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 ……

Mrs.Bina Devi Bhattacharyya: Forgiveness Personified.

At this very moment I wish I was Gorki and with some deft touches could portray my mother, Late Bina Devi Bhattacharyya for what she really was. Even if I were, I doubt it if I could ever do justice to her character adequately.
She was the best mother in the world for me. I trust my Ma enough to believe what she told my grandfather, Haridas Siddhantabagish had remarked about her : “ Ekta bhadraloker meyeke bari niye esechi”(I have brought a gentleman’s daughter to my house) and all her life, my Ma tried to lead her life by this remark. When grandpa finally bought the ancestral home at Deblane, my Ma offered all her wedding jewellery to him for the purpose. Though Dadu (grandfather) paid her back everything once he fell into good times, he never forgot this act of selflessness of my Ma.
Ma was the eldest daughter of a very learned man, Mr.Akshay Kr.Bhattacharjee. Though just like my paternal grandfather, he was also a Sanskrit scholar, that was all they had in common! A Professor of Sreerampore College, West Bengal, he was a very amicable, humble man, a gentleman to the core, who believed in keeping a low profile. At the collage, Mr Kerry, who was the Principal at that time, much taken with my maternal grandpa’s scholarly excellence, pursuits and simplicity, had asked him to translate The Gita, the most treasured book of the Hindus, into Bengali from the original Sanskrit. The manuscript can still be found in the library of the college even today.
But more than her father, her mother had a greater influence on her. My grandmother, Mrs. Sarala Bala Devi(I am ashamed to say that I am not even sure of the first name of my maternal grandma), was an enigma. Dressed in white, as she had lost her husband by the time I can remember her, she reminded me of Atri Muni’s wife as depicted in a poem of the class-x textbook, entitled Sree Ramer Atri Munir Ashram Gaman. She was a great lady with a scholarly bent of mind, far too advanced for her age, in the words of my eldest brother, Dr.Debesh Bhattacharya, who is a much-travelled man and has seen quite a lot of the world.
Though Ma could not study further than standard-VI (She got married by the time she was only 13!), she was extremely talented. She was a topper all through and had a tremendous memory. Even in the last years of her life, she could recite the poems she had learned during her school days like the one that goes:
Little drops of water,/ Little grains of sand. Make the mighty ocean/ And the pleasant land ……. without any problem whatsoever.
A loving daughter and sister, she tried to treat all her siblings fair and square. They were also quite fond of her and used to visit us often. She was also fiercely protective and proud of her children till the last. It was always difficult to tell, who, among her 12 children, was the most favourite. The large number of children might have been a matter of shame for many, but looking at it in retrospect now, when many of her offspring are gone, it does not seem a criminal offence anymore!
Naturally, such a large family without enough financial means and support, as my father was the sole bread-earner then and a hapless victim of fate by the time he was only 48 , demanded lots of sacrifices from Ma on a regular basis. She always accepted the hazards of life uncomplainingly. Once, when she was about to sit down for her lunch and she was always the last one to do so, a relative turned up, famished. Ma did not hesitate to offer him her share, without letting him know for a minute that the food he was devouring was, in fact, her share!
As her sons and daughters started growing up, she must have hoped for better days, that all her abysmal days of pain and hardship would soon be gone. She was yet to learn about the ways of the World. As her sons started growing up, they had to go to different places for survival and sustenance. Some of my brothers had also got married by then and things were not what my Ma thought they would be. Despite what the pundits might say, I think, distance and time always make people grow less fond of the near and dear ones. Her uniqueness of character never let her be the domineering type and towards the end of her life, lots of differences cropped up in the family. One scene that hurts me most is Ma sitting on the couch in the baitakkhana ( the conference room),with two of her granddaughters on either side, helplessly weeping her heart out; when outside in the courtyard, we, her dream and pride, were busy shouting at one another settling scores. Even then Ma was fortunate in having the love and respect of almost all her children till her last breath.
In an age, when criticizing the in-laws was not the accepted norm of the day, when the Mothers-in-law literally reigned supreme and their dominance over their daughters-in-law was at its height, Ma was unlike the quintessential daughter-in-law of today and carried out her daughterly duties to the best she was capable of. Her jovial narration of how grandma rebuked her once for overcooking the rice: “Pindi debe chhelera, bauer hate pindi nebo keno?” (My sons will give me the rice offerings after my death, why should I take it from my daughter-in-law when I am still alive?) had more to do with the feel of days gone by, than a genuine grievance against her mother-in-law. She might not have been the epitome of all thing glamorous, but people of 41 Deblane continue to think highly of her.
I learned all the Best Lessons of Life from my late mother and I intend to write about them separately somewhere, some other time. But it goes without saying that she was an extra-ordinary human being, especially for someone who got married so early in life. She was my father’s number Uno fan and simply her0-sorshipped him. She tried to indulge all his moods and whims alike,almost ritualistically, with excessive love and loyalty. Towards the end of his life, my baba would often say that if there is a life after death, he would love to have my mother as his wife again.
Life would have been quite fair to her if only we, her children, had bothered to give her company in the last few years of her life, when she desperately needed us the most, instead of leaving it to the daily-paid nurses working in shifts. But we all, I reckon, had our own worlds to take care of, while she was slowly withering away. She was a selfless woman and never really cared for her own interests. She could have had pots of money, had she really wanted, but the graceful manner in which Ma refused any offer of financial support from most of her sons and daughters was a lesson in itself.
If there is any one quality that stands out and sets her a few rungs above the rest, it was her forgiving nature. The seeds of disintegration of the family started with Baba’s palpable deviance from filial duty, loyalty and loss of authority subsequently. I dread thinking what might have happened to Lt.Joghesh Bhattacharyya’s family, if ma had not kept her cool and acted in a manner befitting her characteristic poise and grace.
Everyone thinks the world of his/her mother. I only wish and pray that this wonderful world of ours, is full of women like my late Ma. The world would be much more trouble, tremor, tension-free then and full of Love, Compassion, Sacrifice and Forgiveness.
May The Almighty bless her soul wherever she happens to be. Proud of you, Ma, and love you always.

To be continued …..

The Invincible Spirit that was J.C.Bhattacharya.

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Hold fast to your dreams, / For when dreams go,
Life is a barren field / Frozen with snow.

Right at this very moment, while I am trying to do the impossible by daring to write about my late father, my mind goes back to the day in the mid-80s, when my father breathed his last. His dead body covered with garlands of all shapes and sizes, was lying on a cot in the courtyard of Deblane. Amidst all the wailings and stupefying sadness, the strange aroma and smoke of incense sticks, Jogesh Bhattacharyya, was taking his final leave of the world. A world that did not give him his due share of recognition and snatched away all his dreams quite early in his life.
If there is one thing that can describe my Baba adequately, it would be his indomitable spirit. It was one characteristic that defined him till the very last moments of his life. My late father or baba was not only one of my grandfather’s favourite children; he was also one of the handsomest men I have ever seen in my life. A fairytale Prince who showed lots of promises but had to fade away at the cruel intervention of Fate, at every crucial stage of his life.
He was a brilliant student and made his family proud by being the first and the youngest Principal of a college in the Murshidabad district of West Bengal. Inspite of having earned his Masters in English from the University of Calcutta during the British Raj, when he was only 21, he was equally at ease in Sanskrit as well. I have often heard it from my eldest brother, Debesh Bhattacharya, an erudite scholar by his own right, that my father would have done far better if he had followed grandpa’s example and studied for his Master’s in Sanskrit instead, as he had what is called originality in abundance. The truth of the matter is, he was at ease in all these subjects, be it Sanskrit, English or Bengali. His resonant voice at the time of my eldest brother’s departure for Australia, still keeps ringing in my mind. The ease with which Baba chanted some slokas in Sanskrit at that time and almost immediately afterwards, translated them into English for the convenience of his Australian daughter-in-law, Dr.Ellen Macwen, who was also accompanying my eldest brother at that time, was something to be heard to be believed.
He was a caring son and loved his parents. I came to know from my late Ma the kind of respect he had for his parents. An exceptional good- looker, he must have been in his fifties by the time I, his youngest child, was born. I deeply rue the fact that I could not get to see him when he was young. But even towards the end of his life, one could feel the charm, poise and easy gracefulness of the man in the ruin.
I remember how he would be the first to get up before bramhamuhurta, a very auspicious time of the day before sunrise. After his daily ablutions, he would get dressed in his spotlessly white dhoti and Punjabi for the morning walk, chanting hymns all the while, dedicated to the myriads of Hindu gods and goddesses. Over six feet tall, with a physique that would put even the modern gym freak to shame, my father made most of the people feel like a pigmy in his presence. I heard it that during the Riots of the 40s, he was badly injured by the Muslims, having mistaken him to be the leader of the Hindus for his giant stature.
Baba was a generous man and there are many stories about his generosity. One of my personal favourites is the one which shows him at his generous best. Once when he himself was in some kind of financial problem, he had to borrow some money from someone. But on the same day, when a helpless parent sought his help, Baba did not bother to think about his poor plight and unhesitatingly gave the money to the man without a second thought!
Baba loved all his siblings, especially his youngest brother and sister dearly. He loved all his offspring equally, though my second sister, Mrs.Arati Guha, was closer to his heart. But among all his offspring, the last three including yours truly, had a kind of enviable rapport and friendship with him. That kind of relationship was almost unimaginable for most of my elder siblings. Though Ma, due to her conservative upbringing, was totally against us taking liberties with father by wearing his chappals, using his towel and soap and all, I did that quite often, if not for anything else, for the sheer pleasure and enjoyment of it, and for the feeling of being self-important. I find it comical to think about the times when, at the insistence of a couple of my brothers, I used to steal the cigarettes from his cigar-case. He was a very stylist man and as a result, he was never satisfied with anything mediocre or less than the best. Even during the hard times, much to the chagrin of many in the family, he continued to smoke nothing but Filter Wills Navy Cut. He was no fool and I am sure that he was aware of the goings-on, so far as the missing cigarettes are concerned, but a good human being that he was, he always preferred to see the funny side of it all rather graciously.
At a time when he had so much to offer, he was caught up in the vagaries of college politics and found himself at the receiving end of the unsolicited fury of the state government. Not the one to take it lying down, he fought tooth and nail and filed a case against the government for justice and honour. After 18 long years, he was honourably acquitted, but by then the case had taken its toll on my father. At the time of his victory, Writers Buildings, the administrative headquarters of the government, had to be croaked to pay him his dues of 18 long years and the newspapers were full of his heroics. I remember one Mr.Anil Grover, a journalist working with a leading daily, who flew all the way down to Calcutta to interview him. I still have a copy of Sunday, Volume-6 ,Issue-19 , published on 23rd July,1978, an Anand Bazar Publication, wherein another journalist Mr.Nirmal Mitra had gloated about his courage and stamina against all heavy odds, on the same topic with the title ‘The Saga of a Teacher’.
Fate also played her part in the life of Jogesh Bhattacharyya. He got confined to the shackles of the easy-chair by a cruel attack of gangrene. Even then his enigmatic personality drew people to him from all walks of life, from an MP to the Principals to the barber, who helped him with his personal cleanliness and grooming. His strong sense of humour endeared him to all his grandchildren.
Despite all his qualities, he had his share of human frailties. His extreme good looks coupled with his commanding personality made him irresistible to the fairer sex including some truly beautiful foreigners. And despite his apparent fondness for a host of them, which was invariably mutual, if the family stayed united till his last breath, full credit has to be given to a very special and dear lady I consider to be a gem of a human being, that is, my mother, Mrs.Bina Bhattacharyya.

To Be Continued ……

The Bhattacharyyas of 41 Deblane.

I have always been driven by a dream_ the dream of making this magnificent world of ours a better place, by playing my part in it in the best way possible. I have genuinely believed in the greater power of a Superior Force shaping and guiding us along to our destiny. Almost all of us are capable of fulfilling our dreams only if we can set out heart and soul to it. We should never give up on our dreams without trying very hard and believing in the plans and designs the Superior Power has for each one of us.
There are times when I feel extremely sorry for my second brother, Lt.Dhiresh Chandra Bhattacharyya. He was, without an iota of doubt, a talented person per excellence. He could have gone miles and had all the accolades he truly deserved, only if had decided to listen to his heart and taken to writing at an early period of his life! He was, by the way, one of the youngest Headmasters of a High School in Kolkata in the early 70s and teaching was his first passion. Despite his talent in writing, it had to take the back-stage during the prime of his life as he whole-heartedly devoted himself to fulfilling all his duties and obligations as the Head at this period. It was only after retirement ( He must have realized by then that he did not have much time at his disposal), that he started writing vociferously. The three books he authored in a short span of time, were all brought out by Anand Publishers, one of the leading publishing houses in Bengal, and all three have been best-sellers since then.
The sudden demise of my second brother should have been an eye-opener of some sort for a lot of other talented people in the family. Anyway, without waiting for others for precedence, I have finally taken it upon myself, inspite of being the least qualified of them all, to give my dream a try and try writing about a very talented and special family of Bengal. A family known for its culture and learning, aspirations and insecurities, love, jealousy and rivalry. My greatest fear at this very moment is that in trying to write about my family, the Family of the Bhattacharyyas, I may hurt the feelings and sentiments of some people I love and respect. If that be the case, I offer my sincerest apologies to them at the onset and beg for their forgiveness.
Now to begin at the beginning, let me give a brief pen-portrait of my grandfather, Mahamohopadhyaya, Mahakobi, Padmabhushan,Pandit Haridas Siddhantabagish ( He had lots of other titles and how I wish I had asked my brother, who passed away last October for all those, to give the reader a feel of the true qualities of my late grandfather). Unfortunately, he left his earthly abode a few months after my birth, most probably having foreseen with the help of some divine interference, what kind of black sheep the latest arrival in the family was going to be! Therefore, I have no recollections of him whatsoever. Whatever indistinct, hazy memories I have of my grandfather, are all based on the thoughts, beliefs and opinions of others, mostly my siblings, have had about him. He was undoubtedly an unbelievably talented and charismatic man who spent the best part of his life translating The Mahabharata, one of the two Indian Epics from Sanskrit to Bengali. Naturally, I grew up amidst the dampness and squalor of hundreds and thousands of those yellowish copies all around me. Starting with the rack-shelves to the places in the Thakurghar ( the altar room ) to the space under and behind the chowki that served as a bed in the kitchen for one of my brothers.
I have heard it told that my grandfather was a pious Brahmin in the truest sense of the term and spent his time, from the wee hours in the morning till the evening, dedicating himself totally to his translatory works, some of which are taught till date at universities across India. One can see even today the rusty printing press at our ancestral home at 41, Deblane, in Kolkata, the palatial house he had bought once he became a household name during his time in Bengal.
His dedication and commitments are the staff folklores are made of. But long before that , when he was trying to make a name for himself as a struggling, Sanskrit scholar-aspirant, people must have realized the potential that lay hidden in him and even the great Tagore is said to have paid him a visit at his rented house at Suri Lane, soon after he was awarded the Padmabibhusahan.
My grandfather had four sons and most probably five daughters and my late father, Jogesh Chandra Bhattacharyya, was the third in line amongst all his offspring. He was, one of the most favourite children, if not the most favourite child of Haridas Siddhantabagish.
( To be continued … )

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