Dipak Bandyopadhyay, a journalist with the then Amritabazar
Patrika, was my classmate in Journalism class in Calcutta University. One day,
hearing my fears about English exams he assured, ‘No worry. Babyda will free up
all medicines required.’ How come? No teacher, no coaching centers, no
tutorials, but only a Babyda! Initially I was aghast. Medicines for exams!
Those days, 40 years back, in Kolkata, brain-jerkers were far off thoughts.
Next day he took me to Babyda, a lean and thin person, anywhere
between 40 and 50, wearing milky white dhoti and kurta. He was sitting entwine on
a small platform in the center of a hooked-on-wall U-shaped 6x4 frame of
bookshelves, with a dangling signboard on top-- ‘Books’. Its no wider than a roadside
pan shop. His bookshop was covering a flowing drain below.
This, I found later, was the most sought after address in
College Street area for every English literature student. I was then studying
two different subjects, under two different postgraduate faculties in Calcutta
University. Since my interest was more in journalism, often I missed many
mechanisms in and around English literature studies. The most important
overlook, later I found, was Babyda. Being alone in a metropolis of Kolkata I
had to look after myself. I had to earn, feed and study—all by myself—to run my
show. Hence, many a times I had to bunk my English classes in Room 20 during
the day, and return to Room no. 23 to attend my Journalism classes in the evening.
Obviously, seldom I could flip through the pages of several text of English
literature. My only book for my English studies was Albert’s History of English
Literature, which I borrowed from Samik Bandyopadhyay, then teaching English
in Amherst Street City College. He is now a revered critic and littérateur. I
did not return his book, for I knew it was no use to his vast knowledge
sovereignty, but was too fundamental and useful to me.
On first look Babyda was in his typical shape. His teeth were
constantly grinding, his thin lips made his chin sharp like edge of an axe. His
eyes were deep in the sockets, but bright. His first reaction to Dipak was curt
enough. He heard Dipak, and without looking at me dismissed us: ‘Its simply not
possible. I cannot lend books. You will have to buy them.’
I was groping, yet intervened meekly, ‘I can pay for fifty per
cent.’ Babyda turned his sitting towards me, “Bah! How clever you are! I will
pay the rest! How are you so important to me, huh? May I know, huh?’ I was unnerved,
‘I will return you the books unsoiled, and you can sell them in full price!’
‘What is this boy, Dipak? Where from this specimen is? No Sir,
you can go. Please.’ I was insulted. Never ever anybody dared so to me. I just
turned and walked away.
But I returned next evening. Dipak told me, ‘Don’t trust his
words, trust his heart’, and Dipak was so true! At the outset Babyda rebuked
me, affectionately yes. Then gave his verdict, ‘No problem. Here are the books,
but you will have to read them sitting here’, and pointed to a small bench over
the drain. The same evening I began my study by the hustling jostling of Shyamacharan
Dey Street, the hawking book market.
Babyda was not a graduate. He, an unmarried, in some way
managed this space over a drain, and started his bet in life. Soon he
discovered the need of a single-window bookshop. He built up his tiny bookstore
with an unfailing list for English Literature text and reference books in tune
with the prevailing syllabi of the graduate and post graduate courses of
different universities of the sate. I discovered, I was placed at the right
place indeed.
During my everyday study-on-the-market-bench, what I didn’t
know nor could ever imagine was, an undergraduate was tutoring me for my postgraduate
finals! Babyda started guiding me from day one, what I should read, and what I
should not. He kept on telling ‘You don’t have time to cover a years’ failing
within two weeks.’
He would dump upon me more ‘note books’ written by unknown
names and would tick questions on piece of papers pushing them between the
pages, and would say, ‘Read nothing else’. He kept me away from the original
texts, saying, ‘No need at this stage. You know the history of English
literature and that’s enough!’ I followed him blindly, more for I had no time for
searching any, nor did I know a better source.
Two days before the exam, he let me go home with books needed
for the first day’s exams to return them same day, and collect the bunch for
the next one. Thus he forced me to visit him every day. I followed his dictate.
Did I have any alternative? But after five-six such evening I was very crossed
and bitterly felt, he was making me running just for fun. I politely asked,
‘You could give me the books in one go, but you couldn’t trust me, I know’.
Babyda smiled for a while and then let me fall for his feet.
He said with all fondness, ‘Stupid you are. I could give you all the books in
one go, yes. But that would have certainly drifted you from the important
questions I was trying to prepare you for.’ And I was not surprised; I got
slightly above 50% in the exams.
Babyda is no more. But his same tiny bookshop, ‘Books’, is
there till today. Now someone has turned
it to one window for all books, with a changed name, ‘Books & Books’.
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