My Dadu

 27 Aug 2022

Today is my Dadu's (Dadan's father) 38th death anniversary. When a man is not in our midst for so long, the memory fades and only what we want to remember perhaps remains. Like I told you earlier everyone has their bright and awful days, so does this man, who I have never met. 

Writing this was a struggle as it reminded me of the story of six blind men trying to describe an elephant. When I spoke to different people a different picture emerged. So I will try to paint the picture which I got - it has different strokes from different folks. 

To me Dadu is this tragic hero you love and get angry with at the same time. Why did Othello do this or why didn't Hamlet do that? He was in the Second World War and many stories have been told and films have been made about the PTSD of WWII. He was an entrepreneur who did not make it, but had the heart to take the risk. His political affiliations and principles were strong. He was a man of the world. At home he was distant, not showing his love, like fathers nowadays do. 

I will tell you his story in two parts and leave it up to you whether you want to love him or hate him. 

Part 1: The Father

He was someone who was beloved by outsiders but dreaded by his own family. His nephews and nieces with whom he lived in the Calcutta home loved him dearly. But in the village home where his wife and children lived he was a man of mystery. They were afraid of him and would be relieved once he left on Monday morning. His children agree that his life was one full of struggle. During the Second World War, Dadu was with the Indian Air force. He worked as a navigator and after the War, he joined General Electric. But Dadu was not to be held back in doing 9 to 5 job, so he quit and started up, a concept quite unheard of in the Bengali community at the time. Unfortunately his business did not take flight and he suffered major losses, which led to quite some heartburn and financial crisis. He grew up in a rich family, so even though there was a stage when he was poor with a large family to support, his habits and manners remained those of the rich. From his clothes no one could make out that he was not doing well. In later stages of his life he met with an accident at home and due to wrong treatment  he developed  many complications and suffered a lot during his last years. He died at a relatively early age and a life which could have been successful  and fulfilling ended painfully. 

In your Dadan's words: "He was a person who could not express his love for his children but now we feel that deep in his heart he was always a loving and caring  person. He was a very popular person in Bhowanipore where he spent most of his life and was a very popular face in the area because  of his social and political  activities. Even now whenever we meet an old person they would remember  "Poltu Da" fondly"

Part 2: The Grandfather

Your Boromama (my Bubai dada) wrote this bit so beautifully that I did not want to change a word. This is a photograph with me:

There are many things that my mother and all her 5 siblings tend to agree upon when it comes to talking about their common past in childhood. And that list would be topped by their unanimous view on the 'treatment' that they received from their long departed father, my Dadu. There are many stories that the now senior citizen's club can tell you about the man - a well built, short-tempered (dreaded by the family members), proud, strong-willed and principled person, but I hardly remember him that way.

The sheer fact that Dadu died nearly 40 years ago is enough to suggest why I have not enough memories of him anymore. But there was a time when I was quite close to him. He would travel more or less every Saturday from Bhowanipore to our home in North Calcutta to pick me up for a weekend stay at the 'mamabari', only to be returned next day when my parents would pay a visit there and take me back home. Those days we used to travel by bus, which used to be crowded and in most days had to change over at Esplanade. I remember of one particular day when there was a derby match at the Eden Gardens and the buses were so thickly crowded that we couldn't even board one after a long wait and finally had to abort the plan that day. It must not have been easy for a person who was already old by that time but he continued the routine till he met with an accident at his own home and turned physically challenged eventually.

He used to take me to places with him while he was fit and mobile. I remember going to a gathering once (probably something to do with some celebration of war of '71, the Muktijuddho) where there were lots of speeches, songs and recitation. I heard the song 'Mora aki brinte duti kusum...' for the first time there, that too from a vantage point i.e. the dias itself. I was such an outlier (5/6 year old probably) in the gathering of 60+ people that I was given a consolation prize of sitting right on the dias. Many years later when I saw Baby's Day Out, the last scene of the baby being found among a group of old people gave me the same deja vu feeling. 

Someone had gifted me a shirt which he believed suited me the most. But I never liked the shirt as it was deadly uncomfortable and left me scratching like an old dog. But Dadu was not to be overpowered just like that as he kept insisting that I wear that shirt whenever I went out with him. I don't remember now who used to win this grandfather vs grandson battle, but my mother tells me that he showed exceptional leniency towards me which he never allegedly showed to his sons and daughters, so I guess I prevailed more often. The evenings in Bhowanipore home used to be punctuated with  loadshedding and my favourite pastime was listening to stories from him or Didima while occasionally fondling the grape-sized meaty outgrowths on his back. 

Last years of his life were painful as he fought a long battle with his continuously deteriorating health. His mobility got restricted, he kept losing control on his organs leaving him embarrassed, he became dependent on others in every aspect of life. The last that I remember of him was walking slowly from one room to the other with that walking stick in his hand. By that time I had grown up, my frequency of visiting Bhowanipore reduced and even on a visit I rather preferred venturing out with Mamas (whoever was available and ready to take me out) instead of sitting in with him. By that time he had got himself confined to one room, turning into a silent shadow of the man he was.

Depression was an unknown term then and it must have been against his nature to ask for help - but deep down I can feel the pain now. At this age I now understand how painful it must have been for a person to descend down to a situation of helpless dependency that he had hated his whole life. And I can't curse myself enough for being so juvenile not to spend more time with him then.

He must be a proud man now. The Mukherjees and the Banerjis and the Chatterjees are now all well placed in their respective lives. As the legacy continues, I don't believe that he torments his sons and daughters in their dreams any longer, rather I am sure they feel proud of their father now for the lessons he imparted, the character he inculcated - knowingly or unknowingly, softly or harshly. 

They don't make such spines these days.