Shyamal Gangopadhyay, the Magician

I met Shyamal Gangopadhyay, the most powerful prose writer of post 3-Bandyopadhyay era of Bengali literature, for the first time in 1971.

I was 26 then. I had just returned from East Pakistan after my stint as Ananda Bazar Patrika’s war correspondent. Since I joined the newspaper from outside as a ‘mercenary’ (according to contract ABP had no responsibility if I were killed) to cover the war from inside East Pakistan, I knew none in the newspaper house, not even Amitabha Chaudhury, the legendary news editor himself. When I came to the office for the first time, Amitda took me around to introduce to the Editors and newsroom staff. Shyamal Gangopadhyay, a senior sub-editor then, was one. He was sitting at other side of a long row of tables meant for sub-editors.

‘This is Arun Chakraborty’, Amitda would say, holding my hand up with his to introduce me dramatically. By then my thrilling report on liberation war had been published in post edit for four consecutive days and my name was somewhat known to almost everyone in the office.

When introduced Shyamal Gangopadhyay, a big softy built person with big bulging eyes, enough to unnerve, measured me with affection. He ‘requested’ me to sit, ‘Come Arun, have a chair. Let’s talk some (Eso Arun, chairta tene nao. Alap kora jaak)’. I sat, not that smart as I was, his eyes looked unfussy though. He humbled and said, ‘You know, I too try to write your kind of prose.’ I was neither surprised nor impressed. A person from this newspaper saying so means he was in cruel bantering. I had to down my face in apprehension. From then on we remained close for more than three decades. And that makes it unattainable for me to recollect associations of this great writer in one go.

That first experience, I noticed later, was the distinct stencil of Shyamal Gangopadhyay, whom I never found to act or behave in any different stroke. He was a man of one straight line without a bend or curve, enough to illustrate himself as the most unpopular lovable among other decent popular writers of his time.
One night, I had night shift. Rathindramohan Bandyopadhyay (he never shortened his name, come what may), a colleague of my age, was also there and Shyamal Gangopadhyay.

The previous night, while discussing various write ups on Bangladesh in different print media (TV was not available those days) I told Shyamalda my impression of Kuldip Nayar’s article on just liberated Bangladesh in ‘Imprint’ magazine published that week. As soon as I entered the newsroom for duty, Shyamalda started firing all salvos at me from his good armory full of both chaste and filthy vocabulary. I wasn’t killed though. Rathindramohan Bandyopadhyay took my side. That fueled Shyamalda further. Iron hot arguments flew from both sides. Shaymalda’s abused was because I praised the article, which, according to him, ‘convinced’ him to buy the magazine. Thus he had waste money and had to read the unworthy article that it was. Shyamalda insisted it was enough to prove that Anandabazar has recruited fools of my kind who would bring bad name to the most popular newspaper.

Those days, the lead news of the day was given to a senior to write. And Shyamalda had a high grade in that, particularly when he beat all the lions and tigers in the Newsroom to cover Mujib’s felicitation at the Kolkata Maidan on his way from Pakistani jail to newly born Bangladesh.

Chief of that night shift was Prabhat Gangopadhyay. He intervened to quite the two warring sides. He brought bunch of teleprints and placed them before Shyamalda, and said meekly, ‘Let’s start.’

Shyamalda roared in fury, he threw away the bunch all over the floor and said pointing at me: ‘Give it to him, the great journalist churned out of the dilapidated college street buildings (read Kolkata University). I will not do.’ Shyamalda’s temperament was well known. The Chief looked helpless, because the lead article was decided in evening meeting. It was needed fast to finalize the First Page. Shyamald’s hands were needed more because both of us were new to the office and had no experience in writing a lead.

I too was no less furious. I declared at top of my voice: ‘OK I will.’, and picked up the scattered sheets and went straight opposite to Shayamalda’s row, and started writing. When finished, the Chief approved it and sent it down to the compose room below in a slide can, tied to a rope, through the drop duck.

After the print order was given, the newsroom returned to its normal routine. Beds were spread over the tables by the bed man, and we went to sleep quietly. We two were on one row, when Shyamalda lied alone on the other. Lights were switched off at around 2.30 in the morning.

In the early hours of the day when the street lights were still on, I felt a soft push at back followed by affectionate repeated wobble, ‘Oroon, will you get up? It’s already morning. Let’s walk together. Would you? (Arun, uthbi? Sokal hoye gechhe. Chol eksange hanti. Jabi?’ I tweaked through my closed eyes, it was Shyamalda. I felt embarrassed at his gesture and sleepily said, ‘See, if Rathin wants to.’ Rathin was up by then, and I could guess he was ready with his jhola hanging on his shoulder. I had to get up.

We walked together towards Grand Hotel, a few furlongs away, where from we would take our buses towards three directions-- Shyamalda to south, me to east and Rathindramohan Bandyopadhyay towards north to cross over the Howrah Bridge. I cannot recollect what could have been the talking topics while walking. At the S.N. Banerjee-Chowranghee crossing Shyamalda put his hands on our shoulders and asked, ‘Would you go? To my place? Let’s have breakfast together. Let’s go (Jabi tora? Amar bari? Chol eksange breakfast korbo. Chol)’.

Shyamalda had an irresistible pull. That was more for his big heart which any Tom Dick and Harry could perceive through his charming verbose. And we took no time to fall into the invisible pull of the magic wand. We got into the bus going towards south. When nearing Jadubabu’s market he asked us to get down. May be his house was near, I thought. But lo, he guided us to its fish corner. There were his friends, all fish sellers, men and women. He started hopping and chatting with them, each of whom was elbowing each other to convince him with the best they could spread before.

Shyamalda selected two kilograms of tiny silver bright Bata Machh. ‘Let’s have fry of this eternal fish this morning. Your bowdi (sister-in-law) will like it’, he tried to convince of his act, which we knew was a misdeed at this hour.

Sun was up when we reached his home. Bowdi opened the door almost dozing; for sure she was in deep lazy morning sleep.

‘This is Arun, and this is Rathindramohan. Both are excellent, very talented guys. I love them. We would breakfast together. Here is some Bata Machh. Please cut these clean and have them deep fry. We would need nothing else. Except hot tea of course….’, Shyamalda went on. I was surprised and amazed, Shyamalda never bothered about what Bowdi would have liked to say, what she would have liked to entertain his new young guests with.

Within a short time the refreshing smoky morning tea followed by fried fish. We had a great listening to fascinating Shyamalda, a great story teller. Bowdi didn’t join us. Obviously.

MY TAGORE

I fled home when I was 15 year old teen. Never I thought what I was leaving behind. I only brood a charm, and that of an adventure. But for what? I never asked to know. I left behind a wonderful family. My parents and seven of my siblings. I was the fourth. To me a boy from a backward district town of a few thousand people, I wonder now, did Rabindranath Tagore had any relevance to me?

The year was 1962. Tagore was physically dead by then. When I reached the unknown metropolis of Kolkata, the capital of undivided Bengal a mere 13 years back, was still struggling tooth and nail to overcome the devastation caused a decade ago by rampant killings and mistrust. Kolkata was then a haven for the rich landowners and traders from neighboring districts when the great city was other self to the multitude of uprooted homeless from across the newly drawn border. I was in the later group. Was Tagore relevant during that social turmoil?

Yes, surprisingly, he was. His patriotic lyrics enthused the struggling mass. He greatly influenced us, who found themselves bystander at their own end game. The words of Tagore were good enough to inflict determination, diligent and careful steps in strengthening a just human society around. ‘Ekhon aar deri noy, dhor go tora, haate haate dhorgo (Nothing more to wait for, now hold the hands. Hold you all hands on hands)-- I was reassured.

The Chinese war was turning point in my emotional growth graph. It made this Teen more resolute. The All India Radio, TV came to Kolkata ten years later, used to play Tagore’s songs all through the day to turn the population unbendable. I could pick up my slice from them to buoy up my low fortitude: ‘Sankocher Bihbalata nijer-i apoman (Wavering is an insult to self)’ -- I would often buzz it while walking, and in marching tune, to shake off my rustic faltering.

Those days I was not big enough to understand Tagore, nor I had enough money to buy a Tagore. Even so I knew from my school days, he was a great poet, a great man to adore.
One day while walking and stopping at will by the shops of old books along the railings of Presidency College, I came across a tattered volume of ‘Chhinna Patravali (Scattered Letters)’ by Tagore. I was stuck to it for a while, and by parting some coins I could bring it to my one room ‘home’. The letters speak of Tagore’s mind and record all projections of his unmatched genius and brilliance. And the book held me tight to Tagore, the greatest guide and friend to any age. Till today this book is ‘my’ Tagore.

Till today I enjoy reading the book as a Tagore capsule, a Tagore package. I read it again and again from any page to any page at any point of time and enrich and re-enrich myself every moment. Now I can dare to fly through several twinkles of Tagore-galaxy which, to me, a part of the unexplored endless Tagore-universe. I trust, whatever decent human being I am cut out of myself, is mostly by reading him. Reading ‘My Tagore’.