[Disclaimer: The figures of power and the corridors of influence depicted in this narrative are born entirely of the imagination. While the shadows of the human psyche are real, the characters who inhabit them and the state they command are purely fictional.]
As if a non-AC bus wasn't enough, it was Ena on top of it all. The bus was tearing at typhoon speed. A little past two at night, it took a fifteen-minute break at Bhairab. Sneha wished to walk a bit after getting down, but she couldn't figure out how to shift a sleeping human's head off her shoulder. But the Almighty, probably out of mercy, woke the lady up with nature's call within minutes of the bus stopping. That itself seemed like her gift from the Almighty on this birth night.
Sneha got down. Her vape was with her. A few puffs in, she had barely walked a bit when the bus horn started blaring. Then, back on the bus, seeing some empty seats at the very back and heading that way to sit, she told herself- no more burden for tonight! Have a relax, young lady. But her mind didn't want to relax. So many hours had passed. Abir was surely tense, not getting her response? This thought kept making her restless, yet tonight she only wanted to think about her own pain. She wanted to keep herself to herself, however she wished, however she thought she could lessen her own pain.
She couldn't sit in the back seat anymore. At the corner of the very last seat, a young couple was sitting. She hadn't noticed from afar. Ugh! Going close suddenly, she put them in an awkward spot, and thinking that she too would have to travel the whole route in awkwardness, her irritation at herself climbed another notch. Finding no other option, finally she had to go back and sit in her previous seat. The bus lights turned off again. Through the grating loudspeaker, even now a trashy nineties song was playing- "Baaaas ek sanam chahiye a a a...aashiqui ke liye..." To escape this irritation Sneha pulled out her earbuds and played her Aman playlist. Shafqat Amanat Ali’s voice filled her ears, “Main lakh jatan kar haari, lakh jatan kar har raahi…"Mora saiyaan mo se bole na…” But instead of her heart, her eyes grew wet. A month later, on a cloudy afternoon in Rajshahi, parked inside a car on an empty road, the same song would once again drown two pairs of eyes in the unspoken sorrow of a possible separation.
Sneha thought; when love reached the level of Junoon, how long could anger, pride, or the hurt of love survive? Or did they only grow sharper? She felt immense pity for Abir. Perhaps at this level, every feeling just turned up to full volume. And so it went- the thoughts and Shafqat Amanat Ali's voice aching through the dark, until one of Sneha's eyes became the Surma and the other the Kushiyara. Where they met at her chin, they became the Kalni, flowing unbroken, unhurried, straight toward the Bay of Bengal that sat somewhere behind her ribs, filling it up just a little more. She was even narrating her own tears like a live commentary, which really did confirm it: her whole life was basically one long, elaborate dark comedy!
Whenever Sneha showed Abir something she had written, his reaction was pretty much on a schedule- It is dark. Too dark! And she would say, Well, my whole life is dark. He would push back, every time- Write something cheerful. Give some light to others. Give people some hope. Sneha genuinely couldn't figure out what he expected her to do with that. How did a life filled with sadness write something cheerful? How did a life surrounded by darkness spread light? After all, people wrote about themselves. They wrote what was around them, their own world. That was just how it works. Not every life was a fairy tale. In fact, no one’s life was meant to be one. Everyone had their own sufferings. To each person, their own pain felt greatest. We pretended to understand others’ pain, saying, I can feel it, or I can understand. But in truth, it was nonsense! In our hearts, we compared it to our own suffering and concluded: Mine is worse. Theirs is bad, sure, but mine is worse. So-and-so's pain is somewhat less than this pain!
Nope… this needle wasn't crossing the bridge of Pul sirat tonight, Sneha realized. She had started with Mehdi Hassan, trying to tame the restless needle of her mind. Somewhere along the way, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan took over, reminding her- “Tumhe dillagi bhool jani padegi…mohabbat ki rahoon mein aa kar toh dekho...” Still, the needle wouldn't stop jumping. The thought of going downstairs again to fix things felt exhausting. Instead, she focused on the next line of Fateh Ali and oh, oh… that one landed! That one was common in her syllabus, apparently. Fateh Ali’s logic was actually pretty sound. He said in the next line- “Tadapne pe mere na phir tum hasoge...Kabhi dil kisi se laga kar toh dekho." On the surface, it sounded like a classic “walk a mile in my shoes” argument, but it was so true. You never truly understand a feeling until life forces you to experience it firsthand. Until you have walked that same path, it is all too easy to mock or make fun of what others are going through. But once you are the one in the thick of it, you realize: laughing from the sidelines is one thing, but living through it is a different story entirely. In fact, more often, it is actually quite brutal. Sneha played that song back twice.
Then Begum Akhtar arrived, carrying her usual metric ton of grief- “Ami to rakhini tare bendhe...shudhu bhul korechi bhalobeshe…Chupi chupi chole na giye, se keno biday nilo na hese…” Sneha wondered, God knows, who was Begum Akhtar complaining to with such grief? Perhaps God Himself. But whoever the complaint was addressed to, Sneha was certain, God had made sure that person suffered just as much. That ghazal came from somewhere that had already been torn open. And when someone's soul is genuinely hurting, Sneha felt, God didn't let the reason live in peace, either. Still… that line “se keno biday nilo na hese” felt a bit problematic to Sneha! Leaving with a smile from the life of someone whom you love is never easy; it takes a rare kind of courage. Sneha was now sure she didn't have it anymore. She had realized this after getting to know Abir, or maybe after they grew close. Though Amma used to say repeatedly- Your whole body is made of liver! Of course, it was never meant as a compliment; it was always a taunt. Come home late? Same line. Do something against her wishes? Same line. How many times had she heard it in her life! Countless! Ah… suddenly, Sneha missed Amma. A hollow space opened inside her chest.
She had been so endlessly irritated by Amma over the years. She couldn't stand the lectures, the noise, the constant low-grade friction of living under the same roof; she had walked out so many times. She had spent years living alone, here and there, on her own terms. And now, what if Amma left, too, the way Abba had? Let her scold, let her nag, let her shout, at least she was there. If she left, no one would do even that. Sneha felt pain for Amma, deep pain, an unbearable pain! She just folded herself up on the floor, knees pulled in and arms wrapped around herself. It was as if she wanted to return to Amma’s womb. As if she wished Amma would wrap her up again with that invisible cord and keep her safe inside, so she would never have to deal with this world again. If Amma were gone too, who would she complain about then? Who would she blame, saying, This woman made my life miserable? Why does Allah take His people away through something as devastating as cancer? Why make them suffer so much… before taking them?
Sneha had always believed that after Abba, it would be her turn next. Even now, she wanted to believe that. Abir often told her, I'll go before you, you will see. I'm older, so it should be me first. But Sneha knew God brings people into the world by His own design and takes them back by His own providence. Only He knows the calculations. Abir was just two months and ten days older than Sneha, yet he often tried to act like an ‘Old Hunk.’ He was a ‘hunk,’ no doubt about that; Sneha was two hundred percent certain and had even certified him as one. But an old hunk? Absolutely not!
Still, every few days Abir would say, We are getting old. And Sneha would instantly shoot back, You are, not me! Who grows old at forty? Especially a man! Even the Prophet got his prophethood at that age. Life begins after forty!” She knew why Abir kept reminding her; those were words meant to dampen her love, to temper the intensity of her feelings. Abir could never openly say- We are not teenagers anymore. Don't pout at every word. Don't show so much love. Don't expect that, too. In the end, I'm…
Those unspoken words, Sneha often interpreted herself; sometimes correctly, sometimes not. And that, she felt, was the core problem of their relationship. Maybe it was all just overlooked things. No! She stopped herself. She didn't want to go digging through the last two months tonight. Those were too ugly! Some proverb about good days and bad days crossed her mind, but it only made her angrier. She sat up suddenly and exclaimed, “Baal! My passing days were too bad, and my fucking coming days will be worse than that! The Sylhet trip from last year hurt less by comparison. So, she went there instead. That time, she had truly gone to the last stop. After all passengers got off, the helper called her, Apa, this is the last stop! Where will you get down? The place was Kadamtoli. The sleeping bird in the next seat had already lifted her head and flown away two stops earlier. People have no gratitude! Sneha thought. No lover ever gave her a shoulder like she had that night. She can guarantee that a thousand percent.
But then again, Sneha admitted, she too lacked gratitude. She understood Abir’s issues. Balancing everything in his life and still maintaining Sneha was difficult for him, risky too. Even within limits, he always tried- sending texts and giving time whenever he could. But the problem never was the time; it was the timing. The problem was his understanding of their relationship. The lack of clarity. These issues were complicated, but they were never unsolvable. But honestly, leaving everything aside, Sneha knew, when Abir was with her, the feeling he gave was enough reason to be grateful for life.
She was grateful for that, indeed. Except for his nonsense at every farewell, he is truly a genuine gentleman. But what kind of gentleman says, after forty-six hours of intense and terrifyingly beautiful time together, “I love you,” and immediately after, “We will never meet again”? What kind of timing is that? What kind of sense does that even make? If it's not meant to be, fine! Sneha thought. They would deal with it when the time came. But why did Abir have to repeat it every time before saying goodbye, leaving her behind in such torment? And the worst part, he would not even realize how painful it was while creating such a situation. Later, he would apologize a thousand times. And then again, next time, the same thing would be repeated. He had done the same on the day Sneha was supposed to return from Rajshahi.
For two years, Sneha had to swallow this same bitter pain every time it was time to part ways. Even patience has its limits! If you spend the most beautiful moments only to be pushed back into trauma every single time, you eventually start to snap. If those partings trigger past wounds and change the way you act, is it really logical to label you 'insane' instead of trying to understand 'why'? Sneha sighed; who would even answer these? She had wanted to spend the rest of her life simply holding onto him, choosing silence over a thousand questions. Why was even that too much to ask of fate? Why did her quiet devotion irritate the world so much? Why does life not allow even that? Why was her simple happiness such an eyesore to the world? There is no answer; there is no one who can give these answers.
On February 6, seeing Abir cry on a video call made Sneha restless. She felt he wanted to say something but couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to say goodbye, nor could he acknowledge their relationship in any format. He was burning up inside his own contradiction. But he never wanted to open that up, too scared of the mess it would make. He wanted peace. So did Sneha. But the peace they both desired could only come through open conversation, something Abir never allowed. There was a time when Sneha was the peace of his heart. He had said it while drunk, but his eyes had conveyed it even more intensely than his words. Now, she is apparently the source of every pain in his life. That peace could have been preserved easily, but it wasn't. Instead, it was destroyed. Whose fault? Whose mistake? Such calculations are never simple.
Later that night, after all the crying, Abir casually told Sneha, If you are ever around Rajshahi, let me know; we will grab dinner together. Now, Sneha had grown up on ’90s songs like “Betaabi kya hoti hai, poocho mere dil se… Tanha tanha lauta hoon, main toh bhari mehfil se…Marna jaaoon kahin, ho ke tumse juda…Nazar ke saamne, jigar ke paas…Koi rehta hai…Woh ho tum…” and all of that longing, so she did what any person raised on that kind of dramatic soundtrack would do. She completely blanked out the word ‘ever’ and took the rest of the sentence at full face value. That night, she opened Go Zayaan, booked a flight to Rajshahi for the following week, and grabbed a hotel room in the same sitting. Done! But then the problem started. A little later, when she calmly rewound Abir's sentence and placed that one word ‘ever’ back into it, doubt began flooding in. After four days of going back and forth inside her own head, gathering courage again and again, Sneha finally managed to tell Abir she was planning to go to Rajshahi. The amount of thinking that went into how to say it, what to say, and how many times she rewrote it in her head, she still feels almost tender towards herself thinking about that.
She remembered Abir had once mentioned his school days' band; he had even dug up an old video of himself playing guitar at some event and showed her. She used that. Four days after booking the ticket, she texted him: “I don't believe in the whole ‘you cannot know if someone can sing until you hear them yourself’ thing. How am I supposed to know you used to be a good singer if I have never heard you?” Abir replied with a smile: “Ha Ha Ha! Gave it up ages ago. And I'm a shy guy, you know that, right?” Taking that chance, Sneha told him she was going to Rajshahi on the thirteenth afternoon by flight. She wrote: If someone can make a little time to sing a song… or let me see him from a distance for a few minutes at any restaurant, no matter how far, however far apart we were, we would still be close in the ways that counted. Just let me know! Then, to keep it light so Abir wouldn't feel pressured or respond too seriously, she added- And if neither is possible, then fine! I'll just go to Panchabati, grab whoever I find, make them sing, and come back to Dhaka. No worries!
Abir took his time replying to this text. By then, Sneha had learned what his delayed replies usually meant. Everything in his life required calculation. Their worlds were completely different. She gets that now. Sneha was a free bird with wide and open wings. But not every bird with big wings can fly. Around Abir, she would fly freely, letting the wind carry her wherever it wanted. Perhaps she flew too high. Into a place she never truly had clearance for. And she didn't know the way back from there. Beyond that height, beyond that space, Abir didn't have the ability or the will, or perhaps even the capacity to fly with Sneha. So, in the end, both came down hard and lost their wings. Who was more at fault, who was less, it's not that binary. But Sneha still thinks: those small, unclear, unspoken problems had chances to be resolved. Abir, scared of the short-term noise, just let them sit and quietly grow. And eventually, they became a wildfire and burned everything down. Someone’s home, and someone else’s entire world.