[This poem was written in remembrance of half-a-century since the passing of my mother, a most remarkable woman the world did not get to know (reminds me much of Thomas Gray’s famous Elegy with the potent lines:
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flow’r is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.)
Or any one of Rabindranath Tagore’s many lines remembering pristine lives lost before their time:
ঝরাপাতাগো, আমিতোমারিদলে …
তোমারিমতোআমারউত্তরী,
আগুনরঙেদিয়োরঙীনকরি
অস্তরবিরলাগাকপরশমণি
প্রাণেরমমশেষেরসম্বলেll
And this remembrance must find resonance in other lives. That at any rate is my hope. Monish R Chatterjee]
Fifty Years without You in this Wilderness©
(April 11, 1968-April 11, 2018) by Monish R Chatterjee
Offering at the lotus feet of Lilabati Chatterjee (nee Bhattacharya)
- Early Days
Those years are partly covered in mist.
The mist of time, through whose translucent gauze
Disjointed views come through, every so often.
Views of a young woman, meager her means
Supremely rich her universe-engulfing heart
A young woman imbued with devotion to her
Husband, taken up by endless rural tours of hamlets
And to her two boys, to whom she exposed
With virtually relentless foresight and commitment
The ideals of the cultivated life, filled with questions,
Inquiry, zest and a thirst for the great
Triumphs and tragedies of Man.
I cannot even recall your voice. Except, those times
Perhaps washing a tubful of clothes in the small
Wash area next to the open stairs-
You would softly sing your favorite Hemanta lines
Jharuthechhe, Baulbatashajkeholoshathi …
A wistful magic would penetrate my being
Far from Bengal, you brought to us-
Like one of the greatest emissary of that
Riverine, pristine, green land of fertile thought
Glimpses of Bengal, and yes, oft of Burma.
Ma- what name did you call your little boy with?
That, too, I know not for sure. Babun, methinks-
Since Pintu was the prevalent one among
The elders, back in Kolkata. Whatever it was, from
Years earlier still, I somehow recall yet today those
Feedings from a jhinuk– usually something
Like Purity Indian Barley, especially those times
When, poor of constitution, I might have been
Recovering from a bout of fever. Later still-
I remember throwing tantrums every time you
Insisted I drink down a glass of milk.
“I hate you!”I screamed at the glass.
Before reaching ten, I was perpetually afflicted
With spates of cold, and attendant maladies.
Around early 1964, I think, the doctor
Made the recommendation- “He needs his tonsils
Removed.” There were speculations and logistics
To work out. In the end, in May of that year-
I was admitted into the Haralalka Hospital for the
Operation. “Worry not”- they all told me. “You will
Get to eat ice cream afterwards.” A sure bet
To placate a child. There we were, three consecutive
Nights, past surgery. This I recall well- you chatting
Across the verandah with my Mejopishi’s
- II. School and Travels
Mother-in-Law. The elder grandmother sat there
In the verandah of their magnificent house, across
The street from Haralalka. And I recall my
Mejopishe, a caring giant of a man, bringing you
Roti and Tadka Dal, and other variants each night.
As for the ice cream, yes, it was served, but
Alas! My throat was inflamed the entire time, and
The icy cold lumps went down completely bereft
Of any taste or flavor. But you for sure
Were there for me, a young woman in a world
With not many doors open, a world where dreams
Only took flight in an inward sky.
In Kolkata, you had that most delicate task, proving
Your preparedness as a daughter-in-law, wife
A young mother, and myriad other roles
In an extended family with many an intricate branch.
A family where the husband, an only son, was
An idealist, ex- freedom fighter, taking up
A somewhat lower-end job in a government department
And spent time being posted far from Kolkata
The family homestead. Annually, we had
The wonderful trips to Kolkata, during summer
Vacation and the family Durga Puja. For the latter
The school would receive special request
From Baba- ‘My two wards need a few extra days
To attend their family festival.” And we would receive
Approval: the wards are granted the extra
Holidays. Then those fun preps- the trip by
Bombay Mail via Allahabad- for us always in 3rd Class
With the hardwood benches, being stuffed
Into the coach in advance through the windows
To secure spots for the family. Then there were
The gunny sacks filled with massive U.P.
Pumpkins- destined for the kumrochhokka during
The pujo feasts. And back on the home front, for
You so many rituals as the griha-badhu
I recall witnessing Baba and you, in wedding finery
Circle the Lakshmi shrine. But, only some knew
Or perhaps not- you were made of material
Greater by far than a griha-badhu, your refined mind
Connected with a much wider world. Your resources
Were limited, but all those decades ago, no
Lack of electronic communication as commonplace
Today, would ever stop you from mentally connecting
With the pulse of the human world.
Your affinity for books and anything of the mind
Was evident to us. Nothing escaped your attention. From
Kolkata you brought back often, discarded books
III. Readings and the Mind
College texts, gifts, periodicals. And with us boys studying
In missionary schools, training in English and Hindi, Bangla
Became deeply ingrained in our fabric, night and day-
Baba and you were an amazing team, but you
The leader by far. Soon enough, we read আমরাবাঙালী
Cover to cover, multiple times, until the lives
Of the great figures of our Renaissance became second
Nature to us. And there was রামকৃষ্ণেরকথাওগল্প, tales and
Parables relating to the পাগলঠাকুর, and soon enough,
Narendranath- the trailblazer, the cyclonic monk.I recall
Reading together (or often you reading to us) such science
Tidbits as the Pavlovian response, and also
Graphic travel tales from অজানাদেশেমঙ্গোপার্ক- tales from
Whence we learned about kangaroos, dingoes, aborigines
And boomerangs, long, long before the
Crocodile Dundee Films. And there was DeshPatrika
A bi-weekly Bengali periodical to which, despite his relatively
Meager income as a field investigator in the NSSO
Baba subscribed, knowing his devoutly well-read wife would
Transmit its treasures to the boys. And what a treasure trove
It was! Back then it was rather slender, perhaps no more
Than fifty pages per issue. But Ma you read it hungrily when it
Arrived, and soon so would we. It is a mystery, and forever
Will be- how and whence we learned to read Bengali
In such fine print. More than likely your passion contributed
To this, and that ignition point was one of your greatest
Gifts to me in going forward. Many years later
On these Atlantic shores, when I would read the
New Yorker boast “Perhaps the best magazine that ever was,”
I remember telling myself– how sad, indeed
You never got to read Desh; but then your chauvinism
For English would jade your outlook anyway. Desh had
A galaxy of fine writers. The list is virtually
Endless- even all those years ago, besides essays and tales
From Rabindranath and Sarat Chandra, we had Pratibha
Basu and ManojBasu, Tarashankar and Premankur
Nirad C. Chaudhuri and Buddhadeva Bose, Sibram and
Narayan Gangopadhyay, Ashapurna and Mahasweta.
And this truly is the very tip of the iceberg. Here
Were writers who, if ever seen through an objective
Western lens, would be winners of a hundred Pulitzers
And several Nobels, of this I have little doubt.
Back all those years ago, we were introduced to Rupadarshi
And Neel-Lohit, আমারফাঁসীহলোand আত্মঘাতীবাঙালী, and
Young as we were, Dada and I were drawn
Inevitably to the sports writing. I have subsequently read
Much of the sports writing in English (from Neville Cardus
To George Plimpton to David Halberstam); yet
IV Bonding and Roles
I must say our own DeshKrira-Jagator KhelaDhula editors
Culminating in a prolific author such as Mati Nandi
Could well hold up to some of the best in the West.
As mentioned- reading as life-sustaining pleasure was
A vital part of your days, spent as a lone woman with
Two boys while Baba went to remote villages
And hamlets conducting sample surveys for the department
Of statistics. And where you went, you bonded with those
You met. One odd incident I remember was one
Where, during one school day, I believe at St. Anthony’s,
I was called into the Principal’s office. And the Reverend
Mother handed me a tube of Preparation H to
Take home. I had no idea what it was, or what it was for.
It was a long time later I understood that Ma had spoken
To the Reverend Mother about Baba being in pain
From piles (she likely did not have the money to get
Emollients from the pharmacy). The kindly missionary
Responded with compassion to Ma’s story (I doubt
Ma had asked to be helped in any way). Hence
The remedial tube. Back during the St. Anthony’s years
Dada and I were a bit on the timid side. Even
Though between us Dada was always the more adventurous
The flow of our lives was forcefully in Ma’s hands. One
School day, the thunderous monsoon storm came
Pelting down upon the school premises, just about at
Closing time. Most often, we would take the sidewalks
To get home. On this day, Dada and I stood
Shivering and drenched under a tree, with wild, howling
Winds compounding the frightful flashes of lightning.
Most fellow students were soon picked up by
A variety of means, and soon the school front yard
Was quite empty. Feeling lost and abandoned, I remember
Crying, as though the world was about to end.
Dada held up a tad bit better, but not by much. Then, even
As the world felt a most scary place, a rickshaw appeared
Through the blinding downpour, and you stepped
Down, umbrella in hand, assuring us all was well.
We saw little of your family. All I knew was that
Dadu lived with your step brother and sisters
(His name was Sadhan and one sister had the nickname
Mango- most imaginative, as your family always
Revealed itself to be) in Rahara, a rural outpost
About a hundred miles from Kolkata. Your own sister,
Dolly, was younger and much attached. The letters
You exchanged, several in my possession, reveal
To me the thoughts, aspirations and apprehensions of
Womanhood. In one, Dolly Mashi tells her Didi- ‘You
Must keep Jamaibabu in your sight; you can never tell
V The “Other” Family
About a handsome man.’ She lived in Benares with her
Husband and two lovely daughters. There was the one
Time they visited us in Allenganj, and we had a
Fun time with our two younger cousins. Back then, when
Family and close friends visited, we would receive tins
Of either J.B. Mangharam or Cadburys’- and we
Would be most enticed. Since then, we were out of
Touch for many decades. You would sometimes tell us
Stories of your family’s expatriate times in Burma-
There was nostalgia for the Iravati, Rangoon, Moulmein
And Mandalay. Later, as I recall, your family spent times
In TilaiyainKodermadistrict– a picturesque town
With a hydroelectric dam across the Barakar river
In today’sJharkhand. You did have highly accomplished
Uncles in Kolkata, who lived with two grand old
Ladies, both grandmothers to you on the family tree.
Their sheer joy seeing us every time we visited, insisting
On feeding us payesh and narus is etched in my
Heart forever. Their lives were simplicity itself- yet
Their minds were deeply cultivated. One, who was
The older of the two, in fact, had had a book
Of poems published, I would guess back in the 1930s.
This was our one matrilineal connection in Kolkata-
The Moore Avenue house was our only means
Of outreach to the essentially non-existent Mamabari.
As my years advanced, I found access to your other
Correspondence- with Dolly Mashi and also
Several women on Baba’s family network- Boropishi,
Mejopishi, Rangapishi, Jyethima, our Mamidida.
These showed the young Bengali housewife
Being the dedicated family-builder. There was also
Your hand-written recipe-book, care-worn. And
Therein you wrote down some of your sources
I learned how you made notes on posto and hing,
Galangal and vanilla. You seemed prepped to put into
Practice so much you had learned in life.
At various times, family did visit us in Allenganj.
Phoolpishi visited once- even at a young age, she had
Great affection for Dada and me. On that visit
She gifted me a fine hard-cover book with pictures-
HoludPakhi. Dada and I virtually devoured the book
To Dada she gifted a book on the many
Benefits of fruits, and inscribed the lines, পলকারোগা
হ্যাংলাসরুখ্যাংড়াকাঠিরদল, গায়েবেজায়জোরহবেখাসযদি
রেফল.Another timePishimani came and
Spent several months during which attended
Jagattaran Girls’ School. Her delightful stay with us
Included the 30th of December, and I recall
VI Curtain Call
With your assistance, she made for me a delectable
চিঁড়েরপোলাওfor the birthdaywith whatever
Ingredients were at hand.All those years
Ago, there were many more visitations, many tales
Of human companionship, empathy and sharing.
Your pursuit of observing life with its myriad
Variants and unevenness persisted.Your gentle
Delicate nature, including finer indulgences often
Manifested themselves. Once, using an
Improvised chula with two tiers, you followed the recipe
For a rich vanilla cake- and I still remember our home
Perfumed by a wonderful vanilla flavor like
We were in the finest bakeshop. You would wear your
Prolific long hair in single and double braids, even as you
Would tend to the daily offerings at the little
Shrine in the alcove. This is where we learned how
Reverence for all great teachers was vital for a wholesome
Life. At your shrine, we would find Gopala
Kali and Saraswati right alongside Buddha and Jesus. You
Observed most of our special days on the calendar, and
This included feeding the animals- chiefly cows
And dogs which roamed our streets. Once you told me
A truly beautiful face ought to be paan-shaped. Hence
You particularly liked Jackie Kennedy, about whom
I do not doubt you knew a whole lot more. Inspired by
Your admiration, I sketched a portrait of Jackie which
Hung till the very end on our kitchen wall. Thus
Were you in touch with the corners of this world and
Likely others as well. There were times of great privation-
Once, I remember, Baba was a few days late
Returning from his office tour. Your rations meanwhile
Had run out. I do not know if you simply starved yourself
For you fed us boys whatever you could assemble
In that moment of want. One night there was nothing
More than chapatis and tea. A woman who rode with Yuri
Gagarin and Valentina into space in her mind
Had nothing at home to assuage her hunger. But you
Faced it all with grace, we schoolboys knew very little.
Then came April 4th of ’68, and MLK’s assassination
Was all over the news at All India Radio. I remember this
Moved you very deeply. You opened the pages of Desh
From several years earlier, and read to us his
March on Washington and the history-making
I have a Dream speech. We understood about slavery and
Civil Rights in another part of the world. Who
Can tell for sure- but perhaps your mind was occupied by
This event when you took that fall from the stairway
To the terrace. It appeared to be nothing more than
A sprained wrist. Baba was away on tour; the doctor
Suggested turmeric rubs and a cloth poultice until Baba
Arrived and had you X-rayed and the injury fixed.
Baba received news and arrived the earliest he could. They
Found a hairline fracture and localized swelling. On that
Fateful day, you were to visit the hospital with
Baba to get the arm bandaged for healing. With your one
Good arm, you fixed lunch for us boys so we could eat
After school, just in case they were delayed getting
Back. I recall it being said that you carried the anesthetic
Which took your priceless life in your own hands.
The coming back never happened. The tragic events
VII. Life Lessons
Which occurred are still a blur. All I remember is
Bhattacharya Kakucame to pick us up to take us to the
Hospital in the middle of the afternoon- a distraught
Bhattacharya Kaku. Once at the hospital, he pointed to a room
And said to us- “Go see your Ma. It is all over.” Moments
Later- life as we had known it, came crashing into
The savage earth. Baba, for whom this happened a second
Time, literally fell into pieces. A telex went to Kolkata, and
A day later, it was my Mejopishe (who so lovingly
Brought you food during my tonsillectomy) who rushed to
Allahabad to rescue this family torn asunder.
In the deafening cacophony which followed we heard
All manner of rationales: air bubbles in the syringe, overdose
Of pethidine, a possibly weakened heart. Who would ever
Know? Your abrupt passage signifies what amazing
Lives filled with promise are lost in the cycles of life. It was
As though a menacing curtain had befallen my magical life.
Ma- when they brought you for the last time to
Allenganj- through my endless fountain of tears, I remember
Touching your face through the shroud that covered you-
My last contact with the one who not only brought
Me here, but literally shaped every nuance of my life.
Fifty years ago, today, we carried you to the Ganges- you,
Whose physical life had traversed theIravati,
The Barakar, and the Ganges, were consecrated to the celestial
River, right at PrayagTirtha, one of the great SatiPithas.
Half a century has since passed. I have recorded my
Encounters with many in life, and hope to do a great bit more
As long as the Vidhata would allow me. Yet, I have never
Written a word about you- your memory much too
Sacred to me. A memory which, as the Upanishads describe
Any attempt to simply vocalize Brahman ending up lessening
The same. I must mention, in the fortieth year, when
My own Trisha visited the SaraswatiGhat, I watched her from
A distance- and she was your splitting image- the face, the eyes
The hair. You had returned to your formerly little
Boy- now as his little girl to take care of, and to teach all the
Great lessons you taught us. Ma- I watch the world and see
The perpetual cycles of hatred, the base instincts of
Man predominant over all the higher ideals. The science you
You so loved, the flights of Man into space you so enshrined
Into your being- all that progress has not minimally
Advanced what you exemplified in your few years with us-
In the poet’s words: তারাবলেগেলক্ষমাকরোসবে, বলেগেল
ভালোবাসো, অন্তরহতেবিদ্বেষ-বিষনাশোl You taught me
The meaning of nobility- as Swamiji said, the divinity in
All beings is intrinsic. Not money, not power, not vanity
Not ego, not rewards. May that lesson yet save our world.
Dr. Monish R. Chatterjee, a professor at the University of Dayton who specializes in applied optics, has contributed more than 120 papers to technical conferences, and has published more than 60 papers in archival journals and conference proceedings, in addition to numerous reference articles on science. He has also authored several literary essays and four books of literary translations from his native Bengali into English (Kamalakanta, Profiles in Faith, BalikaBadhu, and Seasons of Life). Dr. Chatterjee believes strongly in humanitarian activism for social justice.