When I got admitted to Burdwan Municipal High School in class five, I feared all the teachers. But the one I feared most is Bholanath Bhattacharya.
The reason for my fear had its origin in sir’s deformity. He had a twisted pair of legs; so were his shoes, in sync with deformed legs.
As he rested in Teacher’s Room, sitting at the head of a big side table close to wall, I would peep from the door. ‘Come in’, he would say, without looking at me, riveting his attention on The Statesman, as usual. I would run away out of his sight and never stop until I got my seat at the far corner of a last bench (of a last dark and damp room to the left of passage) that was thickly guarded by other benches before it. ‘That lame man cannot hunt me down to here,’ I would tell myself, panting excessively after unleashing an express run.
When I reached class ten, our routine read History/B.B. That class was to become the first class of the day. On an enquiry, it was found that B.B. was Bholanath Bhattacharya; my childhood threat.
So Bholanath Bhattacharya was our class teacher. On the very first day, he enacted that very scene of our first encounter: roll-calling me, leaning on attendance register, he said, ‘come here’, the moment I responded ‘Yes Sir’.
There was no other way to fly out of the class but to deposit before him in person. From the other side of teacher’s table, he put out his hand and ruffled my hair. ‘There is no escaping from this old lame man, you see.’ He said and laughed out aloud. I joined him in silent smile. From that very moment, B.B. stood for me Bhola babu, as others called him.
Bhola babu was a wizard in history. The dead world of past facts and figures came incredibly alive in his class. He used his baritone voice to such a nuanced modulation that history class got a due touch of histrionics and history-sheeters a discomforting hysterics.
As the institution progressed towards its centenary, Bhola babu was asked to set in tune lyrics lyrically penned by Shri Pnachu Gopal Roy, a savant of Bengali department: Shatobarosher bonospoti shotek tahar shakha…
On the day Municipal school took out centenary celebration special procession, we, the singers, sang out that song, standing in a small car, cramped for space, while Bhola babu looked on with tears in eyes, sitting on a cane stool among us. Thousands of present and ex-students walked on, behind the car, under the glistening iconic Curzon Gate. On that autumnal morning when sun shone brightly on the processionists, in their white shirts and maroon trousers, Bhola babu became a melody man to me as I overcame my childhood fears.
Years back, Municipal school completed hundred twenty fifth years of its journey. Processions again were brought out. Bhola babu might have blessed them with myriad melodies on a wintry morning as the procession ambled down the B.C. road under foggy Curzon Gate.