Happy Times Book_Volume 1

Happy Times Tales for Grandchildren Volume I Probir Chandra Sen



To my Mother, who believed I could write, and constantly urged me to do so



Happy Times Tales for Grandchildren Volume I Probir Chandra Sen

Book Title Happy Times Tales for Grandchildren, Volume I Author Probir Chandra Sen © Probir Chandra Sen First Edition: 2023 All rights reserved. This book or any part of it cannot be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means: electronic, mechanical, photocopying or recording without prior permission from the author. ISBN No.: 978-93-5915-138-0 Design and Layout Macro Graphics Pvt Ltd | [email protected] Printed at Thomson Press (India) Limited

Contents Prefacevii I. Beginnings 1 II. Calcutta 19 III. Mayo College 53 IV. Growing up in the Gentle Fifties 71 V. College Years 101 VI. England and Cambridge 121 Acknowledgments 155 Contents | v



PREFACE W hy would someone, on the verge of becoming an octogenarian, one whose life has been quite “un-extraordinary”, wish to set down a narrative of it? Well, part of the reason can be found in the title given: “Happy Times: Tales for Grandchildren”. I feel that reading it may add something to their lives, enabling them to experience the flavour of times very different from the ones they grew up in. I write also because my life has been rich and eventful, this having nothing to do with my innate abilities, but due to the fact that in the course of my life and career, I happened to have met, known intimately, and experienced the affection of, persons, quite extraordinary; most of who never wrote about themselves, nor were they written about, but who do deserve to be remembered, generation after generation. I write because, the Service that I was fortunate to be a part of, enabled me to meet and marry my wife, and took me to fields I would normally never have traversed, had I chosen any other career. For instance, involvement in archaeology and its many worlds; execution of a dance festival set amidst the finest temples of India; assisting, administratively, an internationally renowned architect Preface | vii

in the creation of one of the most extraordinary of the monumental buildings in the country; being involved in running a national and thereafter an international airline; being part of the National Human Rights Commission, in what was perhaps its finest hour, and post- retirement, being involved in the running of an institution, quite unique, in that it provides a platform for those who excel in the entire range of the arts. I realize I am certain to be forgotten soon after I depart, but I feel that these ventures, and the people who steered them, deserve to be remembered, remembered forever. I write because, mine has been an exceptionally happy life, and I wish others also to partake of its joys. And, finally, I write because I greatly enjoy the act of writing; writing being a form of catharsis for me and very often providing me with a reason for continuing to live. My only hope is that some will find pleasure in reading, that which has given me great joy, in narrating. New Delhi June 2023 viii | Tales for Grandchildren

I Beginnings BOMBAY, MADRAS, NAGPUR, VIZAG & BANGALORE

BOMBAY W ondering where to begin, I recalled the words of the King in “Alice in Wonderland”. “Begin at the beginning,” said the King gravely, “and go on till you come to the end: then stop.” Wise words indeed, which I have opted to follow: On the 17th of June 1943, was born to Bundle (Pratap Chandra) and Lota Sen, their first child, Buntu (Probir Chandra) at Breach Candy Hospital, Bombay. (Strangely “Beginnings” has a flow of “Bs”— Bundle, Buntu, Born, Bombay, Breach Candy Hospital — I could go on, but this would suffice). The surgeon, who delivered me, was the legendary Dr V N Shirodkar. My uncle Mohit (Mohit Sen) records my arrival thus in his memoirs: “In mid-June 1943, Bundle rang from Bombay to tell us that his son, Buntu had been born. That was our family’s last unclouded moment of joy.” (Why will become apparent in the next chapter) Daddy and Mummy (that was what I grew up calling them) lived in a flat at Mafatlal Park on Warden Road. This was a precursor of India’s condominiums, having flats, gardens, and a swimming pool — the inspiration for Sujan Singh Park, built much later in New Delhi. Daddy was tall, well built, handsome, brilliant, and witty and, working for Burmah Shell (then the premier oil company in India) and 2 | Tales for Grandchildren

Mummy, one of India’s great beauties; so, they were a very popular, much sought-after couple. Those were their halcyon, idyllic years. I was too young to have any memories of Bombay, but there are stories of their days at Mafatlal Park that were often recalled in family gatherings, that bear repetition. One evening, just before the commencement of a party in their flat, my father went for a swim in the pool. After climbing up to the diving board, he executed what he felt was a decent dive; the only problem was that while descending, his swimming costume came apart. Safely in the water, he kept swimming, particularly as there were several ladies around the poolside. When the time came for guests to arrive, my mother sent the Bearer (that was what the domestic assistant was called in those days), who went to the pool and announced to my father, “Madam yaad kar rahen hain.” (Madam requires you to come.) Daddy kept swimming. The Bearer came back and duly reported to the mistress of the house, “Sahab swimming”. After a while, after some guests came, my mother sent the Bearer again with the message that my father was urgently required because guests had started arriving. The Bearer went, spoke, and returned with the same comment “Sahab swimming”. This went on for quite a while. Mummy smouldering within, offering weak excuses till after 8:30 pm, when, after the last lady left, my father grabbed a towel, got dressed, and rushed home. On his arrival at the flat, there were many knowing smiles and remarks, regarding “what kept Bundle in the pool so long!” The other was about a retired officer of the ‘heaven born’ Indian Civil Service (ICS), who, accustomed to the large bungalows that all ICS Beginnings | 3

officers occupied while in service, when entering his compact flat, would invariably call out, “Koi hai?” (Is anyone there?) to which his sole Domestic Assistant would respond. One day, tired of this charade, the Bearer replied, “Sahab, aap hain, aur main hoon, aur koi nahin hain” (Sahab, you are here, and I am here; there is no one else). The last concerned an old, and very dear friend of my parents, Noshu Bannerji, who, being single, was somewhat set in his ways. Every Sunday he had a group of the same set of friends over for High Tea. Once my father walking into his bathroom, and finding Uncle Noshu immersed in a tub with his back towards the taps; suggested, “Noshu, people using a tub normally lie on the other side, because if you have the taps behind you, you are likely to hit against these.” Uncle Noshu did not respond. Over a decade later, my father posted in Bombay, attending one of Uncle Noshu’s High Teas, with the same group of friends. He called out to Uncle Noshu, who responded from the bathroom. Sauntering in, my father found him in the bathtub, back towards the taps! MADRAS As I mentioned earlier, my father worked for Burmah-Shell. One of his early postings was in Madras, where we lived on the first floor of a company flat in Nungambakkam. An English couple lived below. 4 | Tales for Grandchildren

As was to be expected, there was practically no contact or communi- cation between us. We lived again with English families years later in the Shell apartments on Altamount Road, Bombay. Here again, we never met anyone, except in the park below, or at birthday parties, when, more often than not, we were there, but apart. The British valued their privacy and protected it with zeal, which often bordered on a lack of basic civility. Their insistence on ‘dos and don’ts,’ which aimed at a life that reduced invasiveness and regulated social interactions, was directed to those who were not “to the manor born” counterproductive, leading to great self-consciousness, and often, misery. However, when today we are surrounded and drowned in chaos, we sometimes yearn, with nostalgia, for the regulated life, based on extremely strict notions of what is “done” and “not done.” I have raced ahead. To return. There was, as I wrote, no communication, but also no unpleasantness. I would look down from the window sometimes, and saw the Englishman, in shorts, cleaning and repairing his car, often lying under it; one of the typically British weekend pastimes; the others being outings with walking sticks, or with dogs, or both; gardening, and maintaining a daily diary. He had a Morris Minor and we a Morris Eight. Our little black car had a wooden dashboard, and a nice smell, emanating, perhaps, from the leather upholstery. My father would take us practically every evening for drives, most often to Elliot’s Beach. We chugged along wide-open roads, and life seemed simple and uncluttered. My mother was very caring, and demonstrative in her affections, and my father, large and gentle, lavished on me a great deal of love, Beginnings | 5

all of which provided me with a feeling of great security, something invaluable in a child’s earliest years. I had in Madras, as well as till much later, an extremely protected childhood. I think it was in Anna Karenina that Tolstoy remarked that if we have many memories of a happy childhood, we remain essentially good. This led to difficulties later, particularly at boarding school, or whenever one encountered and clashed with those whose backgrounds were different — who were able “to take care of themselves”. I was often envious and tried emulating them, with limited success. It is only much, much later, that the realization dawned on me, that a great deal of time, effort and expense had been expended in providing elements that went into making me gentle, and that while there was need to be strong, there was equally a need to retain sensitivity and grace. I also learnt that strength could, and should, be displayed in a variety of ways, and not necessarily through crudeness, which often masqueraded as strength. NAGPUR Very few memories, but early childhood best described in a letter my father wrote to himself (!) He was two years old—I remember when he slept next to me the length of the body stretched only from my chest to my knees. He was small but his mind was growing—like a young tree throwing out its shoots, there were signs, premonitions, indications that the little baby was becoming a little individual, a personality who lived not only as hitherto, in the images 6 | Tales for Grandchildren

of our affection, but by himself and who now gave as well as received. We learnt to love him for what he did more than for what he meant to us in our imagination. The incidents of those times have a special meaning both in Buntu’s development and in the unfolding wonder of our love for him. He had a peculiar fondness for water — perhaps it was the heat, more likely it was the fascination of being able to open and close the tap all by himself. Whatever the reason, he spent hours in the bathroom happy Growing up in Nagpur: “A young tree throwing out its just by himself, shoots” the bathtub and water. He would emerge at times drenched from head to foot and there was a look of happiness almost of intoxication in his eyes. I’ll remember it for many, many years. We had our own house in Nagpur and a little garden. Buntu had his own plot and in the morning, he would water the plants. Who knows what thoughts passed through his mind as he watched them grow? He learnt to distinguish between plants and vegetables and would bring us tomatoes plucked from our own garden. Among his toys his favourites were his tricycle and his rocking horse. He used to cycle all over the compound and with his beloved servant, Anton, on the road. The rocking horse to him was a living thing — combining his love for it with his joy in water Buntu would bathe the rocking horse and the process took hours, it might have lasted for ever if we did not intervene. Beginnings | 7

In our garden we had a swing and Buntu would play there for hours. At Nagpur he first went to school. We used to reach him there every morning — he had to take a water bottle and an apple with him for part of the school routine was a fruit breakfast when the teacher handed the fruits the children had brought and gave to each out of the pool. School was great fun and Buntu learnt many lessons — how to make friends, to regulate his wishes and to love school. The last was I believe a very important contribution — I have seen and known hatred of school develop into dislike of learning and contempt for culture. Buntu’s school friends have interesting names: Sobha, Gullu, Sandra, Richard, Pickles. He remembers their names, three years from the time he saw them last. At Nagpur he learnt his first nursery rhymes: he entered the world of Goosey Goosey & Humpty Dumpty and Yankee Doodle, a world of king and knaves & queens, of praying geese and mad rabbits where the impossible was unknown but where nevertheless madness had a method, anarchy its rigid discipline. Even the king’s horses and the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again in a world where the cow could jump over the moon. With both his hands Buntu grasped the treasures that came his way, he learnt the rhymes with a speed that was astonishing. In most cases it was the sound of the music, the love of words that led him on — he sang without knowing the meaning of his songs. In his own little way, he proved to us ‘clever’ people that art is ultimately his own justification. The letter captures beautifully, the magic of childhood years, whilst at the same time drawing wonderfully mature and wise conclusions from what was observed. I will end with a story that did the rounds in the family, of my father and his friend, ‘Ron’ Noronha (RCVP Noronha, ICS), a senior civil servant posted at Nagpur, both of whom shared a love of music, and books and a lively sense of humour. 8 | Tales for Grandchildren

Once, as was customary in our home, since it was summer, two beds with mosquito curtains were placed at night in the garden. Since my mother was away, her mosquito net was tucked in, and on the other bed lay my father reading, naturally, with the mosquito net up. Mr. Noronha, dropping in for a nightcap, remarked, “Bundle, like the proverbial Sardarji you have chosen to tuck in the mosquito net in one bed and sleep in the other, with the mosquito net up.” To this RCVP Noronha my father replied, “My dear Ron, you have failed to observe what I have, very intelligently, done. In the first hour or so of the night, the bed next to mine has the mosquito net up. Thereafter, after all the mosquitoes gathered, I pull the net down and tucked all the pests in, spending the night in the other bed, in great comfort, free of mosquitoes and of a mosquito net!” Mr Noronha was accomplished in whatever he attempted, and was, amongst other things, a superb lensman. He took a black and white photograph of my mother and me, not with a flash, but by candlelight, which he captioned ‘Child with Mother’ (the emphasis being on the Child), which won him several awards, and which hangs in our bedroom to this day, with its haunting “Madonna-like” charm. Beginnings | 9

VIZAG I was eight years old and my parents in their ‘30, when my father was posted as Divisional Manager at Vizag (now Visakhapatnam). I do not have a connected recollection of our days there, but certain images do stand out. The most vivid is of the enormous, rambling bungalow, with very high ceilings and a long, — very long — driveway that led to the sea, which could be spotted from one of our verandas. We had the usual retinue of Bearers, Ayahs (maids who looked after little children), cooks, Masalchis (those who assisted the cooks), drivers, gardeners and Chowkidars (watchmen). To begin with, Daddy Our home in Vizag had, from the office, a Land Rover. Wishing this to be replaced by a sedan, he tried very hard to render the vehicle unusable, taking it very fast over extremely rough terrain, stopping only short of driving it off cliffs. But the vehicle absorbed all the shocks, and emerged, none-the- worse for wear, living up to its legendary reputation. Ultimately the Company did replace it with a Ford V8. 10 | Tales for Grandchildren

We, children, had a large group of friends, British and Indian, and there were frequent birthday and other parties. At Christmas, there was a large, stately Christmas tree in our drawing room, with loads of gifts. Many family members visited us, which included my Ranajoymama (maternal uncle) and my father’s youngest brothers — Goalie and Dunda. As an aside I would like to add that the Sen family distinguished The stately Christmas tree, laden with gifts itself in many ways, one of which was, in the strange nicknames its members were given — my Thakurdada, (paternal grandfather) the Hon’ble Mr Justice Amarendra Nath Sen, who was also a light heavyweight boxing champion, being the youngest child in his family, rejoiced in the name of “Baby.” He thereafter proceeded to foist on his son’s names like “Bundle”, “Potla”, “Tutu”, “Goalie” and “Dunda”! We used to walk down On the beach: Daddy, Bunty and me with (left to right) to the sea, which was Ronajoymama, Uncle Satyananda, Uncle Goalie and very close, and the vast, Uncle Dunda uncluttered stretch of the shimmering sands of a beach seemed an adjunct to our residence. I recall Beginnings | 11

Ranajoymama being tossed and left scrambling by the huge breakers that washed our shores, invoking much laughter from my parents and youngest uncles. A memory that is clearly etched Pradip Sen and his fiancée Alo in my mind is the visit of my father’s cousin, Pradip Sen and his fiancée Alo. They were a slim and handsome couple, she sylph-like and his looks, almost ethereal. He was an amateur poet, and I can recall so clearly their going around our gardens, him reading out poetry to her. Vizag was a naval base, with quite a few naval officers — both British and Indian — all of whom were a friendly, lively lot, so I do have faint recollections of frequent and wild parties in our house, that continued till the early hours of the mornings. Vizag was, to my sister Bunty (Sumita) and me, one continuous joyous holiday. Our neighbour, the ocean 12 | Tales for Grandchildren

BANGALORE With Bangalore commences clear memories of childhood. We stayed in yet another very large bungalow called Abshot, located on Sankey Road. This bungalow was designed by the legendary town planner, Sir Mirza Ismail, whose own bungalow, a mirror opposite, was alongside ours. Sir Mirza was responsible for the beautification of Bangalore and its many stretches of green, including the enormous Cubbon Park. Bangalore was referred to as the ‘Garden City’ and was, like Poona, a “no fan” station. I recall sitting on the walls of our boundary wall counting cars that passed by at intervals of 10-15 minutes — that’s how uncluttered Sankey Road was. Out of a sense of curiosity and nostalgia, I re- visited it in the 1990s only to find it choked with all manner of transport, totally beyond recognition or recall. As was the case with Vizag, Daddy with Naomi and Romesh Punja Burmah Shell in Bangalore also provided my father with a magnificent residence, together with a retinue Beginnings | 13

of very professional well-trained house assistants, both of which combined to encourage our parents to frequently throw, large and lively parties. Couples, after such exertions, normally rose leisurely and late in the following mornings. Two exceptions were my father, who got up early to browse through all the newspapers that came to our house, and a dapper Air Commodore, who was into serious puja. This was one of the stories, my father, recounted, with poetic license. Father, (to the bearer of the Air Commodore’s residence): “Can I speak to Sahab?” Bearer: “Sahab speaking to God.” Father, (half an hour later): “Can I now speak to Sahab?” Bearer: “No Sir.” Father: “Why not?” Wikimedia Commons Bearer: “God speaking to Sahab.” Whenever this exchange was recounted, those listening, never failed to burst out laughing. Mysore Palace during Dusshera Finishing his work with efficiency, and with expedition, Daddy never seemed to lack leisure, 14 | Tales for Grandchildren

so memories of Bangalore are embellished with several trips to magical places nearby, the most memorable of which were Mysore and Coorg. The Palace at Mysore was a magnificent, lived-in palace occupied by the Maharajah, His Highness Jayachamarajendra Wadiyar, a colossal man, looked every inch a maharajah. When he sat in the golden howdah, on an elephant, the spectacle was described by his subjects as “elephant on elephant”. During the Dussehra festival, the whole palace was lit, and the magnificent Durbar Hall had its golden throne upon which was seated, majestically, the massive Maharajah — scenes out of a picture- book past, especially for children. On the way to Mysore, we would also visit Seringapatam, the capital of Tipu Sultan, a ruler, extraordinary by any standards, but about whom, we as children, regrettably, knew very little. Also nearby were the majestic Vrindavan Gardens, the creation of Sir Mirza Ismail, when he was Dewan of Mysore, reputed to be one of the world’s best laid-out terrace gardens. Coorg was a total contrast to Mysore. Here we used to visit, and stay Commander-in-Chief, Indian Army, Gen KM Cariappa with, the A C Thimayya, (cousin of the Army Chief, Gen. K S Thimayya) owner of vast coffee plantations, in the midst of which stood, their magnificent, palatial home — Green Hills at Mercara. Beginnings | 15

Being a superb shot, he was nicknamed ‘Tiger Tim’ by his foreign friends, who were attracted in droves to Coorg. Apart from the shoots, that were really exciting, were the annual Khedda operations. A Khedda was a stockade trap for the capture of a full herd of elephants; other methods included wild elephants driven into the stockade by skilled mahouts mounted on domesticated elephants. Visitors were seated on machans around the stockade to watch a unique spectacle, with a fair amount of protesting and trumpeting by the elephants, something no child could ever forget. What was striking in the Thimayya’s home in Coorg, was their vast drawing room that had, on three sides, wild animals stuffed by the world-famous taxidermists— Van Ingen — tigers and leopards crouching, about to spring, their eyes blazing in the evenings. Abshot and its retinue of staff, was for my sister and me, our castle where we felt absolutely safe 16 | Tales for Grandchildren

Coorg was all about dense jungles teeming with animals, picnics, shoots, luxurious living, and evenings with a sense of the wild all around one. When we visited the Indian Institute of Science at Bangalore, I recall all of us being taken around by an elderly man in a Mysore-style turban, muttering and pottering around galleries that had rows of display shelves of rocks, some of which he lit up for us. In between all this, I distinctly remember him looking out of a window and addressing the cows, something that my father, with his irrepressible sense of humour, often recounted. Our escort was, — hold your breath — the very famous Nobel Laureate, Sir C V Raman! I went to Bishop Cotton’s school, of which I have few memories, singing in the Chapel being one, perhaps because it was a soothing experience. When my parents went to England and the Continent, Bangalore was so safe, and the staff so well-trained, that my parents never thought twice about leaving my sister and me alone in the house. In Bishop Cotton School uniform Of course, within the large compound was also my father’s office, where sat Phyllis Samuel, his attractive and super-efficient secretary, who kept an eye on us. Beginnings | 17

Like my mother, I used to take the accounts, and I do remember how overjoyed my mother was, when with the savings, I bought presents for her and my father. Abshot and its retinue of staff, was for my sister and me, our castle where we felt absolutely safe. Mummy (centre) with other members of the ‘Rotary Annes’ 18 | Tales for Grandchildren

II Calcutta SENS & DUTTS

U nfortunately for us, my sister and I never grew up in Calcutta. My grandparents from both sides, and their children, were brought up and lived in Calcutta, but we only visited the city during our holidays since my father, who worked for Burmah Shell, was never posted there. This was a huge deprivation, mainly cultural, compensated somewhat by our visits as children to the great sprawling, roaring city, which was one of abundant joy and fascination for us. Steaming into Howrah was always exciting — enormous platforms; milling, noisy, but not unfriendly, crowds; coolies rushing forward to take our luggage to cars that could be driven right up to the platforms; the smiles, and hugs of those who came to receive one and the joyous rides to the homes of our grandparents. As we left the railway station, soaring above the chaos was the silent, majestic Howrah Bridge, the first symbol of, what was to us, the great city. The drive back was past greying, decaying red-brick mansions, through streets crammed with cars, rickshaws, thelas, buses, trams, cycles and pedestrians, and the stench of rotting garbage. All this we drank in delightedly because, for us, this was the great city, Calcutta. As our car, usually a Hindustan Ambassador, (the ‘old faithful’ for generations of Indians) piled with luggage in the boot, on the carrier on the roof, and on the seats, weaved through all this, blowing its horn perpetually to herald its way, there was no trace of tension, 20 | Tales for Grandchildren

anger or unpleasantness, either in us or in any of those we drove past; it was for us, truly, a carnival. The narrative that follows will dwell, at considerable length, on members of our families, because most of them were extraordinary, by any count, and this reflected in their lives and the excellence in pursuits, that was the hallmark of the best of the Bengalis in the 19th and early 20th centuries. MATERNAL GRANDPARENTS: THE DUTTS We would go to our Dadu’s and Didima’s (maternal grandparents) flat, which was large, made gracious, with old and comfortable furniture and be welcomed by Didima, my Mamas (maternal uncles) Mashi (maternal aunt) the old dog, and servants, all of whom seemed overjoyed to see us. Love overflowed and surrounded us. My Dadu, Ajoy Chandra Dutt, was the only son of the legendary Romesh Chandra Dutt. The Dutt family portrait. Didima is seated in the centre, to the left is Romesh Chandra Dutt and just behind, to the right is Dadu (Ajoy Chandra Dutt). Calcutta | 21

R C Dutt (1848-1909) belonged to a well-known family known as the Rambagan er Dotto (Dutts from Rambagan). With his elder brother’s help, he ran away to England, competed for, and succeeded in qualifying for the second batch of the ICS (Indian Civil Service) to have Indians, rose to be the first Indian Commissioner of a Division, and took premature retirement at the age R C Dutt (ICS) twice president of 49 from the ICS to join the Maharajah of the Indian National Congress of Baroda as Dewan (Prime Minister) of and author of the (first) Economic the State. History of India Despite many demands of his career, he found time to author the first Economic History of India (still part of the syllabus of the Delhi School of Economics), a series of historical novels on Shivaji, Maharana Pratap, and others, translate the Ramayana and the Mahabharata into English verse and enter a celebrated confrontational correspondence with Lord Curzon, then Viceroy of India. R C Dutt served as the first president of ‘Bangiya Sahitya Parishad’ in 1894, of which Rabindranath Tagore and Navinchandra Sen were the vice presidents. He was also twice President of the Indian National Congress. His eldest and only son, Ajoy, was sent by R C Dutt to Christ Church, Oxford, the first choice of the aristocracy of Britain and India, after which he was called to the Bar. When Ajoy Dutt returned to Calcutta, he must have been (given his lineage, wealth, and unusual, good looks) one of Calcutta’s most sought-after bachelors and the centre of the most exclusive social gatherings. 22 | Tales for Grandchildren

He was married to Bina, the beautiful daughter of Sashi Bhushan Datta. Like many other legendary characters in those times, he educated himself by studying under the light of a lamp post. His examination paper in philosophy was preserved by Presidency College, Calcutta, and he went on to teach philosophy as a Professor at Calcutta University. I have a lovely photograph taken of Dadu and Didima, while on holiday at Darjeeling—she with a plain sari Exquisitely delicate Didima and the young and dashing Dadu contrasted by an exquisitely delicate beautiful face, and he like a young English aristocrat—suited-booted and leaning at a rakish angle—all very dashing and dandy! My memories of my Dadu were of an extremely gentle, retiring person, with a slight stoop, who did not speak much, but when he did, did so with a deep and cultivated voice and a perfect English accent. His fingers were slim and nails well-manicured, and he and his clothes had an aroma, that strangely, his large wooden cupboard had as well. I loved creeping up to this cupboard and rummaging through its deep shelves and drawers, for there were all manner of shiny and interesting things — cuff links, pocket watches, pens, coins — all of which had the same aroma. Dadu kept aloof from the rest of the members of this large family, who were always all together, indulging in eating banter and gossip, around a large well-polished, solid Burma teak, dining table, which appeared to connect and bond all of them. Yet, he was apart and quietly different, for which there were reasons. Calcutta | 23

Dadu, on returning from England, began teaching Law at Calcutta University, and after a few years, was afflicted with leukoderma. It is said that he retired thereafter to his home, shunning all public contact. I was unable to appreciate why this happened since many, despite the disease, lived normal lives. I can only hazard a guess. Being the only son of Romesh Dutt, who was one of the most eminent Indians of his times, a veritable giant of a man, must have been for Dadu, a source of pride, but equally of despair, for there would be the consciousness that, try as he might, he couldn’t live up to this lineage. Therefore, for Ajoy Dutt, who was neither in the “heaven- born” ICS, nor an intellectual or a scholar, physical appearance must have mattered a great deal. Whatever the reason, retire he did to his home. Here, in contrast to his restrained, highly westernized persona, were Didima who was utterly and delightfully Bengali and her daughters, most of whom were beautiful, some attractive, but all of whom were vivacious and rumbustious. Didima, though afflicted by total deafness, was a perfect lip reader and both lively and cheerful. But days in the Dutt household were not of unalloyed joy. Family accounts have it, that after the death of Romesh Dutt, Dadu, despite searching, did not come across any inheritance document or will. Having access to all his father’s property and money; he was always generous in helping his sisters and their families, whenever they needed funds. Much later, he did discover the will, which decreed that everything was to be divided between the brother and his sisters in equal shares. He divided the inheritance, with retrospective effect, and was consequentially rendered financially ruined, totally so, and lived thereafter with, and on, his sons. 24 | Tales for Grandchildren

Earlier both my grandparents the Sens and the Dutts, lived in large, independent mansions in the best of addresses. These were on the very centrally located Hungerford Street, affordable by both, my paternal grandfather, Justice A N Sen, being a Judge of the Calcutta High Court, and my maternal one, A C Dutt, being the only son of Romesh Chandra Dutt. Happenings and circumstances, mentioned above, forced Dadu to move out of Hungerford Street to Garcha 2nd Lane, a lower-middle class locality, approached through cesspools, in which buffaloes wallowed. Yet, whenever I came to the Dutt household, there was never a lack of laughter and affection, often small gifts and always food that was quite literally, “out of this world”. Dadu, to me, was a kindly quiet figure, always sitting alone, most often on a small balcony overlooking the cesspools, writing his memoirs. In one piece he wrote about the beauty of the scene from his balcony, describing the vast skies, the flight of birds and the quiet drifting clouds, totally ignoring the festering scenes below. Dadu made no demands on anyone; displayed no regrets, no rancour, and never did an unpleasant word escape his lips; he slid into total anonymity, poverty, and solitude without a murmur. He was the quintessential “gentleman”, to his very elegant fingertips. In one book that he gifted to Dadu, my father wrote ‘To Father, who has a quiet mind.’ This is what Dadu recorded in his diary: I’m aware that these pages are filled with bright flowers only that lend to monotony. A good painting is made up of light and shade, and I have avoided the latter. Calcutta | 25

There are plenty of spring flowers, but the rank dark woods that grow around, have not been revealed. But I have seen them clearly and they have made me sad; I don’t want to see them now. The autumn tints of sunset are sad enough, but they are beautiful, and in my lonesomeness. I yearn to make beauty my bride and sweet thoughts my constant companions. May they cling to me to the last, when I say my final ‘Good Bye’. The rest of the family was very different. Didima, who was extremely lovely in her time, retained a certain softness, radiance and beauty in her face, despite having put on an enormous amount of weight, due to a combination of inactivity and overeating! The daughters were all encouraged by her to dress up, make up, and acquire skills in painting, singing, and dancing— arts traditional to all young Bengali households. Their house had the ambience of scenes described in Jane Austen’s novels. Three of the sisters married well. For my sister Bunty and me, perhaps the happiest memories we have of Calcutta are the times we spent in the homes of Dadu, Didima, and later Ranajoymama. And what was the essence of this experience? Not TV, home theatre, or visits to five-star hotels and restaurants. Merely being welcomed by each member of the family, made to feel special, being fed delicious food with great affection, chatting, endlessly around the dining table and later lying in those enormous four-poster beds on which everything — mattresses, pillows, and quilts— were incredibly soft and cozy, and doing whatever else one felt like doing, with no compulsion to do any one particular thing. The secret of all this was the preponderance of love, and the total absence of selfishness, arrogance, or of anything unpleasant or sad. 26 | Tales for Grandchildren

Unfortunately, life has now become too complicated to recreate this setting or savour the sheer joy that emanated from it. PATERNAL GRANDPARENTS: THE SENS The Grand Sen family Standing, left to right: Family retainer, Uncle Goalie, Uncle Tutu, Uncle Potla, Daddy with Bunty, Uncle Dunda and two family retainers. Seated: Aunty Tuntun, Mummy, Thakurdada, Thakurma, Aunty Nandita with Badshah and Aunty Vanaja. On the floor: John Pillai, me and Maili As mentioned earlier, by strange coincidence, both my paternal and maternal grandparents—the Sens and the Dutts—lived for quite some years on Hungerford Street. I wrote about the Dutts, and now move over to the other side of the road to the house of the Sens. Calcutta | 27

I have mentioned how loving and informal the Dutt household was, and how special we were, to each of them. The other Hungerford Street home, that of my paternal grandfather, Justice A N Sen, was very different, a world in which I felt somewhat intimidated, but which, on looking back, I realize how fortunate I was to be a part of, even though very briefly. Some background about the Sens. My great-grandfather, Purna Chandra Sen, rose to be Accountant General of Burma. Noted for his integrity, intelligence and liberalism, he was a somewhat distant figure for his family; but generous to all, especially his children and insisted on educating them—both sons and daughters—and allowing them to be as individualistic and idiosyncratic as they wished. To their great family mansion on Halpin Road and in the house on Kemmendine Lake in Rangoon came a stream of distinguished visitors, many of who stayed there as well including Rabindranath Tagore and Sarat Chandra Chatterjee. My grandfather, Amarendra Nath Sen, was the youngest in this large family, and a man of many interests. He possessed immense physical strength, courage, and aggression, all of which combined to make him an exceptionally good boxer and in rifle shooting, he was the All Burma Champion at 800 yards. Unusually, with this flair for the outdoors, he also possessed a natural gift for playing the flute, and an uncommon aesthetic sense, which he displayed, even in his younger days. His student days were spent at Calcutta, Rangoon, later in London University, and at Middle Temple. 28 | Tales for Grandchildren

He returned to India as a barrister. While in England he was engaged to Mrinalini (1893-1962) youngest daughter of Lt Colonel Narendra Prasanna Sinha of the Indian Medical Service, who came from the long-established landlord family, the Sinhas of Raipur, in the Bankura district of West Bengal. He educated not only himself and his wife Bamasundari in English and Western knowledge, but also his younger brother Satyendra Prasanna Sinha, who later became the only Indian member of the House of Lords — Baron Sinha of Raipur — a member of the Viceroy’s Executive Council and President of the Indian National Congress. He was appointed District and Sessions Judge, in which capacity he served in Mymensingh, Krishnanagar, Faridpur, Dacca, Alipur and Barisal. As District and Sessions Judge, he was offered membership of the Club in the District, which he refused, because it was an all- white affair. This meant foregoing access to all forms of recreation and entertainment, all of which, in a District was centred in the Club. In 1937 he was appointed Judge Thakurdada and Thakurma just after of the Calcutta High Court and marriage he returned to the atmosphere he loved. What left an indelible impression was his profound concern for civil liberties, which he expressed in his conversations with his sons. Calcutta | 29

On his life thereafter, I can do no better than reproduce portions from the monograph written by my father on my grandfather. He wrote: Gradually he came to regard the High Court as the guardian and champion of these liberties and in judgments which with all modesty can be described as historic, he enshrined his ideals in words that will stir and inspire all those to whom Liberty is a valued possession. In 1943 came the greatest sorrow of his life, for in that year our Mother was struck down with paralysis. This tragedy shadowed all his moments even to the end. Father continues: His love of liberty was given a stern, almost awful majesty by his own suffering and amid all his pain and sorrow he found the strength to deliver in April 1950 a judgment which Capital describes in these terms: “We are proud to present this judgment. It is we think much more than an outstanding and courageous judgment. It is an inspiring and maybe a historic one: Because in words of unexampled force and sincerity, it records the ‘proud tradition of the High Court to stand between the subject and any encroachment on his liberty by the Executive or any authority however high.” In the words of this journal, the judgment “regarded as a literary essay alone is in the writer’s humble opinion worthy to rank with Macaulay and Emerson.” This was the last of the great judgments and its concluding words have, for us, an intimate glory and for the future, a message, and an inspiration: The citizens of this Republic have given great powers to the Judiciary. We recognize that great powers necessarily involve grave responsibilities, but we are of dismayed. It has always been the proud tradition of this Court to stand between the subject and any encroachment on his liberty by the Executive or any other authority however high. It is a great tradition which we have inherited and we believe that this Court will be worthy of this inheritance. Amidst the strident clamour of political strife and the tumult of the clash of conflicting classes, we 30 | Tales for Grandchildren

must remain impartial. This Court is no respecter of persons and its Creative commons/share-alike endeavour must be to ensure that above this clamour and tumult the strong calm voice of justice shall always be heard. Fiat justitia ruat coeleum. (Let justice be done, though the heavens fall). It is a last declaration of faith, a final reaffirmation of the principles that he had developed and sustained through the years, a call to the future and the majesty of the words enshrine something of the man. Just over a year later Father retired from the High Court. The years that were left to him though filled with physical agony, had a richness all their own. He now found time to devote himself to his collection of Indian and Chinese antiquities. Indeed his quest for the beautiful gave him Calcutta High Court moments of serenity amid the agony and suffering he had to endure. Our home was filled with rare and beautiful objects – paintings in the Kangra and Pahari schools of which his collection ranked with the foremost in India, Mughal miniatures, Jaipur enameled jewellery, Chinese ivories, scrolls from Gujarat and Orissa, and a choice selection of South Indian and Nepalese bronzes. With an aesthetic instinct almost uncanny both in its acuteness and range, Father built up a collection which in its variety and its lack of dross remains perhaps unrivalled. My memories of the Sen home at Hungerford Street were of a large, double-storied, independent bungalow, with walls that could do with a coat of paint, amidst extensive unkempt grounds. However, inside the woodwork, brass and silver gleamed and the curtains and linen were perfectly starched. Calcutta | 31

The large drawing room was not cheerful but had shelves with rows and rows of bronzes interspersed with a large number of paintings. My Thakurma’s paralysis explains why the exteriors and the grounds looked forlorn, though the interiors gleamed. My Thakurma’s father, the late Lt Col N P Sinha, was one of the first to reach out to the science, rationalism humanism and liberalism that the West had to offer and educate both himself and his younger brother abroad; so, it was in England that my Thakurma spent her formative years. I once again fall back on the monograph on Thakurma, written by my Uncle Mohit. Mother found in father’s family that same spirit of modern awakening and independence that was so much a part of her own family. In the Districts to which she accompanied her husband, she was long remembered for her efforts to strengthen schools, build dispensaries and spread the love of sports among the younger generation. In Calcutta she was an active member of the All-India Women’s Conference. But it was the family that was her consuming passion. Work done, she would play with intense abandon the cello and the piano… when the heavens themselves echoed to the magnificence of her contralto voice. Yet, perhaps, the deepest memory…is of Mother at work. Long before the daylight, her day of service began. The boiling of the water and the personal supervision of the milking. The making of the fruit juices...the cleaning of the vegetables, the cooking...the sending of the meals to the office, school and college…the constant cleaning of the house…the welcome home to her husband and sons…the disciplining in study…the attention to health and the last inspection long after the house was hushed and the whole city long slept. Thus it went on day after day not as a performance of duty but as the outpouring of love and the manifestation of profound religious faith. 32 | Tales for Grandchildren

Then in 1943, when she was only 50, tragedy struck. Mother on the evening of that day, having arranged a dinner party to the last detail, climbed the stairs of our home and collapsed. The stroke that paralysed her entire left side never again allowed her to walk. Uncle Mohit continues: Father desperately tried every conceivable means to give movement back to her limbs. Till his death in 1954 this was the sole purpose of his life. And how Mother tried…Fighting back all despair, defeating the terrible pain she would try to walk. Forgetting her own hell she spent the last resources of her consciousness to lighten the burden of sorrow and to ‘keep the home going’. We shall never witness again the like of this rich heroism. Despite everything the ravage spread. The right arm and leg also gave way. Sight and hearing and then memory escaped. For the rest of her life … nobody could break the fastness of the disease and reach her. I revert to my memories of the Sen Household. It was a set routine that every day, after breakfast, my sister Bunty and I go from the Dutt to the Sen household, returning after lunch. The well-polished banisters and teak stairs introduced an air of formality that pervaded the whole house. Memories were not of soft comfortable sofas and beds one sank into, as was the case of the other grandparents’ home, but that of sitting at the tail end of a very large rosewood dining table presided over by Thakurdada, a frail but stern and awesome presence. The next ritual was placing Bunty, my sister, on the dining table, directly in front of my grandfather. Bunty, five years younger than me, was a solid, chubby presence, whom my grandfather christened Hamida Begum. Then began a strange exchange between the two, each staring unblinkingly at the other. My grandfather despite his legendary willpower could not outstare her. He said she reminded Calcutta | 33

him of Queen Victoria, and her famous declaration, “We are not amused”. My grandfather would thereafter, watch, hawk-eyed at my handling of the cutlery. His desert always had sandesh a favourite of mine, and so I would ask from across the table, “Is that Sandesh, Thakurdada?” and he would reply, concealing a smile, “Yes it is”, and for some time nothing would happen, and then a piece was taken from his plate and served to me, at the other end of the table, ceremonially by the Bearer. I was quite petrified of him but was told later, that he was proud of me, and comparing me to others of my generation, would say, “Look at the difference; my grandson is an aristocrat.”(!) My memory of Thakurdada was of a person gaunt, and very ill, but whose stern and disciplined presence never ceased to evoke awe and respect in all members of the family, friends, and the retinue of those that served the family. It was a pity that I was too young to have had discussions with him and imbibe directly from him, his extraordinary values, and his wealth of knowledge of art. What I did seem to inherit, imperceptibly, was a love of antiquities and art objects, a great deal of which I was exposed to, when I was posted in Bhopal as Director of Archaeology and Museums, Madhya Pradesh and later when I served as Director of the International Centre at Delhi. Till the very end, he presided over all gatherings, without any doubt the paterfamilias. Apart from possessing gravitas, the elder Sens had several very eccentric relations, about whom the stories regularly did the rounds 34 | Tales for Grandchildren

in the family. I would like to leaven this somewhat grim narrative, by recalling stories of two granduncles of mine. One granduncle would sleep on one of those high double beds that families of those times in Calcutta used. Beneath his bed he kept a blunderbuss, to be used, in case his home was broken into. Once, a nephew seeing this, remarked, that keeping the blunderbuss there was dangerous, as it might accidentally explode. The next day the nephew found that the formidable weapon was shifted to beneath his aunt’s bed! A nephew of one of my granduncles recalls this episode. His uncle … was stingy, incredibly so. The nephew, therefore, was pleasantly surprised when, before his leaving for Cambridge, his uncle called him and asked him to choose suits and other winter wear, which he claimed were hardly ever used. Arriving at his uncle’s bedroom he saw warm suits, scarves, caps, overcoats, jackets and flannels laid out neatly on both beds; he was overwhelmed and when asked to make his choices, began by hesitantly pointing to one suit. “That will be Rs…….” barked a loud and clear voice behind him. The other was when the son of a granduncle, who after graduating from Cambridge, and disappearing for several years, returned home unannounced. The conversation went something like this: Granduncle, putting down his newspaper: “Who is there?” The nephew: responded giving his name. Calcutta | 35

Granduncle: “Well if you’ve come expecting to have breakfast, you are late”, and resumed reading the newspaper. Justice Sen had six sons, all of whom were well endowed, both physically and intellectually, and some exceptionally so. It was, in many senses, a legendary family of Calcutta in those days, memories of which continue many years after the departure of all who constituted it. The six brothers and the elders Back row, left to right: Uncle Potla, Thakurdada and his mother with Uncle Goalie in her lap; Thakurma with Uncle Dunda; and Daddy Below: Uncles Mohit and Tutu I will resort to Uncle Mohit’s descriptions of the eldest—my father— Pratap Chandra Sen because none can match these. The first was first by all standards—Pratap Chandra or Bundle. Extraordinary were the gifts showered on him by whichever gods there be. Tall, handsome, an excellent oarsman, brilliant debater, a student such as teachers pray for, a record-studded academic career, there was nothing it seemed to us and to others who knew him, he could not achieve. 36 | Tales for Grandchildren

Most extraordinary, however, of all his gifts was the gift of giving, of generosity and of compassion. He spread joy around him as naturally as the sun rises… He had astonishing energy, and an amazing capacity to read extensively and quickly, to remember and to create beauty. All through the years, I knew him, he lived the lives of many men and was always at the summit of excellence with seemingly effortless ease. Whether in Calcutta or Cambridge, his teachers prized him. His brilliance dazzled or rather, lit up whatever it chanced upon, like a sunbeam. He was young — only forty-one — when he went, but already a legend and even now a legend that lives. More, however, even than his natural brilliance was his invincible and universal goodness that made him unique. This is how he is remembered by academics, business executives, creative intellectuals, officials, and employees. A great man who was good and a tribute to life itself. After he died, I wrote a piece on my father, portions of which are reproduced below: After graduating from Presidency Father went up to King’s College, Cambridge for an all too short stay, brought to an unexpected close by the outbreak of the War. Even during that brief period, he distinguished himself and in the first and only exam he secured a first class, standing first in the University, with the added distinction of an Exhibition from King’s. Cambridge with its atmosphere of learning, its serenity and its beauty dwelt always with him. So often in his talks with us, he transported himself and us back to that beloved city. The grey solemnity of King’s Cathedral, the green-gold sweep of the backs, the slow-sweet flow of the Cam, and the mystic quiet of the vast Trinity library, these became for us also the symbol of the good life. The war broke out and he had to remain in Calcutta, Cambridge was probably the briefest and yet happiest chapter in his life and some indication of the reputation he left behind can be seen from the tribute his tutor John Saltmarsh paid to him, as being amongst the best students he had ever come across. Calcutta | 37

Hungerford Street where his father lived and where he was born, once more played a significant role in his life, for it was here, that in 1940, he met Lota, my mother. In 1942 they were married. Their first home was at Boat Club Road, Poona, where many delightful months were spent. Nineteen forty-three brought them to Bombay, where I was born. In 1948 my sister Sumita was born. Next year they went abroad for the first time together. Europe to them was the wonderland of ballets, museums, theatres, and concerts, of long hours in the sun in pavement restaurants and of afternoons punting in rivers, of walks in the beautiful English countryside and in the delights of Paris nightlife. It was their real honeymoon. Between 1949 and his second visit to Europe, his transfers took him south — Madras, Bangalore, Ooty and Visakhapatnam. Here history and his inherited aesthetic sense drew him to the great wealth of stone temples and sculptures that only the South has in such rich abundance. For us the children, the only memories that we have of these towns are the long motor drives, the picnic lunches beneath shady trees and the conversations beside the kerosene lamps with a sense of the wild and nature all around us. Mummy in front of the Rodin Museum in Paris After his next visit to Europe, he returned to find his children grown up. His work took him to the Capital. His interest in politics, which was hitherto restricted to books alone, was now fed by personalities. He came face-to-face with the men who moved the masses and controlled the 38 | Tales for Grandchildren

destiny of the nation. Apart from the work that brought him into close touch with the Oil Ministry, his diverse intellectual interests bore fruit in long conversations, with economists, historians, and artists, all of whom respected his views and treated him as an equal. Father loved Delhi, the city as well. Its wide clean streets lined with trees, the beautiful private gardens including ours in 12, Aurangzeb Lane, and the monuments of medieval civilization, all seem to beckon to him after he left it. Delhi also gave him Satyajit, his youngest child. He would spend hours among the ruins of Delhi. His sense of history never left him. It was not the narrow history restricted to textbooks but a philosophy that guided him in all he did. He used to say that it embraced all subjects and was part of every subject. History gave him Daddy and me at Humayun’s Tomb a breadth of vision that enabled him to place every incident in its correct perspective and to gauge its proper magnitude. In one of his letters, this conception of history found expression in terms that can hardly be improved upon. “Modern man”, he said, “like the mythical Theseus, can only find his way through the labyrinth of contemporary problems and conquer the Minotaur of the future, if he has in his hands Ariadne’s thread that only the study of History can provide.” For us, he was himself such a thread. He set down his own credo in Mother’s personal journal: “Man’s achievement is mortal; his endeavour knows no death. The kings and the palaces and the tombs - one day it is certain that they will be no more, but the memory of greatness, of a striving for the stars, the memory of Man’s tears and his laughter and his courage these never die. So it is Calcutta | 39

that ‘hope is eternal’ and that there is ‘no end to Man’s journey’. So it is too, that in the end it is what Man will think of man that matters what Man thinks of Man and how Life’s challenge to Man’s humanity is faced, more significantly in defeat than victory. Defeat in a narrow temporary sense for it is true that ‘Man is not born for defeat’. He has, to the end, his humanity which only he himself can destroy, sensitivity to the experience of others which only he himself can extinguish and Love which, sometimes, is greater even than Man and his humanity.” He, himself, was the justification of his faith. Just before we bore him away, Prof. Susobhan Sarkar spoke out all our hearts: “Pratap’s life was beautiful as a flower, will not then its fragrance linger in our lives? His life was as brilliant as the sun, will not then its radiance shine in our lives? His life was as boundless as the ocean; will not then its greatness rid our lives of meanness? His life was as pure as light; will not then its purity cleanse us of our inner dross?” I was fortunate also in having a mother, who was extraordinary as well, in her way. Some excerpts from the monograph I wrote on her: Mother was born in Calcutta on the 18th of December 1921, the youngest daughter of Ajoy and Bina Dutt. The Dutt household was civilized, very naturally and very completely, and she grew up surrounded by books, art, and music. From such surroundings came her perpetual search for beauty which she always found and surrounded herself with, and the pursuit of excellence in all she did. Her mother, by contrast, was the lively centre of the bustle of life that blesses large and happy families. She gave to her children a constant carnival of picnics, parties, feasts, and the joy of large gatherings. From such years, Mother acquired a childlike curiosity, and love of life in all its variety, and more significantly, the ability to give, immediately, to all who came to her, a love that was both abundant and constant. 40 | Tales for Grandchildren