It was twenty-seven years ago on this day you left us.

I remember you to be the youngest son in a family of four – the oldest being your sister Nanda di as you perhaps called her- departed first, followed by brother Sadananda – early and before their time,perhaps.Nityananda,the third scion remained a bachelor until he passed away in the late sixties of the last century.You married Chhaya Chakravarty,(daughter of a Headmaster of a famous Inter College of Basti)since shifted to distant Meerut,in the then United provinces after one of your marriage proposals in the Classifieds of a prominent Bengali newspaper of the day was answered by that family.You met up at the Howrah Station Waiting Room overlooking the majestic Hooghly River.Showing great wit you impressed her instantly saying”beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder” to her rather beguiling query of not being so beautiful. You continued as a small-time rentier landlord with modest land holdings at Village Bheda Rama Chandrapur,Banki, some 40 kms away, hitherto a subdivision of Cuttack District and Patrapara,a small village sandwiched between Bhubaneswar and Khurda of Odisha.You went on to also becoming the sole owner of the huge Prabhabati Bhavan, housed in Sahebzada Bazar, after your only living elder brother Nityananda(Jethu-to us ) generously gifted his all .With a modest secondary level education from -the,then Queen Victoria School (now re-christened as Bhaktamadhu Vidyapith), a father of four sons and two daughters, you must have felt both lucky and proud when you stood at the head of it all.

Nityananda,was fond of her Bouma(brother’s bride),loved to wear Kaajal,dye his sparse hair black,was tall and handsome.Strangely he just wore a long piece of cloth stretching to many yards both as a dhoti and upper body covering for the better part of the day.He was more endowed of the feminine qualities and the neighbourhood made fun of him for the same.I remember the Kritibas Ojha’s Ramayan and its tattered, termite eaten pages which he treasured and many times used to tell stories while referring to it.Chowdury’s and Narayan’s jilipi, malpua and singara (sweets) he lovingly used to bring for the many children at home.We all ravished it and they were always never, enough.It pains me to recall those final years of Jethu’s living.He suffered a lot and breathed his last sometime around 1967 while ailing on a rather lonely bed in the local SCB Medical College hospital .Baba,you must have agonised, ever so silently, caught helplessly in front of a slowly dying,frail in the mind, elder brother. He loved you with all his heart. And this you knew always which hurt the most. The Sixties, it was then and about to end …

You were of medium build, masculine in the Ashok Kumarish way.

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On way to Gomukh – the mouth of Mother Gangè as goes the popular folklore.

Copper-coloured, broad-forehead,big eyes sometimes amped further with those black framed powered spectacles,peppered shock of back-brushed hair,a prominent nose atop a firm jaw,dark and coarsened lips after years of Charminar,a strong hairy chest on broad shoulders_- all of it, standing on two sure legs.Jethu and you did try your hand in some small time business of selling parachute cloth, thread, strings and accessories during the Second Great War(in the black-market) and after.Your passions of the dark made you the infamous and much sought after ‘Jomduthes’- messengers of Death-the Brahmin Doms(undertakers) for preparing the last rites of passage of the dead young girls or widows, whom their very own dreaded to touch.You washed all of the terrors and bad name-calling down after the unfortunatelycruel but necessary ritual in generous glasses of the very strong and cheap “Desi” (country liquor). And the English one too,of course,every-once-in-a-while.You loved the village,the community with its “Gomastas”(Estate-managers) “Bhag-Chasis”(share-croppers) and people, its coarse and authentic flavour and sights,the earthy and tasty delights of the fresh fish from the pond or the choicest limb on an ocassional butchering of the village goat,home-grown vegetables and the rice off the paddy fields served in the shining family brass plates with an array of smaller saucers .You filled us with the endearing but thrilling tales of the disloyal Pitabasa,the grateful Isra Rout and his devoted family:his wife who famously wet-nursed Dula,the youngest scion and was fondly called”chasa-dudha-khiya”(one who has drunk the tiller’s milk),of the rustic sagacity of the oldest Jaya,the physical commitment of Kula and the spotless fielty of Visuniya see-sawed with that of an Apartiya,lines of sandal wood paste neatly adorning his dark, muscular and shining body chipping away single-mindedly at big chunks of Sheesham creating many a memorable piece of furniture and Dhadiya of Patrapara equally vile and unfaithful on the other.The compulsions of legal cases and conflicts to hold on to litigated properties vied with the addictive thrill of playing ‘pasha”(a local variation of chess played on a stitched piece of cloth of measured squares of black and white, like an extended four way crossroad with a squared centre, with cowries-as the dice).Maa did her own thing but always close holding court to help resolve women issues or just plain listen to their unheard woes.Political activism was always in the air.You were annoyed with the protests organised by the local Praja Socialist Party man these days.Who can forget,Golakh Dadu of Charchika, the learned Gandhian-like patriarch in his sprawling decrepit estate providing the much needed succor and respite before you got on or off the bus.Did you gamble while puffing mouthfuls on the “hookah”(tobacco pipes)like the proud aristocrat in penury of a Jalsaghar, I often used to wonder?Was that your Zemindaar moment?

“Prabhabati Bhavan”, kept you in another world of cares,concern and years of joy

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Over a hundred years old this heritage building is part of the ancient city of Cuttack,Odisha.

.Merina and Babloo the oldest son and daughter were your favourites.You secretly must’ve desired to do more for them, than what you could otherwise.Mamarbadi of Meerut (the maternal uncle household) feted you as their chosen “Jamai Babu” (son-in-law).You made it a point to visit them once every year with bagfuls of rice, sweets and vegetables and travel the distance in what was perhaps, an unending journey of almost 2 days.You loved them too -Montu,Khoka Da,Choto Mama and Mami,Muna ,Baduni,Meja Boudi and the many younger.Your packet of Passing Show cigarettes,the Pall Mall tins,the exotic deoderants, the odd Whisky bottle and stylish Tees must have made your day or days shunning the Charminars, all puffed up, talking of your favorite Montu, the one on the ships and forever sailing – only to rush to his dear Jayada whenever she docked in at Kidderpore.

Durga Mama and Baba enjoy the magnificent white Himalayas on way to Goumukh

Your friends,Durga and Chatak were forever our very loved Mamas.(uncles).Serampore became our first choice of a holiday home and the amiable call of “Sister” at the doorsteps meant Durga Mama was knocking.

You were quite a pair- Maa and you.

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To be young and together was very heaven

She the outgoing go-getter and fiesty,never to be satisfied easily.You, the sober and understanding other half.Always there,unobtrusive and discreet.Over time you got used to your domestication,looked forward to the cooking of the odd delicacy, unfailingly making the regular trips to the market, mending the old, rusted electric switches, holders,slipper straps and shoe soles,broken furniture and choked plumbings.You gave up smoking, dressed ordinary and economised every which way you could as the family properties were being increasingly sold to make available the fast depleting funds needed for the upkeep and education of a fairly large family.The rentals did not add up for much.Mejda, Dula and I going to the costly Stewart School would have not helped either. Ponchuaa,our Man Friday must have been a tower of strength making up for all the woes and shortcomings when Maa and your absences were on the increase.You stood rock solid with Maa in her political journeys when she in her own way was breaking several glass ceilings sometimes shocking the conservative neighbourhood.You became a devout and practicing Hindu after the arrival of Badada.The house was all incense sticks,lamps and diyas, flowers,mango and Bel leaves.

Your health had begun to fail. Coughing had deteriorated to asthma and the kidneys weren’t as good.You fought it while suffering.Your sleepless nights coughing, now I know, were so difficult and painful. Those days,I tried sleeping away as Maa patiently nursed with the help of Merina and Alina, the older sisters.You were taken to the PGI, Chandigarh to heal the bad kidney.Mukul,our generous friend layed open his house and the scooter to help.Those were the late seventies.Your daughters had gotten married ,all the children employed and away at other places, with grandchildren coming along to fill a very happy family frame.

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The Bawling grand children !

Thankfully, you do remember Baba, the youngest Dula with his wife Sharmila and children stayed back, to be with you and Maa – up until the last. All the lovely tenants Sushila Masi,Behenji,Boudi,Bijoya Masi,Gokul Babu,Lakahan Da,Baiju bhai,Masterji were your friendly neighbourhood, ever at hand. Mashima and Krishna di,Nini Appa,Sailabala didi,Debjani’s mother were some of your friends you looked forward to meeting.Shanker Bhai, Tokon,Papu,Gopi and Subhashis filled your many lonely hours.In the meanwhile you visited your many Bahus and son-in -laws Sunu and Shanker.Boudi, Sashi and Arti got to see you and know you better.Your family was never becoming any the smaller.

… Each day unfailingly in the morning hours,Maa still sees enough to put a thread into the invisible eye of the needle.She makes a garland or two of fresh flowers- sometimes big and sometimes small.She speaks occasionally.Her memory is like another memory.So they say…But, she does not forget each day to make her silent offering to the only person she misses with all her heart.

Lovingly.always
Maa as of habit offers to her most dear departed

It is true, my memories, are never sharp when it is about you.Unlike sons or daughters.I am sure, each of them will have their own stories to tell.
I know you are always around, somewhere – happy watching what you see.

Fondly. as always,

I remain

your “Pencha”(owl) .

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