Happy Times Book_Volume 1

["Add to the happy child, God\u2019s gift of beauty, extraordinary and perfect, in adolescence, and you have the radiance that presented itself before Father. Their first meeting, their love and their life together, all had a lyrical quality almost unreal. Father wrote of her, as only he could: Beauty lives for a moment, And for all time From the time I first saw you, Till my eyes can see no more, It is your vision that will fill my heart. Father\u2019s work in Burmah-Shell took them all over India. This gave them in their early years of marriage, places of quiet charm like Poona, the splendour of the seas at Vizag, the eternal spring of the Nilgiris at Ooty, and the excitement of a metropolis like Bombay. Tours took My parents in Gibraltar us all to the solitude of forests and the commanding silence of the great monuments; holidays gave us the mountains and the sea. Life had the excitement of the protean, yet constant in such change was our home. Home was never merely where was lived; it was always the very heart of life. She loved to decorate our house and how well she did it. Each exquisite object, carefully chosen, found just the right place, and all of them merged perfectly as do colours and forms in a painting, or sounds in a symphony. To elegance of form was added system, and incredible attention to detail. From a morning cup of tea to one of the grand parties, every event had her meticulous organization of time and movement. The pattern was constant, from the days when she had an army of servants, to the last years, when with failing health she did it all herself, assisted by one maidservant, against all that the doctors advised, and despite all our pleadings. Calcutta\u2003|\u200341","The Shikar Party near Vizag. Mummy with Bunty in her arms. To the left, Uncle Dunda and me; to the right Uncle Goalie This constant toil was from a sense of duty, but also the manifestation of her great love for us. Busy as they were, Father and Mother never seemed to lack time for us. In our family were certain rituals that brought significance to our lives \u2013 the daily drives after Father\u2019s return from office the joyous parties on birthdays, the festivals memorably arranged, and the annual holidays all by ourselves. To all this was added discipline, which was also the reflection of love and concern. Home was where we studied, played, and laughed away our childhood; home was also where we returned for comfort and stability in later years. She was always there to applaud every little effort, to give significance to every small achievement, to understand, and to console. And then, very suddenly, Father left us in 1960, when Mother was only 39 and our younger brother Satyajit a year and a half old. We felt utterly lost and wondered how we would console Mother; but almost immediately we found that our Mother of love was also our Mother of strength. When all expected the great transformation in our lives, Mother permitted no change. The music and gaiety continued, so also the rituals of drives, celebrations, 42\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","and holidays. I proceeded abroad for further studies leaving her to manage alone the home and two young children. Many relations rallied round, and Bunty, only eleven, grew up overnight, to be her companion; but most of the time, and at the end of the day, she was utterly alone. For while she struggled to fill the void, to whom could she turn to pour out her heart? But this great and continuous struggle brought normalcy, normalcy that prevented the crippling of the children\u2019s development, normalcy that permitted her to meet all, and finally Gen. Prem Chand. Nothing could have made all those who loved Mother happier than her decision to marry again. Appropriately the wedding took place on the Island of Aphrodite, Cyprus, where Uncle Prem was Commander of the U.N. Forces. Immediately came companionship and a multitude of friends. To Uncle Prem\u2019s splendid achievements, Mother added the fragrance of Mummy and Uncle Prem after their marriage in Beirut her home, her style and in 1970 her radiant presence. Such graciousness and glamour were her ideal setting. And around them the Island\u2014its blue seas, its mountains of pine and snow, its wines, and its people who sang and danced so easily, and so well. Fame came easily to Uncle Prem, as did people, to meet him from all over the world; these included many who mould our destinies. Holidays took them to Europe which they saw in a grand, almost medieval, style. Mother loved her years in Cyprus, some of the most beautiful in her life, and her photographs, letters and conversations often transported us to this island of romance. So did Uncle Prem, who became a legend there, and we Calcutta\u2003|\u200343","felt they could have lived there forever. But they, conscious as ever, of the appropriate duration of all of life\u2019s ceremonies, decided that it was time to leave, to come home to India, and their home. Though they stayed in Delhi and later Bhopal, their real home was the little cottage in Mussoorie that Uncle Prem had bought when he was a young Army officer. Here she discovered a whole new world of nature at its gentlest best. Letter after letter spoke of the perfection of flowers, of the sweetness of birds\u2019 songs, of the romance of changing seasons, of the splendor of the snows, and most of all of God\u2019s great peace. One could not but marvel at Mother\u2019s capacity to change with occasion, and with time. Here we saw almost another person, tolerant, reflective, and thinking deeply of life\u2019s great questions of pain, of beauty, of solitude, of love and always of God and his creations. Occasional sorrow there was, but never any bitterness, or ever a flagging of the spirit. Her enthusiasm till the end had an innocence that was childlike, and this was also appropriate, for has it not been said that to enter the kingdom of God one has to have the purity of a child? Appropriate, also were her little companions, her grandchildren, which whom she walked and talked, and with whom she exchanged thoughts in letters. They wrote and painted and sang for her, and cried most bitterly when she left. Antara once summed up her whole life when she called her a flower. In the years of dusk, she had with her always Uncle Prem, to look after her, to be with her in all she experienced, to understand, to appreciate, to guide, to love and to console. It was, especially towards the end, the most tender and most poignant of relationships. Yet moving silently and swiftly below all this beauty and this happiness was tragedy. She had for many years endured the steady deterioration of the body\u2019s entire system that cirrhosis of the liver brings. The near-fatal car accident, the strain of setting up, packing, and once again setting up a home, and the years of constant travel, took their toll, not only because of the tremendous strain involved, but also because of her way of doing things. The body finally could not keep pace with the magnificent spirit. She was admitted to the All-India Institute of Medical Sciences in the winter of 1981. 44\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","Each passing day, and each terrible night, told us we must prepare. We did not: but even if we had decided to, how could we prepare? What could one do to still the torrent of grief that must begin for us, in a world without her? Something in the beauty of flowers, in the silence of star-filled nights, in the sad silent music of monuments, something central to the laughter of little children, and the happiness of large gatherings, something that brought peace in early mornings and completeness to quiet evenings spent together has gone, gone forever. We turn once again to her, as we did so often in life. Her loveliness, her strength, her courage and her love are now part of, and as permanent, as the stars that shine and the hills that comfort, that she so loved. They surround us today, and we are forever blessed. Next to my father was N P (Potla) Sen. As I mentioned earlier, members of the Sen family, like other Bengali families, had pet names, but in their case stranger than most. The strapping Justice A N Sen, being the youngest was Baby. Five of the six sons (other than Mohit) had nicknames\u2014Bundle, Potla, Tutu, Goalie and Dunda! Uncle Potla married Nandita Chatterjee, whose grandparents were the famous Ramananda Chatterjee, Founder Editor of The Modern Review \u2014 then the most prestigious journal of its time \u2014 and Sir Nilratan Sircar, perhaps the ablest doctor in India of his days, and of all times. Her father Kedarnath Chatterjee continued editing The Modern Review, and so the house had all the eminent visiting them, including Rabindranath Tagore. Uncle Potla, though in Imperial Tobacco, a \u2018boxwallah\u2019 was one with a difference. Fond of reading, music and the arts, their house was always filled with artists, film critics, musicians, authors, and a host of other creative minds. Calcutta\u2003|\u200345","They loved company and were generous to all who came to them. After my father died, we continued to have protection and laughter in their homes\u2014at Calcutta, Hyderabad, Delhi and London. Uncle Potla resigned from ITC to join the Public Sector \u2014 The Food Corporation of India\u2014and transformed it from a moribund government corporation to a powerful arm of government, transporting food grains from one part of the country to the other to stabilize prices. Wikimedia Commons He later went on to take over the Administrative Staff College of India (ASCI) as Principal, and once again metamorphosed it from a sleepy semi-government institution conducting a The gracious and imposing ASCI building few courses a year, to a bustling hub having over a hundred, managers from the public and the private sector, shedding financial dependence on the government. He attracted to the faculty bright young economists like Arun Shourie and Vijay Kelkar. It quickly became the most sought-after training institution in India. It executed a vast number of consultancies for government, and after submission of the \u201cN P Sen Committee Report\u201d on Indian Airlines (IA), he was asked to take over as Chairman of Indian Airlines. He was easily the finest Director that ASCI had, and his performance remains unmatched, even today. I loved going to their place in Bella Vista, because there was always an abundance of everything\u2014books, music, interesting people, delicious food\u2014and overflowing affection; Aunty Nandita always had many surprises every day, with a twinkle in her eyes. They really became parents for us. 46\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","Uncle Tutu (A N Sen) and Aunty Tuntun we saw less frequently, but we also loved visiting them. Both Uncle Tutu and Aunty Tuntun were very fond of western classical music, and he was a connoisseur both of western classical music and films. He had a large, finely selected, collection of records and an excellent music system They both loved good food, she was a great cook, and he always had a stock of excellent whisky. Then came Uncle Mohit \u2014 nurtured by Daddy and who became my mentor. He figures in many of the chapters that follow, as he must, for he was the single most important influence on me in my life. There is a piece I wrote for the Hindustan Times: Mohit Sen, while sitting and watching the news on TV in the drawing room of his Hyderabad flat, quietly left us in May last year. He had worked till the end, for decades, with unremitting passion, persistence, and consistency for an alliance of the Congress, the Left, and parties opposed to communalism. Many enjoyed his stimulating company, admired his talent and tenacity, but dismissed his vision of such an alliance, as misplaced idealism, born of emotion. Just over a year later, a government was sworn in at Rashtrapati Bhavan, consisting of precisely such a union of forces. Born to Brahmo aristocracy in a family that was affluent, westernized and intellectually inclined, with his brilliance in academics, debating and writing, Mohit was clearly a hero to his contemporaries at Presidency College, Calcutta, in the late forties. Like his brother Pratap, he was a favourite student of the legendary Prof Susobhan Sarkar, under whom he secured a first class first in History. As was the tradition in his family, he went on to Cambridge where due to his combination of intellectual brilliance and dedication to the Communist Party (which he had joined) Mohit met, and developed associations, that remained lifelong, with many of the legendary figures that dominated the Cambridge scene, then such as Maurice Dobb, E M Forster, Rajani Palme Dutt and Eric Hobsbawm. From there he went to China, where he spent Calcutta\u2003|\u200347","three years at the International Communist School in Beijing. With all this behind him, there was an array of choices before him, including continuing as an academic at Cambridge; Mohit chose to return to his country, and serve it, by joining the Communist Party of India. During the early years in the Party, he worked closely with, and was close to, Ajoy Ghosh, and later S A Dange. With his intellectual attainments, he naturally assumed a pivotal role in all the publication and pedagogic activities of the Party, including \u2018Enquiry\u2019, that remarkable publication of the fifties, to which all leading left intellectuals, among them Amartya Sen, contributed. At 37, he was already a member of the Party\u2019s National Council, moving up to the Central Executive Committee in his early forties. A spectacular career in the CPI had clearly commenced. However, what had begun so splendidly, was not to continue; in fact, there were very hard times ahead. Mohit felt that the overthrow of the State by armed revolution was no longer a possibility, given the development of sophisticated communications. In his view, the Congress after independence was not a party of the reactionary bourgeoisie but, like the middle classes in India, represented a wide spectrum of interests, ranging from the Right to the progressive Left- of-Centre. He was clear that the Left, could not, on its own, through the ballot, constitute a Government at the Centre, which being the case, unalloyed opposition to the Congress would only result in the extreme Right gaining strength. Nationalism, according to him, especially after the heroic gains of the freedom struggle led by Gandhi and Nehru, was a progressive force, that needed nurturing, that India\u2019s gaining independence was a historic gain, and neither an illusion nor a fraud. He felt therefore that the appropriate course for the Left would be to align with the Congress and provide it issue-based support. This view, and his attempts to interact with Congress leaders, led to his isolation in the CPI. Here, once again Mohit had a choice. Modulating his own views could mean continuance, and achievement of eminence in the party. He chose instead, in the eighties, a path both difficult and lonely. Jawaharlal Nehru, had, after their meeting in the early sixties, with prophetic insight written that Mohit Sen was, \u2018a Communist with nationalist sympathies.\u2019 Mohit\u2019s passion for the nation and for Communism continued unabated till the very end. 48\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","Thereafter began his attempts, almost single-handed, to interact with, and influence progressive opinion in the Congress. As a result of talent and tenacity, he developed an amazing array of contacts. Prime Ministers \u2014 Indira Gandhi, and thereafter Rajiv and P V Narasimha Rao; Presidents \u2014 K R Narayanan and Abdul Kalam; and other influential members of the Congress, including Sonia Gandhi and Manmohan Singh. He stayed with us in Delhi, so we witnessed the life he had to live. For almost twenty years his visits were for two or three weeks, every month, which meant leaving his wife Vanaja, the person who meant most to him, in Hyderabad, where their home was, all alone. (They had no children). His days began very early, when, after making himself his coffee, he would settle down to reading and writing. Then, after breakfast, would follow numerous phone calls, after which he would travel, in the early years in autos, and later in a battered taxi over vast distances, to all parts of Delhi, for his discussions. It most often meant the whole day out. We in the family were dismayed, because the whole effort seemed so futile, as was the case with the small party that he led: the United Communist Party of India. We felt that he could easily have been an academic of distinction, which would mean a life of far greater dignity and comfort. It was difficult to argue with him, much less convince him to undergo any change, but in gentler moments he would tell us that this was not possible, since he was not an academic but a party worker. When questioned about why he did not, like Mohan Kumaramangalam, join the Congress, he replied that he could not do so because he was a Communist; however very few believed this. Tennyson\u2019s Ulysses ends with those much-recited lines: \u201cTo strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield\u201d. Mohit\u2019s version was - \u201cTo strive, to seek, not to find, never to yield.\u201d And when I was once thinking of leaving the service, he gave me Kazantzakis\u2019 The Last Temptation\u2026, the message being that we must do what we have to, irrespective of all of what it may entail. In the mid-eighties when he left the Party, he was in his fifties; at the turn of the century he was in his seventies, his body and health considerably battered by a serious motor accident he had had, and the many ailments he was afflicted with, knowledge of which he would refuse to share with anyone. He used to tell us of a Russian folk tale, in which the heart of a Calcutta\u2003|\u200349","worker speaks to him saying, \u2018slow down, I can\u2019t keep pace\u2019, to which he replies,\u2019 you stop, if you must, I have to carry on.\u2019 This he did, though the road was long and lonely, the journey arduous, and the vessel frail. It is both ironic and tragic that he died, suddenly, a year before his dream of uniting the Congress and Left was realized. He remained till the end, the eternal optimist, with the conviction that, ultimately, what is good shall prevail. When the headiness of the remarkable election victory wears off, a salute could be given to the man, who, most of his life, struggled to make this dream a reality. I returned to India and went to Hyderabad to Uncle Mohit and Aunty Vanaja, because their home was the best place to study for the competitive exams for the IAS. At Narayana Guda (their home), I saw a different Uncle Mohit, tempered by the presence of Aunty Vanaja. She was an extremely gifted mathematician and teacher, but combined with all this great femininity and devotion to the home; she kept Uncle Mohit in place by constant banter. Theirs was a delightful home, with books, music, interesting friends, and love. It was the ideal pause before one ventured out into life. I went from Hyderabad to Calcutta, where I stayed till I received my results. At Mussoorie, where we went for training, the inland letters from him commenced and continued till he finally left all of us. Once again brief, crisp sentences, encouraging, inspiring, admonishing, but grounded always in love. My later chapters have a lot of Uncle Mohit, because he was, till the end, very central to my life, and later our family\u2019s. Last, but not least, were the youngest brothers\u2014Goalie and Dunda. I got to know them in my late teens, so my image of them was very limited. They were, for me, the stuff that heroes are made of\u2014 physically very strong, excellent boxers, handsome, Uncle Dunda 50\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","having a way with women, indulging in fisticuffs and gang warfare. In our flat at Lower Circular Road, and swaggering down Park Street, one felt totally protected and yet amid a world of enormous excitement. When I was in Cambridge Uncle Dunda was at Oxford; after a brief attempt at leading the life of a business executive in Calcutta, he returned to the academic world. During those years in England, we spent quite a lot of our time together, and he had a great and lasting influence on my life, a more detailed account of which is in my chapter on England and Cambridge. In the \u201860s I visited Calcutta, whenever I had leave\u2014from St. Stephen\u2019s, Cambridge, and the Academy\u2014to spend time with my mother and sister Bunty. Those were brave, slightly sad days at Lower Circular Road, when Mummy, with very limited resources, would try and keep up the lifestyle she and all of us were used to. On special occasions, Mummy would take Bunty to Flurys, with both all dressed up, but with only a few rupees in their bags. Mummy single-handedly ran the house with a cook and a sweeper, doubling up as a Bearer, gave parties, fathered, and mothered Satyajit, who was only a little over a year old when my father left us, drove and serviced the car and bought all the three children needed. This was a huge transformation from the indulged and pampered wife she was when Daddy was alive. Mummy kept up evening drives to the riverside and Victoria Memorial and weekly visits to the homes of Didima and Ranajoymama. Calcutta\u2003|\u200351","With my mother a young widow, and a younger sister and brother, I thought of giving up going to Cambridge and sitting for the IAS, to work in a firm in Calcutta and be beside them. However, she would have none of this, so I went to Cambridge and later also joined the IAS. It was a great sacrifice but done with such apparent ease, that I never really thought about it, in depth. I never did know Calcutta, but my occasional visits left me with the realization of two enduring truths\u2014the importance of family and of values. 52\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","III Mayo College and Jack Gibson","M y father\u2019s job in Burmah-Shell, involved transfers every three or four years, so, when I entered my teens, to ensure continuity in schooling, my parents decided to send me to a boarding school. It should have been to the Doon School, to which all my cousins went, but due to a quirk of faith, things turned out differently. John Sinclair headed Burmah Shell in India and my father was his blue-eyed boy since both were inclined to things cerebral. One day Mr Sinclair invited my father to lunch at \u2018Monte Rosa\u2019, the luxurious, sprawling official residence of the General Manager of Burmah Shell, at Cumballa Hill, Bombay. Here my father met Jack Gibson, who had just left the Doon School to take over Mayo College at Ajmer, as its principal. Jack\u2019s presence in any gathering was electric, and by the time dessert was served, my father decided that it was not to Doon, but to Mayo College that I should go, to be exposed to Mr Gibson. Later, after going through the school prospectus that Mr Gibson left with my father, he was further convinced that his decision was correct. Mayo College, built by the British to educate sons of the aristocracy of Rajputana, was truly magnificent\u2014its palatial Main Building, constructed in Indo-Saracenic style, using Makrana marble (of which the Taj Mahal was built). Its sprawling campus spread over 350 acres had innumerable playing fields, tennis courts, swimming 54\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","Wikimedia Commons Boys of Mayo College, Ajmer and Atchison College, Lahore in 1920 pools, Rajput- style buildings and a splendid Assembly Hall, with enormous portraits of Rajput nobility, decked in traditional regalia, solemnly gazing down. What particularly attracted my father to Mayo, was its distinctive Indian imprint\u2014its architecture, the playing of Indian classical music in the morning Assembly, the formal attire \u2014 achkans, churidars and flowing saafas \u2014 all a welcome contrast to the Doon School, which Vir Sanghvi, the journalist, famously described as a \u2018common-or-garden\u2019 institution! It was in the mid \u201850s, Vijaya Lakshmi Pandit, meeting the Monitors at the prize a day, etched in my giving ceremony in 1966 Mayo College and Jack Gibson\u2003|\u200355","memory, that my father took Arun Singh and me in our Ford Consul car, on the long drive from Delhi to Ajmer. Arun who lived in Jaipur was already at Mayo and was appointed by Mr Gibson as my guardian. Fortunately, unlike what one read about in Tom Brown\u2019s School Days, Mayo had no ragging, and adopted instead, the very genteel practice of \u2018Guardians\u2019, boys already in Mayo, who introduced new boys to the school and its activities. We were driving along quite happily for several hours, till Arun Singh pointed to a portion of the range of the Aravalli hills, remarking that beyond these was Ajmer and Mayo College. My heart missed a beat since I suddenly realized that I was, for the first time, leaving home, leaving for a long time. On reaching Mayo, we were met by Mr Gibson, looking very fit and fresh, pipe stuck in his mouth, in an open Jeep, with two, black well- groomed Labradors at the back, rhythmically wagging their tails. He drove my father, Arun and me to Colvin House, where we Mayo College met Mr S C Dutta, the large, rotund and somewhat formidable House Master of Colvin House \u2014 the \u2018Middle House\u2019, which housed students who had left the Junior House, and were about to join one of the Senior Houses. I was shown my dormitory and asked to go for a bath. I took leave of my father and entered the bathroom. Just before pouring water from a bucket, I looked up and saw that my father was still there, looking 56\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","at me through the glass pane of the door. And then he left, and I was all alone, miles and miles away from our loving family. Though I was Rajasthan House treated well by the teachers and was not bullied by boys, I missed home terribly. Everything was strange\u2014the loos were primitive, old style, in a separate building and without flushes. Baths were with buckets and the boys, almost all Rajputs, were more at ease in Hindi. The enormous bell from the Main Building kept us constantly on the move\u2014from the wake-up call at 6 to breakfast, to classes, to games, to Prep hour at the House, and then to the last bell at 9 pm. We never had a moment to ourselves, perhaps one of the deliberate ways the school administration had of dealing with the homesickness of new boys. My unhappiness was leavened by letters from home. Every week I received blue envelopes or inland letters with lovely flowing scripts from my father and mother. These kept up my morale. Given below is the first, from my father, that dwelt on, effortlessly, so many aspects of life in boarding schools: ...Today I got a letter from Mr Gibson. He said he had taken your class and found you full of life. I am happy and very proud and I am sending Mr Gibson\u2019s letter to Mummy. Mayo College and Jack Gibson\u2003|\u200357","Work hard and next year when Prize Day comes, your Mummy and I and Bunty will watch you walking up to the platform. What a proud moment it will be for the whole family. Work hard for knowledge is a wonderful thing. It is a friend who never deserts you, it is a lamp that will light up the darkness of the world, it will bring you understanding and one day you will use this knowledge in a way that will benefit all mankind. Then you will have fame, the finest fame of all. Play all games. If you are shy, you will never learn. Remember that other people have many things to do and they are not watching you all the time. Build up your muscles and your health. This is the best time to do it. I hope you are settling down nicely and being a credit to Colvin House. You must do your best for your House and may your House win the Championship. In traditional dress I know you will miss us\u2014Mummy, Bunty & I but know this too that it is not the distance that keeps people apart. When one loves and is fond of somebody one is with that person no matter what distance lies between. So, we are all with you Buntu and all the time. I\u2019ll end here... Extracts from the second letter: Thank you very much for your letters. Yes, Buntu, we shall miss each other very much but we should all try and understand the need for this separation. Your Mummy and I want to give the best education we can possibly manage. In you are centred our hopes, our future. You have so much\u2014you are clever, you have a beautiful nature, you have shown what you can do in school. So Mummy and I must do our best for you and the biggest 58\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","sacrifice we make is being parted from you though it be for a few months in the year only. We must all be brave and face life\u2014it is full of sunlight & shadow. Don\u2019t worry about Hindi. If the School feel you need extra tuition you can be sure they will give it to you. Often one thinks one is weaker than one really is and the best judge is the teacher. I am writing to your House Master about the Ovaltine and am trying to get a cycle for you. The last may take a little time\u2014I\u2019ll do my best. The climb to Taragarh must have been great fun\u2014who knows Mr Gibson might one day take you on a real Himalayan Expedition. Wouldn\u2019t that be fun? I\u2019ll come along with the party\u2014if I\u2019m allowed. I\u2019d like to see you with your Saafa-you must look fine. We are all well and news from Calcutta is good. Mummy and Bunty miss you a lot. There are a few things about this letter, worth commenting on. The first was my father\u2019s ability (despite being highly cerebral) to come down and enter the world of a boy in his early teens \u2014 awkward, unsure, and lonely \u2014 address his concerns and participate in his joys, going into every detail \u2014 from Ovaltine to a bicycle to Hindi! The second was the effort to address and explain separation, showing it as a consequence of my parents\u2019 love and concern, and revealing that it was a sacrifice for them as well. Many of my colleagues, who were as lonely and bewildered as I was at the time, in the absence of any genuine communication from their parents, viewed being sent to boarding school as banishment and rejection. The whole experience of separation from one\u2019s family is artificial to the extreme and can be quite traumatic unless parents take care to explain to their child, the reasons that impel the decision and constantly reiterate their love and concern. Mayo College and Jack Gibson\u2003|\u200359","Extracts from the third letter: ...It was wonderful seeing you again and I realised what a wonderful son we have. Often, I feel so unworthy of you and I try hard to deserve your goodness and the great love you have for us. The more I see of your School the more impressed I am. It must be a great experience growing up in those beautiful surroundings with so much opportunity to develop in body in mind. Work hard, play hard and always try your best in everything that comes your way. I shall write to you about the British in India when I have studied the period again. It is an important part of our history and much that happened in the years from 1757 when the Battle of Plassey was fought and 1947 when India won her freedom influences us to this day and will influence us in the future. History is important because it helps us to understand the past, to live in the present and build our future. We were all very worried to hear about your illness and it was a great relief to learn today that your temperature was down to normal. Look after yourself, Buntu and keep well. Your cycle will be a great help to you...\t Encouraging, educating, and overflowing with love and concern. Here I insert some narratives to provide backgrounds to subjects touched upon in the letter. When one was unwell, one landed up at the chamber of the Resident Doctor, Dr Manohar Singh, to obtain an exemption from PT and\/or games or to be given a course of Special Diet. Dr Manohar Singh, though he was aware that we (those not good at gymnastics and games) were trying to avoid these activities to the extent possible, or seeking relief from the drab food doled out in the school mess, was nevertheless amused and indulgent, as well as generous in the issuing of medical certificates. Being admitted to hospital, when one was down with a fever, was also welcome, providing a respite from the gruelling school routine. 60\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","What we looked forward to every day was the sound of the Principal\u2019s Jeep, heralding his arrival. Mr Gibson visited sick boys every day, cheering them and administering to some, what Mr Gibson told the accompanying Dr Manohar Singh, was his \u2018Patent Medicine\u2019 \u2013 asking us to bend over and receive a couple of whacks! The bicycle that my parents sent me was, to a young adolescent, a real beauty\u2014a spanking new Sen Raleigh. Recalling the care Englishmen lavished on their cars, I would wash and polish the cycle every day, much to the amusement of senior boys! To return to my school days. My fluency in English contributed significantly to my being able to compose reasonably good essays. Also, later to contributing to school publications, and doing well in drama and debating. All this resulted in my teachers regarding me as one of the good students, something which added greatly to my confidence. Though I did not excel in any of the hobbies, of which we had an impressive array\u2014carpentry, metal-work, leather-craft, pottery, painting and clay modelling,\u2014the large airy art rooms, with the two gentle Bengali teachers\u2014Mr B C Gue and Mr R N Chatterjee\u2014 provided me an oasis of civility, so I spent many hours modelling clay\u2014something I was reasonably good at. Mr Chatterjee also reared fish, rabbits and a tortoise, which rejoiced in the name of Jack Dempsey. One day all hell broke loose at Jaipur House, as Jack Dempsey had escaped. A search was initiated, with boys rushing to various parts of Mayo\u2019s sprawling estate\u2014the Temple, the Main Building, and the main and side entrances. Hours later Jack Dempsey was located, a few feet away from the gate of Jaipur House! What I disliked and wasn\u2019t good at were gymnastics every morning, and team games\u2014hockey, cricket and football \u2014 every evening. Mayo College and Jack Gibson\u2003|\u200361","In cricket, I always volunteered to be the middle slip, so that the ignominy of a missed catch was something that I could attempt to share with others! This lack of skill in outdoor sports was a huge disadvantage in a boarding school, where sportsmen were the natural heroes. In my last year, I struck upon devoting time and energy to physical activities that did not involve others, where you could practice on your own, without having to compete. I concentrated on swimming and boxing, both activities in which I could later claim some measure of success. My taking to swimming was somewhat accidental. I was doing the crawl in our swimming pool and the swimming coach, a teacher from New Zealand, watching my strokes, decided to train me. This I welcomed and was soon competing with some of the best swimmers in the school. As for boxing, I have mentioned previously, that my paternal grandfather was an outstanding boxer in his time, as were my two youngest uncles\u2014 the two \u2018toughies\u2019 in our family\u2014 Goalie and Dunda. So, I The swimmimg pool put in a great deal of effort to build my body and develop boxing skills by spending hours punching the bag. The Anglo-Indian boxing coach observed my enthusiasm and perseverance and decided to help me improve my skills. 62\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","My father was thrilled, and in one of his letters, wrote: ...I am so glad you have taken up boxing, tennis, and squash. Boxing develops every muscle in the body\u2014legs, arms, stomach\u2014the whole lot\u2014and it gives one great confidence\u2014if you know even the elements of boxing you can face any man with the knowledge that most times you will lay him out and anyway you will inflict considerable damage. So, you have already bashed up a few boys\u2014good work. About your sore lip\u2014that is all in the game. Boxing teaches you that to give punishment one has to take it too\u2014a valuable lesson in many ways\u2014All the same, keep your guard up! When you come home, we might have a round or two together and I\u2019ll get the Markers at the Gymkhana Club to brush up your tennis and squash... But what really transformed life in school for me was an incident that is narrated below. In an inter-house boxing match my opponent was Ramesh Mathur, one of the legendary Mathur brothers, all of whom excelled in all forms of outdoor activities\u2014gymnastics, team games, swimming, diving, boxing\u2014in fact any sport you could imagine. I was however strangely confident, and, while in the ring felt I gave as good as I received. I came to learn much later, that the next day the award of School Colours in physical activities, was the subject of discussions in the Stow Club, where the Principal met with his staff. When the discussion came to boxing, most of the staff naturally suggested the name Ramesh Mathur. Mr Gibson then remarked that \u201csince Ramesh had Colours in a plethora of activities, I feel it should go instead to Probir Sen, as it would mean more to him\u201d. This was Gibson, vintage Gibson, \u201cfine-tuning\u201d. After the award of Colours, my confidence shot up, and I worked harder both at boxing and swimming. Mayo College and Jack Gibson\u2003|\u200363","The other outstanding example concerns a schoolmate of mine, much my junior, Vikram Badshah, who narrated to me this memorable episode of Mr Gibson\u2019s concern and compassion. One Sunday morning, Mr Gibson\u2019s Jeep came roaring into Ajmer House, and Mr R P Garg the Housemaster rushed out. \u201cWhere is Vikram Badshah?\u201d yelled Mr Gibson. Vikram, then House Captain of Ajmer House came out, on the double. \u201cHave you seen the Notice Board?\u201d bellowed Mr Gibson at Vikram. \u201cNo Sir!\u201d was the somewhat nervous reply. \u201cYou have failed in your Senior Cambridge, and what\u2019s worse, you silly arse, (a favourite phrase of his) you failed in Geography!\u201d (Geography was one of the subjects taught by Mr Gibson). \u201cWell, get ready as soon as you can, as I shall come to take you fishing.\u201d \u201cBut,\u201d remarked a bewildered Mr Garg, \u201cVikram has his Higher Secondary exams on Monday\u201d. \u201cHe\u2019ll do very well after fishing\u201d, said Mr Gibson, and that was that. So here was a principal of a boarding school of several hundred students, taking off a whole day to restore the morale of a single boy. Needless to add, Vikram did very well in his Higher Secondary examinations. The last relates to decades later, when I was in the IAS, and Mr Gibson had retired. There were fairly frequent exchanges of letters between us, long after I left school. Whenever I wrote, I received a reply, almost immediately, by return post; the speed 64\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","of response was what parents were familiar with when Mr Gibson was Principal. I was passing through a jaded phase in my career, when most of what I was expected to do by the government, seemed to me to be of little or no use to the people we were meant to serve. I, therefore, wrote to Mr Gibson. [As an aside I would like to mention that post Jack Gibson my passing out of school, he insisted on being addressed as Jack; on receiving a letter from me beginning \u201cDear Sir\u201d he shot back, \u201cDear Sir\u201d in letters are a form of address reserved for \u201cbutchers and bakers, so why not try \u2018Dear Jack\u2019 instead?\u201d. I described my predicament and asked him whether, if I resigned from Service, I could be considered for the post of Housemaster at Mayo College. Jack replied promptly \u201cyou certainly cannot aspire to be a Housemaster, since, for being a good Housemaster, teaching experience is a prerequisite, but I would be happy to recommend you for the post of Principal, for which, administrative skills are of relevance\u201d. This was a response that could come only from a Jack Gibson\u2014 fine tuning once again\u2014attention to detail\u2014that made him the outstanding leader he was, proving also that dealing with major issues and people in life, was, and remains, more of an art than a science. To return to my experiences in school. My last year at Mayo was perhaps my most pleasant. I was appointed a House Prefect of Rajasthan House, and consequently was entitled to a room shared with another\u2014Darshan Lal one of the most gifted all-rounders of our day. Mayo College and Jack Gibson\u2003|\u200365","Due perhaps mainly to my being over-age for the Class I was in, I was given a \u2018double promotion\u2019, moving from a class that had many bright students to one that had very few, as a result of which, my performance, shone, in comparison with many others! I wrote, acted, debated, and in my last year was the recipient of prizes relating to Geography, History, UN Day celebrations, Debating, and one or two others, thereby being considered (on false premises of course) one of the bright boys of the school. Rajasthan House, Mayo College Much later, in 2008, I was the recipient of the \u201cJTM Gibson Award for Excellence\u201d for \u201cAchievement in the Government Sector and Corporate Governance\u201d, thereby proving how myths tend to spawn other myths! My conclusions about boarding schools firstly, and primarily, they should be resorted to only when absolutely necessary. The beliefs that boarding schools toughen up and transform boys into men were, in most cases, myths that flourished as a result of the great faith the British had in these institutions. I think it was the Duke 66\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","of Wellington who famously remarked, \u201cThe battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton\u201d. Life in boarding schools is one where which boys are artificially cocooned, as was Prince Siddhartha, from the realities of life\u2014 sickness, old age and death \u2013 something that very often resulted in its products later leading very self-centred lives. However, Mayo had one precious gift. Despite Indian society being deeply hierarchical, and the fact that the institution was created for Rajasthan\u2019s nobility, there was, overall, a totally egalitarian and secular environment. Everyone, from sons of maharajahs to scholarship holders from very humble backgrounds\u2014received the princely sum of Rs. 10 as pocket money, wore the same uniforms, and were distinguished only by their achievements in studies and games. And again, thoughts of where one came from, or one\u2019s religious faith, never occurred to anyone, and the Book of Prayers for the morning assembly had the most moving contributions selected from all religions. Mr Gibson commenced the Morning Assembly by playing records of poetry recited, and classical music; so, a feel for verse and classical music became abiding treasures for many. But, as you would have probably guessed, the richest legacies of Mayo were memories and thoughts of Jack Gibson\u2014the way he lived and the manner in which he embodied life\u2019s finest values. I shall conclude with the piece I wrote after my last visit to him shortly before his passing away. Since I was on leave and had heard that Mr Gibson was unwell I decided to go down to Ajmer and spend a few days with him. The drive was uneventful till we approached Ajmer town. Quite suddenly, and instantly, my memory raced back over thirty years, to when my father drove a nervous thirteen-year-old, sick with the prospect of leaving home. Mayo College and Jack Gibson\u2003|\u200367","I remember my first glimpse of Jack Gibson \u2014 pipe, windswept grey hair, mountain fresh and fit, driving an open red Jeep filled with two Labradors and innumerable boys. And then came a flood of a thousand other images and memories \u2013 the constant and keen excitement of Jack\u2019s classes, an atmosphere electrified by his tremendous presence before you, communication of his passion for what he taught, and his never falling to do the unexpected. \u201cDo a somersault you Ulloo, get some fresh blood in your thick head\u201d, he would bellow at one of us who fumbled with a reply. Then, one day, when one of us hesitantly pointed out an error in what he had written on the blackboard, we were treated to the spectacle of a Principal, well over fifty, somersaulting on the ground. Jack\u2019s morning Assemblies where we were introduced to exquisite music \u2014 Western and Indian classical \u2014 poetry and prayers, all of which were secular and simple, and some of which possessed extraordinary depth and beauty. Here we saw a different man \u2014 grave and full of dignity. Jack after Assembly in his terrific avatar giving us \u2018six of the best\u2019, but offering a nimbu pani if we managed not to squeal. Jack far away from school and plain, wandering in his beloved Himalayas, skiing down slopes, pipe between clenched teeth, with the other legend from the Doon School, Holdsworth. Driving down to Gulab Bari I struck up a conversation with my driver. Did he know the way to Gibson Saheb\u2019s house? \u201cWho doesn\u2019t\u201d? Did he ever meet Mr Gibson? \u201cNo, but who had not, at some time or another, had a glimpse of the grand old man, roaring around in his Jeep\u201d? Jack was clearly a legend not only for those from Mayo but for the whole town of Ajmer. Entering the courtyard of Shanti Niwas through a small opening in the massive wooden gate, I climbed up and entered his study. Bookshelves all around with sturdy bound books, tankhas from his beloved mountain kingdoms, Rajasthani miniatures, silver caskets, swords, all living together with dignity. The room, like its master was manly, sensitive, elegant and full of character. In the middle, sunk in a large chair, was Jack, looking frail but leonine. 68\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","I spent two unforgettable days enjoying a quality of hospitality that I thought had vanished with the \u201850s, when houses had armies of servants. Shanti Niwas had only Tansukh, butler cook and companion rolled into one, who loves and looks after Jack as no one else can. And that is because Jack has looked after him as no one else could, educating and finding jobs for his children, building him a house, and being amazingly considerate \u2014 supper was always at 7.00 pm so that Tansukh retired early. Brigadier Raza, who lives below, and Dr Erickson are frequent visitors. Also regular are a little bird that comes exactly at 4.30 pm and perches on Jack\u2019s knee who is fed a banana, and two young English girls who teach in Mayo Girls School, and who spend time every evening with Jack, taking dictations. Jack\u2019s love conveyed itself so well and so easily to birds and the young, and they in turn loved him dearly. Only two or three visit him from Mayo. I wondered why Jack decided to settle so close to the school and to continue to take such an active interest in its affairs; most retired people keep away from the scenes of their work to avoid being hurt. I realized that for Jack, Driving through the grounds with former prime minister working in, and for Jawaharlal Nehru Mayo, was not a job but a passion, which consumed every working hour of every single day. He gave his life to Mayo, and Mayo owes its life to him, for when he took over in the fifties, the school was clearly dying. Mayo was to Jack, an affair he could not give up. This year Jack is confined to Shanti Niwas for his health does not permit travel, either to England or the hill stations he loved; in fact, he can\u2019t even drive around town. It\u2019s going to be a long summer for him, so I am sure that he would love staggered visits from his dear old boys. Mayo College and Jack Gibson\u2003|\u200369","Jack is over eighty-four, and with age, quite naturally, parts of the body are failing. What is intact is his superb spirit, rising triumphant over all the shocks that life brings, and his total and constant love and consideration for others. Reading letters from old boys to him and his replies, one was amazed at how many he was guide and father to, long after they had left school, and he had retired. Jack Gibson is certainly a giant of his times, one of the finest men his country has produced and amongst the noblest of those\u2014English or Indian\u2014who worked for India. To have known, and to continue to have contact with such a man, is one of life\u2019s most precious blessings.\u201d Amen! Apart from Jack Gibson, what was imperceptibly transmitted to me during my years at Mayo were the importance of poetry and music, the need for retention of courage in adversity, treating others with honesty and sensitivity, judging all by performance rather than birth or family, and an outlook that was robustly secular. 70\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","IV Growing up in the Gentle Fifties","I f one was fortunate enough to have been nurtured in the sort of families we had been; growing up in India in the \u201850s, was a marvellous experience, little short of \u201cmagical\u201d or \u201cmiraculous\u201d; of all the cities in the country, Delhi and Bombay were amongst the pleasantest. My father was posted in Delhi in the early 1950s. Planned as the capital of Britain\u2019s \u201cJewel in the Crown\u201d, the city had sweeping, wide roads, and avenues lined with carefully chosen flowering trees \u2014 whose graceful names were matched by their exquisite blooms \u2014 Tropical Laburnum, often called Golden Rain, Palash - \u201cFlame of the Forest\u201d and Jacaranda with its delicate pale purple blossoms; roads that bore only a sprinkling of cars, all happily puttering along. Our days in New Delhi commenced with the flat first allotted to my father by Burmah-Shell \u2014 11, Jorbagh Nursery, relating to which I cannot resist an aside. Not having got over the snobbery of anglicized Calcutta families, my mother was appalled at the address, which, in her opinion was not a \u201cgood one\u201d; so in her conversations and letters, it was always alluded to as \u201coff Lodhi Road\u201d! The flat next to us was occupied by H P (Hari) Nanda, founder of Escorts, whom I often saw walking on his lawns, a handsome silver- haired gentleman, whose presence was enhanced by an elegant dressing gown, and with whom my father occasionally chatted over the fence. 72\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","My Thakurdada (paternal grandfather) \u2014 Justice A N Sen\u2014coming to stay with us in Jorbagh left me with many clear memories: his being lifted in a chair of specially crafted, highly polished, Burma teak, with long poles, like a palanquin; lying in bed with an array of ayurvedic medicines on the shelf and his stern exterior, with eyes closed, listening to arguments, in an informal judicial arbitration. Then, his presiding over meals, his insisting on my going for a run every morning and watching me do so from the window of the flat. My other memory was of looking out of the windows and seeing green buses labelled Delhi Public School (DPS). Having had my early education at schools that bore names like Church Park Convent, Bishop Cotton\u2019s, and Cathedral & John Connon, looking at the buses, I wondered who were the unfortunate ones who went to a Public School, (not being familiar then with the fact the term also referred to elite boarding schools). And lo and behold, as fate would have it, a few months later I was admitted to DPS and found myself sitting in one of the buses. One morning, several months later, I overheard a conversation on the bus, between two boys in the seat in front of me which went: \u201cYaar\u201d they have three ACs in the drawing room\u201d. To which the other replied: \u201cNahin yaar. One AC and two boxes mounted for show\u201d! The descent was complete when I found we had to study in tents! Fortunately for my mother, and perhaps for the rest of us as well, we soon shifted to 12, Aurangzeb Lane, which was, in her eyes, an appropriate address. This was one of Burmah-Shell\u2019s centrally located, Lutyens\u2019s-designed, bungalows, taken by the company on a 99-year lease. Growing up in the Gentle Fifties\u2003|\u200373","Like most residential buildings of those days, internal accommodation space was adequate, but not luxurious. The bungalow had three bedrooms, one occupied by my parents, one where we the children stayed, and one which served as a guest room. The drawing and dining rooms were of reasonable dimensions 12, Aurangzeb Lane and functional. What left us with happy memories of living in these bungalows was the live fireplace in the drawing room, which was lit every winter evening. By contrast, what was expansive, spread out, and luxurious were the verandah and the enormous undulating lawns and flower beds, stretching invitingly, over three acres. These formed the idyllic backdrop for break fasts, beer sessions, lunches, and teas, almost every single winter\u2019s day, as also, whenever the weather was kind, on other days of the year. The lawns were also where my sister Bunty spent every afternoon, playing with our dogs, talking to the birds, and running round and round in gum boots in a determined attempt to lose weight. The dogs had quaint names\u2014George, Maggie (Margaret), and Ginger\u2014 christened by a devoted English bachelor, who gifted them to us in Madras, when he finally left for \u201chome\u201d. The absence of factories and the modest vehicular traffic, combined to give the city crisp, glorious, winter days\u2014where sunlight and sky were crystal clear. 74\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","I would often cycle down to the neighbouring Khan Market or if I had more time to spare, to Connaught Place. Delhi was truly a garden city. Our bungalow was company furnished\u2014dignified and once again, functional, with no frills\u2014but we had the usual retinue of a butler, his assistant, a cook, his assistant, and gardeners with their assistants! Our gardener, Chotey Lal, was a master of his craft, certified by the row of trophies our garden won in the annual Delhi Flower Shows. In 1959, Pamela Mountbatten was distributing the prizes at the Delhi Flower Show, and since my mother was confined to a nursing home, for the delivery of our younger brother, Satyajit, my sister Bunty went to receive the large number of trophies that our garden had won. Later, during the course of the next few days, Ms Mountbatten went to call on my mother at Sen\u2019s Nursing Home, and when Bunty, who was in the room, was introduced The trophy given to Bunty by Pamela by my mother, Ms Mountbatten Mountbatten complimented Bunty, on her poise and confidence, whilst receiving the trophies. This remains for my sister, and all of us, a treasured memory. Those days, good, excellently trained domestic assistance was easily available since the salaries paid were handsome, and there was the added convenience of living quarters in the premises both for them and their families; and relatively civilized working conditions\u2014afternoons off and early nights, unless there were parties, for which tips were Growing up in the Gentle Fifties\u2003|\u200375","Mummy, Bunty and me in the garden generously doled out the following mornings. So, when hiring staff one could pick and choose, and only those armed with good \u201cchits\u201d were interviewed. These chits, a typically quaint, but extremely practical practice of the British were fairly lengthy and precise references about the employee and his\/her skills. When any of the staff proceeded on their annual leave, they were expected to provide a badli, who occasionally was better than the original Domestic Assistant! Our Major Domo was one Mehboob certainly a character, who provided excellent material for many an amusing story spun by my father. Aurangzeb Lane, like most other bungalows, was fitted with bells in every room, with a board in the pantry where lights indicated the room from which a bell was rung. Shortly after we moved in, my mother rang a bell, and, after several attempts, with no Mehboob appearing, looked at my father, who, laying down a book he was absorbed in, remarked, \u201cLota, my dear, my guess is that, shortly after we moved in, Mehboob spent his time, gainfully, darting around the bungalow, assiduously cutting all wires connecting bells.\u201d The other story often recounted by my father, was of my mother telephoning Mehboob, from a neighbour\u2019s house, the conversation of which, according to my father, went something like this: 76\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","Mother: Mehboob, this is Memsahib (the title of ladies of the house in those days). Mehboob: Memsahib gone out. Mother: (loudly) This is Memsahib, Mehboob! Mehboob: Memsahib gone out. This exchange was repeated, unchanged, for a few times, after which my mother, exasperated, shouted loudly, loudly: \u201cMehboob\u2019, you....\u201d Mehboob: (immediately) \u201cYes Memsahib\u201d! Even though my mother was petite, not nearly five foot four, she had a manner and a presence in the way she carried herself, that was regal, commanding, and often forbidding. Accompanying her on her shopping sprees, was an experience I found discomforting, disagreeable and highly embarrassing. She would visit Vaish Bothers located in Regal Buildings, one of the city\u2019s best outfitters, to order suits for my father. One day, while choosing materials, she was irritated by the person attending us who indulged in excessive sales talk. She suddenly snapped: \u201cYou talk too much. Where is the fat man?\u201d Squirming, my thoughts were of leaving the shop immediately, when all of a sudden, at the rear entrance, \u201cthe fat man\u201d appeared, bowing gracefully, and responding with a \u201cYou called for me, Madam\u201d! On another occasion when she took me shopping in Connaught Growing up in the Gentle Fifties\u2003|\u200377","Place, she decided to drop in to Jaipur Jewellers, saying she had to pick up some things she had ordered. The items were obviously not ready, because, on seeing our car, the owners pulled down the rolling shutters and closed shop for the day, fleeing from the rear. The piece de resistance of tales was Mummy telling Daddy: \u201cBundle, if you want to give me a \u2018surprise present\u2019 for my birthday, I have asked Greenways to keep a lovely green and gold chiffon aside, to be picked up.\u201d Like the residential areas occupied by families and friends in other metropolitan cities like Madras, Bombay and Calcutta, Lutyen\u2019s Delhi was compact, and most places were within 10 to 15-minute drive from each other. When a good friend of my father\u2019s, Romesh Thapar, was constructing his house in the area now known as Chanakyapuri, everyone was surprised at his choice of location \u2014 clearly \u201cthe back of beyond\u201d! The whole city was like a lush, well-ordered cantonment, whose residents assumed ownership, naturally and effortlessly. Evening chat The family routine those days was fairly set. After breakfast together, my father left for the office, located in an independent building in 78\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","Connaught Place, next Wikimedia Commons to Statesman House. He returned home punctually at 5:30 pm. After a cup of tea and sandwiches in the verandah, the family\u2014 my parents, my sister Bunty and I were taken for a drive, something Tughlakabad that became a pleasant ritual spread over an hour, and punctiliously adhered to. Where we drove to was not important\u2014what was sacred was the \u201cfamily hour\u201d\u2014 chatting, laughing, and singing together in a car that sealed off everything else. (Mercifully those were the days that preceded cell \u2018phones, tablets and any form of portable recorded music). Bonding was effortless, total, and the stuff of happy childhood memories. On weekends we were taken on longer drives\u2014to monuments on the outskirts of the city\u2014Qutab Minar, Tughlakabad, Ferozeshah Kotla, where we had picnic lunches, spending lazy, hazy afternoons on the lawns surrounding the monuments. But what remained most strongly etched in our memories, were the long, event-filled family holidays in the hills\u2014Mussoorie, Ranikhet, Kulu, Gulmarg and Darjeeling. One family would rent a bungalow for a month or two and or three other families of relations would join later. Uncle Manohar and Aunty Aruna took cottages in Gulmarg every year, and the family gatherings included Anji, Neeta, Vikram, their Spaniels Blackie and Sputnik, Aunty Reba, and Sanjeeb my father and mother and Bunty and me. Growing up in the Gentle Fifties\u2003|\u200379","In one of our holidays in Darjeeling, we had, staying in our little cottage, Hablimama, Tublimama, Joyamashi, Rajat, Lolita, my parents, Bunty, and me! Excitement commenced with the train journeys, which were fun-filled Family holiday experiences. The First Class compartments in which we travelled and which we had all to ourselves; were teak- lined and commodious, with comfortably cushioned emerald-green seats, and a wash basin! Our luggage, carried by a procession of porters, had suitcases, attach\u00e9 cases, dressing cases, tiffin carriers and enormous \u2018beddings\u2019, the rolling and tying up of which required both strength and dexterity. We carried cutlery, linen, bed sheets, towels, toilet paper (sic!) and loads of tinned stuff, indoor games, books, and clothes, especially woollens. On those long, long train journeys, food always tasted delicious, and books and magazines were a delight to read. One can never forget the long, wailing whistles of the steam engines, interspersed with a regular, rhythmic clatter and rattle of the carriages, with the countryside racing past, as the serpentine procession of carriages pierced the darkness. And the railway stations! These were a whole world in themselves. The milling crowds, whose apparel\u2014 the flaming, flowing bright saris, kurtas and turbans, \u2014 changed with the countryside\u2014the long semi-musical calls of the vendors\u2014 chai-chai, chai-garam, and \u201cpapper\u201d 80\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","(newspapers) being the most common and the hot, delicious puri-aloo which we would wait anxiously for. Getting down, a visit to the A H Wheeler stall was a must\u2014with its attractive display of magazines and books, just right for long train journeys. Later, after marriage to Binoo, (who is from an established Allahabad family) I had an additional experience. Whenever we travelled by train and passed towns where relations were living, we were the fortunate beneficiaries of a delightful custom\u2014at each such station, the relatives would bring tiffin carriers of hot, delicious home-cooked food, fruits, sweets, and magazines. Daylight hours in the hill stations had the whole family joining in, in games of rummy, teen patti, I Spy, or merely singing together. The bungalows at the hill stations normally had a khansama (cook) but we always had, accompanying us, a member of our own staff. Weeks spent in the hill stations were quite unlike anything we experienced in the hot, barren, plains below: long walks alongside, or through woods; trekking to well- known points; picnic lunches A family holiday in Mussoorie with Uncle Manohar and Aunty Aruna and their family, Aunty Reba and Sanjeeb and all of us and teas on hill Growing up in the Gentle Fifties\u2003|\u200381","slopes and in forests; and finally returning as darkness descended, pleasantly tired, changing into crisp freshly ironed clothes and sitting around live fires, joking, chatting, or singing. Our families: uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters, little children, and dogs, gelled perfectly. What we really looked forward to was when the men of the households, who would go down to the plains to work, came up for weekends. Once again it was activity, activity unadulterated: no music, TV, laptops, or mobiles. Holidays over, we would return to our homes, thoroughly refreshed, brimming with happy memories, memories we carried with us over the years. To return to Delhi and the plains. A very frequent visitor to our home was Uncle Mohit, residing in Delhi and worked for the Communist Party of India (CPI). My earliest memories of him were from the early \u201850s when we lived in 11, Jorbagh. It was in our flat at Jorbagh that he married Aunty Vanaja, in a very simple ceremony with a few friends and relations present. Just Uncle Tutu, Aunty Tun Tun, and his close friends: I G Patel, Chanchal Sarkar, and Shona Ray. Uncle Mohit describes it so well. \u201cIt was a simple affair with lots of laughter, so much so that the registrar who had come to the house, was not sure till the time of signing, as to who was marrying whom!\u201d Both at Jorbagh and at Aurangzeb Lane, Uncle Mohit was with us practically every weekend. Sometimes he would ride down on a bicycle that was a joint (sic) gift from his brothers. At other times my father and I would drive down to North Avenue, where he stayed with several other comrades, and pick him up. 82\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","His visits were something we all looked forward to. The whole family would gather \u2014 my parents, sister, and occasionally other brothers who visited Delhi fairly frequently \u2014 Uncle Tutu, Aunty Tun Tun, and Uncles Goalie and Dunda. Uncle Mohit and Aunty Vanaja After a sumptuous meal, at home, Moti Mahal, or a Chinese restaurant, everyone would lie on the carpet in the drawing room of our Jorbagh flat, and there were hours of discussion, banter, and laughter. Picnics there were, on many weekends. The drives back often had Uncle Mohit singing \u2013 \u201cSoviet Land\u201d was one of the favourites. Though he visited us frequently and was often a part of our household, I cannot say that I related to him in any way. I was perhaps too young then. I did, however, know, instinctively, from the relationship that my parents had with him, that of all my father\u2019s \u201cglorious brothers\u201d, Uncle Mohit, was the most special. My parents had a wide circle of friends\u2014academics, journalists, civil servants, artists and others. As is the case with many Indians, often, conceit and pomposity accompanied accomplishment. My father often set Uncle Mohit on such persons, and he attacked most of what they pontificated about, with the traditional fierce Marxist combination of sarcasm and frankness, bordering on rudeness. My father would watch such bouts, with an expression of barely concealed amusement and pride. Growing up in the Gentle Fifties\u2003|\u200383","Though my father was in every way better endowed than Uncle Mohit, it was apparent to me even at that age that my father genuinely admired and looked up to his younger brother. There was a reason for this. My father, like so many others, was introduced and converted to Three First Class Firsts in History with Marxism by his History teacher their teacher. Seated (left to right) Nikhil at Presidency College Calcutta, Chakravartty, Prof Susobhan Sarkar and the legendary Susobhan Sarkar. Daddy. Standing behind: Uncle Mohit When he went to Cambridge his closest friends were Indrajit Gupta, Renu Chakravartty and others. He wanted to join the Communist party as a full-time worker. My grandfather, who was a Judge of the Calcutta High Court, and conservative in many ways, was not in favour, and finally prevailed on my father, who, at the end of the day, also had the Victorian virtue of filial obedience. He then nurtured Uncle Mohit into Marxism, and in many ways lived through him. Uncle Mohit wrote of my father: \u201cIt was he who introduced me to Communism, to the worth of the intellect and to the need to help the deprived if one was to try to be human.\u201d Daddy\u2019s favourite photograph of My father carried two photographs in his Uncle Mohit purse, one of my mother, and the other of Uncle Mohit, with his fist clenched in the Communist salute. Behind Uncle Mohit\u2019s photograph, he had inscribed: 84\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","Have we not men with us royal, Men the master of things? My mother\u2019s exceptional skills at maintaining a good home and entertaining, my father\u2019s extremely lively presence, erudition and wit, the grace of their residence and the spread of lawns, combined to make beer sessions and evenings hosted by them, occasions that were looked forward to and enjoyed by many the Capital\u2019s intellectual, administrative, and cultural elite. Frequent visitors included members of the diplomatic corps such as the British High Commissioner, Sir Malcolm MacDonald and Ambassador of the Arab League, Clovis Maksoud; senior government officials like L K Jha, H C Sarin, and Girjapati Mukharji; Army officers such as Generals P Always at the centre: (from left to right) C Bhagat, L P (Bogey) Sen, Ruby Grewal; Sadath Ali Khan, Parliamentary E (Bubbles) Habibullah and Secretary to Jawaharlal Nehru; HC Sarin, ICS; his vivacious and beautiful Gen E Habibullah and Aunty Reba wife Hamida and D K (Monty) Palit. Also, journalists like Romesh Thapar, Shyam Lal, Inder Malhotra, and Nikhil Chakravarty. Then there were academics like I G Patel and Ashok Mitra and those involved in the arts and culture\u2014Narayan Menon, artists Husain, Satish Gujral and Krishen Khanna and interesting visitors like film directors David Lean and Roberto Rossellini, the latter accompanied by his paan-chewing companion, Sonali. The complete list would be somewhat endless. One visitor who merits special mention was a tall, quiet and strikingly handsome Bengali, who would drop in on many a Sunday for long, leisurely conversations with my father\u2014none other than Satyajit Ray. Growing up in the Gentle Fifties\u2003|\u200385","Unlike the wild parties of my parents\u2019 younger days in Vizag & Bangalore, their Delhi evenings possessed glitter, grace, and dignity, transcending beyond being just social gatherings, resembling instead soirees, by the kind of people entertained, and also the style in the manner of entertaining, something that vanished with that generation. My sister and I used often to peep through the bedroom windows\u2014 watching, and despite the fact, we could not hear anything of the conversations fascinated by the glitter, glamour and movement of the guests. Here briefly dwelling on what made the couple extraordinary, would be in order. As mentioned in earlier chapters, my father, from his college days, apart from being brilliant, was also well-read in a wide range of subjects; this was something he decided to keep up, so late at night, after the parties Party at home were over, an hour or two would be devoted to serious reading. His library reflected his eclectic tastes\u2014 subjects which included fiction, drama, poetry (both classical and modern, English & Bengali), history, philosophy, politics, economics, science, sculpture, painting, and music. His mornings commenced early, with him going through five or six newspapers. 86\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","Sundays he reserved for visiting his intellectual friends or their dropping in for long discussions on the lawns of our home. I was always asked to accompany him: his way of mentoring by exposure. His letters to me, then in school, ranged similarly over an astonishing variety of subjects\u2014 the rationale and relevance of public schools, headmasters and intellectuals, the critical importance of reading and the sheer joys that it brought with it, the state of Britain after Suez, the absurd opulence of the ruling elites in South America, nationalism, idealism, the lives of intellectuals, boxing, swimming, and jazz. The diversity of backgrounds and varied tastes of his friends\u2019 circle was a result of his unusual Romesh Thapar (centre) with Daddy capacity, to interact meaningfully with everyone he met, without any trace of conceit or condescension, serious discussions always leavened by his ready and excellent sense of humour. When Anji, my cousin appeared for the Economics Honours examinations at St Stephen\u2019s, my father spent many a Sunday discussing concepts of the discipline with him. All this was a result of his innate, sensitivity and the compassion borne of it, and the importance he gave to personal relations, and most of all, the family. As a result, he lived many lives at one time. Growing up in the Gentle Fifties\u2003|\u200387","The lines Edna St. Vincent Millay come to mind: My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends\u2014 It gives a lovely light! My mother, in many ways complemented my father. She was very strongly influenced by her mother-in-law, who was brought up in England and, ran her home with a discipline and rigour that was quintessentially Victorian. Adherence to routine, and maintenance of certain standards, was a ritual, almost sacrosanct. Like my Aunt Aruna, my mother also had an eye for the beautiful, but instead of painting, took to photography, which became for her an art, and something she excelled in. The many albums we have at home are full of her excellent black and white photographs, some of which are quite stunning, and the detailed comments painstakingly inscribed by her in white fluid ink, are testimony, as much to her talent, as to the meticulousness of her efforts. The rhythm of the routine with which the house ran, preserved the centrality of the importance of family life. While in school, every week I would receive at least two long letters, one from my father, and the other from my mother. Families, both our small unitary one, as well as the extended family of the Sens and the Dutts, and the frequent contacts necessary to keep relationships alive, were something precious to both our parents. To the ritual of daily drives and hill station holidays, conversations and letters were added the weekly visits to our relations. In Delhi, Golf Links was the Mecca, and on most occasions, we also met Aunty Reba (Aunty Aruna\u2019s and Mummy\u2019s sister) and Ranjanadi, (Mummy\u2019s niece). 88\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren","Happily, this continued in succeeding generations, where visiting relations was given the highest priority, whenever our tours or holidays took us to various cities. Our children and grandchildren continue to gather on birthdays, anniversaries, Holi, Bhai Pota, Diwali, Christmas and the New Year. Despite their many 21, Golf Links commitments and preoccupations, by the attention, they devoted to us our parents kept at bay, all that was seamy or unpleasant. As a result, all the days, years, and memories of our childhood were sunlit. No narration of our years in Delhi would be complete without references to the family of Uncle Manohar and Aunty Aruna, and their gracious and exquisitely done-up residence at 21, Golf Links. A word about the Seths. Aunty Aruna was the eldest of the Dutt sisters, and she and my mother were the two \u201cclassical beauties\u201d of the family. Aunty Aruna\u2019s and Uncle Manohar\u2019s was the first of a series of love marriages. Though Uncle Manohar came from an affluent West Punjab family (having completed his education at the prestigious Government College, Lahore) migrating to Delhi after Partition required him to rely solely on his abilities for his success. And succeed he did, to an exceptional degree. Their first home was a flat at Scindia House at Connaught Place. Growing up in the Gentle Fifties\u2003|\u200389","In the 1950s Uncle Manohar commenced construction of what was one of the first of the luxury bungalows in New Delhi, at Golf Links. The architect chosen by the Seths was Karl Malte von Heinz, perhaps the most renowned of his time in Delhi, who designed many of the first embassy buildings in what was then the freshly carved-out and exclusive, Diplomatic Enclave. Family at 21 Golf Links. (left to right) However, during the course of Uncle Manohar, Aunty Aruna, Aunty Reba, construction, many changes Daddy, Mummy and Bunty in the foreground in design were introduced\/ (insisted upon?) by Aunt Aruna. Too appreciate why this happened, the narration will have to be diverted, momentarily, from their home at Golf Links, to her. My maternal grandmother, Bina Dutt, had a natural and highly developed flair for sketching and painting, which was inherited by most of her daughters, but developed fully only by Aunty Aruna. Strongly influenced by Amrita Sher Gill and Paul Gauguin, her paintings, adorning the walls of their home at Golf Links, have an appeal that is, earthy \u2014with flaming colours, but often reflecting a thoughtful and melancholic mood, imbuing them with a certain haunting charm. Accordingly, the house at Golf Links reflected the taste, touches and colours of Aunty Aruna, as much as it did Heinz\u2019s. The combination resulted in what was, to my mind, one of the finest personal residences in Delhi. 90\u2003|\u2002Tales for Grandchildren"]