"The Selfish Love of Raktim and Bandhani"

In the heart of Kolkata, among crumbling colonial buildings and chai-stained poetry books, lived Raktim — a brilliant, intense copywriter known for turning feelings into fire with words. Across the Hooghly, in a quiet textile studio in Shyambazar, worked Bandhani — a fiercely independent fabric artist, with hands that weaved dreams and eyes that didn’t bow to anyone’s expectations.


They met not through fate, but through ambition.


Raktim was hired to write for an upcoming textile exhibition. Bandhani’s work was the star. Their first meeting ended in an argument — he called her art “too traditional for global appeal.” She snapped back, “You write like a man trying to impress himself.”


It wasn’t love at first sight. It was war.


But they both felt something. Not sacrifice. Not patience. Not the slow burn of selfless affection. It was desire—sharp, selfish, and real.


Raktim was drawn to Bandhani’s fire. She didn’t need him. She didn’t even pretend to. And that made him want her more. Bandhani loved how Raktim made no promises of forever, only of now — honest, intense, and real. He didn’t ask her to dim her light. He asked her to burn brighter.


They didn’t complete each other. They collided.

They didn’t lose themselves in love. They found more of who they already were.


When Bandhani got an offer from a gallery in Berlin, she didn’t ask him to come. She said, “You’ll ruin your rhythm here. And I’ll ruin my art there.”


He laughed. “Good. Let’s ruin things and make new ones.”


So, he moved with her, not out of sacrifice, but because he wanted to.

She let him — not because she needed him, but because she chose him.


They lived in an apartment full of chaos — canvases, deadlines, unwashed dishes, and the sound of two people being raw and real.


They fought. Often. But never for the wrong reasons. Not because one gave too much or the other too little. But because they both wanted more — more life, more love, more honesty.


Their love wasn’t pretty. But it was powerful.


They didn’t worship each other. They admired each other. They didn’t break themselves to fit. They grew sharper edges and loved each cut.


People said theirs was a selfish love. And they smiled.


Because selfish love—love—love-love-the kind that’s rooted in choosing each other with eyes wide open, hearts uncompromised-is not lesser.


It’s real.