Swarup Da!

April is the cruellest month. It cannot just be a poet’s imagination in a waste land. It is a hard reality. We experience it in our school in small town Memari, almost hundred kilometres away from Kolkata.

When I joined Memari Vidyasagor Smriti Vidyamondir, a young man with robust appearance came to me and talked a little about Kishor Kumar during recess. I got the impression that the man was a fan of the legendary singer who has been holding sway over the Indians for more than seven decades. After the last bell when I came out of the school gate completing my first day in service, that man smiled a little as he slowed the pace of his cycle from a distance and acrobatically transferred his body weight on a right pedal after lifting his heavy frame off a cringy seat. He was evidently coming back after doing some errands at the bidding of Alokanando babu, our then Headmaster. I smiled back. I asked Goutam da, my colleague, who the man was. Swarup. Swarup. Goutam da replied repetitively. From the next day I called him Swarup da.

Swarup da, as I found out, was a man for all occasions. Be it a class routine or an important notice, Swarup da would carry it from class to class. Bringing notice became synonymous with Swarup da. On a sports day, he was the most visible man out on the field. In plantation ceremonies, Swarup da was busy with a spade digging the earth out with solid blows. Mid-July scorcher made his face glossy, his shirt skin-stuck as sweats ran amok. During picnics (yes, staff room picnics are held very frequently in our school; occasion or without occasion), Swarup da was very busy carrying buckets of mutton curry and serving dishes from first to last bench. He knew who loved what pieces and in what amount. With swift flick of a long ladle, he gave breast, thigh, leg pieces to roomful of picnickers according to their gourmet wish list. He was invariably the last man to sit to help himself with whatever paltry rice and meat left after we were done. Any request to sit with us earlier was met with a polite smile of rejection.

Swarup da would come to school riding his somewhat weather-beaten cycle. I came to know that this particular cycle was his favourite mount from his early childhood. He fought his impoverished circumstances with this very machine. He sold cooked food shop to shop during lunch hour in and around Memari pedalling fast his cycle. He was a regular at a local body building club. He put on curvy muscles. Swarup da, of all, must know how a good health was important to putting in an honest labour.

Honesty is a priceless commodity. But it came easy to Swarup da. Our school depended on him heavily when money mattered. So Swarup da was tasked to go to bank for bank deposits and keep a tab on the expenses of mid-day meal. He wrote on the front blackboard number of students present on a given day and quantity of rice and pulses and soya chunks used for mid-day meal.

On the inconsequential last day of Madhyomik examination (the last day being additional and we had no additional candidates), Swarup da cooked us a lip-smacking chicken curry. We literally sucked our gravy laden fingers after the feast and were waxing eloquent over his culinary skill. Swarup da vigorously shook his head. ‘I haven’t done justice to this dish.’ Swarup da said sadly. ‘I’ll cook for you on the last day of coming Higher Secondary exam.’ Swarup da promised voluntarily. We knew, a born perfectionist, Swarup da, would be bracing for to give his best on that day.

‘Swarup da sings full-throated on music tracks on his mobile after the school is over.’ Subroto babu told me the other day. I did not get the chance to ask Swarup da what songs he usually sang. Because Swarup da showed his usual hurry in leaving us for good when he counted question papers for class eleven and twelve exams under sweltering heat at a local thana. The heat did him in. He suffered a heart attack, followed by some when he was under treatment at a Burdwan nursing home. I think Swarup da himself was not prepared for that eventuality. Otherwise he would not have promised to cook again. A man of few words, Swarup da was known for keeping his words all along.

Last Tuesday Swarup da came to school wrapped in a white cloth in a glass-covered car that read SWARGA RATH. As he was taken down from it, the April scorcher softened a bit under some stray clouds. I found two things were strikingly missing in his darkening face. Smile and sweat. He looked very far and unfamiliar. Nonetheless he slept peacefully. Very peacefully.

As he was taken out after we paid floral tribute and the car slowly moved out of the school gate, I looked back to see if Swarup da really went out without smiling at me.

From nowhere a Kishor Kumar line travelled to me faintly from a village fair held somewhere afar: Chalte chalte mere ye geet yaad raakh na kabhi alvida na kahna…

I will ask Subroto babu if he has heard Swarup da sing that song after the school gets over when the children burst out shouting their lungful: Chhhuuu…tiiiii….Chhhuuu…tiii…chhuti….