[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.]
The last day in Rajshahi was nothing like the first. Perhaps from that day onward, Abir and Sneha’s farewells began to lose their beauty. On the morning of February 15, Abir could not come. He was not even sure if he would be able to. A sudden office conference kept him tied up from early morning. Sneha did not feel upset. She thought- If we meet, it will be nice. If not, I'll feel a little bad, that is all. Nothing more than that.
From morning, Abir kept sending texts, torn between coming or not. Finally, at 2 p.m., he arrived at the hotel and called Sneha to come down. Just before that, her breathing problems had started. They spent the whole afternoon together. Her flight was at 8 p.m., and she would check out by 6. Before that, at Abir’s insistence, they went to a nearby bar. Sneha had saved a little Ballantine's for him, but he wanted more. Within an hour, he also had to attend another conference.
Sneha resisted; she did not want Abir to drink and then drive for half an hour. But he promised just one peg and more or less pulled her along. They sat and talked lightly, both short on time. Abir needed to be at his conference by seven, and Sneha needed to leave for the airport by seven, too. Since he had an official commitment, she told him to head out first. Just before leaving, Abir went quiet for a moment and called her name: Sne…ha… At that time, her heart was already sinking. After two months, they had finally met. The previous day had been so beautiful. That day, too. They had spent hours together. Who knew when they would meet again!
Lost in those thoughts, Sneha looked at Abir. Out of nowhere, he suddenly said, Don't ever come here like this again! Something happened to Sneha in that moment that she could not explain even to herself. The words had barely registered when her hand moved, and she slapped him, right there in the bar. His glasses fell and shattered on the floor. Abir sat completely still for a moment, stunned into silence. Sneha felt as if she had walked through hell in a trance. Coming to her senses, she knelt down, searching for Abir's glasses. He tried to stop her: “It's okay. Come on. Please, get up.” But she panicked and picked up the broken glasses, apologized again and again, and then, after a pause, coldly asked Abir to leave that place.
But without his glasses, how would he drive? That thought again panicked her, and she called out, Abir… how will you drive without glasses? I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, baba! Your glasses… I'm... Abir turned back and said calmly, It's okay. Don't worry. I've a spare in the car. Go safely. Text me when you reach Dhaka. That night, Sneha didn't return to Dhaka. Overwhelmed with humiliation, hurt, and pain, she left the bar and returned to her hotel room. She didn't cancel the flight. She didn't even inform the airline. Instead, she bought a ticket for the next morning from an agency downstairs from the hotel and went back to her room. After having a few more pegs of whiskey, she lay down.
Abir was probably at his conference at that time. Sneha didn't text him. She didn't tell him that she wasn't returning that night. That incident at the bar replayed in her head like a nightmare. She cried for hours, out of anger, humiliation, shame, and regret for raising her hand to him. At some point, she fell asleep. Late at night, waking up, she saw countless Telegram messages from Abir. She replied only- I'm still here; I didn't go to Dhaka. I was feeling unwell. It wasn't entirely a lie. After returning from the bar, she had felt unwell, partly from drinking too much. Abir responded, You didn't do the right thing. But Sneha didn't answer that. Abir probably assumed she had stayed back out of stubbornness, that she had skipped the flight he booked for her just to punish him. And Sneha thought to herself- Did he really have to say, “Don't ever come here like this again” at that exact moment of parting?
Sneha left on the eight o'clock flight the next morning. She had to be at the office by ten; there was no other option but to leave that early. Just before takeoff, she texted Abir- I'm leaving. The 14th was the most beautiful day of my life. I can't remember ever being this happy. But was it really necessary to say, ‘Don't ever come here again,’ right before I left? You could have said it after I had returned to Dhaka. Would it have caused so much harm?
Then she sent another text right after that- The day before yesterday, we had such a beautiful time. It felt like a dream to me. Why could you not let me carry that feeling all the way back to Dhaka, Abir? See… do I not always say? Happiness never lasts long in my life. That is the proof. I'm really sorry about that incident in the bar. I was deeply hurt and was not thinking straight. If you hadn't wanted me to come, I would never have asked you to meet. You can't force someone to meet, anyway, if they don't really want to! Even this time, I didn't force you at all. So… why, Abir? Anyway, leave it! It always hurts to leave you, and right now is no different.
Landing in Dhaka, Sneha saw Abir’s text- I'm really sorry, Sneha. Have you landed? But the curse of that last day in Rajshahi never lifted. It only grew darker. At one point, their farewells became a source of trauma for both of them. Neither of them probably wanted it that way, but when do things ever turn out exactly as people want? Peace slowly turned into unrest. Joyful moments can't be locked away forever. If they could, people would open the box whenever needed and live on happiness alone. But time changes, and moments do not stay the same. What was once joy becomes sorrow, through someone’s fault, or no one’s at all.
Getting anything done in Bashundhara is a nightmare. Sneha grabs a fresh syringe from the pharmacy. Back home, as she melts the plastic base over a lighter, she thinks: Why do all endings have to be this ugly? Why cannot people say goodbye without handing each other grievances and bitter feelings? Has she ever, even in her imagination, wanted anything harmful for Abir? Would he believe her even if she screamed it a thousand times now? Sneha breaks down suddenly. Her whole body shakes, drenched in sweat. She sets the needle against the lighter and tries to get it going, but the entire foil catches fire. She puts it out and sits with her head in her hands for a long while, sweat pouring off her. Living itself feels like torment, but death doesn't seem easy, either. The thought exhausts her, not so much physically as in some deeper place where no rest seems possible. She closes her eyes and lets the Bluetooth speaker fill the room. Subir Sen is singing there-
Khoti Nei Aaj Kichhu Aar, Bhulechhi Joto Kichhu Taar
E Jibone Sob-e Je Haray, Jani Bhule Jabe Je Amay…
Eyes closed, listening to the song, she finds herself drifting back to that strange morning in Sylhet. After a whole night on a local bus, when she stepped off at Kadamtoli, the last stop in the city, she barely had to think about where to go next. The moment her feet touched the ground, the CNG and "Bangla Tesla" drivers were calling out. From her face, they could easily tell she was not Sylheti and was new to the city. The calls started the instant she stepped down- Apa, dargah jaibay, na Chandni Ghat?
That was not her first trip to Sylhet. She had first visited 23 years ago. But her brain doesn't like to waste space on insignificant memories, so she couldn't really recall what she had done or where she had gone back then. All she remembered was that she had visited the dargah. Then she went again 12 years ago; that was the last time. That memory was somewhat clearer. By that count, this was her third time in Sylhet. But perhaps it was the first time alone.
Through all the shouting, Sneha walked up to an older man with a rickshaw and said, Chacha, will you take me to Dargah Road? He didn't answer with words, only with a smile. His name was Omar Faruk. Sneha spent about three hours in Sylhet, and all of it was in Omar Faruk chacha’s rickshaw, wandering from place to place. Her first stop after arriving was to see the famous Jalali pigeons. Early in the morning, she went to the dargah of Hazrat Shahjalal and sat quietly for a while beside the pond known for Giant Snakehead Fish, locally known as ‘Gojar Machh.’
From early morning, devotees streamed in from everywhere, bringing vows and offerings. Sneha wondered, did she have any vow to make? After all, devotees pray to Allah through saints. But she thought: Should a believer not connect directly with Allah? Why would anyone need a medium? Sneha thought for a moment and felt: No, if you know how to call, no medium is needed. If you call sincerely, you find Allah’s answer yourself. Still, she entered the shrine, offered a respectful salam, and left that place. Outside, she stood for a few moments watching the white pigeons fluttering in the air.
Leaving the Dargah, she took Omar Faruk’s rickshaw again and went to Chandni Ghat. Sitting on the steps by the Surma river, her heart suddenly grew calm. The gentle spring sun, the soft breeze, and, somewhere, the call of a cuckoo. Listening intently, she felt detached from all worldly pain- lost deep inside, utterly alone, in profound solitude.