# Upon Reading Again, Still Wrong, and Then… The letter arrived on a Tuesday, creased at the edges where it had been folded and refolded in someone's hands—hands that must have trembled, or hesitated, or perhaps simply couldn't decide whether to send it at all. I read it once. Then again. The words swam before me like fish in dark water, their meaning just beyond reach. "I've been meaning to tell you for years now," it began, which was already a lie because if you'd meant to tell someone, you would have told them. You wouldn't wait until the very end, when words become a kind of apology, a deathbed confession wrapped in the mundane courtesy of lined paper and a stamp. The second reading didn't clarify anything. In fact, it muddled things further. A phrase that seemed one way on first encounter revealed a different shape when encountered again. Was it tenderness or bitterness? Regret or relief? The letter refused to hold still, as if the writer themselves hadn't settled on a single emotion while composing it. I folded it back along the old creases, the paper cooperating, yielding like something that had learned long ago not to resist. Outside, the day continued its business—traffic, birdsong, the sound of a neighbor's television bleeding through thin walls. The world demanded nothing of me. It never does. By evening, I'd read it a third time, and the words had become almost meaningless, the way a word does when you repeat it too often—just sounds, divorced from sense. That's when I understood: perhaps this was what the writer had intended all along. Not to be understood, but to be reread. To haunt. To remain, always, slightly out of focus.

 
It still amazes me to think back on it—all the mad, reckless things I did when I was with her. Six months, that's all it took, and then it was over. Everything. I still don't know why our relationship ended. I tried so hard to bring her back. Failed. She blocked me everywhere. I couldn't reach her anymore, couldn't ask her why she did it. And I genuinely didn't know. It's one of those unsolved mysteries in my world. We didn't live near each other—we were in different districts—so I never got the chance to go find her and ask. Besides, I didn't even know her address. But I remember that time. I loved her then. I love her still. Love has no past tense, you know—love is always present. Once you've loved someone, you can't stop loving them. What fades with time isn't love; it's just attachment. Attachment is so much smaller than love. Attachment can happen with anyone, but love—love doesn't come for just anyone. Anyway, after she left, I became mentally unstable. My family was going through some troubles too around that time. All of it together—I can't even describe the terrible place I found myself in.


I used to be very soft-hearted, and I still am, but those blows hardened me. You need some hard knocks in life, or you never really become human. Everyone thinks I've forgotten her. I alone know the truth—I don't know how to forget her. The fact is, I can't forget her for even a second. I can neither love her the way I used to nor hate her. It's a difficult thing! I laugh and smile in front of everyone. That's quite a performance! But my life has had so many other events, and I couldn't handle all of them before. Now, even though it hurts, I can manage—only because I took that one blow. I want to become someone great. But I'm a girl, and there are so many obstacles in my path, along with some family troubles too. My life has never been smooth. I don't know if I'll even be able to do anything in life while managing it all. But I'll keep trying till the end.


My story should start with my family. It's just me, my parents, and my three brothers. I'm the middle child between two older brothers and one younger. I'm in my third year of university now. One of my older brothers is a doctor, the other finished his degree and is looking for a job. My youngest brother is in his second year of college. My father works as an office assistant in the income tax department, and my mother used to teach at a kindergarten school; now she's a homemaker. That's our household. From childhood till today, we're exactly what you'd call a middle-class family. I've heard my father also struggled hard with his studies. From very early on, I couldn't bear to see anyone suffer. If someone just said "Oh, the hardship!", my heart would feel like it was being torn apart. And if there was an emotional scene in a movie—don't even get me started. I'd cry so hard my snot and tears would mix together. That's how emotionally fragile I was!


Being the only daughter in the family, I was pampered from childhood. There's never been a time I wanted something and didn't get it.

From childhood, I gave what little I had to help as many people as I could. I got whatever I wanted, yes, but there was one absence that gnawed at my life: I had no one to talk to. My parents weren’t the sort to sit glued to social media or television, that’s true enough, but they simply didn’t have time to talk with me. And they wouldn’t let me mix with others either. Boys or girls—I couldn’t be close to anyone. Meanwhile, I stood like a pauper, hungry for conversation with someone, *anyone*. So whenever someone visited our house, I’d light up with joy. And when they left, I’d cry terribly. But even then, even from those early days, I never cried where anyone could see. I always wept in hiding. Crying in front of others still seems to me the most pointless thing in the world. I was painfully shy. I was even ashamed to cry. This is how my days passed.

From childhood, I was quite chubby and dark-skinned. As I grew, my skin tone naturally lightened somewhat, but my weight didn’t follow suit. I’ve found two reasons for this myself: First, the people in my maternal grandfather’s family are naturally robust. Second, some hormonal issues prevented my weight from dropping. But I didn’t know about these problems when I was young—I learned much later. Because I didn’t get proper treatment at the right time, I never managed to have a figure I could feel good about. My height isn’t much either. You’ll understand why I’m telling you all this as the story unfolds.

Anyway, I had two other troubles as well: First, my digestive system was severely compromised. From childhood, I couldn’t digest anything I ate. Not a single day passed from my childhood until my honours first year when I didn’t vomit in the morning. Even on Eid, I couldn’t eat anything without throwing up. What torment those days were! I cried so much over it. Yes, always in secret. Second, my skin was plagued by severe allergies. It was truly horrifying. I’d scratch until my skin bled. I’ve shown myself to so many doctors, so many healers, and nothing worked. I live in Rangpur. I’ve seen every doctor in this city. Whenever someone told me to go to Dhaka, Khulna, Barisal, Bogra, Rajshahi—wherever—I went and found a doctor. But every single time, the result was nothing. There are people in this world born to get nothing everywhere, from everything. I’m one of them.

Recently, I’ll tell you how I’ve gotten slightly better. Yes, my parents are very good people. They’ve taken me to so many doctors, spent money, effort, time on me. I’m fortunate to have parents like them. But there’s something here. I sometimes truly don’t understand them! Every single month until now, whenever I come home from seeing a doctor, I have to listen to this: if you were placed on one side of a scale and all the money spent on me on the other, the money would weigh more. Then the medicine refuses to go down my throat, and I can’t bear to apply anything to my skin. And there’s another thing. From childhood, I’ve heard only one thing from my family—that I’m fat, short, dark. But so-and-so is slim, tall, fair-skinned. Why aren’t I like them?

As I said, I was an emotional soul. So I always thought these things were somehow my own fault! And I’d weep in secret for my own helplessness.

I cannot recall a single day when I did not weep. This was how, from childhood on, I began to shrink further and further into myself. I would not go before anyone, would not mingle with a soul. If someone visited, I dreaded stepping forward. At home they would mock me, and this gave outsiders the courage to do the same. After guests left, I would hear even harsher words. I have even heard it said that if I died, the whole household would find peace. Then, when I kept myself away from people, I would hear the opposite—that someone with such a wretched body as mine naturally did not wish to mix with anyone. When I saw other people’s brothers lavishing affection upon them, I would think, oh, how blessed they are! For I had never received that kind of love from my own brothers. This became a source of some trouble too. I will come to that later.

As a student, whether I was good or bad—I myself did not know. And how could I, when I could hardly study properly? I was ill nearly all the time. Whatever I read, I read only days before the exam. Come what may, in that brief window I absorbed what I could! I studied at a government school, then got a place at a government college. But I was terribly stubborn. In those two years of college, I became more stubborn still. I would not heed anyone at home. I made up my mind: I would enroll in a private college and squander my father’s money. After all, I had heard plenty of reproach for doing nothing. This time, let me hear some for actually doing something! I was young and headstrong, and so naturally, what I resolved to do, I did.

That very enrollment in the private college turned out to be my undoing!

Stubborn though I had become, that compassionate nature of mine did not leave me. From the tiffin money the family gave me, and from the monthly scholarship I received for doing well at college, I would give away to anyone in need—family or stranger. I remember that during my college years, from these two sources of income, I never once bought myself so much as a chocolate. I would think, if I have the money today, perhaps tomorrow it will help someone else.

So the days passed well enough. Every year I needed a new mobile. I do not know why, but my phones kept disappearing. But from second year onward, I never bought another. I thought, if I ever find work, then I will buy one—not before. And there was a reason for this thinking.

Meanwhile, my circle of friends grew. I became, for everyone, a name synonymous with dependence. The moment someone needed help, there was Charu! Among them was one friend whose family was very poor. They lived in real hardship. I helped him with everything a student could—buying books, paying for tutoring fees, everything within my means. He was a diligent student, but my illness meant I rarely had the chance to study, so I could not even tell which questions were easy and which were hard. I stayed away from studies most of the time, or had to. I always studied only before exams, then sat for them. When I saw those who studied year-round and did well, it seemed to me they must be aliens or something like that—but the truth was simply that they studied, and so they did well. I held such deep respect for those who were brilliant in this way, and helping them in various ways gave me great satisfaction.

# Translation

Days went on like this. I passed my HSC. I enrolled in a coaching centre for university entrance exams. Meanwhile, my health kept deteriorating. I’d run a fever every day. I couldn’t study anymore. It was during this time that the friend—the one I’d helped in countless ways—suddenly proposed to me. After much deliberation, I agreed. But whatever was said over that phone call never translated into meeting each other. And meanwhile, the entrance exam loomed ahead.

I hadn’t studied at all. A few days before the exam, I found out I had a kidney infection. I was put on very strong medication. The side effects were so severe that my studies seemed to recede into some distant horizon, leaving me behind. I couldn’t focus on my books; she, on the other hand, continued hers without missing a beat. I went on helping her financially in every way I could. I bought her forms, paid for all her trips to various universities. She took her exams but didn’t get admitted anywhere. She fell into depression. There was one last exam left, but she didn’t have the money to appear for it. I gave her that too. She took the exam and got admitted. By then, I was bedridden and couldn’t take any exams myself. Eventually, I got admitted to National University. The following year, I couldn’t appear for exams anywhere. The timing was impossible—my first-year exams would clash with the entrance exam schedule, and just as the exams were about to begin, my father had bypass surgery. One thing after another made it impossible.

Anyway, she got admitted to a public university. After that, she disappeared. Calls went unanswered, messages unreplied. Then one day, out of nowhere, she told me she couldn’t keep our relationship going because I was fat and dark-skinned, because I studied at National University, and because her family wouldn’t accept a marriage with someone my age, and so on and so forth. I understood what I needed to understand.

After that, I sank deeper into depression day by day. My younger sister—the one I’d helped at some point—got wind of it and wanted to help me in return. She tried hard to explain things to Saikat, reached out to his friend circle, tried to make him understand. That’s when a boy from his university stepped forward. He was a friend of Saikat’s friend. He said he’d try to talk sense into Saikat and also give me the mental support I needed. I’d just started using Facebook around then. A female friend had opened an account for me and warned me that if someone sent a request, not accepting it would be insulting. I was such a fool back then that I’d accept every request that came my way without hesitation. That’s how I accepted his request too. His name was Aurangzeb. The name was long, so for the sake of the story, let’s call him Roni.

So Roni sent me a request. Following my friend’s formula, I accepted. Then he explained to me: “Look, Saikat’s changed. You don’t know him like I do. He’s become a different person since coming to university. Just forget about him.” After that, he’d quote various wise men—though he’d pass them off as his own thoughts—to motivate me. I was dumb as a brick and believed everything he said. I’d think, “Wow, this guy’s so knowledgeable!” Since I hadn’t been able to go to university myself, I had great respect for everyone who did. Gradually, he began to learn about me and inspire me in different ways. Little by little, I started to forget everything that came before.

# The Weight of Tenderness

And so, gradually, I began to feel normal again. In this way, over time, I grew deeply attached to him. Affection is a terrible thing, you know—it can utterly destroy a person.

It was around then that marriage proposals started arriving. One day, a BCS officer came to the house with an offer. My father, impressed by the boy’s status, kept trying to convince me to say yes. When I told Roni about it, he became overwhelmingly emotional. He said all sorts of things, and finally told me that if I got married, what would become of him? He couldn’t possibly live without me. He went on like that, saying all the things people always say. He pleaded with me, and I found myself yielding to his words. I made a terrible scene at home and rejected the BCS officer’s proposal. After that, no one in the house would speak to me. The whole day was filled with nothing but anger. I fell into a deep depression again. Roni tried once more to comfort me, to encourage me through it all.

Then one day, quite suddenly, he proposed to me himself. I told him, “You know everything about me. My ex-boyfriend is still in the picture.” He said none of that mattered. He knew it all and was going ahead anyway. He wanted to be by my side for the rest of his life. He said many other things too. I asked for three months to think it over. During those three months, he emotionally blackmailed me repeatedly, and because I was an emotional fool, I believed everything he said. I made a mistake. Again. Though I did notice something then—Roni wasn’t like the beach, somehow. He was different.

A new relationship began. Roni really was different. He cared for me deeply. He would inspire me, telling me all sorts of things, though none of them were actually his own thoughts—he would pass off what other people said as his own wisdom. It didn’t bother me, though. I found it genuinely inspiring. Every day, Roni would talk about marriage. I would tell him, “Look, let’s both establish ourselves first, then we’ll get married.” My eyes, my face—they had come alive with the color of living, permanently. I was truly happy! The funny thing is, we only met once. After that, we only ever spoke on the phone. All day long. At night, we’d talk about what we’d done all day, what we were thinking, what had happened—thousands of words about all these things.

Then, six months later, I suddenly noticed he wasn’t the same anymore. Something had changed. I didn’t know why. When I asked, he said he had family problems. I asked many times what the problem was, but he never told me. Yes, Roni’s financial situation was quite bad. I wanted to help him. But his pride wouldn’t let him accept. Then one day I discovered I was blocked. I tried in every way to reach him, but it was hopeless. I called from a friend’s phone, from someone else’s phone, but the moment he heard my voice, he’d block that number too. In the end, one day I just told my mother everything—that I loved someone, that we were in a relationship, and all the rest of it. My mother listened to it all without saying much. She just said she would speak to the boy herself. I couldn’t tell anyone else what was happening. There was no one who would really listen to me. And you can’t tell your sorrows to people—they’ll only mock you for it.

And so surviving itself became an unbearable cruelty.

I wanted to talk to Roni, but how could I? She had blocked me everywhere. From that moment on, every single second of every single day, I waited for her call. The moment the phone rang or a message notification buzzed, I’d jump up and rush to it, thinking—surely it’s Roni. But she never called. I can’t tell you what torture those seconds were. I’d remember our old moments together and wonder: was she hurting the way I was? What was she doing now? Had she eaten? Most of all, I’d ask myself—why did she do this? What was the reason? I couldn’t think of any reason at all. Slowly, I slipped into depression. My mother stood by me then. She tried everything to keep me okay. For the first time in my life, I got from her exactly what I’d longed for as a child. She forgot everything else and devoted herself entirely to me. I’d sit in silence, not speaking, and cry all day long.

Then my exam dates were announced. I thought, I haven’t studied a thing. Everyone I talked to said they’d ruined their studies, and here I hadn’t even opened a textbook in my life. I decided I wouldn’t take the exams. But my mother cried so hard. She said, a whole year will pass, you’ll sink deeper into depression—just take the exams, you can fail some if you have to, but take them! On the last day to submit the exam fee, she forced money into my hands and sent me off to fill out the form. I did. But I was adamant: I wouldn’t sit for the exams. One day my mother cried so bitterly. Seeing her tears hurt me so much that I decided to sit for them after all. I opened a book. What on earth was written there? Nothing stuck in my head! On top of that, when my hormonal problems flared up, I couldn’t remember anything. I thought, forget theory—I’d get through on mathematics. We had five math subjects. If I could score well in math, I figured I’d get a decent result overall.

I started taking the exams. But I hadn’t forgotten her. Every single day I’d cry according to schedule, and everyone in the house knew I was crying. During that time, my father and brothers wouldn’t talk to me. What agony that was! It felt like I was in this house only to eat two meager meals a day and survive. I’d stay locked in my room. After three exams, we got a long seventeen-day break. Then in January, the remaining exams would start. During that time, a girl my age from the neighborhood got married. When I heard about her wedding, I fell into depression all over again. I thought, I could have gotten married today too, but nothing happened for me! Where was I supposed to be, and where am I instead! And then I’d think of Roni again. Roni never called me once. Why wouldn’t she? Had she really forgotten about me? But how was that even possible?

If Roni were in my life today, I’d tell her, you know what, there’s a wedding happening next door! Then maybe I’d think about our own wedding. I was such a dreamer. I imagined mine would be exactly like the ones in plays and movies.

# The Weight of Silence

I spiral into depression again, lost in my own thoughts. One day, watching my condition, my father finally snaps at me. “She wore a burqa, went out doing all these things! And now she’s wasting away at home!” My older brother says I should be thrown out of the house. My middle brother says this is exactly why Charu was against that marriage in the first place. Even my mother, exasperated, says it would have been better if I’d just died. I think then: if Roni were still around, perhaps these words would hurt him too. But he doesn’t even ask about me anymore. I couldn’t forget him no matter how hard I tried. I was such a fool back then.

I make a decision. Since everyone is so troubled by me, I’ll end it. I’ll kill myself. The thought becomes action. I gather a handful of sleeping pills—Rivotril, two milligrams. As I’m about to swallow them, I hear a sound that pierces through. It’s my mother’s voice. She’s sitting on her prayer mat, speaking to God: “Allah, give my daughter peace of mind. Give her strength. Take away the pain from her heart.”

Tears stream down my face. I throw the pills away. And in that moment, I make a vow: from today on, I will study hard. No matter how much pain lives in my heart, I’ll cry in secret if I have to, but I’ll always wear a smile in front of the family. After that day, I never cried in front of them again. I took my exams. I should have failed—what use are just a few days of studying?—but I shocked everyone. Like something from a Bengali film, I passed with first-class marks. It was only possible because of mathematics. That’s when I suddenly searched for Roni’s university on YouTube one day. Why I did it, I don’t remember. It didn’t feel like there was a reason, though it must have been. I did those kinds of things all the time—purposeless, aimless, and yet somehow driven. Roni studies there, so search for it! That was probably the logic behind it.

By then, I’d stopped using Facebook altogether. Because using it would have shattered my performance of being fine. Yes, I haven’t forgotten about him for even a second until this very day. Once, I cried every night. It’s only been a few months since I’ve stopped. Actually, the crying just… happened to stop. How long can you really cry? I cried until my tears ran dry. Even when I’m in terrible pain now, I can’t cry anymore. But I want to. I want so badly to cry. But the tears won’t come. That’s its own kind of suffering. There’s a restlessness to it, an emptiness. The pain of not being able to cry is immense. Everyone thinks I’ve forgotten everything. But no one knows the truth: I’ve become very good at acting. Let them not know. Let everyone be fine.

And yes, I found it on YouTube—a road show made for their university. Saikat was dancing with some girl, and Roni was dancing with another. Watching it, for some reason, my sorrow lessened considerably. Even though it was just a shoot, it lessened. I thought: let them dance more. Let them dance with every girl in the world! I felt a kind of peace settle into my chest.

And yes, I mentioned at the start that I had severe stomach problems. I’d made a promise to myself to improve—my thoughts, my emotions, my physical health, everything. For three straight months, I threw myself into fixing all of it.

# Three Months Later

Three months later, the day I realized I wasn’t vomiting anymore—I can’t find words to tell you what that day meant to me. After eleven long years of this torment, I was finally free. I wept with joy. It was genuine happiness. Since I wasn’t on Facebook back then and had time on my hands, I thought: why not tackle the allergy problem now. I’d swallowed so many medicines, applied so many natural remedies to my skin, but nothing worked. My allergy levels were dangerously high. The doctor had said it would take twenty, twenty-five years, maybe more to heal. The medications I was taking back then were powerful stuff—I’d take them and sleep. And whenever I took them, this numbness would spread through my body. That’s how my days went on.

Then it struck me suddenly: I should support myself with my own earnings. But tutoring work is rare where we are, and whatever I find is scattered far and wide. The salary would be eaten up entirely by transport costs. So I thought, why not apply for those jobs in the intermediate quota? At least I’d get the experience of taking a job exam, and if I actually landed one, that would be wonderful! I could hold onto that position and move up to something better later. With this in mind, I started applying. And all the while, I kept up my nightly crying and my daytime pretense of being fine. I actually passed two exams. One was for a shorthand-typist position. But at the interview, they directly asked me for money. I couldn’t understand—why would they call me if I’d scored low, and what did money have to do with a good score? Anyway, I didn’t get that job. I never told my parents about the money demand. There was another exam too, for a Class III position, and they wanted money there as well. After that, some exam dates clashed with my academic tests, so I couldn’t sit for any more.

My parents are good people, really, but they compare a lot. They compare me with every girl in the world. How others have this and that, and I have nothing. Like, “So-and-so got the job, why didn’t you?” or “That girl is tall, fair, slim, why aren’t you?” They’re upset with me all day long. Sometimes I feel terrible myself. I want to make them happy, but I can’t do anything for them. I often think I’ve caused them suffering all their lives, and I’ve done nothing to ease their pain.

To make my parents happy, I wanted to sit for more exams, but obstacles kept appearing. Last year I wanted to take another one, but couldn’t because my mother needed gallbladder surgery. Then I made it to the preliminary round, but when my grandfather died right before my interview, I didn’t even go to do the interview. A few days before that, I’d had an accident and my left leg bone got displaced. The doctor told me to rest completely, but I didn’t rest for the exam. On exam days, after finishing the test, my leg would swell up terribly and hurt so much I couldn’t sleep all night. I think to myself: yes, all this would happen to Charu, because Charu is just Charu!

And yes, I still haven’t forgotten Roni. Just a few days ago, I came back on Facebook. All this time I thought maybe he was pining for me. Because from what I knew of him during the relationship, that’s what it seemed like.

But when I check back on Facebook, I realize everything I thought I knew was wrong! She’s doing just fine. Yet all those years when I wasn’t on Facebook, I’d spend so much time worrying about her. Every day now I find myself sneaking peeks at her profile, and it hurts. But the truth is, she’s doing well. Now I think, I need to be well too. So I’ve decided—I won’t look at her profile again until I get a job. Maybe it’ll come to that: I’ll never have to think about her again. But because we have some mutual friends, every now and then I end up hearing about her anyway. I don’t want to know, I really don’t, but they come and talk about Roni right in front of me, and even as I try not to listen, I find myself straining to hear every word, listening and listening…

I’ve learned so much from my life, changed myself in small ways. Life has taught me that classmates and friends are never the same thing. Most of the people we casually call friends are really just classmates. By that logic, I don’t actually have any real friends—they’re all classmates. The reason is simple: I don’t live like this generation does. I don’t take pictures, don’t post anything on Facebook or My Day. I pray, I read the Quran, I worship all day long. So in everyone’s eyes, I’m completely old-fashioned, completely out of step! And that’s why they’re all just classmates to me, why I have no real friends. Though honestly, it doesn’t hurt.

But these blows life has dealt me—they’ve taught me to see people clearly. I really needed a shock like that. God, how foolish I was before, how naive! I used to love talking, but now I can’t anymore. I’ve seen it: the more you talk, the more trouble finds you.

I think about how Roni will get married someday, have a happy home, but nothing like that will ever happen for me. I can’t trust boys anymore. Maybe I’m alive now only because my parents are standing by me, but what if I get married without a job first? What if after the wedding my husband just forgets about me, throws me out of the house? What then? God gave me a stomach to feed, didn’t he? But I can’t make my parents understand this. They want to marry me off quickly. Boys always have so many demands. And I can’t even decide whether I want to get married or not, and meanwhile I’m getting older. Who knows—maybe I’ll get a job eventually, but marriage will never happen. Sometimes I think it would’ve been better to be born a boy. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about age all the time. Girls have so much pressure. Being born a girl means nothing but suffering.

If my parents understood me a little better, if they didn’t compare me to others all the time, maybe I could study a bit harder. I don’t think about all this deliberately. But when you’re someone with no one to talk to, locked inside all day, hearing all kinds of things every single second, you end up upset despite yourself, no matter how hard you try not to be. I never thought I could become this strong. For most people, this might be nothing, but for me it’s everything. I’m not like everyone else—I’m my own person. I’ve learned all this through getting knocked down, over and over.

Let me tell you a little about who I was.

I was the kind of person who, even if I knew the answer when the teacher asked something in class, would be too embarrassed to speak up. I’d think, *If I say it, people will hear me—is that even allowed?* And now? The loudest voice in that same classroom is mine! My parents never let me go anywhere alone, and I was terrified to go out by myself either. Yet here I am—that same person—going to Dhaka alone to sit for job exams. I used to be so afraid of the dark that I’d sleep with the lights on in my room. Now I can sleep alone with the lights off and the windows open! I’ve learned all of this through getting knocked down, again and again. Otherwise, none of this would have happened in my life. These things—they’re my greatest achievements!

Now I want to do something for my parents. For that, I need a job. Just as all my problems have disappeared one day at a time, someday all these troubles will vanish too. I used to think life was like a movie or a play. I imagined I’d come first in every class, that one day I’d literally collide with some boy and fall in love, have this sweet, tender romance with him, marry him, watch movies together, travel, eat, sleep… and then one day, just like that, I’d die. My children would cry so much that day.

What ridiculous thoughts those were! Real life is so much harder. You have to fight to survive here. And if, after all that struggle, something good comes your way—well, there’s no happiness quite like it.

Everyone at Roni’s university knows that Roni is a person of very strong character. It makes me laugh to hear it. Does she really have that in her? Tell me, has Roni ever tried to look at her own mind instead of her face in the mirror? Let me remind you—Roni’s real name isn’t Roni. It’s Aurangzeb.

And yes, there’s one more thing life has taught me. A stumpy, awkward girl of four feet eleven inches, weighing fifty-nine kilos, shouldn’t have cinematic dreams, shouldn’t love anyone, shouldn’t harbor grand hopes. These are pure luxuries for someone like her! If she doesn’t understand this, then she’s a complete fool.