Of deaths and memories

Two deaths recently shocked me extremely. The deceased persons were my maternal aunt (khala) and my wife’s elder brother. My khala was in her mid-eighties, while my brother-in-law was only 63. 

My khala was second among six sisters. With her demise, four of the sisters are gone. My mother who has crossed 80 is fourth among the sisters. Various old-age complications have devastated her physically these days. She has to take a lot of medicines everyday as prescribed by her doctor. Fortunately, my eldest khala is alive. She is now about 90. She is still keeping fine, except for visual impairment and auditory problem. In fact, she is far better than my mother as far as physical fitness is concerned.
All my khalus (khalas’ husbands) are dead. Surprisingly, four of my khalas were married at the same village, Darikandi, in Banchharampur upazila of Brahmanbaria, where they were born and brought up. My ancestral village, Rupasdi, in the same upazila is only four kilometres away. However, my eldest khala was married at Chandanail village in Muradnagar upazila of Comilla. 
There was a time when I used to visit the homes of my khalas a lot. That was about 45 years ago when I was studying at the high school in my village. I would visit their homes sometimes alone, and sometimes with my parents and siblings. Those sweet memories are still fresh in my heart. 
My eldest khala was the custodian of a prosperous household. She had a flourishing family, with four daughters and two sons. My khalu, a tall and sturdy man with a religious bent of mind, had vast landed property. He also had two huge ponds full of tasty fish and scores of fruit-bearing trees on the banks of the ponds and on the grounds of his house. Affluence was overflowing his household. 
A visit to their house on a dinghy boat during the rainy season was very much enjoyable. Seeing us my khala’s joy would know no bounds. The first thing that we would enjoy at her home was the water of green coconuts, plucked from the trees that stood majestically on the banks of the big pond next to the house. Climbing the sprawling guava tree branches that touched the crystal-clear water of the pond was a routine affair for me. I would enjoy eating ripe guavas plucked from the tree, while dipping my feet in the cool water of the pond. Scores of ducks belonging to my khala would glide past my feet. Those unusual scenes are really unforgettable. I don’t know whether that guava tree still exists. For many years, I have not visited my khala’s home.  
Equally pleasurable were our visits to the houses of my khalas at Darikandi. My mother’s heart would dance with joy at the thought of revisiting Darikandi, her birthplace, as setting foot at the village would enable her to see her father and four of her sisters. My mother lost her mother in her childhood. My nana (maternal grandfather) got married again and his second wife had three sons and two daughters. My nana, who lived for more than a hundred years, enjoyed a happy family life. 
Two of my khalas died young. My khala, who was fifth among the sisters and whose only daughter is married to my younger brother, died of cancer many years ago. Her father-in-law, late Abdus Sobhan Master, played a glorious role in our Liberation War and was a widely respected person at Darikandi and surrounding villages. He died at the age of 110. On many occasions we enjoyed his generous hospitality.  
Free from smoke, chaos and noise, village life was really enjoyable in those days. After retirement from government service, my father chose to return to our village home at Rupasdi. He took care of the landed property we had in the village.  His days passed offering prayers and visiting relatives. Occasionally, he would visit Narayanganj where my two brothers ran businesses. My father and all his brothers and sisters, except the youngest sister, are now dead. My elder brother is also gone. 
My father died on January 21, 1975. I was an ISc (intermediate) final examinee from Dhaka College at the time. I last saw my father on the campus of Dhaka College. He came to see me at the North Hostel before the start of my exams. We had lunch together at the dining hall of the hostel. In the afternoon, we had sweets at Moron Chand Sweetmeat shop opposite the college. My father had a sweet tooth; he was free from diabetes. A few days later, he passed away at our village home. I had appeared in five subjects. I could not complete the rest of the exams as I had to attend my father’s funeral. Failure to complete the examinations played havoc with my dream of studying medicine.
With the passage of time, the serenity of villages has been greatly lost. With an improved communication system, one can now go from one village to another within a few minutes boarding auto-rickshaws that dominate the metalled roads of once silent hamlets. Electricity  has also changed the lifestyle of rural people.
The last time my mother visited Darikandi was two years ago. My eldest nephew escorted her to the home of her second sister. Hearing of my mother’s arrival, my eldest khala also came from her home. The meeting of the three sisters after many years was a unique occasion. They stayed together for a few days. Recollection of many a past incident made them nostalgic and emotional. My mother shed silent tears losing her sister recently. It is painful to note that sisters are born and brought up together under the same roof, but later they are separated and have to live isolated from each other. 
Four of my khalas are now together in their eternal sleep, at the same graveyard under the shadows of sprawling trees, at Darikandi.
 Coming back to the other death I began this piece with, my brother-in-law Sultan Uddin Ahmed, who was a bank official, died a premature death. He left behind his mother, wife, three daughters, and seven siblings. He was the eldest among four brothers and five sisters. His immediate younger brother died of cancer about 20 years back. The untimely deaths of two sons have  left my aged mother-in-law dumbfounded. 
Sultan Ahmed, who had a chequered career in banking, was a person of amiable disposition. I feel a stab of agony whenever I recall him. He and I had lunch together for the last time at my residence after Friday prayers. Early the next morning, he suffered a cerebral stroke and was rushed to the hospital, where he died of a massive heart attack. He is now lying in his eternal sleep under a big shadowy tree at a small graveyard in Paikpara of Narayanganj. 
Let their souls rest in peace.              
                      
The writer is Assistant Editor of The Independent.   

Of deaths and memories

Two deaths recently shocked me extremely. The deceased persons were my maternal aunt (khala) and my wifes elder brother. My khala was in her mid-eighties, while my brother-in-law was only 63. My khala was second among six sisters. With her demise, four of the sisters are gone. My mother who has crossed 80 is fourth among the sisters. Various old-age complications have devastated her physically these days. She has to take a lot of medicines everyday as prescribed by her doctor. Fortunately, my eldest khala is alive. She is now about 90. She is still keeping fine, except for visual impairment and auditory problem. In fact, she is far better than my mother as far as physical fitness is concerned. All my khalus (khalas husbands) are dead. Surprisingly, four of my khalas were married at the same village, Darikandi, in Banchharampur upazila of Brahmanbaria, where they were born and brought up. My ancestral village, Rupasdi, in the same upazila is only four kilometres away. However, my eldest khala was married at Chandanail village in Muradnagar upazila of Comilla. There was a time when I used to visit the homes of my khalas a lot. That was about 45 years ago when I was studying at the high school in my village. I would visit their homes sometimes alone, and sometimes with my parents and siblings. Those sweet memories are still fresh in my heart. My eldest khala was the custodian of a prosperous household. She had a flourishing family, with four daughters and two sons. My khalu, a tall and sturdy man with a religious bent of mind, had vast landed property. He also had two huge ponds full of tasty fish and scores of fruit-bearing trees on the banks of the ponds and on the grounds of his house. Affluence was overflowing his household. A visit to their house on a dinghy boat during the rainy season was very much enjoyable. Seeing us my khalas joy would know no bounds. The first thing that we would enjoy at her home was the water of green coconuts, plucked from the trees that stood majestically on the banks of the big pond next to the house. Climbing the sprawling guava tree branches that touched the crystal-clear water of the pond was a routine affair for me. I would enjoy eating ripe guavas plucked from the tree, while dipping my feet in the cool water of the pond. Scores of ducks belonging to my khala would glide past my feet. Those unusual scenes are really unforgettable. I dont know whether that guava tree still exists. For many years, I have not visited my khalas home. Equally pleasurable were our visits to the houses of my khalas at Darikandi. My mothers heart would dance with joy at the thought of revisiting Darikandi, her birthplace, as setting foot at the village would enable her to see her father and four of her sisters. My mother lost her mother in her childhood. My nana (maternal grandfather) got married again and his second wife had three sons and two daughters. My nana, who lived for more than a hundred years, enjoyed a happy family life. Two of my khalas died young. My khala, who was fifth among the sisters and whose only daughter is married to my younger brother, died of cancer many years ago. Her father-in-law, late Abdus Sobhan Master, played a glorious role in our Liberation War and was a widely respected person at Darikandi and surrounding villages. He died at the age of 110. On many occasions we enjoyed his generous hospitality. Free from smoke, chaos and noise, village life was really enjoyable in those days. After retirement from government service, my father chose to return to our village home at Rupasdi. He took care of the landed property we had in the village. His days passed offering prayers and visiting relatives. Occasionally, he would visit Narayanganj where my two brothers ran businesses. My father and all his brothers and sisters, except the youngest sister, are now dead. My elder brother is also gone. My father died on January 21, 1975. I was an ISc (intermediate) final examinee from Dhaka College at the time. I last saw my father on the campus of Dhaka College. He came to see me at the North Hostel before the start of my exams. We had lunch together at the dining hall of the hostel. In the afternoon, we had sweets at Moron Chand Sweetmeat shop opposite the college. My father had a sweet tooth; he was free from diabetes. A few days later, he passed away at our village home. I had appeared in five subjects. I could not complete the rest of the exams as I had to attend my fathers funeral. Failure to complete the examinations played havoc with my dream of studying medicine. With the passage of time, the serenity of villages has been greatly lost. With an improved communication system, one can now go from one village to another within a few minutes boarding auto-rickshaws that dominate the metalled roads of once silent hamlets. Electricity has also changed the lifestyle of rural people. The last time my mother visited Darikandi was two years ago. My eldest nephew escorted her to the home of her second sister. Hearing of my mothers arrival, my eldest khala also came from her home. The meeting of the three sisters after many years was a unique occasion. They stayed together for a few days. Recollection of many a past incident made them nostalgic and emotional. My mother shed silent tears losing her sister recently. It is painful to note that sisters are born and brought up together under the same roof, but later they are separated and have to live isolated from each other. Four of my khalas are now together in their eternal sleep, at the same graveyard under the shadows of sprawling trees, at Darikandi. Coming back to the other death I began this piece with, my brother-in-law Sultan Uddin Ahmed, who was a bank official, died a premature death. He left behind his mother, wife, three daughters, and seven siblings. He was the eldest among four brothers and five sisters. His immediate younger brother died of cancer about 20 years back. The untimely deaths of two sons have left my aged mother-in-law dumbfounded. Sultan Ahmed, who had a chequered career in banking, was a person of amiable disposition. I feel a stab of agony whenever I recall him. He and I had lunch together for the last time at my residence after Friday prayers. Early the next morning, he suffered a cerebral stroke and was rushed to the hospital, where he died of a massive heart attack. He is now lying in his eternal sleep under a big shadowy tree at a small graveyard in Paikpara of Narayanganj. Let their souls rest in peace. The writer is Assistant Editor of The Independent.