I woke up before dawn on Wednesday to a call from my younger sister, Nazia. The ICU doctors had asked that the family come in. A quiet fear settled in my chest. And then, as gently as a song reaching its last note, my first cousin Dalia Nausheen, our beloved Dalibu left us.

She fought for so long, decades of illness, a relentless battle with cancer that would have dimmed most spirits. But not hers. Nothing could keep her from what she loved most: music, travelling, friendship, and above all, her fierce independence. Even in her final days, when the body was tiring, her mind was moving ahead, planning the next journey, the next performance, the next step. That is how she will remain with us: always looking forward, always alive with purpose.

Dalia was the daughter of legendary architect Muzharul Islam and Husne Ara Islam, born into a home where art, intellect, and culture were not just appreciated but lived. Our childhood in Paribagh was not ordinary. It was a world of constant movement, of voices and ideas, of music that never quite stopped. We grew up surrounded by artistes, thinkers, and leaders, absorbing without even realising—a way of life rooted in creativity and expression.

We took our first steps into music together at Chhayanaut. Those early lessons shaped us, but more importantly, they bound us. Whether it was music, cricket, drama or dance, we cousins shared a closeness that defined our lives. In that shared world, Dalibu stood out, not by trying but because she was. Her voice carried something deep, something that stayed with you long after the song ended.

In 1971, while still so young, she crossed into then Calcutta and joined the Bangladesh Mukti Sangrami Shilpi Sangstha. With nothing but her voice, she became part of the struggle, singing for freedom fighters, for refugees, for a nation just born.

Music, for Dalibu, was never just performance; it was devotion. Whether she sang DL Roy, Atul Prasad, or semi-classical compositions, there was always depth, always meaning. It was a lifelong journey of refinement, even till her final days.

But her creativity could not be contained within music alone. It flowed into everything she touched: jewellery design, cooking, hand-painting sarees. When I began my journey with block-printed sarees in early 1984, she was there, designing my first exhibition with care and imagination. That was Dalibu—present, engaged, quietly shaping the worlds of those she loved.

She was also the centre of a vast and vibrant circle of friends, many of whom had stood at the forefront in 1971, and many who continue to shape our cultural life today. People were drawn to her, not just because of her talent, but because of her spirit. She was warm, gracious, and deeply loyal, but not quite predictable. Her wit could disarm you, her dry humour could catch you off guard, and when she chose, her words could land with sharp, unflinching clarity. She spoke her mind, always.

Life asked much of her. She lost her husband, Azad Hafiz, in 2014. Her sons, Diraan and Ayan, built their lives abroad. Elder brother Sajjad Shahrear passed away recently. Yet, she never allowed loneliness or hardship to define her. She carried herself with dignity, choosing resilience over compliance, independence over dependence. Her other elder brother, Tanvir Mazhar, stood by her with unwavering devotion, a constant presence in her life.

Even towards the end, she remained connected to her arts. Her last performance at The Daily Star , organised by Gems of Nazrul on the birth anniversary of Kazi Nazrul Islam in October 2025, was a memorable one—a refusal to step away from the stage that had defined her.

Her contributions did not go unrecognised. The Ekushey Padak in 2020 and the Nazrul Padak in 2024 were acknowledgements of a life given to music and to the cultural soul of this country. But for us, her true legacy lies in the memories she leaves behind, in the lives she touched, and in the music that continues to echo.

Saying goodbye is never easy. It asks us to accept what the heart resists. But perhaps with Dalibu, we can hold on to something more enduring. Not the loss, but the presence she created. The gatherings she inspired and the courage she embodied.

Your battle was long, your music was our solace. Now you rest, my dear Dalibu. And in the quiet that follows, we can still hear you...