My grandfather Obaidul Huq

Imran Asif I had known him for just about the last one third of his life on earth. When he bid farewell to life on October 13, 2007, he had been through 96 seasons. I am on my 30th. Therefore, I will leave the task of speaking about his intellectual depth and his accomplishments to those who have known him for longer than I did. I would only want to speak of the grandfather he has been, and the grandfather we had seen him to be. For the absolute entirety of our lives so far, me, my sister, and all my I I cousins had seen him commanding an unsurpassed level of respect from everyone who knew him. It was a kind of respect that was never out of fear, or out of any obligation. It was of an unconditional kind. Just as unconditional as his love was for everyone of us. It was so intense that through all these years that he lived to love us, he left us feeling acutely incapacitated. to accommodate his love. And now that he has left us altogether, we still feel incapacitated to realise the loss of him being no longer around to love us the way he used to. He had three grandsons, among whom I happen to be the second. He had given us reasons to be proud of him. And despite the fact that we did not really give him any reason whatsoever, he held even more pride in us. A photo of my elder cousin brother in his early army uniform, a photo of my younger cousin brother who just excelled in his SSC examinations, and one of mine during my university graduation stands firm in a show case in his drawing room. And almost every time anyone went to interview him and asked him of his pride, he would show those photos to them, and as he did, his eyes twinkled with joy. Age did take a toll on his sight, but could not put a dent in his depth and rationale of thinking. To the last day of his life, he had put in all his efforts to foster the sense of unity among his children, and their children. Even on his very last day, he returned home from the hospital he was admitted for the previous two days. The only reason was that he wanted all his dear ones to come to him on the next day of Eid - a day for the Muslims to unite and share the joys. He had lived the last 30 years of his life in the very, very modest one storied house he had built in the late '70s. Thirty years of rain and shine had decayed the house to a state what most of us had regarded as inhabitable. For years we had been trying to convince him, in vain, that it was time to move out and move on. His soul passed away within the pale walls that were perhaps a constant reminder to him that he had built it, brick by brick, with whatever he could earn through absolute integrity and honesty. Today, as the trees still stand tall around the house, it looks like it has lost its heart, with the loss of the man who despite all his age had given it his unending passion until his soul departed. He was a man who feared Allah, and because he did, the fear of death always lied defeated to him. He passed away in his sleep as he laid flat on his bed shortly after 4:30pm, and as unmistakably as always said ~ even the last Zohr prayers. His lips were parted, eyes firmly shut, his hands by his side. To me he looked like he was in complete submission to the most Gracious and the most Merciful. In about four hours from his passing away, we were slowly walking out of the graveyard. The earth that filled up his grave was wet, and cold. A man who was so full of warmth all his life was lying in a grave filled with cold earth. That is poetry for you. Death is the end of all of one's experience. But for those who live on, it can trigger profound imagination. My grandfather, Obaidul Huq, has died. He left me imagining. I imagine he hears me with a smile from up there when I quietly say "I love you dadabhai." Obaidul Huq, former Editor of the Bangladesh Observer, died on October 13, 2007. His grandson, Imran Asif, is CEO, Regent Airways