After three hours in Sylhet, Sneha returned to Kadamtali bus stand in Omar Faruk chacha's rickshaw. She still wasn't sure where she was going next. But something told her it was time to leave Sylhet and that feeling alone was enough to bring her there. She pressed two crisp thousand-taka notes into Omar Faruk's hand and asked- Chacha, is this okay? She had no clear idea of what three hours in his rickshaw would cost and felt awkward asking directly. He gave her the same smile he had given when she first got on the rickshaw and nodded. That was his answer that the payment he received was fine.
A little ahead at the Kadamtali terminal, Sneha saw three Dhaka-bound buses lined up- Hanif Enterprise, Ena Transport and Bilas Paribahan. She walked past all of them and got onto a Sagarika Enterprise bus headed for Sylhet-Moulvibazar-Kishoreganj-Mymensingh. Non‑AC, fare 600 taka. The bus was nearly empty. Her seat was D‑1, the one beside it vacant. She whispered a prayer of thanks- Alhamdulillah! The spell of solitude by the Surma river hadn’t yet faded. Carrying a “Do Not Disturb” sign inside her chest, she wanted to travel the rest of the way in silence. In Dhaka, loneliness had felt unbearable, pushing her into this impulsive journey. But sitting by the Surma had made it somewhat tolerable. As the bus rolled toward Mymensingh, Sneha felt calmer, as if she had briefly recovered the companion she had lost.
Leaning back in her seat, she thought of Jean-Paul Sartre. He said, “If you are lonely when you are alone, then you are in bad company.” She smiled on that thought. Perhaps she had been in bad company in Dhaka. From the moment Abir left for Rajshahi, that feeling had taken hold. She understood now, the solitude she’d enjoyed for so many years, that she’d genuinely loved- the two days and two nights with Abir had taken her somewhere else entirely, introduced her to a kind of companionship that had changed the meaning of her life. And her gut feeling was saying, this would cost her a lot. Not immediately, perhaps, but inevitably. A lot of suffering was waiting ahead.
Sitting on that bus, she suddenly asked herself- Why not Dhaka? But without waiting for an answer, she opened her notes app and began to write-
In the city where you are not,
Loneliness curls around me like smoke,
I retreat into the quiet,
Waiting, unseen, untouched by the world.
In the city where you are not,
Joy is a stranger, warmth like a ghost,
Even my footsteps forget their purpose.
I'm hollow!
After writing those lines from her thoughts, Sneha went back to Sartre. She remembered something he’d written to Simone de Beauvoir- “It’s strange…I felt less lonely when I didn’t know you.” She smiled again, and this time her smile carried no warmth. Only a quiet helplessness. She didn’t need another philosopher to tell her that she had already fallen into something vast, something inescapable. A black hole.
Sartre had already shown her enough to understand; this pull wouldn’t let her go so easily. She would have to keep moving within it, for some distance. How far? That wasn’t hers to decide anymore. Escape, release- none of those seemed visible right now. And maybe, not anytime soon. But she wasn’t Simone de Beauvoir. The thought brought that same helpless smile back to her lips, this time edged with self-mockery. It was as if she were laughing at her own condition.
Somewhere in that quiet ridicule of herself, she realized something unsettling- People actually come close…only to leave you lonelier than before. And in that realization, she felt it- Something forming, like wings. Like a presence gathering shape within her. As if a real crane, born from Binoy Majumdar’s poetry, was slowly stretching its wings inside her chest, waiting for the right moment to fly away.
After the strange 46 hours and 42 minutes of utopian journey with Abir in Dhaka, Sneha had seen him off at the airport and then boarding a local bus that same night for Sylhet, then three hours wandering that city before setting off again toward somewhere unknown, Sneha finally felt just how utterly exhausted her body and mind had become. And yet the Surma riverbank, even the time at the dargah, had quieted something in her that had been restless for days. Whatever she'd gained from this unplanned and impulsive journey, she felt at least that she hadn't lost much either.
The bitterness, loneliness and intense pain she'd left Dhaka with didn't feel quite as sharp that time. She found herself in a state she could only describe as neither bad nor good- a perfectly balanced diet of emotion, not leaning too heavily in any direction. For the moment, that was enough. That was a relief. Then a song on the bus threw a stone at all of it-
Hum bhool gaye har baat,
Magar tera pyaar nahi bhoole,
Kya kya hua dil ke saath,
Magar tera pyaar nahi bhoole…
Sneha had noticed the driver when she got on. The helper was young, but the driver looked close to fifty, maybe past it, a full beard dyed with henna, which he kept stroking downward with his right hand in a slow, rhythmic wave. His complexion was bright, made brighter still by lips reddened with betel. His face carried a Sufi calm, a look of self‑contentment, as if nothing in the world could unsettle him. Knowing his approximate age made the song feel appropriate. An old Hindi track from the ’80s. Though Sneha wouldn’t have been surprised if it soon shifted into the ’90s. Even after a hundred years from now, she thought, in some salons, buses, and cassette shops, ‘90s songs would still play. This thought made her laugh. The bus's loud speaker was carrying the voice-
Duniya se shikayat kya karta,
Jab tune hume samjha hi nahi
Tune chhod diya re mera haath,
Magar tera pyaar nahi bhoole…
The great Lata Mangeshkar's voice. The ache of a heartbroken lover, deep and precise. Sneha decided it wasn't wise to sit too long inside that feeling. She opened her eyes, straightened up, took out her phone and turned off airplane mode and immediately- dhhai dhhai dhhai! Abir's texts arrived in a flood. Not exactly arrived, they'd been sent long before. They'd just been waiting at the door.
From the preview on screen Sneha could read the beginning- “Sneha, please talk to me…I'm not okay…where are you? Sneha, I'm sorry…Sneha, please talk to me once. You, okay? Please tell me you're alright. Don't punish me like that. Talk to me, please. I beg…” She didn’t feel like replying. Instead, she asked herself- Who am I punishing? The answer came quietly- Myself!
Sneha didn't stay long in Mymensingh, just enough time to step off one bus and get a ticket for the next. She'd sent her resignation letter to her editor and the HR department by email that morning when she arrived in Sylhet. Ignoring Abir’s messages, she checked her other notifications. The reply to her resignation email came with- “Not accepted.” Attached to it was a scanned copy, her own email printed out, stamped boldly with NOT ACCEPTED, signed and sealed by the editor. She almost felt annoyed, but instead, she let out a long breath.
Opening WhatsApp, she saw her boss had written- “Stop this nonsense! Take a few days off if something's wrong. Don't even think about quitting. Come back when your head cools down.” Sneha thought, her head was perfectly cool. Why does everyone assume it’s always burning? She was like a quiet, deserted pond at noon, still, untouched and alone.
On the road back to Dhaka, one of Abir's texts broke through her long near-silence of almost 24 hours- “You, okay? I'm in pain. Deep pain. Call me. I need to talk to you. My chest hurts. Please help me. Do you enjoy hurting me?” She wrote back- I'm okay. Don't worry about me. Hurting you has never made me happy, Abir. The moment she sent it, her phone rang. Once… twice… three times… She didn’t pick up. Not until she reached Dhaka.