[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.]
After spending three hours in Sylhet city, Sneha returned to the Kadamtali bus stand. She still wasn’t sure where she was going next. But somewhere inside, she had a feeling that her Sylhet trip needed to end there, so she got off at Kadamtali and took out two crisp new one-thousand-taka notes, handed them to Omar Faruk Chacha, then asked: Chacha, is this fare okay? She had no clear idea how much he could have earned from a three-hour trip. She felt awkward asking directly, so she simply put the money in his hand and asked. He gave her the same quiet smile he had given her when she first got into his rickshaw and nodded, reassuring her that it was fine.
A little ahead of the bus stand, she saw three buses heading for Dhaka- Hanif Enterprise, Ena Transport, and Bilas Paribahan. She walked past them and got on a Sagarika Enterprise bus marked Sylhet-Moulvibazar-Kishoreganj-Mymensingh. It was a non-AC bus. Fare: 600 taka. There weren’t many passengers. The seat beside hers, D-1, was empty. In her head, she quietly thanked Allah. Alhamdulillah. She still hadn’t fully come out of the trance of that quiet morning by the Surma. She wanted to hang a giant DO NOT DISTURB sign inside her chest, like the ones hanging outside hotel rooms, and spend the rest of the journey that way. The loneliness that had felt unbearable in Dhaka, the very loneliness that had pushed her into this completely unplanned journey had become a little easier to bear while sitting by the Surma. So, as she began her journey toward Mymensingh, her mind felt strangely calm. In that quiet morning in an unfamiliar city, it felt as if she had briefly found the lost companion inside herself again.
Leaning back against the bus seat, Sneha remembered Jean-Paul Sartre’s line “If you are lonely when you’re alone, then you are in bad company.” She smiled. Perhaps she had been feeling lonely in Dhaka. The feeling had started the moment Abir left for Rajshahi. Then she understood something. The solitude she had enjoyed for years, the solitude she had actually loved, had been changed by those two nights and two days with Abir. He had taken her through some strange kind of companionship, some experience that had changed the meaning of her life, and that was going to make her suffer. A lot. She asked herself once, Why not Dhaka? But she didn’t wait for the answer. She opened the Notes app and started typing:
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!
When she finished, she went back to Sartre again. He had once written to Simone de Beauvoir, “It’s strange… I felt less lonely when I didn’t know you.” Sneha smiled again. Not because she was happy. It was a helpless kind of smile. She didn’t need another philosopher to tell her that she had already fallen into a massive black hole. Sartre had pretty much explained it: she would have to keep going through this loop for a while longer. How much longer, she had no idea. And it didn’t even feel like the boundary was hers to decide. She couldn’t see any way out of it yet. When she would find one, or whether she ever would- she had no clue. But she wasn’t Simone de Beauvoir. That thought brought the helpless smile back again. Looking at the pathetic state she was in, she kept throwing mocking little smiles at herself. And somewhere inside all that ridicule and self-contempt, she discovered something: people come close, mostly, just to make you lonelier. She could already feel it- Binoy Majumdar’s crane was beginning to spread its wings. If it ever got the chance, it would simply take off- furut and disappear.
After that strange 46-hour-42-minute utopian journey in Dhaka, seeing Abir off at the airport, taking a local bus to Sylhet that same night, spending three hours there, and then setting off again toward another unknown city, Sneha finally realized how completely exhausted she was—body and mind both. Still, the little time she spent by the Surma and at the dargah had given her restless mind some relief. So, even if she couldn’t say exactly how much she had gained from this unplanned, unknown journey, at least it didn’t seem like she had lost much either. She had started for Sylhet carrying so much irritation, loneliness, and pain, but by the time she was leaving the city, none of those feelings seemed quite as intense. She found herself somewhere in between- not bad, not good. A kind of perfect balanced diet. Nothing was leaning too hard toward one side; nothing was getting fat on the intensity of any single emotion. For now, that felt comforting enough. She was thinking about all this when the song playing on the bus suddenly threw a stone into the calm:
Hum bhool gaye re har baat, Magar tera pyaar nahi bhoole
(I have forgotten everything else, but I haven't forgotten your love...)
Kya kya hua dil ke saath, Magar tera pyaar nahi bhoole…(Look at what has happened to my heart, but I haven't forgotten your love...)
She had caught a glimpse of the driver when she got on the bus. The helper was young, but the driver looked around fifty, maybe a little older. Again and again, he ran his right fist down through his full henna-dyed beard, pulling it downward in loose waves. His complexion was quite fair. The betel-stained lips somehow made his face look even brighter. There was something almost Sufi-like about him. A strange kind of self-satisfaction sat on his face. Looking at him, Sneha felt like nothing in this world could really bother that man.
After guessing the driver’s age, the song playing on the bus suddenly felt justified. An old Hindi film song from the ’80s. Though it wouldn’t be surprising if, a little later, it moved straight into the ’90s. Maybe even a hundred years from now, some ’90s Hindi songs will still be playing in salons, buses, and CD-cassette shops. Instead of getting annoyed, the thought made Sneha smile. By then, the bus speakers were playing:
Duniyase shikayat kya karta, jab tune hamein samjha hi nahi
(Why would I complain to the world when you never understood me?)
Gairon ko bhala kya samjhate, jab apnon ne samjha hi nahi
(Why try to explain to strangers when my own people didn't understand?)
Tune chhod diya re mera haath, magar tera pyaar nahi bhoole…
(You let go of my hand, but I haven't forgotten your love…)
It was Lata Mangeshkar. Though the song had actually been sung first, back in the ’60s, in a Pakistani film called Saheli, by an Urdu singer named Nasima Begum. That voice came back to Sneha too. It was heavier with sadness. Lataji’s version wasn’t bad either. The longing of a failed lover came through her voice with a sharpness and depth that was hard to miss. But Sneha decided she shouldn’t let herself feel too much of that right now. So, she opened her eyes and sat up straight. Taking her phone out of her jeans pocket, she switched off airplane mode and then- dhai dhai dhai, Abir’s texts started flooding in one after another. Though “started” wasn’t really the right word. They had already been waiting there and simply crossed the barrier of airplane mode and finally reached her.
A few lines showed up in the notifications: Sneha… please… talk to me… I’m not in a good condition… 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… Sneha didn’t feel like replying. Instead, she asked herself, Who is she actually punishing? The answer came almost immediately: Herself. She stayed in Mymensingh for barely any time at all. Just long enough to get off one bus, buy a ticket for another, and get back on.
That morning, after reaching Sylhet, Sneha had emailed her resignation letter to the editor and HR. While ignoring Abir’s texts and checking her other notifications, she noticed the reply to her resignation email: NOT ACCEPTED. Along with it, they had scanned and attached a printed copy of her resignation letter with NOT ACCEPTED written across the bottom in huge letters, complete with the editor’s signature and seal. She almost let it ruin her mood, but instead just let out a couple of long sighs.
Then she opened WhatsApp and saw a message from her boss: Stop this madness! If you have a problem, take a few days off. Don’t even think about quitting. Come to the office when you've cooled down. Sneha thought, I’m completely cool. Why did everyone assume she was always losing it? She considered herself as a quiet pond on a still afternoon- calm, empty, alone.
On the way back to Dhaka, one of Abir’s texts broke that meditation of solitude, or maybe broke the silence that had lasted almost twenty-four hours: Are you okay? I’m in pain. Deep pain. Call me. I need to talk to you. I’m having chest pain. Please help me. Do you enjoy hurting me? Sneha replied, I’m okay. Don’t worry about me. I never enjoy hurting you, Abir. The moment she sent the text, her phone started ringing. Once. Twice. Three times. She finally answered the call after she got back to Dhaka.