“Khokonda”

I know that my sis, Mrs. Tapasi Ghosh and my wife, Mrs. Jaya Bhattacharjee, are very correct when they say that I only talk nicely about most of the people related to me, after they are diseased. In the space of the last four Pujas at my ancestral home at 41, Deblane, three lives have been claimed, the last being my elder brother, late Atish Chandra Bhattacharyya, whom all of us lovingly called ‘Khokonda’.

He was an extremely handsome man, in the truest sense of the term. Open and broad-chested, his physique would be the envy of any gym freak. Just to have him by your side, would give you a tremendous sense of confidence and great deal of security. He had what we call ‘style’ and I’d love to imitate the way he walked around, as if daring the world to take him lightly.

My bro was an English teacher and if I turned out to be a passable kind of communicator in due course of time, I have to be thankful to my brother for that. He would tutor a very talented batch of students back home and I still remember one Shankar, who was pursuing his engineering course later or Anita, both of whom were exceedingly fond of my brother. I would join them and gradually get rid of my phobia for English. I still remember the way he taught us Maugham’s “Salvatore” or Tennyson’s “Break, Break, Break” in standard=XI. He was the reason behind arousing the passion for and interest in the language in all of us. My bro was my second ‘Guru’ and I will ever remain grateful to him for helping grow in me the love for English Language and Literature. And the best thing about him was he never tried to take any credit for letting me stand on my own feet. I think that is what brothers are meant to do.

He taught in City Collegiate School for long, had a stint with Shibpur Engineering College before joining Netaji Subhash Higher Secondary School at Garia as the Head Master. He held the post and retired from the same school some years back.

He was a desperado (not in the American sense of the word) and stories abound in the family circle about his daredevilry. Though he was no swimmer, he nearly lost his life while trying to get into the Ganges at Dakshineswar. When Ma finally noticed her missing son, only his finger tips could be seen over the water far away from the shore. What will remain etched in my mind is the classic knock he played at Padmopukur Park behind our ancestral home. I felt so very proud when everyone appreciated his innings, when his team desperately needed someone to hold the fort. The way he broke loose with those square-cuts, straight drives and cover drives was sheer class and a treat to the eye. He was a very stylist batsman and could have played for any first division club at that time. He was, style and class personified.

I knew as I boarded the train at Sealdaha station on the 11th of this month, on my way back to Bhutan, that my bro had to be rushed to the hospital, Rabindranath Tagore Hospital the previous night for the second time. Someone who had taken upon himself the task on conducting The Puja at our home in the absence of Barda and Mejdi, could not even come home during the Puja. Even when we paid a visit to him at the hospital, he seemed genuinely concerned about the Laksmi Puja at 41! Probably the hundreds and thousands of Hindu gods and goddesses called their devotee back for some far more important purposes. He was 66.

When I called my youngest sister from Sealdah station, I was told that my bro was in a critical state. Most of his organs were malfunctioning, his kidney was being affected and he had great trouble breathing. The only positive sign was the fact that the doctors could pump some of the gas that his heart got filled with, out! Then came the dreaded call from my wife on Thursday the 13^th. The silence at the other end as I held the cell to my ear, was frightening and only confirmed what I had been worried about for the past few days. Then Jaya, my spouse, broke down and informed me of the inevitable. “Khokonda, is no more.”

I did not feel like sharing the news with any of my colleagues for fear of being misunderstood. I was back from Kolkata only a couple of days before. I did not want people to think that I was planning a trip downtown on a lame pretext once more. I could have told Principal Sir as he is a very understanding and helpful person. I do not know why I simply could not open up to him.

I can’t tell you how I managed to take my classes on that day, especially the last period in XI Arts B. They were assigned some tasks in my absence – the task of writing some stories on some given topics. As the groups started reading out their stories, I told my heart to forget my brother for the time being, concentrate on their stories and provide honest feedback. Only after the bell, as I was getting my LP book in my bag, Dolma Tamang, having realized that something was amiss, asked me how I was feeling. I found myself answering her question honestly once more:

“I’m very unhappy today, Dolma..” Luckily for me Dolma did not probe me any further. God, let my late brother’s soul rest in peace, wherever it may be. Let me never again hurt a soul and disregard experience and seniority by claiming myself to be very intelligent and all that.

A Brother to be proud of.