I cannot recall whether he ever visited her in the new cabin. She would always wait for the visit; as we can tell, it may have felt like her only lifeline. She waited, but she never told us everything. She rarely spoke about her future during our daily visits. My friend Ruman told me about her six diaries after her death. She had left six in total. And in all of those six, three names continually found places in her sentences: Ruman, I, and SMI.

Syed Manzoorul Islam, popularly known as SMI, was a storyteller among the faculty members in the University of Dhaka’s English Department. But he never fictionalized her. To construct a world out of syntax is beautiful, but who has ever heard that publishing a story can cure a cancer patient? A news report at least reaches doors of some donors. SMI Sir was considerate; he chose the latter. Though the report will not be compiled in his Collected Works, it actually worked at the time. Two of our bKash accounts could not take more for some days.

Munni Apu’s name meant something precious. But she had fallen out of grace. Both of her parents were dead when she was diagnosed with leukemia, and her only brother could not bear the cost of her medical expenses. That is where Ruman and I came into her life from the backdrop. She was two years our senior, but had to drop out of the semesters due to her prolonged illness.

Our memory lapses cannot even compare to SMI Sir’s efforts. We were going door to door to every teacher. Manzoor Sir knew about her condition, but was unaware of the relapse of cancer. A spirited wife always finds her way into her husband’s jokes. Even in that pinpoint silence, SMI Sir did not forget his sense of humour. He told us how his wife had battled cancer and had become more spirited than ever.

This gave us hope. And we also got a chance to meet SMI Sir almost every day he came to his office. We tried to follow his directions on how to collect funds for her treatment. This needed more hands. Our batchmates Siam, Ayesha, Faheia, and Nazifa joined in. Manzoor Sir usually would give a call to our alumni before we visited them. One call would always make the amount bigger.

On one occasion, Sir sent us to columnist Ataur Rahman’s house. It was adjacent to Dhanmondi’s Lal Masjid. We had never been there before. For almost half an hour, we searched for it, but it was hiding behind other houses. We called SMI Sir on his cell phone. He smiled and said, “How do you find references to texts when the lines are unknown to you?” Later, he gave us directions even though he was in a meeting.

A small passage between two houses took us to Ataur Rahman’s abode. We waited outside his flat. Ataur Rahman came to the door wearing a white lungi and a shirt. I was surprised to see him, then said, “SMI Sir and you look the same age. How could he be your student?” He said he had a stint as a teacher at Sylhet’s MC College in the late 1960s, where he met a young, inquisitive Syed Manzoorul Islam for the first time.

He didn't hand us a cheque like others. Instead, he gave an envelope and said his youngest son had also died of cancer. He was just a student in class seven then.