# The Rest Imagined The letter arrived on a Tuesday, though which Tuesday no one could say with certainty. Time moves differently in small towns—it pools and eddies, circles back on itself. Mrs. Dasgupta recognized the handwriting before she opened the envelope: that particular slant, those loops that had always reminded her of climbing vines. *Dear Mother,* The words stopped her. She was still Mrs. Dasgupta to the postman, to the grocer, to the neighbors who visited for tea. But this—*Mother*—belonged to a different season, a different woman. She did not finish reading that first day. Instead, she placed the letter on the small table beside her chair, the one where she kept her reading glasses and a cup of tea that had long since grown cold. She sat with the letter the way one sits with a person one has not seen in years: wary, curious, afraid of what the looking might reveal. The handwriting had changed, she noticed. The letters were larger now, less careful. There was an urgency in them that the old, neat script had never possessed. By evening, when the light had begun its slow withdrawal from the room, she took up the letter again. *I know you won't expect to hear from me. I have given you no reason to. But I am writing now because there are things that cannot be said aloud, things that require the distance of paper and ink to be spoken at all.* Mrs. Dasgupta's hands trembled slightly. She set the letter down, picked it up, set it down again. Outside, the street lamps were coming on, one by one, casting their amber glow across the empty lane. She could hear the neighbor's radio playing film songs—old songs, songs from decades past. *I left because I was afraid. Not of you, though you may have believed that. I was afraid of becoming what I saw in your eyes: a reflection, a continuation, a life already written and waiting only to be lived.* The words struck her like a small stone striking still water, sending out rings that had no end. She had rehearsed this letter a thousand times over the years. She had written it herself, in her mind, at three in the morning, at the market, while brushing her teeth. She had imagined every possible opening, every possible justification or accusation or tender reconciliation. But now that it had arrived—actual, real, inscribed in that familiar hand—she found that all her rehearsals were useless. *I don't expect forgiveness. That feels too generous, somehow, too easy. What I am asking for is different. I am asking you to imagine me. Not as I was, not as I might have been, but as I have become.* Mrs. Dasgupta rose and walked to the window. The street was quiet. An old man passed, walking his dog—the same route, she imagined, that he took every evening. The dog moved slowly, stopping often to sniff at stones and corners. Neither of them seemed to be in any hurry. She returned to the chair and continued reading. *I have a life now. It is small, perhaps smaller than you might have hoped for me. I live in a city by the sea. I work in a bookshop. I know the names of the regular customers. I know which ones take their tea with sugar and which without. I know which books they will return to, again and again, seeking something they never quite find.* The letter continued for several more pages. It spoke of things: a small apartment with blue walls, a landlady who left vegetables on the doorstep, a friend named Ravi who played the violin badly but with great enthusiasm. It spoke of monsoon rains and conversations overheard in markets and a cat that sometimes appeared on the roof. These details accumulated like evidence. They built, piece by piece, a life. Not the life she had imagined for her daughter, but a life nonetheless. A real life, lived in the particular way that only this daughter, this woman, could live it. *I have written and rewritten this letter fifty times. The first versions were angry. The later ones were sad. This one—I hope—is honest.* Mrs. Dasgupta folded the letter carefully and placed it back in its envelope. She did not read the closing, not yet. Instead, she sat in the gathering darkness and allowed her mind to do what the letter had asked of her: to imagine. She imagined the bookshop—not grand, but clean, well-lit. She imagined the customers, their small rituals and preferences. She imagined her daughter moving among the shelves, her hands touching the spines of books, her eyes finding the titles. She imagined her eating breakfast alone, perhaps reading the newspaper. She imagined her speaking to Ravi about music, about life, about things that mothers need not know. These imaginings did not erase what had been lost. The years remained years. The silence remained silence. But somehow, in the imagining, something shifted. The daughter was no longer a ghost, no longer an absence shaped like a presence. She was becoming, in the act of imagination, real. Only then did Mrs. Dasgupta unfold the letter again and read the final words. *I don't know if this will reach you, or if you will read it if it does. I don't know what you will think when you see my name. But I know that you are the kind of person who can imagine. You always have been. So I am sending you this letter, and all the things it cannot say, and all the life it only hints at. Imagine the rest, Mother. Imagine me as I am. Perhaps that is the only forgiveness I need.* *Your daughter,* *Priya* Mrs. Dasgupta held the letter to her chest. Outside, the street lamps burned steadily. Inside, in the small room with its cold tea and empty chair, a woman sat alone with her daughter's words, teaching herself what it meant to truly see. The rest, she would imagine.

I am Shila. A girl from Dinajpur. For some time now, I have been struggling with severe depression. A major tragedy struck my life recently. Ever since, I keep thinking that it would be better if I were dead. What is there to live for? I cannot bear the contempt and humiliation from everyone around me anymore. I want to live beautifully. I never imagined that within just a year of marriage, I would be betrayed like this—by my own husband, no less, and his family. I never thought it possible.

Yes, it has been only a year since my marriage. On December 31st of last year, they deliberately threw me out of the house without letting me understand what was happening. I am a simple, ordinary girl from a lower-middle-class family. I have always thought in modest, straightforward ways. I went to my in-laws’ house full of beautiful dreams. My reward for dreaming was divorce. Even after the divorce, they have not stopped. They spread filthy, vile things about me in their town—Gaibandha, where I used to live. And they are spreading the same lies in my area too, in my neighborhood, through various people. There is no environment left where I can step out of the house. My husband is a member of the BCS Education Cadre. Now that I have married him, my parents have lost all honor and dignity. Everyone is calling me everything but who I really am.

My husband had character flaws, several other defects, and I was accepting them and managing the household. I was even tolerating the torture from my in-laws. I never thought life would be like this. The filthy things my husband and his parents are now saying about me are unspeakable. I cannot go out in public. I cannot face anyone. Nobody is analyzing what actually happened; they judge me based on what they like to hear and believe. We live in such a judgmental environment. We speak about others based on hearsay or complete ignorance. I am living in excruciating pain. It feels like suicide is the only solution. I do not even know what good it would do. Yet the thought keeps returning—that escaping life is the only way out. Nothing brings me joy anymore. There seems to be no other path open before me except death. I cannot understand what I should do right now.

Our marriage was arranged through family connections on January 17th, 2019. Because my husband had become a BCS officer, my family was very eager about this marriage. The wedding took place in the village. From the very beginning, my mother-in-law, sister-in-law, and cousin-in-law—everyone treated me badly. The entire family, including my husband, had a strange mentality. They were completely old-fashioned, village-minded people. They wanted me to become like them. After the marriage, they completely stopped me from visiting my father’s house. If I did go, my father had to come fetch me, and my father-in-law would come to take me back. I was never allowed to come with my husband, never allowed to go anywhere with him. I was forbidden from resting in the afternoons. Two days after the wedding, they put me to work on all the household chores. After finishing, I had to sit in front of their eyes, and only then would they assign me new work. A daughter-in-law of the house was not permitted to rest.

My husband is currently posted in Rangpur, at a government women’s college. After the marriage, he kept commuting from Gaibandha. His parents strongly objected to that.

Their plan was set: their son would stay in Rangpur, and I would remain in the village with them. I couldn’t live with my husband; I’d have to manage their household from there. I objected to this arrangement. My husband was the kind of man who would obey his parents without question. If they told him not to speak to his wife, not to visit her, he wouldn’t. If they asked him to hit me, he would.

What’s strange is that before the wedding, no one bothered to inquire about my husband’s family at all. The groom was a BCS cadre—that was enough. They handed me over. It’s not that my father suffered from dowry obsession, but my family was absolutely infatuated with the prestige of a BCS cadre! On his side, his mother used to work as a domestic help in other people’s homes. His father did nothing. His sisters would guard government trees along the roadside in exchange for a monthly ration of wheat. My husband worked on other people’s land and somehow managed his studies with the village’s support. Later, he got admitted to Dhaka University to study history. He had a freedom fighter’s quota, which he eventually used to become a BCS officer.

But none of that matters. The real issue is that even as their circumstances improved, their mentality never did. Some peasants remain peasants for life—it’s both their birth and their nature. Their home reeked of filth. His parents would call me all sorts of names, the worst kind of abuse, and he’d say nothing. He grew up hearing such things, so it felt normal to him. My husband and I had no privacy whatsoever. If I told him anything, he’d run to his parents and tell them, then cry. He’d go from house to house in the village, to his sisters-in-law’s places, spreading gossip about me right in front of my face. He’d cry so much that everyone would think I was the villain. They’d call me every horrible name, say I was things I wasn’t. He’d call my father’s house and make up lies about me. I’d argue with him about it. I’d tell him it hurt me, but he never changed. Nothing helped.

At one point, over some trivial matter, he filed a GD against me at the police station. It was August, the day after Eid. The police came to our village home. That very day, we decided on a divorce, though it didn’t go through in the end. We rented a flat in Rangpur in August. From a week after the wedding, he’d hit me over the smallest things. Even after we moved to Rangpur, it continued. I never once saw any remorse in him about it. Apparently, he grew up watching his father beat his mother. For him, a husband hitting his wife is normal. If he doesn’t hit her, the wife becomes spoiled. I truly couldn’t reconcile his education and position with his behavior. I studied at National University; he studied at Dhaka University. This gave him tremendous self-satisfaction, arrogance. Because he had to leave his parents to stay with me in Rangpur, he treated me poorly. He said he was better off alone. Meanwhile, I’d get angry at the slightest thing, and he exploited that. Even in Rangpur, whenever we’d argue, he’d call all the neighbors, make accusations against me, and cry. Later, at his college, he told all his colleagues my name, though I didn’t know it until after the divorce was finalized. He’d told everyone at college, and the girls he’d chat with inappropriately, that I was mentally ill. He’s still saying that now.

# She Speaks of My Character

She speaks filth about my character. Such vile filth that I cannot even bring myself to repeat. Yet I have seen proof of her own moral failings—many times, in many ways. And still, through it all, I have swallowed everything in silence.

The plan to divorce me began right after Eid in Ramadan. Her mother gave her amulets to poison our relationship, dragged her to witch doctors, had incantations chanted over food and mixed into what she ate. Meanwhile, they destroyed my bond with my father. They told him things that happened; they invented lies about things that never happened at all. My in-laws—mother-in-law, father-in-law, husband, all three together—they turned my own relatives against me. No one believed me. No one believes me still. Everyone says it’s my fault the divorce happened. I should have accepted everything. I should have endured everything. Why is my temper so quick? That’s all anyone says now. My uncles and cousins—they’re all big businessmen. They wanted me married to some businessman’s son. When that didn’t happen, they barely bothered to ask how I was. But they believed him. Oh, how they believed him. With everyone else, he’s so sweet-tongued and charming—he washes their brains so cleanly they think the world of him. What they really wanted was a servant. That’s why I stopped being good enough.

I’m from Dinajpur town. I’m studying Statistics—honors and masters—at Dinajpur Government College. I loved my husband so much. I still do. After we married, I used to get beaten by my mother-in-law when I didn’t want to go back to their house. I hated it there. They treated me poorly. My husband didn’t understand me, didn’t give me time. I meant nothing to him. He would always say: *In this one year you’ve been almost nothing to me. My parents, my relatives, my siblings, my colleagues, my friends—they came into my life long before you. So they matter far more to me. You don’t get to say anything about what I do or don’t do. I’ll live my life my way. If I hadn’t married you, you’d probably have ended up with some illiterate businessman. No other BCS officer would have married you. You’re just a regular student from the National University. You didn’t even pass the DU entrance exam.* And on and on it went.

I couldn’t bear the psychological torture anymore. Last March, I tried to kill myself. I drank half a bottle of Harpic. I had to be hospitalized. That’s when he said I keep trying to kill myself because I’m mentally ill, because I have relationships elsewhere, because he “knows” who I meet, because my character is ruined—that’s why he wants the divorce. On December 11th, he came to my father’s house with me. On December 17th, he left for his village. Before he went, he told me: *Don’t worry, I’ll come back soon and take you home.* I’m such a fool, such a simple girl. I don’t know much about the cruel world outside. I believed almost everything he said.

Two days after we left our place, he spoke to me normally. From the 20th onwards, he cut off all contact. I heard he gave me the divorce on the 31st. I still haven’t received the letter.

I went to Monoharpour village alone, and that’s where I heard all of this. They wouldn’t even let me inside their house. After I got there, his mother cursed me—the whole village did. They all got together, called the chairman and member of the village council, and made them speak to me in filthy language. Over the phone, they were cruel to my parents. They insulted them. The next day they beat me and threw me out. I fell at my husband’s feet, at my in-laws’ feet. I begged them, pleaded with them, but none of them would listen to me. I told him too—I said I’d be like the dust under your feet, keep me as your slave, make me the lowest servant in your house, just don’t break this marriage. I love you, let me stay, and so much more besides. He didn’t listen to a single word I said.

In our society, divorced women are looked upon with contempt. Even when no one stands by them, society won’t stop its mockery. He was my husband. I wanted to spend my whole life with him. I know—I know that there’s no one person in this world so indispensable that you must spend your whole life with them. But I can’t convince myself of that. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem normal again. Again and again, the same question comes to me: then why do people marry at all? To break up the home? To be alone?

I come from a well-off, middle-class family. My parents have lost their dignity because of me. I have a younger sister and a brother. My father is getting old. His worries have grown because of me. I don’t know what might happen next. I want to escape from here too, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m an emotional person—all I do is cry and think: What was my mistake? What wrong did I do? I’ve never harmed anyone, so why did this happen to me?… I really do want to be okay!

A friend of mine gave me advice: I need to fall in love with someone else to forget him. She said, Sheela, fall in love with someone, give yourself time. Break free from all these customs and fears, keep yourself busy with something. If you look, you’ll find someone you like. That’s how it’s possible. But I can’t accept this. My family is very conservative. I’ve never been in love in my life. Nothing feels right to me. I want to get out of this situation. I’m not going through a good time—how can I fall in love with someone? Right now, nothing appeals to me. Love won’t happen through me; if it were going to happen, it would have already. And can you just fall in love with anyone you choose? Does it work just because you say it does? There’s something about liking someone! And isn’t it natural to hurt when a relationship breaks? I’m hurting, so does that mean I should be told to do things this way? Why did my friend tell me to do that? She tells me: if you haven’t done something in life, you can never do it—where did you get that theory? Before you lay with a man, had you laid with anyone else? Before your first kiss, had you kissed someone? Everything has a first time.

She goes on: so what if your family is conservative? You’re in a terrible state anyway—what does it matter to your family, to this world? What does it matter to anyone whether you’re conservative or something else? Don’t talk such nonsense!

I’ve read this passage carefully, and it presents a deeply troubled internal monologue—someone caught between practical advice and existential despair. The voice shifts between rational self-talk and spiraling hopelessness. Let me translate it with fidelity to that emotional texture:

—

I’ve seen plenty of people get tangled up with someone else and come out fine—maybe they never quite let go of the last one, but they manage. If you don’t want to love, you can always play at love with someone. Otherwise, throw yourself into some work, something that demands all of you.… Hearing all this from her, I’m getting more confused by the day. What happened to me happens to plenty of people. All the time, in fact. But some people have the capacity to accept it, to move on. Others don’t. It’s a matter of will and habit. I understand—you can’t let society’s every judgment weigh on you. But here’s the thing: mud sticks to the middle class. The rich can do what they want and no one says a word. I have to stand on my own feet. I’m thinking about preparing for a job exam, but I’m terrified because my basics are so weak. I never imagined I’d work. I need to get out of this situation. Time is running short. I want to be like I was before.

I live a solitary life, so I don’t really connect with anyone. I know she’ll forget me in a few months. I remember everyone, but my curse is this—no one remembers me. Nothing feels good anymore. I wish I were dead. How can I be okay? The despair just keeps growing, day after day. My life has fallen apart! Every moment I think I should just die. I want to be okay. I’m in terrible shape. Terrible. This badness I’m in—I can’t bear it anymore. You can survive sorrow, but this—this state of being wretched—it’s unbearable.