A K Ratul: The streets he Owned, will remember

As I sit down to write this, what hits me hardest is just how unpredictable life really is—how it can change or end in the blink of an eye. I'm not the only one feeling this way today. The entire Bangladeshi music scene, especially the younger, current generation of rock and underground artistes, is reeling from the same hollow sense of disbelief—because musician A K Ratul, in the most untimely and unfortunate of fashions, passed away on 27 July afternoon.

Whenever an obituary is written, it's almost customary to reach out to friends and peers of the departed—to gather memories, anecdotes, and heartfelt messages. But in the case of A K Ratul's sudden and untimely passing, we chose not to. 

The grief is still raw, the silence too heavy, and the wound too fresh. Everyone is still in a state of mourning, trying to process the shock and dealing with the loss in their own way.

What follows, then, is a quiet and modest tribute to the legacy Ratul leaves behind. A glimpse into the kind of artiste—and person—he was, drawn from fragments that have begun to surface online since his passing. It's not comprehensive, nor could it ever be. But in these small recollections, shared memories, and spontaneous tributes, a picture begins to form—of someone whose music meant something, and whose absence will echo for quite some time.

Perhaps, the first shock—aside from the devastating news of Ratul's passing itself—was the cause: a cardiac arrest. It just didn't sit right with anyone. Ratul, by all appearances, seemed a perfectly healthy person barely into his thirties; fit as a fiddle. And maybe that's the part that stings the most.

It happened near the end of a workout session at the gym. According to posts and personal accounts circulating online, Ratul collapsed suddenly but regained consciousness soon afterwards. Those around him assumed it was nothing serious—possibly a sugar dip, or maybe just the toll of the lack of sleep. 

Even after regaining consciousness, Ratul was his usual self—smiling and engaging with the people around him. He reassured others around him that he felt okay, just a bit dizzy.

But just minutes later, things took a sudden and alarming turn. Ratul began to shake, and his condition quickly worsened. He was rushed to the nearest hospital, but on the way, his breathing grew shallow and his pulse steadily weakened. Tragically, by the time they reached the hospital, it was already too late. In a heartbreaking turn of events, the musician was declared dead on arrival.

Ratul's first Namz-e-Janaza was held on 27 July after Maghrib prayers in Uttara. A second janaza took place around 8:30 AM yesterday, after which he was laid to rest beside his father at Banani graveyard.

To music lovers across the country, Ratul will be remembered most vividly as the vocalist and bassist of the band Owned. And perhaps this is the first place to begin tracing what made him so special and so distinct as a musician.

Personally, I can still recall the first time I encountered Owned. It was about a decade ago, just as I was finishing school, when a friend excitedly told me about this "new" band in town that was making serious waves with their debut full-length album, 'One'. 

Curious to see what the fuss was about, I pulled up the music video for 'Bhabantor' on YouTube—and the realisation was instantaneous— it sounded different. There was a raw, unfiltered energy in the sound—ferocious, yet strikingly melodic. A blend of emotion and aggression, precision and chaos. It didn't feel like a copy of anything that came before. It felt like a band stepping into their own voice—and Ratul was at the heart of it.

Take Ratul away from the stage, away from the mic and the bass, and place him in a studio or behind a mixing console—and his brilliance didn't fade, not even a little. If anything, it expanded. While Owned may be the most visible part of his legacy, it's not the whole story.

His deeper, quieter contributions—often behind the scenes—may very well be where his true impact lies. Ratul had a way of lifting up those around him, especially young musicians just starting out. He helped shape sounds, guided early steps, lent his ear, his time, his skill. He did not do these things for credit or applause, but simply because he cared.

Many of these efforts will likely never be formally recognised. They won't appear in liner notes or music awards. But they live on—in the voices he nurtured, in the songs he helped bring to life, and in the evolving shape of the underground and rock sound in Bangladesh. Subtle, but lasting. Quiet, but vital. 

Since the news of his passing, social media has been flooded with tributes—raw, heartfelt messages from fellow musicians, fans, and friends. But beyond the public outpouring lies something even more telling: the quieter, more intimate glimpses of who Ratul truly was.

What stands out most in these countless posts and screenshots isn't just his talent—it's his humility. Despite having more than one full-length album under his belt, Ratul never carried the air of someone too busy, too important, or too removed. 

Instead, he was generous with his time, always eager to create, and just as ready to dive into a conversation about music as he was to geek out over WWE or share his love for video games.

Scroll through the messages people have shared—conversations from years past, chats about songs, encouragement during early gigs—and you'll start to see the fuller picture: not just Ratul the artist, but Ratul the friend, the mentor, the enthusiast. Someone who made people feel seen and heard, and someone whose absence will be felt in ways both big and quiet.

Our music scene—however miniscule—is a tightly knit circle. It's small, yes, but maybe that's its hidden strength. In a space where almost everyone knows everyone, where support often trumps rivalry, Ratul managed to leave a mark on nearly all corners of it. 

Whether it was veteran bands from thirty years ago, breakout acts from a decade back, or brand-new names still finding their sound—Ratul had crossed paths with them all. Played with them, worked behind the scenes, shared a laugh, a stage, a story.

That's why, despite the heartbreak, I can probably say with confidence: his name won't fade into the background with time. It won't be shelved away in the dusty corners of memory. He'll be kept alive by the very people he worked with—the musicians he supported, the ones he mentored, the ones he inspired. 

His presence will linger in the songs they play, in the stories they tell, and even in the live shows where, as recently as two weeks ago, he was still shaping the sound from behind the console. The streets won't forget him.