Suspicion: The Silent Termite BOOK INTRODUCTION
From the Desk of Abid Hasan,
They say trust is like a piece of paper. Once it’s crumpled, it never quite returns to its original smoothness. But what if the paper wasn’t crumpled by an action but by a thought?
I wrote this book not in a library, but on the veranda of my home in Barishal, listening to the sound of the Kirtankhola river. I wrote it while observing the families around me—neighbours, relatives, and even strangers on the street. I noticed a common disease. It has no fever, no cough, yet it kills marriages. It is suspicion.
In Bangladesh, we often say, “Sandehe bhalo lage na” (Suspicion doesn’t feel beneficial). Yet, we practise it daily. We check phones. We question timing. We doubt silence.
This book is a collection of real-life experiences. It is not a lecture. It is a mirror.
To the wives who cry in silence when their husbands come home.
To the husbands who are accused but are innocent.
And to the children who stand between the broken walls.
This is not a story of right or wrong.
This is a story of listening.
[PART ONE: THE POISON]
Chapter 1: The WiFi Logs and the Silent Wife
It started with the WiFi.
Rahim was a simple man. He worked in a garment buying house in Dhaka. He came home at 8 PM. He ate rice and hilsha. He slept.
But one day, his phone died. He picked up his wife’s phone to check his email.
He saw the WiFi history.
Rahim froze. Is she planning to leave me? Does she hate me? Who told her these things?
He didn’t ask her. He closed the phone. And that night, while Nusrat slept, Rahim stared at the ceiling. The suspicion didn’t enter the room like a monster. It entered like a fog. Quiet. Cold. Everywhere.
[PART TWO: THE NEGATIVE CYCLE]
Chapter 4: The Man Who Killed His Own Peace
Negative thinking is not a thought. It is a machine.
When you suspect your wife, your brain starts looking for evidence to support the suspicion.
If she wears a new saree: Who is she dressing up for?
If she is tired: She is bored of me.
If she laughs on the phone: She is hiding something.
I interviewed a man in Barishal. Let’s call him Kabir. He suspected his wife for 12 years. He checked her bag. He checked her dupatta for perfume. He checked the mileage on her rickshaw.
After 12 years, he found nothing. Absolutely nothing.
But here is the tragedy: He didn’t find her loyalty. He found 12 years of cold tea, silent dinners, and a wife who stopped looking him in the eye.
He didn't catch a cheater. He killed a lover.
Negative thinking does not protect you. It starves you.
[PART THREE: THE POSITIVE SHIELD]
Chapter 7: How to Keep Mind Always Positive (Even When It Hurts)
People tell you, “Just think positive.” That is like telling a drowning man, “Just swim.”
Positivity is not magic. It is maintenance.
I teach a method called The Barishal Window.
Imagine you are sitting in your room in Barishal during the monsoon. The rain is heavy. The thunder is loud. You cannot see the river. You cannot see the road. You only see the grey.
But you know the river is still there. You know the sun exists above the clouds.
When suspicion comes, look out the window. The suspicion is the rain. But your marriage is the river. It is still flowing. You just can’t see it right now.
Three Rules of the Barishal Window:
Delay the Question. When you feel the urge to accuse, wait 24 hours. If it is still important tomorrow, ask it calmly. 90% of accusations die by morning.
Translate the Action. She is not “ignoring” you; she is “tired.” He is not “hiding” his phone; he is “stressed about work.” Give your spouse the dignity of a good intention.
Remember the First Rain. Remember why you married them. Remember their smile on the wedding day. Memory is the antidote to suspicion.
[PART FOUR: THE HEARING]
Chapter 11: It Is Haram to Judge Without Hearing
In Islam, in law, in humanity—there is one golden rule: Listen before you accuse.
If you see one thread loose, do not cut the entire cloth.
I met a woman in Chattogram. She was sure her husband was marrying someone else. She found a gold necklace in his briefcase. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She asked, “Baba, what is this?”
He said, “It is for you. Our anniversary is next week.”
She almost burned down her heaven because she picked up a matchstick.
A Chapter for the Suspicious Mind:
If you find a number on his phone, it could be a client.
If she comes home late, the traffic in Barishal is terrible.
If he looks at Facebook, he might just be bored.
We must stop writing novels in our heads based on a one-word caption.
[PART FIVE: REBUILDING]
Chapter 15: How to Break a Family (And Why You Shouldn't)
I know the title of this section looks scary. How to Break a Family.
But I am not teaching you how to break it. I am showing you how people accidentally break it.
The Recipe for a Broken Family:
Take one small misunderstanding.
Do not speak about it for three years.
Let it rot in your heart.
Bring it up during a fight about vegetables.
Watch the explosion.
If you want to break a family, just keep quiet. Just assume. Just “manage” on your own.
But if you want to save a family:
Speak while the food is still hot.
Admit that you might be wrong.
Ask, “What is hurting you?” instead of “What did you do?”
A Letter from Abid Hasan to Every Husband and Wife in Bangladesh
Dear Bhai and Apa,
You are not a detective. You are a partner.
I know trust is hard. I know you have been hurt before. I know your father was suspicious, your mother was suspicious, and the whole society expects you to be suspicious.
But you are not your father. You are not your past.
That person is still inside you. Suspicion has obscured their true nature.
Dust off your heart.
A Promise:
If you finish this book, make a promise.
Put down the phone.
Look at your spouse.
Say: “I have been unfair to you in my mind. Please forgive me.”
That sentence will save your family.
ABID HASAN lives in Barishal, Bangladesh. He is not a psychologist. He is not a sire. He is a son of the soil who has seen too many families cry. He writes to remind us that silence is not safety, and suspicion is not love.
0 Comments