BABA (An Essay in Reverence on Ustaad Allauddin Khan Sahab)

I have traced my path into Indian Classical Music mainly holding hands of my mother Dr. Anita Banerjee a devout admirer of this art. More than the music in itself I was awed in my initial years mainly from her accounts of these musicians and their lives, which I may add were a distinct deviation from the ones we see today. My mother had the good fortune of seeing this man perform in her paternal house every year during the Kali Puja. She used to enthusiastically be in the forefront to hear this man play and interact with the children, of which my mother was one. Ustaad Allauddin Khan Sahab.

A famous disciple of Wazir Khan and an extraordinary teacher and performer himself, Ustad Alauddin Khan, also known as Baba Allauddin Khan, occupied a very high place of pride in Indian Classical Music. In fact Ustad Alauddin Khan belonged to that rare and small group of artists who became a legend in their own life time by the sheer weight of their learning, hard work and ceaseless propagation of music. His was a life of total dedication to classical music and maintaining its pristine glory and grandeur. More important than all this, the late Ustad by his uncompromising devotion to classical tradition succeeded during his life time in building up certain norms in the teaching and presentation of music which, unfortunately, are once again in the melting pot. This saintly and learned man became my main inspiration in the instrument Sarod, and it is to him that I owe my devotion and love for Indian Classical music. He is best known globally as the guru of India's finest Hindustani classical music instrumentalists — Pt.Ravi Shankar (sitar), the late Ustad Ali Akbar Khan (sarod), Annapurna Devi (surbahar), the late Pt.Pannalal Ghosh (flute) and Pt.VG Jog (violin). Evidently, he was a versatile musician and a prolific teacher.

Most of this narrative is as I heard from my mother and some books that I have had the good fortune to read. My mother saw him for the first time on stage at the All-Bengal Music Conference in December, 1964. In contrast to the other musicians, who were wearing colorful costumes, turbans, and jewels, and were bedecked with medals, he seemed very plain and ordinary, not at all impressive. But even in her immaturity, it did not take her long to realize that he had qualities that far outshone the gaudiness of his colleagues. He seemed to shine with a fire that came from within him.

Although she did not know enough about music then to discern his musical greatness, she had found herself completely overwhelmed by everything about him. Baba has been known as a strict disciplinarian with his students (Ravi Shankar's book, 'My Music My Life'), but he had imposed upon himself an even stricter code of conduct when he was a young man, often practicing sixteen to twenty hours a day, doing with very little sleep, and getting along with a minimum of material things. Sometimes, when he practiced, he tied up his long hair with heavy cord and attached an end of the cord to a ring in the ceiling. Then, if he happened to doze while he practiced, as soon as his head nodded, a jerk on the cord would pull his hair and awaken him. From early childhood, Baba was ready and determined to make any sacrifice for music. Indeed, his entire life has been devoted to music.

Allauddin Khan was one of the sons of a quite well-to-do peasant family in Bengal. They did not have a great deal of money, but were very rich in the land they owned and the animals they kept. His family was Bengali Muslims, converted to Islam only three or four generations before. The village they lived in was predominantly Hindu, and they all spoke Bengali. And so, even though his family was Muslim, Baba knew all the ways of Hindus and was well acquainted with their customs and ceremonies. Later, he was to follow a way of life that was a beautiful fusion of the best of both Hinduism and Islam.

His father used to play the sitar for the family and for his own pleasure. And Baba's older brother, Aftabuddin, was a very talented and versatile musician who, too, did not perform professionally but played solely to express the music he felt within himself. In his later years, he became a very religious man and was revered equally by the Hindus and the Muslims who knew him. So it was natural that the musical inclinations of little Alam, as Baba was called by his family, were intensified by listening to his father with the sitar and his brother playing a variety of instruments, including the flute, harmonium (a small, boxlike keyboard instrument), Tabla, Pakhawaj, and Dotara (a plucked-string instrument with two strings). Young Alam used to steal into the little music room at home to try to play some of his older brother's musical instruments - and was frequently punished for it. When his family realized that Alam had this burning love for music, they became worried that he might decide to be a professional musician and did not encourage him, for music was not thought of as a respectable profession for a young man. When young Alam wanted to leave his home and devote all his life to music, his brother, the influential one in the family, refused to let him go. The family much preferred that he take up regular studies in a school.

Baba has often mentioned that by the time he was eight he could no longer take the strict discipline and enforced study of books. He hated studying and was constantly being punished for pursuing the thing he loved most - music. So, he left his family without saying a word and traveled to a nearby village, where he joined a party of traveling musicians led by a very famous player of the Dhol. (Though the drums known as Dhol or Dholak are found all over India in different sizes and shapes, the Dhol mentioned here is indigenous to Bengal. It is a one-piece drum with two faces and is played with the hand on the right side and with a stick on the left.) Baba told the musicians he was an orphan, and they accepted him into their group, feeling sorry for the lonely little boy. Then he traveled with the musicians as they toured, and they reached the city of Dacca, the capital of the present Bangladesh. While he was a member of this musical group, Baba had the opportunity to learn to play quite proficiently many varieties of drums-the Dhol, Tabla, and Pakhawaj-and he also took up the Shehnai and some other wind instruments-clarinet, cornet, and trumpet. During all the time Baba toured with this troupe of musicians and later stayed in Dacca, he did not communicate with his family. They were of course distraught when they realized he had left. They searched and searched for him, but finally had to give up.

BABA'S EARLY ADVENTURES

The first forty years of Baba's life were full of adventure, and he underwent many unusual, almost unbelievable, experiences through his intense love of music. Baba was never clear about how long he was with these musicians or how much time he spent in Dacca, but he remembered that he arrived in Calcutta when he was about fourteen or fifteen and about the hardships he suffered there.

He went to one of the most famous Bengali singers of the day, Nulo Gopal, a very devout and orthodox Hindu. Baba instinctively thought it might be better if he said he was a Hindu himself when he approached this teacher, so he took a Hindu name. Nulo Gopal saw the tremendous ardor and talent for singing this boy had, but he warned Baba that he himself had learned music in a very old, traditional style and said that he would teach Baba only if Baba had the patience to learn in the same way. That is, Baba would have to learn and practice nothing other than the sargams, palta, and murchhana (solfeggio, scales, and exercises) for twelve full years.

Only then would Nulo Gopal start teaching all the traditional compositions. This, he said, would not take a very long time, because Baba would already have a firm background! Baba did agree to the arrangement, and arduously devoted himself to his study, but unfortunately, after only seven years or so, Nulo Gopal died. Baba was so grieved by his death that, out of respect to his teacher, he took an oath never to take up singing as his profession. According to Baba, the excellent training he received from this guru in those seven years caused his musical sensitivity to grow to such a degree that he could notate in his mind as well as on paper any music he heard. This ability was to prove very helpful to him later.

During the seven years Baba was learning with Nulo Gopal, he took a job at the Star Theatre (run by Girish Ghosh, the father of Bengali drama) as a Tabla player in the orchestra to make a little money, and he had some training in the playing of the violin from an outstanding Indian Christian teacher. Baba also participated in the frequent orchestral parties held by a prominent composer, Habu Dutt, who was the brother of the famed Swami Vivekananda. Habu Dutt had studied both Eastern and Western music and maintained an orchestra for which he composed in raga and tala framework; he used all the Western instruments as well as a few Indian ones. This later inspired Baba to create his own ensemble, the Maihar Band, which was quite famous for many years.

It was often frightening just to hear Baba talk about the hardships he suffered as a young man in Calcutta. The little pay he received at the Star Theatre and occasional extra income he got by playing a recital here or there all went to pay for gifts or offerings he brought to his teachers-fruits or sweets-in gratitude for their giving him lessons. Most of the time he had his one meal a day at some “Anna Chhatra”, a food dispensary provided for the poor by some rich families. (Until very recently, these existed in all the large cities as a common form of charity.) The rest of the day Baba either went hungry or nibbled at a handful of chick peas or drank the water of the river Ganges. He had no one particular place to stay. Sometimes he took a room in a cheap boarding- house, and other times he stayed in the stable of a wealthy family.

When he was in his twenties, Baba went to a city called Muktagacha, then in eastern Bengal, now in Bangladesh. It was here, at the court of Raja Jagat Kishore, that he heard the celebrated Sarod player of the time, Ustad Ahmad Ali, and for the first time, he experienced the full effect of the musician and the beauty of the music. In his studies under Nulo Gopal, Baba had felt he was approaching the field of strict classical music, but when his guru died, he thought he had reached only the threshold of the musical sanctuary. He realized he needed another good teacher to elevate him to a higher level in his playing and understanding. So, he decided just then, in the Raja's court, that he must take this musician as his guru and learn to play the Sarod.

Baba's burning desire to learn and a recommendation from the Raja persuaded Ahmad Ali to accept the boy as his disciple. When Baba began learning from Ahmad Ali, he gave up all his old dilettante musical interests and devoted himself solely to the Sarod. The next four years or so were spent living and traveling with his Ustad, serving him in every way, even cooking, and learning and practicing music as much as he could.

After some time, Ahmad Ali left the court and traveled to his home, the city of Rampur, taking Baba with him. By this time, Baba had learned a great deal of the art and technique of the Sarod and had absorbed most of the knowledge of his Ustad. Somehow, he felt that Ahmad Ali was a bit apprehensive about Baba's proficiency and was afraid that Baba might outdo him as a musician. One day, it happened that his guru called Baba and said that he had given him enough Taleem (training) and praised him for achieving a fine standard of musicianship. Now, he said, it is time for you to go out and perform, and establish your own reputation, following the tradition of Sikkha, Dikkha, and Parikkha (derivations from the original Sanskrit of Shiksha, Diksha, and Pariksha, which mean training, initiation, and evaluation).

Since Rampur was the most important seat of Hindustani classical music, Baba was overjoyed when he learned there were almost five hundred musicians who belonged to the court of His Highness the Nawab of Rampur. Out of these, at least fifty ranked among the foremost artists and were famed throughout India. They included singers of Dhrupad, Dhamar, Khayal, Tappa, and Thumri, as well as players of been, Sursringar, Rabab, Surbahar, Sitar, Sarangi, Shehnai, Tabla, Pakhawaj, and many other instruments. At the head of all these musicians was the truly great Wazir Khan himself, a member of the Beenkar Gharana, and thus of the family of Tan Sen. He was the guru of the Nawab and, in his seat next to the Nawab's throne, enjoyed a position that was unique at that time. After taking leave of Ustad Ahmad Ali, Baba went on a kind of musical "binge," and he met all the Ustaads and studied a little with a great many of them for a year or so. He was completely intoxicated with the ecstasy of meeting all these great musicians. After Baba settled down a bit, he decided he must finally go to learn from the greatest musician of them all, and the one about whom he had heard so many stories - Wazir Khan.

A GESTURE IN DESPERATION

Ustaad Wazir Khan, a direct descendant of Tan Sen, was the greatest living been player of the time. Filled with enthusiasm and bubbling with hope, Baba went off to meet him, but the sentries, who guarded Ustad Wazir Khan's gates, frowning at the young man's shabby dress and poor appearance, denied him entrance. In despair, young Allauddin Khan rather melodramatically decided that he would either learn from this great master or give up his life. Nourishing these severe thoughts, he bought two tola weight of opium with which to kill himself if necessary. But fortunately, he met a mullah (Muslim priest), who dissuaded him from such extreme measures and suggested another plan.

The mullah composed a letter in Urdu on behalf of the young aspirant, explaining how he had come all the way from Bengal especially to learn from Ustaad Wazir Khan, and if that were to prove impossible, he would swallow a lump of opium and end his life. But there remained the problem of presenting the letter to the Nawab. While the spirit of desperation was mounting, young Allauddin happened to hear that the Nawab would soon be on his way to the theater, so he stationed himself on the road, hours ahead, and as the Nawab's vehicle finally ap- proached, he threw himself down in front of it.

The police dragged young Allauddin Khan away to face the Nawab, who, when he heard the whole story, was so impressed by the fervor of a young man ready to use such grave methods that he called him to the palace to play for him.

Baba gave a very impressive performance on the sarod and on the violin, and then was asked if he could handle any other instruments. The Nawab was quite amused when Baba, replying, boasted that he could play any instrument available in the palace. So, all the instruments were brought out and, to the astonishment of everyone present, he did just that - one by one, he played them all, and quite deftly, too ! The Nawab asked him if he had any other talents, and Baba said that he could write anything played or sung. The Nawab was overwhelmed when Baba did this easily on the first attempt. The Nawab then sang him a very difficult gamak tan, a complicated embel- lishment in a phrase. Fortunately, young Allauddin had detected that the Nawab was becoming a little annoyed at the thought that such a young man might know more than he, and so he meekly replied that such a tan would be difficult to write down. The Nawab was so pleased at this that, in a benevolent mood, he sent for Ustad Wazir Khan and recommended young Allauddin to him as a deserving student. The Nawab himself called for a large silver tray full of gold sovereigns, sweets, material for new clothing, a ring, and new shoes. All these were given to Wazir Khan on behalf of the disciple, and the binding ceremony between Wazir Khan as Ustaad and Allauddin Khan as Shaagird took place on the spot.

As Baba has said, from the time he moved to Calcutta until he came to Rampur, he had communicated with his family and had visited their home several times. His family, hoping they could give him a reason to stay with them, forced him to take a wife on one of his visits, and later, had him marry a second time. (Muslims may marry up to four times.) But to their horror, Baba ran away from home on the day after each marriage ceremony. His fanatic love for music left no room for such things as marriage or a family then.

In his first two and a half years as a disciple of Wazir Khan, Baba more or less had the duties of a servant and errand boy to his guru and was not really being taught music by him. Baba was rather unhappy about this, but he still spent as much time as he could practicing what he had learned from Ahmad Ali and others on the Sarod. Then one day, there came a telegram to him in care of Wazir Khan, asking him to come home immediately because his second wife had tried to commit suicide and was critically ill. She was an extremely beautiful woman, and the people of her village had tormented her, saying she could not keep her husband at home for all her good looks, and teased her to such an extent that in her unhappiness she tried to kill herself. Wazir Khan had the telegram read (it was in English) before passing it on to Baba. He was shocked and not a little angry to learn about this, because Baba had told him that he was completely alone and had no family. Immediately, he summoned Baba. After being interrogated, Baba tremblingly revealed the truth. When the great man heard the story, he was deeply moved. He realized that this was a young man with an unheard-of, abnormal desire to learn music, a love so strong that he would forsake anything else in life, including the love of two young and beautiful wives.

In tears, Wazir Khan embraced Baba, saying he had never realized any of these things, and he felt extremely sorry that he had not paid any attention to Baba in those two and a half years. Then he advised Baba to go home for a while, and as soon as he had straightened matters out, to return to Rampur. Wazir Khan promised that he would consider Baba as his foremost and best disciple outside of his own family, and said he would teach him all the secrets of the art of music that the members of Tan Sen's family possess. "I'll teach you all the dhrupad and dhamar songs," he said, "and the technique and different baj [styles of playing] of the been, rabab, and sursringar." He qualified his vow, however, by saying he could never permit Baba to play the Been, because it is traditionally restricted to the Beenkar Gharana - his family - and he warned that if Baba were to play it Baba would never have an heir and his family would die out. Then Wazir Khan further explained that it would be quite possible for Baba to use all the techniques and styles of playing the Been on the Sarod, and he agreed to teach him to play the Rabab and Sursringar, two instruments that were going out of use at that time.

Wazir Khan did indeed keep his promises, and many years later, when Baba was serving His Highness the Maharaja of Maihar, one day news arrived that Wazir Khan was on his deathbed. Baba rushed straightway to Rampur to be with his guru. Wazir Khan blessed him before he died; saying that Baba's name and the names of his disciples would live forever and carry on the great tradition of the Beenkar gharana and the glory of Mian Tan Sen.

THE REMARKABLE ''IMPURIST''

Few people have any idea of the contributions Baba has made to the world of music, especially in the instrumental field. Above all, I feel, he is responsible for enlarging the scope and range of possibilities open to an instrumentalist. He has led us away from the confines of narrow specialization that prevailed in our music really through the first quarter of this century. Until then, one player would do only music of a light and delicate nature, and another would perform only romantic compositions, some musicians were purely spiritual and others emphasized the "materialistic" side of the music - the wealth of embellishment. Because Ustaad Allauddin Khan, as a young man, was taught by so many masters, he learned a variety of styles of singing and playing and acquired a good many instrumental techniques - wind and bowed and plucked-string instruments, and even drums.

And so he very naturally incorporated in his playing of the Sarod some of the characteristics of diverse vocal styles and of the playing styles associated with a number of different instruments. He is known mainly as a Sarod player, but he also performed on several other instruments. He was equally well known as a violinist, and as he did with the Sarod, he played the violin with his left hand. Three stringed instruments that he did not perform on in concerts are the Been, the Sitar, and the Surbahar, although he was acquainted with their techniques.

Musicians who follow Baba's example may now choose from a great many vocal and instrumental styles-Alap, Dhrupad-Dhamar, Khayal, Tarana, Tappa, Thumri-and synthesize, creating a whole new concept in interpretation and performance. Baba faced much criticism in the beginning. Early in his career, he was reproached for not playing "pure Sarod" when he performed and was criticized for bringing other techniques into his playing. For even into the late 1930s, sitar playing was restricted to a very limited dimension, and the players kept to their favorite specialized areas of music. There were some who used a small sitar for the "authentic" sitar baj (here baj means style of playing) and played only medium-slow Masitkhani gats with simple tans (or phrases), a style of composition created by Masit Khan. There were others who played only medium- fast Rezakhani gats and still others who used a rather large sitar and played it more or less in the way one plays the Surbahar (a large, deep-sounding instrument with very thick strings). I have heard the well known sitarist Enayat Khan play the alap, jor, and jhala (first three movements of a raga) on the Surbahar, then put aside that instrument and take up a small sitar to do the fast Rezakhani gat. His father, Emdad Khan, is known to have done the same thing.

The criticisms of "impurity" of style are likely to come from other musicians who use the same instrument, and they and their admirers can cause quite a storm of differing opinion. Also, musicians who do not belong to one strong and well-established Gharana are often open to harsh judgments. A musician who is a member of a certain Gharana may - and often does - change his style, enriching and expanding it after hearing other musicians and interpreting their ideas in his own way. But, if questioned about this, he has recourse to the shelter of his Gharana. He can claim that there is a precedent for what he has done and trace it back through his own Gharana's traditions. Often, though, I am amazed that a musician who upholds the highest tradition can be cruelly criticized if he also happens to be a creative artist and brings about many innovations. The great Tan Sen and then Sadarang and even Allauddin Khan faced this sort of criticism early in their careers, but later their "innovations" became part of our musical tradition, and , were well established through their disciples. That is one of the beauties of Indian classical music - that since the Vedas it has never stood stagnant, but has kept on growing and being enriched by the great creative geniuses of successive generations.

As a teacher, Baba aimed at perfecting the hand and finger technique of the student. No matter what instrument the student may choose, Baba insisted that the student who shows promise should also learn to sing the Palta, Sargams, and other song compositions, carefully delineating the scope of the raga and its distinctive notes and phrases and correctly using the microtones, or shrutis, to give the proper effect to the music and make it come alive. The reason for this is, of course, that the basis of Indian Classical music is vocal, and it is composed primarily of melody, of embellishment, and of rhythm; any melodic phrase, with or without a definite rhythm, that can be sung can also be played on an instrument, with each instrument's own features bringing a special quality to the sound. According to our tradition, even the instrumentalists are required to have a moderate command of the voice. This makes it easier for them when they take on the role of teacher to instruct their students, merely by singing the gats, or tans, or todas, or even the alap, jor, and jhala. Along with the ability to sing the melodies, Baba recommended that his students learn to play the tabla and acquire a good knowledge of taladhaya (rhythmics). In mastering the fundamentals, the student learns all the technique of properly handling the instrument of his choice, working in the particular idiom, tonal range, and musical scope of a given instrument by practicing scales, palta, sargams, and bols taught by the guru. Generally, Baba started with basic ragas like Kalyan for the evening and Bhairav for the morning, first giving, many pieces of "fixed music" in the form of gats, tans, or todas based on the raga. By "fixed music" I do not mean music that is written down as it is in the West; rather I am referring to what we call Bandishes, which literally means "bound down," but in this context means "fixed." These are vocal or instrumental pieces, either traditional compositions or the teacher's own, that students learn and memorize by playing over hundreds, even thousands, of times, to be able to produce the correct, clear sound, intonation, and phrasing. Thus, Baba laid a solid foundation for the student to know the sanctified framework of the ragas and talas.

When the student, after some years of training, had fairly good control of the basic technique of the instrument and had learnt a few more important morning and evening ragas (Sarang, Todi, Bhimpalasi, Bhairav, Yaman Kalyan, Bihag, and so on) and had some mastery of the fundamentals of solo playing, then he may expand his creative faculties and was encouraged to improvise as he played. But he had to be careful not to impinge on the purity of the raga. That is, his playing must be correct both in technique and interpretation. The right feeling of a raga was something that must be taught by the guru and nurtured from the germ of musical sensitivity within the student. Unlike some other musicians, Baba had never been stingy or jealous about passing on to deserving students the great and sacred art that he possessed. In fact, when he was inspired in his teaching, it is as if a floodgate had opened up and an ocean of beautiful and divine music was flowing out. The disciple spent many hours simply listening to his guru, and then he endeavored to fill up the frame of a raga with improvised passages born out of the compelling mood of the moment or enlarged through his own attempts at improvisation as his understanding grows and he becomes more familiar with a particular raga. At first, the student may improvise only a fraction of his performance, but as his musicianship matures, so his confidence grows, and he improvised more and more. It is, in a way, like learning to swim. It was exhilarating in the beginning to feel your own body moving through the water, but you are afraid to swim far and there is always the fear of losing control somehow. So it is with a raga. You are always a little afraid at first that you will make mistakes, play the wrong notes, and go out of a raga or lose count of the rhythm as the raga carries you along, but your confidence keeps growing, and one day, you feel you have complete control over what you are playing. A truly excellent and creative musician of the Hindustani system will improvise anywhere from fifty to ninety per cent of his music as he performs, but this freedom can come about only after many many years of basic study and discipline and organized training (if he has a good deal of talent to begin with), and after profound study of the ragas, and finally, if he has been blessed with guru-kripa, the favor of the guru.

A LEGENDARY TEMPER

Besides being famous for his performances and innovations in music, Baba was also very well known throughout the musical world for his temper. But people still him to be so gentle and unassuming, endowed with the virtue of vinaya (humility) in the true Vaishnav spirit. It is only when he is wrapped up utterly in his music that he becomes a stern taskmaster, for he cannot tolerate any impurities or defects in the sacred art of music, and he has no sympathy or patience with those who can. His own life has been one of rigorously self-imposed discipline, and he expected no less from his students. Baba's views on celibacy and especially on intoxication through alcohol or drugs were extremely rigid and severe. He strongly insisted that the students follow Brahmacharya - for the disciple, a traditional Hindu way of life that includes only the absolute essentials of material needs. This way, with no thoughts of fine clothes, fancy foods, sex or complicated love affairs or anything else that satisfied and encouraged physical desires, the student can channel all of his powers and forces, both mental and physical, into the discipline of his music. Music, to Baba, was a strict, lifelong discipline that required long and careful training, and if a student was not prepared to regard music in this way, he had better not take it up at all.

Unfortunately, Baba no longer travelled or performed in the later stages of his life, although on special occasions he may be seen playing the violin or conducting the famous Maihar Band (an ensemble of Indian and Western instruments) of which he was still the director. He also continued as Principal of the Maihar College of Music which he attended every day. In 1952, Baba was made a Fellow of the Sangeet Natak Akademi (National Academy of Performing Arts), and in 1958, he was awarded the Padma Bhusan, an honorary title for out- standing citizens, by the President of the academy. Viswa Bharati, Tagore's university, gave him the honorary degree of Doctor. Thus, honor and recognition came to him in the evening of his life, but he remained, following the saying in the Gita, unmoved and unruffled as he pursued his work and the study of music, never bothering, never worrying or looking back. Baba himself believed that he was well over a hundred years old, and his centenary had already been marked. His true age is not known, because records have not been kept, but what does it matter if he was over a hundred or nearing a hundred? What he had accomplished in his lifetime many others could not do if they had three hundred years to live. He was respected and well regarded by everyone, including the most orthodox Hindu Brahmins, as a rishi, responsible for safeguarding traditions, for developing, teaching, and passing on to disciples the art of music.

There are so many things one could add about Ustad Allauddin Khan. He belonged to a school that seemed so far removed from our modern industrial era, and yet, in every way, he has been ahead of his time, injecting a new significance and life into Indian instrumental music. With him will pass an era that upheld the dedicated, spiritual outlook handed down by the great munis and rishis who considered the sound of music, nad, to be Nada Brahma - a way to reach God.

Sources:

Dr. Anita Banerjee
(Ravi Shankar's book, 'My Music My Life'),
David Phhilpson
Rttwik Ghatak

 

 

Eyes - Short Story # 8

For the regular onlooker she wasn’t even beautiful. Most would rate her as an average Bengali girl of the block. Even I didn’t find her terribly attractive to look at. But I loved her. I loved her since the time she would play at the doorstep of her house with her ragged dolls. What I loved most in her were her eyes. I still can’t say for sure what were there in her eyes- but it had me captivated. I had never seen eyes like hers. She had eyes that bore deep into my heart, bringing a sweet warm wave of assurance within; eyes that cradled me in the crisp black-and-white world on the other side of the picture, where life was, at least, beautifully lit She was known around the neighbourhood as naughty and mischievous.

This girl Rini with her unattractive demeanor and impish manner had captured my eighteen year old heart. I used to blissfully dive inside the beauty of her eyes. I remember once during Pujas I had held her close and had told her, “ Rini I wish I could take those eyes away from you”.

“Why?” She had asked coyly.

“For them, they turn me mad. I love your eyes so much Rini”. I had blurted.

I had loved her so much but we couldn’t end up together. Somebody with an IIT degree came one day and took her away from me amidst much pomp and grandeur to Delhi. I stayed back with a heavy heart. A pain that still bleeds inside me in my times of solitude.

Well I would have probably come to terms with this pain if this incident was not followed by another traumatic episode.

Within two years of her marriage Rini was sent back home by her in laws. She came back completely blind. Apparently her husband had thrown acid on her eyes and face due to some dowry dispute.

I had a chance to meet her one day when she was at the garden alone. I told her woefully “How could one harm such beautiful eyes?”

“If only you haven’t understood as yet why my eyes are no more Deepu, its better you don’t.” She had smiled and replied.
As H. Longefellow said
You are much to blame for letting her go back.
A pretty girl, and in her tender eyes
Just that soft shade of green we sometimes see
In evening skies You are much to blame for letting her go back. A pretty girl, and in her tender eyes Just that soft shade of green we sometimes see In evening skies...

The Writer of the Perverted

“Can I please take the aisle seat if you don’t mind?’ a voice laden with sweetness rattled from behind as I was about to put my bag on the overhead lockers of Emirates EK572. As I turned to look I could see the smiling face of an elderly, slightly balding gentleman standing behind me. He was comically dressed in a tweed jacket and matching brown trousers. A look at him can assure anyone that he was not in the habit of wearing such clothes, but probably wore it to keep up the decorum of an International flight.  I returned the smile back and gestured that I was more than happy to give him my seat. As a matter of fact I never did like aisle seats. To me they were very inconvenient. Especially you have to always get up to let the other passengers in and out, not forgetting the added disturbance of being the point of communication between the inward passengers and the cabin crew. I preferred the window seat since I was a kid. I loved to see the ground slowly drifting away from me in an almost allusive way, almost making me believe that I was magical Hellenic character and travelling on a magic carpet. At forty I still get the same feeling of excitement as the jet starts its run on the runway. I enjoy seeing the carpet of clouds outside the window and most importantly I enjoy my uninterrupted solitude. This was a six hour flight back to Dubai from Calcutta. This visit to Calcutta was a quick one as I had to come to meet my lawyer about some family properties and quite a stressful one. I was looking forward to sleeping through the entire journey. I was still suffering a terrible hangover from last night’s bout with Joydeep. It’s a clear sign from nature that I have to give up believing that I am still young and can still carouse throughout the night and still be in time for college.  As we took off I was drawing the blinds to get to sleep as per plan when suddenly my co-passenger, the gentleman with whom I had exchanged my seat smiled welcomingly at me and asked “Bengali?”


This has been the staple mode of initiating a conversation for thousands and thousands of Bengalis since time immortal. Its peculiar that we have delicately maintained this trend in spite of the overall global overhauling that Bengal has been known to observe in the recent times. I was in no mood for any in-flight small talk. My head was throbbing and I thought I would even give reading the new Shakti Chattopadhyay Kobita Samagraho a miss, which I had bought from College Street in spite of my tight schedule. Well my middle class neuro-linguistic learning on etiquette from my mother made me smile back and say “yes.”


“I was sure of it” he leaned invitingly towards me. “The moment I saw the Kabita Samagraho (Collection of Poetry) in your hand. You know sir in this age of Cable Television, Violence and Shopping Malls; the only people who still read poetry are the French and us – The Bengalis. These are the two races in this world who have kept alive the enchantment of real poetry. They have Rimbaud and we have Rabindranath.” Well I was really in no state of being to discuss the cultural semblance of Bengal and France but I nodded acknowledging the same and carried on fixing my seat for a slant.


“So what do you do?” he asked, completely oblivious that I was trying to sleep. I impassively replied that I was a content writer for an IT firm. That I stayed in Dubai and my other declarable details. In a pretext, that I would be spared further interrogations across the flight time. It was not that I did not enjoy talking to a co-passenger but today I needed to sleep. Joydeep in order to recreate nostalgia had got “Bangla” the famous hooch of Bengal last night. Across excitement, Baul music and Joydeep’s enticing company we drowsed 2 and half bottles over Tulika’s delectable “Topse Maach Bhaja”. But the results were evident this morning when my head felt like an H-Bomb.


“A Writer” my co-passenger exclaimed in a manner as one would do on meeting a Bollywood matinee idol or a cricketer. “My God! It is really a privilege to meet a writer in flesh and blood. It is people like you that have silently been the inspiration behind all great moves and movements of history. It is you who bring colours in the regular mundane lives of the millions whose lives are dull and restricted. All good books are alike in that they are truer than if they had really happened and after you are finished reading one you will feel that all that happened to you and afterwards it all belongs to you: the good and the bad, the ecstasy, the remorse and sorrow, the people and the places and how the weather was. If you can get so that you can give that to people, then you are a writer”


“Actually I am not that kind of a writer.” I tried protesting. But he seemed to take no heed of my protest and went on as if by himself. By now he knew my name and I his. My fellow passenger was called Shri Billopallab Palit. “You know Banerjee Saheb” he continued. “It was my deep desire to meet a write in flesh and blood, but never got a chance. Today luck seems to be on my side. I am really happy that for the next 5 hours I would be sitting next to a person of such eminence”. “You are making a mistake” I tried to intervene. But Mr. Palit seemed completely unruffled.


“Let me introduce myself to you Banerjee Saheb. It’s not sufficient to mention that I am also in the same professional faculty as you. Well not as significant like you. Oh yes, what would you like to drink? Emirates still serves genuine Scotch whiskey” The stewardess had already come with the drinks tray. By this time I had realized that my fellow passenger would not let me sleep so I tried the next best alternative to a hangover – alcohol against alcohol.
After the drinks were laid out, Mr. Palit continued “I am also a writer”. Well I felt even more embarrassed as I could not remember reading anything by him and looked down miserably at the food tray.


As if by reading my mind he added with a chuckle, “Don’t feel embarrassed Banerjee Saheb. It is only natural that you haven’t heard my name. I don’t cater to your kind of readers. There is this publishing house called Star Publishers – that’s mine.”


“Have you ever seen any books by Star Publishers? Well it may have caught your eye – in trains, Sealdah station, market places these books are sold, price ranges from Rs. 10 to Rs. 15. It usually has very colourful covers with provocative pictures of women on it. There are pictures of nude women also on the inside – mainly photographs. The Bengalis have given a very nice title to these books – Bot Tolar Boi (Local Pornography). Sadly pornographic literature never got its due in our society. But you know in the Victorian society it had been deemed at par with all other forms. There was even a similar publication called Pearl during those days. My experience of life is that it is not divided up into genres; it’s a horrifying, romantic, tragic, comical, science-fiction cowboy detective novel. You know, with a bit of pornography if you're lucky. So I stuck to pornography.  Well the amount spent in producing one is quite nominal and profits are good. Each book goes for around 3000 editions. Some more whiskey Banerjee Saheb?’ I noticed that the stewardess was back for a refill. There was this very peculiar feeling that I was going through being seated next to a man who produces pornographic novels, something that was popular amidst us during high school and college. It had steamy pictures of nude voluptuous women and illustrated steamy sex stories. But was definitely not something that can be termed as Literature. I was uncomfortable. Hypocritically so as my middle class puritan background that never objected me reading those novels during my most desirous moments of puberty, now was objecting to being seated next to someone who produces them.


But Mr. Palit seemed completely unaffected and ignorant of my uneasiness and went on “The books sell well. Especially students and people from the rural areas have high demand for them. Till date 65 books have been published; I have written 40 of them. I am sure you have not heard of even a single book as these books can’t be advertised on Anandabazar you see” he chuckled at his own joke. “For advertisements I have my own paper “Lashyomoyee” – it has a subscription fee of Rs. 50 annually and there are 3 pages of all sorts of adverts that don’t come out on regular papers, including those of my books.”


“Well off course someone like you would not consider them literary. The sect of people who subscribe to Lashyomoyee, they love my writing and I write for them. I write what they want, they way they want it. I am their writer. The writer of the perverted. Sometimes I print catalogues and send it to all my subscribers. Besides recent publications it also caries adverts for some medicines.” Looking at the surprise on my face he laughed, “Oh no Banerjee Saheb, I am not a doctor; my medicines are for hair loss, improving sexual potency, alcoholism, fidelity etc – you don’t need a degree in medicine to make these. Believe me Banerjee Saheb; these medicines are in demand.”


“Ha Ha you are laughing Banerjee Saheb?” he said seeing the look of amusement in my face. “Yes it’s a kind of fraud. But you would surely agree that it’s terribly unfair not to cheat people who are desperate to be cheated. Besides to survive in this world you need to cheat nowadays or be cheated. And when this fraud is done in a very large scale it becomes a matter of social prestige and pomp. The petty thief always goes to jail Banerjee Saheb, but one who cheats and swindles on a big scale gets felicitated by the society. If it’s done properly, this business of fraud not only gets overlooked but is deemed as a virtue. The world is being ruled by those virtuous few who have this virtue in amplitude.”


“I am sure that by now you have realized that I am no author. I am a businessman. The only similarity I have with writers like you is that even I earn my bread through pen and paper. But I am an outcast in your literary circa. I have lost my status in this world of art. But I have chosen this path, fully aware of its consequences. So I never put any effort ever to redeem my status. The only plead to all this is that I never read what I write. I could never get myself to it. Whenever I feel like reading I read the ones written by celebrated writes such as you. But I am not complaining, for with this compromise I have found affluence – Which is quite essential nowadays. I have given 15 best years of my life to this and now it has started giving results. I have bought a flat at South City. I used to have a cycle when I started and now I drive a Ford, with a chauffeur. People come to see me from all over West Bengal. They are courteous to me. You know Banerjee Saheb you can’t get everything you want in life. But whatever little I have – I am quite contended. I have all material comforts that one can possibly desire and for that I had to make that one little compromise in my life- believe me Sir I have no regrets.”


I had forgotten about my hangover by this time and I was listening to this sixty something, short, balding man with rapt attention. He took a couple deep swigs from his plastic airline glass and finished the whiskey and rang for the stewardess. Wiping his lips on his shirt sleeves bluntly he continued “You see business is business; there should be nothing in between. Whatever the market demands, what your customers need you have to supply to stay in business and literature my dear Sir is no exception. The European renaissance is the biggest example of it. If you keep art aside and just focus on the fact, majority of the people want crude and cheap thrills in literature and films nowadays – so that’s exactlywhat you have to give them, cheap trash. I understand that you are completely ignorant of this thriving market. I personally hate these books. But it gives me money. It pays for my expensive habits. Some of my most popular books are “Boudir Protyasha (My Sister-In-Laws desires); Mashir Kamona (Luscious aunty) Amar Joubon (My Lust) amongst others. I can’t seem to remember all their names. Believe me Banerjee Saheb it disgusts me, but that’s where the money is and money you’d agree, is necessary. All the stories revolve around illicit relations, middle aged women. There is pattern to it, almost like a formula and just a permutation and combination is needed and anyone can write book after book. It takes me 2 to 3 days to write one book. Lately you get most of your material from the internet porn, add the local spice to it and you have a best seller. The simpler the language the more popular it becomes, for my readers aren’t professors or artists. Lately I have been publishing them myself which has ensured a broader margin. Overall life is good.”


He stopped to look around other passengers to see if anyone was listening to his narrative and continued. “You would probably be thinking that money isn’t everything – not by bread alone is the phrase. Yes I agree to that. You can’t live by bread alone. Bread needs a layer of butter, jam, things of comfort and luxury. Just surviving on bread and water for the sake of it is not worth it. I am sure that I won’t love my bread if it is not layered with the best butter and ham and for that extra layer of butter – Oh no your glass is empty you must refill.” He launched himself to call the stewardess again.



“I don’t know Banerjee Saheb how much importance you give to money, but there are people whom money can’t lure. Some say that money is proportional to happiness – this concept is a fallacy. But I could never overlook money as I came from acute poverty. My struggles during childhood would provide a fantastic fare for any Bengali novel. It was with a lot of hardship that I finished school, but what I had was freedom. Freedom to do as I pleased for there was no one to look after me. There was no one I could depend on so I had to fend for myself from a very early age and I have been doing it till date. You look young and you don’t seem to have faced much anomalies of life so I won’t tire you with my growing up stories.”


“Since school I loved writing and I nursed a fool’s desire of being a writer someday. I had a friend. He was also very poor. We were classmates till college. He wrote poems – presumably quite good ones. We would dream of making it big someday in the world of literature like Sukanta, Baudelaire, and Elliot. In spite of acute poverty and hardships those dreams would remain alive in us. We were very close – like brothers, inseparable. I could have done anything for him. Sometimes I wonder why I loved him so much. When we were in college, we published his book of poetry with the contributions from our classmates. Those days his poetries created quite a ripple in the literary world. It was long time back – when you were but a child. I wonder if you had seen that book “Blood Red Sunsets” – albeit it was a little ahead of the times. Sometimes, you read a book and it fills you with this weird evangelical zeal, and you become convinced that the shattered world will never be put back together unless and until all living humans read the book. Here was one such piece.”


This name I was familiar with. Anyone who had had a fetish for Bengali Leftist poetry knew the existence of this book by Nirupam Shome. It had created revolution in the Bengal poetic circles. By this time I was really interested and I excitedly exclaimed “Yes I have read it, it was brilliant. I still remember a few lines from it. I had tried even this time to get my hands on a copy of that book, but it seems it’s out of print since the 70’s”.


He seemed pleased at my words “You read the book? You liked it? Really?” There was genuine happiness in his face. “It pleases me that people have still remembered him. I don’t say it for he was my friend but I did genuinely believe in his talent. I still do. He did have fire in his pen. I had hoped that he would do something big. Real Big. But he couldn’t do anything. “


“He never wrote anything after that?” I implored.


“Maybe but they were never published. As far as I remember after his first book was published he didn’t write. His first book made 250 copies of which almost 150 were distributed and hardly 20 copies were sold. Maybe the publishers sold of the rest to the Kabaraiwalas (Junkyard). It was never printed again.”


 “After college I and Nirupam started looking for work, for we needed money to survive. I wasn’t worried much for myself as I was for him. I had realized that I was tougher than him and if he could expose his talent through me I would be happy. I decided that I won’t let him face any hardships I would take charge of the ship. It is impossible to survive in our country writing poetry Banerjee Saheb and Nirupam was not made to do a clerical job. I wanted him to write poetry. I would look after him. But those days my means were limited. Those days it was not very difficult to get a reasonable job, but I decided to fight. To conquer.”


“I tried putting to test whatever literary talent I had. I started writing a novel. After many hardships I came up with my first novel. It took me even more austerity to find someone who would want to publish that novel. I did find one. He bought my manuscript for Rs. 100. It was one of the happiest days of my life. I started writing my next novel. The first novel did well. Many newspapers came up with various reviews – some positive, some detrimental. But people got to know my name. Amidst all this I finished my next novel. The best publishers bought it and I got quite a good amount for it. Those days the number of publishers was few and it was difficult to have your work published if you didn’t have a dedicated publisher. I couldn’t stop writing as I needed the money. It’s not that I loved this mass production, but I would console myself that this was better than being a clerk. After my second novel I wrote another one – my third. This was lengthier and I had given it my all. I still believe that I had done a good work. Maybe even you would have liked it.”


“What happened to that book?” I asked earnestly.


“Well no one was ready to print it. Those days no one would touch anything that was faintly leftist. My novel was a love story of a Naxalite leader. It had pro-Naxalite sentiments. Naturally nobody would want to touch it.  So it was back to streets again. Well alongside this rejection came acrid poverty. I shoved that manuscript inside an old trunk and wrote my first pornographic work “Deher Khide (Hungers of the Body)”. I realized that twenty years from now I would be more disappointed by the things that I didn't do than by the ones I did do. So I throw off the bowlines and all the baggage’s that I had and tried to catch the trade winds in my sails. After much inquest I found this shady publishing house in North Calcutta that was ready to print my work. The press used to publish everything from Upanishads to Pornography. The Publisher needed someone like me and I needed him. Within 3 months my “Deker Khide” was published. Then I was printing 2 such novels every month. Well needless to say I was getting financially stronger. And fortune did favor my brave decision. Within 5 years I bought my own press. Then my own newspaper “Lashyomoyee”. Another 5 years I thought I needed more money and I started my medicine business. Well since then there was no looking back. I still have another 20 odd years and I do hope to do something more. This life is what you make it. No matter what, you're going to mess up sometimes, it's a universal truth. But the good part is you get to decide how you're going to mess it up.”


Mr. Palit closed his eyes as if in reflection. After a while I asked him “But whatever happened to your friend Nirupam Shome?”


“He died 15 years back.” Mr. Palit mentioned in a low tone.


After that he remained quiet and the flight had already started circling the Dubai skyline for the final part of our journey. Shortly we landed at the Terminal 3. He walked alongside me till we crossed immigration and customs and finally we were out in July Dubai heat. I saw that he was being received by a concierge from Burj Al Arab – one of the most expensive hotels in the entire Gulf. Just before he got inside his BMW he beamed at me and said “It was really a pleasure making your acquaintance Banerjee Saheb. I would be really thankful to you if you come to my house next time you are in Calcutta. I promise I would not want to sell you my books. We can just talk. Well till we meet again”


As he got inside his car he quickly pushed his card inside my hand. I looked at the card as his car vanished amidst the midday traffic. It was written



Mr. Nirupam Shome

1040 -1041 Tower B,

South City Complex

Kolkata.

A Woman of no Importance

What can you say about a twenty year-old girl who couldn’t die? That she was beautiful. And brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach. And the Beatles. And nobody ever loved her. The lines above has been made immortal by Erich Segal’s epic romantic novel, however I have conveniently twisted the lines tonight as I sit back twenty odd years later to remember somebody who lived in my memories. It's about a girl who was on the cusp of becoming someone. A girl who may not have known what she had wanted right then and she may not have known who she was, but who did deserve the chance to find out like the rest of us.

I wonder if anybody else remembered her. Anybody, who had spent 4 years at the REC Nagpur during the early 90’s. Anybody for whom the Arts lobby was an essential part of his or her daily routine. Anybody who had the customary tea and toast at the canteen. Anybody, who was faintly acquainted with a vibrant young woman, a student whom my generation had tagged uncouthly as “Bade Miya” (Big Man).

It was the spring of 1994. The best spring that had ever happened to me. It was then that my school days had come to a conclusion and a new and much awaited chapter was about to unfurl - college. I still remember the glee and excitement of the first day vividly. It was unbelievable to enter an academic institution without a uniform. They were no bells. No restrictions. No monitors or prefects. Just an unfathomable sense of freedom that splurged everywhere like spring blossom. New faces. New books. New Professors and the new me all ready take my plunge into manhood. Even the ragging sessions seemed meaningful.

Well we were warned about it and I was quite apprehensive of my first introduction to the seniors. The much dreaded event finally happened was when we had all filed into the canteen during our lunch break. Around 30 odd seniors (you could make them out easily that they were seniors from their confident body languages) marched in and closed the door. We were informed that we were to write an essay about introducing ourselves only that we had to start each line with the words “unfortunately”. We were given 10 minutes to finish our scribe and then we were asked to read them out aloud like an announcer at the Moghul Court. “Unfortunately my name is Subaprasad Subramanium sir. Unfortunately I was born in Madurai sir” blurted out a shaky lad who was asked to go first. The hall erupted in acidulous laughter. Lucid comments flew from the senior crew making the speaker even more uncomfortable. Thus carried on the one sided session of humiliation till Piyali stood up to read her introduction. There were about 50 of us fresher’s in that canteen hall almost all of them were boys except five girls. During those days not many girls opted for technical studies as an option. Till then I had not seen the girls in my batch. She was definitely not someone who would turn heads. Dressed in a plain salwar and plaited hair she had whitish complexion and large profound eyes. Yes her eyes. That was the most attractive part of her body. They were intense. When my eyes met hers I had felt those eyes were piercing into mine, and I could swear at that moment that she could sensed the real me. The one without the makeup, without any façade. “Unfortunately I have been asked to introduce myself in this crude manner. Unfortunately my seniors aren’t abreast of normal introductory protocols”, she declared standing there. There was silence all around the room. We were all looking at one another like scared sheep. But you couldn’t miss the signs of silent approval from the 1st year people. She went on confidently using her strong grasp of the language to ridicule the seniors and did that very affluently. As she finished Jatin Thakur, the tall burly 3rd year student from Electronics walked surreptitiously upto her and said, “Let me have a look at that.” As much as we had enjoyed Piyali making a mockery of the seniors with her oration, but we started feeling that she could have avoided this. Jatin Thakur was a renowned thug. A Jat. Rumor had it that his father was an MLA from where he came from in Haryana and had hoods for his protection. Even the professors kept him at bay. But he just smiled at her and said. “Bangaali hmm?” and added “You Bangaalis are the literary sort let me see what you have written.” He snatched her piece of paper with visible disdain and said, "Here is a lesson in creative writing to you madam. First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college”. “Well Bangaalis are good singers too I have been told. Come sing something for us baby”, he ordered as if to find an inlet to humiliate the girl. All this while as we sat there frozen, Piyali seemed completely nonplussed about the surroundings and started to sing a bade Ghulam Ali Khan Thumri. Now this wasn’t the time of the place for classical renditions. She was stopped midway by some other senior who spitted out “Sing something else Bade Miya. We want Bollywood.” Piyali coldly turned at him and replied “I don’t do Bollywood.” Things could have gone out of hand but the classes had started and we all sighed a sigh of relief. However what it did for her was that she was labeled “Bade Miya” for the next four years for her upstartish and brazen demeanor.
The mark of the immature man or woman is that he/she wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man/woman is that he/she wants to live humbly for one. Needless to say Piyali came in the first category. In the first year itself she was a part of strikes, causes, communities and everything that were a distinct deviation from the nice coy demure women with manicured hands, the ones who were pined for by all at the college hostels. But Bade Miya was a different metal all together. The food is bad at the canteen – Bade Miya is there. The fee structure has gone up – Bade Miya is there. The neighborhood tribal are sick – Bade Miya is there. Well she had become quite popular, but not in the sense a girl wanted to be popular in an Engineering college. The name Bade Miya was suggestive enough that people had allied her with the men and manliness. Strangely enough- she never complained. She was free in her wildness. She was a wanderess, a drop of free water. She belonged to no man and to no city. Agreed, that she was no prom queen and no enchantress who had closets full of love notes and clothes. But she was herself. You need not be sorry for her. She was one of the kinds that liked to grow up. In the end she grew up of her own free will a day quicker than the other girls.

Months are different in college, especially freshman years. Too much happens. Every freshman month equals six regular months—they're like dog months. It was no different at REC Nagpur as well. Piyali was a good student and we all used mob her for her class notes and drawings. Besides she was generous with the money too. If by the 15th of a month your money ran out – Bade Miya was always there as a savior. But strangely enough nobody wanted to further their associations with her beyond this. I remember in 2nd year there was news that a 3rd year computer science chap had taken a fancy to her. Well it was the biggest thing that happened in the campus since REC Nagpur won the inter college cricket tournament. Manish Kapoor was a tall, fair and handsome Delhite – on a Yamaha RX 100. He was a day dream for most of the 1st and the 2nd year girls. His father was a rich businessman and he used to throw birthday parties at a local discotheque. According to the grapevine Manish had been thawed and deliquesced towards Piyali during their trip for an inter college festival in Pune. Well we saw quite a lot of Bade Miya speeding away behind Manish’s RX 100 for about 2 weeks and then suddenly as abruptly as the whole thing had started – it came to an end. Just like that. Well most of us were betting on the longevity of the relation as Manish and Bade Miya were two different poles. Later on Manish had revealed in close circa that he was bored with her intellect, which had been apparently the thing that he had once found attractive in her. Besides Bade Miya didn’t subscribe to the list of North Indian do’s and don’ts that Mr. Kapoor had laid out for her. He had vociferously claimed that “Who gives a damn about Pablo Neruda when you’re out at the Seminary Hills on a moonlit night?” It was discovered that instead of branded cologne Bade Miya had done the grave blunder of giving Manish a “Collected Love Poems of Neruda”. He went openly expressing his discontent in trying to “Kiss the Encyclopedia.” But Piyali seemed normal as usual. On looking back now it was all in all a case of jilted male ego at the hands of the unimaginable – a smart woman. When you grow up as a girl in this world, it is like there are faint chalk lines traced approximately three inches around your entire body at all times, drawn by society and often religion and family and particularly other women, who somehow feel invested in how you behave, as if your actions reflect directly on all womanhood. Piyali had dared to cross that line. Piyali had dared to come across as a person whose mind and actions were not dictated by master species. This was offensive for any budding Engineering student who would desire amidst other things, a trophy girlfriend as a compensation for getting a B.Tech degree. Truth without love is brutality, and love without truth is hypocrisy. I guess in this case there was a severe lack of both. As men we grow up wearing a mask, and our faces grow to fit it. Manish couldn’t come out of the socio-religio-sexo mask that had been handed out to him from his Lodhi Gardens background.

Usually when you ask somebody in college why they are there, they'll tell you it's to get an education. The truth of it is, they are there to get the degree so that they can get ahead in the rat race. We were all running our own vermin 100 meters – albeit for different trophies. But I was sure that Piyali was not running with us. The romantic fiasco with Manish had deteriorated the feminine face of Bade Miya further. She was slowly denigrating more as an object of wonder and occasional humor than as a woman. Her alienation from her own kind was clearly visible in the campus. The other girls found her supercilious and pretentious. They hated her intellect and derived immense satisfaction at her social ridicule. But the professors were quite fond of her and they made this evident during their lectures.

Piyali’s social activities had increased by the time she was in the final year. Alongside being the president of the literary club, she was editing the college magazine and had become the God-Mother of the junior students, especially the shy girls. To this someone had joked that I want to write a book called, "Bonfires and Bras," which follows around a young, braless feminist like Piyali who struggles to adopt in air conditioned rooms, as her hardened nipples cause her excess embarrassment. But these sundries never daunted Bade Miya. She smiled and concluded “Growing up is losing some illusions, in order to acquire others”. ‘Don't you find it odd," she continued, "that when you're a kid, everyone, all the world, encourages you to follow your dreams. But when you're older, somehow they act offended if you even try.”

During this time there was an incident of the flooding of Narmada. Piyali flung herself into its relief cause. The local MP had organized a relief party and Piyali had an important role in that. Well those were the days of Rock Concerts. We had a concert for almost all occasions. This was no different. A Rock Concert was organized to gather funds for the flood relief. Amidst some well known national names, our very own Nagpur college band would play there. The musicians of this band came from different colleges of Nagpur. We also had our very own Gaurav Tinakar the lead guitarist. We all were quite excited about the event. It was a chance to mingle with women from the arts faculty – the prime time women in the city. Every single Engineering male student waits these 4 years to get an advent into the arts faculty women. That’s where the prospective wives are sourced from. The nexus is always the same. Prospective NRI engineer boy meeting trophy arts faculty women. College fests are exhausting in a way. They are full of smart, funny people who are all used to being the smartest, funniest person in the hall, so they spend the whole time talking over one another, overlapping and overtaking the conversation to prove that they are the smartest, funniest person in the college, if not the entire planet. But amidst all this Bade Miya was relentlessly running around to get the show on stage. It was told that she would also be crooning a song along with the band. So every day we would see her leaving with Gaurav and hanging out at the Nagpur Rock Gods at a popular coffee shop. One day the news came that Gaurav and bade Miya are now officially a couple and they would be doing a 80s slow rock number on stage together. Suddenly the campus was ablaze with stories about Piyali and Gaurav. Some would even twitch a nose at couple calling them – drug laden junkies. Well life went on.

In these last few years I have had the opportunity to form a sort of an academic relationship with Piyali. The factor comun between us was that we were from the same city and she was one of the few people in the campus whom I could converse in Bengali – as absolute essential in a Bengali life I feel. Across the years I had always found her confident, capable, and someone not waiting to be rescued by a man. I was in awe of her may be. She used to bring home made Bengali goodies for me when she came back from home after her vacations. We discussed politics, poetry and Rabindranath like any true blue Bengali amidst others. She used to laugh and remark “My own sex, I hope, will excuse me, if I treat them like rational creatures, instead of flattering their fascinating graces, and viewing them as if they were in a state of perpetual childhood, unable to stand alone.” We would laugh heartily at this. We talked about our futures and my humble background. But never did Piyali speak about her romantic manifestos or the lack of it – save this time. She, I found really enjoyed Gaurav’s company and this overall hanging out with a band. She looked happy and would talk on hours about music. I learnt that Piyali had a background of extensive musical training – something that was quite prevalent among Bengali girls those days. But she went beyond that she had trained in Indian Classical vocals under one of the well known Ustaad. Her knowledge of music was also eminent. She would animatedly discuss the song list for concert with me – something that bewildered me as I was in no way a musical connoisseur. But maybe also because she had no one else to share her excitement. Two days before the event was to go live I saw Piyali sitting amidst a cloud of gloom in one of the forlorn corners of the campus staring absent mindedly at the space in front of her. I was hesitant to approach her for I didn’t want to disturb her reverie. But something told me that things aren’t good. So I quietly walked up to her and asked her how she was. She gave me a wry smile and said “I have taken my name out of the concert Dipu”. Now it was my turn to be amazed. “Why in the world would you do that?” I asked. “I learnt that the only way to get rock-star power as a girl is to be a groupie and bare your breasts and get chosen for the night. I learnt that the only way to get anywhere is through men. And it's a lie” she replied. I didn’t ask further. I sat quietly next to her. We sat for a long time without speaking to each other. ‘You know Dipu I have a brain and a uterus, and I use both, but funny people ask me to take off my brains along with my clothes as well” she said as got up to leave. I didn’t have any replies to this either save walking her back to the girl’s hostel.

Well in college gossip news travels faster than it does across BBC. The news of the Gaurav-BadeMiya break up became the coffee table topic for the next few weeks. It was learnt that Gaurav couldn’t accept being told of musical improvisations and off tune rifts during rehearsals. So one fine day (according to eye witnesses) he “cut her down to size”. This hacking was done in front of the whole band wherein she was told she is nothing but a groupie and a crooner and she needs to accept that. There were contrary vibes about Piyali’s superior musical talents as well. But they were few in numbers and severely faint. Well college ended amidst all this uneventfully. The world was littered with another bunch of B.Tech graduates who with stars in their eyes and dreams in their mind would go ahead to make a career out of a foreign bank. The less adventurous like me would opt for an M.Tech degree and end up working at a Govt. Civil engineering department. Soon Piyali, College and academic years vanished into imposed oblivion of career, marriage, kids and LIC premiums. For, after all, as you grow up, you do outgrow your ideals, which turn to dust and ashes, which are shattered into fragments; and if you have no other life, you just have to build one up out of these fragments. And all the time your soul is craving and longing for something else. And in vain does one rummage about in his old dreams, raking them over as though they were a heap of cinders, looking in these cinders for some spark, however tiny, to fan it into a flame so as to warm his chilled blood by it and revive in it all that he held so dear before, all that touched his heart, that made his blood course through his veins, that drew tears from his eyes, and that so splendidly deceived him. But many like me would prefer to spend that energy in doing nothing but swapping channels in the evening.

After 20 odd years I received a post about an alumni reunion. It was not that I was in touch with all the batch mates regularly. Most of my batch mates had done reasonably well and didn’t choose to stay in touch with an insignificant one like me. A few did make a few seasonal phone calls out of nostalgia, geographical proximity and also to have someone to whom their success can be flaunted on. I didn’t mind at all. One of them did the kindness of inducting me in the alumni. The venue was decided to be at a hotel in Nagpur. It was not difficult to manage a few days leave to meet people who had been sharing the same roof and food with me for 4 great years of my life. A kaleidoscope played in my brain of those 4 exceptional years of the hopes, the dreams and the disappointments. I was keen to see them. I grabbed the chance and confirmed my participation. As I met the guys at the banquet hall, I realized that nothing had changed much. My batch mates were only fatter and balder. But they were still trying to be the smartest and funniest in the room. Add to that they were also trying to be the richest and the most successful. One thing that didn’t change was their attitude about Piyali. “Whatever happened to Bade Miyan?” someone quipped amidst all the banter. “I heard she didn’t take up that GE job at the campus” someone replied. “So what is she upto these days?” “I don’t know but last I heard she was doing P.Hd” someone added. “That was after college, I heard she is running an NGO”. “Isn’t she on Facebook?” “No man. Arti had to go through a lot of trouble to invite her” Joshi added. “Oh! So is she coming?” Taneja queried. “She said she would” Arti replied. Suddenly the alumni had found the scrape goat. Reminiscing took a detour into Piyali’s inadequacies and idiosyncrasies. Bouts of laughter echoed the room as someone would talk of her misadventures with Manish or her interests in feeding stray dogs. Somebody even wanted to take a bet as to how she would look now – Khadi Kurta, jeans, Heavy Kajal, Kolhapuri Sandals, Horn-rimmed glasses – Ms. Intellectual. All of a sudden somebody said “Isn’t that Bade Miya?” And there was suddenly a hush inside the banquet hall. The one who walked in was definitely Piyali, but she was not dressed as my friends had described earlier. Draped in a Blue Sari and a pearl necklace she turned the heads of all that was assembled there. She looked stunning as if the moon was living in the lining of her skin. She had a figure that would give the NRI wives of my friends a severe complex. She spoke to everyone and laughed. Throughout the evening she kept everyone in awe with her talk, her humor, and her body her everything. Here was a chrysalis in action. She was indeed the CEO of a very big NGO in India. Her achievements made jaws drop. Her body made them drools. Finally the evening came to an end and out of the blue she asked me if I would like to join her for a coffee.

With envious eyes pouring into my Big Bazaar shirt I walked off with her. Piyali looked even more delectable now at such close proximities. Her perfume was making me nauseas. There was a glow all over her. Probably that came from her professional success or from the disbelief, awe and adulation that was showered on her for the last few hours. She took me to a bar in a terribly expensive hotel. I tried objecting saying “I won’t be able to afford that Piyali”. She dismissed my objection with a whiff of her hand saying “since when did you start footing the bills for us?” And there we were at the Bar at Center Point Hotel. I said “You look good. How have you been?” I asked. She took out one of her extra slim cigarettes and lit them. Taking a few deep pulls from them she replied. “Professionally or personally?” I said “both or whichever you feel like talking about”. She told me about her life. Her decision to not pursuing an Engineering career, about meeting a French lady who had helped her to start her first NGO. Her work with the tribal’s. The people who worked with her. As I listened to her in rapt attention, I realized that she was not talking about her profession or her career but herself, such was the intensity. She was always passionate about the things she did. By this time we had drowsed 3 large cognacs with Antigua coffee. I could see that she had started relaxing after the evening. I could also make out the stress that she had to go through to be there today. “Family? Tell me about your family Piyali” I asked softly. She burst out laughing. “Why do you men always beat around the bush?” she alleged. “You want to know if I am married, don’t you?” I was embarrassed and kept quiet. “One of the advantages of being disorganized is that one is always having surprising discoveries Dipu.” “My life had been a series of amazing discoveries – thanks to my unmanageabilities. But along with the discoveries came a lot of disappointments. Some of them you are aware of. Some happened in the last few years. Mostly personal disappointments. Yes Mr. Banerjee, to answer your question, I was married and not once – but twice. Both times for very short periods. You can say shyness eluded me even twice.” “But in my 40 years of life I have found out that the habit of looking at life as a social relation — an affair of society — did no good. It cultivated a weakness which needed no cultivation. If it had helped to make men of the world, or give the manners and instincts of any profession — such as temper, patience, courtesy, or a faculty of profiting by the social defects of opponents — it would have been education better worth having than mathematics or languages; but so far it hasn’t done much for my world.”

“I was no princess and I had to do it the hard way. I had to do something aside from looking pretty and wait to be rescued from a very early stage in my life. Slowly I started abhorring the idea of being a coy, demure doll for some successful man. To cook, clean and wait for him. But I was up against a tough opposition. I still am. I grew up with the notion that femininity is depicted as weakness, the sapping of strength, yet masculinity I found was also so fragile that apparently even the slightest brush with the feminine destroys it. Like my marriages. The men in my life always thought they were braver than me? They never guessed that that was why I was so afraid? It wasn't that I only loved a part of them. But I craved if they could ever love more than some of me “, she stopped to order another cognac. “Dipu women who display themselves as sex objects do not represent women as a gender anymore than the Chippendales or George Bush represent you men. Women are not a homogenous group who all get together to decide how or who they will be. But that’s what they are being asked to do. I find it revolting. I don’t have a problem cooking, cleaning, raising kids and fucking every day provided I am not labeled as someone who has been born to do only these. How can one judge if somebody is not good enough for somebody else? You are using me, ordering me, and judging me: how I cook your food; how I keep your house, how I dress, what I read, who I talk to and all of a sudden, you want me to give up anything that you don’t approve of. Who are you to approve or disapprove anybody or anything? And every time that option came something revolted inside me so much so that I had to ask the men in my bed that I would not be accepting roses from them anymore, and that they have pissed their last in my house.” She spitted these words out and looked out of the window into the night sky where a nice moon flickered. It was as if she was transported into another night to another moon. “Since I was a little girl I wanted to be loved. I wanted to be told that I was alright. I wasn’t as pretty as my sister, but I was smarter than her. My grades were better than her. But she had everyone wrapped around her dainty little fingers. No matter how hard I tried she would always be the queen. And I have been trying since then. Trying with whatever I had. In my case it was my brains and my vagina. But I always lost as I couldn’t separate the brain from the vagina. And I realized that men would admire me, lust for me, try to posses me, loathe me but no one would ever want to love me. Is it so difficult to love me Dipu? Would you have loved me and married me?” she whispered almost without looking for an affirmation. I could see her tear stained eyes as she looked at me. They were still the most beautiful eyes that I had ever seen. I wanted to hold her hand and say that I always loved her but I couldn’t answer her. I could see the same desolate, lonely Bade Miya sitting in front me – the one I had seen at the campus many years back heartbroken after she had split with Gautam. In my silence I knew I would never have the guts or the answer to her question. For common people like me hold the Piyali’s of the world either in a pedestal or a guillotine but never in a lover’s embrace, as we have small arms not enough to hold such a spirit. I strongly believed that she deserved someone special. And I was nothing special I knew it. I was a common man with common thoughts and I've led a common life. There are no monuments dedicated to me and my name will soon be forgotten. Such greatness is not expected of people like us. The writing on our walls is always that a great woman must either die unwed ... or find a still greater man to marry her. But I was middle class. My life was wrapped in several double standards that like a skin have gripped me. For me unfortunately I came from the same school of thought that Piyali was fighting. That very clan where one always like a woman who'd talk back to you may be just a little bit. "Girls with balls" were good we would say. Women with an actual mind of their own who could prove you wrong were, of course, castrating bitches that should be drowned in bottomless wells. I definitely didn’t have the grit to go against it. And I knew that I would go on passing this hypocrisy to generations to come. While the Bade Miyas would keep on asking us the same question over and over decaying into bottomless silence