An Undelivered Letter

Dear Uncle Haque, 
When I was a child, I discovered your poetry. Going through my father's bookshelf, I yawned at Bengali books that I didn't understand. Eventually, I found myself face to face with you, an odd looking man in glasses, thin with your cheeks sunken in and hardly a shadow of a smile across your face. I wondered why anyone would make this a cover of a book, if you could even really call it a book. Rather, it was thin and poorly assembled, containing a few of your English-translated poems and plays. But I guess that didn't matter to you, so I tried not to let it matter to me. I ran my fingers through the flimsy paper and started reading. 

I couldn't stop. 
I lay on the dull, carpeted floor of my home, my skin itching and sweat rolling down my back from the heat of the summer, as I consumed every word. Maybe I didn't understand much as a child, not as much as an adult would, but your poetry kept me up at night. A new world had opened up to me. I didn't know you. I didn't know who you were and yet your face loomed in my mind like an old memory, comforting me and saying yes, here I am— someone who understands you, someone who understands the feelings that you can't yet explain yourself. Years passed and life distracted me from you. I thought I could not forget you, but sometime between high school and college, I did. I wish I didn't. Perhaps we would have more time. Then again, I suppose time wasn't the issue. One day, when visiting home from college, you came up in conversation with my family. To my joy and astonishment, my parents knew you. Most importantly you knew me. I was two years old when you met me. I was two and new to the world, not knowing that one of the greatest of the greats was before me. Even in college, I did not realise how important you were until I googled your name, discovering that I had taken your existence too lightly. My father called you for me and shared your email with me. He claimed you were overjoyed in my interest and I was in disbelief. Who was I compared to you? You didn't have to care, but you did. I didn't know what to write or how to start. Weeks passed, maybe months. And yet, you spoke to my father again, asking about me. I should have been persistent, not you. Finally, around January 2nd, 2015 I wrote you a letter. The next day you responded. 

Syed Shamsul Haq and his wife Syed Anwara Haq.

Dear Ashfia, 
New Year's greetings to you. I am so very happy and delighted to read your mail. As a matter of fact, I was expecting you to contact me at some point as indicated by your father for whom I have great affection. Also your mother was a great hostess to me when I padded into your old flat years before you were born! Several months ago your father on a long distance call told me you write poetry and he wanted me to have a look at it. Why not email me some of your writings so that I may know you better. Anyway, keep in touch, Ashfia. Good that you made a contact. May the New Year bring you all that is good for you. God bless. 
Affectionately yours, 
Uncle Syed Haq”

His mother holding her new born granddaughter. Photos: courtesy

I wish I could say that this began a long exchange of emails between us. You and I both know it did not. We did not have a friendship over the internet or a mentor-mentee relationship that most writers long for. Instead, you and I exchanged a handful of emails spread over two years and it was my fault. Completely my fault, because I would save drafts of emails instead of sending them to you. I think I knew you better when I was two years old. I was fearless then, but then again, was there anything to fear in the first place? There was once, right before you were diagnosed that I spoke to you, wishing for you to get better. I hope you didn't think I was insincere. I apologise for being awkward; I was nervous and the shame from my poor Bangla overcame me. You were kind. You have always been kind. I did not know further than that but that was enough to know that the man behind the words was true. And now, that you are gone, I am only full of regrets.
Affectionately yours, 
Ashfia