Sadrul Hasan Mazumder
In the early hours of 30 July 2023, in the High Dependency Unit (HDU) of Bangladesh Specialised Hospital (BSH), I realized that my beloved mother was finally leaving us. Even as the monitors continued to display the signs of life, I knew, deep within, that the moment we had feared had arrived. It was more devastating than I could ever have imagined. I could not bring myself to call my elder brothers, whom I kept waiting the entire night for an update about Amma’s condition. I simply did not know what to do. I was overwhelmed, helpless, and unable to think clearly. To my brothers, I am deeply sorry. Had I found the strength to make that call, you might have had the chance to be with Amma in her final moments.
My eldest and the youngest sisters, each accompanied only by their sons, hurried through the darkness of that lonely night, doing everything they could to reach the hospital. I struggled to explain Amma's condition or communicate what was unfolding. All I could do was wait, heartbroken and powerless, for the doctors to tell us what we already feared—that the end was near.
My mother was born in 1936 and was married at the tender age of fifteen. From the very next day of her marriage, she assumed responsibility for a large joint family because my grandmother was not mentally well enough to manage the household. It was an enormous responsibility for such a young girl, yet mu mother embraced it with remarkable strength, maturity, and determination. Much of her success was made possible by the unwavering support of my grandfather, who treated her not merely as a daughter-in-law but as a trusted companion. He encouraged her, stood by her, and together they navigated the daily challenges of a large household with mutual respect and understanding.
My father, though a kind and loving man, was often indifferent to the practical details of family life. Amma became the steady force that held everything together. She managed every aspect of our home with extraordinary patience and wisdom, caring not only for my father but also for all nine of her children. It still amazes me how she remembered each child's preferences, ensuring that every meal reflected our individual tastes and habits. To her, no detail was too small if it brought comfort to those she loved.
Her devotion extended far beyond her immediate family. During my grandfather's final years, she cared for him with unwavering dedication and compassion. The love and respect with which she served him remain well remembered in our community, and many of us feel that we have fallen short of the example she set.
My parents shared one of the happiest marriages I have ever witnessed. Their relationship was built on affection, mutual respect, and quiet sacrifice. Yet it was my mother who became the heart of that partnership. She lived a life almost entirely free of personal demands. She never sought recognition, comfort, or reward for herself. Her happiness lay in the well-being of those around her.
My mother was the most selfless person I have ever known. She never demanded recognition, comfort, or reward. Her happiness came entirely from the happiness of others. Every child shares a unique bond with their mother, but I was fortunate to have an especially close relationship with mine and was offered the opportunity to be with during last eight years of her life. She had an unusual habit of occasionally smoking—a habit my father had introduced to her. I still remember that whenever my father was away from home for official duties or political engagements, my mother would quietly ask me to buy a packet of Star Cigarettes from Rantanpur Bazaar, the very brand my father smoked. It is a small memory, but one that has remained vividly alive in my heart. During final years while my mother was living with me, I often teased her by asking whether I should buy her a packet of Star Cigarettes. She would always smile and say no. After my father passed away, she never touched a cigarette again. It seemed that the habit had ended with him, a quiet testament to the deep bond they had shared throughout their lives.
During the last eight years of her life, my mother lived with me. We shared countless conversations, and for most of that time, I slept beside her. Those nights became some of the most precious moments of my life. One of her favourite topic was her youngest brother, our beloved Sharif Mama. She spoke of him with such warmth and affection that one would think he was still the little schoolboy she had grown up with. She would happily repeat the same childhood stories over and over again, never tiring of the memories. Each time she told them, her eyes seemed to return to those carefree days of her youth. Distance never diminished her love for her siblings. No matter where they were, Amma constantly thought about her brothers and her only sister. Her concern, affection, and prayers for them remained constant throughout her life. Family was not simply important to her—it was the very centre of her existence, and loving them was as natural to her as breathing.
My study was on the opposite side of the house from Amma's bedroom. Whenever I was working there, it was often difficult to hear her calling me, particularly in the stillness of the house when no one else was around except the two of us. To make communication easier, I installed two call bells. One was placed in the kitchen so the domestic help could respond promptly whenever Amma needed assistance. The other was connected directly to my study, ensuring that I could hear her call and reach her without delay.
That bell has remained silent since 30 July 2023.
I have never taken it down. It still hangs beside my reading table, a quiet reminder of the countless times Amma called for me and I hurried to her side. In the final days of her life, I even arranged a small reading space beside her bed so that I could continue my work without being far from her. Yet the bell remained our unspoken connection. Today, the bell no longer rings, but I still find myself listening for it. Its silence is a constant reminder of the emptiness that her absence has left behind.
It has been three years you had departed away, I still feel your warm touch every night, Amma. Sleep no longer comes easily. I lie awake, trying to learn how to live in a world without you, but I miss you more than words can express. In the silence of my room, I often hear your voice calling my name. Without thinking, I turn around from my desk, expecting to see you standing there. But there is only emptiness. Can you still see me, Amma?
I do not know how to reshape a life that was built around our daily routines and the quiet comfort of your presence. Over the years, those moments became my way of living, and now I am left trying to understand how to carry on without them. Every mother is special, and a mother's love knows no bounds. But to me, you were so much more. Even now, I can almost smell your breath, feel the warmth of your touch, and sense your presence surrounding me. It is as though you are everywhere, close enough to comfort me, yet forever beyond my reach.
The questions that once filled our days are gone. There is no longer any anxious voice asking, "Is everything all right?" "Has the oxygen level dropped?" "Has the blood pressure gone up?" "What does the glucometer say?" The house has fallen quiet, but your absence speaks louder than any sound. Your presence remains with me every moment—gentle, constant, and impossible to escape. Though you are no longer here for me to hold, your love continues to surround my life, and I carry it with me in every breath. Love you Amma. May Allah (swt) grant you the eternal peace of haven allowing you to meet and stay with Abba.
Sadrul Hasan Mazumder, 8th of my Parents children and can be reached at m.sadrul@gmail.com
