LOVE AFFAIRS

Sushma was a teenage girl from a gentle, middle-class family in Agartala during the late 1990s. Her mother had died when she was still a child, and her father, though burdened by grief and financial strain, brought her up with quiet resilience. He wasn’t a man of many words, but his love echoed in the small things—an extra blanket on a winter night, a plate of mango slices in summer. People often say that a girl without beauty is like a flower in the desert—unnoticed, forgotten. But Sushma defied that logic. She was strikingly beautiful, not with glittering charm, but with a rare, gentle radiance. Her hair, naturally fair, flowed like sunlit silk. Her eyes held affection, and her expression shifted with astonishing quickness—from laughter to thoughtful stillness, from softness to subtle strength. Teenage years are often the opening act of one’s independence. Sushma began to explore her growing world with wonder. Activities once forbidden were now encouraged. Her father, though traditional in many ways, believed in education and allowed her to pursue it freely. With that freedom, Sushma bloomed. She developed a strong mind, wide imagination, and an unshakable sense of self-worth. Her presence, calm yet confident, often unsettled men around her. To her, “God created men and women to be partners—not masters and subordinates.” In school, Sushma found herself drawn to a classmate named Vivek. He was kind, thoughtful, and respectful. Yet, despite her affection for him, she feared the idea of love. She worried that marriage might confine her—that becoming a wife would mean losing herself. Around this time, her maternal aunt, Mrs. Shila, came to visit from Kolkata. Graceful and practical, Shila offered to take Sushma to the city for higher education. Eager for growth, Sushma agreed. Before leaving, she met Vivek and told him gently, “I can’t give you an answer now. Let me finish my studies—then I’ll know who I am.” A New World Kolkata opened new dimensions. Sushma left an impression wherever she went—not just because of her beauty, but her poise, intellect, and quiet fire. Her cousin Rahul grew deeply attached to her, treating her like a kindred spirit. Their bond was one of mutual respect and affection. But it was Sourav, their aristocratic neighbour, who fell completely under her spell. He came from a prominent family and offered her stability and social prestige. When he proposed, Sushma declined politely. Though she hesitated, fearing she was rejecting a safe future, she couldn't deny her heart’s voice. She tasted freedom in Kolkata—coffee with friends, late-night library hours, bus rides through the city—and with it came subtle shifts in her values. What once seemed rigid now felt negotiable. A romantic idealism crept in, gently blurring the lines of her earlier clarity. One day, Paru, her old friend, visited and arranged for Vivek to meet her again. He still carried hope in his eyes. “Will you marry me now?” he asked. This time, Sushma stood her ground and said, “Give me two more years. I can’t promise anything—but I won’t lie to you.” She walked away feeling both guilty and proud. She had chosen her path. Time transformed her. Her adolescent awkwardness faded; the pimples disappeared like a forgotten season. She had become graceful, intelligent, and quietly radiant. Her aunt, recognizing her strength and vulnerability, updated her will—leaving half of her property to Sushma. At her aunt’s house, she found a confidante in Radhika, a polished and elegant young woman. During a family trip to Chennai, Radhika introduced her to a man named Nayan—soft-spoken, seemingly sincere, but of no social standing. Radhika praised him lavishly, calling him “one of the finest.” What Sushma didn’t know was that Radhika and Nayan shared a secret—one built not on love, but manipulation. Radhika coaxed Sushma to marry Nayan, suggesting he would appreciate her freedom. Despite the disapproval of everyone, especially Rahul, Sushma agreed. Perhaps it was defiance. Perhaps it was hope. A Fractured Dream Two years into the marriage, the illusions cracked. Nayan saw Sushma as a trophy wife—a symbol of wealth and social elevation. He disliked her independence, resented her opinions, and dismissed her intellect. She, in turn, tried to transform herself into a “good wife,” silencing her thoughts, smiling through pain. But her spirit, though bruised, was not broken. Then, one day, Sourav returned. His love for her had not dimmed. But Sushma, now wiser, sent him away. She knew love could be beautiful—but also dangerous when born from escape. Shortly afterward, terrible news arrived—Rahul was dying. Sushma longed to rush to Kolkata, to be with the cousin who once understood her soul. But Nayan forbade it. “You’re my wife,” he said. “Your place is here.” Ironically, it was Mani, Nayan’s own sister, who came to her aid. “Go,” she urged. “And know this—there’s more between Radhika and Nayan than you know. She never wanted your happiness. Only your inheritance.” Sushma felt a cold wave wash over her. Betrayal, disgust, pity—for herself, and even for Radhika. The world she had tried to build was a hollow palace. And yet, she packed her bag, took a deep breath, and left for Kolkata. The Final Choice Rahul’s death shook her. In his final moments, he had asked for her. Held her hand. Said nothing—just looked into her eyes as if to say, “You are still you.” After the funeral, Vivek appeared once more. The years had changed him too. He looked older, tired, but hopeful. “Come with me,” he whispered. “We can leave all this behind. You don’t have to suffer anymore.” For a moment, Sushma felt the ache of possibilities. She looked at the road beyond the crematorium gate—the path of freedom, of maybe-love. But the next morning, she was gone. Vivek searched for her. Finally, he found Paru, who stood quietly, tears shimmering in her eyes. “She’s returned to Chennai,” Paru said softly. “With a stone on her chest, she left—unable to break her vows, unable to forget her sorrow.” Vivek stood still, the weight of silence pressing into him like twilight. And then, with a voice broken not by volume, but by memory, he whispered— “The heart loves… but love hurts.”