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.
