Genuine fountain pen, awful cooking oil

 

This happened long ago in the last century when Indian Railways had non-airconditioned first class coaches. The coaches, which were partitioned into eight cubicles with either four or two berths in each, had a corridor on one side connecting them. (Is there an English word for them?) I miss those coaches with large openable windows that let in strong gusts of air while the train moved, besides offering an unimpeded view of the world outside.

If you knew me well, you would perhaps know that I am not particularly fond of self-promotion. But for a change, let me say that I have a world record. It is as follows: as a passenger, I have always been the first person to reach a railway station or airport, invariably hours before time. That morning too, when I boarded Coromandel Express, my fellow passengers hadn’t arrived. I was alone in a four-berth cubicle. My destination was Madras, mother of Chennai, where I would change train for Trivandrum, my workplace. At that time, I had lived in Kerala for many years. I had fallen in love with the place and her people. In particular, I loved three things of Kerala, the undulating lush green landscape, the unmatched cleanliness of the people, and their delectable food.

I opened an India Today, which was an eminently readable magazine those days; its owner, Aroon Purie hadn’t become the cringeworthy sycophant of the ruling party he is now. Midway through the first article, I was interrupted by a thin young man in shabby clothes and uncombed hair, ‘Dada, this is genuine Chinese,’ he took out a golden fountain pen from his pocket, ‘… Please buy one, dada. For just 10 rupees, it’s a steal!’ That it was counterfeit was written all over the product and the vender. It had been manufactured not in China, but perhaps in Howrah. Even then, I bought a pen without saying a word for two reasons: first, although his pen was fake, the fellow seemed to be a genuine struggling young man, and second, I wanted to get rid of him quickly.

Soon, a man, who seemed to be a Malayali, walked in with a small suitcase. He asked me where I was headed, and when I said ‘Trivandrum,’ his face lit up with happiness. He volunteered with the information that he had come to Calcutta on office work and spent a difficult week here. ‘What a horrible place! Men bathe in the open!’ Was he disappointed because women didn’t? Anyway, I didn’t feel like pointing out that if men bathing in the open was the chief criterion for a place to be horrible, then every Indian village too was a horrible place.

Although I didn’t share his indignation, my companion kept talking in a friendly manner, ‘I was in my company guest house. These beggars (some Malayalis pronounce buggers as beggars, at least they did then) eat such awful food. … Do you know what cooking oil they use?’ After a long pause pregnant with possibilities, the gentleman announced, ‘Bledy mustard oil! Can you believe it?’

At that point, a portly middle-aged Bengali walked in, followed  by a porter carrying two suitcases. After finishing a brief argument with the porter about what would be a fair compensation, the man sat down with a sigh and asked, ‘Apni Bangali?’

In the meantime, the Malayali gentleman had gone to the loo. My new acquaintance began talking to me in Bangla. When he heard I was going to Kerala, he looked sad. In a heavy voice he asked, ‘Have you been in Kerala before?’

‘Never,’ a white lie.

‘Go there, but I tell you, you won’t be able to eat anything.’

‘Why?’

‘The fools use coconut oil for cooking. Can you imagine?’

Meanwhile, the train had started to move. To avoid hearing more unpleasantries, I took out my diary and began writing. To my surprise, the new pen wrote beautifully. I felt bad for presuming that the young man was a cheat. I admonished myself for being judgmental.

A few minutes later, as train crossed the outer signals, the flow of ink stopped. It never restarted.

That it would malfunction was expected. But its maker’s expertise was astonishing. It worked exactly for the period of time for which it was required to work. Amazing perfection!

3 April 2023

Santiniketan, a famous author, and two bright kids

 

Rabindranath Tagore had set up his ashram-school in the turn of the nineteenth century. Despite perpetual paucity of funds, he managed to recruit a galaxy of eminent teachers (including some from abroad). Or maybe, it was the other way round. A galaxy of brilliant people gravitated towards the greatest thinker and visionary Bengal has ever produced. Rabindranath’s idea was to recreate the past Indian tradition of educating children in the midst of nature, where teachers and students lived in close contact. Where facilities were basic, but children grew up unfettered by regimentation, where they could expand their inner world. The experiment worked. The eminent Indians who evolved in Santiniketan included Ramkinkar Baij, KG Subramanian, Mahashwheta Devi, Satyajit Ray, Amartya Sen, and many more.

The glory days of Visva-Bharati was gone long ago, but if a tradition of excellence is built up over decades, it takes time to destroy it. Here is an anecdote written by Palki, who grew up in Santiniketan in the 1980s. It is about her meeting with Annada Shankar Ray.

Annada Shankar was a curious combination of an ICS officer, an essayist, and a writer of children’s rhymes. (He left ICS midway to become a fulltime writer.) His twenty-five-line poem “Teler shishi bhanglo bole khukur pore rag karo” has been a landmark in Bangla literature.

Moving back to Palki, she was a precocious child of 10 who had read everything Annada Shankar had written for children and a little of what he hadn’t written for children. At that time, she was seriously considering a career in writing and naturally, she had decided to leave an everlasting mark in Bangla literature, like Annada Shankar, who she had anointed as her literary idol.

Therefore, when she heard that her idol would visit Santiniketan to receive Deshikottam, the highest award conferred by the university, she was quick to hatch a plan along with her bosom buddy Susmita. A day before the award function, when Annada Shankar had arrived in Santiniketan, the two little girls barged into the university guest house where important visitors stayed. In Palki’s words, Santiniketan hadn’t become Securityniketan then, and nobody bothered that two girls—who had no business to be there—were there. Palki and Susmita covered the long treelined driveway to the circular guest house with much excitement. When they got off their cycles in front of a covered balcony and looked up, they saw Annada Shankar in a cane chair, drinking tea. Palki had no difficulty in recognising him as she had seen his pictures.

The girls had grown up in freedom, they were not to be cowed down by the proximity of great men. They breezed up the stairs leading to the balcony and bent down to touch Annada Shankar’s feet before he knew what was happening. But he would have discerned the purpose of his little visitors in a moment and got talking with them. When he asked them their names, they furnished not only names, but also which school and grade they studied in. By then, Annada Shankar’s wife Lila Ray joined the party. Incidentally, she was an American who had spent years in Santiniketan. Another round of feet touching. Asking them to sit down, Lila Ray gave them biscuits. But the girls were becoming impatient. When they brought out their autograph books, Lila Ray asked, ‘Why do you want autographs?’

You might think it would be a difficult question for ten-year-olds to handle, but no! The children of Santiniketan explained in detail why they thought getting autographs was a good idea. Lila Ray then asked them to recite a poem. The girls quickly finished their biscuits, wiped their faces and stood up. And flailing their arms and possibly their plaits too, recited

For breaking a bottle of oil, you take the child to task,

But you grown-up kids break nations. Why, may I ask?

After such a performance, they naturally got what they came for. Mission accomplished.

* 

I do not know Susmita, but Palki’s mother, who left at an early age and her father, both have been senior friends. Palki hasn’t become a literary sensation (yet). She has just done a PhD from Oxford and teaches at the finest university of liberal arts in India. She is young and I do hope she will achieve her childhood dream someday! All the best, Palki.Picture of the open-air classroom from Mallarika Sinha Roy’s Facebook page