Some deaths hit you like a bolt from the blue, even if the storm had been gathering for some time. Haider Rizvi was 80 years old, still working in full capacity, gearing up to direct his first feature length film. It never occurred to us that he may not live to finish the film for which he had won the national film grant. He wasn’t ill as far as we knew. But on February 9, 2025, Haider Rizvi passed away after being admitted to the hospital for acute stomach ache.
His death resembled his life in a way. The film fraternity, especially his students, mourned him from the depths of their hearts. But the newspapers didn’t seem to have taken notice of his passing. It’s not as if independent filmmakers don’t make it to the obituary section. They do. Take for example a director who died two weeks after Haider Rizvi at the age of 60. His death was all over the news, including some Indian papers. His body was placed in front of the National Museum for the general public to pay their last respects, which wasn’t something that happened in the case of Rizvi sir. From the outside, it looked as though the mourning of his death was upstaged by someone younger and more accomplished according to the current standards of success.
I address him as sir for I was his student back in 2012-2013. He was all of our favourite teacher by far, the only one who understood and appreciated the point of view of our generation. It was common knowledge that he had worked with some of the greatest Polish and Hollywood directors, but he hadn’t made a film in Bangladesh yet for fund and infrastructure issues. When I decided to study Screenwriting at UCLA, he had warned me that it might be hard to come back to Bangladesh once I’ve had a taste of working with big names. He confessed, with some regret, it kept him from coming back in his younger days.
He was among the first few who asked me to teach screenwriting classes, as a part of the courses he taught at some film institutes in 2017. I later realized how generous it was of him to ask me to take those classes. Teachers in these institutes are paid on a per class basis and most not only refuse to give others any class, they fight over getting more classes themselves; whether they’re experts in the subject or not is often an overlooked detail. It’s sort of like the competition of securing more hours among the hourly paid minimum wage earners. But Rizvi sir didn’t play those lowly games; no wonder it took him so long to secure that fund to make his film.
In class, he used to wear blue jeans with full sleeve shirts, tucked in; always addressed us as “Bhaia” or “Beta”. Unlike most of his peers, who abhorred popular films and looked down on the local audience, Rizvi sir vehemently championed films that “made sense” and communicated well. He talked very little in class as karma yogis tend to do, but the lion’s share of what he said was gold for us. To this day, I quote him in my classes and remember his teachings when I write scripts.
In 2022, one of his students, Razib Ahsan, compiled a book, “Haider Rizvi: Cinemaloker Porompurush,” a treasure trove of write-ups by people close to him. The article by his brother, Gowher Rizvi, was particularly heart-warming. In his article, reading about how Rizvi sir fearlessly participated in the 1971 war, how he used his wit to escape certain death at the hands of Pakistani soldiers, and after independence, how he fought for our television industry only to see it take a nose dive into mediocrity- gives us a picture of his gigantic stature as a person and as a professional.
Now from beyond the grave, Rizvi sir keeps inspiring us with the work and the words he left behind. Maybe the world doesn’t regard every noteworthy human being with the honour they deserve. Maybe the media doesn’t celebrate the silent heroes behind the camera. But that ceases to matter when you know how much you were loved and respected. I’m glad Rizvi sir got to read that book written on him. I’m glad, in the end, no Roman Polanski or Lars von Trier could hold him back from returning to Bangladesh. Many would instantly line up to be their assistant directors, but for us, Rizvi sir was irreplaceable.
