Avi and Neela are sitting on the balcony of an old, dilapidated house in Old Dhaka. In the dim light of the evening, there is quite a distance between them, yet they have spent twenty long years under the same roof. There is no longer any fighting, no misunderstandings, and not even the intense pull of love that once existed between them. There is only a strange habit left. Their habits have blended into the marrow of their bones. Neela knows exactly when Avi will ask for a cup of strong tea, and Avi knows when Neela will become lost in thought looking up at the sky while watering the pots on the balcony.
One day, Avi suddenly asked, "Neela, are we actually together, or are we just living in each other's shadows?"
Neela smiled a little, a faint smile. She replied, "Didn't Jibanananda write—'still living together'? This 'together' is not always physical or mental, Avi; it is a matter of time. We have actually become partners in each other's time. When memories fade, it is this habit that remains." At that moment, a light drizzle began outside. Avi noticed that Neela was wearing that old blue sari again, the one he had gifted her ten years ago. The sari has ripped in several places, the color has faded, just like their relationship. Yet she still wears it with great affection.
They understood that some relationships never reach fulfillment, and yet they never end. They simply endure—sharing the same room, living in separate worlds, but still 'together.' The sound of that familiar person's breath and footsteps seems to be the only proof of their existence. This is how life flows. Even when love fades, people remain with each other—perhaps out of affection, or perhaps merely out of habit. This is perhaps what is called 'still living together.'
