It was a declining afternoon back in 2001 when Rashida Muhiuddin called. She sounded happy, to the point of being thrilled. Could I come over to her Sheraton office for tea? Within the next half hour I was there. She was radiant, with that serene beauty in her giving off a glow of contentment. She had just been nominated by the Awami League for a Jatiyo Sangsad seat in Muktagachha and in celebration wished to share the moment with her friends. I thought myself fortunate in being one of them. For the next hour, we talked of her plans. She was going on leave from Sheraton, where she had headed the public relations department for years. She clearly looked forward to winning that seat in Parliament, but if she lost, she would be back at work where we sat talking. On the walls were a good number of photographs. Rashida was in all of them, welcoming high profile visitors to Sheraton over a period of years.
On that day, Rashida Muhiuddin seemed to be bursting with energy. In my heart, I hoped she would win, for she would make a good, enlightened, graceful presence in Parliament. As I stood up to leave, we shook hands and I told her I would do all I could to help her in her campaign. A certain kind of brilliance shone in her eyes. Before the week was out, I had prepared a piece on her for the newspaper I was working for at the time. I called it ‘My friend the candidate’. She was happy. She called to say she was touched and indeed copies of the article had already gone up on walls in her constituency. In the course of the campaign, she would call to say how encouraged she was at the popular response to her candidacy. Here was a young woman, urbane and urbanised, who was busy creating her own niche in the rough and tumble of politics in rural Bangladesh. She was quickly overcoming opposition to her within the local Muktagachha Awami League and seemed headed for victory at the polls. In the event, she lost. Or was made to lose. It was a year of disaster, for her and for her party. Rashida was certain victory had been stolen from her and for a very long time could not bring herself to face the fact that her rival had triumphed, in however questionable a way, over her.
Rashida Muhiuddin’s sadness took on a deeper hue when she realised she was not welcome at Sheraton any more. Her party had slipped from being the government into being the opposition. Perhaps the new regime, in an act of malevolence, did not want her back at her old workplace? And perhaps the management of the hotel, acutely conscious of the need not to arouse the ire of the new ruling class, did not wish to embarrass itself by asking Rashida back in? In those months of growing frustration, Rashida realised that the only way she could keep herself going was to stay in politics. It was often late in the day that she called, to tell me of the many frustrations she was going through. And yet, she said, she felt she owed it to her constituents to keep the faith they had reposed in her despite the fact that she had not made it to Parliament. Like any seasoned politician, she made it a point to visit Muktagachha on a regular basis and thereby earned enough respect and support to be regarded as her party’s voice in the region. And then there was the night when she called, only for me to hear her sobbing at the end of the line. Recovering in a minute or
so, she stunned me with the news that she had earlier in the day seen her brother buried. It was a situation where I had no words to comfort her. She hung up, but before she did so I told her I would keep in touch.
My early acquaintance with Rashida Muhiuddin came through watching her read the English news bulletins on Bangladesh Television. Then, sometime in July 1996, she and I found ourselves as part of a team previewing a documentary prepared by the new Awami League government elected to office a month earlier. That was our first meeting; and it was to be followed by many more. She was happy when I went off to London in early 1997 as media spokesperson at the Bangladesh High Commission. On regular visits home, we would meet at her office. I would often wonder why the government could not place her in a position where she would be doing a lot more good for it and for the country.
I did not go to see my friend Rashida Muhiuddin after her death. I was not at her burial at the intellectuals’ cemetery in Mirpur. But over these last few years I have thought of her, have prayed for her; and I have wondered why she had to go the way of all flesh so soon, so much before her time. The last time we spoke was when I called her on her mobile. She was busy at a meeting of her party workers in Muktagachha. This is a bad time to call, I told her. I promised to call later. She said she would call too. That was the last time we spoke to each other.
This morning, it is the soft-spoken, elegant Rashida Muhiuddin who comes alive in the crevices of the soul. She was a proper lady. The thoughts in her ran a beautiful course. And they underlined the self-esteem she based her life on.
She speaks not a word these days.
On that day, Rashida Muhiuddin seemed to be bursting with energy. In my heart, I hoped she would win, for she would make a good, enlightened, graceful presence in Parliament. As I stood up to leave, we shook hands and I told her I would do all I could to help her in her campaign. A certain kind of brilliance shone in her eyes. Before the week was out, I had prepared a piece on her for the newspaper I was working for at the time. I called it ‘My friend the candidate’. She was happy. She called to say she was touched and indeed copies of the article had already gone up on walls in her constituency. In the course of the campaign, she would call to say how encouraged she was at the popular response to her candidacy. Here was a young woman, urbane and urbanised, who was busy creating her own niche in the rough and tumble of politics in rural Bangladesh. She was quickly overcoming opposition to her within the local Muktagachha Awami League and seemed headed for victory at the polls. In the event, she lost. Or was made to lose. It was a year of disaster, for her and for her party. Rashida was certain victory had been stolen from her and for a very long time could not bring herself to face the fact that her rival had triumphed, in however questionable a way, over her.
Rashida Muhiuddin’s sadness took on a deeper hue when she realised she was not welcome at Sheraton any more. Her party had slipped from being the government into being the opposition. Perhaps the new regime, in an act of malevolence, did not want her back at her old workplace? And perhaps the management of the hotel, acutely conscious of the need not to arouse the ire of the new ruling class, did not wish to embarrass itself by asking Rashida back in? In those months of growing frustration, Rashida realised that the only way she could keep herself going was to stay in politics. It was often late in the day that she called, to tell me of the many frustrations she was going through. And yet, she said, she felt she owed it to her constituents to keep the faith they had reposed in her despite the fact that she had not made it to Parliament. Like any seasoned politician, she made it a point to visit Muktagachha on a regular basis and thereby earned enough respect and support to be regarded as her party’s voice in the region. And then there was the night when she called, only for me to hear her sobbing at the end of the line. Recovering in a minute or
My early acquaintance with Rashida Muhiuddin came through watching her read the English news bulletins on Bangladesh Television. Then, sometime in July 1996, she and I found ourselves as part of a team previewing a documentary prepared by the new Awami League government elected to office a month earlier. That was our first meeting; and it was to be followed by many more. She was happy when I went off to London in early 1997 as media spokesperson at the Bangladesh High Commission. On regular visits home, we would meet at her office. I would often wonder why the government could not place her in a position where she would be doing a lot more good for it and for the country.
I did not go to see my friend Rashida Muhiuddin after her death. I was not at her burial at the intellectuals’ cemetery in Mirpur. But over these last few years I have thought of her, have prayed for her; and I have wondered why she had to go the way of all flesh so soon, so much before her time. The last time we spoke was when I called her on her mobile. She was busy at a meeting of her party workers in Muktagachha. This is a bad time to call, I told her. I promised to call later. She said she would call too. That was the last time we spoke to each other.
This morning, it is the soft-spoken, elegant Rashida Muhiuddin who comes alive in the crevices of the soul. She was a proper lady. The thoughts in her ran a beautiful course. And they underlined the self-esteem she based her life on.
She speaks not a word these days.
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