Having just landed in Vancouver from Asia, I found myself battling jet lag. Sleep escaped me as I lay tossing and turning, scrolling through my phone - cycling through WhatsApp, Instagram, WeChat and back again. The hours slipped by-1 a.m., 2 a.m., 3 a.m., until the clock struck 5:30 a.m. That's when the call came.

It was our accountant in Dhaka, but I couldn't bring myself to answer. Exhausted, I thought, What is it? And why can't he just text me?

Moments later, my phone lit up with a message from Korim bhai:

"Apa, our beloved Chairman Sir has just passed away. Please pray for him."

It was my Chacha-my Boro Chacha. Chairman Sir to many, but to me, he was more like a father. So much so that they nearly adopted me.

As I tried to gather myself, my thoughts scattered like debris from a wreckage. My heart and mind raced each other to the peak. The heaviness of it all settled in my chest, and I began to sob uncontrollably.

I walked over to the window of the apartment and stared into the dark September sky.

No lights. No birds. No sound.

The texts kept coming in. How could they tell me this over text?

I called my Abbu. The phone rang endlessly. When he finally answered with a soft, "Ammuji," I broke down, wailing into the phone. He consoled me, though I knew he, too, needed consolation.

After our call ended with exchanged I love yous, profound sadness filled my heart.

By now, it was 7 a.m. I grabbed my coat and slipped out the door. I needed to move, to escape the suffocating stillness.

As I picked up a coffee from the cafe downstairs, I felt disconnected from the world around me. As I walked down the Vancouver seawall, I somehow found solitude in the waking noise around me.

All of a sudden, the sound of crows got louder, and louder, and louder. Deafening.

Are they always this loud?

And are there always so many of them together?

I looked around and found a cement step to sit on. By then, the world around me was coming to life.

There was light. There were birds. There was sound.

The world around me carrying on. Inside, I felt the heavy weight of loss and longing. But I also felt gratitude.

Immense gratitude for the love Boro Chacha and I shared, for it was only ours to know and feel. I longed to feel that love again. I missed how he made me feel.

My Boro Chacha and Chachi didn't have children, so I thought how lucky am I to be the recipient of that doting love?

Growing up - Boro Chacha and Chachi would visit me every day after work, just to spend time with me. He was the most present person I have ever known. He hugged me, laughed with me, encouraged me.

He would always bring me my favourite chomchom mishti from Tangail, and I would always serve him tea.

His daily visits are etched in my heart and mind as one of my most cherished childhood memories.

I was born on my paternal grandmother's Chollisha (the fortieth day after death), and had the honour of inheriting her name - Shamsunnahar Khan. Everyone would always call me their "Ammu" and say I am my Dadi reincarnated, but Boro Chacha made me feel it and believe it.

Most of all, I will miss how he made me feel.

As I sit here journaling for the first time in a long time - I feel blessed to have known him, to have felt the warmth in his hugs, the encouragement in his words, and to have received his love. I feel deep gratitude for the years I was able to work with him at UNB, to have watched him and learned from him.

My Boro Chacha and Chachi lived a beautiful life, full of travel and adventure.

He was kind, noble, honest, and compassionate. He was deeply respected by all, both personally and professionally.

May his legacy live on through the lives he touched, for there are many. Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un.

In a state where my grief and gratitude coexist, I never knew the heart could hold both so deeply, and all at once.

Ammuji

12 September 2024