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tangents Mrs. Zobeda Khatun, my grandmother, Dhaka, 1984. Photo: Ihtisham kabir I was thrilled when my cousin recently shared a photograph where my father poses with all his eight siblings. They were in their fifties and sixties when it was taken. A festive air permeates the photograph. They are basking in the winter sun, delighted to be with each other. Front-row center belongs to the eldest aunt and uncle; younger ones stand behind. While everyone else looks at the camera my eldest uncle is turned halfway towards his sister. Knowing them, an animated conversation had been interrupted by the photographer. Six of these nine siblings have since departed. Four decades later I wonder: did they know that this 1/500 of a second, snatched from the jaws of time by a mechanical device, would be a precious witness to their entire big, close-knit, affectionate family for their descendents to look at with pride but also with sadness?

Zobeda khatun