Will the sisters-in-law come to eat? Can Shamsher, the bearer, manage alone? And what will we talk about? We are people from two different worlds—what he has read, I have not—and that’s all right. I could have studied chemistry if he had taught me; I wouldn’t have objected. I can find joy in any field of knowledge, but he does not listen to such things. Speaking at length is not his way. And what I am studying, he has not; except for textbooks, he has never read a line of poetry in any language. But could I not recite some to him? Is that possible? Poetry cannot be recited to one who does not understand it. Though if I did, he would listen with great patience, never behaving like the gentleman I once heard about from a relative. My poetry-loving, obedient cousin, after her marriage, carefully prepared to recite a poem from ‘Mahua’ to her husband. The husband showed great enthusiasm; before she began, he reached out—“Let me see,” he said, taking the book in hand, glanced at it, and returned it. The girl was surprised—“What did you see?” “I checked how long the poem was.” My husband would never do such a thing. If I were to recite to him the entire collected works in the thickest edition, he would listen with utmost patience and say, “It’s very good!”

Some days—no, almost every day—solitude presses down on me. I do not nap in the afternoons, so what should I read? There are no books here. The few that are here, I have read countless times. How can I buy so many books? Who is sending me books? Still, whenever I go to Kolkata, I manage to gather a few. My husband does not like to talk about this at all, yet even he finds this solitude oppressive. Once he wrote to me, “For fifteen days, I have seen no educated person except in the mirror.”

Evenings feel even more desolate. My husband and I sit together on the veranda—I try to say a few words; but in what language should I speak? Our very languages are different. So, after a while, we both fall silent. In this land devoid of people, sounds seem only to deepen the solitude—a night bird calls from the dark forest, a bat swoops down with a sudden flutter. The cicadas keep up their relentless chirping—ji ji ji—and the nearby stream never stops, its murmur going on and on—these sounds are not companions to humans—they only keep saying, you are alone, you are alone—I realize, every day I realize, my world has vanished! I no longer enjoy writing—what should I write? My writing has lost its way in this deserted world. Many believe that natural beauty inspires writers—that sitting in a flower garden and writing poetry enhances the quality of the poem. I hear that in Santiniketan, guides now point out, “Under that tree the poet wrote ‘Raktakarabi’, beside that grove he wrote ‘Mahua’, and