Death is inevitable, but our actions define the true meaning of life

Seventy five years old Abdul Gafur would live in a small hut between a silent grove of Sal trees and a quiet Riverbank, miles away from the noise of the nearby town. It is a tin-roofed house built on bamboo stilts. On its inside there were a couple of old books, an old radio receiver and letters of past students-faded, yellow, but loved.

Gafur used to be a respected school teacher one time in the city. He was a disciplined person, of strong intellect and Capable of enormous compassion. He was not forgotten by students after they have graduated. However, 25 years back, fate played a different card on him when he lost his wife and sole child in a road accident. He quit his job and went to this sleepy village to hide away in solitude in a broken heart. Nevertheless, even behind the walls he could not betray his vocation.

Every afternoon he went, with his stick, to an improvised open-air school which he had himself erected,--called by itself, Aloghor, or House of Light. His pupils were the children of poor households-assistants in a tea stall, assistants in construction works, children of day laborers. They could not go to school, and Gafur taught them- how to read, write and count, about life. Seventy five years old Abdul Gafur would live in a small hut between a silent grove of Sal trees and a quiet Riverbank, miles away from the noise of the nearby town. It is a tin-roofed house built on bamboo stilts. On its inside there were a couple of old books, an old radio receiver and letters of past students-faded, yellow, but loved.

Gafur used to be a respected school teacher one time in the city. He was a disciplined person, of strong intellect and Capable of enormous compassion. He was not forgotten by students after they have graduated. However, 25 years back, fate played a different card on him when he lost his wife and sole child in a road accident. He quit his job and went to this sleepy village to hide away in solitude in a broken heart. Nevertheless, even behind the walls he could not betray his vocation.

Every afternoon he went, with his stick, to an improvised open-air school which he had himself erected,--called by itself, Aloghor, or House of Light. His pupils were the children of poor households-assistants in a tea stall, assistants in construction works, children of day laborers. They could not go to school, and Gafur taught them- how to read, write and count, about life. Just look at him-without any money, without family, with hardly even any health, he sticks to go to school and teach children. Why bother, we will all end up dead anyway?”

It happens that one winter evening he was visited by his former student Shahidul. Shahidul is now a successful bank officer in the city and he had not met his teacher since a decade ago. the eyes of Gafur glittered, Sipping tea, Shahidul had a glimpse about him, and declared,

Sir, What is the use of so doing? So why work hard then? Sooner or later we are going to die But such is the clock of time we have in front of us... that is not fixed. Because we do not know the timing of our departure, then is it not reasonable to consider making the best out of our present time here? I could save only one of these kids before I die and, then my life would not have been in vain.” His words reflected in the heart of his teacher. Doing good does not always imply giving money. It could be listening to a person, giving someone to smile, giving someone to dream, teaching a kid how to dream. He recalled how this same teacher used to come in late to assist its struggling learners and visit homes to make parents allow their children to study and trusted in the ability of every soul.

Shahidul came next morning, he brought his notebooks, pencils, used books and some snacks too.

-- Sir, why should I do this on _my_self? A support was provided by an NGO. One of the local business men would organize food once a week. Slowly but surely the shabby classroom expanded. The one-man quest had turned into the pride of community.

The school started transforming lives.

Later, on one day, Gafur did not wake up. he had died painlessly in his bed. Beside him was a letter, handwritten, in which was written: I was perhaps only one man but before I went I tried to leave something. let this school be in your service. When a light is put off do they cease to disseminate? May these kids take the torch ahead. May they someday be another person Sir.”

The villagers externalized him next to the classroom, noted a small tree where he used to recite poems to the children. The name of the school changed:

This school was discovered by a foreign researcher, who was researching the rural education in Bangladesh. Something she did not expect was there-more than one hundred students, a small building, full-time teachers, regular meals, a cultural club and a library. With everything being run by locals.

To one volunteer she said,

The instructor responded to it with a smile.

Literally, this school is a product of the wish of a single man to do good. He was familiar with the measure that he was going to die but also an action of doing something good could live foremost of him after death.”

It is what the person doing the research says when he or she is touched with emotion, when he or she cries.

--You are not only making a school, you are making a philosophy. Yes we are all going to die. The time is ruthless, and no one is spared by death. However, it is not how we are going to live at the moment that end strikes.

Abdul Gafur implanted in us the fact that:

It is never too little a good deed.

One is never too late to start with good.

It is possible that we shall die; but kind things and loving things and teaching things--they never die.

Whenever we help someone to stand up, whenever we show compassion, whenever we help someone to dream; we will beat death little by little.

Then if after we are dead a man can say:

He/she was the one who put light in my life.

then we have not really died.