How the World Came to Me [14]

Mr. Das joined our school when I was in the eleventh standard. His reputation had preceded him. Much before he walked into the classroom we knew that we had an eccentric to deal with. He had descended from the far hills of Anini to teach us History. Mr. Das walked with a little stoop and wore a pencil moustache. Thought gnarled his brows. It was hard to guess his age but I reckoned that he must be in his mid-forties. But, like the subject he taught, he seemed to bear the weight of centuries.

Mr. Das always had strong opinions and did not flinch from expressing them. He also sought to elicit strong opinions from the young folks around. Soon, it was apparent that it is being hard on the tender minds. In the beginning kids were merely shy of him. As a few months elapsed, they began taking flight at his approach, especially those of the junior classes. Flight was indeed the best measure, because running into Mr. Das might mean needing to express a strong and clear opinion on the geographical provenance of the Aryans or Muhammad-bin-Tughlaq’s monetary policy. Often, in the school corridors or on the playground, he sought the opinion of some lad or the other on these weighty matters. If you babbled some incoherent nonsense he will shake his head and say, “Clarity my son, clarity is very important. I could not qualify the UPSC test because I was not clear-headed enough in my youth. It does not pay to have muddled brains.” You will nod sagely and Mr. Das will potter away wading deep into his thoughts.

Mr. Das was a kind man, the kindest I have known. He was also genuinely interested in getting us thinking by ourselves. Often, after having done the day’s teaching, Mr. Das initiated a discussion. It could be on just about anything, from Buddhism to who, or what, was responsible for partition. Though he expected our opinions and ideas to be “strong and clear,” he attached himself to no dogmas. He listened to us sixteen year olds with all seriousness, with furrowed brows and stroking his chin. Being a boy who read indiscriminately, I was often the most garrulous of all. In a few months, Mr. Das and I were talking after school too. He guided me to some wonderful books, Basham’s The Wonder that was India and Nirad C. Chaudhary’s Autobiography of an Unknown Indian and A Passage to England. I remember having devoured The Wonder that was India in less than a week. The Autobiography too I enjoyed immensely, though I often needed the assistance of a dictionary to find my way through Chaudhary’s English prose. I never finished the A Passage to England, however, having found it rather dry. I regret it today. Apparently, the book is out of print for many years now and is not to be found anywhere. Even the libraries fail to yield it.

I had already worked my way through a fair bit of the school library, at least the bit that interested me. Starting with Enid Blyton a few years ago, I had reached as far as Freedom at Midnight by then. Mr. Das told me that the District Library our town is home to held greater riches. Soon I was a member. I glittered with pride as I showed Ma the crisp, shiny library tickets. I had three of them. The first book I borrowed was Dom Moraes’ biography of Indira Gandhi. Mr. Das and I had a lot more to talk about now. Besides Shyam’s bookstall, I had another place to visit after school. For a town of only ten thousand, our library is actually rather large. Seemingly, those who read had already finished all that was worth reading in it. In a population so tiny they must not have numbered too many anyway. So, it was not a place many visited. It seemed to me that the bored folks who ran it looked forward to my visits. I was some break from the monotony. It helped, because they often went out of the way to find some book I looked up in the catalogue.

Teenage angst often broiled me. When it did, Mr. Das served as the father confessor. Displeased with the state of the world, one day I declared to him that the day I turn twenty-five I will launch my political party. The very next day, I had thought up a name for my party – Party for Progressive Socialism. PPS had faintly authoritarian intentions, I was to be its President for life and Kasu my deputy. Kasu and I also designed the party flag, five stars arranged in a semi-circle against a red background. It did look like the Chinese flag somewhat, but the sidereal semicircle was in its centre, not the upper left corner. It was not a verbatim copy. When I proudly showed our standard to Dibakar, he chuckled, so did everyone else. So, I never showed it to Mr. Das. But I did show him some of my early poetic efforts. Kasu and Ajoy had dismissed them as humbug, but I was confident of their merit. I was sure that a more informed mind will appreciate them better. However, as it turned out, Mr. Das was not so much into poetry. All the opinion he expressed after seeing one of my verses was a “hmm.” Three years later, in college, when I edited the departmental magazine Vatayan, I inflicted some of them upon my classmates and the faculty members. Having quit the vice of versifying now, I shudder at the cruelty of it.

Day followed day like a poet’s stanzas. I swallowed the contents of the District Library by the large mouthfuls. As far as possible, Mr. Das helped me digest what I consumed. I was in the twelfth standard now, the board exams were unrelentingly closing on. I quaked at their approach but Mr. Das often told me that they are only a minor hurdle beyond which the world awaits. I too could not wait to be past them but the world which lay beyond made me nervous. By now I knew that I will study History in college and one day discuss Buddhism stroking my chin, just like Mr. Das. When the result came out, Mr. Das was not very happy. I had done just about all right. It was enough to get me into the University of Delhi though. I have studied History since. Once, when I was enamoured by wisdom, I used to stroke my chin too. Wisdom bores and tires me now, but I miss Mr. Das.

How the World came to Me [13]

I was in the second standard when on one overcast day I was playing hide and seek during the recess. I had hidden behind a frangipani bush. I was nervous lest those hunting me find me. Of a sudden, a boy my age parted the branches concealing me and grinned. “Found you,” he said and ran. It did not matter though, he was not playing with us.

A few days later, I found myself sitting on the same bench with this boy. He was never quite. He told me about his pet python. He told me that his name is Dibakar.

Dibakar kept his pet python beneath his bed and fed it on biscuit crumbs. It was a tame reptile and was fond of him. Did it have a name? No he had not bothered to give it one. I wanted to see it so dearly. But whenever I expressed the wish, his python will be unwell. Dibakar had also driven a jeep all the way to Deo and back. I came to admire him immensely for his daring. As time wore on my admiration remained untempered. But since both the existence of the python and the exploit with the jeep remained unverified, it was his tale telling that elicited and retained my admiration. Only Shiv was to match, and occasionally surpass, this skill of his many years later.

After a few days on the same bench with him, I took to sitting with Tope. I sat with Dibakar again in the sixth standard. After that it was constant carnival. We grew together, guffawing together, punished in unison in school. We spent most classes tittering. As the teacher taught, Dibakar paraphrased under his breath, adding his own bits to the knowledge dispensed. He will invent countries on strange latitudes, devise ingenious arithmetic. What do you get when you multiply a cow and a cat? A porcupine he will tell me, of course not bothering to explain how he arrived at the answer. Like me, he was not so good at the more traditional arithmetic. He was an earnest mimic who believed that teachers exist so that they may be mimicked and young fellows like us enjoy some unqualified mirth. He had a couple of favorites, Mr. Sharma who taught us English and Ms. Madhumita, the Math teacher. One might recall that the Math teacher lived on the same street as us. So, in her class I will ask Dibakar to desist from demonstrating his art. But he never saw any reason for caution. After all, he lived two streets away. Our faces often gave us away as they will be red with suppressed laughter. They gave us away twice in Ms. Madhumita’s class. But all she did was to make us sit on separate benches. Mr. Sharma however brooked no jesters in the class. Having caught him in the middle of a performance once, he made Dibakar recite Give a Man a Horse He Can Ride. We had this James Thomson (1834-1882) poem in our text-book. Nevertheless, if this was meant to be a punishment he refused to get the point. On the contrary, as though inspired by the poem, he became even more of an individual choosing to ride horses of his preference.

He could disarm even the class bullies with his sense of humour. Gimpe was actually a good natured fellow but he wanted to be a tough guy. So he decided to be a bully. Unfortunately, he chose to inaugurate his career as a bully by picking on Dibakar. He was a stuttering wreck in no time. The rascal had confused him utterly. Besides, it was not easy to maintain the demeanor of a bully when talking to Dibakar. One could not help breaking into a smirk and ceased to look tough the instant one did. Gimpe went back to being good natured.

Dibakar could confuse all pretty well, both teachers and pupils, even though we tried our best to beware knowing his felicity with words. He often managed to bowl four ball overs or bat twice in an innings when we played cricket. We hoped that he gets into the Indian team and revives its fortunes. He will, we belived, turn out to be more than a match for the vigilant umpires, even the likes of Bird and Venkatraghavan. The Indian team was doing rather badly in the mid and late nineties and often faced dire situations. We all unanimously agreed that what the team needs are the disputatious skills of Dibakar. Imagine India following on and Dibakar managing to return to the crease at number seven after opening the innings and getting out. I wanted him for our Prenex Cricket Club but unfortunately he played for a rival team. Our faith in him was enormous, we knew that he could confound not just the umpires but also fifty thousand spectators. We drew our faith from how splendidly he fuddled our teachers. There were occasions when as homework we will be asked to study a lesson. The next day we were expected to answer questions based on it, all of us. Dibakar, however, managed to escape sometimes. “Oh, I have answered a question already Sir, in fact, I was the first to answer one,” he will say when asked which part of India has alluvial soil. “How can you be the first when you are sitting in the fifth row?,” Mr. Thakur will express a very genuine reservation. “Actually Sir, when the class started I was occupying the very first bench, but you might recall that you went out for a couple of minutes when the peon came to deliver some mail, that is when I came and sat here,” he will glibly explain. In case he is asked if he had a telling reason to do so he invented one instantly. “This fellow,” he will say pointing to the boy he will be sitting with, “is not feeling very well. I thought I had rather sit beside him and see him through the class.” Mr. Thakur was a very simple man, he will give our friend a smile of admiration and approval and then ask the next boy which part of India produces the most cotton. On so many days Dibakar was the only thing exciting about the Geography class.