learning life

“:Mother passed away at 2am.” This is the text message I received on my cell phone at around 7.00am on the morning of 7th Nov 2007, from Sir. To most of us at KMDA, Ms Himani Roy was “Sir’s mother”, till I moved to stay very close to Ballygunje as a paying guest and started frequenting 13/57 Rustomji Street, gradually getting to know “Sir’s mother” as “Dida” (Grand mother) a picture of strength, pose and dignity despite her fragile frame. Dida showered me with her love and care, as I was myself, recovering from the accidental and untimely death of my beloved father in May the same year.

Dida came to know that I was not born and brought up in the state of West Bengal, and that my knowledge of “Bangla” my mother tongue and also the state’s local language was poor. She took a step forward and started teaching me “Bangla,” every weekend for an hour, gave me books to read and tips on how to learn the language fast. Her fees, “that I should learn the language”. Sometimes in her enthusiasm she would strain herself and gasp for breath, which made me wonder of the motivation she must have had in her younger days as a teacher, even though I myself wasn't quite keen on learning the language, though I dare not say that as I had to face Sir in office.

This arrangement continued for months, in the process I became close to the entire household. Sometimes, when I would come late for my class, Dida would be waiting for me, reading a book, with a magnifying glass in hand. Her attendant would sometimes tell me “Dida’s waiting for you for so long”, when I looked at her she would smile, hug me and quietly start teaching me as if it was meant to be just that way. Several times I would refuse to read out lines of the books and insist that she read it out to me, while I thought of some new eatery that had come up in the city. On some weekends I would plan to go and visit my mother (in the suburbs) or just simply bunk (for a date). Despite all her earnest efforts I was not proving to be a good student. So, to make up for that I decided that gifting her a book on her birthday was the ideal thing to do.

Dida had respiratory problems; she suddenly had a severe asthmatic attack and had to be hospitalized. Her case was declared terminal with few days or even hours to go. I was shaken. With just a day to go for her birthday I had already bought the book, which was on languages and life, written in my mother tongue “Bangla”. As I stood by her bedside with the book in my hand, she slowly opened her eyes, saw me and smiled feebly. I was in a trance, in a flash I opened the book and slowly read aloud a few opening lines to her, then I read the summery and explained to her what the book was all about. Tears filled her eyes, and mine too as I sat down beside her and hugged her, begging her to come back. She did, everybody in the household was convinced that I got her back and once again she was her ever smiling, posed and dignified frame. Dida would also introduce me as her last but best student. It was true, despite my reluctance I had not only learned my mother tongue, but also about life and living it.

Today as I live with my husband and daughter in the southern part of India, I voluntarily teach “Bangla” at a local cultural centre, to anyone who wants to learn my mother tongue and have also learned the local language “Tamil”. It has made my journey easier, comfortable and I have made many good friends for life.

As days went by Dida became more and more fragile and often had to be hospitalized. She was hospitalized again in Nov 2007 and this time did not come back. Dida passed away to the unknown just as she lived life, quietly. The text message also came, waiting quietly in my “Inbox”- to be read. Maybe she meant it to be just that way. I am blessed to be not one of the first but one of her last student. I wrote her obituary in Bangla and sent it to Sir, which was published in the newspapers. Dida will be missed, but never forgotten.