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.
