Fragments of an Unbroken Mirror ~ Santanu Sinha Chaudhu

 

*Fragments of an Unbroken Mirror*
  -Santanu Sinha Chaudhuri
An enchanting book that transports the reader to the slow paced, simple Calcutta of the 1950s and 60s. It's almost impossible to believe that the author didn't start writing a diary when he was a child - he can recall places And people in such vivid and minute detail. He writes in a simple, straightforward style, with honesty. Living with his parents, older sister and grandmother in the heart of the city, he grew up absorbing the sights, sounds and smells of Calcutta, and he shares them all with us.
The city was slowly emerging from the trauma of the Bengal Famine, the brutal Partition and the entry of a sea of refugees from East Pakistan. The author describes these harrowing chapters of the recent past quietly and effectively. As he was growing up, the city was shaking off those painful memories and creating an environment that encouraged eager youngsters from every corner of the country to come and try to earn their livelihood, maybe make their fortunes too.
The writer's parents both hailed from across the border but had reached Calcutta earlier, his father to try his hand at various forms of business that rarely succeeded and his mother to work as a school teacher, providing the slender income that kept the family going. Though the writer had only an older sister and no friends nearby, his life was populated by an array of men and women, his father's various assistants, his mother's young friends, relatives from far and near, and various tradesmen.
We meet many of these characters, Rajenda, Subhash Kaku, Sudhadi, Motilalda. The author draws portraits with warmth and compassion.What strikes one is the fact that most often, they could barely make ends meet, but never complained, and faced the daily grind cheerfully. A lesson that was instilled was that material possessions don't define success, and don't guarantee happiness.
Middle class families invariably ate very simple meals, with mutton being a Sunday treat, but visitors and guests were always welcome to share the meal. Things like pressure cookers and fridges were rare, and children made their toys with discarded material. A boy who possessed a football was envied by his classmates  : what a far cry from today's children who are spoiled for choice!
School brougt it's own trials and triumphs. Most of the teachers were very good , some were excellent, and corporal punishment was rare. Friends settled differences with their fists at times, but still stayed friends. Good teachers " continue to live in our collective memory. Some teachers are like parents. They continue to live after their death ".
The Calcutta of those days was smaller, not so crowded, with cleaner roads washed with water jets in the morning and a number of lovely little parks. People were closer to each other: even the rich went to the government hospitals. A major difference was that children were not the centre of the family and parents left them to their devices. There was no pressure to excel at school, or at sports and other activities.
Calcutta was home to Kabulis from Afghanistan, Sikhs, Chinese, Marwaris , Gujaratis, Nepalis, people from Orissa and Bihar, an array of South Indians... A truly cosmopolitan city where people could find employment and thrive.
After school, the next step was joining a green and beautiful campus, Santiniketan, that looked more like an ashram. The writer studied physics at Visva Bharati university, but the memories that linger are of the glorious days of freedom at the hostel, the great artists and intellectuals on the campus and othe ferment of communism.
The Naxalite movement had gripped much of the countryside, leading to a violent backlash. Thousands of bright, idealistic young men and women were killed in cold blood.
However life at Santiniketan proceeded calmly. Holidays would be declared when all the young boys and girls would walk to the river Kopai, singing songs. It was a change to be among so many charming girls after studying in a boys' school!
The campus was home to celebrities like painter Binode Behari Mukherjee, sculptor Ramkinkar Baij and classical musician Dhrubatara Joshi. However the allegiance to Communism created a barrier between the young idealists and the rich cultural life of Santiniketan. Still, the author cherishes the introduction to the lives and homes of poor peasants, which instilled in him the respect for all human beings despite class and caste.
After the first year, the writer moved to the hostel called Dashachakra, in a circular courtyard, a lively, friendly place with a motley group of young boys. Among them were the undercover Naxalite who didn't believe in violence, Tarapada Guha ( not his real name) and the gifted singer Anupam.
Midnight excursions in the beautiful Birbhum countryside were occasions when they were mesmerized by the kind of ethereal beauty that is rarely glimpsed in life. Sunrise at Tiger Hill in Darjeeling was another such experience.
An unforgettable character from college days was the scholar Shubhendu Sekhar Mukhopadyay, who was an authority on Tagore studies and a variety of other subjects. A rare soul who was indifferent to worldly comforts but prized dignity, and always lived with his head held high.
There were blissful encounters with Bauls and narrow escapes from getting mowed down by trains while walking on railway tracks.
When the author visited Santiniketan after fifty years, there was no Dashachakra. It was in ruins, and was later demolished. As he observes, " Fortunately, no authorities can ever demolish memories ".
The two chapters on Raghupati which are introduced as fiction and not memories, are a puzzle, as they are very similar to other stories and don't contribute anything to the steady procession of anecdotes on places and people.
At the end of the book, one shares the aching sadness of the author who finds his childhood home no longer exists. But we have been gifted with a storehouse of arresting memories that take us back to a vibrant Calcutta and it's gracious men and women, for which we salute him.