Coronavirus looms large. Scientists, doctors, health workers, our government are fighting out the invisible enemy of humanity. We are locked down at our residences. Yet, life of an average middle-class Indian has not stopped.
I finished watching the Netflix series 'Beecham's House' - a seamless integration with the times and tides of late 18th century Delhi - with a visibly hapless Mughal emperor Shah Alam II riding pillion on few French mercenaries and an ambitious yet helpless prince Akbar reaching the point of desperation of selling the precious diamond from Mughal treasury without his father's knowledge, fused brilliantly well by Gurinder Chadda to the story of Lieutenant John Beecham (a rebel in the English East India Company), his son from an Indian wife and his further discovery of love in India in Miss Osborne.
Netflix, Amazon Prime, laptop, television, refrigerator, air-conditioners - all require electricity, which is in abundant supply.
It was nonetheless a luxury to have uninterrupted flow of electricity in Calcutta in the 1980s. 'Load-shedding', as we knew it, was our daily companion - mostly from dusk till mid-night and for the whole day, at times.
On a weekday at around 9 AM, in a rented apartment in the ground floor of a fifty year old three-storied building in an overcrowded but peaceful neighbourhood of north Calcutta, a man in his late thirties was having breakfast. He was a gastronome, a fine cook himself but used to eat less. That was an ordinary day of going to office and he focused on finishing the combination of rice, dal and fish at a brisk pace. Before devouring on the food, he would generally offer few morsel to the forefathers, in the form of a chaste-Hindu ritual gandush.
He had a chartered-bus to catch to reach office at Shakespeare Sarani which was about 6 km from our residence. A man of few words, he always adhered to time.
Not unfriendly, but throughout the dark 1980s, his persona deterred me to be close to him. I rather, preferred to confide my wishes and ambitions to my mother instead.
That day however, I sat in front of him and gathered courage to convey that I had scored 86 out of 100 in History. Further, I told him that I had prepared notes from a 'fat' book of his on Social and Economic Geography (that he possibly read when he was preparing for the Company Secretary examination) and had scored 84. I was then in the seventh standard.
My memories still carried the scars of his wrath when as a petrified kid I would hide behind my mother upon his return from office to check if I had solved the questions which he had so industriously prepared, typed and had given me two days back. Though he had beaten me only once and he was no Robespierre and I was no reactionary, yet he was a terror.
His mere presence intimidated me. I heard from my mother that he had cuddled me a lot when I was a child, but I did not believe. Probably to boost my confidence, my mother and uncles told me that he was very happy to have a son born to him; yet I was unsure.
Our apartment at Cuttack housed a whip, which was bought by my father from Puri and possibly made out of the skin of a sea-animal. When I asked mother the purpose of keeping that whip in the house, I got a reply that the 'beastly' non-living thing had been kept in reserve to discipline me if required. Prank or not, the very view of that whip made me numb. At times, I used to gaze at it and shiver at the prospects of my skin being excoriated by its lashings.
Mother was furious. 'How come you got 80s in History and Geography and could not score 100 in Maths?'
I was flabbergasted. I didn't expect this. She had been my confidant and nursed my feelings when I would return home dejected and powerless after being punched or overpowered by my school mates. I thought she would be very happy as I scored well after some time and was probably going to rank higher in the class.
"Great. Superb, shabaash", was the reply from the 'Man of Terror'. "Do you like Social Studies?"
"Yes Baba, I wish to study more of History, specially."
"Do not waste your time on History or Geography. Rather, focus on Maths and Science", mother retorted.
"But, Ma, I find Maths a bit difficult", swiftly came my reply. "Still I have scored 75 in Maths. My score in Science is 85".
"I will appoint a good Maths tutor for you. I have already spoken to Khokonda and Dapuda (my maternal uncles) and they have zeroed in onto a prospective teacher".
"How much did you get in English?"
"Mmm, 70, Baba", I was hesitant to speak out my marks in English. Father was very good in writing letters and drafting official communication in English. He maintained a 'log book' of words, which was a lexicon that he referred to. I never fully went through that register though I admired it and him, for keeping a calligraphy-styled word book. His meticulousness, hard work and structured approach impressed me. In school, I lacked strength in English, much more than the lack of confidence in my abilities.
When I was in the third standard, my class teacher had summoned my father.
"Your son seems to be inattentive in the class. He is seen looking outside the window. Most of the teachers opine that he's lost in his own world"
I was about to be fossilized when I heard that father had been asked to visit school. I wasn't performing very well in school - my rank was hovering somewhere in the top 40 per cent of the students. But I was satisfied. My mother never complained. My father was not bothered, at least that's what I perceived.
So, why the school authorities were anxious about me? What will they tell my father? If they complain against me, then he would no longer permit me watch India's cricket matches.
To my dismay, he defended me.
"Ma' am, If he looks outside the window, he must be gazing the sky. You never know, he can turn out to be a philosopher or a scientist."
He nonetheless, returned home with a purpose. Probably out of remorse, he started exercising all his efforts and wisdom to coach me. He would prepare questions for me on Maths, Science, English and specify targets for me to achieve.
Very soon, I was exasperated with the heavy workload heaped on me. I didn't wish to study much. But he won't budge. Every evening, after returning from office, he enquired from mother my progress in studies. She defended my position, but everyday same reply from her that I was studying wouldn't placate him. He wanted to view tangible results - which however did not exist simply because I felt the tasks given by him too burdensome to manage.
He was a martinet, and not to my liking. I simply didn't want to study hard. I was an easygoing, lazy lad whereas my father was quite the opposite.
"Hmm...no problem. Better try next time."
"And let him study whatever he likes", he asserted as he drank a bit of water from the glass and was about to leave.
I was happy. I was relieved. I loved my father for the first time as a conscious human being. The 'Reign of Terror' which commenced since I had joined the kindergarten school and which reached its acme after my school teacher had complained about my performance in the third standard, had finally come to an end.
The revolution had begun.
Since then, I never heard 'no' from my father, in whatever endeavour I set out for, failures or even partially successful ventures.
I detest if my subordinates argue with me. Yet, I persistently argued. At times, I loved to argue. To dismiss his propositions turned out to be my only occupation. Simple arguments, heated ones, ones in which both went berserk - were all part of our daily discourse. From political leaders to physical objects, from historical anecdotes to cosmological interpretations, from language to cricket - nothing went out of the perimeter of our argumentation.
When he was in his late teens, he looked more than his age. His robust muscles were visible through the half-sleeved shirts he used to glamorously put on with a sense of pride. Proud he was to have not just earned his living since the middle of 1960s, but to have sent a decent sum home to his father from the very first day he started earning.
"I was a very good stenographer. I could type really fast and take short-hand notes quickly. These skills helped me earn jobs fast."
There was a definite sense of pride as he uttered, "I did my first job when I was barely eighteen".
"I even worked in a detective agency", he chuckled.
"But why you never went beyond graduation?", I enquired.
"After all, you had a bachelor in Commerce from St Xavier's College."
"I played football well. I liked wrestling too. By seventeen, I was pushing sixty kilos in bench press. I wanted to be a player or wrestler or worse pursue higher studies."
"Then, what happened? Why did you drop the plans?"
Basking in my self-conceited notion of being a scholar and an intellectual, sometimes in the first half of the first decade of the 21st century, my inner core harboured a condescending feeling that my father did not have the steam to pursue higher studies.
"My father had a sudden dip in finances and had to take care of several children (my grandfather had thirteen children).
I could not say no to my father when he requested me to take up a job and hep him out".
Even then I was probably not satisfied with the justification.
"But jyatha (father's elder brother) continued to do whatever he wished; he pursued law, he was into body building....."
"Yes, my father encouraged him. He was the eldest son."
"Ahh...grandfather, the 'great' Jagatbandhu Mukherjee was a mean person. He was your shotru (enemy)".
"He even asked three of us to leave the Behala residence at no notice.
We had to roam around Calcutta to get a rented accommodation.
Our furniture were placed on the field, for days, under rain."
"Never ever demean my father. He is your grandfather, respect him. He qualified the pleadership examination under every hardship and was a self-made man. He went on to become the managing director of a company."
"So what, he ruined your career. Aren't you angry on him?
I cannot forgive him. He used to chastise mother without any cause."
"He did not mean what he did. But in no way, I can permit you or anybody to denounce my father.
Pita Swarga, Pita Dharma, Pita hi Paramantapa;
Pitori pratimapanne, priyante swarba devata
Always remember this, my boy. You are still a kid. Grow up. Never criticise your parents and ancestors"
I did not like the sermon. It sounded cacophonous, unreasonable, unacceptable, humdrum. The 21st century was my time of taking revenge against my father who had shirked familial responsibilities throughout his thirties and forties. He was engrossed in trade union activities. Office was his priority. The last time he worked on my studies was in my third standard in school. I was afraid to solve the difficult mathematics problems set by him and he lost patience in teaching me. That was the end for good or bad or worse. Thereafter, it left an indelible imprint on my mind that I grew up on my own, as a self-made man. He was never beside me while I ran helter-skelter to get admission in college and university. And now, when I have 'grown up', steadied my ship, let me remind my father of his follies as a 'father' - how he faltered in his role and duties.
"Why did you endanger your job for taking part in trade union activities for the Association of Chemical Workers, at the behest of Mr Kedar Aiyar? You could have easily taken up the company's offer and left the union activities as Jolly Mathews did. Or for that matter, several of your comrades did.
You were back-stabbed, but you couldn't fathom"
In his teens, Akberally's in Esplanade was his choice for the customised suits and safaris he loved to wear - he told me that, and always encouraged me to come out of the intelligentsia-esque unkempt look that I sported in the early 2000s. But I deliberately refused, telling him that his concepts on life were 'wrong' and my understanding of the universe was 'correct' - the very fact that I had learnt Einstein's Field Equations and Cosmology made me privy to such claims.
I had envied him for a substantial period of my life - almost till I reached my thirties. His wrists and forearms were strong - had that Sunny Deol-esque brawn. I could never challenge him in panja (wrist fight). Everytime I lost, I used to tell him that I am sure to defeat him once I reach my thirties - hardly realising the fact that by then he would be approaching sixty and my victory against him, if at all possible then, would be bereft of any pride or valor.
The manner in which he supported me - at all points of my career - when I had dreamt of becoming a physicist or when I decided to leave the arena of research in Physics to plunge into the preparation of Civil Services or for that matter when I returned from South Korea by leaving the job of a Post-doctoral fellow, was though outstanding but failed to satisfy me that he was my father, friend and guide. That his silence was his acquiescence.
He loved Biryani and Chicken Fried Rice. Chilly chicken that he prepared had to be liked, else he would be furious. He was often short-tempered. Most of the times though, he was cool.
Uninterested in politics in the 1980s and 1990s, he developed an ardent attraction towards it post-2000. His passion was in everything he used to do - whether it was to write letters, watch news on politics, gather case laws or contest his own litigation in labour tribunal and finally winning it.
"Do not take stress. Never be tensed. Take one thing at a time. Make a routine and follow it. You can do it."
His words started to give me comfort. I had forgiven him for not being responsible toward me and mother in his early days.
In the last decade, I was seeking succor in him. It had been enough of reparation. His son had exculpated him. He knew it. Was he satisfied?
Just when we were verily dependent on him as the guiding light of our houseboat, looking far ahead for another ten years at least, his words transformed into the finite.
"My father lived till the age of eighty four. My uncle was four runs short of century".
"Then, Baba you score ninety and let me score century"
Had he lived for another two years or more, he would have scored 72 runs.
Amidst lockdown, I couldn't offer him either Biryani or Chicken Fried Rice or Chilly Chicken on his birthday. I am happy for him as he is now in peace, away from the ordeals of coronavirus and other travails of life. I am sad because I have nobody to talk to, nobody to argue with and most important, nobody from whom I can learn words of wisdom.
He repeatedly told me, "You will value me after my death".
He was very less sentimental, but at times he demanded my love, my attention, my respect.
As I now fail almost everyday, I trudge along, recuperate, move up and barge onto another gateway of life - all due to the everlasting words of Bimal Mukherjee :
"Never give up. Always fight. Remember Swami Vivekananda. Be a Karmayogi."
In one of the close moments I shared with him, I said:
"You had been generous father, toward your siblings, your colleagues, your friends. You helped them in times of need. But you hardly got much in return."
"What did you gain in life, after all?"
After a deep breath, and a pause, he said:
"You know what I gained in life? I have got a son like you."
I don't care for awards or any recognition. I got my greatest award on that day.
He slept well - snored on most of the days. When I didn't bicker with him, I loved shaking my hands with his - with an ardent desire of having a strong forearms as his.
"Just don't train your biceps and triceps. Also have a separate training for your forearms", he advised.
In my eighth standard, when I returned home being battered by one of the ruffian type guy in school, Ashok Khaitan, I was almost on the verge of breaking down into tears.
"Get up you idiot. You cannot cry. You are my son. Go, take my dumb bells and start exercising. Do push ups every day.
And after six months, come back home after hitting the same guy who punched you today."
I did that. In less than six months I could muster enough courage to take that urchin head on.
The last time I shook hands with father was on the early morning of 27th January 2018. He was sleeping well.
My father Mr Bimal Kumar Mukherjee lived life kingsize - with a big heart, with good food, and with good sleep, from 12th April 1948 to 26th January 2018.
