Bhaskar-da

One of the unique features of my undergraduate alma mater was the melange of strange and intriguing characters who inhabited its myriad bylanes and buildings. I could pen down individual stories about each one of them. But today, as I sit in my balcony, in a bright but soothing summer afternoon, gazing at the swaying leaves in the mellow breeze, none comes back to my memory as vividly as Bhaskar-da.

A couple of hundred steps from our hostel, used to be Scholars Avenue; and turning right, another couple of hundred steps lead to a group of small shanties posing as makeshift shops. One of them was a tea and snacks stall owned by a man whom our seniors had taught us to call by the epithet of 'Bhaskar-da'. He was of an age where youth had departed but middle age hadn't firmly set in. He was well built, spoke with a slight slur which nevertheless reflected self belief sans arrogance. Many a time, in a lazy post-lunch Saturday afternoon or in a tired Wednesday evening after class, we used to park our bicycles at his stall for a cup of tea and a cigarette. And occasionally a plate of bread-omlette or maggi noodles.

Bhaskar-da was our friend. He wasn't very talkative but was always curious to know about the latest happenings in the campus, Hostel politics and the like. In return, in his halting voice, he would sometimes regale us with fantastic stories about the past.

"Ah, Patel Hall 10 years back - the fierce group of final year folks - they used to meet here - on these very seats -"

Outside his stall, there were a whole bunch of scattered stone slabs on which you could seat comfortably and have a hearty conversation from the intellectual to the intoxicated. Somehow time ceased to flow when you were at Bhaskar-da's stall. It was not only us students, but his stall was always inhabited by a bunch of middle aged men, some junior professors, some administrative officials. Some of them were ever present, like pieces of furniture adorning a room. We often wondered if they had a regular job, apart from drinking tea, smoking and propounding far flung theories.

"Arre moshai - have you heard? The difference between Einstein's brain and yours is less than that of yours and a monkey's?"

"Ore Bhaskar - two more teas and three more Wills Filter- "

Bhaskar-da complied. He remained in the background in such idle conversations but he was similar to the music conductor, whose presence ensures the continuance of the overall show.

Bhaskar-da's pretty wife, used to help him in his shop. We used to address her as 'Boudi' or 'siser-in-law'. She had a vacuous face but in reality she was a simple person. Sometimes Bhaskar-da used to rest in his house and Boudi had to run the shop on her own. "He's down with alcohol", Boudi confided to me one day with a resigned sigh.

Time flew by. From a fledging in second year, when I had first entered the hallowed corridors of my hostel, Patel Hall, I had come a long way to become a final year student with the unofficial responsibility to lead the Hall by example. Gradually, even that became past. People moved on but I decided to stay; spend an extra year in my beloved campus, employed in a research project which was being sponsored by a major US technological company.

With passage of time, Bhaskar-da started being absent more and more. When we saw him, he had grown a dense beard and looked overall unkempt. When he spoke, his words were much more slurred than before; he used to stare around with a dazed expression as long as he was in the shop. I was not as comfortable in talking to him as before. Boudi continued to run the stall.

However one day, an event occurred that changed my impression about Bhaskar-da for ever.

It was a summer afternoon, bright but soothing, when the leaves swayed in the mellow breeze. I and couple of my friends were at Bhaskar-da's stall in a relaxed mood and meditative conversation. As I gazed slowly around the place, my eyes rested on a street dog - a poor creature who was limping on three legs. Such canines were commonplace to our campus and I looked at it, without any particular thought crossing my mind.

Suddenly my reverie was broken by a sharp yelp from the dog. I sat up with a start and at once noticed a young boy who had walked near the dog. He picked up a stone and threw at the dog and grinned with apparent pleasure at the latter's pain. I turned my face away in disgust.

But it jerked back towards the boy again as my ears were suddenly accosted by a stream of furious invectives. To my astonishment, I saw Bhaskar-da confront the boy in the most omnious fashion. He was besides himself in rage and was shouting hoarsely- how dare he hurt the helpless dog? How dare he? Did he have no humanity - was he such a sadist that he had to hurt helpless creatues who were the most loyal of pets? He might have physically assaulted the boy had he not slunk away. The young rascal looked shell shocked and so was I. Disappeared in the thin air, was the alcohol induced stupor - Bhaskar-da was as animated and alive as I had ever known him. I stared at him in awe and admiration as he picked up the dog and muttered soothing words in his ears. He then took him inside his stall, presumably to attend to his wounds.

My respect for Bhaskar-da went up by several notches.

When it was finally time to leave the campus, I visited him for one last time. I told him that I was going to the US.

"Where in US?" he asked.

"New Jersey," I replied, "Rutgers University - near to New York."

"Ah, I know some students who had gone to that area," he said with a knit brow as he tried to recall their names.

"I'll say hello from you if I meet them," I said, "Bhaskar-da please accept this from me," and saying thus I thrust him a hundred rupee note.

This was not the end however. For two years after passing out from the campus, I made it a point to visit it during my annual India trips from US. During my visits, I stopped by Bhaskar-da's shop. My social, academic and economic situations were changing rapidly but Bhaskar-da was still the same. So was Boudi. It was nice to meet them. A fallback on the times when life was young, innocent and full of anticipation of good things ahead.

Gradually the frequency of my visits to Kharagpur declined. In two consecutive trips to India, I couldn't find time to go there. Finally in the winter of 2008, I did visit the place after a gap of almost four years. I was with my friend Shiraz and his newly wed wife Neha. We were there only for the day and were showing her the place. As we scuttled from one landmark to another, we passed by Bhaskar-da's shop. I was suddenly seized by a flood of old memories.

His shop was shut however. It was in the middle of the afternoon, during winter vacation time and so, perhaps, this wasn't so unexpected. I gazed at it for some time and fleetingly thought of stopping by. But there was no point really and we continued our tour.

I wondered how much life had changed for me as the years had rolled by. I hadn't even remembered him once in all this time. But at that moment, I hoped and prayed that Bhaskar- da and Boudi were happy and doing well - interacting with the present batch of students and enchanting them with stories of the past. Maybe by now, me and my batch had also become a part of his folklore.