My brother, less than two years my senior, was my immediate sibling, and we journeyed together from infancy through childhood into our youth before geographical separation became our fate. He was my closest friend, a vital part of my life. Yet, he departed suddenly and unexpectedly, a casualty of the pandemic that ravaged our world. He left me in excruciating agony, a void so profound it defied articulation, leaving me feeling as if I had lost a cherished family member, a wound that only those who’ve experienced such an abrupt loss can truly comprehend.

Recollections of my brother bring me joy, for his love and compassion were unfeigned in every sense. Despite over 30 years of physical separation, those years only cemented our bond. We maintained an unbreakable connection; scarcely a day passed without our conversations. Every year, when I made my annual visit, he would be there at the airport to receive me, and later, to bid me farewell. Those brief stays, for I was dedicated to my corporate duties, were precious to us. We made the most of our fleeting vacations, engaging in endless conversations that often spanned the entire night, each moment cherished.

Despite the fatigue from long journeys, I was never too weary to engage with him. The following day would often see us traveling to our parental home, where we would unite as a family. Most years, he would take time off from his responsibilities to savor these family moments with our parents and younger brother.

Within the walls of our ancestral home, we experienced jubilant moments of togetherness, reveling in heavenly meals and engaging in ceaseless discussions, ranging from global politics to life’s profound mysteries. We would reminisce about our shared childhood, share jokes, and even delve into creative pursuits like co-authoring stories or novels. As the days passed, our joy swelled, but it was always tinged with melancholy as the time for his departure neared. The day he left our family home would fall eerily silent, and even my extended stay with our mother couldn’t fill the void his absence left behind.

The day I departed, he would invariably stay at the airport until my plane had taken off. Once, I asked him why he waited, to which he replied with a touch of melancholy, “A faint hope lingers that the flight might be canceled, granting us another day together.” His bittersweet expression during our goodbyes haunted me for days after leaving my birthland. When I awaited his arrival overseas, I experienced the same eagerness, the moments of anticipation imbued with unparalleled joy.

Conversations with Sohel were always delightful. His vast knowledge of literature, his insatiable reading habit, his passion for his work, and his dedication to his writing were palpable in every word. He cherished the feedback from his fans and readers, harboring dreams of dedicating his post-retirement life to the art of crafting Bengali literature. I wished I could have transported him to a place where the mundane concerns of daily life wouldn’t encumber him, where he could write to his heart’s content, unburdened by the pressures of family and business. His pursuit was not one of material wealth but of literary fulfillment, and he believed that someday, every challenge could be surmounted.

I can still vividly recall the exhilaration he exuded when his first few novels were published. He was consumed by the joy of these publications, often sharing his drafts with me for feedback. I could sense his enthusiasm for refining his stories, and his creativity often left me in awe. He once remarked that every individual remembers their past through their unique perspective, even if they recall the same event. We speculated that the three of us siblings could write about a shared family memory, each perspective painting a different picture. I found this concept brilliant. In one of his novels, ‘Amader Anondabari,’ he explored this notion, dedicating it to me.

The depth of my loss is indescribable. I am left feeling numb, shattered within, occasionally incensed at the universe, and sometimes unable to confront the sadness that engulfs me. Over the past few months, I’ve thrown myself into various activities, striving to divert my mind from the overwhelming grief. I even attempted yoga and delved into philosophy, but at times, all my efforts proved futile. The sorrow that pervades my thoughts each time I reminisce continues to trap me in the relentless cycle of grief, day after day. It’s exhausting.

I yearn for a second chance to see him again, to alleviate whatever pain he endured before his departure, to bring him back if that were possible. So much remains unsaid, countless dreams unfulfilled; we had envisioned growing old together, sharing our experiences, achieving something significant, the two of us. Now, all those aspirations remain unfulfilled. His young child once asked if future technology could bring him back; alas, even miracles have their limits.

Rest in peace, my beloved brother. I will carry your memory with me every day for the rest of my life.