Today, on 3 November, he crosses the threshold of 92. Born in 1933, his life has been a long one — but to call it merely long would be an injustice. It is a life unparalleled, extraordinary, and remarkable beyond measure — one that defies comparison in its achievements, creations, and contributions. No, I will not dwell on those — they are well-documented in countless writings, discussions, and documentaries. The world already knows of Professor Amartya Sen’s extraordinary legacy.
I can only reflect on my own incredible fortune — that over nearly three decades of work, I had the privilege of meeting him innumerable times, working alongside him, and spending long hours in New York, Boston, and Cambridge, in discussions and debates across a range of subjects. I had the rare opportunity to be close to one of the most extraordinary intellects of our time.
My first acquaintance with Professor Amartya Sen’s name dates back to the late 1960s, when I was a university student. The first of his books I read was Choice of Techniques, which I believe was based on his postgraduate dissertation.
Laughing, he once told me how his friend Meenakshi Dutta (daughter of Buddhadeva Bose) had described him as “sharp as a Gillette blade
I first met him in person in 1992, at Dr Mahbub ul Haque’s residence in New York, when I joined the United Nations Human Development Report Office. Professors Sen, Mahbubul Haque, and Rehman Sobhan had been close friends during their Cambridge days. For more than a decade afterward, I had the opportunity to work with him closely on human development. Most of our discussions and debates took place at Dr Haque’s home.
Sometimes Professor Sen would drop by my apartment to chat or flip through my collection of Bangla books. I always felt he wanted to speak in Bangla — he would reminisce about the tea stalls of Kolkata, cycling through Santiniketan, the Poush Mela, and his ancestral home Pratichi in Santiniketan.
Laughing, he once told me how his friend Meenakshi Dutta (daughter of Buddhadeva Bose) had described him as “sharp as a Gillette blade,” and recalled how, at Presidency College, he was known for his rolled-up sleeves and the notebook tucked into his shirt pocket.
During the 1990s, when Professor Sen became Master of Trinity College, Cambridge, many of our meetings took place at the Master’s Lodge. Between discussions, Dr Haque, I, and others would stroll through the garden at the back. I remember once his wife, Professor Emma Rothschild, joined us and told us that the building had once been a theatre — traces of which still remained on the garden walls. I often worked from Emma’s office too. The first night I spent at the Lodge — before the Sens had even moved in — remains etched in my memory: dim lights, Newton’s chair, the play of shadows on the walls — it all felt hauntingly surreal.
When Dr Mahbub ul Haque passed away in 1998, our intellectual collaboration lessened somewhat as I took up the position of Director of UNDP’s Poverty Alleviation and Millennium Development Goals division.
But our friendship endured. I still remember the morning in 1998 when news broke that Professor Sen had won the Nobel Prize. He was in New York and came straight to my place— the excitement was electric. Our colleagues organised all the day’s celebrations, and The Wall Street Journal interviewed me as his colleague. That same year, at the UN memorial for Dr Haque, he delivered a deeply moving tribute to his late friend.
Our conversations were wide-ranging and stimulating, and his insights invaluable. He would also invite me over, especially on weekends — perhaps feeling lonely when Emma was away in Boston, or thinking I might be
My late wife, Benu (Rasheda Selim), attended that event. He was so delighted to see her, showering her with affection. Benu told him she would cook fish curry for him someday — he became childishly excited, insisting it must be fresh fish, not frozen. That never came to pass. A few months before Benu’s passing, Professor Sen came to New York and invited us for lunch at “Palm,” a restaurant near the UN.
We spent several hours together. Before leaving, he took a photograph with Benu, blessing her with his hand on her head. Neither of us had dry eyes. After her death, he wrote me a long, deeply personal letter — recalling his own near-fatal illness in youth and his treatment at Nilratan Hospital in Kolkata.
A while later, when he visited Bangladesh, he repeatedly told me he wanted to meet “Benu’s daughter.” Despite his busy schedule, thanks to Mati Bhai (the Prothom Alo editor), he met my elder daughter, Rodela, who still fondly remembers his warmth and affection. Some twelve years later, my younger daughter, Mekhla, attended one of his lectures in New York, and he was equally delighted to meet her — I still have their photograph together.
I met Professor Sen’s mother, Smt. Amita Sen, only once, briefly, after his Nobel win. She was an imposing woman before whom one instinctively bowed. She was thrilled when I told her I had read her father Kshitimohan Sen’s Kabir. With pride, she told me she was an “ashram-kanya” (daughter of Santiniketan), and her son, an “ashram-boy.”
Jokingly, she said there were two “Amita Sens” (nicknamed Khuku) in Santiniketan — one a singer, the other herself — she was, she declared with mock pride, the original Khuku. We all burst out laughing.
In the mid-2010s, after I became Director of the Human Development Report Office, I often visited Professor Sen at Harvard to discuss the reports. Our conversations were wide-ranging and stimulating, and his insights invaluable. He would also invite me over, especially on weekends — perhaps feeling lonely when Emma was away in Boston, or thinking I might be.
We usually met in three places: at his favorite Italian restaurant by the French windows in Harvard Square, in a corner sofa at the Harvard Club, or in his book-filled office at Littauer Hall. Our work discussions often landed into various other topics — memories of his father, stories of Dhaka, or tender recollections of Benu.
His father, Professor Ashutosh Sen, had been a chemistry professor at the University of Dhaka. Professor Amartya Sen possessed copies of letters his father had written around 1947, some addressed to Alokananda Dasgupta (later Alokananda Patel), daughter of Professor Amiya Dasgupta and sister of Sir Partha Dasgupta. He often asked me about the people and places mentioned in those letters — especially about Dhaka University — and I shared what little I knew.
He listened with keen interest, often reminiscing about Wari, their old house, and his school in Dhaka. He would ask me about Barishal, my school and university days, and often mention Benu — once suddenly saying, “I think you miss Benu very much.” The remark caught me off guard; I was speechless. But a person as sensitive as him could always see and understand everything.
I have always felt humbled to find my name mentioned in the acknowledgements of several of his books, where he wrote that discussions with me had enriched him. To think that I had any role, however small, in shaping his thoughts fills me with quiet pride. He gifted me several of his books with handwritten notes of affection — lines that continue to move me deeply. In this year’s book fair, I dedicated my book Bangladesh: Contemporary Development Issues to Professor Amartya Sen and Dr Mahbub ul Haque — a modest gesture to acknowledge a great debt.
Let me end with a small story — about a note. Once, during a visit to his office at Harvard, I mentioned that I had just finished reading poet Alokranjan Dasgupta’s Arbhabuker Karcha. Knowing that Alokranjan was his close friend — they had co-edited a magazine called Sphulingo in their youth — I asked about a passage where Alokranjan mentioned “Amartya, Madhusudan, and I edited the magazine.” Curious, I asked who “Madhusudan” was. He replied, “Ah yes, Madhusudan Kar was with us too.”
While we were talking, he once mentioned that in his youth, he used to write rhymes. Mimi di (Meenakshi Dutta) wrote in one of her books that had Professor Sen devoted himself to rhyming, he might not have become a Nobel laureate in economics — but he would have been Bangladesh’s greatest writer of rhymes. Our conversation then drifted elsewhere.
A few days later, a young man came to my office with a handwritten note from Professor Sen. It read simply: “Madhusudan Kundu, associate-editor.” I realised he had gone out of his way to correct the minor error he had made. How much effort that cost him I do not know, but it showed how deeply he valued even a small curiosity.
The story did not end there. That night, my home phone rang. It was late, and I was alarmed. Then came the familiar voice: “This is Amartya. You know, what I meant by ‘associate-editor’ was…” I interrupted him and said, “You meant that the magazine was jointly edited by the three of you, not that he was your assistant.” “Exactly!” he exclaimed, delighted — and hung up.
I sat in silence for a long time afterward, thinking: how much integrity and honesty must a person possess to care so deeply about such a small detail? I thought, honesty is not only of money or character — it is also of words and of speech. What can one do but bow in reverence before someone who embodies that ideal? His devotion to truth, precision, and factual accuracy — his unwavering fidelity and integrity — are legendary. This honesty and dedication, which for him are almost sacred, are what make him truly extraordinary.
I consider myself immensely fortunate to have worked closely with him and shared his company. It is one of the greatest blessings of my life. And so, with all the reverence in my heart, I say:
“Happy birthday, Professor Amartya Sen. You are not just our beacon — you are our North Star. May you continue to shine brightly, guiding us for many more years to come.”
* Dr Selim Jahan is Director of the Human Development Report Office, United Nations Development Programme (UNDP).