I can recall that picnic day very well. It was a bright winter day. Damodar shrank down to a silvery sinuous line. (Who would say that this very river swelled up like a turgid monster and marooned all the neighbouring villages just months back during rains?)
Solil babu, along with the members of Manon, a literary group he formed, selected a square of patchy grass on the bank of Damodar. We all got down to roll out shatoronchi and large plastic sheets. Utensils were dropped. Gas-ovens were lighted. Picnic special huge iron kodais were placed over them. Sliced brinjals were dipped in spicy batter and floated over mustard oil that was bubbling all over kodai. Muri was poured in great urgency over Sal leaves. By that time begnis were ready. Breakfast was served. Muri with begni. And tea.
Mikes were blaring all around with scores of other picnickers indulged in delirious revelry. It was hard to chat. Hearing each other was a big ask. The place was under a spell of anarchic sound.
‘Sutanu, sing a song.’ Solil babu said in his usual energetic way as he was already into his third round of liberal helpings of muri and begni. I looked up, coughed a little bit, being absolutely taken aback by his sudden improbable request. I looked at him in a manner of look-what’s-the-mess-all-around. But to no avail. He was insistent. So I sang. Everybody looked at me with creased forehead when I sang. They could not be blamed. I even did not make out what I was singing. Loud speakers near and far were really doing a great justice to their reputations.
‘Toree te pa di ni ami, paarer paane jai ni go… jai ni..’ Solil babu sang out himself in his full-throated ease. Cacophony was tamed right at that moment. Melody took over. He went on to sing another Rabindrasangeet. ‘ Abar Jodi ichha karo abaar asi phire/ Duksho sukher dheu khelano ei saagorer teere..’ I understood that singing came easy to an artiste. And melody is given, it cannot be acquired. Of course through practice perfection can be achieved. As a natural singer Solil babu can defy regular methodical practice; yet he can be counted a serious performer.
Days later Solil babu came to my locality Nutanpally to give a speech at a political rally organized by the local CPI(M) he was a loyal member of which. Loud-speakers were mounted at a nearby lamp-post. Local dwellers were treated with a strong dose of revolutionary songs well before the start of the speeches by town leaders. They took to microphone one by one and flayed the opposition parties for their “anti-people policies”. Standing over a hurriedly-built bamboo-made dais at a quiet corner of Arovindo Shishu Udyan beside a quaint hyacinth-filled pond at Nari Colony, a distant place, more than a hundred kilometer away from Calcutta, the leaders issued a high-falutin warning to the USA for its “imperialist intent”. They were so vociferous that a naïve listener would be tempted to find an imperialist American in a lungi-clad man squatting next to him on the ground of Udyan.
As a guest speaker, Solil babu was the last to come onto the dais. Quotes from Tagore to Buddhadeb Bose to Jibonanando Dash peppered his hour-long speech with series of references to Lord Choitanyodeva. Marx and lenin figured as and when required with regular dollops of Nazrul and Sukanto. One wondered if he was a right man at a wrong place. While others fumbled and sweated to labour a complete sentence without “hochhe giye” (sorry, I can’t translate these Bengali words, as It is difficult even to translate them to comprehensible Bengali. Only those speakers can do, I believe.), his speech was a lyrical contrast; a subtle run of poetry on a content substantively political.
‘Sutanu, at this twilight hour of my life I understand that integration is the best way to approach and solve problems of life.’ Solil babu told me one afternoon as I went to him to gift my debut novel. ‘Life is so intrinsically intricate as to allow any single method to address its multitudinous problems.’ He concluded. I looked on. ‘No single means is adequate.’ He shook his head. ‘Integration. It’s integration that will only work.’
As sir (the way I called him in Bengali classes in Vivekananda College) was taken to the district party office of the CPI(M) at Parker’s road and was lain on a floor under the ever-watchful royal-like life-less portraits of international leaders in their military fatigues and as party leaders took turn to give their “Comrade” a parting salute with Communist song internationale being sung in the background, I was reminded of that pleasant afternoon in a certain day-shortening October when Solil babu exhorted to be inclusive rather than exclusive.
Solil babu gave his mortal body for the purpose of medical research. From party office, he was taken to the anatomy building of Burdwan Medical College and Hospital.
Sir had ultimately sailed across the river on his lone boat to get off at the other end. Given a chance, I am sure, a passionate lover of life, Solil babu would love to be back to life on earth and sing his favourite song: If you wish so, I would come back again on the bank of sea where joys and woes wave on..