I was a spoilt little girl. I remember vividly, waiting at the big, curved, verandah every evening, waiting for Baba to come home. Till I was about 8 years old, everyday, without fail, I would get a gift ~ usually something I had demanded in the morning, before he left for work. Sometimes, I would even show him a photograph in a Woman & Home Magazine and demand a Doll’s house, or a ruffled skirt that I fancied, and sure enough, something very close to it, would arrive that evening with him.
He was a quiet man and not given to too many hugs and kisses; in fact I think he was kind of shy and got terribly embarrassed if anyone was overtly affectionate towards him. Secretly very pleased, but loath to show it, his nose would smile and his voice would turn gruff while he awkwardly returned a hug. Not that I cared. I clambered all over him, as and when I pleased and kissed his stomach often; as I grew older, the clambering stopped but he still got hugged tight often whether he wanted it or not!
While I was growing up, we often went on road trips. If there was a long weekend, Baba would announce, “tomorrow, at 0500 hours (yes, that was him in army mode), we are leaving for ………… It’s a 6 (or 10, or 12) hour drive, so pack breakfast & lunch, etc.” Off we would go, at the crack of dawn, with a Picnic basket carrying Coffee, Fruit, Hard Boiled eggs, ham sandwiches & Biscuit tins. Dhurries & Cushions were packed into the dickey in case we wanted to stop somewhere on the way and sit a while. Usually, there were another couple of families traveling with us, sometimes friends, sometimes relatives, so almost everyone had company their own age. By late afternoon or early evening we would all troop into a beautiful Dak Bungalow, all the ‘Ambassadors’ & ‘Fiats’ lined up in a row, and wander the lawns and exclaim at the Roses or Mango trees or some such. Baba, meticulous to the core, always pre-booked the Bungalows and ordered Fresh Linen and new soaps to be in place before hand; on occasion, he even had the meal ordered, so that we could eat as soon as we reached, especially if it was long way away. Massanjore, Puri, Hazaribagh, Krishnanagar, Topchanchi, Mayurakshi, Barakar, Shantiniketan, are just a few of these I remember; the longest one was to Delhi, and took 3 days with stops at Kanpur & Dehri-on-Sone.
Baba was in his elements on these trips. He knew the road like the back of his hand, without ever using a Map or asking for directions! There were no computers or Google maps in those days but we always knew we would reach safely, with him at the helm. In his quiet way, he made sure his orders were followed to the letter and the service we got was always impeccable.
I believe he had a vicious temper in his younger days, and was known to break a tableful of crockery with one sweep of his hand if the food was not to his taste, but by the time I came along, he was quite funny when he lost it. On one of our trips, after a breakfast stop, we were back on the road. He wanted to smoke his cigarette and fished out the pack from his top pocket, along with the lovely old lighter. It was windy with the window down so the cigarette didn’t light at the first go; or the second; or the third; next thing I knew, out went the cigarette, then the entire pack, and then, to my dismay, that beautiful lighter! I couldn’t believe he actually did that! A few minutes later he told the driver to stop. “Gari Ghumaiye”, he said, and my sisters had hysterics, thinking the trip was off; we turned around and stopped a little way ahead where he got off, calmly picked up his Lighter and sauntered back to the car. “ Chaliye” he said, and the trip was on again! After ten minutes of stunned silence, Ma, my sisters and I had a giggling fit. Baba, had the grace to look somewhat sheepish and managed a small smile!
He began graying quite early, like his father, before him. He looked somber, with his dark rimmed glasses and signature stance of either, arms akimbo, or hands clasped behind his back, and looked positively menacing to anyone who didn’t know better. Featuring among the first Indian Tea Tasters in the country, he apparently was a Holy Terror at the Tea Auctions and remained a legend for quite a while; blunt, uncompromising and unafraid, he stuck to his guns and led to the coining of the term “doing a DR” used to describe someone who refuses to change their bid, no matter what.
My friends, particularly the boys, were terrified of him and were on their best behavior around him. One of them, visiting on a Friday evening, refused to come into the house because he spotted Baba standing with his hands on his hips. No amount of explaining that he was just looking at a lizard on the wall, would convince my friend that Baba was, in fact, not lying in wait for him, ready to shoot if need be! He didn’t know that Baba was actually gentle, the gentlest of all when he was playing with the dogs, or patting me awake every morning before college. I’ll never forget the time I found him murmuring comforting words to Zsa-Zsa, our Dacschund, a couple of hours after he had smacked her for grabbing a biscuit from his hand.
I think my husband was one of the few, who recognized this gentle streak in him, early on; even today, Ashok never tires of telling everyone, how, when he had gone to ask Baba for my hand, Baba had looked at him woefully and asked “does Mamlu know?” and relieved, the moment he heard Ma’s footsteps approaching them, returned to his newspaper, figuring he didn’t have to do any more talking! They went on to become good friends, these two precious men in my life.
As he grew older, he became quieter, perhaps because he began going deaf. Vanity, however, ensured that he refused to use any of his Hearing Aids and left them to gather dust in his desk. Strangely enough, he never had a problem hearing what my kids said. Whether that was because they had piping voices or because he made more effort to listen, we’ll never know. He loved reading to them, playing cards with them (cheating unabashedly!) and telling them stories about his stint in the army. They in turn adored him, their Bombolati Dadu, who made them feel like they were the very best thing to have ever happened to him. Recently I saw my son wearing one of Baba’s bright red Hawaiian shirts and that delighted me.
Its eight years since he passed away, lying quietly on his side, looking like he was asleep. In the three years after Ma passed away, he re-read every single one of the Sudden & Louis L’Amour books he loved while he tied up every single loose end. As always, he left meticulous instructions about everything, knowing that none of his three daughters would have a clue as to where to begin. Letting us know, that he, in his own quiet way, would continue to look after us for as long as possible.
My Baba, my solemn, gentle, sweet Baba.
