The Day I Nearly Felt That There Was No God!

And finally I want to write about an incident that happened last week.

Having seen my Sis off at Deblane Bus Stop, I was on my way back to our ancestral home. As I entered the galli, I found a big, black bike blocking the entrance to my house. Whoever parked it there, lacked common sense. Otherwise, he wouldn't have left it in such a way so that people coming out of the house or stepping in, would have any problem. 

“Arey bhai, ekhane bike ta ke rekheche? Barir samne erakom bhabe keu bike rakhe? Ektu common sense nei?” (Who has parked the bike like this near our house? Doesn't he have any common sense or what?) I shouted out.

I noticed a man sitting on a bike in front of his house at the dead end of the galli then. Having put the helmet on, he was trying to tell me something pointing to the huge mansion that has come up in the last four or five years opposite our house. He was possibly hinting at the offender being someone from that house.

I moved towards the mansion and shouted the same questions from the entrance way. The darwan came out then. Now, a few months back I had to shout at him too when he picked up the bike of my nephew, who had come to meet me. The bike was kept against the iron railings of the garden on the left of our house. The darwan picked it up ( I don't know how because the bike was quite heavy!) and left it in the passage between the two gardens, leading to our house. The darwan didn't even bother to inform us!

Naturally, I asked him to pick up the bike blocking the entrance to our house now but he flatly refused.

“Ami janina eta kar bike….!” I don't even know who this bike belongs to….!

Having realised that he wouldn't be of much help, I kept shouting like : Some people have no sense. Is this the way to leave your bike near someone's house? And so on.

Soon, a young chap with his mobile in hand emerged from somewhere inside the house. Someone told me that the bike belonged to him!

“Arey bhai, biketa orakom bhabe keu rakhe? (This is not the way to park your bike, Bro.) I was still upset.

“Sorry, Uncle.” He replied a bit roughly.

“Ba, sorry bollen ar sab thik hoye gelo?” ( “You can't right a wrong by saying sorry!” I tried to tell him.

And the next moment, there came over a great change in the youngster.

“Sorry bola na? Bola na? Apko respect diya. Aab maroge kya?” (I said I was sorry. I showed you respect as an elder. Now, you wanna fight me or what?”)

He was shrieking at the top of his lungs and came charging at me. He was stopped by the darwan who kept nodding at me asking me not to mind.

The last thing I said, if my memory serves me right, was that he had parked the bike insensibly and that saying ‘sorry’ didn't serve any purpose. What was even more outrageous was that though he was clearly at fault, he was the one threatening me!

I felt extremely humiliated at that time. Later, when I was narrating this incident to my niece ( my late first cousin's daughter), she remarked that in my place, she would have asked the darwan to remove the bike blocking the entrance to our house. I have already told you that I did the same but the darwan was no help.

There was another solution to the matter. I could have reported the matter to the owner of the building, the promoter, one Rustam, a very decent man, but I didn't want to. 

I knew that I had done nothing wrong other than shouting. But lately some people seem to be parking their bikes near the entrance of our house almost deliberately. I am not a thug and therefore, I cannot fight anyone raising his voice on me for no fault of mine. Besides, I value my self-respect more than anything. 

In a country like ours, you can't always take things in your hands. My only solace is that there is Someone Up There, and no one can make a fool of Him.

Is My India Really A Safe, Secure Country?

(On the occasion of the Anti-Street Harrassment Week (April 6 - 12, 2025), let me share one of my personal experiences of it that happened on the 4th of this month.)

Is My India Really A Safe, Secure Country?

The second incident happened the evening before last. I was on my way back to my ancestral home from my bro's place at Behala. I got into a 240 from Gariahat. Initially, the bus was quite empty but it started filling up till the man sitting near the window seat facing the driver's, got up to get down. The man who was sharing the seat, moved towards the window, leaving his place empty.

A decent-looing girl with straight, long hair in loose jeans, who had been standing infront of the ladies seat beside the door, turned around to sit on the seat. When passengers started getting into the bus and moving to the rear, she took her left leg in to get out of the way.

Soon, the bus was pretty crowded and I noticed a young, lean and thin, bearded chap standing beside the girl. It took me some time to realize that the other bearded guy standing infront of me, was his friend. Initially, the kept quiet but soon they were talking. From the way they were talking, one thing was clear to me. They were not from Bengal. Now, I may be wrong about it but they were using a different kind of Hindi.

That's what made me look closely at the lean boy almost leaning against the girl. I don't know what attracted me to his pants. And that's when I noticed the bulge in his pants. My immediate reaction was to look at the girl. Even if she had noticed it, she acted normal totally engrossed in the bag she had on her lap.

I felt something. What was my country coming to? Do I live in a country where girls were not free to move about? Ignore unpleasant people?

The boy, having noticed my gaze wavering back to the bulge and being fixed there, put his hand in his left pocket to rummage through something or that's the impression he tried to give me. The bulge subsided a bit and having found the girl still looking unruffled, I decided to look up to the boy standing in front of me. The two boys were laughing now, sharing a joke. The girl put her glasses back up on her head. She might have been distracted by the semblance of a bulge in the vital area of the boy's pants.

A furious angst was overpowering me. But I am not a mastan. My parents didn't teach me to be one. Besides, I prided in being someone from the Land of the Gandhi.

By then the bus had stopped at the turning near Lady Brabourne College and I found the girl getting up to grab the overhead rod for support. The lean boy wasn't prepared for this. So, he had to sit down on the seat left vacant by the girl. I don't know what the guy in front of me, might have told him for he got up almost immediately to get behind his friend, who had by then turned towards the door. A few other passengers were also trying to get off the bus.

I tried to control my anger. Even if the girl was fuzzled, her face betrayed her true feelings. She got off near the mosque, followed by the two boys. I am sure that that was not the destination where the boys wanted to get off the bus initially. They were getting off there because of the girl.

I found myself in a dilemma. What should I do? Should I get off too for the protection of the girl? But I was tired and it takes at least 15 minutes from that place to Deblane even for a fast walker like me. Finally, I decided to stay put. I was not mastan and it couldn't have been my duty to rescue each damsel in distress or was it?

I kept sitting. Soon the bus was moving towards the iceland.

But as I got off the bus at Deblane, I found myself thinking about the girl and the two bearded boys. As a responsible citizen of a supposedly great country, was it my duty to try to come to the girl's aid near the mosque at the turning of Park Circus Seven-Points. Much though I tried to get the nagging question out of my mind, I simply could not.

The question was - Do we really live in a safe, secure society?

Amitabha Bhattacharyya: The Ill-Fated Angel (?)

I never thought when I brought an abrupt end to writng about  The Bhattacharyyas of 41, Deblane (http://masb6.blogspot.com/?m=1) that I'd be putting pen to writing about The Bhattacharyyas again. But judging by the ways things are shaping up lately, I decided to write about a few more of them. Therefore, today I write about another brother, ahead of the brother, who was his elder and more successful in the earthly sense of the term, than this brother of mine. 

I must have written about some eight of The Bhattacharyyas including my eldest sister, Mrs. Tapati Bhatta (http://masb6.blogspot.com/2013/12/tribute-totimeless-tapati.html?m=1) and the sister next to her, Mrs. Arati Guha. (http://masb6.blogspot.com/2013/12/arati-guha-true-illuminating-daughter.html?m=1) All of them, including my late father, Principal Jogesh Chandra Bhattacharyya, (http://masb6.blogspot.com/2013/12/the-invincible-spirit-that-was.html?m=1) who also was subjected to disgrace and humiliation due to a cruel stroke of Fate - were successful in their own ways. Amitabh Bhattacharyya, in my humble opinion, ought to have been amongst the most successful of The Bhattacharyyas. But 'men proposes and God disposes' is a maxim as deeply ingrained in our systems as one wouldn't like to admit!

He was born the fourth of the nine sons my late parents had. He was not really so attractive as to stand out in a crowd. Neither tall nor handsome as far as the handsome go, the most striking feature about his appearance was the pair of his sharp, compassionate eyes. Fair-complexioned, with a mass of curly hair in his youth, his pleasant personality was what drew people to him. Till quite late in his life, he was gentility personified. Respectful to a T even to the juniors and the strangers, he had this habit of addressing everyone by adding the respectful 'Da' (elder brother) at the end of the name. Be it the sweeper or the domestic help, he would address everyone by his/her first name followed by the respectful addition of 'da'. So, if someone, much younger than him, was called 'Dipu', my brother would call him 'Dipuda'! 

41 Deblane has seen a lot of talented people over the years, like some of my siblings, my cousin brothers and sisters, and almost everyone of the generation next. But I can't think of anyone, excepting possibly another brother of mine, who could teach nearly a dozen subjects with such ease, competence and aplomb. 

The fact that academically and resultwise, he could never be successful, was a mystery to all. He studied for Honors in Political Science, after HS but education, within the confinement of the four walls of the classroom, was something not for him. The strangest thing is later, he would help not only students pursuing a major in the subject but also students opting for a major in other subjects as well! 

He was first and foremost a teacher just like Mejda, Dhiresh Bhattacharyya, (http://masb6.blogspot.com/2013/12/dhiresh-bhattacharyya-teacher.html?m=1) in the truest sense of the term. I mustn't be interpreted wrong when I say that he was the first of The Bhattacharyyas, who taught many students free, without bothering about the tuition fees. For poor parents, Chhotonda, that's what he was popularly known as, was nothing short of a god-send. This proved to be a weakness as there were some parents always taking advantage of his helpful nature. 

He was meant to be a teacher and he remained as such till the last day of his life. If Dame Luck was a little more kind to him, Amitabha Bhattacharyya would be there some where at the top of the list of the Most Successful of The Bhattacharyyas. 

I still remember those days in my school, Entally Academy. He came to our school on deputation while pursuing his B. Ed from the prestigious David Here Training College, arguably the best teacher training Institute in Bengal at that time. His gentle and friendly nature, amicability, knowledge of the subjects, endeared him to one and all at the time. I picked up many of the qualities which were to help me later on in life when I too, landed up being a teacher in The Happiness Country called Bhutan., from him. There was a hue and cry to bring him back to the school after he had left it and obtained his degree. But it was not to be! 

From Entally Academy, he found himself working at Tiljala Brojonath Vidyapith, where Mejda was the Head Master. The younger of The Bhattachaeyyas became such an instant hit with the students that even Mejda was pressurised to reinstalling  him back in the school after his (Amitabha's) term came to an end. But Mejda was too firm in his resolve not to favour his brother's cause and be accused of nepotism afterwards. Despite the camaraderie between the two brothers, Amitabha still remained jobless.

He also taught at the famous Ramkrishna Mission, Rahara on deputation, nearly for a year. His popularity with the students continued unabated to such an extent that the Swamiji, the Head of the institution, someone akin to the Chief Abbot of a church, promised to take him back if there was a vacancy in the immediate future. My brother kept on waiting for the call but as luck would have it, it never materialized! 

That was when, my brother must have realized that he was not cut out to be a permanent teacher for any of these famed institutions with his kind of integrity, honesty and friendliness. Though he applied to a few more schools for a teacher's job even afterwards, his heart was not in getting one, any more. 

Culturally, socially, he was a man much in demand. A friend of him, popularly known as "Kelte Khokon", a very talented singer, practically stayed at 41 due to his close friendship with my brother. Amitabha was also the Founder-President of a club called Benji Club. Together, the duo of my brother and Swapan Roy ( the good name of Kelte Khokon) popularized many songs, written and composed not only by some great Bengali poets but also by some less familiar figures as well.

Benji Club was the Champion Club for five consecutive years among other clubs in various contests conducted by the most popular English daily, The Statesman, at that time. He often had to play multiple roles like that of the director, composer and so on for the success of the club. 

He was a huge fan of the Bengali great, R. N. Tagore and could recite and sing from his works at will. That doesn't mean, he was any less familiar with the works of the other Bengali giants like Nazrul Islam, Sukanta Bhattacharyya. I can still hear him reciting from a poem called "Haat", (Village Market) possibly written by Tagore again. 

Haater dichala mudilo nayan, / Karo tarey tar nai ahoban. / Baje bayu ashi bidrup bashi, /Jirno shakhar shakhey… (The shutters came down in the market. There was none to give a welcome to. Like the flute, the wind, rushtling through the withered branches, whistled contemptupusly.) 

I would like to mention a story he read out to me once. It was called "Tiktiki" ( Lizard). I wasn't even familiar with the genre, allegory, at that time! The kind where you have the animal characyers representing the humans of the society. It was a symbolical story that would make writers like Nirendra Nath Chakravarti or Manik Bondhopadhyay proud. 

Such a talented man, ought to have been successful in every field one could think of. Unfortunately, the worry of finances crippled him from his late thirties. He got married in order to move on in life, and sired a son, who turned out to be a First Class Second from the renowned Calcutta University in due course. Amitabha also enrolled to study about indigenous medicine, homeopathy from an Institute and won a gold medal as well. But we live in a society where one's true worth is assessed not by merits but in terms of the money one has earned or made in life! 

Dame Luck turned a deaf ear to all his pleas in this respect. He became much withdrawn and introverted over the years, especially in comparison with his younger and more successful brothers, financially. He was believed to have known about his incurable disease, leukemia, much earlier but he kept it to himself. In October, 2015, he was hospitalized and consequently breathed his last soon after. 

Amitabha Bhattacharyya, a man who showed much promise from early on, was born to be an angel but died a defeated, dissatisfied man in his mid-sixties! 

Looking at his life, in hindsight, we get to learn that there is a Greater Power overruling our lives and we are nothing but mere puppets in His hands. 

Dhiresh Bhattacharyya : A Teacher Extraordinoire.

“Jakhan porbena more payer chinna aei bate,/ Ami baibona, ami abibona mor kheya tori aei ghate  …..”

That was Dhiresh Bhattacharyya, the second son of Lt.J.C.Bhattacharyya, on a dusky  afternoon, singing one of his favourite songs composed by the great Tagore and melodiously sung by late Hemanta Mukherjee. Sitting straight on the corridor near the thakurghar (the altar room), impeccably dressed in white, with his hands loosely on the knees set apart, there was an aura of vitality and positive energy about him.  Not very far away from him, with a lost look on the face his father, Lt.J.C.Bhattacharyya, reclining in the easy chair, was enjoying himself listening to the song, his pride in his second son palpable.

Mejda, Dhiresh Bhattacharyya, inherited many of baba’s physical attributes and aesthetic tastes.  Born a couple of years after Barda, Debesh bhattacharya (1941), Mejda was a looker in the truest sense of the term and had to work his way up.  After obtaining his M.A. in Bengali from Calcutta University, where he displayed enough signs of his vast potential, he joined the esteemed David Hare Training College in pursuit of fulfilling his dream of being a teacher, for the sheer nobility of the profession and making a difference.  He came out First Class First in the B.Ed. Examination and soon afterwards joined Entally Academy, a school near our ancestral home in Deblane. I had an inkling of his popularity by the time I was admitted in standard-V of the institute in 1972.  Students always listened to him with rapt attention and when he started explaining  a passage or a line like : Amar sajano bagan sukiye gelo ( My blissful garden of years of hard work has started decaying), there were many a teary eye and they were literally prepared to eat out of his hands.  He soon left the school for a better prospect and joined Brajanath Vidyapith in Tiljala as the youngest Headmaster of the school.  The school witnessed unprecedented progress under his headship and his association with the school continued till the very last days of his life.

The story has it that during the Naxalite Movement, a radical movement against the establishment that let loose a reign of terror in the late 60s in Bengal and left hundreds and thousands of people, especially young men, tortured and massacred both on the streets and in police custody, Mejda found himself in a tight corner one day with the local goons standing outside the school gate, braying for his blood. On hearing that their idol DB’s life was in danger, the senior students who were upstairs attending a class, came running down and held guard of the gate, challenging them to try laying a finger on Dhiresh Babu if they dared! Such was his charm that those local leaders later on became Mejda’s bhaktas (admirers) and trusted comrades.

But they were not the only ones of his admirers, his good looks alongside his amicable personality, had the same impact on all and sundry.  Women, especially, swooned over one another to be anywhere near his close proximity and simply could never have enough of him.  A very qualified lady of his time Is said to have vowed not to marry anyone else and true to her vow, remained a life-long spinster when Dhiresh Bhattacharyya got engaged in a wedlock with Mrs.Redha Bhattacharjee, his sweetheart.

Mejda was a versatile talent, an orator per excellence, he could recite any of the poems written by Tagore at the drop of a hat and leave the listeners spell-bound in the process ( Grame, grame barta rate gelo krome,/ Maitra Mashai jaben sagar sangame …….The news has spread far and wide that Mr Maitra is on his way to the confluence of the seas, deserves a special mention in this context).  He was equally at ease in narrating the stories. 

It pains me no ends that I could not get to understand mejda, the aesthetic, the cultured personality that he was during his lifetime. By working on the Hindu epic, The Mahabharata, just like his grandfather, Haridas Siddhantabagish, had done earlier, he was recreating and reviving the glorious past of India and the good old days of Indian culture and heritage. He had hardly begun to enjoy his first taste of success and stardom with the publication of his first book Nayak Judhirsthir and his next two well-researched and well-received books in quick succession, when he was called back to his heavenly abode , in February,2010.

I will always remember Mejda proudly showing me around his newly-purchased house in Tiljala, when we had interrupted him amidst his heroic endeavour:” Look over there, Swagata, that is the mango tree I planted.  It bore fruits last year. I even sent a couple of them to Ma.  Look at the tagar tree at the corner. It is a sight when in full bloom..”   And this is what sums up the essence of the man for me and separates him from a whole lot of people I know. A man simple at heart with a generous nature and a superlative zeal for life. Notwithstanding everything else, all his other qualities, to this day, he is fondly remembered as an extraordinary teacher of Bengali Language and Literature. His oratory skills, his passion for, prowess of, and above all, his pride in teaching will have ensured him a place among the great teachers of Bengal, God willing.

[The last seven days have been the most hectic and topsy-turvy in my life so far.  I started writing about The Bhattacharyyas of 41, Deblane, mainly with two objectives in mind;

1.       I wanted to find out for myself if I could write cohesively for a period of time, say, for a minimum of seven days at a go.  Considering the fact that till recently I was happy penning one story in 3 to 4 months, despite my New Year’s Resolution of writing at least 50 stories this year. I haven’t done badly at all.  I have achieved my first objective somewhat.

2.      I wanted to have an entry into the Writers’ World, get a taste of their mind-set and the workings of their minds. Their feelings and emotions, hopes and aspirations, troubles and traumas, failures and frustrations, and finally the enviable sense of achievement in the end. I have had, in my limited ways, a glimpse of that world.

Therefore, I have rightfully earned myself a break. Let me end by translating the quote at the start, with a request to you all, to keep a little space in your heart for Mejda and, if possible, for Yours Truly as well;

              When my footprints are lost in the Sands of Time,

              And I shall be ferrying across the river-bank for one last time …]
              
 Here is wishing you all the best.  Till we meet again, Merry Christmas and  a Happy New Year.            

             

Debesh Bhattacharya: The Man with the Never-Say-Die Attitude.

The other day, while trying to write about Bardi, Mrs.Tapati Bhatta, I had what in literary parlance is generally called, the writer’s block.  I was lost not knowing what to write about and how to go about it.  I had my serious doubt whether I was qualified enough to write about these people others hold close to their hearts and what gave me the idea of writing about them in the first place.  In a few words, I had serious doubts about my own abilities and the very purpose of writing.  Something at the back of my mind though, was urging me all the while not to give up.  I haven’t yet and you readers will wake up to the reality of letting me know in due course of time, if my efforts have been worthwhile.

Today I find myself in a thick soup once again, my mind clouded once more, being unsure how much I really know about my Barda, Debesh Bhattacharya and also due to my great fondness for him.  I wrote  a couple of years back to my Australian sis-in-law, Dr.Ellen McEwen:” I love Barda a lot because I can see beneath the rough and harsh exterior, a very good human being ……”  and it was no exaggeration.

Debesh Bhattacharya was born on 15^th March, 1941.  The eldest son of Jogesh Bhattacharyya, he was fearless and often found himself against heavy odds.  He was once said to have been awakened in the middle of his sound sleep by his furious father and beaten black and blue for apparently no fault of his.  But his determination coupled with his strong will power, has seen him through the worst of times and stood him in good stead.  When preparing for the I.A., he realized his weakness in Maths just after the trial, deported himself to his maternal grandpa’s house in Bhawanipore  and under the able tutelage of  Mejomama ( maternal uncle), who was a maths wizard of some sort, sharpened his wires so far as the troublesome subject was concerned. He secured letter marks (above 80%) in Maths in the Board Exam.  He went on to the Presidency College, Calcutta, to study for Honours in Economics and subsequently completed his Master’s from the University of Calcutta.  He is justifiably proud of the fact that he did not stay bekar, unemployed, even for a single day in his entire life.  He was offered a job before the M.A. result was out.

Having realized the financial doldrums his family was in, he left for foreign shores.  He must have been driven by his insatiable hunger for excelling at the highest level and his love for his motherland just added fuel to the fire.  In his sojourn for newer pastures, he did very well in the U.K., the U.S.A., New Zealand and Australia.  But what finally drew him to the last named country to settle down there, was Australia’s neutral attitude to racism in those days and my sis-in-law, Dr.Ellen McEwen.  I have heard him talking matter-of –factly so often about what ended his prolonged bachelorhood, with Baudi going back to Melbourne in a huff and puff and Barda coming to terms with the first pangs of true love, that it is like watching a Broadway Classic over and over again.  Baudi turned out to be the best thing in his life and they have stayed inseparable for god knows how long.

Inspite of his differences with baba over every subject under the sun, well almost, my late father was genuinely fond of barda.  Ma was no less, if not more. And both of them had reasons to be.  Barda might have taken some time to establish himself in the foreign land, but once he found a firm foothold, there was no stopping him discharging his filial and brotherly duties.  He assured the relatives time and again that they would not be burdened with any member of Jogesh Bhattachryya’s family, and do not you forget it was large, if baba could not recover from the aftermath of his 17-year-long-case against the state government, which he won.

If all the children of Lt.J.C.Bhattacharyya are well-settled today and have done creditably for themselves, then, besides the grace of The Almighty, it is due to the belief each one of them has had deep down over the years, that Barda will always be there for them. Along with mejdi, Mrs.Arati Guha, barda has always kept the family flag flying. His contributions to the family are so many that they are beyond the scope of anything of the size and stature of this article.  I personally feel that Lt.J.C.Bhattacharyya’s family is privileged to have such a distinguished and disinterested self-seeker. His greatness lies in the fact that his love for the family has not only been confined to the immediate family members, but also extended to and embraced anyone very remotely related to the family.

Even at 72, the hunk of a man that barda has been, he is fond of biriani, chicken kabab and rosgollas and, despite the doctor’s warning, does not let go of any opportunity of devouring them, whenever baudi is not around. He has been a fantastic ambassador of India and his life, a glimmer of hope for any young Indian trying to make it big anywhere in he world.

I cannot prove the authenticity of my claim and no offence meant to the great Indian batter, Sachin Tendulkar, but I am very sure that barda retired early ( he could have continued till quite late in his life as an Asst.Professor of Economics at the University of Sydney), in order to spend his last years watching the exploits and heroics of the master-blaster! He can never tire of  watching the maestro bat and have his fill. I guess, in some ways, barda identifies with Sachin, with the pent-up fury and frustration of the Indians being treated as second-class citizens, even post- independence, every time he found the master- class belting the opponents the only way he could.

And this is what has me worried lately.  It may be a matter of coincidence, but he fell seriously ill, on his return to Australia from India a few days after Sachin’s retirement was officially announced.  Now with Sachin gone, Life is bound to lose much of its frolic and fun. The only comfort is in knowing that he is in safer hands with his beloved wife of over 35 years and with both his daughters happily married, things are bound to brighten up and turn for the better.

Barda,Dr.Debesh Bhattacharya with his family.

Arati Guha: The True Illuminating Daughter of India.

While my earlier four blogs were all about people, who have left us behind and are no more in this world, presently I am writing about someone, who, by the grace of The Almighty, has been spared a little more time, for the sake of all of us and is still going strong. It may be difficult to write about people, personalities who are long gone and deceased. If any information provided about them happens to be flawed, a hornet’s nest will be raised. But it is doubly difficult to write about people, who, instead of being the living legends that they ought to be treated as, prefer to spend their life and time as the unsung heroes of India. Firstly, they know how accurate your description or assessment of them is and, as a result, they can gauge your true feelings and respect for them. Secondly, the risk of ending up with the feeling of letting them down always weighs heavily on your mind. Even then, I have decided to give it a go. I want to write about my second sister, Mrs. Arati Guha, popularly addressed as Mejdi, in the hope that even if I make some mistakes in the description, she will rectify me as is her nature and help me to do a better job of it next time to be a more refined writer.
Arati Bhattacharyya, the second child of Mr and Mrs. J.C.Bhattacharyya, was born on 6th March, 1939. She might not have been as beautiful as her elder sister, Tapati, but her inner grace and charm gets reflected in her outer persona. Upright, outspoken and straight forward from early on in life, she has never hesitated in calling the spade the spade. She was the daughter dearest of Lt.J.C.Bhattacharyya. Meticulously studious and bright, she passed her I.A. with distinction. Her next destination was the Presidency College, Calcutta, arguably the best college in Asia at that time. In 1958, despite all her hard work and academic brilliance, she failed to secure First Class in M.A. in History by a whisker. At a critical juncture of her life, she had to forsake any desire that she might have had of going abroad for further studies as grandfather, Haridas Siddhantabagish, was totally against any female member of the family , staying in close proximity of the nether world. Arati, was therefore, not destined to go abroad for creating ripples there in the academic circles like her younger brother, Debesh, was to do soon afterwards.
She, however, started her professional career next year by joining Darjeeling Government College in West Bengal as a Lecturer. The diligent nature and the principle of simple living and high thinking, ingrained characteristic trade-marks of hers, she might have sharpened up during her long association of 17 years with the people of this hilly town. From Darjeeling, she was transferred to Maulana Azad College, Calcutta and then to her alma mater, Presidency College. But she was in for a rude shock once she got back to the college she had so much prided in. Her righteousness and relentless struggle against injustice and corruption prevailing in the college then proved to be too costly just like it had happened to her father earlier. She found herself in heavy weather in trying to fight single-handedly against some giants of the famed institution, who unfortunately had all the political backing. Subsequently, Arati got transferred to Bethune College and finally retired from Lady Brabourne College, Calcutta as the Head of the Department of History in March, 1997.
Both my parents, Mr.Jogesh Bhattacharyya and Mrs. Bina Devi, were extremely proud and fond of Mejdi, Mrs.Arati Guha. They loved her greatly in their own inimitable ways. While she was baba’s passport to the outside world, later on in his life. Mejdi was more of a friend than a daughter to baba, when in the absence of his eldest son, who was trying to make a footing abroad, what baba needed the most was a close confidant. Mejdi proved to be a tower of strength for baba and provided him every kind of support imaginable, be it moral, intellectual, emotional or financial. Ma, on the other hand, was not so forthcoming in her appraisal of Mejdi. But I have heard her speak often about the hardship that Arati had to go through during her Presidency days. Everyday on getting back home, she would wash her only sari and once dried, she would keep it under the mattress for pressing. The Almighty is very good at the balancing act- if she has got everything one can wish for today, it is because of her untold suffering very early in life. Anyway, Ma must have bared her true feelings for her favourite daughter to her son-in-law, Mr.Barun Guha, a qualified and successful engineer, when ma wrote to him a few years after their marriage: …..You will gradually come to understand and appreciate the priceless gem we have handed over to you and have no occasion to regret..
Mejdi has always been the first to appreciate the good deeds of others. A die-hard admirer of her motherland, Gandhi, Nehru, Allauddin Khilji and Sourav Ganguly, She does not waste much time in writing to them like the time when she wrote to Gorbachev to appreciate their roles in world affairs for the larger benefit of humanity. I cannot resist the temptation of quoting a few lines from her poem (Souravke) from her book of poems, Tomay Boli, dedicated to her brother in law, Lt.Prabha Shankar Bhatta:
Bangla juria kato asha chhilo, shona jabe bohu rab,/ Nagare nagare bol uthe jabe, ”Sourav,Sourav “. I had this great hope of the whole of Bengal reverberating in your glory, town after town resonating with the cry, “Sourav, Sourav”. The poem then goes on to conclude very prophetically with: “udibe sukher surja,/ Bharat juria bajibe abar Sourav-jayturya”. The sun of happiness will arise again; India will praise Sourav to the skies then. ( This poem was written when Sourav Ganguli fell out of favour with the selectors that led to his ouster from the Indian cricket team, after his open criticism of Greg Chappel, the then cricketing coach of India.) Similarly, she is passionate about Khilji and believes that her book on the said ruler cannot go unnoticed for long and will bridge the differences between the Hindus and the Muslim communities in India.
In the course of a very eventful and chequered career, Mejdi has helped umpteen number of people without ever bothering to be acknowledged or expecting anything in return. My Barda, Debesh Bhattacharya, calls her ‘Meghe dhaka tara’, the star behind the clouds. In my humble opinion, the land of Bengal will not get to see the likes of Arati Guha again for a long time to come, if ever.
Some people do not get their due recognition during their life-time. Mejdi at least, will have the satisfaction of being the favourite daughter, dutiful sister, a loving and caring wife and a very, very popular and influential teacher. One who has inspired hundreds of enthusiastic learners to dream big and has been the role-model for many more. History can hardly overlook such a great, secular daughter of India. Wouldn’t it be nice if she gets the accolades she truly deserves during her lifetime?

To be continued …

Tribute toTimeless Tapati.

On a bright, breath-taking afternoon, I, along with my Ma, was bound for Jiaganj, a sleepy, far-away town in the district of Murshidabad in West Bengal. Jiaganj, at that time when the world was young and innocent, was not the thriving town it is today. We were in train on our way to spend my month-long holidays at my eldest sister's place. My eldest sis, Mrs.Tapati Bhatta, was the first-born of late J.C.Bhattacharyya. The excitement and sense of de javu, in the compartment and outside, was almost stifling. I, Swagata, a chit of a boy, was trying to keep count of the number of stations in between Sealdah and Jiaganj, a favourite pastime of ours in those days….
Here comes Plassey, the historic place where the last Nawab of Bengal,. Siraj-ud-daulah, tried to put up a semblance of a fight against the mighty Britiish force led by Robert Clive and got defeated hands down, even before the first shot was fired, due to the ignoble betrayal of his General, Mir Zaffar. With his defeat, the sun of Bengal, nay India, was believed to have gone down. The train rattles on without halting at the station and I sit up knowing that Jiaganj is not a far cry anymore. By the time we arrive at the station, it is almost 10.30 p.m. and pitch dark outside. But that does not dampen our spirit as either Someshda, a family friend or Kaltu, my nephew, would be there to give us a hand with our luggage and escort us whole-heartedly to bhattabari, the permanent residence of the Bhattas.
As we get onto the cycle-rickshaw, I am overcome with a feeling of nostalgia. Notwithstanding the cap around my face and the woollen muffler gifted by my eldest sister a few months earlier, the palpable signs of what is to be a harsh winter, greet us. Pulling the warm clothes tighter, I look around and simply can’t take my eyes off the roadside fields and the ghostly, shadowy trees lined along the way. The vast stretch of paddy fields transports me to the world of Ray’s (Bibhutibhusan Banerjee’s?) immortal, Pather Panchali. Apu, the easy-to-identify-with, little lad of my age at that time, running through similar fields towards the train looming at the horizon.
By then, Phatikda, the family rickshaw-puller, is slowing down as we get closer to the market. At a signal from Ma, I get off the rickshaw near the centrally located mithai (sweets) shop and into it to buy some mouth-watering sweets for my sister and her family. Once I am back in the vehicle, Phatikda starts paddling again and within minutes, a glimpse of the clay lions keeping guard over the gates of Sreepat Singh College, catches my attention in the dim, yellow light. This is the college where my baba, late J.C.Bhattacharyya, started his administrative career as the first Principal of the college.
It was back in the early 50s that he had his first acquaintance with Jiaganj. A person who helped my father a lot to settle down at that time and stood by him through thick and thin, was Mr.Durga Shankar Bhatta (I am sorry about the name again), a local medical practitioner of some repute. Their friendship soon blossomed into relationship, when Durga Shankar, asked, for his second son, Prabha Shankar Bhatta, the hand of Tapati, a lass of ravishing beauty and vitality. Prabha Shankar, my eldest brother-in-law, at that time, was trying to get a foothold as an aspiring lawyer at Lalbagh Court, some 45 minutes distance from Jiaganj, having obtained his LL.B. Degree from Calcutta University earlier. He was a bright, raw talent and despite his initial reluctance to have his daughter married off so early in her life, Baba could not reject the exciting prospect and relented in the end. The marriage that followed afterwards was a grand affair. My eldest sister, Tapati, was barely 16 or 17 at that time. She was considered to be Baba’s lucky charm and proved equally lucky for her new family as the Bhatta Family started thriving after the marriage. Baba, on the other hand, was faced with a series of misfortune that finally ended in his confinement to the easy-chair due to the savage attack of gangrene.
To come back to my eldest sister, Tapati. She was someone, who was meant to have all the stars of the universe and live life to the fullest. She inherited most of her father’s characteristic traits: haunting good-looks, generosity, popularity and her share of misfortune as well. Whoever visited her at Jiaganj, was treated like a prince and his/her stay at her place was nothing short of a feast. She always ensured that her guests had the best of everything, were fed gluttonously and never let anyone go without the parting gift. (It is thanks to my eldest sister and her family that the quality mangoes, litchis, jackfruits and a host of other staff in the markets of Kolkata do not entice me anymore). But what would really stay etched in a visitor’s mind is the eternal picture of my sister with that big, red vermilion mark just beneath the parting of her hair on her forehead, standing teary-eyed near the gate of Bhattabari, waving her final good-bye.
The death in 1997 of her eldest son, Krishna Shankar Bhatta, who happened to be the heart-throb of so many, in the prime of his life, must have been a severe blow to Tapati. Though she,with a smile on her face, gave one the impression of moving on in life afterwards, , she was not the same vivacious lady any more. The smile on her face lost the usual sheen and weary by the weights of the world, she finally passed away at a nursing home some meters away from her ancestral home in Deblane, the home away from home she was equally fond of, in April, 2011. Her world, all her life, revolved around the people she loved – that included, her family, her relatives and even rank outsiders.
In life, she united two great families – The Bhattacharyyas and The Bhattas. In death, though she left both the families tottering, yet with the firm conviction that they will rise above the trials, tribulations and the tests of time.

To be continued ……