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Severance
Writer: Moshiur Rahman Shanto
Author & Radio jockey
Hearing the words “Magan dang umaga,” I turned around. As I looked, I felt a bit confused. I’ve been in the Philippines for seven years. I’ve met many women here, spoken to quite a few, but not once in all these years had I seen a girl who looked like a Bangladeshi woman. Which makes
sense—most Filipino women resemble Chinese or Japanese girls in appearance. But the girl standing in front of me now looked exactly like a Bangladeshi woman. With eyes narrowed slightly, she looked at me and asked in fluent Filipino, “Why isn’t there anyone at reception?” Scratching my head, I replied in Filipino, “I don’t know. I don’t work in this office. I came to see my friend Aslam. He works here, in HR and Admin.” She said sharply, “I didn’t ask who you came to see or what your friend does. Why are you talking so much like a chatterbox?”
I shrank with embarrassment. My habit of talking too much had landed me in awkward spots many times. Trying to smile, I said, “Sorry. I’ve had this habit since childhood—it’s hard to shake.”
She was about to say something when someone finally showed up at reception, and she walked over. I stood waiting for Aslam. By the time Aslam arrived, I had already forgotten about the girl. Now, about Aslam—he’s my childhood friend. When I moved to Manila, he followed shortly after, sorting out all his paperwork, passport, and visa. Unfortunately, although we arrived in the Philippines together, we didn’t have the good fortune to work together. Sometimes I would visit his office, sometimes he’d come to mine. We had thought we’d at least live together, if not work together, but our workplaces ended up being too far apart. So we had to live separately. Anyway, that day we were chatting on a sofa near reception when, to our surprise, the Filipino girl who looked Bangladeshi came up and said, “Sorry—I was really stressed earlier and behaved badly. I hope you didn’t mind.” I replied, “You didn’t behave badly. No need to say sorry.”
She smiled sheepishly. “I’m just going through a tough time. I had an interview today. I thought it would be like all the others where I’d get rejected again. But this time, I felt a little hopeful. If I get the job, it’ll be such a relief.” I was staring at her in amazement. A girl who looked so much like a Bangladeshi was speaking Filipino fluently, opening up to a complete stranger about her financial troubles. Aslam was sitting beside me, clearly confused about how we knew each other. She looked at me with a bright smile and extended her right hand. “I’m Esther Aizan. Aizan is my family name, so just call me Esther.” I shook her hand and said, “I’m Shafik. Just call me Shafik.”
Esther laughed out loud. That was my first meeting with Esther. After that, we began to see each other more often. Of course, it was mostly because I took the initiative—I would visit Aslam’s office frequently just to see her. Since she got the job there, it became easier for me to drop by, ostensibly to meet Aslam, but really to have coffee with Esther at Johans Café. As we chatted over coffee, our bond deepened. Before I realized it, our friendship had turned into love.
I couldn’t stop thinking: I love Esther. I love her with all my heart. No matter what, I want to marry her. I had a feeling she might feel the same. I sensed it in her smile, in her eyes. One day, while sitting in Johans Café, I got down on one knee and said, “Pogi ka, mahal kita”—“You’re beautiful, I love you.”
Very film-like, I know. A scene middle-class boys like me only dream of. But I did it. Esther smiled and replied, “Mahal kita”—“I love you too.” Even though we both confessed our love, I was scared. What if we couldn’t get married in the end? After all, I was just a Bangladeshi guy with an average job in the Philippines. It wouldn’t be
surprising if she didn’t want to marry me. But to my surprise, it was Esther who first brought up marriage. She told her family about me—her younger brother Isaac and her mother. Since they were a small family and financially not so well-off, her mother didn’t object. Everything fell
into place, and we got married quietly, without telling my family back home. Strangely, I didn’t feel guilty. Everything felt right. Though our wedding wasn’t extravagant, it was full of joy. Our friends filled it with celebration. I stepped into a new chapter of my life. Suddenly, everything changed. I was floating in happiness. Esther loved me deeply, more than before. Her curiosity about my country—my village, my parents, my culture—grew stronger. Despite knowing that Bangladesh was a poor
country, she never showed disdain. But she had some funny misconceptions—she thought people in my country wandered around with empty plates begging for food! She believed the
country was full of crime, theft, and violence. I told her stories to correct these ideas—stories about my village, the rivers, the people. Soon, Esther became insistent about visiting Bangladesh. I also longed to introduce her to my
parents. So I arranged a three-month leave and booked our tickets.
We landed in Dhaka and stayed a couple of days at my sister Masuma’s place, but I wanted to take Esther to the village. My parents shouldn’t have to travel just to see their daughter-in-law. So we headed to my childhood village.
When we arrived, my heart swelled with joy. My parents welcomed Esther warmly. Word spread quickly, and soon neighbors flocked to see the foreign bride. They were thrilled. A village boy brought home a foreign bride! But their enthusiasm faded when they realized Esther
looked just like a local girl—not the fair-skinned beauty they imagined.
Still, Esther’s excitement didn’t waver. She threw herself into village life. She befriended the locals. Time flew. A month passed like a week. I wished I had taken six months’ leave instead of three. We tried to make the most of the remaining time. But around one and a half months
into our stay, something strange happened. One evening, Esther said, “Shafik, I don’t feel well. My left leg hurts so much—I feel like cutting
it off.” I laughed. “You’ve walked around too much today. That’s all.” But she didn’t smile. She went to bed early, without another word. Later that night, I woke up to the sound of sobbing. Esther was sitting alone, crying, holding her leg. I was stunned. I stayed up massaging her leg, worried sick. In our village, a husband
massaging his wife’s feet is practically scandalous. But I didn’t care. She fell asleep before dawn. The next morning, she was cheerful again. The pain was gone. She resumed her adventures—walking by the river, going to the market. I relaxed. A week passed peacefully. But then the pain came back—worse than before. She screamed through the night. My sister massaged her leg with warm mustard oil. Nothing helped. My mother said, “Shafik, I think your wife has been possessed by a jinn. You should call a fakir.” I hesitated but eventually agreed. The fakir arrived the next day with a helper and began a bizarre ritual. He pressed Esther’s finger so hard she winced in pain, then started chanting.
“Where are you from?” he asked. “Koh-e-Kaaf,” he answered himself. “Why are you here?” “I love this girl.” He claimed Esther was possessed by a 190-year-old jinn. Then he demanded a broomstick and struck her head twice with it. Esther screamed. I rushed in and pulled her away. My father was furious with me for disrespecting the fakir. “You’ve become your wife’s puppet!
Acting like a rich man just because you married a foreigner!”
Esther was shaken. She insisted we return to the Philippines immediately. I agreed. But things got worse after we returned. Esther withdrew from me. Though we lived under the same roof, we grew apart. The leg pain worsened. I took her to an orthopedic doctor. All scans were normal. He said, “I think the problem is in her mind. You should see a psychiatrist.” The psychiatrist said something that shook me to the core: “Your wife has BIID—Body Integrity Identity Disorder. She doesn’t believe her leg is hers. You should consider amputation.” I was horrified. “Are you mad? If you have a headache, do you cut off your head?” He said, “If you don’t do this, one day she might try to cut it off herself.” I dismissed him. But I was worried. Esther kept saying, “Buy a gun, Shafik. Shoot my leg off.” Every day she believed more strongly that her leg didn’t belong to her. I tried to reassure her,
but she grew more distant. I thought of calling her mother and brother. But before I could, something terrifying happened. One night, I woke up and found Esther gone. The rooftop door was open. I ran up and found her unconscious, her leg bleeding, a bloodied electric saw beside her. I rushed her to the hospital, knowing in my heart it was too late. Esther was already gone. The police arrived, but her mother managed to settle things. The autopsy confirmed she had done it herself. We buried her the next day. Her mother never blamed me. She even protected me from the police.
Without Esther, life became unbearable. I left my job and returned to Bangladesh.
Eventually, I remarried. My wife is named Urmi, and we have a daughter named Onubhuti. I had wanted to name her Esther. I couldn’t. I don’t know if I’m truly happy now. But whenever I think of Esther, a sharp pain cuts through
me. It silences my present and drags me back into the past. And I feel, somehow, that Esther is still with me. Very near.
