She gently raised the mosquito net and sat at the edge of my bed. Her fingers always rested on her lap after she let herself in; they were adorned with alta. The red contrasted against her pale skin, and it seemed her fingernails were glowing in the dark. Her saree, a deep rani pink. I’ve never seen anything like it. She was a newlywed bride, anyone could tell. She would peer at me with short glances, never for very long. The constant shy gazes were tinged with a visible desperation. I know she wanted to tell me something when she placed the flower every night. It was small and yellow and innocent like her stares.
Anyone would’ve been afraid, shrieked, maybe peed a little? I lied there, staring back at the pari-like figure sitting two feet away from me. She never reached out to touch me, or so to harm me? Her doe-like eyes wanted to tell me something, and I was trying to listen.
I lived alone. A sociology professor crammed in the attic of my college building. It was to save money but more so, to see the stars.
It was unnerving to see her watch me the first night and the next night and the night after that. She definitely couldn’t be real, but she appeared next to me with sudden desperation. She always placed it near my pillow.
But there was nothing when I woke up in the morning. No evidence of her sitting at the edge of my bed. Her flowers were non-existent.
My colleagues had heard nothing of this sort. No newlywed bride ghost stories. No young lady being buried under the college property. Nada.
As I reached the canteen in hopes to pick up a shinghara, my colleagues called out to me from the corner of the bustling room.
“Oi Majnu, you’re not gonna come eat with us either? Always cooped up in your room; you never come drink cha with us after classes.”
I was so tired of them, honestly. They never had anything good to say about people. Always gossiping about the other professors and complaining about their wives. I didn’t actually care about other people enough to gossip about them and no wife either. A win-win. I yelled back.
“Not today! I have some papers to grade today. I’ll catch up with you guys later.” Yeah, I was never going to actually catch up with them. I had more important things to do than grade papers. I was going to find out who this lady was and why she was leaving yellow flowers every night.
After two hours of looking around and bothering the seemingly busy librarian, all I got was that the small, yellow flower was called an evening primrose, and it originated in the native to Mexico and the south-central United States and it means that you can’t live without the person that you’re giving it to.
I actually gave out a loud chortle when I learned about the meaning. The librarian gave me a half-amused look, and went back to organizing books on the shelf. But then, it hit me. This flower existed on the other side of the world… Where would someone, a Bangladeshi girl (if she even was a girl) get an evening primrose? I felt chills up my spine as my brain was connecting the dots.
This young lady wasn’t human. She couldn’t be human. I think I already knew she wasn’t human, but I finally had to believe it.
I was getting prepared for tonight. I was going to try something new, something different. I was going to grab her hand. I was going to see if her hand was solid, if she was even real?
The sun slowly went down, and I quickly finished up my tasks for the day so I could be in bed as fast as possible. I could feel my heart beating out of my chest as I pulled the kantha over my head. It was borsha kal, and I could feel droplets of sweat running down my neck. But I needed a covering to gather my thoughts in private.
Something was different tonight. I could feel it even from under my kantha. The air in the room felt brisk during this humid, rainy season. I peered out of my kantha and mosquito net to check the time, and it was past 2AM. She should have been here by now?
I slowly ducked my head out of the blanket, feeling more sure that she wouldn’t come by today. I chuckled to myself, thinking about how all the plans, preparations, and mustering up of my courage would all go into hibernation until tomorrow night.
As I began to sit up in my bed, I saw her appear out of nowhere and rush over to my side. She hastily lifted up the mosquito net and slid into the spot right next to me.
I could not breathe. Our arms were barely inches apart.
Before I could say a word or even shift my head to take a better look at her, I felt another presence coming into the room. It was a man. He also just walked into the room through the closed doors. He was tall, burly, and had a thick black mustache. He was wearing a white panjabi that seemed a bit too small for his figure. His eyebrows were furrowed, and his face was twisted into a scowl.
He marched up to the bed within seconds and grabbed the young lady by the arm. At his touch, she let out this awful, pitiful wail. It was as if she wanted me to save her. That’s the best way I can translate this yelp into words.
She wanted me to save her.
It had finally hit me to get in between her and the man. I scrambled out of the kantha because my legs had fallen asleep while I had sat awestruck staring at this growing party in my tiny attic room. As I leapt to her side and attempted to yank his hand off of her wrist, he simply just looked in my direction, and I felt my arm go limp. I stared at him in disbelief and charged at him once again to no avail.
He paid me and my attempts no mind, as he placed his attention to pulling up the young bride from the bed. She was putting up a great fight, holding on to the bed frame with all her. She pleaded with me through her eyes.
I can’t go today. I really can’t go today. It’ll be the end of everything if I have to go today.
I felt a rush of adrenaline surge through my body as I felt myself grabbing one of my sociology books and aiming for his head.
He looked back at me, completely bewildered. He definitely hadn’t been expecting me to throw a book at him.
This was when he turned and shifted his attention and energy towards me. He released his hands from the girl but strategically pulled her behind him.
I wasn’t a good fighter, being a scrawny sociology professor and all. But regardless, when I ran over to throw some punches, he just shoved me away.
Every move I made and every punch I threw didn’t seem to rattle him one bit. I pushed him all around the tiny room, threw my chair at him, even tried stabbing him with my pens. But he just stared blankly, like he couldn’t care less. All his moves were defense moves just to push me away, to avoid me. All of this without even touching me or letting me reach the young lady.
Her eyes seemed listless now. Her tears that had been running down her cheeks were now dry and glistened against the moonlight shining through my window.
It’s okay. I know you tried your best. I know you tried to save me. I know that you tried.
That’s what her eyes seemed to tell me. I felt my heart sink, and my arms began to droop at my sides. I knew this was coming to an end very soon.
But I wasn’t ready to let her go. In a fit of this sudden anger, I threw my best jump kick, only to stumble and hit my head on the corner of the bed frame. I felt something wet dripping from my head as the girl winced as if she felt my pain, too.
She broke from his clutches and held my head in her hands and blew on my head. I couldn’t feel her embrace. It was as if she was a ghost; I could see her tending to me but her hands had no weight to them.
The man seemingly appalled at the girl’s release from his grasp, jerked her away from me. He took another look at me and took it upon himself to finally take the young bride away because his only hindrance was on the floor, sitting in a pool of his own blood.
She cried out over and over again in bursts of breaths. It sounded like they were coming from a deeper sense of pain, like losing the very last hope of being able to stay and breathe freedom. Hearing her cries made my insides shrivel up. I tried to get up only to fall back down as the world’s light kept blinking in my eyes.
I dragged myself across the floor with every step they took, trying to hold her hand in an attempt to force her to stay.
I couldn’t stop them.
Before she left my sight forever, she gave me the saddest smile I’ve ever seen in my life. It was the first and last time I had seen her lips turn upwards. She mouthed a thank you, Majnu and vanished like she had never existed.
I always beat myself when I recall this, and a day does not go by when I don’t remember her. I’m a much older man now, could’ve even been a grandpa if I had gotten married at the right time and had kids. Whenever I tell this story to my students, they always make it so I sound like an old fart trying to joke around with them.
But it’s true. She was real. I found 4 yellow evening primroses under my pillow after that night. I think she was my Laila, and Laila and Majnu will never meet.
- alta: red dye that is applied to the hands and feet of women, mainly in the Indian subcontinent.
- saree: a dress worn primarily by women in the Indian subcontinent; it consists of several yards of light material that is draped around the body.
- shinghara: street-side snack of fried, savory pastry of vegetables and/or minced meat.
- kantha: Bengali quilted blanket
- borsha kal: rainy season
