It was around December 2015, just a few months after I had enrolled in high school. Initially, I was very enthusiastic about attending classes, but gradually, I started losing interest. This wasn't due to any fault of the teachers or the educational system-it's just how I am. When I was a child, my father used to buy me my favorite toys or dolls, and I would play with them excitedly on the first day, but after that, I would lose interest and not even look at them again.
This isn't entirely my fault. My mother died when I was born. My father, who can be considered an affluent person, did not remarry despite having substantial earnings. I am his only daughter, and from his demeanor, it seems he has no intention of remarrying. I have asked him many times, but he never listened.
Even 17 years after my mother's death, my father can't forget her. Sometimes, it frustrates me. I used to have a theory that it is better not to love than to love someone like this.
My name is Zara Akter, and at that time, I was 17 years old. I was very active in high school, mainly because I attended an all-girls school where I could do whatever I wanted. Another reason was that during the break after the SSC or 10th-grade board exams, I read a book with about 10,000 pages filled with emotional stories, which made me very emotional. Each story in that book affected me deeply. The improvement in my character after reading that book is indescribable.
Today, while organizing my things, I found that book in a box and read one of its pages. Reading that page made me cry.
Calming myself down, I sat with a pen and paper. There is a story from my life that I never wanted to share publicly. Today, I felt that this story should be known to everyone. Perhaps it will help someone reveal a hidden story from their own depths.
Anyway, enough talking. Let's get to the story-
By the way in my country -
Class 8-10 is high school and 11-12 is collage level and then University or University level collage.
As soon as I started college, I began taking private tutoring, mainly due to our education system. Except for a few select colleges, the standard of education isn't exceptional anywhere.
I attended coaching for three subjects outside college: Bengali, English, and ICT (Information and Communication Technology). My cousin tutored me in the remaining subjects at home. Oh, I forgot to mention that I grew up in a joint family.
I'm digressing again...
So, I took Bengali, English, and ICT with three different tutors. There was a boy named Arafat, whose private classes coincided with mine. It wasn't just Arafat-many others' classes overlapped with mine, but Arafat caught my eye because, during the one-hour gaps between my coaching classes, I would sit on a bench near the college mosque and read storybooks from my bag. Every day, I would see Arafat sitting under a tree, doing something with paper and pencil.
Another reason he stood out was that in our English coaching, Jabbar Sir often praised Arafat for consistently performing best in every exam he conducted.
In ICT coaching, Tuhin Sir would often talk about Arafat because of his habit of sitting alone and not asking questions. Though Tuhin Sir's comments were not negative, he would repeatedly tell Arafat,
"If you keep avoiding interactions with people like you do now, even when you go to university, people will misunderstand you, thinking it's due to ego."
Time flew by, and 2016 arrived, marking the end of my first six months of college life.
After January started, I didn't see Arafat in coaching for about nine days.
I was sitting in the ICT coaching class, having arrived ten minutes early. Some other classmates were also present. I was reading a book. When the door opened, I quickly closed the book and put it in my bag, thinking Tuhin Sir had arrived. Looking up, I saw it was Arafat.
Arafat took a seat in the empty back row.
Tuhin Sir entered and said,
"There was an exam yesterday. Those who didn't show up, stand up."
Many stood up, but Arafat hesitated, and the boy next to him said, "Hey, man, you don't need to stand up."
Arafat didn't stand up.
Sir asked me, "Many didn't raise their hands. Check who didn't show up but isn't standing."
I mentioned two names and then said, "Sir, Arafat didn't show up either."
Hearing his name, Arafat stood up. Sir asked him,
"Why didn't you come?"
Arafat didn't respond, just held out his hand.
If a student didn't do well in an exam or missed a class, Tuhin Sir would punish them by hitting their palms with a stick.
As Sir was about to hit his hand, the boy next to Arafat said,
"Sir, his mother died in a car accident on the 1st."
Sir stopped and asked Arafat,
"Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un. How? How did the accident happen?"
"Sir, we went to a restaurant on the 31st. On our way back, she collided with a truck..." Arafat was explaining when Sir said, "I'm sorry."
Even though Sir said, "I'm sorry," I felt more apologetic than Sir. Was it really necessary for me to mention Arafat's name?
I wanted to apologize immediately, but I thought, "I didn't know...
Although my ego initially held me back, seeing Arafat sitting in the shade of the tree broke it, and I approached him.
I said, "Arafat, I'm sorry."
Arafat responded, "Sorry? For what?"
I replied, "For telling the teacher today that you weren't here."
Arafat stood up and said, "Oh, that... it's okay."
Saying this, Arafat started walking away and left.
This was the first time I had spoken to Arafat. I felt a strange sensation, like the kind of fear you get after watching a horror movie-my heart was pounding.
After that day, I began observing him more closely. My eyes would always follow him whenever I saw him.
One day, I saw him doing something while sitting on a bench near the mosque. From a distance, it looked like he was drawing. I went closer and saw an extraordinary scene.
Arafat was drawing with great concentration. The picture depicted a person standing on a weighing scale, controlled like a puppet by an eye, with corpses all around.
The drawing looked very realistic, and the surprising part was that he had drawn the entire picture using just one pencil.
I had approached from the path behind him, so Arafat didn't notice me. However, one can often sense when someone is standing behind them. He turned around and saw me. I was still mesmerized by the drawing.
Upon seeing me, he quickly closed his drawing and put it in his bag.
I said, "What happened? The drawing was good. Is it a problem because of me?"
Arafat stood up with his bag and left without saying anything.
Arafat's behavior angered me, and my ego was hurt.
After that, even though I saw Arafat many times, I didn't look at him. Whenever I saw him, I thought there couldn't be anyone worse than him, even though Arafat hadn't done anything significant to make me think that way.
On the day of February 21, our college organized some competitions.
I participated in poetry recitation and drawing.
When my name was called to recite the poem, I started. During the recitation, my eyes wandered to the audience, and I spotted Arafat with his curly hair. He was wearing my college's uniform. Until then, I had thought Arafat attended another college since I had never seen him at mine.
Even though I looked at Arafat, he was reading a book in his hand.
Looking in that direction made me mix up the lines of the poem, which sounded terrible. Some students immediately laughed.
As a result, I stopped reciting and stepped down from the stage.
Others continued to recite their poems, and suddenly, a teacher announced,
"Those who wish to participate in drawing, please proceed to room 103 on the first floor of the main building."
I got up, gathered my colors and supplies, and started walking.
The laughter still echoed in my mind.
When I reached room 103, I saw that only two seats were empty.
I sat in one, and everyone was given a page. The time started, and I began drawing. My plan was to draw a scene where a mother is standing in front of the Shaheed Minar, crying with her child's dead body in her arms.
I drew the Shaheed Minar. Just then, the door opened, and I saw Arafat asking for permission to enter. A teacher handed him a paper and asked him to sit next to me, as the seat next to me was empty.
Arafat sat beside me. Without a word, he took out his supplies and started drawing.
I finished my drawing. Looking to my side, I saw Arafat drawing a scene from the language movement, with dead bodies in the picture. I was mesmerized, staring at his drawing skills. Compared to him, my drawing skills seemed childish.
Suddenly, the bell rang.
The sound snapped me back to reality, and I realized I had been staring at Arafat's drawing for the past half hour.
The teacher took my paper.
That afternoon, the teachers announced there would be a cultural event followed by the results.
I knew I wouldn't win anything, but I went that day just to see Arafat receive his prize, as I was sure he would win.
One by one, they announced the winners of each category. When they announced the winners for poetry recitation, I knew I had no chance. When they announced the first place, I was surprised. It wasn't my name-it was Arafat's. I was the first to applaud. I didn't know why I was so happy, but I knew one thing for sure-I was genuinely happy in my heart.
I saw Arafat receive the prize. He also won first place in the drawing competition. Seeing him made me happy again.
I was going home when my father called and asked if he should pick me up by car. I was about to say yes when I saw Arafat walking, clearly heading home.
I told my father, "No, I'll walk home, don't worry."
I hung up and started walking quickly toward Arafat. When I caught up to him, I called out from behind.
I said to Arafat, "Congratulations. I didn't know you could draw so well. I realized it that day when I saw you, and today proved it again. As for the poetry, I didn't hear your recitation, but since you won first place, it's clear how good you are."
Arafat replied, "Oh, thanks," and started walking again.
I began walking with him and said, "I didn't know you studied at Shaheed Rafiq College."
"Oh, I see," Arafat said.
"Are you going home now?" I asked.
"Yes," Arafat replied.
It was clear Arafat didn't want to talk to me, so I said to him, "Please wait a minute. I know that day... that incident made you behave like this towards me. I'm really sorry."
I knew he wasn't acting like this because of that incident. Still, it was enough to stop him. And just as I expected, it worked.
Arafat turned around and said, "What? Which day are you talking about?"
"Nothing, I just wanted to say if I've annoyed you in any way, please forgive me," I said.
"I don't understand. I don't even know what you're talking about. If my behavior makes you feel that way, there's nothing I can do," Arafat said.
"Then why do you avoid me whenever you see me?" I asked.
"I don't specifically act in any way towards anyone. I behave the same with everyone," Arafat said.
"Not even with your friends?" I asked.
"I don't have any friends," Arafat said and started walking again.
I asked why.
Annoyed, Arafat said, "I don't think I need friends to get by."
"Oh, okay," I said.
"And stop following me," Arafat said, looking at me with irritation.
"Alright, but I'm not following you. My home is this way too," I said.
We were walking past a field where some local boys were playing cricket.
Arafat started walking faster. Someone hit the ball hard, and it flew towards us. Arafat was a bit ahead of me. The ball was heading straight for him.
Arafat didn't notice. I tried to warn him, but by then, the ball had already hit the left side of his head. He staggered to the left, where a rickshaw was passing by. Arafat's head hit the rod of the rickshaw's hood. The rickshaw driver stopped quickly.
I rushed to Arafat and saw that his eyes were closed and blood was coming from his head.
The rickshaw driver quickly got down and tightly bandaged Arafat's forehead with a towel.
Arafat was unconscious. The rickshaw driver said, "We need to get him to the hospital quickly" and asked who I was to him.
I said I was his friend.
Thanks to the rickshaw driver, we reached the hospital quickly.
At the hospital, Arafat needed blood. The rickshaw driver agreed to donate since his blood type matched.
I sat for almost an hour. I had Arafat's bag with me.
A nurse asked me for a family member's number. Since I couldn't find a phone on Arafat and didn't have any contact numbers, I couldn't inform his family.
After donating blood, the rickshaw driver was resting. Then the doctor said Arafat had regained consciousness.
I went to see him and found the doctor taking his father's number to call him. I handed Arafat his bag.
Not knowing what to say, I said, "I'll go now. My father will be worried."
Arafat looked at the clock and saw it was 8 PM.
"You've been here all this time?" Arafat asked me.
"Forget about that. I'm leaving," I said and quickly left the hospital.
Outside, I saw my father waiting with the car. I got in. My father smiled and said, "Wow! My daughter has grown up."
If you think my father would be angry with me or something, you're wrong. It takes luck to have a father like mine.
Many days passed, almost 20, without seeing Arafat.
Finally, on March 14, I saw Arafat at coaching after all this time. I felt a bit happy inside.
As usual, Mr. Tuhin asked those who hadn't attended to stand up.
Arafat also stood up.
When the teacher came to Arafat, he asked why he hadn't come for the past 20 days. Arafat simply said he didn't feel like coming.
I got angry hearing this and told the teacher, "Sir, Arafat had an accident."
Even though boys and girls sat separately, and I was sitting quite far away, my words were heard throughout the room.
Sir asked "Really?"
Arafat said "Yes sir".
That day, after coaching, as usual, I was sitting on the tree stump by the college pond reading a book. Across the pond, the mosque could be seen, and beside it, the bench was visible. I was looking in that direction because that's where Arafat was sitting.
Suddenly, the shadow of someone behind me fell on my book. I turned around and saw Arafat.
I was surprised to see Arafat. He looked at me and said,
"Thank you for that day. When my father came to the hospital, he thanked the rickshaw driver profusely for saving me. The rickshaw driver also mentioned you. But you had left the hospital by then. When my father went to pay the medical bills, he found everything had already been paid," Arafat said.
I said, "Oh."
"I know it was you who did all this, so I came to thank you," Arafat said.
I stood up and said, "Oh, that's no big deal. I can do that for a friend, no need to thank me." I paused a bit and then said, "Or are you thanking me because I'm not your friend?"
"No, it's nothing like that," Arafat said.
"So what's the answer then? We're friends, right?" I said.
"If you think so, then yes, we're friends," Arafat said.
Everything went silent for a moment, like the calm before a storm.
Breaking the silence, I said, "Do you like reading books?"
Arafat said, "Sometimes, but yes, I do like reading books."
"Let's go to the library. I saw an amazing book in the science section about timelines," I said.
"But I'm not a science student," Arafat said.
"Yes, I know you're a business student. So what? It has nothing to do with that," I said.
After that day, spending time together after coaching became a habit for us. Sometimes in the library, sometimes by the pond, or sometimes on the bench beside the mosque.
Many days passed this way, and during these days, our friendship deepened. We even changed how we spent our time. We could finish our coaching studies during that time, thanks to the library.
We also participated in various competitions. Gradually, my drawing skills improved a lot.
Interestingly, on May Day, there was a drawing competition, and I couldn't win first place because of Arafat. He scored 0.5 points more than me.
Though we were friends, we were rivals when it came to drawing.
Time passed, and June arrived, bringing our first-year final exams.
We used to go home together every day because our routes were the same. Coaching classes were also closed for exams.
I was standing in front of the college business building waiting for Arafat. When I saw him, I approached and saw he was talking to a girl. Honestly, I felt a pang of sadness inside. It felt like someone was taking Arafat away from me.
I followed them. He escorted the girl to a rickshaw.
Arafat then looked around and got into the rickshaw.
I felt a sense of emptiness inside.
I went home. I spent the whole day in my room feeling sad. Ramadan ( The month of fast in islam) was starting the day after tomorrow. My father came into my room and asked what was wrong.
I told him everything.
I never hide anything from my father, so I told him.
He said, "There's nothing to be sad about. When Arafat came to our house, I didn't feel from talking to him that he's like that."
I had brought Arafat to my house three or four times, including on my 18th birthday, and during those days, everyone in my family had developed a good relationship with him.
"But what if he has someone he loves? What will I do then?" I asked my father.
He said, "Then it's your fault because you never told Arafat that you love him. If you don't tell him, he'll only see you as a friend, right?" My father also said, "I don't know what kind of father I am, giving such advice to my daughter, but I'll say you should tell Arafat your feelings tomorrow. Let whatever happens, happen."
I followed my father's advice that day.
The next day, after our English coaching ended, all the other teachers had given a holiday. Then Arafat and I started walking home.
I asked Arafat to stop and requested to go by the pond. Arafat agreed.
Despite the heat and the anxiety, I mustered up the courage and said, "Arafat, I... I never talked to you just to be friends. I always felt a strange attraction towards you. I didn't know if it was love or not, but now I'm a hundred percent sure that I love you. Arafat, I love you very much."
Arafat didn't say a word, he didn't answer me. There was silence for a while.
"Please say something, give me an answer," I said loudly.
In reply, Arafat said, "No, it's not possible."
I said, "Why? Why isn't it possible? Do you love someone else? That girl, the one you were with in the rickshaw yesterday?"
"She's my cousin," Arafat said.
"Then what? What's the problem? Don't you love me?" I asked, with tear-filled eyes.
"Yes, but what's the point? Our love, at our age, does any of it have a future? Suppose everything is fine now. With my studies, it's not possible for me to go to university or study in the same place as you. It sounds easy, but in reality, it's very difficult. Our relationship is better off as a friendship," Arafat said.
"So you're giving up before even trying? Do you think it's possible for us to go back to being just friends after this conversation? Did you forget your own words? A few days ago, after I didn't win first place in the competition and gave up, you told me that giving up without trying is a sign of cowardice. So, are you trying to prove yourself a coward now?" I said.
"I don't know what I should do," Arafat said.
"Sometimes you have to listen to your heart instead of your mind. Listen to your heart and give me an answer. Please. My path depends on your answer today," I said.
Without thinking, Arafat immediately said, "I am listening to both my heart and mind. I love you, Zara."
As soon as I heard this, I hugged Arafat.
I didn't look at anything around me. Listening to my heart, I hugged Arafat.
Arafat said to me, "Let go! We're still in college campus , if someone sees us, they'll call us bad kids."
I let go, and we started walking home together.
From that day on, our friendship evolved into a romantic relationship.
I invited Arafat to my house for Eid, but he didn't come. I got very angry; it was our first fight. Although it was only me who was angry. I didn't talk to him for a day. Later, Arafat made up with me.
There was a thin line between our friendship and our relationship . When we were friends, there was a slight distance between us, but after falling in love, the distance decreased.
Arafat's birthday was on September 17. Actually, Arafat was a few months younger than me, but that didn't matter.
Since Arafat didn't have a phone, I gave him a smartphone as a birthday gift. At that time, not everyone had phones, and even if they did, most had button phones.
Seeing my gift, Arafat made many excuses not to take it. The main reason was that he had given me a gift on my birthday. Another reason was convincing his father.
After much difficulty, I made Arafat accept the gift.
Once Arafat got the phone, we talked almost all day on Messenger. We also talked a lot on the phone.
Sometimes I accidentally write in the present tense because, while writing, I feel like these things are happening to me right now. I forget which is the past and which is the present.
No one could tell from a distance that we were in a romantic relationship because we didn't cling to each other like other couples. We talked and interacted with respect.
Anyway, our relationship was going very well. Even during the HSC (12th board exam), we would talk on the phone for an hour or half an hour each day, even if we couldn't meet.
Then came the admission coaching. I moved to Dhaka and stayed at an aunt's house while attending coaching classes.
Arafat didn't do any coaching. According to him, business students don't need coaching.
I stayed at my aunt's house, where it was difficult to talk. My uncle had a very Islamic mindset, so we couldn't talk much, only when I was coming back from coaching. I used to go home twice a month and meet Arafat then.
The admission season ended. I got into the Computer Science department at Dhaka University, among other universities.
Arafat didn't get into any. The happiness I felt from my admission disappeared because Arafat didn't get in.
I met Arafat at our usual meeting place in front of the canal by the "Mudir Lal Bridge."
Arafat's father was very disappointed with Arafat's results. Arafat would retake the university exam next year and study honors at the college for now.
Before starting classes at the university, I met Arafat as often as possible. We talked a lot, as much as we could.
I moved to Dhaka. I stayed at my aunt's house until I got a dorm room.
I regularly talked to Arafat on the phone. This went on for some time.
I used to go home every two weeks, and then I would meet Arafat at that bridge. We'd go for a little walk and then I'd return to Dhaka.
One day, I went out with my uncle. There was no electricity, and there was a nice breeze outside.
We sat in a park, and my uncle quickly took me away after seeing a boy and a girl kissing.
I thought then, what kind of love is this where one shows their love in such a way? A person can never look at their loved one with lustful eyes. Those who do are not in love; they are pretending to love or are giving their lust the name of love to console themselves.
My uncle said to me, "This country is full of such things, wherever you look, people are doing this. It's disgraceful. There is a lack of religious values. This so-called love is destroying society."
While he was saying this, it started to rain.
We stood under a shop's awning, and my uncle said, "Ah! The sky was clear. Now it looks like this alley will flood again."
I didn't say anything. I saw a boy and a girl in uniform under the same umbrella. I wasn't sure if they were siblings, friends, or lovers, but I saw the boy's shoulder getting wet as he tried to keep the girl dry. Even under the same umbrella, there was a little distance between them because the boy was trying to ensure his body didn't touch hers.
Eight months passed like this, and I no longer stayed at my aunt's house. I was then in Rokeya Hall. I had made some friends at the university. My workload increased, but I still called Arafat regularly. However, Arafat never called me first. We only talked when I gave him a missed call or called him. The same was true for texting. I thought maybe he was busy.
Because of my exams, I hadn't gone home in a long time. After my exams ended, I returned to my dorm and thought I would call Arafat. His number was unreachable. I logged into Facebook and saw that Arafat's account had been deleted.
I started to worry, and that week, I quickly went home. I stood in front of the bridge, but Arafat didn't come. I decided to go to Arafat's house, even though I didn't actually know where it was. By asking around using Arafat's father's name, I found their house.
When I arrived, a woman came out. I asked her who they were. After some conversation, I learned that Arafat and his father had sold the house and left a month ago. I went to the village school and inquired about Arafat's father, Abdul Alem, but they informed me that he had resigned from his job 10 days ago.
I didn't know what was happening, but I started feeling a deep pain inside. Nothing made sense to me.
I returned home. I didn't tell my father anything. I locked myself in my room, trying to make sense of everything, but nothing came to mind. I felt like I was suffering the pain of separation.
After searching for many days, I still couldn't find anyone-neither Arafat nor his father.
After looking for arafat for months I gave up. The day I gave up, I cried a lot.
A year passed. I no longer thought about Arafat. I was at home because the university was closed due to COVID-19. I spent my days on my phone, making memes. It had been a long time since I stopped drawing.
I spent all day watching manga, dramas, and anime. I had nothing to do; my CGPA at university was just 2.58. I didn't study either. Occasionally, I attended online classes on Zoom, but I often skipped them.
One day, my father called. He informed me that 0-negative blood was urgently needed at the Neurolab Hospital. An elderly person at my father's retirement home had contracted COVID-19, losing his sense of smell. Though he recovered from COVID-19, that neuron wasn't functioning, and he had a slight blood deficiency. He needed O-negative blood.
Since I have O-negative blood, I went to the hospital and donated blood.
After donating blood, I sat outside. Everyone around me was wearing masks.
I felt the presence of someone familiar nearby. I looked around carefully. I saw someone in a wheelchair accompanied by a middle-aged man.
I started running in that direction, feeling weak from the blood donation, but it seemed more important to reach that person at that moment.
I approached and saw an elderly woman in the wheelchair.
Seeing this, I apologized to them.
I stood there in disappointment, out of breath.
I felt a strange sensation around me.
I didn't have the strength to stand, so I sat on a nearby bench.
I looked towards the main entrance of the hospital and saw a patient being brought in from an ambulance. The patient's family members were crying, indicating that the person might have passed away.
They quickly took the patient inside.
I kept my eyes on the entrance for a while, watching the movement of patients.
Suddenly, I noticed someone very familiar. A middle-aged man was pushing the wheelchair, and the person in the wheelchair looked very ill.
I quickly stood up and started running in their direction; they were leaving the hospital. I needed to stop them before they left. I stumbled and fell on the stairs, hurting my hand slightly.
People around me came to check if I was okay. Without answering them, I started running in that direction. By then, they had already left the hospital. I rushed outside but couldn't find anyone. I felt a pang of despair and looked around. In the distance, I spotted them.
I ran in that direction.
With all my strength, I called out to him, and it was Arafat. The same Arafat I hadn't seen in two years, the one I once dreamed of marrying.
Arafat turned around, and so did his father.
I reached them, tears welling up in my eyes.
I don't remember what happened next because I fainted.
When I opened my eyes, I saw my father.
At that moment, I thought seeing Arafat might have been a dream.
As soon as I regained consciousness, I sat up. I had an IV in my hand.
I told my father, "I saw Arafat."
"I know, I saw him too. Arafat is ill. He has a rare disease," my father said.
"What? What's wrong with him? And how do you know?" I asked.
"After you fainted, Arafat's father brought you to the hospital. I saw Arafat there. Arafat recognized me, and I told him about your past relationship. He couldn't believe it. Arafat had never told his father about you. Then he left with Arafat, scolding him a bit before they went," my father said.
"What disease does he have?" I asked.
"A disease called MND. After some research, I found out there's no cure for it. The neurons in the body gradually become non-functional, leading to death," my father said.
"The same disease Stephen Hawking had?" I asked.
Father said with despair, "Yes."
Hearing this, I felt immense pain in my heart.
-----
A few days later, I started looking for a house in a village.
After much searching, I found the address.
It was a tin house with many cows in the yard. I entered the yard. I didn't find anyone.
I slowly went inside the house and saw someone drawing, sitting in a wheelchair.
It was Arafat.
I called out, "Arafat."
Arafat turned his wheelchair with his hand and asked, "Who is it?"
"It's me, Zara," I said.
When Arafat turned around, a strange feeling washed over me.
"Zara? You? Here?" Arafat said in surprise.
"Who is it, Arafat?" Arafat's father said as he came out from the cowshed.
Seeing me, he said, "Hey girl, aren't you the one from the hospital? What are you doing here?"
Arafat said to his father, "Why are you talking like this, Dad?"
"Be quiet. I understand now, it's because of this girl that you're in this state. She ruined your studies. If it weren't for her, you wouldn't be like this," Arafat's father shouted.
"Me?!" I said in dismay.
"Dad! How is this her fault?" Arafat said.
"Girl, get out of here. Leave now," Arafat's father shouted.
"But Uncle, I just wanted to talk to Arafat for a moment, please don't do this," I said.
"Didn't I tell you to leave? Leave quickly," Arafat's father said.
Suddenly, my father appeared from behind.
"You can't talk like this as a gentleman. You are a teacher," my father said.
I quickly went to my father, my eyes were filled with tears.
"Oh, really? What kind of father are you? Your daughter will do whatever she wants, and you won't say anything? It's because of fathers like you that society is in this state. My son was never interested in these love affairs. Your corrupted daughter must have done this to my son," Arafat's father said.
"Speak respectfully. I am still talking to you with respect. I can help you if I want to. I can take care of all your son's medical expenses," my father said.
"I don't need your help, take your daughter and leave now," Arafat's father (Abdul Alem) said.
"Dad! Please stop. Why are you behaving like this?" Arafat said.
"Look. I understand your situation. Please calm down. Please speak calmly," my father said.
Abdul Alem said in a slightly lower voice, "Why have you come here?"
"Look, just as your son means everything to you, my daughter means everything to me. I don't want my daughter to suffer or be angry with me for any reason. Look, if I don't do anything for your son's illness, I will be a criminal in my daughter's eyes. So I request you, please let me help with your son's comfort or treatment," my father said.
"Who are you? Who are you to do all this?" Abdul Alem said.
"Look, I have a stake here, and that's my daughter's happiness. I can do anything for that. Now everything depends on you," Father said.
Saying this, Father started to leave the house. He told me, "Zara, that's enough. Let's go home now."
I stood still for a moment, looking at Arafat, and then slowly walked out.
I went home. After that, I wanted to go to Arafat's house many times, but my Father didn't allow me.
2 days later i went to the village and reached Arafat's house and saw there was no one. I asked neighbors and they said that they left the place yesterday.
I was broken again and for some days I looked for Arafat but didn't find him anywhere.
A few days later-
I was sitting in my room listening to music when Auntie came and said, "The new renter downstairs has arrived, go and meet them."
Annoyed, I said, "What? Why should I meet them? What's it to me who moves downstairs?"
Auntie said, "Oh! Your father called and told me to tell you. I don't know much. Besides, your father wouldn't ask you to meet someone for no reason, right?"
Annoyed, I said, "Alright, I'll go."
I went after a while.
When I knocked on the door, Arafat opened it. I was completely shocked. I couldn't understand what was happening.
In that moment of silence, Arafat broke the quiet atmosphere and said, "Zara, how are you?"
Hearing him, I didn't know what to say, so I blurted out whatever came to mind.
"First, tell me where you disappeared to, ignoring me like that."
"I'm sorry, really, but there was nothing I could do," Arafat said.
"I will never forgive you for what you did," I told Arafat.
"That's up to you. Anyway, I won't live much longer. Forgive me before then," Arafat said with a smile.
"Shut up, I will do what I say. And who told you that you're going to die? The doctor? It doesn't matter. When I say I won't forgive you, I mean it. Because I won't let you disappear again," I said.
"We'll see. But now answer my question, how are you?" Arafat said.
"I was fine, I had forgotten you. Now I'm not fine, because..." I trailed off.
"Because what?" Arafat asked.
Without saying anything, I hugged Arafat.
I said, "It doesn't matter. I still love you."
As I hugged Arafat, I realized his body had become very thin. His body felt like it was made of bones with little flesh.
Hearing the bathroom door open, I let go of Arafat.
Arafat's father came out of the bathroom. I greeted him this time.
His appearance had changed a lot. He no longer looked like that angry teacher.
He said to me, "Forgive me, my dear."
I said, "Oh no, Uncle, what are you saying?"
"Forgive me as if I were your father. I behaved so poorly with you that day," Abdul Aleem said.
That day I found out that it was Father who convinced him. Father gave him a job at his orphanage as a manager of the place and took on all the expenses for Arafat's treatment.
From that day on, my routine changed. I spent a large part of my day with Arafat. Arafat's hands worked a bit, so we would draw together, play games, and watch movies and series.
But gradually, Arafat's hand functionality decreased. Within two months, his hands became completely unusable. As a result, Arafat couldn't feed himself anymore. I took on the responsibility of feeding him.
Arafat's father was not at home during the day because he had started teaching.
My responsibilities towards Arafat increased because I wanted to take them on.
The days passed like this, with doctors coming and saying that his condition was deteriorating.
Two months later, Arafat became completely bedridden. It was very painful to see a loved one in such a state.
It got to the point where Arafat could do nothing but speak. Still, our conversations never ended.
One day, I went to Arafat's house, and he was sleeping. Arafat's father was watching TV.
My relationship with Arafat's father had improved a lot by then. He asked me to sit next to him.
"Dear Zara, do you know why I call you 'dear'? Because the kindness in your eyes reminds me of my mother. I am really grateful to you and your father. I used to think love was a bad thing, but seeing you changed my mind. I pray to Allah every day, crying, to heal my son, even if it costs me my life. If my son were to get better, making you his bride would be the best decision of my life. Alas, that's not possible," Arafat's father said.
"It's still possible for me to marry Arafat," I said.
"No, don't say that. I see you as my daughter. Doing that would mean ruining your life. I want you to grow up and be known as an exceptional person," Arafat's father said, placing his hand on my head.
Before I could say anything, he stood up and said, "I have to go now. I was actually waiting for you. Arafat hasn't woken up yet. Last night, he was talking about you. He wanted to tell you something."
"Alright, don't worry, Uncle. I'm here," I said.
Arafat's father said, "With you here, I have no worries."
And then he left.
I went to Arafat's room. I saw that he was sleeping, and I felt a strange unease inside.
Leaving Arafat's room, I checked what Arafat's father had cooked. Since Arafat had difficulty swallowing solid food, the meal consisted of soft foods like soup, poached eggs, and rice flour bread.
Suddenly, I heard a noise from Arafat's room. I rushed in and found Arafat had fallen off the bed. Blood was coming from his head. He was unconscious.
I quickly bandaged his head and called Arafat's father. Then, we immediately took him to the hospital.
On the way to the hospital, his condition was very bad, but we managed to get there in time. Within three hours, Arafat regained consciousness.
At that moment, I remembered the time when Arafat got severely injured in front of me. That day, I was following Arafat around, trying to befriend him.
Recalling that memory made me feel sad because I learned that Arafat's MND was primarily caused by the injury from that day. If I hadn't followed him around that day, none of this would have happened.
As I was thinking about this, the doctor informed me that I could now see Arafat.
I went in and saw that Arafat had regained consciousness, but he couldn't speak at all. The doctor said the nerves controlling his vocal cords were also damaged.
It pained me to think that I would never hear Arafat's voice again, but I was grateful to Allah that he could still be saved.
From that day, Arafat was admitted to the hospital. It had been almost seven days. I visited him every day. I talked to Arafat, and though he couldn't speak, he would just smile faintly. That was my solace.
One evening, I went to see Arafat. He was sleeping, and I sat beside him. Suddenly, Arafat started to convulse. I got scared. Arafat was trying to say something but couldn't. I quickly called the doctor and held Arafat's hand tightly. As soon as the doctor entered, Arafat's body gave a big jerk.
Arafat's hand slipped from mine. Before I could say anything, the doctor urgently asked me to leave. When I refused, a nurse forcefully escorted me out.
I felt like everything was over. I was stunned and remained silent. Tears welled up in my eyes.
Then, I don't remember anything else clearly. Yes, just one thing stands out: when the doctor said, "Arafat is no more, he's passed away."
Present Time
|| The writer (Zara) was crying at that moment, tears were falling on the paper. She was writing all this, sharing her past in the paper as a text.
Zara closed her diary. A person came and said, "Ma'am, please get ready quickly. There's not much time left. If we delay today, it will cause a lot of trouble."
Zara said, "Yes, I'm coming. You get the car ready, I'm leaving."
Zara got up, put her diary in a box, and thought to herself, "Today, Arafat was supposed to be in my place."
Zara went downstairs and got into the car. The car started moving. Zara looked outside, a tear fell from her eye.
The car stopped in front of a grand event. As soon as Zara got out of the car, people started taking pictures. Walking on the red carpet, Zara took her seat at the front.
The event was mainly a national award ceremony. Awards were given to many people for various achievements. It was announced, "The award for the best artwork of the decade goes to Zara Akhtar. With her artwork named 'The butterfly of slider Lily ' "
Zara went up on stage to receive the award, tears streaming down her face.
She looked at the audience, her father applauding. Behind him, she saw a shadow of Arafat. The hand clapping fades away in a moment as she sees some red butterfly in replacement of Arafat's shadow.
She smiled with tears in her eyes.
The End-----
This story is not real, entirely fictional.
Original Author - Tamim Imam