An Unconditional Love and a Grandson’s Dakshina (offering)

‘Lokra’ (In Bangla: লকরা) is not a meaningful word in my mother tongue. But this was the name I called my paternal grandfather Dakshina Charan Bhattacharjee (1917−1989) (In Bangla: দক্ষিণা চরণ ভট্টাচার্য). Strangely he also addressed me by the same. The word was built from the lullaby he used to sing to me when I was a toddler. That lullaby, which was his own creation, had many such meaningless words including ‘Lokra’. My mother told me that I had easily picked up that word and uttered that repeatedly. My handsome, grey haired grandfather became synonymous with that strange word not found in a dictionary.

Dakshina was the second son of an orthodox Brahmin family that lived in a remote East Bengal village Aamtali (আমতলি). Born into a large family of three sons and four daughters, he was brought up well as a healthy child and was sent to a nearby primary school in the Kagdi village and later to Rudrakar Nilmoni Vidyalaya for formal school education. His elder brother Rajmohan studied in the village primary school for some years and he also got some training in Sanskrit, a language used for Hindu rites and rituals. Theirs was a family of Brahmin priests. Dakshina’s parents, Sarada Charan and Sukhada Sundari, perhaps thought that he would follow the footsteps of his elder brother. But Dakshina was a bright student was he was admired by his teachers. He passed matriculation in 1935 with first division from Rudrakar and then he moved to Calcutta for higher studies. When his father Sarada Charan wanted him to focus on their family profession of priesthood, Rajmohan encouraged his younger brother to take up higher education. Dakshina confessed this generosity of his elder brother throughout his life. He said, “Dada (Rajmohan) made it possible for me bearing all the troubles on his head.” I think some boys of similar Brahmin families in their village also went to Calcutta at the same time. There was not much to do in those tiny villages struck by poverty. On the other hand, English education provided them with an assurance of job in a big city like Calcutta. A stable job could give them a chance to feed their large joint family. I believe that migrating to Calcutta was a wise decision taken by my grandfather and his family.

After his intermediate followed by a graduation (BA with distinction) in 1939 from the Sanskrit College, Dakshina joined Defence Accounts Department as an assistant cashier. That was his first job, but he later moved to the Calcutta Port Trust, the earliest major port in the country, getting a better offer. With a decent government job in hand, Dakshina could bring his family members to Bally, a village on the bank of Ganga, inhabited by a number of Brahmin families. It was also a place close to the city of Calcutta. At the age of 24, Dakshina married Jayanti, the 14 year-old daughter of a schoolteacher in Kasba which was a suburb of Calcutta. The exact date of their wedding was 29 June 1941 (রবিবার, ১৫ আষাঢ় ১৩৪৮ বঙ্গাব্দ) which was about a month before the Poet Rabindranath Tagore passed away. In the initial few years they were in a rented place at Santiram Rasta where my father was born in 1946. Later the family built their own tin-shed house in a land donated by a local wealthy man. There was a young widow sister Probha living with the family. I heard the tearful story of this lady from Shime, my dearest grandmother. They were of same age, but their marital status made a clear distinction in between. Probha was asked to obey the set of strict rules made by her father Sarada Charan. She was not deported to the holy places like Vrindavan or Benaras like many other widows of her time. But, wrapped under a religious cover she was excluded and ostracised. Wearing a border-less white saree, trimming hair short or a vegetarian diet were just a small part of the process of discrimination and ostracism. She was denied any right desired by a young girl of her age. The list was pretty long. She was not allowed to speak to any man except his father and close family members. Her father did not even like her to go into a friendly talk with her elder brothers. She was instructed not to enter the bedroom of her elder brother Dakshina and his new bride. When I heard her story from my grandmother I wondered how a father could be so cruel to his own daughter. Probha’s mother Sarada Sundari could not finish her meal with a piece of fish as it reminded her of the sad face of her daughter who was not allowed to eat non-vegetarian food. There was a school friend of Dakshina, Haren Master, who often visited this house. He brought a small box of sweets and told my grandmother, “Sister, please give it to Probha.” Did he have a romantic feeling for her? I love to presume so.

Dakshina’s migration from a remote corner of Bengal to a big city like Calcutta opened up an outlook on his life. Here he met some educated men and also a few women who were enjoying some kind of social freedom which was banned for the women in his household. He wanted to provide a taste of that freedom to his new bride. Although Jayanti was brought up in Calcutta, her father’s family lived in a conservative shell where women’s education was considered unnecessary and a waste. But young Dakshina let this girl come out of the four walls of her room. No one in his family ever took his wife out. His elder brother’s wife Indumati remained a strict home-maker throughout her life. Both Rajmohan and his father strongly disliked to see their women outside the boundary of their house. Hence Dakshina had to obtain permission from his father to take his wife with him. When that was granted with much difficulty, but with a kind persuasion by his mother Sarada Sundari, another problem arose. How could his wife go to Calcutta without a pair of shoes? I cannot imagine that the women who travelled in public transport in 1940s went barefoot. Dakshina bought a pair of shoes for Jayanti. But if Sarada Charan saw his daughter-in-law in shoes, he could hardly contain his fury. Now Probha came with a fantastic solution. She hid the shoes under the end of her saree and left the house quickly. Touching the feet of her elders Jayanti walked barefoot till the main road where Probha handed over the shoes to her. I am sure this small act of disloyalty made the couple delighted and they felt grateful to her. But, perhaps no one tried to understand what was going on in that young widow's mind. How could she keep strict fast on the days of Ekadashi when she felt hungry and wanted to eat something? She knew that even her mother could not give her food on those days. She gradually started eating very little food. Reason might be her silent protest against her parents, her family or the society. She caught tuberculosis slowly and then passed away soon. In later years, another child widow Kamala Sundari, a cousin of Dakshina, came to live with the same family. Her story is long and even more tearful and bruised. Dakshina was the only man in the family who treated that woman with dignity and respect. Since that story demands a separate chapter, I am leaving it in the scope of this article.

This is the story of my Lokra, but my story also includes the men and women who were closely associated with his life. A man’s life cannot be understood fully in separation. This is more applicable to a man like him who liked to socialise with people. He was closely tied with his wife, his parents and his extended family members; he fathered five children – three sons and two daughters. But at the same time he made an own world for himself where he could talk to people of his choice. At his workplace, the Calcutta Port Trust, he graduated to a labour union leader who was involved in left-wing politics. He dealt with the welfare issues of his colleagues who came from different strata of society. I heard from my father that Lokra had been very popular with his colleagues. Some of those colleagues became his lifelong friends. I personally knew two of them. The first one was a handsome gentleman Mr Sudhangshu Sen (Sudhangshu Dadu) of Behala and the other one was Mr Sachindranath Kanjilal (Kanjilal Dadu), a frail gentleman from Barasat. During my childhood Steven Spielberg’s science fiction film E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial was released. My father took me to Calcutta to watch that great movie and I was very impressed to see the lovable creature from the other planet who stranded on the earth. I found ET’s face similar to Kanjilal Dadu’s and declared that happily to my parents. Of course they did not like my strange feeling. When Lokra was a strong supporter of left parties especially CPI(M), Sudhangshu Dadu and Kanjilal Dadu supported the Congress Party and its activities. But their different political ideologies never brought any impact on their personal relation. They always remained close friends and helped each other whenever someone was in distress. Sudhangshu Dadu was financially stressed. I saw my Lokra extending his helping hand to his friend generously. Many a time I visited the houses of my grandfather’s friends. Sudhangshu Dadu wrote a beautiful condolence letter to my father in his admirable handwriting after Lokra had passed away.

The life sketch of my grandfather will be incomplete without his lifelong passion for travels. He was a vivid traveller who went to different parts of India, from Kashmir to Kanyakumarika, again and again. He never travelled alone or only with his family. He had a group of friends, colleagues and old women who made a unit and went to see the country together. Grossly the tours were divided into two parts South India and North India, but north and south often merged in their trips. The group was given a name ‘Parabat’ which means a pigeon that can fly long distance. Obviously it was not always the same group of people; it depended on who could travel when. But on board in the bus they all became the part of a large family. In the first ten years of my life I went to many places with my grandparents, sometimes without my parents. It will not be unwise to say that my Lokra sowed a seed of my love for travel which was later nurtured by my father. In December 1983, we set off for a one-month tour to several cities and shrines of south and north India. My grandmother did not join us this time; she remained at home to take care of my youngest uncle. Besides Lokra and my parents, my elder uncle who I called Mejo was also with us. The trip started on 25 December 1983 and we came back to Bally on 24 January in 1984. I still bear a faint memory of that extensive travel in a wooden bus with full of people who I got familiar with. Our first destination was Puri, the sea town in Orissa, where my Lokra took me to bathe in the sea. It was my first encounter with the sea; I was so frightened that I started crying and Lokra tried to calm me down. After Puri the bus halted at many places, so far I can remember Gopalpur in Orissa, Chilka lake, Vizag and Waltair, Madras, Madurai, Mahabalipuram, Srabonbelgola, Ootkamond, Rameshwaram, Kanyakumari, Pondicherry, Trivandrum, Trichinopally, Kumbhakonam, Tirupati, Bombay, Goa, Aurangabad, Doulatabad, Mysore, Seemachalam, Bangalore, Vindhyachal and Benaras. We spent 13 nights in that bus and the rest were spent in small hotels or dharmashalas. I wrote my first postcard letter to Shime in my bad handwriting when we were in Pondicherry.

Our voyage to the Vivekananda Rock Memorial near Kanyakumari was another memorable journey during the trip. The small ship took us to the memorial through a turbulent sea and it was rocking in the waves. Lokra was holding my hand tightly as he found me frightened. He showed me the colour demarcation between the Bay of Bengal and the Indian Ocean before we reached the Vivekananda Rock. Seeing the glistening diamond on the nose ring of Goddess Kanyakumari made me awestruck in the prayer hall of her temple.

Lokra had a natural ability to amuse others and people loved his company. He was a well-read man who could talk about different subjects expanding from literature to politics to mythology and scripture. He could not sing, but he used to recite impromptu Bangla rhymes on contemporary issues, called Tarja. I was very delighted the day when I became a character of his Tarja session. He took care of every possible requirement and well-being of his co-travellers. Sometimes that also went to the extent of his own exploitation. One of his close relatives joined this trip with his wife and a teenager son. The gentleman, a government engineer by profession, was a pious Brahmin who did not even drink water before completing his daily prayer rituals. A ritual could not be done in an unclean place. Hence, my Lokra had to find an appropriately tidy place for him. Not only that, the gentleman took only home-cooked food to keep his mental purity intact. And the responsibility fell on my grandfather to make necessary cooking arrangements so his wife could prepare his meals. This gentleman was much junior to my grandfather, but he never hesitated to let the latter look after his various demands. As I told before, those who travelled together in Parabat’s tours became as close as a family. In the end of our month-long journey when the bus came back to Bally, and it was time for departure, everyone started crying. That was not a time of mobile phones; not many even had landline phones. So there was no question of phone number exchange, but my family kept in touch with this group many years after the trip. We visited their houses and they also came to meet us in times. Lokra’s close associates in this trip were Ranjit Jethu of Chuchurah and Shyam Dadu who lived in Surya Sen Street in Calcutta.

Parabat tours did not bring profitability to its founder, rather it made monetary loss. All group members did not make full payment before trips, but they promised to do that after return. Therefore, part of their cost of journey had to be borne by Lokra and some of his close friends. The saddest part is that many of the pilgrims often forgot to pay their due amount and found various reasons for not paying it in full. Gradually Parabat was becoming a charity pilgrimage and not commercially viable. I do not think Lokra wanted to make it a professional travel agency. He loved to travel to places and wanted others to share his experience. However, the yearly tours of Parabat shrunk in mid-1980s out of financial crisis. Lokra was approaching a septuagenarian. His sons were not very enthusiastic about his travel plans though they had accompanied him many a time. Hence, he had to give up and finally Parabat stopped its journey.

My grandfather’s overall personality had a great impact on my mind. I saw him as a disciplinarian who did not hesitate to scold when he found any lapse. He encouraged me to read books and took efforts in building my reading habit. I had a habit of keeping pages open after reading. He wanted to make me understand that was a sign of callousness towards reading and I should not have done that. I often forgot his advice, but that did not stop him from telling me again and again. He also took immense interest in my music lessons. My family did not have a tradition of learning music. Our house had a large radio which was played during news broadcast. When I was three-year old, my elder uncle brought a black and white Sonodyne television. Lokra was a bit worried and told my uncle that the television might disrupt my studies. Women of the extended family and some our neighbours came to our house on Saturdays and Sundays to watch movies. But listening to music either on radio or on television was never a priority. Two of my aunts started some music practice in the house in early 1950s, but they were highly discouraged by their elders and, to their dismay, the harmonium was sold off. My mother got some music training when she was in school; the encouragement came from her father. However, once she noticed my foolish attempt to sing a song from her new Gitabitan bought from a book fair in Bally. This made her so happy that she told my father to look for a music teacher for me. The matter was discussed in the family and soon I got my own harmonium which my father bought from the well-known musical instrument shop Sarat Sardar & Sons in Calcutta. My new teacher Sri Ramchandra Paul, who I called master-moshai, came to teach me every week. Lokra was not only a keen observer of my school education, being the head of the family he wanted to make sure that I could learn music well. He often enquired about my progress from master-moshai. My family belongs to a particular sect of Bengali Brahmins called Pashchatto Baidik (Paschatya Vaidikas) who are believed to have migrated from Kanyakubja (or Kanauj) to Bengal during the commencement of Muslim rule in India. Lokra was an active member of their Calcutta based organisation Pashchatto Baidik Samaj that organised cultural programmes and talks in an auditorium (Mahabodhi Society) near the College Square. After one year of learning music he took me to sing in one of their programmes. By that time I learnt a few Bangla songs of Tagore and Nazrul Islam, but I was totally unconfident of singing them in public. My shyness engulfed me and made me frightened when my name was announced as a little singer. I do not exactly remember what song it was, perhaps it was a Tagore song “aay tobe sohochori,’ but out of stage fright I sang it very badly. Lokra was always happy whenever he heard me singing. In fact I hear from my mother that he was satisfied with my overall progress. I believe the happiness came out of his grandfatherly affection.

Another important thing which he passed on to me and which turned into a permanent interest in my life was his narration of Indian mythology. After his retirement from the Port Trust of India, he took up the task of preaching stories of Srimad Bhagwat and other religious books at three places in Kolkata ─ College Square, Ananga Mohan Harisabha and Dhakuria Kalibari. He was not the kind of a person who would stay at home and spend retirement days idly. Instead his life after retirement was actually full of activities which often made my grandmother worried about his health. He studied a number of religious scriptures for the purpose of narration and explanation. Once or twice (as far I remember) I saw him narrating those stories to people who gathered at the small temple corner of College Square. His style of narration was clear, slightly melodious and with full of explanation. People listened to him attentively and religiously and asked him questions. Back home he told me those stories in simple language with an explanation that suited me. He let me enter the wonderful world of Ramayana, Mahabharata and Puranas. My Shime, being over-protective of her grandson, thought those stories of renunciation would leave a bad impact on my mind. She argued on the matter, but that never stopped my grandfather from his storytelling. When I was promoted to Class 3, my mother got a private tutor for me. She did not find enough time to look after my studies as she had to manage our joint family. My father, being a practising physician and a medical professor, left home in the morning and when he came back home it was time for me to sleep. Lokra was also busy with his work as a priest and a preacher, but I could approach him whenever I had any problem with any lesson. On his last week with us, he explained to me a geography chapter in my Class 5 textbook. Every day after his preaching sessions in North Calcutta he came back home in the last Dankuni local train that left Sealdah station at 10.20 pm. His sons were not happy with his daily commute as he was diagnosed with diabetes and also had heart problems. They requested him to refrain from preaching. Every persuasion turned into verbal argument, but Lokra was adamant that he had to go to those sessions. He loved the company of people who came to hear his lecture on scriptures. Besides that, he also worked as a part-time Hindu priest, but not associated with any temple. He was invited by people in our locality to recite the verses of Sri Sri Chandi or Srimad Bhagavat Gita at their houses. His clear and sharp rendition of Sanskrit chants in a loud voice always made a wide appeal. When I went with him to the Durga Puja pandal in Banga-shishu Girls’ School where he worked as the priest, I saw the effect of his chanting in my own eyes. The devotees who gathered at the place not only listened to his rendition with full attention, but they also offered their deep respect to my grandfather. A few of them revered him as their Guru. A pious family in Bally kept his photograph in their family shrine where he had once offered prayer to Goddess Durga.

We had a system of very late dinner in our family. Lokra reached home after 11 in the night and my father also came back from his local dispensary around the same time. We, the male members, started our meal at 11.30 pm and my mother and grandmother took their turn after that. My grandfather made a dining table for all of us to eat together, but the table was used for my studies and it was kept in first floor in my study room. During dinner we used to sit cross-legged on floor on our cotton mats. It was a semi-circle in this order: my grandfather first, then myself followed by my father and two uncles in order of their age. There was no system of drinking water from glass. We had our own small urns which we used for drinking. Either my Shime (grandmother) or my mother served us food from steel-made bowls. Their spoons could not touch our plates as that was considered a bad manner or spoiling food with touch. Women in the families like ours knew how to follow that custom perfectly. In the dinner floor Lokra discussed many things with his sons and he encouraged me to join the topics if those were not too political or family-related matter. My family was a strong supporter the Communist Party of India (Marxist) that had come to power in 1977. Like other Bengali middle-class families of that time, they started a lot of political discussion and debate most of which I was not aware of.

Being born into a pious Hindu family, Lokra always enjoyed his work as a priest, but he never belonged to a Hindu conservative group. I would say that he was ahead of his father and elder brother who remained strict defenders of Brahminical patriarchy and orthodoxy throughout their lives. Lokra realised the needs of a changing society and the new set of beliefs that was coming along. He could not set aside the beliefs of his patriarchal family, especially in the question of women’s emancipation and caste, but he tried to come out of it in his own way. In his group of travellers in Parabat, he met some educated women some of whom came from the aristocratic families of Calcutta. They had a more financially stable background than his family had and also they enjoyed some kind of independence which Lokra’s own family was yet to set. His interaction with them might have an impact on his mind. Priesthood, for him, was a way to stick to his old family tradition. Whatever little money he earned from this profession was never enough to run his family. But, he was not ready to give it up completely though working as a priest brought on many petty issues which he had to face.  

Our Brahmin family conducted various Pujas and Bratas (folk rituals) throughout the year. Till 1978 our extended family organized Durga Puja, a four-day celebration consisting of many rituals. There was a designated room, called Mandap Ghar, in our house where effigies of gods and goddesses were brought and the family priest Chinta Haran Samajdar (who I called Dadu Bhai) worshipped them. Lokra could not actively participate in the family’s Durga Puja as he was a priest at a local Sarbojonin Durga Puja (I have already mentioned that). However, he made all monetary and other arrangements so the other members could organize it well. This family Puja was last held in the year I was born. My mother could see that in the consecutive years after she had entered this family as a bride. Financial crunch was the primary reason to discontinue this festival. My childhood memory of Durga Puja is different from others. Since my Lokra was a priest, I went to the Puja Pandal with him in the morning. It gave me pleasure to see him offering flowers to the goddess and chanting Sanskrit verses in a beautiful tone. Bengalis have a ritual of paying floral homage to the goddess while reciting mantras with the priest. Lokra, called Thakur-moshai or ‘beloved priest’ by the devotees, helped everyone in the Puja Pandal to complete the ritual.

Though he remained ill for most of 1989, my family never realised that he was nearing his end. He went for several medical check-ups including an ECG in the medical college where my father used to teach. His test reports predicted problem with his heart functions, and he was asked to abstain from doing Durga Puja in 1989. That was the first time my father worked as a priest at the place where his father had worshipped for many years. In fact he got a training from my Lokra on how to perform the Puja rituals as per the scripture. My family was also taking preparations for my first uncle’s wedding. There was a lot of search for a suitable bride for him. Since my uncle could not find a girl for himself, the responsibility fell on my grandparents to find a suitable partner for him. They took me to several places to see the girls they wanted to meet. Finally the bride was selected from Ichhapur, a township near Calcutta. I was ecstatic to see a wedding in our house. Lokra decided to get our three-storeyed house painted. He got a catalogue of colours and asked me to choose different colours for different floors. He looked forward to a great celebration in the house he built with his hard-earned money. By that time, he made an attic on the fourth floor and told me that he and I would spend happy moments in that small room. Perhaps he was planning for his real retirement from work. I often went up to the attic to observe how far could be seen from that top. Also I was eagerly waiting for the day when I would dress in a silk kurta and pajama to join the Bar Jatri party of groom’s family. Lokra looked fairly content with everything. He wanted to see the house illuminated with strings of coloured lights during the celebrations. Although he was not fully well, he took me to the third floor to look after the painting work and to speak to the men who were working. But all did not go well. My father went for a few days to Murshidabad to inspect a homeopathic medical college. On his last day, 30 November, Lokra got up early in the morning to do his daily exercise and spent time over tea with my Shime. They loved each other immensely though their expression was subtle and not noticeable to others. Perhaps I was not awake then. He used to tell me that rising early would move away all illnesses, but I could not develop that habit. After tea he went to the lavatory which was about 100 meters away from the main house. In those days middle-class Brahmin families considered lavatory an unconsecrated place and not fit to be built inside the house. When he did not open the door after his usual time, one of my father’s cousins called him. With no response, he opened the door and found him sitting senseless with his head bent down. Lokra was rushed to his younger brother’s bedroom which was close to the place. Somebody called on a doctor who declared him dead. I did not fully understand that death meant ultimate departure. I never encountered a death on such a personal ground before my Lokra passed away. He was a respected man in the township of Bally. Hundreds of people flocked in to pay their last homage to him. His body was not immediately taken to the crematorium as my father was away and no one knew how to contact him. He came back home around 9.30 in the evening. Seeing his father’s body lying on the bed, he got a severe shock and fell unconscious. A doctor was again called in to take care of him. Within a few hours he woke up and understood the responsibilities that fell on him. My grandfather’s mortal body was taken to the electric crematorium with chanting the holy names of Mahadeva and scattering puffed rice and coins over the road. Years after when some people identified me as his grandson, I felt happy. They respectfully remembered his name as a pious Brahmin and a kind gentleman. That made my perception stronger that good deeds always remain even after a man perishes.

Note:
Besides my personal memory, a major part of this article is an outcome of verbal discussion. The facts were provided by some family members who saw my grandfather closely. Their names are given below. I acknowledge their kind help to write this article. I first collated that information in a leaflet brought out on the occasion of a programme in remembrance of my grandfather on 26 November 2003. It is unfortunate that we could not take a picture of that memorial service held in our new house in Bally. 

1. Late Srj. Biswanath Bhattacharjee
2. Late Smt. Jayanti Bhattacharjee
3. Late Srj. Shanshanka Shekhar Bhattacharjee
4. Late Srj. Chandrakanta Bhattacharjee
5. Late Srj. Tapan Kr. Bhattacharjee
6. Smt. Sharmila Bhattacharjee 

Thursday, 18 March 2020

My Lokra (grandfather) taking a holy dot from his eldest sister Jamini when I was sitting in his lap. 
Picture contribution: Madhumita Das

Dakshina Charan Bhattacharjee (1917−1989)
Picture contribution: Family archive