The earthen lamp was flickering dimly. Outside was not the sky of Shravan, but over the waters of the Baigar River still lingered the blood-stained hours of Seventy-One. That muddy path of Tungipara, the empty homestead left behind by Khoka Mujib—and the cry of a newborn. Who knew that upon the forehead of this child was written the entire history of a cursed nation, the savage grief of Seventy-Five, and the immortal epic of millions of people's tears!

August 15, 1975. The staircase of house number 32 in Dhanmondi was flowing with blood. Father Bangabandhu, mother Fazilatunnesa, beloved brother Russel—all in eternal sleep. Being abroad that day, the eldest daughter survived. But what kind of survival was that! The person who called her father "Abba," whose every particle of life was intertwined with the grass of Tungipara, saw her entire world turn to ashes in a single moment. Suppressing a heart-rending cry in foreign lands, when she shed tears, were those tears ever meant to dry?

Carrying the deep pain of losing her father, when she stepped onto the soil of Bengal on May 17, 1981, the stormy sky of that day seemed to weep with her. The bloodshot eyes of military juntas, thousands of bullets from malicious quarters, and the splinters of the August 21 grenade—everything wanted to kill her. Yet, this undying woman returned from the doors of death time and again to hold the hands of Bengal's suffering people. Losing everything she had to become the mother of orphans, the heart of that "Mother of Humanity" is filled with nothing but sighs!

Today, when millions of people cut cakes with smiling faces on her birthday, who sees the deep hemorrhage within that heart? While lighting birthday candles, the faces of lost parents and brothers flash before her eyes. Remaining steadfast like the Himalayas even while turning blue with the pain of losing relatives for twenty-one long years, that blue-throated bird swallowed all her own tears just to make us smile.

Sheikh Hasina is not just a name; she is the name of an indomitable struggle rising from the Baigar River of Tungipara. Bearing countless blows, conspiracies, and the sword of death over her head, she has brick by brick built today's Bangladesh. From that ordinary muddy path of Tungipara to the pinnacle of the global stage—this long, rugged path she has crossed carrying only heart-breaking pain and the fire of patriotism in her chest.

O guardian of Bengal, every single tear of yours is the sacred water of our redemption. May you stay well, and live on as the heartbeat of millions of Bengalis.

Author: Anwaruzzaman Chowdhury, Politician, Mayor, Sylhet City Corporation.