It's been around four decades since I passed out from university. What with bringing up a family, eking out a living and dealing with the jigsaw puzzle called life, I never really kept in touch with the alma mater. But there are a few dear teachers I do meet on various occasions or at different events and it is always a source of unmitigated joy to talk to them, share my journey, hear the stories they have to tell -- such interactions are a sweet concoction of déjà vu, nostalgia and renewed respect for our dear mentors.
Syed Manzoorul Islam, or SMI as many call him, to me was always "Manzoor Sir." The last time I met him was in office where we were helping out in the publication of an NGO's book on children's issues. He greeted me with his infectious smile and said he was happy to see me working at Prothom Alo. He also said he regularly read the English online site too, especially when we rewrote his columns in English.
I said, "Sir, if there are any mistakes or room for improvement, please let me know. I'd really appreciate your feedback." He replied, a true teacher as always, "With you at the job, don't worry, it can't go wrong." I know it was a teacher's words of encouragement to a student, I know things can go very wrong, but it made me glow on the inside. I felt transported back to the classroom in Dhaka University where he was handing me back my term paper on Yeats with a big A+ and a word of praise.
We need more of you, sir, to help us figure out this mess. You never restricted yourself to books and pedagogy. You wrote and spoke for education, for humanity, for all that is right amid the wrongs of this world
Manzoor Sir was always positive, vibrant, full of life. He looked not a day older than when we first sat in his class decades ago.
I even told him so, when I met him at an event in the National Museum a few years ago. "Sir," I said, "I feel ashamed to tell anyone I'm your student because they look at me startled. You look so young, I'm sure they wonder how come you are my teacher!" He laughed his youthful laugh. He had the gift of youth.
It was this young spirit that kept him so full of life. Always with a keen sense of humour, wit and intelligence, he carried no "airs and graces" we see in the many "aatels" around town today. And that is why, while so many of his students, friends and admirers are writing about this intellect, his sense of aesthetics, his vast depth of knowledge, to me it is his kindly nature, his smiling countenance, that comes to mind again and again.
He taught us Yeats. I can still hear him reciting the opening lines of The Second Coming:
"Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world..."
Things indeed have fallen apart, sir, anarchy is loosed upon the world. We need more of you, sir, to help us figure out this mess. You never restricted yourself to books and pedagogy. You wrote and spoke for education, for humanity, for all that is right amid the wrongs of this world.
You are an inspiration. If we can carry even an iota of your positive spirit within us, surely we can make a change. You have passed the baton on to the next generation. May they carry it with pride and perseverance.