#2: Heart Was Where Home Was in Luminous Kolkata
Luminous Kolkata
Heart Was Where Home Was: Inside and Outside
A
couple of rejoinders to the previous post on Kolkata , August 1946.
I welcome comments, and will accept them based on relevance and responsibility. I’ll return to some of the issues raised before at a later time—as the spirit moves me. I am also trying to keep these posts somewhat self-contained and therefore now and again there may be repetition of some elements.
I welcome comments, and will accept them based on relevance and responsibility. I’ll return to some of the issues raised before at a later time—as the spirit moves me. I am also trying to keep these posts somewhat self-contained and therefore now and again there may be repetition of some elements.
It
is important to add that mine is not a researcher’s discourse—not here in any
event. My recollections are first those of a child, then of a young boy—supported
by stories I used to hear, and indeed conversations I have had with others
since then. The gatherings in our Sadananda Road house had nothing in common
with bands of learned gentry in Kolkata The people I am commemorating here
were more like “fervent lovers” and not “austere scholars”—to borrow, irreverently, words from
the French poet Charles Baudelaire. So here I am again with bits
and pieces of remembrances. People and events scattered like cities and
villages, roadways and rivers, connected by a map, not by any clock compelling a
single direction of time. I know that my map remained equally steady under
moonlight and under storm clouds. That map also bound together immense vistas where
thorn bushes and craters appeared suddenly, without warning.
There
is a short poem by the great theatre man and poet Bertolt Brecht that continues
to haunt me whenever I am jolted by unspeakable violence and feel
helpless trying to oppose it even in a small way. The poem is an incentive to
resist, a reminder to gain and regain our humanity—and it goes something like
this:
Within me
there is a struggle
Between the
delight in a blossoming apple tree
And the horror
of a Hitler speech,
But only the
latter drives me to my desk.
The
gatherings at our house always seemed to be of people who—in their own
way—followed a similar path, whether or not they knew anything about Brecht or
his theatre. I mean, some did others didn't. This kind of thinking, this sense of creativity needs some
exploration.
Back in 2012, when that genius of Bengali theatre Khaled Chowdhury was still with us, we were reminiscing one day about people we had known and we had been close to. At one point our chat turned to the brand of music/songs in Bengal called (for some time now) “jibanmukhi”—literal translation, “life-oriented”. We were amused by such name-calling and agreed that the term was quite redundant and neither of us could find any example in music that was “jibanbimukhi”—oriented against life, or worse, “maronmukhi”—oriented toward death. It is true of course, and I have brought Hitler into the picture, that the Nazi Party in particular and fascists generally, appropriated different brands of music and art as their own, but did they create anything? As a matter of fact, many Nazi flunkies who gassed prisoners in concentration camps, went home after a hard day’s work and found comfort in the likes of Mozart. There has never been any music of genocide, only the wailing and then—silence.
When
I was a graduate student—quite a few years ago now—one of my teachers, the
philosopher Herbert Marcuse, asserted in a similar discussion that “a fascist aesthetic is a contradiction in
terms.” I am certain that Hitler’s speeches and other horrors of the time drove
many of my parents’ contemporaries to their writing table. That’s how I witnessed
them then and that's how I see the creative energy of today’s writers, artists,
musicians, scientists and mathematicians whom I know and respect. I intend to
share the content of my conversation with Khaled Chowdhury at some
auspicious moment in the future, and in all fairness to the enthusiastic life-oriented
artistes of our time!
So
anyhow, I imagine I am sitting in our living room listening to the grown-ups
talk about stories and storytellers, about famines and rebellions, about the
Burmese front and captured Indian soldiers. And then at some point my uncle
leaves the conversation, pulls out our harmonium and begins singing new
songs—composing them at will. My parents used to say that apart from his own
compositions he sang whatever grabbed him at the moment: bits and pieces of
classical melodies, Rabindranath, Sachin Deb Burman, folk tunes—and when he was
not singing, he was telling stories. I suppose these were prologues to all the courageous
plays he wrote.
Sometimes
he would come and sit with us kids and start singing, clowning, entertaining us
with sketches. He was my wizard man who made magic in our house where he spent most
of his free time. I found out too that he’s the one who started calling me
Gogol soon after I was born because, he said, everyone in this family was
destined to be a writer and he liked what he was reading by Nikolai the Russian
author. Well, the name stuck, and Gogol was my only name until I was enrolled
in Class One at the Mitra Institution in Bhabanipur. That’s
when my grandfather wrote down “Ranadhir” as my “good name” on the application
form because I was a child of World War II. I think that is something he wanted
me to remember. But I must confess that even today most people in India, and
many here in the US, know me as Gogol, or with our usual suffixes—Gogol-da or
Gogol-mama, or Gogol-jethu. This system of attributes, the meaning of all suffixes, is something for the
reader to have known or to discover. I won’t explore that here.
To
get back to the matter of writing as the “family trait”. This wizard uncle—my
mother’s cousin and my father’s “rebel brother” was none other than Bijan
Bhattacharya, my “GoshTHo-mama”, whom young Bengalis may know, or may not, as
the writer-director and main character “Pradhan Samaddar” of Nabanna—the seminal play of that era
about the Bengal famine and peasant uprisings of 1942. A play that remains quite
relevant I believe to our time of unchecked greed and exploitation—and consequently a world
full of immense suffering. A play written at GoshTHo-mama’s desk as he was
coming to terms with Hitlerian horrors of his
world, I’m sure. And I am also sure that in the near future I’ll have more
to say about the life and times of Bijan and of his son Nabarun (Bappa
to me) whose life was cut short by unrelenting cancer earlier this year. Bappa
was about ten years younger than me—what a singular loss, I think, and for many
generations! Much like the loss of his father was I have come to realize. Here too
I’ll have to bring forth some of the conversation I had with Bappa not too long
ago.
To
recapitulate a bit then, the living room where I watched all the spirited
people—young and old—come and go was downstairs in our house on Sadananda Road in Kalighat, Kolkata where I
was born. We lived there with my grandfather Satyendranath Majumdar whom many
have called the father of Bengali journalism and who at that time was the
editor of Ananda Bazar Patrika which continues
to be the most prominent Bengali newspaper today, but as a beast of a
completely different color and kind.
My
father the poet Arun Mitra, Uncle Bijan of course, writers Subodh Ghosh, Benoy
Ghosh, Swarnakamal Bhattacharya, actor Gangapada Bose, and others were all
journalists in that newspaper at one time or another. They congregated often
enough in our house. Add to that poet and composer Jyotirindra Moitra, poets
Bishnu Dey and Subhash Mukherjee, writers Manik Banerjee, Prabhat Deb Sarkar and
artist Gopal Ghose—“Shilpi Gopal” to me—and Subhash’s classmate the singer
Hemanta Mukherjee (later morphing into Bollywood’s Hemant Kumar). And sometime
after they were regulars, came the versatile vocalists Tarapada Chakraborty and Debabrata (George) Biswas. There
were also Jyotirmoy Roy and Ritwik Ghatak, writers who also worked in movies (Ritwik
became an astounding director and utilized again and again the acting talent of
uncle Bijan). Once in a while the actor Pahari Sanyal would show up. He was learning
French under my father’s tutelage. I would find some combination of these
people and also others in our living room on any given day.
II
Many
of the “also others” were personal friends of my parents or my grandfather from
different walks of life. They were not poets or musicians, journalists or writers, but for me they were
sources of unconditional affection and other connections to the world. One friend of my dad, Khirode Bhattacharya
whom I called “BaRo-mama”—was sports editor of The Hindustan Standard—the English language daily newspaper published
by the Ananda Bazar group. BaRo-mama inspired me to discover and to enter the
world of sports. I remember him taking me to a shop on Dharmatala Street to get
my first football (soccer) boots made to order by Hakka-Chinese shoemakers of
Central Kolkata. The top of the boots was made of brown leather and the cleats
were in fact compacted leather studs tacked into the soles—a far cry from
today’s slick varieties made by Adidas or Nike or Puma that seduce my
grandchildren and their friends.
Of
course my leather boots were reserved for some school and club matches, and
then too I was embarrassed to wear them if most of the other players were
playing without boots. Indeed, for our daily neighborhood football in Hazra
Park, a stone’s throw away, we always played in bare feet. This was a time when
some club footballers in India, rather some Indian club footballers, were still playing the game barefoot. There
are many stories about the disdain the Brits—the Sahebs—had for these barefoot
footballers, and also about barefoot Indian teams defeating the booted
Englishmen.
Because
of BaRO-mama’s job and his affection for me, I got to watch many of the best
football matches of the time. Football was the
sport within which I was nurtured. It was also the most popular sport in India
at that time. Locally, nothing was more grand and more tempestuous than the
rivalry between East Bengal and Mohun Bagan, with one of India’s great “Muslim”
clubs—Mohammaden Sporting—not far behind. (The Bangalore Muslims was another
club of note in the South.) I was fortunate to have seen the greatest and most
unflappable defender of the era—Sailen Manna playing at his peak. I used to wonder
how a full-back could stay so poised in face of onrushing attackers and then
clear the ball almost all the way to the opposite goal. We tend to forget that
there wasn’t much of “building from the back” in football those days and the
standard formation (we used that in high school and college) was the
“pyramid” (2-3-5): two roaming backs in front of the goalkeeper, three
midfielders—left, center and right, five attackers—inside and outside left, a
center forward, and inside and outside right. (I believe Stanley Matthews of Blackpool and others of his generation played that way too.) Kind of the opposite of the defensive
football pioneered by the Italians later and of course, nothing like
Holland’s introduction of total football. A team trying to regenerate the pyramid today will get crushed by the opposition, if the players are on equal footing.
Other
Mohun Bagan stars I remember were T Aao, Mewalal, Sattar, Bharadwaj, Anil Dey, Mahabir,
and I believe, one Ahmed Khan. As for East Bengal, I was very intrigued by the
shooting skill of Pagsley. I remember his specialty shot that didn’t rise—a
“grass-cutter” that whizzed along the surface and didn’t give the goalkeeper a
chance to react quickly. East Bengal also had Appa Rao, Venkatesh, Dhanraj,
Byomkesh Bose and Saleh. I don’t remember who played exactly in which years, or
rather, whom I saw playing together in any given season, but no one had the
longevity of Sailen Manna. There were no big football stadium then in Kolkata,
and spectator galleries—I remember our green wooden seats—were quite close to
the action. So for a young boy there were only magicians on the pitch within
smiling distance. There was magic too in the running commentaries on radio
of big matches to which I wasn't able to go. Then I had to imagine the moves—dribbling,
passing, tackling, shooting—going on out there in the field of wizards. Sharing
the passion of radio commentators was the next best thing to being in those
green bleachers.
As
sports arenas go, Eden Gardens was the pride of Kolkata in my boyhood too, and
again, thanks to BaRO-mama I found my way to most of the cricket matches—test
matches in those days, played at the Eden Gardens. It worked out very well for
me because Kolkata tests were usually played during winter holidays, between
December 30/31 to January 4/5 with one rest day in the middle! Clearly, my cricket experience was completely
different from football. Five days of entertainment without any school, perhaps
unimaginable to today’s youth, was unique in its own way, along with
encountering some of the greatest in that sport. A few days ago, I saw in the
news that the Indian cricketer Rohit Sharma had created a world record by
scoring 264 runs in a one-day match against Sri Lanka—at the Eden Gardens. This
made me think back to another double-centurion in that stadium. This was a bit
later in my life, when I was almost out of my teens and watched the great West Indian
batsman Rohan Kanhai demolish Indian bowling with his 256 runs, supported with
centuries by Basil Butcher and to me the greatest of them all—Gary Sobers. Suddenly
I remember that the Windies were 333 for 3 and again 444 for 4 in the course of
that innings. That’s how memory, as
repository of so much stuff, brings up all kinds of trivia to the surface, some more
questionable than others, don't you think?
This
business of football versus cricket in my growing up time in Kolkata and for
subsequent generations as well, deserves more attention. And I’ll
definitely add my take in a future post. The one thing I felt deeply as a
young spectator, and a little bit of player of both sports, was that football was
Bengal’s game—in the blood of all who lived in our luminous city and beyond—Bengalis
and non-Bengalis, Christians and Muslims and Hindus all together. On the other
hand, notwithstanding some successful Kolkata players, in my boyhood cricket
belonged principally to Bombay and Baroda, and throughout the country to the
privileged classes. It is worth checking out player and team histories from
those days and also which states (provinces) in the nation won the most national
championships—Santosh Trophy in football and Ranji Trophy in cricket.
III
The
head of our Sadananda Road house was my grandfather Satyendranath
Majumdar as I have said before, and in truth he was the only grandfather I ever knew and loved and
admired. To me, his connection to the rest of the household was the first and
decisive example of what a family could be if it was real. That is to say, not constrained by blood ties or marriage. Let me elaborate.
My
Dadu (as I called him) was in fact a bachelor, and my mother was his niece—his
sister’s kid. Uncle Bijan (GoshTHo-mama) was the son of another of Dadu’s sisters.
These “blood ties” were somewhat incidental in our family. Dadu was my father’s
mentor and their relationship was as good and strong as any father-son connection I have
witnessed. Theirs was the primary bond around which the other relations settled
in our house. GoshTHo-mama could have been a brother to both my parents, and
BaRo-mama Khirode could have easily been my dad’s twin brother. The dynamics inside
and outside our “family tree” even back then taught me something profound about
ancestors and descendants.
I
just discovered a poem on the subject I wrote some time ago. To me this poem captures
my thoughts and feelings a lot better than any discursive prose could do in
this piece, so why not add part of it here now?
Genealogy: Why Blood Is Thinner Than
Water, Mostly
My father’s mother Jaminibala
daughter of the night
had already returned home
when I stumbled onto this earth
About her my father Arun
source of sunlight and poetry
once wrote
“on my mother’s sari
so many stars
so many stars!”
Jaminibala’s mother Soudamini
flash of lightning
was a matriarch whose sister
Kadambini the cloud
made house calls while my father
tagged along clasping her hand
of the first woman doctor
in the country
where they was born
and me too
My mother’s father Ashutosh
one of Shiv’s many selves
was raised by an iron-willed mother
whom my mother and aunts feared
Ashu was a country lawyer
with nine girls and finally a boy
a man who charged his clients little
and worried about his kids
until he died suddenly
I think I was three then
but I remember his head
full of salt and pepper hair
So Shiv’s children grew up
all over the place, a couple of them
the fifth and the eight with us
Tripti and Smriti—contentment
and memory became my best friends
Tripti a glorious actress
who lit up the Kolkata stage
and Smriti who joined the phone
company and married Ashok
my father’s youngest brother
My mother Shanti
a woman of peace wrote about
the silent suffering of women
and took me to meetings and marches
along with her sisters while they
looked
for jobs in the big city
or else they would perish
and with them the world
I was barely getting to know
Meanwhile, my father’s father
Hiralal the diamond-child
a rather unfeeling man
was kept as a charity case by
some
Bengali prince to keep books
and manage taxes
Hiralal never seemed to need us
except that one time
when he fled from
days and nights of terror
when across the city old neighbors
were cutting throats and breasts
and burning children alive
My mother’s mother Shailobala
like Shiv’s wife Durga
daughter of the mountain
taught her daughters
to sing act laugh rebel
in the end though
she moved from place to place
just like her girls
a year here, two years there
until the day she broke
her earthly chains, quite old
it was the same month
uncle Ashok died
well before his time
I remember thinking she suffered
too long and he not long enough
The widows and orphans
hanging from this family tree
I knew them well—all of them
When I talk about my grandfather
the one with whom we lived
and who loved us beyond love
I mean Satyendranath
keeper of the truth
and bravest journalist of his time
he was in fact Shailabala’s brother
and a real father to my dad and
mom and the two aunts
who joined our household
my grandfather never married
When I think of the word cousins
I poke my memory
with this old picture I have
where many of them are bundled like
a giant centerpiece
at someone’s wedding
I notice there are some missing pieces
like me in exile fumbling with crayons
as I try to color
over the winter grey of my town
some of us were close friends
when we were kids
some I hardly know anymore
I try to guess which aunt
was their mother
we the cousins are all over the place
from Queens to Queensland
and me in landlocked PA
Of course, many characters
from this family drama
like spirited Tripti Shanti Arun
have left the stage for good
and without fanfare….
[Intermission]
I’ll
add the last portion of this poem when the time comes. My final thought today is
a that the value of blood ties is over-exaggerated and most of us are reluctant
to talk about the misery the ties bring. My experience constantly reminds me that
we are keepers of everyone we care for, beyond our parents and our children,
beyond our parents’ parents and children’s children.
I
began by saying I intend to hop around on my cherished map. And so I did. Next time, I’ll rest
on memories of the fantastic women whom I came to know at 3 B Sadananda Road. They must
have a separate space alongside my mother Shanti Mitra who shaped my world in that early
universe. And perhaps I’ll add a couple of stories about my grandfather.
© Ranadhir (Gogol) Mitra,
November, 2014
Labels: Arun Mitra, Bijan, cricket, football, Gogol, Khaled Chowdhury, Ritwik, Sadananda Road, Satyendranath, Shanti Mitra, Tripti
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