আমি কলকাতার আনন্দবাজার পত্রিকার যুদ্ধ সংবাদদাতা হিসেবে বাংলাদেশের মুক্তিযুদ্ধ কভার করেছি। কিন্তু সাধারণত যুদ্ধ-সংবাদদাতা বলতে যা বোঝায় সে ভাবে নয়।
১৯৬৮ সালে কলকাতার সংবাদপত্র জগতে আমার প্রবেশ। তখন আমি কলকাতা বিশ্ববিদ্যালয়ে দিনে ইংরেজী ও সন্ধায় সাংবদিকতা নিয়ে পড়াশুনো করছি। বিশ্ববিদ্যালয়ে রাতের ক্লাশের আমাদের মাস্টারমশয়, দক্ষিণারঞ্জন মজুমদার সে সময় প্রথম শ্রেণীর দৈনিক যুগান্তর পত্রিকার নিউজ এডিটর। আমাকে তিনি তাঁর কাগজে পূর্ব পাকিস্তানের ওপর ছোটখাটো খবর লিখতে দিয়েছিলেন, অনিয়মিত। আমি তখন ঢাকার এক দৈনিকে কলকাতা থেকে সখের সংবাদদাতা (স্ট্রিঞ্জার)। পাঁচ বছর আগে সীমান্ত পেরুনো পূর্ব-পাকিস্তানী উদবাস্তু ছেলে আমার কাছে সেটা বড় কোন ব্যাপার ছিল না, কেননা, সেখানকার সে সময়ের টালমাটাল রাজনীতির গতি-প্রকৃতি আমি ভালই জানতাম। তাই ঢাকার কোন্ খবর কলকাতায় আর কলকাতার কোন্ খবর ঢাকার কাছে গুরুত্বের তা অনুমান করা আমার পক্ষে খুব একটা চ্যালেঞ্জের ব্যাপার ছিল না।
১৯৬৮ সালে আইয়ুব বিরোধী আন্দোলন খুব শক্ত দানায় বদলে যাচ্ছিল। ঢাকা বিশ্ববিদ্যালয় ছিল সেই আন্দোলনের কেন্দ্রভূমি। আমি লক্ষ্য করতাম, স্বাধীনতার পরে শহুরে হিন্দু রাজনীতিকরা বিশাল সংখ্যায় দেশত্যাগী হলে, পূর্ববাংলা্র সবক্ষেত্রেই রাজনৈতিক চেতনায় এক রকমের শিথিলতা দেখা দিয়েছিল।সেই ফাঁকটা পূরণ করছিল দেশের ছাত্ররা। মুজিবর রহমান স্বাধীনতা-পূর্ব ছাত্র আন্দোলনের আগুনে নিজেকে শেঁকেছিলেন। তাই, তার নেতৃত্বে রাজনৈতিক চেতনার বিকাশ ঘটল মূলত ছাত্র মহলেই।
মনে আছে, আমি তখন মিডল্ স্কুলের ছাত্র। দিনাজপুরে। ঢাকা থেকে নেতারা আসতেন। স্টেশন রোডে কোন এক দোতালায় আমরা স্কুলের ছাত্ররা বেশ কয়েকটা মিটিং-এ যোগ দিয়েছিলাম। তখন আমার বয়স ১১/১২ বছর হবে কিনা সন্দেহ। সেই সব মিটিং-এ ‘সিনিয়র’ রাজনীতিবিদদের কখনো দেখিনি। আমার বাবা-মা স্বাধীনতার সংগ্রামী ছিলেন। দুজনেই ব্রিটিশ সরকারের নানা জেলে নিজেদের যৌবনের সোনালী দিনগুলো কাটিয়েছেন। ছোটবেলায় আমাদের বাড়িতে ছাত্র নেতাদের আনাগোনাই বেশি দেখেছি। আজ আওয়ামী সরকারের অনেক মন্ত্রীই সেই ছাত্রনেতাদের কয়েকজন, যদিও পরবর্তী সময়ে রাজনৈতিক মতবাদে এদের সঙ্গে বাবার বিরোধ গড়ে উঠেছিল।
বাবা-মাকে ঘিরে একসময় যাঁদের আলোচনা করতে শুনেছি, দেখেছি, তাঁরাও বাবা-মা’র তুলনায় বয়সে বেশ নবীন। তেভাগার গুরুদাস তালুকদার, কালীপদ সেন, বিভূতি গুহ, আন্দামান থেকে মুক্তি পাওয়া অনিল রায়, হৃষিকেশ ভট্টাচার্য এরা বাবা-মা’র কাছাকাছি বয়সের ছিলেন। পূর্ব পাকিস্তানে সিনিয়র রাজনীতিবিদ প্রথমে দেখি শহীদ সোহরাবর্দিকে, পরে ‘হুজুর’ মৌলানা ভাসানীকে। ভাসানী সাহেব আমাদের বাড়িতে এসেছেন কয়েকবার, রাতেও ছিলেন বলে হাল্কা মনে পড়ছে।
এত কথা বলার কারণ এইটুকু বোঝাতে, আমি কেন বিশ্বাস করতাম বা আজও করি যে, পূর্ব-বাংলার রাজনৈতিক চেতনার বিকাশে ছাত্ররাই অগ্রণীর ভূমিকা নিয়েছে। সন্দেহ হয়, ছাত্রদের একটি প্রজ়ন্ম (৩০ বছর, ১৯৭৭ অবধি) যদি দেশ ভাগের পর নিষ্ক্রীয় বসে থাকত, তারা যদি শুধুই পড়াশুনোর মধ্য দিয়েই দেশ গঠনের দুঃস্বপ্ন দেখে চলত, বলতে পারি, বাংলাদেশের জন্ম আজও সম্ভব হত কিনা।
এই বিশ্বাস থেকেই আমার জীবনের প্রকৃত সাংবাদিকতার শুরু। পাকিস্তান জুড়ে চলছে ধরপাকড়, আয়ুব ধীরে ধীরে তলিয়ে যাবার প্রক্রিয়ায় বেপরোয়া। আমি, তখন ছাত্র, যুগান্তরের সম্পাদকীয় দফতরে, একটা লেখা হাতে নিয়ে পৌঁছে গেলামঃ ‘ছাত্র শক্তিই আয়ুবকে টেনে নামাচ্ছে’। আমি নানা ব্যাখ্যায় সাজালাম আমার বিশ্বাস-নির্ভর বক্তব্য। আমি ভাবতেও পারিনি, লেখাটা এতটা সারা ফেলবে সিনিয়র জার্নালিস্টদের আসরে। ওই একটি লেখাই আমাকে বানিয়ে দিল, যুগান্তরের সা[প্তাহিক কলামনিস্ট।
এরপর টানা তিন বছর যুগান্তরে কলাম লিখেছি। পত্রিকার কর্মী হিসেবে নয়। কন্টাক্টে। সবটাই পাকিস্তানের ওপর তা নয়। আমি বিষয় বেছে নিলাম, যুগান্তর কর্তৃপক্ষও সায় দিলেন, ‘প্রতিবেশি রাষ্ট্র’। বলাবাহুল্য, আমার কলামের অধিকাংশ জায়গা নিতে থাকল পাকিস্তান, বিশেষ করে, পূর্ব পাকিস্তান।
১৯৭১। পূর্ব-পাকিস্তান তখন আগ্নেয়গিরির ওপর, বিস্ফোরণে ফেটে পড়ার অপেক্ষায়। মওলানা আর মুজিবের মধ্যে চলছে রাজনৈতিক জমি দখলের চোরাগোপ্তা লড়াই। বাইরের পৃথিবীও গোপনে একে ওকে নিজমতে টেনে নেবার ফাঁক ফোকরের সন্ধানে কৌশলে রত। কলকাতার সংবাদপত্র জগতেও সেই লড়াইয়ের ছাপ। যুগান্তরে আমি তখনও পেইড স্টাফ নই। ১৯৬৮ সালেই, ২২/২৩ বছর বয়সে বিয়ে করেছি, আন্ডারগ্রাজুয়েট ক্লাশমেটকে। বস্তুত তখন বেকার, ট্যুশন নির্ভর জীবন। ডাক এলো আনন্দবাজার থেকে। বাংলাদেশ কভার করে ফিরলেই চাকরি। ্রাজি হয়ে গেলাম। শর্ত হলঃ ১। ফিরলে চাকরি। ২। যতদিন ফিরবনা, স্ত্রী পাবে মাসে মাসে ৪০০ টাকা এবং ৩।মারা গেলে স্ত্রী পাবে চাকরি, আনন্দবাজারেই।
২৩ মার্চ, ১৯৭১। ঢুকে পড়লাম উত্তাল পূর্ব পাকিস্তানে। দেখি, পেট্রাপোল সীমান্তে পতপত করে উড়ছে লাল সূর্য বুকে অসংখ্য সবুজ বাংলা দেশ। দুই গাছে বাঁধা দড়িতে দুলছে নৌকোর কাটআউট।...... (চলবে...)
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
My Father, Barada Bhushan Chakraborty
আমার বাবা বরদাভূষণ ছিলেন হরগোপাল চক্রবর্তীর জীবিত পাঁচ সন্তানের মধ্যে তৃতীয়, পুত্রদের মধ্যে জ্যেষ্ঠ। আমার ঠাকুর্দা-ঠাকুমার সন্তানরা বাঁচতেন ন। উনিশ শতকের শেষার্ধের বাংলায় এটা কোন বিস্ময়ের বিষয় ছিল না।হরগোপাল টাঙ্গাইলের সন্তোষ মহারাজার রাজপুরহিতের বংশধর হলে কি হবে, নিজের উচ্ছৃঙ্খল জীবন যাপনের জন্য সেই সম্মান খুইয়েছিলেন। রাজ পরিবারের সঙ্গে তাঁর আর কোন যোগাযোগ ছিল না।
টাঙ্গাইল শহরের কয়েক মাইল দূরে ধলেশ্বরী নদীতীরের চারাবাড়ি ঘাটের অদূরে বিন্যাফৈর গ্রামে মহারাজা তাঁর পূর্বপুরুষকে একখন্ড জমি দান করেছিলেন, সেই গ্রাম ও তার আশেপাশের এলাকায় হরগোপাল যজমানি করে দিনাতিপাত করতেন। পর পর পুত্র সন্তানের মৃত্যুতে তাঁরা এতই বেপরোয়া হয়ে উঠেছিলেন, সদ্যজাত সন্তানকে হরগোপাল নিজহাতে প্রতিষ্ঠিত বরদেশ্বরীর নামে উৎসর্গ করেছিলেন। নাম রেখেছিলেন বরদা। আমার ছোটবেলাতেও (১৯৫০) বিন্যাফৈরের গ্রামে বুনো শুয়োর ছুটতে দেখেছি, শেয়াল তো ছিলই। তারও পঞ্চাশ বছর আগে সেখানে এই সব অতিথিদের তান্ডব যে আরও বেশি ছিল অনুমান করাই যায়।
আমাদের ঠাকুমা, সেই সব জানোয়ারদের পরোয়া না করেই বরদেশ্বরীর পায়ের কাছে সদ্যজাত পুত্রসন্তানকে কলাপাতায় শুইয়ে রেখে পুকুর ঘাটে চলে যেতেন, আমাদের বাবাকে শেয়াল-শুয়োর তুলে নিয়ে যায় নি। দুই কন্যা সন্তানের জন্মের পর অষ্টম গর্ভে জাত বরদা ছিলেন ব্রাক্ষ্মণ-ব্রাক্ষ্মণীর গর্বের ধন, ‘ঠাকুরমশায়ের উপর ঈশ্বরের পরম করুণা’র নিদর্শন স্বরূপ।
বরদার ছোটবেলা কেটেছে দিনাজপুরে। রাজ-পরিবারের করুণা থেকে বঞ্চিত হয়ে হরগোপালকে বিন্যাফৈর ত্যাগ করতে হয় একসময়। ঠিক কী কারণে সেই স্থানান্তর জানা নেই, কিংবা কেনই বা, দুরন্ত মেঘনা-যমুনা পার করে উত্তরবঙ্গে আসা তাও জানা নেই। দেখা যাচ্ছে, শহরের পূর্বপ্রান্তের বালুবাড়ি পাড়ার জমিদার গুপ্তদের কাছারিতে হরগোপাল নায়েব পদে আসীন, বরদা পড়াশুনো করছেন দিনাজপুর জেলা স্কুলে।একসময় এন্ট্রান্স পাশ করলেন, এবং বাবা হাতে মুঠো করে ধরে নিয়ে গেলেন জমিদারের কাছারিতে। চাকরিতে জুটে যাক ছেলে, অভাবতাড়িত হরগোপালের সেটাই ইচ্ছা। জমিদারের মুখের উপর রুখে দাঁড়ালেন বরদা। চাকরি নয়, আরও পড়াশুনো করতে চান, বললেন, ‘উকিল হবো।‘ এক নায়েব সন্তানের এমন ঔদ্ধত্বে অপমানিত জমিদা্র, তিনি তখন দিনাজপুর কোর্টের একজন ডাকসাঁইটে মোক্তার, তাঁর ডান হাতের চেটো উলটে বাম হাতের তর্জনী ঠুকে ঠুকে হুঙ্কার দিলেন, ‘তুমি যেদিন উকিল হবে, সেদিন আমার হাতের তালুতে চুল গজাবে, এটা জেনে রাখো।‘
অভাবের সংসারে কিশোরের তেজ অশোভন, হরগোপাল ভাবলেন, অত্যাচারী জমিদারের প্রতি স্বভাব বিরোধিতা বরদাকে তাড়িত করে থাকবে। স্থানীয় মহিলা সমিতির কেরানীর চাকরির সন্ধান নিয়ে এলেন, এবার বাধ সাধলেন আমাদের ঠাকুমা।
ঠাকুমা শিক্ষিত ছিলেন। ওই সময়েই পাড়াশুনো করেছিলেন ক্লাশ এইট অবধি। আমাদের ঠাকুর্দাকে রীতিমত যৌতুক গুণে ঘরে আনতে হয়েছিল শিক্ষিত ঘরনীকে।ঠাকুমার হুঙ্কারে কবে কোথায় কী কাজ হয়েছে আমার জানা নেই, তবে এই একটীবার যে কাজ হয়েছে অনুমান করা যায়। দেখা যাচ্ছে, ঠাকুমা গায়ের গয়না এবং তোরঙ্গ খুলে কিছু টাকা পয়সা তুলে দিচ্ছেন বাবার হাতে। এবং মা’র পায়ে হাত ছুঁইয়ে আমাদের বাবা অদূরে পার্বতিপুর স্টেশনে গাড়ি বদল করে কলকাতায় রওনা হচ্ছেন, উকিল হবেন।
এই সময়ের কথা আমার খুব বেশি জানা নেই। আমি যখন জন্মেছি, ১৯৪৫, বাবা তখন ঘোর রাজনীতিক। মা ছিলেন দিনাজপুর জেলায় তেভাগা আন্দোলনের প্রথম সারির নেতৃ। তখন বোধয় মা রাজনীতি থেকে অবসর নিয়ে থাকবেন। কেননা, ততদিনে তেভাগার মুখে লেপটে গেছে সমঝোতার রঙ। সুতরাং বাবার কলকাতার সংগ্রামের ্কথা বলতে পারব না। তবে সংগ্রাম যে তাকে বিস্তর করতে হয়েছে বলা বাহুল্য। বাবার কলেজ জীবনের ৫০ বছর পরে একই কলকাতায় আমাকে একাকী যে সব পরিস্থিতি ঠেলেঠুলে নিজেকে টিঁকিয়ে রাখার লড়াই চালাতে হয়েছে, তাতেই অনুমান করা যায়, কুড়ির দশকে কেমন ছিল কলকাতার প্রসারিত হাতের উষ্ণতা।
বাবার কাছে শুনেছি, তিনি পড়াশুনো করেছেন কলেজ স্ট্রিট পাড়ার বিদ্যাসাগর কলেজে। কোনদিনই এই কলেজের খুব ন্নাম ডাক ছিল না, আজও নেই। বাবা থাকতেন ১০/১২ কিলমিটার দূরের ভবানীপুরে। মেস বাড়িতে। এই দীর্ঘপথ হেঁটেই কলেজে যাতায়াত করতেন। পয়সার অভাবে ঘন ঘন মেস পাল্টাতেন, কখনো সখনো বাকি টাকা পয়সা না মিটিয়েই, রাতের অন্ধকারে। রুটিন করে নিয়েছিলেন সপ্তাহের সব কটা দিন, কোন বন্ধুর পরিবারের সঙ্গে কবে কখন দুপুরের খাওয়া বা ব্রেকফাস্ট, ডিনার বা টিফিন।
দক্ষিণ কলকাতাতেই, আলিপুর এলাকায়, বর্ধমান রোডে ছিল আমাদের পূর্বপুরুষদের যজমান, কাগমারি-সন্তোষ মহারাজাদের বাড়ি। বাবা রাজকুমারকে পড়াবার বরাত পেয়েছিলেন। থাকা খাওয়া ফ্রি। কিন্তু বেশিদিন টিঁকতে পারেন নি এখানে। একদিন পড়াতে বসে কোন কারণে রেগে গিয়ে রাজকুমারের গালে কষে চড় হাঁকিয়েছিলেন, রাজার লোকেরা তাঁদের পূর্বপুরুষদের একাকালের শ্রদ্ধেয় রাজপুরোহিতের বংশধরকে বাইরে ছুঁড়ে ফেলতে সময় নেয়নি একটুও।
বরদাভূষণ দিনাজপুরে ফিরে এলেন ওকালতি পাশ করে। বালুবাড়ির বাড়িতে বসেই অভয়দাতৃ মা কালীর ছবির নিচে বসে শুরু করলেন প্র্যাকটিস।
কিন্তু এই মানুষটিই পরে খ্যাতি পেলেন সংস্কৃত ভাষার দুর্দ্ধর্ষ পন্ডিত (কাব্যতীর্থ ও রাষ্ট্রভাষা বিশারদ) হিসেবে কিন্তু বদলে গেলেন ঘোর নাস্তি্কে। নিজেকে প্রতিষ্ঠিত করলেন একজন নিবেদিত কম্যুনিস্ট হিসেবে। একসময় নির্বাচিত হলেন মওলানা ভাসানীর সারা পাকিস্তান আওয়ামি পার্টির ভাইস প্রেসিডেন্ট। একবার, ১৯৬৪-৬৫, সালে সরাসরি জড়িয়ে পড়লেন বিবাদে, দেশের প্রেসিডেন্ট ফিল্ড মার্শাল আইয়ুব খানের সঙ্গে। আইয়ুব এসেছিলেন দিনাজপুরে তাঁর দলের নির্বাচনী প্রচারে। আমলারা শহরের বিভিন্ন গাড়ি এজন্য সংগ্রহ করছিলেন। বাবা তাঁর বিরুদ্ধ দলের প্রেসিডেন্টের নির্বাচনী প্রচারে গাড়ি দিতে অস্বীকার করলেন। নানা শাসকানীতেও যখন কাজ হল না, আইয়ূবের সেনারা বাবাকে বাড়ি থেকে, খালি গা আর লুঙ্গি পরা অবস্থাতেই বন্দী করে নিয়ে গেল। সেবার সারা পাকিস্তান জুড়ে তাঁর মুক্তিতে আন্দোলন সংগঠিত হয়েছিল, আইয়ূব শেষটায় তাঁকে মুক্তি দিতে বাধ্য হয়েছিলেন। বাংলাদেশের স্বাধীনতা যুদ্ধের প্রস্তুতি পর্বের এক উল্লেখযোগ্য ঘটনা হয়ে আছে এই সংঘর্ষ।
সাহিত্য সংসদের চরিতাভিধান থেকে জানতে পারছি বাবা তার জীবনের ৩০ বছর কাটিয়েছেন জেলে। বৃটিশ জেল তো বটেই, পাকিস্তানের জেলেও কেটেছে অনেকগুলো বছর। মাকে হয়ত সেজন্যেই রাজনীতি ছেড়ে আট ছেলেমেয়েকে 'মানুষ' করার ব্রতে ব্রতী হতে হয়েছিল।
আমাদের সেই সব লড়াইয়ের দিনগুলোর কথা আর এক দিন।
টাঙ্গাইল শহরের কয়েক মাইল দূরে ধলেশ্বরী নদীতীরের চারাবাড়ি ঘাটের অদূরে বিন্যাফৈর গ্রামে মহারাজা তাঁর পূর্বপুরুষকে একখন্ড জমি দান করেছিলেন, সেই গ্রাম ও তার আশেপাশের এলাকায় হরগোপাল যজমানি করে দিনাতিপাত করতেন। পর পর পুত্র সন্তানের মৃত্যুতে তাঁরা এতই বেপরোয়া হয়ে উঠেছিলেন, সদ্যজাত সন্তানকে হরগোপাল নিজহাতে প্রতিষ্ঠিত বরদেশ্বরীর নামে উৎসর্গ করেছিলেন। নাম রেখেছিলেন বরদা। আমার ছোটবেলাতেও (১৯৫০) বিন্যাফৈরের গ্রামে বুনো শুয়োর ছুটতে দেখেছি, শেয়াল তো ছিলই। তারও পঞ্চাশ বছর আগে সেখানে এই সব অতিথিদের তান্ডব যে আরও বেশি ছিল অনুমান করাই যায়।
আমাদের ঠাকুমা, সেই সব জানোয়ারদের পরোয়া না করেই বরদেশ্বরীর পায়ের কাছে সদ্যজাত পুত্রসন্তানকে কলাপাতায় শুইয়ে রেখে পুকুর ঘাটে চলে যেতেন, আমাদের বাবাকে শেয়াল-শুয়োর তুলে নিয়ে যায় নি। দুই কন্যা সন্তানের জন্মের পর অষ্টম গর্ভে জাত বরদা ছিলেন ব্রাক্ষ্মণ-ব্রাক্ষ্মণীর গর্বের ধন, ‘ঠাকুরমশায়ের উপর ঈশ্বরের পরম করুণা’র নিদর্শন স্বরূপ।
বরদার ছোটবেলা কেটেছে দিনাজপুরে। রাজ-পরিবারের করুণা থেকে বঞ্চিত হয়ে হরগোপালকে বিন্যাফৈর ত্যাগ করতে হয় একসময়। ঠিক কী কারণে সেই স্থানান্তর জানা নেই, কিংবা কেনই বা, দুরন্ত মেঘনা-যমুনা পার করে উত্তরবঙ্গে আসা তাও জানা নেই। দেখা যাচ্ছে, শহরের পূর্বপ্রান্তের বালুবাড়ি পাড়ার জমিদার গুপ্তদের কাছারিতে হরগোপাল নায়েব পদে আসীন, বরদা পড়াশুনো করছেন দিনাজপুর জেলা স্কুলে।একসময় এন্ট্রান্স পাশ করলেন, এবং বাবা হাতে মুঠো করে ধরে নিয়ে গেলেন জমিদারের কাছারিতে। চাকরিতে জুটে যাক ছেলে, অভাবতাড়িত হরগোপালের সেটাই ইচ্ছা। জমিদারের মুখের উপর রুখে দাঁড়ালেন বরদা। চাকরি নয়, আরও পড়াশুনো করতে চান, বললেন, ‘উকিল হবো।‘ এক নায়েব সন্তানের এমন ঔদ্ধত্বে অপমানিত জমিদা্র, তিনি তখন দিনাজপুর কোর্টের একজন ডাকসাঁইটে মোক্তার, তাঁর ডান হাতের চেটো উলটে বাম হাতের তর্জনী ঠুকে ঠুকে হুঙ্কার দিলেন, ‘তুমি যেদিন উকিল হবে, সেদিন আমার হাতের তালুতে চুল গজাবে, এটা জেনে রাখো।‘
অভাবের সংসারে কিশোরের তেজ অশোভন, হরগোপাল ভাবলেন, অত্যাচারী জমিদারের প্রতি স্বভাব বিরোধিতা বরদাকে তাড়িত করে থাকবে। স্থানীয় মহিলা সমিতির কেরানীর চাকরির সন্ধান নিয়ে এলেন, এবার বাধ সাধলেন আমাদের ঠাকুমা।
ঠাকুমা শিক্ষিত ছিলেন। ওই সময়েই পাড়াশুনো করেছিলেন ক্লাশ এইট অবধি। আমাদের ঠাকুর্দাকে রীতিমত যৌতুক গুণে ঘরে আনতে হয়েছিল শিক্ষিত ঘরনীকে।ঠাকুমার হুঙ্কারে কবে কোথায় কী কাজ হয়েছে আমার জানা নেই, তবে এই একটীবার যে কাজ হয়েছে অনুমান করা যায়। দেখা যাচ্ছে, ঠাকুমা গায়ের গয়না এবং তোরঙ্গ খুলে কিছু টাকা পয়সা তুলে দিচ্ছেন বাবার হাতে। এবং মা’র পায়ে হাত ছুঁইয়ে আমাদের বাবা অদূরে পার্বতিপুর স্টেশনে গাড়ি বদল করে কলকাতায় রওনা হচ্ছেন, উকিল হবেন।
এই সময়ের কথা আমার খুব বেশি জানা নেই। আমি যখন জন্মেছি, ১৯৪৫, বাবা তখন ঘোর রাজনীতিক। মা ছিলেন দিনাজপুর জেলায় তেভাগা আন্দোলনের প্রথম সারির নেতৃ। তখন বোধয় মা রাজনীতি থেকে অবসর নিয়ে থাকবেন। কেননা, ততদিনে তেভাগার মুখে লেপটে গেছে সমঝোতার রঙ। সুতরাং বাবার কলকাতার সংগ্রামের ্কথা বলতে পারব না। তবে সংগ্রাম যে তাকে বিস্তর করতে হয়েছে বলা বাহুল্য। বাবার কলেজ জীবনের ৫০ বছর পরে একই কলকাতায় আমাকে একাকী যে সব পরিস্থিতি ঠেলেঠুলে নিজেকে টিঁকিয়ে রাখার লড়াই চালাতে হয়েছে, তাতেই অনুমান করা যায়, কুড়ির দশকে কেমন ছিল কলকাতার প্রসারিত হাতের উষ্ণতা।
বাবার কাছে শুনেছি, তিনি পড়াশুনো করেছেন কলেজ স্ট্রিট পাড়ার বিদ্যাসাগর কলেজে। কোনদিনই এই কলেজের খুব ন্নাম ডাক ছিল না, আজও নেই। বাবা থাকতেন ১০/১২ কিলমিটার দূরের ভবানীপুরে। মেস বাড়িতে। এই দীর্ঘপথ হেঁটেই কলেজে যাতায়াত করতেন। পয়সার অভাবে ঘন ঘন মেস পাল্টাতেন, কখনো সখনো বাকি টাকা পয়সা না মিটিয়েই, রাতের অন্ধকারে। রুটিন করে নিয়েছিলেন সপ্তাহের সব কটা দিন, কোন বন্ধুর পরিবারের সঙ্গে কবে কখন দুপুরের খাওয়া বা ব্রেকফাস্ট, ডিনার বা টিফিন।
দক্ষিণ কলকাতাতেই, আলিপুর এলাকায়, বর্ধমান রোডে ছিল আমাদের পূর্বপুরুষদের যজমান, কাগমারি-সন্তোষ মহারাজাদের বাড়ি। বাবা রাজকুমারকে পড়াবার বরাত পেয়েছিলেন। থাকা খাওয়া ফ্রি। কিন্তু বেশিদিন টিঁকতে পারেন নি এখানে। একদিন পড়াতে বসে কোন কারণে রেগে গিয়ে রাজকুমারের গালে কষে চড় হাঁকিয়েছিলেন, রাজার লোকেরা তাঁদের পূর্বপুরুষদের একাকালের শ্রদ্ধেয় রাজপুরোহিতের বংশধরকে বাইরে ছুঁড়ে ফেলতে সময় নেয়নি একটুও।
বরদাভূষণ দিনাজপুরে ফিরে এলেন ওকালতি পাশ করে। বালুবাড়ির বাড়িতে বসেই অভয়দাতৃ মা কালীর ছবির নিচে বসে শুরু করলেন প্র্যাকটিস।
কিন্তু এই মানুষটিই পরে খ্যাতি পেলেন সংস্কৃত ভাষার দুর্দ্ধর্ষ পন্ডিত (কাব্যতীর্থ ও রাষ্ট্রভাষা বিশারদ) হিসেবে কিন্তু বদলে গেলেন ঘোর নাস্তি্কে। নিজেকে প্রতিষ্ঠিত করলেন একজন নিবেদিত কম্যুনিস্ট হিসেবে। একসময় নির্বাচিত হলেন মওলানা ভাসানীর সারা পাকিস্তান আওয়ামি পার্টির ভাইস প্রেসিডেন্ট। একবার, ১৯৬৪-৬৫, সালে সরাসরি জড়িয়ে পড়লেন বিবাদে, দেশের প্রেসিডেন্ট ফিল্ড মার্শাল আইয়ুব খানের সঙ্গে। আইয়ুব এসেছিলেন দিনাজপুরে তাঁর দলের নির্বাচনী প্রচারে। আমলারা শহরের বিভিন্ন গাড়ি এজন্য সংগ্রহ করছিলেন। বাবা তাঁর বিরুদ্ধ দলের প্রেসিডেন্টের নির্বাচনী প্রচারে গাড়ি দিতে অস্বীকার করলেন। নানা শাসকানীতেও যখন কাজ হল না, আইয়ূবের সেনারা বাবাকে বাড়ি থেকে, খালি গা আর লুঙ্গি পরা অবস্থাতেই বন্দী করে নিয়ে গেল। সেবার সারা পাকিস্তান জুড়ে তাঁর মুক্তিতে আন্দোলন সংগঠিত হয়েছিল, আইয়ূব শেষটায় তাঁকে মুক্তি দিতে বাধ্য হয়েছিলেন। বাংলাদেশের স্বাধীনতা যুদ্ধের প্রস্তুতি পর্বের এক উল্লেখযোগ্য ঘটনা হয়ে আছে এই সংঘর্ষ।
সাহিত্য সংসদের চরিতাভিধান থেকে জানতে পারছি বাবা তার জীবনের ৩০ বছর কাটিয়েছেন জেলে। বৃটিশ জেল তো বটেই, পাকিস্তানের জেলেও কেটেছে অনেকগুলো বছর। মাকে হয়ত সেজন্যেই রাজনীতি ছেড়ে আট ছেলেমেয়েকে 'মানুষ' করার ব্রতে ব্রতী হতে হয়েছিল।
আমাদের সেই সব লড়াইয়ের দিনগুলোর কথা আর এক দিন।
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Golden Days of Anurodher Asar
When did I dare to bunk my classes in school? I cannot index now, but I am certain it had been in mid-fifties. I was then in middle school. Temptation for bunking, of course, was not for fun games or purposeless walking around town streets, not even to slip through the doors of cinema theaters. It was only to listen to Sunday afternoon radio program, ‘Anurodher Asar’, a popular ‘on-request-radio-program’ on contemporary modern Bengali songs.
Sundays were not holidays in East Pakistan (now Bangladesh). Those days, in schools, lunch breaks were for half an hour, between 1pm and 1.30pm and‘Anurodher Asar (AA)’ was from 2pm. Hence bunking classes turn out to be a standard weekly feat. And I could accomplish that with ease since, for all wrong reasons, our teachers, including the Head Master, trusted me a well behaved student, and, for right reasons, I belonged to a respectable political family of the town.
AA remained the most favorite program to me even when I was in college, by then the passion was waned though. Among many of the bests, Manabendra Mukhopadhyay was my most favorite singer, more so because those days I lived deep down in the seas of golden lyrics of the sixties. This decade taught many of my age-- what love is – be it for a beloved or for humanity. The two persons engulfed me those days were Gouriprasanna Majumdar, the Love-lyricist and Salil Choudhury, the socialist-lyricist of all time. Thank God, Manabendra did not prefer singing Nazrul Geeti those days.
Cut to about 10 years down. One day something glittered down my spine when I discovered a girl, affectionate and soft, was my classmate in college. I tried many tricks, attempted lots of bravery to charm her, but nothing worked. I could never tell her what I wanted to. I lingered a disturbed, a dull sort of and frustrated too. AA, my favorite program, ultimately helped me through. And it did so for ever. We married before we entered the University 42 years back.
I could never see Manabendra Mukhopadhyay in person, regardless my desperate attempts, till I reached my late 30s. When I was teen I would climb the rain pipes to the third floor terrace of a building to listen to Manabendra, who was supposed to be at a musical soiree down below. It ended at dead night, but Manabendra did not appear, the teen age fan enjoyed other biggies though.
I and my friend once took a local train to Dum Dum Cantonment to listen to Manabendra. There too we waited till the end, but he did not appear. Some seniors said, he was present, but not in a shape to perform. There we waited till about 2 O’clock and at the end, upset and angry, we had to walk back all the miles from the suburban Dum Dum Cantonment to Sealdah in central Kolkata. That was the longest stretch I would walk before my dreadful trekking through the war zones of Bangladesh later in 1971.
In early 1980s, on an occasion in Kolkata, we planned a program, related to books, where celebrities will meet the children to talk about fun of reading. I was not sure if Manabendra Mukhopadhyay was a great lover of books or children, even so I zeroed in Manabendra with a single agenda-- I would get a chance meeting for the first time a personality, who had greatly influenced my youth.
One day, Sankarlal Bhattacharya, biographer of sitar maestro Ravishankar, my earlier colleague in Anandabazar Patrika, accompanied me to my icon singer. We went to Manabendra’s North Road residence at Jadavpur in the southern fringe of the metropolis.
He was what he looked like in photographs, a strong built. He had a round head, firmly studded with curly black hair, puffed at the back of it. His hands were strong with stretches of steely muscles; his strong bone fingers, which were known for his infuriating speed over harmonium, looked more fitting over a tabla. His stretched mustache, parallel to his stretched thin lips kept him smiling all the while. It was hard to believe that this man inflicted perpetual love-bite in me. He was as warm as he had been with his classical voice, but did not sound as romantic as I found him during my greens.
He did not agree to join us. I cannot recollect why. May be, one of the most popular and a ‘must’ for any program, he was engaged elsewhere. He suggested Hemanta Mukhopadhya’s name instead. He offered us, ‘I’m going that way, and I will drop you at Hemantada’s place.’
Sankarlal was a popular music critic by then. Without him by my side it was simply not possible to approach the greatest of the day. So I took his suggestion with a great relief.
We three sat at the back seat, me in the middle. During talking I might have slashed into, or else how could I tell him, ‘Manabda, for you and you only I could marry my love, a classmate of mine’!
‘Eek!’ the restless maestro might have reacted to my words thus. He looked over his shoulder to look at me, smiled in disbelief and with mix of surprise and amuse, asked softly, ‘How was it?’
I cannot remember what exactly I told him. However, the fact was this. After cracking all the tricks under my belt and displaying all my acrobatics to prove my bravery, I failed to impress her. Nor I could pronounce my heart in any language. This series of failures secured me to modern Bengali songs which were the fountain source of romanticism of the youth folk of early sixties (1964 in exact).
One day, I found she was climbing up the central stairs of the college, when I was hurrying down. While crossing each other I whispered to her ears, ‘In ‘Anurodher Asar’ tomorrow Manabendra will be me, his words too’.
Before I could reach the last step down, she buzzed at me, ‘Look Look Look! Come up here.’ She was smiling a kill I targeted at, ‘Okay. Me be Pratima (Bandyopadhyay), her words too.’
And next day, a Sunday, stood at a far distance, pushing Monday further off. Pratima first appeared with her weepy yet melodious and articulate voice: Ekta gaan likho aamar janya/na hoy aami tomar kachhe/chilem oti naganya (write a song for me, could be I was too nothing to you).
Of course, I was not happy with this song of parting. I started feeling smothered on my turn. Flashes of Manabendra’s popular numbers ran through. ‘ Manabendra is never weepy’, I assured myself.
‘And you sang’, I told Manabda, ‘aami eto je tomay bhalobesechhi/tobu mone hoy, e jeno go kichhu noy/ keno aro bhalobese jete pare na hriday.’ (I have loved you so much, / why then I feel its nothing/why my heart cannot go on loving you for more).
Manabendra reacted, ‘Very interesting! I never knew our songs acted so far and wide!’ Sankarlal reiterated many other influences of the golden decades of theirs.
But he did not sound that glad when saying so. He told me with poise, ‘No, no. Not me. Who helped you in your pickle, was Shyamal Gupto.’
I was almost demolished at it.
I understood, down through teens to my early mid age, for years, I bet on a wrong horse, and truthfully. Sixties had been a great decade of truthfulness and transparency, else Manabendra, a celebrity of the time, would not have tilted the focus away from his self and place it on Shyamal Gupto, the most sensuous lyricist of the time. And I would have never realized the power of a lyric that gifted me my love.
Manabendra Mukhopadhyay, might have marked my sullied face. I was visibly blotted. He sliced my narrative and started (after three decades, I am trying to reconstruct his account) saying:
‘I was inside the studio then. All India Radio was broadcasting me live. But while I was on, through the corners of my eyes, I could see someone’s palm was silently but continuously banging the small transparent circular peeping-window and trying frantically to attract my attention. I was in the middle of the program, I had no ways to grip even if something was going wrong and someone was trying hard to warn me.
'As soon as I finished, Shyamal Gupto banged inside the studio, ‘Look, Look what I have written!’. It was this song, ‘Ami eto je…’ A great immortal lyric in Bengali, everyone would vouch for. Later I got, he first ran to my house, and failing, took a taxi to reach me faster, before I could start the program. He was almost breathless, ‘You need to tune it. And now. Please!’ He almost begged for. The world knew who, in reality, that ’tumi’ of Shyamal was. Out of respect to her, and for the great affection we had for each other, I grasped the harmonium, came out of the studio room, sat by the circular concrete bench in the walk way and composed the song, in one go.
'Shyamal was in trance, now turned almost mad and shrieked, ‘That’s it!’
________
Sundays were not holidays in East Pakistan (now Bangladesh). Those days, in schools, lunch breaks were for half an hour, between 1pm and 1.30pm and‘Anurodher Asar (AA)’ was from 2pm. Hence bunking classes turn out to be a standard weekly feat. And I could accomplish that with ease since, for all wrong reasons, our teachers, including the Head Master, trusted me a well behaved student, and, for right reasons, I belonged to a respectable political family of the town.
AA remained the most favorite program to me even when I was in college, by then the passion was waned though. Among many of the bests, Manabendra Mukhopadhyay was my most favorite singer, more so because those days I lived deep down in the seas of golden lyrics of the sixties. This decade taught many of my age-- what love is – be it for a beloved or for humanity. The two persons engulfed me those days were Gouriprasanna Majumdar, the Love-lyricist and Salil Choudhury, the socialist-lyricist of all time. Thank God, Manabendra did not prefer singing Nazrul Geeti those days.
Cut to about 10 years down. One day something glittered down my spine when I discovered a girl, affectionate and soft, was my classmate in college. I tried many tricks, attempted lots of bravery to charm her, but nothing worked. I could never tell her what I wanted to. I lingered a disturbed, a dull sort of and frustrated too. AA, my favorite program, ultimately helped me through. And it did so for ever. We married before we entered the University 42 years back.
I could never see Manabendra Mukhopadhyay in person, regardless my desperate attempts, till I reached my late 30s. When I was teen I would climb the rain pipes to the third floor terrace of a building to listen to Manabendra, who was supposed to be at a musical soiree down below. It ended at dead night, but Manabendra did not appear, the teen age fan enjoyed other biggies though.
I and my friend once took a local train to Dum Dum Cantonment to listen to Manabendra. There too we waited till the end, but he did not appear. Some seniors said, he was present, but not in a shape to perform. There we waited till about 2 O’clock and at the end, upset and angry, we had to walk back all the miles from the suburban Dum Dum Cantonment to Sealdah in central Kolkata. That was the longest stretch I would walk before my dreadful trekking through the war zones of Bangladesh later in 1971.
In early 1980s, on an occasion in Kolkata, we planned a program, related to books, where celebrities will meet the children to talk about fun of reading. I was not sure if Manabendra Mukhopadhyay was a great lover of books or children, even so I zeroed in Manabendra with a single agenda-- I would get a chance meeting for the first time a personality, who had greatly influenced my youth.
One day, Sankarlal Bhattacharya, biographer of sitar maestro Ravishankar, my earlier colleague in Anandabazar Patrika, accompanied me to my icon singer. We went to Manabendra’s North Road residence at Jadavpur in the southern fringe of the metropolis.
He was what he looked like in photographs, a strong built. He had a round head, firmly studded with curly black hair, puffed at the back of it. His hands were strong with stretches of steely muscles; his strong bone fingers, which were known for his infuriating speed over harmonium, looked more fitting over a tabla. His stretched mustache, parallel to his stretched thin lips kept him smiling all the while. It was hard to believe that this man inflicted perpetual love-bite in me. He was as warm as he had been with his classical voice, but did not sound as romantic as I found him during my greens.
He did not agree to join us. I cannot recollect why. May be, one of the most popular and a ‘must’ for any program, he was engaged elsewhere. He suggested Hemanta Mukhopadhya’s name instead. He offered us, ‘I’m going that way, and I will drop you at Hemantada’s place.’
Sankarlal was a popular music critic by then. Without him by my side it was simply not possible to approach the greatest of the day. So I took his suggestion with a great relief.
We three sat at the back seat, me in the middle. During talking I might have slashed into, or else how could I tell him, ‘Manabda, for you and you only I could marry my love, a classmate of mine’!
‘Eek!’ the restless maestro might have reacted to my words thus. He looked over his shoulder to look at me, smiled in disbelief and with mix of surprise and amuse, asked softly, ‘How was it?’
I cannot remember what exactly I told him. However, the fact was this. After cracking all the tricks under my belt and displaying all my acrobatics to prove my bravery, I failed to impress her. Nor I could pronounce my heart in any language. This series of failures secured me to modern Bengali songs which were the fountain source of romanticism of the youth folk of early sixties (1964 in exact).
One day, I found she was climbing up the central stairs of the college, when I was hurrying down. While crossing each other I whispered to her ears, ‘In ‘Anurodher Asar’ tomorrow Manabendra will be me, his words too’.
Before I could reach the last step down, she buzzed at me, ‘Look Look Look! Come up here.’ She was smiling a kill I targeted at, ‘Okay. Me be Pratima (Bandyopadhyay), her words too.’
And next day, a Sunday, stood at a far distance, pushing Monday further off. Pratima first appeared with her weepy yet melodious and articulate voice: Ekta gaan likho aamar janya/na hoy aami tomar kachhe/chilem oti naganya (write a song for me, could be I was too nothing to you).
Of course, I was not happy with this song of parting. I started feeling smothered on my turn. Flashes of Manabendra’s popular numbers ran through. ‘ Manabendra is never weepy’, I assured myself.
‘And you sang’, I told Manabda, ‘aami eto je tomay bhalobesechhi/tobu mone hoy, e jeno go kichhu noy/ keno aro bhalobese jete pare na hriday.’ (I have loved you so much, / why then I feel its nothing/why my heart cannot go on loving you for more).
Manabendra reacted, ‘Very interesting! I never knew our songs acted so far and wide!’ Sankarlal reiterated many other influences of the golden decades of theirs.
But he did not sound that glad when saying so. He told me with poise, ‘No, no. Not me. Who helped you in your pickle, was Shyamal Gupto.’
I was almost demolished at it.
I understood, down through teens to my early mid age, for years, I bet on a wrong horse, and truthfully. Sixties had been a great decade of truthfulness and transparency, else Manabendra, a celebrity of the time, would not have tilted the focus away from his self and place it on Shyamal Gupto, the most sensuous lyricist of the time. And I would have never realized the power of a lyric that gifted me my love.
Manabendra Mukhopadhyay, might have marked my sullied face. I was visibly blotted. He sliced my narrative and started (after three decades, I am trying to reconstruct his account) saying:
‘I was inside the studio then. All India Radio was broadcasting me live. But while I was on, through the corners of my eyes, I could see someone’s palm was silently but continuously banging the small transparent circular peeping-window and trying frantically to attract my attention. I was in the middle of the program, I had no ways to grip even if something was going wrong and someone was trying hard to warn me.
'As soon as I finished, Shyamal Gupto banged inside the studio, ‘Look, Look what I have written!’. It was this song, ‘Ami eto je…’ A great immortal lyric in Bengali, everyone would vouch for. Later I got, he first ran to my house, and failing, took a taxi to reach me faster, before I could start the program. He was almost breathless, ‘You need to tune it. And now. Please!’ He almost begged for. The world knew who, in reality, that ’tumi’ of Shyamal was. Out of respect to her, and for the great affection we had for each other, I grasped the harmonium, came out of the studio room, sat by the circular concrete bench in the walk way and composed the song, in one go.
'Shyamal was in trance, now turned almost mad and shrieked, ‘That’s it!’
________
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Santosh Kumar Ghosh, my Opponent
You need to lose in a competition, if your competitor is a ‘genius’. I experienced this in my life. I was forced to lose in all the games of chess I was made to play by a genius against his self. He was an architect of modern Bengali journalism, and also a renowned writer himself and a remarkable enthusiast of Bengali songs and modern Bengali writings. If you were sitting in the middle across his wide long table, you would no way miss the watchword under your nose: ‘You are before a Genius’ (exact words I fail to recollect)--- in a round shaped label, printed in color, pushed under the glass of his table top. He was Santosh Kumar Ghosh, ‘The Boss’ at Ananda Bazar Patrika, where I worked at the news desk after my stint as their War Correspondent. I was 27 then.
I have had never come across such a big-headed person, who treated himself a Godfather of Bengali journalism and literary writing, more so when he was drunk. He loved to get into it almost at every night fall, and would occasionally walk around the office, balancing himself supporting anything his short arms could reach at. He would not leave the office till he was satisfied that the Paper was ready for print without any visible mistake. True, he was almost faultless in it at any point of time.
In his attire he was a perfect Bengali baboo beneath the well-known arrogance of the community. His was short height, looked, mistakenly though, a strong built, with a round skull thickly studded with strong curly salt and pepper hair. He wore milky white dhoti with elegantly dangling frills covering the toes of his shining black pram shoes. His thin lined mustache helped his thin lips to smile all day long. He was an endless smoker of cigarette.
Once I was the night editor, and was holding the fort. In our time Ananda Bazar Patrika was printed in letter press process, when if even a comma was to change, we had to go through fresh composing till final plate making. The night editor was to ensure the final print of the city edition. Not so unexpected, I saw Santoshda (in Bengal’s newspaper and literary world suffixing ‘-da’ to a name was most intimate and respectful address) was inching towards my desk while swaying in all directions. He reached my table, balanced himself with his hands on it and waved his neck towards the printed dummy of page one, already spread, and looked at me; his forefinger was already studded on a photo. ‘What’s this?’ he almost roared. I was dumbfounded. What could happen? I quickly ran my eyes through its caption. It was okay. No mistake was there. The caption story was on abundance of Mango cultivation. He blinked at my baffled face and roared again, ‘Where’s the news?’ I trembled, ‘In page four.’ He calmed down at it and softened his look, ‘How would your reader know that? Write here’, he tapped the end of the caption, ‘News at page four, or, at least, News inside’.
That was he. You can’t help saluting this Academy awarded writer for his addiction to Bengali journalism. Before he joined Ananda Bazar Patrika, Bengali journalism was stereotype. Reporting then was judged by the length of its narratives. Santosh Kumar Ghosh discarded the practice and revolutionized the news writing. He introduced human touches, social comments and made the news reader’s friendly. He preferred to ‘take’ the reader to the spot of the news, instead of ‘informing’ him of the news. Thus from his time Ananda Bazar Patrika turned to be a reader’s personal newspaper. He changed its language too. It shook off its archaic construction of sentences (now retained only in its editorials for a feel of its age and tradition) and brought in spoken language instead. Indeed doing so he risked frivolity in print media, and had to select more writers than hard core reporters/journalists. Thus, at one point of time, Ananda Bazar Patrika received notoriety more for producing writers than news. Santoshda’s famous banner heading on Jawaharlal Nehru’s death: ‘Nehru Aar Nai (Nehru is no more)’ was zenith of a new language in Bengali journalism.
He implanted more an awe in me than a pride in being near to him. And for that I could never go the other way if the call was from his closed wooden enclosure. At any point of time, during my duty hours, the personal peon of his would come and tap the junior’s shoulder with a wink. And in flash of a moment I would be spreading the chess board silently with a lifeless stretched smile.
Before the genius it was a charmless game,easier though. If I would play with all seriousness and concentration and manage to ‘kill’ any of the white pieces, he always played with white to lead every game, he would immediately snatch it from between my loosely held fingers, and put it back to its place saying like, ‘I knew that well. I was only watching if you could play that good.’ But when on killing one of mine I would move my hands for a return gift, he would affectionately be philosophical, ‘This is a gentleman’s game, Arun. Touch-and-move is the rule.’ Even so I enjoyed playing with him for I considered it a great honor to play against a great name and influence of those days.
I knew Amitabha Chowdhury, News Editor, my chief in the desk, another legend in Bengali journalism, kept me under his close watch. But even so I was a bit on, since I was preferred by the second man in the hierarchy of the organization.
One day Amitda, exasperated with my riches to play and packing for home, warned me,‘Joint Editor calls you to play, fine. But mind it; your day’s work will continue to pile up till they are attended to the end.’
I do not remember if I was happy hearing that. But getting a shelter under another legend might have lured me to prank with Santoshda. Or else how could I so cleverly be desperate?
On a next call, I was calm in spreading the 64 square chess board. Santoshda, as usual, was sitting by the center table and watching me closely. I was sure that I will finish the game as early as possible to minimize my time for going home late. As soon as he pushed his knight upward center, I pushed my pawn to the fourth square of the right arm. He moved the other knight, I pushed a second, offering for his knight to gobble up. He grabbed it with a winning smile. Now I opened the left arm the same way, he moved to the right and by the next move he killed my pawn. And I was open to be check-mated after hardly three or four moves. The mistake I made was I didn’t feel sorry for the losses, which, could easily be exhibited by uttering “Isssh!’ or ‘pstch!’ or ‘Oh ho!’ and the likes.
And that was it. In no time he exploded in a fit of rage, ‘Is this the way one plays chess?!’, and splashed the chess board up, to hit the ceiling, when the pieces started raining all over the room. Before I could close my eyes and hang my head in fear he started abusing me in whatever words he could fit in at that moment : ‘You-- a rat, a cockroach, an worm from the gutter….. and many such toothless abuses I am unable to retrieve now. At this sudden turn of the game I was indeed shaky, and engaged myself, quietly, collecting and counting the pieces those rolled, tumbled, jumped to hide under the sofas, tables, chairs etc. Santoshda kept on roaring and I silently walked towards the door. His abusing stopped immediately. He sounded soft, affectionate and philosophical, ‘Come. Sit here. It’s a great game, Arun. You need to play it with your brain. Come on, I will show you, how to play it intelligently’. I had no way but to return.
Honestly, I cannot remember, how this opponent-ship ended. But I know well, it happened soon after.
I have had never come across such a big-headed person, who treated himself a Godfather of Bengali journalism and literary writing, more so when he was drunk. He loved to get into it almost at every night fall, and would occasionally walk around the office, balancing himself supporting anything his short arms could reach at. He would not leave the office till he was satisfied that the Paper was ready for print without any visible mistake. True, he was almost faultless in it at any point of time.
In his attire he was a perfect Bengali baboo beneath the well-known arrogance of the community. His was short height, looked, mistakenly though, a strong built, with a round skull thickly studded with strong curly salt and pepper hair. He wore milky white dhoti with elegantly dangling frills covering the toes of his shining black pram shoes. His thin lined mustache helped his thin lips to smile all day long. He was an endless smoker of cigarette.
Once I was the night editor, and was holding the fort. In our time Ananda Bazar Patrika was printed in letter press process, when if even a comma was to change, we had to go through fresh composing till final plate making. The night editor was to ensure the final print of the city edition. Not so unexpected, I saw Santoshda (in Bengal’s newspaper and literary world suffixing ‘-da’ to a name was most intimate and respectful address) was inching towards my desk while swaying in all directions. He reached my table, balanced himself with his hands on it and waved his neck towards the printed dummy of page one, already spread, and looked at me; his forefinger was already studded on a photo. ‘What’s this?’ he almost roared. I was dumbfounded. What could happen? I quickly ran my eyes through its caption. It was okay. No mistake was there. The caption story was on abundance of Mango cultivation. He blinked at my baffled face and roared again, ‘Where’s the news?’ I trembled, ‘In page four.’ He calmed down at it and softened his look, ‘How would your reader know that? Write here’, he tapped the end of the caption, ‘News at page four, or, at least, News inside’.
That was he. You can’t help saluting this Academy awarded writer for his addiction to Bengali journalism. Before he joined Ananda Bazar Patrika, Bengali journalism was stereotype. Reporting then was judged by the length of its narratives. Santosh Kumar Ghosh discarded the practice and revolutionized the news writing. He introduced human touches, social comments and made the news reader’s friendly. He preferred to ‘take’ the reader to the spot of the news, instead of ‘informing’ him of the news. Thus from his time Ananda Bazar Patrika turned to be a reader’s personal newspaper. He changed its language too. It shook off its archaic construction of sentences (now retained only in its editorials for a feel of its age and tradition) and brought in spoken language instead. Indeed doing so he risked frivolity in print media, and had to select more writers than hard core reporters/journalists. Thus, at one point of time, Ananda Bazar Patrika received notoriety more for producing writers than news. Santoshda’s famous banner heading on Jawaharlal Nehru’s death: ‘Nehru Aar Nai (Nehru is no more)’ was zenith of a new language in Bengali journalism.
He implanted more an awe in me than a pride in being near to him. And for that I could never go the other way if the call was from his closed wooden enclosure. At any point of time, during my duty hours, the personal peon of his would come and tap the junior’s shoulder with a wink. And in flash of a moment I would be spreading the chess board silently with a lifeless stretched smile.
Before the genius it was a charmless game,easier though. If I would play with all seriousness and concentration and manage to ‘kill’ any of the white pieces, he always played with white to lead every game, he would immediately snatch it from between my loosely held fingers, and put it back to its place saying like, ‘I knew that well. I was only watching if you could play that good.’ But when on killing one of mine I would move my hands for a return gift, he would affectionately be philosophical, ‘This is a gentleman’s game, Arun. Touch-and-move is the rule.’ Even so I enjoyed playing with him for I considered it a great honor to play against a great name and influence of those days.
I knew Amitabha Chowdhury, News Editor, my chief in the desk, another legend in Bengali journalism, kept me under his close watch. But even so I was a bit on, since I was preferred by the second man in the hierarchy of the organization.
One day Amitda, exasperated with my riches to play and packing for home, warned me,‘Joint Editor calls you to play, fine. But mind it; your day’s work will continue to pile up till they are attended to the end.’
I do not remember if I was happy hearing that. But getting a shelter under another legend might have lured me to prank with Santoshda. Or else how could I so cleverly be desperate?
On a next call, I was calm in spreading the 64 square chess board. Santoshda, as usual, was sitting by the center table and watching me closely. I was sure that I will finish the game as early as possible to minimize my time for going home late. As soon as he pushed his knight upward center, I pushed my pawn to the fourth square of the right arm. He moved the other knight, I pushed a second, offering for his knight to gobble up. He grabbed it with a winning smile. Now I opened the left arm the same way, he moved to the right and by the next move he killed my pawn. And I was open to be check-mated after hardly three or four moves. The mistake I made was I didn’t feel sorry for the losses, which, could easily be exhibited by uttering “Isssh!’ or ‘pstch!’ or ‘Oh ho!’ and the likes.
And that was it. In no time he exploded in a fit of rage, ‘Is this the way one plays chess?!’, and splashed the chess board up, to hit the ceiling, when the pieces started raining all over the room. Before I could close my eyes and hang my head in fear he started abusing me in whatever words he could fit in at that moment : ‘You-- a rat, a cockroach, an worm from the gutter….. and many such toothless abuses I am unable to retrieve now. At this sudden turn of the game I was indeed shaky, and engaged myself, quietly, collecting and counting the pieces those rolled, tumbled, jumped to hide under the sofas, tables, chairs etc. Santoshda kept on roaring and I silently walked towards the door. His abusing stopped immediately. He sounded soft, affectionate and philosophical, ‘Come. Sit here. It’s a great game, Arun. You need to play it with your brain. Come on, I will show you, how to play it intelligently’. I had no way but to return.
Honestly, I cannot remember, how this opponent-ship ended. But I know well, it happened soon after.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
An Evening with Subhas Mukhopadhyay
One evening, in the early 1990s, the great Indian poet from Bengal, Subhas Mukhopadhya landed at Delhi airport from Kolkata. I was there to receive him. A man with his flowing bushy silvery hair, a relatively larger face, cleanly shaved and slightly stooping, that was Subhasda, as fondly called by everyone even little closer to him. He came out with a young girl, a co-passenger in the flight. A bright strong middle height young girl from the North East, I could guess.
‘She is alone and does not know her way to the hotel. We would first drop her’, he said not even trying to guess my inconvenience. He invited the girl in his husky feminine voice and started for the car parking. I was a bit surprised. Whenever I met him, wherever, I never found him a front-runner. He always behaved like a child, who stretches his fingers to hold someone’s to follow. Here he behaved a commander. However, I discovered, her to be dropped in the north when we were for south. And it was already passed ten at night. His worries for the girl’s safety were no wonder to me.
I knew him a man of deep affection. His look, as I found, strangely though for a poet, always remained unoccupied. Strange for it was him where the Bengali poetry took a new turn; strange for it is him where social realities in Bengali poems begins. How the eyes of such a poet could always remain unoccupied? His living, where nothing looked strange, may give us a clue. A large part of his house, despite his under-the-carpet financial constraint, was occupied by destitute relatives and stray animals. He had three adopted daughters as well.
That night I found Subhasda extremely suspicious about Delhi’s road safety as it is an impulsive interpretation of the Kolkatans till today. Was it out of worries or his anti-establishment trait? Once he was a hard core communist, but when I met him first in early eighties he was calm. I am not sure if that were a shift of his ideology. His poems, however, never conform this with certainty.
Subhas Mukhopadhyay had been awarded with the most coveted Jnanpith Award, the highest honor a creative person in Indian literature can wish for. I am not sure if he had received the honour by then. He had come to Delhi to attend a poetry reading session next day. I was among the organizers. It had been always a pleasure and affluence to be with him in exclusive.
Subhasda kept on telling the girl about the unsafe character of India’s capital, ignoring the fact that he was slipping needless fear into the head of a new comer from a faraway, almost disconnected, land. Needless talk may be but was it for he had no other topic ready at hand to justify that needless journey? I tried to dilute the unfounded perception, but failed, may be for Subhasda’s short hearing.
When we reached our destination, ‘Hotel Sartaj’, a 3-star hotel in the south, it was almost midnight. We checked in a decent room, which was booked early. Subhasda, with a deep ‘shooooss!’ sank himself in the bed, and before going for a wash, asked me, ‘What about a drink now, Arun?’ I knew any hard drink outside home was very costly in Delhi, where Bars were out of reach of middle class people, Subhasda loved relatively cheap Indian Rum though. Hotel Bar was closed by then. I opened the room’s little fridge and looked at the price pasted on its inside door, and hesitated for my pocket. At this he lifted himself, squeezed his pupils on the door and got a shock. He quickly turned to me as if in great distress, ‘Oh my! Arun, what to do now? I can’t sleep without a drink!’ His last words sounded almost begging. I well knew he is one of the leading poets in India, but financially one of the poor citizens too. He never took up a job; he lived only on publishing his writings. I knew why I cannot ask him to pay and drink, and I knew too why I cannot pay for him then. I felt ashamed of me.
Once I was in-charge of Kolkata’s first Children’s Book Fair’s publicity and some of its programs involving authors and children. Subhasda was one of the invited writers. Tarapada Roy, a ranking writer and poet, on their day, called me aside and said, ‘I have a request, Arun. The honorarium you are paying may be O.K. for others, but certainly not for Subhasda. Please buy him, at least a pint (half a bottle) of Rum. He loves to drink Rum.’ That evening I bought one for him on way to his home. In streak of a moment this incident flashed in me. Embarrassment took me to the bottom. Once I didn’t buy him a full bottle, despite pocket-full of money, and now I can’t buy him even a peg!
In despair, at that late night, I rang up my friend, Sasanka Sekhar Mukhopadhyay, senior to me by 36 years. Sasanka Sekhar was my friend, philosopher and guide. I was his joint editor of the Bengali literary magazine, PRANGSHU, he started well after his retirement. He was known amongst us as ‘the last British Bengali’ for his suave, graceful, and a refined gentleness. I did not hesitate to wake him up at that odd time. I knew, his was the right place at the moment since every evening he would have a shot of his magic potion, a peg of Rum. Sasanka Sekhar took no time to welcome us.
Did Subhasda notice me speaking? However, he didn’t ask me anything, nor I expected him to. I hanged the phone and said, ‘I have a place. Let’s go. It’s hardly half an hour drive.” Subhasda simply followed me out of the room.
When we reached Sasanka Sekhar’s house in Chittaranjan Park, it was well past midnight. We found his baithakkhan’ (the office-cum-drawing room) brightly lighted, as if the evening was yet to bump. He and Durga Devi, his children’s writer wife, welcomed us with all warmth.
After a short exchange of pleasantry, we sat around a low height center table, and to my wonder, in no time I found them old friends meeting after a long time! When it was discovered that Durga Devi and Subhas Mukhopadhyay were born in the same year, 1919, and Sasanka Sekhar was 10 years older than them, they travelled more closer and shook off addressing each other as ‘Apni’ (Respected You) and switched over to ‘Tumi’ (You, a friend). I was stunned at his amiability in such an outlying relationship. I had found none so relaxed at Sasanka Sekhar’s place earlier, not even Shakti Chattopadhyay, the most lovable easy-going legend. Subhas Mulhopadhyay is not a romantic poet, I knew, but what I didn’t know, he was such an intense family man elsewhere too. He left no prank to treat Sasanka Sekhar as a friend-in-law, and delighted Durga Devi as from his childhood town, Krishnanagar, where he was born. I knew they were born in two faraway places!
Durga Devi offered us dinner with meat curry and fried rice before we rose to depart. We could not know when and how she cooked such fresh delicate delicious dishes even when attending her ‘guest-friend’. That might have been the secret of the girls from other side of Padma-Meghna rivers.
All the way back to the Hotel, strange to me, Subhasda, uttered nothing about the visit or the drink we had there. It remains a catch to me till date. On our way back we talked something else concerning next day’s (the day’s) program.
‘She is alone and does not know her way to the hotel. We would first drop her’, he said not even trying to guess my inconvenience. He invited the girl in his husky feminine voice and started for the car parking. I was a bit surprised. Whenever I met him, wherever, I never found him a front-runner. He always behaved like a child, who stretches his fingers to hold someone’s to follow. Here he behaved a commander. However, I discovered, her to be dropped in the north when we were for south. And it was already passed ten at night. His worries for the girl’s safety were no wonder to me.
I knew him a man of deep affection. His look, as I found, strangely though for a poet, always remained unoccupied. Strange for it was him where the Bengali poetry took a new turn; strange for it is him where social realities in Bengali poems begins. How the eyes of such a poet could always remain unoccupied? His living, where nothing looked strange, may give us a clue. A large part of his house, despite his under-the-carpet financial constraint, was occupied by destitute relatives and stray animals. He had three adopted daughters as well.
That night I found Subhasda extremely suspicious about Delhi’s road safety as it is an impulsive interpretation of the Kolkatans till today. Was it out of worries or his anti-establishment trait? Once he was a hard core communist, but when I met him first in early eighties he was calm. I am not sure if that were a shift of his ideology. His poems, however, never conform this with certainty.
Subhas Mukhopadhyay had been awarded with the most coveted Jnanpith Award, the highest honor a creative person in Indian literature can wish for. I am not sure if he had received the honour by then. He had come to Delhi to attend a poetry reading session next day. I was among the organizers. It had been always a pleasure and affluence to be with him in exclusive.
Subhasda kept on telling the girl about the unsafe character of India’s capital, ignoring the fact that he was slipping needless fear into the head of a new comer from a faraway, almost disconnected, land. Needless talk may be but was it for he had no other topic ready at hand to justify that needless journey? I tried to dilute the unfounded perception, but failed, may be for Subhasda’s short hearing.
When we reached our destination, ‘Hotel Sartaj’, a 3-star hotel in the south, it was almost midnight. We checked in a decent room, which was booked early. Subhasda, with a deep ‘shooooss!’ sank himself in the bed, and before going for a wash, asked me, ‘What about a drink now, Arun?’ I knew any hard drink outside home was very costly in Delhi, where Bars were out of reach of middle class people, Subhasda loved relatively cheap Indian Rum though. Hotel Bar was closed by then. I opened the room’s little fridge and looked at the price pasted on its inside door, and hesitated for my pocket. At this he lifted himself, squeezed his pupils on the door and got a shock. He quickly turned to me as if in great distress, ‘Oh my! Arun, what to do now? I can’t sleep without a drink!’ His last words sounded almost begging. I well knew he is one of the leading poets in India, but financially one of the poor citizens too. He never took up a job; he lived only on publishing his writings. I knew why I cannot ask him to pay and drink, and I knew too why I cannot pay for him then. I felt ashamed of me.
Once I was in-charge of Kolkata’s first Children’s Book Fair’s publicity and some of its programs involving authors and children. Subhasda was one of the invited writers. Tarapada Roy, a ranking writer and poet, on their day, called me aside and said, ‘I have a request, Arun. The honorarium you are paying may be O.K. for others, but certainly not for Subhasda. Please buy him, at least a pint (half a bottle) of Rum. He loves to drink Rum.’ That evening I bought one for him on way to his home. In streak of a moment this incident flashed in me. Embarrassment took me to the bottom. Once I didn’t buy him a full bottle, despite pocket-full of money, and now I can’t buy him even a peg!
In despair, at that late night, I rang up my friend, Sasanka Sekhar Mukhopadhyay, senior to me by 36 years. Sasanka Sekhar was my friend, philosopher and guide. I was his joint editor of the Bengali literary magazine, PRANGSHU, he started well after his retirement. He was known amongst us as ‘the last British Bengali’ for his suave, graceful, and a refined gentleness. I did not hesitate to wake him up at that odd time. I knew, his was the right place at the moment since every evening he would have a shot of his magic potion, a peg of Rum. Sasanka Sekhar took no time to welcome us.
Did Subhasda notice me speaking? However, he didn’t ask me anything, nor I expected him to. I hanged the phone and said, ‘I have a place. Let’s go. It’s hardly half an hour drive.” Subhasda simply followed me out of the room.
When we reached Sasanka Sekhar’s house in Chittaranjan Park, it was well past midnight. We found his baithakkhan’ (the office-cum-drawing room) brightly lighted, as if the evening was yet to bump. He and Durga Devi, his children’s writer wife, welcomed us with all warmth.
After a short exchange of pleasantry, we sat around a low height center table, and to my wonder, in no time I found them old friends meeting after a long time! When it was discovered that Durga Devi and Subhas Mukhopadhyay were born in the same year, 1919, and Sasanka Sekhar was 10 years older than them, they travelled more closer and shook off addressing each other as ‘Apni’ (Respected You) and switched over to ‘Tumi’ (You, a friend). I was stunned at his amiability in such an outlying relationship. I had found none so relaxed at Sasanka Sekhar’s place earlier, not even Shakti Chattopadhyay, the most lovable easy-going legend. Subhas Mulhopadhyay is not a romantic poet, I knew, but what I didn’t know, he was such an intense family man elsewhere too. He left no prank to treat Sasanka Sekhar as a friend-in-law, and delighted Durga Devi as from his childhood town, Krishnanagar, where he was born. I knew they were born in two faraway places!
Durga Devi offered us dinner with meat curry and fried rice before we rose to depart. We could not know when and how she cooked such fresh delicate delicious dishes even when attending her ‘guest-friend’. That might have been the secret of the girls from other side of Padma-Meghna rivers.
All the way back to the Hotel, strange to me, Subhasda, uttered nothing about the visit or the drink we had there. It remains a catch to me till date. On our way back we talked something else concerning next day’s (the day’s) program.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
History and Bangladesh
History and Bangladesh
A few days back, one of my Facebook friends sent me a mail. An article by him in Bangla, published in a newspaper, was attached to it. The article was on ‘bangabandhu’ Mujibur Rahman’s contribution in liberating Bangladesh and also his undaunted leadership in rousing aspirations of the people of East Pakistan and ultimately leading them to the Liberation war.
My friend sent me the article to know more about the liberation war since ‘not much materials are available these days’, he said in one of his Facebook posts. He approached me since I was a war correspondent for Kolkata’s ‘Anandabazar Patrika’ to cover the liberation cry. I reached East Pakistan four days before the Pakistanis started calculated massacre of the people.
I was surprised reading the article and wondered, how a newspaper, if it is not a mouthpiece of a party or of a person, could print an article blacklisting many major positive happenings, when much water has flown down the Buriganga foduring the last 40 years. If going by the twisting and retwisting of history in the hands of the rulers of Bangladesh starting from Mujibur down through Zia, Ershad, Hasina , Khaleda and even the so called care takers, this article may not surprise any.
I wonder, because the young writer, in his mail, looked serious and genuine, and I know many books, journals and research papers genuinely recorded abundantly the facts leading to this War, but how come this amateur historian does not find them? Have these been destroyed during the process, I brand as twisting and retwisting?
This Youngman has written the article entirely based on hearsay, and managed to get them published for larger circulation. But I wonder, to cite a few, how people of today would know that there was a Moulana Bhasani, who blended Marxism and Islam for the benefit of millions of religious Bengalis, who were known as East Pakistanis? Who would narrate the power of leaderless student community who hastened the fall of Ayub Khan’s shrewd rule? Who would give credit to Ayub Khan for hastening the Independence of Bangladesh? It was he who boosted the young emerging political force by establishing educational institutions to every district and down further to sub-divisions and thanas, even to villages. It was he who benefitted country’s youth force by helping them connecting each other through an efficient newly constructed road network, when telephones were for limited affluent and radio was under government control.
It’s really painful that Bangladesh is struggling to read its own history that has been distorted and destroyed by her own people.
Friday, May 7, 2010
The Indian Genius
This morning I was surprised seeing a photograph of Nitin Nohria, the first Indian to put in the chair to head the Harvard Business School. It was published in Times of India's Kolkata edition. I was sure I had a photograph which was taken last year in 2009 of a child who amazingly looked to be one of one year old Nitin's pixs. I was delighted and felt a streak of pride since the child is my grandson!!!
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
How to Reach a Surgeon in Kolkata
I had a failed cataract surgery in Delhi. Recently I came to Kolkata on an official visit. Some of my friends suggested visiting some well-known eye hospitals in the metropolis and understanding the extent of the failure. I was sweetly surprised that they were not taking names of any individual ophthalmologist or surgeons, but of the hospitals and institutions. In Delhi we always go by individual’s success rate not by that of the institutions they are attached to. Even the qualitative fame of the hospitals is measured by the attached list of these famed individuals. Hence I was delighted to visit a few and settled on three such institutions. I was happy when I found each of them diagnosed my setback as the same i.e. I need vitrectomy, cortex removal and repositioning of earlier implanted lens.
My dilemma started when I agreed to go for this major surgery. Where to go now for this risk? I did not know the competence of the surgeons, nor my friends or their friend’s friends knew any. How to go by an institution? Should I look for its architectural convenience or by its system in flowing the patient from one desk to other or by the size and complicated mechanism of the instruments used? Should I go by the look of the surgeons or that of the working people? I did not know what makes an institution more famed than competence of the protagonists running the show! Should I go through the history sheets of its founder or by the amount of wealth he put in running this business? There is no denying that in our country Health Care is a profit making business. And all these thoughts knotted my dilemma beyond my control.
However, I took a breath and went out to boldly to identify one. I should compare every aspects of Health Care to identify their qualitative situate, I resolved.
I could mark one out of the three I went earlier to. It was Sanakara Nethralaya, in the eastern suburb of the metropolis of Kolkata, at Mukundapur. I visitede the instituition for about a month on different days (during Feb-March, 2010) and what impressed me most was I interacted with only one individual at all the stages from Registration till finally deciding on the complicated surgery. I interacted with dozens of secretaries, assistants, technicians, office assistants, HRD officials, nurses and not less than nine doctors at different stages but, amazingly, I had a feeling that I talked to and guided, assisted, cared, examined by only one individual. The modulation in their voice, their decibel level, their personality all were in a straight level of vibrations. So many hospital personnel were running, sitting, assisting, examining but for me it was one person only. Except for the doctors, whose behavioral pattern was amazingly well orchestrated and tuned into one, all other persons seemed know everyone’s function at any point of time. An outsider like me needed only to differentiate a patient from the hospital personnel. Presence of no third person could be felt around. What acumen in offering Health Care!
I had my surgery with great faith. My recovery will be slow, I am told by the surgeon, and I trust him. I have no reason to disbelieve a person made of so many eyes, hearts and hands!
Note: My daughter,living in the US, all along protested my experimentation in searching a right place, instead of a right doctor,later told me that the person who had hands on my right eye was one of the bests in India, as per her search with various professionals.
My dilemma started when I agreed to go for this major surgery. Where to go now for this risk? I did not know the competence of the surgeons, nor my friends or their friend’s friends knew any. How to go by an institution? Should I look for its architectural convenience or by its system in flowing the patient from one desk to other or by the size and complicated mechanism of the instruments used? Should I go by the look of the surgeons or that of the working people? I did not know what makes an institution more famed than competence of the protagonists running the show! Should I go through the history sheets of its founder or by the amount of wealth he put in running this business? There is no denying that in our country Health Care is a profit making business. And all these thoughts knotted my dilemma beyond my control.
However, I took a breath and went out to boldly to identify one. I should compare every aspects of Health Care to identify their qualitative situate, I resolved.
I could mark one out of the three I went earlier to. It was Sanakara Nethralaya, in the eastern suburb of the metropolis of Kolkata, at Mukundapur. I visitede the instituition for about a month on different days (during Feb-March, 2010) and what impressed me most was I interacted with only one individual at all the stages from Registration till finally deciding on the complicated surgery. I interacted with dozens of secretaries, assistants, technicians, office assistants, HRD officials, nurses and not less than nine doctors at different stages but, amazingly, I had a feeling that I talked to and guided, assisted, cared, examined by only one individual. The modulation in their voice, their decibel level, their personality all were in a straight level of vibrations. So many hospital personnel were running, sitting, assisting, examining but for me it was one person only. Except for the doctors, whose behavioral pattern was amazingly well orchestrated and tuned into one, all other persons seemed know everyone’s function at any point of time. An outsider like me needed only to differentiate a patient from the hospital personnel. Presence of no third person could be felt around. What acumen in offering Health Care!
I had my surgery with great faith. My recovery will be slow, I am told by the surgeon, and I trust him. I have no reason to disbelieve a person made of so many eyes, hearts and hands!
Note: My daughter,living in the US, all along protested my experimentation in searching a right place, instead of a right doctor,later told me that the person who had hands on my right eye was one of the bests in India, as per her search with various professionals.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
That Man in Darjeeling Mail!
I was traveling by the most popular North Bengal link train from Kolkata, Darjeeling Mail. This train got its name many years before the independence of the country. Possibly it was named immediately after Darjeeling was annexed to British India getting a chunk from Sikkim, and when the need to connect the picturesque hill retreat was felt by the rulers in the British India’s capital, Calcutta.
I have had traveled by this train in all its changing routes since 1960s. After the partition of the country its run was laid along a long circle. Its straight run from Calcutta to the north through Santahar and Parvatipur (now in Bangladesh) chugging over the Pakshi Bridge on Padma River was stopped for divide of the land. Then one half of the new alternate east bound route from Calcutta was marked up to Sahebganj in Bihar where the River Ganga (upstream of Padma) was to cross by Ferry Boats. The other half of the route was from the northern bank, Sakrigalighat, and it ran through north eastern part of the divided Bengal to reach Siliguri. This is the station where the narrow gauge Toy train awaits you to take you up to the picturesque hills of Darjeeling.
The journey this time began 10 in the night to reach the destination after 10 hours in the morning. I had begun the same journey by 43 Up/44 Down (now 2343/2344) earlier in different times. In the sixties journey used to begin at around 7 in the morning to reach Siliguri next morning. In the mid seventies it was around noon. Later it switched over from evening to night.
In the sixties there was no reservation system for the lowest class, favorite to the Bengali office going babus. Reservation came into effect in late sixties. Even so journey to North Bengal was a great adventure, full of surprises. I was recollecting some of the earlier happenings wrapping myself in the cozy comfort of the First Class AC class of the same train where, during our college days, elbowing for a square feet space to sit for the entire night was a great struggle.
The word Darjeeeling Mail immediately reminds me of a strong person, both of his hands amputed from elbows, holding a weighty jhola around his neck, full of glass bottles of cold drinks, an opener daggling from his neck in a string. He would constantly keep hawking ‘Thanda Khaiben Babu, Thanda! (Would you like to enjoy cold drinks, gentlemen! It’s cold!)’. You ask for one, and immediately he would pick up one bottle with his elbows, put it between his knees, his elbows would then hold the opener and ‘ uncork’ the fuming fizzy drinks!’ I was 17/18 then. He was a rock determination to me-- a home fleeing teen age boy! I learnt from him that everything was possible in life. How could he travel from compartment to compartment even when a mail train was in run? During those days there was no concept of vestibules in trains. He would hold the window rods with his elbows and would reach the door of the next compartment, and with such a great ease that none felt to look at fit. How he could do that? I dared not ask him for I felt the question could be too idiotic to a person of his stature.
He used to appear between Bolpur and Rampurhat or nearby stations, I fail to recollect exactly. Is there anyone who could tell me his name and where did he live? Is he alive till date? I did a horrible mistake not writing about him even for once in my 12 year run weekly column (1992-2002) in a daily from Kolkata.
I have had traveled by this train in all its changing routes since 1960s. After the partition of the country its run was laid along a long circle. Its straight run from Calcutta to the north through Santahar and Parvatipur (now in Bangladesh) chugging over the Pakshi Bridge on Padma River was stopped for divide of the land. Then one half of the new alternate east bound route from Calcutta was marked up to Sahebganj in Bihar where the River Ganga (upstream of Padma) was to cross by Ferry Boats. The other half of the route was from the northern bank, Sakrigalighat, and it ran through north eastern part of the divided Bengal to reach Siliguri. This is the station where the narrow gauge Toy train awaits you to take you up to the picturesque hills of Darjeeling.
The journey this time began 10 in the night to reach the destination after 10 hours in the morning. I had begun the same journey by 43 Up/44 Down (now 2343/2344) earlier in different times. In the sixties journey used to begin at around 7 in the morning to reach Siliguri next morning. In the mid seventies it was around noon. Later it switched over from evening to night.
In the sixties there was no reservation system for the lowest class, favorite to the Bengali office going babus. Reservation came into effect in late sixties. Even so journey to North Bengal was a great adventure, full of surprises. I was recollecting some of the earlier happenings wrapping myself in the cozy comfort of the First Class AC class of the same train where, during our college days, elbowing for a square feet space to sit for the entire night was a great struggle.
The word Darjeeeling Mail immediately reminds me of a strong person, both of his hands amputed from elbows, holding a weighty jhola around his neck, full of glass bottles of cold drinks, an opener daggling from his neck in a string. He would constantly keep hawking ‘Thanda Khaiben Babu, Thanda! (Would you like to enjoy cold drinks, gentlemen! It’s cold!)’. You ask for one, and immediately he would pick up one bottle with his elbows, put it between his knees, his elbows would then hold the opener and ‘ uncork’ the fuming fizzy drinks!’ I was 17/18 then. He was a rock determination to me-- a home fleeing teen age boy! I learnt from him that everything was possible in life. How could he travel from compartment to compartment even when a mail train was in run? During those days there was no concept of vestibules in trains. He would hold the window rods with his elbows and would reach the door of the next compartment, and with such a great ease that none felt to look at fit. How he could do that? I dared not ask him for I felt the question could be too idiotic to a person of his stature.
He used to appear between Bolpur and Rampurhat or nearby stations, I fail to recollect exactly. Is there anyone who could tell me his name and where did he live? Is he alive till date? I did a horrible mistake not writing about him even for once in my 12 year run weekly column (1992-2002) in a daily from Kolkata.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Lets Respect Life
It was 6.15 this evening in Kolkata. I found a 10x5x 6 ft stack of concrete boulders blocking 50% of the busy
I stopped before him and asked naively, ‘How could we get those concrete boulders out of the road?’. He replied, ‘It’s none of my business. Ask the corporation.’ ‘When would you act then, after a death at the spot?.’ He replied in his cool, ‘You are right. If only anything happens there.’ I wonder, when would we learn to respect a life before we jump to respect a dead body?
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Don'ts of a Cataract Operation
Five months back I had an operation in New Delhi, capital of India, to remove cortex and placement of Lens (IOL) in my right eye. Even after three months of this surgery I could not get my vision back, and went to another surgeon, now in Kolkata under a well known roof, only to discover that the IOL I had planted is 'broken' and having floating debris in the vitreous, which were blocking my vision. I was suggested for a Rs. 30K surgery to repositioning of a new IOL and cleaning of vitreous which may disturb my retinal position. I had no alternative but to go for it. Now three weeks to pass I have not regained my vision.
I suggest never take 'cataract operation' lightly nor you go for an ordinary surgeon for it. I did both the mistakes. I thought the few hour operation is a very simple methodology ( I viewed this in the net also) and could be done by any surgeon. My first surgeon was a graduate from a Medical Institute in Manipal, Karnataka. I knew he was admitted there against a heavy monetary fee the doctor's businessman father paid for. He was not worth enough to enter even a private institution with his normal intelligence. I went to him to save money. He charged at least Rs. 6K less than others.
Everyone should take care.
I suggest never take 'cataract operation' lightly nor you go for an ordinary surgeon for it. I did both the mistakes. I thought the few hour operation is a very simple methodology ( I viewed this in the net also) and could be done by any surgeon. My first surgeon was a graduate from a Medical Institute in Manipal, Karnataka. I knew he was admitted there against a heavy monetary fee the doctor's businessman father paid for. He was not worth enough to enter even a private institution with his normal intelligence. I went to him to save money. He charged at least Rs. 6K less than others.
Everyone should take care.
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