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