In a small town of Barishal lived Ishraq and Rubaiya—both bisexual, both hiding their true colours. After university, they found jobs at the same school. A brush of fingers over lunch, a shared laugh on the rooftop as the wind tangled her hair—everything trembled silently. But when the town’s gossiping scissors began to snip, relationships fell apart faster than sound could travel.
One morning, a message appeared on the school wall: “Immoral teacher and mistress—get out!” The headmaster called them in and said, “Keep quiet. Save your dignity.” At home, Ishraq’s father, his voice trembling, said, “Get married. Otherwise, society will cut us off.” Rubaiya’s mother slapped her forehead and whispered, “After all this education, you bring us shame?” And just like that, they became social eunuchs—desires, voices, and dreams all severed; only existence left behind.
In the evening, they sat by the riverbank. Ishraq asked, “Are we really bad people?” Rubaiya smiled faintly, “We’re not bad. It’s the fear forced upon us that is.” Yet fear and shame sank their teeth into daily life—insulting messages on their phones, transfers from the school, moving homes, relatives turning away. Nights grew longer—sleepless and burning.
One stormy night, Ishraq’s desk drawer lay open. In the darkness whispered a letter: “I can’t stop the bleeding inside.” In Rubaiya’s diary, only three words: “I’m so tired.” At dawn, they sat in separate rooms on the floor—breathing quietly, measuring their wounds that left no marks. The doors were shut tight; outside, the birds sang.
A day later, the town walls were painted again. A new slogan: “Protect decency.” Ishraq left the school; Rubaiya left the town. The old tree by the river remained, carrying the faint scent of their unseen letters. They did not live again—but they did not die either. They lingered in a suspended tragedy, where the snip of society’s scissors cuts every dialogue short.
