These are days I miss him a lot. That kind smile. The giving look in his eyes. His spotless white dhuti-kurta. He smelt strange. A smell I loved. He smelled of an old world that came alive before me only through his stories. He smelled of India’s Independence struggle, of the old land in Borishal (now in Bangladesh), of the numerous hardships he faced with Dida. But mostly, he smelled of my mother’s childhood. Stories of my mother as a naughty kid amused me. And I begged him for more.
Every day spent with Dadu was special. With special treats and silly games. Of the British Raj stories. Of the love of Rabindranath Tagore and work under Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose. My Dadu was a freedom fighter. He fought against the British. I was so proud. His tales of secret meetings and life in the jail gripped my senses.
Dadu’s story of escapade to Santiniketan from Borishal on foot captivated me. And each time he was forced to relate the story again, it had the same effect on me. The part when he finally met Tagore (whom he worshipped; not just because of the bard’s magnificent writings, but his ability to motivate hundreds to the freedom movement through his songs) was the part I loved best. Tagore, pleasantly surprised to see a young lad of 13 leave home and travel all the way from Borishal to Santiniketan only to meet him, had asked (here I quote my Dadu): “Tumi eto dure ele. Eshe ki dekhle? (you came this far. What did you find?) Dadu had said, (and it always sent shivers down my spine, still does) “Ami dekhlam Bangla’r Balmiki. (I met Bengal’s Valmiki)”.
As I said before, every moment spent with him was special. But some were exceptionally special for me. One such day came every January. Pleasant and sunny. He was a special invitee to Raj Bhavan in Kolkata. On Republic Day (January 26) and Independence Day (August 15), my Dadu and other freedom fighters like him (those who were still alive) were invited over for a special lunch and meeting with the Governor and the Chief Minister. I was always my Dadu’s special guest.
Dressed in my best, I held his hand and entered the gate. The pebbled path fascinated me. The huge structure in front filled me with wonder. As people greeted Dadu, they either smiled at me or bent down to say hello. I wasn’t flustered. I felt at the top of the world.
Then it was Dadu’s turn to meet other freedom fighters. Old memories were exchanged. The sorry state of affairs discussed. I listened to each word spoken. Looked at each face that walked past. I etched a picture of the sunny winter day, the trees around, the wide lawn, and the white building behind it all, in my mind’s eye. There was no camera. But the picture of my Dadu smiling as he spoke to them, as his eyes glistened in the sun, will always be alive.
These are days when I miss him more. I miss being his special guest. I miss oiling his hair on winter mornings. I miss sleeping under the sky on the terrace at night. I miss his philosophies on life.
A man who believed in spirituality, had no regard for religion. A person who gave up his all for his motherland. A man who introduced Rabindrasangeet in my life. “Tomar khola hawa lagiye paley…” (I am ready to dive deep, while feeling the wind in my soul, which is like the sail of a boat)... I can still hear his unrestrained smooth voice sing to me.
A man who believed in spirituality, had no regard for religion. A person who gave up his all for his motherland. A man who introduced Rabindrasangeet in my life. “Tomar khola hawa lagiye paley…” (I am ready to dive deep, while feeling the wind in my soul, which is like the sail of a boat)... I can still hear his unrestrained smooth voice sing to me.
