My initial encounter with the man I would come to cherish occurred at the divisional library, a place I frequented even before starting college. I was a resident of the town, and every visit to the new Maymansingh would invariably lead me to the library. My heart had an unyielding affection for Bangla literature, and no other place could claim my attention. Afternoons were my cherished moments there when I returned from campus. And there, immersed in his work, was a tall, bearded gentleman who wore glasses. Little did anyone know that he was the secret object of my affection. In my eyes, he stood as an extraordinary man, one I had never noticed in all my time there - a subject of contemplation in itself.
Even though my ideal man didn't tread the path of research, he appeared before me one day, like a sudden character from a fairy tale. I recall that moment vividly; I was busy registering at the university's office, still grappling with the culture shock brought by the new city and its people. My hand, almost subconsciously, dialed my father's number instead of mine on the registration form. To this day, I occasionally make that mistake.
Suddenly, a calm voice from beside me asked, "Are you married?" In this city, no one knew me, and so, I found myself unprepared for such a question. After a moment of bewildered thoughts, I stammered, "Sorry?" With a heavy sigh, I, peering from behind my thick glasses, inquired, "Single or married?" A young, suave, sophisticated person might have had the perfect reply ready, but I was taken aback by the unexpected turn of events. My thoughts were in disarray, and like an ancient sage, I uttered, "Single."
In response, the young man's voice carried a cool anger as he remarked, "Then why does a man's number answer when someone calls it? The mobile number option on the registration form isn't there for no reason. What if someone mistakenly writes the wrong number?" Observing his irritation and the unwavering demeanor of the help desk attendant, I was certain that someone from the authorities had taken notice. With teary eyes, I stammered, "I didn't write the wrong number! This is my father's number."
How philosophical had I become! It was almost unbearable. I, who had graduated in mathematics, faced an ironic contrast to my love interest, who, on the other hand, hadn't ventured beyond his SSC math exam. In SSC, I had scored seventy-nine, and numbers used to terrify me. Those who had an affinity for numbers were considered exceptional. There was no rational explanation for my affection toward such an extraordinary individual. No reason to pursue a relationship. And yet, he pursued me relentlessly, without seeking permission or formally proposing. Even though we experienced ten "breakups" in a single day, the concept of breaking up never existed in his vocabulary. It was as if it happened in the morning, it would be forgotten by noon. If I ever tried to bring it up, he would respond with a bemused, "Breakup again? Why discuss breaking up? Does anyone in your family or circle of friends even know about us? Don't even entertain the idea of breaking up. It's against human rights, and I disagree."
I chuckled at his response, and Shifa, my confidante, who had been listening attentively, suddenly paused. After a moment's contemplation, she remarked, "Isn't your boyfriend somewhat like a brother to you?" I burst into laughter at the absurdity of the comparison. Shifa exclaimed, "Hahaha, can you believe you just said that to me? Mixing milk and mangoes, and here I am, your partner!" I was taken aback by her reaction, and following that day, Shifa refrained from discussing anything significant with me for an entire month.
Amidst all our disparities, we managed to meet, sparing precious moments in our busy schedules. While I was engrossed in freelance work and miscellaneous jobs, my time often slipped away in mathematical conundrums like calculus, real analysis, complex analysis, linear algebra, abstract algebra, and general topology. Important examples, counterexamples, crucial theorems, proofs, and solutions would evade my memory. Then, one day, my city suddenly beckoned to me, prompting me to call Shifa and declare, "Are you out of your mind? Do you know what time it is? Who goes out at three in the morning?" Unfazed, she replied, "Oh, you're still asleep. I've been waiting downstairs. How many more hours until morning?" I reluctantly replied, "Three hours." She continued, "Alright, you get up two hours later. Today, we'll spend the entire afternoon together. We'll explore the entire city. There's a train at six. Will you get on the train? Let's disembark at a station, have tea, and return."
I fell back asleep as she spoke. Two hours later, she called again, and I begrudgingly rose from my slumber. That day, we indulged in copious amounts of tea, the start of a new ritual for us. Both of us had a deep appreciation for tea, and while we knew where to find the best brews, the true essence of tea lay in the company. We wandered the streets by foot or rickshaw, and every time, Shifa would express her mild annoyance, saying, "You should have waited a little longer. I was working on something very important." And I would silently acknowledge that there was something more vital than just water, sugar, and tea leaves for our brew. Without that, it didn't feel like our tea, and I couldn't bring myself to enjoy it.
Now, Shifa has departed for a distant land for a few months, and our greatest sorrow lies in the absence of the right kind of tea. We yearn for each other's company, even amidst our differences. Sometimes, understanding each other remains a challenge, yet love persists. Love doesn't adhere to any code of conduct; it ignites the heart with its unpredictability. Even if you don't know how to fly, you can still feel the wind. Stories unfold unexpectedly, and love, in all its forms, remains a wondrous and unpredictable force.
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