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.
