Passionate Obsession

For some, love is toxic; for others, it’s unhealthy. Some say, “What kind of love is this? This isn’t love at all—just obsession, a dangerous obsession.” And for teenagers raised on dark romance in foreign cultures, it’s termed dangerous love. Beyond all the analysis and discussions, there exists another kind of feeling—a one-sided love, an unsaid love. Can one spend beautiful days and nights secretly loving someone in imagination without ever expressing the heart’s hidden emotions? Even a single glimpse can make the soft heart flutter in an instant. Love swells, filling every corner of the heart—from the university campus to a tiny corner table in the quiet library—she chases every opportunity just to see that dark-haired man. The reckless, headstrong heart races, along with the man who owns it. When you surrender your heart to someone else’s control, this is what happens. At this moment, her mind is calm like a drowsy, dying afternoon. All excitement and longing are paused as her thirsty eyes focus solely on the man she loves—the dark-haired young man she admires. Seconds, minutes, hours pass, yet her eyes never tire of him. What is it about this man? There’s nothing extraordinary—no Hollywood or Bollywood hero physique. He has a neat, tall frame, but his smile is his charm, the gentle dimples playing with each curve of his cheeks. In the library’s corner table sits Nikhil, seemingly absorbed in his books. Perhaps this is his favorite spot. Despite headphones, lost in pages, the scene is overwhelming—she’s never been this close to him. She wishes time could pause here. The library is unusually empty, seniors absent. Perhaps she can strike up a conversation… “Nikhil bhai… this is… Nikhil bhai…” she calls shyly, tapping the table. Yet, he doesn’t flinch. Astonishingly, he doesn’t even glance her way. Not wanting to feel rejected, she calls again. Same result. Nikhil silently slides a small alarm clock across to her instead, and it rings loudly, striking her ears. “What… why this?” she protests, irritated. Still silent, Nikhil intensifies the alarm. Unable to endure, she shouts, “Turn this off! I can’t take it!” and throws off her comforter in frustration. Her groggy mind slowly registers the surroundings. Eventually, she finds herself in the master bedroom of the palace-like house. Gently, she untangles her silky long hair, messes it up a bit, and silences the irritating alarm. Laptop in hand, she begins her daily routine—sending emails. This has been her routine for a year. Perhaps her elder sister, Anu, doesn’t understand why she continues. She exhales, releasing the inner turbulence through the act. After emailing, she sinks into the sturdy chair, staring out at the vast garden. No fancy pajamas today, just a simple nightdress and oversized t-shirt. Spring has made the front yard bloom beautifully. Among the ancient and famous houses of old Dhaka, this mansion stands out. It is said their ancestors were prominent officials. Though the zamindari system vanished, the family retained a sense of prestige and influence. The mansion, named Kritik Kunj, was rechristened after the birth of the youngest grandson decades ago. Time changed, authority changed, people changed—but the mansion remains. The family has thrived in real estate, with influence reaching both home and abroad. Yet, the family itself is fragmented, existing mostly as wealth. Suddenly, Anu’s commanding voice calls from below: “Aru, baby, come eat! Should I bring a palanquin? If we’re late for the hospital, you know what happens!” She checks the clock—9:35. “This is absurd… and I still have university plans today… what now?” In the vast hall, Anu prepares breakfast. After serving, Aru descends, wearing a casual top and skirt, carrying her handmade bag. Her presence irritates Anu, who unleashes a flurry of complaints. “Why are you so late? Did you lock yourself in your room? Look how late we are for the hospital!” Aru quietly bites into her bread and egg roll, responding only with a small question: “How is mother now, Apa?” Anu exhales quietly. Mother’s illness has forced the elder daughter to mature prematurely, taking responsibility for household affairs. Aru, barely nineteen, is shielded by Anu from hospital worries. “Okay, I’m going now. Won’t go anywhere for a week, will do all chores. Please don’t get angry,” Aru reassures. “Listen,” Anu says as Aru turns, “the email?” Aru smirks: “Sent it.” “Any reply?” “No, Apa. Don’t expect miracles after a year of emailing.” She leaves swiftly, her palace-like room fading behind. After Aru leaves, Anu murmurs to herself, hoping for her mother’s recovery, and that one day Aru might receive a reply too. --- The crowded streets of Old Dhaka smell of rusted shops, spices, and street food. Sometimes it’s unpleasant, sometimes familiar. Under a slanted sun, the auto-rickshaw rumbles toward Jagannath University. Aru rides, feeling at ease only at the university gate. Here, perhaps, she can breathe fully—and maybe catch a glimpse of Nikhil, the man she dreams of. She knows she has neither courage nor opportunity to confess. Nikhil is her senior, graduating this year, yet her heart rebels, sketching his face repeatedly in her notebook. “When will he say, ‘Aru, I like you too, I paint you on my heart’s canvas’?” she dreams. Her companion Nilima’s teasing voice interrupts, snapping her out of her fantasy. “Did your brother’s company email?” Aru remains silent. Nilima is frustrated—concerned over Aru’s lack of family contact. He’s not a sibling… not a step-brother either… Aru only smiles, leaving Nilima curious, as they enter the campus.