Friday, Sept. 28, 2001
Metro
Columnist Rekha Basu
Back
to SAJA Profile of Rekha Basu
A Birth, a Death Change Woman's Life
NEW
YORK · In a third-floor walk-up apartment in Woodside, Queens,
a young woman watches over her newborn baby and greets mourners.
Through
a tragic coincidence of timing and fate, Baraheen Ashrafi became a World
Trade Center widow and then, two days later, a mother for the second time.
Her husband had
taken the week of Sept. 3 off from his job at the Windows on the World
restaurant in preparation for their child's arrival. But the baby didn't
come, so Mohammed Salahuddin Chowdhury headed back to work the next
week, planning to take off again whenever his wife gave birth.
Before leaving their apartment Sept. 11, he gave Sudipta, as his wife
is called, his cell phone -- in case she went into labor. He took his
beeper.
He would never again call or come home.
The son he longed for was born Sept. 13.
Today Sudipta, 29, sits in what was their bedroom and accepts baby gifts
from visitors who come to express condolences. The gifts sit unopened
on the dresser. The baby sleeps in a blue-and-white covered bassinet
near the bed.
At a time usually reserved for celebration, she is dressed in white,
the color of bereavement in their native Bangladesh. She is staying
at home, still recovering physically from the hormonal changes that
follow a birth and the C-section that brought her child into the world.
"This kind of pain is bearable, but the pain I have in my heart ..."
she says, stopping short of completing the thought. As unbearable as
it is, she is holding up with remarkable courage and dignity.
The family has Muslim prayers said for Mohammed every weekend. And they
are ready to register his death. But until there is a body, in accordance
with their religion, there can be no funeral.
Sudipta and Mohammed were married nine and a half years ago in Bangladesh,
by arrangement. Their first meeting was the day of the wedding. She
smiles coyly when a visitor asks if it was love at first sight. It's
the only smile to cross her face in a while.
It's obvious from the pictures how close they were. The photos show
a ruggedly handsome man full of smiles for his young, attractive family.
A relative describes him as giving, helpful and mild-mannered. He would
have turned 39 on Sept. 15.
The baby's arrival was to have completed the family. With one daughter
already, Mohammed was eager for a son, but to prevent his disappointment,
Sudipta used to say, "Boys and girls are all the same." Sudipta has
named her baby Farqad.
She learned of her husband's death from watching television that morning.
She saw the planes strike the buildings and then the fire that caused
the structures to collapse. She knew there was no chance of his survival.
The restaurant was on the 107th floor.
Like many new immigrants, Mohammed was overqualified for the work he
did, as a waiter. He had a master's degree in applied physics, but in
a tight job market had done odd jobs, driven a cab, worked in a lab
and taken computer courses. He'd been in the country since 1987 and
worked at Windows on the World for two years.
He'd been thinking of getting into real estate, according to his wife.
They had looked at houses in Long Island for a possible move.
Sudipta also has an advanced degree and used to work in a bank before
this last pregnancy.
She discourages any appeals for financial help on her behalf. Her husband
did have life insurance. She doesn't know what compensation will come
from his job, but money is the last thing on her mind right now.
At the end of Mohammed's workday, Sudipta could always sense when her
husband was about to come in the door of their apartment. Now, at night,
when she moves in and out of sleep, "My imagination is telling me my
husband is coming and he's opening the door."
That door is now surrounded by many pairs of shoes, which fill the landing
at the top of the staircase. Shoes are customarily removed before entering
a South Asian home. The small apartment is full of people -- relatives,
strangers, friends, children. Sudipta is surrounded by a protective
sisterhood of women.
One of her husband's seven sisters flew in from London to be with her.
His siblings are scattered as far as Australia and Canada. When that
sister-in-law leaves, Sudipta's own sister, who lives in the Bronx,
will come. Family members will rotate like that for a while, to help
with the new baby, with her 5-year-old daughter, with the arrangements,
and with her grief.
Relatives tried to reassure her other child, Fahina, that her daddy
would be coming back. The little girl was devoted to her father. But
Sudipta didn't want to encourage false hope. So she told her daughter
the truth.
Sudipta recalls Fahina's response. "She said, `Mommy, why are people
so bad and mean? My daddy didn't do anything bad.'"
On Monday, Fahina returned to her first-grade class for the first time
since the World Trade Center collapsed. Sudipta sought out the school
counselor beforehand, telling her that her daughter gets upset seeing
her cry and might be holding back on expressing her own grief for fear
of adding to her mother's.
Fahina has asked where her father is now. Sudipta tells her daughter
to look up at the sky.
"That star blinking, that one is your dad."
Friday, Sept. 28, 2001
Metro
Columnist Rekha Basu
Back
to SAJA Profile of Rekha Basu
A Birth, a Death Change Woman's Life
NEW
YORK · In a third-floor walk-up apartment in Woodside, Queens,
a young woman watches over her newborn baby and greets mourners.
Through a tragic coincidence of timing and fate, Baraheen Ashrafi became a World Trade Center widow and then, two days later, a mother for the second time.
Her husband had
taken the week of Sept. 3 off from his job at the Windows on the World
restaurant in preparation for their child's arrival. But the baby didn't
come, so Mohammed Salahuddin Chowdhury headed back to work the next
week, planning to take off again whenever his wife gave birth.
Before leaving their apartment Sept. 11, he gave Sudipta, as his wife
is called, his cell phone -- in case she went into labor. He took his
beeper.
He would never again call or come home.
The son he longed for was born Sept. 13.
Today Sudipta, 29, sits in what was their bedroom and accepts baby gifts
from visitors who come to express condolences. The gifts sit unopened
on the dresser. The baby sleeps in a blue-and-white covered bassinet
near the bed.
At a time usually reserved for celebration, she is dressed in white,
the color of bereavement in their native Bangladesh. She is staying
at home, still recovering physically from the hormonal changes that
follow a birth and the C-section that brought her child into the world.
"This kind of pain is bearable, but the pain I have in my heart ..."
she says, stopping short of completing the thought. As unbearable as
it is, she is holding up with remarkable courage and dignity.
The family has Muslim prayers said for Mohammed every weekend. And they
are ready to register his death. But until there is a body, in accordance
with their religion, there can be no funeral.
Sudipta and Mohammed were married nine and a half years ago in Bangladesh,
by arrangement. Their first meeting was the day of the wedding. She
smiles coyly when a visitor asks if it was love at first sight. It's
the only smile to cross her face in a while.
It's obvious from the pictures how close they were. The photos show
a ruggedly handsome man full of smiles for his young, attractive family.
A relative describes him as giving, helpful and mild-mannered. He would
have turned 39 on Sept. 15.
The baby's arrival was to have completed the family. With one daughter
already, Mohammed was eager for a son, but to prevent his disappointment,
Sudipta used to say, "Boys and girls are all the same." Sudipta has
named her baby Farqad.
She learned of her husband's death from watching television that morning.
She saw the planes strike the buildings and then the fire that caused
the structures to collapse. She knew there was no chance of his survival.
The restaurant was on the 107th floor.
Like many new immigrants, Mohammed was overqualified for the work he
did, as a waiter. He had a master's degree in applied physics, but in
a tight job market had done odd jobs, driven a cab, worked in a lab
and taken computer courses. He'd been in the country since 1987 and
worked at Windows on the World for two years.
He'd been thinking of getting into real estate, according to his wife.
They had looked at houses in Long Island for a possible move.
Sudipta also has an advanced degree and used to work in a bank before
this last pregnancy.
She discourages any appeals for financial help on her behalf. Her husband
did have life insurance. She doesn't know what compensation will come
from his job, but money is the last thing on her mind right now.
At the end of Mohammed's workday, Sudipta could always sense when her
husband was about to come in the door of their apartment. Now, at night,
when she moves in and out of sleep, "My imagination is telling me my
husband is coming and he's opening the door."
That door is now surrounded by many pairs of shoes, which fill the landing
at the top of the staircase. Shoes are customarily removed before entering
a South Asian home. The small apartment is full of people -- relatives,
strangers, friends, children. Sudipta is surrounded by a protective
sisterhood of women.
One of her husband's seven sisters flew in from London to be with her.
His siblings are scattered as far as Australia and Canada. When that
sister-in-law leaves, Sudipta's own sister, who lives in the Bronx,
will come. Family members will rotate like that for a while, to help
with the new baby, with her 5-year-old daughter, with the arrangements,
and with her grief.
Relatives tried to reassure her other child, Fahina, that her daddy
would be coming back. The little girl was devoted to her father. But
Sudipta didn't want to encourage false hope. So she told her daughter
the truth.
Sudipta recalls Fahina's response. "She said, `Mommy, why are people
so bad and mean? My daddy didn't do anything bad.'"
On Monday, Fahina returned to her first-grade class for the first time
since the World Trade Center collapsed. Sudipta sought out the school
counselor beforehand, telling her that her daughter gets upset seeing
her cry and might be holding back on expressing her own grief for fear
of adding to her mother's.
Fahina has asked where her father is now. Sudipta tells her daughter
to look up at the sky.
"That star blinking, that one is your dad."