Remembering Dada

As I cannot be physically present with you all and join in Dada's passing-away ceremonies even though I would have preferred it that way, so much, I thought I will at least share my feelings by writing about him a little and sharing a few photos that I have with me.

But, first I would like to share this piece from a song, composed and sung by the famed duo- Simon and Garfunkel, whose music we all grew up listening to. Besides, I rather feel, these lyrics bring out what I feel much better than I can ever express. Call it the power of poetry over prose; in this case certainly.

This photo is easily recognisable. Dada's two guardian angels- Majuma and Ma, then Dada, Moinati and me. Baba took this photo. We talked about this photo once. One can spot Ma's knitting basket near me. Dada is holding a brownie camera, which had once belonged to Baba. Baba said that the camera held a very special memory for him. It was a gift to him from one of Buri Pishi's (of Sylhet) sisters. He said he'd felt quite special to be a recipient of the camera, to be singled out amongst 7 siblings! Baba had gifted this special camera to Dada, who he endearingly called 'Bhotraj', meaning Bhutia Raja in short. Baba's special name for Didi was 'Bomdila'. There are some amusing stories about the three of them and our baby pram!

When this photo was taken, Dada was in between schools. He had left Mt. Hermon and hadn't join Doon. Didi was already in MGD in Jaipur. Moinati and I were at home.We learnt our 3 R's at home. The bright expressions on our faces must say it all! The fantastic time we were having, being at home together, playing all the while.

Our activities included going fishing in the 'kujia' or the pukhri across the road with our deshi borshies. Though I don't remember catching any fish. Years later, quite recently, in fact, Dada told me that as a child, he had enjoyed going fishing the most. We took joy rides on Chonchol Moti, and imitated Soni mahout/Mondol mahout's commands to Chonchol Moti, including the exchange of money and beedi between mahout and shopkeeper conveniently aided by Chonchol Moti's long trunk. We imitated Chonchol Moti too, playing Hathi-Hathi. If in future, I can put together in writing all that we played/play acted, it will give us a very interesting picture/commentary on how as children we made sense of our world and handled situations.

At that time, the world really seemed like our oyster. We could be anyone and anything we chose to be. Every day was totally our own. We could be beggars one day, sleeping under the staircase, under the landing, or the knight St George, conveniently split into 3 St. Georges (Boro/maju/choto) waving our cardboard swords tackling the giants-"the boro manush". Most of the games were led by Dada with some inputs from us. The giants were the electricity posts. Wooden curtain rods were our horses till we had to return them.

Listening to stories was also one of our favourite activities. We regularly spent our afternoons listening to Bishti bai's stories, licking the fantastic bogri-chutney which she made on the shil-paata. Crushing fresh ripe bogries with salt, green chillies and fresh coriander leaves. Sometimes these sessions would be in Thakurbaba's house while he was resting, sometimes in the Tamul bari. Skipping our afternoon bedtime. We had to make sure to be quiet while our elders were taking their afternoon naps.

We eagerly awaited Didi's return from school. Dada looked up to Didi quite a bit. Those days, whenever anyone asked how many siblings we were, we always responded that we were four.

This is Dada and me, both of us wearing sweaters knitted by Ma. This is a posed photograph, taken by the local studio photographer. There is another nice one in this set, taken on the same day. There was Dada, me and Moinati who was sitting in a small cane chair wearing a smocked frock. The chair belonged to Didi. I don't have a copy, and I'm not certain if there is a copy in Ma's or Majuma's albums. But, there was one framed up in a large painted-up bamboo frame of the handicraft variety in Dada's room. Through all my growing up years and even after becoming a mother myself, it stood on one of the 'bataams' of the room. Occasionally moved to another 'bataam' but it was always there. Gradually over the years losing a bit of the picture to the elements and perhaps silver fish. It didn't have a protective glass cover. However, each visit of mine, it remained reassuringly present. A little less discernible each time. The first time I didn't actually see it was during my recent visit last year; maybe it finally disintegrated.

There was a phase when Dada took up photography. This one of me is from that phase, shot by him. Trying out different poses, chiding me for not posing properly. Those days one had to be careful not to waste a film roll frame. Luckily for us, this came out alright. I am standing next to the bleeding heart creeper "planted-by-Buddhi-Pishi", in front of, what is now called Baba's house. It used to be the family guest house then.

Apart from going fishing, Dada loved cricket. I wasn't quite into cricket, but his infectious enthusiasm and cajoling, got Moinati and me playing a lot of cricket during our holidays. He assured us that if we practised enough and learnt how to play it well, there was a chance that one day we could both join the Indian Women's cricket team! We were asked to imagine that. Such was the possibility. The part of the wall of the plinth on the other side (not visible in the photo) was our makeshift stump. Dada batted most of the time while I bowled and Moinati fielded, occasionally changing roles. It was thrilling to shout out Howzatt! or Boundary, boundary! just like in the cricket commentaries we listened to on Dada's tiny transistor radio. We did have a few disagreements, since the wall wasn't really a good substitute for the real stumps.

Thakurbaba was also a keen follower of cricket, frequently enquiring about the latest scores. During cricket season, the tiny transistor was forever glued to Dada's ears lest he missed something dramatic. Moinati and I knew the names of the Indian cricket team by heart. We were amazed and impressed that that marvellous Alvin Kallicharan wasn't an Indian at all!

Dada was essentially a gentleman. Gentle in nature. Shy and retreating, avoided drawing attention to himself and at all costs, avoided confrontations. To the point that, he could never defend himself in the presence of more assertive voices/personalities. Often, one never heard his point of view. Maybe, he didn't hear it himself.

When Thakurbaba was alive, it was the tradition to get Thakurbaba's approval before going to the cinema. Thakurbaba disapproved of us kids going to the cinema, which usually screened B-grade Bollywood films. Fair enough; being a mother I now fully appreciate Thakurbaba's sentiments. But at that time, it was so thrilling for us, just the event of going to the cinema, all of us together. Never mind the stench of soo-soo, mingling with the smell of roasted peanuts, never mind that it was such a relief to breathe the fresh air after the show, my head feeling dizzy. The sound of honking of rickshaw horns, the burnt, smoky smell of the rickshaw's night lamp bringing us home, beckoned us back.

During one holiday, the time arrived to ask for Thakurbaba's approval. We had to decide who was going to do it. It generally fell on the eldest among us to do the job, which was Didi, but she decided that for a change Dada should do it. After a while of tossing the ball between them Dada agreed to do it. But how did he? He did a neat trick of opening the wooden door leading from Baba's house to Thakurbaba's house (it is now walled up), letting us all troop in while he lagged behind, way, way behind taking unnecessary time shutting the door. There was no choice left for Didi, except to face Thakurbaba and ask him if we could go to the cinema. On that occasion, I think we could, but Didi really glared and chided Dada afterwards. We all had a good laugh at his neat trick, and continued to do so whenever we remembered this incident.

Once it happened that, when we were playing Monopoly, Jethamuni had also joined us, Jethamuni thought I had cheated and he thundered at me. He had a rather loud voice. I protested and said I didn't. He persisted. Since there was nothing more I could do to defend myself, I excused myself from the game and went to cry in the 'pasila' veranda (now Majuma's front) sitting amongst the dusty, decaying piles of old mattresses, on top of which perched the equally dusty and fading old leopard head with skin.

Soon, I found Dada beside me. I repeated to him that I didn't cheat, almost accusingly. He immediately reassured me that he knew all the while that I didn't. Not feeling upto carrying on with the game he had also excused himself and had come out. He also said that I should now stop crying. That was that. The incident was never mentioned again. Neither did Jethamuni say anything to me. The world felt normal and glorious again.

Dada had a touchy spot. He felt that he was expected to be 'macho'. During one holiday, he set up a body building space in the enclosed part of his veranda. He exercised his arms with dumb-bells, pulled himself up on beams and ate a lot of bananas! Incredibly, it worked! He looked quite tough and muscular. But, we teased him that he was beginning to look like a Roman legionary from the Asterix comics. Muscular top resting on puny legs! Years later, he said that it was actually a bad idea to have stressed his body like that. As siblings we have a tendency to take each other for granted. At one point we began noticing that young pretty girls were giving him more than a second look. Their mothers too, thinking of future prospects perhaps.

Lest we forget, Dada turned out to be quite a success as an assistant Tea garden manager while at the Stewart Hall Tea Estate, at Dejoo. Once Baba took Didi, Moinati and me for a holiday to Dejoo and to Kimin near the Arunachal border. We stayed with Dada in his estate house.We also got invited to the manager's house to tea. Dada had two bosses above him, both incidently had Routella as their surnames, and both praised Dada quite a bit to Baba and us. Many years later in Delhi, at a common friend's house I met the junior Routella's daughter Pooja. She seemed very delighted to know I was Mr. Deb's cousin and she enquired and spoke about him, quite sweetly.

Dada had so much good in him.

My last conversation with Dada was when he called to speak to me from Hyderabad. He sounded so gay. He was looking forward to getting back home and said that the hospital doctors and nurses were very polite and friendly to him. He also said that he made sure not to leave behind in Guwahati the lucky crane mobile I had sent to him through Moinati. He said that after he got back home he'll find a nice place and hang it up. I didn't really expect that; that was to be our last conversation.

I pray that Dada will be now be totally and truly free from all earthly bondages and attachments and become enlightened.

With much love,
Sonati