Remembering Mahbubul Alam

June 06, 2014 was a significant day on many levels - some worldwide, some personal. Today's column is about a significant loss of a notable person on that day, which will be forever engrained in my memory.

As an old habit, before turning in for the night, I scan through for the latest world news on the Internet. Unfortunately, we tend to read about a lot more troubling accounts than amazing stories that are happening in this chaotic world.

That particular night, I had read that there were some important and historic things that took place.

President Obama honoured D-Day, marking the 70th anniversary of the Normandy Invasion.

Then I read an Associated Press report where it said that Malavath Poorna, a 13-year-old from India, had "become the youngest girl to reach the top of Mount Everest."

I read another news piece and had learned that a gunman walked into an engineering and math building at Seattle Pacific University and opened fire, killing a 20-year-old-man and injuring three others in the process.

Another headline said that the front-runner in Afghanistan's presidential race, Abdullah Abdullah, "survived a bomb attack on his convoy in Kabul on Friday, eight days ahead of the runoff that will decide the election."

One other bleak and horrifying news story was about Boko Haram, where gunmen disguised as soldiers murdered 200 or more civilians in three Nigerian villages that week. "The Islamist militant group told the locals to gather together, and then shouted 'Allahu Akbar,' and opened fire."

Before logging off, I went to an online site for Bangladesh, to check on the latest updates. The newsflash I saw did not prepare me for such unforeseen news! Reflexively, I read on that earlier in the day, veteran journalist and the Independent's former editor Mahbubul Alam had passed away at Birdem Hospital in the city.

I shook my head in disbelief, because I couldn't process the enormity of this news. His picture was with the news report; I couldn't fathom or grasp the reality of it.

I just became numb, since I knew nothing about him being ill. The report had said that he died of old age-related complications. In a few minutes, the actuality of his death's news hit me like a ton of bricks. I heard myself saying, "What old age? He was not old. How can he be gone?"

I talked with him on the phone only two summers ago, when he came to Maryland, to see his family. At the time I was in Boston.  I inquired about his health for I knew he was diabetic. For a second he was quiet and then said, "Oh, you remember that I am diabetic! Just like a caring and well-meaning sister, you are asking me about my health." I could hear it in his voice that he was much moved.

How could I not remember that little fact from our lunch meeting a year before? On the phone we talked for a few minutes about his health, and about our families. He asked me about my daughter, and I asked him about his. The conversation ended on a pleasant note about us meeting again in the near future.

The only face-to-face meeting with Mahbubul Alam took place on a fall afternoon in November of 2010 - regrettably it was also my last.

Prior to his Maryland visit, my then editor Fazal M Kamal (the Independent's joint editor at the time) informed me about his upcoming visit, and wrote to me that, "Our editor would like to meet you while in town."

At the time I was writing a weekly column for the paper. It hasn't been that long since Kamal bhai had offered me the weekly spot. I felt a little tense about meeting the editor-in-chief of a newspaper. It felt like my stomach was in knots, and I asked some of my contemporaries in Dhaka what to expect from that meeting.

One asked why I was so nervous about meeting him and scolded me a little, saying, "If it was my editor, who wanted to meet me in person, and I would be so honoured that I would go out of my way to welcome him, and to please him."

Another suggested that I should put on my most expensive pearl necklace and my finest business clothes, and get my hair done before meeting him and take him to lunch in a fancy restaurant in Georgetown.

In the end, I only went to the salon to get my hair washed and blow dried - and wearing my glasses, went to meet him in my everyday look.

Little did those individuals know that Mahbubul Alam was someone who neither cared about flashy things nor was comfortable listening to his praises. Instead, he showered me with compliments about my writing, and thanked me for being a part of the Independent family.

We only had met for an hour-and-a-half. Within that short time span, he captivated me to a point that his sudden death news would understandably make me lose composure on the night of June 06, 2014. After reading about his death news, I started to sob as I would if I lost a family member.

Preceding my meeting with him, someone in Dhaka had told me that Mahbubul Alam is an affable man with unobtrusive poise. I found him to be such - and more.

He was very pressed for time during that short visit, and couldn't come to dinner. On the phone I asked him if he could join us for lunch instead. He said, "Jabo lunch e." Then I had enquired what kind of food he likes. I still recall his reply: "Thai food works for me."

We went to pick him up from his daughter Mariam Alam Cren's house, in Rockville. When we rang the bell, he was ready and waiting for us. As soon as he opened the front door, and smiled a very generous smile, all of my built-up anxieties went away.

Dressed in an Under Armour mock neck royal blue shirt and a navy blue blazer, Mahbubul Alam seemed like a familiar face. He seemed very calm and sociable and yet he commanded respect.

We went to a Thai restaurant, near his daughter's home, only fifteen minutes away. At the luncheon, he brought along his eldest daughter. While in the car, the first thing he told me was that he knew the topic of my upcoming Wednesday's post-editorial: Brazil's Dilma Rousseff. From the backseat of the car I saw that he kept on checking his mobile in every ten minutes or so. When we came to the restaurant, he had asked all of us to go in, and to get a corner table. He then said he will be along shortly, because he had to make a quick phone call to Dhaka.

After about ten minutes he had entered the restaurant and informed us that the call had to do with Begum Khaleda Zia being evicted from her home, by the government. This had occurred the previous day in Dhaka. That is all he had disclosed, and I instinctively felt we won't get any opinion on the matter from him. I was amazed to see how he conducted important official business without offending his guests.

Throughout lunch, we had talked about many different things. He and I connected instantly, after learning that we both come from a large family, with many siblings. He told us that one of his brothers had passed away recently, and he was living abroad. At the time of his death, he was all alone. I could sense the enormous amount of love he felt for his sibling, by the way he spoke about him.

While having lunch, he recounted that once during international travel, he fainted in transit because he had experienced hyperglycemia (a low blood sugar level). The airport authorities had to take him to a nearby hospital, and made sure he was well enough to fly.

He had talked a little about his wife, who used be a teacher at a college in Dhaka. He told us that all three of his daughters had married American guys, and he adored all his beautiful grandchildren.

I had perceived that Mahbubul Alam exuded class and sophistication and had a calm and comforting aura about him. As lunch progressed, it didn't feel awkward that it was our very first meeting. I noticed that he did more listening than talking. But when he spoke, you paid attention to his words.

I also found him to have a good sense of humour. After ordering from the lunch menu, my husband wondered if we should order another extra rice dish, just in case! Upon hearing it, Mr. Alam looked very amused, and told us a funny anecdote about Bengali people's quintessential love for rice and their constant worries about rice shortage when we have guests. He told us that once, after eating a hearty lunch, his driver told him that he hadn't eaten anything that day. When he was contradicted, the driver confessed that he had only eaten bread lunch, and unless he eats bhat, food didn't fill him up. There were roars of laughter after hearing that, and we skipped ordering another platter.

From laughter the conversation got serious when it came to one local Maryland politician named Jack Johnson and his wife Leslie, who were in the news. They both were being indicted on several federal charges for corruption. Mahbubul Alam asked me to think about writing a column on that. I must have squinted a little because I wasn't expecting any sort of request from him, and before I could say anything he said, "Eshob niye lekha khub dorkar, tahole aamader desher politicians will be mindful and see how America deals with a wave of political corruption."   

I also observed him to be extremely alert, and carefully engaged in the chit-chat. He seemed very curious about Maryland's Bangladeshi expat community. He had informed me about a new apparel store named Silkhouse, owned by a Bangladeshi and his German wife, that had just opened in Rockville's business district. He casually suggested I should visit the store, and perhaps I would be interested in writing a piece on the upscale boutique.

In a few months' time I did go there, and saw the store carried an array of versatile and stylish designs in a wonderful mix of colours and patterns. The owners told me that during his last visit, Mr. Alam came to their store and bought some desi tunics for his granddaughters.

In our conversation two other Dhaka editors came up, whose papers I used to contribute to before coming on board to the Independent. He had praised them profusely for their journalistic ethic among other abilities. Then he smiled and to my slight embarrassment had told me, "Their loss is our gain."

I did not really know Mahbubul Alam in his professional setting, nor do I know much about his accomplishments in precisely the way his colleagues and friends do.

Five years ago, through the brief encounter I had with him and the conversation we had during that enjoyable lunch, I earned insight to his personality. I came to the conclusion that he was a true gentleman.

Mahbubul Alam was not the kind of person one forgets easily.

His early death is undeniably a loss to Bangladesh media, not to mention a loss for his wife, three daughters and grandchildren, and all his friends and colleagues.

We have lost an extraordinary person prematurely, and the void in our hearts will remain for many years to come.

On the 1st anniversary of his death, we mourn him; we pray for him and remember him with admiration. We acknowledge his enormous contribution to journalism.

May Allah rest his soul in eternal peace and grant him Jannatul Ferdous!

The contributor is a fiction writer and a columnist.

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