Mesdi’s Saturday Post

Notes from Saraju’s Diary – XIII

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.

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