I was shocked to get the sad news this morning of my brother Rebati Dutta Choudhury’s (Shilabhadra) death. He was sick off and on for some time. But, who in his or her right mind would think of the death of a very dear one?
When my wife returned from a recent trip home, she brought with her the two volumes of his collected works published recently. My brother lavished praise on the young publisher who had the same name as his life-long friend Benoy Tumuli. The two volumes were a gift for us, and each one was signed by him separately with his characteristic style: ‘Dear Moina’ form of addressing me, and ending with blessings and the signature ‘Dada’. Nobody else had earned the right to call him Dada.
He was more than a brother to me. He was a solid responsible father figure melded into a loving and lovable brother. Talking about his indulgence towards me, he would let me, at my stubborn insistence, take a puff or two from his cigarettes when I was very young. He was a college student then. He went out of the way to meet all my monetary and emotional needs. When I was spending too much money, he would reluctantly let me know. In return, I paid no attention to him, and he didn’t care. All the expense of my marriage as well coming to the US was borne by him. I was, as usual, solid broke at those crucial time points.
When our father died at an early age, I was barely two and he was fifteen or sixteen, barely out of high school. The solid bonds started then as a father figure, and the bond remained undiminished and unsullied over the long years.
In some respects, I struggled all my life to accept his two sons and I still do, particularly with the oldest one, as my nephews rather than my younger brothers. My casual relationship with them reflects that ambiguity. It created internal conflicts within me too. When my brother brought home bars of Cadbury chocolate apparently for his young son Raju, I would be the first one to hurriedly step out of my room and receive him at the door, and grab my share of the bars as he was emptying his pockets on the table. I was in my mid-twenties then and was working. But, I was staying with him. Staying separately was out of the question.
I had seen my brother work hard both in literary and ‘thikadari’ fields. He revived my father’s faltering brick-manufacturing business and successfully expanded it into other areas to pay for the educational and other expenses of the large family. He splurged on buying books. It felt like the lone bookstore Silk House in Dhubri survived on the liberal patronage of my brother. My brother liked eating good food, preferably, cooked at home. He liked the English translation of his stories by my wife. He liked her simple style and formulation of the essentials.
But, he needed a change of pace, in content and style. Literature was the right choice for him. Assamese, the language of the masses, was his preferred choice of medium to ‘converse’ with real people like the extremely lovable Ketu, Rajani, and many others such as my grandfather who was from Chenga.
He couldn’t express enough of his indebtedness to both fellow litterateurs Homen Borgohain and Chandra Prasad Saikia for helping him out in many ways during his literary career. He was all praise for Monju Baruah, the owner and operator of Wild Grass Hotel at Kaziranga, at whose invitation he spent some days at the resort hotel with his family and grandchildren. In a quiet sitting in his house with my wife, he spoke of Baruah’s love of literature and the environment.
He was good in English and math. He wrote an article or two in English back in 1954 in the Assam Tribune when he was working there as a sub-editor of the newspaper. One of the articles was titled ‘On Smartness and Intelligence’ written with the backdrop of a tea garden mechanic who found himself lost in Calcutta for training on a piece of machinery. He regarded the English language as a very powerful useful tool, tool only, for exploration of new territories and amassing knowledge. But, there the usefulness ends.
He was good with mathematics. He taught superbly ‘transmission lines’ to the electrical engineering students at the Assam Engineering College. He taught mathematics (Analysis) at the Gauhati University. He maintained with the owners of the said newspaper a close and enduring relationship.
Well done, my dear ‘Dada’! You taught me mathematics when I was floundering, and you always told me to write very simple but correct English sentences instead of writing sloppy, long and incorrect sentences. I never had trouble with math since you started teaching it to me. But, I’ll keep on trying to improve my English. My regret is that I couldn’t show you that I could write in Assamese too. How could I divorce myself from the beautiful heritage of my grandfather?
The people of Assam in general, and Gauripur in particular, will remember you forever as a decent, responsible and sensitive human being. The scholarships you have set up at ‘your school’ in the name of our parents and Niru Vinihi are in good and capable hands. Goodbye!
Kalyan Dutta-Choudhury
Berkeley, California
- Log in to post comments