We had just grown into the habit of hanging out in front of the college canteen. Far more than the lively games on the basketball court in front, what drew me was that song. Those bar chords in my fumbling fingers, our loud voices singing, “tumi khoma kore diyo amay...”
There is no doubt in my mind that this song is the first, or at least the second song every young man with a dream of doing music in Bangladesh learns to cover. I cannot think of a greater honour accorded to a musician. You have left, but this is just another step for you, a step towards immortality.
You have inspired me, not just as an artist, but also as a human being – with your every act of humility and magnanimity. I cannot in a thousand tributes pay the price for what I have learned from you as a novice of music.
It was 2008, near the end of a winter. I heard that you were coming to my little town. I cannot even describe how restless the last two nights before the concert were. The schedule said you would be on stage at 4 in the afternoon. I barely swallowed my lunch and ran to the venue. The gates were still closed for the sake of security, but in my mind such rules seemed irrelevant. I jumped over a wall to position myself firmly in the front row.
When you arrived and I saw you in person for the first time, I wanted to run to you. But the organizers were strict. After a lot of begging, I got to the door of your green room. The humble and courteous man that I saw there, that is what a true artist is to me.
The first thing you said when you got on that stage was, “Will you sing with me? I’d be nervous singing alone.” That day, everyone - young or old – those who perhaps had never sang since the school assembly days, had raised their voices to “Bojhena keu to bujhlo na...”
When your soulful voice came through the sound devices, one epic tale after another was written right there on the stage, making us laugh with joy, weep in sorrow, and dance in frenzy.
From you, I learned how to take the audience along on a journey on the stage, a journey to the holy waters that quench the thirst of the soul, washing away all sorrow, all despair and weariness.
I was not taught by you or trained under you. But like Ekalavya from the epic Mahabharat, who took Dronacharya as his guru, I accepted you as my guru from afar. Ekalavya gave his thumb as repayment of the guru’s ‘dakkhina,’ his honorarium. But how will I repay my debt to you?
Let alone grieve, I still cannot believe that you are gone. This wound to Bangla rock music can never heal. I’m sure you are smiling at the tears of your fans, the grief at your untimely departure, from the beyond. Guru, you told us, ‘Hashte dekho, gaite dekho” - “See me smile, watch me sing.” But I cannot see your smile anymore!
Your nimble fingers won’t ever raise a tempest on the frets of the silver guitar again. Yet your music, your creations will remain in the veins of Bangla rock. Counting the stars in the sky to your song, ‘Ek akashe tara,’ someday I will spot the brightest star and know, my guru is smiling!