One. I am not afraid to see you angry like this—rather, it brings me relief. Only those who love grow angry. Only those who matter to me carry grudges. You have spoken—and spoken well. A person lays bare her deepest grievance only before the one she holds as her own. You know, if anyone in this entire world has the right to have authority over me—it is only you. No one else's words, no one else's opinions, no one else's complaints do I heed—I never will. I will accept everything from this one person alone, all my life, with bowed head. Only one request—never misunderstand me. I am really rather a stubborn sort of girl. Slow in thought, delayed in understanding, reserved in the expression of love. But when the person I love most is suffering because of me—that thought alone kills me from within. I wish to die of guilt—what is the use of living if I hurt the one who matters most? I know how carefully you manage everything—so that I never come to pain. You choose your words, you read the moment, you speak the language of silence. I understand all this. I do the same—I measure every moment, striving that you should not suffer. But I am stubborn—I go wrong. Forgive me. Two. I will never bow my head before anyone in this world again. The people I have spent day after day keeping happy and at peace—enduring all suffering myself, never letting them know what pain even is—those very people are now insulting me, neglecting me at the day's end. From today, I will not diminish myself even once more for them. I will honor myself. Those who come to insult me daily, I will erase them from my life. This is my promise to myself. I will never again love anyone so much who has not even kept me in their reckoning, let alone loved me back. Life is far too short—I will not hurt myself for anyone anymore. I could leave if I wished. But the state of my father's and mother's health—to abandon them as their child and walk away would anger the Creator. They are old now. Especially my father—he has grown very weak since his stroke. My brother is abroad, my sister works—there is no one in a position to give my parents the necessary care and treatment they need. My brother-in-law is not of the temperament to take responsibility for their treatment if they suddenly fall ill. My parents have already arranged matters so that no child needs bear their expenses. I only need to be there. To leave them like this right now would be to push them toward death's door—I understood this more clearly after marriage. Parents are such—neglect them and sorrow will surely visit this life. If my brother returns to the country within a year or two, perhaps I could have gone. But when he will come, whether he will stay—nothing is certain. Besides, each must bear her own burden. As a child, I will do my duty. I really do not know if I am deciding right. As I said—my life has no purpose. I am a refugee in this world. Perhaps I do not always understand what is truly right. I have no great ambitions in life—yet I will not hurt my parents, this is my vow to myself. If the Creator ever places something good in my fate—then good. And if I must labor in pain all my life—I will have no regrets. I could not make anyone happy in this world. Wherever I turn—only blame, only accusations. Three. We have so much, and yet how desperately people writhe and twist for that invisible happiness called love! Of course, the feeling is terribly potent, someone stirs within your very being—gripping your heart, drawing blood, and then slowly, gently, caressing the wound.
# It brings relief.
So some suffering becomes happiness too? Ha ha ha…!
Four. ‘The end’ means the beginning of some new chapter, carrying my old self along—an odor from very long ago, that familiar, unslaked happiness. We meet every day, I touch that face.
I know…I still love you very much.
I am quite brave, you know. You see…I will love you so much that you cannot even imagine it. You deserve more…
Let me tell you something…when you called me in the morning, my heartbeat rose so much that I had to press my hand to my chest and hold it for quite a while; after some time it returned to normal. I have never felt this way for anyone else in the world.
It’s not that I have never loved anyone—but about everything concerning you, I am deeply, deeply attentive. I don’t know what to call this. There must surely be some other grammar beyond love; the matter is not so simple.
Tell me, has this ever happened to you? Perhaps I cannot explain it properly; guess at it a little.
Five. I am doing quite well. No household. No destination in life when all is said and done, no rush to reach any goal. Everyone must do something-or-other with their life—who said so, tell me?
There must be people like me, whose lives have no rush to go anywhere, no fear of losing anyone, no desire to matter anywhere—in short, nothing to say, and that person is me. Someone who, when they die, everyone will forget, lost in the wheel of eternity—that person is me.
Well, I suppose I am running away from myself again, am I not? Trying to deceive myself about something. To survive, sometimes you must deceive yourself too. How many useless ones like me are left, tell me?
Six. : I have not forgotten you, cannot forget you.
: Will you hold me?
: The pain grows…
: How are you?
: In silence.
: Why is your face so worn?
: Our last meeting has passed.
Seven. If I do not see you for even one day, I come down with terrible fever, my breath grows short, this illness is perhaps something as lasting as acute grief. Raw color will stick to my hands—do not hold me too tightly. At some small change at one corner of the world, a perfect truth will unfold within you—you know, who am I to you? Why am I thinking of you at all?
Listen—the truth I have found, none of it is unknown to you; yet all of it is unknown. I have drawn but a single feather from the precious hours of my life in your name—when you see it, your eyes will take on a reddish hue under the mark of deep feeling.
You have lost me, yet could not recognize me; you saw, but did not see, you touched, but did not love.
Eight. One day I was discussing an urgent office matter with one of my seniors on WhatsApp. In the middle of our conversation, I noticed my distant uncle calling me repeatedly. Eight times in a row. I asked the sir’s permission, cut the call, and immediately called my uncle back in a hurry.
I had assumed that someone had perhaps died, and my uncle was so urgently calling to tell me this news. So I made the call somewhat fearfully. Perhaps the moment I spoke to my uncle, my heart would break into pieces.
As soon as my uncle picked up my call, he said, Hey, where are you? You must, absolutely must come to my place this evening.
Then I understood—thank goodness, no one had died. I breathed a sigh of relief! At the same time, it occurred to me—why is my uncle calling me with such urgency? I had heard from my mother earlier that there was some trouble brewing around my uncle’s younger sister’s wedding. So surely some urgent meeting about that would be held at my uncle’s place.
Or perhaps it would come to this: go to Uncle’s house in the evening, and from there everyone together would go to the boy’s house and give the groom’s family a thrashing.
I asked, trembling, Uncle, this evening at your house…
Before I could finish, Uncle said, It’s Rahul’s birthday this evening. I called to invite you.
Rahul is Uncle’s younger son. For his son’s birthday invitation, this gentleman called me eight times in succession!
Saumya’s sense of propriety and his sense of humor are both remarkably refined. (You’ve witnessed proof of this in our nearly five-hour online program together on YouTube.) Hearing of this uncle’s exploits today, I laughed and said, Brother, what can I say! This is our signature code of conduct! Our knowledge grows by the day and will continue to grow, but common sense will remain at absolute zero until Judgment Day itself!
No. My heart is not well. Nothing brings joy these days—everything feels utterly meaningless. Why go on living like this for no reason? How much longer must I endure? This long a life—I cannot bear it.
There is nothing for me anywhere in this world. Nothing at all.
I lived a life of dishonor, and now at the end of it I’ve married a clown and trapped myself further still—I cannot swallow it, cannot spit it out. I suffered one kind of pain all my life in my father’s house, and now I’ve fallen into another snare.
I have no desire to show myself to anyone. No wish to appear before anyone. No wish to do anything—it all seems pointless. I am a fastidious person, orderly in all things—yet I see that my life became disordered long ago, and I could never set it right.
That is why one must not hope too much from life. One must not weave dreams.
I just want to destroy everything, break it all to pieces. I can accept nothing anymore. Everything is unbearable.
Marriage is no weapon with which to end one’s life.
Ten. A woman, struggling through life, loses herself without even knowing when it happens. In seeking just a scrap of survival, all the natural beauty within her withers away—she becomes harsh, unkempt, exhausted. The happiness, comfort, and peace of this world seem not meant for her.
And yet love arrives. Someone perhaps asks—”How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…” But how can she who has no place in this world count the ways of love?
Then it seems—perhaps nowhere in this world is there a place for her. A small wound could be the end of everything. Good people depart quickly—so if she still remains, is she not good? What a suffocating existence—only eating, sleeping, and breathing. For no reason. Without purpose.
And yet—she endures.
Eleven. How many days pass without our speaking,
I see myself no longer in your eyes…
For so long I have not touched you.
Why are we so mismatched?
And yet waiting never ends.
We have no reason to remain,
We have nowhere to go.
Twelve. Within every human heart there dwells a primordial yearning for freedom, yet that yearning does not always kindle the capacity to bear freedom itself. As the caged bird dreams of the open sky, so too does man contemplate liberation; yet through long habit, the seduction of safety, and dwelling within familiar chains, he comes to mistake his captivity for his very nature. So when freedom’s door truly opens at last, he sees not only the boundless sky before him, but the depths of uncertainty, the weight of solitude, and his own infinite responsibility facing him.
This is why freedom, though desired by all, is bearable by few.
Freedom does not mean merely breaking the chains that bind us from without; freedom means shouldering the full weight of one’s existence upon oneself. To bear this responsibility requires a transparent clarity of the inner self, so that one may see oneself without deception; it demands courage, so that one may embrace the unknown in exchange for the comfort of the familiar; and it calls for a kind of creative madness, so that one may venture beyond the boundaries of the established and choose one’s own truth. Freedom, ultimately, is no gift—it is a profound spiritual endeavor.
Thirteen. I did not love you…
Only misunderstood myself.
As you were—
Busy breaking through walls of compromise!
Keeping the conditions of restraint in perfect performance;
You heard correctly—
My prayers themselves have failed.
Fourteen. Man spends his whole life searching for a faithful companion. How terrifying can one’s own company be? To endure oneself is a most difficult task.
I saw you in a dream…you were sitting on the roof, and I came suddenly—lying at your feet, watching the sky, while you ran your hand over my head. It felt so peaceful. Then I asked you—”Why do I love you so much?”
And right then you held me so very tight, laughing loudly. Then my sleep broke, just now. I still feel good. It seems I touched you so closely after a long time.
Fifteen. A man can never love what he fears. This is why most people spend their entire lives only going to temples, never able to truly reach God.
Sixteen. I take revenge for sorrow through the intensity of creation.
Seventeen. A man can never love what he fears. This is why most people spend their entire lives only going to temples, never able to truly reach God.
Eighteen. Oh! How beautiful the sky is! I want to hold you so very tight! If you were anywhere near, I would run to you and embrace you, then return again.
I would bring a candle too—outside the wind howls, and I hide quietly only within your chest! I know your face would look so enchanting in the candle’s glow, I would want to touch you so very much—this longing is so stubborn.
Come…let us sit in the rain for a while, then the two of us will write. Make some coffee…I will spend all my time savoring your silence.
Nineteen. How far will you go from me?—I am accustomed to unfinished letters, power cuts, trampled flowers, crushed wounds and waiting. Accustomed to unreturned phone calls, to sentences that never end, to waking at four in the morning searching for the sound of someone’s footsteps. Accustomed to such rains where there is no roof; such roads where there is no destination—only walking, only the endless act of walking.
When you leave, nothing changes for me, Neera—darkness existed before; yes, it existed before you came. The only difference is this—then the darkness had no name.
Twenty. If you ever replied to my writings, we would exist on some page of a novel. But what was I thinking…how could you reply—my writings are you.
Though you came into my life as a character in some story, I could never forget you—nor will I ever try.
Just because I love you does not mean we can stay together…do I have such fortune left? Yet I wish to spend the rest of my life with beautiful moments and thoughts—to write about you, because—if we are only a moment,
or something swifter, more scattered still…!
If another light goes out, who truly cares?—But I do.
Twenty-one. When we last met,
you said,
someday, at such a time…
you would return, wouldn’t you?
If you wish,
keep me bound in the fragrance of your body.
Twenty-two. : You never once replied to any of my letters. Yet so many questions accumulated for you, tears of waiting fell moment by moment—and still you convinced yourself it was all art.
: It is not art, Neera.
What cannot be full without it—that emptiness within—*that* is the true nature of creation. This being, eternally awake, is clear only within the human heart—you are I, I am you, a fleeting script written in time’s own hand.
: If I could truly stay with you, everything would be more beautiful. When I am gone…you’ll see, it becomes more beautiful still. Yet I keep away from people now—not by choice, your face grows dim in my memory—almost as if forced.
I love you nearly this much, perhaps even more…you don’t know, I don’t tell you. If I did, you might think me mad, might turn and leave. One-sided love is a terrible agony—I’ve lived through it from the moment I began to love you. But I’ve gained this much from you: the ability to create more, to pour myself into work. Yet it hurts, so often, and I can tell no one—not even you, the one all of this is for. How long this love of mine for you will last, I myself don’t know.
Twenty-three. The day might have been different—how was this feeling meant to show itself? If I’d stayed very close to my own people, would that wild beating in my chest have grown louder? How many times today have my dear memories been written in the pages of my mind?
Today I felt like a stranger to myself—I don’t know how much time passed! A vague, muffled joy spread through my whole body; from a thousand miles away, beloved faces touched me! Even with my eyes on the distant sky, joy bloomed within my chest—as if someone held my eyes shut until tears came rolling down!
Nature scattered the fragrance of comfort—the day was one of festival, of joy, of celebration.
Twenty-four. Yes, you are everything to me.
And yet I am nothing to you; life itself is backspace.
Lately you come to me like this—in thought—and I speak one-sidedly, as if you touch me deeply, and yet you’re not there. As if I write each sentence and erase it, write it again—no one reads, no one ever will.
I love you in a strange way…you’ll understand it someday. The measure is far too much, impossibly much—more than can be erased away.
Twenty-five. Are you that forgotten poem,
the one that made my heart bleed
and drowned itself in morphine’s haze?
On that winter night’s sharp edge, that day
when in your hand’s warmth I lost my very self,
that day, I know, my poetry was lost.
Twenty-six. Look, even with all Elon Musk’s money, he doesn’t eat that much. You’re fatter than Elon Musk.
(Later, talking with my son, I learned he’d asked Gemini to show him a picture of Elon Musk. After Gemini showed him Elon’s photo, he seemed disappointed, because he’d imagined Elon Musk was the fattest man alive.)
Twenty-seven. Enough of this sulking, what good does it do? You’ve stayed right here in my heart anyway. I don’t even know how I am myself.
There are things I’m still ashamed to say. In all the darkness of my whole life, you alone are the only light. As much as I am myself, as much as my soul is myself—that much is yours too. No one has the power to break this bond. I could never be anyone else’s, could never think of belonging to another.
The body grows old, dies; souls stay eternally young, don’t they?
When you feel alone in a crowd of a thousand, can you sense it then—that somewhere, someone is speaking with you? Do you always think of me too? Is that why I always feel alone, always sad, always wanting to go somewhere?
Perhaps we’re meant to be pen-friends, nothing more.
Outside, the clouds are gathering thick; it will rain, I think. Sky, clouds, rain—there’s something so lovely about it, isn’t there? My heart craves a little love. I feel like staying awake all night, telling stories. I have so many stories to tell.
Twenty-eight.
Listen, I can write letters so beautifully that even the hardest of hearts weep upon reading them. I would have written one to you too; then I thought, what good would it do to make the girl cry?
So, take care of yourself.
Twenty-nine. This me that dwells in the inner rooms of my heart—
waits for you,
how much warmth would it take to make her live?
All that was your touch, your neglect, your tenderness—
all of it lived in my verses…
why didn’t you love me then with that same measure?
Thirty. Love seems beautiful only in distance.
In waiting, love takes on its most acute form—
and I have seen, in that clarity,
in silence still…
that you have become part of my wound.
Some feelings lie buried
beneath the deep cries of this chest…
as if you alone were this existence’s only identity.
That feeling whose pure voice is bound to your touch—
let that poem be devoted to you alone.
Thirty-one. Do you know what ‘being lost’ means?
Is resentment born only from love?
Every time I tell you—
‘be well’…in that very moment,
I steel my heart
to go far from you,
to leave you behind.
Though it has never come to pass.
Thirty-two. Even if you forget me, don’t go far.
We walked much of the road together…
much still remains.
At this turn in the story
I am terribly alone.
Thirty-three. I will remember you. Perhaps we won’t speak, won’t meet, I won’t ask how you are; I won’t try to explain my place to you.
If there is ever a chance again…I will stand before you. I know you won’t turn me away, and even if you did, what could I do—I am so very ordinary.
You came into my life for some time at least…otherwise it would have remained meaningless.
Though now I am in terrible disarray; I hear the unbearable anguish of the person within me constantly—none of this works in my favour anymore.
Thirty-four. In your voice there is a certain trustworthiness hidden—listening to it, the heart grows so very calm; I often think…how could anyone ever leave someone whose voice is so beautiful, even after making her their own? I could have spent a lifetime just listening to your voice and…forgotten all pain.
Holding me close to your chest, you once hummed and said—the person who loves me so much, I still haven’t made her mine; doesn’t it hurt me, tell me?
I wanted to come to you, only to you…but I never could; this is my misfortune.
Thirty-five. Actually, there are two forms within every person—someone came into your life as a messenger of good fortune, and yet…you had to lose them at the worst time, far too soon!
Death has separated us, true…but truth?—from truth’s snare there is never escape; when your closest friend betrays you…or when the one you love touches another—how much of the relationship survives then?
Why don’t people seek freedom from the curse of relationships? Why do they stand in time’s dock and complain so?
Beyond rules lies a subtle line—one that truly determines your course.
Thirty-six. I wanted to touch the warmth of your lips, in unsatisfied fervor I almost drew you to me by mistake!
Without letting the illusion grow, I folded myself away, gently moving aside the uncombed strands of hair…made a hasty exit!
By sheer coincidence, coming so very close to the heart of my feeling, the final expression you…still could not see!
Thirty-seven. My heart is not well—perhaps it never will be. I understand this is my fate, so why lament and suffer more!
My whole life held one dream—to marry into an educated, refined, respectable family. The two of them—brother and sister—studied at renowned institutions, true, but the whole family’s roots are different—no one in the lineage has seen the light of education.
A family is not merely the union of two people; it is the mingling of two lineages. If a person has not grown up in an environment that is educated by blood, the foundations of taste and propriety never truly form within them—I feel this now, deep in my bones.
And on top of that, there is no end to the complications within my own family. Thinking about all this, despair comes and swallows me whole. I cannot reconcile my own thoughts with anything around me. Perhaps the problem is mine—I cannot accept things easily.
Constantly there is only one plea at the Creator’s feet—deliver me from this circumstance.
But ridding oneself of these troubles within the family is nearly impossible, and yet one cannot live by severing the bonds of kinship either. Man cannot survive without family—this truth is the cruelest of all.
Most of my friends come from families with solid, abundant foundations. When I measure myself against them, something inside collapses. This decision to marry was wrong—perhaps marrying at all was the mistake. Does everyone manage a household? To sustain one, you swallow many things, and people do swallow them—but I cannot. I want everything to be as I wish it, and therein lies all my crisis.
It feels as though I possess the capacity for so much within, yet in reality I stand in quicksand—the more I struggle, the deeper I sink. What can I do? I do nothing but lament.
Thirty-eight. I did not ask for your judgment of whether I am good or bad. I asked that if you liked me, you would stay, and if you did not, you would leave. Stop handing out free certificates; remember, even toilet paper costs money.
Thirty-nine. I had a terrible dream; you were in it.
I haven’t spoken with you in so long. So I sent you a hundred messages—the way I fall apart when I can’t find you…
More desperate than that, I wrote all manner of foolish things. Then you replied to me—you wrote such tender words.
Then you blocked me.
I wept reading those messages…only thinking that—you would never speak to me again…
How many moments do I wait for a message from you…what good is waiting now? Saying all this, I am crying…
I decided that I cannot live this way. I chose a hard path—if I die like this, no one will suspect anything (I don’t know what it is, but dreaming of it brought me such peace); it will seem like a natural death, but it is not.
Later I saw that…
After some time had passed like this, you texted me…foolish girl! I cannot stay angry with you—are you well?
I only asked you—why did you do that? You visit my imagination all the time, and not once could I imagine that you didn’t do it from the heart—why?
I am still trying to reach you then, but I cannot! I am thinking, you came back then…but if you heard that I am dying only for this reason, you would suffer terribly now. So I will not share anything with you in any way.
Forty. —How is it inside your chest?
—Like soil heaped layer upon layer over a grave.
Forty-one. When I am alone…I hold you so very tight. You remain so very close to me. When I try in some way to forget you…I still touch you deeply.
I wonder how to caress you in imagination. I am leaving…what use is there in leaving you behind! There is nothing outside; instead I will take you with me—no one will understand a thing. I am reading you, watching you too…
I cannot hear, because there is a door on the far side of the mind. Did you remember me at all?—nothing is heard.
Forty-two. For some time, I abandon my meditation…I maintain an indifference even in the midst of astonishing clamor.
This solitude in which you have no place—
that is merely the failure to understand oneself.
This separation between us is not despair—it is clarity.
Forty-three. Beautiful moments? For me, the most beautiful and precious moments are—when you hold me close!
# The Plaster of a Thinking Wall
I cannot hold you with such force—yet within me, my innermost self clasps your breath as faithfulness, with all its strength. I want your touch to grow, to deepen this feeling. Fear of death cannot reach me in this moment; instead, from the very waves of my own existence, poetry is born.
Within the contours of reality, I have found no more reliable place until now.
How much space exists in the depths of a human heart? Is it all earth? How much distance separates us? You know, the moment of our parting weighs terribly on me…it brings such suffering!
Forty-four. If someone believes in me, I do the work of faith.
If someone disbelieves in me, I do the work of disbelief.
The math is simple!
Forty-five. This deep supplication of mine—
only you can hear it,
the reason for this fragile embrace—
only you know it;
yet still, truly,
do you understand me even this much?
I have deliberately stopped
writing about you—
because I wish to forget…
You are my everything.
Forty-six. Lately our conversations aren’t going much further, do you notice? Just a word or two…I have no wish to say more. It’s not that the matter lacks importance; I simply cannot seem to find the words; and yet, even this leaves me breathless!
The farther you distance me, the more perfect my writing becomes, appealing in the subtle voice of emptiness—*I do not wish to set you free*; and yet, this has not happened.
Our beautiful moments have been suffocated into silence; the words arranged for the sake of existence have crumbled; our memories cling, bound in cruel negligence; pure feelings sink into solitude.
Though I show you excessive claim, I cannot make the person within speak—yet still, they think I am alive.
Forty-seven. : Am I only your necessity?
: Believe what brings you peace.
: If I say…that I keep only you near?
: I myself am a refugee, seeking a path.
Forty-eight. For most people, old sorrows are displaced by the arrival of new happiness; for me, old sorrows are displaced by the awakening of new sorrow. Both are departures, the rumination of memory…and yet, such distance! God or man, they say, writes fate with understanding; but am I that person whom God wishes to see praying ceaselessly?
Forty-nine. In an unfamiliar city…
A familiar friend, familiar nicotine.
Fifty. For those searching for Rahat Khan’s *Amal Dhowal Chakri*—this post is for you. The book has arrived in the market. You’ll find it at Lighthouse. Surely many other places too. I got mine from Lighthouse.
It’s been a long time since the book could be easily found in used bookstores. I had one copy, which I obtained only after much effort. (The moment I saw the post with the book’s name and image on Facebook, I called the shopkeeper and went to his godown beyond the lanes and alleys of Dhaka to get it—I remember. He assured me, “Sir, I’ll send it, you needn’t come.” But I didn’t wait. I took leave from the office after lunch to go there.)
A cherished book. Released after many years. I thought you should know.
Fifty-one. Do not embarrass someone repeatedly. Rather, simply stop keeping in touch with them. This way, at least the mutual respect remains intact. No one in this world is indispensable to anyone else. If that were true, then surely a mother should not survive after her child’s death! There is surely no one dearer than one’s own child, is there? Then what is this compulsion to hold on so?
At day’s end, I see that strangers have become closer than the familiar.
Fifty-two. Tell me, will you stay near me?
For as long as silence churns with memory!
Tell me, will you love again?
In untouchable breath, growing excuses!
Fifty-three. One gains as much as one cares.
Fifty-four.
I said I loved you—when my voice transformed in emptiness, and two souls gripped each other with terrible force—mistaking suffocation for intimacy.
In the end, love keeps us adrift in our void until death.
One day, not regret—but my very creation becomes the essence of truly living—something that surpasses even love’s intensity; a singular grandeur embraces it.
Do I love you so much that it could wholly consume death’s torment?
Fifty-seven.
: Why are your eyes so red?
: To conjure you in imagination…these days I am seized by such fear!
: You have changed so terribly!
: By your neglect, silently memories…chose the path of death.
: Why do you say nothing?
: By distance’s interference, feelings grow afraid.