Baba

Ronita Sinha


As I finally venture into launching my blog the first morsel of writing has to be in memory of Baba, my father, Ranajit Kr. Mookerji.  It is because Baba was the champion of ventures. Always brimming with ideas, concepts; some terrible long shots yet vivid and interesting always. Sometimes I realize with a pang, a catch in my heart the things I could have done for him, but didn’t in my busyness. The words I could have uttered to him but  didn’t because they seemed banal and meaningless at the time. Yet, at the most trying of times it is Baba’s beloved face that looms in my line of vision with that ineffable smile, half pensive, half amused. And then inexplicably I just know that Baba somehow, heard all my unspoken words, indulged in all my unexecuted intents and cherished them all deep in his heart.

It is hard to believe it’s been over eleven years that Baba left us to see the face of the Lord.

Baba is everywhere around me. I see him in my son’s smile, in the quick turn of my daughter’s head, in the focus already apparent in my grandchildren and of course, in the dreams that I dream and the thoughts that  I think and the incorrigible optimism I always feel in my heart. Baba lies quietly in all of these things and more.

When growing up, our family was an estrogen catchment with eighty percent of the members being females – Ma and us three sisters. So quite naturally there were evenings when we all happily ganged up against Baba, bent on proving him wrong even when his words made complete sense and we all knew that in our hearts. We mercilessly shot down all his arguments with a childish pig-headed vehemence till tired and hungry we all wanted dessert.  And Baba with an indulgent smile would throw on some clothes and go off to buy sweetmeat for his family.

In the midst of all the chaos that sometimes overwhelms all families Baba was the quiet, still centre. Never moved to easy anger he always presented the very essence of limitless patience and fortitude – determined and unfazed he soldiered on in the face of every difficulty that crossed his path. When we were sick as children it immediately became Baba’s pain and he would do everything in his power to see us healthy again. Even to this day I cherish Baba’s cool touch, as gentle as the falling rain, on my fevered forehead slowly easing the distress out of my sick body.

Baba was a great worshipper of education and he strived endlessly to ensure that his daughters received the best possible academic advantage. He had a pink folder in which he proudly and neatly filed all our mark sheets and degrees so that whenever such a document was required by an institution Baba would produce it with a magician’s flourish as though it was his wont to be the custodian of his daughters’ achievements.     …. And we so easily took this for granted!

That Baba left us in December, the month of traditional Christian festivities is a paradox in some ways because Baba thrived on Christmas and the preparations that lead up to it. He was, in his very androgynous way, a part of the entire Christmas experience - shopping – the new clothes, fanning the flies from the fruits left to dry for the plum cake, overseeing the baking, buying the perfect leg of lamb for the Christmas dinner, preparing plates of food for the neighbours and the less privileged - he permeated into all this with no less the eagerness of his daughters. And at the end of it all saying over and over the food at our table was the best in the world which was same as saying my mother was the greatest cook ever!

So in a very natural sort of way I dedicate this blog to Baba.

Baba, you will walk with me till I reach the end of the road.







Baba

Ma and Baba on their wedding day