Take The Blame And Disappear

Piklu was not the girl who entered a room and made everyone look. She was the girl who entered a room and made the room feel a little less heavy.

She lived in Barakpur, in that lane where the evening tea stalls never closed, in a rented room with one window that looked at a mango tree that never gave mangoes. She had a steel almirah that made too much noise, a table with too many students' notebooks, and a small red cloth in the corner where Maa Kali sat, looking at her all day.

People called her strong. 

Piklu hated that word.

Because strong meant no one asked if she had eaten. Strong meant she could cancel all her tuitions for a week with fever and no one would check. Strong meant she could chant Om 11 times with 100 degrees fever and still smile when her mother called.

She was 28. She had carried her house for 12 years. And she was tired.

The story of her disappearing did not start with disappearing. It started with two boys who came like small lights and left like big storms.

The first was Adi.

Adi was her colleague. Long distance. Hyderabad.

He was not handsome in the filmy way. He was handsome in the way he typed. "Did you eat?" at 2 pm. "Your voice sounds tired today" at 11 pm. "Barakpur must be raining, no?" when it was raining in Hyderabad.

Piklu had never told anyone about her loneliness. But she told Adi.

One night, on a voice note, she said, "You know Adi, sometimes I feel like I am hosting everyone, but no one is hosting me."

Adi was silent for a few seconds and then said, "Then host me in that corner, Piklu. I will stay."

That was enough. For a girl who had never been offered a place, even a sentence felt like a home.

They talked for months. Not love. Not anything with a name. Just that soft corner. Piklu would send him a reel when she couldn't say things. He would reply, "This is so you." She would say, "Today tuition kids troubled me a lot." He would say, "You handle them with so much love, yaar."

Then December came.

Piklu was scrolling Instagram at midnight, feverish, unable to sleep. And she saw it. Adi's story. Tagged. In Mumbai.

Marine Drive. Wind in his hair. And a girl. Her head on his shoulder. His caption: "My weather, finally with me. #Mumbai #Bae #Forever."

Piklu's breath stopped.

She clicked the girl's profile. Private. But the highlights were public. "Engaged - 12.12.25". Ring photo. Adi's hand holding hers.

He was engaged. For months, maybe. And he never told her.

She didn't sleep that night. Next morning, she typed and deleted 17 times.

Finally she sent: "Adi, I saw your Mumbai story. You are engaged?"

He saw it at 10:14 am.

He replied at 6:47 pm.

Adi: "Piklu, yes. I was going to tell you. It's an arranged thing, from last year. I didn't want to make things awkward between us."

Piklu stared at the word awkward.

She replied, "Did you think I would feel awkward that you have a future? I was only asking because you are my friend."

Adi: "You are overthinking. You always do this. It's not that deep."

Piklu: "Overthinking? Adi, I told you my whole house situation. I told you about my anxiety. You said host me."

Adi: "Piklu, I have a meeting. Let's not make this a drama. You are strong, you will understand."

And he went offline.

That was the first time Piklu learned a new word: Strong. It is what people say when they want to leave without guilt.

She took the blame that night.

She told herself, in dialogue with herself: "It's my fault. I told him too much. Girls like me should not tell too much. I should have known he was in Mumbai for a reason. I made a colleague into a corner. It's my mistake."

She muted his story. She did not block. Girls who take the blame don't block. They mute and watch quietly, punishing themselves.

The second boy was Sam.

She met Sam not in real life. On a dating app she had downloaded at 2 am one night when her loneliness was heavier than her fever.

Sam's bio said: "Good listener. Not here for hookups. If you need someone to talk at 3 am, I'm there."

Piklu laughed at first. Then she messaged.

Piklu: "Hi. Are you really a good listener or is that just bio?"

Sam: "Try me."

And he was. For weeks.

Piklu told him about Adi. About Mumbai. About how she took the blame.

Sam said, "Piklu, you don't take the blame. You take the pain that was never yours. There is a difference."

Piklu: "But if I don't take the blame, who will? Someone has to take it, otherwise the story doesn't end."

Sam: "Then let the story stay open. Not every story needs an ending where you are the villain."

She liked Sam. He hosted her. He never asked for photos. He never asked for voice notes. He just said, "Tell me more. I am here."

When Piklu's fever and periods came together and she felt like vanishing, she deleted the app. She thought, I should heal. I should not depend on an app boy to breathe.

She was okay for 11 days.

On the 12th day, at 1:47 am, when the room felt too big and her chest felt too small, she reinstalled it. Just to say hi to Sam. Just to say, "Are you there?"

She found him. He was there. But he was not there.

Piklu: "Sam, hi. I am back. I missed talking."

Sam: "oh hey."

Piklu: "You okay? You sound different."

Sam: "just busy."

Piklu: "I reinstalled just to talk to you. I had no other way to reach you. You remember I told you about that?"

Sam: "yeah I remember. But Piklu, tbh you come and go a lot. It's a bit much. I can't be your permanent host, you know?"

That word again. A bit much.

Piklu felt her cheeks burn.

Piklu: "I am sorry. I thought you said you are here at 3 am."

Sam: "I am, but not everyday, Piklu. You need to find real life friends. This is just an app."

Piklu: "I have no real life friends, Sam. That's why I am here."

Sam: "Seen."

And he went offline.

Piklu sat with her phone in her hand till the battery died. 14% to 0%. She didn't move.

Then she whispered to Maa Kali in the red cloth, "See Maa, I told you. I am too much. I come and go. I reinstall. I send reels. I am the problem."

She took the blame again.

She told herself: "It's my fault. I should not have reinstalled. I should have remembered he is just an app boy. I should not have made him my only place."

She deleted the app again. This time she also cleared the cache. As if clearing cache could clear her heart.

Then came the third.

Adi again. But a different Adi now. Actually the same Adi from Hyderabad. The colleague. In this story, let him be the Hyderabad Adi only — the one she had a soft corner for. Let us call him Adi for the rest.

Piklu had not talked to Adi properly after Mumbai. But she still had that soft corner. Soft corners don't die fast. They fade slowly, like incense smoke.

One evening, fever around 100, she saw a reel. A girl speaking: "Some girls take the blame and disappear quietly so that everyone else can stay comfortable."

Piklu cried. She sent it to Adi. No caption. Just the reel.

She waited.

One hour. Two hours. He saw it. No reaction. No emoji. No "hmm". Nothing.

That silence was louder than Sam's "Seen" and louder than Mumbai Adi's "You are strong."

She typed to herself, in the empty room:

"I sent him my whole biography in one reel. He didn't even give me one emoji?"

"I guess it's time for me to bid a goodbye to all who don't need my presence felt. I will."

She was ready to disappear.

She opened WhatsApp. She wrote a long message to everyone. "Sorry if I was too much..."

Then she stopped. Her hand shivered because of fever.

And Maa Kali from the red cloth seemed to say, "If you have to disappear, disappear from the places that never kept you. Not from the world."

That night, Piklu had a dream. No, not a dream. A drama. A dialogue inside her head with all three.

In her dream, all three were sitting on her small bed.

Adi from Mumbai said: "Piklu, why did you make it big? I was just friendly."

Piklu said, loudly for the first time: "No, Adi. You were not just friendly. You said 'host me in that corner.' You asked me to open the door. I opened it. You never said you already had a home in Mumbai. You made me feel like I was the one who imagined a home. I didn't imagine. You offered. And you never told me the truth. So I took the blame for your lie. That's not my job."

Sam from the app said: "Piklu, you are too dependent."

Piklu said: "Sam, I was not dependent. I was lonely. I told you I have no other way to reach you. I reinstalled because you were the only human who once said 'Tell me more.' If I came and went, it's because I was trying to not come at all. And when I finally came, you called me 'a bit much.' Do you know how much courage it takes for a girl like me to say 'I need to talk'? And you said 'Seen'? I took the blame for your inability to stay. That's not my job either."

And Adi from Hyderabad — the reel Adi — said nothing. He just sat silent.

Piklu looked at him and said, "And you, Adi. My soft corner. I didn't ask you to love me. I only sent you a reel that felt like me. You saw it thrice, I know. But you said nothing because you were scared I would think you feel the same. Or you were scared you actually feel a little and you don't want to. Your silence made me feel invisible. So I decided to disappear so that you don't have to feel uncomfortable. I was ready to take the blame for your silence too. But tell me, Adi — why should I take the blame for your fear?"

No one answered in the dream. Because in real life, no one answers.

She woke up with fever still 100. But her eyes were clear.

She understood the title of her life now: Take the Blame and Disappear.

She had been doing it for 12 years. Whenever something broke, she said "It's my fault" and she disappeared from that place — from friendships, from groups, from asking for help.

She thought disappearing was dignity. It was not. It was self-abandonment.

So this time, she did a different disappearing.

She got up. She took a bath with warm water. She put on a clean cotton saree — not new, but clean. She took her small purse. She kept 50 rupees for to-to, and 20 rupees for a diya.

She went to Chorungi Kali Bari on Saturday, alone.

The temple was crowded. Bells, smoke, children crying, women with baskets.

Piklu didn't push. She stood at the back. When her turn came, she didn't ask for Adi to reply, or Sam to come back, or Mumbai Adi to feel guilty.

She said to Maa:

"Maa, I am here to return the blames that were never mine."

"Maa, I return Adi's lie to Adi. It was not my overthinking. It was his hiding."

"I return Sam's coldness to Sam. It was not my being too much. It was his being too less."

"I return this Hyderabad silence to Adi. It was not my reel being too deep. It was his heart being too scared."

"And Maa, I keep only one blame — that I left myself alone in a room with fever, waiting for three men to tell me I am needed. That blame is mine. And today, I disappear from that habit."

She lit the diya. The wind tried to blow it. She covered it with her hand.

She sat there for one hour. No phone.

When she came out, she didn't check her phone for reactions.

She went to the tea stall. She said, "Dada, one cha."

The dada said, "Piklu, long time no see. Fever is gone?"

She smiled. Real smile after weeks.

She said, "Almost gone, Dada."

And she realized — her presence was felt. By the tea dada. By the temple diya. By herself.

She came back to Barakpur. She opened her phone.

Adi from Hyderabad had finally replied to the reel, at 11:33 am:

"Sorry Piklu, I saw it yesterday night, I didn't know what to say, it felt very personal. Hope your fever is better now."

She read it. She didn't cry. She didn't feel that old rush to reply fast and prove she is not angry.

She typed:

"Adi, thank you for replying. My fever is 100 now, getting better. That reel was personal, yes. I sent it because I was feeling like taking all blame and disappearing. I felt that way yesterday. Today I went to Kali Bari and I left those blames there. Your silence hurt me, but I understand you were confused. We are okay as colleagues. No need to carry anything heavy."

She sent it. No double meaning. No waiting for love.

Sam never replied. She kept him deleted. Some doors once closed, should stay closed. Not out of anger, but out of respect for your own reinstallation wounds.

Mumbai Adi? She never opened his chat again. She archived it. Archive is also a kind of temple — you don't delete the past, you just don't keep it in front of your God every day.

That night, Piklu wrote in her diary, in Bengali, then English:

"I, Piklu, take the blame for one thing only — that I thought my presence needs to be felt by others to be valid. I disappear today — not from the world, but from the waiting room where I waited for others to give me permission to exist. From today, I host myself."

She chanted Krim 11 times. Not because she was scared. Because she wanted to.

And she slept. Fever 99. Room quiet. Phone on silent, not because she was angry, but because she was finally resting.

The girl who always took the blame and disappeared — finally disappeared from the habit of taking the blame.

And for the first time, she stayed.