-Md. Kamal Uddin: There are some journeys in a person’s life, which are not just a story of going from one country to another; rather, the beginning of discovering another new world within oneself. One meets some people, whose presence transcends the boundaries of time and becomes permanent in the depths of memory. Even after more than two decades, the faces, voices, behaviors and some innocent moments of those people are still as alive in the pages of the heart as they were on the day they first met. The year 2001. The world welcomed the new millennium. A new chapter began in my life. I received an invitation to participate in the International World Youth Conference in Algeria. As a young writer and journalist, this trip was not just a foreign trip for me; it was a rare opportunity to get to know the youth of different countries of the world, learn about their culture and present my country Bangladesh to the world. When I stood at the Dhaka airport on the morning of the journey, a strange feeling was working in my heart. Leaving my beloved homeland behind and traveling to an unknown country thousands of miles away—the excitement, curiosity, and unknown fear combined to create a different kind of emotion. From Dhaka to Delhi. A few hours of waiting at Delhi’s busy international airport. Then I boarded an Indian Airlines plane and set off for Russia. Looking at the world below through the plane window, it seemed like how small humans really are! Mountains, rivers, cities, and seas—all were becoming as small as toys. Yet, those tiny humans travel the world with so many dreams. When the plane landed on Russian soil after a long flight, I looked out the window and saw another world.
A vast sheet of white snow all around. Snow on the branches of trees, piles of snow on both sides of the road, and white steam coming out of people’s breath like smoke. As a Bangladeshi, I have only read about such scenes in books and seen them in movies. Standing in reality, that beauty fascinated me. But as enchanting as the beauty of nature is, its harshness is equally ruthless.
From the first day, the extreme cold began to weaken my body. Despite the thick jacket, gloves, and hat—it was as if the cold was penetrating my bones. My body was shivering, my throat was sore, and I started to have a fever. At first, I didn’t pay much attention. I thought that maybe just resting would fix it. But the next day, my condition worsened. I was having trouble breathing, my head felt heavy, and my body was completely exhausted. A few foreign representatives with me realized this and quickly took me to a hospital. Little did I know that day that an unforgettable chapter in my life was waiting just beyond the door of that hospital. The hospital environment was quiet, clean, and very orderly. The white walls, the gleaming corridors, the busy movements of doctors and nurses—everything had the impression of professionalism. I was taken to a room. After a while, the door opened and a young doctor entered. She was wearing a white apron. She had a stethoscope around her neck. Her calm blue eyes had a strange compassion. Her face had a sincere smile. He introduced himself—“I am Dr. Anastasia Volkova.” I said in a weak voice, “I am from Bangladesh.” He smiled softly and said, “Bangladesh… is the name of a very beautiful country.” That was the first time I realized—people’s languages may be different, cultures may be different, but a sincere smile does not need any translation. He examined me very carefully. He checked my fever level, checked my lungs, arranged for some blood tests and X-rays. At the end of the examination, he said, “You have caught an extreme cold. It would be safer to receive treatment in the hospital for a few days.” I agreed.
I did not know at that moment that these three days of treatment would be the beginning of a unique memory of my life. Outside the window of that hospital in Russia, snow was falling continuously. And inside, a silent story of two people from two different countries, two different cultures, yet with the same human feelings was beginning. That day, I was a patient. And he was a doctor.
But over time, this identity was not limited to the relationship between doctor and patient. It gradually took the form of a unique journey of mutual respect, love of literature, knowledge, and deep human bonds. Sitting by the window of the third-floor room of that Russian hospital, I often looked outside. Looking at the city covered in white snow beyond the window, it seemed as if nature had painted a new world on a white canvas. This scene had no resemblance to the green nature of Bangladesh, but it also had an unearthly beauty. Every morning, at a certain time, Dr. Anastasia Volkova would open the door and enter. With that familiar calm smile on her face, patient records in her hand. She would not only observe my physical condition as a doctor, but would also inquire about how I was feeling, whether I felt lonely, whether my heart was crying for my country. One day, she smiled softly and said, “There seems to be a story hidden in your eyes all the time.” I replied with a smile, “Maybe a writer’s eyes are like that.” She asked in surprise, “Are you a writer?” I said, “I write, and I also do journalism.” Hearing that, a different kind of brilliance appeared in his eyes. He said, “We respect writers a lot in Russia. In our country, books are not just read, they are loved.” From that moment on, it was as if a new chapter in our conversation began. Every day, after the treatment, he would sit for a while. Sometimes he would want to know about the rivers of Bangladesh, sometimes village life, sometimes the history of the Liberation War, sometimes the story of the Bengali language. I would tell him, “Your Russia helped us in our war of independence, and we are grateful to you for that – our Bangladesh is not just a land; it is a land of rivers, a land of greenery, a land of struggle, a land of people who gave their blood for the language.” He would listen in amazement. One day, he said, “Many students from Bangladesh come to our university, especially medical students. They are very hardworking.” I felt a kind of sincere respect for Bangladesh in his words.
Then one day he brought some books from the small library of the hospital. He said, “Since you are a writer, I thought you would like these books.” Looking at the books, I was fascinated. There were Karl Marx’s economic philosophy, Vladimir Lenin’s life and political thought, Maxim Gorky’s ‘Mother’, and Nikolai Ostrovsky’s immortal novel ‘How Steel is Made’. I took the books in my hand and said, “These are my very favorites.” He asked in surprise, “Have you read them?” I smiled softly and said, “Not just read them, but read them many times.” Then our long literary discussion began. I was talking about how Marx analyzed the structure of society within the economy, how Lenin transformed revolution into a political reality, how Maxim Gorky immortalized the struggle of ordinary people in literature, and how Ostrovsky transformed the indomitable will of man into a unique art. He listened attentively. Sometimes he asked questions. Sometimes he disagreed. Sometimes he would say, “Today it seems that I came to treat a patient and returned with new knowledge myself.” At that moment, I felt that knowledge has no nationality. Books are the language of the human heart. The three days in the hospital seemed to pass very quickly. My physical condition gradually improved. But the depth of our conversation continued to increase. One day he said, “This room will seem very lonely when you get well.” I smiled softly and said,
“The world is very small. Maybe we will meet again somewhere.” He was silent for a while and looked at the snow falling outside the window and said, “Maybe it really will.” The day I was discharged from the hospital, he personally packed a few books for me. On the first page of the books, he wrote a short sentence in English—“Books build bridges where borders cannot.” “Where borders fail, books build bridges.” I looked at the books for a long time. At the moment of farewell, he extended his hand and said, “You will go back to Bangladesh and write. Tell the world that people are actually the greatest refuge in each other.” I held his hand and said, “I will never forget this humanity of yours.” I walked out through the hospital door. The snow was still falling. But even in that cold, I felt that all the ice on the earth could melt one day in the warmth of human love. Little did I know, our story did not end here. Ahead of us lies the World Youth Conference in Algeria, a five-day reunion in Russia on the way back, and a few years later an incredible coincidental meeting at the Sheraton Hotel in Qatar—which will make our memories even deeper and more meaningful. “Some people are known for a few days, but their memories last a lifetime. Time increases distance, but it can never erase true human relationships.” After recovering from the hospital, I had a long journey ahead of me. From Russia to Tunisia, then by train to the capital of Algeria. Meeting, exchanging views, and discussing with representatives from different countries of the world at the World Youth Conference held there—everything was full of new experiences. Yet, even amidst the busyness of the conference, I kept thinking about that hospital in Russia. I remembered the sincere smile of a young doctor, her strange humanity, and our long discussions about books. I realized that even after knowing some people for a very short time, you feel close to them. After the conference, I had the opportunity to stay in Russia again for a few days on the way back home. This time, I was no longer a sick patient. Now I am a healthy person, with only one wish in mind – will I ever meet that person? Upon arriving at the hospital, a nurse smiled and said, “Dr. Anastasia often spoke of you.” After a while, I saw him at the end of the corridor. He stopped in surprise upon seeing me. Then he came forward with that familiar smile. “I knew you would come back.” I said, “Some people have no choice but to come back.” That day, the glimmer of joy was clear in his eyes. Those five days were no longer confined to the walls of the hospital. We walked in the snow-covered park of Russia, went to old bookstores, sat in small coffee shops and talked for hours. Our topics of discussion were the world, people, literature, society, journalism, medicine, history, war, peace, and dreams of the future. He said, “A doctor heals the wounds of the human body, and a writer awakens the human conscience.” I replied, “The job of both is to make people’s lives beautiful.”
He smiled. There was no artificiality in that smile; There was deep respect. The evening before he left, he gave me a small box. Inside were books by three Russian writers.
He said, “These books are for you. Whenever you read them, you will remember Russia.” I was silent for a while. Then I said, “You never need a gift to remember people. But these books will be a symbol of your memory for me.” He said softly, “May our friendship never end.” I left Russia and returned to my country. But the relationship did not end. We began exchanging letters. Month after month, year after year, we wrote letters to each other. He would send new books from Russia. I sent three books I had written from Bangladesh—“Nari Katha,” where I wrote about women’s life struggles, honor, and self-esteem. “Tahader Katha,” where I highlighted the unknown reality of the lives of neglected sex workers in society. And my first novel, “Niram Niyoti.” A few months later, a letter from him arrived. In the letter, he wrote— “After reading your book, I realized that a writer does not just write stories; he gives voice to the unseen cries of people.” Those few sentences have become one of the greatest achievements of my writing career. Then four years passed. Time increased our geographical distance, but it could not increase the distance of our memories. In 2005, I went from Dubai to attend an international literature conference at the Sheraton Hotel in Qatar. Writers, researchers, journalists, poets from different countries of the world were present there. On the afternoon of the second day of the conference, I suddenly heard a familiar voice from afar. “Bangladesh!” I was stunned as I looked back. It was Dr. Anastasia Volkova. Even after four years, she recognized me in an instant. Neither of us could say anything for a while. Sometimes, silence speaks volumes. The nine days of that conference brought us closer together again. We discussed literature. We debated world politics. We told the story of the changes in Bangladesh. He told me about the new generation in Russia. I told him about my new writing plan. He said, “You write. The world will read your writing one day.” I said, “You also practice medicine. There is no greater literature than restoring health to people’s lives.” On the last day of the conference, it was time to say goodbye again. He looked at me and said, “Not all stories in life have an ending. Some stories are best left unfinished.” I replied, “Unfinished stories are probably the ones people remember the most.”
Today, more than two decades have passed since that incident. Life has become busier. I have seen many countries. I have met countless people. But that winter morning in Russia, that white corridor of the hospital, the sincere smile of a humane doctor, and a pure relationship born on the pages of a book are still one of the brightest chapters in my memory. I still believe that the most beautiful relationships in the world are not based on interests; they are based on mutual respect, humanity, knowledge, and sincerity. Dr. Anastasia is not the conventional definition of love in my life; she is a person who has taught me that languages may be different, countries may be different, religions, cultures, and histories may be different; but the language of the heart is the same. Even today, when I pick up a book by a Russian writer or see a picture of snowfall, I feel that somewhere in the world, that person may still be standing next to a patient, just as he once stood next to a young Bangladeshi writer-journalist. And I silently pray that in this world of humanity, people learn to love people. Because borders can separate countries, but they can never separate a true human relationship.
—End—