Problem with growing up under the shadow of gigantic personalities is that you inherit a case of crippling inferiority complex. Positive side of such a complex is, of course, it is a very effective shield against the complacency disease. On the other hand, one does become hesitant and prone to procrastination. Am I worthy to even claim they inspired me? That they made me into what I am?
However, as I grow old and as I see my daughter grow up in a world that I don't quite understand, more and more I feel it is time to document what I know, what filled me with awe, influenced the way I processed my world. After all, if not me then who? if not now, then when? May be some day someone worthy will stumble on my rambling and make a truly worthy tribute to these people?
When I look for people who moulded my being, first name that comes into mind is Saralabala Debi (nee. Dutta). I have not met Saralabala, she is my great-grandmother, and passed away in 1971. One must start Saralabala’ s story, with the story of the gold medal.
In Green box gold medal of Saralabala Debi and next to it is my sister’s gold medal (first class first in MA from Kolkata University)
Saralabala had an inherent flair for mathematics. She got this medal and scholarship in Narail District (Currently in Bangladesh) for outstanding result in mathematics in the year of 1900. She must have been the first generation of girls allowed to avail institutional education. This is the medal that has weighed heavy in my mind since childhood. After four generations, entitled to all the progress that was made for women like me and boundless support from my family, what did I achieve? Is it even possible to live up to such legends?
Gathering information about Saralabala was not easy. After all, in patriarchy, women are not really remembered, no matter how brilliant or otherworldly she may have been. My main source of information about my great grandmother was my father, especially his last days when he was losing touch with world around him, we talked about things he does remember and remembers well. Saralabala moulded his childhood, hers was a persistent memory for him, even when he was in grips of dementia.
My great grandfather Hiralal Ghosh was extraordinary by his own right and was very much my baba’s favorite. Naturally most of baba’s stories were about Hiralal and not Saralabala. But still Baba was always in awe with Saralabala’s mastery of mathematics. She must not have continued her education for long, women (honestly little girls) of that era were married off by the time they are 12 or younger. But Baba and his sisters say, till class 10th or 12th if they were stuck with any mathematical problem, Saralabala was the go-to person. They don’t remember her ever failing to solve a problem or explaining it to them.
Hiralal Ghosh
Saralabala Debi was born in Narail in her father’s estate. The story of wedding of Hiralal and Saralabala feels rather romantic. Hiraral Ghosh went to Saralabala Debi’s fathers’ estate to meet and greet the family as a posse of his friend. You see, his friend was the intended groom. Problem was that Hiralal was an extraordinarily handsome man with sharp intelligent features, over six feet tall. He exuded an aura of a self-made man, which he was. Saralabala family was so charmed by him that they insisted he marries her, instead of his friend. I hope this did not affect their friendship. When I heard this story as a young woman, I felt they had their own version of Apur Sangsar going. Today with a mother’s hat on, I question the romanticism of it. After all she was probably ten or twelve years old, I very much doubt anyone asked her opinion.
Baba told me the story of his own adventure on steamboat with Saralabala. When he was a boy, they were on the way to Narail from Khulna (Hiralal’s house) on boat. The boat got stuck in riverbed and remained stuck for two days. Till people came, shoveled the soil out of boats bottom and then the boat could move again. Just hearing the story gives me anxiety. In today’s world, someone is late by ten minutes, we need video calls, messages and what not to appease ourselves. I suppose the world of my father’s childhood is also something that I don’t understand.
Saralabala had four brothers and at least one sister. Baba remembers at least two “Mama-dadus” (granduncles). One was Bagh Mama (tiger grandpa), he was a big man with mustache rivaling Ashutosh Mukherjee (who incidentally was called tiger of Bengal). However, his tiger moniker came from a different origin. Apparently, the rice fish lunch, used to induce an afternoon nap from him. Which in turn would produce the noise from his nasal instrument. The noise, my young father was convinced, was enough to convince any tiger to submit to Bagh mama, who surely had a superior roar.
Sejomama (third grandpa by seniority) was a devotee of Kali. He was a confirmed bachelor and spent most of his time in either goddess worshipping or perfecting his shooting skills. Apparently, he killed a king cobra with his rifle from thousand ft. I would have been skeptical of the story, if my father did not insist on witnessing it.
Coming back to Saralabala and Hiralals story. I have seen only one clear picture of her. She is sitting on a chair, seems like winter, as a shawl is draped around her, she is reading a hefty book. A rather content, peaceful smile on her face. Baba remembers she was always reading something or other, almost had no interest of what else is happening in the huge family around her. The house was always maintained by Hiralal’s elder sister, who was a child widow. Today imagining about what the life of a child would be married off at the age of eight, and widowed at ten, horrifies me. But then that was the norm of society back then. Hiralal however was different from society and anticipated her hardship. When he created his own household, he brought his sister there from her in laws. So that she never feels pitied, he gave the rein of running the house to her. I do not know if this decision was taken before or after his marriage to Saralabala, whether it was her idea or if she was consulted. But everyone could see she was perfectly content with this arrangement. She could stay away from every day’s mundane ups and downs of the house, emersed in her books, in her peaceful corner of the house. When Hiralal’s sister passed away, the reins passed on to next generation of women in the house.
My grandmother (Saralabala’s daughter in law) used to say once a day she would go to kitchen to make sure there is enough food. If she felt there is not enough for everyone, she would come out and say, today I don’t feel quite well. I think I should fast today.
My mother often wonders what control any woman must have to leave all power to others. My sister says, may be “this power” just did not appeal her. I don’t know who is right. But I observe women of my generation. They are not, just literally hundred years ahead of Saralabala. Most are successful in their career. Many are accomplished. They are progressive. But kitchen, family, house these responsibilities and the power that comes with it, is not easy to let go. In theory, our generation applauds women who can leave mundane behind, raise above the petty and shine. But still somewhere in the basic corner of our psyche we still attach our worth to a well-kept house, well ran kitchen. It is not easy to go beyond it. Not everyone can do it.
To Saralabala, it seems, detachment came easy. That is not to say she was not full of love. She was. Among her grandchildren, when they asked for guidance, she was happy to provide it. And when they asked for space, she was more than happy to give that also. She would not scold them for doing badly in school. But every day she would gently wake them up at the crack of dawn, and there will be a rasagolla waiting for anyone who tops mathematics in school.
My dadu (grandfather) was much like his mother. I don't remember him hugging or kissing me. However, I remember spending hours around him. Flying my imaginary spaceships (the buttons of his shirt were the buttons which makes the spaceship fly and my grandmother’s nose was the dial which increased the speed). I don’t think he ever asked me what I was doing twisting his shirt buttons or why I keep lightly twisting my sleeping grandmothers’ nose. What I am sure of is, he never told me stop. A funny story my mother always tells me about me and dadu was the day she resumed her job as a teacher after having me. I was two years old, ma left the house for school, but could not bring herself to go and came back to check on me one more time. She found me sitting next to dadu having a conversation.
Me: Dadu, why did you call me?
Dadu: when? I did not call you.
Me: yes. You did!
Dadu: oh! When?
Me (almost pouting): Just now! You called me!
Dadu: Oh! Then I must have called you. Sit here then, why don’t you.
Me: Fine. I will sit here if you want me to.
We resumed in our solo activities after this conversation, in peace in each other’s presence. A collective solitude of a toddler and her grandparent resumed, and my mother went to school knowing I will be fine after all.
My early childhood is filled with memories of peaceful adventures like this. It was not only me, all my cousins and sister preferred being around dadu. Though he was not known to play with them, tell them stories or give them sweets. It was just so peaceful being around him.
My father often used to tell me stories about the estate Hiralal Ghosh had in Khulna. It was small compared to Saralabala’s fathers’ estate, however it contained bungalow, fish pond, mango orchard. Baba remembers the mangoes had to be plucked while unripe and dried. Otherwise, the too sweet mangoes used to attract bugs, which in turn would destroy the trees. The lemon tree was always laden with fruits, and all in the neighborhood were welcome to take as much as they need from them. In winters my father would get flowering plants and plant his own garden. Saralabala would make sure there is enough fertilizer ready for him. This love of experimenting with plants continued for generations in our house. My father whenever had time would transform our backward waste land to garden full of vegetables and flowers. It was not a garden manicured to death that I grew up in. There was enough weed, borders were lined with overgrown bougainvillea, there was a majestic gulmohar tree. And then there was, whatever my father is experimenting at that point of time, vegetables, flowers, edible greens, pothos. In 2020-2021, when the world was plunging into a collective depression, I realized, surrounding oneself with green helps. When an almost dead plant suddenly revives, or a never flowerer blooms, it makes one feel 60 ft tall.
In Khulna, there was a small hut on the border of garden to store ghu(n)te (This would be cow dung caked used to create fire). Next to the border was the house of Mr. Rabbani (later who became one of the ministers of newly created country Bangladesh). Mr. Rabbani’s estate kept a set of poultry. One day it was discovered, one of the hens crossed the boundary, and laid eggs in the hut in the Ghosh estate. By the time it was discovered, the eggs have hatched, and chicks were lining up, walking up and down the garden. It caused quite a hue and cry! Chicken or any other by poultry product were not allowed in a Hindu household. But when it was decided to kill the chicks, Saralabala intervened. Whatever god gives, she explained, one should be thankful for. After all, all creatures are creation of God, who are we to say which one is pure and which one is not? Must not have been easy to break the barriers of rules at that age. But seems Saralabala managed with ease and grace. I suppose when one readily removes oneself from every day’s humdrum of mundane power struggles, one can transcend into a different kind of position in family. They cannot be ignored or argued with. Or may be only those few people who knows they must stand up for bigger problems, cannot find the energy or inclination to battle for menu selection or furniture placement.
After many years, my father, Saralabala’s grandson made a poultry at home in Kolkata. It was saralabals morning duty to feed the chickens. The chickens knew their grandmom, and in their excitement would often fly into the tiny woman when she would go to feed them. Apparently, she rather enjoyed this torture of love.
I keep on talking about the Kolkata house. I grew up in it. It was in dilapidated state when I was there. Like I said the garden was often overrun with weed, the second floor was unfinished, and many of the rooms were slowly disintegrating. It was a heaven for a child growing up in her own world. I had a whole huge room full of books, my own library! Take that you all immaculate high-end apartment owners. I used to spend winter afternoons in those broken rooms, surrounded by books, head on my sister’s tummy (who was by the way a German Shephard, my mother called Pomie her third daughter. She was right), cats roaming around somewhere. Yes, there was a fair bit of battle always on going between me, a human bookworm and actual bookworms. The way we devoured books were different. And neither liked the others method. But bookworm wars aside, I don’t think a child can ask for anything more. By the time I started exploring our house, it was only me, my human sister, baba, ma and our dog and cats.
When Saralabala shifted here though, I believe there were at least 40 people living in the same house. She shifted from Bangladesh, after spending all her life is estates to a small house with 6 sons, 2 daughters, their spouses, and many grandchildren. There was a single kitchen and 2 bathrooms. The era of Ghosh family affluence was over. Hiralal Ghosh was famous as a lawyer in Khulna, in Kolkata no one knew him. He could not establish his practice here. It should have been a setup for Saralabala. For many of the refugees it was. Funnily enough none of my aunts or my father remember her ever being depressed at the unfair situation.
In fact, only thing my father remembered was how she spent her days going around the colony. The refugee colony were small settlements of people who had to move from Bangladesh to India after partition. Ours had only one permanent house, where Saralabala lived. Others had to make do with temporary small huts. Every afternoon she would go around the locality talking to all the family and help the worst-off families as much as she can.
Today our world is crippled with mental health issues. Almost all of us are trapped in our depression, anxiety, loneliness and feeling of helplessness in different degrees. When I look at her life, Saralabala by any standard had a far more difficult life than mine. Married off as a child, could not pursue education though she clearly was outstanding, bearing 8 children could not have been easy and then mountain of uncertainty they all had to face leaving everything they knew, everything they own, to move into a different country, starting afresh! But her spirit took it all with ease. Is it because she found her eyes trained on something beyond herself? Something bigger may be? A way where we can find our own well-being by ensuring the same for others?
I don’t really know though. I have so many questions about her. She loved reading books. But printed books were hardly available in her lifetime. There was Ramayan and Mahabharat, but nothing much else. She used to read newspaper diligently every day I heard from baba. But he did not remember her expressing any political views. Changes of financial and social status did not seem to bother her a bit. The power of household reins was never taken by her. Was it done with her easy acceptance? Or was it done by her active suggestion?
After a century this woman, who can still leave me in awe, how was her own roots nurtured? Who were her parents? Was her sister just as exceptional as her? Did she ever felt resentment for not getting the chance to pursue her own interests? Did she ever fight with anyone? Was she naturally a hands off parent or learnt to be one? When and how did she master this art of loving outside the boundaries of control, power, and expectation?
The window of knowing more about her closed considerably when my father passed away. I remember my last meaningful conversation with my father. It was about her. His mind was crippled with Parkinson, and it was a struggle for him to talk. But he kept on trying to talk and we kept on asking questions. May be all of us knew we did not have much time to keep remembering this wonderful woman. I started writing about Saralabala on the way back from Kolkata that day. I was hoping to read it to my father. May be that would give him a break from the medicine induced confusing and terrifying state he was in. I was late. By the time I finished writing and editing, he was back in hospital. I hope he knew we will remember his stories.
Saralabala spent her last year in a paralyzed state. Could not leave bed. Again, I don’t hear from anyone she complained. She accepted this phase of life also with the same observer’s detachment. I think her last photo was on my father’s wedding day. She was on the bed lying looking up to her handsome grandson. I hear she was telling baba that is a tradition to tell your grandmom on the day of your wedding “I am going to get you a helpmate”. And my father cheekily replied “but I am not. I am going to get a queen for you”. They were both giggling when the photo was clicked. It is a lovely picture.
My mother tells me the last story about Saralabala. My mother was heavily pregnant and my great grandmother requested “would you call your daughter Mukti (freedom)? I feel like she will give me my freedom”. My ma could not call my sister Mukti, I had an aunt of same name. But they named her Aditi, it means she who will not bound. I think Saralabala would have liked that name.
