# The Writer I don't remember exactly when the custom started. Perhaps it began the day I decided to keep a diary, or maybe even before that—back when I was still young enough to believe that the secret of happiness lay in writing things down. Every morning, without fail, I would sit at my desk before the sun rose fully, before the world had finished yawning itself awake. My fountain pen would hover over the blank page like a bird uncertain whether to land, and then—almost without thinking—I would begin. Not stories, mind you. Never structured tales with beginnings and endings neatly tied up. What I wrote were fragments: observations, dialogues I'd overheard, the particular slant of light through my window, the way my neighbor's cat had looked at me with something between pity and contempt. My wife would bring me tea, growing steadily colder on the desk as I wrote. She never complained. Perhaps she understood that these words were not meant for her, not even for a reader. They were for the writing itself—for the miracle that occurs when the mind finds its way out through the hand. Years passed. My hair grayed. My vision weakened. But still I wrote, filling notebook after notebook with handwriting that grew increasingly uneven, increasingly my own. People asked me what I was writing. I told them the truth: I had no idea. It was as if something else was holding the pen, and I was merely the hand through which it moved. The strange thing is, I never felt the need to publish anything. Never felt that hunger to be read, to be validated by strangers' eyes. The act itself was the reward. The discipline. The strange communion between myself and the blank page that occurred in those early hours, when the boundary between dreaming and waking had not yet hardened into certainty. When I was old—truly old—my grandson asked me to show him what I'd written. He sat for hours, reading page after page, his face growing more puzzled. "But grandfather," he finally said, "there's no story here. Just... fragments. Moments." I smiled at him then, and I realized I had nothing to explain. The story was never meant to be finished. It was the writing itself that was infinite—the endless reaching toward something just beyond language, something that could only be approached again and again, never quite caught, never quite held. That, I think, is what it means to be a writer. Not to have something to say, but to have a way of saying. And to keep saying it, long after anyone cares to listen.

 
I am Palki Samaddar. My identity is this: I write. If I slip up a bit, I correct it. Actually, I don't just write—I write well. Yes, that's what everyone says. What do I say about myself? To that, I'll only say this much: I don't know how I write. But in the moment I'm writing, it feels to me as though, 'No one in this world could write better than I do. If something better needs to be written than this, I'll have to write that too.' Some such thought helps me write anything at all. Later, that very piece becomes 'good writing' for my readers. If even a couple of my words keep a few people well, keep me well, what greater gift could a person have in life? That's how I think. This very thought inspires me to write.


All creative people in the world are misunderstood by others. That's how it's always been. Let me tell you what happens in my case. People understand me little, yet speak and comment about me far more than that little. In short, people misunderstand me greatly. It doesn't grieve me that they don't understand me; what grieves me is that they understand me wrong. They judge me without understanding, so casually, with such confidence! In the matter of judging others with half-understanding, no understanding, and mere guesswork, Bengalis are unparalleled. Bengalis believe not in knowledge, but in conjecture.


I keep my kitchen gleaming, my clothes spotless, my writing lustrous. I convince everyone that I am well, that I am happy. As a writer, this is a great gain for me. When anyone asks me about my success as a writer, I tell them with a smile, 'I am a happy person. My life lacks nothing.' In my heart I say, 'Know this much about me. You have no right to know more. And even if you did, I have no wish to tell you more. I have so little time in my hands—I must write, I must manage an entire home alone.' The greatest poverty of writers is this: they have no time. Writers are very, very poor in time.


Those who don't have to write, I mean those whose hearts don't force them to write, won't be able to truly understand this. Writers must digest the cutting remarks of such people, people who perhaps don't even have the minimum capacity to understand a piece of writing. In truth, writers are a terribly helpless people. They walk a path that they themselves don't know how to walk. They only know they must walk. When others rest, they keep walking. They must walk, or else they die a little every moment. People don't understand this. They shouldn't have to. They say many things without understanding, and they keep on saying. People prefer to measure others' shoes by their own size. Yet the one whose shoes are being measured—look, they have no shoes at all.


Now let me introduce myself, the person in private life. My husband, Aniruddha Choudhury, works for a well-known power generation company. I call him Ani. It's not his nickname—it's the name I gave him. His real nickname is Bappa; I never call him that. We have two daughters. Our household is very happy.---That's what you'll think when you see us. That's what everyone thinks. I don't disabuse anyone of this notion, nor does Ani. Why should we, we think?

# Who Thinks of Whom?

Yes, life would have been happy enough, if only my husband had trusted me—just once—even a little. If just once he’d stopped doubting me and given both of us some peace. Though by his account, it’s not doubt, it’s possessiveness. That possessiveness used to feel wonderful back when I was in college, falling in love with him. I couldn’t have survived those days without such possessiveness. I thought that’s what love was called. Now, at this age, it doesn’t feel good anymore. It feels like a kind of mental torture. And Ani is upset with me for another reason too—why do I still write Samaddar after my name? I married into the Chowdhury family, so why have I kept my maiden name?

I don’t tell anyone about these things. Never. I’ve never understood why one’s private life should spill into public view. And even if someone somehow figures out that my husband doubts me, I quickly drape them in love’s magic shawl and hide it all. How many people has this magic shawl covered! Oh, what a blessing! This is right. People prefer making entertainment out of others’ sorrows anyway. I’d much rather keep my readers outside my front door. Their place is only up to what Palki Samaddar writes, nothing beyond. Everyone has their place, and it should stay there.

When I became a mother for the first time, I thought surely my husband would change now that he was a father. He’d understand something about a girl’s life. Ani has no sister—he’s one of four brothers. And he studied at Cadet College, before that at a boys’ school. Since he’d grown up staying far away from girls, he didn’t understand them. That was my excuse for myself. Or you could call it consolation, really.

As a father to our daughters, Ani is truly remarkable—there’s no denying it. But toward me, he remained exactly the same as before, only stricter, because now I was the mother. He’d always carried a rulebook in his pocket for me. After he became a father for the second time, he crossed every boundary of being an exceptional father. There’s no better father than Ani. I’ve never seen him neglect his responsibility toward his own children, not even for a moment.

We grew older, the girls grew up before our eyes. Ani began fashioning himself into a good friend to the girls—but with me, he only grew harsher day by day. According to him, a girl’s mother must be like an eagle—watchful and flawless. I don’t understand: if a mother has to be an eagle, does she have to surrender her very self? Is that the rule of being an eagle? And an eagle spends its whole life pecking away—when has anyone ever seen it do anything good?

The love I receive as a writer, Ani does love, but he doesn’t look at it kindly. He wants me to be honored, sure; but I don’t think he can truly respect that honor or accept it simply. Meanwhile, managing the household while also being busy with my writing means I have no time for Ani’s friends or relatives—and that only feeds his suspicion further. He wonders why I’m so antisocial. What purpose do I have, staying up late with notebook and pen like that? Why am I always at home?

# The Choice

(Even when I stepped outside the house, she harbored the same suspicions—why did I go out? What was I doing? With whom? And so on and so forth… I knew.) The suspicious ones need hardly any reason to suspect. The moment I met Anir’s eyes, without any cause at all, I felt myself guilty, guilty, guilty. When I tried to speak, I was seized by dread—now the interrogation will begin! My love for her was overridden by a far more intense fear.

Whenever she learned that I was on the phone or meeting with a magazine editor, a book publisher, or one of my readers, her face would turn terrifying. What rage, what revulsion! I couldn’t even bear to look at her. It felt as though she would murder me that very instant! She would say, “I cannot accept any man near you. But since you’re a writer, I take great pride in that as your husband. I love your work, but I cannot accept it.” I know all too well that several parts of what Anir said were untrue; as for which parts exactly, I remain uncertain.

But despite all this turmoil, I continued to write. Nine of my books had been published, and four others were in progress. My home filled with numerous awards and honors, which felt to me like members of my own family. Everything was fine, except that I could no longer bear the discord in our household. There was constant conflict between Anir and me. Our relationship held together only by patches and makeshift repairs. One day, Anir told me directly: “Palki, it’s either writing or marriage. Choose one. This is my final decision.”

By then our third child—our son—had been born. I was a mother of three. Could I abandon my family? Can a mother, simply by choosing, do such a thing? And yet, my writing was like my children too—a truth I had failed to make Anir understand. How could Anir understand? She didn’t give birth to my words! She wasn’t their mother or father. I was both mother and father to them. I had been continuing my writing without neglecting the care of my three children—something I had tried desperately but failed to make Anir see. So be it. I abandoned my child entirely for the sake of my children.

Anir was overjoyed with this sacrifice of mine! And I realized: my life partner had no tenderness whatsoever for my creations! Let me say this—Anir was quite the book reader. We even had a family library at home, which Anir herself had built. Yet why wouldn’t she let me write? That, I still cannot fully understand. Could she not accept her own wife as a writer? Was she unable to bear my literary reputation? Was it that, since she had tried but couldn’t write anything herself, she resented me in truth? Did she want me to remain a housewife and mother for the rest of my life? Did she think I would neglect my children if I continued writing? Or was there some other reason, one that hasn’t occurred to me?

Many years have passed. I am well. We have a happy home. I am a good mother, a good wife, a good housewife. Anir is a good father, a good husband, a good head of household. The children have grown up now. My eldest daughter has become a writer herself. A celebrated one at that. She writes under the name Joyantika Choudhury. You’ve surely heard of her.

Yes, I’m Joyantika Chowdhury’s mother. At home, we call her Bela.

Even when Bela was very small, she had this pull toward writing. There was always some story spinning in her head. I used to be amazed just watching her. Her father would say, “Palki, look, look—our daughter’s writing has been published in the newspaper!” Bela was only in class five then. Seeing his daughter’s words in print—oh, the joy on his face! Oni would say, “If need be, I won’t even marry her off. If married life tries to stand in the way of her writing!” I would listen, say nothing. What was there to say? Time itself was revealing everything, wasn’t it? And there was more to come…

I never imagined that as she kept writing, writing, this little girl would one day become such an accomplished author. Truth is, my astonishment had only just begun. My younger daughter also dabbled in writing—I knew that much already. But she was such a quiet, reserved child that I learned the details about her much later. We call her Aru. Though Aru wasn’t quite the brilliant writer her older sister is, she writes quite well in her own way. Aru is essentially a poet. Her work has been published in many little magazines under the pen name Binodinee Samaddar—we knew nothing of it. Turns out Binodinee Samaddar’s collection has quite a few prizes tucked away. When I asked her about it, she got embarrassed and wouldn’t really show me much. I didn’t press her further. Thinking of the girls, Oni’s face suddenly floated before my eyes. Why, I don’t know.

Whenever the two sisters got stuck with something about writing, or wanted to show their father a piece before sending it somewhere, they’d rush to him first. They thought he’d know—he’d studied at all the prestigious institutions in the country, after all. But he didn’t know. Though Oni was enthusiastic about their writing, he had no real grasp of the craft itself. So he’d send them to me instead. His enthusiasm for their work was genuine, though.

As for me, I couldn’t tolerate any sort of error in writing—within the limits of what I knew and could manage, of course. Whatever seemed right to me, I’d tell them. The girls would be amazed. They couldn’t fathom how their mother—who’d merely passed a degree—could understand writing. Why couldn’t their father? They were young then; it wouldn’t have occurred to them that becoming a writer doesn’t require a fancy education or rigorous academic training. There’s something divine about it. What’s needed is deep sincerity toward the craft, infinite patience. Dedication and responsibility, focus and perseverance. And an insatiable hunger to create something new. Most of all, earnest discipline in honing oneself as a true writer.

Both my daughters are doctors. Oh yes, I haven’t mentioned the boy. Our son is a journalist. He’s made quite a name for himself by now. You know Aniket Chowdhury, the crime reporter at The Daily Star’s desk, don’t you? Yes, that’s my son. We call him Babu at home.

The other day I heard that my children had submitted my name to some registry of women of substance—Ratnagarbha Nari or something. I was terribly embarrassed when I heard it! Aru told me, “Ma, if you hadn’t stood by us, we could never have become who we are. Whatever else, if we weren’t your daughters, at least my sister and I would never have become writers.” I looked toward Oni through the gap in my spectacles. He seemed not to have heard anything at all. He was absorbed in his newspaper. That’s when Aru turned to Babu and said, “Babu, sometimes you show your reports to Ma before publishing them, don’t you?”

Mother will sort it out,’ Babu replied, ‘Let’s see, sister.’ Ani still had her face buried in the newspaper. Today’s paper carried something terribly important. She was digesting those stories with full concentration.

The three of them—my children—were saying all this while playing carrom. I said nothing. Just yes, mm-hmm, okay, that sort of thing. I’ve always loved writing; speaking has never been my way. I’ve lived my whole life in silence. Let those who talk, talk. They speak with their mouths; I speak with my pen…well, used to speak, rather. Suddenly Ani said, Yes, yes, exactly! Palki should be the rightful claimant for the award this time. I heard this too from Ani, just listened. Said nothing.

In the end, as a jewel-bearing mother, I truly did receive the award. My name was called out on stage. As I rose from my chair and walked toward the stage, memories of my own life as a writer came flooding back, one by one. I thought of my mother. I had been my widowed mother’s only child. She could have received this award too, in a way, through me. What would I have felt then? Just as my three children feel watching their mother now, surely I would have felt the same. Lost in these thoughts, I reached the stage to accept the prize. They handed it to me and asked me to say something. I couldn’t decide what to say. I’m not accustomed to speaking.

Taking the microphone, I said, ‘I am deeply grateful to all of you for calling me here today. Whatever my children have been able to accomplish, the entire credit belongs solely to their father. He has always encouraged them, always stood by them. This award truly belongs to him. The finest father I have ever known is my husband, Engineer Aniruddha Chowdhury. I ask for your blessings for him and for my children.’ As I spoke these words, Ani stared at me with such a foolish, dazed expression. I saw her pull out a handkerchief from her shirt pocket and dab her eyes again and again.

As I was coming down from the stage with the award, some people approached to take photographs with me. One of them suddenly called out, ‘Aren’t you Palki Samaddar?…The writer of the novel *Dedication*!’ Hearing this reader mention my name, a small crowd gathered around me. I had stopped writing nearly twenty-five years ago. Yet people still remembered me! How was this possible! I had to give many autographs, pose for many pictures—not just as a jewel-bearing mother, but as Palki Samaddar, the writer I once was.

That day Ani stood a little apart. She watched me quietly. I flashed her a gentle smile. In that smile lay unspoken words—that it is as difficult to become a writer as it is to erase one. You understand, don’t you, Ani?