I don't know why my heart felt so heavy when I learnt about Andrew's passing, far away in Dili, East Timor where he had recently moved to. I felt such profound sadness and disappointment. Because Andrew Eagle, from Sydney, Australia, was one person you would only associate with life in its most vibrant, visceral, spectacular form. You didn't expect someone like Andrew, who would have turned only 50 this December 16, to exit the world so abruptly, not when he had so much passion, energy and incorrigible curiosity to dig out every little treasure hidden in each corner of the world he visited, not when he gave so much love to the world and when the world loved him back.

It was Andrew, the traveller, the eternal jajabor (or "zazabor" as he would say of himself) who had the ability to find something extraordinary in what was mundane to the general eye. Only someone with his optimism could discover beauty amid the ugliness, rhythm among the chaos. Nothing was left at surface level for Andrew—he had to go in deep into everything he encountered; along the way, he forged friendships that withstood distance and time.

I am trying to remember when exactly I met Andrew or whether it was a phone call that introduced me to a writer that magazine editors dream of. He wanted to write travel stories on his trips all over the world: Eastern Europe, China, Japan, Nicaragua, Iceland, Ukraine, Bolivia and so on. To be honest, I wasn't sure how much our readers of the Star Weekend Magazine would respond to travel stories by a foreigner on foreign lands. But when I received the first few pieces, I knew we had struck gold! His travelogues read like fiction—the characters he met were so quirky, the experiences so unusual. His clever play with words and engaging style made them delightful reads.

His column, The Village Flute, which detailed his adventures all over Bangladesh, expanded his fan following dramatically. He saw a Bangladesh not many of us could see: an ever-evolving country full of promise and possibilities, even in the remotest places which he was determined to visit.

He wrote, for instance, in "Destination Feni" about the success of Feni town as a bustling, happening district, delving into its history as part of the Tripuran kingdom and one which was bombed by the Japanese in World War II. Through interviews of elderly residents, he revealed glimpses of Feni during World War II when handheld sirens were sounded to warn people to run to the trenches during bombing raids by Japanese planes and when troops of several nationalities—Pathans, Punjabis, Baluchis, Nepalis, Gurkhas, Indians, British and Africans—came to town.

Only Andrew had the ability to bring out the story of the beauty of religious harmony in a place like Jhalakathi. In an article, he delved into the Islamic legacy of Jhalakati, focusing on the saints who preached the religion, highlighting the message of peace and inclusiveness, the importance of knowledge and the principles of serving your fellow being. A Muslim businessman is quoted in a feature, "We are neighbours. We live in one place. We are often guests at Hindu weddings. There is no disturbance in Jhalakathi." Similarly, a Hindu proprietor of a small eatery remarks, "We are not Hindus and Muslims, but people. You do your religion and I do mine. What does it matter?" If Andrew could go back there today, would he have found this beautiful sense of community among people of different faiths? I fervently hope so.

Yet, no matter how enamoured he became of the towns or villages he encountered or the local delicacies he sampled, nothing would compare to what he referred to as "amar desher bari"—Hatiya, Noakhali. He was very attached to his parents and siblings in Sydney, but it was Hatiya where he had decided to settle in, buying a house where his adopted brother Setu would live with his family, who had become Andrew's family too. Setu, in fact, was a regular character in many of Andrew's stories, showing the deep friendship of two men from two different corners of the globe.

I met Setu at Andrew's birthday party at his small but tastefully decorated flat in Mohammadpur. A wiry young man with intense eyes, Setu was as interesting as his Australian-born, Hatiyan brother had described. We had a delicious lunch prepared by Andrew's cook and I was touched by how he treated his staff—with gratitude and respect. In fact, that was one of the most endearing things about Andrew, how he treated everyone with respect and kindness. I am not surprised by the outpouring of sorrow and shock on Facebook by many of his Bangladeshi friends. They include former colleagues at The Daily Star, some of whom he had helped with their English language skills or just those he had chats with over a cup of tea and shingara. Self-effacing, witty and empathetic, it was hard not to like Andrew. I am sure his students at International Hope School Bangladesh, and in all the other far-off lands where he taught, would agree that he was one of the most fun and caring instructors they had had.

I once asked him, "Why did you choose to live here? You could live anywhere in the world." "It's the people," he said simply. "They're different. I can really relate to them."

That he was born on December 16, our Victory Day, did not seem coincidental; it was fate.

The last time I spoke to him, Andrew told me he had decided to move to Dili, East Timor where he had got a job. He wanted me to have old copies of the Star Weekend Magazine that he had collected over the years. We tried to meet up but somehow couldn't make it happen. He texted me from the airport, "Well this is it. Waiting to board final flight from Dhaka… for a while. Surprisingly headed for Sydney first… sixteen years later."

The last messages from Andrew were in late July asking me if my family and I were safe, and then on August 5 congratulating me with hearts and Bangladesh flag emojis on "a beautiful start and momentous day…"

"I hope The Daily Star can be free again," he texted. "Yes, but I think we've kind of forgotten how to be that," I remarked.

In typical Andrew style, he texted back, "I hope that re-learning will be a joyful experience."

Aasha Mehreen Amin is joint editor at The Daily Star.

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