Let me take you back to a time when, If you would ask an elderly gentleman who had lived in this city and grayed their hair over a few decades the address of "Rahman Radio walas Dukan"; the kind gentleman would escort you to my Dadu’s establishment!
My younger years have been witness to the joy and celebrations of life in and around Dada-jan’s shop. From Gafur Chacha’s khulad ki chai to Ghosh babus mishtis, Yadav ji’s samosas to Banke Lal’s kachoris; life's sweet and savory moments have been deeply engraved in the people and establishments of this chowrasta!
My fond memories of the city would take you into the alleys of the scantily lit evenings. This was my favorite and most joyous part of the day!
My excitement and suspense grew bigger as the clock neared the 6 'o'clock mark at sun down. The anticipation of being rewarded with a chocolate or maybe some sweets or my favorite savories or some plaything would make me restless. And probably more than Dadu, I waited for his friends to arrive!
They would meet almost every sunset. It was a lifeline to their aging veins and no matter what hurdle life had to throw at them on that day, they would gather at our porch every evening as a ritual.
It was more than just tea and samosas, more than gossip or friendly banters and even more than just an unceasing habit; I can’t ever put into words what these gentlemen meant to each other but one thing I can say for certain is the fact, that this seemingly trivial assemblage was much closer to their heart than their worldly ties. The joy lit in their eyes and to the limits of my grasp, it was pure and it was true!
I don't quite remember an evening where I haven't seen Dadu and his friends slouching on the low wooden benches spread on the porch of his shop.
It still amazes me to learn how simpler life used to be in the time gone by!
Their “adda’s” would stretch leisurely based on the degree of the political drama of the day or the intensity of the football game of the week!
Mr. Satyaranjan Mukherjee- a tall, fair, slim built, bald patched, spectacle totting gentleman was the most well dressed amongst them all. He would always bring along a black umbrella and be extremely careful to have his well ironed shirt and trousers stay away from dirt or creasing. A retired Govt. employee, he carried an elegance and a snobbish air with him. Either pinched on his side lips or squeezed lightly between his fingers, his Wills Cigarettes would forever mark the completion of his persona. His love and loyalty towards Mohan Bagan FC would usually turn this seemingly stern gentleman into an agrarian purist; ready to invalidate any opponent against his team.
Mr. William Francis Smith- tanned,well built, and an enigmatic old young man. He was the live wire of the group, carrying a hypnotizing smile with the foulest of breath. Though he got me the most favorite of the evening gifts, the strong stench of a local brew and hand rolled cigarettes pushed me back from his tight embrace; which he always extended with the greeting!
Mr. Hariprakash Seth, would only mark his presence on leisurely Sunday's or public holidays. A true Banya dressed in White Kurta and dhoti, with a gold chain sheathing his chin. I Dare to point out that the gentleman almost had no neck, and the belly that his kurta tried to cover was the most rounded object I had ever seen. I never understood the words he said. All I could make out were the sounds of chomping pan masala between his breathlessness. Though he would get the kachoris and jalebis, I could only have a tiny portion before he self devoured the lot!
Apart from his head swaying he did not contribute much to the conversations, but would never fail to hold the first opinion on inflation.
Undoubtedly Satya babu was my Dadu’s arch nemesis! And no matter how gentlemanly his demeanor be, had old age given them just a little more strength; I am quite certain they would happily be rejoicing in a pool of the other's blood! A part of the rivalry can be Pawned to Dadu's alliance to East Bengal FC. Even if they chose to be in the limits of civil beings over most of their ideological differences, yet they wouldn't fail at unsheathing their daggers over the discussion of the superiority of their clubs!
So was the passion for football! Probably it wasn't just a game, but a way of life for many! And this city and its people; old and new have witnessed the roller coaster of emotions and passion when two of the oldest rivalries of football met on field.
I always wondered why these gentlemen would meet every evening; ever-ready to draw their swords at each other and yet never failing to be on each other's side at the hour of need!
I guess I still am too doltish to understand the complexities of their friendship! A pure bond that had stood the test of time and surely did not need mine or any societal accreditation to verify its continuance!
In an era gone by, “ Rahman & Son’s Radio Equipments” surely had seen its share of glory & pride. It wasn’t just a mere trading house of the masterpieces of audio technology of the time, but an abode of craftsmanship. People loved and revered Aftaab Mirza Rahman, for the magic he sold and the pride he repaired!
But, like all and every other thing that once existed; Dadu’s shop might only have been reduced to just a part of this continuance. A rather forgotten torn page in the book of this city.
Though just a modest radio store, Dadu’s enterprise was quite a fable, and a prominent chapter in the story book of this city!
Of the displays of ‘His Masters Voice’ , ‘Janta radios’ , ‘NELCO’ , ‘Philips’’ ; he took ‘Murphy” as a trophy of his pride!
He would sing me the publicity song of the radio company, “Murphy Ghar Ghar ki raunak.. Tarah Tarah ke Murphy Radio laa date hain Ghar Mein Jaan..” a song sung by the famous singer of his time Late Md. Rafi, we would laugh and be mesmerized by the joy the song would inundate!
I remember the late evenings, just before or at times after dinner; I would find myself sitting on the rug, next to “This Old Grandeur of Technological Masterpiece”.
From the sea of things Dadu has chosen to let go, he somehow refused to let go off his love…his most treasured possession; the (TAO)0904(MKII) ! It wasn't just a model/number to the enterprise he once found his pride in, rather I perceived it as his last attachment to his fond memories. Memories that he carefully locked inside, through years that passed.
He had named his beloved possession "Madhu" in loving fondness of one of the most beautiful actresses of yester year- Madhubala!
Was it his madness or just a deranged obsession, I could never understand; His attachment to the knobs..the twisting of antennas ..the occasional slams to the side cabinet almost like a bickering of old lovers. A little scuffle here..a bit of anger there..and at the end a smile at the broadcast of Doordarshan's waves!
"Your young blood will never understand the value of this" , he would mostly reply to my idea of buying a new Radio. My adolescence couldn't comprehend this dawdle!
As time moved on, the attendees gradually disappeared from the evening adda. Satya babu ( Mr. Satyaranjan Mukherjee) had quietly passed away in his sleep due to a heart failure.
Dadu had jokingly said that his heart failed to take in the losses on the ground! Though not a vocal person, his silent tears would often tell me how dearly he missed him.
Hari babu had migrated to his hometown to resolve family feuds, never to be heard of again!
Uncle Will did try and keep the evenings alive, but his liver gave up on him from years of abuse. A bachelor and a loner, it was one of the most difficult tasks for Dadu to shoulder the responsibility of his best friends' last rites. And with him the importance of the bulb on the porch had also gone.
The evenings were somber and dark. Dadu, was slowly caving behind the old door.
He had grown to be a quieter person. Yet there were a few moments when I could hear him; like his dismay against Yuva Vani,AIR's prestigious and revolutionary effort to be a hangout/training ground for the youth!
For him, it was just sacrilegious propaganda of Western Capitalism against the piousness of a socialist society. Though it aggravated his temper, it saddened him more with the thought that this could not be debated in the next days 'adda'!
Both of us had our ways to quietly remember the afternoons when the entire band of friends would sit to live the live football commentary and then there would be those hushed evenings when he would cautiously be smitten by the voice of Attia Hosain.
Ms. Attia Hosain, was a British-Indian novelist, author, writer, broadcaster,..and probably one of the most enigmatic voices I have ever heard from dadu's wooden pride. Her narrative translations of plays by various famous authors, engraved in my young heart a picture of a wilful revolt against the boundaries of societal norms!
It might not be incorrect to say, that both the lads had their secret fantasies surrounding Ms. Hosain!
Growing up to be a young man, my priorities in life had shifted, and the time spent with him had also reduced.I was working now as a junior accountant at Roy and Brothers Co. A tea trader, with years of recognition.
I had to frequent the hills of Darjeeling,to their tea gardens to account for records and finances, which meant Dadu was all alone.
I tried hard to make arrangements for his daily needs in my absence, but everytime I came back; his eyes would narrate the loneliness of being.
I wish I could do more, but I couldn't.
He would never switch ON the Beltek TV, rather with his shaky veined fingers try and listen to his beloved Madhu!
Some evenings if we did share a moment over tea, there weren't many words that we could commune .
Probably the last thread that held the two, was the voice of Mrs. Hosain and the occasional narration of her books!
We would smile for a while, and then fade away to the normalcy of our lives! I could never know how much Dadu would hear my narration; but what graced my heart was the fact that he would doze off with a peaceful smile.
Very many nights had passed!
And in the series of such sunsets, I came back from the hills to find the empty chair in the corner next to Dadu's radio.
The dust on the white curtain-like cover made me wish he was here.
I wished he was here..to switch on the radio..to unwieldy turn the knobs..to tune into the frequency..to share with me the joy of listening to the voice of Mrs. Hosain..
The fiber of events might have fallen apart, yet the essence of the textile refused to wear off even today!
