I called Jahanara over the phone a week before I left London. She was really happy to hear from me and I was grateful that she spoke to me. It was an honest feeling. I still remember the day when I rushed to my supervisors and informed them that I had found a major lead for my fieldwork. Two days later, I received a phone call from my family. I could hear an unknown male voice, hesitantly calling me ‘bhai, kemon asen?’ (brother, how are you?). I was not able to recognise the voice, and I replied, ‘ami bhalo asi, apnake toh chilnlam na?’ (I am good but I am not able to recognise you). He said, ‘ami Akbor, Jahanara’r jamai’ (I am Akbor, Jahanara’s husband). Before I could say anything, he said ‘Jahanara toh ar nai. O gesega’ (Jahanara is no more, she left us). For some reason, I did not want to believe what I heard, but I was not able to express my feelings and I asked him, ‘koi gese? Ki koitesen?’ (Where did she go? What do you mean?). In a low voice, Akbor said, ‘Jahanara golay dori dise dui din aage’ (Jahanara hanged herself with a rope two days ago)^[1]. I stood there, as quiet as I could. He asked me if I am still on the call and that I must visit them once I am home. He then passed over the phone to my family and that is how the phone call ended.

It was then I realised that Jahanara was not just a former participant, but a familiar face who I have met several times. I recalled her face, smiling at me everytime I saw her. Little did I know that Jahanara was also one of the motivations for me to begin with my PhD. It was an unsaid and unacknowledged deal with myself that Jahanara would be one of the many pillars for my research. I felt that it is not only me who is responsible for my research but people like Jahanara upon whose shoulders I am building my work. For the next two days, I was nervous and confused, processing her death, as the same way one would if a family member passed away. It felt like a personal loss.