A Syed The old man had been sitting in the tea stall since morning. Now it was nearly evening. He'd ordered tea three times, but each cup had grown cold untouched. The tea-seller had stopped asking if he wanted fresh tea. The man's appearance suggested he came from a respectable family. His white kurta was clean, if somewhat worn. A white cap sat properly on his head. His beard, more salt than pepper now, was neatly trimmed. But his eyes held a strange emptiness, as if he were searching for something in the distance that would never come. "Uncle, are you waiting for someone?" the tea-seller finally asked, unable to contain his curiosity. The old man looked at him as if returning from a long journey. "Waiting? No, I'm not waiting for anyone." "Then why have you been sitting here all day?" The old man smiled faintly. "I am a Syed. Do you know what that means?" The tea-seller nodded respectfully. Everyone knew what it meant to be a Syed—a descendant of the Prophet. "My ancestors came to this land centuries ago. They built mosques, taught people to read the Quran, helped the poor. People touched their feet with reverence." The old man's voice carried no pride, only a quiet sadness. "They left behind a name, a lineage. And I... I am the last of that line." He gestured toward the bustling street. "Look around you. Do you see anyone who cares what a Syed is anymore? My own son lives in America. He tells people his last name is 'Sayed'—easier to pronounce, he says. My grandson doesn't even know Arabic." The tea-seller listened in uncomfortable silence. "I'm not complaining," the old man continued. "Times change. People change. But sometimes I sit here and wonder—what does it mean to carry a name when no one remembers what it once meant? What does it mean to be the last chapter of a story no one reads anymore?" A group of young men at a nearby table were laughing loudly at something on their phones. Life moved around the old man like water around a stone. "Every day I come here and sit," he said, more to himself than to the tea-seller. "Not waiting for anyone. Just... being. A Syed. The last one who remembers what we once were." The evening call to prayer echoed from a distant mosque. The old man stood slowly, left money for the tea he hadn't drunk, and walked away into the gathering dusk. The tea-seller watched him go, feeling as though he'd just heard the final verse of an ancient song.

Sir, when I read Rabindranath's 'Denapawna' in ninth grade, I was deeply moved. I wondered in amazement—who is this man? How can anyone write such beautiful stories!

Later, sir, I began reading everything of his I could find. Whatever I came across, I would devour. One day I read, "I do not wish to die in this beautiful world, / I want to live among humanity."

I thought about it—this is true, isn't it? None of us want to die; we all want to live. But why do we want to live? Aside from complaining about rising rice prices, what's the point of staying alive? Rabindranath could write such things because he truly lived, and that's why we have so much from him today. When my heart is happy, it's Rabindranath; when it's heavy, still Rabindranath. But what purpose does the life of someone ordinary like me really serve?

I couldn't find the answer anywhere, sir. When I asked my mother, she said, "Son, stay close to great people. Even their touch removes some sin from the body." I thought—that's not really my answer. Why am I alive? What is my purpose in this world?

I kept growing up. I couldn't do much formal studying, sir, but I read many books and listened to music. Mother listened to folk songs, while I listened to Rabindrasangeet and Nazrul songs. Later, I started listening to ghazals with an uncle. He also listened to modern songs. My preferences expanded to include Rabindrasangeet, Nazrul songs, modern Bengali songs, old Hindi songs, and Urdu ghazals. I would become completely absorbed in music.

Even today, I can't sleep well without listening to music. If I don't read a few pages of a book each day, I feel a strange guilt. Mother had said to stay near great people. I've observed, sir, that great people read books and listen to good music.

I have no sorrows, sir. I leave all my sorrows in the music. When I go home, I stay alone. I don't mix with everyone. What's the point of mixing with people from whom I can learn nothing, whose company makes me feel bad, whose minds are small—even if that person is my own father? So I stay alone. I have some cows and goats that I take to graze in the fields. I carry a book with me, usually Rabindranath's poetry. I read, sing joyfully to myself, and listen to music on YouTube through my phone. The cows and goats graze peacefully. People obstruct good work, sir, but cows and goats never do.

I lack nothing; I live in peace. I understand now that though Allah didn't give me the opportunity for extensive education, He did give me a job. I can earn my living. I'm well, with no illness in my body. My wife, my three children—everyone is well, sir. So many people get big certificates but can't find a job. I've received so much in life. This country has no shortage of certificates, only a shortage of jobs. Isn't that right, sir?

Now I too can say—I do not wish to die in this beautiful world. Even if I can't do much for many people, I do something for some, sir. What would happen to them if I weren't alive? How would I listen to music if I died? So much beautiful music! My last wish is that Rabindrasangeet plays beside my body after death. I've received so much in life, sir. I have a small house in the village, ducks and chickens that lay eggs, farmland, cows that give milk, I raise pigeons too, my wife is happy with me, the children study; I have a job, however small, sir! I've even enrolled in Open University—one day I'll pass my intermediate if I stay healthy and Allah wills it. What more does a person need, sir? How much can one person eat in a lifetime?

Sir, when I see people fighting tooth and nail over wealth, I think with amazement—how poor they are! I see some people getting excessive about religion too. How annoying it is, sir! Surely Allah gets annoyed seeing them too. Islam is a religion of peace; I should stay on the path of peace, try to keep others peaceful. That's the basic work. If I don't do this, no matter how much I shout about other things, I can never reach paradise. I practice my religion as I understand it, and you, sir, practice yours. If I had been born to your mother or left with your mother after birth, my name wouldn't be Syed but some Hindu name. So how can I say all other religions are wrong? We ourselves might be wrong, but religion is all the same—every religion speaks of human welfare. First, sir, one must become human, then everything else follows.

As long as I'm in the office, music plays softly outside my room all day long. Rabindranath's songs, Nazrul's songs, modern songs by Hemanta-Manna-Kishore-Lata-Asha-Arati-Sandhya and others, old Hindi classics, Urdu ghazals. I can't describe how wonderful it feels! Such refined taste in music selection—in ten years of office life, I've seen it in very few colleagues. Because of Syed, my time passes well. My gratitude to him is endless. Though yes, he has one flaw... he puts too much sugar in tea and coffee, and doesn't remember even when told.

Sometimes I call Syed to my room for conversation. There's so much to learn from him. He speaks, I listen quietly. A kind of thrill runs through my body while listening. Syed shares various things learned from life. I listen quietly and learn philosophy. He loves me because I write, because I stay immersed in office work and studies, never engage in idle gossip with anyone. This, he says, was his mother's instruction. Following his mother's instruction to the letter, whether Syed gains anything else or not, he has found great peace in life and answers to many strange questions. "Sir, what you get from reading books, you can get much more without reading if you take the opportunity to associate with great people." Still, Syed reads books; sometimes I look through the glass door of my room and see Syed reading intently while listening to music.

Today I heard two songs consecutively in Syed's voice:
I know you, I know you, O foreign woman...
I shall bear everyone's shame in your love...

Truly, such exquisite Rabindrasangeet—even many famous artists don't possess such a voice. I listened with my head resting on my chair... it felt as though all my weariness was being washed away, flowing somewhere far off...

Indeed, what we know or understand, we might forget. But what we feel never leaves our body and mind—it remains crystal clear.