I can't concentrate. I have a major deadline tomorrow but no words seem to come out of my fingertips except this note about my Mesho. Today I am mourning yet another cherished person in my life. This is hard, very hard.
This morning he passed away after a massive cerebral stroke. Last night he went to bed after a normal dinner, but woke up in the middle of the night not feeling well. He fell on his way to the bathroom, threw up a few times, and then started sweating profusely. Maashi knew something was wrong, she got help, and they took him to the hospital in Kolkata. By the time they did a CT scan, his brain was swimming in blood, there was little hope. He was on life support for sometime and then passed away. Maashi did get a chance to say good bye. She is a strong woman, much stronger than many women I know. I could give anything to be able to hug her right now.
This is their story, gathered from what I have heard and pieced together over the years.
Mesho and Maashi fell in love in college. We are talking late 50s - early 60s. They were both super brilliant students of economics, award winning, first class first and all. They came from very diverse backgrounds. Maashi was the oldest daughter of a very renowned teacher in Hoogly. My grandfather did not have a lot of money but he was very respected all around for his learning, so much so that he used to host councils at his home to address the major socio-economic-political issues in the region. Maashi was always there, right and center, the apple of his eye, and deservedly so because of her intellect and commanding presence. Mesho was from a very humble background, grew up with great difficulty in a farming village. From that hard life, he struggled, through with sheer determination and tenacity to become an award winning graduate from one of the most prestigious universities of India. Maashi and Mesho were a perfect fit, only for one thing - he was not of the Brahmin caste like my Maashi, and at that time, it was a big deal. Also, choosing your life partner by yourself was not common either. Furthermore, Maashi and Mesho had resolved to not pursue further education goals with scholarship abroad or life in the City or any such 'typical' careers brilliant students like them usually did,instead they wanted to go to a village and be humble schoolteachers and seed knowledge in the next generation of students.There was a lot of societal opposition to their choices, but they went ahead anyways. My grandfather greatly respected my Maashi and Mesho for their choice, and my grandmother loved Mesho very much. They lived their entire life in Pandua, then a small impoverished village 80 kms from Kolkata, but now a bustling town of more than 30,000 people. They raised three charming kids of their own, and from their two little schools they inspired thousands of young ones. When they retired, they still lived not too far from their old school and students, an inspirational beacon of knowledge. Yes, we all fantasize of doing such a thing, they actually lived and breathed that life, by volition and sheer determination. Theirs could have easily been a life of material wealth and ego, but it was a humble and beautiful life instead. Their son, Soumyadarshan, definitely has those genes of selfless service and is carrying on their good work and the some.
My earliest memory of Mesho is from when we were visiting my grandma at Bansberia, I was quite young then, may be three or so. I remember him getting off a big shining black and silver motorbike, which was a big deal to me as I did not know anyone who owned a beautiful machine like that. Then I remember him standing at the door with his large structure filling up the entire doorway as if the latter was a frame, and light was streaming from the veranda behind him, he had an aura around him. He had these mesmerizing tan eyes, I had never seen those before. In my three year old little world, he was the handsomest man I had ever seen, larger than life, and I will always remember him that way.
He used to call my grandma, Moana. All my maashis and my mom did too, but I think he had the sweetest intonation. He would call out - "O Moana" - very affectionately. I am sure my grandma's heart melted every time she heard that call. He loved her very much. In 1988, when my grandma passed away, I remember his blood shot eyes, he did not talk much that day, but I could see he was crying and was in deep pain.
He had his trials in life. In 1998, his only daughter passed away, all of a sudden, it was leukemia. He mourned for more than a decade, I don't think he ever stopped mourning her passing. It was a deep hole in his heart. He used to say, he is ready for all trials in this world but it seemed that each passing year, he was being tested and life gave him even more to bear. Last year when my mother was on her death bed, he had come over to see her, along with my Maashi. I saw those tear-soaked pain-filled eyes again. He could not bear see my mom in such a condition. It was overwhelming for him. That was the last time I saw him. It's so hard to accept that I will never see him again.
I remember him for many other reasons too. He was an inspiration for having really dedicated his life to education, being a true teacher. I am sure he had touched many lives and made an impression in them, probably much deeper than he did in mine. I am sure there will be thousands of students flocking his home paying homage to their beloved teacher.
He was an avid traveler. If he was not to be a teacher, I think he would have been a professional traveler. I used to love to listen to his tales of travel, wide eyed and daydreaming of the places he described. I think all my maternal relatives have been on vacations with him one time or the other. This year when we went to see the Stupa at Rajghir, my Mama was jumping up and down the stairs leading to the Stupa remembering the time he had come to see this with Mesho after he had just graduated from high school. Mesho had this spirit for discovery that was unparalleled. When he talked about travel, his eyes twinkled, his entire face shone with intensity and passion. It was addictive.
One beautiful memory I have of him is with my father, relaxing after lunch, in the staff quarter of Radharani Girls High School, where my Maashi was a teacher. The two of them are 'ghoti', i.e. originally from West Bengal, and not implants from East Bengal (now Bangladesh) like my mom's family. They talked at length about how aaloo posto (potatoes and poppy seed) should be made, and how the 'ghoti' method was the best. I remember them talking for almost three hours, sometimes heated - about the right way of grinding the seeds, to economics of the international posto market, to how terrior affects the quality of the potatoes from different regions of Bengal and across India, on and on. I was very young, possibly 8 years old, and I remember my younger self thinking - I wish I could record this conversation, this is so interesting, it's like reading a book (thesis) on aaloo-posto!
He could be very stubborn at times and had somewhat a flashy temper. Maashi, I would say, was very accommodating. I suppose it came from the love they shared and nurtured through the years, that lent them to be understanding and adjusting. Their younger son and I were close buddies growing up, and we used to call Mesho, Boro Royal Bengal Tiger, and my dad, Choto Royal Bengal Tiger - a testimony to their roaring capabilities. Now we can look back and laugh, but when we were kids and either of them roared, we would pee in our pants out of fright. I suppose some of his students also saw the strict disciplinarian side of him when he was their head master.
I will miss him very much. Through the years, I have not been able to meet him as often as I wanted, and I regret that. Life gets in the way of the things you want to do, and you postpone them, and then one day the opportunity is gone. But I am happy that in 2011, exactly two years ago around this time, right after Lakshmi Puja, Baba, Maa and I were able to visit Pandua and spend an entire day with him and his family. I cherish that memory, for that was a happy time when both Maa and Mesho were with us, and may be now they are sitting up there, somewhere, chatting and sipping a cup of tea. I sure like to think so.
This morning he passed away after a massive cerebral stroke. Last night he went to bed after a normal dinner, but woke up in the middle of the night not feeling well. He fell on his way to the bathroom, threw up a few times, and then started sweating profusely. Maashi knew something was wrong, she got help, and they took him to the hospital in Kolkata. By the time they did a CT scan, his brain was swimming in blood, there was little hope. He was on life support for sometime and then passed away. Maashi did get a chance to say good bye. She is a strong woman, much stronger than many women I know. I could give anything to be able to hug her right now.
This is their story, gathered from what I have heard and pieced together over the years.
Mesho and Maashi fell in love in college. We are talking late 50s - early 60s. They were both super brilliant students of economics, award winning, first class first and all. They came from very diverse backgrounds. Maashi was the oldest daughter of a very renowned teacher in Hoogly. My grandfather did not have a lot of money but he was very respected all around for his learning, so much so that he used to host councils at his home to address the major socio-economic-political issues in the region. Maashi was always there, right and center, the apple of his eye, and deservedly so because of her intellect and commanding presence. Mesho was from a very humble background, grew up with great difficulty in a farming village. From that hard life, he struggled, through with sheer determination and tenacity to become an award winning graduate from one of the most prestigious universities of India. Maashi and Mesho were a perfect fit, only for one thing - he was not of the Brahmin caste like my Maashi, and at that time, it was a big deal. Also, choosing your life partner by yourself was not common either. Furthermore, Maashi and Mesho had resolved to not pursue further education goals with scholarship abroad or life in the City or any such 'typical' careers brilliant students like them usually did,instead they wanted to go to a village and be humble schoolteachers and seed knowledge in the next generation of students.There was a lot of societal opposition to their choices, but they went ahead anyways. My grandfather greatly respected my Maashi and Mesho for their choice, and my grandmother loved Mesho very much. They lived their entire life in Pandua, then a small impoverished village 80 kms from Kolkata, but now a bustling town of more than 30,000 people. They raised three charming kids of their own, and from their two little schools they inspired thousands of young ones. When they retired, they still lived not too far from their old school and students, an inspirational beacon of knowledge. Yes, we all fantasize of doing such a thing, they actually lived and breathed that life, by volition and sheer determination. Theirs could have easily been a life of material wealth and ego, but it was a humble and beautiful life instead. Their son, Soumyadarshan, definitely has those genes of selfless service and is carrying on their good work and the some.
My earliest memory of Mesho is from when we were visiting my grandma at Bansberia, I was quite young then, may be three or so. I remember him getting off a big shining black and silver motorbike, which was a big deal to me as I did not know anyone who owned a beautiful machine like that. Then I remember him standing at the door with his large structure filling up the entire doorway as if the latter was a frame, and light was streaming from the veranda behind him, he had an aura around him. He had these mesmerizing tan eyes, I had never seen those before. In my three year old little world, he was the handsomest man I had ever seen, larger than life, and I will always remember him that way.
He used to call my grandma, Moana. All my maashis and my mom did too, but I think he had the sweetest intonation. He would call out - "O Moana" - very affectionately. I am sure my grandma's heart melted every time she heard that call. He loved her very much. In 1988, when my grandma passed away, I remember his blood shot eyes, he did not talk much that day, but I could see he was crying and was in deep pain.
He had his trials in life. In 1998, his only daughter passed away, all of a sudden, it was leukemia. He mourned for more than a decade, I don't think he ever stopped mourning her passing. It was a deep hole in his heart. He used to say, he is ready for all trials in this world but it seemed that each passing year, he was being tested and life gave him even more to bear. Last year when my mother was on her death bed, he had come over to see her, along with my Maashi. I saw those tear-soaked pain-filled eyes again. He could not bear see my mom in such a condition. It was overwhelming for him. That was the last time I saw him. It's so hard to accept that I will never see him again.
I remember him for many other reasons too. He was an inspiration for having really dedicated his life to education, being a true teacher. I am sure he had touched many lives and made an impression in them, probably much deeper than he did in mine. I am sure there will be thousands of students flocking his home paying homage to their beloved teacher.
He was an avid traveler. If he was not to be a teacher, I think he would have been a professional traveler. I used to love to listen to his tales of travel, wide eyed and daydreaming of the places he described. I think all my maternal relatives have been on vacations with him one time or the other. This year when we went to see the Stupa at Rajghir, my Mama was jumping up and down the stairs leading to the Stupa remembering the time he had come to see this with Mesho after he had just graduated from high school. Mesho had this spirit for discovery that was unparalleled. When he talked about travel, his eyes twinkled, his entire face shone with intensity and passion. It was addictive.
One beautiful memory I have of him is with my father, relaxing after lunch, in the staff quarter of Radharani Girls High School, where my Maashi was a teacher. The two of them are 'ghoti', i.e. originally from West Bengal, and not implants from East Bengal (now Bangladesh) like my mom's family. They talked at length about how aaloo posto (potatoes and poppy seed) should be made, and how the 'ghoti' method was the best. I remember them talking for almost three hours, sometimes heated - about the right way of grinding the seeds, to economics of the international posto market, to how terrior affects the quality of the potatoes from different regions of Bengal and across India, on and on. I was very young, possibly 8 years old, and I remember my younger self thinking - I wish I could record this conversation, this is so interesting, it's like reading a book (thesis) on aaloo-posto!
He could be very stubborn at times and had somewhat a flashy temper. Maashi, I would say, was very accommodating. I suppose it came from the love they shared and nurtured through the years, that lent them to be understanding and adjusting. Their younger son and I were close buddies growing up, and we used to call Mesho, Boro Royal Bengal Tiger, and my dad, Choto Royal Bengal Tiger - a testimony to their roaring capabilities. Now we can look back and laugh, but when we were kids and either of them roared, we would pee in our pants out of fright. I suppose some of his students also saw the strict disciplinarian side of him when he was their head master.
I will miss him very much. Through the years, I have not been able to meet him as often as I wanted, and I regret that. Life gets in the way of the things you want to do, and you postpone them, and then one day the opportunity is gone. But I am happy that in 2011, exactly two years ago around this time, right after Lakshmi Puja, Baba, Maa and I were able to visit Pandua and spend an entire day with him and his family. I cherish that memory, for that was a happy time when both Maa and Mesho were with us, and may be now they are sitting up there, somewhere, chatting and sipping a cup of tea. I sure like to think so.
