The Women Who Wait

   

 I recently watched Chokher Bali and Parineeta, both set in Bengal, and was completely taken aback by the world they created. The delicate Bengali cadence, the rhythm of Rabindra Sangeet, the flash of red in sarees and sindoor, the understated elegance of jewellery, the intellect of the men, the quiet strength of the women, the way every household seemed soaked in poetry and restraint; it all made me want to step into that world. But what lingered long after the credits rolled wasn’t just the beauty. It was the ache beneath it, the emotional landscape of women like Binodhini and Lalita, and how eerily familiar their stories felt even now.

                                         

    Both women are complex, intelligent, emotionally aware, and deeply attuned to love, in its most nuanced forms. Yet, both are drawn to men who are emotionally unavailable, men who hesitate, who confuse affection with possession, who hold power in their silence. Watching them, I couldn’t help but ask: Why do women who understand emotions so well keep finding themselves tangled in relationships where those emotions are not reciprocated? It’s as if awareness itself becomes a curse, knowing exactly what’s happening, but being powerless to walk away.

    We tell ourselves we’re different. That we know better. That we’ll spot the red flags early, guard our boundaries, and choose someone who meets us halfway. But then, one conversation, one look, one act of vulnerability from the other side, and the walls crumble. The same empathy that makes us emotionally intelligent also makes us stay. We read their wounds, justify their detachment, and convince ourselves that our love might heal what someone else broke. When they confess, they say, "I can’t love you right now,” but we don’t hear a no; we hear “maybe someday.”

    Binodhini’s ache is not just about being a widow in a patriarchal world; it’s about being a woman who feels too much in a world that teaches her to suppress it. Society sees her intelligence, her education, her poise, but never her hunger for love, for touch, for recognition. Lalita, too, waits stubbornly, faithfully, for Shekhar, a man who repeatedly refuses to claim her. And the world romanticizes her patience. We, the audience, even cheer her on. But should we?

    Because if we’re honest, most of us have been Lalita or Binodhini at some point; waiting, rationalizing, forgiving. Maybe not in white sarees or candlelit balconies, but through text messages left on read, calls that never came, apologies that never arrived. And when someone like Girish or Behari appears, stable, kind, available, we hesitate. He doesn’t ignite chaos, and we’ve mistaken chaos for love. 

       So maybe the question isn’t “why do emotionally intelligent women fall for emotionally unavailable men?” Maybe it’s deeper than that. Maybe it’s about why we equate longing with meaning, patience with virtue, and love with endurance. Are we conditioned to chase, or are we simply afraid of stillness?

And yes, it’s not always about women. Men, too, face these emotional labyrinths, loving women who cannot return their affection, who pull away, who choose silence over surrender. Girish and Behari are reminders that heartbreak doesn’t belong to one gender alone. But still, why are we women so often wired to love men who cannot commit, who cannot proudly surrender their love for us?

And if that’s true, then tell me, what would love look like if we finally stopped chasing?