By: Suman Mondal

He was waiting inside the bar. He knew I would come and sit with him. We usually do this. I hardly get time to drink at home; my family always keeps their austere eyes on my life, except for Sundays.

​I reached there at around half past eight, and he blamed me for being late, as usual. He is always on time. On winter nights, he drinks a bit more to keep his body warm. I don’t drink too much.

​”Why are you late, sonuvabitch?” he asked, as usual.

​”One of my students called me,” I replied.

​”Did you forget her?” he inquired.

​”Come on!” I said, pouring the rare liquid into the glass.

​He was talking about an incident from my early twenties. I’m thirty now. I had attended a marriage ceremony where I met a beautiful girl. That adjective is overused. I had no girlfriends in my school days.

​In my college days, I liked a few girls. Some were indeed beautiful in appearance, but not in heart. Some were the opposite. I had no intention whatsoever of marrying them. They never understood. I just wanted to talk, spend some time, and if they were interested, get closer and closer without pondering over our future. That was so creepy to them.

​I never asked, though. I was a terribly quiet person in my college days. But if a girl approached me, I would talk with tenderness.

​I was there at the marriage ceremony, unable to understand how they were so happy. They were literally smiling and dancing. I was sitting on the corner of the bed.

​”Drink some more,” he insisted.

​”No,” I answered.

​”Tell me how you fell in love with her, dummy,” he said in a quiet, peculiar tone, as though the glasses of liquor had taken effect on him.

​I saw her peeping at me quite often. She had the eyes of poetry; otherwise, how on earth could she look at me with such tenderness? I had a strange habit of observing everyone.

She came by quite a few times, and I thought of her like the other girls I encountered too often. But she had a strange beauty that was impossible to overlook, even if you rubbed your eyes for hours. My God! She had a sweet voice, and though I noticed, I didn’t care. I knew the epistle of my fate wouldn’t allow me to love anyone so tenderly.

​“Then?” he asked.

​“Shut your mouth,” I replied, drinking the last drop of Blenders from the glass.

​“You’re too drunk,” he said, laughing at me.

​“I love her so madly that I would marry her right here if she came,” I whispered.

​“You’re married, moron. Your wife will kill you,” he whispered back.

​“I’m not married,” I replied, pouring another glass.

​At night, when we talked for the first time, I was mad. I was mad at her beauty. She shared pretty stories that addicted me more than these glasses of liquor. I fell in love with her instantly. It was love at first sight, with caution, as it was mere insanity to look at someone while trying to keep my morality intact.

​“What do you mean? You sound peculiar now,” he asked.

​“You better stop and listen, sonuvabitch,” I replied, drinking the last drop from the glass.

​I talked to her for an hour. It was so soothing to my scanty heart.

​Adiós. Adiós. Tú fuiste la noche de las mil estrellas. Me gusta la noche de las mil estrellas. Pienso en ti con una flor en el corazón. El polvo del camino me hace feliz. Guardo el humo de tu casa en mis recuerdos. ¿Cómo te digo con esperanza: Te amo? Estuviste en mi sueño como un pájaro alegre. Estuve con mi amigo, pero tú eras la nube. En la tranquilidad, entre el humo, miré por la ventana y quizás corrí, pero, de alguna manera, tú eras la sombra. Estoy nervioso, pero la casa está vacía. En mi soledad, te quiero; en mi muerte, te quiero. Pero conozco la verdad: tú eres mi niña.

​“I didn’t understand a word, moron. You’d better stop talking,” he shouted, trying to stand, but he was too drunk and dropped back into the chair.

We ate dinner together. She waved her hand. Adiós. Adiós. Oh, my God!

​“Did you meet again?” he asked.

​I met her again. She came to me with her mirage-like face, saying, “Oh, hello!” My God! I was so afraid. My heart was beating. ¿Cómo te digo con esperanza: Te amo? I didn’t look at her. She came again and again. But she didn’t look at me as before. One day, she smiled at me for seven seconds, and that’s all.

​“Remember some more,” he said.

​“I can’t say any more,” I cried, drinking the last drops from the glass.

​“You must go home,” he said. “Your family must be waiting for you.”

​“I live alone,” I said.

​“You married last year, moron,” he laughed.

​“I didn’t. You are too drunk,” I said.

​“You still love her?” he asked with red eyes.

​She’s my little sister. Not biological. At least. She is my stars twinkling in the night. The words are so overused. Clichés. I can’t think of new words anymore.

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Suman Mondal is a poet, researcher, and student from West Bengal, India. His philosophical poems have been featured in The Statesman, a well-respected Indian newspaper, including its prestigious festival issues of 2024 and 2025. His other works have been published in Lekh Magazine, Faith Hope & Fiction, Spillwords, Brief Wilderness, Literary Yard, Apotheca Journal, Hollow and Sky Literary Journal, Bharat Patriotism Magazine, Exclamation Mark Literary Journal, and Ultramarine Literary Review. He was shortlisted for the Young Writers’ Journal Weekly Prize in 2025. He has presented his research papers at Presidency University, Bengaluru, and St. Xavier’s College, Bardhaman. He is currently pursuing an Honours with Research degree in English at Rampurhat College.