Syed Navid Anjum Hasan
I stood before the Central Shaheed Minar on the Saturday morning with a single, blood-red rose in my hand, and the rain was falling heavily as if the sky itself was mourning the departure of our beloved teacher, my favorite Professor Syed Manzoorul Islam.
That rose it wasn’t just a flower. It was a symbol of all my respect, love, and gratitude into a single silent gesture. In moments this heavy, words just shatter and fall apart. So, I simply stood there, letting the rain get me wet, watching the water slide over the velvety petals, merging softly with the tears I couldn’t hold back.
Syed Manzoorul Islam was more than a teacher; he was a living institution, a light of hope. He didn’t just teach us literature; he used it to illuminate life itself its pain, its beauty, its deep, often confusing contradictions. Every single class was a moment of grace, a revelation. He taught us, through novels and stories, how mere words could somehow express the deepest truths of the human spirit.
If I had to name the best gift of my ULAB years, it would be the mere privilege of being taught by him. Teachers like SMI don’t merely fill your head; they awaken it. They open up your vision and form a true, unbreakable connection between knowledge and compassion.
I can never forget the day he said, “If you actually read literature, you will become a real human being—free, sympathetic, and brave.” That sentence today weighs more than ever before, echoing in the air. I can almost hear his gentle voice merging with the dull drone of the rain. His laughter, his impossibly calm attitude. they all seem so alive in the silent rhythm of memory.
As I gently placed the blood-red rose on Sir’s coffin, time seemed to stop for a moment. The rain kept falling softly, endlessly each drop carrying a weight of unspoken grief. The petals, wet and trembling, rested against the wood as if offering their final salute.
In that instant, it felt as though the flower, the rain, and the farewell had all merged into one eternal symbol of his presence. The rose seemed to whisper through the rain,
“Sir, you haven’t gone anywhere you live on in our thoughts, in our words, and in our love.”
A man of light, wisdom, and profound humility, he instructed us that literature is not an academic pursuit it’s a way of becoming human. And though he is no more, his lessons, values, and his boundless compassion are now well ingrained in each one of us.
It rains today in my eyes, on the rose, and in the stillness of the Minar. But I truly feel Sir didn’t leave. He lives on in every thoughtful deed, every glimmer of innovation, every single act of kindness he used to ignite.
Even in a blood-red rose, a sprinkle of rain, and a forever goodbye you are timeless in our hearts, Sir.
The writer is a Development Worker and former student of late Syed Manzoorul Islam
