Oh my dear, what is my existence without you?

Students in the university's philosophy classroom were chatting away among themselves. Today’s class was barely a hassle. Having just survived the grueling grinds of physics and chemistry, they were now relaxing with philosophy. Of course, the lack of pressure was mostly because their philosophy professor rarely bothered with them, and they, in turn, didn’t care much about him either. Suddenly, the classroom door swung open, and the professor walked in. A few students sat up straight, while others simply carried on with their gossip; after all, this class wasn’t considered important anyway.

Professor Minhaj placed his books on the table and cast a glance around the room. However, his eyes weren’t fixed on the students, but rather anchored onto some invisible, unfamiliar space in the air.

Clearing his throat slightly, he asked, "By the way, do any of you know what a Parda (veil/modesty) means?"

The students stopped talking, though they didn’t pay much heed. From among them, a boy named Adib spoke up, "In Islam, parda means boys restraining their gaze and girls safeguarding their modesty."

The professor nodded approvingly. "A good answer, but..."

Professor Minhaj’s gaze drifted back to the surrounding space. A few students were still whispering to each other, while others looked utterly bored. This was a scene already deeply etched into Minhaj’s mind; he had witnessed it countless times. For the past three or four years, he had been taking these classes, getting introduced to a new batch of students every semester, and steadily establishing his reputation as a thoroughly uninteresting man.

He looked down at his wristwatch and began to speak, "Your definition of parda is wonderful, Adib. However, I would like to offer another perspective."

This time, the eyes of every single student locked onto their teacher.

"There is another definition of parda in Islam. It is where you cannot call out to your own child, 'Come here, son,' in front of orphaned children. It is where you do not let the aroma of your cooking escape your kitchen, out of consideration for your impoverished neighbor. It is where you do not loudly celebrate your success, keeping in mind your unemployed relatives... This, too, is a form of parda."

A profound silence descended upon the lecture hall. Everyone’s undivided attention was now pinned on Professor Minhaj.

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"Man, the professor took such a great class after a long time, didn't he?"

"Tell me about it! The way he blended all religions to present that logic..."

"Seriously!"

The students were filtering out of the room in groups, whispering among themselves. Everyone had actually enjoyed today’s otherwise boring philosophy class. Who knows what sudden change had come over their professor?

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"So, you've got rashes... how many times a day do you change your pad?" Dr. Cynthia asked, putting her pen down.

Lina replied, "Um, twice a day..."

"From now on, you'll change it three times. During periods, pads can cause rashes in private areas. And take this allergy medicine I'm prescribing."

"Thank you."

No sooner had Lina stepped out than Minhaj made his appearance.

"Three pad changes in this economy? Who has that kind of time, tell me?" Minhaj remarked.

"Have a seat, Professor. I barely get any news of you these days. Are you taking your medicines properly? And yes, I know that girl lied to me because changing it twice shouldn't cause rashes like that. She probably changed it only once. Now that I’ve told her to change it thrice, she’ll at least do it twice."

"You look out for everyone else, doctor. When are you going to take care of your own body?"

"You should talk about yourself. You canceled two of your appointments—"

"I was busy with something, okay?" Minhaj interrupted Cynthia mid-sentence.

"Busy, of course. Pray tell, which Mahabharata have you conquered to come here today?"

-----------------

"Hey, Deepika. Look, isn't that your ex?" Rina nudged Deepika gently with her elbow, gesturing toward a table on the opposite side.

Deepika lifted her eyes from her phone and looked in that direction, where her belove ex, Minhaj Hossain, was sitting. "Forget it," she muttered, before diverting her gaze right back to her phone screen.

Minhaj sat there, cradling a cup of American latte with a philosophy book laid out in front of him. He had noticed Deepika, but he didn't have the time or energy to care.

------------------

"Look, she’s a girl from a reputable family. You have experience in business, so you can help them out. Build a future for yourself. Don't say no this time." Megha Hossain kept lecturing Minhaj while carefully inspecting her jewelry.

His wedding was just a few days away. He barely knew the girl. His two elder brothers had built massive businesses; he hadn't chosen that path, but now it felt like he was being forced down it anyway.

Minhaj looked out the window at the spring belly (jasmine) flowers blooming outside. Their fragrance instantly reminded him of Dibakar. That man had brought so much fulfillment to his otherwise lonely, scarred life.

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This society is deeply hideous. It despises homosexuality, it despises monotony, it despises effeminacy, it despises men and women walking together, it despises women flying free, and it despises unemployed boys. There is absolutely no need to force one's beliefs onto someone else. Just because a person doesn't conform to your beliefs doesn't mean you have to hate them.

If only society had understood this simple truth, then perhaps, on the day before his wedding, Minhaj's lifeless body wouldn't have been found hanging from the ceiling of his room.

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