# The Pleasure of Being Miserable There's a kind of happiness in being miserable—the sort that creeps up on you when you're not looking, when you're too absorbed in your own wretchedness to notice anything else. I discovered this one autumn evening, sitting on my verandah with a cup of tea that had gone cold an hour ago. My wife had left for her mother's place. Not in anger—that might have given the parting some dignity, some weight. She simply left because it was Thursday, because her mother expected her, because that's what Thursday meant in our house. I sat there watching the light drain from the sky, and I felt something stir in me that I can only describe as a kind of pleasure. There's no obligation in loneliness, you see. When you're alone, truly alone, you don't have to be anyone in particular. You don't have to pretend that the world makes sense, or that your place in it matters, or that you're content with your lot. You can simply be—broken, confused, disappointed—without apology. I thought of my friend Barun, who had called that morning. He'd gotten a promotion. The way he said it, with that careful modulation in his voice, as if he were announcing a terminal diagnosis to a loved one—I understood then that his joy was already tainted with the knowledge that it would fade, that it would eventually become just another fact about himself, no more remarkable than the color of his eyes. But misery—misery is honest. It asks nothing of you. It doesn't demand that you celebrate it or overcome it or transform it into wisdom. It simply sits with you, and in that sitting, there's a kind of companionship. The servant came by to ask if I wanted dinner. I told him no, I'd eat something later. He lingered for a moment, as if to say something, then left. Even he recognized that there was a boundary I'd drawn around myself that evening—not hostile, but clear. A space where only I existed, and that existence, however hollow, was entirely my own. I picked up the cold tea and drank it. It tasted of time and stillness. Outside, the neighborhood was settling into its evening rhythms. A woman's voice called out someone's name. A bicycle bell rang. A child cried and was hushed. The world was continuing its necessary business, and I was not part of it, and this fact—which might have devastated me on another day—felt like an unexpected gift. My father used to say that happiness is a luxury, that most people ought to be grateful if they could simply avoid unhappiness. I'd dismissed it then as the tired wisdom of a tired man. But sitting there in the gathering dark, I began to understand what he meant. He wasn't being cynical. He was being precise. Happiness, true happiness, is rare and fragile and depends on so many things aligning perfectly that it's almost miraculous when it occurs. But unhappiness—unhappiness is democratic. It comes to everyone, and it stays. And once you stop fighting it, once you stop trying to be someone who deserves better, there's something almost luxurious about the surrender. I thought about calling Barun back and telling him this, but I knew he wouldn't understand. He was still in the phase where he believed that happiness was the goal, that unhappiness was merely an obstacle to be overcome. He hadn't yet learned that the obstacle and the goal are sometimes the same thing, depending on the angle of your vision. By the time my wife returned—it must have been near midnight—I had lit the lamps and was sitting in their warm glow. She asked if I'd eaten. I said I hadn't. She made a small sound of disapproval and went to the kitchen to prepare something. I sat and listened to the sounds she made, the opening and closing of cupboards, the running water, the scrape of a ladle against the bottom of a pot. It was the same as it always was, and yet something had shifted. I was no longer waiting for her to return. She had returned, but it didn't matter, not in the way I'd always thought it mattered. She was part of my life, certainly, but she was not the author of it. My unhappiness was my own, and that made all the difference. When she brought me the food—rice and a simple dal and some leftover vegetables—I thanked her genuinely. She looked at me with a kind of surprise, as if she'd detected something different in my voice. Perhaps she had. Perhaps she could sense that I'd crossed some invisible threshold and wouldn't be coming back. We didn't speak much that night. We rarely did anymore. But the silence felt different to me now—not the silence of estrangement, but the silence of two people who had stopped performing their assigned roles and could, for the first time in years, simply exist in the same room without pretense. Later, lying in bed, listening to her breathe beside me, I thought about all the happy couples I knew—the ones who smiled in photographs, who made announcements about vacations and anniversaries, who seemed so confident in their contentment. I wondered if any of them had discovered what I had just discovered: that the pursuit of happiness is itself a kind of punishment, that it's only when you abandon the pursuit altogether that you find something worth having. Not happiness. But peace, perhaps. Or at least the absence of the hunger that happiness creates. The autumn wind rattled the window. Somewhere in the house, something creaked. My wife turned in her sleep, and her arm fell across my chest. I didn't move. I let it rest there, and I felt nothing—no affection, no resentment, no obligation. Just the weight of another person's arm, and the knowledge that weight is sometimes all that separates us from dissolving entirely into the darkness. This, I thought, is enough. Not happiness, but enough. And perhaps that was the real pleasure all along—not the feeling of being happy, but the relief of finally, truly giving up on it.

I am Ahok. Preparing for the entrance exam. Ever since childhood, I've dreamed of becoming a doctor. Right after my HSC, I enrolled in coaching without even waiting for my results. I'm a quiet, shy sort of boy. I don't have any social media accounts either. I thought it could all wait until after I got into medical school.

After starting coaching, I made many new friends. There are quite a few girls in the class, but I don't talk to any of them. We have exams every day at the coaching center. The boys' answer sheets are shown to the girls and the girls' sheets to the boys.

One day I got the answer sheet of a girl named Ruhi. I saw that on the blank side of the back page—the right margin—she had drawn a doll and some pictures of pots and pans. I couldn't help but laugh. After checking the answers, I found she had scored only two. When her name would be called out in front of everyone and the marks announced, the poor girl would be so embarrassed. Thinking of this, I changed the two to a twelve.

When Ruhi's name was called, I kept my head down, couldn't even look at her. Then, two days later, I got her sheet again. This time she had drawn a fisherman catching fish, and his little boy sitting by the pond. What an ordinary yet exquisite scene! That day she had scored six on the exam, but because of the negative marking, her score came to one point two five! Good heavens! Can you give someone a score like that? Better to give zero. I couldn't bring myself to write zero. I put twelve again. That day too, when her name was called, I couldn't look at her—I turned away.

After that, I didn't get her sheet for many days. For some reason, my heart felt heavy. What happened to the girl?

Since I didn't know her face, I couldn't look for her either. A few days later, I got her sheet again. The picture drawn on the back was even more wonderful than before! A boy on one side playing the flute, and two girls dancing in front of him, drenched in the rain. Around the girls, scattered red flowers everywhere. It was truly a captivating drawing! People could draw like this! I stared at it without blinking. Then I noticed tiny writing in one corner of the answer sheet: "Hey, you generous soul—Haji Muhammad Muhsin—am I your sister Mannujan? Who told you to increase my marks?"

Reading this, I burst out laughing. But how did the girl figure out that I was the one increasing her marks? Today she had scored zero. Absolutely zero! She hadn't even attempted some questions and double-answered others. Does this girl want low marks on purpose? Today I gave her zero.

When Sir called out Ruhi's name, the girl came forward. She said she had been unwell and hadn't been able to come for a few days, and couldn't study either.

That was the first time I dared to look at her face. I thought, oh my, what a tender face—just like the ones she draws! Like a dark bud about to bloom. As she left, she looked at me in a way I can't quite explain. I can't find the words to describe that glance of hers that day. But after that, my heart wouldn't settle. I never missed a class. I would sneak glances at her, trying to catch sight of her.

# The Way Things Go

My friends ganged up on me and forced me to open a Facebook account. Being new to it, I didn’t know the first thing about how it worked. One day, scrolling through friend suggestions, I came across a girl named Rabeya Ruhi. Her profile picture was taken at an angle, so I couldn’t quite make out her face. But when I visited her profile, I saw she was an artist. The style of her drawings — I was certain right then. This was her.

Without a second thought, I sent her a friend request like some shameless fool. A message came through a few minutes later.

— Who are you?

— Haji Muhammad Muhsin.

— Ha ha ha!

— What’s up?

— Good.

— You’ve got a real gift for drawing!

— Well, you’ve got quite the gift for inflating numbers on report cards. Who actually gives marks like that?

— Ha ha ha… Why do you make so many mistakes on your sheets anyway? Can you really hand out numbers like that to just anyone?

— I have absolutely no interest in getting numbers like that!

— Then how will you get into medical school?

— I won’t. I don’t want to. I’m in coaching because of my grandmother’s wishes.

— You’re still not accepting my friend request?

— I just did.

And that’s how we started chatting on Facebook — little conversations here and there. Before long, we fell in love. These things happen, don’t they? A few weeks later, we actually met up, wandered around the city together.

Time moved on, and the day of the medical entrance exam drew near. We both took it. Neither of our names appeared on the merit list. Ruhi had barely studied for it anyway. But me — I’d put in so much work! It was my whole dream.

After the results came out, I completely fell apart. Ruhi was there for me through it all — she understood, she supported me. After that, she got into a government college to study zoology, and she basically forced me into coaching again for a second attempt at the medical entrance.

There was one thing she said that woke something up inside me again. She said: *You will become a doctor. You will.* At night, in the depths of night, after my tahajjud prayers, that’s all I ask for. You know how it is — prayers in the deep of night are never wasted.

I started studying again. More focused. Harder. I poured everything into it.

Finally, I took the exam again. This time I was sure — I was going to get in. The results came out. And I did. I got a seat. But because my rank wasn’t high enough, I got admitted to Cumilla Medical College. That stung a little, I’ll admit. But then I thought about it, and the peace that came over me was immense. My dream had actually come true. From today on, I’m a medical student. A white coat. A stethoscope. The title “Doctor” before my name — just five years away! I’ll be someone people can lean on, trust. Someone who matters. A wave of joy washed through every part of me. I called Ruhi right away.

# A Medical Dream

— Yes, go on.
— I got into Medical, Ruhi.
— Hmm, I know. Congratulations!
— Will you come out this evening?
— Why?
— Oh, won’t we celebrate?
— Alright, I’ll come.
— Ruhi, after God, you were my greatest inspiration. I’m so grateful to you. All of this—it’s because of you! I love you. I thought…
— Listen, my cousin got fifty-fifth rank in Dhaka Medical. You know my friend Juthi? She’s second at Salimullah. We’re sure she’ll get into Dhaka Medical. Because not everyone who gets a chance actually goes to Medical—plenty choose other colleges. And my neighbour, that girl Sima, she got into BUET too, though she’ll probably get Chemical or something since she was ranked lower. Still, she got a chance. That’s what matters.

I couldn’t understand why Ruhi was telling me all this—none of it made sense! What was the point of saying all this to me?

— Look, your doctor boyfriend is sitting right in front of you!
— Yes, I see.
— Don’t tell everything at home yet, Ruhi! Let everyone hear both pieces of good news together!
— You’re going to be a doctor, we’re all so happy about that. But honestly, Ohak, I thought you’d get into Dhaka Medical. And because I thought that, I’ve been…
— A doctor is a doctor, Ruhi!
— Still, Dhaka Medical is something different, isn’t it? Actually, Ohak…

Without waiting for Ruhi to finish, Ohak hurried home. The moment he got there, he collapsed into tears. He’d never imagined he could feel such immense joy and such crushing sorrow on the same day. The thought of being without Ruhi tore through him. He looked at the pictures she’d drawn, wiping his eyes constantly. His friend Rifat knew about him and Ruhi. Rifat came to the house to congratulate him.

— Man, I can’t believe it—you’re going to be a doctor! All the best to you, brother. By the way, how’s Ruhi?
— I don’t know, man. We’ve broken up.
— What?
— I want to forget her.
— How can you?
— If her dawn prayers could make me a doctor, then my dawn prayers can certainly erase her from my heart.

Some sorrows, when they come, push a person toward the path of happiness.
Some joys, when they come, push a person toward the path of sorrow.
Perhaps living with this knowledge—this is what life truly is.