The mobile phone rang exactly at that precise moment. A call from Shahara to her uncle's mobile. That is also the exact time that Shahara Islam was blown to pieces on a double-decker near Russell Square close to King's Cross station on July 7.

At her Juliette Road terrace residence, the flowers, dried and brown, still lie beside the door in a heap. The quiet neighbourhood seems to be still mourning the face of London.

A single knock and the door opens. Shahara's father Shafiqul Islam stands there with a mug of tea in his hand, draped in a lungi and a dark violet shirt. For a father of a 20-year, Shafiqul looks too young, hardly in his 40s, and very handsome. Clean shaved at this hour.

"Salamalaikum. Come in," he says sombrely and steps aside.

The wooden floor of the drawing room feels cold on bare foot. There is something hollow about the room, with crème walls and barely anything on them. Two crème- colour sofas on two sides, two plants in crè

me tubs, two large pictures -- one of two white roses and the other of a mild yellow tulip -- on two walls, and a big mirror framed in gold.

And yes, a large television. BBC News 24 is running and they are showing the mug shots of the suspected terrorists who made the July 7 attacks. Shahara's killer-suspect is also there, looking straight at her father Shafiqul.

How does he feel?

A few uneasy moments pass. Nobody talks. Then the father speaks: "I have just received a letter of condolence from Prime Minister Khaleda Zia."

Silence again. "Want to have some tea?" he asks and disappears behind the drawing room door. Sounds of a spoon stirring in the cup. The TV buzzes on about extradition complexities of one terror-suspect held in Rome.

"Shahara was supposed to go that day," Shafiqul says once he returns. He talks in short sentences. "It was Allah's wish. Everybody has to go sooner or later. She went sooner. But her death has some meanings."

Yes, it has. For the Bangladeshis in London, Shahara's death saved them from any bad repute.

That morning, she was going to her Cooperative Bank where she worked as cashier at the Angel branch. She always took the Northern Line on the Underground, but on that fatal morning, that particular line was not running. So she had to take the double-decker. Her uncle was also supposed to travel that morning, but he did not wake up from sleep. And so Shahara walked alone into her death when that double-decker was ripped apart by a suicide bomb.

When the family came to know about the blasts and noticed the missed call from Shahara, they thought she is ok, otherwise why should she call? At 1:30pm, they called her on the mobile, Shahara's recorded voice said: "Sorry, I can't receive your mail at this moment. Please leave your message, I will call you back later."

The family then called her bank and found out she had not reached there. Then they panicked. Exactly a week from that Thursday morning, on Wednesday the Scotland Yard finally confirmed that Shahara Islam is dead. A week of agony and despair was confirmed.

BBC is again showing the face of the bombers, all of them are now in police dragnet. How does the father feel?

"What is the use of this? There is no proper justice in this country," says Shafiqul. "At best, they will get life-term. They will come out after 10-12 years. In this country, the prison is better than our homes. They have TV, they have library, they have gyms, they have all the luxuries."

And he remembers his daughter's face. It had a few bruises, but not like that of a mutilated bomb victim, just a few red cuts. She seemed in a peaceful slumber. The body was wrapped in a plastic bag from below the head. That part must have received the blow and been badly battered. Police did not allow them to open it. So they had to give her the final bath above that plastic cover. Only they could dab her face with a soft cotton.

And she went to rest in that plastic cover. Only days before, she had bought a sari to attend her uncle's wedding this month. That still remains packed in the cupboard; her uncle's wedding will be held on schedule.

Since his daughter's death, Shafiqul has not gone back to work, he simply can't think of it; he also works in the same bus company that runs the double-deckers in London, one of which became Shahara's mobile death.

"My company asked me to take time," Shafiqul says. "Every day they send me their condolences."

And about 200 bus drivers and officials lined up on two sides as Shahara's coffin was carried to her grave at Garden of Peace, the new cemetery in London.

Three weeks into that grisly incident, Shahara today sleeps in the Garden with only a small nametag.

But her mother cannot sleep. Even today, she calls her mobile number and listens to her voice saying: "Sorry, I can't receive your mail at this moment. Please leave your message, I will call you back later."

"See, my Shahara is still alive, she talks," she would say.

Shahara is still alive for Londoners, in a different way.