The Story of an Ordinary Girl

Dear Nairita!

You know, I read your two notes and felt grateful. I’m writing to you from that very gratitude. You are so much more mature. How did you become this way? You seem like a genie to me. You understand what a genie is, don’t you? A kind of being from Islamic consciousness, who possesses supernatural powers. Grandmother says they apparently throw pebbles at people’s houses and want to eat sweets. Isn’t that amusing? I really like this trait of theirs. I too used to throw pebbles at people’s tin roofs when I was little. Have you ever thrown any? Try it sometime, there’s joy in it. Hehe… It was wrong to call you a genie, you are the king of genies. Now that’s more accurate.

Shall I tell you about myself? I’m forbidden to speak of myself. Forbidden means I’ve decided on my own, made it a rule, that speaking of this is forbidden; yet I speak anyway. I want to tell everyone, I want to feel light. What agony it is to keep words stored up! Still, I cannot speak. What if everyone feels disgusted! (Disgusted means what you genteel people call hatred.) If you read this piece and you too feel disgusted, that’s fine. Just don’t laugh at me, I beg you. I can endure hatred if necessary, but mockery, absolutely not. Of course, that’s your choice, and I won’t come to know about it. (You won’t tell me either. I’m tired of hearing that no one loves me. I know there’s nothing loveable about me. Whether someone says it or not, I know. I don’t want to hear that anymore, now I want a little rest.)

I’m enchanted by one aspect of you. Here you are, such a busy person—what obligation do you have to struggle and write for children? Isn’t that right? But you do write! How much effort you put into conducting seminars, how many people you motivate, how you save them from being lost, teach them to weave dreams. This is tremendous work. You yourself don’t know how your words save so many people, keep them alive, make them dream of living. For this, all you get from some people is jealousy and nothing else. You receive prayers, that’s good. But how much does even that serve you in any tangible way? Perhaps that alone brings you satisfaction, joy, happiness, peace. I read some words you wrote for your brother, yet while reading them I simply assumed that you had struggled to write all those words for me. (I’m not claiming your writing, just assuming. Why are you so afraid of your writing being stolen? Aren’t you going to be a writer? This narrow-mindedness doesn’t suit you. Let them steal! How much can they steal? Those who can, they do. But what will those who cannot do?)

How lucky your brother is! To have a brother like you! Look at me—there was no one except myself. You speak such beautiful words! Forget hearing such things, I never heard even ordinary conversation. And why would I, when I was such a bad girl. How bad I was, just how bad—I want to tell this, I truly want to, but no one lets me speak. Everyone thinks so well of me, and this is making me feel more guilty every day. It feels terrible to take something I don’t deserve. I don’t mind if someone calls me bad. I think, if I wanted to be like that, I could become that. But whenever someone says something good about me, I get anxious. Being good is hard, isn’t it! People want to be good, but then they can’t bear the good deeds of those who are good—they feel envious. The public is such a strange thing! I’m part of the public too, completely ordinary public. When someone envies me too, I find it very funny. You know, everyone pampers me, keeps me on a pedestal thinking I’m some innocent child or simple and virtuous, but only I know what a great criminal I really am. I feel like shouting at the top of my voice to everyone—what I really am!

I had forgotten everything, had drifted back to my former life. Reading your writing last night brought it all back. Didn’t you once suffer? That terrible kind of suffering where you hold back tears? I suffered too. Red-blue-purple-green-gray colored suffering, multicolored suffering. Oh wait, I’m lying just now—suffering doesn’t have colors. Suffering is colorless; I made up colors for my suffering. You wrote that your family was with you. But only I was with me. Even Allah wasn’t there. The Allah who gave me sunshine when I asked for sunshine, rain when I asked for rain, shade when I asked for shade, who miraculously saved me from the beatings of school teachers and my father—why did that Allah let my fate become like this? He knows everything, understands everything. Then why didn’t He give me wisdom? You wrote, “Allah sometimes grants our prayers by not granting our prayers.” But think about it—when the wisdom to pray doesn’t even come to mind, whose fault is that? How was I to understand that even feeling very happy might be false, and that I needed to pray to escape from it? You tell me, does anyone understand this at all? When someone thinks they’re doing well, how would it occur to them that they’re actually not well? I have a filter in my mind; I have the ability to take only the good from everyone. You must behave properly, be honest, speak truth, all humans are equal, to become big you must become small, don’t be arrogant, don’t be greedy, don’t do things for show, respect elders, don’t hurt anyone, don’t compete, don’t show off—all these bookish words I heard from so many people since childhood and embedded in my heart. I was more or less an ideal child. What nonsense! What a meaningless, monotonous, exhausting, memoryless childhood! Does any of this make sense, tell me? Then what happened? Oh my! What happened indeed!

You know, my father didn’t speak to me for almost two years? My mother and sister would talk to me, but in their own way. Have you ever felt what it’s like when someone close speaks to you with distant formality? I even envied my brother who lives in America. He could pick up the phone anytime and talk to our parents, but I, living right at home, could never do that. How could I? I lived even farther away than he did! Distance isn’t measured in miles. For two years after graduating from university, it was as if I didn’t live at home at all—I lived in my room, my bathroom, and sometimes on the roof. No one considered my room part of the house. Since I lived in it, it existed outside the home. After everyone finished eating, I would take my food to my room and eat alone. I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. At first from shame, then from awkwardness, and later from fear. I didn’t get new clothes for Eid, just money, to buy whatever I needed. Even that Eid money felt unbearable. But these were all private matters—no outsider knew. When guests came, everyone would introduce me with smiling faces: our beloved youngest daughter. I would smile and make conversation. Everyone thought I was living in such bliss. Such happiness! Oh my! Didn’t you want to commit suicide? An existential crisis before the outside world. Do you have any idea how intense the crisis of non-existence can be in the inner world? Have you ever wanted to die while appearing so happy, like I did? Do you know what it feels like to live outside the world while still being in it? You cannot even imagine how desperately I craved love during that time. Even a sweet glance from someone’s eyes seemed like a refuge of happiness! Can you tell me how someone lives when no one in this world wants them?

I couldn’t cry then—afraid that everyone would call it pretense, held back by fear and shame. I spent most of my time in the bathroom. My self-respect wouldn’t let me weep before others. My self-respect! Ha! Still. Even street dogs understand love. Give them a little affection and they forget about food, wagging their tails endlessly. Have you ever seen this? If even dogs can forget their hunger and respond to love, crave love, then why shouldn’t I? Am I somehow less feeling than a dog? Listen, I don’t actually speak this way—saying “korsey” and “khaishey”—I’m writing like this because it flows easier. My room door stayed latched, I mean bolted shut. Conversations from the dining room would sometimes reach my ears. People sometimes strain to hear what cruel things others say about them. Strange psychology, isn’t it? Reaching out to gather pain! Shameless girl, brazen girl, characterless girl—I’d hear these words and feel happy. Yes, I deserve exactly these accusations. What’s wrong with that? I wanted everyone to curse me as they pleased, slap me hard across the face, kick me, beat me with fists until my bones turned to powder, grab my hair and tear it all out. But whenever I caught the sound of my father’s weeping, something would cry out desperately inside my chest. I’d tell Allah, “Allah, take me if you must. But let me never hear that again.” My only task then was to lie there and talk with Allah. Besides Allah, I had no one else to speak with. Just me and Allah in that room, in some outer chamber of existence. No one else, no one! Everyone else could remain in the house. I can’t write this, yet I’m writing it. You—yes, you—have brought tears to my eyes; after so many days, once again. I’m going to burn all your writings, every single one.

Have you been to the Chandranath Temple in Sitakunda? If not, you should go once. But be prepared for quite an ordeal! You’ll have to climb 1,156 massive steps. Such exhaustion. Such utter exhaustion! I went. Backpack on my shoulder, wearing sneakers; carrying myself with the swagger of a seasoned trekker. When you’re climbing a mountain, every hill feels like Everest. You feel so worldly-wise. But what happened toward the end? Looking down made my head spin and my hands and feet shake. How everyone laughed! Just as well—my backpack ended up with the other students, and our handsome, dashing, smooth-talking sir with his serious demeanor took my hand, told me to keep looking at him, and guided me through the rest of the climb. Sir smelled so wonderful! Oh! The scent of men can be so intoxicating! (Actually, it was cologne!) I felt completely dizzy. I even fell a little in love. Though that same sir doesn’t teach properly—the rascal teaches at private universities, goes abroad, and stays busy making money, so I used to feel somewhat disgusted with him too. Never mind about sir. Now I think he’s much, much better than many truly bad people. But you must go to that mountain! You must go, climb to the summit and see the little train moving below and the gray shadows of clouds drifting across the smaller hills. The shadows of big mountains and clouds falling on the little hills. This picture won’t be found in any Louvre Museum in the world. This picture is painted by the world’s greatest, most sublime artist. I swear to God, you’ll go mad. You might even end up writing all sorts of things. Oh yes, what I was saying—the professors say I have acrophobia. (The professors say it in English. I’ve forgotten the English word.) I knew that too. But tell me, if that’s the case, how could I so often sit with my legs dangling from the roof’s ledge? Sitting there swinging my legs, just thinking, just thinking—should I jump, should I jump? Oh! What would happen if I jumped? I’d imagine my parents crying in my mind, and it would make me giggle; it felt like just a game! Though there was also the fear of not dying but breaking my hands and feet and becoming crippled. Oh, one thing I didn’t mention—on that mountain there were some bald-headed people in orange clothes who called me “mother”! It annoyed me, but a boy my age told me, “Mother, you’re struggling.” And he forcibly made me take his stick. This touched me a little. If they call me mother, I should call the boys father—don’t go with that mindset! Though that’s what I should have said. But they don’t say that. Perhaps because women in this world become mothers so easily, but men don’t become fathers as easily. Climbing the mountain on three legs, climbing and climbing; suddenly, “Durba, give me your stick for a bit,” said a friend and snatched it away. I was too embarrassed to ask for it back. But it was very difficult. Human beings cannot reach every height relying solely on their own feet.

Do you know why Durba Islam couldn’t die? I know that if I had done such a thing, my parents would have thought I died because of them, because in their rage they often used to say why didn’t I die after being born, why was I born, why did they bother raising me—all this, all this. But my Allah knows, the truth is that whatever little I struggled to live, it was for them. So they wouldn’t suffer from guilt. They could have thrown me out of the house, stopped my education, but they did none of those things. They gave me shelter, food, clothes, money, everything, everything. People sometimes survive on these things alone, I mean just food and clothing. I was living. If I had died, I would have died for that other bastard. I tried that too though! Just as you couldn’t die from lack of courage and thinking of your mother, I couldn’t die because of this oath I made to myself—that I would never lose to that bastard, never. You wrote, “I have seen that just staying alive accomplishes so much. If you disappear, except for those very close to you, nobody really cares. So, stay alive. Your death will put some people in terrible discomfort—those who find relief in wishing for your death. At least thinking of them… live! Living itself is the greatest revenge. So, at least thinking of yourself… live! Live, for yourself. Live, for others.” How did you manage to write these words? Who taught you to write these things? After reading these words, I want to touch you, to see if you’re real. You are human, aren’t you? Why has no one ever said these things to me this way, so beautifully? Was your brother’s condition even worse than mine? I had an older sister too! Why didn’t she say this? Why? No one was beside me. No one, no one! My friends knew nothing of all this. My friends, I mean, my school friends. I have university friends, but there’s some kind of formal politeness in those relationships. They don’t really like me from the heart, and I don’t like them either—their affectation, constantly talking with “but,” “so,” “shit,” “sorry,” “thank you,” speaking with pretense and performing this act of keeping up with the times makes me want to vomit. You’re laughing at this, aren’t you? Go ahead and laugh, brother, laugh.

Listen, I’m quite famous, you know. I live in my grandfather’s era. My grandfather’s wind-up watch, my father’s rust-spotted sunglasses, bordered saris (I mean my mother’s saris), my grandmother’s saris, their style, their words—I find them all so appealing, so much my own. But Allah has sent me into this world with such wretched legs that I can’t wear grandmother’s saris—they ride up to my knees. My grandfather, though, was a hero of Greater Rajshahi (Rajshahi, Pabna, Nawabganj and so on). Not that kind of hero—this was a hero of ideals, the sort that sounds like a fairy tale when you hear about it. Even now you can hear stories of his courage, his honesty, his valor. All his children may have risen to positions even greater than his, but none of them received the respect and devotion he did. And they never will. I take pride in both my maternal and paternal lineages, but that doesn’t mean I want to lose myself in their identities. I want to live with my head held high in my own identity. But I wonder, what do I have to offer? To accomplish anything, you have to remember so many things. (You keep telling people that you can’t remember anything. I don’t believe this.) I can’t remember anything! I think I’m getting old! I can’t remember anyone’s name, can’t remember faces, can’t remember anything. Why does everyone tell me to go abroad? Tell me, why should I go to another country when I have my own? Fine, I’ve committed crimes. Punish me. Why should I flee? Why should you throw me out? People who’ve committed far greater crimes are living comfortably in this country. Why should I leave? Why must I be the one to go? I won’t leave this country for anywhere. If I go, it’ll be for travel, and then I’ll come back again. (Don’t you say things like this too?) Or if the suffering becomes so unbearable that I simply can’t stay, then I’ll go. Never before that, not even if I die. So many people who’ve done great harm to the country live here with honor, and just because I’ve perhaps harmed my family a little, I should have to leave the country?

“Being a nobody in this world brings no happiness. Whatever anyone may say, this much is certain—for nobodies, this world reserves only nothingness.” Well, why did you write that? I’m a nobody myself! So does that mean only nothingness is allotted to me? It’s frightening. Sir, you don’t just give courage—you instill fear too. Why, if I want to live happily as a nobody, can’t I? I’ll remain as I am, I can’t become anything like those elephants and horses, I’ll live as a small person and pass my little life quietly. What’s wrong with that? “Living without regret is success itself.” Those are your own words. Isn’t that contradictory to the earlier statement? You tell me, which one should I choose now? I’ll take the latter. It’s my wish—I want to remain a nobody. Who cares? Just like you, I never had any dreams, and I don’t have any now. Does that make me a lower-class person? You’re not lower-class. Should I point you out to everyone as an example? Even if I am lower-class, what’s it to you? Let me tell you a fact. Dogs are supposedly lower-class creatures! In our house, if Montu doesn’t eat properly, my beloved elder sister stops eating out of worry! But whether I eat or not—she doesn’t have an ounce of concern about that. No one ever asks me what I need, whether I’ve eaten, how I’m feeling. The other day I saw my sister giving Montu pizza. Seeing that made me very envious—not envious of eating pizza, but envious of receiving love. I’m very greedy, you see? Hee hee… You don’t know Montu, do you? Montu is the name of our house dog. Now you tell me—what class of creature am I?

I read in your writing that hundreds of thousands of taka from your shop, other businesses, and the share market went down the drain. It didn’t affect me at all, but hearing about your tears somehow stirred a bit of sympathy in me. I have nothing else to do but feel sympathy! I do feel sympathy for everyone though. By everyone, I mean those I find likeable. You know why I’m clarifying this? I’m putting it out there so you don’t think I’ve fallen in love with you or anything. Money that goes away can come back again. I lose money every day. (Not as much as you did, though!) Say, when you were such a tiny little person, where did you get so much money? From coaching? Oh my! Who knew when and where this teaching could pay off? You turn out to be a great wealthy master! Hee hee…

“When family stands by you, your spirit grows stronger.” How fortunate you are! When I took the preliminary exam, my relatives would laugh themselves silly! They’d say, “That crazy Durba is taking an exam?” Even later, when they heard I got the job, they were happy but still laughed themselves to death! Even today, while giving me meat, I had to hear countless times: “Don’t say this or that in front of your boss, don’t do this or that, don’t put on airs in front of colleagues, don’t act high and mighty, how will you ever manage to work!” So many such words! Don’t you say, “Kind words are healthier than a bowl of chicken soup”? You tell me—what kind of soup would you call these words? Chili soup? Should I tell you my BCS story? I studied a useless subject. I was supposed to graduate with my BSc in 2008, but I passed in March 2010. And I was supposed to complete my MSc in 2009, but I emerged in December 2012. That’s a three-year tangle! One year was because of the thesis, though. Listen, in your next seminar, please emphasize very clearly: even donkeys can pass BCS. Want an example of what a donkey I am? Except for the essay, I couldn’t give a complete answer to a single question. I left 30 marks blank in international affairs. When everyone tells you to make things up and write, I didn’t know what NAM was, couldn’t recognize Moon Chacha. You tell me, how is that possible? You can surely understand the limits of my knowledge. I knew myself how badly I had performed in the exam. Before taking the preliminary, I told Allah, “Allah, please just help me get by somehow with science and math.” Even after the written exam, I knew nothing would come of it, but still I said, “Allah, please preserve my dignity!” How amazing! Allah did preserve it. In the viva, I couldn’t handle anything except personal questions. I knew for certain I wouldn’t get anything. Still I said, “Allah, I know I won’t make it, but if you could just give me some cadre service toward the end!” On my birthday, my employed friends showed up uninvited. Each one had so much to say! So many complaints! Those without feet come to cry about not having expensive shoes! Though I laughed along on the surface, my heart was very heavy. That day was my birthday. After my friends left, I took a bath, performed ablution, and sat on the prayer mat; I didn’t actually pray, but I wept bitterly before Allah; I said, “Allah, how much longer? Either give me a job or take me away.” Then I opened Facebook and saw boys in the BCS 33 group saying they had released the results. I use Facebook with a male name because when boys see female names, they start fooling around. Everyone addressed me as ‘brother’ in comments. I would laugh myself to death. I used Facebook to search for BCS updates, because luminaries like you kindly write good words for us. Actually, after the job news, I gradually sent friend requests to my friends, posted photos; before that, apart from my sister, hardly anyone knew about my ID. A friend of mine had kept my roll number, and while checking her roll, I saw—oh my! My roll number!! Right toward the end, but still, there it was!! And that too in my subject! A professional job!! How was it possible?? Don’t you say that Allah never keeps anyone dishonored forever? I am the greatest proof of this myself. I know mine wasn’t as grand a birthday gift as yours—I mean, they didn’t release my BCS results on my birthday. So what? To me, it’s an enormous, enormous gift. By then, of course, I had returned to normal at home; let’s say, since after the written exam.

And besides, Abbu had become a bit eccentric after returning from Hajj, and around that time I had a mild heart attack, so everyone softened toward me. You see, the advantage of illness? It’s much better to receive sickness from Allah than to go unloved by anyone. Let Abbu forgive me; I don’t want love, I only want forgiveness; I deserve abuse, I deserve disgust, not love. I never asked Allah for forgiveness, yet Allah gave it as a free gift. Perhaps because Allah is great. When you truly desire something from the heart, Allah grants it.

Is confidence necessary for success, or is success necessary for confidence—I’ve fallen a little in love with this line of yours. But it feels familiar somehow, as if I’ve heard it somewhere before. Have you said this elsewhere? Or did you just copy-paste it directly from someone else? Hehe… I’ve read so many of your posts, though. Maybe I read it in one of your previous status updates? I can’t remember. I couldn’t afford coaching classes—didn’t have that kind of money. I studied on my own, weeping through my studies. During written exams, my answer sheets would get soaked with tears. I’d wipe them with my handkerchief and write again. The pages tore several times. I got caught by teachers twice. One sir asked, “What’s your problem? Have you come to take the exam or just put on a show?” It hurt terribly to hear that. When I studied at home, I’d lock my room door so no one would see me crying. I had no quota, and my preparation wasn’t great either, so I was constantly anxious. No one had any expectations of me. Whether I did something or not, it was all the same to them. You teach so many young people how to build careers, encourage them, give them courage; no one ever told me that I too might have something called a career. That I’m alive, eating and surviving—isn’t that already plenty? What’s a career, anyway? I was finding happiness in living with sorrow. Funny, isn’t it? You probably won’t find it amusing—you’ve likely studied the same way. Of course, my departmental exams were approaching, so I wasn’t seriously studying for BCS either. Still, I did attend one free confidence class, though not the whole thing—just half! Because evening was falling, and the rule at home was that no one could enter after evening. Besides, I wasn’t really living at home anyway—they were kind enough to let me stay there. For some reason, I feel like I heard some of your words at that seminar, from a police officer. He’s a great devotee of yours. Perhaps he too had heard them from you. When Singh mama saw me leaving before the class ended, he said, “You’re going to be a cadre, where are you going?” I said, “I haven’t studied anything, how will I make it?” In response, he said, “If you don’t make it, no one will.” I understood this was just a tactic, a ploy to enroll students—everyone except me would make it; but believe me, those very words held me spellbound for several days. (Maybe he says that to everyone, or perhaps that’s just his trick; still.)

I really like how you somehow magically convince everyone that everyone has the right to dream any dream and to touch those dreams. People live on dreams, on emotions, on courage. You give them exactly that. Rotten students stay rotten because no one calls them good. No one encourages them, sees them, teaches them to think about life. You can awaken the self-respect within everyone. This is the only reason everyone loves you. Just for their own sake, not for yours. You’ll understand this someday when you find yourself in trouble. What I was saying about Singh Mama—that first meeting was also the last. When he saw me again, he even told me my blood group! He could tell such things; he had that power. (Don’t think he just went around telling everyone they were B positive.) I felt terrible when he died. Whatever else happened, he was the one person who told me I could achieve something. I pray for him. I often wondered: should I even attempt the civil service exam anymore? I’m doing my thesis on thermodynamics—that’s my favorite subject. Should I stay in physics, or dream of becoming a general cadre officer? Can I even do it? I don’t know anything about general knowledge, Bengali, or English! Listen, don’t think I’m too much of a fool! (You can think I’m a little foolish, no problem.) I was the only one who explained fluid mechanics problems to the entire class. For two days, the professor was so fed up with the boys that he gave me the responsibility of teaching and left. Yes, this fool taught at the university! Hehe… So much secret praise from the professors reached my ears! I didn’t understand then, but I understand now—the professor was actually using me to humiliate my classmates. That’s why when I crashed after third year, everyone spread even more rumors, laughed more, felt happier, and I heard so many lies about myself. Don’t you have that line: “When a friend gets bad results, it makes me sad, but when a friend does better than me, it ruins my mood!” What fault is it of theirs, really? They had to listen to professors scold them because of me. I’m the one who drove them crazy! There’s nothing more humiliating to me than having to justify myself. I don’t justify unless I’m in real trouble. I’m not angry with them, though. In fact, now I’m thinking whether I should send them friend requests. But they might not even accept! You think that becoming a civil service officer means you can just ignore requests. You can ignore people like you too. No big deal! How do you feel when someone ignores your request? When someone ignores me, it really burns me up! That’s why I think long and hard before sending them requests. Let it be. Facebook friendship isn’t worth a penny anyway, is it?

Well, I’ve told you all the stories, but I haven’t said who was responsible for all this happening! First, I myself was responsible. Because I lacked wisdom, that was my fault. I always, in everything, find fault with myself. (I saw in your writing that you mentioned how in childhood, after your brother broke a toy and blamed you to your mother, and you got beaten even though you weren’t at fault, you never said it wasn’t actually your fault. Perhaps you were foolish then, but having this become practice, you could later say, “I can forgive everyone’s faults in this world except my own.” It takes strength to say this, tremendous courage. I really liked your theory of “life of penance”! I’ve been through this myself.) And second, because of a swine. I won’t write the details—understand whatever your heart desires. I’ve grown accustomed to others’ “understanding whatever their heart desires.” What anyone understands is their problem, not mine. Besides, brother, what good comes from hearing of people’s scandals? Scandals are all more or less the same. In Allah’s world, only in this matter is there little variety. And the problem is, writing to you has made my heart feel good again. If I bring up old matters again, my heart will turn sad again. What’s the need? “Who loves to dig into the heart and awaken sorrow!” Therefore, enough of this digging! After crying far too much, at some point I even forgot how to cry. And human suffering is not dearer than tears. So I forgot my tears as well. In this world everyone lets go, only suffering never lets go. “Getting hurt is better than getting nothing at all”—I agree with this statement of yours. My suffering is extremely precious to me. I never sell it cheap. I am a person made of suffering! You can’t even imagine how much injustice, how much oppression I’ve endured. Now I tell everyone: be enchanted, praise, even love if necessary, do whatever your heart desires, but never fall into loving anyone deeply. (Just hearing the word love makes me feel disgusted, makes me want to vomit.)

You wrote that people lack the capacity to bear someone else’s fierce love. I say, people also lack the capacity to bear the intensity of their own fierce love. In the throes of your own overwhelming love, even the beloved’s cruelty appears as enchanting as love itself. I fell into a trap—the trap of love. There is no more wretched trap in this world. Mother says now, “How did you endure it all!” I’m amazed at myself. Sometimes I think, how? How? I should have gone mad! But I didn’t. I remain sane and normal. One cannot simply choose to go mad. Not everyone possesses the qualification for madness. Going mad is a difficult business. But now I am truly very happy. Back then I was terrified—what if everyone found out! What if everyone found out! How would I face it? Everyone meaning my entire family, my entire family meaning everyone in my clan. I stopped caring about outsiders long ago. If my eldest uncle found out, he’d slaughter me completely. Father doesn’t know all this—if he did, he could pulverize the boy. Once a boy from Rajshahi gave me a love letter. After that, my father and uncles caught that boy’s entire gang and beat them so badly! So what would happen to him! My father had a band of strongmen. Like what you see in plays. His gang had beaten many people over land disputes. I mean, my father used to forcibly seize other people’s land. This was wrong, of course. People receive natural justice in this very world. Didn’t you write the other day, “What goes around comes around. Every man is paid back in his own coin.” I was astonished reading it. I thought, how does this fellow know this! Perhaps Allah punished my father through me. Even if people don’t suffer the consequences of their deeds themselves, they witness their children suffering them. That’s even more painful! Let my parents be well—that’s enough. Let me bear all the punishment for their wrongs and pride. Nothing affects me now; I can bear everything. Actually, speaking of such things is forbidden in my family. I don’t listen to prohibitions, but Mother keeps my mouth shut by invoking the reproaches from Purba’s—my elder sister’s—in-laws. Still, I will speak, I’ll tell everyone everything. I’ve just joined up, so there’s no fear left. What fear of loss can someone have who has nothing left to lose? Yet I do have fears—the fear of gaining, the fear of wanting to gain. I’m not what I am, yet if people think of me as such and consider me a paragon of virtue, think Durba is an extraordinary girl, that girls like her simply don’t exist—I cannot bear that burden. Let them think me worse than I am—no problem—but if someone loves me thinking me good, that love becomes a tremendous pain for me. Tell me, how many people love you! How do you manage such an overwhelming load of love? Doesn’t it irritate you? You know when I feel worst? I can’t say ‘no’ to my younger sisters—my cousins—about anything, fearing they might say, “Whatever we do, we’re not as bad as you!” I only shower them with affection; I can’t discipline them. Showing indulgent love without discipline feels like punishment to me.

I have this beautiful friend (though I believe human beauty lies within the mind, inside the skull. When I say ‘beautiful,’ I mean it the way you’d understand it.) Her argument did strike me, though. She said, “Listen, Durva, everything you said is fine. You went ahead and spilled everything to everyone and felt lighter, but what’s the point? The boys will start looking at you differently; they’ll think, this girl is cheap. This girl can be wooed and taken to bed.” What then? Then I thought, exactly—why didn’t this wisdom occur to me earlier? Where do I go from here? But let me tell you in the meantime, that girl is marked for trouble, understand? I’ve been through the wringer myself, so I can see things clearly. You hear about one boy having two girlfriends; but have you ever heard of one girl having two boyfriends at the same time? And both of them know everything! And both are terrible boys. They can’t stand each other. Boys are hungry for the body, and girls for love. The strange thing is, even when girls catch a whiff of love, they’re willing to step into the trap! They can never tell what’s love and what’s a mirage. They fall for sweet talk. Even a little dose works! And boys know how to deliver it! I’ve tried my best to bring my friend back to her senses; she understands it all herself. Listen, girls aren’t stupid, yet for some strange reason they don’t mind acting stupid either! I told her to leave everything behind and come away, start life anew. Apart from security, I can’t see what girls need boys for in their lives. I know there are other things too. But those come as part of the security package anyway. I also told her, once I get a job, I’ll pay back bit by bit everything she’s taken from them as gifts. I won’t have to give her anything, just let her be well. You know what she says? They’ve apparently put a spell on her. Tell me, don’t you feel like grabbing her and slapping some sense into her? Damn it, I need a charm like that—I’ve decided to write Tom Cruise’s name and tie it to a taro plant on a mountaintop.

My father too bears sorrow on his forehead. I can see it. Because I had decided firmly that once I got a job, I would never return to Rajshahi again. (I know, I will return all the same. How can I not? They are my parents, after all!) But tell me, what is written on your forehead? Shall I speak a truth? Don’t start thinking romantic thoughts now, alright? I couldn’t care less about all that romance business. I don’t know you, you practically taught me how to chat, and also gave me proper lessons, you don’t reply, you speak harshly, you upset my mood; but I swear by Allah, I worry about you. I’ve started working now, maybe someday I’ll even forget you. (That’s a lie, I never forget anything, which is why my suffering is greater too.) But right now I have nothing much to do, so I think about you. Actually, I think about everyone. Not you specifically, but everyone who seems good to me. I don’t wish ill for anyone, not even my enemies. I’m such a fool that I still pray for that swine. I fear about you—whether you’re snobbish, whether you treat others badly, whether you hurt people with your words, whether you show arrogance, whether you show irritation, whether you think too highly of yourself, whether you speak disrespectfully to people………. Please don’t frown, these aren’t my doubts, maybe not even questions; these are my fears. Such tendencies bring a person very low. I believe from my heart that you are a good person. So I’m requesting you, no matter how far you go, never do these things. Nature’s punishment is very harsh, brother, I know. I don’t want anyone to suffer. I had asked you that day, “Everyone who reaches a good position, achieves success, keeps it confined within themselves…..maybe that’s the rule. But you’re not keeping it to yourself, you’re scattering handfuls of dreams before everyone’s eyes. Why do you do this? What do you gain from it?” Your answer touched my heart. You wrote, “Oh my! I feel good sharing my dreams, I feel good helping, if someone is upset I feel pain, (I know how terribly painful it is to be sad!) if someone thinks they can’t achieve anything in life, I myself get anxious, (didn’t everyone think the same about me!) I feel good thinking that everyone should be well, when I see someone’s eyes light up with laughter after hearing my words, that feels good to see……. Whatever I do, I do it to keep myself happy, nothing else. If others benefit from it, my happiness only increases, it doesn’t decrease. ……. Do you understand?” I say, stay just as you are. Try to keep everyone happy (except me, I have myself for that, I don’t need anyone else now), remain as you are, nothing will happen to The Southwest, and people will stay happy too. You sometimes react very badly on Facebook. Please don’t do that. (Am I interfering too much?) I fear, what if someday people attack you, disrespect you, try to harm you! What will happen then! What if you too feel like dying like me! Inshallah this won’t happen, but still, what if, what if! If it really does happen, please talk to me once. This is my request. Alright?

I’ll give you such wisdom that not only will you be able to die painlessly and with certainty, but no one will even realize that you’ve committed suicide. I’m telling you the truth! But I haven’t watched the ‘Hemlock Society,’ I swear. Cross my heart, I’m telling you!

I will pray for you. And please pray a little for me. I don’t know for what, but please do. All right?

Well then, farewell!

P.S.

I fall at your feet, Sarat Babu, write a story—

The story of an utterly ordinary girl—

Who must compete from afar

With at least five or seven extraordinary women—

That is, the mother of seven champions.

I have understood that my fortune has broken,

I have been defeated.

But the one whose story you will write—

Let her win in my place,

So that reading it, my heart swells with pride.

May flowers and sandalwood fall upon your pen.

Name her Malati.

That name is mine.

There’s no fear of being caught.

There are so many Malatis in Bengal,

They are all ordinary girls.

They don’t know French or German,

They know how to cry.

I tried to write the story of that ordinary girl that Rabindranath spoke of. Even just surviving means a great deal. The heroine of my story simply existed somehow. Her survival meant merely not dying. Nothing more. She lived this way. Living absolutely without expectations or desires. Though she did receive one thing—everyone kindly gave her food and clothes. Perhaps sometimes a person survives on just rice and cloth. She fought against life, paying no heed to death’s constant beckoning. Isn’t life just such a dispassionate reckoning? Even through this pain and suffering, she took the civil service exam, became an officer through the power of her own merit. When the heart’s intention remains honest and sincere effort accompanies it, the Almighty never sends anyone away empty-handed. She now teaches physics at a government college. We assume this story is merely a story, or if it is a story, it is also true. This story belongs not to her alone—it is the story of ten other ordinary girls who did not disappear. Because they simply endured in this world at some point in their lives, they now dream fiercely of truly living.