Decembers in Durgapur

December is indeed a special month to me since my childhood days. Being a student of a catholic convent school, I grew up singing Christmas carols and participating in the school fests celebrating the birth of Christ. The December fest in school used to begin with the quintessential play on the birth of Lord Jesus and then went on with each class presenting their thoughts on Christmas with songs, skits and dances. The selections for the participants used to begin from November though we knew beforehand who would play Jesus's parents, angels, three kings and so on. I always got selected in the song crew and felt safe because the singers did not have to look for fancy clothes as they did not had to perform on stage. We would huddle beside the piano with our music teacher.

Only once there was a break from this routine. I was chosen as a participant in group dance with the song 'Saviour's day'. How on earth did my teachers chose me, the person with two left feet as a dancer makes me wonder till date. But I enjoyed the rehearsals and the performance nevertheless.

Apart from the stage performances, there were the soft boards and cork boards to decorate for the Christmas theme. There were 'Cribs' or the models representing birthplace of Christ. On my last year in school, we were asked to think about innovative themes on 'Crib Making'. The group with which I worked on making crib thought about a globe frame with the usual Christmas scene. Now, how much we were dedicated in Christ devotion and how much we craved for roaming around and bunking classes, we only knew. Everyday, we used to plan an excuse and bunked the subject period we did not liked to study. Our frantic runnings here and there to arrange for equipments even carved soft corners in the teachers' hearts, including the teachers and sisters we were scared of.

All these hullaballoo on Christmas ended by 20th December every year and our winter vacations commenced.  The garden in my quarter's backyard would be in full bloom with seasonal flowering plants by then. There were white 'December Beauties', red Poppies and Gerberas, multicoloured Zinnias, Marigolds, Chrysanthemums, Dahlias and Roses. The wintry holidays would start with observing my parents watering the plants in the garden. Occasionally, they would point the waterpipes towards me in jest making me running around the garden to save myself from the cold water droplets. There would be the fragrance of brewing coffees and bakings of cakes and nan khatais all over the household. There would be me and my brother lazing with the storybooks under the warm blankets amidst the sweet whiffs of baked goodies. There would be my mother knitting sweaters with multi-coloured wools while father would be pulling a joke or two on the structures of the knitted sweaters. The orange peels would be out in the garden for sun-drying. The sun-dried ones would be sorted for making a grounded powder essence for the orange cakes we would be carrying in our lunch boxes for the next few months. The evenings would be reserved for family tea time, the only time of the year when we were allowed to taste the specially blended black tea made by father or a mug of coffee to beat the chills.

As the days passed, the fragrances weakened signalling the reopening of school after the vacation. My mother would start to check our notebooks to find out whether we had been completing the vacation homework. A spurt of scolding would continue to resonate the air instead of the baking fragrances. The last days of December would go in frenzy yet we would be scribbling my homeworks till the very morning the school started again.

Reminiscing the Giridih Winters

I love this nip around the air when the winter begins to announce its arrival. I also miss the winters spent in Giridih and Durgapur. When I think about the winters in Durgapur, I become nostalgic about my childhood and my mother's cooking. The very dishes which she cooked then made us frown and cut sorry faces but now we can only imagine the aromas and stay elated the rest of the day. I will reminisce the Durgapur winters some other day as today my heart is going back to Giridih.
The city...maybe we should better call it a small town became a sleepy head by 9 PM every winter day with the chilly air and the evening azaans ruling over. The mornings would begin from 4 AM with the early morning azaan. I loved to wake up to hear this particular azaan and had set up my clock alarm accordingly. Neither I am a religious person nor I am an expert in Arabic but I could relate to the mesmerizing voice of the person who called out the azaan during this time every day. I felt that the person was actually calling out to the God he believed, in the same way we told our dear ones to come and stay with us. By the time the azaan finished, I would be holding my tea mug and thinking about the day that lay ahead.
The days when I was a student in a B.Ed college in Giridih and spending study leaves, my winter days would often go experimenting different dishes on my new induction oven. The winter lunches which I made only for myself were mostly risottos and stews to be eaten while I watched the Jeremy Brett's Sherlock Holmes series. The dinners would be lavish, very north Indian or very Chinese. We had everything ranging from Rajma Chawal to the Chholes to the Mixed Chowmeins to the Chilly Chickens. The sundays would be strictly reserved for Pulaos and Chicken. The chicken which I detest now was a delicacy then as the assorted vegetables which were available in the winter months gave us less opportunity to become non vegetarians with chickens and eggs. Fishes were a rare visitor in our Giridih house as the fresh ones were not easily available.
The winter evenings were spent on coffee mugs, the hand made, indigenous espressos and the seasons of 'The Big Bang Theory'. When the lights went out, we would play around with the waxes of the thick candles discussing on philosphies, life, travels, perspectives and the people of Giridih. Yes, we discussed on Giridih people because their compositions were very new to us. They appeared unwelcoming and welcoming at the same time. We tried to match our exposures and education with them, but gave away eventually and embraced the proverbial saying 'Ignorance is bliss'.
I have forgotten the people who appeared unwelcoming. What I remember now are the winters, the food experiments, the colourful vegetable markets where the tribal people would come to sell their crops, some friendships we made with some unforgettable, humble and gentle people and the morning azaan. I have seen ridiculous caste discriminations and heard about the dowry categories there in Giridih, but what I still carry in my mind is an imaginary image of the chilly Giridih mornings, the person calling out a welcome to his God and I standing still in my balcony with a piping hot tea mug in my hands.

Far from the Madding Beach

For a person smitten by wanderlust, even a minuscule opportunity of packing the knapsack and hitting off the roads would not go ungrabbed. So, this time, during a long weekend, we went to very humble Puri beach. All we wanted was to spend some moments of rendezvous with the rains, mildewed weather and the gay sea breeze.

On reaching Puri, we were quite taken aback to see the rowdy crowd there, not that we didn't know that no person would sit at home and waste the opportunity of not going to the nearby sea beach, but never expected the heavily populated and madding sea beach. There the ocean roared during high tides, and here the people jostled with selfie sticks as if they haven't been to a sea beach and they need to capture each and every moment of their community bathing! We, too, swayed  around and swept with the waves, as if the time had stopped, felt the sea breeze and the towing under currents sweeping the soil under our feet and had 'daaber jol' afterwards.

Our next stop was the 'Wild Grass Restaurant'. We were quite hungry and excited to taste local cuisine and made it a point that we should go somewhere offering different from the ubiquitous 'Bengali Food Available' flashed restaurants. As we seated ourselves in the quaint table, the menu book whetted our appetite with the coastal cuisines. The food was absolutely delicious, very local, very different. Yes! That's what we had wanted. I was just flipping through the menu book to find out any other hidden treasure in the form of food and caught hold of the advertisement of the cycle tours around the city. In the midst of having the crab curry, we contacted the concerned person and the next moment we knew that we are going on a cycling trip the next evening.

I spent the night quite anxiously, to be true. I had cycled about 15 years ago. I know every nuances of cycling but I was out of practice. There was a also a scare of heavy rainfall and storms the next evening. Amidst the scare, we got ready and went to the 'Wild Grass' again to meet our guide and the cycles which were arranged for us. After a short wait, the cycles were ready and my fellow companions started practicing with them. As I started, my legs began to tremble. Just when I was thinking of giving up the try, I found the balance and happily pedalled away ahead of my other friends. The road was smooth with the sides enshrouded with the wet, green trees till we reached the entrance of the Balukhand Sanctuary. As the name Balukhand suggests, we were greeted by a small tract of 'balu' or 'sand just on our way and we had to get down from our cycles. After we crossed the tract on foot with the cycles on our sides, there was a red gravel laden path ahead of us tearing away a wood of cashewnut and casuarina trees. Our guide explained us about the social forestry programme taking place here and how the Odisha government is trying to bring the tribal people on its fold by assigning them responsibilities to take care of the sanctuary and the short stretch of an enclosed beach skirting the sanctuary.

The gravelly path can be called 'a green mile' for the sheets of greenery spreading on both the sides. The sheets looked greener in the month of August for the bounty of rainfall blessing them intermittently. There was a scare of rainfall too, as we cycled away towards the enclosed beach, but the rain gods decided to take a break that evening and spare the novice-out of practice-bicycle riders. The path was steep on a few stretches and my legs started to show signs of tiredness. I continued with a determination to not stop and then after a few metres I noticed that I was losing balance. I didn't know how I fell, but I found myself smeared with red dust. Brushing away the dust, I rode the cycle once again and did not stop till I reached the beach. And what a landscape it was!

The beach had no crowd, it was full of natural sand dunes and the sand looked blandly golden with the rays of the setting sun. Bland, because, the sky was still cloudy. We sat for a while, stretched our legs and saw the sea ahead of us. The waves had started to lose the blue hue. The roar had started to calm down. The surging waves had started to subside and waved us goodbye as we rode back on our cycles and headed back.

A surprise awaited us as we rode on our way back through the National Highway. Our guide told us to stop in front of a roadside eatery for a tea break. Fresh cottage cheese and 'dal pakouri' or lentil fritters were served to us along with the tea. Our guide apologized to us as he could not arrange 'chhana pora' or a type of local cheesecake. He looked sorry, but we assured him that we were overwhelmed to taste the fresh cottage cheese and the spicy dal pakouris and we can ride a few more kilometres with a new zeal.

The return journey was eventless save the fact that I fell down again trying to save a street dog. As we returned to our hotel, our bodies ached but our minds returned rejuvenated. Sometimes, simple joys can feel you with childlike exuberance and breathe in new oxygen to you to tide on over the mundane life until you can venture out again to satiate your wanderlust.

P.S:
Name of our guide: Mr. Yugabrata Kar.
He is a member of Puri Cycling Club and conduct cycling tours through different trails in Puri.
We took part in Nature trail. The other trails are namely Village trails and Puri Heritage Trails.
Contact Details:
Mobile Number: +91 9437023656
Email id: bubu@heritagetoursorissa.com
Or,
Visit Wild Grass Restaurant, Puri and they will contact you to the person.

Photography Courtesy: Avik Das, Sudip Basak.
Disclaimer: Please do not copy any of the information without giving due credit to the photo owners and the blog owner.

বয়স তখন চার পেরিয়েছে কি পেরোয়নি। একদিন সকালে যোগীন্দ্রনাথ সরকার এর 'হাসিখুশি' পড়ছি, হঠাৎ মা এসে আমাকে 'আনন্দমেলা' পত্রিকাটি হাতে দিয়ে বললেন "পড় দেখি। পড়তে অসুবিধে হলে বলিস।" আমার মনে তখন যুদ্ধজয়ের আনন্দ। মনে হচ্ছিল যেন আচমকা বড় হয়ে গেলাম। মনে হওয়ার কারণ ও ছিল। 'আনন্দমেলা' বাড়িতে এলেই প্রথমে দাদা পড়ত, তারপর মা ও বাবা, আর আমি শুধু প্রচ্ছদ এর ছবি দেখতাম পড়তে পারতাম না বলে। স্বরবর্ণ ও ব্যাঞ্জনবর্ণ পরিচয় সম্পুর্ণ হতেই 'হাসিখুসি' ও 'আনন্দমেলা' য় উত্তরণ যখন ঘটল তখনও কিন্তু আমি যুক্তাক্ষর পড়তে পারি না, যেখানে আটকায়, বাবা, মা বা দাদা কে দেখিয়ে নি। গল্প পড়ার আকর্ষণে তখন কোন বাধাই বাধা নয়। ইংরেজি মাধ্যম স্কুলে পড়াশুনো শুরু করি। সব বই ইংরেজি তে লেখা। মন টা হাঁফিয়ে উঠত। বাংলা বিষয়ের পাঠ্যবই টা নিয়ে পড়ে যেতাম টানা। বাড়িতে ইংরেজি বলা নিষিদ্ধ ছিল মায়ের আদেশে। বাবা যদিও বা নিজে ইংরেজি বই পড়তেন, আমাদের খুব একটা উৎসাহ দিতেন না ইংরেজি পড়তে, বলতেন, "সেই ত পড়বি ই, বাংলা গল্পের বই গুলো আরো মজার।" ক্রমে বড় হলাম। বাংলার শিশুসাহিত্য ও কিশোরসাহিত্যের সব বই ই মোটামুটি পড়া হয়ে গেছে এরকম অবস্থায় পড়তে শুরু করলাম বঙ্কিমচন্দ্র চট্টোপাধ্যায় এর 'দূর্গেশনন্দিনী'। সত্যি বলতে কি, কোন রসাস্বাদন করতে পারলাম না। হয়ত, আমার ই বিফলতা। ফিরে গেলাম রবীন্দ্রনাথের গল্পগুচ্ছে, নাটকে, ও উপন্যাসে। পড়লাম আরও অনেক প্রথিতযশা সাহিত্যিকদের অবিস্মরণীয় সব সৃষ্টি। ইংরেজি গল্পের বইও হাতে এল, পড়লাম। পড়তে পড়তে বুঝলাম কেন এতদিন ইংরেজি বই আমাদের কাছে ব্রাত্য করে রাখা হয়েছিল। আমাদের অভিভাবকরা ভেবেছিলেন যে আমাদের সাহিত্যানুরাগী করে তুলতে গেলে মাতৃভাষাকে সম্মান করতে শেখাতে হবে। নিজের ভাষাকে ভাল না বাসলে অন্য ভাষাকে ভালবাসা যায় না। বলা বাহুল্য, তাঁরা তাঁদের ভাবনায় সঠিক ছিলেন।
ইদানিং, আমি ইংরেজিতে লিখি। ইংরেজি তে লিখতে স্বাচ্ছন্দ্য বোধ করি। কিন্তু বাংলা না জানলে আমি ইংরেজিকেও ভালবাসতে পারতাম না। তবে আজও, বাংলা ও ইংরেজি তে লেখা পাশাপাশি দুটো বই থাকলে বেছে নি বাংলায় লেখা বইটিই। বাংলা ভাষায় লেখা গল্প, উপন্যাস ও রম্যরচনায় পাই মাতৃস্নেহের পরশ।

পরীক্ষায় বাংলার ইতিহাস
আমি তখন ক্লাস নাইন এ পড়ি। বার্ষিক পরীক্ষা শুরু হয়ে গেছে। সেই সময়ে দুটো বিষয়ের পরীক্ষা একই দিনে নেওয়া হত। এখনো সেই প্রচলন আছে কিনা জানিনা। একদিন সন্ধেবেলায় বই খুলে পড়ছি। পরের দিন ইতিহাস ও বাংলা রচনা ও ব্যাকরণ (বাংলা ফার্স্ট পেপার) পরীক্ষা। মোট দুশো নম্বর। খানিক্ষণ ইতিহাস পড়ার পর মনে হল, আর পড়ে বিশেষ লাভ নেই, এমনিও বানাতে হবে অমনিও বানাতে হবে। নিজেকে পুরাকালের ইতিহাস রচয়িতা মনে করে আপন মনে মাধুরী মিশিয়ে লিখে যেতে হবে পাতার পর পাতা। হঠাৎ মনে হল বাংলায় তো সবই আনসিন আসবে, পড়ে কোন লাভ নেই, তার চেয়ে বরং আনন্দমেলার সংকলন গুলো নিয়ে বসি। গল্পও পড়া হবে আবার রচনা লেখার জন্য কিছু নতুন শব্দভাণ্ডারও তৈরি থাকবে। যেমন ভাবা তেমন কাজ। আনন্দমেলার উপন্যাস গুলো পড়তে শুরু করে দিলাম। দাদা পাশে বসে ছিল। ওকে বলতে হল না, নিজেই বলল মা এলে সতর্ক করে দেবে। মা কে আমরা খুবই ভয় পেতাম, এবং তাঁর নামকরণ করা হয়েছিল হিটলার। সেই বিশেষ নামটি কেবল আমরা ও বাবা জানতেন। কিন্তু শেষরক্ষা হল না। অবাক করে দিয়ে বাবা হাজির হলেন। আমরা পড়াশুনো করবার সময় বাবা খুব একটা আসতেন না। আমাদের প্রতি ওঁর অটুট বিশ্বাস ছিল। দাদা আমাকে সতর্ক করার সুযোগই পেল না। অতর্কিতে আক্রমণ করার ভঙ্গিতে বাবা বললেন," তা তোর না কাল ইতিহাস পরীক্ষা? পড়া তৈরি? আনন্দমেলা পড়ছিস যে?" আমি বিন্দুমাত্র ঘাবড়ে না গিয়ে বলেছিলাম, "বাবা, ইতিহাস তো এখান থেকেই তৈরি হয়।" বলে আবার সেই উপন্যাসে মনোনিবেশ করলাম। বাবা হাসি চেপেছিলেন না রেগে গিয়েছিলেন, তা আর মনে নেই। তবে তাঁর স্বভাবসিদ্ধ ভঙ্গিতে (ব্যঙ্গ মিশ্রিত কৌতুক ও কপট রাগ। বাবাকে যাঁরা চেনেন তাঁরা আশাকরি ভাল বুঝতে পারবেন) বলে উঠলেন, "হুমম। তা তো অবশ্যই। তা সেই ইতিহাস লিখে পাশ করবে তো লোকজন? না হলে কিন্তু হিটলার ইতিহাস ফেল রহস্য উদঘাটন করে ফেলবেন। এবং তারপর কি হবে আমি জানিনা।" নাহ। হিটলার আর তলব করেননি। সে যাত্রায় মায়ের হাতের মার থেকে খুব বাঁচা বেঁচে গিয়েছিলাম।

Dear Parents,
Wishing you a very happy and joyous 44th wedding anniversary. Hope you are heartily celebrating this day up there with your near and dear ones who could manage to reach up above. Did Maa baked the cake today or is it you Baba, as usual? Remembering the times when Baba would sit and mix the cake batter with his strong hands refusing to use the blender and boast about his cakexpertise and Maa would beam out a sarcastic smile and say, "Who taught you to bake after all?" Maa..did you prepare some "payesh" today in your signature style? We really miss it ever since you have gone. You two never expressed the love you had for each other, but we could feel it every time Baba supported Maa in all her endeavours and Maa cooked the dishes Baba liked to savour more often than not. So much so, you quietly decided to not spend even one wedding anniversary day without each other...together for 41 years in life and 3 years in death. We, thereby, raise a toast to the marvellous times we had spend under your tutelage, friendship and guidance. You had been the driving forces behind whatever we could achieve so far.
Lots of love and best wishes
Your Son
Your Daughter

Since the time my senses began to support my being, I had been an observer and a participant to the ancestral 'Laxmi-Alaxmi Puja' annually organized during Diwali Amavasya (the day of the new moon during Diwali) in our household. I was told that my grandmother entrusted my mother with the rituals since her marriage to the Basu household. And, my mother kept her word till the year she died making sure that all the rituals are religiously followed. In the later years of her life, she used to get worried that the puja might end with her although everytime I assured her that she need not worry as we can handle the responsibility equally well. On her last year, she was contented with the way we - my brother, sister-in-law and I organised the puja. What I could not tell her was that I have secretly been an atheist-agonostic like my father and learnt to keep this choice of mine a secret in the little world of mine from my father himself. He never used to brag about his beliefs in atheism and hurt other God-believers. This secret of mine might have hurt her.
Like my father, I am simply concerned about taking care of what she had left with us - our roots, our family traditions and the religious rituals. The religious rituals which we follow during this worship is logically unappealing to me. I do not feel any arousal of respect within me for the family deity but this puja makes me bow down my head for my parents - one devoutly dedicated to theism who chose to follow all the ancestral rituals perfectly, and another, a dedicated atheist-agnostic, who supported her in her followed path.

মুরগী কাকুর বাগান
তাঁর নামটি ছিল আর এস মুখার্জী। নামের আগে একটি উপাধি ছিল। ডাক্তার। অথচ ওঁরই কিনা নাম হয়ে গেল মুরগী মুখার্জী! আমরা যারা একই পাড়ায় থাকতাম, তারা ছাড়াও অন্য পাড়ার অধিবাসীরা তাঁকে চিনতেন এই জনপ্রিয় নামটিতে। এরকম অদ্ভুত নামকরণ কে বা কারা করেছিল জানা নেই তবে নামের নেপথ্যে ছিল ওঁর বাগানে চাষ করা মুরগীরা। কোন এক রাতদুপুরে মুখার্জী কাকুর বাড়িতে চোরেরা অথবা কিছু উঠতি চ্যাংড়া ছেলেপুলে বাগান থেকে মুরগী চুরি করে রান্না করে এবং পরের দিন ভোরবেলায় এই কাণ্ড দেখে উনি যারপরনাই বিলাপ করতে থাকেন। সেই থেকে ওঁর নামে মুরগী জুড়ে গেছিল। এই অবধি পড়ে যাঁরা ভাবছেন যে ছেলেগুলো তো বড়ই উচ্ছৃঙ্খল, এরকম একটা ক্ষতি করল, তাঁদের বলব একটু ধৈর্য ধরে পুরোটা পড়তে।
তা, এই উঠতি যুবকবৃন্দের দোষ বিশেষ ছিল না। কাকু কাউকেই নিজের বাগানের ধারেপাশে ঘেঁশতে দিতেন না। বাগানের বাতাবি লেবুর গাছ, ফুল গাছ, সজনে গাছ দের কে সযত্নে লালন পালন করতেন এবং জীবন্ত যক হয়ে আগলে রাখতেন। পাড়ার কেউই সেই ফলনের ভাগ পেতাম না। পাড়ার ছেলেরা ক্রিকেট বা ফুটবলের বল ওনার বাগানে পড়ে গেলে যদিও বা ভাবত যে লেবুটা বা আমটা বা পেয়ারাটা জামার ভিতরে চালান করবে, তা ভাবনার স্তরেই থেকে যেত, কখনও সখনও বলগুলোও থেকে যেত গাছেদের সাথে। একেবারে বইয়ের পাতার সেই সেলফিশ জায়ান্ট। আমগাছের কথা বলিনি এখনও, না? আমার মা বলতেন, মুরগী কাকু, কায়দা করে আমাদের বাগানের একেবারে ধারের দিকের আমগাছটি আপন করে নিয়েছিলেন, বেড়ার এদিক ওদিক করে। হ্যাঁ উনি আমাদের ঠিক পাশের কোয়ার্টারেই থাকতেন। আমাদের বাগানে আরও তিনটি আমগাছ ছিল এবং এই চারটে গাছই আমার ঠাকুরদার হাতে লাগানো গাছ ছিল। আমের সময়ে, মনে পড়ে আমাদের পুরো পাড়ার সবাই আমাদের গাছের আম খেতেন। ঝড়ের সময় অনেকেই চলে আসতেন আম কুড়োতে। আবার অনেকে ঝড়ের পরে দরজা খুলে অপেক্ষা করতেন আমি বা দাদা আম নিয়ে যাব বলে। মুরগী কাকু অবশ্যই আমাদের আমের ভাগ দিতেন না আর আমরাও ওঁর বাড়ি আম নিয়ে যেতাম না।
একবার ওঁর বাগানের আম গাছটিতে অনেক বোল ধরেছিল। উনি তখন ঝাঁটা ও পুরোনো বুট জুতো গাছে ঝুলিয়ে দেন, সম্ভবত নজর না লাগার পাকা ব্যবস্থা করেছিলেন। সেবছর হল কি, বেশ অনেক্ষণ ধরে কালবৈশাখীর ঝড় চলল। আমি, মা ও দাদা ঝড়ের মধ্যেই টপাটপ আম কুড়োচ্ছি এবং খালি ব্যাগ বস্তা যা পাচ্ছি তার মধ্যে জমিয়ে রাখছি, এমন সময় দেখি হাওয়ার তোড়ে, কাকুর গাছের ঝাঁটা-জুতো সুদ্ধু আমেরা আমাদের বাগানে এসে দেহ রাখছে। আনন্দের সীমা রইল না। চাল রাখার খালি বস্তা নিয়ে এসে আমি ও দাদা দ্বিগুন উৎসাহে আম কুড়োতে শুরু করলাম। ঝড় থামার সময়ে কাকু ব্যাগ ও বস্তা নিয়ে হতোদ্যম হয়ে কিছুক্ষণ দাঁড়িয়ে রইলেন। তারপর হঠাৎ সুরেলা গলায় আমাকে ডেকে অনুরোধ করতে লাগলেন কয়েকটা আম ওনাকে দিতে। আমরা তো কিছুতেই কোন অনুরোধে কান দেব না ঠিকই করে রেখে ছিলাম। একে টেক্নিকালি আমাদের ঠাকুরদার লাগানো গাছ তার ওপর আবার প্রচুর ফলন। হঠাৎ বিপ্লবী হয়ে উঠেছিলাম দুই ভাইবোনে। মা আমাদের চোখে চোখে অনুরোধও করলেন, কিন্তু আমরা পাত্তা দিলাম না মোটেই। বাবা পুরো ঘটনাটাই জানালা দিয়ে চুপি চুপি লক্ষ্য করেছিলেন। এহেন বিপ্লবীদের দমন করা প্রয়োজন মনে করে সেবার বাবা আমাদের তীব্র ভর্ৎসনা করে নিজে গিয়ে ওনাকে কিছু আম দিয়ে এসেছিলেন।
এই ঘটনার পর মুরগী কাকু একটু যেন বদলে যান। ডেকে ডেকে সজনে ডাঁটা দিতেন, বাতাবী লেবু বা এঁচর দিতেন। হেসে কথা বলতেন। আমরা ওই কোয়ার্টার ছেড়ে দেওয়ার দিন পর্য্যন্ত এই সৌজন্যবোধ বজায় ছিল। এর বেশ কিছু বছর পরে শুনলাম কাকু মারা গেছেন। মনটা বিষাদে ভরে উঠেছিল। মনে হয়েছিল একটুকরো বর্ণময় ছোটবেলাটা যেন কোথায় ভিনদেশে মুরগীকাকুর সাথে পাড়ি দিয়ে দিয়েছে।

অঙ্কে বেজায় কাঁচা ছিলাম ছোটবেলায়। অঙ্ক মানেই মনে হত বিপদ আসছে সব প্রহরণ সাথে করে। এমনই এক যাকে ইংরেজীতে বলে 'আইরনি' যেটা ছিল সেটা হল আমার মা একটি স্কুলের মাধ্যমিক বিভাগের অঙ্কের শিক্ষিকা ছিলেন। তাবড় তাবর ফেল করা ছাত্রীদের উনি বকে ঝকে শিখিয়ে পড়িয়ে খাটিয়ে পাশ করাতেন বলে শোনা যেত। কিন্তু বাধ সাধলাম আমি। কোনভাবেই আর উনি আমায় পাশ করাতে পারতেন না। নৌকো ৪০এর তীরে ভেরার আগেই ৩৫ অথবা ৩৭ অথবা ৩৮এ আটকে যেতো ও ডুবে যেতো। অতএব সিদ্ধান্ত নেওয়া হল যে আমার জন্য অঙ্কের গৃহশিক্ষক রাখা হবে। তখন আমি কায়ক্লেশে সাঁতরে সাঁতরে সপ্তম শ্রেণীতে উঠেছি। অঙ্কের আবার দুটো পেপার। মানে বিপদ দ্বিগুন।
সেই মাষ্টারমশাই ছিলেন একেবারে আগ্নেয়গিরি। একটু ভুলচুক করলেই খাতা ছুঁড়ে ফেলে দিতেন। মারতেন না কিন্তু চোখা চোখা বাক্যবাণেই ঘায়েল করে ফেলতেন। ফলস্বরূপ আমাকে দেখা যেত উনি পড়িয়ে চলে যাবার পর প্রায়ই কাঁদছি। একদিন হল কি, - আমার শিক্ষক আমাকে বৃত্তের পরিমিতি ও ক্ষেত্রফল খুব ভালভাবে বোঝানোর পরে কিছু বাঘা বাঘা অঙ্ক দিয়েছেন। অপেক্ষাকৃত সরল অঙ্কগুলো কোনভাবে ঢোক টোক গিলে উত্‌রে গেছে। এবারে এল একটি জল্লাদ। বৃত্তের সাথে সিলিন্ডার যোগ করে কিছু একটা ভজঘট হয়েছে। এবং তাদের ক্ষেত্রফল ও পরিমিতির সমাধান করে তাদের কে ধন্য করতে হবে। অঙ্কটা পড়া মাত্র আমার গলা শুকিয়ে কাঠ হয়ে গেল। খাতায় কোন বিশ্বাসজনক আঁকিবুকি কাটতে পারলাম না। ভদ্রলোক তাঁর বাক্যবাণ বর্ষণ করে খাতা ছুঁড়ে চলে গেলেন। দোষ আমারই ছিল। উনি বারবার বলা সত্ত্বেও আমি ওঁকে বলতে পারিনি যে আমার বুঝতে অসুবিধে হয়েছে এবং আমি কিছুই বুঝে উঠতে পারিনি।
উনি চলে যাবার পর যখন ভাবছি খানিকটা হাপুশ নয়নে কেঁদে হাল্কা হব কিনা, মা ডাকলেন। গুটিগুটি পায়ে গিয়ে দেখলাম মা রুটি করতে করতে খাতাটা উল্টেপাল্টে দেখছেন। মায়ের হাতে রুটির বেলুন দেখে আর সন্দেহ রইল না। এবারে পিঠে খানকতক ঘা পড়ল বলে। পরনের জামাটার দিকে চোখ চলে গেল। নাহ। জামাটাও পাতলা। বাঁচাতে পারবে না। যখন এসব সাত পাঁচ ভাবছি, মা রুটি বেলতে বেলতে খুব সহজ ভাবে বললেন রুটির আকার কে লক্ষ্য করতে। তারপর খুব সাবলীল ভাবে বুঝিয়ে দিলেন বৃত্তের ক্ষেত্রফল ও পরিমিতি। পাশে রাখা গ্যাস সিলিন্ডারটা দেখিয়ে ওই ভজঘট জল্লাদ অঙ্কটাও বুঝিয়ে দিলেন। তারপর আমি ৫ মিনিটে অঙ্কটা সমাধান করে ফেলি। চোখের জল পরিণত হল মুখের হাসিতে। মা সেই হাসিতে যোগ দিয়ে বলেছিলেন, "কাঁদবি না। কাঁদা খুব সহজ, হাসা খুব কঠিন।" তাই হয়ত মা যেদিন চলে গেছিলেন, কাঁদতে পারিনি।

snippets #1: The time bygone

There was a red bicycle. A shorty, fit for the naive kids to learn cycling. My maternal grand uncle had gifted the bicycle to my brother on his 5th birthday. The gift turned out to be a boon for the other neighbourhood kids as most of the interested ones learnt to cycle in that very red, shorty and humble one. After its varied interesting adventures, the cycle was kept in our verandah and I grew up to a 9 year old seeing it stationed in one position until one day Baba came with a pair of balancers. They were fitted to the either side of the rear wheel. Baba summoned me and presented the boon again. My joy knew no bounds. Every evening, be it a hot one, rainy one or a cool one, my red cycle will be out in the playground. Well, the rider was still struggling with her pedalling skills, though. Then a day came when off went the balancers and the cycle sped and wandered from one corner of the neighbourhood to the other. The red bicycle now got an elder pal who got a resting place just next to it. The pal was a straight handled mountain bike which was bought for my brother as he needed one to go to school. After a few years, I, too started learning to ride in that big one. The problem with the mountain bike was one could not do 'half-pedalling' and one would have to take it all the way to a slopy land of the playground to brace herself up to the lofty seat. Well, it took a long time to tame the bike for the young one while the elder one happily rode it to school. The young one loved to get 'double carried', though and would wait outside her school get to look for the bike rider coming to pick her up.

Days went by. Some one came to request for the red shorty for her kid. We gave it away. Little did we know that the red shorty won't come back to us again. With it, its old pal also went. Don't know what really happened to it, maybe it ended up in a recycle garage after stumbling for a few times. They went away. Their first rider also went for higher studies. The vacant space of the verandah was taken by a second hand ladies' bicycle. When I saw it, I fumed. I was not ready for a second hand. I detested it and started walking to school. The cycle sulked alone till my Baba started riding it. I too, soon followed the course as I realized by that time, that Baba wanted to celebrate my adolescenthood by gifting me a cycle like the way he did for my brother, but he could not afford a new one as he took a voluntary retirement from his service because his company wanted him to.

Of the storms, the green mangoes and the company quarters in MAMC, Durgapur

One day, while coming back from work, I, like other usual days, started hunting for an autorickshaw which would transport me to the nearest metro station. The satiated autorickshaws raced against each other. I got a seat in none of them. A cold breeze came by and momentarily dried my perspiring face. I looked up. The tall trees were swaying their heads. I frowned. Is it a storm rising? Just then, an autoricksaw driver peeped out from his vehicle, and said,"Didi, boshun taratari, jhor uthche.(A storm's rising, please be seated quickly)" The driver was in a hurry to reach his destination. As he sped on, he exclaimed that mangoes would be falling due to this storm. He sounded hopeful about reaching his home as fast as he can just in case some mangoes are still there strewn on the ground near his house, waiting to be picked up by him!
The enthusiasm of this man took me back to my long lost days.

In Durgapur, we stayed in company quarters. An interesting feature of the ground floor quarters was the open space around the boundary limits and the buildings. All the residents who stayed in the ground floor quarters, planted different varieties of plants all around the year. My paternal grandfather planted three mango trees in the open space around our quarter. All these mango trees bore a plenty of fruits and during the Kalbaishakhi Storms, the mango rescue team of our house (my mother, my brother and I) would stand in guard near the mango trees with sacks and bags. Our motto was to stop the street urchins from getting nearer to our mango trees. When the mangoes started falling down, we would run around to collect them while my father would enjoy the whole scene from the windows. After braving through the rains, when we got back inside, our faces beamed to estimate the total collection of the mangoes. It was always close to four or five Kgs. The very next day, my mother would send us out in the neighbourhood to distribute the mangoes to every household. 

The most important ritual which followed after the mango collection was preparing and devouring "Aam makha" (A type of raw mango savoury seasoned with salt and red chilli powder). One of my neighbourhood sisters was a specialist in preparing "aam makha". Many a summer afternoons were spent in preparing the coveted dish and eating right after. As I write about it after so many years, I can still feel the taste and start to drool. Oh my Childhood! I miss you so dearly......

Rustic Rinchenpong

I tend to seek refuge in the Himalayas. The lofty ranges, the green trees, the valleys and the moors of the Himalayas helps me to rediscover myself again and again.

 Running away to the mighty mountains gives me solace everytime the hard routines of life rebukes me and intimidates me with its fiery red eyes.
A few months ago, along with my family members, I went to the sleepy Himalayan settlement of Rinchenpong in the western part of Sikkim. The entire region seemed to be well-adorned with flowers to celebrate the spring carnival, - the small, simple and pretty forget-me-nots, the Red Lillies, the Arum Lillies, the Bleeding Hearts,
the Poppies, the Foxgloves, the Salvias, the Pansies, the Daisies, the Poinsettias, the spiny Rhododendrons, the Orchids and many unknowns added dashes of colours and made the region more verdant and vibrant.






 Photography Courtesy: Avik Das.

 After a 5 hour-long journey from New Jalpaiguri, all of us were quite tired. The limbs wanted to recline in the comforts of the hotel we were staying in but the heart wanted to wander around.

 As a sincere listener of heart on all occasions, I went out for a stroll. The road headed towards the unknown. I took short strides ahead. The Buddhist prayer flags greeted me and fluttered in the cool breeze with absolute glee. Some unknown birds chirped about their daily chores.

As I moved ahead, I heard the crickets singing an unknown song. Perhaps, a song of melancholy, or, perhaps a welcome song for a two-legged animal who calls herself civilized. The Pine trees stood tall and protected the flower shrubs, creepers, grassy and mossy green carpets like the responsible elders. I stopped and took in deep breaths - the abundant and unleashed pure air to help me go on for a few more months until the schedule of my next refuge. The air which I took in had a sweet, slightly pungent, intoxicating and wild fragrance. Was it of the Pines? I really don't know. The fragrance had the quality or vice to turn anyone to a life-long wanderer. The fragrance mocked the civilization and its advancements and laughed devilishly at the attempts to harness its source. I started climbing up a flight of mossy stairs. They led me to a place where slightly crowded settlement of Kaluk waved and beckoned from a distance.

I quietly told myself, "maybe next day" and headed back to the Hotel.

Next day, we went to our Rhododendron adventure and came back to Rinchenpong late in the evening. We couldn't explore much of Rinchenpong on that day. The Kanchenjungha, too, did not smile at us at all.

The next morning we woke up to a bright, warm, sunny weather. As we peeped outside of our glassy window, the Kanchenjungha smiled warmly. She stood tall with all her pristine and spotlessly white mighty peaks, flanked by the Mt. Kumbhakarna from the left, the Simvo twins and Siniolchu, guarded her from the right. We couldn't hold ourselves back and went out for a hike down the slopes towards Tato Pani.

The entire region seemed to be having a gala time, with the tree tops lightly swaying their heads, the flowers dotting the green slopes and the children playing in the football ground basking in the warm sun.Our sojourn could not be carried on further as our tummies growled with hunger. We headed back for lunch. The lunch platter was an amazing one. The 'gundruk' soup made with locally available ingredients and the dried shrimp curry were absolutely delicious.

After lunch, we, the younger turks of the group, instantly made a plan to hike up 3 Kilometers to Kaluk.The road was a smooth, pitched one with the Pine guardians strictly guarding each of its curvaceous turns. The walk was a pleasant one. We took relaxed strides ahead. The intoxicating fragrance went along with us. The quaint mountain scenes elevated us to speechless appreciators. But, frankly speaking, Kaluk failed to live up to our expectations.

What more can a crowded settlement, crowded shops and crowded luxurious resorts with people hankering over Kanchenjungha's sight from the rooftops offer to the ones who were smitten by the simplicity of Rinchenpong? With a deep despise we turned down on the left side of the unkempt road towards a village called Boom. The pathfinding plackard showed that it was just 1.75 Kilometers down Kaluk. Whether we really wanted to explore the place or not, I don't know. In a state of trance, we moved ahead. A loud rumble in the clouds above us pushed us back to our senses. We had to return because we were not equipped for the sudden rainfall. A friendly cab driver favoured us by transporting us back to our Rinchenpong hotel.

The conventions of the civic life we are used to, threw us back to the din of the city. Our workplaces waited for our attendance. Honestly, I did not wanted to come back so early. I just wanted to stay back and seep in the flavour of the place slowly just like a wine enthusiast seeps in some exotic old wine. I really long to go back to the pitch dark nights illuminated by the humble lights of the mountain hamlets. I long to go back and spend a night under the stars and several known and unknown constellations. I long to go back to the life of a rambler roaming around the mountains and going on a high after inhaling the intoxicating fragrance of the wild forests. Yes, there's no escape from the mountains, Mr. Ruskin Bond. I can't but totally agree to the words you spoke with such a conviction,

"It is always the same with mountains. Once you have lived with them for any length of time, you belong to them. There is no escape."

– Ruskin Bond, Rain in the Mountains: Notes from the Himalayas

Photography Courtesy: Avik Das

How to reach Rinchenpong and where to stay: 

i) Reach New Jalpaiguri Jn on any NJP bound train. 

ii) Take a cab directly to Rinchenpong. It would take about 5 or 5.5 hours to reach the place.

iii) We booked Royal Dewachen Hotel for our stay. Owned by Mr. Debanu Basu Mallick. Professionally best of the services with a humane touch.

    Contact Details: 

https://www.facebook.com/people/Debanu-Basu-Mullick-Rinchenpong/100008888498300

Insensitivities

One can feel the range of insensitivity imbued in some people around the one when he or she falls ill. When you would feel like sleeping they will shout and scream as if the dacoits have purposely chosen your house to break into. When you would have your medicines and think about a moment of peace to contemplate, they will break into peels of laughter as if some one is cracking live jokes. Your close ones would advise you to ignore the uneducated ones who cannot empathize with a sick inmate in their house. Huh! Did I say empathize? They will definitely show pseudo-empathy and roll their eyes out in disbelief when you would inform them that you are having homeopathic medicines to cure yourself. What do they tend to receive from this behaviour? The question haunts me.............does education means only to strengthen your power of tolerance? Why should only the educated ones tolerate these literate uneducated ones? Aren't they entitled to a miniscule percent of empathy? What do you think?

You brave against all odds then you get to hear that you had favourable environment to flourish....... You speak your mind then you get to hear that you have to adjust every time..how many shackles would you invent to tie up a success seeking woman? How many? You go on inventing yet she would emerge victorious...yes, yes on every single occasion......this is her pledge to herself....break her wings, tear her soul....yet she will fly and show you how gracefully she can........

ফেলে আসা দিন

পরীক্ষায় বাংলার ইতিহাস
আমি তখন ক্লাস নাইন এ পড়ি। বার্ষিক পরীক্ষা শুরু হয়ে গেছে। সেই সময়ে দুটো বিষয়ের পরীক্ষা একই দিনে নেওয়া হত। এখনো সেই প্রচলন আছে কিনা জানিনা। একদিন সন্ধেবেলায় বই খুলে পড়ছি। পরের দিন ইতিহাস ও বাংলা রচনা ও ব্যাকরণ (বাংলা ফার্স্ট পেপার) পরীক্ষা। মোট দুশো নম্বর। খানিক্ষণ ইতিহাস পড়ার পর মনে হল, আর পড়ে বিশেষ লাভ নেই, এমনিও বানাতে হবে অমনিও বানাতে হবে। নিজেকে পুরাকালের ইতিহাস রচয়িতা মনে করে আপন মনে মাধুরী মিশিয়ে লিখে যেতে হবে পাতার পর পাতা। হঠাৎ মনে হল বাংলায় তো সবই আনসিন আসবে, পড়ে কোন লাভ নেই, তার চেয়ে বরং আনন্দমেলার সংকলন গুলো নিয়ে বসি। গল্পও পড়া হবে আবার রচনা লেখার জন্য কিছু নতুন শব্দভাণ্ডারও তৈরি থাকবে। যেমন ভাবা তেমন কাজ। আনন্দমেলার উপন্যাস গুলো পড়তে শুরু করে দিলাম। দাদা পাশে বসে ছিল। ওকে বলতে হল না, নিজেই বলল মা এলে সতর্ক করে দেবে। মা কে আমরা খুবই ভয় পেতাম, এবং তাঁর নামকরণ করা হয়েছিল হিটলার। সেই বিশেষ নামটি কেবল আমরা ও বাবা জানতেন। কিন্তু শেষরক্ষা হল না। অবাক করে দিয়ে বাবা হাজির হলেন। আমরা পড়াশুনো করবার সময় বাবা খুব একটা আসতেন না। আমাদের প্রতি ওঁর অটুট বিশ্বাস ছিল। দাদা আমাকে সতর্ক করার সুযোগই পেল না। অতর্কিতে আক্রমণ করার ভঙ্গিতে বাবা বললেন," তা তোর না কাল ইতিহাস পরীক্ষা? পড়া তৈরি? আনন্দমেলা পড়ছিস যে" আমি বিন্দুমাত্র ঘাবড়ে না গিয়ে বলেছিলাম, "বাবা, ইতিহাস তো এখান থেকেই তৈরি হয়।" বলে আবার সেই উপন্যাসে মনোনিবেশ করলাম। বাবা হাসি চেপেছিলেন না রেগে গিয়েছিলেন, তা আর মনে নেই। তবে তাঁর স্বভাবসিদ্ধ ভঙ্গিতে (ব্যঙ্গ মিশ্রিত কৌতুক ও কপট রাগ। বাবাকে যাঁরা চেনেন তাঁরা আশাকরি ভাল বুঝতে পারবেন) বলে উঠলেন, "হুমম। তা তো অবশ্যই। তা সেই ইতিহাস লিখে পাশ করবে তো লোকজন? না হলে কিন্তু হিটলার ইতিহাস ফেল রহস্য উদঘাটন করে ফেলবেন। এবং তারপর কি হবে আমি জানিনা।" নাহ। হিটলার আর তলব করেননি। সে যাত্রায় মায়ের হাতের মার থেকে খুব বাঁচা বেঁচে গিয়েছিলাম।

A day of tryst with the myths and lores

The age-old myths and their manifestations do exist in this era of rationality and technical gluttony. Some months ago, I got a chance to walk on the soil where the painters of a forgotten genre are still fighting for their due recognition. They are the humble painters of myths and folklores.

Armed with the natural dyes, they are painting colourful stories told by the folks of the yesteryears. Their bold fingers are incessantly creating finer details on the canvas of their choice – a simple cloth bound “sheets of paper sewn together and sometimes stuck on canvas. Their widths can go from 4 to 14 inches and their length; often 3 feet can exceed 15 feet.” (https://www.deccanfootprints.com/collections/patua-scroll-paintings) They are simply going on creating under the sun for the love of the art without knowing their goals. Well, that’s not true. They know their goal which is to earn a handful at the end of the day so that they can buy food to fill their stomachs and a bottle of local liquor to fill their hearts.

When I visited their village nested in a corner of West Medinipur district of West Bengal, India, a feeling of awe shrouded me all over. People do sketch and paint in their childhood, draw two triangular mountain peaks and a semi-circular rising sun or maybe a rose with a long stem and leaves, but who would have ever thought about revere an art form and make it a religion? I wouldn’t have known about this form of veneration if I didn’t make a visit there. The majority being Muslim by faith, they decided to shun the compartmentalization by taking up stories of hindu mythology and paint them accurately. They have also dropped their ancestral surnames and picked up the surname of ‘Chitrakar’ meaning painter in Bengali, their mother tongue.  

They start their days with decorating the walls of their humble mud houses. When enquired, they put the brightest of their smiles and said that when there are left-over colours, we use them to paint on the walls. While strolling through the kuccha lanes and observing their exhibits, I looked above. The azure sky, green trees, red gravelly soil and the colourful paintings all seemed to be smiling in unison as they were victorious to incite a peaceful riot of colours.

The day melted away to evening. A black drape was put over on all their exhibits by the tip-toing night. We were called for dinner in Bahadur Chitrakar’s house. The house which we saw in the day time was no less than an established, famed art museum. Bahadur himself had painstakingly collected the souvenirs on display in his house by bartering away his own scroll paintings (known as Patachitra in Bengali) to those painters. His semi-permanent house proudly displayed the papyrus paintings, Egyptian artefacts, palm leaf scrolls known as “tala pattachitra” (http://gaatha.com/palm-leaf-pattachitra/) from the neighbouring painters of Odisha, mirror works from Rajasthan and many more such jewels lost in the sands of time. The Government wants to buy his collections, repair his house and make a museum near the village to display those collections. This offer has put Bahadur in a fix. He cannot decide what to do. He asked our opinion saying that he was illiterate; he did not know what would be good for him. His intoxicated voice had such a pain that we could not share our opinion with him. Now, when I think about that day, I can still feel the pained voice. This was the pain of illiteracy, indecisiveness, poverty and the pain of the father who did not wanted to bid farewell to his married daughter but had to do so under social compulsion.

Another incident happened in Bahadur’s house after we had our dinner. I want to include that incident as a concluding note. After we were done with our dinner, the painter wanted to gift us a ‘patachitra’ each. He asked our names one by one and went on creating beautiful paintings with them. He was being verbally assisted by his daughter, so that he ensured that the spellings of our names went right. His daughter faltered while spelling out my name in Bengali. The brush which he held on so firmly even in his inebriated condition got twitched. He looked up and mildly rebuked his daughter by saying that he had done everything to educate her and she failed in this minor test. His daughter went visibly embarrassed. Not embarrassed for her father’s scolding in front of the outsiders but because of her failure. Her and her father’s defeated faces continued to haunt me for a long time. 

An Evening of Reminisces

The occasion was absolutely a commonplace. People celebrate everything they can call their own,-birthdays, propose days, school days, marriage days and so on. This one was also a very common one...the celebration of a 75th birthday of a person most revered in his circles. So what made it really special? Perhaps the meeting of old friends who turned their friendships into familial relations or perhaps the reunion of their sons and daughters who do not find time to socialize with each other because of their busy lives. The evening brought back a few precious and colourful memories and concocted the otherwise commonplace evening to an evening of reminisces. The clinkings of the glasses gave away to incessant chatterings and peals of laughters. The chatterings were interspersed with songs, recitations and anecdotes. The folks bared their hearts out to each other and the merriment followed till each one bade farewell to each other. May the sounds of the evening continue to resonate the walls of the venue. May the walls continue to tell the tale of the special evening to the mechanical generations to come and sit there and talk of their mundane lives.....

The evergreen friend

I have heard many women asserting that their fathers were their superheroes. But, it was a different case with me. I just couldn't match my father with a superhero. How could he be? He had no biceps, triceps, six packs. He did not sport a cape. He, in fact, did nothing which could be called "super-heroic". He was a contented man, happy with the piles of books on his table and his "lungi-clad" avatar. When we were just kids and had the visions of a modern, colourful, fashionable world in our dreamy eyes, we used to get very angry with this avatar of Baba (as we called my father). We even compelled him to wear more modern relaxing outfits at home, but he was never comfortable. He used to tell us that he belonged from a village and he wanted to remember about his humble beginnings.

As a matter of fact, though his appearances looked deceptive, he was extremely modern and open minded in his thoughts. Many of his colleagues or contemporaries were unable to match his outlook towards life. He staunchly believed in "simple living, high thinking". Baba never stopped us from experimenting with the new things or new ideas. He was our confidante. Baba's presence was enough for us to stay motivated in our lives. He was that friend around the corner whom you can run into every time and catch up a chat on any topic of your choice. His immense knowledge in multiple things would make you enlightened every time.

He had another passion worth mentioning. It was his passion for cooking or more correctly weird innovations in cooking. Whenever my Maa used to come alone to Kolkata to meet her parents or for any other work, my Baba would take the charge of cooking onto him. He would cook up breakfasts like papaya-chowmein, papaya-pulao or any other dish with papaya as the common ingredient. Our revolts and protests against this papaya-love would go unheard for obvious reasons. He would make up an instant sermon on the benefits of eating a papaya everyday. He was a local, amateur tea-taster who was blindly trusted by the tea-leaf selling shops in our local market back in Durgapur. He would sit for hours together and patiently test the blending ratios of the Darjeeling and Assam tea leaves and advice the packaging accordingly. I have heard once that Baba made the English style of making tea quite famous in our neighbourhood. Some of the enthusiasts who were deeply inspired by Baba’s tea-knowledge even bought tea-kettles and tea-cosies in those days.
The day we lost him, I had a feeling of losing a bosom friend. He never had to preach anything, he lead a life providing full of examples to pick up from. He never ranted any ideology or philosophy but he chose to live a life with the ideology he believed in. He believed in equality of all classes, castes, genders and religions and he practiced his beliefs throughout in his life span of seventy-three years.