Remembering Niranjan da

(Sometime we break away from rules set by us. I didn’t want to publish this blog midweek, but had to do it before next Monday)

The journey began one winter evening when he told us how the “distance between Berhampur and Bolpur is zero”. That was the topic he was given to speak on at the navin-baran (freshers’ welcome) in 1999. Being a fresher at Deomel, Niranjan da was given a perfect welcome along with us, the BA-I students of 1999-2K. For him, Santiniketan was not merely an abode of peace, but a place where he could pen a few poetic lines and share that with students, could ride his scooter without a helmet at 60kmph, could sing Rafi on an evening when he was in his best of mood, or could try his hand in his brand new Zen and bang that into bushes opposite our Vidya Bhavan hostel, and smiling even after that. Not because he was unhurt, but for a simple reason that he enjoyed his child-like innocent self.

Smile is something that never disappeared from his face. Even when some of us scored poor in one of the internals, he used to get quite serious while explaining to him/her what had gone wrong, but never forgot to wish his student best of luck for future with a pat and smile. He introduced us to the world of John Donne and Jayanta Mahapatra; Keats and Kamala Das; the list is endless. Poetry was his forte. I was fortunate enough to interact with him on many a lonely afternoon he spent at his Shyambati quarter; finishing reading a poem, he told me to critically appreciate it — a skill i learnt from him in BA-I. I remember the Godhra days when he was visibly pained at the turn of events in faraway Gujarat in 2002; back home, poverty in KBK districts — Kalahandi-Bolangir-Koraput — in Orissa prompted him to pay tribute to hunger with a poem crafted from his witty self.

“What are you doing this afternoon?” he used to ask me on Wednesday mornings, “Let’s have lunch together. Come over to my place after finishing studies.” He did not listen to my pleas that my lunch either in the hostel or at Subodh da’s would have to be cancelled, which neither Sagar da at the kitchen nor Subodh da would take with a smiling face like him. Reaching Niranjan da’s flat, say any of the Wednesdays, i was treated first with, not chicken or mutton, but a long poem of his “tiger” series, or a love poem mingled with loneliness. “Ektu agey ses korlam, dekh to kemon hoyechhe. Por... jor e jor e por... (Just finished the poem. Read it aloud)”. But where is the food? Then he used to cook with help from a student who hardly knew how to boil rice. Needless to say, our lunch would be less spicy and simple. I knew Niranjan da would take rest after lunch, but not before a puff. Again, over a Gold Flake King Size he used to tell me how Jibanananda and Tagore influenced his poetry.

He knew very well that “smoking is injurious to health”, but could not give it up completely. I told him many a time, especially after the early-morning heart attack following a dinner of hilsa at one of his colleague’s place, that this was high time he should quit smoking. But he won’t relent. Even i threatened him that i would call up Boudi and tell her about your smoking habits. Again, the child-like self would overshadow his self of a professor: “Please Supratim, don’t do this. Je kodin achhi, ektu bhalo korei thaki. (Let me enjoy the life to its fullest).” Now i repent; i apologise to Boudi, Mamna and Babi for not being strict with him; perhaps it would not leave us in a world without Niranjan da today. Rather i would have dropped in his Berhampur home to find a happy and ever-smiling Boudi preparing breakfast for Bodhisattwa da and me like that on a July 2002 morning.

Six years down the line, another July, another phone call from Achyut, another piece of news from a sleepy Jharkhand town to a cellphone at bustling Esplanade made me silent for some moments. I could not believe my ears. But i had to believe, for reality is always hard and shocking. Achyut reminded me of several incidents: the close bonding we had with Niranjan da. One particular incident was to receive him at Bolpur station at the dead of the night. I told Achyut on July 28 the train would chug in again this night also, but we don’t need to wait for NM to come out of the AC-III coach anymore with a huge suitcase after one of his lectures delivered at some university in another part of the country. No one would say us at 1am, “Let’s have a cup of tea here and then take a rickshaw back home.”

No one would tell me at the end of a reunion at Deomel: “Telegraph ekhono poetry er column ta resume korlo na. Dekh na ekbar kichhu kora jay kina. (Why The Telegraph hasn’t resumed the poetry column?).” For him, it’s poetry everywhere. He wanted to live a life with ananda, joy; in death too — as i was told by Sahana di that Monday night from Pearson hospital that NM was apparently in deep slumber without a tinge of pain on his face — he lives a life with ananda. I still want to see that face, smiling and caring, Niranjan da.
©Supratim Pal

Old man and the sea of inhumanity

On a late winter evening show at Geetanjali in Bolpur this year i went to watch Taare Zameen Par, by then already an acclaimed film that had made critics open their pens with a different tone, teachers and parents watching it over and over just to get the bottom of the psychology of a dyslexic child. In fact, my eight-year-old nephew Rajarshi who stays in a residential school founded by Rabindranath Tagore was gaga about Ishan Awasthy, the lead role played by Darsheel Safari, with whom Rajarshi certainly found close resemblance in his state of mind when a special screening was organised at their hostel in December ’07.

Back to the show at Geetanjali. A dhoti-punjabi-clad 79-year-old man silently entered the theatre with his wife and took their seats just a few rows in front of ours. For a person like me who is in touch with Tagore’s Abode of Peace for the past 10 years or so, the aged couple were no strangers. But i didn’t disturb them thinking i’d rather talk to them after the film was over. But even before Aamir Khan made a screen appearance towards the half-way through the film, i saw the old man taking out a hanky, taking off specs and wiping tears off his cheeks, especially when Ishan’s parents were coming back to Mumbai after dropping him at the Panchghani school. But this was not the first occasion, neither was it the last one. When the movie moved to its fag end and Ishan got recognition for his unique talent, i watched the couple behaving restlessly out of discomfort in watching a scene that moved their heart but they could not just cry in public. Because he was not after all the "Iron Man" L.K. Advani who could not hold back tears during a special screening at a New Delhi auditorium on another winter evening. As soon as the film was over, i went over to the couple, asking the old man: "So, have you become an Advani?" Without getting irritated at my question, he replied with a soft, but commanding, voice: "Do you think only Advaniji can feel it in his heart? Don’t forget, we are all human beings." Before asking me some other questions, he told me to do something so that TZP could be sent to the Oscars. "Why don’t you write something about the film? Everyone around the world should watch it," precise was the message with a tone that only speaks of humanity.

I met him first in 2003 when i requested him to attend a quiz contest organised as part of the three-day anniversary celebrations of Geetanjali Cultural Complex. But he could not come in the afternoon as he was not quite well at that time. Probably that was a mid-September day. That evening, there was a cultural show as part of the celebrations when Arati Mukherjee and Indrani Sen, both well-known singers of Bengali modern songs, performed. Being the anchor of that evening, I observed from close quarters how the old man, seated in the front row, reacts to the songs, especially a late evening performance by popular Bengali band Chandrabindoo. When Anindya, one of the lead singers, asked for his permission whether the members and the audience can dance to their numbers, he promptly said: "Why not? As far as a basic discipline and decorum is maintained, nobody is harmed, what’s the problem?" Needless to say, Anindya and the audience had gone crazy.

Discipline he taught many, including leaders of people, as nobody could ever question his integrity, except the CPM which "summary" expelled him last week. Even upholding the Constitution, Somnath Chatterjee was not conforming to the constitution of a party with which he had over 40 years of relationship till July 23, 2008. At least that’s what the countrymen are being told by leaders who never dared to face people except in rallies. Ballot battle was never their ground but Somnathbabu won people’s heart, and not just once or twice, but 10 times — ranging from constituencies in upscale south Calcutta to rural backdrop of Bolpur.
©Supratim Pal

Art for our sake!

Last week i wrote about Dipu, a teenager busy doing an animation in one remote village studio near Santiniketan. Before switching over to another topic, i would like to introduce another gifted teen, Ganesh.
Ganesh has a brother, named Kartik — in resemblance to the Hindu mythology. While Kartik is a relatively good at studies, Ganesh did not come up with great result in the exams. But that did not keep his guardians worried because he has become a pro in ceramics.

Considering his age, this was no little a success. In this picture Ganesh, about 15, is seen busy at his wheel at Sisutirtha when i visited him one monsoon afternoon.
I did not disturb him, neither i spoke a word with him before i saw what he made with his skill intertwined with inherent talent. I don’t know whether his forefathers were great masters of the art, but if they are not, Ganesh has initiated a tradition that would not be easy to follow. He is yet to hold an exhibition, but the works of art call for a public display. I was told that plans are afoot for an exhibition soon.

Just take a look at this picture showing his creation at an adjacent room to his 7ftX6ft studio. Obviously these are not for sale to public — a common skill he is not gifted with — but i asked his guardian whether i could take some pictures of his masterpieces which i believe would worth crores one day. I know it is too early to declare such a thing, for i am no Nostradamus. But how many boys have you seen of his age to come up with such pieces? I have not found much.
Like Dipu, Ganesh is also an orphan left by his relatives at Sisutirtha, Santiniketan. But with people like you and me around them, these hapless boys never felt alone. All they need is support from us, not only financially, but more of a mental support. We can still make a better world involving them in our sphere.
©Supratim Pal

Teenage prodigy

He is all of 17, or maybe even a few months less than that. He has started on an animation project, all by himself — from generating idea to drawing the storyboard, among others. The other day I was floored by what he conceived: a story of migrating birds. Thousands of migratory birds visit Santiniketan, where he lives, every winter. In fact the track of the birds is just over his home at Tagore’s abode of peace. It’s his keen observation that prompted him to start on his maiden adventure in the domain of animation.

A male bird and his female counterpart come to Ballavpur, the nesting site of the birds, a village about 3km from Santiniketan. The mother bird lays egg, and in about a month or so, a chick is born. Now, when scorching summer sets in the laterite-rich picturesque landscape of Birbhum, will the chick be able to fly out, like its parents, to the northern part of the globe? Or will it suffer alone in the heat and dust of Santiniketan and its surroundings?

This concept is unique. So is the situation Dipu, the teenager, could think of. Dipu was orphaned when he was five/six years old, and has been staying at Sisutirtha in Santiniketan since then. About six years ago, he enthralled a packed hall in Calcutta with his rendition of Rabindrasangeet. Later, a cassette and CD were also recorded with his voice and his fellow inmates at Sisutirtha. Now Dipu is into animation. Whatever little I saw of him, made me think that he is a prodigy with a sharp mind.

At present, he is working day in and day out on the project, which needs support from us. Support not only financially, but also mental too. I visited Sisutirtha recently and asked his instructor-cum-warden-cum-whatever-not Rabi da — he is one of the principal forces to make Sisutirtha running for years — what help I could render to them, especially Dipu. They only need to upgrade the RAM of the new computer — it was gifted a couple of months back — to 2GB so that Dipu and others can work on the animation project, and the future ones, fast.

A 2GB RAM I can gift him anytime, but can we give them something more?
© Supratim Pal

Any lessons?

Nadal and Federer. When two of the current icons of world sports were locked in a battle of nerves for close to five hours (4hr, 48min) last night, the world around the Centre Court was waiting with patience. Nobody expected the match would progress to the 62nd game — surpassing the 1954 record of longest Wimbledon men’s singles final with 58 games — and beyond 9pm local time. Though interrupted by rain — longest being 81 minutes after Nadal won the first two sets (6-4, 6-4) and was down with 4-5 in the third — the spectators, including the legendary Borg, were still waiting whether a miracle could be witnessed. Miracle they saw. Miracle that was Nadal, only the third man in open era to claim that he is the king on both clay and grass courts.

For the country on the east of Atlantic, two successive Sundays were probably the biggest ever sporting feats achieved in recent times. Spain does not play cricket, neither it is known for any great chess player. Slow is probably not its passion. The country, known best for its national sports bull-fighting, has revolutionised the way games are being played. Be it in politics or on the grass pitches. Have you ever heard of a fast-moving country with centuries-old of tradition and heritage could appoint a lady its defence minister? Can India ever do that?

Well, let’s not compare such silly things. Let’s talk sports. Can India ever be the Asia champion, a la Euro? In soccer? From an over billion-odd population, we found 11 strong and able footballers who have helped India to get the 153rd spot on the Fifa rankings. Well, we are not even champion in cricket, nor even in Asia (India lost the Asia Cup final to Sri Lanka by 100 runs), although the game is widely marketed with generating crores of revenue every year. What can be done to turn a Dhoni (incidentally, today is his birthday) into a say, David Villa, or a Torres from a Tendulkar? But we are a proud nation, especially in sports. Reasons: besides stars with the bat and ball we have Anand, Paes, Sania. We also have Dola Banerjee or Mangal Singh Champia — no matter a very few people have heard of their names!

Is it that we lack a steely nerve like that of Federer who can only concede to Nadal after denying him four championship points last night? Perhaps.

© Supratim Pal

Fragrance Fanatic!!

What’s your favourite smell? This question came to me last month with a chain mail that asked a whole lot of small, but interesting, queries about the responder. The idea is to send the mail to your friends and wait for their reply. My favourite smell, for years, has been the first drops of rain on a hot April afternoon. One might say, for that particular incident to take place, and the subsequent scent, you have to wait a whole year. But isn’t it natural that the thing one likes most should not happen very often?
Another natural smell that i like most is that of petrol! I know that people might not agree with me to this... but the smell of raw petrol is awesome. I have never seen a musk deer in the forests, let alone smell it, except when it comes with some talcum powder or after shave lotions or deodorant sprays! What other natural smells i like? Valley of flowers. No i am yet to trek to the famous Garhwal landscape, but i am talking about any valley full of flowers like that in Gairibas in the eastern Himalayas.
This evening, it was another smell that left me speechless. I think that this one is too old for me, as it has been with me since March 4, 1980. I was watching Padakshep, a film, with my mom sitting beside me. Once when she put her hand on my back, i could smell it....my Ma. This touch was perennial, so as the smell. No other fragrance — no matter how costly it is — can ever match this invaluable one. I also discovered a new smell recently, incidentally like the old one, while watching a movie. I rubbed my nose with the arm of the person and found that was splendid to drive me crazy. But i restrained myself, thinking if i can get another aromatic substance better than this. It’s difficult to smell a rose in everything, but let’s try to make everything more aromatic.
©Supratim Pal