Tulip Chowdhury

I am a bookworm and passionate about writing. My creative ventures are my lifelines. However, I could not have found my talismans without the help of the late Dr Sanjida Khatun(4 April 1933 – 25 March 2025).  I called her Boromami, an aunt. She knew me from birth and was a mother figure to me. She was a noted musician and a respected teacher at the University of Dhaka in the big world; to me, she was my angel of love.

Stories of Dr Sanjida Khatun’s generosity opened wings for me in my early years. I grew up in Bongaon, a village in Sylhet in the northeastern part of Bangladesh. It was the late 60s, and I lived with my grandparents, who were well-versed in literature, music and art. Our village was in a remote part of the country, the former East Pakistan. Bongaon was a hilly area, and communication was challenging. Due to our slow communication and poverty in the remote location, it was difficult to get hold of reading materials for my bookworm family. But amid the scarcity, we found blessings, and they came with big parcels of books from my Boromami. She would send a letter to my grandmother before sending books for me, with a mixture of adult reading materials. We would wait like scorched land for the rain and be on the lookout for the postman who came once or twice a month to deliver the mail.

Once the parcel box was delivered, my grandmother, grandfather and I would sit like bees around a rose, open the books, have sneak peeks and get ready to enjoy the reading. Reading was our blissful path to filling our leisure hours, and that gifts were rocks in the stormy seas. Our village home had no running water or electricity; so we filled our aesthetic senses with lush nature and quiet village life. We had a battery-operated radio, but we had to be careful about running the expensive batteries unavailable nearby. The Russian-to-Bengali translations of fairy tales that Boromami sent filled me with the wonder of distant lands. I read about snow, Christmas and Santa, and weaved dreams of someday visiting faraway lands. One particular book, Roosh Desher Roopkotha, is shelved on my memory shelves like a book out of its new cover, waiting to be remembered and relished with every moment. One story from the book about a cabbage and a cucumber’s friendship is fresh on my mind, and while I was teaching at an elementary school in Dhaka, I shared it with my students. The book had a grey cover with more profound grey writing and a silky bookmark. Boromami made it a point to write in the opening pages of the books. She would address me and then sign her name and the date. The mention made me feel so, so special. Growing up without my parents had some hollow rings at that time, but her gifts made me think that I mattered, that I was unique to someone.

My father was working in different regions of the country while I stayed with my grandparents. Boromami felt my need for a loving motherly support and supported me in endless ways. May God bless her kind soul. Her gifts of books to enlighten me, and her giving did not end there. My grandmother and I would sometimes visit Dhaka, and with every visit, Boromami would come to see me and my grandmother. She would take me to visit her and spend time with my three cousins. I would glimpse a busy modern family; Borommami and my uncle were working parents, and three of my cousins went to school. Mornings would be busy in their house, everyone rushing out for the day. The family scenario was different from the village life I was used to. Back in my village, life was slow, and the farming community around us followed the sun with their activities, unlike the townspeople who chased the ticking hands of the clock. My cousins and I shared engaging life experiences in terms of our lifestyles. We were children playing hide and seek or challenging each other with riddles at the end of the day. During one of those visits to my Boromami’s home, the cousins were at school, and I was thrilled when Boromami took me with her on the rickshaw. I could not believe my good luck! So I arrived at the National Radio Center, where she had a recording. I recall seeing many holes in the walls of the studio’s recording room, and upon asking, I learned that the holes helped in sound absorption. I listened to Boromami’s songs on our radio back in the village but had no idea how the songs were recorded. That day, she became my hero, and I dreamed of becoming a singer like her. Those were the days when dreams came one after another, spreading life’s paths in different directions. But I must have had an intense one. Many years later, I was on an audition at the Chhayanaut Shongshkriti-Bhobon, where Boromami along with other teachers was present to test the prospective musicians.

Boromami was like a sage: wise, profound and respected for her knowledge and sense of judgment. Simultaneously, she was a friend and a guide. I found roots in life in the love she showered for me, and as I continue to branch out in life, I know her teachings will always illuminate my paths. Rest with peace, dear Boromami.

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Tulip Chowdhury writes from North Carolina, USA