The Hindu Business Line : Telescoping into the past

Getting on in life at more than 60, is about the best time to muse over one's childhood. Over the last few days, on morning walks, one has been trawling one's past to put down any, if not some, important happening. Frankly, it has not helped as one came up with a few odd stones and mud unworthy of recall.

The first part of my life, till 23, was spent in south Calcutta and beyond playing cricket on the road one did nothing. At school, any urge to read beyond the syllabus, was promptly snuffed out by bored teachers teaching the same geography and history lessons over months and years. At this point of time, one cannot blame them as they suffered the same drill when they were at school. The lunch recess and the long toll of the school bell at 3.30 in the afternoon offered some relief; twice in a week, we were taken in school buses "for games" at the Victoria Memorial grounds and that brief respite still clutters the mind.

Rewinding today to those moments playing cricket, hockey and football, pulls one out of a bad mood. Some of my friends come alive. One never read books (outside what was mandated) at school and unlike many relatives of the same age I cannot boast of anything. Yet, they were not wasted hours as one enjoyed walking the streets of south Calcutta and roaming the Lakes, near home. That is one reason why this writer will not type out on the computer screen an autobiography, as there is nothing to relate.

Recently, one got stuck reading an essay of my favourite Graham Greene, The Lost Childhood, where he writes: "Perhaps it is only in childhood that books have any deep influence on our lives. In later life we admire, we are entertained, we may modify some views we already hold, but we are more likely to find in books merely a confirmation of what is in our mind already: as in a love affair it is our own features that we see reflected flatteringly back. But in childhood all books are books of divination, telling us about the future, and like the fortune teller who sees a long journey in the cards or death by water they influence the future. I suppose that is why books excited us so much."

One read the essay but could never relate to it, as one could never, like some of my relatives, quote long verses from Shakespeare at 15. One still remembers a young relative quizzing: "Do you know Shakespeare and Dickens?" and owning up ignorance. Then there was my father who tried infusing some religion and turning away disappointed. He used to sit with me and go over religious texts like the Ramayana and one used to nod out of sheer fear, a fear which I carry when facing my bosses at the office. Ramayana never made sense. It still does not make much sense. Those days nothing mattered except a good hour spent trying to score a goal in a football match.

At college it was no different except for a couple of professors. It was only in the mid-20s that one started reading books. Today, one prefers watching sports, any sports, on TV or at the ground than wasting time consuming words. Possibly, the one individual (and the lone instance) from those days, who still lives with me is the gentleman we called Banerjee babu. He was our next door neighbour at Lake Temple Road and one has never seen a human being so comprehensively put down by his wife. One has seen him scrambling at the minatory call of his wife to attend to some kitchen duty. On Sunday afternoons, when the neighbourhood was asleep, we would slip out for a walk at the Lakes and at that time there was no Rabindra Sarobar stadium. He was a refugee from Dacca, where he had taken his Masters in Literature and lost himself describing the early morning dew in winter and the pukurs (ponds) behind every home, becoming one. "We used to walk in Nature's emptiness and could claw at the cover of white in the air," he told me over small packets of masla mudi (spiced, puffed rice). Occasionally, he used to break into poetry though one is not sure whether the lines were from Tagore or Kazi Nazrul Islam. Yet, when he put music to the lines, "Phagun legeche bane, bane (There is spring in every forest)," spring touched you. It still does.

One vaguely realised Banerjee babu had been waylaid by nostalgia. Sometimes, he used to read out well-written sports pieces on football from The Statesman and he supported East Bengal and also made me a fan of that club. At home, Banerjee babu was badgered by his wife. While the lady relaxed on a bed-cum-sofa, Banerjee babu ran around fixing up his 500 ft home. He now reminds me of the cartoon strip, Born Loser. He was a bad joke for his two kids. On week days, he would get up by 5 in the morning, bring in the milk and wait for an hour for a cup of tea from his wife. She never brought him tea; that she did for her kids; he had to go and pick it up from the kitchen. Then he would iron the washed clothes, polish the boots of his children and was the only individual who felt happy going to the office.

He realised himself at the office, a Marwari outfit somewhere near Dalhousie Square. He found his peace when one night he passed away in bed. That ended my youth.