30 June is Baba my father Shri Ajit Dasgupta’s birthday. I asked many to write about him but it was too short a notice.
I do not have an answer for why I love him. Or why does any child love their father or mother. Some questions seem irrelevant. But since the question has occurred I will try to describe him, rather the relation I had with him, as his first born the privileges he bestowed on me, none of this will provide an answer. People who wish might find love peeping through the cogmire of thoughts. When I think of him I think foremost is the arguments that died before he was dead and a wasted frustrated life. Today I will try to recapture the man who was my father, who could love unconditionally, had dreams he could not express and who was honest to the core.
In the house I was born there were two men, and I had a vague feeling about who was father even though I called him Baba, till one day he called me aside on 14 August 1966 and said that since I was his eldest child I would have to go with him to a different house. I was not really convinced as my mainstay was my Mummum (my grandmother, for those who do not know yet) but when he said that if I did not go who will be there for my sisters, it clicked. That Baba had left me and gone away to Gandhisagar earlier with my sisters, was not in my periphery with my sisters crying. They came back before I could miss them. Before this shifting incidence he was never awake when I left home for school. In the evenings he was there but there was this big family. He was a distant figure. Kakamoni, my uncle was much more reachable but he had left for Bhopal in 1964.
I was in class five and failed miserably in Math. Baba was called to the school. He did not tell me anything. On the contrary he told the formidable principle Miss George in front of me that he was responsible for what happened with my results and it would not happen in future. I remember Baba’s face full of dignity without any guilt. Through the December holiday everyday my mother sat with me while I did the endless exercises of Arithmetic and Algebra to ensure it did not happen in future. I was ten when I ran away from the quarter, our new home with two of my younger sisters. I am sure the reason was not important enough for me to remember. What was relevant was our rikshawala found us and got us home. Just as important was when Baba came back from tour the next day he just hugged me with all his might. It was around that time he beat me black and blue for a different reason. We had got magazine from some relatives place and in scuffle between my sisters to read it first the cover page tore. I would not commit how it happened. I learnt a lesson that day about myself that no amount of violence could budge me. Later he said sorry and promised never to repeat and he did not.
It took me three years to check his violence against my mother. Since we shifted to the quarter, it was much more comfortable space for my mother. But nights were uncomfortable for me. I subconsciously kept awake till my parents slept. Baba had no control on himself when he got angry. Ma would never complain but I had this uneasy feeling that he beats her. When we shifted to our own house I was thirteen. I was home, as it was December vacation but my sisters were in school. Baba had just come back from a visit to his mother and was grumbling about her. Ma would never take any wrong comment lying down. She said that no person has right to judge their mother. Baba dragged her and locked the room. It was not night and I had become old enough to protest. I banged the door till he opened. I remember my anger as it was evident that he was beating Ma. In icy cold voice I told him to get out of the house and not come back till he straightens himself. I do not know whether the softness of my voice reached him or English, the language of power worked. He quietly changed and left for work. In front of me he did not beat her again but he was downright nasty many a times even after that.
Probably his act of cruelty and unjust behaviour towards Ma raises that question of loving him. My Ma was a strong woman who never cowed before him and excused him for his lapses. Maybe, it was my love for him that I could not. I asked Ma one time when she was justifying him, as part of his sickness, that how come he only beats you and women in the family. Men and women who are part of history of that period had more to be frustrated about that family matters. They slowly saw the independence they struggled for was not what the structure that India became. It was the silence of failure of their dreams that they were unable to deal with. When men took to violence like my father, strong women like my Ma took to forgiving. I was the least affected among the children, probably because I could protest. My siblings and other children who were witness to this dastardly act, had to deal with it at their own level, in their own time.
When Baba caught me noticing him wear hand me down shirt he told me with a sincere smile on his lips and twinkles in his eyes, ‘do not allow anyone to look below your eyes and look in the eyes of the person you are speaking with’. He was biased towards me as I was his first born and he would admit it openly when I told him that he was not just to my sisters. I was not the only person who he was biased. He had biases. Honesty was one of his biases.
When I told him that a man wanted to marry me he laughed saying he did not think his daughter to be old enough for marriage. He put his efforts to make it possible to marry me in Arya Samaj first and later in Gurudwara to appease my in-laws. When my marriage was not working he said gently that maybe I was at fault. He strengthened me with that statement to not speak about it to anyone ever again and walking out of the marriage and proceeded to stay at Adipur on request from my father-in-law in 1981. Baba came to Adipur after his retirement. He took me to the market and asked me to buy whatever I wanted. He shared with pain that he could never tell this to me or my sisters when we were kids. Just to make him happy I bought a packet of tea.
I did land up with the kids in between at Jabalpur before shifting to Bombay in 1986. Baba was thrilled to have his grandsons with him. He was going through a self created bad period for disowning my sister because she was marrying a person who was not agreeable to him. Each night he would wait for everyone to sleep before talking about my sister. I gave up on this issue as he refused to bow down before his own ego and kept living in pain. He became sick with his own carelessness and went into coma. I prayed through the night holding his hand that he should die, as he had received the blessing of dying by wish. He waited for his disowned daughter to come next morning 1st February 1987 and breathed his last before her. I lost with him my urge to argue. With him the equation was at par, neither of us had option to get hurt but we never budged and kept our argument alive.
He loved children without any boundaries. All children and adults who came in touch with him got his unconditional love, which they treasured lifelong. He left a home and pension for Ma to survive with peace and dignity.
My sister Dr. Neela Mukherjee who also forgave him like my Ma wrote on Facebook today -
There was once a king, parents called ‘Makhom’. Brothers and sisters called him ‘Dada’, friends ‘Ojit’. His Queen came later. There were many more addresses, Jamaibabu / Ojitda. Girls and boys addressed him as Bhalokaka/Baba/Jethamoshai/Boromama/Pishemoshai.. Grandsons and granddaughters addressed him as Ajamoshai. If alive, he would have been 96 today. 30/6/1924–1/2/1987
