And life goes on
The early hours of July 27 saw the end of a man who lived in the hearts of tens of millions of the deprived and down-trodden for over four decades. The inert mortal remains of late Abdul Mannan Bhuiyan was lying barely attended in the cold mortuary of Square Hospital, his penultimate destination before his final journey, shocked me profoundly.
A barrage-breaking flow of tears rolled down my face when I heard about his passing away, and I silently prayed for magferat of the finest and most magnificent person who had led a saintly life and was regarded as a rare personality who combined in his person the sterling qualities that makes one a sage.
Three weeks ago, when he was flown back to Dhaka from Singapore, we almost knew that the inevitable was lurking around the corner. People of all hues came to wish him well and expressed their hope that he would not desert us any time soon as he was needed to side with those that did not have a committed guardian.
When his well-wishers in great numbers thronged around him, I got submerged in the recollections of his activities, affection and antecedents.
The ever active and most obliging leader that late Abdul Mannan Bhuiyan was, he went hard on those who played truant with the people that needed support of their leaders. He was a valiant freedom fighter who braved all kinds of odds, and organised a band of freedom fighters who remained in their dear motherland and never surrendered to the Pakistani armed forces.
A soft-spoken and quiet politician, late Abdul Mannan Bhuiyan was a tenacious, tolerant and logical leader who was chosen to act as an arbiter to settle any political impasses that could lead to chaos or even political deadlock.
Gracious in behaviour and suave in disposition, he was a blend of orthodox tradition and dynamic modernism. I used to wonder how he could bind the two in a happy wedlock, which was clothed in an endless talent for the unexpected. His calm and tranquil personality captivated all those around him, which is a rare example of excellence and exclusivity.
When we used to request him to teach us the way to tackle all sorts of problems he would tell us that a good teacher hardly explained his vision and method of accomplishment, and asked us to simply stand beside him and see for ourselves. Although he was slender in body he was tough in mind, and never hesitated to scorn the castaways and reward the righteous. I hardly saw him exploding unnecessarily. He displayed calm courage during tumults, and admitted with humility if he thought he had faltered.
He has been dead for a few days, and is in deep slumber in the courtyard of his village home where he was born 67 years ago. He lies in the shadows of trees that pour leaves on his grave when the wind blows, as if to garland it as the new entrant in her breast. He now remains immovable in his final home, to sleep till eternity.
While passing his grave I wept a little, but no one saw it. Then I consoled myself by remembering John Donne's famous couplet "for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee." I left Masimpur under Shibpur upazila in deep remorse, thinking that perhaps this is the way life goes on.
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