Filed under: Uncategorized
The poet H.W.Longfellow calls universe as an immeasurable wheel turning forever, where forms appear and disappear in a perpetual cycle of change.
The wind of change and new technology has swept away and obliterated forms and images, sounds and flavors that were so real one day. The simple, innocent fun and enjoyments of simple life are lost somewhere in the winds of change and modernity
In U.P. summer holidays used to be long, stretching from mid may to 8th of July, when schools reopened with the onset of monsoon. Summer months used to be very hot with loo winds lashing the plains of U.P. Ours were a big family, going out of station to beat the heat was out of question. But we did not feel the need after Baba installed the cooler. It was his indigenous creation with a simple table fan. One day Baba would get to the work of cleaning and oiling it, after its yearlong resting place on top of the almirah. Prepare the cooler box, padding its three sides with khus mats. And sprinklers attached to thin rubber tubes. The sprinklers sprayed water on the khus, which gave a nice aroma with cool breeze. This cooler was better than any desert cooler that I have seen, which need pumps for wetting the wood shavings, as khus is not available these days, and going kaput many times in one season. Neighboring children came to enjoy the coolness of our house and sometimes fell asleep on our beds. The whole neighborhood was like a big joint family and there was no formality. Every one talked about Banerjee babu, who had turned his house into Simla hills.
Another indigenous Endeavour was Didi’s Lotus Benji Club. When only in school she had read classics prescribed for M.A. course (one of our aunts had done M.A. in English literature and had left behind a trunkful of books). She had too much to digest or assimilate in her system… She reminds me of that Chinese traveler, who had acquired so much knowledge in course of his travels in India that he feared his belly would burst, so he wore a copper plate around his belly to contain his knowledge. Didi did not do anything so quaint, instead she took to writing. We were from Hindi medium school, where English was introduced in sixth standard only. Infact I could not write two sentences of my own even when I was in 10th standard (used to pester didi for writing explanations of important passages). Therefore, when her articles started coming out in the Sunday supplement called “Young Folks League” of a prestigious English daily Statesman it was a pleasant surprise for our two families and she became talk of the town.
In Calcutta, she was introduced to Uncle Jack and Aunty Jill, who conducted “The Young Folks League” section. Thus Lotus Benji Club was born. There were other Benji clubs in other cities. Every Sunday Didi would come clutching the Sunday supplement where all the clubs activities were published; we would pour over the paper read hungrily and laugh seeing our names appearing in print.
Our neighborhood was teeming with young boys and girls so Didi was never short of material for concocting stories. Whether it was a cricket match, a wrestling tournament, a kabaddi game, a variety programme staged, picnic, Independence Day celebration, or a doll’s wedding feast – everything was reported by the captain Jita K. Banerjee (her pen name) as club activity.
One Saturday afternoon as I came home after half-day in school, Didi told me in a very agitated voice that one Kuldeep Bhanot of Delhi Benji Club, is coming to Kanpur to see our club and meet us all. We were panicky, we had no clubroom but something had to be done and fast, so we set down to work. We had a rickety short almira standing at one corner of the front room and some Bengali children’s’ books donated by Ghosh Saheb. The almira became our club library. Some cricket bats and Baba’s fishing rods were put on display. Thakuma’s bed was spruced up, snatching out the mosquito net from above and hiding that somewhere. Didi’s drawing book and some of our handiworks were also put on display. Dinesh Bhaiya was informed and asked to come soon, as he was a very active and enthusiastic member of Benji club. I often saw him in animated discussions with Didi, regarding the ‘kagzats’… He was in charge of the documents, pasting articles and clippings of the club activities in a scrapbook. Dinesh bhaiya also brought some exhibits from his house.. Thus we were ready to receive Mr.. Kuldip Bhanot, but it did not happen. He wrote back later that he could not break journey at Kanpur on his way to Calcutta. What a relief!!!
I would have been very happy if I could give exact details of a hilarious incident, when a stage show was directed by Didi..Stage was prepared with our ‘all purpose’ Ram Bhajan Ki Chowki, with props lifted from other houses, mother’s benarasi saris were fixed as screens. If I remember correctly, the drama was about a sage called Rishishringa. The protagonist needed false hair and appropriate attire. He was fine in the rehearsals but on the final day when he saw his parents sitting among the audience, he developed cold feet, his tongue was jammed. He would not utter a word. Somehow intense prompting from behind the stage saved the situation.
Another play was based on a Russian story, in which the actor could not pronounce the word Padrowhich. It was like this..
Didi……say Padrowhich.
Actor………Padrohich.
Didi………..No No. Padrowhich Padrowhich
Actor………Padrohich Padrohich !!
It was not easy to be captain of Lotus Benji Club. Time went by. As Didi graduated to higher classes, entered college, she became busy with higher studies. The days of childish fun started fading out, so did Lotus Benji Club. One day Dinesh Bhaiya came to return all the ‘kagzats’ and the scrapbook, which contained reports of the club activities. I wish we had preserved it for our children.
Filed under: Uncategorized
A few years had elapsed, since Baba had settled down in Kanpur with a prestigious job in the Lalimli Woolen Mills, when catastrophe struck. Pishemoshai met with an accident on the railway tracks and died. Perhaps he had premonition of its coming. He had asked Baba to take care of his family. They were friends. I have heard from sources that he had given financial support to our father to continue his higher studies in Kolkata.
Baba did his best to honor his commitment. He assisted Borodadabhai in a partnership business with Bhuto kaku, and brought Keshto and Debu to Kanpur. Kanpur was a big city of U.P.with many good schools and colleges. They will study in front of his eyes, get a degree and stand on their own feet. That was his plan. It must have been a great relief for him to see Keshto Dadabhai, graduating with a B.Com. Degree but his plans with Debu went haywire.
Debu or Deb Narayan Bhattacharya (his good name) was a few years older than me, but we did not call him Debuda He was growing like a palm tree (tal gach) already 6’+. He could be called handsome, very sharp features, wavy hair which he styled like those cinema personalities. He had no interest in studies and he did not follow any schedule, He came and went out at will, always at tenterhooks with Thakuma, who was supposed to be his guardian No. 2. She was there to see that he ate and drank well, in fact I always suspected that she was partial to her natis (daughter’s children) and loved them better than us but how could she keep track of his activities. Her abusive words (like Dekra) were crossing limits of decency, but Debu did not care. What went wrong with him, to deviate him from the path other children in the family were following? Today I am in a better position to answer that question.
That unlike Keshto Dadabhai, Debu was not well integrated into our family.. When we were kids our mother was not always present with us. She would spend few months in dadurbari till she recovered from the strains of childbirth. Routine of the house went normally with Thakuma and Binadi managing the kitchen. It was Keshto Dadabhai who took care of the infants, carrying them in arms, singing lullabies. He loved children, thus he had carved his own special place in the family and had earned the right to play our big brother. Debu did not have any such responsibility, so he remained an outsider in his mamarbari.
Secondly Dadabhai had a set of good friends, of his own age from neighboring families, going to same school and college, pursuing common interests. He was always in good company, so necessary for a growing adolescent. Unfortunately Debu was a loner; He did not have a friend circle in the neighborhood. Perhaps he mixed with the haata boys, school bunkers, with no aims in life. Our brothers played cricket in the back yard, but I had never seen Debu playing cricket. Then where did he spend time? Actually he had become a cinema addict. His notebooks contained names of the cinemas, and how many times he had seen them. He lived, and breathed cinema. I connected with him not too badly. He had one interest, when he conducted sports events with neighboring children, I took part in them. His cinema addition was gradually reaching dangerous levels when he started indulging in small crimes to raise money for buying cinema tickets. And one day just before the Board exams, he fled home for Bombay to meet Ashok Kumar to realize his dreams of becoming an actor – that was the end of his education
Thirdly our Baba was not a strict guardian. He himself had grown up in his mamarbari, but Kanpur was not Baduria village. There were varied interests, activities and temptations; very easy for a loosely implanted adolescent to break ties with the adopted family and try his luck to achieve where his interest lay. Perhaps his size and height made Baba nervous. Baba watched helplessly, Debu was becoming uncontrollable beyond mentoring
I met Debu after many years in Surilane. Dadabhai’s Bandel house had not come up yet, Borodadabhai, pishima and Keshto Dadabhai lived there, Debu was doing something in Madhyamgram and occasionally came to Surilane. On one such occasion I met him. He had not changed, same jovial self. “Umu, Baduria jabi” he asked me and I was ready at once. We made plan for the next Sunday. It was for him that I got to see the land where Baba had grown up, where my roots are. The fruit orchard, the paddy fields, The Ichhamati river, mentioned by Baba in his diary, seemed as if I knew them from so many years. It felt nice when Bhobesh Dadu introduced me to some old dwellers, whom we met on the way as Bodai’s daughter. But in place of the old house was a concrete building, with a circular veranda encircling the spacious rooms, king size beds of polished wood, speaking of the flourishing timber business of Bhuto kaku.
On another occasion at Christmas time Debu took me to the famous Bandel Church. On river Hooghly, steeped in history of British times, and crowded with tourists from Calcutta those were carefree days, when I saw Debu last.
But time does not stand still; it slides on sweeping everything in its flow. Lays traps for people to fall into them, get crushed in its tentacles. Some fight and come out with their acquired vitality and strength. Some can’t. I wish Debu had not married, at least he was happy then. But Debu fell into the trap of marriage, family children like any normal person. I do not know every detail but in Kanpur what I heard from time to time was story of woe and misery. His relations with Dadabhai were not good. He needed help. If he had come to Kanpur once with his daughter, everything would have been forgotten. But he never came. Perhaps he was still suffering from a guilt feeling. I heard that his daughter used to write to her grandma (our mother), whom she has never seen, only heard from her father. What a tragedy. Pishima’s family is almost wiped out, who will tell us about her!
Filed under: Uncategorized
Most Bengalees must have known the poem Puraton Bhritto (Tagore) meaning that old servant. One punch line reads “Ja kichu haray ginni bolen Keshta batai chor”. The old loyal servant, a little scatter brained could never win the favor of the lady of the house and was blamed for everything amiss in the house. Dadabhai derived some kind of sadistic pleasure, singing, reciting or quoting the punch line, that is my early childhood memory of our Chotto Dadabhai
Chotto Dadabhai or Shri Krishna Chandra Bhattacharya, or Keshto Dadabhai or simply Keshta as Baba called him, was the second son of our pishima. After the death of our pishemoshai, pishima was utterly helpless, with her young children, without a male guardian. Baba brought two of her sons to Kanpur for giving them good education. Pishima joined later with her younger daughter and Kanu the youngest son. Ma was very understanding. She never interfered with Baba’s decisions and never asserted her rights as the lady of the house. In our family Thakuma was supreme.
The arrangement suited mother. After serving breakfast to Baba and sending him off to office and the children to school, she was free to visit her father’s place (dadurbari), where there was plenty of milk and delicious food waiting, magazines to read and relax till it was time for Baba to come home for lunch break.
Back to Dadabhai, in our disorganized house where no one had a personal space, Dadabhai was quite an organized person. He had a shelf hanging on the wall, where his books were arranged neatly. We did not dare to touch them for fear of getting his gattas, One single gatta struck with his knuckle on the head was enough to remember for a life time. Not that he was always so cruel; when he was happy he rewarded us with a pincer like grip of the corner of the mouth, digging his nails into the skin, which was equally painful. Such was his gesture of endearment.
He had many friends – Harishankar chacha, Munnu bhaiya, Pyarelal, our chottomama. They inspired awe in me, as they looked so formidable, wearing dhoti kurta, which was not uncommon for college students those days. They discussed politics (Dadabhai was a swaym sevak and attended Jansangha evening drill. Jansangha activities were not discussed openly those days. It was a hush hush affair.) He sang sangh songs and warned us never to sing them, or we would be arrested by the police. Though Dadabhai studied hard, he could never clear his final exams at one go. At the time when results were to be announced, Baba and Thakuma waited anxiously, and the house plunged in gloom when he failed, Baba’s dream of settling him in life getting a jolt.
During exam time, he and friends camped on the Ram Bhajan Ki Chowki, on the veranda studying all night or preparing chits scribbled all over with important points and devising ways of hiding them in strategic places in the body. The pencil box, ruler was overcrowded with scribbling. Perhaps I was too nosy, or how could I know all this… Exams those days were a test of a student’s mugging capacity and we also heard of rival universities and colleges massacring each other’s students to spoil their pass percentage Our Dadabhai was not the only one, even Harshankar chacha failed every year, in spite of being so studious and in this context one can remember the Bade Bhai Saheb of Munshi Premchand’s story, who also failed every year.
Dadabhai had a daily duty, shopping vegetables from the Sissamow market in the evening, for which thakuma gave him one rupee two annas everyday. Thakuma was quite strict in the matter of taking account of expenses. As Dadabhai made his pocket money by fudging rates, thakuma was never satisfied and there used to be squabbling and arguments everyday with Dadabhai walking away, grudging his thankless job
In the evening thakuma after finishing her evening meal of chana (curdled milk or dudh suji, (semolina cooked in milk) would come to her bed with her bottle of mustard oil, for lubricating her nostrils now and then. We children would snuggle around her for stories of Brhma daityas, brahmin souls living on the bel tree who were ferocious by nature wringing the neck of wrong doers and petnees , who stole fish from the korai. She had grown up in the village so these were essential features of her stories. Dadabhai would be pacing up and down in the hall in front of thakuma’s bed with the youngest kid in arms, opening his can of tirade. He spared no one….
“Boddinath! Gone to his evening adda”!!!
(Baba back home from office at 5 in the evening, would first enjoy a cup of tea with a cigarette and then take a stock of the progress in maths of my brothers, which sometime ended in unpleasant scenes with Ma rescuing the poor student, telling him to run away. After a while Baba would refresh himself, then wearing a crisp dhuti Punjabi would leave for his evening adda).
“Ginni has no time for children and a new addition every year”!!! (Ma would be busy in the kitchen, cooking evening meal)
“Running nose! No woolens on the body! Bare feet, who will take care of this, who else? But poor Keshta”!
He would make a frantic search for the socks and some woollies to cover the baby. I was quite used to listening to his tirade and outspoken remarks and confused who to support, he was trespassing his limits undoubtedly, but I knew if Baba or Ma would suddenly appear on the scene he would be all politeness, smiling shyly, face down, avoiding eye contact. At this time he sang the lines from Puraton Bhritto
“ Bhooter moton chehara jemon nirbodh oti ghor,
Ja kichu harray ginnini bolen Keshta batai chor” (giving stress on the second line)
This was his way of teasing our mother and Ma would be eternally grateful to him for taking care of her kiddies.
Our parents were not at all strict. There were no rules or regulations in the house, and there was no fear of getting punishment. If we were at all afraid of any one it was Dadabhai. He lorded over us – then why did he equate himself with that poor servant of the poem, was it because his name corresponded with him? Or maybe he was too conscious of the fact that he was growing up in his mamarbari. Dadabhai finally passed his B. Com and left Kanpur to join his mother, married and lived happily with three children.
I met Dadabhai, years later in his house in Bandel. He loved children; He quickly took charge of my kids, one in arms and the other on toes, I would watch him pacing up and down the entire length of his house, singing to them some happy songs. Reminding me of our times.
Jukto koro he shobar shonge
Our present house in Kanpur situated in Azad Nagar (named after Chandra Shekhar Azad, a freedom-fighter), is a long way from MacRobert Gunj. It is in the neighborhood of the old area, called Nawab Gunj. Returning there has always had the taste of homecoming. Leaving the railway station you usually hire an auto-scooter to drive through the city along the well-known Mall Road, now renamed Mahatma Gandhi Road. Revisiting the place one notices the dwindling out of the green spots and concrete structures growing wherever there was some space free. Well-known landmarks of our teenage years like the S.N. Sen Balika Vidyalay, Phool Bagh, and the Govt. High-School etc. stand almost invisible, lost amidst a crowd of buildings. During my last visit, I tried to spot out Datta Babu’s stationary shop by the bifurcation in Chunni Gunj, where his sons had always a friendly word to add to the exercise-books and lozenges we bought from there. Before I could recognize that familiar corner, my auto-scooter plunged into the flood of oncoming vehicles, ready to collide. Of course there was no collision, just the thrill of having escaped by a hair’s breadth and the frustrated dream of Datta babu’s shop!
Approaching MacRobert Gunj, my attempt to identify the big kirkitia playground proved equally poor – the place showed no resemblance to a playground. The next thing was the red letter-box on the left, and I was happy to see it standing there like a dwarf – its half a century old coat of paint in colonial color could be guessed under some layers of dust. The big gulmohur tree on the other side of the road with its crown of flaming red and orange flowers was simply absent from the sky. But, we’re not here to lament.
Reaching that point, you’d leave the main road, and turning to the railings at your left, take the last entry to the settlement. Our territory started right there at house no. 51/A, one of our two homes. The house had no gate. You entered through an alley with the garden on both sides: the tall ‘kul’ tree at your right preceded the deshi lime tree, which received Dadu’s special attention. He grafted it from time to time to make it stronger, but the ‘lebu’ fruits remained obstinately small.
Another attraction in it was a sparrow’s nest, where Dadu placed back infant sparrows fallen on the ground – a delicate operation. Its fragrant leaves could be rolled to make a little pipe, and our uncle Boro Mama had taught me how to blow in it like playing a flute. That lebu tree was also home to the small yellow butterflies, which weren’t easy to catch. I preferred the slightly bigger white ones with a green-bluish shade bordering the wing. Then you had the beautiful rust-red and brick colored emperor butterfly, regular visitors around the shiuli tree. There were also the hens from the neighboring house, in other words, Mrs. Lyall’s, which had to be chased with energy, because of their incorrigible habit of dropping in OUR garden.
On the left we had a few bela and fewer roses, a dense shrub with white kunda flowers, one amra tree delivering ingredients to Didima’s chatni recipes, one sajne for drumsticks, and the beloved peyara (guava) tree, which had lodged on its top the famous beehive plucked single-handed by our brother Ajit, charged by hundreds of bees.
Farther down at the right there were our cows – I’ve known the gentle and quiet Boro Kali – black with a white patch between the eyes, her less polite daughter Choto Kali had a smaller white patch on the forehead, and the Shada Goru. Actually their lineage had started when our Sejo Mashi was born. She’s said to have been a frail baby, and Dadu and Didima had bought a cow to have enough fresh milk to nourish her. From that one mother cow onwards, the successive generations of them provided us with plenty of milk for all kids to come.
In front of the house following the track to the left, you’d pass along a large garden with many rose bushes up to the Bewa-Hata (no. 42), where Mesdi had won the title “ machhi-khani”. The row of houses starting on your right led to Ma and Baba’s place at 45/A. How long did it take me to go there? Normally, about three minutes – for I didn’t walk but ran that distance as a rule. We were all good runners. When the ground was very hot by noon, we had to run fast, barely touching the track underneath – it was like flying. Except for going to school or to the town, we had no use for shoes.
Going to Ma, simply standing by her, I felt welcomed. She’d serve me from a halua she’d been cooking and its taste is still with me. Sometimes it was plain bread and milk, which had the indefinable savour of her affection. On some days, I was there early in the morning when Baba was getting ready for his office. The younger ones were still in bed – Baba would sing:
“jagato jure udaro sure anando gan baje…”
or
“akashe pakhi, dakiche gahi …”,
or
“amar matha nato kore dao he tomar charanodhular tale.”
He sang rather out of tune, ‘besuro’, as they said, but, it was his way of waking up the house.
One of Ma’ favorite songs – she could sing many of them from her school-days in the Brahmo Girls School, where she had been a pupil – was:
“bhubano jora asanokhani, hridaya majhe …”,
she’d sing, “amar hridaya majhe bichhao ani …”.
Those mornings are with me forever. Let the last word be from the same source:
“jukto koro he shobar shonge,
mukto koro he bondho….”
A note from the editor: Dear All, it is exactly seven months since the blog started and today, we have made the 32nd post. Undoubtedly, journeying through the memories has been a unique experience for all of us. We will continue on this journey, but with a break. We part today on this internet space, with this touching post from Saraju’s diary and yet another lovely sketch by Surya Ranjan. Surya’s sketch is especially significant at this time – for it signifies the essence of life – new characters come, they are nurtured, and life goes on. Love and regards and namaste!
Vizualization and Illustration: Surya Ranjan Shandil
My Recollections of Dadu
I saw Dadu from a distance and rarely had any meaningful conversation with him. Still I knew him as the big banyan tree, under whose shadow we were safe and secure. Dadu was short, not muscular but had a solid body. He was a believer in Gandhijee’s ideology of Swadeshi. He spun charkha in his leisure time and wore dhuti made of yarn, which he spun himself. In my adolescent years if I idolized any one, it was Dadu.
As Didi has said, we were turbulent and unruly. I remember that sharp rebuke – “Aaah!”, when we were too much to endure and also that disarming child like smile when we behaved as good children.
While going to M.G. College, haggling with the rikshawalla, we (Ila and I) quite often came upon Dadu, who would be returning home from office for his second stint in MacRobert Gunj dispensary. He would quickly come over to us, have a talk with the rikshawalla and note down his name and rikshaw number. So concerned was he about our safety. Would anyone believe that I saw my first cinema at age 16 – when Dadu took us to Regal Talkies to show a Satyajit Ray film and give us exposure to good cinema?!
Dadu had kept track of my educational progress. It was the year when I was supposed to appear for my board exams. My study leave had been announced and Dadu had asked me for my exam schedule. He kept a copy with him and came to our house the previous evening to remind me of the exam scheduled for the next morning. It was Dadu who took me to the exam centre, waited till I had found my seat, and then came back home and reported to Ma – “tomar meye ke boshiye diye eshchee”. I could never forget this, even though I could never be chummy with him.
Dadu usually came to our house in the evening, when he had to discuss something with Ma. If Baba came in front of him, we witnessed a very amusing sight – Baba playing ‘hide and seek’, quite in a trap – where to hide his cigarette! Sometimes we alerted him “Dadu ashche!!” Then he would quickly stub out his cigarette.
I had an evening duty – to make paan which Baba and Ma chewed after dinner. In our khabar ghor there was a ‘mitsafe’, on top of which all the ingredients for paan were kept along with a brass paaner baata. Very often while I was making paan, Dadu would enter our house from the back door. He would stop in front of me and we used to have some kind of interaction like this….
Ki korchish?
Hmmm (only a smile)
Ekta khabo?
Smile
Ta hole ekta de….
Dadu, supuri dobo?
Na.
Chun khoyer?
Hain de.
I would make a special paan for Dadu with mouri and elachi without supari which Dadu would accept like a mischievous boy indulging in some guilty pleasure. After I started wearing sari, I could be passed off as a civilized person. He looked at me as if blessing me with his eyes. There was no need of much conversation between us. Perhaps his thoughts went back to the time when I was about to die. The story as I heard from Ma was like this –
I had given Ma much labour pangs, sweat, and tears before seeing the light of the day. Once things became normal and seeing me quite hale and hearty, Dadu decided to undertake his much postponed tour of Kolkata, giving charge of our house to Ismail, his compounder.
It was a hot summer month. Loo was lashing the plains of U.P. with full vigour. I was heat struck and developed high fever. Ismail compounder was called but in vain. He could not bring the fever down. I lay almost senseless and listless. An SOS was sent to Dadu. Dadu hurried back home cutting his visit short. He took me under his treatment. After sunset, our front yard was sprinkled with water till it cooled down. A cot was spread and a bed was made, on which I lay with an ice bag on my head till the wee hours of the morning. It took some time to bring the fever under control. Once the crisis was averted, Dadu quipped, “meyeta ke to merei phele diye chile”.
My Father’s Presence
Among the earliest images in my memory, there’s one showing a ride in a tanga. It’s late in the evening – the tanga is driving down the road towards Brijendra Swarup Park. But wait! I am not yet old enough to have the least idea about that park or, of any destination at all. I’m just seated snugly between Ma and Baba…. there’s the rhythmical knock of hoofs and patches of light on Ma’s sari at regular intervals from under the street lights.
It can be supposed that in the early years of their married life, our parents used to go out in the evenings to visit friends or for a stroll in Arya Nagar – a part of the town familiar to us.
In another picture, I’m on all fours on the floor. Baba’s playing with me – he’s pretending to catch me and I creep under the bed to hide myself. I vaguely remember having broken a front tooth in the jostle – or was it he who got a tooth broken?
We surely played a lot together.
The next picture is memorable. It’s not from my own memory, but has got printed in my imagination since the day I heard its story from our mother. The story goes:
Baba was carrying me on his shoulders in the garden (showing me some birds hopping in the branches?), and our Thakuma who was looking on, went up to him and said –
Meyeke ato ador diyo na, tomar sat meye hobe!
The squirrel (kathbirali) on a tree heard her and squeaked: thik thik!
It was daylight, so the invisible stars heard her and smiled to one another:
Seven daughters?
Why not?
And what about sons?
Let them have four sons, okay?
Tathastu!
As you know, the auspicious forecast came true.
Those of you who would go for an analysis of the story and conclude that our Thakuma didn’t like girls, would be wrong. She did have a soft corner for the one or the other among us, but on the whole, her affection was distributed impartially, as were the sweets she prepared. I often received some special favors from her, because I had learnt Bengali and could read the Ramayana to her. On some afternoons when I came to Ma and Baba’s house, she’d take out her big Krittibas Ramayana in Bengali verse, make me sit by the threshold of her thakur ghor, and ask me to read out from one of the “khanda”. We sat on the floor warmed by the afternoon sun, and while I was reading some stirring passage, she’d express her appreciation by a little “aha”! Though I didn’t understand everything, I read fairly well and knew that she was enjoying the episode. But here, I see that I’ve skipped over a number of years.
The stars had decided that our Thakuma’s attention was to be diverted from the problem of getting her granddaughters married – imagine dowries multiplied by seven – so they sent us the first of the four boys they had promised – a fine boy to rejoice her heart.
I wasn’t yet three, but probably already a bit jealous of that pretty little thing. Soon it was found that he had a big belly, may be due to an enlarged liver. Dadu diagnosed the problem and prescribed a special diet for the baby. With all the care needed to follow the treatment of her little one and also for looking after me, our Ma was getting exhausted. One day, as Didima had come to our house, they spoke about the situation and she suggested that she’d take me with her to her own house (Dadurbari) for a while, so that Ma could recover from the pressure and the fatigue. Ma accepted, probably with the idea that it was going to be for a short while. But for reasons I ignore, I stayed on with Dadu and Didima and our aunts and uncles in that other house of ours, at 51/A, MacRobert Gunj through the years of my childhood and youth.
It had been decided with the best of intentions. Yet, many years later and after long and persistent searching, I could trace the cause of my lack of self-confidence in that “expatriation” from the parental house. It happened at a time of my childhood, when Baba’s proximity was a vital need to the building-up of my character. I developed a rebellious nature, unsatisfied with the reality and with myself.
That house gave me everything. The one thing it couldn’t give me was the warmth of my father’s presence.
To be continued.
Some Dadu-stories these, Baba’s and mine. I will tell the way stories are told. Didi, thank you for the thinly veiled and thought provoking reference. A part of it I told you earlier and the rest I seem to have saved up for today.
The cheel noni episode that Mesdi has described is probably in its formative state. By the time it came to us, it had developed into a tribute to Dadu with a bit of mischievous humour. The kite had become a crow.
“Ek je chilo kag noni! Akashe akashe or’e….”
One evening, the kaga sat on our roof when the fish was being cut and cleaned. Seeing that the moment was opportune, he swooped down, snatched up a piece of fish, and started relishing it on the rooftop. He must have been distracted, as all thieves are, for a fish-thorn got stuck in his throat.
“Ka’nta phute kager gala phule holo dhoul….”
He was in pain.
“Kag takhon nijer gala khokar khokar kore,”
…. but in vain.
The thorn was not dislodged. Unable to swallow anything, in a few days he became very weak. Seeing no other real hope he decided to seek Dadu’s help, though the idea was fearsome.
“Dadu takhon nijer ka’nchi ka’nchor ko’nchor kore, khopat kore kager gala omni chepe dhore.”
Kaga was terrified!
Having thus immobilized his throat, Dadu pulled out the thorn with consummate ease and much relieved, the grateful kaga flew into the air, showering benedictions.
As a child I often wondered as to why the thief was being called noni? It dawned upon me much later in my youth that the noni was for the listeners. The lucky recipients of this endearment here are Shobha, Alo, Tultul, Bulbul, and I who used to pile on to his bed every Sunday morning to enjoy the comfort and the stories.
I was injury prone – falls from the bicycle resulting in elbows, knees, and ankles rubbing against the road. I treated the bruises myself. In about a week they would get infected and look terrible. Seeing no other hope, I would go to Ma crying and willingly go along with her to Dadu. “Ba’ndor chele, age ashte paroni!!??!!” he would thunder and sometimes follow it up with a chor‘ (a deft movement of the right hand with the sound ‘thash’ that causes a burning sensation on the left cheek of the recipient). Needless to say that I was grateful for the help. As I see now, my position was no different from the kaga. No wonder that I heard a hyphenated kag-noni!
Dadu often came to our house in the evening carrying an aluminum saucepan to sterilize his syringes and needles. He would put the pan on coal fire and talk to Ma animatedly. Sometimes I would be present there in the kitchen helping Ma with rooties. Ma would only nod and say an occasional taito to encourage him. If he saw us playing with coins, he would demand “Chushi, cheleder hate poisha diyechish kano?” He considered money as a potential source of infections, Ma told me later, as it goes through many hands, clean and not so clean.
But there is divine justice and it did come in the end. It was the winter of 1960 I think. A cricket match was happening at Kanpur. The umpire was Choto dadu (S.K. Ganguly). Shono, as Dadu called him, came home one night to see his brother. It was quite a gathering at obari – Baba, Iludi, Abhilakh Maharaj, Seetaram, Gudde’s dadaji, neighbours, and many others came to see the dignitary. I had gone along with Baba and was in the crowd. They sat in the hall across the square writing table, surrounded by the rest. Much brotherly affection was seen and generous smiles were exchanged and such politeness considering this was only a few years after the tragic holocaust at Narikeldanga that Dada has described so well – cheated and dispossessed, store rooms, no water, no light, no regular job with Boro mama and Didima critically ill. He spoke to everyone like the man in command. “How could I give Umrigar out? India was in such dire straits” he quipped and the crowd nodded in assent.
Shono offered passes to Dadu for the players pavilion. Dadu was hardly interested in cricket I think, but he must have been keen to see his brother in glory – for he surprised me by asking me to accompany him to the stadium. The privilege to be his companion was beyond my expectations. I readily agreed, glad for the honour. There was more to come….
….Bangalees often save up the sweet for the end of the meal. So Everybody! Please get ready for the fascinating finale – the best in its class and lovely as they come.
Next morning, Dadu engaged a rickshaw for five annas to take us to the Greenpark stadium. As we got down, he put his hands in his trouser pockets. There was some shuffling of hands. He had forgotten to carry money. Helplessness, embarrassment, and confusion appeared on his face in quick succession and then came a ray of hope…. with humility and expectation in his voice, he said almost apologetically –
“Ei tor kache kichu ache?”
It was overwhelming! Imagine!! Dadu asking me that! In class six I used to get a scholarship of four rupees a month. It was indeed the moment of my triumph as I offered the money to him.
There was relief and then, a graceful, loving smile lit up his face.
A note from the editor: Asit mama’s recollections were sent as comments to Boro mashi (Saraju’s) Diary – XIII. Since they add yet another dimension to the tale as it is unfolding, we thought it fit to publish them as a separate post.
Dadu
Those of you who remember our Dadu know that he was a communicative person. He needed to understand what was going out of order in the machine, where it hurt, and why – all such things had to come out and be stated. When he had a worry about something on his mind, he had to speak it out. He’d go and find Didima in her kitchen or wherever she was, and roll out the problem to her. She wasn’t talkative, but had a way of listening that cleared his ideas. The packet of stress evacuated, he knew how he was going to decide.
Yes, some amount of anxiety was part of his nature. I’ve to add to it that the turbulent ways of his grandchildren kept him continually on his toes. There were our normal cuts and bruises, our burns, fractures, and dog-bites – regular happenings with us. He alone kept the records of all our vaccinations and would give us the shots himself. A younger brother of mine who was unable to sit still while getting a wound disinfected by Dadu, hasn’t forgotten his comment: “bãndor chele!” (monkey boys) – flattering compliment for the little Hanuman! Our Baba qualified the activities of his monkey-boys as expression of their “surplus energy”. As a result, our growing up in Mac Robert Gunj had more to do with adventure than with discipline.
Between our Ma and Dadu, the communication was remarkable. His presence seemed to disburden her from all worries, including those concerning the health of her kids. Dadu, on his part, found in her the ideal partner to talk to. In his later days of solitude she was his refuge. A deep attachment linked them. In the evenings he would go to her house, sit near her in the kitchen, where she, sitting on a ‘mora,’ was making the ‘ruti’ on the coal-fire. She’d offer him a hot ‘ruti’, round and blown up, with a piece of fried fish, which he relished, as if it was a rare delicacy. She didn’t say much, yet their understanding seemed profound. They had in their instinct something like a need to protect one another.
Years ago Dadu had told me a story dating back to the time when he was a young student in Calcutta. He hadn’t yet graduated from the Medical College and was not yet married. On his way to the college, he regularly passed by a popular book-market where he stopped often to look into some books, just for the pleasure of it. On one such occasion, his attention was drawn by a book of poems – written by a lady named Pratibha Sundari Devi. Reading those poems he was impressed. A book written by a poetess, in those days, was surely not a common thing. And an idea crossed his mind: if he was to have a daughter, he’d name her ‘Pratibha’. That was a special day, a special inspiration in his young mind: the genesis of our Ma’s first name.
Didima and Dadu were blessed with four daughters and three sons, forming a family, worthy of its name – a family that surrounded us with utmost care and goodwill, through the ups and downs of our trajectory.
To be continued.
After the grand start made by sister Umu (Urmila), Didi (Saraju) has been tracing our roots – of people, places, and events that shaped our family. One of the portraits is of Didima (Suniti). May I add a few lines to that…
I remember, to us children she was like a matriarch who could run the household (in Dadurbadi), keep track of us in the other house, help the needy women of Mac Robert Gunj who came to her in numbers, and still have time to stand there as the cows were tended in the evening. She looked in complete control.
However in her own body, there was a problem growing – rheumatic arthritis. She had to be given an enhanced level of cortisone treatment but the pain would not relent. After much hesitation, Dadu agreed to send her to Kolkata for treatment. Her medical care was now in the hands of our Chotomama (Dr. J.N.Ganguly), who was then in the National Medical College in Kolkata and had access to expert doctors.
That was the early 50s. I reached Kolkata in 1956 in search of college education and found Didima confined to a bed. With a faint smile she greeted me as I arrived and sat beside her. She could hardly see anything due to glaucoma or move her body at all. Our cool and confident Didima of Kanpur was in a shocking state of confinement.
The events unfolded fast in the next few weeks after I reached there. The house we lived in was partitioned. The house was a paternal property of our Dadu’s family – so graphically described by Didi in her diary-XII. In the partition, the living quarters went to Dadu’s brothers whereas we (i.e. Dadu) got the store rooms. It was an unequal division but had become a fact, overnight. A wall had gone up in the inner courtyard. Worse happened as we moved into our new lodgings. Our electric and water connections were discontinued (the meters were on the other side and they thought it fit to cut off). We were plunged into darkness. They also lodged objections against our application for reconnection through their premises where the connection hubs were. It couldn’t get any worse. We could only look heavenwards and get on with our daily life with whatever we had.
But then if you don’t give up, life slowly finds a way of looking up again. It happened to us as well because we never quit. We learnt the use of daylight hours and lit hurricane lamps as the night fell. From my college (St Xavier’s), I brought stories of Belgian Fathers speaking in their soft accented English and did replay runs in the night as the whole family – Badomama (Subodh Ganguly), Mamima (Mianati), Daughters Ira and Nintu (age 5 and 3 then), Chotomama, and Didima listened and enjoyed. Although Didima’s body was fading out, her mind was surprisingly normal. She was telling Ira and Nintu the stories we had heard from her in our childhood. In her positive moments, she would say that we hold the moral ground – and that is bound to tell some day. Mamima looked after her. (Salute you Mamima for the care you took.)
Three years passed until one night Didima told me ‘Dadu-ke bolo aami Kanpur jabo’. A week later she was back in Kanpur. Old and new folk of MacRobert Gunj came to welcome their Mataji back. She had returned to her old perch. The effect on her was soon visible. Her hair was shining again and her face looked contented. Then, just as things were looking up, she passed away…. as if she had come home just to say good bye.
In her passing away she had finally broken free of her confinement.
In the end – my favourite image of Didima. It is from our childhood. Just behind our row of houses in MacRobert Gunj, there was a playing field. As we played in the evening, suddenly I would see Didima.… holding Didi’s hand.… walking down from Dadurbadi to our house – just to see how we were!
Vizualization and Illustration: Surya Ranjan Shandil
Filed under: memories
Buro Dadu and Dadu
P.S. to previous article: At the end of their rolling bath the Kali Megha – boys were offered water to drink and a piece of ‘gur’ as sweet in recognition of their performance.
About Buro Dadu I know very little; his dates of birth and death are also unknown to me. Besides, the probability of some genetic material received from him as involuntary legacy, I’ve got a photograph of his, soiled by time and moisture, showing him in his fifties. A well-formed head, a longish face expressing intelligence, his mouth slightly drooping at both ends… as though, life for him, meant hard work. He’s not looking at the camera, I can’t see his eyes. So, let us turn to the facts that are in our hands.
Hard-working he must have been, working as a forest-officer in the service of the government. He used to go to the Sunderban region quite often, bringing home quantities of fruit and honey from there. He was earning a good salary and eventually got a residence built in Calcutta for his large family, a house on two floors with comfortable rooms on one side and an alignment of other rooms on the ground floor including kitchen, bath, and store-rooms. A roughly triangular open yard separated the two constructions; his wife Mokkhada, so the witnesses related, used to ‘purify’ the yard every morning with cow-dung water in a kettle, accompanying the operation by her formidable shouts. Between the lane outside (Matilal Sen lane) and the house there was a large open ground, but I don’t remember a garden.
He had also bought some land with rice-fields in Kakdwip in the Delta area and had engaged a local farmer to cultivate it. The system allowed him to add to his income.
To approach our Dadu’s childhood we’ve to find our way back to the village Arbelia. The family hadn’t yet seen those times of prosperity. Prionath Gangopadhyay seems to have exhausted the stock of his best chromosomes in the making of his first child, Radharaman, and, the goodness of the world, who was passing by, chose his little heart to make her home there.
In due course of time the couple had eight other children – five female and three male.
Do you remember the school in Arbelia? It was there, that Dadu went to school. The site, however, wasn’t quite close by their house. There was a river to cross on his way to school and no bridge on it. The story of his daily expedition to the school is known in the family: Dadu had to swim across the river as did some other pupils of the neighbourhood, all of them boys I suppose. How did he manage that?
Well, he’d tie his school-books in his ‘dhuti’ to make a bundle of it, place the thing on his head holding it with one hand, while swimming with the legs and the remaining hand. Just imagine one of the boys losing his bundle and the resulting papier-maché inside!
On rainy days, which were many, they’d get a ‘kochu-pata’ for umbrella. You see, the countryside in Bengal has a solution for all such problems – but nature would first test your motivation before offering you one.
It’s very probable that his ‘dhuti’ didn’t come out dry every time. But what did it matter? That daily swimming exercise, I believe, built up a sound body that was his, throughout life.
To be continued.
On a hot summer day, I saw two men, barefoot, with just a mini dhoti around the waist coming into our front yard. They were not sadhus, nor did they look like ordinary mendicants. One of them, dark and stout seemed to be the ‘captain’, let us say. He came forward and throwing up his arms thundered: Kali megha pani de! His thinner companion repeated: pani de… !!!!
I was scared and ran into the house to inform Didima – Kali megha esheche! Didima didn’t look alarmed at the news. Oder jal dite hobe, she said. Sejo mashi, my second aunt, got a bucketful of water, and I followed her out to the garden, where the two men stood clamouring.
As soon as they saw us, they threw them-selves down and started rolling on the ground from left to right, while my aunt splashed them with the contents of her bucket. The dust and the mud stuck in patches on their rolling bare bodies, while the chorus continued loud and resounding: Kali megha…! After the strange ceremony, they received a few paisa and left refreshed and pacified.
It may have been in the middle of June.
It is well-known that our lakes are inhabited by Gods, that our rivers landed directly from heaven, and that the monsoon rains are sent by Indra himself. No wonder that the ancestors look forward to receiving that precious gift of water from the planet offered by their descendants.
After the rains, the swarms of insects under the lamp-posts at night would disappear and the house-lizards would slip away when you tried to pinch them, leaving you with a fat tail between the thumb and the index. The air freshened under a clear sky with the moon decreasing; so the pleasant season could start with pitripaksha. Devi Durga was sharpening her lance, while her family was getting ready for the holiday-trip, and the forefathers rejoiced in expectation.
Our Dadu wasn’t religious in the sense the word religion is commonly understood by most people. His ‘religion’ was in his work, with his patients, in the house and outside. The only ritual I’ve seen him performing was the annual pitritarpan.
You will have guessed, we didn’t have a special place for puja. Didima had prepared the room where we used to have our meals. Abhilakh Maharaj had brought water from the Ganga in a jar. In the morning she had arranged the grains of rice (dhan), the ‘durba’ grass and the copper vessels – kosha-kushi – for the offerings, along with the fruit and other items of dakshina for Manoranjan Purut Thakur.
I think he liked coming to our house. He arrived punctually, his namavali around the shoulders, a little out of breath and smiling. They took seat on their asana on the floor and the ceremony could begin. Manoranjan recited the sloka, beautifully articulated with musical intonations and pauses marking the rhythm, and Dadu repeated the mantra after him, addressing the ancestors by their names – if I remember correctly, there were five generations of them – once or twice, he’d forget a name and look to Didima for help, who immediately gave him the cue. I haven’t retained all those names, except that of his father – Priyonath Gangopadhyay, our Buro Dadu.
After the offerings, Dadu would have breakfast and it was time to go to his dispensary.
To be continued.
Vizualization and Illustration: Surya Ranjan Shandil
It has taken me years to understand to some degree the outstanding personality that was our maternal grandmother, my Didima, and the strength of mind in that fragile body of hers.
If I have written ‘my’ Didima, it’s not a random slip of typing. It’s as though, she belonged to me by some special chemistry, more than to anybody else. I was, so to say, her daughter and her granddaughter in one – the youngest of her brood – but that’s another story.
Not that I was her docile little girl and she, all tenderness and kisses, no! Love, in those times, wasn’t as demonstrative as it is now. But, she knew how to hypnotize the disobedient little brat that I was by her magical narration of stories. She had the key to the entrance of fantastical worlds, where she regularly took me to meet Gods and demons, Ekalavya in the forest and Arjuna targeting the bird’s eye, gerastho (grihastha) and his daughters Umno and Jhumno, Shankhchunni addicted to fish and chips and sometimes stealing away the freshly fried ‘pithe’ from the kitchen, Suorani and Duorani and so many others. It was depressing to see the mischievous and the bad winning at the start, but to my relief, the good and the pure didn’t suffer too long, their triumph was programmed for the end.
Unlike Thakuma, Didima Suniti wasn’t from a rural milieu. Orphaned at a very tender age, she grew up with the family of her maternal uncle in Calcutta. About her childhood all I know is that she hadn’t got the chance to go to school. A private tutor came to their house to teach some of the children (her cousins?) – She wasn’t part of the group of those pupils. It was just not for her. While the lesson was on and the master was reading, explaining or making them repeat the tables, little Suniti would be squatting alone in some corner of the next room – listening.
How intently must she have listened day after day! Like a thirsty sponge she was soaking in the sounds of knowledge. Before long she had acquired the basics of numbers and Bengali language together with its script.
Dadu knew her appetite for reading and saw to it that his house never lacked in literature. We received several Bengali monthly reviews and magazines. I was very young and saw Basumati, Bharatbarsha, Desh patrika coming in regularly; there was the delightfully illustrated Shishu sathi in a smaller square format for everyone, besides the dailies such as Ananda Bazar Patrika and the English Amrita Bazar Patrika (later, The Statesman). I never heard her speak English, but I remember Dadu reading out to her passages in that language – it was obvious, that she understood it directly.
Once they were settled in Kanpur, she learnt Hindi all by herself and would converse with the poor and the illiterate in their own dialect (Hindi). She sometimes asked me to carry in my bag novels by authors like Premchand to return them for her to a library from where she used to borrow them.
Then there were the medicines – a mini-pharmacy in the house: boxes and bottles, capsules and tablets, syringes and instruments, cotton and gauze, the rectangular table occupying a corner of our sitting-room. From simple anti-malaria drugs like quinine and sub-products, to the sulpha and the newly discovered antibiotics, the adrenaline and coramine – she knew each and every one of them, their effect and the indication to which they corresponded. How often have I heard Dadu discussing with her about his complicated cases, seeking her opinion!
Is what I’m writing here seem credible to you? Let me tell you, concerning her intellectual capacities, I’m simply in the understatement. She was the incense-stick of culture in that house in MacRobert Gunj.
Where we left her, she was just a child without mother or father, charitably raised by her uncle in Calcutta – a childhood too soon interrupted.
To be continued.
Vizualization and Illustration: Surya Ranjan Shandil
Filed under: Christ Church College, Kanpur, Lal Imli Woollen Mills, MacRobert Gunj
Cawnpore
Before Independence Kanpur was spelled ‘Cawnpore’. Its population had a well balanced variety of people from different regions of the country, as well as a number of Englishmen occupying posts in the administration, among managerial staff, as foremen or supervisors in the factories, many of whom had families. There were few missionaries of European origin, such as the principal of the Christ Church College.
Many of you will remember a bungalow with its sprawling green lawn just across the street in front of our house in MacRobert gunj, the white inhabitants of which became, from time to time, the object of abundant interest on the part of the young on our side of the road, especially when they had a party – you could guess it, with the motor-cars started lining up along the road in the evening. The efforts of the tiny spectators climbing on the railings were rewarded and their excitement reached some sort of a peak, as soon as half-silhouettes of dancing pairs (the lower halves remaining a mystery behind the boundary wall) appeared, gliding between the pillars of the lighted veranda. The little that was visible, furnished enough ingredients to cook up fantastic visions.
Close to our house there was the Parsi cemetery with a triangular garden, a shady and quiet place and somewhat mysterious in its turn. The Parsi and the Marwari were mostly businessmen. There were some Punjabi businessmen too, and very few Bengalis. Among the hospital-staff the nurses were as a rule Christian or Anglo-Indian. There were some Muslim male nurses and compounders; our Dadu had a Muslim dentist by the name of Aslam, and my younger brothers – an unforgettable teacher by the name of Sher Muhammad Khan in the Government. High School. A large part of the Muslims were tannery workers, shopkeepers, butchers and the like. Their women wore black `burqa’ assorted with a rectangular patch crocheted in matching colour and sewn mostly on the height of the eyes. The Hindu population was well distributed in many professions and all classes of the society.
Bengali migrants formed a minority of educated and trained people, many of them holding executive posts, some in clerical jobs and others were teachers and professors, among them a number of women. Dr. Radharaman Ganguly, our maternal grandfather, had started his career in the government’s medical service, and had been posted successively in Bahraich in eastern U.P., in Dehradoon and/or in Nainital before coming to Kanpur as chief medical officer in the Lal Imli Woollen Mill. As Mesdi has noted earlier, to the thousands of workers of the factory and their families, he was simply their “mai-baap”. I don’t think I’ll be able to give the right measure of his life’s work nor of his personality. Neither a saint nor a superman, he belongs to the race of those sustaining the order of the world.
Members of the Bengali community from all parts of the town knew that he didn’t charge fees for consultations. The fact was, that he was on duty for all 24 hours – day and night, and was, consequently, not supposed to have a private practice. But when people just drifted in – we had no telephone, so no appointment was ever fixed in advance – he couldn’t refuse to receive them at his residence. Many took undue advantage of his generosity, and he wasn’t duped, but so it was with him. In course of time some of his patients became friends of the family.
At this point I’m starting to feel, that the narration’s slipping away in digressions, it’s escaping me. Shake up Saraju! They’re looking at their watches. Ei to ami! We had just entered in my gallery of portraits, no?
You see, it has pictures and pictures : beautiful aunts and good uncles, Didima’s team with our cows, Bhandari Maharaj and his nephews, Chaudhurain, Mrs Ghosh, Nadur ma, Manorajan Purut Thakur, Phuphi, Ganga Maiya the astrologer, Chedilal master and her other protégés; Dadu’s numberless patients, not to speak of Sannyasini Shyamalchhaya, coiffeur Gurdin – terror of the kids, Chinaman with his enormous bag of Shantung silk tied on the seat of his bike, faces and figures, looks and smiles, seen through young eyes and remained indelible through the years. Shall I be able to tell the tale of our two houses? Surely, not alone.
I know, you’ll come along, you’ll jump into the scene, catch the thread, hold it on and then, pass it on to the next narrator waiting in the wings.
To be continued.
Filed under: Allen Forest, Ganga, Harcourt Butler Technical Institute, Kanpur
Baba’s Fishing Trips
In the mid 1930s Kanpur was a flourishing township. Situated on the bank of Ganga, the place offered a rich potential for industry with its resources in cotton and sugar-cane, leather, and wool. The development of the town included besides factories, where a large number of workers found employment, also many schools and colleges, specialized research-institutes on oil and sugar technology, hospitals, pleasant residential sectors, and many parks and gardens. There were some motor-cars, many tonga (tanga) drawn by a horse and with a coachman, as there were ekka, also drawn by a horse with a high seat and surely less comfortable than the tanga.
Our Baba went to work on his bike like his other colleagues.
On one end of the town the government had installed a military base-cantonment and an ordnance factory manufacturing material for survey and artillery.
On the other end a beautifully green area called Allen Forest was well-known to our father, who had done his training in oil technology in the nearby Harcourt Butler Technical Institute. To him and also to some of his friends, the special attraction was the forest-lake – Baba loved to go fishing there. 
It was a whole ceremony with elaborate preparations. It had to be on a holiday of course. On the evening before the expedition my younger brothers would start looking for ‘char’, i.e. earthworms, of which we had plenty in the garden, especially after the rains. They were collected with much enthusiasm and stored in a small tin labeled ‘capstan cigarettes’. On the next morning shouts of “bhai sahe…b” from the street signaled the arrival of our Ghosh saheb, Sourin Ghosh. Sometimes a son or two would be allowed to accompany the champion fishers, who, at sundown, had often to pass by Parade ka bazaar before coming home with a presentable fish and a dark sun tan, simply happy.
Ghosh saheb was the father of four remarkable sons and two daughters, very handsome children, all of them. He seemed to pay little attention to girls. Boys on the contrary, whether his own or ours, had to be strong, brave, and daring to be worthy. He liked taking risks. I think Baba was one of his rare friends, if not the only one. One winter morning on coming to see Baba he declared that we were going to Delhi to visit the industrial exhibition. Baba knew him well, there was no room for hesitation nor for discussion, after all the plan was very exciting for him too. We just had to get prepared and in no time Sourin G. arranged for two (or three?) cars. The next day we set off in three groups, I got in with his elder brother’s family, Baba and Ghosh saheb with the boys in the other vehicles formed the convoy. I’ll never forget that trip through villages where we stopped to drink tea at a wayside chai vendor’s, picnicked under the trees of some forest. The new Kakima, Ghosh saheb’s sister-in law, distributed a lot of delicious luchi etc. from her big basket – all that was so new! As we arrived in Dehli, it was freezing cold, maybe 0° C. One of the Ghosh brothers, Arun, a prominent economist in one of the ministries, lodged us in the Pataudi House. It was all too fabulous, compared to which the industrial exhibition of 1956 was, well, a huge numaish like any other.
Sourin G’s extreme views had made a stranger of him in his own family. He had been brilliant in studies. I remember the day when his father Rajen Ghosh, a patient and a friend of our Dadu (Radharaman Ganguly) had come to our house to give the news that Sourin was selected in the competitive exams and had chosen to be posted as Excise Inspector – a proud father of an accomplished son. Our Dadu, who had much affection for the young man, was less enthusiastic on hearing that. After his friend’s departure he said to Didima, that he didn’t at all appreciate the idea of Sourin working in touch with alcohol – milieus, he knew the degree of corruption infesting them. But, destiny was at work: addiction to alcohol brought him to the ruin of his family-life. With his untimely death our family lost a cherished friend.
N.B.: Those of you who read Bengali and would be interested in more information on the actions of revolutionary groups in Bengal, may refer to ‘Tegarter Andaman Diary’ by Ashoke Kr. Mukhopadhyay (Ananda Publishers, Calcutta, 1998), giving a very well-documented account of the movement.
To be continued.
Vizualization and Illustration: Surya Ranjan Shandil
Some Friends And Other Visitors
While remembering the Sunday-morning get-together at our house in MacRobert Gunj, we had a quick look at some of Baba’s friends: the very slim and elegant Pankaj Kakababu, the tall and smoky P.K. Mittir Moshai, the delicate Professor of English literature Prabhat Kumar Ray in fine white panjabi and dhuti, the firebrand and headstrong Saurin Ghosh or our Ghosh saheb, and a very harmless and unassuming gentleman – our Master Moshai (he may have been a school-teacher sometime) Khitilal Ganguly, with whom I’ll start sketching a few portraits by way of coming back to our story.
I well remember Khitilal Master Moshai, his suntanned face with a broad and somewhat “embarrassed” smile. He smiled easily and had a look in his eyes, which made me think that he was on the point of telling something. But what? Nothing came. He wasn’t talkative in company, for example, he was a rather silent partner when they were playing bridge. However, with Baba he was different; he’d go and find him busy repairing something in a corner, and there were quick exchanges of smiles, of brief remarks followed by a jovial comment from Baba. 
They may have been talking about an English boss or an incident with some officer – their mutual understanding was a solid one. Master Moshai was assistant to our father in the department of chemicals in the Lal Imli Mill.
Sometimes his wife came to see Ma. We called her Kakima, a cheerful little lady with smiling eyes. Candid and unsophisticated she made no secret of her friendship for our family. In her speech you could hear accents of some eastern region of Bengal. There was an expression of such gratitude in her manners, which sometimes left me wondering.
Much later I came to know that Khitilal had been involved in the Armoury raid in Chattagram, had succeeded in escaping arrest, and had fled from East Bengal. How and through which contact he had come to Kanpur and to our Baba, is unknown to me. His adventure ended when Baba helped him get a job in his own service in the Mill as his assistant. Introduced by the chemical engineer himself and recommended by him, Khitilal’s political past remained unknown to the British superiors in the Lal Imli Mill.
I couldn’t have discovered all that while I was young as the subject was doubtlessly too sensitive to be part of common conversations. Master Moshai, working under Baba’s indulgent wing led a most harmless life until his retirement.
To be continued.
Visualization and Illustration: Surya Ranjan Shandil
The Struggle For Independence
We’ll leave to scholars of history the task of writing the long and complex story of the struggle for independence of India with its ups and downs – complex, because of its interconnections with the industrial and political developments in Europe, where two devastating wars were fought. The world saw the colonies escaping the claws of the British and other “empires”, and, the emergence of two super powers trying to conquer zones of influence and markets on the planet – through the same violence but with far superior technologies.
Our interest here is to recall some events that were happening in India in the 1930s by way of flashing on the atmosphere in which people were living in a city like Calcutta in Bengal. Our Baba was among them as a young man in his 20s, with his curiosity and his receptivity, and feelings for his country and its people.
The massacre of Jalianwala Bagh in Amritsar was in 1919 : on order of a British general police had opened fire on a peaceful crowd of some thousand citizens gathered on the occasion of new year in April. However its memory had not faded. Horrified by that criminal act, Rabindranath Tagore got rid of the title of Knighthood in protest. Similar atrocities were being committed by the British in Ireland in those years, and the Irish resistance inspired our revolutionary freedom-fighters to take to arms.
In the 30s Mahatma Gandhi had launched active civil disobedience ; hundreds of Indians were demonstrating against the govt. in the country, being arrested, beaten and shot at by police and military forces. In April 1931 Gandhiji marched to the coast by Dandi in Gujarat and made salt to defy the law. The group was brutally beaten up and the survivors thrown in the jails.
The printed media were not silent. Daily papers like Amrita Bazar Patrika in English, Ananda Bazar Patrika and Jugantar in Bengali voiced the call for total independence to bring the British to quit India. Aurobindo Ghosh was writing in Bande Mataram (founded by Bipin Chandra Pal), at the same time he was secretly organizing a group of young patriots, training them for armed actions against the British.
Revolutionaries in Calcutta made bomb attacks targeting police commissioner Tegart and other officers in Dhaka. One of the officers being a Muslim, communal riots broke out in Dhaka, where the Hindu population was duly massacred while police forces stood looking on.
On 18 April a group led by Surja Sen, a radical revolutionary, raided the govt,’s armoury in Chittagong. Needless to say, the govt. retaliated fiercely by massive arrests and executions. Many were deported to the Andaman Islands, deprived of all rights and tortured. Few could escape and went into hiding.
In September 1931 as young prisoners in the Hijli jail in Medinipur were killed by the guards, Rabindranath Tagore addressed a huge meeting in the Maidan in Calcutta condemning the administration.
I take it for probable, that our Baba was also amidst that audience of about 100,000 people attending the meeting.
In Peshawar demonstrators were bombed upon by the military. In Bombay and Sholapur textile-workers’ strikes were repressed with extreme violence.
Gandhiji’s negotiations with viceroy Irwin, in which he had agreed to suspend the disobedience movement to obtain concessions like the liberation of prisoners had miserably failed, as the country received the shock of the execution of brave patriots, Bhagat Singh, Shukdeo, and Rajguru in Lahore jail in March 1931.
Hindu and Muslim fanatics rioted and killed in the cities of U.P. – in Kanpur and Benares among others.
In the same years Rabindranath Tagore realized his project of rural development in Sriniketan besides a new concept of education opening the minds of the youth to the values of truth and beauty. His songs were with young and old, they were sung in the courtroom in Alipur by the revolutionaries receiving the death-sentence. The period saw other song composers like Nazrul Islam, Rajanikanta Sen, Atulprasad and others.
Eminent theatre directors and actors like Shishirkumar Bhaduri, Girishchandra Ghosh were producing their plays and stars like Sadhana Bose, Kanan devi, Devika Rani were rising.
I imagine that many Bengali families like ours migrating to different provinces of the country were carrying with them something of those ideas, melodies, and images as food for life and legacy for future generations.
Filed under: Aurobindo Ghosh, Bal Gangadhar Lokmanya Tilak, Bengal, Bipin Chandra Pal, Gitarahasya, Independence, Indian National Congress, Lala Lajpat Rai, Partition, Rabindranath Tagore, Sri Krishna, sub-continent, Swaraj, Swedeshi, Viceroy Curzon, Vivekananda
All over India groups and movements for the independence were taking shape. The Indian National Congress was already an organized body elaborating its strategy to achieve independence by parliamentary or democratic means. On the other hand there were many patriots in different provinces who were organizing an armed resistance against the British.
The partition of Bengal in 1905 sent a wave of indignation throughout the country. Swedeshi groups demonstrated in protest and started the boycott of textiles and other products made in England, burning the goods at public places. The government reacted with violence – firing on demonstrators and arresting hundreds of them everywhere. 
Why did Viceroy Curzon partition Bengal?
Of course, the province was becoming very dangerous for the government. In fact, in the rich diversity of the peoples of India, the British had well identified the points of weakness: the Hindu society divided in castes and sub-castes, communities divided in Hindu and Muslim, property owners and landless poor, and the Congress party itself divided in 2 wings – moderate and extremists, not to mention language differences etc. They exploited it to the full, setting one group against another to rule the sub-continent.
North and East Bengal with its Muslim populations was promised many posts in the administration and other advantages, whereas the West with a Hindu majority suffered injustice and discrimination. Rivalry and jealousy developed between the communities like poison, a cancer in the social body. That culminated, as you all know, in the horrors of the partition of the country in 1947. More than 5 million people were massacred in the riots, families uprooted, and bases of life destroyed.
But in those years we note that Vivekananda 
was holding up the ideals of India’s spiritual struggle and of moral force; Rabindranath Tagore was inspiring people to stand united in the love of the country by his exemplary and courageous actions and his songs. And in Maharashtra, we see the emergence of a militant Hindu nationalism led by an eminent patriot and philosopher, – a Chitpavana Brahmin – Bal Gangadhar (Lokmanya) Tilak who was soon to declare: “Swaraj is my birthright”! His fight starts against the ignorance of the masses, as he brings out 2 monthly revues: ‘Keshari’ in Marathi and ‘Marhatta’ in English to bring information to the people on national and world politics and on social as well as economic subjects. The British imprisoned him many times. In 1917 during his 6 year long imprisonment under horrible conditions in the Mandalay jail, he wrote a remarkable book “Gitarahasya” expounding his ideas on the philosophy of action inspired by ‘karma-yoga’ as exposed by Sri Krishna in the Divine Song.
Lala Lajpat Rai in Punjab and Aurobindo Ghosh and Bipin Chandra Pal in Bengal joined in Tilak’s programme for self-govt. (swaraj). At the same time in Bengal young members belonging to revolutionary groups were attacking government officers with bombs and other firearms.
Repressive measures by the government spared neither the leaders nor other citizens. Young men and women patriots were being hanged without ceremony.
All this account is nothing more than a rough outline, a little attempt to recall events which had happened long before our Baba came of age. I can easily guess, that you’re wondering why your Saraju’s trying to bore you, repeating things, on which your history teacher and the school-books had informed you thoroughly. You’ll be patient, because I haven’t finished, and because it’s interwoven in our story.
Some of you remember, as I do, that the walls of our 2 homes in Mac Robert Gunj hadn’t many decorations. There were always a couple of calendars at strategic places like near the kitchen or so, and there were some portraits, in large frames, placed high on the sitting room walls. Even our guests must have noticed them. Apart from Sri Chaitanya singing in the streets and a picture of Durga pratima, there was Rabindranath in three-quarter profile, in his long blue-grey robe, there was Subhash Chandra Bose, as also Vivekananda, upright in turban, looking straight in front, with Paramahamsa’s profile in the background. At Dadu’s place we had Gandhiji, in black and white, eyes closed in prayer and Sri Aurobindo, whose hair-style was special. Those great men used to receive a garland as present when we had flowers. To us, they had somehow become members of our household.
In the 30s when Baba was a student in Calcutta, the capital had been shifted to Delhi since long. Leaders like Mahatma Gandhi, JL Nehru, Subhash Bose and countless others were most of the time in jails; the country was afire, rocked by agitations. Repression by the government knew no limits. In the Science College he had among his professors a great scientist, Prafulla Chandra Ray, for whom he developed a lasting admiration.
To be continued
Visualization & Illustration: Surya Ranjan Shandil
“When I became five years old my mother got my ‘hate khodi’ done (a ritual where the priest helps the child to write the first letter of the alphabet on a slate with a chalk) and sent me to Bijoy Pondit Mahashya’s Pathshala. He was a man of good built, fair complexion and wore a coarse dhoti and keds shoes. He walked with a slight stoop, wearing silver rimmed spectacles. His very presence inspired the pupils. He was my first Guru, who not only taught me to read and write but was also the architect of my character. In this Pathshala, I completed Vidyasagar Mahashya’s Borno Porichoy Part I and II, Shishu Shiksha Part III, Namta (tables) and basic grammar. At the end of the school hours, we had to stand on the way side and recite various shlokas in unison. I was the lucky recipient of his special love, affection and blessings. Not only me, he also looked up to my mother as his daughter. I bow to him in reverence.
“After I completed my basic education, I was admitted in class IV of the L.M.M.E. Minor School, run by the London Mission. People called it ‘matha bhangar’ school. The Secretary of the school Shri Moni Mittra, a pleasant looking man of medium height and a French cut beard, had adopted Christianity and lived in the school campus. Besides our school syllabus he also taught us The Old Testament, The New Testament, The Great Deluge, The Noah’s Arc, Sermon on the Mount, The Ten Commandments, The Pharohs of Egypt, Birth of Christ in the stable, the story of Adam and Eve and so on. Before the school started the students assembled in the verandah to pray O our heavenly father, show us the way…. I bow to him in reverence.
“Year 1922-23: I was now 12 years old. A new chapter was to begin in my life. My guardians decided that I should complete my High School from Calcutta. There was a High School in Arbelia about 3/4 km. from our house. But there was no pucca road. The connecting mud track used to become slushy in the monsoon season, difficult to negotiate everyday for a 12 year old boy.
“News came that I would be going to Calcutta and it was time to bid farewell to Baduria my village, which had fulfilled all my wishes of childhood days. I would be away from the chondi mondop with its adjoining courtyard, the eastern house (puber ghor), the northern house (uttorer ghor), my Chottomama’s house, which had sheltered me the last 12 years of my life – the fruit garden with mango, leechu, jaam, bel, kathal (jackfruit), chalta trees, whose every leaf I knew intimately. I would be away from the tetul tola, kali tola, chorok khola, durga mondop, which was like a place of pilgrimage to the villagers and where my mother and aunts enjoyed their picnics and observed vratas like ashok shoshti, dashara. During those days, they abstained from eating cereals and had only doi cheera, kola, aam, kathal. Their gaiety and laughter filling the air. The leaving was unbearable.
“The Ichhamoti river flowed nearby. The river water was the life line of the village and the source of our daily play. When the tidal waters would fill up the hollow spaces making small ponds we boys would submerge ourselves and play water games. The jele para (fishermen’s colony), the boshtom para, the rath khola, the fields of sugarcane, kool and khejoor, haat bazaar, Sub Registry Office, the sweetmeat shops are still engraved in my memory and the thought of leaving them was too tormenting.
“Besides all this my heart bled from the thought of separating from my loving aunts, my brothers and sisters with whom I had shared all my joys and sorrows and above all my snehomoyee jononee (my loving mother), clinging to whose sari even to that day had made me face so many barbs. How would I bear to be separated from such luxuries and wealth in my possession? The thought devastated me, throwing me in abject misery, to the extent that life seemed meaningless to me….”
The extracts from our Baba’s diary as translated and presented by Mesdi are essential for the understanding of our family history. Their value lies in the light they throw on the way of life as lived by people in Baduria – a village among many others in Bengal in the beginning of the last century. Those glimpses of village life seen through the eyes of a very young boy show his deep attachment to his environment, where nature is intact, living, and abundant. He is in a lively communication with the river, the trees, and with people making up the social fabric – surrounded at home by affection. His own sunny nature responds fully to the tender attention he receives.
Let us note the coexistence of different communities of the village population. In Jelepara they were mostly Musulman, the Boshtom (Vaishnava) were so to say casteless, but were received with respect in the mainstream Brahmin and other houses. Our Baba seems to have well explored all those sites and knew them intimately.
I can imagine the picture of Bijoy Pandit Mahashay in his Pathshala with silver-rimmed glasses on the nose. I’d have loved to meet him!
A little anecdote received from Ma : Our Chotothakuma was busy preparing some moa sweets, when Pishima Niharbala, came by and stopped to watch her. Seeing her little niece, Chotomamima offered her some moa, which were readily accepted by Khãdi (or Khãdu alias Nihar), who tied them inside the end of her sari. Chotomamima asked her why she wasn’t eating them. The answer was, she was going to share them with her brother. That sounds a bit like Durga and Apu in Pather Panchali, no?
The Chandi mandapa used to be the centre of the social life and culture, where the elders as
well as the young of Baba’s age met together. On many festive occasions there were kirtan and pala (play with narration), where a kathak accompanied by a chorus of singers and instruments like manjira and khol, flute, harmonium, and violin narrated ancient tales to an audience of spellbound villagers.
One such Pala entitled “Mathur” which Baba must have attended with Thakuma, tells the story of the cowherd-Prince, Krishna, leaving Gokul, his foster parents and playmates to go to Mathura. I understood that years later, when I heard a kathak playing it at a Paush mela-mandapa in Santiniketan as he sang the verse “moribo moribo sakhi – nishchayo moribo …”
The words came back to me from across my far off childhood – Baba’s voice singing in the bathroom in the house in Mac Robertgunj: “na porayo Radha ango na bhashayo jale”, and our Thakuma in her tiny thakur ghar listening to him and probably singing with him silently. And there I was, sitting under the shamiana covering the Melar Math-ground, with hundreds of villagers, many of them illiterate, who had come from all corners of Birbhum and Bengal – some in tears, others going up to the stage to the kathak thakur – himself under emotion, for his blessings. All were in communion with the story and the musicians. It was the winter of 1993.
But in the same province of Bengal not everything in the villages was idyllic. There was also dire poverty, superstitions, infant mortality, and dowry deaths. Somewhere not too far from Baduria was the place where our Binadi had been married, where she had lost her two baby kids and had suffered starvation and moral torture inflicted on her by her family in-law for long years before she could be rescued in miserable condition.
In that Bengal and India where our parents were growing up, chapters of another history were being written.
Already Ishvarchandra Vidyasagar had taken up the cause of the emancipation of women, of widows in particular and of the education of the masses. There was Bankimchandra Chatterjee and his monthly “Bangadarshan”, holding up of the ideals of the society. Raja Rammohan Roy, Prince Dvarakanath, and Maharshi Devendranath Tagore and others – reviving the values of Upanishad to open the minds of people practicing Hindu religion that had become a packet of meaningless rituals and often an instrument of corruption. The impact of the presence of the British as the ruling power hit Bengal early and hard, opening up new currents and channels of thought and action.
As early as in 1904 the nation was shaking its chains and the struggle for freedom was in preparation.
To be continued.
Visualization & Illustration: Surya Ranjan Shandil
Baba Comes To Calcutta
Time passed and Baidyanath went to the village school where his intelligence didn’t go unnoticed. The headmaster encouraged him to pursue his studies in Calcutta after finishing school. Thus the idea of higher studies made its way in his mind. But at home the atmosphere was different, there were responsibilities to be shouldered. The uncles decided that he had learnt enough and it was time he started earning money by opening a shop, for example.
To the young nephew the perspective of keeping a dokan (shop) was probably nowhere near the ambitions haunting his dreams. At the same time, defying Babumama’s authority was unthinkable. Going to study in Calcutta would cost money, and the question was – where was the money to come from? Surely not out of Babumama’s purse.
At that critical point appears on the scene – a fairy. Yes, how else should I describe that lady wearing a red bordered white sari draped in Bengali fashion, with a big round sindur bindi in the middle of the forehead and a smile letting out her slightly prominent front teeth permanently tinted by betel-juice? That ever smiling fairy (Baba’s Chotomamima, Bhutokaka’s mother) came out with a plan of her own, that of changing some gold ornament of hers into cash. So what had seemed out of reach became possible.
Going to Calcutta was surely an event for Baidyanath – the opening of a new chapter in his life bringing with it a taste of freedom and the promise of a wider world.
Those of you who have visited our Bibhapishima’s family in their house in Suri lane (Calcutta) may turn back the time machine to be able to imagine the conditions of boarding and lodging of our young student. I remember the house stuck between the other houses in a row, rooms with more darkness than light in them closing in a small open yard, where cooking utensils used to be washed. Mosquitoes of course and coal-fire smoke from all houses at regular hours of the day. Were people unhappy for that? I don’t think so, as life was like that in most parts of the city! And it can’t have changed too much when I went there as late as in the 60s. I remember Bibhapishima’s lovely smile while receiving us. She like other younger cousins, called him `Bodda’.
For him what counted was that he’d study. He soon started dispensing private tuitions to cover his expenses. Eventually he enrolled in the Science College in the University of Calcutta, where he was to finish with a Master’s degree in Chemistry.
I’ve retained the impression that besides the studies – his real interest in chemistry, life in Calcutta stimulated him in various other ways. In the 90s I often went to Calcutta from Bolpur by the Santiniketan Express. On arriving at Howrah Station either you cross over to the city by the famous bridge on the Hugli (Ganges), or board the ferry launch to cross the river. That crossing, by launch in particular, was a magical experience. At 4:30 in the afternoon the sun was hot and dazzling, the river surface was like melted fire as the boat cut through those little flames and a fresh breeze blew in your hair. And so often it made me think that Baba must have watched those sunlit waters in his youth in Calcutta.
A house of his own by the banks of the Ganga was a long cherished idea with him (I imagine it so), which he realized in Azadnagar.
But Calcutta wasn’t only that – it was so much more !
To be continued.
Dvariknath
We have to go back to follow Dvariknath who went to stay at his brothers-in-law’s house as ghar-jamai (a live-in son-in law), and with Thakuma had three other children (already introduced in this Post). But living together with his in-laws wasn’t a situation in which he could feel comfortable – he aspired to be independent. At the same time, there was the necessity of earning a living. Therefore, he decided to go to the island – settlements of the Ganges delta called “abad” to practice there.
He would take a boat at the village port to leave for three to four months at a stretch, sometimes probably for longer, to those “abad”. He did not earn much money; his patients, mostly day-labourers, were extremely poor. However, for a country doctor that he was, there was much to do in those parts of Sunderban infested with mosquitoes and various typical diseases of a tropical climate, not to speak of wild animals on land and in the waters. Therefore, his family would see him for just a few days when he returned from “abad”. Baba told me how he used to look forward to those few days of his return.
“He loved you?”
“Yes!” was Baba’s ready answer, “Every time coming home he brought me sweets, which he gave me in the hand taking me aside.”
Why aside? (I suppose) He did not feel at ease in that house full of people, watched by many eyes, apart from the fact that he hardly had the means of offering sweets to satisfy everybody. And those few days for his family, passed like a dream before another period of separation. One day a boat stopped in the port of their village. Dvariknath was on board, dead. Someone said that he had had fever (pneumonia?), that he had embarked the boat and died during the journey without receiving any treatment.
To our Thakuma the news was not broken immediately. One Thakrundidi, an elderly lady from the neighbourhood, took it upon herself to make her understand what had happened. She invited our Sarala-Saraju to a dinner, dressed her beautifully and served her various dishes with fish and meat and sweets – dishes she would taste the last time. Afterwards she was taken to the riverbank where they rubbed away the vermilion mark from her hair parting, broke her shankha bracelet and draped her in a borderless white “than” dhoti. Henceforth, a life emptied of colour and of pleasures, a life punctuated by fasting and sufferings was hers.
I can only imagine the perplexity of our seven-year old Boddinath at the sight of his mother clad in a white dhoti with close-cropped hair. Other surprises awaited him. They shaved his head, put a namavali around his shoulders, and he was seated on the floor of the cow stable (gohal ghar), to perform the last rites of his father. He repeated the mantra after the priest, cooked rice on a wood-fire and made offerings as dictated. He would never forget the fire, the mantra, and the rituals.
For him life would nevermore be the same. He had lost his father, the sweets, carefree playtime, his hair, and was left with sadness and tears in his mother’s eyes. His younger brother died soon after, followed by the younger sister Torubala, who succumbed to kala azar, an incurable fever – a loss that left our Thakuma inconsolable for long years.
To be continued.
Filed under: 24 Parganas, Bengal, Bengali, Calcutta, Childhood, Ganges, Hanuman, homeopathy, Kanpur, Lal Imli Woollen Mills, MacRobert Gunj, memories, Nadia, Shantiniketan, Visva Bharati university, West Bengal
From Saraju’s pensieve – Tracing The Family Tree
It is well known that man descends from Hanuman and Hanuman descends from the tree. And so it happened that in the nineties of the last century, while I was living in Santiniketan in West Bengal, working in the Visva Bharati university, the urge to know the country of origin of our Hanuman grew in me. Who were they? Where were they from? Where was our tree?
The Gangopadhyay (our Ma’s family) and the Bandyopadhyay, on our Baba’s side, are both from West Bengal. In the conversations of our elders we have heard names of the districts of 24 Parganas and Nadia (or Nabadwip, renowned birthplace of Shri Chaitanya). Thereby we trace their origin in the villages Arbelia, Baduria, Taragunia, and Ranaghat. For studies or for work, our ancestors had also moved to live in the capital, Calcutta and sometimes to the settlements of the Ganges delta. From the earlier stories on Mesdi’s Saturday Post, we got some idea of those movements.
We’ve been very fortunate to have grown up under the all protective presence of our maternal Dadu – Dr. Radharaman Ganguly on the one hand, and the warm and youthful temperament of our Baba on the other. With Thakuma as head of our household, the family picture was complete. Only much later a feeling that someone was missing there started preoccupying my mind. And sure, the empty space pointed to our paternal Dadu, Dvariknath. The only time I heard his name was when one day Thakuma, pressed by our questions, somewhat shyly named him and described him as tall and slim. Women of her generation did not usually call their husbands by the first name.
At this point, flashing back to the year 1870, we come across two Bandyopadhyay brothers, Raimohan and Kishorimohan. One of them (Baba didn’t know exactly who) was our direct ascendant, my great-grandfather, to be precise. Raimohan had learnt homeopathy while assisting Dr. Mahendralal Sarkar, a well-known physician in Calcutta whom he also accompanied on his visits. Dr. Sarkar was treating Ramakrishna Paramahamsa (1836-1886) in Dakshineshvar during his last illness. Our ancestor Raimohan is said to have written a book on treatment by homeopathy, on which we have no information.
Through circumstances unknown to us, the two brothers had been expropriated of their house. Consequently, they may have moved several times in the region and to the capital, Calcutta. Our paternal grandfather Dvariknath in his turn got initiated in homeopathy. However, not having a fixed residence of his own, he had difficulties in setting up a practice.
In course of time he was introduced to Thakuma’s elder brothers as a very suitable match for her. Our (Thakuma) Sarala-Saraju’s good looks, her pale ivory complexion, and slim figure were becoming a subject of conversation in the nearby villages and I think, our Baba’s uncles strict guardians that they were, were eager enough to see her married. Therefore, the wedding was solemnised. And on an auspicious full moon in the spring of 1910, on Dolpurnima, a fine boy was born to the couple. They named him Baidyanath after Shiva, our favourite God. In no time the name was simplified to Boddinath.
I can still hear a friend of his, P.K. Mittir, as he walked his bicycle up the alley to our house in MacRobert Gunj on Sunday mornings shouting “Boddin-a-a-a-a-th, o o o o Boddinath.…”, and Baba would sit up: “Ma ke bolo cha korte” (ask ma to make tea). And we carried the chairs out in the front yard which was also our garden. Then came one after another – Prof. Prabhat Ray alias Rai Moshai, Master Moshai, Baba’s assistant in the Lal Imli mill, Pankaj (Ray) Kakababu, and others we will meet later. In the kitchen while helping Thakuma in her cooking, Ma prepared steaming hot milk-tea, eight cups on a tray at a time, to be carried out to the Sunday morning adda. There were hot discussions, much laughter, and sometimes an improvised cricket match. What attracted those gentlemen to our modest house? Ma’s fine flavoured tea, Baba’s ready sense of humour, a houseful of kids of every age and description…. ?
Surely all that, and more! There was no formality, no invitations – it was just a house full of life and hospitality. 
To be continued.
Filed under: Brahmin, Childhood, Kanpur, Lal Imli Woollen Mills, memories
Everyone loves Sundays. I loved them too but for a very special reason. That day we got to drink tea from Baba’s tea shop. Morning cuppa had not become a habit in our house. I guess the reason was that gas cylinders had not entered kitchens in Kanpur. Lighting the coal ovens was a cumbersome affair, which needed a lot of preparation and too much time to make them ready for use. Therefore, morning tea was dispensed with in our house, except on Sundays.Ma would get everything ready. Baba’s job was mixing and pouring tea into the bowls and cups. Our tea (children’s) was a milky and sugary thing, with a dash of Darjeeling tea liquor (Baba used to buy tea from Lal Imli stores, which stocked high quality goods for the use of the sahibs).
We would be eagerly waiting for Baba to make tea but he would not get up until he compensated himself in full measure for the loss of sleep on weekdays. He would be sprawling across the two large beds, face down, not sleeping actually but lazing, showing no signs of getting up. When our patience would be exhausted, we would resort to hostility – pulling his legs, hands, fingers even hair but he would not budge. Then the younger ones would mount on his back and jump up and down. Baba seemed to like this very much. He called it “keyari” (the Bangla expression for massage). This had the desired effect to arouse him from his slumber, but he would still not be ready to get up till he exercised his vocal cords. So he would start vocalizing his own composition of lyrics – in full throated voice which was not melodious at all.
“Ekta chilo cheel noni, aakashete ore, urte urte cheel noni K.P. sahebar chate eshe boshe….”
The story went like this –
A kite flying high in the sky comes down to sit on K.P. sahab’s terrace (he lived in a bungalow across the road opposite our house). When K.P. sahab comes out of his house and stands in his garden, the kite relieves himself on his bald head. K.P. sahab huffing and puffing with rage goes into the house and brings out his gun to shoot the kite down. As he aims the gun at the kite, the kite flies away.
The story should have ended here, but one of the younger ones would ask “tar pore ki holo” (what happened after that)? And Baba would try to stretch the story further but its ends would be flying wildly. Moreover, we had got the message that Baba through his composition was pulling K.P. sahab’s leg for his high nosed attitude. We wanted a real story and not a concocted one, so one of us would suggest the story about – Bali Raja chalne chale triloki….
A sadhubaba (mendicant) had once sung this title at our door on his ektara, while begging for alms. Taking a cue from that Baba had developed his own narration of the story, with desired voice modulation having all the elements of drama. Thus he would start –
Raja Bali the tyrant demon king who had conquered all three realms of Swarga (heavens), Martya (earth) and Patal (hell), was holding a yagna (a Hindu ritual involving offerings made to the fir) to sanctify his authority. During this yagna it was proclaimed that requests and wishes of everyone would be fulfilled. Hundreds of people came throughout the day asking for whatever they wanted – money, land, cattle, gold, food etc.
Raja Bali satisfied everyone. When the sun was about to set, the priest Shukracharya advised Raja Bali to wind up the yagna. Just then, a voice was heard at a far distance.
“Bhikshang dehi! Bikshang dehi!” (Give me alms! give me alms!)
When the courtiers looked in that direction, what they saw was a diminutive figure, wearing wooden sandals (khodom), holding an umbrella over his head, coming slowly towards the king. When he came near, people laughed at his diminutive figure, his funny attire and his long chutki (the tail of hair that Brahmins used to wear on their otherwise shaved head). Only Guru Shukracharya suspected something fishy and did not laugh.
Raja Bali asked him humbly what he wanted and the Brahmin asked for “Tripad Bhoomi” (land that can be covered in three steps).
Raja Bali said – “Bus!? This much! Brahmin, I can give you much more than that. Ask for acres of land, hundreds of cattle, sackfuls of gold, palaces to live in….” But the Brahmin only said – “tripad bhoomi”.
“Tathastu!” (as you wish), said Raja Bali, “Please measure your three steps.”
As the Brahmin raised his foot to measure his first step, it started getting bigger and bigger till it overshadowed the whole of the Swarga loka (where the Devas lived).
People gaped in wonder. They had lost their power of speech. The wise among them now understood that the diminutive Brahmin was no ordinary man but Narayana or Lord Vishnu himself who had come in disguise to redeem people of their sufferings.
Raja Bali shaking with fear, prayed the Brahmin to measure his second step. As the Brahmin raised his second foot, it grew big, bigger and still bigger till it overshadowed the whole of the Martya loka.
Swarga and Martya, both taken, the Brahmin asked where he could measure his third step. Raja Bali had no more land to give. True to his words, he laid down his head on the ground for the Brahmin to measure his third step there.
Lord Vishnu, in the guise of the Brahmin – the upholder of the law of righteousness, the destroyer of the evil, thus, put his foot on the head of Raja Bali and shoved him down to the Patal lok (hell), where he remained in captivity.
After such a heavy doze of punishment, the children did not want to hear any more stories. Frankly speaking, the ending did not please me. I was rather worried as to how Raja Bali would escape from the Patal! Besides, the story had not thrown any light on his misdeeds and the punishment did not seem quite justified. Therefore, we would disperse in not a very happy mood.
After a while, Baba would come and take his seat behind the tea things. A large kettle where the tealeaves were brewing, milk pot, sugar pot, cups and bowls, were all placed in front of him. In the meanwhile, the word had got around that – Banerjee Babu ki chai ki dukan khul gai hai (Banerjee Babu’s tea shop has opened). I still am at a loss to understand which system of communication worked here – we had no telephone in our house. Within minutes, boys and girls of the neighborhood (our friends) would come running to join us with their cups and tumblers in hand and Baba would be pouring tea into them.
Filed under: Childhood, classroom, haatas, Kanpur, Lal Imli Woollen Mills, MacRobert Gunj, memories, school, schooldays
McRobert Gunj settlement was a pathetic sight when I visited Kanpur recently. I heard that our neighbourhood situated on the main road had been sold out to the builders.
I remember the days when Lal Imli Woollen Mills was still managed by the British. Our bungalows used to be so well maintained. A mali used to come every month to trim the hedges. The sweepers would sweep the whole area twice a day, in the morning and evening, collecting the dry leaves in a pile before burning them. The houses were white-washed once a year. For any problems regarding plumbing, we just needed to send a written complaint to the Welfare Officer and the problem would be taken care of promptly. A lady called Mrs. Brotton was in charge of distributing milk, which was allotted to the children of the labourers. Ms. Layal, a midwife attended to the child deliveries. Our Dadu was the Chief Medical Officer and the workers called him “Mai-Baap”. There were two primary schools also – one for the boys and the other for the girls. The activities of the children kept the neighbourhood pulsating with life. How smooth and carefree life was! Those were the golden days of our childhood.
Today while writing this post a very interesting point crosses my mind. While the boys’ school – a crescent shaped building, big classrooms, a broad veranda stretching in front of the rooms, negligible boundary wall, and an insignificant front gate, was situated near the main thoroughfare, the girls’ school was situated in the interior of the settlement. The girls’ school had an impressive building, with two rows of classrooms facing each other, divided by a broad courtyard laid with stone where the sports events were held during the annual day celebrations, called Jalsa. The school building was enclosed within high boundary walls and had an imposing iron gate. There was a big playground complete with a sea saw, a swing, a slip, and a stage where the children performed during the Annual Day functions on 24th December.
The difference between the two schools was quite glaring. Was it inspired by the Victorian concept of protecting the girls from any kind of ‘rough weather’? I am curious and feel like paying tribute to the authorities for treating girls with so much care.
The first day of school after a summer vacation used to be full of excitement when new books for the new classes were distributed to the children by their class teachers. The subjects we studied were Maths, Hindi, History (hamari kahani or our story) and Science (bagbani). I liked the History book in which the chapters were about the ped chadwa (when man lived on trees), patthar patu (when he learnt to make stone tools), and so on. I used to finish reading all the books at home at one go, except Maths. We did not study English. Today I feel curious as to why the British did not introduce their language to bolster their native culture? After all, our teachers were mostly Christian women – well qualified to teach English at the primary level! They deserve our tribute – if they had realised that nursery rhymes such as ‘Ba Ba Black Sheep’ or ‘Humpty Dumpty’ or ‘Little Miss Muffet’ had no relevance in the lives of the poor labourers who lived in the haatas.
We used to have a small recess at about 10 in the morning called ‘chane ki ghanti’. Our school maharajin used to clean and soak Bengal gram the previous afternoon. Next morning she used to season the chana with salt, pepper, ginger and lemon juice. Children would line up in front of the classrooms cupping their hands to receive a ladle-full of chana, jostling with each other for a slice of the nimboo (lemon,) breaking all rules of discipline. On Saturdays we used to get a special treat of roasted or fried chana.
In the second session after lunch break, we did not have classes. Instead, we would sit out in the open, while the class teacher taught us sewing, different stitches like hemming, ‘bakhiya’, buttonholes and knitting. Wool used to come from the mill and we learnt how to cast stitches, knit comforters, socks, caps, and sweaters. The younger children learnt clay modelling or practiced handwriting on the takhtees with a reed pen. Saturday was the Girl Guide’s day when the senior girls were taught first aid.
The extra curricular activities for the boys were Scouts trainings and sign language. While the girls performed well in cultural activities, the boys got a strong base in Mathematics.
The school celebrated its annual day on 24th December. The celebrations were called ‘Jalsa’. Preparations used to start a month before and we staged group songs, folk dances, plays, and other items under the guidance of our music teacher, Mrs. Saxena. At the end of the performances, Miss. Brave, our headmistress, used to give a short speech detailing the academic performance of the students and prizes were given away by the wife of the Burra Sahib.
It was seen that each and every girl went home with a prize. So while prizes were given to the 1st, 2nd and, 3rd rankers in academics and sports, an excuse was invented for giving more prizes such as for best manners, highest attendance in each class, cleanliness, helping nature, obedience, and so on. The prizes were different products of the Lal Imli Woollen Mill: rugs, wrappers, shawls, pullovers, mufflers, monkey caps, and items knitted by the students.
These two primary schools taught two generations of our family and without making boastful claims, imparted a wholesome all round education. The best thing was that we had no homework to do and did not have to carry heavy school bags on our back.
Filed under: Uncategorized
Pujo is not quite the same without Bulbul. It was she and her infectious enthusiasm that pulled us into pandal hopping. We gave onjuli together, stood in the long snaking queue to get bhog, enjoyed performances in the evening and came together as a big family on Bijoya Doshumi.
Pujo is one of the times I remember her a lot.
I have distinct memories of the day on which Bulbul was born. It was a summer month. I woke up one fine morning and to my utter amazement, found myself sleeping out in the open in our front yard. Obviously, someone had shifted us out from inside the house, but why?
As I walked into the house, I found the doors to the inner rooms bolted from inside. So I walked through the narrow alley between the house and the servant’s quarter and entered the house from the back door. The house smelt like a hospital. I saw Dadu and Mrs. Layal very busy with something. I asked Thakuma what was happening in the house and was told that a sister had been born to us.
I must have been seven years old then. As soon as Dadu left, I peeped into the room. I was dying to see the baby and hold her in my arms. Those days, children were not prepared for the birth of a sibling and so it was a very pleasant surprise for me. But Ma would not let me in until I came in my birthday suit. It was a small matter to me, as every afternoon when I came home from school during lunch break, I had to submit myself to Baba, who would rub mustard oil on my body before I took my bath.
I was ready, casting off my frock in a second. Then Ma asked me to sit on the floor with folded legs and let me hold the baby in my lap. For the next one month till shashti pujo, when she would be out of her confinement, her room was my favorite spot. I would play with my dolls made of cotton wicks but always be alert, waiting for a call to hold the baby. Spending time in that room also gave me the opportunity to have a share from the most delicious parathas made with homemade ghee that came from Didima’s house in a large tiffin box.
31st August – the world remembers it as the day when Princess Diana’s eventful life came to a tragic end. The tragedy which had struck our family also culminated on 31st August, taking away Bulbul from us three years ago.
I remember that day – Bulbul was lying on the floor, looking fresh and beautiful, as if nothing had happened to her. I was sitting beside. The room was full of mourners. As per custom, I had been asked to keep touching her body with my right hand. As I did so, my thoughts wandered to that day when I had held her in my arms under Ma’s watchful eyes and how she had grown up since then carving her own distinct personality.
Suddenly I felt a tremor in my right arm. It started mildly and then grew stronger and stronger. I was puzzled and looked around myself – wanting to tell somebody about my experience. When I could not take it any more, I withdrew my hand and asked my daughter to touch her body the same way as I was doing. I asked her if she felt anything – she did not. Assured, that it was only my imagination; I again placed my right hand on her body. The tremor returned, growing stronger and stronger as if my arm had been touched with a live electric wire. So many things had remained unsaid between us. So many questions passed through my mind. I had shifted my base from another state in the hope of living nearby. Her phone calls every Saturday inviting us for a ‘potluck’ party – remembering the jokes and anecdotes of different occasions and laughing over the memories…. my first and last Durga Pujo with her after a long time…. so many plans contemplated and to be discussed. Was Bulbul trying to communicate with me?
I did not know, but I did not withdraw my hand this time. Time was closing in and soon she would be gone, never to return. Cruel fate had snatched away from us the joy of saying – “we are eleven” forever.
Filed under: Bengal, Bengali, Bijoya, Bijoya Doshumi, Bong, Durga Puja, Goddess Durga
Today is Bijoya Doshumi. Yesterday was Nobumi. Nobumi was the day when Ma started preparations for Bijoya Doshumi. Ma always made narkol sandesh and jhuri gouja for Bijoya.
While I collect inspiration from Azadnagar for my next post, I leave you with Ma’s recipes. Shobaikae shubho bijoyar aantorik preeti, subhechya o okek onek bhalobasha.
Narkol Sandesh 
Ingredients
4 cups scraped coconut
2 cups crushed sugar
1 cup khoya or milk powder
1 tea spoon green cardamom and jayphal (nutmeg) powder
Method
In a heavy bottomed pan mix all ingredients except the last ones. Put the pan on low heat, cover for five minutes to let the sugar melt. Continue stirring till the mixture becomes lumpy and starts leaving the sides. Mix cardamom and jayphal powder. Remove from fire.
Take portions of the above mixture with wet hands, press on a mould [wet] for easy removal.
Jhuri Goujas
Ingredients
500 gms. maida
50 gms. ghee [the cream of milk can be used as alternative]
Half teaspoon baking soda
2 tea spoons posto (poppy seeds)
A pinch of salt
Method
Mix the above ingredients well. Knead into tight dough adding cold water, little at a time. Let the dough stand for half an hour.
Divide the dough into small portions or lechies. Roll out like a luchi. Make vertical cuts with a sharp knife leaving both ends intact. Fold lightly, pressing both ends with thumb and index finger.
Heat oil adding a little ghee for flavor. When the oil starts smoking, reduce heat. Drop the jhuri goujas two at a time. Deep fry till they turn golden brown.
Make a thick syrup with one cup sugar and half cup water. When the syrup starts crystallizing, pour over the goujas, see that they are coated well. Cool.
Happy Pujo!
The regular post will be available on Sunday, 21st Oct. during the evening, Indian Standard Time.
Sketch Credits: Surya Ranjan Shandil
Filed under: Bengali, Childhood, Durga Puja, Goddess Durga, Kanpur, Lal Imli Wollen Mills, Mahalaya, memories
Today (11th) is Mahalaya. It makes me very nostalgic about that special day when the house woke up to the rendition of Mahishsur Mardini, that soul stirring, immortal creation in the voice of Shri Birendra Krisno Bhodro. Ma or Baba, helped by the alarm set up the previous night, would wake up at that early hour of the morning and turn on the radio. The rendition used to be so power packed that it always gave me goose bumps. Its spell lasted the entire day. With Mahalaya, started the Devi Paksha, invoking Devi Durga to come on earth for the annihilation of Mahishashur – the evil one.
Today I am also very nostalgic about those good old days of pujo in Kanpur. The countdown began with the appearance of the chanda (donation) collectors. Pujo in our times was an enterprise of the Bengali Society, managed on low budget, therefore chanda used to be nominal. It never seemed like extortion and unlike today, chanda collectors used to get a warm welcome. We children, who were especially interested in the natoks (plays), made anxious enquiries from the different chanda collectors representing different pujo baris about the various plays to be enacted and their details. With this knowledge, we made selections of the plays we would go to see.
A month before pujo, Iddu dorji (our tailor) would camp on the Rambhajan ki chowki (translation impossible) in our verandah tailoring half pants, full pants, shirts, bush shirts, and frocks. One day Baba would take us to the Bata shop at Mallroad, for buying new shoes and slippers. The new shoes and slippers invariably gave us sores – but those sores were easy to bear in the excitement of pujo. From Ponchumi (one day before shoshti), every news about Ma Durga’s coming was lapped up with eagerness. Ma would give us children strict instructions – not to fight during pujo days and we would be on our best behavior to impress Ma Durga.
The environment of the pujo pandals used to be very homely. No maddening crowd and din, no barricades and one way systems for viewing the Goddess, and no loud music. Morning ragas were played on the shahnai and this was the only time when we got to hear Bengali songs of Pankaj Mallik, Sachin Dev Burman, Hemant Kumar, Kanan Devi and the others. These songs added to the Bengali character of the pujo baris. Alas! The old world charm is completely lost today with the commercialization of pujo and in the tide of unknown faces.
And Oh! What excitement it was to hoodwink the man distributing sweet packets by first going alone, then with Ma, and again with Baba, changing clothes every time to evade recognition. (As if the gentleman was so naïve as to not know our tricks!). The pujo pandal used to be charged with expectations about the natok that would be staged that night. We would go back home for an afternoon sleep – preparing ourselves to be awake the whole night. In the evening Thakuma and Binadi would go early to the pandal to reserve places for us. Binadi used to take special care with her makeup – a tight ghunte khonpa, hair parting painted with vermillion, a large teep and a mustard color sari. I had once asked her why she always wore mustard color saris, and her reply was very simple – “because that’s what people give me”. Baba had a way of coaxing everyone in the family to go to the pandal. I think he wanted us to collect tit bits of information and laughing material for the next one year.
In our times, we had great fun watching men play the female roles. An uncle, Moni Sengupta, always enacted the female lead roles, looking more graceful than even a real woman. Whether he played the role of Jahanara, or Bijoya, in Sharat Babu’s “Dutta” or Begum Sirajuddaula – he kept the crowd captivated by his own style of dignified acting. And for us, half of the charm was gone when Pahari Sanyal’s troupe with mixed casting came from Lucknow, and women started playing their own roles.
I suspect that there was pressure on Baba to take part in the plays, as he was quite good looking. I have a feeling that Baba had a secret wish to play the role of Korno. He always put so much feelings into the lines “….ki korile Bala? Kar gole dile tumi kushumer mala?” (Baba knew all the dialogues of Korno by heart). Korno – the wronged one, exploited by everyone for their selfish ends, starting from Mata Kunti, who came begging for Arjun’s life to be spared in the next day’s battle. She was not satisfied with the assurance that whoever died in the battle, she would still be called “Poncho Pandober Janani” (mother of five pandavas) and left only after taking some kind of assurance that he would not harm Arjun. Even Indra came in disguise and asked for Korno’s protective Koboch Kundal (a charmed body shield that Korno had to protect him from any harm to his body) and Korno could not refuse as he was known as “danee Korno” (a person who always gives what is asked). Even Krishna indulged in the villainous act of pouring rain on Korno’s side of the battlefield, getting the wheels of his chariot jammed in the slush and giving advantage to Arjun. And all this in the name of Dharma Yuddh (fair war)!
I have never read Mahabharat in such detail. It was from Baba’s rendering of the dialogues that I formed our opinion about who the hero was and who the villain was. Korno naturally was my hero and I put Kunti, Indra and Krishna in the category of villains.
Some of the lengthy plays stretched up to the wee hours of the morning. Despite all our bravado and enthusiasm, we could never keep awake till the end and would flop down in the laps of Thakuma and Binadi to be awakened when all was over. We then walked home in a half asleep condition guided by the light from the lamp posts that were surrounded by a cloud of night insects – and hit the bed as soon as we reached home. And the three days of pujo would simply vanish leaving us dazed.
From the morning of the fourth day, preparations would begin for the making of Bijoya sweets. The three items that always had to be made were – Narkol sandesh, Nimki and Goja. Ma made gojas of different shapes and designs and we brothers and sisters took turns to scrape the coconut on the kuruni. The festivities started with Bishorjon (immersion of the idols in the Ganges). Baba’s friends would come for kola–kulee. Our aunts used to come bringing homemade sweets. We would be impatient to taste the different sweets but would not get any until we touched the feet of elders and got their blessings.
Next day was Bharat Milap. One of the suppliers of Lal Imli Woollen Mills, whom we knew as Lala Babu, sponsored Ramlila in the Parade ground. It used to be a grand show and pulled large crowds. Lala Babu used to send passes to Baba for the V.I.P. gallery, which we never availed, as the schedule clashed with Durga Puja; but we certainly waited for the large thalees loaded with motichoor ke laddus, balushahies, puries and kachuries, made with pure ghee. Thus Pujas ended on a sweet note and sweet memories.
Sketch Credits: Surya Ranjan Shandil
The clear blue sky, golden sunshine, a nip in the morning air and the sweet fragrance of shiuli phool tell us that shorot kal or autumn is here. The trees after being bathed in the monsoon showers look majestic with their lush green foliage, swaying their branches to the gentle breeze. The air is pregnant with expectation and preparations for the coming festive season. Baba used to call it “pujo pujo bhab” (Puja mood). My little shiuli tree, which I had planted last year has started giving flowers and while picking the flowers early in the morning – my mind travels back to our MacRobert Gunj house.
When the flowers started blooming, Ma would ask Buddha, our man servant, to plaster the ground underneath the shiuli tree with cow dung paste. In the night, a clean sheet would be spread on the ground so that when the flowers dropped on it, they would be dust free and easy to collect. These were used for onjoli during the pujo days. Sometimes I made garlands with them.
I used to collect the deep orange stems of the shiuli flowers and mix them with milk for daily cleansing of my face – for a glowing complexion. When our house at Azadnagar was ready for us to move in, Baba had planted a shiuli tree in the backyard. Even after my marriage, whenever I came home, Ma would give me a small jar of dried stems, which she had collected with her own hands, dried in the shade and stored for me. Who else, but a mother could give such a precious gift.
Shorot was also the time when Dadu’s house used to fill up with our aunts and cousins who would come from Calcutta to spend their pujo vacations. They were all well groomed, could sing robindro sangeet, recite the funny poems from “Abol Tabol” and speak chaste bangla while we spoke hindi amongst ourselves at home. Our school syllabus for hindi had nothing to stand up to the level of Tagore and Sukumar Roy. The elders pulled our legs for every slip we made. And called us khottas.
We were sons and daughters of the soil – quite in the literal sense, as all our games demanded rolling in the dust. So we never looked well-groomed. Our front yard was sometimes dug up to prepare a wrestling court where wrestling matches were held. 
Cricket was played with tennis balls leaving permanent marks on the glass panes of the front doors. Gulli danda, marbles (the crude version of golf), ikka dukka and kabaddi were some of the games we played. One of our sisters had fractured her collarbone twice while playing kabaddi. There were three sazbenia trees, hemmed in between the singri hedge, which marked our house boundary on one side. These trees used to light up with yellow flowers in autumn and later reproduced bean like fruits which used to turn yellow when dry and make a khad khad noise while swaying in the breeze. I would often climb up and sit on one of its branches, watching others, while not playing. Due to this, the tag of a ‘gecho meye’ (tree girl) had got attached to my name, and I knew it was certainly not a compliment. I was becoming introvert and shy. There were times when families who were supposed to be ambassadors of Bengali culture paid social visits, only to find our house empty of all youngsters! We all had run away from the back door to land in Dadur bari. But I should mention that Nilu had a way of charming elders, who would never forget the V.I.P. treatment they received from him.
As time passed and we graduated to higher classes, we read hindi literature and memorized couplets from “Ramcharit Manas” – from Keshavdas – Subhadra Kumari Chauhan’s “Khub ladi mardani woh to Jhansi wali Rani thi” – quotations from Gandhiji’s “My Experiments with Truth”, Nehruji’s “Discovery Of India”, Sarojini Naidu’s collection of poems – William Wordsworth’s, “Daffodils”….
We started gaining confidence and could look straight into the eyes of anyone – proud of being what we were. After all, we were equipped adequately to take part in the verbal duels. When we were called khottas for our rustic ways of life, we, in turn, called them Bheto Bangalees. These childish verbal battles were without any malice and were quite fun.
Thus shorot was the time for socialization, fun and laughter and we enjoyed it to the hilt.
Sketch Credits: Surya Ranjan Shandil
I decided to devote a full post to answer questions about the origin of Kulins and our roots. It also gave me time to do some reading on it. My main source of information is Shri Krishna Kripalini’s Biography of Dwarka Nath Tagore. Shri Kriplani was a member of the Rajya Sabha from 1974 to 1980, and also held the post of the Chairman of The National Book Trust of India for some time. While tracing the history of caste system in Bengal, Shri Kriplani concedes that in the absence of a system of recording history, most of the available information is based on adikothas and upokathas.
According to the historians, Bengal in the medieval times was known as Gauda and was mainly inhabited by the Adivasis of Nishad groups. The upper caste Aryans called them Dasyus and contacts with them necessitated atonement (prayashchit). There is some historical evidence that after the First Kalinga War in 265 B.C., Emperor Ashoka shocked and ashamed at the bloodbath caused by him, embraced Buddhism and actively promoted it the rest of his life. This led to the gradual decline of Hinduism. The Chinese traveler Hwen Tsang in 7th century A.D. has mentioned about the existence of numerous Viharas (where the traveling Buddhist monks stopped for night shelter and rest) in his travelogues, showing that Buddhism flourished during that period.
The period between 7th – 10th century A.D. Bengal or Gauda saw the revival of the Sanatan Hindu Dharma under the rule of a number of Hindu Kings. According to Shri Rajendra Lal Mittra, a historian in 9th century A.D., Raja Adishur ascended the throne of Gauda. He did not have a male successor. So he decided to seek divine benediction and planned to organize a yagna. But a problem arose. He could not find a priest who was well versed in the vedas, puranas and brahmanical rituals. Therefore he requested the Raja of Kanyakubja (modern Kannauj in the state of Madhya Pradesh) to send five vedantic Brahmins, who could perform the yagna. At that time Kanyakubja was well known as a stronghold of Sanatan Hindu Dharm.
The five Brahmins came mounted on horsebacks accompanied by one attendant each. After performing the yagna for Raja Adishur when they returned to their home state, to their dismay, they faced stiff opposition from the Hindu samaj who would not accept them any more as they had lost their purity living in Anarya land (Gauda). On being driven away from their home land, they sought asylum from Raja Adishur. The Raja gave each Brahmin a village in Gauda to settle down and establish their tribes, which came to be known by the name of the village in which they settled.
Raja Adishur’s successor Ballal Sen conferred the title of Kulin upon them and encouraged them to increase their tribe by polygamy. Of these, those who settled in North Eastern Bengal were called the Barendra Brahmans and those who lived in West Bengal were called Rarhi Barhmans. Banerjees, Mukherjees, Chatterjees, Bhattacharyas and Gangulys claim their descent from these five kannaujia Brahmin clans. The attendants who had come with them were also honored as Kulin Kayastha class. Though Barendra and Rarhis were both Bramhans, yet they did not mix with each other socially and marriages between the two branches were not allowed.
This Kulin system created a lot of problems. Since marriages could take place only in the same rank of Kulins, grooms were hard to find. Or Kulin men exploited the situation. And polygamy got encouraged. It is said that there were men who had so many wives that they had to keep lists to remember them. The men did not really live with so many wives in one household. But after marriage the girl continued to stay at her parent’s house and the men visited the wives maybe once a year – to collect the marriage fees that had to be paid to them every year. Films such as Sati, Antarjali Yatra etc. give a poignant description about the injustices faced by women in those times.
As for practice of the Kulin system outside Bengal, people who had come out of their native places in quest for livelihood adopted a liberal outlook. Still it was an important consideration at the time of finding matrimonial alliances. One reason for it could be that in India, marriages are social events attended by relatives with diverse views. I think our Dadu did marry our mashees in Kulin families even if it took much effort in finding the right person. Our Baba, was completely different.
Filed under: Childhood, jasmine, Kanpur, MacRobert Gunj, Mahatma Gandhi, World War II
When I try to remember the very early years of my childhood nothing comes to my mind except for some faded memories of events and incidents. Or maybe these incidents affected me so strongly that I retain their memories even today.
Like Shyam Singh the Sikh carpenter who spent many days in our front yard making four beds according to Baba’s specifications. These beds were so stout that they outlived the onslaught of the whole brood of growing children who jumped, skipped, hopped, and danced on them. They are still standing in the Azadnagar house. These beds also filled up those empty rooms giving a distinct character to each corner occupied by them. Two of the beds that were placed together in our bedroom were spacious enough to accommodate not only us but even the neighborhood children, who sometimes fell asleep at our home. The third was placed in the hall against the window, for Thakuma. A chameli (jasmine) shrub grew right outside the window. This was where we snuggled around Thakuma in the evenings to listen to her stories. And the fourth bed was placed against the opposite wall. Baba used to relax on it after coming back from office, smoking his cigarette with a cup of tea.
I still remember the nauseating smell of cod liver oil, which was forced down my throat every morning by Baba. No matter how much I tried, I could never escape it. After all, cod liver oil was the magic potion that helped to develop resistance against cough and cold and every other illness that little children are prone to. And the sweet memories of going to the Guria Mela (Doll festival) holding Baba’s hands and returning home with a sack full of clay toys, brightly colored and baked to be strong enough. Buying a kitchen set was a must. That was perhaps the beginning of the training of a future homemaker.
A huge effigy of Hitler was burnt in the Brijendra Swaroop Park to celebrate the victory in the Second World War. I remember the spectacular firecrackers. I don’t remember much about our first Independence Day celebrations. But I do remember that for some time after it we lived in fear that the violence which had lashed out after partition would touch us too. Maybe it was because Kanpur had a history of communal violence and our house was near the main road. I remember the elders discussing plans of how to face the situation if any untoward incident happened. Doors were kept locked. Lathis, brickbats, shambols, iron rods and axes were kept handy to be used if necessary. Gandhiji’s assassination was felt like a personal loss. I remember the older people weeping, though then I had not understood the cause of their grief. Kitchen fires were not lit in our house that day. Around these years, there was a time when rice and wheat disappeared from the market. The ration shops gave smelly rice, full of stones, not fit to be eaten. But there was no option. For some time we had to do with “jow ki roti” (chapattis made out of barley), which was too hard for a Bengali’s stomach. There was no sugar and we refused to eat our staple suji ka halwa when it was made with salt. People were dying of hunger and I remember our Pishimas saying that it was difficult to eat when there were people wailing outside the door – “ektu phan dao-go ma” (please give some rice starch). I think I remember it also because I have watched those scenes afterwards in the films of Satyajit Ray, Mrinal Sen and others.
In the midst of such upheavals, the news of Pishemoshai’s death came like a bolt from the blue. Baba was in shock, Thakuma was crying but no one discussed anything openly. When I was quite grown up I had asked Ma what had happened to Pishemoshai. I was told that he had been depressed about Binadi’s (his eldest daughter) bad marriage and held himself responsible for her sufferings. Borodadabhai (his eldest son) was also in critical condition, suffering from pleurisy when he already had asthma. In the absence of specialist physicians and medicines, a common man living in a very small town could not do much but watch helplessly when such complications arose. Pishemoshai’s body was found on the railway track. People said he was knocked down by a running train.
Pishemoshai had left behind six children. In course of time, Binadi was rescued from her in-law’s house. None of her three children had survived. Binadi would have died, had she not been taken away from that tyrant home. She was sent to Kanpur, in our family, far away from the reaches of those people. Borodadabhai slowly recovered. Baba tried to settle him down in a partnership business with Bhutokaka, financing the initial capital. Their timber business flourished and Borodadabhai was able to support his mother (our Pishima). (Actually the doors of our Azadnagar house had been provided by Bhutokaka as a gesture of gratitude – but that is another story). Borodadabhai was a very loveable person. His relationship with Baba was more like a friend rather than of an uncle and a nephew. Baba brought Pishima’s second son, our Chottodadabhai to Kanpur, as Kanpur had better education facilities – and that is again a different story.
This is how our MacRobert Gunj family grew….
Filed under: Bengali, Calcutta University, Childhood, Marriage, Wedding
Marriages are often divine interventions
and when the Gods conspire, it always
happens for the good.
Our Thakuma had promised a childhood
shoee (saheli or friend) that she would
accept her daughter as her daughter-in-law. But Gods had willed otherwise or why else would they have arranged a meeting between Shri Baidyanath Banerjee and Dr. Ganguly? The story goes like this.
Once Mr. Baidyanath was teasing a tomcat who promptly punished him by biting his hand. One of his friends suggested that he should 
immediately see Dr. Ganguly, a person quite well known in the Bengali society.
So both friends
came to Dr. Ganguly
for consultation.
Dr. Ganguly in the course of giving
first-aid asked the usual questions that all probashee Bangalis ask while meeting another for the first time.
“Desh kothay?” (Where is your village?)
“My father hailed from Taragunia village of 24 Parganas District but I grew up in my mamar bari, so I call Baduria my desh.”
This information made Dr. Ganguly sit up because he himself hailed from Taragunia village.
“Babar nam ki?” (What is your father’s name?)
When Baidyanth told the name of his father, Dr. Ganguly could immediately recall in his mind the image of the tall slim young man, who had married a pretty bride from Baduria. He looked searchingly at Baidyanath’s face and found striking resemblance to Dr. Bondopadhyay whom he had known while he was alive.
“Ekhane ki koro?” (What are you doing here?)
“I have finished my M.Sc. degree from Calcutta University and I am now specializing in oil from H.B.T.I.”
The answer seemed to please Dr. Ganguly no end. He was looking for a suitable boy for his eldest daughter Protibha and this young man standing on his doorstep seemed to be sent by God. Dr. Ganguly felt as if the moon was within his grasp. When he asked for his guardian’s address, Baidyanath had no idea of the things to come.
hjjgfgdg
Dr. Ganguly without loosing any time sent the marriage proposal to Babumama, who was the head of the family. After carefully scrutinizing the details, Babumama found no obstacles and therefore, no reason to oppose. Those days very few people had the courage to break social norms. Firstly, inter cast marriages were not allowed. Thus a Brahmin had to marry within his own caste. Even among the Brahmins there were many grades such as Kulin Brahmin (grade A), Barendra Brahmin (grade B), and marriages between grade A and grade B were looked down upon – setting many tongues wagging – ultimately pushing the family into the fringes of the society. Furthermore, marriage between the same gotras was a taboo, so a Banerjee could not marry a Banerjee. In this case, these two important social norms were seen to be fulfilled. So next, the qualities of the patri or bridal candidate came up for examination. Protibha was a brilliant student. She had passed her higher secondary exams from The Bramho Girl’s School, reputed for its quality education, with a distinction certificate in English. She had also won many prizes for elocution. Babumama accepted the proposal and a date was fixed for the auspicious occasion.
hytygfgdfgh
The barat (family and friends of the groom) party which came from Baduria was quite formidable. Both the Babumamas came with their wives, sons and daughters. Our Pishima and Pishemoshai came with their family too. After all, who would miss the fun and the opportunity to be the proud baratees of a jewel of a boy – the first one from the small village to have wedded so far! Needless to say, as per custom all the costs were borne by the father of the bride – Dr. Ganguly.
Dr. Ganguly had made arrangements for
the barat in the premises of B.N.S.D.
college hostel which lay just across the
road. It was the month of May and the
students had gone home for their
summer vacation. The hospitality was of such high order that it remained etched in the memories of the baratees – how else could I have written this story! My Pishima would often get nostalgic while recalling the event.
Ice cool sorbet of fresh lime or green mangoes or simply kewra, fruit baskets of mangoes, leechees, watermelon , kharboozas, (cold drinks were not known in 1936) and choicest sweets were continuously being served by the three brothers of the bride – our Boromama,
Mejomama and Chottomama.
And Dr. Ganguly became
our Dadu, and Protibha
and Baidyanath our parents!
From my point of view, this was an ideal
marriage because Dadu had his eldest daughter always near him, even when our other aunts went to their shoshurbaris (in law’s family). And we had not one, but two homes, to spend our extra energy by creating riots and hoordangas in both of them.
Graphic Visualization and Illustrations: Surya Ranjan Shandil
The last illustration is an adaptation from a b/w photograph.
Filed under: chapatti, Childhood, classroom, fasting, MacRobert Gunj, memories, school, schooldays
Another embarrassing experience of my MacRobert Gunj school days was when I was in class IV, which was considered to be a senior class and by which time I think I had gained some amount of self assurance.
My day started with the loud wake up call given by our school maharagin. She used to round up the whole area shouting “CHALO BACCHON ISKOOL”!!
Ours was a “no fuss” house. In the morning Ma used to be very busy with preparing and serving breakfast to Baba before he left for his office. Besides, the younger siblings would be throwing tantrums to catch attention, so self-help was the best and only option. I would just wash my face, comb my hair, which was always cut short (‘boy cut’) for fear of lice, pick up my school bag and be off to school.
My class teacher was Mrs. R. She was a very strict teacher with no soft expressions on her face. Unlike other teachers who lived in MacRobert Gunj itself, she came from outside.
At about 9 or 9.30 in the morning when the class was in full swing, our man-servant would appear in front of my class room with a brass tumbler, in which Baba drank water, covered with a brass bowl. As this had become quite a regular affair, Mrs R. knew the purpose of his coming and seeing him she would announce in a sing song manner – “jai-ye Urmila Rani, khana hazir hai”. I would imagine a hint of mockery in her voice.
Mortified, I would rush – snatch away the tumbler from the hands of the servant – run to the
most secluded place, which was near the toilet, gulp down a few helpings of
the chapatti soaked in milk
and throw away the rest on the other side of the
boundary wall (sorry), for
the ducks that quack-
quacked there all day.
Back home I would vehemently protest telling Ma never to send me any food in the school and certainly not in that uncouth manner. But that was not to be. How could
I be fasting till lunch break! And the same thing would happen again exactly in the same manner, the next day and the next….
Sketch Credits: Surya Ranjan Shandil
Filed under: Bengali, Bong, Childhood, fish, Kanpur, Lal Imli Woollen Mills, MacRobert Gunj, memories, neighborhood, Uttar Pradesh
Growing up in Uttar Pradesh in a Bong family was a unique experience in itself. Unique – because I learnt from my surroundings that I was different from others. Ours was the only Bong family in our neighborhood of MacRobert Gunj, which could also be called a settlement for all levels of workers of Lal Imli Woollen Mills, a British [I] Corporation. There were different categories of houses according to the ranks of the employees. The workers lived in haatas of one or two room tenements with a common toilet and a water pump in the centre of the haata. The officers had bungalows with a long rectangular yard, stretching right up to the main road. As my father was the Chief Chemist, we grew up in one such bungalow. The Chief Engineer, the Chief Cashier, the Chief Accountant, the Welfare Officer, the Head Mistress of the Primary Girls School, the Chief Medical Officer, who incidentally was our maternal grandfather and the Midwife who assisted our grandfather in child deliveries – were our neighbors.
Going to school was an ordeal for me. I had to pass through two haatas, one of which was called the “Bewa haata”, housing the widows of the deceased workers and the other was 25 No. While passing through these haatas, I had to endure cat calls everyday – from young boys and men who were crowded around the water pump engaged in different activities like chewing on their neem twig (or brushing their teeth), washing clothes, bathing or filling the water buckets for their houses. As soon as I entered the scene, I would be hit by calls of “Machhi Khani, Machhi Khani”. These were said in good humor and in an endearing rather than offensive way – as we were recognized and loved by all because of the selfless services of our grandfather. There was not a single house which was not indebted to Dadu. He would attend a patient even in the dead of the night, as ailments usually aggravated in the night.
People in our times were simple. That kind of teasing a girl is sure to be mis- understood now a days. It was their way of recognizing my presence rather than ignoring me altogether; but on my part I used to get tensed up as soon as I approached the haata and prayed to God to make me invisible so that I could pass unnoticed. This daily experience had taught me one thing – that fish and Bongs are inseparable.
Sketch Credits: Surya Ranjan Shandil
Filed under: Ashtami, Childhood, Goddess Durga, joint family, Kanpur, MacRobert Gunj, Makar Sankranti, memories, Neem trees, neighborhood, picnic, Shantiniketan, Sun God
We grew up in MacRobert Gunj. Our neighborhood was like a big joint family. There were girls of my age in each house – Lallo, Munni, Nirmala, Shashi, and for every sibling in our family there was a match in these families.
gfgfg
Munni’s mother used to invite all the girls when she performed Kumari Puja on Ashtami day. We were fed “puri” and “halua”, given a paisa in dakshina. She even touched our feet, as Kumaris are supposed to be incarnation of Goddess Durga.
gggggg
On the occasion of Makar Sankranti, Mall Sab’s family went to the river bank, with their entourage and pots and pans. The river was crossed by boat, and puja was performed on the other bank. Offerings of the new harvest were given to the Sun God. For us children, it was like a picnic. I have been part of the entourage a few times. There was no need to take permission from Baba or Ma and my wish was good enough. Today I wonder – how informal life was in those days!
vcvcv
MacRobert Gunj had a unique character. It was very much a town, yet it had the earthiness of a village life. The whole neighborhood was full of Neem trees – no trees of flowering type such as in Shantiniketan, but only Neem trees. Thus through the change of seasons we came to know the whole life cycle of Neem. During winter, the sweepers had a hard time collecting the fallen leaves in heaps before lighting them. The smoke filled the air and killed mosquitoes. In spring new leaves came together with white blossoms. It was the time of chicken pox to visit the neighborhood. Neem branches were kept handy for soothing the boils and the final bath after recovery was given with water boiled with neem leaves. But the most beautiful thing happened with the onset of monsoons.
vcvcb
In the alley between Mal Sab’s and Khajanchee Sab’s house, there was a huge Neem tree. Every year a jhoola (swing) was hung from one of its sturdiest branches. It haunted us children and we would wait our turn to sit on the long wooden plank. The women came in the afternoon, after finishing their household chores. This was the time when newly wed daughters returned to their father’s house on their annual visit. Men stood on both ends, giving “pengs”, which increased the momentum of the swing, till it went higher and higher, touching the branches of the tree as we snatched a few leaves in our fist. The women sang Sohar (ode to Monsoon), and the strains of their songs filled the air. And when it drizzled – it was just heavenly. To me this was the most beautiful experience of my childhood, and life would suddenly become empty when the season was over and the swing pulled down.
Filed under: Childhood, free bird, Kanpur, MacRobert Gunj, memories, neighborhood, playground
Today when I look back at my childhood and those years of growing up, I find them to be so ordinary, but so real – with their pains and exhilarations, agonies and ecstasies – seemingly fetterless. The boundaries stretched not just up to my immediate neighborhood but up to the last walls of MacRobert Gunj – the locality where we lived in Kanpur. I have played as much at home as with my classmates in far flung haatas – shared their food – blissfully making their homes, however small and wretched they might be, our playgrounds. I was a free bird without inhibitions and restrictions and could stretch my wings and fly away when and where I wished.
I am sharing some of those memories through this space; however they are rather random and do not follow any chronological order. I invite my sisters and brothers and everybody else who are part of these memories to write in with their comments, anytime. Welcome.
-Mesdi
Mesdi's Saturday Post 
