He was my Betal.
He was passionate about Bengal, and had elephantine memory about places and people and could connect the two easily within a particular time -- the year, and sometimes even month, if not the date. He wanted us to know the history of Communism in Bengal, and the Congress party before that. He never admitted to me that he was a communist, but he despised the current communist crop, the entire lot that joined the party after it came to power in Bengal in the 70s. ‘Benojol’, or flood water, he used to call them. He accused them of diluting the standard of the party. I am told, not by him of course, that he left the Communist movement somewhere in the late 70s. I never asked him if he was involved with the naxalite movement, but I strongly suspect he was. He never praised or citicised 70s naxalites. Like decorated veterans, he never talked about how he got his battle wounds.
Above everything else, he hated right wingers, and was really pained to see the state of the country now. “I don’t understand how we have become so full of hatred. It was never like this. There’s so much poison in people’s minds these days,” Jethu used to say often.
All his stories had hidden messages. But most of them seemed contradictory at first glance. The hardest part, therefore, was when he used to ask me what did you learn? Inexperienced that I was about his ways, and utterly incapable of deep thinking, I would blurt out the most obvious conclusion. My Betal would fly away to his chair in the verandah and get absorbed in the mounts of legal drafts stacked neatly. Luckily, my head didn’t burst out in a thousand pieces.
Over the years, perhaps I matured, or at least I realised coming to no conclusion is better than coming to hasty and wrong conclusions. That was his way of teaching people around him elements of patience, deep thinking, empathy, and perhaps wisdom. Of course, conclusions, his own interpretation, were delivered on demand. He was open to being challenged on his thinking, and I have seen him changing his mind too on decades old issues after my arguments seemed logical to him.
“Oh! I never thought that,” he would say, staring at a distance and muttering to himself.
Seeing me, he used to set aside his work and start chatting. Watching him chatting incessantly about old days, one could have got an impression that this retired old man has no other work but to live in his memories. Again, that would be a hasty and wrong conclusion, something he would have absolutely abhorred, not what one thinks about him, but the hastiness part of it. But he seemed to be bent on passing on the wrong impression, perhaps deliberately. That was his little entertainment even at the expense of himself.
Of course, he was one of the most famous and busy legal practitioners of Mumbai, and perhaps the country.
Very seldom I could catch him at home. Even on weekends, when I could get an opportunity to visit his house, he would be inevitably out of town. He would either be in Delhi, or in Kolkata, Bangalore, Lucknow, or all four at different hours of the day. Tight schedule of a busy lawyer, who changed flights like most of us change our dresses.
Or, he would be in Assam for days. He loved Assam. His PSU oil marketing company refused to release their Executive Director even after his retirement and decided to tie him down with the Numaligarh refinery. But when he was in Mumbai, especially around me, he was this chatty old man living in his memory.
My Betal.
He used to ask me about my impression of him. I sensed, like a kid, he was partial to praises. Again, that was my wrong conclusion about him. I later realised he actively sought out criticism, and thought as a journalist, I am a specialist in criticism.
Like Gandhiji, it was his experiment with truth. He was in a constant inner struggle to perfect himself. I once jokingly pointed out there was one more person like you -- Friedrich Nietzsche who was obsessed about Übermensch. I warned him about what happened to Nietzsche. And we had a belly laugh together.
By nature, and reinforced by my profession, I am always an incorrigible cynic, but what do I do with a person who trumps over me and asks me to criticise him? I had to surrender, much to his chagrin. Besides, I honestly didn’t find much scope to find fault in a person who is head and shoulders higher and superior than me in all aspects. It was perhaps his intellectual rigour, or just his huge experience and wisdom that age bestows upon one. Or, perhaps, it was the tragedies he faced in life since his childhood. I will spare the details here.
Whatever small fault I pointed out, I was astonished to find that he never ever repeated that. Ever, at least in front of me. Even a casual reference was taken seriously. And he often would poke me -- you are a ‘fankibaaj’ (shirker). You are not evaluating me enough. How will I improve? Tell me, what did you find in me?
I never replied to that last question. Deliberately.
I will try to answer it now. Again, confident of reaching all wrong conclusions. Sorry for the late response, Jethu. Because I was not sure what should be my well thought out conclusion about you. But I don't have any opportunities left now. So, Jethu, accept it with all its shallow thought elements.
Jethu, as you know, a few things become clear only after the person is gone. When one misses the person, he or she realises the departed has taken away something unique that appeared granted that time, but now appears priceless. Those aspects will never be revisited in any form. And then suddenly you feel this vacuum.
Unfortunately, vacuums have a nasty habit of not announcing their presence when the person is around. And unless the vacuum becomes apparent, one cannot point out what the void is all about.
I will try to give shape to those few voids. Feeble effort, but try I must. I'd rather point out a few important lessons I learnt from you.
I finally fully comprehend the meaning of this sentence: “When you have more than you need, build a longer table not a higher fence.”
I won’t elaborate on it. Again, that would be discussing your personal life that you surely won’t approve of. But I did learn how to walk pulling up people on your way. Pull up as many as you can bear, and nurse them back to health. Love, love, love, and seek nothing but his permission to allow you to help some more.
I learnt how to walk together holding everyone under an umbrella. I learnt the importance of the stem of that umbrella. And I learnt certain finer aspects of honesty.
Frankly, honesty is a trait that cannot be taught, or even inculcated. Either it is in you, or it isn’t there. And you agreed with me on this once. Still, at the age of 41-42, just a few weeks back in fact, I heard you scolding someone over the phone. You were at the other side of the call, but your angry voice was slipping through the speakers, enough to catch every word.
“Don’t ever lie to cover your inability. That way you are not lying to the person, you are lying to yourself," you said. "Don’t ever lie to yourself. If you have not been able to do a job given to you, fine, say I was not able to do it. Or, I was not in a mood, or even, I can’t do it. But don’t tell lies. Don’t lie on serious matters, don’t lie on light issues. Just don’t lie. Put this in your cranial, no matter what, I won’t lie. Whatever is my due, I will get it with all honesty. But I will not lie. Repeat after me, I will not lie. Say … “
Jethu, that is how I have always seen you. I never spotted you faking. You never made excuses. You had an unmistakable touch of arrogance, but that was the arrogance of truth, one could sense that. People felt secure around you. People trusted you. And people loved you unfailingly.
And you loved them back with whatever you had, doesn’t matter if they wronged you in the past. But you embraced them without malice. One interesting trait about you I noticed was that you always took care to honour an invitation. Being there with people you love at their happiness and sadness was important to you. You signed as a witness at my wedding, you rescheduled your Delhi visit to bless us at the grihapravesh of my new house. You were a thorough Gentleman.
That, my dear Jethu, is my little assessment of you.
The only thing that I didn’t like about you is your obsession with death. You often talked about your death. Seeing your lifeless body, I wondered if even death was your curiosity. Did you want to perfect death too? If so, you did exceedingly well.
You breathed your last while chatting on WhatsApp. One of those early morning personalised messages that was so unique about you. Unlike others, you never forwarded what landed on your inbox.
I am told the last message you typed was, “My life went well with all of you around. Stay Happy. Tapas.”
And you closed your eyes.
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