Good Night, Sleep Tight: Rupa Gupta (1945‒2022)

Her name was the gift of her father. When his eldest daughter was born, the gentleman was ecstatic. The relatives who came to see the newborn heard from him, "My imagination (Kalpana) has now obtained a shape (Roop/ Rup) in my daughter. She will be known by the name Rupa.” This Rupa is neither a piece of silver, nor a reflection of beauty on flesh and blood, but the poetic expression of a father who was fond of literature. I got to know Mrs Rupa Gupta in the later part of her mortal phase, as a publishing professional. The first informal meeting took place on 2nd January 2018 which was my first day in the office of Amity University Press. I was sitting a bit nervous in the ply-laden conference room when she appeared in a silk saree with a large cup of tea and a wide smile that she used as her trademark. Within a few minutes of speaking with the charming lady, I felt a level of comfort in my voice and posture. She studied in Jadavpur University, and I was in Presidency ‒ this distant Bong connection made an invisible bridge in between us. She spoke about her love for literature, and I shared my passion for Tagore. Two boats rowing in two distinct lines found a cause to get closer.
 
I quizzed her on the very first day, "What should I call you?" She said, "People call me Madam in this office; that's like a custom. But if you want, you can call me Rupa." She paused for a while, and then said, "But if you call me by name, others may feel bad about it. Call me Rupa ma'am if that's alright with you." I agreed to the condition and made it a point that I would never call her by name. In my official communication I referred to her as RG (her initials), which I will often use in this obituary. She used to come to office thrice a week – Monday, Wednesday and Friday. She was exempted in the other two days for health reason, and perhaps for her age. Her designation was Senior Editor, and she managed the editorial processing of our storybook collection. She wrote some of those storybooks (rewritten as abridged edition), and the rest were penned by her commissioned authors. My areas were different from hers: course-oriented schoolbooks, and higher academic titles. Hence, I decided not to interfere in the work that she looked after. But that didn't make her happy. One day she came to my workstation and said, "By looking at your emails I think you have got a flair for writing. Why don't you try to write something for children? Then we can get an in-house author!” Noticing the surprise in my eyes, she continued, “I am telling you that’s not very difficult. You should have the power of imagination and interpreting the world from a child’s perspective.” There was something in her voice which charged me from that day on. I made an effort to step into the arena of children’s stories. My first story was the English translation of a Bengali fairy-tale ‘Kalabati’. RG read it with intense interest and remarked, “See, you should use more direct speeches. Children love to hear dialogues as they want to relate to what is happening in the plot. Also, there must be some dramatic sequences and use of phrases that give a hint of the surrounding nature. Remember, your description should capture the attention of your little readers.” I followed her advice and prepared a second draft of the same story which satisfied her, and her approval acted as a trigger in my writing pursuit. She became more curious about my writing plan and enquired about that every time she came to the office. On one of those days I was sitting in my cabin when she walked in with her usual slow gait. I looked up and welcomed her. She said, “I have something to tell you. I hear from my writer friends that a writer should have his own blog. That gives him an opportunity to express his feeling on a regular basis. Try out a blog for yourself.” I had no idea of how to open a blog site, but I took her advice and found the details of doing it on the web. As I created my own profile on Blogger.com, I started showcasing my stories there. The first one who I sent my blog link was RG. If the link was sent by WhatsApp, she wrote back, “Please send me the link by email as I can’t read anything on phone.” She read my new stories with the eyes of an editor and gave me her feedback either by email or on the blog itself. Her remarks were an inspiration on the part of my brain that created those stories. Once she said, “I will be the happiest person the day you will be awarded as an author. But you have to make a promise. You will mention my name as your mentor when you receive the award. Agreed?”
 

We shared a secret bond when we were in the office. It was nothing but our fondness for a cup of hot coffee at the incubator kiosk of Prakash. Within a few days of my joining Amity, she asked me, “Do you like to go for a cup of coffee? There is a cafeteria on the first floor where we often visit after lunch.” She was too happy to know that I was also a coffee aficionado. Initially we went to the cafeteria once in a week, but that didn’t fulfil her taste and desire. She insisted on going there on the days she came to office, and naturally I agreed. Our colleague Vinod Tripathi (VT) also joined us in the coffee sessions which extended from fifteen minutes to half-an-hour, depending on the kind of discussions we started. An funny part of these sessions was to keep it a secret from our reporting manager Mr Raghu Aiyar. An intelligent man, he knew about our sojourns in the cafeteria, but he always pretended that he was not aware of where we went to. Coming back to the office RG instructed to me, “Let’s not talk about the coffee break with Mr Aiyar. He won't like us to go there together. If he asks me where I was, I will say that I went to the coffee shop alone. Similarly, if he asks you for a crosschecking, you will say that you went for a walk.” The same words were exchanged after every break, but it was hardly questioned by Mr Aiyar. RG and Mr Aiyar had a sense of camaraderie though she reported to Mr Aiyar and had some friendly verbal fights with him quite often. The others who were present in the cabin during such fights enjoyed the half-angry debates and every time it ended with a big laughter.
 
RG almost stopped her writing endeavours when we met in the office of Amity. She told me about her old association with K. Shankar Pillai, the founder of Children’s Book Trust (CBT) and how that big man with many achievements encouraged the new generation of children’s writers in India. RG said, “Since I was more influenced by Enid Blyton’s stories, my writing always had an English ambience – picnic with jam, jelly, pickles and bread, or games that were played by English kids.” In one of the workshops Mr Shankar warned her, “Rupa, how many children you know of go for a riverside picnic with jam, jelly, pickles and bread? You have to learn how to think from an Indian context which our children can relate to.” Henceforth, all her stories portrayed Indian scenes comprising children who we see around. The Children’s Book Trust (CBT), after it was founded in 1957, made a historical beginning in the area of children's writing. A fresh group of Indian writers took their pens to give birth to a new style of writing which was essential for the time. And, Rupa Gupta was a member of that group of young writers. Her book A Donkey Called Kalu, a simple but fascinating story, was just one of CBT’s list of publications. Amar Chitra Katha published her English graphic story The Adventures of Baddu and Chhotu (a folktale of Bengal) which was later translated into Bengali and other languages. When I found the digital copies of both the English and Bengali versions by chance and showed them to her, she was overjoyed and thanked me repeatedly for finding those two which she almost forgot. She said, “I will send a print of the Bengali version to my ailing mother in Kalyani who will be so happy to know that the book was also translated in Bangla. You know, SB, when my mother scolded me for not doing household work in an organized way, my father always took my side. He told my mother that his daughter was an author. How could she concentrate on household petty work?” These discussions went on during our coffee sessions, and I looked at the watch so we would not be late in the office. RG had several writing ideas and she wanted to share them with me. When I informed her of signing my first contract with a publisher, she smiled widely and said in an affectionate tone, “Don’t forget to give me your first copy. I knew that you had the potential of being an author. So who will you call your mentor?” The result of her constant inspiration was a graphic story King Harishchandra of Ayodhya which was published by our employer.
 
She was a person whose life revolved around stories, and I tried my best to dig them out so I could use them in my writing later. I asked her about her school days, her conversations with her parents, siblings, and friends and her relationship with her husband’s family when she entered as a bride. She reminisced, “When I was in my MA class, I wanted to be an IAS officer and thought of taking the exam to join the service. But my father already fixed a groom for me. He insisted me on getting married as he thought the match would be ideal for me. I didn’t have much conception of male specimens except my relatives who were men. Though I used to roam with the boys in my class and used to attend the chatting sessions (Adda) only with them in the Indian Coffee House, I never felt an attraction for any one of them. Love did not get a passage in my days of youth. In fact, one of my friends told me after my marriage had been fixed that I never understood his feeling.” I laughed out and asked her, “What did you tell him then?” She replied, “I said that you had never expressed your feeling. How could I know that?” She was always respectful of her parents-in-law. Her grand father-in-law Jogendranath Gupta (1883–1964) was a historian and a great Bengali writer who had letter exchange with Rabindranath Tagore. Some of those priceless letters (in Bengali) were framed nicely in RG's drawing room. She told me a real-life story which happened on the day of her wedding with Gautam. Some old ladies who were familiar with her mother-in-law came to see the new bride. One of them asked, “The groom is so fair like a prince. Why have you chosen a bride with olive skin?” Her mother-in-law who was the principal of a girls’ school in Meerut did not ignore the barbs about the girl who just became a member of her family. She replied in a polite way, “What’s wrong with that? My son may be fair in complexion, but he doesn’t know how to smile from heart. This girl has brought laughter to my house.” RG spoke her mind, “That was a beautiful answer from her on my first day in her family. She took my side and from that very day I started loving my Mamoni (mother-in-law as she called her).”  
 
I used some of RG’s life incidents as my blog stories – the ones I really found dramatic. Whenever we sat in the mood of chats, she was overflown with her own stories; some of them involved building new relationships. For some part of her life, RG shifted her base to Dubai where she worked with a newspaper Gulf News as an editor when Gautam was working in Delhi. It was a lonely life in a new city where she had to live on her own and made everything happen for herself. But she never looked at life from a dark gloomy angle, rather she made the darker part looking shinier. She said she used to go to evening parties in Dubai and made herself busy with new friends.
 

RG joined Amity sometime in 2002 after she had come back from Dubai in 2001, and I think she spent her happiest working life with the colleagues of Amity University Press. All of them were much junior to her in terms of both age and experience, but she won them with her cheerful character and lively presence. When I joined Amity in 2018 she was already reigning there with a legacy. Her lunch partner was Manoj Gupta, and coffee partner was Vinod Tripathi, and Mr Aiyar was a person who she could freely interact with her interests in western music and English literature. Among her women colleagues, she used to talk most with Anita Sharma who also considered herself a professional mentored by RG. The others were of course not overlooked by her bright eyes, and I saw her conversing with many of them at different instances. Mr Aiyar used to tease her with saying, “Rupa, you only come here for gossiping, nothing else. Please don’t do that and focus on your work.” RG knew this was not scolding, but an affectionate tone of Mr Aiyar to illustrate her presence in the office. Her reply was more modest, “Mr Aiyar, I have spent so many years with this organization. How do you think that I only come here for gossiping? Please withdraw your words.” Observing her growing closeness with me, Mr Aiyar pronounced in his inimitable tone, “Rupa, are you having an affair with this boy? Remember, SB is much junior to you. That's a shame if you do that.” RG’s answer was smart and prompt, “Mr Aiyar, I am not a cradle snatcher! He is even younger to my daughter.”
 
The pandemic made a huge impact on her life. When the lockdown was announced in March 2020, she had to restrict all her outdoor activities and confined herself within the four walls of her small flat full of books. This continued for years and during this time I spoke to her over the phone, once in 3‒4 days. That was a strange crazy time which was never experienced before. A hopeless life within the four walls brought different forms of anxiety and weird thoughts. RG was above all of that. Whenever and whatever time we spoke, she expressed her cheerfulness – we exchanged new gossips, new and old relationships and our ideas of love and affair. It never seemed that I was talking to a woman who was even elder to my mother. Our chitchats and laughter knew no bounds, no formalities, no age-specific restrictions. Ours was a special relation – which one experiences may be once in a lifetime. She told me once, “I don’t know, SB, why I tell you so many things about my life. I have been working for so long, and during this time, I never shared those memories with anyone.” I didn’t answer as I knew it already. One needs someone who one can depend on. We made some plans of publishing together which included a collection of children’s folk stories from different states of India. Sadly, those only remained in the planning stage and never materialized.
 
After the lockdown was withdrawn, RG decided she would also visit office like we did. But Gautam’s health deteriorated suddenly and that made her worried. She made a promise to me almost every week to come to the office, but her situation stopped her from moving out of the house. During this time, I noticed an important change in her interaction with us. She tended to forget things quite easily. Even if I called her a few days back, she forgot that, and called me back to say, “I have called you only to say that I won’t call you again. You don’t like me.” I started laughing and replied, “Yes, you should know that I don’t like you. Why didn’t you know that earlier?” This made her happy and she laughed too and went back to our usual discussion. There were some people who she was particularly interested in and I gave her my inputs on what I knew about them. Nothing of these chitchats were harmful, but a jovial way of expressing ourselves.

 

Vinod Tripathi (VT) and I met RG on her last birthday at her flat in Mayur Vihar. We informed her in the morning that we would come, but she forgot that as usually. We didn’t bother as we knew her well as a friend. Seeing the two of us in the evening she became blissful like a child – I always felt there was a child inside her who came out often with her nagging, complaints and hunger for love and care. I carried my digital SLR and clicked a couple of photographs. It was a wonderful evening – she distributed a cake that was sent by her brother from Mumbai. Everything was well orchestrated and seemed perfect. After Gautam’s pacemaker operation was done, we were a bit relieved. Though we gradually understood that she would never be able to come to the office, we thought she would be less worried about the health of her husband. I met her for the last time during the Durga Puja, on the day of Ashtami. She came down to the Puja ground to join us. She was wearing a red and black pure silk saree and looked as beautiful as she was. There was no sign of deteriorated health. My wife and I sat with her for some time when our little daughter was enjoying the dance of youngsters near the Puja pandal. RG said that she would have a knee replacement operation as she wanted to move the way she wanted to. She was not happy only because her knees did not allow her to get into a car and go out. I spoke to her a few days before her knee surgery; she was absolutely hopeful. I heard from my colleagues that her operation went off well. I wrote to her on WhatsApp, “Please let me know the date when I should visit you in the hospital.” But she forgot to reply to the message. On the 19th of November, I received her WhatsApp message, “I will be discharged within the next 2/3 days. I will probably need a day & night attend for a month at home also. Hopefully, after that I will be well & we will be able to have the long overdue party.” She wanted me to have a fine drink with her at her house, and that was a last promise. But everything changed in a sharp blow on the night of 26th November when I got a call from VT around 12’o clock in the night. I was watching a moving lying on the bed. A call from him at an odd hour alarmed me. My voice was anxious. He pretended everything was well, tried to calm me down and then said, “Rupa ma’am has passed away. I have just got this news.”
 

RG was brought up in the ambience of English classics, but her father was an ardent admirer of Tagore. Whenever I read out a translation of Tagore to her (she could not read or write Bengali script), she uttered, “Yes, I remember my father used to recite the original poem in Bengali. This is a beautiful expression of love which only the master could write!” I noticed her eyes glittering, possibly with tears. Those days meant fulfilling as I got someone who I could read out my favourite poetry. I remember her saying, “When we were children, we used to have evening parties on every Friday. My father made it an interesting one. It wasn’t a proper party, but a homely one where only we were invited. We dressed up in our beautiful clothes and joined in merrymaking. My mother cooked some continental dishes and we all enjoyed that every week. We didn’t go to a restaurant, but our home became a party space with the art of my father.” I took her suggestion and organized similar parties at home. I noticed that my little daughter enjoyed this special time on every Friday. When I told RG that I started following her advice, she gave a wide grin and said, “My father being an aircraft personnel, first with the Royal Indian Air Force and then with the Indian Air Force (IAF) made sure that our childhood was fun-filled and exciting. We used to go to bed with a baby rhyme that starts with good night. But it has an extension: Good Night, Sleep Tight, Don't Let the Bedbugs Bite!” Can I repeat the same rhyme to you, dear RG? You will remain awake in my deepest memory.

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Note: The pictures used in this blog were clicked on her last birthday, 8th July 2022.