Garia to me is synonymous with my grandfather, my father and his entire fraternity. I spent a few years of my childhood in Garia, when the nearest bus terminus was more than a kilometre away and the nearest water body was just below the window from where we would catch fish during monsoons. The lowlands, water bodies are all filled up with dwelling units and apartments. Garia boasts a very different land and skyscape and rightfully so, than it did in 1970.
My grandfather, the artist, lived in Garia, with a wife, a widowed sister, three sons and their wives, a daughter and her husband who lived nearby, two granddaughters and two grandsons – one of them being me. Of the three sons, my father was the youngest. Raju was my uncle’s son – and the youngest of my cousins.
It was 2005. Raju, his family and his parents lived in Garia and theirs was a beautiful large open farmhouse with a pond surrounded with greens. To us, hailing from the concrete jungles of Gurgaon, this was a respite. We spent a large part of the day with my uncle and aunt, Raju, his wife Shefali and daughter Bebo, chatting, laughing and over a decent dose of exquisite Bengali cuisine. Yet the highlight of the day was the hilarious incident of Sujatha slipping into the pond and drenching herself. An incident over which Raju and I laughed even in 2021. Our little daughter who thus far was busy in a typical cocooned nucleus family was overwhelmed by the variety of uncles, aunts, grand uncles and grand aunts and the unending list of relatives around her. Raju was wearing a blue shirt that day, and instantly registered as “ The Blue Shirt Uncle” for my daughter.
On a visit to Gurgaon, to his workplace at Panasonic, he visited us in 2011. That was the only time and Raju the only one, who has ever visited us from Garia. My daughter was elated to have met “Blue Shirt Uncle” who was wearing a different colour now.
Part of my long unkept promise to my wife, that I would show her around in Tagore’s Shantiniketan was just kept, finally in December 2019 after 25 years followed by a six hour long delay at Bangalore airport. Our next stop was Kolkata. We wanted to meet everyone at one place and suggested that we have a grand family get together at Raju’s house – and idea that was shot down.
We eventually chose to meet for breakfast, and we were to buy local kachori-jalebi from the typical Calcuttan sweet shops. But hospitality sense won over epicurean desires and Shefali treated us to some very delicious home-made koraishuntir kochuri and phulkopir torkari – a delicious Bengali breakfast treat.
I traveled to Kolkata again in January 2020, and was staying at the Radisson. We had agreed to meet up over breakfast one of those two days, but we never could meet.
He surprised me when he called me last year to tell me that he has bought a camera and also joined group of photo enthusiasts. He made me proud again. And for more than a few hours over the next few weeks we chatted. I promised that I will introduce him to a few good photographers in Kolkata for peer learning and development. I felt awesome supporting this little brother of mine – he had made me feel as some kind of role model.
He responded to my Facebook post on Bengali New Year’s day with a limerick. I had thought of calling him back and telling him about a letter that he consistently missed, making some of the words mean different than intended. Yet, by the time I caught up with him, COVID had already got the better of him. Raju celebrated life. He would respond to every sentence of mine with ” thik, thik” ( correct, correct), something I used to find funny. Raju used to love the tea at this stall round the corner of Garcha near Radisson… and above all he had a massive respect and love for me and Sujatha… underscored and intense. I could feel it over the phone and when we met him.
Raju grew up to become a thorough gentleman and an awesome soft-spoken, cheerful Bengali “bhadrolok” ; albeit in jeans and shirt instead of the traditional “dhoti-panjabi”. In the over four decades of his life that I have known him, I have never found him without the smile, nor have I found him complain. I made fun of his bald since his was the most expansive one after my grandfather. And I had warned him, cajoled him to take care of his health.
The deadly COVID 19 pandemic had been around for more than eight months now and we were surviving in The New Normal which essentially required citizens to adhere to stringent COVID appropriate behaviour or CAB. It took me some time to fathom the excessive callousness several companies demonstrated by pushing their employees into a dangerously infection prone environment in spite of repeated warnings by WHO and Indian governments. Raju was on the streets, braving several kilometres of exposure on a daily basis.
In Kolkata, it seemed that the much needed vaccines were being either hoarded or blackmarketeered amidst governments wanting to control sales and distribution, while most of victims were being further victimized. We were blessed – our colleagues from workplace and their colleagues guided us to the medicine. They specially offered the medicine as stockist’s price. These sales personnel were the Good Samaritans working shoulder to shoulder with the much touted “COVID Warriors”.
Yet, by then, much precious time had already been lost in finding a bed in any hospital. He was admitted with much damage. And much precious time was lost in procuring and eventually administering the vaccine. By mid-morning, on my sister’s birthday, Raju moved on after a prolonged and brave fight against the virus. He died a hero.
A week ago a rationale kept playing in my mind. I had lost my brother in December 2016, my mother in December 2017, my mother-in-law in June 2019 and my paw-in-law in September 2019. It seemed that the last two deaths of 2021 in the extended family; of my cousin sister, Mistidi’ of NOIDA and Uncle Leo from Goa would have evened out, at the rate of one death per year. My grandfather’s legacy is now reduced to two of three sons, two of three daughters-in-law, three of five grandsons and two of three granddaughters. The rationale simply failed to add up. The statistics were clearly inexplicable. This pain was excruciating and poignant.
This virus has brought us down to our knees. Our egos crushed and animosity demolished. Too many happy and noble souls passed on and away from us forever, in these last few months alone. Raju was a wonderful human being. His legacy should be all about goodness, smiles and unconditional affection.
The virus is here to stay. For a long while. Beyond the numbers and beyond the statistics.
Yet, the legacy of my daughter’s “Blue Shirt Uncle” and my dear cousin brother Raju, will carry on forever, as more and more people fight against this virus; most winning and some succumbing. The love and affection we exude will far surpass the evil attack of the virus.
And that indeed will be the true tribute to my brother.
