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.
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.
