A tribute to my grandfather, Anwar Hossain

Anwar Hossain

My nanu never called me by my name, he always called me "amar Sarooo", the last syllable drawn out and full of his love and warmth. No one else in my life has so dotingly claimed me to be theirs; and with every call, I would light up at how special he made me feel as my name danced from the corner of his smile to the brown of his eyes.

On the night of August 17, as nanu fought for his life in the ICU, my grandmother, who we all affectionately call Maa, told me that I may never hear him say "amar Sarooo" again. Two hours later, nanu passed away.

I've spent the last few days thinking back to the countless ways in which nanu has impacted my life, both through his physical actions and silent lessons. From the thousands of people who knew nanu, you'll hear stories about his unbridled and incomparable generosity, his bleeding patriotism that came out in his fervour to create employment for Bangladesh, his punctuality and disciplined life that everyone took lessons from. You'll learn that he once brought a rickshaw puller home after praying Jummah next to him, and asked my uncle to find him a job; you'll hear that regardless of whether he was meeting the prime minister or a security guard, he was always the first to offer his salaam to them, and you'll be astounded when you hear of the sheer hard work and dedication he put into building some of the largest businesses in the country.

The schools and mosques nanu funded, the orphans he sponsored and the livelihoods he sustained all bear witness to nanu's generosity. He had a magnetic connection with peoples' souls, and all his endeavours were driven by his desire to help those around him. These were some of nanu's defining qualities, and this is how people knew him.

And while I watch in awe of the legacy that he has left behind, what fills my heart are nanu's smallest gestures and most endearing qualities - the ones that show his innate ability to be firm yet tender, determined yet indulgent, and always unapologetically full of life.

All my interactions with nanu started with a hug, with his hands on mine after which he would say "come, eat something"; there wasn't a day when he didn't rest his hand on my head after seeing me -- sharing a kind, content smile. One of my fondest memories of nanu is from all the iftars I spent with him during Ramadan; there was a craze of "chikon jilapis" in my grandparents' house, but I always had my eyes on the "mota" ones.

When nanu learnt that my choice of jilapi didn't have the popular vote at home, he would pick up the most decadent "mota jilapis'' for me on his way back from work, and they were always placed right where I would sit during iftar.

For Eid, nanu would handpick the most stunning sarees and kameezes for maa, his daughters and daughters-in-law, and his grandchildren. His impeccable taste in clothing mirrored how he dressed, never stepping out without a tie, retiring from the day in a crisp white kurta, all the while teaching us the importance of dressing well and first impressions based on how you presented yourself.

Above all, nanu was a student of life and learned through all his experiences, good and bad. He did not have a formal education, but was self-taught, and always nurtured a hunger to learn about all aspects of life, starting from politics, to foreign cultures, religion and business. He emphasised to others the need to learn as well -  maa was only 14 years old when she married nanu, and just so that she could continue her education, he hired the best private tutors available at that time for her. For nanu, there really was no alternative to education -- more importantly learning through your experiences and even more so from your mistakes.

From the multitude of things I learnt from nanu, one of my most favourite is how he placed faith at the nucleus of his existence. Nanu's love for Allah and Islam was palpable to anyone who met him, but he didn't wear his piety in his outward appearance, nor did he compel anyone else to. His faith was neither judgmental nor preachy, and you'd be inspired to believe in something larger solely by witnessing the tenderness and power of his connection with his creator. Nanu's love for his faith was so inherently connected to his soul that even as a dementia patient who had forgotten his wife and children, and had lost the ability to speak, the only word he remembered and repeated was the name of the lord he prayed to every day.

No story of nanu is complete without mentioning his love for and devotion to his mother, our Boro Ma. Nothing made nanu more exemplary than his total submission to his mother; she was the axis that he revolved around and as a son, he embodied absolute obedience and reverence. Nanu's love for his mother extended to a place that went beyond this world; after Boro Ma passed, his ultimate wish was to be buried in her grave, to be reunited with her as he embarked on a new journey, and that is where nanu was ultimately laid to rest.

Through nanu's ambitions and achievements, his philanthropy, teachings, travels and adventures, a constant was how much fun he had along the way. He truly knew how to enjoy all of life's experiences - his zeal for life came out in the kabaddi he played with maa, the qawwalis he hummed, and the music he danced to. It came out in the joy he felt when adorning maa in the most exquisite sarees, the excitement with which he fed people, the trips he took with his grandchildren and secrets he shared with his daughters and daughters-in-law.

My choto mami and I were recently reminiscing about our stories of nanu, and she said "I'm sad for us, for what we've lost". Nothing could be more true - we've experienced irrecoverable loss and our lives will be so much darker from the emptiness that comes with nanu's passing. But also, how lucky were we to have had him in our lives for as long as we did? Our lives are infinitely richer from being around nanu's mere presence, for the words he spoke to us, the meals he shared with us and the values he instilled of family and faith.

Nanu, as I think of words and stories that would do justice to the person that you were, I realize that even if I were to write for years, nothing would start describing what you meant to us. No amount of words can capture the love and respect everyone had for you, and the extent to which you impacted the lives of not only the people you knew but also the strangers you never met. You taught us how to be compassionate, grateful, resolute and joyful. You showed us how to give without taking, listen before speaking, and strive to always win, but only if it was in the most ethical way.

Nanu, as you now rest after seventy years of relentless hard work, I hope groves of lush olive trees offer you shade; I hope snow-capped mountains surround your home, you walk through gardens full of ripe pomegranates and your favourite flowers, and you sing with birds whose songs match the melody of your soul. I hope you have more friends than the thousands that attended your janaza, and I hope that you have the last dance of the night. Till then, we'll be here with Maa, and we'll go through life holding on to each other and your teachings.

The writer is the late Anwar Hossain's granddaughter. She is based in New York, and is interested in how religion and politics shape art in South Asia.