In recent days, social media was abuzz with a photo of singer Tahsan Khan and makeup artist Roza Ahmed, sparking curiosity among fans. On Saturday, January 4, the couple officially tied the knot at a community center in Dhaka. Amid the marriage buzz, questions have arisen regarding Roza Ahmed’s father and Tahsan’s father-in-law.
Roza’s father, Faruk Ahmed, known as “Panama Faruk,” was a resident of Barisal city. He was killed in a reported shootout with the Rapid Action Battalion (RAB) on February 10, 2014. This revelation has led to mixed reactions on social media about Roza Ahmed and Tahsan’s family dynamics.
Amid these discussions, a heartfelt Facebook post from Roza Ahmed dated June 4, 2024, about her father resurfaced, gaining attention. In the post, she shared the struggles she faced after her father’s death and her journey toward success.
She wrote, “Alhamdulillah! The decoration and setup of my Roza’s Bridal Makeover and Beauty Care Salon in New York City has just been completed. I took this selfie a little while ago. Usually, many photos are taken of me, but today, tears rolled down my cheeks as I clicked this selfie. I cried for a long time but couldn’t quite figure out why. I am my parents’ first child, their most cherished one.
My father always used to call me ‘my little fairy.’ Back then, our family held significant influence in Barisal city. My childhood was full of abundance. Invitations flowed in from one house to another because our presence was considered essential to any gathering. There were days when we attended four events in a single day, just to make an appearance.
Then, suddenly, my father left us forever. He stayed with us only as long as his destined life allowed. I have countless grievances as his little fairy, but whom can I blame now? With his departure, the respect and affection people once showed us also vanished.
I first realized that the love and admiration we received were centered around my father, intertwined with selfish motives. Just two months after my father’s death, a close relative’s wedding took place. Despite our once-close bond, we were not invited. Relatives who attended the wedding began calling my mother, asking why we didn’t attend, whether we were still in Barisal, and so on. That night, I watched my mother cry, her simplicity laid bare.
You might think I cried over not being invited, but it wasn’t about the invitation. It was the pain of seeing everyone celebrate under the same roof while my mother, my younger brother Utsav, and I sat in a corner of our house, excluded. I wanted to scream, ‘Father, just look at how those you did so much for are repaying us.’
My father left behind many assets, but they were entangled with my grandfather’s properties, which also involved uncles and aunts. My mother, who married at a young age, lacked education and awareness. She didn’t have the courage or knowledge to assert her rights, nor did she realize she could. Utsav was still very young, and I was just a child. Our education expenses were met with calculated precision, leaving no room for extras. I didn’t dare express my desires, ensuring that Utsav could have what he wanted.
After my father’s death, marriage proposals started pouring in. Relatives brought one suitor after another. That was when I first raised my voice, declaring, ‘My age may be young, and my father may be gone, but my dreams and my father’s dreams have not died!’
Many took offense at my words, saying I was disrespectful to elders and would amount to nothing. Rumors spread like wildfire—that I spent my days with boys, that my friends were a bad influence, that I didn’t observe purdah, and so on. Every day, complaints poured into my house.
My mother, overwhelmed, asked me, ‘Swear to me that these allegations are false.’ I swore to her, ‘No, Mother, they are all lies.’ Then, I held her and cried with her. From that day, my mother started accompanying me to coaching classes. She would return home and cook for everyone, enduring immense hardship. I felt like a burden, blamed for everything.
When my grandfather fell ill, my mother had to tend to him, leaving me to attend coaching classes alone. A friend told me she tutored students, so I asked her to find me one. She found two instead. They were very young children, and their tuition fees were meager. I disliked coaching, so I used that time to tutor students secretly. With that money, I treated Utsav to outings and gifts, trying to compensate for the love he missed from our father.
Determined that no other girl should face the humiliation I did, I started makeup classes, training over 500 women in a year. Hundreds of women became self-reliant. Then one day, my mother called, saying I needed to stand at the U.S. Embassy for immigration. My uncle had applied for us long ago. The visa was approved, and we had to leave the country.
Leaving behind my career, circle, and dreams, I stepped into an uncertain future in the U.S. Slowly, I began rebuilding my life. Indians and Pakistanis in the diaspora sought my services, and I resumed teaching makeup classes. I established myself as an entrepreneur once more. I pursued cosmetology studies at a college, specializing in skincare, hair, and makeup, earning my license. That led to today’s studio, equipped with top-quality products and a modern management system.
These words are written with great emotion. I mentioned earlier that my mother is a simple woman. Since my father’s death, she had never spoken loudly or laughed. Today, she proudly tells everyone, ‘Yes, my eldest daughter Roza is taking care of me, Alhamdulillah.’ Allah has blessed us abundantly. She may not have dreamed for herself, but as her daughter, I’ve helped her learn to live anew.
Today, I feel like shouting, ‘Father, your little fairy has grown up! You remain the center of all my dreams, Baba.'”
