I have some secret things to say, things I've never told anyone. Everyone has such things. But I'm not like everyone else—I'm just me. I don't want to keep anything hidden. Just as people vomit violently to empty their stomachs, I want to pour out everything inside me, to empty my heart and make it clean.
I want to lay myself bare and become pure. But who can I tell all this to? My boyfriend Shubhra? My mother? Or my best friend Joya? Maybe I won't be able to tell anyone at all. I've tried before—I couldn't. People can never say everything.
Well, can I tell Shubhra that before him, there were several men in my life? Some perhaps touched my body, others my soul! Would Shubhra be able to accept such things? Can even the most worldly man be that generous? And suppose he does accept it—surely he'll look me straight in the eye and ask, "So which category am I in? The body-touchers? Or the soul-touchers?" What answer would I give to that question? Can you tell everyone the truth? Shubhra is a man of simple words—he doesn't know that not every question can be answered simply.
Or should I tell my mother that the battle she's fighting with the whole world over property and money for her most beloved child, my sister Dola, is utterly pointless? Because Dola will grab all the money, deceive us all, and escape forever to Canada with her greedy lover! How can I tell my mother that I've discovered all these schemes? Could she bear it? Does my mother have the strength at her age to accept this cruel truth—that her darling child is only pretending to love her own mother to make her escape route easier?
Or should I forget everything else, take a couple days off from work, and go to my best friend Joya in her village? From behind all my well-ordered life, my great career, my expensive glittering clothes and shoes—would she be able to grasp my heart's sickness? If I tell her I can't sleep at night, that I've come running to her to lighten the burden on my mind, will she laugh off all my words again, just like last time?
Do I really have no one of my own?
I have everything, I have everyone—only I don't have a single person to whom I can reveal myself completely. Those who are there, I can neither tell them everything nor open my heart to them. I don't even have someone to cry with and feel lighter! Who has the time, the heart, to understand me exactly as I am? I am a thoroughly failed person surrounded by success.