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.