Emran Emon

It’s Father’s Day today. I write about many issues—society, politics, state—but if I fail to write about my father on this special day, I would consider myself guilty. Like many others, my father is my sky of reliance, the shade of a banyan tree, and the warm quilt of protection. The world may have many bad people, but there is no such thing as a bad father.

My father is a thoroughly responsible man. I have witnessed that since my childhood. Being the firstborn in the family, I received the most love, care, and affection.

My mother often says, “The amount of love and resources that have been poured into you, your two younger siblings didn’t even get half of that.”

My mother says—when you were little, your obsession was buying toys and then breaking them, especially big toy buses. You’d break one right after getting it, and then demand another. Yet your father never showed the slightest irritation.

And there was one thing you simply couldn’t go a day without—grapes. If you didn’t get them, the world would seem to turn upside down. You needed two kilograms of grapes every single day. You used to call grapes as “haam.”

Crushed under the weight of family responsibilities, my father couldn’t pursue much formal education. Yet the depth of wisdom and humanity he possesses is rarely seen even in those with the highest academic degrees. Though his formal schooling was limited, he is profoundly self-educated. His deep sense of life and values continues to inspire and guide me every day.

While he couldn’t study far himself, he took full responsibility to ensure his children received the best education and grew up to become not just educated, but truly good human beings. 

Since the beginning of my education, I studied in the region’s best institutions. He bought the biggest fish from the market for us; even today, the largest fish still comes to our home. He never allowed any deficiency. And I, from childhood to now, have tried to repay that debt the best I could.

From the very beginning of my academic life, I carried the label of a “good student.” I was always the first boy in my classes. As a result, from Class Five onwards, I received various government and private scholarships. In Class Six, I participated in a scholarship exam named after the late Chairman Ekramul Haque Ekram’s father, Master Nurul Haque, and was awarded a talent-pool scholarship.

At the scholarship award ceremony, my father accompanied me. That day, in front of high-ranking government officials and thousands in the audience, my father stood beside me on the stage as I received my honor. It was the first time I saw tears of joy in his eyes. That day, I saw my father revel in the pride and happiness of what felt like a conquest of the world.

Since then, my father has found joy in each of my achievements. Whenever people—both from home and abroad—tell him, “We’ve seen your son in a remarkable position”, or mention some achievement of mine, he feels like a proud and successful father. When people praise my writing and say, “Your son is a brilliant and courageous writer, a pride of our community,” he truly delights in those words and later shares them with my mother at home.

Not long ago, he smiled and said to me, “Nowadays people give me special attention—some give up their chairs for me just because I’m Emran Emon’s father.” These moments made me feel like a successful son. It felt as if I had, in some small way, begun to repay the immense debt I owe him. At least while he is alive, I’ve been able to bring him a measure of satisfaction and honor. 

As a human being, my father is honest, kind, and deeply compassionate. I’ve rarely seen someone so sincere and devoted—and people in our region often say the same. When they meet me, many say, “Your father is an exceptionally good man. There are hardly any like him left.”

His love and generosity toward people know no bounds. Altruism is his very nature—he’s always the first to extend a helping hand to anyone in distress. And when it comes to hospitality, he is second to none. His deep sense of compassion often leads him to spend generously on others, sometimes even causing friction at home with my mother. But how can you restrain someone whose very instinct is to help? As a result, despite being in a strong business position, he never amassed great wealth or outward displays of success. Yet he harbors no regrets. He always says his two sons and one daughter are his greatest assets—and his eldest son, his most treasured possession.

As his eldest son, he never involved me in any of the usual entanglements—be it land disputes, business affairs, or family conflicts. Whenever I expressed a desire to get involved, he would gently say, “You don’t need to worry about these things. Your job is to study, to gain knowledge, to become a good human being. I’m still alive to handle all this.” And whenever I’m home, not once has he sat down to eat without first calling me to join him. 

As a son, I take immense pride in my father. I’ve never had to ask him for anything—he always gave before I even knew how to ask. He instinctively understood my needs and desires. Since childhood, I’ve never given him a reason to worry. In every institution, in society, in our community—his son has always carried the reputation of being a “good boy.” 

In the past five years, I haven’t taken a single poisha from my father, even though he constantly insists on giving—simply because I haven’t needed to. I’ve built my own financial independence. Even though I’ve never asked, he has always given. Sometimes, he feels sad that I don’t accept his money anymore and shares his feelings with my mother. But I’ve managed to support myself comfortably with my own earnings. At this age, taking money from my father doesn’t feel right or appropriate to me. My commitment to myself has always been to be self-reliant—and to remain so.

This last Eid, he gave me Eidi. I told him, “But I’m grown up now—why give it to me?” He smiled and said, “You may feel grown up to yourself, but to me, you’re still that little Abbuni.” That’s what he lovingly calls me “Abbuni.” And my mother calls me “Emoni.”

To my father, I am still that little boy. Just a few days ago, I arrived at Munshirhat from Feni around 11:30 at night. A fierce storm had just begun—heavy rainfall, strong winds and thunder. My father called and asked, “Abbu, where are you?” I told him, “I just got off the Taxi; the rain has started.” A few moments later, there he arrived—soaked to the bone, clutching an extra umbrella under his arm, braving the storm just to reach me. He came to wrap me in warmth, to bring me safely home with his silent affection.

That night, despite being someone who considers himself emotionally strong, I couldn’t hold back my tears. I broke down inside, overwhelmed by one haunting thought: How will I live without him? What will become of me when he is no longer here...?

My father is a profound epithet in himself—his only true comparison is with his own being. His love, sacrifices, and silent strength have woven the foundation of my life. The debt I owe him is boundless, one I know I will never be able to repay. Yet I consider myself deeply fortunate that he is still alive to witness at least some of my successes—and has felt pride in my journey.

I seek your heartfelt prayers for my father’s long life and lasting well-being, so that I may continue to honor him in every way I can. On this Father’s Day, I offer my deepest respect and boundless love to all the fathers of the world.

The writer is a journalist, columnist and global affairs analyst. He can be reached at emoncolumnist@gmail.com