"Everything is there. It's morning outside the window, there's sunshine, there's the green shade of the lemon tree, there are the two tambourines, there's the dining table, there's the brown leather cover on it, on that cover there's a bottle of Smirnoff filled with water, there's a bottle of Royal Halal Chanachur, there's five or six upright water glasses arranged, there's a box of Dabur's Chyawanprash, there's a bottle of Pran's honey. Everything is there. The plastic spoon stand, the matchbox, the unopened wedding invitation, the salt shaker, the margarine jar, thirteen ants—no, more—are climbing up the margarine jar in a line. Where are they going? Or are they returning? Returning to their three-room flat, where everything is there, just like before? Only one person is missing?...
No words, no smiles, no response from life.
Not.
The bottle of Equal is there, myi brown porcelain tea cup, the shade of the ceiling fan spinning on the table, the One Bank calendar in one corner of the table, and a set of eight coasters.
There is no interruption, no pause, no movement in the presence of these things anywhere.
. Only the joyful language that someone used to give to these dumb things every day, the language in which they used to talk to me all morning and afternoon, she is absent.
Not."
[Story: Not, Syed Manjurul Islam]
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