Language

Bengali is a voyage, a civilization of endurance. A descendant of Sanskrit. Sister to Hindi, Nepali, Sinhalese. Circular scripts that curve within themselves. Signs to give stress. Letters combine themselves. I am drawn to the combinations. They turn into complex symbols with two letters, maybe stresses too, all happening at once, closer. Letters wearing one another like hats. , for one, is a favorite of mine. You can find it in the word friendship. Different from the English alphabets where o is just o. And o has its own place in the word.

Brother to Assami, Marathi, Punjabi.

Though, this is how it is for me—Bengali feels hard on my tongue. Harsh like rain on tin roofs. The words release themselves from my mouth, strong footsteps—fierce, articulate, and knowing. My exposure to the language is of a breathing loneliness. And even when I'm not alone, when I am with Partho, or when I am with my mother, the words are capable of causing irrevocable pain. But that is not what I want to do now. I am in a sea of language and I acknowledge my inability to conquer any portion of it. I'm trapped, I could say. This is a place of horror for me. You know that? I could say. I've shown that to you. I can't be happy here. I can't be who I want to be. He would know what I mean.

But he already knows what I want to say. Chasing words. Pretending words. Perhaps it will sound less harsh in English, it will be a compromise, gentler. My books fall flat when I demand to be understood. The moon must be alive somewhere else too.

________

I'm with Partho at his university. This will be his new life. I like how the city encloses the university. Not far from my home. I can commute. I could go here too. We could be together if we wished, closer. He wants me to know that. Wait for me here, he says as he enters a hall. I'll be done in a bit. Then I'll show you around.

I see a girl my age lingering outside, walking in the empty hall. Her loosely braided hair hanging down her left shoulder. She waits in a silk sari that looks like it's from Rajshahi. Rajshahi, the city of silk and mangoes. Bengali women treasure Rajshahi silk, saving it cautiously for a special event that rarely presents itself. Bengali men save their punjabis. The clothes sit in rusty, steel almaris, waiting to feel appropriate for the occasion. I walk around the campus, explore the land.

________

Red brick buildings, signs of age and education. Domes of hope. Coconut trees shielding the halls. Statues of forgotten soldiers. Statues to celebrate Bengali. To remember the ones who served their souls for the speech on our tongues. And then all of a sudden, a collection of tamarind trees. The fruits dangle from the branches. My mouth wets at the thought of the sour taste. An open space. I think this is a good place for rail lines to split the ground. Race the mind anywhere. Partho finds me.

"They have a good journalism program," he says as he approaches. "Let me just see you here," he says. "And you could see me, and we could be here finding one another. Isn't that enough adventure for you? What is it that you want to say?"

Anything coming out of my mouth is going to be harsh.

"You've already decided haven't you?"