That night, Sneha couldn't stay home. From the moment she walked into the Aftabnagar flat, terrible emptiness had closed in around her and everywhere she turned, on the bed, the pillow, the sofa, the towel, she could smell Abir. Not his cologne. Not Calvin Klein from his clothes. This was different. Everyone has their own smell, something you can’t really explain. And Abir’s…it felt so strong, so real, that it was making her restless.
The half-empty bottle of Passport whiskey was still on top of the wardrobe. Abir had been drinking from it since morning, he would have finished it if he could. He even carried some in a water bottle on the way to the airport. Sneha had bought that bottle two months earlier, for Abir’s birthday. And after buying it, Sneha had asked Abir for something for the first time in her life, that if he came to Dhaka in December, he'd give her a few hours. Not at a bar. Somewhere else.
Somewhere they could talk in private. Somewhere Abir wouldn’t have to hide behind his cap and glass, constantly scanning the room to see if anyone noticed him, recognized him, took a photo or a video. That fear had taken him sixteen months to shake off. Even now, he hadn’t fully escaped it, but it had eased. Abir had changed in other ways too. In the beginning, Sneha used to call him "ChatGPT"- emotionless, robotic, stiff, humorless. But now he cracked jokes. He tried to cheer her up when she was angry or upset. He sent emojis with his texts. And he smiled too. And what a smile he has! His smile! Oh God, his smile!
She was thinking about that smile, pouring herself a peg from the bottle on the wardrobe, when she suddenly saw him- Abir, half-lying on the bed in front of her, smiling softly! She rubbed her eyes. No! She wasn’t drunk. That day she had been so worried about Abir’s fever and headache that she hadn’t even wanted to touch alcohol. So why was she seeing him there, smiling? The glass slipped from her hand. It didn’t break, it was original whiskey glass, but the drink spilled across the floor. Her restlessness grew stronger.
Abir had no reason to be in this room. He wasn't even in this city anymore and who would know that better than her? Since last three days, people of Rajshahi had believed he was in Dhaka, at his family home. And in Dhaka, his family had believed he was in Rajshahi, at his workstation. In the entire world, only Sneha and Allah above knew where Abir had actually been those three days. And yet, wherever she looked in that room, there he was, she kept seeing him.
That afternoon, Sneha forced Abir to eat paratha with chicken soup, spoon-feeding him herself. He didn’t want to eat. His body was slightly warm, but the headache was worse. For three days he had survived on whiskey alone, no solid food at all, of course his head would hurt. Sneha scolded him lightly while feeding him. She had ordered soup and paratha from Al Qaderia through Foodpanda and made an omelet herself. She gave him a condition- he had to eat, otherwise no more whiskey.
He kept delaying it, “later, later”…until almost noon. Eventually, she forced him to eat at least a little. After managing to get a little food into him, Sneha went downstairs to buy Napa Extra. She rarely gets fevers and even when she does, she doesn’t take medicine. So, her flat had no paracetamol. What it did have were bottles of Baclofen, Prodep, Olianz, Rivotril, and Filfresh, the kind of meds she kept but didn’t take regularly. That day, though, she regretted not having Napa at home. After feeding him, she locked the gate from outside and went down to the pharmacy.
In that short while, Abir texted her several times- Mad'moiselle...where are you? Come soon, I wanna talk. He only called her Mademoiselle when he was in a very good mood or completely drunk. Beyond that, Abir had no particular name for her. Sneha, on the other hand, called him Amon in texts, never out loud, she was too shy for that. But in a text, no one could see your face, so she could write 'Amon', 'Amon pakhi' as freely as she liked. Mostly just Amon.
Amon was the name of an ancient Egyptian god, king of the gods in fact. But Sneha hadn’t chosen it for that reason. She chose it because Amon was considered the life-giving god. And more than that, the word itself meant “hidden” or “invisible.” Just like Charles Bukowski’s Bluebird-
There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
But I’m too tough for him
I say stay in there, I’m not going to let anybody see you…
Sneha loved that poem. To her, Abir was like that bluebird, secret, but deeply cherished. She had another name for him too- Amado Aliento. Spanish. Amado meant “beloved,” Aliento meant “breath.” The name was beautiful, but a bit difficult, so she rarely used it in texts. Maybe once or twice. She had spent a lot of time searching for these names, choosing them carefully, with love.
Abir texts again- “Oi! How long is it gonna take?” Sneha, medicines in one hand and two one-and-a-half-litre bottles of Mum water in the other, texted back- coming, baba, wait and practically ran back upstairs. The lift was on the fifth floor, so she took the stairs, unlocked the gate out of breath, and went straight to Abir. She pushed a Napa Extra out of the strip, put it in his mouth, handed him a water bottle. What she'd missed, in all the rush, was his text from a few minutes before- Mademoiselle, that soup was delicious. I wanna have some more.
And anyway…that kind of soup wouldn’t be available in the afternoon. Most places only serve it during breakfast hours. After 12, it’s usually gone. Still, if she'd been out, she could have looked. The poor man hadn't eaten in two days. She'd gone to such lengths to get even a little into him, and the moment it actually appealed to him, she couldn't get him more. She sat scrolling through Foodpanda, looking for chicken soup, annoyed at herself.
Abir stopped her, made her sit beside him. Before going downstairs, Sneha had put water on the stove for his shower, there was no geyser in the flat. February air was still cool, spring breeze all around. If he showered in cold water, he might catch a chill. He hadn’t bathed in two days. Take the shower, you’ll feel better, Sneha said, sitting in front of him. Abir looked at her. In his eyes, Sneha saw both tenderness and helplessness. Unable to hold his gaze, she looked away and said- So, what’s your urgent talk? You’re going to tell me you’ll leave me, right? I already know. How many times will you say it, Abir?
Abir shook his head- Sneha…no! Why do you love someone like me? I can’t give you anything. I’ll never be able to. He paused, then added- Why are you wasting your life? You’re intelligent, you’re pretty. And me…I can’t give you anything. Do you know how painful that is? Sneha interrupted gently- What do I ask from you, Abir? Abir shook his head- Nothing. That’s the problem. You ask nothing from me, Sneha. That makes me feel worse. It makes me feel guilty.
It was almost 4:45 PM. Sneha had set an alarm so they could leave for the airport two hours early. But from Abir’s behavior, it seemed like he was scheming to miss the seventh flight too. If his chief weren’t scheduled to arrive from headquarters the next morning, Abir probably wouldn’t have gone to Rajshahi that day either. His eyes gave it away; he didn’t want to go. But he had no choice. From the night of the 24th, his departure for Rajshahi had been postponed again and again, until finally it was the afternoon of the 26th. Several times Abir said- I don’t feel like going. And then, moments later- But I have to. The chief will come. They’ll kick my ass!
That morning, before trying to sleep for a bit, he'd reached Sneha's saree and wrapped it around himself. Pulled it over on his own, then told her- hold me from behind. There's no one who holds me like this. Sneha didn't fully believe everything Abir said. And yet some quiet part of her, somewhere underneath, sometimes wanted to- simply, without question.
Sneha never asked about his personal life, never tried to find out. When he told her things, she listened. What mattered to her was only the moment Abir was with and beside her. His life beyond that, his family, his job, she'd never shown interest in any of it and hadn't needed to. They'd been meeting every month, talking regularly. Though this time, after his transfer to Rajshahi, it had been nearly two months since they'd last seen each other.
Perhaps Abir had called her urgently from the pharmacy to say what he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud, that they might not meet again for a long time, maybe never. But at that moment, he didn’t have the cruelty or the courage to say it. Only after reaching the airport, boarding the flight and leaving her sight did he find that courage or that cruelty. Sneha’s pain was real, but at least Abir didn’t have to witness it up close anymore.