Letter to Pops

Masud Khan Shujon

Ma is our Great Illusion, highest Nature, and

Father our highest Self;

that's why one feels love for all

we feel love for all. Nazrul Islam

I used to often write letters to my father when I was young; letters

which would be written on the spot in a classroom, caf or a bar
(airport bars, where one can be completely alone while sitting elbow
to elbow with people, were my favourite places to write these
letter); letters, once written, never posted as they fulfilled their
purpose of instant sharing, of instant feedback from my dad talking
to me as I imagined him while writing. My habit of writing letters
and not posting them continued over the years, and my wife has
saved many of these letters over the last two decades in a few
boxes in my mom-in-laws Wisconsin attic.

Recently, all my letters are to my son, telling him about our lives
together, letting him know how I feel when I see him sleeping with
his mommy, how I laugh when I see him being a funny boy, and how
much joy I feel when I swim with him, play with him, read with him,
watch cartoons with him; letters which will someday provide him the
textual story for our pictures, stories which he can look at when he
is older and awaken memories of a happy childhood. When I write
these letters, I realize that I am unable to write a letter to my son
without somehow also writing to my departed father; and as I write
a letter to my departed father on his fourth death anniversary, it is
unsurprising that this letter too turns into a letter to my son.

Hey Abba, hi Pops, its been four years since you left us in the
hospital room in Toronto; four incredible years, in which our lives
have been turned upside down, downside up, four years during
which I was given the gift of having things taken away, things which
I thought were important until I lost them, and the even greater gift
of appreciating all that I had left. In these four years, Baba, I left
my home in Wisconsin, my friends in their nice houses by the snow
covered streets, and my partnership in my law firm (for which I
worked all those 15 hour days); four years in which my wife threw in
her full support for the move back to Dhaka, a move that I had
never considered in my over 20 years away. Now I am in your and
my beloved Bangladesh, my childhood home of Dhaka,
unrecognizable in its chaos and traffic jams, except for the people,
the ones we love. My wife lives here, as does my son, now six years
old; we live close to Bhaia and Bhabi, who have now been joined by
a son, our 5 month old nephew; both my son and his cousin look so
much like you that it is at times uncanny, and every time I see the
michka dooshtami (as you used to call it) in my sons eyes, I think
of you. Pops, I love living here, with Amma, my wife and son, and
our family and friends close by; I love working here, navigating the
challenges, finding solutions to legal and business issues; I love
reawakening to my happy childhood memories here, as a certain
conversation, a certain face, a certain song opens up a particular
box of memories.

Pops, this move has not been easy for my wife and my son. To my
wife I am deeply grateful for her support, and for my son, I pray that
he will be rewarded for his patience when he connects with his
familys past during his stay here, be emboldened to do great
things, to serve others after knowing stories and hearing the
exploits off my Dada and Nana, my Baba, my Chachas and Mamas.
I want my son to know the half of his culture that I bequeath to him,
the language and the sights and smells of Bangladesh; I want my
son to know of you, his grandfather, through the stories of others,
understand that his ancestors walked this soil with their heads held
high, with their pens mighty, with their voices loud and their fists
out against oppression.

Pops, living in Dhaka has also given me the gift of getting to know
more of you, understand you and appreciate you more, even though
you are no longer with us; when I am disillusioned by the endemic
corruption around me, I recall your uncompromising honesty and
take pride in the fact that you did not acquire much, did not slide
down the slippery slope of you scratch my back, I scratch yours;
when I am disheartened by the inadequacies and inefficiencies of
those who wield power, I remember how you believed in our ability
to change, to finally deserve and get good governance, and thus am
recharged by your optimism, your greatest contribution to our
public discourse; when I am revolted by the inequities around us, I
remember the path that you have walked and believe again in the
slow transformation of our country.

Baba, because of who you were , you energize me with your spirit,
enhance me with your force, engulf me in your positivity every day I
am here.

This is your gift to me, Baba, and for that, I thank you.

Hi Son, hi Little Baba, your grandfather passed away four years ago
and I just wrote a letter to him (I know he is not here to read this,
but writing to him still makes me feel goodas if I am somehow
talking to his spirit). I will read that to you tomorrow when you
wake up and talk to you about him, about us, me and my dad.

Little Baba, you all of a sudden became sad today because you
were missing America, your school, your friends and your grandma.
You cried and told me that you do not like to go back and forth, that
you want us to go back to America. You told me how you missed
the open spaces, the parks and your school. You asked me why we
cannot go back right away. I spoke to you then of why I want to be
here, about being close to my Amma, about how happy I am here,
how weyou, me and mamacan spend so much time together
playing and laughing, which time I sometimes could not give you in
America. As you are wont to do in these situations, you understood
me and bounced back from your sadness and started laughing at
my jokes again; but I also know that you at times will get sad again,
you will miss America again, and that you will want to go back
before the summer. During those times, my little Baba, try to
remember the stories I have told to you about my father, try to
recall the letter I just read to you which I wrote to my fathers
memory, his spirit, and understand that he is also another reason
why I want to be here, why we need to be in Bangladesh.

I love you, my little Baba. Thank you for understanding.

Masud Khan Shujon is Enayetullah Khans youngest son; he is a

family man, lawyer and a writer. He can be reached at
masud@ashastra.com.