Thank You, Barda.

Thank You, Barda.

I do not remember who was conveying the message to Jaya, my better half, through Skype.  Barda has sold his Baguihati flat for a song!

It was way back in the early 80’s that my eldest brother, Dr.Debesh Bhattacharya, bought 3 flats on the trot, from a renowned Bengali actor, Dipankar Dey.  I still remember how the actor paid a visit to our ancestral home in Kolkata for the agreement and how my big brother paid him the money in cash without bothering about the formalities!

I also remember the day when on a lethargic but beautiful afternoon back in Deblane, in my late mother’s room, I was reading out from my diary to my brother about my dream of staying with my mother at some place, far from the maddening crowd, and learning the Best Lessons of Life from her. I will remain ever indebted to my brother for letting me have that opportunity by purchasing the flats soon afterwards.

I spent many a day at one of those apartments called Nilanjana.  Barda, during his visits to Kolkata, preferred to stay in the other apartment (the one he has sold recently). Our relatives would come to meet Ma and Barda often and we all had a whale of a time.

Then Ma passed away and life was not the same any more. Barda’s visits to Kolkata gradually grew few and far between as he was not getting any younger.  Our days and stays at Baguihati started fading into distant memories.  Barda, I guess, bought the flats in the hope that one day one of his siblings might stay in as housing by then was becoming a bit tight in Kolkata. I never thought, despite what others might feel about it,that he bought the flats in the expectation of one of his daughters coming and staying there in the near future.

On a number of occasions, my brother wanted me to take the flat and stay there to keep the memories and the flat in tact. Just like that!  He has always led a chequered life and buying and selling a flat was never a big deal for him (At one point in his life he had owned three houses in Australia)!  I was married by then and the thought of staying on the fifth floor was not as exciting and inviting as it was some years ago.  Last time my Barda called me in Kolkata, he was absolutely flabbergasted when I dared to buy the flat from him.  He was prepared to give it to me for free.  He did not want to make a profit out of It, with any of his siblings, or with anyone ,as it turned out to be in the end.

Nearly three weeks have passed since he sold the flat off, and that too at the price he had paid way back in the early 1980’s.  The flat, as per the latest assessment of the Municipality, is currently worth 24 lacs! The enormity and reality of the sale of the flat is yet to sink in completely.  Despite all the hoopla regarding his decision to sell the flat, I feel genuinely grateful to my Big Brother. I will remain so as I understand that this world is really beautiful for beautiful people like him.  May be some day in the near future  I will come to have my own flat but he has done a stupendous job by deciding to help someone more needy to fulfil his (that man’s) dream. I feel even more grateful as he has not let the self-esteem of his youngest brother be lowered in the eyes of the world.

May God bless you, Barda, for all your noble thoughts and sentiments. Proud to have a brotherlike you.

P.S: I have blogged this article on hearing the news of the deteriorating health of my brother. He has been a fantastic brother all through. Please pray for his health and happiness, will you?

The Impact of A Two-Minute Break!

I had the last class with XII Commerce.  Out of the seven periods a day, I am left free only in the fifth every Friday. Deadbeat, I was crawling my way to the class, when I could find all those yawning, worn out faces all around.  Some of them were already outside lazing their way to the toilets. Some were just waiting near the door for my approival.

“Sir, will you give us a break for two minutes?”

Alright, two minutes is all that you have.  Be right back after two minutes then.” I complied with their request. The kids always remind me of my school days. Without being disrespectful to his memory (He's been gone for donkey's age), I can honestly say that I could never muster enough guts to open up to my English teacher.  That may be one reason why I dreaded English till class ten.  He was a giant of a man and even the naughtiest of the naughty boys would keep pin- drop silence in his class. Besides, he knew how to make the best use of the stick he carried in his hand.  Anyways, I guess, I am getting out of the track.

They were all back in time.  I had, by then, written the topic on the green board:

Write a story of about 300-350 words on the theme of Sacrifice. The time limit was 45 minutes. They set off with a zeal and vehemence that was not expected in the seventh period.  I was at my table when Pabitra, one of the front-benchers, tried to draw my attention by whispering to me,” Sir, I want you to write the outlines for a story on the topic An Unfortunate Mistake.  She had earlier made the same request to me, but I could not help her much at that time as I was busy with the Inter-Class Story Telling Contest. I grabbed the paper she had put forward to me over the table, was lost in deep thoughts for the next couple of minutes or so. Time unfortunately was not standing still and there were students sighing for my help.

My friends were going to a latest block-buster.  I was penniless.  I stole some finally from my father’s purse.  I lied to him when he talked to me about it in the evening, unsuspectingly.  He was deeply hurt when the truth was revealed to him finally a few weeks later.  I never betrayed the trust he had in me again. He was exceedingly proud of me till his last breath.

I handed the paper back to Pavitra from my table.  She quickly glanced through the paper and slowly broke into a smile. I got up and started moving around the class. Karma Tenzin, in the meantime, had started eyeing me sheepishly. “  Sir, would you mind going through my opening paragraph? I am not sure of my grammar and don’t know what to write next …………….”

I ran through his sentences about a family of four and suggested,“Don’t bother about the mistakes right now, Karma. You’ve got the start. Keep going not to interrupt the flow of thoughts.  The parents and the children, one son and a daughter, made a picture-perfect family.  Then disaster struck.  The lively, innocent daughter was diagnosed with a failed kidney.  On hearing about her daughter’s predicament, mother decided to risk donating her only sound kidney.  But as luck would have it, she passed away soon after. After her recovery, the daughter was desperately angry with the mother. The story ends with the daughter coming to terms with the reality of her mother’s death.

I had my doubt whether I was doing the right thing by spoon-feeding Karma, but there was a  look of absolute delight on his face and taking his notebook back from my hand, he immersed himself into completing his story. Only then I decided to sweep my eyes over all 44 of them. The whole class was busy penning their stories. There was a steely silence in the class and all of them with their heads bent over their notebooks displayed an eagerness, hard to fathom.  I had not the least bit of doubt in my mind that all of them were enjoying writing their stories.

The gong was sounded.  Dika Maya, who was not all that attentive in the previous class, was the first to hand me her story. Then the stories started streaming in. I am sure I received more stories in a short span of time than I did in a long while.

“Don’t you worry, if you couldn’t finish writing your stories. You still have the whole of tonight and the weekend. I am extremely happy with all of you and with all your hard work. This is what you have to do if you are serious about writing good stories.  One doesn’t become a good story-teller overnight. One becomes one by writing a lot of stories with one's heart. Please keep it up and you can always submit your stories to me any time you want.  Have a great week-ender.”

Inhaling deeply, I slowly put all the papers in my bag and headed for the door.  God, what a difference the grant of a break of two minutes can bring about in a class!

P.S.  I am just back from the border town of Phuentsholing and have barely had the time to go through the stories. However, I have read one of the stories entitled “What is Love?” and I must say it is a very flimsy but heart- warming story about  triangular love.  I am ecstatic about the fact that I have underlined only one word in red, so far as the language is concerned.

For An Hour of Sheer Fun & Pleasure !

It was just before the Assembly that Meto Seldon came upto me,”Sir, I don’t  wanna take part in the Selection. I ain’t well-prepared.”  I wasn’t happy but there was nothing I could do about it.  Back in lass, Dawa and Sonam Lepcha, confronted me with quite a different request altogether.  They wanted to be given a chance to tell their stories.

I didn’t see much of a problem.  A handful of story-tellers was better than one of them being selected unopposed!  I have always tried to make up for my poor qualifications, by being punctual, impartial and so on.  I wrote down the numbers 1-4 on some small pieces of papers and let the participants decide their fate. 

Dawa was the first one to break the ice. I was very impressed with his story or the way he narrated his story.  I was really moved by his confidence and fluency.  Next came Phub Wangdi and I was in a fix not knowing who was the better of the two.  He told the very popular story of a girl acting rather hastily to bring an end to her life when she heard the news of the crash of the plane her fiancé was supposed to be on, on his way to New York.  I was just going round the class to make sure that all were attentive when Monish halted me.  “Sir, I’ve a story to tell. May i?”    “Fine.” One more student wouldn’t make much difference.  I looked at the watch.  Still 15 minutes more for the class to be over. I had hardly walked past the row that seated Monish, when something caught my eyes.  It was Meto trying to draw my attention by raising her hand hesitatingly. “Sir, I wanna  tell my story.  Will you let me,please?

The pleading voice did me in and I nodded. Apprehensive this time as one more participant had to be fitted in the little time at our disposal.  Meto did not disappoint me and narrated a very heart-touching, self-composed story.

“That was a nice story,Meto.  Had I been in your place, I would have started with the last part first and the rest of the story could be told in flashback …….”  She seemed satisfied with my comments.  Finally it was Sonam Yangki’s turn and she charmed her way into our hearts and consequently into the Inter-Class Story Telling Contest as the representative of XII Arts, with her impeccable English and sweet voice.

I had barely time to announce the name of the class representative, when  I had to  dash out of the class feeling guilty and looking crestfallen, hoping to push past Mr.Rameshan, the Maths teacher, waiting outside.

It was not till I had taken my seat in the Staff-Room when the realization dawned on me.  I realized only then what had transpired in the class. Eight students, including some not-so-confident first-timers, had enthralled the rest of the class with some truly memorable tales voluntarily.

True,we had sacrificed one important period of our instructional hours. We had even dared to forget the Bard of Avon and his classic sonnets, but what we all gained in the process _ the confidence, the creativity, the keen sense of healthy competition and the  rapport of the teacher and the taught far outweighed  everything else.  Even the Great Master for sometime at least!