I ended up taking the School Service Commission exam simply because writing poetry wasn't yielding any results. Back then, before the counseling process for self-selection of workplaces, also known as "counseling," was introduced, the results of the exam were binding. Consequently, I found myself with a posting in a rather remote area of the district. It was a place with rugged, undulating roads, craters, and a newly constructed school surrounded by about forty houses. I'm deliberately keeping the location anonymous. After all, the school will still need teachers, and the children aren't at fault—why should they be deprived of education? However, if someone identifies the school based on my description and declines the job, that's not my responsibility.

I referred to them as houses, but "hut" would be a more fitting term. I was, in fact, the first and only teacher at the school. Naturally, the entire village came to see me on my first day. The school's Managing Committee Secretary, Bidhu Mondal, and several other members had worked tirelessly to establish the school, and I could sense an air of authority among them. Most of the locals made a living by collecting firewood from the forest or working at a brick kiln two miles away. Hardly anyone was educated. Like a swan among ducks, Bidhu Mondal, who had an eighth-grade education, had been teaching the children. I couldn't gauge how pleased or displeased he was with my arrival. However, I quickly realized it was wise not to stir up trouble and instead build a rapport with him.

So, from the outset, I chose to surrender to Bidhu Mondal. I feigned ignorance and began to learn the ropes from him, observing his methods and occasionally expressing astonished bewilderment. I even tried to win him over by saying things like, "How do you do all this? Please guide me." After about an hour of this, I felt I had made some progress. A hint of satisfaction crept onto Bidhu Mondal's face. He frequently glanced at the crowd standing behind me, implying, "You see, even a Kolkata-educated teacher isn't more knowledgeable than me." As he grew more arrogant, I edged closer to achieving my goal.

The Problem Lies Elsewhere

The real issue was elsewhere. The distance between my workplace and home was so great that commuting required almost every mode of transportation short of an airplane. Traveling back and forth daily took around seven to eight hours. After a month of this, my physical condition began to deteriorate rapidly. I realized I couldn't sustain this pace much longer. I reluctantly broached the subject with Bidhu Mondal. If I could find a decent place to stay near the school, I would move there and manage my cooking on my own.

Upon hearing my proposal, Bidhu Mondal stared at me for a while and said, "How can you, a city boy, possibly live in this jungle?"

I smiled wryly and explained that I had no choice; the job was essential to me, and I was willing to adapt to the new environment. Bidhu Mondal didn't respond immediately and left.

Later that day, just before school closed, he returned. "I thought about it," he said. "The only place you could stay is the government guesthouse. It was meant for officials from the big pharmaceutical factory that was supposed to be set up here. They would come and go, and the guesthouse was built for them. That was about fifteen years ago. The factory never materialized, and no one has used it since. It's full of dust, mice, and rats. There might even be snakes."

I asked, "Isn't there anyone to take care of the guesthouse?"

"There is someone, Motilal. He spends his days drinking and sleeping. He gets a small government stipend, which barely covers his expenses. That's it. The only responsibility he has is keeping the keys."

I requested, "Could you take me to meet Motilal?"

Bidhu Mondal offered, "Why don't I clean up a room at my place for you to stay?"

While Bidhu Mondal's offer was kind, I wasn't keen. I valued my independence, and accepting his offer would inevitably lead to complications. There would be issues about food, water usage, and, most importantly, his daughter, Titir, would likely visit frequently, leading to conflicts.

The government guesthouse, though neglected, didn't seem as terrible as Bidhu Mondal described. I became determined to secure it.

I walked out of school with Bidhu Mondal, bound for Motilal's.

We found Motilal at his house. As a government employee, his home was well-maintained, but his appearance didn't inspire confidence. His eyes were bloodshot, even in the late afternoon. He could barely stand upright for long, and he sat on the veranda, listening to Bidhu Mondal.

After hearing our proposal, Motilal looked at me once and said, "You'll have to pay five hundred rupees a month."

I felt as though I had hit the jackpot. The rent for such a large guesthouse was incredibly low. I handed him two hundred rupees as an advance, saying, "This is an advance. You'll get another five hundred every month. But you must keep the house clean and tidy."

Unexpectedly, the two hundred rupees revitalized Motilal. His bloodshot eyes sparkled, and he said, "Don't worry, Master Sahib. My wife will take care of everything."

I glanced at Bidhu Mondal, who assured me, "Motilal's wife is a very good girl."

Reassured, I returned home and began preparing to move into the guesthouse the following week.

About Titir

Titir is my girlfriend, my friend, and my inspiration for writing poetry. We met in primary school, and coincidentally, we studied together through high school and college. I majored in Bengali, while Titir majored in English. There were no other differences between us. Titir is my biggest audience, critic, and connoisseur of my poetry. She has never liked any of my poems outright; she just shakes her head and says, "You can do better."

However, I know that's not entirely what she thinks. When someone else praises my poetry, her face lights up in a way that suggests she's deeply connected to me. I realized she loves me through such moments. We currently live together in a flat, and the decision for me to move near my school was also Titir's idea. One day, she told me, "You can go live there."

Initially, I hadn't considered it, but thinking of Titir, I hesitated. Being without her feels like not being able to breathe. When she suggested it, I felt a bit offended at first. Then she explained, "Think about it, Anirban. Next year I'll also take exams, and we don't know where we'll end up with jobs. When I do get a job, I'll have to go wherever it takes me, and we might have to live apart. So, why not now? You're getting exhausted traveling back and forth. I won't be able to watch that happen."

Titir currently works part-time at a school, preparing for her own job search. Given her independent nature, I know she won't give up her job easily. She's always been like that; even when my family opposed my writing poetry, Titir stood by me.

During that time, my family, especially my sister, constantly criticized me. They'd say things like, "You're wasting your time writing poetry; there are thousands of poets out there." Titir was my rock, encouraging me, saying, "Keep trying, Anirban. One day, your poetry book will be published, and everyone will recognize you."

We didn't get married, choosing instead to stay as we are. Titir says, "Why get married? Will you love me more then? This way is better; we can leave whenever we want."

New Beginnings

I've been living in the government guesthouse for four or five days now. Motilal's wife, Komali, has kept the rooms clean and organized. I've set up a small cooking station in one corner of my room.

The guesthouse has its challenges, but it also offers me the solitude I need for my writing. My daily commute used to hinder my writing habit, but now I have all the time I need. However, household chores like cleaning and washing dishes are a struggle for me.

I'm considering asking Bidhu Mondal to arrange for a domestic worker. Finding one shouldn't be difficult in this area.

One evening, as I was drifting off to sleep, I was startled by a creaking sound. I saw a figure moving around the room. My heart raced, but then I thought maybe Bidhu Mondal had arranged for someone to help.

The figure paused, then said in a melodious voice from under her veil, "Ji Komali! Motilal ki bibi" (Motilal's wife).

Komali quickly cleaned and organized my room, even managing to cook a meal. I was impressed and grateful.

Cheating?

Since Saturday morning, my mind has been preoccupied with Titi. After school holidays, I somehow managed to return to Kolkata with a few changes of clothes. Although I know that I won't be able to go like this every week. Because my school has a lot of work left to do. Writing many letters, applying for scholarships, sending requests for more teachers next year, applying for toilet grants, etc., all these tasks are done on Sunday. The whole week is spent in strange classes. Although the number of students is around seventy, the school seems to be doing well. I felt a sense of duty to run the school.

Coming to Kolkata, it seemed as if I had forgotten everything in just one day and had to return again. I adored Titi, and I felt like I could spend my life with my face buried in her fragrant hair—such was my mind. On Monday morning, when I left, Titi's sparkling eyes spoke to me, and she said that as soon as her school exam was over, she would come to me.

On Monday, I didn't go to the guesthouse but went straight to school. There was no time to cook in the hostel and go to school like that. I didn't eat lunch. Thinking about what to eat, I returned to the guesthouse after the holidays. Opening the door with the key, I was amazed! That fragrance! As if flowers had bloomed somewhere! A strong passion overwhelmed my mind. Then I saw that rice, lentils, and vegetables were cooked and kept covered in one corner of the room. I touched it and it was still warm.

So, the cooking was done a short while ago. So, Komoli came and cooked and left. But the key is with me. Then? I thought a lot, there must be a duplicate key with Moti. But even if that's the case, how did Komoli know that I would return today? However, I went to school early. So, she must have known. Thinking and thinking, I washed my hands and sat down to eat with a somewhat calm mind. That day, in the middle of the night, my sleep was suddenly broken. There was a loud buzzing of mosquitoes. So, I slept with the mosquito net. Towards night, a cold breeze blew. So, the sleep was broken. In the middle of sleep, a ringing sound woke me up. It took a moment to realize that I was not in Kolkata's flat, and that this was the sound of Titi's bracelet. As soon as this thought came to mind, my heart seemed to leap towards my throat. I tried to get up and sit, but in the darkness, I saw with my half-open eyes that I was not alone in the mosquito net. Someone was sitting next to me. It was her bracelet's ringing sound that woke me up. And completely awake, I realized that it was not just the sound of the bracelet, but a sweet, intoxicating scent that was overwhelming me. I didn't know if it was the scent of some flower!

I strained to grasp the details of the woman beside me, a flutter of curiosity mingling with confusion. Why had she sought refuge in my bed under the cloak of night? What mysterious tale was unfurling in the shadows? Just as questions began to form, she drew nearer, her face hovering close, the warmth of her presence consuming me. The lantern flickered dimly, its light quivering like my heart, casting her features in an ethereal glow.

Her alabaster skin contrasted sharply with the darkness, and her large, kohl-lined eyes gleamed with unspoken desires. Each breath I took was laced with her intoxicating scent, a blend of warmth and wildness that made my initial apprehensions melt away. As the tension in the air shifted, a new awareness stirred within me, awakening a primal longing.

In the depths of my mind, a voice whispered, "This is Komoli, Moti's wife." Her essence enveloped me, reminiscent of the blooming lotus along the banks of the Padma, captivating and exquisite. It wasn't a fragrance born of oils or perfumes; it was the raw, intoxicating scent of her very being.

Caught in a captivating trance, I drew her closer, my hands gripping her with an urgency I could no longer contain. There was no fear, no guilt clouding my thoughts. Titi, my duties, the weight of morality—all faded to insignificance. I was lost in the moment, surrendering to desire without hesitation.

Time slipped away, and the night became a blur of whispered breaths and secret touches. When dawn finally broke, I awoke in the solitude of my bed, a haunting ache of absence lingering in the air, mingled with the soft, elusive scent of her essence—the only reminder of an exquisite intoxication that had swept me away.

(Six)

In the morning, I remembered the night's events one by one, and it felt bad for Titi. But I was surprised by my own transformation. The whole day passed in the reflection of the night. Not once did I think, who was that woman? Was she Komoli? If so, why did she come to my bed in the darkness? What would be the consequences? I couldn't focus on school work. The tasks piled up. After the holidays, I returned home with a sense of longing. Would she come? Komoli didn't come for work in the evening. The more I waited, the more my body trembled like a feverish person. I didn't eat anything at night, and sleep didn't come. Was there no end to this reflection? I felt this for the first time in my life. I loved Titi. Many times, I had been with Titi in intimacy.

But this was a different feeling. It was the difference between willingly accepting a familiar object and unexpectedly receiving an unfamiliar one that gave me this unfamiliar feeling. Thinking about it, I wondered if she would come. It seemed that a momentary distraction had brought her to me, and realizing her mistake, she had returned to her own home. Thinking and thinking, there was a knock at the door! Today, I had only left the door slightly open. A chitkin had been placed in the way to block her path. But my mind knew that no obstacle could stop her. Last night, she had come from inside. So, she would come again. My logical mind did not ask any questions. She came again that night. The strong intoxication left my senses!

This continuity continued. I was as if drowning. Titi's news was delayed for two weeks. During this time, two letters came from Titi. I didn't feel like replying. A mile away, there was a post office with a telephone. I called Titi from there every three days. There was no telephone connection in the village. Mobile phones were not in use at that time. Even if they were, they wouldn't be available in these remote villages. But three days turned into thirteen days without calling Titi. On the fourteenth day, in the afternoon, I came home to eat and saw Titi sitting in the veranda. I was a bit annoyed. It seemed to me that this was Titi's unforgivable offense.

Titi came inside and hugged me. She put her head on my chest and started rubbing her face against mine. My two disobedient hands did not touch her even once. I stood like a stone statue. Titi seemed to guess something. She looked at me with tear-filled eyes, then turned away. Her eyes were filled with tears, and a few tears fell from her cheeks. I didn't say anything. In a harsh voice, I said, "Why did you come? I didn't call you."

I said such harsh words to my Titi, whom I loved more than my life. I don't know where I got the strength to hurt Titi like this. But at that time, I was in a state of intoxication stronger than wine. The outer world seemed false to me. I was living in a world of hallucinations and illusions. I understand it now. But at that time, this thought did not even come close to me. Titi took the vanity bag kept on the bed and left, closing the door. It was around three in the afternoon. There was no train to return before evening. That train was also often late. I didn't think about how Titi would reach Kolkata at night, or about her safety. I was just calm. A deep calm and expectation.

The Enigmatic Disappearance of Komali

For two months, Komali frequented my room. Just as suddenly as she appeared, she vanished. My days turned as dark as night, and my nights felt empty. Day after day, I waited for her, keeping the door wide open, hoping she would return. Even the open door seemed like a barrier, so I kept it ajar, ensuring nothing obstructed her path. Meanwhile, Mr. Bidhu asked multiple times if I was feeling unwell, mentioning that I seemed to be losing weight.

One day, standing in front of the mirror, I was taken aback by my reflection. Dark circles under my eyes, sunken cheeks, and my oversized shirt made me look unrecognizable. Instead of fear, I felt anger towards the mirror and ended up throwing it into the courtyard. From then on, I avoided mirrors, managing my daily routines by instinct.

I stopped asking Mr. Bidhu about Komali's salary as well. If she wanted, I could have handed over my entire salary to her, but she never asked for money. Our conversations were nonexistent; she introduced herself once and then remained silent.

I grew restless and decided to visit Moti's house, but his robust figure and fiery eyes intimidated me. So, I called Mr. Bidhu instead.

Mr. Bidhu arrived in a hurry and asked, "What happened, Master? Are you unwell?"

This repetitive question annoyed me. I maintained my composure and said, "No, I was saying that Motira's wife hasn't been coming to work for a while now."

Mr. Bidhu furrowed his brow and replied, "Moti's wife?"

"Yes, you sent her. She was doing well, but then she stopped coming and hasn't taken her salary for two months. Do you know what's going on?"

"But Master, I didn't send Moti's wife to work for you. You once mentioned needing someone, but then you didn't follow up, and I forgot about it. What's going on, Master?"

I was baffled. I didn't know what was happening. Komali came and left on her own, and I had no clue why. I decided to visit Moti's house after sunset when he would be intoxicated, hoping to have an open conversation with Komali.

As the evening descended, I locked my room and set out. The village became deserted as night approached. I walked past a few thatched houses, hearing children reciting lessons. I ignored everyone and continued on my way.

Moti's house loomed like a ghost in the darkness. I hid behind a tree and observed. He was lying on the outer veranda, heavily intoxicated. I hesitated, unsure of what to do.

The air was filled with the sounds of crickets and distant howling of jackals. I stood there for what felt like fifteen minutes to half an hour. Suddenly, the door opened, and a veiled woman emerged with a clay lamp. She approached Moti, stood for a moment, then descended to the tulsi plant area and lit the lamp.

My anger surged. This woman, who had made my life miserable, was now performing a ritual like Sati Sabitri. I no longer cared for her; perhaps she was waiting for another man. I rushed out from behind the tree and grabbed her hand.

"Tell me, why did you leave me? What did I do wrong?" I demanded.

She tried to shake me off, then lifted her veil and shouted for help.

By then, I had released her hand. The woman I had known was not this one; she was stouter, with a darker complexion, and a different scent. I ran to Moti's door and shouted, "Komali, Komali!"

The commotion drew the neighbors, who came out with various weapons. However, upon seeing me, they were taken aback. Moti, now sober, tried to charge at me, but others restrained him.

I entered the house, calling out for Komali, but there was only silence. When I lost consciousness, I was lying on Moti's veranda, surrounded by lanterns and torches.

When I regained consciousness, Mr. Bidhu was by my side. He told me that the woman's name was Gulabi, not Komali. He offered to take me to his house for the night.

The Epilogue of Komali's Story

Without a word, I accompanied Mr. Bidhu to his house. After washing my face and eyes with cold water, I sat down. Mr. Bidhu began to fan me with a hand-held fan. Gradually, I felt more composed.

Mr. Bidhu started speaking slowly, as if talking in his sleep, "Moti's first wife was Komali. Despite seven years of marriage, she had no children. In a village, people would gossip about her. Moti would beat her up every night after returning home drunk. That beautiful girl, like a porcelain doll, slowly withered away. Now, it seems Moti was at fault. If not, why wouldn't his second wife have children either?"

He paused, took a deep breath, and continued, "Around that time, a factory was being built in the village. People were excited as it would bring jobs and development. Moti got a job as the caretaker of the guest house. A government officer stayed at the guest house, and Komali worked there, doing chores and washing dishes. I don't know how, but they began an illicit affair. Every night, when Moti was drunk, Komali would sneak out and go to the guest house to meet the officer."

"After a few days, the officer's term ended, and he left without informing anyone. Moti found out and brutally beat Komali. She couldn't bear the pain and her husband's infidelity. That night, she hanged herself at the guest house. Later, the police took her body. The post-mortem report showed she was several weeks pregnant. That girl was not meant to be a mother."

The next morning, I collected my belongings with Mr. Bidhu and left for Kolkata. Despite his requests, I didn't want to stay there anymore. I missed Titir. I sent my resignation letter by post and some remaining money. If I didn't get it, it didn't matter. Titir listened to my story, and though I'm unsure how much she believed, she forgave me.

Epilogue

Sometimes, on rainy days, while sitting on the balcony, writing poetry, I catch a glimpse of memories. I hear the tinkling of glass bangles, and an unknown flower's fragrance wafts into my nostrils.

On one such rainy day in Kolkata, I saw her – a rural woman with a veil, wearing glass bangles, and a pregnant figure. She stood on the footpath, looking directly at me. It seemed like no one else saw her.

For a few moments, I was stunned. Then, she vanished. The fragrance of a lotus-like woman lingered. Was it really Komali, or was it my imagination? Whose child was she carrying? Did she come to thank me for something?