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It was illogical—cold in monsoon humidity. But I knew what she meant. Loneliness. I got off the bed and sat beside her.

At 2 AM, the heat was unbearable. I heard her whimper. “Snake?” I asked.

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Pallavi didn't scream. She just stood at the bathroom door, wearing Mita’s green kameez which was too tight over her chest. "Shovan Babu," she whispered, "you are a good man. Don’t spoil it."

The problem was the household work. Dishes piled up. Dust settled on the TV. After three weeks of stale bread and instant noodles, I gave in. “Boudi,” I called my neighbor, “arrange a kajer meye for me. Someone honest. Young. I can't cook.”

She caught me.

(Note: This page updates every Friday with a "Nostalgic 2012" choti golpo.)