Poet
Poet and Senior Journalist
Death is the inviolable opposite of birth. Everyone, regardless of race or religion, has to submit to that infallible truth one day. Poet Daud Haider (February 21, 1952-April 26, 2025) departed, holding the hand of that inevitable death.
I have worked under the leadership of six well-known editors in various organisations during my journalistic career spanning over four decades, and among them, the one I remember particularly is the respected Golam Sarwar (1943-2018). I first saw Sarwar Bhai at 1 Ramakrishna Mission Road, at the then-established Ittefaq Bhavan. During that time, I used to write regularly in the Daily Ittefaq's 'Kachikachar Asar' section. This was probably around 1976 or 1977. The late poet Iqbal Hasan, who was then the literary editor of the weekly Purvani published by Ittefaq Bhavan, introduced me to Sarwar Bhai. Besides being the news editor of the Daily Ittefaq, Sarwar Bhai also had overall responsibility for the weekly Purvani for some time. His experience in journalism in Chinese dates back much earlier than mine. On that occasion, my friend Iqbal Hasan introduced me to Sarwar Bhai.
I don't know how much today's young generation knows about Monajatuddin's name and his unique contribution to journalism. When our generation got into the profession (1976), Monajatuddin was a burning name as a journalist dedicated to the welfare of grassroots people. It is not easy for a journalist from a township in the northern region, which is highly backward in terms of communication, to gain recognition throughout the country, including the capital city Dhaka, with his professional acumen.
The river of time flows incessantly, losing itself in the vast ocean of eternity. Yet, like a river that leaves its mark on both banks after receding, the ruthless sorrow of shattered dreams remains on the two shores. Just as it leaves behind poignant memories of desolation, it also sows the seeds of hope in the fertile fields. Time also leaves behind unforgettable memories, the flowing currents of victorious events, which we call history. Much has been lost in the course of time, but the radiant glow of 1971 persists in our lives, bathed in the brilliance of the sun, with blood and tears as its sacred ablution, illuminated by sacrifice and pride.