Baba—my roots, my shelter
Posted on: November 14, 2020
“You take completely after your father. Didn’t inherit a single trait of mine.” I lost count of the number of times Maa threw this (in)famous dialog my way during childhood. It’s hurled at me even now, though mercifully, rarely. Anger, laughter, or disappointment is usually an accompaniment, depending on the situation and her mood. Dang, I haven’t a single retort! There’s an awful lot of truth in her words! 😀
The gentleman who helped carve Maa’s spicy dialogs, my beloved Baba, was born in Jirat on this day seven decades ago. 🙂 Back then a small village, it’s now a burgeoning town in the Hooghly district of West Bengal. In the 1950s, Dadabhai, my paternal grandfather, chose to put down roots in Jirat. Dadabhai opened a humble grocery store, the only one within a few kilometers back then, adjacent to the family home. Gradually, he progressed to build a warehouse to store coal and gul (a product derived from coal). Back in the day, gul was placed inside mud stoves and lit before cooking.
The second of his parents’ five children, Baba grew up to be a gentle and caring soul. At the age of seven, during a financial pinch, Baba voluntarily shouldered the responsibility of helping Dadabhai feed the large family. He woke up early in the morning, got ready for school, and headed straight to the store catering to customers, handling cash, overseeing recordkeeping. The family house has been adjacent to the main road in the village. Across the road is a large playground, in the middle of which, still stands Baba’s school. On hearing the first stroke of the school bell from the store, Baba dashed out and ran as fast as possible to reach the classroom before his master moshai (male teacher) arrived. During intervals and after school, he returned to help at the store.
From a young age, relatives labeled Baba as the responsible one. Baba has always been different from his siblings. The only kind and affectionate one with a level head on his shoulders, in a family full of biases and odd behavior. Baba was close to my Jethu (Baba’s older brother), and the two stooges often ran errands and tackled chores together. Baba was the silent type while Jethu chattered non-stop.
Baba was fond of Jatra (Bengali folk-theatre) as a child and recently regaled me with a memory. He once sneaked away to a far-off neighboring village to watch Jatra with friends without informing parents. A furious Dadabhai, somehow having gotten wind of their whereabouts, was waiting for their return with a bamboo stick. When the party returned early next morning, Dadabhai was pacing around the house, waiting for an opportunity to strike Baba, when a Goddess intervened. Baba’s Dida, maternal grandma, who happened to be visiting, saved his hide. Dadabhai was powerless in front of his mother-in-law. 😀
Another childhood incident left a permanent scar on the middle finger of his left hand. The two stooges went to the orchards surrounding the family home to cut banana trees. Chopping the stem of a tree with a sharp ax while chattering away, Jethu failed to notice Baba’s hand holding the leaves and stem to facilitate the chopping. Off went the ax and almost chopped off Baba’s three fingers. While blood gushed out and Baba yelped in pain, Dadabhai rushed in in a fit of rage and ran to catch hold of Jethu. Baba recalls with laughter that Dadabhai would have killed Jethu had the latter not fled from the crime scene, out of sight for the rest of the day. When Jethu returned the next morning, Dadabhai’s fury had evaporated. To date, Baba doesn’t know who hid Jethu that night. 😀
Baba could study only till the present-day 12th grade as the family’s financial circumstances did not permit him to apply to colleges for further education. In 1968, at the age of 17, Baba joined Durgapur Steel Plant as a trainee. In February that year, he left Jirat and went off to Durgapur on a two-year training. In February 1970, he joined Hindustan Aeronautics Limited’s (H.A.L.) Nashik Division in Maharashtra. For the first time in his life, Baba stepped out of Bengal. He shared a room in a hostel with his partner, Kanthan uncle, who later became our neighbor in H.A.L. township. Uncle recounted his ordeals while trying to wake Baba up every morning before going to work. Baba’s non-Bengali colleagues called him Dada (elder brother) as a mark of respect. Having learned that poking Dada gently won’t help, Kanthan uncle shook him slightly vigorously, still failing to wake him up. 😀 One day, when Kanthan uncle was trying to wake Baba up, Baba must’ve mumbled in sleep. Assuming Baba was awake, uncle left for the mandatory parade that began their workday. Baba woke up later, realizing he was late. He chose to file for leave instead of reporting late, which resulted in punishment. 😀 In an attempt to solve the problem, Baba started wearing socks before going to bed at night so that in the morning, he could quickly wear shoes and dash off to the parade. 😀 In my younger days, I was reputed to have inherited this kind of sleep from Baba. Maa called us both Kumbhakarna, demon king Ravana’s giant brother who slept for six months straight and woke up with a ravenous, destructive appetite. 😀
In the new land of Maharashtra, where everything was drastically different from the Bengali culture he was familiar with, Baba fit right in without drama. He started reading Marathi newspapers, spoke with local colleagues in Marathi, and watched Marathi channels on television. Such has been his love and respect for Maharashtra that Baba taught us that no matter where the future leads us, we must learn the language of the land and respect and adapt to local culture and customs. Local people, kids and adults alike, often admired their Dada when he spoke with them in Marathi. With a glazed look, they often said that he speaks their language better than they did. 🙂
Before marriage, even after, until the needs of his kids grew, Baba was a fashionable dresser. Photographs of him dressed in bell-bottom trousers with long-sleeved, collared, and patterned (chokra bokra print in Bangla 😀 ) shirts, sporting long hair, a mustache, and sunglasses make us smile without fail. He was quite the hippie—tall, lean, fair, and handsome with beautiful, light-grey eyes. The latter is courtesy of the last-known and -remembered ancestor with light-grey eyes, Baba’s paternal grandma, my great grandma. Baba remembers her from childhood days as breathtakingly beautiful, with a Caucasian-like complexion, brown hair, and gorgeous feline eyes. My great grandma passed those feline eyes on to my Dadabhai, who passed it on to all three of his sons, but not the daughters. Thanks to an unfortunate flaw, my generation skipped the genes, so my sister and I have brown eyes. Coming to the next generation, my daughter has Baba’s eyes, albeit a slightly different shade. We still tease Maa that her bad genes forced that specific strand of Baba’s family DNA out of my generation. 😀 Never to be defeated, Maa retorts with, “Oh, so my sole bad DNA was capable of wiping out generations of your father’s DNA!” What does one say to that?! 😀
In 1980, Baba and Maa got married. Maa moved to Nashik to begin her new life in a tiny quarter in H.A.L. township. Baba took on new responsibilities after marriage but was clear about one thing. Right after Baba started earning in 1968, he sent money to his folks back home every month, a practice he told Maa he plans to continue as long as needed. Maa respected his love for his family and never objected. As a result, the practice continued until my Thammi, paternal grandma, passed away in 2017. Not only that, Baba got his sisters married, frequently helped his brothers establish themselves, and took care of their children’s education and marriages. All this while raising us without sparing expenses for our well-being. We knew early on that we weren’t rich, but Baba has been a good financial planner. Along with Maa’s sterling support in running the household, our parents offered us a good education and a decent lifestyle. We grew up without frivolities like household helpers and rarely ate outside. Baba and Maa bought clothes for themselves only when required but ensured that we kids had enough.
Baba has been punctual his entire life and taught us to value time. He never resorted to bunking office and was often pouty if either of his kids wanted to take a day off from work or started for office a bit late. Baba had a solid knowledge of the stock market and invested his hard-earned money in stocks. Sometimes he lost money but has been a careful planner. He was the go-to person for many colleagues, who approached him at work and even came home frequently to seek his advice on personal financial matters. Baba shared with them genuine, unbiased knowledge, the pros and cons about various tools of investment. Such was their trust in Baba that on their behalf, Baba filled up complex forms because many in our circle didn’t understand or write English. Not once did we hear Baba brag about his skills or derogate others for their lack of skills. Baba was known for his strong ethics and quiet generosity, so people flocked to him for help or when they wanted to participate in Bridge tournaments.
Baba was a sought-after Bridge player in our circle, having won many single and team tournaments at the local and district levels. Our home was the local Bridge club, with a few shelves in the showcase reserved for Baba’s trophies and mementos. We are a witness to countless games played and strategies formed; pouches of Capstan/Wills tobacco opened, pinches of tobacco poured into specially cut papers and rolled into cigarettes; lighters shared, ashtrays littered, teacups drained, and curses muttered. A team of four played while others watched and learned. Everyone smoked, so I remember squinting to detect Baba’s face through a cloud of smoke. 😀
One day, the crowd was light, only four players. Baba’s burning cigarette was dangling from the rim of the ashtray, forgotten, while the players were lost in the game. I decided to sneak a puff, curious to understand what was all the fascination about. Stealthily, I lifted the ciggy, placed it between my index and middle fingers, and put the dry end between my lips exactly like Baba. It tasted bitter and horrible. I decided to take a tiny puff anyway and was disgusted by the smoke that entered my throat. There! I am now a child criminal, I thought. I quickly put the ciggy back on the ashtray and fled, none the wiser! I’m confident Baba won’t be shocked when he reads this. 😀
Even now, it’s fascinating to watch Baba with a deck of cards. The way he shuffles and deals at jet speed with the slightest flick of the wrist is awe-inspiring. The same goes for when he counts currency notes. As a child, I tried to imitate his suave moves; alas, I remain a miserable failure. 😀 These days, he has taken to online Bridge and is heard cursing strangers for their dumb moves. And then there are stupid, infuriating, unrealistic plots in Bangla television series that he detests. I’m not quite sure how he chooses when to address an invisible Bridge partner or an offensive character in a daily soap as chagol (goat), gadha (donkey), or shuorer bachcha (piglet). He often addressed a renowned Bollywood actor whom he disliked, by the first term. 😀 This facet of Baba is quite entertaining! 😀
Maa has been quite relieved that those nightmarish Bridge days are over, by the way. She never liked our home covered in cigarette smoke for hours while the men played. Moreover, the stink remained in the small house long after they were gone. Also, Bridge is the possible culprit behind Baba’s chain-smoking. He indulged in it for decades, ignoring our pleas, until one fine day he discovered he couldn’t swallow. The mirror deliberately shown by his doctor reflected a severe case of throat ulcers with ugly blisters. A stretch of his throat was affected, and he was on a liquid diet for days. When he found even liquids hard to swallow, he quit smoking. He has been off smoking for years now yet, the cough persists. I hope this deters any smokers who may be reading this post. 😐
Apart from smoking and Bridge, Baba had no addictions. He mostly doesn’t complain about or speak ill of others though he has had several occasions to do so. I distinctly remember a party at a family friends’ home one evening long ago. The hosts were close to us and had invited a few families for a celebration. During chitchat, out of the blue, the man of the house chose to insult Baba. He called Baba a village bumpkin, an idiot, and didn’t stop at that. Other insults were hurled with sickening laughter, while the terrace full of people mostly went silent by then. Barely a teenager, I was furious. I looked at Baba; he was silent, head held high, eyes straight ahead but away from the stupidity. No clenched jaw or balled fists, no protruding neck muscles. I couldn’t understand how someone being insulted with unjustified cruelty could remain so eerily calm. I glanced at Maa, who was visibly furious but chose to honor and accompany Baba’s silence with her own. At home that night, quite worked up, she asked Baba why he chose to keep quiet. Baba simply said that the host’s words and behavior reflected who he is. History is my witness, that saintly dialog blew Maa’s fuse! Perhaps that’s how she developed high blood pressure over the years! 😉 😀
By now, you know that Baba is a man of few but meaningful words. He loves to read more than speak and is equally fond of fiction and non-fiction. Newspapers and puzzles are his favorite. I don’t remember a day he spent without burying himself in a leading daily, no matter where he is. He taught me how to draft official letters in English. He wrote to us without fail every time he was away on outstation duties. We eagerly waited for the postman to deliver inland letters and postcards in Baba’s neat, beautiful handwriting. He addressed Maa in Bangla and us in English. I picked up initial letter writing skills from his letters. A few years ago, I was excited to read to him my first story-poem, Perpetual Longing, and asked for his opinion. The humble gentleman replied that my vocabulary has outgrown his, and though he didn’t understand a few words, he grasped the essence of the piece and found it brilliant. That day, I saw quiet adoration in his eyes though his words devastated me. Baba, my wise counsel, always abreast of the latest national and international affairs, who read countless newspapers and taught me to write my first alphabets, took me for walks when I took first steps, taught me to ride the bicycle, supported me every step of my life… how can I ever outgrow him? That’s impossible.
Baba is also a brilliant mathematician though he would never call himself that. We watched him mentally calculate complex formulae in a few seconds without a calculator. He took barely a few minutes to solve complex arithmetic problems. Having seen enough of his mental prowess, I’m confident that even now, he’d rattle off the table of… let’s see… probably 163 without pausing for breath! And that’s where embarrassing memories come to mind.
Maa taught me all subjects except Maths, which she asked Baba to teach. For some reason, probably because of his brilliance in this area, I was scared to learn from him. It didn’t help that Maths was my least favorite subject. Being the quiet child of the quiet father, I never protested in words though I’m sure my body language screamed terror. Baba explained a problem to me very patiently, asking at the end if I understood. Like an idiot, I said yes even though I didn’t. Naturally, he expected me to solve the problem quickly. And then I cowered under his steady, light-grey gaze, fidgeted with my pencil, lowered its tip toward the notebook and withdrew it several times because I didn’t know what to write! 😀 Baba understood that I understood nothing, so he very kindly repeated the explanation and again asked if it’s clear. This went on in a loop several times until he burst into rare anger directed towards me. Now funnily, my Dida, maternal grandma, instructed Baba right after my birth to never hit a girl child as they are considered Goddess Lakshmi in our culture. So Baba found an ingenious way to punish me. He grabbed my right hand, and hit my cheek lightly with my own hand! 😀 😀 In the heat of the moment, face distorted and nostrils flaring with rare rage, he said, “Will you ever say you’ve understood something when you haven’t? Hmm? Tell me, will you? Hmm?” 😀 After the storm passed and his anger vanished, he said, “Now listen, Maan (his pet name for me, meaning mother), next time just tell me you haven’t understood. I don’t mind explaining a thousand times if you tell me the truth. Got it?” These are some of the most hilarious memories that I share with Baba. 😀
I have always been frank and candid with Baba. Without fail, he remembered to stock up on sanitary napkins for me after puberty hit. Once, to my horror, I started menstruating when hospitalized. I made a makeshift arrangement while waiting for visiting hours to start. When Baba came for a visit, I told him without hesitation or embarrassment to fetch sanitary napkins for me urgently. The dear soul ran to the hospital’s medical store and brought the largest pack available. That’s how it’s always been with him. Anything he buys, he buys generously. His generous shopping habits cause frequent sparks in Maa’s circuit. 😀 That’s because the refrigerator at home mostly never has space. Or because some of Baba’s trips to the market inevitably meant Maa spending the rest of the evening patiently and tediously cleaning a heap of tiny Puti maach (Glass-barb fish) or tiny prawns, or both. 😐 Occasionally, an assortment of beetroot, carrots, and potatoes in Baba’s veggie bag emit invisible indicators that are visible only to Maa. Those indicators are a silent plea directed toward Maa to make vegetable cutlets, which again take time and effort. 😀 More often than not, their squabbles are highly entertaining. I know I’m gonna get an earful for sharing this! 😀
Baba’s love for old Hindi and Bangla movies is well-known in the family. He has probably watched all movies starring Uttam Kumar-Suchitra Sen (Bengali cinema’s iconic first couple) and famous Hindi movies of his times. Maa and Baba both share a love for music. We had a beautiful record player and many records before radio, television, and tape recorders took over. Maa purchased Bangla cassettes from our yearly summer trips to Bengal.
Once in Jirat, Baba held my hand as we walked towards the market. Baba stopped when an old, bespectacled gentleman in white dhoti-kurta, carrying a walking stick, passed us. Baba turned and called out to him, “Master moshai! O master moshai!” The gentleman stopped and turned to look at us. Baba took me with him and immediately bent to touch his teacher’s feet while the latter sifted through his memories, trying to recognize Baba. When Baba introduced himself by the first name, the gentleman beamed and reached out to hug Baba. I was surprised that the possibly-septuagenarian school teacher instantly recognized his brilliant and well-behaved student merely by his first name after decades of not being in touch! 🙂
Baba never forced his expectations on us, so we were free to study what we wanted and choose a career according to our preferences. When my sister wanted to marry her longtime beau, we had Baba’s quiet support in advance. We never lacked anything while growing up. I got pocket money when in junior college. During post-graduation in Delhi, I lived in the college hostel. Baba gave me the extra ATM card that he made for me. He didn’t enforce a restriction in withdrawals, and that showed the immense trust he had in me. Because cash crisis was the regular scenario for many of my batchmates, I chose to help friends in need now and then. I was diligent in reporting such expenses to Baba, who said it’s ok to help those in need. For the first time in my life back then, I spent 10-grand to buy my first cell phone and some clothes, of course, after prior consultation with Baba. Maa wasn’t thrilled about the expense, but Baba said I never spend unless required, so it’s ok.
We got everything we liked even if we never explicitly asked for those things. We were not the tantrum-throwing, rolling-on-the-floor-in public type of kids. Once, I mentioned how much I like the guitar and would perhaps learn how to play it one day. Baba returned from his next official outstation duty with a guitar in one hand and his suitcase in the other. Neighborhood kids and friends saw him arrive with a guitar and came over to have a look. That guitar and other occasions and conversations with my simple Baba made my friends exclaim that I was a lucky girl to have such a loving father. Indeed we are. 🙂
With age, Baba started worrying about insignificant things. We often tell him to relax and stop worrying, but it has now become a part of him. So my sister and I nicknamed him Chintamani, the perpetual worrier, inspired by the ICICI advertisement from a few years ago. We even sing the jingle in perfect tune when we want to tease him or simply make him smile. 😀 My daughter enjoyed learning the Chintamani story yesterday. 😀
When my daughter started speaking a word or two, she observed us and called him Baba. As she grew, we explained to her that the person she calls Baba is her grandpa, not father, so she should call him Dadu. By now, the little one understands relationships perfectly but never calls him Dadu. Baba calls her Laadli, his darling. We tease Baba that he has three daughters, not two. And without fail, he has lavished the same love, care, and attention on his first grandchild, perhaps a lot more than he did on us. 🙂
From berar ghor (straw-and-bamboo dwelling) to paka bari (cement-and-brick dwelling) in Jirat; choosing to fly the nest and building a life of his own; raising his daughters to be independent women with a strong character; getting them married; and sacrificing quite a lot to raise his grandkids, Baba has experienced a beautiful journey over the last seven decades. From this marvelous journey, I could only share a few facts and incidents that came to mind as I pull an all-nighter to finish this memoir on time for his 70th birthday today. There’s so much more to share, perhaps in another post at another time. 🙂
Baba, from you, we learned to speak the truth no matter the situation. We inherited your values of honesty, integrity, and hard work. You have forgiven and forgotten our mistakes, taught us to stand tall in the middle of crises, and always given us the freedom to make our own decisions and learn from our mistakes. You have always embraced us no matter what stupid act we committed. Immersed in your values and strength of character are our roots. In your gentle demeanor and kindness, we have our shelter. A shelter we keep returning to time and again. We salute your brilliance and intelligence and wish you a healthy and happy life, Baba. On behalf of the family, I wish you a happy 70th birthday. May your day and life be filled with laughter, love, and good health. Continue to shower us with your subtle love, which is more alive than the most extravagant display of love. Love you always. 🙂
Musings of an Undercover Yogi 
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