This Is How I Met The One

This Is How I Met The One Part 2

Rain in Dhaka doesn’t ask. It arrives.

It doesn’t knock, doesn’t warn the rickshaw pullers or the office workers or the boys selling lebu pani in plastic bags. It just falls. All at once. Like the sky got tired of holding its breath.

That’s how Part 2 started. With rain.

---

*Day 43.*

We were still at the tea stall. Two empty glasses sweating rings onto the metal table. Simran’s left AirPod was back in her case. Mine was too. We matched again.

“Rong cha aro lagbe, baba?” the mama asked.

We both said yes, but neither of us touched the second cup.

The rain started as a suggestion. A few fat drops on the tin roof. Then it got serious.

Dhaka rain is a different species. It’s not romantic. It’s aggressive. It floods the streets in ten minutes and turns every pothole into a small, angry pond. People ran. Plastic sheets went up. The city became a blur of headlights and honking and wet fabric.

We didn’t run.

Simran looked at me. “You know we’re going to drown, right?”

“Probably,” I said. “But if we move now, we’ll have to say goodbye. And I’m not ready.”

She didn’t laugh. She just picked up her glass, even though the tea was cold and full of rain now. “Neither am I.”

So we sat. In the rain. Letting it soak the yellow of her kurti until it clung to her like a second skin. Letting it run down my neck, into my collar, mixing with the dried blood on my elbow I still hadn’t cleaned properly.

“If you get sick, I’m blaming you,” she said.

“If I get sick, you have to visit me in the hospital,” I said. “With grapes. And a bad attitude.”

“Deal.”

The mama yelled something about going inside, but we waved him off. This was our storm. We’d paid for it with a bleeding elbow and 42 days of looking.

“You’re shivering,” I said.

“You’re staring.”

“I’m cataloging. For later. When you disappear again.”

She didn’t say she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. We were still strangers who knew the exact weight of each other’s grief. That doesn’t come with guarantees.

Instead, she said, “Tell me something real, Zayan. Not your job. Not the thing you tell people at weddings. Something that would make you flinch if I repeated it.”

The rain got louder, like it was listening.

I thought about lying. I thought about giving her something small. But we were already wet. We were already ruined for the day. Might as well be honest.

“I write letters to my brother,” I said. “The one who called me a disappointment. I never send them. I have 73 in a folder called ‘Drafts_Bhaiya’. I rewrite the same sentence over and over: ‘I’m sorry I’m not who you wanted.’ I haven’t found an ending yet.”

Simran didn’t flinch. She didn’t say ‘that’s sad’. She just reached across the table, took my hand, and held it. Her fingers were cold. Mine were colder.

“I have a playlist called ‘Dad’,” she said. “It’s just one song on loop. _Jodi Abar_. Because every time he left, I played it and pretended he was coming back. He never did. But I still play it. Like if I listen hard enough, the lyrics will change. He’ll say ‘আছি আজো, আমি শুধুই তোমার’ to us. To me and Ma.”

Her thumb brushed over my knuckles. The rain made it feel like she was washing something off me.

“হিসেব মেলানো কঠিন,” I said.

“The hardest,” she agreed.

We sat like that until the rain softened into something human. Until the tea stall mama gave up and brought us a faded gamcha to share. We held it over our heads like a useless, tiny tent.

“You’re a mess,” Simran said.

“Look who’s talking,” I said. “Your mascara is now a lifestyle.”

She laughed. That laugh again. The one that didn’t ask for permission. In the rain, it sounded like music. Like the start of something.

---

*Day 47.*

She texted first.

_Simran: Did you get pneumonia or should I stop checking my phone every 5 minutes?_

I stared at the message for ten minutes before replying. Because I’m an i***t.

_Zayan: No pneumonia. Just a cough and an existential crisis. Standard Tuesday. You?_

_Simran: I had to explain to my boss why I showed up looking like a drowned rat. I blamed you. Hope that’s okay._

_Zayan: I’ll take full responsibility. For the rain, the rat comparison, and the fact that you can’t get me out of your head._

_Simran: Cocky._

_Zayan: Honest._

Three dots. Then nothing for an hour. I convinced myself I’d ruined it. That ‘honest’ was too much, too fast. That she remembered I was just a guy with a bleeding elbow and 73 unsent letters.

Then:

_Simran: Good. I hate liars. Coffee this Friday? Real coffee. Not rain water._

I didn’t play it cool. I didn’t wait three hours to reply.

_Zayan: Yes. Name the time. I’ll be there 20 minutes early and pretend I wasn’t._

_Simran: 4pm. Crimson Cup, Dhanmondi. And Zayan?_

_Zayan: Yeah?_

_Simran: Don’t wear anything you can’t get wet in. Just in case the universe is lazy again._

---

*Day 50. Friday. 3:38pm.*

I was there at 3:40. I’d told myself I wouldn’t be early. I was.

Crimson Cup was full of the usual crowd. Students with laptops, couples arguing quietly, a guy on a Zoom call pretending he wasn’t in a café. I got a table by the window. Ordered a black coffee I didn’t want.

At 3:59, the sky went grey.

At 4:00, Simran walked in.

She wasn’t wearing yellow. She was wearing black. A plain kurti, hair down, no makeup. She looked like she’d come from work. Tired, but real. The kind of real that doesn’t need to try.

She saw me immediately. Didn’t do the ‘look around confused’ thing. Just walked over, dropped her bag, and sat down.

“You’re early,” she said.

“You’re on time,” I said. “One of us has to be functional.”

She smiled. That small, private one. “I thought you’d flake.”

“I thought you’d show up with a bodyguard to make sure I wasn’t a serial killer.”

“I considered it. But then I remembered you cried over a tea stall mama’s gamcha. Serial killers have standards.”

The waiter came. She ordered a latte. I realized I didn’t know what she drank. I realized I wanted to know everything. What she ate when she was sad. What song she skipped because it hurt too much. What she looked like at 7am, before the world got to her.

“So,” she said, once the coffee came. “What do we talk about when we’re not bleeding or drowning?”

“Everything,” I said. “Your favorite book that isn’t _Milk and Honey_. The worst thing you’ve ever cooked. Why you have 42 tabs open on your phone. Whether you think pineapple on pizza is a crime or a revolution.”

“It’s a crime,” she said instantly. “And I have 63 tabs open. 42 was a phase. I’ve evolved.”

I choked on my coffee. “Don’t say ‘evolved’.”

“Why?”

“Because last time we heard a song about evolving, we ended up traumatized and wet.”

She laughed. People turned. I didn’t care.

We talked for three hours. Not about dads or brothers or unsent letters. We talked about stupid things. The fact that she hates coriander. That I can’t whistle. That she once got fired from a bookstore for reading instead of shelving. That I keep a list on my phone called ‘Things That Don’t Hurt’ and it only has three items: the smell of old books, the first sip of tea, and now, her laugh.

At 7:12pm, the sky did it again.

Rain.

No warning. No buildup. Just a sudden, violent downpour that hammered the windows and made everyone inside go “oooh” like we were kids.

Simran looked at the window, then at me. “The universe is very lazy.”

“The laziest,” I agreed.

“Walk me to my rickshaw?”

“Only if you promise not to disappear for 42 days this time.”

“I can promise 41.”

We paid. We left. The footpath was already a river. Her shoes were useless. Mine were too.

“There’s my rickshaw,” she said, pointing to a man huddled under a polythene sheet.

I walked her to it. The rain was cold. The kind that gets in your bones. She climbed in, then stopped.

“Zayan.”

“Yeah?”

“আছি আজো, আমি শুধুই তোমার.”

She said it like she was quoting the song. Like she was testing the words. Seeing if they were a lie.

I didn’t breathe.

“জানি তুমি অন্য কারো,” I said, finishing the next line. Because it was true. I didn’t know her. Not really. She could have a boyfriend. A husband. A life I didn’t fit into.

She looked at me for a long time. Rain running down her face, mixing with who knows what. Then she did something I didn’t expect.

She grabbed my wrist, pulled me down, and kissed me.

It wasn’t a movie kiss. It was wet. It was messy. It tasted like rain and latte and all the words we weren’t saying. It was fast. It was honest.

She let go.

“For the হিসেব,” she said. “So it’s not so কঠিন anymore.”

Then she dropped the polythene and the rickshaw pulled away.

I stood there, in the rain, like an i***t. Like a man who’d just been given something he didn’t know how to hold.

My phone buzzed.

_Simran: I’m not someone else’s. I’m দিশাহীন. But I’m not theirs. Just so the math is clear._

I laughed. Out loud. In the rain. People stared. I didn’t care.

_Zayan: The হিসেব just got easier. See you soon?_

_Simran: Jodi abar... দেখা হয় তোমার আমার. ভুলে যেও সব অভিমান._

---

*Day 51 to Day 89.*

We didn’t see each other every day. We were adults. We had jobs. She was a UX designer who hated her boss. I was a copywriter who hated himself.

But we texted. Every day.

_Simran: My boss used ‘synergy’ unironically. I need to quit._

_Zayan: I just wrote 300 words about anti-aging cream. I’m already dead._

_Simran: Send me the worst line. I need to laugh._

_Zayan: ‘Unlock your skin’s youthful potential.’_

_Simran: I’m going to be sick. Thank you._

_Zayan: What’s on your ‘Dad’ playlist today?_

_Simran: Jodi Abar. Always Jodi Abar. You?_

_Zayan: Jodi Abar. But today I’m on the part that says ‘যাক না দিন এমন, তোমাকে ভেবে ভেবে’. Feels less sad when I think of you._

_Simran: Sap._

_Zayan: Guilty._

_Simran: I had a bad day. Ma asked if I was seeing anyone. I said no. Then I felt like a liar._

_Zayan: Do you want to not be a liar?_

_Simran: I want to not be দিশাহীন. Can you help with that?_

_Zayan: I can try. Starting with dinner. My place. I’ll cook. It’ll be bad. But it’ll be honest._

_Simran: What are you making?_

_Zayan: Burnt rice and regret. You in?_

_Simran: I’m in._

*Day 90.*

She came over. My apartment was clean for the first time in six months. I’d bought plants. They were already dying.

I did burn the rice.

We ate it anyway, sitting on the floor because my table was covered in drafts for work. We drank cheap wine out of mugs.

“I lied,” she said, picking at the blackened rice. “This is the best worst meal I’ve ever had.”

“High praise,” I said. “I was going for ‘emotionally manipulative but edible’.”

She told me about her dad. Not the birthday dinner. The stuff after. The quiet years. The way her mom still kept his side of the bed empty. The way Simran stopped believing in ‘poro jonome’ because this one had been so unkind.

I told her about the 73 letters. I read her one. My voice shook.

_‘Bhaiya, I don’t know how to be the son you wanted. But I’m trying to be a man I can live with. Is that enough? Can you let it be enough?’_

She didn’t say ‘I’m sorry’. She didn’t say ‘it’ll be okay’.

She just said, “Send it. The 74th one. Send it. Let him decide if it’s enough. Stop doing the math for him.”

That night, it didn’t rain.

But we stayed up anyway. Talking. Not kissing. Not anything more than talking. Because some nights are for words, not for hands.

At 3am, she fell asleep on my couch. I covered her with a blanket and sat on the floor, watching her breathe.

_আছি আজো, আমি শুধুই তোমার,_ I thought. _Even if you don’t know it yet._

---

*Day 120. Monsoon proper.*

Dhaka was underwater. Not metaphorically. Literally. The streets were rivers. The rickshaws were boats. The city had given up and decided to be Venice for a week.

Simran called me at 11pm.

“Zayan.”

Her voice was wrong. Tight. Like she was holding something in.

“What’s wrong?” I said instantly.

“Ma fell. She’s at Square. They’re saying it’s her hip. She might need surgery. I’m… I’m দিশাহীন, Zayan. I’m so দিশাহীন.”

I was out the door in two minutes. I didn’t remember grabbing my keys. Or my wallet. Or an umbrella.

The streets were a mess. Water up to my knees. I waded. I swam. I took a CNG that was more boat than car. It took me an hour to do a 15-minute drive.

I found her in the waiting room. White kurti. Red eyes. Holding a cup of tea she hadn’t drunk. চায়ের কাপ, gone cold.

She saw me. She didn’t say anything. She just stood up and walked into me. Collapsed into me.

I held her. She smelled like rain and hospital and fear.

“হিসেব মেলানো কঠিন,” she whispered into my shirt.

“I know,” I said. “I know. But we’ll do it together. Okay? We’ll do the math together.”

She cried then. Not pretty crying. Real crying. The kind that comes from a place that’s been locked up for years. The kind that says ‘I’m tired of being strong’.

I didn’t tell her it would be okay. I didn’t know if it would.

I just held her. Through the night. Through the forms. Through the doctor saying ‘she’s stable, but she’s scared’.

At 5am, the rain stopped.

Simran was asleep on my shoulder. Her mom was asleep in the ward. The hospital was quiet.

I looked out the window. The city was grey. Wet. Exhausted. But still there.

_যাক না দিন এমন, তোমাকে ভেবে ভেবে,_ I thought. _Let the days pass like this. Thinking of you. Let it be enough._

---

*Day 121. The day after.*

Her mom was okay. The surgery was successful. She’d need rehab, but she’d walk again.

Simran and I sat on the hospital stairs, sharing a shingara from the canteen. The sun was out. The city was steaming.

“You came,” she said. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact she was still trying to believe.

“Of course I came,” I said. “ভুলে যেও সব অভিমান. Remember? I’m trying to forget the old অভিমান. The one that says people don’t show up.”

She was quiet for a long time. Then:

“My ex,” she said. “The one who bought me _Milk and Honey_. When my dad left, he was the first person I called. He didn’t pick up. He was ‘busy’. He picked up for everything else. Just not for that.”

I didn’t say anything. I just waited.

“I promised myself I’d never be that person,” she said. “The one who doesn’t pick up. The one who leaves. But then Ma fell, and the first person I called was you. And you… you swam here. Through a flood. For me.”

She looked at me. “Why?”

I could have said a lot of things. I could have quoted the song. I could have been poetic.

Instead, I told her the truth.

“Because when I hear ‘আছি আজো, আমি শুধুই তোমার’, I think of you. Because when I hear ‘জানি তুমি অন্য কারো’, I hope it’s not true. Because I’m tired of being দিশাহীন, and you’re the only direction that makes sense.”

She didn’t kiss me. She didn’t cry.

She just leaned her head on my shoulder and said, “Okay.”

Okay.

Not a declaration. Not a promise. Just a beginning.

---

*Day 200.*

We were at my place. It was raining again. Of course it was. The universe was lazy, and it had a theme.

We were cooking. Actually cooking this time. Not burning things. Well, I was burning things. Simran was saving them.

“Your brother replied,” she said, chopping onions. She didn’t look up. She said it like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t everything.

I dropped the spatula.

“What?”

She slid her phone over. Email open.

_From: Bhaiya_

_Subject: Re: Draft 74_

_Zayan,_

_I got your letter. I read it. All 73. Ma gave them to me. She kept them._

_I was wrong. I’m sorry. I was scared. You left the path I knew. I didn’t know how to follow you._

_You don’t have to be sorry. You just have to be my brother. You are. You always were._

_Come home for dinner. Friday. Ma is making your favorite._

_Don’t be late._

_Bhaiya_

I read it three times. Then a fourth. Then I sat down on the kitchen floor and put my head in my hands.

Simran didn’t say anything. She just turned off the stove, sat down next to me, and put her arms around me.

I cried. For the first time in years, I really cried. Not about the rain. Not about the elbow. About 27 years of হিসেব that finally, finally balanced.

“It’s not মলিন anymore,” I said, into her hair. “The ফেলে আসা ভালবাসা. It’s not মলিন anymore.”

“I know,” she whispered. “তবুও মনে পড়ে যায়. But now it’s a good memory. Not a wound.”

We stayed on the floor for a long time. The rain hit the windows. The burnt rice smell was replaced by something that might have been actual food.

“Hey,” Simran said. “Play our song.”

I laughed. “We have a song?”

“We have _the_ song.”

I pulled out my phone. Connected to the speaker.

Angel Noor’s voice filled the room.

_“cloudy day... মেঘলা দিন... Thinking of you is colorful... তোমাকে ভেবে কেটে যায় রঙিন...”_

We didn’t dance. We just sat there, on the floor, leaning against the kitchen cabinets, holding each other.

_“If you meet me again... যদি আবার, দেখা হয় তোমার আমার... Forget all shame... ভুলে যেও সব অভিমান...”_

“Do you hear it?” Simran asked, her head on my chest.

“Hear what?”

“This song. আমার মন খারাপের সুর. It’s not sad anymore. It মিশে গেছে যতোদুর. It mixed with us. Now it’s happy.”

She was right.

_“I am directionless... আমি দিশাহীন...”_

I wasn’t. Not anymore.

_“I’m here today, I’m only yours... আছি আজো, আমি শুধুই তোমার... I know you belong to someone else... জানি তুমি অন্য কারো...”_

“Not anymore,” Simran said, answering the song. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. The হিসেব finally মেলানো. It was কঠিন. But we did it.”

The rain kept falling. The song kept playing.

_“Let it be the end of pratiksha today... হয়ে যাক আজই প্রতিক্ষার অবসান... Hide your wet eyes in the winter fog... লুকিয়ে থাক শীতের কুয়াশায় ভেজা দুচোখ...”_

I kissed her. Not because of the rain. Not because of the song.

Because I wanted to. Because I could. Because ‘jodi abar’ wasn’t a question anymore.

It was an answer.

We were the answer.

_“Deleted stories today... মুছে যাওয়া যতো গল্প আজ... Love goes back... প্রেম হয়ে ফিরে যায়...”_

And we did.

We went back. To Dhanmondi Lake. To the spot. On a cloudy day. A মেঘলা দিন.

We didn’t collide. We just stood there. Held hands.

_“No matter how hard it is to hide it... আড়াল হোক জমিয়ে রাখা যতো কষ্ট সব... Let it fall as dew... শিশির হয়ে ঝরে যাক...”_

And it did.

All the pain. All the অভিমান. All the ঝণ. It fell. Like rain. Like dew. Like tears we didn’t need anymore.

_“If we meet again your mine... যদি আবার দেখা হয় তোমার আমার... Think of that heartbreaking story-song... মনে করো সেই মন ভাঙা গল্প-গান...”_

This wasn’t heartbreaking anymore.

This was heart-healing.

_“Even today I am only yours, I know you belong to someone else... আছি আজও আমি শুধুই তোমার, জানি তুমি অন্য কারো... I am directionless... আমি দিশাহীন...”_

Simran squeezed my hand.

“Not দিশাহীন,” she said. “Not anymore. You have me. I have you. That’s a direction.”

I looked at her. At the scar on her eyebrow. At the woman who knew every word to my saddest song and stayed anyway.

“You know what?” I said.

“What?”

“যাক না দিন এমন, তোমাকে ভেবে ভেবে. Let the days pass like this. Thinking of you. For the rest of my life. I don’t need the প্রতিক্ষার অবসান. I don’t need the waiting to end. Because I’m not waiting anymore. I’m here. You’re here. That’s the end. And the beginning.”

It started raining.

Of course it did.

We didn’t run. We just stood there, and let it fall.

Together.

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