finished, it will be complete.
I am exhausted!
I don’t know what fate has written on my forehead.
If I’ve ever hurt you, I’m sorry for that. I’m truly a foolish girl. One shouldn’t take foolish girls seriously. You’re so much better than that. You’ll be fine. One more thing—couldn’t you stand up straight and smile for a proper hero’s pose? Why do you always pose like some thief? Honestly, you look just like a thief. Your profile picture is so terrible! You’re actually much more handsome than that. You wear foundation like the girls do. That profile picture of yours is pure thief. What an awful shot! Why is your skin so white? It’s because you take pictures with a DSLR. When will you get married? You’re getting old! Don’t you need to make a man? If you have a few sons, couldn’t you give one to me, hmm? What kind of person are you, tell me? You don’t care about yourself, you’re only concerned with Facebook! Meanwhile, people over there are having dozens of children! Won’t you sing me a song? Sa-re-ga-ma-pa-dha-ni-sa. Saa-saa-rer-re-gaa-gaa-maa-maa-paa-paa-dhaa-dhaa-nii-nii-saa-saa. I heard you have some rule about not getting married at an even age? Why don’t you make me a cup of tea? Ginger tea. With ginger and lemon, and maybe a bit of long pepper—that would be nice. My head’s been pounding! If you take this headache away from me, I’ll tell you the secret to getting married at an even age. Promise! Last question. So, what should I call your father-in-law?
You keep telling me to fall in love with someone. Listen, Mister, falling in love isn’t easy. If it were that easy, I wouldn’t still be single—I’d have mingled long ago, and I wouldn’t be troubling you. How many Mofiz Abuls would have flooded Facebook with poetry! The hardest thing in the world is falling in love, and the easiest thing is loving. Sometimes, you know what I wish? That I could fall in love with you! That way, at least everything would start feeling good. When you fall in love, everything starts feeling wonderful. That my mind hasn’t snapped yet—that’s both your luck and mine. We crave what we’ve never been given since childhood. They never let me mix with boys. You can figure out the rest. Please, please, please, write me a beautiful story—the kind that makes me want to dance when I read it. You haven’t written anything about depression in so long! Is it because we have no one to love us back that we who dwell in depression don’t deserve dreams either? You’re the dream-peddler! The problem is, your stories are all about you. What joy do you get from writing such self-centered stories? You could write about all of us sometimes, couldn’t you? I know you’re angry at so many people, but still!