This page is for those who would like to commemorate the life of our baby boy, Amlan. Amlan was born on 1st March 2011, but lived for only a few minutes. His cousin, Ishan, died in January 2011, aged 13 and a half days. Across the world, there are an estimated 3.6 million neo-natal deaths each year. Amlan fought very hard to be alive. Anything you donate here will go to help other mothers and babies who are struggling for life. Gargi and Stan
We are including the order of Amlan’s funeral service here.
Music – ‘I only have eyes for you’, The Flamingoes
Thank you for coming here today to commemorate the life of Amlan Salem Waheed Bhattacharyya, son to Gargi and Stan, brother of Swadhin.
Amlan was born on 1 March 2011. He lived for only a few minutes. The time since his birth and death has been immensely painful and sometimes it feels as if the grief is overwhelming, but today we want to mark Amlan's life, not only his death.
We would like to share some thoughts about Amlan here because, however brief his life, he is very much a part of our family.
Manju, Amlan’s grandmother
Amlan, our beloved grandson, you were born on 1 March, 2011, rather unexpectedly, long before your time to arrive in this world. You were unaware of the dangerous outside world for such a tiny person like you! You story was so brief.
I feel sad that there was no time for me to meet you and say hello to you. In all these coming years I shall consider this as a loss that will never be compensated. Your absence has left a big hole in our lives.
Our dear Amlan – you will remain amlan, meaning unfading, in our memories in all these coming years.
We love you.
Your Dida.
Sonali, Amlan’s aunt and Ishan’s mother
My sister doesn’t believe in God, and neither do I. We don’t go in for that afterlife stuff. But after my son died, I’d sometimes think about the possibility of parallel universes. Of different realities where he was still with us, growing up healthy and strong. Now we have lost Amlan too and I imagine a parallel world where there are three little boys – Swadhin, his brother Amlan, and their cousin Ishan.
They build dens in the garden and sit out there all afternoon. They have a secret language they use when they don’t want the grown ups to know what they’re talking about. They queue for the ice cream van together, and play fight, and gather insects in jars to inspect for long, sunny hours. They share their toys, and squabble, and look out for one another whenever there are bigger kids around.
In these parallel universes, all the wonderful promise that was Amlan is fulfilled. In our world, we will think about Amlan every day, and what he should be doing now, if only this world was fair. And in this way we will keep him close to us forever in our hearts and imaginations.
A reading from The Little Prince:
“This is to me the most beautiful and saddest landscape in the world. It is the same landscape as in the last picture but I have drawn it once again to impress it upon your memory. It is here that the little prince appeared on Earth and then disappeared.
Look very carefully at the landscape so as to be sure to recognise it if ever one day you travel to Africa, through the desert. And if you should happen to come upon this spot, please do not hurry on. Wait a little, exactly under the star. Then, if a child comes towards you, if he laughs, if he has dark locks, and if he refuses to answer questions, you will surely guess who he is. So be kind! Do not leave me grieving. Write to me quickly to tell me that he has come back…”
Gargi, Amlan’s mother
There are an estimated 3.6 million neo-natal deaths each year.
Our baby Amlan Salem Waheed Bhattacharyya was one of them. So was his cousin Ishan who died in January.
Both of my grandmothers lost a number of children – some as babies, some when they were older. For most of my life I have found this fact terrifying and hard to comprehend. Now I try to think ahead and hope that my grandchildren will find it impossible to imagine that their grandmother and great-aunt lost their babies in 2011.
Thinking about what I would say today, I thought that I could keep talking forever, as if I could keep him alive as long as the talking didn't stop.
Already I have spoken for nearly as long as he lived.
But three minutes of life doesn't leave much to say.
On 21 February I started to bleed and went into hospital. They said that my membrane was distended and all they could do was give me bed-rest and wait and see.
We spent ten days in hospital – one after Amlan died. After the first night, Stan stayed with me and together we watched the clock and counted each minute, ticking off the time to get through each day. We were struggling to get to 24 weeks and Amlan was born just one day before our deadline. He moved around a lot in those days and I tried to calm him, to tell him to hold on a little longer, otherwise this was all we would know of each other.
All the staff said he must be a fighter – struggling with us to stay alive. I am so proud of him for making it that far, for holding on against the odds.
It is not God's will – although some people have wanted to tell us that it is. 3.6 million tiny lives every year is nothing to do with anyone's god. For most, it is poverty and inadequate healthcare.
The bereavement people asked us what we believed happened to people when they die – in response to my saying that I did not want to tell my older child that his brother had become a star. Swadhin knows how stars are born and he would not buy that one bit. But we know that matter never dies and that some little bit of Amlan becomes a part of the earth and the seas, perhaps becomes a part of us.
Music – ‘Everything must change’, Nina Simone
I imagine him throughout a lifetime that we will never see, a delicious baby and romping toddler, an impossible teenager. I try to guess what he might like to eat, what he would have on his pancakes, which television characters would be his favourites. In my head he has already grown into the most beautiful of men, a wanton lover who can take his pick, a reckless risk-taker who never listens to my warnings, a funny and serious man who knows when to laugh and when to fight. Most of the time I feel like this pain is a test to keep him alive somewhere, so that he can become a grown-up, and that maybe one day I will catch a glimpse of his face somewhere. I know this is a kind of madness and that death is death.
Human beings can bear a lot of pain. I know that the capacity to hope and to suffer binds us to each other and thinking about the other millions of grieving mothers makes me feel less alone. A lot of other people are trying to bear what we are bearing. Life is brief and precious and Amlan fought hard to be alive, to survive for a few moments more. He held on for longer than anyone in the hospitals thought was possible. I am guessing that the other 3.6 million fight for every moment too. When you remember Amlan remember that and fight for every breath.
Music – Tintal, Zakhir Hussain
