When Professor Syed Manzoorul Islam passed away around 5:00pm on October 10, I was travelling with family. After visiting the hospital on October 7 when it seemed he was gradually recuperating, I felt so positive as many others did. The whole nation was keenly observing his condition with expectations. The feel good did not however last long and we are poorer in his departing. His death has come as a heavy blow to his wife and only son, his siblings and his extended family. For us, his students, it is an irreparable loss, too, because he was not only a teacher for us. He was many selves in one and nourished us in countless ways. The line of 鈥淒eath is nothing at all鈥� by Henry Scott-Holland that has been referred to in the headline, I am writing as one of his many poor students, has the tone of Manzoor Sir, SMI, as we used to call him at the English department of Dhaka University. The title of the poem bears the testimony of his spirit that does not die. Had our dear SMI been given a chance to comment on his own departure, I believe, he would have recited the lines by Scott-Holland: 鈥楲ife means all that it ever meant. | It is the same as it ever was. | There is absolute and unbroken continuity. | What is this death but a negligible accident?鈥�
He had the spirit of merrymaking even at the darkest of moments. His knowledge gave him such resilience and power. He was a moving encyclopaedia, but he never vaunted how much he knew. He knew how to tone down an extreme situation. Whenever we felt agitated or sad, he would explain things in such a manner that one would feel what has happened was the only natural thing to have happened. That way he could pacify and make us look at the bright side of things, even when the chips were down. He knew exactly what needed to be said and done at the direst of moments and his sense of proportion while making statements was impeccable. He always taught us why a human being needed to be self-sufficient but should never think of themselves as irreplaceable. Dhaka University has produced several public intellectuals and Syed Manzoorul Islam is without doubt one of the finest intellectuals. As a public figure with versatile genius, he has never been known to have made an unsubstantiated remark in his life. His life and work are a testimony to the learning that in order for having a long line of disciples and followers, one need not ever be flippant. Today, I find very few intellectuals with as much dignity and self-respect as he always carried about him. My paean today is a natural response to the loss the country has met in his death.
I cannot help remembering an episode from the Memoryscapes of the 1947 Partition in February at BRAC University. After the keynote speech by Professor Sayeed Ferdous of Jahangirnagar University, during the question-answer session, someone made a funny comment. It was related to a question regarding the responsibility of teachers during national emergencies. The colleague commented, 鈥榃hy do teachers always think that they are important? Why would the nation feel their importance and ask for their opinion?鈥� Many in the audience found the comment amusing. The obvious sarcasm triggered SMI, who had heard out the keynote speech attentively, and was privy to the sarcasm of our colleague. Today when he is gone, that comment repeatedly echoes in my mind and I feel that SMI knew well enough what he or his peers, as teachers and mentors, meant for the nation. Being witness both to the diminution of stature and self of teachers, he must have been deeply saddened from within. He probably foresaw the decay of a nation in the insult of its teachers.
Ever since I came across SMI as a student in 1994, I always found his intellectual capabilities so broad-shouldered as to comprehend the sociopolitical upheavals that made Bangladesh the talk of international media. A gentleman that he was, he always felt sad about the limitless vulgarity of our political leadership and their inability to adopt a decent political language. He was saddened by the failure of our leaders and as a consequence of the failure of Bangladesh, to keep pace with global geopolitics. Most important, he always regretted the failure of teachers to realise into what wrong directions we were taking our students and, thereby, jeopardising our own collective future. He was deeply concerned about the politicisation of educational institutions and never accepted any politically privileged position in his long career. This is not to say that he was bereft of his own political consciousness, but that never ever coloured his scholarly and academic pursuits in any way. On occasions, he expressed his concern over the gradual loss of stature of Dhaka University as a beacon in our national life. One comment by him that became viral in recent years, was 鈥淭o whatever direction I look, I see no intellectuals; only bureaucrats are there.鈥� That was his covert critique of the overall loss of critical thinking in universities and teachers鈥� gradual distancing from participation in decision-making over important national issues. A government never succeeds with an overarching influence of its bureaucracy and alienating teachers from playing key roles in a country鈥檚 education sector is an early sign of its doom.
SMI, therefore, critiqued national policies at the macro level. He was bold and made his statements clear. His criticism was not loud and he never nurtured any ill or vindictive feeling against anyone. He would only be annoyed when he saw the philistines making too much noise. That does not mean that he had an elitist choice in his public engagements. He was very sophisticated and knew his class, but he never was a threatening personality. The best thing about him was his ability to trust people and make them feel confident. For us the students, he was a mentor and philosopher with a father鈥檚 care. A personal anecdote may be shared. I had my first job interview at an English-medium school in Dhaka. I was a student at that time and I went to SMI鈥檚 class in the morning wearing a sari, because I would go to the interview venue directly from the class. SMI noticed two of us wearing saris and asked if we had any special occasion. I told him about the interview and he remarked, 鈥榊ou will get the job. My students are smart enough.鈥� He also suggested referring to his commendation if necessary. That was something beyond imagination, SMI saying that to a student meant much more than words; it was a sign that he was sincerely willing to help. I came to know later that he helped hundreds of his students without being judgemental about their merit. He did not know our grades but he was wise enough to know we would prove our ability at the workplace. That was a rare quality in a human being who instilled faith and confidence in a person. He wrote several recommendation letters for me at different stages of my life, each of which carried his thoroughness and his affectionate way of highlighting a person鈥檚 qualities. He inspired his students is innumerable ways and probably after Professor Serajul Islam Choudhury, he was able to reach the heart of so many students through his teaching and public engagements.
SMI was a good researcher, curious and eager to accept technology. He encouraged academic work of his students. He was one of the best students of the English department of Dhaka University. He had many accolades and received awards and prizes, but he was quite down to earth. When I wrote my first monograph, he happily gave his consent to be one of its readers. I found him highly praising my work and the first overseas edition of the book has highlights of his comments on its back cover. He always expected us to follow in the footsteps of Serajul Islam Choudhury and write extensively on diverse issues, and in Bangla. He respected the sacrifice of our language movement martyrs; despite being ambidextrous, he opted to write in Bangla and always encouraged us to speak and write in our mother tongue. Even though he was from Sylhet, a division that has its own major language quite different from Bangla, he always nurtured his literary talent through his Bangla writing. In his talks, he never mixed English and Bangla. He set his own style of talking and when one reads his fiction, one can hear his voice in it. The men and women in his work converse naturally and SMI the storyteller that we listened to in our classes could be heard in his stories, too. As a teacher and writer, he consistently maintained his keen observation and subtle sense of humour that made him and his writings popular. Another of our favourite teachers, the extremely talented Professor Kaiser Haq, has a similar tone in his English poems.
The best thing about SMI is not his academic excellence, nor was it his literary merit. He had an enormous capacity to embrace people with a magnanimity of heart that is hardly to be seen. I saw him literally hugging people who would come forward to get introduced, be it an unknown person present in the audience of a conference hall or a student that he knew well. For some of us among his female students, he had a wonderful gesture of camaraderie. He would shake fists with us at partings, a touch of knuckles, which was a sign of sharing faith in our mutual strength and staying active till we met again. I missed it on October 10 when he said goodbye to the world forever and I will miss that gesture the rest of my life. That is the trouble of parting as Scott-Holand mentions in the last line of his poem: 鈥楢ll is well. | Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. | One brief moment and all will be as it was before. | How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!鈥�
Will it be possible for us not to feel the loss of Syed Manzoorul Islam? Is he waiting for us, as the poet said, 鈥榝or an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner鈥�? Shall we laugh again on all that is being said and done at his exit? Rest in peace, maestro, you will always be remembered till then.
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Sabiha Huq ([email protected]) teaches English at BRAC University.
