Relationships in life are not always bound by blood. Often, childhood events and memories redefine the chemistry of human connection. Seventh-grade student Arian Afif of Milestone School and College is a shining example of that.
On Tuesday afternoon, a middle-aged man named Shamsul Haque was seen crying in the waiting area on the seventh floor of the National Institute of Burn and Plastic Surgery.
When asked, the man—an accessories trader by profession—said, “I’m here for Abbuji. He’s not talking, only gesturing. Forty per cent of his body is burnt. Since the incident, my Abbuji has been suffering terribly.”
His voice choked and tears streamed down his cheeks.
His ‘Abbuji’ is none other than 12-year-old Afif, who was severely burnt in Monday’s fighter jet crash at Milestone School in Uttara. Shamsul explained that Afif had been in his care since he was just 15 days old. Afif’s parents had gone to India for medical treatment, where his father underwent a kidney transplant. Eight years ago, Afif’s father Ibrahim Hossain passed away.
Shamsul is Afif’s maternal uncle. Yet, Afif has never called him “uncle.” To Afif, he is always “Abbuji,” and Shamsul’s wife is “Ammu.” With deep love and affection, the couple has raised Afif as their own child. Their dreams revolve around him. Shamsul waits in hope—hoping for the day when Afif will open his eyes and say, “Abbuji,” once again.
While sitting in the hospital, Shamsul reminisced about their bond. He said he has one son and one daughter of his own and lives in Tongi with his family. In a separate flat of the same building lives Afif and his mother. His own son, Safwan Wazi, studies at Milestone College. Last year, his daughter Wasika Aksa was transferred from Milestone to Safiuddin School and College in Tongi. Wasika and Afif are cousins and were classmates.
After Monday’s accident, Afif’s cousin Safwan took injured Afif to a hospital in Uttara. When admission was denied there, they rushed him to the National Burn Institute in their own car.
“I went to see Abbuji, but I couldn’t recognise him,” said Shamsul. “His hands, face, and back were burnt. I asked, ‘Abbuji, how are you?’ He only gestured slightly. I brought my hand close to his mouth and asked, ‘Have you eaten anything?’ He signalled faintly, ‘No.’ To the outside world, Afif is my child. Whenever I buy anything for my kids, I buy for him too—sometimes even more. My own children often complain, saying, ‘You love Afif more than us.’”
Shamsul added, “He has grown up in my arms. Whenever he has a wish, he tells me first. Sometimes he’s scared to ask his mother. Once, he wanted to play outside in the evening but didn’t have the courage to ask her. So he had me get her permission.”
As he spoke, Shamsul showed old pictures of Afif’s childhood and recalled memories. “Abbuji loves milkshakes. After school, he takes money from me and goes to a shop in Tongi before heading home. When he was just one year old, his parents were in India. I arranged his circumcision. Once I took him to a garment factory. I left him in the reception area and went upstairs. When I came back, he was gone. Then I saw several officers carrying him around, showing him off. He looked like a true little prince!”