How These Days Passed - 8

I really don't know how these days are passing. Sometimes it seems like a life time, sometimes it seems like a blink of my eyes. Its been exactly one calendar year. Last year the last few days of his life, Asif was very close to me.

Just two days ago in last year,at around 4:30pm, Asif came home from his new job. I was already home and was resting in my bed. When I heard him coming in, I called him, "Asif". After putting his bag down he came straight to my room. I asked him, "How was your new job?" He was very excited, he lied down on the other half of the bed next to me and happily replied, "You know what Mamoni? They put me into 3 different classrooms, and everybody loved me."

That was no surprise to me, everyone liked and loved him, but I was more eager to know if he liked it and asked him the question. Asif was very relaxed. He was lying flat on his back in my bed and answering my questions. He replied, "Yeah, I like the school."

"Are you going to take this job?" Asif said, yes, he would take the job. Then I asked him how did he go to work, how long it took. When I got a call a week ago from Janet, the Assistant Principal, who was offering him a permanent position, I was happy. I knew he liked to work at her school and all the staff loved him there. Besides, that school is only 10 minutes away from our home. But when Janet told me she had the position open at another site in Maspeth, I was not happy. I never worked in their school in Maspeth, I knew its far and traveling there would take time. So I told her, its up to Asif, if he likes to work there, he would take it. Asif was working as a substitute paraprofessional but he passed the test and was waiting to be permanent. I knew he wouldn't hesitate to work at their Jamaica school, but I wasn't sure if he would like to work in Maspeth. When I gave him the message about this job, I told him that if he takes the job, he can get a transfer.

He too knew how I felt about working in Maspeth and told me that he had to take the train, then a bus, and it took him about an hour to go to his new job, but he would take it. We were talking for sometime, then his father walked into the bedroom, Asif got up and left. I wish he stayed little longer. I didn't say anything then, but now I wish I insisted him on staying.

It was one of the few rare moments of us together, as a mother and a son. Even though, he was staying home for the last seven months, we both were busy with our own little worlds. He spent most of his time in front of the computer, on the phone or napping. I was busy with my work, study, housework. Sometimes if I talked to him, he wouldn't hear me, because he always had his headphones on when he was in front of the computer. I would get upset because he wasn't responding, and start calling him loudly. After hearing his name a few times, he would take his headphones off and look at me.

I can see his face so clearly, he is so much alive to me. I just can't believe that someone so vibrant and full of life, was taken away from me. Its been twelve months, I'm still alive, breathing, fighting for my rights and survival, witnessing some ugly things in life and feeling miserable day by day. Wouldn't it be nicer if I could give him my life? He had so many potentials, he could do so many things, he had so many hopes and dreams. I don't have that many things to look forward to except Nafees and Moumita. But, God had other plans. He ended his life, he didn't want Asif to witness all the filthy things in life and be miserable. He took him to a better place, instead, he kept me alive to suffer.

I always fought for the best for my children, they were and are first priority in my life. When Asif started High School in Dallas, someone threatened him and when he told me about it, I was furious. I called the Principal and the parents and made sure that doesn't happen anymore. When anyone verbally abused him, I protested and defended him. I fought for his life from the beginning.

This story started about 23 years ago in NY, but it goes back to way before that.

The day Asif came to this world prematurely, he had trouble breathing. I was not expecting him to arrive for another two months, so I was not prepared and I couldn't tell that I was having labor. When I was holding my tummy and walking in the house, my mother-in-law noticed it and she asked me if I was having labor. I paused for a moment and then replied, may be yes. I called the clinic, the doctor was unavailable. I told the nurse that I was having labor and I would be arriving at the clinic very soon. She replied, "But it's the night before Eid".

I told the nurse, "So? Eid or not, my baby will not wait. I am having labor and I would be at the clinic shortly." She didn't like it and reluctantly hung up the phone. Meanwhile the driver got the car out of the garage and I got into the car with my mother-in-law. There were some interns and nurses at the clinic. My water broke right away, Asif couldn't wait to come into this world and he came way before his due date.

I didn't see him right away, I didn't know if it was a boy or girl, but I could hear the doctors were trying to make him breath and my mother-in-law was crying in the room, "Breath, my brother, breath." I found out at that moment it was a boy. Moumita was only two and a half years old at that time, everyone in the family was hoping this time I had a son. In our culture people long for a boy. People would give birth to multiple children until they have a son. Some people would remarry to get a son. A son is a heir, and without a son their legacy would die with them. I never thought that way. I was happy with Moumita, my daughter. But when I got pregnant, I was hoping this time it would be boy, so that I would have both children. But I didn't know until I heard my mother-in-law that I gave birth to a boy. I felt miserable when I found out that the boy wasn't breathing.

After some more efforts, Asif cried his first cry and his grandma was very ecstatic and I was relieved. Doctors were relieved too, after cleaning him they brought him to me. His forehead was covered with facial hair because of the premature birth, but rest of his sweet little face was very cute and his eyes were gleaming. When people, mostly relatives, suggested that I should try for another child, I told them, "I love Moumita so much, where am I going to find any love for the other child? How am I going to love another child?" But as soon as I saw Asif's cute face, I fell in love with him instantly. So cute! Because of his dark big eyes and creamy skin, I sometimes called him 'Black-eyed Susan'.

Asif was very tiny at birth, weighed little over four pounds. That clinic didn't have proper arrangement to take care of such a tiny baby, they told me they would send him to the Children's Hospital in the morning. He was born on the night before Eid-ul Fitr. Everything in Bangladesh shuts down during this holiday. Also, at nights there was a curfew, so nobody could go out at nights except for emergency crews. Instead of sending him to the hospital in an ambulance, the doctors left the hospital to celebrate Eid Festival with their families. I didn't have anyone else with me except for my mother-in-law. My parents were in Chittagong, they didn't know about the premature birth of my son, otherwise they could be there with me. And my husband was in NY, thousands of miles away. If he was so concerned about the birth of our first son, he wouldn't send me to Bangladesh, despite my plea to stay there. I wished I didn't leave New York for Bangladesh, if I was in NY, there would be no problem with his birth and neonatal care. But it was too late, I was in pain and agony.

That was another story. My husband was living and working in the USA, I was in Bangladesh with Moumita. Six months after he left for the USA, I decided to be with him. I was working at the US Embassy and it was easy for me to get a visa. In October, 1984, I got a visa for myself and Moumita and came to NY to be reunited with my husband. I had many dreams when I came to the USA, dream of a happy family life.

Almost half the time that we were married, my husband was away from me. In fact, he left for the UK three days after our wedding, I was only 17 years old at that time. He tried to take me there, but I couldn't get a visa and he returned after more than two years. After staying in Bangladesh for a year and a half, he left again for Greece and returned after almost two years. This time I thought he was going to settle down. We rented an apartment, he opened a business and I continued my education. Finished my Master's and in the same year Moumita was born. When Moumita was Six months old, my husband left again for the UK, this time for six months. He came back after six months, but wasn't planning to settle down. This time he got a visa to go to the USA from London. Few months after returning from the UK, he left for the USA. So when Moumita was almost two years old, I decided to follow him to the USA. I thought that its about time that we settle down as a family. I wanted Moumita to grow up in a complete family life. I came to New York to be with my husband.

Life was harsh in NY. Winter was fast approaching, we had financial problems, I had no family or friend. We lived by the East River, near Triboro Bridge. The only mode of transportations were taxi and train. Walking to the train was tedious for me. First of all, I was not used to walking. In Dhaka, we hardly walk, we get a rickshaw (tri-cycle) even to go to someplace one block away. Besides, I had the luxury of a chauffeur driven car to go to work. Only time I walked was when I went to New Market to do shopping or countryside to visit my grandparents. Now, I had to walk ten blocks to the train station in the harsh cold weather with a two year old child. Not only that, I had to climb up all the stairs with a heavy stroller and the child.

We couldn't even afford a taxi. My husband worked at his brother-in-law's restaurant in mid-town Manhattan and the restaurant was not doing well. Which meant he wasn't making enough money. The only expensive thing I bought was a pair of shoes, which cost me $20.00 and I have been scolded by my husband for spending so much money on a pair of shoes. I felt bad when I thought of my good old days, when I worked at the US Embassy and got paid bi-weekly. I also worked at the radio station and newspaper offices on my weekends. I didn't have to worry about money and spending.

I didn't know life would be so much different in the US. My husband was living in a house with five other men. He was sharing the rent with his brother, cousin, and three other friends. They all had their wives and children back in Bangladesh. Most of them worked hard at restaurants, shared an apartment with others to send money to their families. These men came home in the evenings, took turns in cooking and others watched television and/or played cards.

In Bangladesh, people work during the day and spend time with the family in the evenings. But my life in the US was exactly the opposite. My husband and brother-in-law had different schedules. My brother-in-law worked from early morning till midnight. He worked hard and earned more money to send to his wife and children in Bangladesh. When others came home in the evenings, my husband and my brother-in-law would be at work. Most of the evenings I tried to stay in my little bedroom by myself, or helped the men in their cooking. There was only one television in the house and the men loved to watch wrestling, which I hated. Sometimes I went to the restaurant to be with my husband. The business was slow and staying there was not a problem. But coming back in the middle of the night in the cold weather with my little girl was a big problem. Moumita would fall asleep, carrying a sleeping toddler up and down the stairs at the subway station and at home was hard.

Six days a week, my husband left home at 2 pm for work. He worked in the afternoons and evenings, came home in the mid-night and slept until late in the morning. I had very little time to spend with him, he had very little time to spend with our little girl. At that time, there were very few Bangladeshis in New York. The small number of Bangladeshis lived in NY, most of them had their families in Bangladesh. Only a handful people lived with their families and I didn't know any of them. I only had one friend living in NY but no family. I didn't know anybody else, I didn't have any place to go, I didn't know how to go around the city. If I ever wanted to visit my friend, I had to walk ten blocks in my ill-fitted winter outfit, pushing a heavy stroller all the way to the station and carrying it and the child up to the top of the subway station. I couldn't go anywhere much and no one visited us. My days were miserable.

After a few months, the men decided to move to an apartment closer to the train. I guess, living accommodation for them wasn't too convenient after our arrival. Three of them shared the big bedroom, two of them in the smaller bedroom and we occupied the middle size bedroom. There was no privacy for them or for me. Also, I think they too hated to walk so many blocks after a hard day of work in the bitter cold weather. This time, some of the men decided to move to another apartment. We rented a two bedroom apartment in Steinway. Only his brother and a childhood friend stayed with us. They stayed in one bedroom and we lived in the other bedroom, which was adjacent to living room on our side of the apartment. We had very few furniture. I mostly furnished the apartment with the secondhand furniture and other things that I purchased from the Salvation Army. The store was around the block from our apartment. Subway station was only two blocks away. Shopping was a major problem for me in Hoyt Avenue apartment, stores were far away and I couldn't go by myself to buy things, my husband had only one day off and I had to wait for him. Now, that problem has been solved. Pathmark, a big supermarket was really close to our new apartment.

The other men stayed in the next building. Sometimes they invited us, we invited them. We met other Bangladeshis, and our socialization got better. Steinway was not as quiet as the Hoyt Avenue. There are shops, a play ground right around the corner. I was not that bored. Life seemed much easier on Steinway Street. Everything was closer and convenient. The weather was getting warmer. I started to feel better. But God had other plans. When I felt better about the situation, I found out that I was pregnant.

After Asif was conceived we started to worry about the health insurance. Of course none of the men had health insurance at that time. They didn't get health insurance through their job, didn't need one and couldn't afford one. When I became pregnant, I had to make trips to the hospital by myself. Most of the times dragging my little girl with me, sometimes leaving her with her father on his day offs. I was hoping that I would get a job and be able to help my husband with the rent and cost of living, which surely increased after I came to NY with my little girl. But, being pregnant I figured it out I couldn't get a job. Of course, I had experience in some office work, but how could I work with a toddler and a pregnancy!

My husband suggested that I should get an abortion. Because we had trouble paying the hospital bills for prenatal care and after having the baby, it would cost a lot of money. Especially in our present situation, I would be stuck at home for few more years and won't be able to help him financially. On his insistence, I asked the doctors if I could get an abortion. They informed me that at that time they couldn't abort the fetus. It should be done early in the pregnancy or little later. I had to wait a few more weeks to get an abortion. I wasn't willing to get the abortion, not because of religious views, but because I didn't have the courage. If I lost the child accidentally that would be different, but I couldn't do it on purpose.

Instead of getting an abortion I suggested to my husband, it would be better for him if we (Moumita and I) left. If we went back to Bangladesh, he didn't have to worry about spending any money to keep and feed us. Here I won't be able to work outside to help him financially, but In Bangladesh, I had my job waiting for me at the US Embassy and I could support myself with my salary. I didn't have to worry about taking care of the little girl and a new born. I would have maids and servants to do that. When the new born would be a few years old, I could come and join my husband. It would be best for both of us.

My husband liked the idea, and he agreed. I started to pack my suitcases. As the day of our departure was getting closer, I had a second thought. I didn't feel like going back to Bangladesh. I told my husband that I wanted to stay, but instead of getting happy, he responded that since we told everyone that I was leaving, I had to leave. Without further arguing, I started to get ready to leave. Finally, exactly six months after coming to NY with a lot of dreams and hopes, I boarded a British Airlines plane, 5 months pregnant, a little girl and shattered dreams of a happy family.

Now, when I heard Asif was struggling with his life, his tiny life was in jeopardy, I wished I argued with my husband about staying in the US. Perhaps, then I wouldn't have to worry about saving my baby. All night, I tossed in my tiny bed in that empty clinic. My mother-in-law was running back and forth between the upstairs and downstairs. She was worried for the baby too. She was sitting near the baby and and every now and then coming to see me. Every time she came to see me, I had only one question for her. that was if my baby was still breathing, if he was still alive.

At 6 am in the morning, as soon as the curfew was lifted, one of our friends came to to visit us at the clinic. When his wife saw there was a new born child lying in a crib and he was surrounded by ants, she asked the nurses if the baby was dead. She had no idea at that time that it was the baby she came to see. They hurriedly arranged for an ambulance in the early hour of Eid Day. Things started to move quickly, the ambulance came in a few minutes and my baby was taken to the Children's Hospital in Second Capital. My mother-in-law went with him. I had to stay a couple more days in that clinic. Every moment was agonizing, I was left by myself wondering if my baby survived. Meanwhile, my mom came from Chittagong and other relatives and friends started to cme. On the third day, I came home, took a shower and went to the Children's Hospital.

My tiny baby was in an incubetor. I got myself a bed near his incubetor but I couldn't hold him. There was a neck high wall in between. All day and night, I watched doctors and nurses taking care of him and other babies. Every day babies were dying in front of me. I saw a father lying in the upper bunk of the bed and his baby in the lower bunk. He was giving blood directly to the baby. The child didn't survive. Their parents heartfelt crying filled up the hospital room and I glued myself to my baby's incubetor. I just kept praying in my mind for my baby. Fortunately, he didn't have any complications other than low birth weight and started to get stronger each day.

After two weeks, they let me take my baby home. After we brought him home, it was a celebration. We were so happy. My mother-in-law wanted to name him Mobarak, because he was born on the Eid Day. I didn't like the name, it was old fashioned and my husband had a friend named Mobarak. When I found out I was pregnant, I spoke to my husband about naming our child. I told him, if its a boy, I'd name him Asif, which was similar to his name. He agreed. So he was named Asif. Later in life, Asif didn't like the sound or the spelling of his name. He said Asif means 'I am sorry'. He even wrote a poem about his name. He called himself "Asaf', which meant wind. I loved his name and always called him Asif. Now I love his name even more. Its not him, who is sorry, its me, who is sorry.

I am sorry because I couldn't protect him, I am sorry because I couldn't give him the life that he wanted, I am sorry that I couldn't do anything for him, I am sorry that he left me forever, I'm sorry...


to be cont'd...

How These Days Passed - 7

I don't know how these days are passing. Too fast I guess. I have been thinking about you all the time. Sometimes, when it snows at night, I can't help looking out at the road, wondering how you would come home. Just like the time, when you worked at Rite Aid and came home late, I used to stay up late and looking at road, where Chapin Parkway crossed 164 Street. Until I saw your slow and luxurious foot steps on the snowy road, I couldn't go to sleep. I still look out for you.

Sometimes, when I come home from work and see a bike in the drive way, my heart stops for a second thinking that you came home. Oh, its so hard to think about you and not to think about you. Its been almost a year that you left us, it feels like yesterday. When I count the months, 12 months have passed, I can't believe it. Has it been that long? All the time, I feel your very presence in and out the house. Those who say you are not with us, I don't believe them. Its not possible. You are here. Right here, in front of me. Sometimes, by my side all the time. How some people can leave the world but can still be so much with us.

To be Cont'd...


I didn't expect to live for 12 months. But 12 months have passed, and I'm still breathing. I think God has a reason for keeping me alive. But I couldn't really do anything, not for you, not for myself, or not for others. I still couldn't get the bike lane for you. I still couldn't put the man, who murdered you, behind bars. I heard that it was an accident. Why doesn't someone question the man how could he hit someone accidentally when there was so much room between the parked truck and his lane?

I look at your photos from last year. You are eating a chocolate cake that I baked for your birthday. Later I gave you the rest of the cake, you put it in the refrigerator and the chocolate frosting hardened, it was soft when I fed you a piece at the park on that hot summer day. You loved it with the crunchy topping and you told me," Ma, the cake was so good!"

So many good memories with you, my son. I wish I had you with me and we could talk some more.

How These Days Passed - 6

How These Days Passed - 6

Thursday, July 24, 2008 at 4:04am
Looks like things started to move a bit lately. The last few days passed quite fast. There are two things I'm talking about. One is the bike lane for Asif and the other one is Asif's bird.

Let me talk about the bike lane first. I'll talk about the birds some other time. Ever since Asif's accident, I've started a campaign to get a bike lane on Queens Boulevard. I always expressed my worries about riding his bike all over the city, but Asif always assured me, saying, "Don't worry Ma, there are bike lanes everywhere and I always carry a bike route map." I didn't know much about bike lanes but stopped expressing my worries. I thought, may be the bike lanes will keep my baby safe, there isn't much to worry. But after Asif's accident, when I went to visit the accident spon on Q.B., for the first time I noticed that there isn't any bike lane on the seven lane wide Q.B. I was bewildered. Why? Aren't there supposed to be bike lanes to keep bikers safe on the streets? From that day on, I told myself, I've to do whatever in my power to get a bike lane on this street in honor of Asif. I strongly feel that if there was a bike lane on Q.B., Asif might still be with us. Now that he is gone, I can't just let him go for nothing. I have to get a bike lane on this road to keep other bikers safe. I was and still am confident, a bike lane would prevent deaths of other bikers.

In the beginning, I had no idea how to get my wish implemented. Several of Asif's friends visited us after his accident. I started to talk to them about my desire to get a bike lane on Q.B., They gave me various ideas. Miguel told me his father knows some politicians, he would ask his father to introduce me to one of the councilmembers. Which he did. A few weeks after Asif's accident, his father made an appointment for me to see Councilman Monserrate. Asif's another friend Asaf told me I should talk to the councilman from our district as well. He gave me the name of Councilman Gennaro and insisted that I should go and see him in person. Which I did, but I didn't get to talk to him. instead I had to talk to Rasheida, one of his staff, who is really nice. Everybody promised to do something, but for a long time nothing happened. I haven't heard from Councilmembers Monserrate or Gennaro's offices. I got very impatient and frustrated.

Meanwhile, I kept writing e-mails to lot of different people, including the Mayor, Commissioner of Transportation, Oprah Winfrey. Who knows who will be able to help me. All I need is someone to help me bring this issue in lime light. After seeing the printout of my e-mails, Moumita commented, "People don't really pay attention to e-mail, you should send out letters by regular mail." I value her opinion and thought of doing so but couldn't bring myself up to it yet. I kept getting all the junk mail from Oprah's website but no reference or response to my e-mail. The mayor's office still hasn't responded to my mail. Perhaps they're a bit upset, because I demanded that the Mayor should do something about the safety for the bikers since he is the one who is urging people to ride their bikes to avoid pollution and congestion in the city. Shouldn't he be making sure that the bikers don't get killed on the streets by reckless drivers, especially the truck drivers? Though, I've received a response from the DOT. They expressed their condolences and wrote me how many miles of bike lanes have been installed in NYC. It didn't ease my mind. Shouldn't they have installed bike lanes on all the streets? How do they expect bikers to travel around if there is no safety for them? Do they think bikers will only ride back and forth on the bike lanes? Don't the bikers have any business of going to other streets? Perhaps they think bikers are unsafe on some streets and safe on other streets. That's why they've installed bike lanes on some streets, but not all the streets. I have seen some one lane streets have bike lane painted on one side, but how come the seven lane street doesn't have any bike lane painted on it? I didn't feel like responding their e-mail. Finally, someone from the DOT Commissioner's office called to inquire if I've received their e-mail. I told her the truth. She told me to check my mail box, the Commissioner will be sending me a letter by regular mail. Of course, I check my mail box regularly. Is the Commissioner sending me something valuable? Is that why she is making sure it doesn't get lost? I don't know what will be in the mail, but it better be something valuable. I felt little irritated by this meaningless call but kept myself quite. Atleast I've got a phone response to my e-mail, which is a good sign. We're inching toward our goal of having a bike lane on Queens Boulevard.

On Friday, I got a call from Caroline, the director of the Transportation Alternatives. She mentioned that Councilman Gennaro agreed to sit for a press conference on the 27th of this month. Obviously, this is a good sign too. I've been trying so hard to get the elected officials on my side about the bike lane, finally, it's working. Slowly though. I felt somewhat upbeat. On Tuesday, Jennifer came to video tape an interview for the Transportation Alternatives' website. Caroline called me. She and I, we kept missing each others call. I talked to her briefly on Tuesday. She told me someone from Mr. Gennaro's office called her about a press event on Sunday, July 27th. I was somewhat surprised that no one called me yet. Today, Caroline called again and feinally we had a chance for a long discussion. She told me this is a very good news. The elected officials will be at the event. She didn't know the exact time. I decided to call Rasheida , she has been very nice to me, and I know she is trying to do something about the bike lane. Finally, I talked to Rasheda and Shams at Mr. Gennaro's office. They confirmed the time and also mentioned that they're inviting all the other councilmembers around Queens Boulevard to attend and speak at the press event. They are Councilmembers Hiram Monserrate, John Liu, Helen Sears and Eric Goia. I felt very good. Finally, things started to move. This press event including so many elected official is a positive step toward my campaign for a bike lane on Q.B. in Asif's honor.

On many Thursdays after Asif's accident I went to the spot at 3pm, same time of the accident. I stood in the middle of the road. Watched the oncoming cars, trucks, buses and bicycles. When I visit the semetary, I can't find Asif there, but whenever I stand on Q.B. at his accident spot, I could see him there. This is the place where my baby breathed last. I can see his happy face, leaning forward, his legs are moving fast pedaling his bike. Gliding like a seagull. I can see him approaching me from Grand Avenue. He is very much alive on Q.B., this Q.B. should have something permanent to honor my baby. A bike lane in his honor. He always was nice to others, helped others when he was around. Now that he is gone, his spirit will help others through this bike lane. I'm sure this bike lane will save many lives. Isn't that what Asif loved to do?
To be cont'd....

How These Days Pass-5

How These Days Pass-5

Saturday, July 19, 2008 at 1:06amThings slowed down a little bit. I want to do so many things for Asif and in such a short time, but people are not doing it at the same pace with me. It's like you walk in such a rush on a muddy road and your shoes get stuck in the mud. You go ahead but your shoes don't. I'm talking about all the things that I want to do for Asif. I don't know when I'll get everything done. Things are moving very slowly.Yesterday on my way from Queens College, I stopped at Asif's house, where he stayed for a few months. It's right around the corner from Queens College. I slowed down my car in front of the house as usual. This house brings back memories of Asif. It was his wish to have his own apartment. He wanted some space and privacy from the family. He gave me an excuse that he wanted to go back to college and the house is close to college. I remember the first day I dropped Asif off with all his stuff, along with some old furniture from the house. Then from time to time I visited him, or picked him up, dropped him off, dropped off food or juice for him. Finally, one day I picked him up with all his stuff minus the old furniture. We were definitely missing him and told him any time he wanted to move back he was welcome. One day he said he wanted to move back in. I was happy and came to pick him up. For whatever reason he decided to move back with us, I'm grateful to have him back. He spent his last seven months with us.I saw a girl walking into the house and I honked. She stopped, I stopped the car in the middle of the road and came out of the car to talk to her. Asked her if she lives there and if she knew Asif. Then I asked if Mike was in. She said yes. I told her to let Mike know Asif's mom is outside. She told me to come in. I said I would rather wait outside in my car. I parked my car in the corner, near Asif's room. Mike's dog Bella was in the yard. Asif loved Bella, so does Nafees. I put Asif's music on, put the volume up. Bella stretched her ears and looked alert. Seemed like she recognized Asif's voice. Tears started to stream down my cheecks. My baby was here, now his voice is blaring through the car stero, "Take it slow..."Mike came out, I wiped off my tears, lowered the volume and talked to him for some time. We talked about Asif the whole time. Mike wanted to have Asif's bike. He said he would paint it white and put it up on the roof where he used to hang out with Asif. He showed me the place on the roof which is right around the corner. They spent a lot of time there, looked at the view and did poetry together. Now that Asif is gone, Mike wants to put the bike up at the same spot where Asif used to sit. It seems good to talk to Asif's friends. They are a part of Asif.

The other day when I came out of the Transportation Alternatives' monthly meeting, I bumped onto Asaf and Jenny on the street. Hugged them and talked to them for a little while. Asaf went to Queens College with Asif and they were very good friends. After Asif's accident, Asaf called for the address of the cemetary. I suggested for him to come at the house. He came along with some more friends. He told me he went to the precinct to find out how the accident happened. We all went together to the cemetary, they paid their respect to Asif. Asaf informed me that at 3pm he and his friends planned to go to the accident site on Queens Boulevard to hold a memorial for Asif. I told them I'll meet them there. At 3pm many of Asif's friends showed up, they brought flowers, cards. Gave everyone a flower and a card to write some thing. They tied and taped everything on a nearby pole. In the cold freezing March afternoon, they all stood around the pole for a long time and shared their memories of Asif. It was very touching for me to see how much they love Asif and how many good things they have to share about him.

Asif is fortunate to have some good friends. My little baby, he grew up to be a good man and now he is a good soul. I feel he is still around me. I just can't and don't think that he will not come back anymore. At the hospital, I didn't want to see his lifeless body, I thought it would be disfigured. We were crying on our own way in that small windowless family room. I couldn't help thinking we were so alone in our grief. But then people kept pouring in. The news of Asif's accident spread like forest fire. My cellphone kept ringing non stop. People kept coming in from everywhere. The small room had no place for all the people, they spilled in the hallway, in the emergency room. They all had seen Asif except for us. Everybody kept insisting us to go and see him.

Reluctantly, I went. He was still in the E.R., on a bed. There were people around his bed. Everybody made room for us. My baby was in the bed. A tube was still in his mouth. His eyes were closed, there was not a scratch on his face. There was no sign of pain on his face. Outside nothing changed, everything looked the same. I touched his face with my both hands, His body temperature was going down. His skin felt cold. I remember repeatedly kissing his face. Touching his thick black wavy hair. Calling his name. He didn't respond to my touch or call. I don't remember what did I say or do. But, I finally realized my baby will not respond to me anymore. The unreal thing is real. My baby left me for real at this prime time of his life. But again I felt this is not my Asif. This is not the Asif I know. He is never so quiet, so lifeless. This is the body, the frame, the outer shell, not my Asif.
To be cont'd...

How These Days Pass-4

How These Days Pass - 4

Saturday, June 28, 2008 at 9:50pm
These days are passing slowly, each day seems same like the previous one. Everyday, every moment I'm thinking about Asif, doing things for him. Last few days were very busy with Asif's memorial tribute and bicycle rally. Both the events were back to back. I wanted to keep them at least a week apart, so that I would be able to devote more time to each event, but the Ghost Bike Project planned it differently.

When my baby was around me I was too busy with my study and work. Now that he is gone, I have all the time in the world for him. In reality I stopped doing everything else, except for my job. I don't do much cooking, my baby loved to eat. Everytime I cooked something for him, he had such nice things to say! He always appreciated my cooking. Now, that he is gone, who is going to eat my cooking? I wish I could retire from everything and mourn Asif the whole time. Sometimes I think that you have to be rich or well off to mourn your loved ones. I have to go to work everyday. I don't have the luxury to stay home and mourn my baby. All my life I have been struggling and balancing my time with my study, work, family, writing and other things. I just wish I didn't have to do all these things, but relax so that I could spend more time with my children.

When I was in Bangladedsh, life was different and very relaxing. I always worked 9-5, wrote regularly for the newspapers, did weekly radio talks, took courses in various things, did gardening, but when still I had plenty of time. I didn't have to worry about my groceries, cooking, cleaning, washing or any household chores. My dinner was always ready at the dining table. My afternoon tea was served in the porch as soon as I came home from work. I had plenty of time to write for the newspapers and spend with Moumita. I played with her a lot, read many books to her. But after I came to the United States, my life changed. After I came home from work, every minute of my life went after doing household chores, laundry, grocery, cooking, cleaning, etc. I did my duties as a mother. I took Moumita and Asif to everywhere, doctors, school, Bangla school, movies, parks, museums, zoos, shopping, and many more. Still I managed to squeeze time to write for the newspapers.

Life was very busy, I had to run on dot of the clock, a big rush.Especially after Nafees was born, my life became even busier. At the time of Nafees' birth Asif was 14 years old, Moumita was 16. Nafees was born prematurely and had to spend a long time in the hospital. Went through a few surgeries. When he came home, he needed a lot of medical care and attention. We were all so perplexed with this change in life. I started to work in the evenings, so I could be with Nafees during the home. I didn't realize it meant I was distancing myself from my two growingup kids. When they came home from school, I left for work. When I came home they were in bed. Weekends were even busier. Whatever time I found, I spent it after taking care of Nafees. We all lived under the same roof but we were in our own world. In a couple of years Asif started his high school. Moumita started her college. Then we moved back to New York. Moumita stayed in Dallas, Asif came with us. He went to high school in New York. But it was difficult for him to go to 3 different high schools. Now when I look back, I feel bad. Asif must have had a very difficult time in adjusting with all these kids in 2 different high schools in two entirely different settings. He went to Wallkill High School in Upstate NY for his 11th grade, which was entirely sub-urban, and Hillcrest High School in Jamaica, Queens for 12th grade, which was completely urban. He never complained.

My baby never said no to anything or any decision we made. He suffered inside but didn't let us know it. I wish I could change things, I wish I could make life easier and happier for him. I wish he had told me more about his feelings. I wish I had more time and peace of mind so I could spend more time with my children. Why life is so harsh to all of us? Why don't we cherish every moment that we are together? Why didn't I realize it before? Why did Asif have to leave so soon? Why? Why did I have to see Asif's lifeless body? At first I didn't want to see it. When the doctor told us in the family room what happened, everything came to a halt. I kept saying, "No, it can't happen. No, it's not true. It can't be true. No. No. No." The nurse asked me if I needed anything. I needed my son, my baby. She got me some water. I tried to control myself in front of them but as soon as they left the small room, I kept hitting the wall with my fists and head and screamed our loud. All I could say was, "No, No, No."

I don't remember anything else. Bachchu was crying. My cellphone was ringing. Calls were coming in. Bachchu was answering the phone, talking and crying. Moumita still wasn't there. When we called her we didn't know Asif actually left us. We were hoping he was clinging to his life, but never dreamt of this. After getting numerous messages on her voice mail, she called back to find out what happened. At first Bachchu didn't want to tell her about Asif's condition, but finally told her. There was nobody to comfort us. I felt so lonely. We were so lonely in our troublesome moment. I couldn't comfort Bachchu. Bachchu didn't have to comfort me. I was in disbelief. How could it be true? There must be some sort of mistake, misunderstanding. My baby left the house for work in the morning. We talked. I promised to make a few phone calls for him when he returned from work. We made plans for dinner the next day. We had so much to talk. We talked last night. We talked this morning. We were going to talk more tonight.

He was so full of life. Now how could he be gone just like that? I kept saying, "It's impossible, it can't be true, it can't be true. My baby!" When the doctor asked us if we wanted to see Asif, I shook my head vehemently, "No. No way." I didn't want to see him like that. Who knew how badly he was hurt! All I heard was a truck hit him. His heart stopped right there. When he was brought into the hospital, which was only less than 2 blocks away from the accident spot, the doctors couldn't find his heart beat. I didn't have the nerve to ask where did the truck hit him or how badly he was hurt. Where was he hurt?I could guess he was in a bad shape.

I thought of Adeeb. His mom is my Dolly phupu (aunty), but he was of same age as Asif. They went to same school, same class and was very friendly. Three years ago, Adeeb died in a car accident. Asif gave him his last bath. Adeeb's untimely death shook Asif very much, but that's a different story. At that moment, in the small closed family room at the emergency room of St. John's Hospital, all I could think was Adeeb's face was partially crushed. We could see only half of his face. God knows what condition was Asif in. I didn't want to see his mangled or disfigured face. I could see his handsome, smiling, and loving face. I wanted to cherish that picture, I didn't want to ruin that picture. I couldn't and wouldn't see his crushed body or face. I just couldn't face it. I don't remember if I cried or shed any tears. Were there tears pouring out of my eyes or was it fire? I don't remember anything. All I could remember is I was angry. Very angry. Why, why did it happen? How come the truck driver didn't see him? The doctor and nurse kept asking me if I wanted to see him, all I could say was, "No, No, No."
To be cont'd.....

How These Days Pass-3

How these days pass-3

Tuesday, June 10, 2008 at 8:04pm

The days are passing by very slowly. I want to do so many things for Asif but I can't do that. The memorial is approaching fast, we're all working together to make it memoriable for Asif and his friends. Some of Asif's friends have taken various responisbilities and working very hard to finish them on time. Asif was loved by so many people which is unbelievable. They are doing their share of work to make things right for Asif and I'm doing my share. Today, I've sent out an e-mail to several people about the bicycle rally to remember Asif and demand for a bike lane on Queens Boulevard. The Ghost Bike Project has arranged for this bicycle rally. They put up a flyer on www.ghostbikes.org/new-york-city/asif-rahman. They urged bicyclists from all over the city to meet at different points of Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens, then proceed towards Queens Boulevard and 55th Road and meet there at 7pm. I'm encouraging everybody to attend this rally. I want a safer road in our city. I don't want anybody to lose their loved one's to reckless drivers.

It's heartbreaking when you are waiting for your loved one to come home and find out he won't come home anymore. Asif was on his way home after a hard day of work. He never came home. His life was cut short by a reckless truck driver. I still wait for him and say 'hi ma'. Asif will not come home anymore. Will not call me anymore...My heart aches when I think about these reckless drivers who hit a bicyclist/pedestrian on the street, shatter his life and dreams and still keep driving on our roads. I can't imagine how could a driver hit a pedestrian or bicyclist unless that person is insane, drunk, sick, his vehicle has mechanical troubles or visibility is zero. In any case, these drivers are not safe for our roads, for our children and they don't deserve the right to drive any vehicle ever. Also, I can't help noticing that the bicyclists hardly get any justice by the press or by the police. Bicyclists are not considered 'aristocrats'. Newspapers, while reporting a death of a bicyclist, label them as 'messengers'. They are totally inconsiderate of the biker's personal life, achievements and family. I was shocked to I read my son's accident report in the newspapers. This news was biased and one sided, based on the police report which was based on the killer driver's account of the accident.I wish I could do something to change these things. But my power is limited and I can only ask for the cooperation and support from various people and different groups. I believe it's important to make our roads safer for the bikers, make sure they go home safely to their loved ones. Especially, at this time of global warming, traffic congestion in our city and high gasoline prices, people are adopting bicycles more than cars. Even Mayor Bloomberg is encouraging people to ride bicycles and in recent years bicycle sales went up high. Unless we have safer roads (with bike lanes), people will not feel safe to ride their bikes. Everytime, I expressed my concern about riding his bike around the city, Asif laughed it out and said, "Ma, there are bike lanes everywhere, and I carry a bike map with me all the time. " Ironically, there is no bike lane on Queens Boulevard, where Asif was hit by the freight liner. The arterial road Queens Boulevard, which is also known as the Boulevard of Death, has no safe haven for the bikers. If there was a bike lane on this road, may be it could prevent the tragic death of my beloved son.

Still I can see clearly when the police came to our home. I was screaming and jumping up and down in my living room, demanding to know what happened to my son, the cops won't tell me. They asked me if there was anybody else in the house. I told them, "Yes, my husband and my mother." They told me, "You have to call them, we can't tell you anything." I told them, " My husband is doing dialysis and my mother is sleeping. I can't call them. You've to tell me what happened to my son." They insisted on calling somebody else and having them by my side. I burst opened the bedroom door. Hearing all the commotion, Bachchu was already getting ready to come to the livingroom. I cried out loud and told him, "The cops are here. Something happend to Asif. Stop your dialysis and come out quickly." Bachchu came out of the bedroom. So came the bombshell. They didn't have to tell me. I knew when I heard Asif's name. They didn't tell us the real situation, only told us, Asif was hit and his condition is bad. He was in St. John's Hospital. They gave me their card and the doctor's name.

I grabbed my jacket and car keys which were right by the door. Remembered to wake my mother up, told her what I knew and left her with Nafees to worry about Asif. I ran out of the door. They were both crying. Bachchu put on a jacket and followed me. We got into the car. My mind was racing but the car was moving relatively slowly. It's the evening rush hour. Everybody is going home. I wished I could fly over the traffic and be at the hospital. I didn't know what to expect. But I kept praying while driving the car, Asif must be alive. May be he is clinging to his life but he will be okay. Bachchu was frantically trying to reach Moumita who was at work in Manhattan. But she was not answering the phone, Bachchu left messages for her. After driving for a few blocks I told Bachchu to call Tinku and Ashraf Bhai. They are good friends of us, also their son Kapot is a good friend of Asif. If we need any help at the hospital, they can help us, atleast they can share our pain. Bachchu called and told them to meet us at the hospital. Finally we hit the Queens Boulevard. After driving for some more, we reached the hospital. I looked for a parking spot. After parking the car, I raced ror the hospital. I was annoyed, my son's life is in danger, why did it take so long for me to get to the hospital?

When I reached the emergency room and told the security guard , "I'm here to see my son Asif Rahman. He was hit by a truck and brought in here. Where is he?"The guard motioned somebody to come to us. A doctor came right away. Took us to a small room inside the hospital. Which made me suspicious, why aren't they taking us to Asif?
To be cont'd....

How These Days Pass-2

How these days pass-2

Friday, June 6, 2008 at 9:42pm

I try to keep myself as much busy as possible. I think about Asif every waking moment. When I'm at work, I could think and talk about Asif every now and then. But as soon as I exit the school building, the thought of Asif occupies my mind entirely. Every breath I take, Asif is with me. I've been busy planning and organizing Asif's memorial. We had several prayers for Asif, some at the mosque, some at our home. Many people attended those prayer meetings including some of Asif's friends. But that's only a fraction of his friends. In his short life he befriended so many people which is unbelievable. Many of them came to see and pay their respect to me in small groups at different times. Some of them did spoken word poetry with him, some went to Queens College with him, some went to high school with him, some are from Upstate NY where we stayed for a year, some are his childhood friends, some are from the college newspaper that he worked, some are from Trader Joe's which was his second job, some are from PS9, some are from PS244 where he worked, and many more. Wherever Asif went, whoever he talked to, people just fell in love with him. His courteous, polite, intelligent, talented and spiritual manner made people love and respect him at the same time.

For some reason, early this year I though of celebrating Asif and Moumita's birthday with their friends. I expressed my plan to Moumita about her birthday in November but didn't tell anything to Asif. I wanted to give him a surprise birthday party.

After his tragic accident, when his friends from various groups came to see, I felt an urge to get them all together. They needed to express their love and grief for Asif. What can be the best way to do that than a memorial?I decided to invite all his friends at a memorial on his birthday. At first Bachchu didn't think it was a good idea. Later on, seeing my determination he decided to go with me. Moumita liked the idea from the beginning. Now, we are all doing our share of the memorial. I've been in contact with several of Asif's friends. They have been expressing themselves on Asif's myspace page. Knowing that his myspace page will be deleted after a few months, and we'll lose all his works, I've created another myspace page in his name, copied all his videos in that account. This www.myspace.com/asifrahman page is mainly for Asif's friends, so that they can pay their tribute for him. Also, for my friends and family member all around the world, I've created a facebook profile so that they can learn more about Asif and share their feelings for him. All these things kept my busy.

I wanted to publish a book of Asif's poems at the memorial. I started to compile all his poems that he typed up in the family computer. I spent several restless days and nights in doing that. I had no idea that he wrote so many poems. I have a few hundred poems, and they are all well written. There are many more in the other computer and in his notebooks. I decided not to rush and take time in publishing his book later. Asif was so humble, he never boasted or mentioned a word about his singing or writing. We knew he liked to write poems. At family parties, we insisted that he read or recite a poem of his. He did. But we had no idea that he wrote so many poems. I'll just get a print out of all his poems so that his friends can view them at the memorial. He left so many memories, so many things, which is amazing. It's hard to beleive that he is not here with us.It was a nightmare. It still is. It can't be real. Every now and then, I think what if Nafees didn't open the door for those police officers, the bearers of bad news?

After coming home on that February 28 afternoon, I didn't get changed as usual. I was going to get the airplane ticket for my mother, who was planning to go back to Bangladesh soon. It was 4:30pm, I was in front of my computer when the door bell rang. I went out to the balcony, hollered from my 3rd floor balcony, "Who's there?"After getting no response, I went inside and sat in front of my computer. Nafees was watching television. He jumped up and ran downstairs, saying," I'll check." He came back in a few minutes and said, "Mom, there are police." Without taking my eyes off the screen, I said, "Okay, I'm coming." He responded, "They're here." I turned my head and looked up. There were two strangers in plain clothes, they were almost in the middle of my living room. They showed me their badges. I can't tell difference between a fake and real badge. Inside I got little scared, what if they are robbers. Bachchu was in the bedroom doing his dialysis and my mother was in another bedroom, asleep. I stood up and demanded, "What's the matter?" One of them asked me, "Do you know Asif Rahman?" My mind was racing. Asif was very religious about two years ago. He left the house at that time. I didn't know where he lived, what he did for living. Occasionally he came home and we spoke on the phone. Did he do something or was he involved with somebody at that time? But he is home for almost two years, working two jobs, living a normal life. They can't come for that. Did he do something wrong recently? What could it be. Is it that serious for the police to come home looking for him? Thinking all these in a few seconds, I slowly but firmly responded, "Yes, I'm his mother. What happened?"

The next question was, "Does he ride a bicycle?"I knew right away they had bad news, Asif must have gotten into an accident. I consider myself as a person of great self control and a clear head. But at that moement I didn't have any control on myself. I started to jump up and down and scream, "What happened to my son? Did he get into an accident? Is he okay? Is he alive? Tell me where he is. How is my baby?" I don't remember what else did I say. Nafees was right by me. He started to scream and cry, "Where is my brother? What happened to my brother?"
To be cont'd...