A world laced with history and humour

Tapan Raychaudhuri grew up in an elite and prominent political family in erstwhile East Bengal – one of the most prosperous parts of the country in terms of agriculture and intelligentsia.

As an eminent Indo-British historian settled in Oxford since 1973, and a witness to events for nearly eight decades now, he has offered in his memoir, The World in Our Time , deep insights into the Bengal's partition, the Great Calcutta Killings in 1946, the Bengal Famine in 1943 among others.

The author introduces the readers to his scholarly world in a gripping narrative that's much like a Bengali adda (chat) session. The credit for this should go to the “child” in him. For, if he recalls a “bham” (a ferret-like creature) invading the family residence at Barishal for “using farts as a weapon of mass repulsion,” he is equally sensitive to the injustice meted out to Joti, his grandfather's mistress, by his Gandhian family.

Raychaudhuri excels in interspersing humour with serious comment. For instance, behind the apparent humour in describing “Noga,” who was beaten up by the police for chanting “Go back-ko simono, Go back-ko simono” as part of the anti-Simon Commission protests that swept the country, he traces the mass hysteria in support of Mahatma Gandhi.

The short, illiterate servant “Bawsha,” who was a butt of jokes for claiming to be an informant to “si-oi-tee” (CID), earns the benefit of doubt. For, during his 18-month stint as Deputy Director of National Archives, Raychaudhuri noticed the “stupidity” of the British secret service, which labelled Jawaharlal Nehru as a “communist”. He strikes a note of caution – colonial documents should be taken with a “bucketful” of salt. “A fact which many historians on India, inclined to treat the colonial archives as gospel, often tend to forget,” he says.

The description of gardener “Jayna,” who was accused of theft, is poignant. The incident's memory haunts him while migrating from the then Pakistan, leaving everything behind. “As we went down of our gate … I remembered that expression on Jayna's face. At last, we were in the same position.”

As a food-loving “Bangal” – a term used for a yokel from erstwhile East Bengal – Raychaudhuri remembers the times when Re 1 fetched 8-16 Hilsa fish of 1-2 kg each. The next moment, the reader is faced with the stark realities of the 1943 Bengal famine that killed three million people, as food prices shot up due to the infamous Denial Policy of the British Raj.

Having been part of political activism led by the Indian National Congress, the author recalls how Congress lost Muslim and lower caste Hindu support in East Bengal, beginning the 1930s. In the same breath, he notes that four years away from Independence, the most brilliant students of the soil, at Presidency College, were focussed on “building careers” rather than taking part in anti-colonial activism. Once again, the reader is taken back to the issue of Hindu-Muslim unity on INA Day in November 1945, demanding the release of soldiers, which was followed by riots breaking out on the “Direct Action Day” (called by Mohammed Ali Jinnah) on August 16, 1946. About 50,000 people were killed in the first three days in the total absence of administration. Most of the corpses were dumped in underground sewers.

The author questions the role of Muslim League leader Suhrawardy for giving a call on August 16 for the creation of Pakistan within 24 hours, but he is equally ashamed to recall the acts of butchery by Bengali Hindu bhadrolok during those days. Having returned from Oxford with a Doctorate, Raychaudhuri landed in Delhi, where he spent nearly 15 years, mostly teaching economic history in the Delhi School of Economics. He remembers being a “misfit” among the best of economists and doing little research. His frustration ended when he went back to Oxford in 1973.

What keeps the reader glued to the book are the innumerable anecdotes, be it about his ramshackle second-hand car, which was pushed by “many eminent persons including Mr V.K.R.V. Rao” the then Vice-Chancellor of Delhi University, or “sharing” a bathroom at the Constitution House with a famous dancer living in the next room (see box).

In his long career in Oxford, Raychaudhuri came in close contact with many eminent historians. But, there's one person who left an indelible mark on him – G C Davis. A former officer in British Indian Army, Davis has mastered the craft of identifying and weeding out dead fact, and writing history in “fat-free” narrative.

Readers of this memoir can, therefore, expect a sumptuous diet.

Room Number 93…

“Room No 93 happened to be my room. Room 92 was occupied by the very famous dancer, Madame Simki, once the prima ballerina in Uday Shankar's troupe. Now she worked for the Indian government in the ministry of culture and was accommodated in a modest room of Constitution House. Unfortunately for me, I was her neighbour. Unfortunate because I had to share a bathroom with her.

“This was one of the most curious arrangements in the place. Each bathroom was shared by a pair of rooms. While using the facility one latched the door leading to the other room. Unfortunately for me, I always forgot to unlatch the door on Simki's side while leaving for my office. Within a few minutes of my arrival at my destination, I would receive an angry call from her and, with a thousand apologies, send the key back to her.

“My offer of a duplicate key was sternly refused. To my request for a change of room I received the standard reply so dear to India's bureaucracy, Dekhenge (we shall see). What they were 'seeing' was a highly amusing drama and they would not be deprived of their innocent fun. Once, Amartya Sen came to spend a few days with me, sharing the room. When I returned from office, he had a bemused look on his face and asked me to explain a strange episode. A lady had told him not to shut her out of the bathroom like her friend because it was supposed to be shared. This was a warning, not an invitation, I explained.”

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