s.story 5: A Stolen Life

Prologue

Dhaka, 1970—when the city held its breath, waiting to exhale revolution. The air vibrated with the hum of change, a nation stirring in the belly of unrest. In the heart of this anticipation, Neeta was born—a fragile arrival into a world painted with hopes and haunted by whispers of uncertainty. Her family celebrated her birth like a small lantern lit in a storm, a sign of hope in a world on the brink. Yet life, like history, has a way of disguising its gifts, wrapping blessings in sorrow, and love in unbearable loss.

From the moment Neeta took her first breath, joy and sorrow intertwined like ancient lovers, threading their way through her story. No one knew then was that Neeta’s life would reflect the very turbulence of her country—a life of beauty touched by scars, of love stained by loss. This was a world where contradictions thrived—where laughter echoed through homes burdened by secrets, and where happiness was shadowed with an ever-present hum of pain.

A Life Like Rain

Neeta moved through her childhood as if carried by an invisible breeze, her laughter light like the chimes hanging from her grandmother’s veranda. Her almond-toned skin soaked in the summer sun, and her deep eyes reflected the same mystery as the waters of Buriganga River—serene on the surface, hiding stories beneath. She was loved, yet never fully free, burdened with the quiet weight of expectations, like the first drizzle that warns of an impending storm.

Her family took great pride in her academic brilliance, murmurs of praise spreading among relatives: “a girl who stands out more than the boys.” But her mother, following the unspoken script passed down through generations, began weaving another kind of future for her—a life marked by marriage, duty, and silent sacrifices. Neeta, though young, sensed the subtle shift in the air. Her dreams of becoming a doctor lingered like unspoken prayers, fragile and waiting to be extinguished.

Mansoor. His name was spoken with respect, a cousin studying in London—a doctor, no less. A perfect match, they said. A man who would bring honor, stability, and everything a family could hope for. But Neeta’s heart resisted. Not because she didn’t like him, but because she felt nothing at all. There was an emptiness where love should have been, a void she couldn’t explain. But in those days, love was rarely the reason for marriage. Marriage was duty, an agreement, often a sacrifice. And so, Neeta did what countless women before her had done—she gave up quietly, letting her dreams of becoming a doctor fade under the weight of expectation.

The wedding was grand, a celebration that filled the ballroom of Hotel Purbani with laughter and lights. Neeta, covered in gold and red, was the perfect bride, the pride of her family. But inside, she felt empty, like an actress playing a role she had never auditioned for. The weight of her jewelry matched the heaviness in her heart, each piece a symbol of the life she was stepping into, knowing that her marriage was not a union of souls but of circumstances.

The Cracks Beneath the Surface

The early days of Neeta’s marriage slipped by like an endless monsoon, each day folding into the next in silence. Mansoor remained in London most of the time, while Neeta, still in Dhaka, tried to hold on to the last threads of her former self by continuing her studies. The dreams of becoming a doctor, though distant, lingered like a haunting melody. But the idea of shared dreams with Mansoor was an illusion. He remained a stranger, polite but distant, a man wrapped in the cloak of his own ambitions and disappointments.

When their daughter, Maya, was born, in London, Neeta thought the tides would turn. London, which had taken everything familiar from her, now gave her loneliness in return. Mansoor’s failures weighed heavily on him—his exams, once a source of pride, became a bitter reminder of his shortcomings. The first time he struck her, it wasn’t out of rage but frustration—a casual cruelty that startled more for its ordinariness than its force.

The abuse crept into their lives like a slow, persistent rain. A slap one day, harsh words the next—small bruises hidden beneath everyday routines. Neeta learned to bear it, to swallow the pain like bitter medicine, believing, like many women before her, that endurance was the only way to survive.

But survival became harder. Mansoor’s bitterness grew with every passing day, finding new ways to manifest. The accusations came swiftly—about chores left undone or done but failed to meet his expectations, about Maya, about the meals not to his liking. With each blow, Neeta’s spirit fractured further, yet she endured, convinced that things would improve if only she held on a little longer.

They didn’t.

The Final Betrayal

When Neeta returned to Dhaka, she was a shadow of herself—her body bruised, her soul depleted. The city welcomed her back with its familiar chaos, but it felt distant, as if she no longer belonged to its rhythm. For days, she slept, her body heavy with exhaustion, her dreams dark and wordless. When she finally found the strength to speak, she told her parents everything—of the abuse, the loneliness, the despair. But her words landed like raindrops on stone.

Her father, a man molded by society’s unforgiving rules, spoke softly but firmly. “For Maya’s sake,” he said, urging her to return. As if the word sake could stitch together a life torn apart by cruelty. Society’s judgment weighed heavier than their daughter’s pain, and so Neeta, defeated, slipped back into Mansoor’s world once more. Mansoor, too, returned to Dhaka.

Life in Dhaka took on a strange rhythm. Mansoor found work as an anesthesiologist- a man who put others to sleep for a living, numbing them while remaining oblivious to the pain he caused at home. Neeta pursued her post-graduation studies and worked under a gynecologist, bringing life into the world while her own life felt increasingly beyond her control.

It was during these days that she saw the other woman—Aysha. The first time, at the coffee shop of Pan Pacific Sonargaon Hotel, Aysha sat with Mansoor, their hands brushing in the subtle intimacy of familiarity. Another time, Neeta caught sight of them laughing in Mansoor’s chamber, fingers entwined like promises unspoken. Later, Neeta learned that Aysha was a friend of Mansoor’s sister. The knowledge froze Neeta’s heart; there was no anger left in her, only numbness.

The confrontation arrived like an unexpected storm, fierce and unrelenting. Neeta hadn’t realized how much had been bottled up inside her, how many unspoken truths she carried, or how deeply she longed to fight for herself. That night, words shattered the air like fragments of broken glass, sharp and irretrievable. Mansoor’s fury surged, untamed and uncontrollable, crashing into violence.

Maya was there, just a wall away, her small presence pressed into the shadows. She heard it all, every moment unfolding like a terrible secret whispered in the dark.

The Epilogue of Silence

The night Neeta died was ordinary. It was their wedding anniversary—a day marked not with love but obligation. Her mother, out of habit more than celebration, prepared a feast. But Mansoor, as always, was absent, his promises lost somewhere between indifference and neglect. Frustrated and weary, Neeta kissed Maya goodnight—her daughter, who had grown more familiar with her grandparents’ home than her own. Neeta left her parents’ home, unaware that it would be the last time. She carried food boxes, a small act of peace offering, as if kindness could mend a shattered soul.

Later that night, the call came, slicing through the quiet like a knife. “Neeta Bhabi had a heart attack,” Mansoor’s sister whispered, her voice trembling—heavy with something that wasn’t quite grief, perhaps fear, or perhaps nothing at all. By the time her parents reached the hospital, Neeta was already gone. Her body lay still and cold, wrapped in a silence that would never be broken.

No one knew exactly what happened that night. Whatever unfolded within those walls was quietly labeled a ‘heart attack.’ Only Maya knew the truth, clenched tight in her little fists. “He killed her!” she cried, her voice cracking under the weight of a truth far too heavy for a child to carry. But the world, as it always does, turned its back on the voices of women and children, burying their cries beneath layers of indifference. That night, the rain poured without mercy, as if the skies themselves mourned a life taken too soon, weeping for the justice that would never come.

In the morning, when they washed her body for burial, the women found grains of rice tangled in her hair and bruises darkening her skin. The whispers began—of those who heard the screams, of the relatives who found a anesthesia vial found under the dining table, of the guards who saw a woman run from the house last night, a few minutes after Neeta’s arrival- —they all spoke now, but it was too late. Whispers are no match for silence. Neeta’s silence had been her only voice, and it had gone unheard.

At the funeral, wrapped in white and diminished by suffering, Neeta looked smaller than ever, as if life had shrunken her soul to fit into a coffin too large. The rain washed over her one last time, mingling with tears uncried, as the world, indifferent, moved on. And in the end, only silence lingered —of a love never given, of a life never fully lived.

~ October 2024