We are fighting for the demand of time

 Mumitul Mimma:

Thousands of times I thought of dying. Thousands of times my eyes glittered watching the double decker bus, wondering if the bus could have run over my head. I wished to put an end to this life in a moment. But it didn’t happen. Why? I’m coming to that point.

It was 2013 when my life started to change. After surviving the rat race of admissions,  I was admitted into Sher-e-Bangla agricultural university. I remember the day when my mother went into post-operativeroom from ICU. My agricultural botany exam was scheduled the very same day.

Examination was to start at 4 pm. I called and no one was answering. I told that to my friend Pritush. She said, “No problem. Let’s go and sit in the exam hall.” When I arrived at the hall, at 3; 50 pm I got to know my mother was in ICU. I got panicked. I started crying and called Mayeen. I told him “I’m not feeling bad but I’m crying because I cannot get it why am I not feeling bad.” He assured me everything will be alright. For the first time in my life I had a major blow.

For the first time I felt like I have no one else on this Earth to go than this lady. My mother came to senses after so many tries. The hospital bill was huge. There were relatives who just called once and thought all the responsibilities are over. But there were a lot of people whom we didn’t realize were this close to us, stood beside my younger brother and me like shadows. That was the time when I realized relatives are not those who were related by blood, rather who were connected by souls.

My father as usual was  an escapist. Before my mother came to senses and came back to home, his only duty was to call sometimes to get done with responsibilities. So it was beyond expectation that he would help us with money. The story after that was the story of my struggle of dawn to dusk. I desperately looked for ways to earn money. This capitalist world made me so frustrated that I wished to die. I used to give tuition till 2:30 a.m. . . .I felt like crying loudly . I used to call Mayeen and cry helplessly. He used to listen to me silently.

He was unable to bear me in that time and left- leaving everything behind. My condition was then like a mother after labor pain- tired and devastated. I was trying to be stable. Then Mayeen’s absence made everything look like dust.

I, who was always a topper, started  failing in the exams. I became almost lost drinking coffee repeatedly. 6-7 mugs of caffeine intake daily made me almost sick. I had been crying all day long and drinking coffee. I could not find Mayeen anywhere. He made me almost blank by blocking me in Facebook, Skype and phone. I used to think I’ll suddenly wake up from my nightmare and see him sitting beside me.  Everyone else can change. But why Mayeen?

He was the place where I could rely on. I couldn’t imagine him escaping from the duties. We were in the same campus. If I wished I could find him and force him to face me. I did none of those. I could not lose like that. I was looking at my copies from last semester. All the pages were filled by the letters I wrote to him. I read those letters. I wondered if it was possible to get hurt like that. I have a folder in my laptop filled with letters for him- letter to my beloved. There are 48 letters in that folder. This still hurts but this is a fight within. Whenever night falls I just think about the moments I spent talking to him. I cannot afford to be awake every night. I had to go to tuitions. I have to teach students in day light. Its bitter but it’s true that love does not live in poverty.

He is not with me this does not mean that the moments we spent were false or the love is false. This realization is important.

If he is happy with someone else then be it. My place does not fade for that. A few days back the thought of someone kissing his forehead used to make me sick. I wish to fly like a butterfly every time I think about the moments we spend together.  But in the end this is the only truth is he is not mine. He won’t be back again. Sometimes I feel jealous of his friend Minhaj Aman. He loves Minhaj Aman fiercely. Sometimes I feel like in my next lifetime I would like to be Minhaj Aman just to get the love.

I wanted to deny my pain with coffee. I voluntarily  used to manage blood for people like pregnant or victim of accident- be it Sylhet or Dhaka; be it day night or midnight just sitting before the laptop. I used to spend time talking to the girls who were mentally damaged. Many of them used to get cheered up by talking to me.

One day, I knocked a girl named Mukta whom I helped a while ago. She not only recovered herself , but also helped others and trained girl from more five zones in this respect. She opened a cooking center of her own for girls. Her smiling face seemed like it was for me. This was the reward of my struggle

People die hundred times to arise in hundred ways. Departure gives people only pain I don’t believe in that way. Departure makes people love in another way. Otherwise why I used to inspire Mukta? Was it only to pass the time? Or it was because I loved that?

Suicide is not a solution. I wished to die in absence of Mayeen for uncountable number of times. Still I’m attracted by the double decker suicide thought. I couldn’t do it for my mother. My mother would have starved to death if I weren’t there. I can accept my death. But I cannot accept my mother starving. I cannot make my younger brothers colorful university days become black and white. I could not die! What about now? I don’t wish to die now. I wish to see what is there in life when I’m alive anyway…

A line from a short story by Zahir Raihan caught my mind. That is “May be it is the demand of time, we are fighting as it is the demand of time.”

Neurons scream “why are you fighting? May be we are fighting for the demand of time.”


The writer is a passionate feminist, writer, social worker and student of Jahangirnagar University.





Sadia Rahman is a final year student of English literature,Rajshahi University. Other than writing, her passions include writing, debating and anchoring.
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