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 ……

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.

ttt


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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