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She did not want me to see as a school or college teacher, although I was almost becoming so with on the verge of completing BEd more than four years ago. Her reason was simple: I would even forget to spell "ticket", whether with one ‘t’ or two at the end after numerous mistakes in scripts! It’s not that I don’t need to correct spellings or syntax everyday in my present job, but the way it was said by Topu masi when I was just seven years old was really funny.

After 22 years, when my mother reminded the same to Topu masi today, she was all tears. She stared at me for over five minutes, trying to figure out whether it is the same boy who once lived just next door in a village called Panagarh, now a bustling town in Burdwan district. I had a great time with Topu masi and Sikha masi — both remained unmarried and my mother’s colleagues in the social welfare department. On Mondays, I used to have a great piece of news for both when they would return from their weekly visit to their respective parents: what was shown in the Mahabharat on TV on Sunday. They would listen to my description of the great wars with rapt attention and Topu masi asked me which weapon I liked most.

For me, the mornings in the pre-satellite TV era would start with spiritual talk on the radio. Before I was readied for school by my elder sister, I could see Topu masi glued to Pratyahiki, a popular AIR programme based on letters sent by its listeners on a specific topic. Ma used to say: "Topu would write a letter on this month’s topic." I can’t recall whether Topu masi indeed wrote a letter or not, but she read a lot of Bengali novels and short stories those days.

Being children, we used to subscribe Anandamela, and my brush with "elders’ magazine" Desh — something a no-no in our childhood then — started at Topu masi’s desk. Had there not been Topu masi, I might not have grown an interest in studying at Santiniketan, as Samaresh Basu was writing the biography of famous sculptor Ramkinkar Baij in Desh. With paintings by Bikash Bhattacharjee, Dekhi Nai Firey, was a fascinating experience for me even if I could not make out much from them. But somewhere Dekhi Nai Firey was embedded in my mind and years later when I was keen to make a documentary film on Ramkinkar, the first thing Ma told me: "Call up Topu, she will be happy to know about it."

Images are aplenty. Cut to 2009.

I took Ma to bed no. 106 of a cancer hospital off Park Street this afternoon after a call from my mother’s another colleague. There, on a white bed, Topu masi was lying under a red chequered piece of cloth with tubes, monitors and anxious relatives counting final hours around her. She enquired my wellbeing with a voice not heard in many years. After some short conversations, when Ma reminded her of the "ticket" tale, she just smiled and stared at me. Before bidding her goodbye, I told her: "Topu masi, get well soon and we’ll have a long chat." Only a drop of tear answered on her behalf.

©Supratim Pal, 2009