Category: Archive

Sharmistha Dasgupta

It was a small, derelict post office in a dusty suburban town; a lone elderly post master was at the helm and three sorters assisted him in the task of sorting and distributing the mail. The mail bags used to arrive by the 10 o’clock train and the sole tonga of the town, carried them to the post office by 10:30 am.

The sorters would then take over, sorting and arranging the bundles of letters in their rightful slots. And by 2 pm, in the afternoon, they would start delivering the letters, each one to its destined address.

Every afternoon after the last bell had rung, I would rush to the post office straight from school, eager to know if there was a letter from any of the relatives, living far away from home. Of course, at that age, there was hardly any letter addressed specifically to me. It would be more like a passing mention in a letter from a married sister or an uncle. Nevertheless, the fascination never dimmed.

After I moved away from home to attend college at the distant town of Bhagalpur the very first letter from home, addressed to me, was a revelation of sorts; opening my eyes to the importance of the post office as a means of keeping in touch with family and friends. But the one disheartening note, especially for a young man in the trying transitory years between adolescence and youth, was the absence of a special letter from a special person. Unfortunately, someone ‛special’ was yet to make an appearance in my life.

It was during a short visit home on the occasion of Durga Puja that I first met Tanuka, the teenage daughter of the doctor who had been recently posted to the Government Hospital in town. Tanuka was studying for intermediate in Calcutta and was home for the vacations. Intelligent and bright, with a pair of loveliest eyes I had ever seen, she soon caught my attention. In no time, we became friends. We were two young people, sharing a lot of common interests. Thrown together in a town which was not so progressive, my reputation as a brilliant student and an all-rounder, perhaps contributed in no mean way. But her vacation was coming to an end and she had to leave right after Dussehra or Bijoya Dashami because a visit to her grandparents was long due.

We said our goodbyes amidst tears and promises to exchange letters. Since my holidays would continue till Chhatt, usually celebrated in November, she promised to write, immediately on reaching Calcutta. And then she left, leaving me with an unexplained sense of loss and perhaps a little heartache.

Three days later, I found myself at the favourite haunt of my childhood days – the old post office with the postmaster though a different man now, younger and lazier, and the three sorters, now old with advancing age; but one thing had remained the same – there was still no special letter for me. And the same was true the day after, and every day thereafter. My classes started and I went back to Bhagalpur but the letter from Tanuka never arrived.

In fact that decrepit little post office in my dusty suburban town never brought me any special letter from someone special. And my hope that it would bring a letter someday from someone special died too for the other day I discovered that the old post office was being demolished. A new one, brighter and bigger, was about to come up.

(Translated from a short story by Rishikesh Sengupta)

Brig RK Bhattacharya

In those days I was posted somewhere along the LoC (line of control) in Kashmir as Brigade Major of an artillery brigade. My duty was to control operations or more precisely control the artillery fire power. The cease fire violations by Pakis had increased – just like the ongoing situation. Meanwhile, I had sent all my subordinate officers on leave so that they would be available when I planned to go on a short leave for Durga Puja. Then I would have to be back so that my seniors and newly married juniors could go home for Diwali.

I could already get a whiff of the delicate fragrance of shiuli flowers that blossomed at my Calcutta home, signalling the advent of autumn. I dreamt about gently swaying kash flowers that I would see from the window in my compartment, as the train chugged towards Kolkata. I was looking forward to visiting pandals, holding the hand of my elder daughter while carrying the younger one in my arms. I thought how I missed the typical adda with fellow Bengali officers at the headquarters even as both the surgeon and the anaesthetist got busy attending to casualties with splinter injuries and gunshot wounds at our Advanced Dressing Centre.

The General Officer Commanding (GOC) was on a visit to our headquarters for a special briefing on the preparedness and situation reports. I had thought of packing immediately once he leaves. Even as I briefed him, I could – in my mind – hear the dhak beats at the pandal of our CK-CL Block Puja in Salt Lake.

It was lunch time. I had settled nursing a glass of beer at one corner, feeling quite satisfied as my boss praised my preparedness. I noticed the General speaking on telephone to someone far away. Whoever he was speaking to, must be someone quite senior. When will this man leave? I wondered, wanting to sleep a bit.

The GOC then called me. ‛I think your fire plan is quite coordinated. How long will you take to execute it?’ He must be joking, I thought.

‛Any time, Sir’ I said.

‛Then get to your Fire Directing Centre (FDC) and report “ready” to my headquarters by evening.’

As I rushed to the bunker, I wondered, are we really going to retaliate? I had been in the forward line of troops in the past but directing such heavy volume of fire would be my first experience. Our Sparrow, as we call our Communication Officer, assured me that all lines were secured. Those were the days of line communication in forward areas as radios were prone to jamming or interception.

I got the guns ready over telephone. Captain Mitra, one of the Forward Observation Post Officers asked me whether we were really going to retaliate. I answered in affirmative. ‛Major Bhattacharya’, an officer directly commanding the guns said, ‛We are going to give them a nice Puja Gift.’ There was no dearth of Bengali officers in forward areas. The fire order line is an omnibus line on which all of us can hear and speak simultaneously.

What about my Puja leave? The thought briefly crossed my mind. I activated the line to replenishment of ammunition from the rear areas. Maj. B Banerjee (‛Dadu’ as we used to call him in school) was part of that team. I reported ‛ready’ in the evening. The Tiger, as the GOC is called on radio telephony, spoke to me in the evening, his voice reassuring, ‛Bhatta we will teach them a lesson.’

I had forgotten all about getting some sleep when my Brigade Commander walked in and said: ‛Catch up with some sleep son; you are in for some long nights.’ Suddenly, there was a big bang and the TV which was beaming some programme on Zee TV, went off. Our dish antenna had been hit by a splinter. I walked out in the dark to see if anybody was hit. Luckily, we were all was fine. But I lost my chance to get some sleep.

At the break of dawn I called out, ‛On your guns. Fire.’ It was indeed a great feeling, as the LoC reverberated with booming guns. I tried to imagine the Pakis, possibly going to answer nature’s call that morning, being caught totally unaware. For the next few days the FDC was my home. I poured over maps, planned the fire assaults, got them approved by the Commander and executed them.

Replenishment of ammunition took place at the stealth of the night and we boomed day and night. Actually I had even forgotten what day it was and when Capt. Patra, my immediate junior, wished me, ‛Happy Durga Puja, Sir’ I had no time to even reciprocate.

Then one day the guns fell silent. My Brigade Commander said, ‛Good shooting, Bhatta. The good has finally triumphed over evil. Happy Dussehra!’

It was then I remembered that my wife might have had a tough time explaining my children,why their father was not with them during the Puja. But how will she know why I am not there? There were no mobile telephones in those days. The STD booth was not secure. Hence, I had not spoken to them for days. I later learnt that they had spent their Puja watching news from Kashmir.

I handed over the FDC to my next in command and stepped out, on my way to my quarters for a refreshing bath and sleep. I felt like having a beer but stayed away from it as I was not sure whether I will have to run to FDC again. Next day, the biggest surprise awaited me. The Commander granted me leave and that too during the Diwali. I asked him ‛What about your leave, Sir ?’

‛I will catch up some other time. Heavy is the head that wears the crown,’ was his reply.

 Illustration by Aditi Chakraborty

Koyal Roy

He was the quintessential parar chele, the local lad. That was how he was known, and how he continued to be known, years later, even when all his contemporaries outgrew their boyhood ways. He had a name – Arun, but it was likely to get mixed up with those of other boys, for these faces were collectively familiar. Individually, you would probably be unable to place them.

Of course, he was also known as Dutta Da-r chele (Mr Dutta’s son), by the older generation. Dutta Da of the video cassette rental shop “Maa Durga Videos”. Dutta Da was well known, his family having lived on Jail Road for the past two generations, since they had migrated from the erstwhile East Bengal in the 1930s. Portly, with a decisive moustache and corners of a thin mouth lined with spittle, that was Dutta Da. The video came at a price, the review was free, and often enriched by multiple opinions, since Dutta Da’s shop never lacked visitors, especially those with an insatiable hunger for conversation and more than enough time on their hands. In the corner of the shop, was a small Onida TV that was always showcasing the latest movies, thanks to Dutta Da’s assistant Joga, a lean, dark boy with merry eyes, whose only mission in life was to watch movies. It was here that Arun was initiated into the world of Hindi films and film music.

It was the early nineties – most of these songs were graphic and laced with double entendre. A discerning parent would guard his children against the contaminating influence of Hindi songs, and Bengali parents, particularly discerning and generally bourgeoisie, looked so far down upon Hindi films and music as to condemn that entire genre and its aficionados to cultural damnation.

At this time, Arun, just stepping into mid-teens, discovered he had a voice. And what a voice it was – a full-throated baritone, crooning Kishore Kumar’s evergreen classics with such ardour that every girl who heard that voice was convinced of his love for her, if only for a fleeting moment. By this time, Arun had established his reputation as a ne’er-do-well. He had failed his Class 12 exams, was often seen smoking in lone corners of the neighbourhood, followed girls of varying ages from music school or tuition classes with his gang of similarly inclined boys. In a nutshell, he was everything that a parent dreads and neighbours prize as an endless source of schadenfreude – the quintessential bad boy of the neighbourhood.

Arun didn’t care, or maybe he did and didn’t show it. He was always merry, never more so than when singing his favourite love ballads, along with his cronies. Every evening, when the sleepy town tucked itself in for an early slumber, Arun and his gang were heard on the streets, singing their hearts out. They were tuneful and soulful, but, as everyone would say “What was the point? One couldn’t make a career out of street singing. Now, if he was classically trained and performed on the public stage, it would be another matter. Why didn’t he grow up?”

Eventually he did grow up but only after years of serenading girls of different generations. By then, the nineties had passed as also did the age of video cassettes. Most of the boys of his age had moved out, ones that remained behind sobered up, married, had children and moved past their youthful capers. Arun and a couple of others were the only ones of the original gang, flirting with girls a decade or more junior, filling streets with sonorous singing after dark, loafing endlessly in every corner of the neighbourhood, playing cricket in every gully cricket competition and volunteering in the club, organising the Durga Puja every year. While they had their uses, as self-appointed guardians of women and elderly residents of the neighbourhood and also as key resources of the grapevine, their services, like other things that are available for free, were mostly underrated. No one would pat them on the back for such things, it’s what a parar chele was expected to do.

Eventually, Dutta Da, in his sixties, forced his son to take up the family business. Now in his thirties, with a receding hairline and a growing paunch that looked incongruous on his lean frame, Arun took up the mantle on willing if not entirely able shoulders. “Maa Durga Videos” had been upgraded to “Maa Durga Cyber Café and Xerox” but the Onida TV set remained, though mostly switched off; Joga, the movie buff having long moved on to better things.

As for Arun, his heart no longer yearned for the movies. Cinematic sensibilities were changing, one rarely saw the heroine cavorting to bawdy lyrics any more. Somehow people now wanted cinema to be intelligent as well as entertaining. And, it seemed, you had to be quiet and subtle and not obvious to be considered intelligent. You could not shout about your love from the rooftop, could not follow a girl to show your devotion or threaten to cut your wrist if she didn’t reciprocate – you had to be mature and not make song and dance of every situation. Where, he wondered, was the heady romance of his teenage years? The songs of Kishore Kumar were his only solace. That, and an occasional a glass of whiskey, which grew larger over the years. He had not married, having never taken his wooing seriously in his younger days, and now no one would have him. Again, it was difficult to understand if that bothered him, for he had never spoken much about himself.

A few more years passed and a middle aged Arun, looking more like his father every day, now presided over the conclave that still gathered in the mid-mornings and afternoons at his store. In the evenings, a chai glass of whiskey was omnipresent, as were some shifty-eyed individuals who seemed to sniff the scent and present themselves at the opportune moment to quench their thirst and dispense company. However, they were mostly quiet, Arun occasionally regaling them with Kishore Kumar covers, frequently reminiscing on how things had been, how much it has changed. He rarely sang when sober, lived with his parents and increasingly found comfort in drinking though he drew the line just short of being an alcoholic.

Then, one summer morning, in his fortieth year, as he was opening up the store, he collapsed in front of the gates. The other shop owners rushed him to the hospital, but he had succumbed to the heart attack en route.

During our routine conversation, my Dad told me, “ Do you remember Arun? Our parar chele? He passed away.” I don’t remember how I responded. I had a vague memory of him and I am sure do did the rest of my cousins and friends, not enough to feel sorry, in fact, not enough to feel anything. I guess that was true about most people who knew him.

Death often tends to lend dignity and sentimentality to lives fairly ordinary, but, truth to tell, he wasn’t missed by many. The streets of Jail Road are unusually silent nowadays. There is of course, a new gang of ne’er-do-wells, but today’s kids have other ways of venting joblessness, and most are too busy to be jobless. Perhaps the lilting voice wafting through the biting night air was part of a generation that was easier on itself, that wanted to believe in good things, irrespective of how they turned out in the end. Perhaps that’s just nostalgia making a song and dance of an otherwise mundane existence.

Anindita Chowdhury

Click! Piu heard the distinct sound on the other side as Indrani disconnected the call. That was so much unlike Ma, Piu thought to herself. Usually, it was Piu who disconnected the call even as Indrani held on, patiently waiting on the other end, never wanting to be the first one to press the ‛cancel’ button.

But today was different. It was Sunday. Piu could easily visualize her mother – she had just taken her bath, droplets of water from the wet strands were seeping into the cotton fabric of her blouse, leaving a damp spot. An early morning person, by this time she must have finished her yoga, drank her morning tea, watered the plants and completed puja after her bath. On other days, she would be sitting in the balcony, sipping her second cup of tea without sugar or milk and flipping the pages of the newspaper absent-mindedly, her mind miles away from the current affairs, dipping into the past and memories till it was time to leave for college.

But not today. By this time she must have cut the vegetables for lunch, slicing each one differently, according to the dishes they would go in. The potato cut for the bitter mish-mash – shukto would be different from that of alu posto – potatoes cooked in poppy paste. The veggies would be washed and kept in small heaps waiting for their turn to go into the deep-bottomed pan. The chillies would be cut lengthwise, each one exactly of the same size and would go in after the phoron or seasoning. Despite the heat, her face would be serene, not a hair out of place and her bindi intact. Oh, the bindi won’t be there! Even after three years, Piu could never think of her mother without the customary dot. On Skype, Piu always felt unsettled seeing her mother’s bare forehead.

In her childhood memories, the bindi was always there. Mom would wake up Piu every morning. Little Piu’s eyelids fluttered open and that quarter-sized bindi would loom large in view. While going to the college, Ma would prefer only maroon or black ones but at times, during parties and marriage functions, it would take the hue of the saree she wore.

By the time Dad had died, Piu was already in the States to pursue her degree and the bindi had remained deeply etched in her memory. She was yet to get used to that vacant spot between the eyebrows. The bindi or the lack of it also reminded Piu of her guilt. The guilt she felt about leaving Ma back there, but then she had to finish her research. Somewhere deep inside she knew her chances of going back in the near future were slim. She had her research to finish and then there was Adi or Aditya. Actually, it was Adi who filled Piu’s void of companionship.

She realised how lonely her mother felt after Dad died. His death was not only sudden but it came when they both, in their early fifties, were ready to explore life once again, after Piu had flown the nest. They were going on vacations, watched concerts and plays almost every evening, revisiting the days after their marriage and before Piu was born.

Piu had finished her coffee and got up for a shower. Actually, today she had all the time in her hand. She picked up her dirty laundry and Adi’s as well, intending to start the washing machine. Though Adi had his own apartment, he hardly stayed there. He spent his time more in her apartment, than his own. Half of his clothes were here, Piu thought wryly.

Adi was busy this weekend. His mother had come for a week or two from Chandigarh. Though she met Piu, Adi had so far kept their relationship a secret from his family. His conservative family wanted him to marry somebody from their community. They were traders for generations and Adi was the first software engineer in his family and the only one among his siblings and cousins to go for a job, albeit a high paying one. They also expected a large dowry, Adi had laughed while confiding to her. Although they were yet to talk about settling down, Piu felt a little bit nervous about fitting in. But then she had reasoned they won’t be staying with his parents and the little time they would spend she might be able to play the docile daughter-in-law for Adi’s sake. At least she hoped so. No wonder she was trying to perfect that recipe of rajma-chawal as a comfort food for Adi though she was not all that fond of rajma.

Stifling a yawn her eyes strayed to the clock and quickly she calculated the time in Kolkata. In another half-an-hour, Dhrubakaku would be there at their apartment. For the past one and half months, this has been their routine. He would arrive at around 11 am, they would chat for some time before Ma would serve lunch. They would eat together; afterwards,  he would watch TV or read a book while Ma took her nap. Then she would make tea, and after another round of chatting he would finally leave around seven in the evening. The two have fallen into a routine. From her voice, Piu could detect the happiness her mother felt. Ma no longer dreaded the Sundays when she would be alone at home all day, the television blaring just to break that silence that threatened to engulf her. Ma, an excellent cook, had almost stopped cooking for herself. Piu felt relieved that slowly her mother’s life was back on tracks.

Dhrubakaku was no stranger to Piu since her childhood. Both her father and Dhrubakaku were in charge of adjoining administrative blocks during the early part of their services. The two families would meet often. She remembered Mitali Kakima with her long hair, always worn in a thick braid or a bun. Piu would silently stalk her and at the very first opportunity, tug at the bun and her hair cascaded down. She loved playing with it, curling the ends with her fingers, hiding her face behind the thick tresses and while her mother frowned at her, Kakima would smile indulgently. Piu was a few years older than Ria and they were playmates. Actually, Ria was her living doll, whom she could love and bully.

She still remembered when Mitali Kakima was suddenly hospitalised and Ria had been left in her mother’s care. When she died, Dhrubakaku sought a transfer to Kolkata to be near his in-laws so that they could take care of Ria. That was the time, perhaps, they had lost touch as her father continued to be transferred from one district to another. Even after coming back to Kolkata the father and daughter met occasionally, each one busy with their own lives. But Dad and Dhrubakaku must have been in touch because they were in the same service. After Dad died, he came to pick up Piu at the airport, he had seemed exactly the same as before, save the greying and receding hairline.

He was exceptionally witty and upright just like her own father but was more friendly. Perhaps that was because he had to bring up Ria without a mother. He connected exceptionally well with the young. And he could make Ma laugh again. And Ria, Piu thought how wrongly she had assessed her. Unlike Piu, she was not academically brilliant. And Piu had dismissed her as the unambitious type who would just get married and settle down. But Ria had a mind of her own. After attending a designing course she initially started freelancing, designing book covers and magazines. Now she was slowly setting up her own business, turning into an entrepreneur. Piu discovered a new Ria after Dad died.

Once Piu returned to the States, Indrani struggled with depression. Friends and relatives dropped in but most were not perceptive enough to understand her loss. The nights and Sundays were the most difficult ones. It was Ria who would drop in now and then, stay over at night, even as visits by others steadily declined and then suddenly stopped altogether. Six months was a long time and the widow was expected to get on with her life. Throughout the period, Ria handheld a grieving Indrani, dragged her to malls for occasional shopping or to watch a film, and gradually brought her back to the land of the living.

But nowadays, Ria, a budding photographer as well, was usually away on Sundays, venturing into the suburbs to capture, interesting snippets of life. Quietly, Dhrubakaku had replaced her on Sundays. Indrani struggled with tax filing and investments, things she had never done on her own. Dhrubakaku had simply taken over.

For the past week, Piu has been toying with an idea. Next day while chatting on Skype, she could not hold back and blurted out, “Mom why don’t you two marry? I have no objections if that is what is holding you back.” Clearly, taken aback, her mother was quiet for a few seconds. Did I hurt her? Piu thought desperately, did she miss Dad? Did she think she would be betraying his memories? Piu waited for her response. She once again thought of all the arguments and how carefully she had laid her case. “If you can be happy together why do you want to think of the society?” She tried again.

“Piu, it is not the society that I am thinking about or even you. I know you feel guilty for being away. But you have your own life. I am thinking of myself. It is not easy to adjust to another person at this age. I am used to being alone. I think this is a far better arrangement where Dhruba or Ria come and go just when they like or I need them,” her mother patiently explained.

“But they are great people. What’s your problem?”

“Piu, I am not sure of marriage and staying together. I don’t know whether he snores or leaves the toilet seat down. I could adjust to your father when I was young but I don’t think I can do it now. Why do I need to marry him when we can be great friends? We are adults and we do not need a chaperone to meet and spend time together.”

Piu for once lost her tongue – “Snoring? Toilet seat?” she mumbled.

Sitting so far away, Piu could still hear the quiet confidence in her mother’s voice. She hardly registered a word as her numb mind went over and over her mother’s utterances.

Suddenly, the screen went blank; poor connection she thought bemusedly. As Adi once again winked from the wallpaper on her screen, Piu suddenly felt the need to re-evaluate her own relationship. Homesick and lonely, when did Piu become Adi’s dirty secret?

Bile rose in her throat as she tried to figure out when and how did she become a doormat and handed over the reins of her life to Adi. Suddenly, she felt a violent urge to take control of her life and set the boundaries anew for the relationship. She got up and took out the clothes from the dryer. In a large poly bag, she stuffed Adi’s clothes without bothering to fold them. Her chest still felt cramped. Piu then quickly emptied out his space in her wardrobe, and threw in the toothbrush and shaving razor Adi had left in her bathroom closet, in the same poly bag, for good measure. It was indeed time to reclaim her space and her life.

Arunlekha Sengupta

All around Tinni were smells that she had known all her life. They had been characters in the narration of her life. Invisible characters. She was never really aware of the smells as she was living her normal 12 year old life, but now, kidnapped, trapped, bound and gagged, those smells came back to befriend her – the heady smell of the rotting champa flowers of her grandmother’s abandoned backyard and the stench of mould from the seepage on the wall, attached to the ancient bathroom. These had once been characters from her summer vacations and then became a part of her everyday life after her parent’s death, once she had come to live with her Dadi permanently. Since then, she had been safe, if not always happy; cared for, if not always at the centre of her Dadi’s busy life. Left on her own, she had explored every corner of the stately, if a bit neglected village house of her forefathers.

Howls of dogs, just beyond the walls, brought her back to the present. Her kidnapper hadn’t bothered to cover her eyes. The hole they had thrown her in was just as dark as a womb. Tinni’s eyes had tried to adjust to the darkness but even after spending hours and days in the whale’s stomach, she couldn’t see anything.

She was now in a constant state of dreaming, sleeping with her eyes open, awakening only to the barking of the dogs next to her hell hole. Once a day, a thing, came to her. A living breathing thing, came to feed her. She wasn’t even sure what she was being fed. At first she had thrown a tantrum and refused to eat and had tried to bite the hand that had fed her. But extreme hunger and a 12 year old’s need for survival won over and she ate whatever was given to her.

Tinni didn’t know if it was day or night. She had been trying to count the days of her imprisonment but she had stopped at day five or six. She had slept for long stretches and now she didn’t know how many days, nights she had lost to her feverish dreaming.

She listened to the dogs close by and tried to get a hold on herself. “I must remember.” She screamed at herself in her head. “Who am I. Where am I from?” Her dreams were threatening to take over her sanity. In her dream she was trapped in a forgotten room of her Dadi’s house. Even while awake, in her heart of hearts and mind of minds she felt that she hadn’t left her Dadi’s house. The smells; her kidnappers hadn’t been able to take away her sense of smell. In her dreams and in wakefulness, she smelled the different smells from the house that she had known all her life.

Once she had been playing hide and seek with the village kids and she had expertly hidden under a bed in one of those leftover rooms. This felt like that. At that time she had been discovered within two hours, after her friends had started to cry, running to Dadi when they couldn’t find her. Her Dadi had found her soon and Tinni had had to promise never to venture this far into the house. At that time Tinni had felt triumph and even pride about not being scared for the two hours she had remained hidden in an ancient, rusty and dusty trunk.

“Not hidden. No. I had been lost then, of my own accord and now someone has lost me.” Tinni shivered thinking of the misshapen man-thing, smelling of sewage who came to feed her. At first, she had struggled to keep her food down but now she awaited the foul-smelling gruel to fell the burning hunger. “Dadi, Dadi!” She cried silently, “Why can’t you hear me? Please please save me from this. I promise you I will never play hide and seek again in the house.”

Tinni remembered her Dadi’s stories of little boys losing their way in the house. Skeletons of children being found years later in some secret cupboard by a new maid, who in a desire to show some initiative or some other plan, opened the cupboard to do some deep dusting. She then took months to recover from that horrific sights. “I don’t want to become a skeleton, I want to be discovered now! Please, Dadi, Please!” She cried.

Tinni loved her Dadi, but in the dark cave and in the throes of desperation, she had turned into an all-powerful superhero. She prayed and prayed to be rescued from this hell hole. All she wanted to do was cuddle up in Dadi’s lap. Tinni cried. She dreamt and slept. And repeated.

“I will not do anything wrong. I am sorry I broke my promise to you. I will never do it again.” She promised fervently and prayed. Tinni had been caught in the restricted areas twice after the promise. She had been getting better and better at navigating the nether world. She had felt like a detective. Like the police. “No no no….I will never go there again.”

***

Tinni’s Dadi was sitting on a pristine white bed which she used as her throne. The champa bloomed outside in the courtyard and all around the pond. Tinni had been rescued and she lay next to her Dadi. The doctor had seen to her and deemed her to be fit. “Nothing can get a 12 year old down for long. She will be okay in no time,” he had said.

Tinni curled away from her Dadi and looked at the room around her. There were no cobwebs and the sunlight streaming in made the room sparkle. The ever familiar smell of Dadi’s hookah and incense from the humongous puja room wafted in and she closed her eyes. She heard Dadi tell someone, “Give Kanti a thousand rupees.” She then glanced at Tinni and erroneously assumed that she was asleep. “Not a single scratch on her. Good job.”

Tinni heard herself scream inside her head but she made no apparent movement. All her prayers answered, Tinni had been rescued and she was safe. Now, lying in that diamond of a room, she promised herself that one day, when she was bigger and stronger, she would go to that side of the house and find out what her Dadi was hiding. “Every skeleton in your cupboard will come tumbling out, Dadi, you bitch!” She thought fiercely.

Dadi’s new guard dogs slept next to the champa tree.

Tinni curled into a ball next to her Dadi and bided her time.

 Illustration by Aditi Chakraborty

Soumalya Chakraborty

The bustling main road, when observed from above, resembles an irrigation canal with numerous lanes branching out. Each lane feeds the central road with human and vehicular movement which shapes its image of being one of the major thoroughfares of the city. In its entirety, this aerial view is nothing extraordinary. After all, almost every urban setting would look the same at a casual glance.

Pause awhile, look closely at each of these lanes and a very different vista opens up. For just as each channel of the main irrigation canal could be watering a different crop, each lane has its share of stories to tell – those of its inception, its inhabitants and its varied appearances over the ages. Today, our exploration leads us to Twelfth Street which seems unusually deserted considering its location within the city. The lane is narrow and reaches a dead end after only a few hundred meters. Adjoining the wall, signifying the dead end stands the “Rainbow House.”

Take a look and the name comes across as a joke, for the rainbow house has no semblance of color anywhere. The crumbling walls, covered in decaying moss, appear closer to black than brown, thanks to urban pollution. Look inside and the faded, peeling paint of the rooms appear a dirty, sickly white. The gates have been removed long back and an ancient signboard pathetically displays the farcical name while swinging mildly in the breeze from its pegs.

Look closer still and it is this signboard which appears to be the only element in the dilapidated house which could have once been colorful. For the seven letters of the word “Rainbow” seems to have been painted in the seven distinct colors of the spectrum. It’s hard to spot them now barring careful scrutiny but if you are so inclined, you might also catch the fact that the colors on some letters have faded more than others – a finding that would lead you to conclude that the text on the signboard lost its lustre one letter at a time.

What’s the point of this exercise, you ask? Well, we have come to listen to this ancient house tell a story before it gets pulled down to make space for a high-rise. However, before the structure follows the colours into oblivion, it wishes to leave behind a legacy. A story, which defines its inception, journey and gradual descent from glory to desecration.

This morning, a middle-aged man walks into the ruins of the house. As you observe the way he looks around and moves, you realize this is someone who knows the house well. Look into his eyes and see them zoning out, moving about and focusing again. Obviously, looking for something specific and puzzling over the lack of familiarity.

The man walks around the house and enters the garden. True to the present condition of the house, the garden is a mess of weed, dead leaves and branches. The man’s eyes seem to flicker and focus on something distant. Not a sight but a memory. A vista of the garden when it was alive, fragrant and beautiful.

“I must find my tree,” the man murmurs to himself and looks around. Fixing his gaze on a corner of the garden, he walks briskly to the crumbling walls. Arriving at the spot, he kneels and forages through the thick overgrowth of weed till his hands touch something familiar- the stump of a palm tree which had been chopped down a few months back in preparation for the high-rise to take over.

The man’s eyes moisten as memories come flooding back. Memories of almost 40 years back when, as a kid, the tree had borne fruit for the first time. It was planted by his father and grew up to be a symbol of his childhood. Whenever a discussion ensued about his life and ambition, his father would point to the tree and tell him, “Alok, look at that tree, how it grows taller and taller every year, surpassing everybody around it. You have to aim to be that tree. Outshine all your peers, stand taller than everybody by dint of your achievements and capabilities.”

As young Alok stood looking up at the tree, the initial feeling was that of jealousy and resentment. “Why do you grow so fast? How am I ever going to match you in the sheer pace with which you leave your competition behind?”

The tree seemed to nod and a gentle breeze would blow over him, soothing his mind. As he sat in its shade, Alok would talk to the tree like a companion, sharing his thoughts, fears and plans. The tree, ever patient, ever listening, would envelop him in its gradually expanding shade, seeming to protect him from all his worries.

With the years rolling by, Alok had to deal with his family falling apart. The growing arguments between his parents resulted in them going their separate ways. Alok’s dad – a picture of confidence and composure at one time, broke down at his failure to hold things together. Perpetual depression led to despair and culminated in the moment which saw his father eventually take his own life.

Through these bitter moments, the anchor which kept Alok’s spirit strongly grounded was his only true companion – the palm tree. The steady stream of human misery, betrayal and ill-will had shaken his faith on human bonding. The tree was strong, yet gentle, silent, yet understanding, aloof, yet comforting in its embrace. As Alok sat crying under it, the tree seemed to whisper to him about all those violent storms it had been through. How it had braved their attempts at uprooting it and continued to stand tall. Looking up at it, Alok drew strength and the resolve to be the spirit it exemplified.

Today, as Alok looks down at the stump, an overwhelming sensation of the end of an era washes over him. He sits down, acutely aware of the missing shade, when a familiar whisper catches his ear.

“So you finally managed to stand taller than me!”

Alok smiles, “ Are you jealous? Like I used to be in my childhood?”

“No. To see you imbibe the values I stood for is the greatest gift ever. In these final moments of my existence, I am happy that you weathered all the turbulence life had to throw at you and emerge victorious. After being through so much sorrow, this place will be finally at peace knowing the last surviving legacy is a success story.”

Alok says with a distant look in his eyes, “I was afraid I wouldn’t find you. There’s nothing familiar around here any more. Remember, the ‘Rainbow House’ in all its glory? We used to say, all the colours which decorate our lives have come together in this house. It’s no stranger to any emotion.”

“That it’s not. As the people left it, the colours faded. But today, after many years, I think I see a colour spreading across the horizon and painting this picture. Do you see it?”

Alok nods and leans against the stump, closing his eyes and hoping for the cool, comforting breeze which always greeted him at that spot. As dusk approaches, we zoom out of this scene and take in the cityscape again. The sky, the buildings, the streets and the lives they shelter appear awash in a single colour while the sun goes down.

Red – the colour of our will to survive!

Image Source: Internet

Dr Madhab Chattopadhyay M.Pharm, Ph.D

When diarrhea strikes During the dead hour of night, if anybody in your family starts passing loose motion or vomit very frequently, what do you do ? Run helter-skelter to get a transport for reaching the hospital? Make a hurried search for Enteroquinol or Flagyl tablets ?

Hazards associated with unwise and improper medication It must be emphasized that bringing the patient under the attention of a doctor is no doubt the best and wisest approach. But it may not be always possible. Using the above-mentioned medicines or some other medicines without being advised by a doctor may prove counterproductive for various reasons. First of all, this type of problems most often arises because of indigestion and not due to any infection. So use of any antimicrobial drug may not be required at all. Unnecessary use those drugs may cause irritation of the stomach wall leading to more vomiting and more fluid loss. In case the problem is caused by any infection, use of those drugs or any other drug on your own choice may not help since the symptoms may be the manifestation of a mixed infection. So the random choice of an antiprozoal (Enteroquinol, Flagyl) or antibacterial (Norfloxacin) may suppress the symptoms partially but will definitely not solve the problem. If you use the drugs in improper dose (very likely) you would unknowingly promote the emergence of a drug-resistant variety of the infecting organisms. If the symptoms can be correctly reported to a doctor, he could recognize the nature of the infection and make a correct choice of the drugs. So medication on your own discretion is not and cannot be the right way.

A simple answer to a serious problem You may however alleviate and even overcome the crisis using a simple approach. Before we look into the approach, let us understand why water is crucially important for our survival. Our blood transports oxygen and other nutrients to the cells and also carries the unwanted materials generated by the cells to the kidneys for excretion. Blood is propelled by the pumping action of the heart and spreads all over the body through the network of arteries. It consists of cells (red blood cells, white blood cells, platelets) and chemicals (proteins, carbohydrates, lipids, urea, creatine, creatinine and some other substances). These living and non-living materials impart a certain fluidity to the blood, suitable for pumping by the heart. When somebody frequently passes watery stool and / or vomits, he loses a lot of water poured from the blood into the digestive tract. The problem called dehydration is associated with far- reaching consequences. With the amount of other constituents of the blood remaining the same, loss of fluid invariably leads to loss of fluidity of the blood. Moreover, due to loss of some ions with water, the acidic or alkaline status of the blood, essential for the metabolic activities of our body, is adversely affected. If the problem is not attended in time, the blood turns into a highly viscous fluid not at all suitable for pumping by the heart. The patient dies due to heart failure. This is how villages after villages got depopulated following the outbreak of cholera as described in some classic literature.

It is obvious from the foregoing discussion that the problem can be avoided or solved simply by supplying water with electrolytes. Water is absorbed from the stomach and mixed with the blood. The optimum fluidity of the blood thus can be restored. It is necessary to add some electrolytes to compensate for the loss of ions (sodium, bicarbonate).When a patient is brought to the hospital with dehydration, doctors infuse saline through his vein in order to bring back the blood in its optimally fluid state. If hospitalization is not possible, you can help the patient simply by feeding him a solution of salt and sugar. Half spoonful sugar and a pinch of salt dissolved in a glass of water are sufficient to serve the purpose. You can also add a little bit baking soda to the solution. The remedial measure can be used even if the patient is known to be diabetic. In case diarrhea is associated with vomiting, the solution should be fed very slowly (sip by sip). Feeding should be continued until he feels an urge for urination.

Historical evidence of the success of ORT This remedy well within your reach has been traditionally used for the management of diarrhea. The efficacy of this approach is well-documented. During the political turmoil in Bangladesh (the then East Pakistan) in 1971, refugees started coming to India in multitudes. Unhygienic conditions in the Bongaon refugee camp (24-Paragans, West Bengal) led to the outbreak of cholera. Rate of death shot up to 30% of the infected patients. At this juncture Dr. Dilip Mahalanabish, a Kolkata-based pediatrician, was sent to take care of the situation. Supply of saline was insufficient. But the background of his research on oral rehydration therapy (ORT) enabled him to tide over the crisis simply by feeding the patients salt and sugar solution, The outcome was incredible. The rate of death was reduced to 3%. The life-saving remedy got a popular name “oral saline”. Dr. Mahalanabish used ORT in many other places of the world (Afghanistan, Egypt, Yemen) and achieved success. Though initially met with skepticism, ORT got worldwide recognition. The premier medical journal The Lancet highlighted it as “potentially the most important medical advance of the 20 th century”.

Concluding remarks It is important to note that glucose promotes the absorbance of sodium from the intestine. So both sugar and salts are required to prepare the oral rehydration solution. Some ready-made mixtures for the preparation of ORS are commercially available. But even when you have no access to them, do not get nervous when somebody gets diarrhea. Sugar and salt are available in every kitchen. Use them to prepare ORS and ask the patient to take it. If the problem is very serious, medical intervention will be required later on, but you would get enough time to look for a doctor while helping the patient to restore the fluidity of his blood.

Acknowledgment

Dr Subhajit Bhattacharjee, a General Practitioner at Agarpara, Kolkata, has reviewed this article and also made some valuable additions to the article as follows. On behalf of me and the editorial board, I convey to him heartful thanks and gratitude. Hope Megh Peon will get similar cooperation from him in its next issues.

Some Additional points

Dr Subhajit Bhattacharjee MBBS

Diarrhea in children could be very dangerous and life-threatening. But ORT will help you if you are unable to get a doctor. Give the child a drink made with 6 level teaspoons of sugar and half- teaspoon of salt dissolved in 1 litre of clean water. Be very careful to add the correct amounts. Too much sugar can make the diarrhea worse. Too much salt can be extremely harmful to the child. Making the mixture a little more diluted (with more than 1 litre of clean water) is not harmful.

Diarrhea usually cures itself in three to four days with rehydration (drinking a lot of liquids). The real danger is the loss of liquid and nutrients from the child’s body, which can cause dehydration and malnutrition.

A child with diarrhea should never be given any tablets, antibiotics or other medicines unless prescribed by a trained health worker.

The best treatment for diarrhea is to (1) drink lots of liquids and oral rehydration salts (ORS), properly mixed with clean water from a safe source, and (2) take zinc tablets or syrup for 10–14 days.

The well-known term ORS (oral rehydration salts) is a special combination of dry salts that is mixed with safe water. It can help replace the fluids lost due to diarrhea.

When should ORS be used? When a child passes three or more loose stools in a day start giving him/her ORS. In addition, give children over 6 months of age 20 milligrams of zinc per day (tablet or syrup) and give children under 6 months of age 10 milligrams per day (tablet or syrup). It should be continued for 10–14 days,

Where can ORS be obtained? In most countries, ORS packets are available in the health centres, pharmacies, markets and shops.

How is the ORS drink prepared? Put the contents of the ORS packet in a clean container. Check the packet for directions and add the correct amount of clean water. Too little water could make the diarrhea worse. Add water only. Do not add ORS to milk, soup, fruit juice or soft drinks. Do not add sugar. Stir well, and feed it to the child from a clean cup. Do not use a bottle.

How much ORS drink to give? Encourage the child to drink as much as possible. A child under the age of 2 years needs at least 1/4 to 1/2 of a large (250-millilitre) cup of the ORS drink after each watery stool. A child aged 2 years or older needs at least 1/2 to 1 whole large (250-millilitre) cup of the ORS drink after each watery stool.

What, if ORS is not available? Give the child a drink made with 6 level teaspoons of sugar and 1/2 level teaspoon of salt dissolved in 1 litre of clean water. Be very careful to mix the correct amounts. Making the mixture a little too diluted (with more than 1 litre of clean water) is not harmful.

Note: Zinc supplementation is a critical new intervention for treating diarrheal episodes in children. Recent studies suggest that administration of zinc along with new low osmolarity oral rehydration solutions / salts (ORS), can reduce the duration and severity of diarrheal episodes for up to three months. The World Health Organization (WHO) and UNICEF recommend daily 20 mg zinc supplements for 10 – 14 days for children with acute diarrhea, and 10 mg per day for infants under six months old, to curtail the severity of the episode and prevent further occurrences in the ensuing two to three months.

Amal Chakraborti

A monk, a businessman and a disciple laid the foundation of Science and Technology in India.

Success in science and technology programmes in the fields of space, defence, atomic energy, agriculture and biology will surely make every Indian proud. But little do we know about the contribution of those great men, who more than a century back, had dreamt of a developed India through various missions in science and technology. Interestingly, many of the visionaries didn’t have any scientific background, but their determination, commitment and love for the nation made them fight against all odds and establish a strong base in science and technology in India, keeping pace with the advancement of civilisation.

One such story of seminal initiative is that of a triumvirate – a monk, a businessman and a disciple.

A chance meeting

Those who believe in destiny will relish it. Those who don’t, may ask an expert statistician to calculate the probability of a meeting between two individuals of diverse interests, far away from our mainland, on the majestic promenade deck of the luxurious steamship – S S Empress of India, sailing across the vast expanse of Pacific Ocean. The two wrote the script of developed India, about a century ago when Indians were struggling under the foreign yoke.

SS Empress of India embarked upon the historic voyage on 31^st May 1883 from the port of Yokohama on its way to Vancouver. The monk was none other than the youthful Swami Vivekananda in saffron robes and a turban, tied in Rajasthani style, and the businessman was middle-aged Jamshetji Nusserwanji Tata, hailing from a Parsi Zoroastrian family. They had met by a strange twist of fate on the deck of SS Empress, owned by Canadian Pacific Steamship Company. While discussing about the purpose of his visit, Vivekananda explained his mission to preach about universality of all religions in America and his scheduled address on 11^th September 1983 at the Parliament of World’s Religions in Chicago Art Institute. Jamshetji, in turn confided about his plans to secure steel manufacturing technology from abroad.

Alasinga Perumal, the dearest disciple of Vivekananda from Triplicane, had proposed to Swamiji that he should attend the Parliament though at some point, perhaps, he had considered about making the trip himself. Later, he changed his mind and considered Vivekananda to be a far more suitable candidate. Funds for the trip was collected by Perumal, especially from the poor, as instructed by Vivekananda, and also from the princely states of Mysore, Khetri, Ramnad, Nizam of Hyderabad and other individual donors. It was Maharaja Ajit Singh Bahadur of the princely state of Khetri, who proposed the name, ‛Swami Vivekananda’ – ‘the bliss of discerning wisdom’ to Narendra.

During the voyage, the monk and the entrepreneur discussed a wide range of subjects that included philosophy, metaphysics, sufferings of their countrymen and plans to build the nation strong, spiritually and scientifically. Later, these conversations were the subject of research for scholars. Dr APJ Abdul Kalam, former President of India wrote: “Swami Vivekananda blessed him. He suggested steel technology had two components – one is steel science and the other is manufacturing technology. What you can bring in the country is material technology – you have to build material science within the country.” Viveknanda had also suggested, “How wonderful it would be if we could combine the scientific and technical achievement of the West with asceticism and humanism of India.”

On 25^th July, they disembarked at Vancouver and took leave of each other. They never met again.

Monk ignited the businessman’s mind

Though the two were no longer in touch but the advice of the monk kept resonating in Jamshetsji’s mind with the idea of creating an institute to combine spirituality and science for building modern India. Sourcing of funds, and, thereafter, to ensure its continuity, were major issues. Jamshetji had few friends to help him prepare the draft plan. Notable amongst them were his scholarly friend Burjorji Jamspji Padshah and his sister Jerbai. In November 1898, after a gap of five years Jamshteji wrote to Vivekananda about the plan to set up the institute, and invited him to take lead.

Jamshetji wrote: “I recall these ideas in connection with my scheme of Research Institute of Science for India, of which you have doubtless heard or read. It seems to me that no better use can be made of the ascetic spirit than the establishment of monasteries or residential halls for men dominated by this spirit, where they should live with ordinary decency and devote their lives to the cultivation of sciences –natural and humanistic. I am of opinion that, if such a crusade in favour of an asceticism of this kind were undertaken by a competent leader, it would greatly help asceticism, science, and the good name of our common country; and I know not who would make a more fitting general of such a campaign than Vivekananda. Do you think you would care to apply yourself to the mission of galvanizing into life our ancient traditions in this respect? Perhaps, you had better begin with a fiery pamphlet rousing our people in this matter. I would cheerfully defray all the expenses of publication.”

Vivekananda declined due to his active involvement in setting up the Ramakrishna Mission. His deteriorating health too did not allow frequent travelling.

Arrival of the disciple

Margaret Elizabeth Nobel, a Scots-Irish social worker, author and teacher, came to Kolkata in 1898. She had met Swami Vivekananda for the first time in 1885 in London. It was also a chance meeting. She wrote to a friend about this meeting:

“Suppose he had not come to London that time! Life would have been like a headless dream, for I always knew that I was waiting for something. I always said that a call would come. And it did. But if I had known more of life, I doubt whether, when the time will come, I should certainly have recognised it. …. The arrow has found its place in the bow. But if he had not come! If he had meditated on the Himalayan peaks! I, for one, had never been here.”

Vivekananda asked Sister Nivedita to follow up the matter with Jamshetji and his team.

The brilliant proposal meets its first roadblock

The draft proposal was prepared by Jamshetji and his team in keeping with the vision and advice of Vivekananda. This was perhaps the most brilliant proposal ever made for an academy where the students would be taught philosophy, metaphysics, psychology and ethics along with natural and biological sciences.

Jamshetji and Padshah met the Viceroy Lord Curzon on 31^st December 1898, the very next day of his arrival in India. The proposal was rejected by Viceroy, stating that it is impractical to teach philosophy and metaphysics along with science subjects. The Viceroy also questioned about steady flow of students, job opportunity for the students after finishing their studies, and availability of competent teachers. Jamshetji was disheartened, and quickly sent Padshah and his sister, Jerbai to Kolkata to seek Vivekananda’s advice. Sister Nivedita held discussion with the team and decided to write articles in the newspaper, and meet several intellectuals both in India and England for a wider publicity of this grand initiative.

Jamsetji and his team never gave up

It is surprising but understandable, that under British rule no Government approval was required to start an industry or business as it added to the revenue, but opening an academy required mandatory approval of the Government. The idea of this institute was not only rejected by the authorities, but also was not favoured by many British intellectuals. Perhaps, the British was concerned about growing number of talented Indian youths such as Sir Ashutosh Mukherjee, Sir Jagadish Chandra Bose, Dr Mahendralal Sarkar (established Indian Association for the Cultivation of Science in 1876), Acharya Prafulla Chandra Roy and so on.

Jamshetji wanted the institute to be run by a joint trust for three major advantages- guaranteed minimum income, absorbing the depreciation and the prospect of increment of the income. Though Jamshetji very categorically indicated that the Tata family will not interfere in the running of the academy, the Government insisted that the family settlement and the endowment of the academy should be delinked. Jamshetji accepted it and submitted the revised proposal.

The revised proposal was discussed in October 1899 at Simla conference. Thomas Raleigh was the chairman. Major recommendations included priority to scientific, technical and medical branches, that the title will be an ‘Institute in place of an University’ and a bill was to be enacted by Government of India in support of the scheme. The generosity and public spirit displayed by Tata were appreciated.

A Provisional Committee was set up by Jamshetji following the advice of Vivekananada. The Provisional Committee, with the approval of the Government, invited Prof. William Ramsey, of University College, London to review the proposal. Prof. Ramsey visited India for two months in December 1900 and studied the proposal. (Prof. Ramsey, an outstanding chemist, was Knighted later, and received Nobel prize in 1904 for discovery of Inert gas).

Prof. Ramsey’s report included following recommendations: liberal scholarship of Rs 40 to Rs 50 per month for the students, industrial units will be created while training young men which, if commercially successful, could be managed by junior faculty and students. They could eventually leave the institute and become proprietor, managers and scientific consultant.

The departments recommended by Prof. Ramsey included general chemistry, engineering technology and industrial bacteriology, electrical department with practical training in large industry like Siemens. The primary objective of the institute would be to start as a school for experimental sciences.

Delaying Tactics

Despite strong recommendations made by Simla Conference for enacting necessary legislation, there was no progress in next three years. Swami Vivekanada passed away on 4^th July 1902. BJ Padshah, the scholarly friend of Jamshetji, wrote a very strong letter to HH Risley, Secretary of Govt. of India, stating that:“An institute at Bangalore, step-mothered by the Government, may languish for lack of fund, students, appliances and professors, if all are seduced from it by institutions of same kind handsomely planted somewhere.” Lord Curzon was unhappy with such remarks. Prof. Ramsey wrote to Lord Curzon,“ it appears to me that matters are not progressing as they should…”

The proposal got into two major hurdles. Firstly, the bureaucratic loop, and secondly, many in the Government didn’t like the ambitious proposal of Prof. Ramsey which could benefit Indian academia, industry and the people of India in a big way. There was an urgent necessity to attract the attention of intellectual community within the country and in England.

Part of the story of IISc. is buried in Kolkata

Sister Nivedita took a lead role to campaign in support of the Institute in India and England. An interesting article,‘IISc looks to Belur for seeds’ by Anil Budur Lulla was published in The Telegraph, 3^rd September 2007. S Venkadesan, IISc chief librarian, believed that part of the IISc’s history is buried in Calcutta. Venkadesan commented, “As the then Indian capital had many scientists, we are quite sure that if old published works are dusted down from the shelves, the IISc’s history will become clearer.”

When the movement for establishing a world-class science institute grew stronger with support from Sister Nivedita and Bengali intellectuals, Lord Curzon, the Viceroy of India opposed it.These developments were reported in the Bengali and English press of that time.

It is very surprising that Jamshetji, the great philanthropist, and one of the pioneers to build modern India, was not spared by a section of intellectual community. Articles appeared in the newspapers maligning, him questioning his intention or business interest in creating such an institution. Sister Nivedita opposed such views strongly and wrote many articles in The Statesman drawing the attention of the intellectual community.

In 1890 Vivekananda had visited England accompanied by Swami Turyananda and Sister Nivedita. The latter knew many of the intellectuals and important personalities in England. She along with her friend, Ole Sera Bull, a disciple of Vivekanada, organised several gatherings. In one such gathering, Sir George Birdwood, a key figure in the education department was invited. After discussing some other issues, the proposal of the institute was presented. Birdwood rejected it stating that it is not possible for an Indian to run such institute. He argued that universities of Calcutta, Bombay and Madras were in bad shape and failed to produce a good student. Sister Niveditda dispelled his wrong impression by citing the example of JC Bose who already presented a paper in the Science Congress in Paris.

Nivedita was not discouraged and went on writing letters to create public opinion. She received encouraging replies, notably from William James, the celebrated psychologist and Patrick Geddes, the famous town planner, biologist and educationist ( who later wrote the biography of JC Bose).

Jamshetji was not fortunate enough to see his dream institute turn into reality. He died in Germany on 19^th May 1904. The proposal was still pending, mired in the messy bureaucratic network. However, pressure was mounted on the Government of India through the untiring efforts of Padshah, supported by the relentless campaign by Nivedita and other intellectuals in Calcutta and England.

Light at the end of the tunnel

It took thirteen long gruelling years but finally it happened. The proposal to establish The Indian Institute of Science was approved by Viceroy Lord Minto. Government of India published the resolution on 27^th May 1909 which contained the scheme of administration, management of the properties and the fund of the institute. Accompanying the resolution was the Vesting Order. Sir Krishnaraja Wodeyar IV, Maharajara of Mysore and a disciple of Vivekanada, donated 372 acres of land to set up the institute in Bangalore.

On July 24^th, the first batch of students was admitted in the department of general and applied chemistry under Norman Rudolf and electro-technology under Alfred Hay. Between 1909 and 1947, the institute had five eminent scientists as its directors, namely, Sir Morris A Travers, Sir AG Broune, Sir MO Foster, Sir C V Raman and Sir J C Ghosh.

Today, IISc is the premier institute of our country. It has made exemplary contribution in advancement of science and technology, particularly in the major national programmes of aerospace, defence and other core sectors. Two other premier institutes that followed IISc are Tata Institute of Social Sciences (1936) and Tata Institute of Fundamental Research (1945). It is indeed strange that a chance meeting of two brilliant minds marked the beginning of India’s journey towards advancement of science and technology.

 

 

 

Somjeet Dutt

Coming to life from a green vine around a tree,

The just born gourd blinked with glee

On seeing a world so wide and bright,

It wished to grow wings and take flight.

 

All curious to see the baby,

First arrived the cabbage and carrot family

Followed shortly by his distant aunts,

Shuffling came the beans and egg plants.

 

All of them cried out in fright

“It can only be a demon’s curse,

“Oh dear, Oh dear, what a sight!”

He could not have been any worse.”

 

Not one of them saw the sweetness within,

Not one of them reached out to him

Completely ignoring his virtues and innocence,

They labelled his warts and bumps a menace.

 

The poor child shouted out in vain,

“Leave me not alone, it causes me pain.”

Not one in the cruel world listened,

Day after day his tear drops glistened.

 

What was meant to be the sweetest pear

Withered and shrivelled awaiting care

What finally remained of this bundle of goodness,

Was a hollow core soaked in bitterness.

 

But what the world could not snatch,

And no other fruit could ever match

Was its spirit so kind and valuable,

Which makes many a disease curable.

 

Don’t call it ugly, don’t name it bitter,

For day after day it strives to make us fitter.

Image Source: Internet