A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE
Dadi was adept at storytelling with a twist in the tale. Tuni, courtesy Upendranath Kishor Ray, was a constant but Dadi married Tuni harmoniously with Rabindranath Tagore. I recall as if it were the other day… ” Raja ‘r ghawre je dhon acche,Tuni’r ghawre o she dhon acche”, becameTuni’r ghawre je dhon acche,Raja’r ghawre she dhon NEI…”; translating loosely into, the wealth the King has, Tuni has the same. And later in a cruel twist of fate, ‘ The wealth that Tuni has, the King hath no more…’ In a melange of superb combination, she amalgamated Greek mythology, and Indian literature. Her version was thus: For those unaware of Tuntuni, the story is about a bird, who is keen, intelligent and speaks to the King as an equal, ALWAYS illuminating the finer things in life. Once upon a time, the King, irate with the thieving Tuni, who intermittently stole the guineas, spread upon the royal pavilion, washed and glinting, even as the bold rays of sunshine beat upon them, reflecting a blinding irridescence. The King decided to ensure that Tuni could not get at them, however hard she tried! The unbeatable little sparrow, was truly at her wits end, but NEVER frustrated. She had a MIND, that the King was unfortunately not born with. So, the little scruffy sparrow, scratched her scrawny feathers, looked daringly back at the golden orb, and thought. As the orb ebbed into an orange flame, transforming itself into a silver crescent, the clever sparrow, exhausted with the dilemma and the holocaust of overthinking, fell into a deep sleep. And as she slept, she dreamt… Strangely, her dreams were not fraught with the savagery of one upmanship, or Machiavellian machinations to diminish the King; it came to her as clear as the call of the morning lark, the toll of the blessed church bells, the ancient Arabic chants and refrains of yore; it was clear as crystal that she had what the King could never achieve. Meanwhile, the King like Midas had been granted his lifetime wish, ALL that he touched turned to GOLD; including the guests of honour at his princely palace!!! Time was of essence, and Tuni was the Master of Time… Even as Tuni, diminished by natural calamities, old age and lack of agility, she swore to help her lifelong enemy, the King, and sang for him her last song: Tuni said,O King, make your home like mine, where ALL are welcome and ALL visit. ” Come o Aryan, come non Aryan, Hindu Myssulman,Dravidian and Chinese,Sakas, Huns,Pathans, Moghuls, united as one body. The doors of the West have opened,Bearing gifts they arrive;To give and take, unite and be united, NEVER to return. UPON THE SHORE OF HUMANITY, OUR MOTHERLAND, INDIA.(SUCH IS A HOME). Let me leave the conclusion, ‘ if tomorrow comes’! But at age nothing, a little girl at her Dadi’s knee, was already on her way to reading voraciously, and more significantly, comprehending the enormity of the philosophy, ‘ UNITED WE STAND…’ TUNI and I remain inseparable, that was Dadi’s GIFT to me,” ei Bharoter mahamanober shagorteere …Rupa Chakravarti
THE SERVITOR, TERRA FIRMA
In arrogance, disdain, anger fraught,I summoned the ‘SERVITOR ‘ ” forget me not”,Incessant demands, they left and came,I lacked the grace to hide in shame! In sloth and leisure, my body obese,Redolent with excess, they lacked release,They served me through ‘a hard day’s night ‘,I expected more with the morning light! They gave their body, their flesh their, soul,I claimed they lied, they thieved, they stole,They smiled indulgent, they knew my style,I stepped a step, they walked the mile! HAMIN AST… Then one morning, lo and behold,I was in heaven, or so I was told,No tray, no tea, no buttered toast,Just luminous light to make the most! Sudden fear engulfed me swift,A clutch at my gut, my heart atwist,Where were my SERVITORS? They feared me so,Had they abandoned me for more? On my knees, scrambling in the dust,I raised my eyes slowly, I knew I must,I looked not at anger and disdain,But benevolence and understanding of my pain! ” Rise O SERVITOR and hold my hand,Join me in service of the land,There is no MASTER in my home and hearth,One soul, one flesh, one spirit, one heart”! I turned away my eyes in shame,A flickering hope, a flare, a flame,My SERVITORS stepped forth in my hour of need,Cessation of arrogance, anger and greed! No home, no hearth, no hell, no heaven,No master, no SERVITOR, no mice, no men,In searing realisation and vision clear,HAMIN AST, HAMIN AST, HAMIN AST, IT’S HERE…Rupa Chakravarti
CALL AND RESPONSE
CALL AND RESPONSE. I am ritualistic, like Dadi. Subsequent to my prayers one morning, Sarvajit, chewing thoughtfully over his breakfast, asked me with no reference to context, ” what do you pray for?” Flummoxed by his query I decided to be irritatingly rhetorical, and presented him with another pithy question, “WHY”. His response left me shaken, subdued and reflective, but mostly ashamed. He said, ” don’t you think your God tires of the incessant wanting and complying? Have you tried empathy with your God? How would you feel, plied with need and desire by millions?” I presented this poem as a response to Sarvajit, and YES, now I only pray in GRATITUDE. CALL AND RESPONSE. CALL:The want eternal, the desire increased,The hunger mounting, the thirst unceased ,The first to touch the finishing line,In looks, achievements, the power be mine! ” sarva vighnopa shantaye”, oh my faith,“Allah ho Akbar” grant me I sayeth,“Give us today our daily bread “,I need, I want, much MORE to tread!. When shards of sound pierce the silence of prayer,I hear a voice, known, familiar,I strive to hear the chant of yore,A voice unheard, hitherto AFORE.! RESPONSE: ” I tire of giving, the incessant need,My pew is empty, the conches weep,The flowers are dry, the sandalwood stale,Hear ME but once, MY sorrowful tale. Return to ME the moon and stars,The galaxy, the sun, the driftwood, Mars,Tha cadence of song, the moving limbs,The panoramic vision, the light within. Return to ME the sepia, the rust,The snow, the hills, the dales, the dust,The weeping willow, the sparkling stream,The lightning, the thunder, the gilt the gleam!” ” FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES “,I ask again,The habit dies hard, there’s more to gain,I hear YOU, and yet I hear YOU not,It’s convenient, please ” FORGET ME NOT…”Rupa Chakravarti
“KAGOJ NOUKAKHANI”
PAPER BOATS! যখন পড়বে না মোর পায়ের চিহ্ন এই বাটে, আমি বাইব না মোর খেয়াতরী এই ঘাটে, Dadubhai retired as General Manager Eastern Railways. Son of Sir Lal Gopal Mukherjee, he had what everyone else did in that era, the Oxford background, the Aryan good looks, light eyes included, the colonial habits of splendid articulation, excellent skill in sports, tennis predominantly, flair with continental cuisine, et al. But to me he was Dadubhai, the one who sat me at his knee by the lily pond in his official residence at Alipore and unfolded a world where make belief became permanent, folded neatly and set asail in the lily pond. Betwixt Abol Tabol and Hajobarola, Wind on the Moon and Winnie the Pooh, he and I were writing our own stories, Dadubhai the prompter and I the prompted. The said stories were then neatly folded into paper boats and placed in the water, allowing imagery and imagination to determine their destination. No credit to me, but at his kind behest, his unfailing instinct, I became adept at origami. At his knee, I picked up pencil, crayon, charcoal, water colour and oil paints, learning from the best as he was a painter of fair repute, having fraternised with the best during his very separate youth. The collection still holds pride of place on walls in need of paint and plaster, and Ma’s book, ‘ STRAWBERRY PATCH’. Not unusual then that his 1st book, ‘ Chuhulika’, was dedicated to me. My grandparents called me Chuhu. I was the apple of their eye, this robust child, imaginative and confident, painting, writing, reciting, singing, dancing, very poorly I may add, with the benefit of hindsight, but versatile certainly! I grew up knowing nothing was really a challenge, believing in my eternal prompter, Dadubhai. Years later, betwixt Arnold, learning to appreciate poetry, Dame Laura Knight, understanding the outreach of Art, M.S. Subhalaxmi, appreciating music and Sound of Music, relating to cinematography, that I recall a trip to the Metro, our weekend ritual, this time to watch ‘ Flipper’. To the amazement of the audience and complete lack of response from Dadubhai, when Flipper was lost, I stood up on my seat, all 3 and a half feet of me, my clarion call of ” Flipper, Flipper”, resounding through the noble portals of the said cinema house! Much later, this time 5 feet and 4 inches, Dadubhai would come to pick me up from Presidency in his old Vauxhall, precipitating great curiosity about the ‘ older man’ in my life!!! Yet again, Dadubhai allowed imagination the upperhand and we engaged in a story, ‘ The Selfish Giant’, not Oscar Wilde but Chuhu and Dadubhai. I dreamt of Dadubhai last night. A vivid dream, his last words to me, this time, me the adult, he the child. He whispered to me kindly, with understanding, with love, ” Chuhu, remember our ‘ KAGOJ NOUKAKHANI?”…Rupa Chakravarti