My story today is from the memories of a six year old. Fragmented, somewhat disjointed, but gathered assembled arranged and decorated with fanciful imagination and then cemented with love. To understand the story, however, the reader would need a few background notes that the six-year old is not in a position to provide. For a few minutes therefore I would have to hip-hop between my ‘me’ of to day to the ‘me’ of 1940 as I lay down the back ground, often from hearsay information from an era a decade before I was born.
The 1920s of India was of tremendous political ferment. The World War had just ended. (It had not been styled as the First World War as yet!) A new form of protest – Satyagraha – was being tried out in India, in Champaran in Bihar and in Kheda in Gujarat. The disappointment over the Montague-Chelmsford reforms of 1918 resulting in the diarchic Government of India Act of 1919 was converted to horror and anger by the passage of the Rowlett Act and the massacre at Jallianwalla Bagh on 13 April 1919. This fuming mass anger was channelled into the first massive truly national movement of non-cooperation by Mahatma Gandhi. The combination of Satyagraha with civil disobedience and non cooperation fired the imagination of the then young India. Most of the jailed revolutionaries who were jailed or exiled to the Andaman in 1905 /1907 were released from jail as a result of a general amnesty declared after the end of the War. They jumped right into this movement. Many government servants left their jobs and many students their schools and colleges as these were labelled as slave making factories. Baba was one such student who left his studies and walked out. He was then a second-year student of the Calcutta Medical College. His father had passed away only recently leaving his widowed mother and six younger siblings to his care. It was an awesome responsibility, but the strength of the call from the nation was irresistible. Baba, like thousand of other young men at that time, wandered all over the country attending one political action to another in the midst of a strong moderating debate launched by Rabindranath Tagore with the Mahatma about the validity of the method chosen by the later. Then one day in 1922 Chauri-Chaura happened. The Mahatma called the movement off. Hundreds of thousands of young men who had left their homes schools and job, forming the mass and the momentum of this huge movement, were left adrift. To say that most of them felt disappointed and let down would be an understatement. This multitude of youth had to re-invent their lives.
In the same time frame a new religion was sweeping the world. Communism and Bolshevism were roaring along in Russia. The combined might of the victorious European powers was unable to stop that Juggernaut. Many amongst the wayward and confused Indian youth were attracted by this new philosophy. M N Roy and others of his time made their presence felt in International Communism. Many others however found that this new movement, in an attempt to decry organized religion, was bent upon destroying the concept of a god-head – of Paramaatman. In this process they landed up denying the existence of Aatman or the human soul. This deviation from fundamental Indic philosophy put many of these men away from classical communism. They turned their whole energy away from politics into philosophy. Most well known amongst these people was of course Sri Aurobindo. Many others also searched for the meaning of their lives through diverse other Gurus. Baba found another medical practitioner whose philosophy attracted him. This person was Sri Sri Thakur Anukul Chandra.
Thakur Anukul Chandra and his organisation the Satsang was for Baba like finding a shore for a drifting boat. He joined the organisation and became one of his earliest disciples. He rejoined the medical college and completed his medical studies, graduating from the Calcutta Medical College in 1924. From then on, he never left the shadow of Thakur Anukul Chandra. The headquarters of Satsang was at Pabna in a village named Himaitput. Baba rose in its hierarchy and by 1938 he was appointed in charge of the district organisation for Jessore. The organisation held a quarterly meeting for its office bearers styled as the ‘Ritwik Conference’. Baba thus became a regular visitor to Pabna.
Now back to my faint memories.
For the Ritwik Conference due in early 1940, Ma wanted to tag along with Baba and visit Pabna. Thakuma decided that if her daughter in law could go for a trip then she could tag along too. I was too small to be left behind and my younger brother was in any case just a baby in arms. The party for the trip to Pabna thus became quite large. War in Europe was in full swing. India had joined the war and was a very major supplier of war materials to Britain. The economy was booming, but there were also some attendant problems. Petrol had become rationed. Car trips became progressively difficult to plan. There was no direct rail link between Jessore and Pabna. As a matter of fact, Pabna town was not on the railway map at all. The nearest rail head for Pabna was a place called Ishwardi Junction. However even Ishwardi had no direct train from Jessore. Baba usually went to Calcutta and took a train to Ishwardi from there. This time, however, the large size of the party caused the routing via Calcutta to be burdensome. It was initially planned that we shall drive up to an intermediate junction station Darshana that was not too far. The plan however had to be jettisoned quickly, much to my regret. Two ladies plus two kids plus Baba plus luggage plus the driver was too much of a tight fit. The fall back option was a bus ride up to Darshana. In those days road transport was totally in private hands and was not really regulated. Roads were in a bad condition. Local buses were generally built on 3 ton chassis. The public was quite class conscious. The tiny buses therefore made arrangement for separate compartments for ‘Ladies’, ‘Upper Class’ and ‘Lower Class’. There was a new bus operating between Jessore and Chuadanga that went via Darshana. Baba’s Man Friday, Amulya, was sent down to the bus stand to inform the bus owner that the upper class of that bus was to be reserved for the Doctor Saab on the appointed day and that the bus was to be re-routed to pick up the elite passengers from their home. In a small town in those lazy days such dictates were common and were obeyed without a question.
The so called Upper Class in the bus was in actuality a 5 seat upholstered bench placed athwart the bus just behind the driver’s cabin and sealed off from the front and rear by grilled partitions. We were a party of three adults one child and one infant. We had the compartment to ourselves. The only problem was a severe lack of legroom, which did not affect me. The bus bumped along for two or three hours and deposited us at the destination. We now had a lot of time on our hand as the connecting train was available only late in the evening. We held ‘Inter Class’ ticket and therefore we were entitled to the use of the ‘Upper Class’ waiting room. Ma pulled out food packets of loochi and Tarkaari from one of her bundles and we had a feast. The afternoon wore on. I was bored. There was not much happening on the platform. I found it interesting to climb up and down the over-bridge staircase. After a while even this climbing up and down became boring. I crossed the over-bridge and went down to the other side. A small road led away from the over-bridge in to the village. Next to the railway line a farmer was ploughing his field. He was quite a jolly fellow and he was constantly chattering with his bullocks. I gave him a smile and we became friends. I have no idea as to how much time had passed in this inter-action. I suddenly felt that this news of having found a new farmer friend who talked with his bullocks must be shared with Ma. I went over the bridge and entered the waiting room. All of a sudden all hell broke loose. One man picked me up and ran out shouting loudly. At the other side of the platform I spotted Ma running towards me her saree half undone trailing behind her. Just outside the waiting room Thakuma was shouting ‘he is here’ to no one in particular. I was quite confused. Using free time to make friends was, I thought, a good idea! Of course when one is only six it is impossible to predict how an adult will react in a given situation.
Much cuddling and rona-dhona (weeping) ensued. It transpired that I had been missed by the elders for about two hours and two trains including one military special had passed through the station in the interim period. After the hubbub subsided, I was plied with sweets and was kept under strict supervision till we boarded the train and recommenced our journey. We stretched out on the benches and the elders tried to get a little sleep. However, the excitement of the day had robbed me of my sleep totally. My little brother was fast asleep in Ma’s lap while I kept on tossing and turning. At long last she put the little fellow down and moved down to cuddle me. As was our usual routine, she told me stories of her own childhood. The stories were all known but each re-telling spawned a romantic magic of a fantasy land. That night she told me the story of how her parents were travelling with her and their two other daughters on the same railway line from Darjeeling to Calcutta and how her two younger sisters had acted naughty. They had opened the door of a running train and had both fallen out on to the ground. How per chance it had been raining and the ground was soft, how my grandma pulled the chain to stop the train and how the train had backed up for half a mile to pick the two children up. Thrills, chills; my imagination was running wild. How did they fall? How come they did not hit the stones lying about? And as I was going over the well known story one more time the train entered the Hardinge bridge. It was one of the longest bridges in India. It stood over the Padma at Sara near Paksi. Goom Goom Goom Goom the wheels rolled over the line as I held on to Ma tightly.
We reached Ishwardi in the middle of the night. There was no means of transport at that time of the night to Himaitpur village that lay about five miles away from Pabna, which itself was a good fifteen miles from Ishwardi. We waited at the station for dawn to break. We took a Tomtom as the one horse carriages were called there. We reached Himaitpur in time for a late breakfast.
Traditionally, Baba was hosted by his close friend Mr Gopal Mukherjee during his frequent visits to Himaitpur. This time however, we went over to another house. Our host this time was Mr Krishna Prasanna Bhattacharya. To me it did not matter where I stayed as long as I was with my parents. However, there were many exchanges muttered in hushed tones between Baba and Ma as to why we could not put up with Gopal-da this time and why, at the same time, we must make a formal call at his house as soon as possible. I did not know at that time that tragedy had struck the Mukherjee family a while earlier; Mr. Mukherjee had died in a Railway accident. He was the Secretary to the Satsang organisation and was travelling on an official errand when the tragedy took place. I remember going to their house in a sombre mood and being met by the bereaved widow. She had a son of my age, named Arunaditya, and a new born child with her. Mr Bhattacharya, who was our host for this time, was the president of the Satsang organisation. In his house too there was a boy my age. He was introduced to me as ‘Kutum’. We got along well. Mr Bankim Chandra Roy, who was a whole time worker of the organisation in Jessore and a permanent resident of our household there, had been called up to become the new secretary. I was very fond of him and he also loved me greatly. I was thrilled to find him at Himaitpur.
During our stay at Himaitpur Sri Sri Thakur advised Baba that he should buy a plot of land near the Asharam. You will need it soon, he said. It was a cryptic comment that puzzled Baba and Ma. They had just invested heavily in the new house at Jessore and some loans were still outstanding on that. Still, they deferred to the advice of Sri Sri Thakur. We went and saw the plot of land and a deal was struck. Little did any one know at that time that the advice would be prophetic? We returned to Jessore within the week.