# The Story That Has No End The old man sat by the window, watching the rain. For three days now, the sky had been weeping, and the world outside had turned into something watercolor and uncertain. He held a cup of tea that had long gone cold, forgotten between his palms like a small, warm stone. His grandson came in, shaking water from his hair. "Grandpa, tell me a story," the boy said, the way children do—as if asking for bread, or light. The old man smiled. He always smiled when asked for stories. "Which one?" he asked. "The one that never ends," said the boy, settling into the armchair across from him. The old man set down his cup with a soft clink. Outside, the rain continued its ancient rhythm against the glass. "There was once a man," he began, "who lived in a house much like this one. He had a garden, and in that garden grew a tree. Not an ordinary tree—oh no. This tree bore fruit only once every hundred years. And when it did, whoever ate that fruit would know the answer to any question they asked." The boy leaned forward. "One day, a stranger came to the man's door. 'I have traveled far,' said the stranger, 'searching for your tree. I want to eat its fruit and ask it one question: What is the meaning of life?'" "The man said, 'The fruit will not grow for another ninety years. You will be long dead by then.'" "'Then,' said the stranger, 'I will wait.'" "And so the stranger stayed. Years passed. The man and the stranger became friends. They sat together in the garden, watching the seasons turn. They talked about everything—about sorrow and joy, about the weight of living, about small kindnesses and quiet mornings." The old man paused. The rain drummed on. "When the hundred years had nearly passed," he continued, "the stranger fell ill. The man sat by his bed and said, 'Soon the fruit will ripen. You will have your answer.'" "The stranger smiled weakly. 'I no longer need it,' he said. 'I know the answer now.'" "'How?' asked the man. 'You haven't eaten the fruit.'" "'No,' said the stranger. 'But I have lived. And that is the answer.'" The boy was quiet for a moment. "Is that the end?" he asked. "Not quite," said the old man. "The tree's fruit ripened the next day, as it always does. But the stranger was gone. The man stood in the garden, looking at the fruit glowing in the morning light. And he understood something then—that the answer was never in the fruit. The answer was in the waiting. In the becoming. In the sitting together through all the seasons of a life." "The man lived for many more years. And when people came to him asking for the fruit, asking for answers, he would tell them this story instead. And they would leave his garden changed—not because they had learned the answer, but because they had learned that the seeking itself was the answer." The boy frowned slightly. "But that's still not really the end, is it?" The old man looked at his grandson—really looked at him—and his eyes held something both sad and luminous. "No," he said softly. "It isn't. Because now you will tell this story to someone else. And they will tell it to someone else. And each time it is told, it grows, it changes a little, it becomes new. A story that never ends is a story that never stops living." Outside, the rain began to soften. Through the window, the world was slowly becoming clear again. "Grandpa?" the boy said. "Yes?" "Will you still be here to tell me stories when I'm old?" The old man didn't answer immediately. He picked up his cold tea, looked at it as if it held some secret, then set it down again. "I will be in the stories," he said finally. "And you will be in them too. That's how people stay. That's how love becomes endless." The boy climbed into his grandfather's lap—he was still small enough to do this—and they sat together by the window, watching the rain thin to a drizzle, then stop. Watching the world return. And neither of them spoke, because sometimes the silence between two people who love each other is itself a story, one without ending, one that simply continues, page after page, breath after breath, for as long as hearts remember how to beat.

A beautiful childhood. I lived in a neat little room, arranged with my mother’s care. I was my father’s eldest daughter and my mother’s eldest son. Everyone doted on me. Near our house lived a childless couple, and I received their love as a bonus too. I never learned what another religion was, or why, or how it came to be. Everyone in our household shared one faith, and that was humanity. I was fearlessly mischievous. I wanted everyone to scold me the way my younger uncle did, saying, “You shouldn’t get up to such pranks, dear.” All the elders in our house were readers. They would sit in the library we had and read. Those luminous childhood evenings dissolved into conversations on the most varied subjects. Thousands of people came to our house. They talked, argued, and debated. Religion, history, politics, literature, civilization, culture, humanity—my childhood unfolded across all of these. No one ever taught me to accept the divisions, inequalities, and conflicts between people as natural. I was never given lessons in my own home to surrender my sense of humanity. I learned that elsewhere, from outside. That is why the blow struck so hard. What blow—I’ll come to that later. The conflict between my inner world and outer world slowly transformed me from a person into a woman.

The first real shock came when I was taking my SSC exams. My highly educated middle aunt said to me, “We’re raising you like a boy. Whatever a boy can do, you must be able to do too.” I wanted so badly to tell her then: “Aunt, if you call me a girl, will I write something less on the exam sheet?” I never called her again to ask for her prayers during exam season. Somehow, everyone had learned to see my femaleness as larger than my selfhood. And girls’ education—it seems we must pursue it only to prove ourselves!

Let me go back a little. I studied in a co-ed school. If someone had come up to me back then and said, “Orchisha, I like you,” I would have said nothing at all. I would just stare at them with a bewildered look, not even feel like smiling, and strange as it sounds, I wouldn’t feel embarrassed either. Some would get frightened and run away; others wouldn’t dare approach me the next day. But the bravest among them would arrive at school the morning after and announce, “Listen, from today, I’m her brother. Nobody says anything to her.”

That’s how I grew up. I didn’t let anyone love me—I moved forward with nothing but affection and respect. That’s how I got through school. Then came intermediate college. By the end, something happened to me. All of a sudden, I fell in love! When I saw anyone crying, I couldn’t bear it. If I didn’t love her properly, she would cry terribly. She wasn’t particularly good at studies. For the first time in my life, I made a bet with myself—that I would never be so busy I couldn’t love her. Only for her. What kind of love that was! It turned my whole world upside down. After my intermediate exams, I went to coaching classes and came home. I hardly studied at home. Somehow, as a teenage girl’s mind works, I had gotten it into my head that if I studied medicine, I’d have to study constantly and wouldn’t have time for love. The two of us decided together that we’d live a simple, humble life—poor, perhaps, but with little pockets of joy scattered all around. Everyone thought I’d make it through medical school. I knew it wouldn’t happen—not a chance. I didn’t tell anyone. Quietly, I stopped studying and just thought about her, spent time with her. She was doing her honors at some college. She’d go around with me, and together we’d dream. Yet somehow, despite neglecting myself so thoroughly, I managed to get admission to university—in some obscure subject, relegated to the back. Everyone at home was quite upset; but they didn’t scold me—that would have hurt more, actually. After that, I started tutoring. I stopped taking money from Father. At first, he’d say, “What’s the need for all this? Study properly.” But I could tell, deep down, Father was pleased. Whatever I earned, I’d keep a little for myself and give the rest to her. Sometimes I’d buy a few things for home. Nothing more. I was letting myself grow as a person. But somehow, whenever I went to her, I’d become a woman again. My only goal was to make her stand on her own two feet, no matter what. If necessary, I’d lose myself, but I wouldn’t let her fall. That’s how everything went on. Smoothly. I gave her courage, taught her to believe she was the most worthy person in the world. After she passed and was taking exams for jobs, her expenses went up. I started tutoring again—a second job. My body would break down, but thinking of her, all the tiredness would vanish. During those days, I only planned and worked.

That’s how it happened—one day, a job materialized for them. And somehow, they grew more confident. Their appetite for themselves suddenly swelled. I saw new colors bloom in their eyes. They accumulated people around them like currency. Their acquaintances became friends. And I watched it all from close range, saw the other side of the coin.

There came a day. That day, I heard from their mouth for the first time: “How can I take someone like you anywhere—so unkempt, so slovenly? You don’t even study properly. You’re a terrible student. What am I supposed to tell everyone about you? You just know how to spout big words, that’s all. Your knowledge, girl—so learned, so wise—would I even drink water washed in it? Think about your own family. Focus on your studies. Don’t bother yourself with me. I hate these small-minded, irritating thoughts of yours. Life should be life itself. Roaming, wandering, having fun—that’s living! I don’t have time for your philosophy-this and worldview-that.” And so much more besides. I would just sit silent and listen. Wondering: what is this? Why is this happening? But what could I do? I loved them. So I began trying to change myself. I learned to speak with affectation, to dress up, to walk with my dupatta held high, to lie, to say whatever anyone wanted to hear. So many things. And still I couldn’t manage it. They’d say, “I can’t do anything with you. You’re so out of step with this age—just junk from grandmother’s time!” And countless other things like that.

Days passed. Their indifference, my waiting. Their newly made friends would tell them, “Keep what you’ve found. That’s the truth, that’s real. Don’t let it go—it would be sin. If you cling to old junk, you can never move forward.” And I, silently, watched how easily people change, how people become worse than animals themselves. I bore it all in silence. But certain events shook me so violently, overwhelmed every feeling I had. I loved them blindly. I would fulfill their every wish, no matter what, I thought. And that’s what led to this: my father came at two in the morning with a machete to cut me, after beating me savagely with a stick. My family didn’t know anything about it. I couldn’t bear to diminish the one I loved. At home I only said this much: that I loved a boy, that they should see him, talk to him, marry me to him. That was my crime. Nothing more. No demands, no dramatics.

That day, I survived because of my youngest uncle and my mother. Everyone tried to talk sense to me. And I thought: let it be. Let everyone be well. I wouldn’t tell anyone anything. I went completely silent. They found someone new and became happy in a new way. I couldn’t even bring myself to wish them well, though I did pray for their happiness. What more could happen to me? Such a small life. It will pass anyway.

Time really does slip away. That’s how I finished my master’s degree one day. I took the exam with a fever of 103 and scraped by with a second class. There was something twisted inside me—against my family, against society, against myself. I held myself together and kept moving forward. Somehow, I even managed to land a small job. At a private firm. The salary was meager, barely enough to cover my own expenses. Yet I survived. I went to parties, lived like any other girl in my family, all on my own earnings. If I could buy Father a shirt once in a while, I felt I’d accomplished something grand. When I saw the pair of glass bangles I’d bought for Mother on her wrists, I could hear them jingle from the next room—that faint, crystalline sound. That was all my job had given me, a small, fragile proof that I was alive. I was dragging myself through life simply because time had to pass somehow.

It was during those days that I found a man like a father to me. After so long, I learned from him what my life meant. He used to tell me that if I wanted to, I could go far. He said there was a fire in my eyes, the power to challenge the world. He said he could smell fresh gunpowder in me—that even a small spark would set me ablaze. I knew it. I understood that such words were cheap comfort. And yet, for a while, I learned to love myself again. Sometimes I wanted to come alive anew. He was my boss. I will never forget this man. When I fell into deep depression, even walking past traffic I wouldn’t notice the cars. He would take my hand and guide me across, put me in a taxi, and tell me I had to live well. I learned later that his youngest daughter, around my age, had died of cancer. But he never told me this himself. I came to know it somehow. He motivated me in different ways, always. I will remain forever indebted to him.

Those days were good. But that’s how I am. I can’t bear too much affection from people. Even when things are going well, I feel uneasy. When you’ve grown unaccustomed to being well, being well becomes a burden. I quit the job.

# People hide to roam, to love. I hid to read.

I didn’t want anyone to know I was doing something good. Let them think me bad. I had no place, no claim in that house. So I’d slip away to the public library and lose myself in story books. Everyone around me was obsessed with the civil service exam—the BCS. To them, not talking about it was a sin. . . . . . . . One evening I’m sitting on the library stairs. Out of nowhere, a boy comes up, says hello, introduces himself. Very politely tries to start a conversation. Sits down a little distance from me. A few minutes later, when he realizes I’m not the kind of girl who chatters easily with just anyone, something shifts. He says, “We could be good friends. Why aren’t you giving the BCS?” And then he launches into all his own dreams about it—how he came to civil service with such hopes, how if I wanted, I could be like him too. When he sees I’m saying nothing, he leaves his card with a smile and walks away. After he’s gone, I start thinking. The idea of the BCS had been gnawing at me for a long time. He came and gave it a nudge. I think: why not try? If I pass, at least I can get posted somewhere far from this wretched city. I go home and tell them. They all agree. They think I’m this fiercely confident girl, always moving on my own steam, capable of making my own fate, swimming against the current. I feel so happy hearing all this. A day or two later, on some impulse, I call him. He’s busy at the office, but rings back after an hour. When he hears my interest in the BCS, he says he’ll sit for it too, change his cadre. He studies at Shemushi coaching center. He asks me to visit their Panthpath branch sometime. I go one day. He introduces me to everyone as his cousin, gets me admitted at a discount. I didn’t have the money—he gave it. I forced him to take it back later. I start going to classes regularly. He’s in a different batch. He calls me sometimes at night to check if I’m studying properly. Through our conversations, I learn he’s quite helpless. His mother died when he was small. He has nothing. I feel a little tenderness toward him. After I score well in a few model tests, I become fairly well-known. Everyone talks to me, and I smile back, mix with them easily. Little by little, my old pains fade. And little by little, I feel grateful to him. One day he says I should shift from the morning batch to the evening one—so we can come back together after class. I switch batches. We start seeing each other regularly. Looking into his eyes, I feel a pull from somewhere deep inside. I can’t say no to him. Like one day he says, “Apu, I’m really hungry. Want to come eat with me downstairs?” And I go.

She couldn’t bring herself to say things directly. People around me seemed to fear me for some inexplicable reason. They couldn’t speak plainly to me. She would tell me, “Didi, I really like you as a person.” I would listen in silence, saying nothing. I thought she was a bit odd, maybe even touched, but she was good-hearted.

# One Day

One day, on the way home from coaching, she said to me, “Sister, I’m going to be honest with you. The truth is, I was always looking for someone just like you. You’re the most extraordinary person I’ve ever known.” And then came all those worn-out dialogues. That she’d fallen in love with me, that she felt restless without seeing me, that she couldn’t focus on her studies, blah blah blah.

I tried to explain things to her calmly. She understood. But a couple of days later, it was the same story all over again. At some point, I just got tired of it. So I came up with a plan. I had an old friend from our study group who used to drop me home sometimes. She’d coached me to tell everyone she was my boyfriend. I told this foolish girl that I already had a boyfriend.

But she wouldn’t accept it. Instead, she said to me, “Let him stay where he is. I want you.” After that, I asked for help from one of her friends. The three of us skipped class one evening and sat by the Dhanmondi Lake. I opened up to them about my past. Right there in front of her friend, she promised she’d never bother me again. She apologized to me over and over. Her remorse made me forget everything that had happened before. I thought she really was a good person after all. She said, “Sister, it’s getting late. Let me see you home.” I agreed. We got into a rickshaw together. I was fasting that day—I hadn’t eaten anything all day. After a while, I felt dizzy, my head spinning. She noticed and said, “Sister, if you’re not feeling well, let’s stop somewhere. Have some iftar, then go home.”

I couldn’t sit still in the rickshaw anymore. My head was reeling. We got out and stopped. She was helping me toward a shop when suddenly a motorized rickshaw came out of nowhere and hit us. We were thrown onto the road. I lost consciousness. When I came to, I was lying in a bed at her friend’s house. The friend’s wife brought me sherbet and an apple. From her, I learned that after I fainted, she’d gotten a CNG and brought me here. The wife hadn’t been home—she’d taken the children for private lessons. After I felt a bit better, she dropped me back home. I went back to attending class as before.

But I noticed she was changing, little by little. She stopped coming to coaching regularly. She wanted to talk to me even more carelessly than before. When I tried to explain things, she wouldn’t listen. She didn’t attend class, but she’d stand outside the building during break time. One day when I got angry with her, she switched to informal speech with me. She said, “Shut up! Not another word! That day when you fainted? I took you to my friend’s house. His wife wasn’t there. Don’t get the wrong idea—I didn’t do anything to you. But I have all the proof I need. If you keep acting up, I’ll expose everything. You don’t need to bother with these classes. You’ll do what I say. If you don’t listen to me, I’ll give all the boys your number. I’ll spread everything about you—with proof—all over the internet. Why do so many boys ask me for your number anyway? They couldn’t possibly like you that much. Just marry me. You’re only going to be mine. Whatever you need, I’ll give you. You just have to keep me happy.”

I listened to her and didn’t say another word.

I came home that day and found myself turning it over in my mind. But there was nothing I knew of what came after I blacked out. What was I supposed to do? For two days I didn’t leave the house. I kept my phone off. All I did was think—think about why I hadn’t died that day, why I hadn’t simply died.

I thought and thought and thought. I tried to calm myself. I reasoned with myself that I had endured far worse in life. God had tested me many times before. So why not show a little patience this time too? Why should I surrender? I wouldn’t give in. Not for anything. With great effort, I pulled myself together, went back to class, tried to talk to everyone as if nothing had happened. But then I saw him starting classes too. He kept watch over me constantly. Wouldn’t let me near the boys, and barely let me talk to the girls either. He’d suddenly appear and sit beside me, start talking. He clung to me like a shadow. He said he was actually a good guy, that everything he’d done was only to win me. Now whatever I wanted, however I wanted it—that’s what would happen. He’d deleted everything from his phone. I should take good care of myself. He started treating me with exaggerated politeness.

I tried to understand what was really going on. I attempted to be normal around him. I didn’t argue with him, didn’t try to provoke him. But gradually I could see it—the boy was a bit psycho. He’d be fine for a few days. Then he’d flip, go crazy, act like a madman. He’d say he’d post everything online, tell all my relatives that I was a ruined girl. I had to listen to everything he said. He wanted to force me to his house. He’d tell me to go shopping. He’d bring mountains of gifts for me. He wanted to satisfy his desires. When I couldn’t, he’d get even more aggressive. He wouldn’t let me sleep at night. He’d call constantly after 3 a.m. If I didn’t answer, he’d threaten to call my father at that hour. I understood then—this boy wasn’t wired like a normal human being. I had to deal with him on his own terms. No one else could see this side of him. The more I thought about all of this, the more I fell apart.

After that, I stopped leaving the house. He kept threatening me in every conceivable way. I told him if he continued like this, I’d tell everyone about his true nature. I’d tell all the tutors at the coaching center everything. He said to me, “Do you know what tutors like that would do if they found a girl like you? You don’t know what these tutors are really like. There’s no reason to think of your coaching center tutors as saints.” After that, he’d make up vile stories about the tutors at the center. Everyone knew him well. The tutoring instructors knew him too. To the outside world, he was one of the finest people you could meet. I couldn’t figure out what to do. I could only think and think some more. One day I told him, “Look, if you study hard, you’ll definitely make it abroad. I’d be so happy. Then have your family send a proposal to mine. I’ll marry you.” He said, “No, I’ve given you ten days. You have to marry me within that time. No one at either home should know. We’ll tell them later, once everything’s settled.” I said, “Why would we marry in secret? Are we thieves? You say you love me, but you also blackmail me. What kind of love is this? If you really love me, why are you so afraid to acknowledge it? Why won’t you take me home to your family?” When he heard this, he exploded with rage. Shouting, he said, “He hasn’t fully settled yet, so I won’t tell the family. I need to marry you to make sure I don’t lose you. That way he can have me whenever and however he wants.” He also said, “I’m exactly the kind of girl he’s always imagined. If he marries me, he’ll have won in everyone’s eyes for the rest of his life.” When I refused to agree, he said, “I may look the way I do, but I’m not really like this. I have a brilliant mind. I’m a woman of iron nerves. So strong that I could kill someone in cold blood without batting an eye. If I expose everything he’s hidden from you, that’s when I’ll have my fun.” I said nothing more that day. A few days later, I told him, “Do whatever you want. I don’t care anymore. Let my honor be lost. But I can’t live like a slave before you any longer. I’ve lost all interest in my own life now. If I wanted to, I could put a gun to your head right now and end this whole game. I’m giving you one last chance. Think about your own future. You’re intelligent. There’s so much waiting for you.”

She was terrified. For a few days, things seemed to settle. But a dog’s tail never straightens, does it? After that, he changed his approach. He began dragging my name through the mud with Yarat, spreading vile gossip about me. He threatened me: “Listen, just agree with what I say. Otherwise, I’ll get some political thugs to snatch you away. Keep you at home for a few days, have my fun, and dump you back. Understand? What can you even do? You can’t tell anyone at home about this, can you? So just keep me happy.” I was seized with dread. He wasn’t right in the head. He could actually do what he was saying. Though I have no dignity or existence as a person in my family’s eyes, still I gathered my courage and told my aunt—just that one thing—that a boy was bothering me terribly, harassing me on the street, wanting to marry me. My aunt explained it all calmly to my mother. Then Mother called me and asked what had happened. I played it down, hoping it wouldn’t cause another scene like before. All his coaching teachers apparently thought highly of him. I reached out to one of his favorite teachers, asking for help. He didn’t give me the time of day. Instead, learning of my helplessness, he said I could spend time with him occasionally if I wanted to ease my loneliness. That’s when I began to hate people.

Then one day, without warning, that bastard showed up at our house. He told my mother every lie under the sun. According to him, I was running around with boys, sneaking out under the pretense of coaching classes, wasting time at various places. He said I should be kept locked inside. And much else besides. When I came home, my mother let loose on me. Of course, by then she’d decided the boy was abnormal. I stopped going out. A couple of days later, he called from an unknown number. “If you make me happy,” he said, “I don’t care if you marry someone else. But if you don’t, I’ll destroy your reputation—everything. Boys can do anything, and society helps them get away with it.” His real intention became crystal clear. I stopped answering his calls. Then he tried something new. He went to my father’s office and told him he’d lent me forty-eight thousand taka. Apparently, I’d done something indecent with some boy and borrowed the money from him to cover it up. My father came home and started cursing me. “How much lower will you sink? This is all that was left for me to witness! I raised you to ruin my honor?” Then came the beatings. That day I took a severe thrashing at home. Even my mother believed him. She believed every word he said that day. I said nothing. I accepted the punishment in silence—the price of being born a girl. My ex-boyfriend didn’t even have the courage to give me a chocolate, and yet this man hurled such a vile accusation at me? I don’t remember ever accepting a gift from any relative. I asked God: “Why, Allah, if you had to make me a woman, why didn’t you at least give me the understanding that I am human too?” After that, I couldn’t sleep for two nights. I only wept.

After that, my family locked everything down. They took away my phone, banned me from using the computer, forbade me from seeing anyone, from going anywhere. Gradually, things began to normalize at home. The situation started to settle. In anger, I asked my mother: “Where are all my lovers coming to make demands? Why isn’t anyone showing up claiming I owe them money?” But what ate at me was my own rage—the knowledge that I couldn’t have died, that I wouldn’t have died, just to spare three people: my mother, my father, and that bastard. Even thinking about it fills me with disgust at myself. I still loved him after everything he’d done. Had I somehow fallen into Stockholm syndrome without even realizing it?

Then one day he called.

I grabbed the phone like a madman, hoping perhaps he’d come to his senses. But nothing of the sort. He told me, “I know your family won’t believe anything I say anymore. I’ll have the coaching centre call your house on your behalf. The teachers will speak in your name. Will that work? Or better yet, listen to what I’m telling you. Keep me happy. Make something of yourself, get married, live in peace. No one needs to know anything.” I said to him, “What you’ve done to me, I could file a case against you if I wanted. But I won’t. I don’t want you to suffer even a little because of me. There’s still time. Please focus on your studies.” But he had only one refrain: “I’m misunderstanding him, he’s actually a really good guy. If I follow his advice, he’ll focus on studying.” I tried my best to make him see sense. He wouldn’t listen—instead, the very next day he showed up at my house with another friend and started screaming and yelling, hurling abuses at my mother over money. I was there. At one point I said, “Actually, you owe me eight thousand rupees. Give it back.” (His sister had fallen ill once. I’d helped him out with some money then. Why had I done it? Out of compassion. This compassion—it’s a terrible thing. Once you let it grow for someone, it just keeps growing and growing. Then you can’t stand yourself anymore. You want to curse yourself. All the misfortunes of my life trace back to that one weakness.) After he said that, he turned to my mother and called me small-minded, said my entire family was small-minded. All sorts of ridiculous nonsense. But what I gained from that incident was this: my whole family became certain the boy was abnormal. I stopped going to coaching for a long time. To be absolutely sure, a cousin of mine called him and asked about me. He said I use the coaching centre as a cover to roam around with lots of boys. That I should be watched closely.

Once everyone’s minds had cooled a bit, I threw myself back into coaching classes and tuition. I convinced myself that if that brute could become a cadet on his first attempt, why couldn’t I? If he actually got a foreign posting this time, I would lose to myself as a person. Then I wouldn’t even have the escape of ending it all, because that would be fleeing life itself, a complete retreat. Why would I run? If I wanted to flee life, I could have done it long ago! I strategically told one of my favorite teachers at coaching that he was disturbing me, and managed to get transferred to another branch. After that, I shifted to Nilkhet. I’d walk from home to tuition, to coaching, and walk back. I covered at least five or six miles every single day. It was grueling, but I bore it. I found new ways to punish myself. When he learned all this, he called my mother again and told her that I’d transferred from Panthpath to Nilkhet to spend time alone with some teacher. He said a lot of other vicious things. After that, I forced myself to meet him again. I saw him thrashing like a wounded tiger. His strength seemed to crumble the moment he stood before me. In that instant, I decided to hurt him. I unzipped my bag, pulled out a pen, and said, “Listen, if you ever try to bother me again, I’ll tear out every vein in my hand with this nib. I’ll make you responsible for it. You stay in peace, and I’ll stay in peace too.” I also said, “Look, even after all this, I wish you well. Think about it—you’ll be trapped. Maybe not to the world, but to your own conscience.” He said, “I won’t let you be at peace. You’ll do whatever I say. I can destroy not just you, but your entire family.” I realized then that he was beyond saving. Without another word, I came back home.

A few days later, he had an accident. While riding his friend’s bike, he hit some construction rods by the roadside and got mangled from below the knee. The doctor said his leg would have to be amputated. Because he didn’t get proper treatment, infection set in. Otherwise, the leg might have been saved. Even in this condition, he called me and tormented me. He said I was responsible for his accident. He said that once he recovered, he’d settle things with me, and he called demanding compensation. He forbade me from leaving the house. He said I couldn’t sit on Facebook, couldn’t stress myself, had to call him all the time, couldn’t mix with anyone, couldn’t read any books, couldn’t go out in the sun. I didn’t even need to take the BCS exam—because he couldn’t take it, apparently I’d become too serious about studies, I was a fraud, I did shameful things with boys, and a thousand other accusations like that.

I can’t do this anymore.
I’m exhausted. Too worn down even to go mad from the exhaustion. My back’s been pressed against the wall so long now it’s worn a groove there. My friends tell me, “Get up again. You can do it, we’re with you.” I tell them, “This fight is mine alone. I have no weapons in my hands. I’m torn up inside and out. There’s no hope of survival. But I don’t have the despair it takes to die either. I’ve grown too accustomed to living. I will live. I’ll see what happens when you stay alive. My last breath is somehow still trapped inside my chest. I’ll take that and plunge in once more, I’ll give it one final try.”

The beast still calls every night. I don’t answer. Though sometimes I do pick up, and it tries to provoke me, to drive me out of the house. Tells me to come to its place. Says it has cursed me. That I’ll never accomplish anything in my life. That Allah will surely punish me.

These days I don’t tell anyone anything anymore. I stay home, I study, I serve my parents, I pray, and I pray for that beast.