Ravibabu was tall and sickly; bespectacled. Young bachelor. Energetic. His trademark wear was dhoti-punjabi. Punjabi was round-necked; khaddar made. His slightly thick wavy hair, uncared for, completed a picture of traditional vagabond.
He was not a vagabond. He was a teacher of Burdwan Municipal Boys High School. He taught Bengali. The mere prose, drama or poetry pieces of syllabus were a medium for him to explore every nook and corner of world literature. “Aurangzeb o Jahanara” (excerpted from D.L.Roy’s play “Shazahan”) – a drama piece in Higher Secondary syllabus – occasioned to navigate his students through the fate-feted Greek drama and man-made Shakespearean drama. Tagore’s drama, in between, did pitch in.
Nabin Chandra Sen’s poem was a joy for him to celebrate the pre-Tagorean poetry. Probhat Kumar Mukhopadhaya’s “Vikhari Saheb”—a story – again took him and his students to the rich recesses of Mark Twain, Jack London and Maupassant.
After taking his classes he took some quick puffs at beeri. Smoke blew out of his nostrils from burnt- out raw beeri leaves and tobacco. He could not waste his time. He had to run up the stairs to a first-floor corner room. Another routine class. Another detour to see many hues of literature. Another de-routined journey.
He did not go back to his home after the school hour. He stayed back till evening. He sat on the side lines of the school ground and cheered the boys to excel more in their game. Be it football or cricket or volleyball.
Sometimes he sang out: Manush manusher jonye, jibon jiboner jonye… He kept the beat of the song loudly stroking his thighs. Cup after cup of tea evaporated when he was on song!
He died one afternoon at 45, watching, perhaps, the boys speed past one another with a football on the school ground. He might have been cheering at them when a massive heart attack took his life. It was found later that he did not take any food that day…except puffs off beeri and sips of tea.
Ravibabu, your student has become a teacher. I also take classes. Routinelike. Routined. Rooted in a routine.
Sir, I can see you. Feel you. But how far are you from me! Such is the distance….