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.