As the metaphorical show host, I welcome the other two versions of me on the hypothetical talk show I just formed three minutes ago. I wonder which one of us is actually me. I look to my right, and I see a version of me who speaks fluent English, and English only (just for the record, I do know good English)

On my left, is a lovely young man (preferring Bangla as his medium of exchange) who seems just as sweet as the tea he has been drinking all evening. His third cup yet, the sweetness makes one argue that the tea is less tea and more of a dessert. Regardless, we begin the show with the two conflicting personas, and I hope somewhere in these interactions I can find some space to sneak my own opinions too.

The first interactions with our guests tonight seem to go quite hot and cold. But these ‘temperatures’ are best judged by me, not by our audience today. Why? Because I know me. One thing I know for a fact is that I will probably not get elbowed out of my seat by these two men, but I do expect a cold shoulder to my right. But then I feel the same cold shoulder would bring me more help than the tea drinker could. Drinking all that sugar every hour means you naturally sugarcoat everything that comes out of your mouth, and he’ll never say what he actually needs to.

It’s quite paradoxical how a more ignorant version of me, the one who speaks English is actually always the one doing the difficult conversations. More so, even the more general expressions that make me a human, like affection, admiration, empathy come through more often from him than the Bengali speaking me. It’s almost as if I find myself stuck in quicksand, and the Bengali me falls ever so deeper into the pit simply because of how hard he tries to sound nice.

In a later segment of the show, I ask each of them what their best memory was from the last two months of their new semester. “I can’t tell you my favourite memory, simply because I don’t remember much. What I do remember is a particular conversation that has stayed with me” Said the English me. “Is it the one you had with the TA in your English class?” 

I ask him, and he offers a single nod of his head. ‘Of course, it had to be that right. That bluntness kept me awake that night, thinking I should have sent you both to the presentation that day and not you only” the host in me complains as diplomatically as I can.

Suddenly, I’m interrupted by noises of someone choking on tea. Bengali me had called the TA apu all semester long and had taken all possible help from her, but who knows what blunders the idiot on the right has pulled off yet again.

“It was nothing too bad, stop with the overreaction will you two? I was preparing my 10 minute long presentation that day, and she barged in asking me about the time table PDF file she had made last week, about how the different colors on the sheet looked like. I simply told her that the colors made the whole routine look confusing and ‘weird’. It is not on me that she lost her cheers and became sadly defensive”. The two of us give a side-eye to the English me.

Anyways, I smile towards the Bengali me and he smiles back, obviously. Before I can ask him, he asks me how I’ve been. I don’t bother replying, but I ask him the same question.

“Ashole, amar o mone nei. Ami aar uni toh ekjon e, taina? uni ektu blunt holeo, besh kaaj er. Amader 3 jon er moddhe keu e temon kharap na. Amar jototuk mone pore, Suhas er shathe class er por amar dekha hoy ekdin, shetai amar favourite memory ei semester er. Onekdin por dekha howay mon khule kotha bolte parlam tar shathe. Mone holo ekta mask khule rakhte parlam nijer theke.”

“IS HE THROWING SHADE AT ME?” Shouts the English me, but I’m quick to shut him down. “Neither of you are masks…” I tell them both, but am again interrupted by accusations of being biased. Maybe I am though. I wave my hand at the tea drinker again, and he starts with his monologue.

“Sorry, ami toh apnake boliniii, apni toh ami e. Ami bolchilam je, shedin cha er adda-y Suhas er shathe alap ta khub comforting chilo.” says Bengali me, while English Siyam stares at him at his use of comforting. 

“Maneh conversation ta khub pointless holeo bhaloi laglo. Class ta besh boring chilo, shokal 8tar course tay uthe asha nijer moddhe ekta Odyssey. Suhas er accent er sheshe ekta taan ache, amaro ache kintu khub ekta bujhar moto na. I read this article, jekhane ekjon boltesilo je Bangla shobde’r sheshe sound ta soft hoy, tai bhasha ta mishti shunay. North, ami jekhaner, shekhane eta ke aro soft kora hoy, last er letters change kore.”

“When does his answer end?”, a polite inquiry from the right, although the yawn makes me question the politeness. “Ji amar time shesh haha…” says Bengali me but the silence fills up the space worse than the awkwardness it tried compensating for. I understand him, so I move the show onto the next segment.

In this segment, our contestants are given three options, three phone calls to make. The hypothetical nature of the show means that I get to bring whoever I want on the call, like literally whoever. Since I write the script for this show, I almost always make sure that the proceedings function like the arguments I have with the shampoo bottles in my shower, I always win. The spectrum of the guests is so wide. 

You could be watching this show and I’d randomly bring on that random crush you have on campus, getting more interaction than you ever did. But you know what, let’s bring my hypothetical campus love interest on the phone and make our contestants compliment them. Our love interest, not mine alone.

 “Amra ki call na kore text dite pari?” Says Bengali Siyam. I think for a good minute, and we unanimously agree that we really aren’t call people. It’s the first time this evening that all three of us have agreed over an issue. So first up, English Siyam. After brief conversational starters, we finally reach the point where it matters. Can he summon his literary acumen to save the day, and compliment his crush. I signal Bengali Siyam to walk across and the three of us now sit in a circle, staring at the phone. 

“I’ve been meaning to say this for a while, but you have such pretty eyes. The black rinds around your hazel eyes seem like the setting sun on a fine winter evening, and they sparkle like a hundred constellations when you smile”. We stare at the send button. He presses it.

I thump his back with my hands and marvel at the genius we have in our company this evening. “Ektu beshi hoye gelo na?” whines Bengali me, but everything seems beshi to him.

At this point I am so in awe with English Siyam, I bring out my own phone and give it to him. “You want me to take this home?” He asks, but I move near his ear and whisper something. He laughs and starts typing yet again. “It’s been 8 months since you had taken my five thousand taka Atik, do you ever plan on returning it? Doesn’t seem like it.” And press. I couldn’t believe that I had been wasting my money on all those cups of tea on Bengali Siyam when I had this enigma sitting around the corner.

“Eta likhar por o taka ashbe na, eta ami likhe dicchi. Na Maneh Atik er kache taka nei, tai. Sheta na hoy baad dilam, kintu last text ta ki niye hobe? I can’t wait.” Says Bengali Me.

English Siyam smirks at me, and I see a sudden light in his eye. “You’ll thank me for this.” He says and pulls my phone yet again. By now, I trust him. “Hi, also another thing. I might have started liking you, A LOT” And send. 

One of the camera crew runs on to the stage, and so do the lightboys. As they desperately try lifting my jaw off the floor, I hear the tea cup clink once more time, followed by a larger shatter. “SHESH.” He storms off and runs away into the backstages of oblivion. 

I see another tea cup on the table, and English Siyam’s head could probably survive a hit from one of these. But I remain calm, and simply stop imagining this talk show. Is that a win again?