He kept quiet; I did not know what to say either.
Within a few weeks, towards the end of April, I was called to Dhaka again. I was surprised when the Base commander told me that he had written to the Air Secretary again and asked me to try my luck. This time I flew to Dhaka with some apprehension and again the meeting started with some tough language. I remained quiet, remembering his earlier command, when he suddenly lowered his voice, looked into my eyes and said: 'We cannot give you such a long leave. You should be grateful that we have trained you twice in the UK, but you are stubborn and breaking protocol. This could easily be a disciplinary issue, but we can't punish you for your ambition. At the same time, it cannot go on like this. The only option is for you to take voluntary retirement and leave us.'
This was music to my ears, but I controlled myself and looked at him puzzled. He continued: 'I'm going to give you until tomorrow to think about it and consult your family; let me know your decision.' I thought for a while and politely said: 'Thank you sir! I'll let you know tomorrow.' I stayed at the officer's mess overnight and called Sayeda. She was calm as usual and simply said: 'I had a feeling something like this would happen; I was praying all along for a good outcome from this saga.' I expressed my gratitude to her, then informed my family and close friends. They couldn't believe it was going to happen!
The following day I went to Air HQ and informed them of my decision to resign. This had never happened before in the Bangladesh Air Force – and I had signed up for at least ten years! Soon the news broke in the officers' circle. I went back to Chittagong and gave massive thanks to the Base commander. The release order was issued and in early May I left the BAF and returned to Dhaka.
★ ★ ★
It took nearly a year to sort out all the arrangements for travel to London. I lost my first scholarship offer, but luckily managed an alternative: in life, when one door closes another opens. I flew into Heathrow on 23 April 1983, and Aziz Bhai had already arranged a meeting with my supervisor, Professor A.K. Jonscher, the following day. The two of us reached the campus near Fulham Broadway in south-west London, and with a broad smile, a full hearty beard and thick glasses, Professor Jonscher welcomed us. We settled in his room and he initiated the conversation with a light joke: 'Bari, thanks, you've now arrived. But why did it take so long? Were you travelling by a bullock cart?' He laughed and so did we. I enjoyed his joke and felt it was a warm welcome; humour really brings people together.
Professor Jonscher was to be my PhD supervisor. He showed us the campus and the laboratory where I would be working; a large room used mainly for postgraduate research in solid state physics. We arrived at the lab during lunch time and about a dozen researchers and couple of technicians, all from diverse backgrounds, joined us around a big table. He introduced me to my new colleagues and with a smile repeated the bullock-cart joke. Everyone started laughing and I was relieved that the elderly academic was so full of life with a good persona, and that the environment there was so informal. After about an hour they all went back to their tables. Jonscher and I agreed to meet on another date and we left the campus for the day.
During our next meeting, when I briefed him about the long gap in my physics career because of my life in the Air Force, Jonscher looked at me sympathetically and said: 'Bari, you have to work hard now. You must quickly revisit the world of physics'.
'You are right, Professor!' I replied, earnestly. 'Please give me couple of months to prepare myself before I start my research.'
He agreed and advised me to talk with a few overseas researchers who would be able to help me. I visited the lab again and talked to a PhD student from Karachi University, Ashraf Choudhury. He gave me a brotherly embrace and took me to his table. He briefed me about the nature of research under Jonscher and our other physicist, Professor Robert Hill. I explained my situation and the need to recover gaps in my knowledge. He assured me that he would help in any way he could and advised me to go through a few books and journals as well as occasional reports published by the Chelsea's Dielectric Group. On my way home I bought a few relevant books and was determined I would start my research on a par with my colleagues in no more than three months. Ashraf kept his promise and helped me as and when I needed in the first few months.
Sayeda joined me towards the end of June; she was in the middle of her pregnancy with our first child, Rima, and I was renting a small flat above an Indian restaurant in South Wimbledon. In the meantime, I had begun my research on the dielectric interface between electrodes and electrolytes in batteries. After spending a few days with Sayeda, and making sure she felt safe at home, I became busier than ever in the lab. My grant was only for three years and I had to finish on time!
Soon the research was becoming increasingly intensive and I felt sorry for Sayeda, as I would leave her at home alone in the morning and return late at night. I even started working in the lab most weekends as well. No doubt it was tough for her, but she proved to be resilient and built up friendships with people from the area and spent time mostly reading; like both her parents she was a bookworm. I could only apologize and call her as often as I could from the laboratory for little chats. She held on to her nerve and prepared for the arrival of our child in late September.
Rima was born on 21 September, a tiny little angel with all her sweetness, innocence and vulnerability. The first touch was ecstatic and she quickly became the centre of our life. The arrival of a child brings a total change to a family: 'The jewel of the sky is the sun, the jewel of the house is the child,' goes a Chinese saying. In Islam, children are gifts of God; according to the Prophet, a woman herself is blessed if her first child is a daughter. A mother in a family is, of course, special to any child. But the role of a father is similarly vital, especially to a daughter. He is the first man in her life and his character, behaviour and humanity in the family subconsciously shapes her self-worth in life. As single-parent families are often a reality in modern times, the burden of parenthood falls on one parent who has to act to fill the gap of another. Rima was special to us, particularly to me, as I was longing for a daughter (a 'little mum!') ever since I had lost my own mother when I was sixteen. Rima radiated joy and happiness in our small world, and it was a unique experience to see a totally dependent little life growing in our arms with her own unique features. Sadly, my father and the rest of our families in Bangladesh could not share our happiness.
It was not easy for Sayeda to look after a baby virtually on her own. I tried to change my routine slightly so that I could spend some quality time at home looking after Rima, and give Sayeda some rest. But she was a woman of steel, and how Sayeda quickly learnt to efficiently multi-task – first raising Rima and then our other three children later on – was inspiring and amazing. If leadership is about vision and imparting that vision to people around you, especially growing children, then mothers are the primordial leaders in human society. Sadly very few societies recognize this treasure within them.
Financially, Sayeda and I had to live within our means, my scholarship funds just about covered our living expenses and I was not allowed any public money, neither was Sayeda. She was a brilliant student and wanted to pursue a higher degree in economics or a relevant subject. But even if I were allowed to work, or Sayeda to attend a course, we could not do so because of my research pressures and her 24/7 role in looking after Rima. It was a big career sacrifice on her part.
Professor Jonscher, who I learnt was a practising Polish Catholic, was delighted to discover that I had a baby girl. When I informed him of the good news he looked at me and said: 'You are very lucky Bari. The start of your research is blessed with a daughter.'
I could not have agreed more.
★ ★ ★
The atmosphere in our laboratory was buzzing every day, it was highly academic but still informal. We all felt like and behaved as family members, and with researchers from many backgrounds – overseas and domestic, with faith and non-faith backgrounds – it was a microcosm of the world of physics. The permanent members of the research staff were
