Tinkori Mitra

Tinkori-Da

On that Sea Shore,
Grammar, simplicity and sincerity,
Within them they bore.

Tinkori Mitra was one of our favourite teachers. We loved him, so we vexed him. What he taught was English Grammar, a subject which was, for us at least, neither here nor there. (Now I wonder at its complexity and utility, but then when younger I was sure.) He was a “mastermoshai” to the core. He taught to any who was willing to learn and to some unwilling ones too. We called him “Tin-da”. (There was another Tinkori, a Banerjee, a music teacher of a much later era and of a very, very different ilk.)

Tinkori means three shells. I had presented three most ordinary looking seashells to him on one of his birthdays, and forgot all about it as it was done more in fun than any deeper reason or feeling. But he had preserved them many a long year. He was one of the simplest of men, in dress, habits, eating or even thinking (except for English Grammar). He was small statured, short and thin — maybe more true to say “wiry” or “sinewy”. There was not much really to draw attention but for the nose. It was promontory of impressionable size and shape. It was big and hooked, pushing back the rest of the face. He often smiled a thin smile at nothing in particular. The eyes seemed to see only what should be seen and did not bother too much for all else. I would picture them to be a mixture of innocence and puzzlement. The legs were strong and well shaped. He could boast of no fat. He would have weighed, I guess, 50 kgs 52 kgs. The dress was invariably a dhoti and shirt or “punjabi” (Ashram make). He would of course don shorts and banian for group activities.

Tinkori-da was born in 1892, probably in a place called Shibpur, Bengal. Not much is known about his early youth. It would seem he was always a “mastermoshai”. He lived for a period around 1913, with his brother’s family in Shibpur. He taught History, Geography and English. He was not bound to the family life and relatives. His work, i.e., teaching and its fulfilment seemed to be his main concern. All this may show him up as a non-caring and remote character. No — he was a very considerate and understanding person. He tried not to inconvenience anybody in any way. He usually went out early and returned late, for often he helped students individually. Once in a while if he happened to come back later than usual, and thought the others had all finished their dinner and were readying themselves to retire, he quietly returned to the school and spent the night there in some corner! He came home the next morning. He had not the heart to disturb or give cause for them to fuss over him. Even during the vacations he went about helping the students, sometimes calling them home.

The headmaster of the school (Shibpur) was a pundit. He knew even Latin and Greek. He was also acquainted with our Nolinida. Late Mohinida (who looked after Tinda towards the end of his life) was Tinkori-da’s student in Shibpur. Tinkori-da came to the Ashram in 1942 intending it to be a short visit. He stayed a month, then two and then decided to settle here permanently. The old headmaster did not appreciate this sudden move of Tinkori-da’s. Tinda never went back. In fact I don’t think he went anywhere more than 5 km from the Ashram. Cazanove and Rizière were the distant places he went to, that too for harvesting with all of us — schoolchildren, teachers, etc. In those days the school was closed (or those who chose to work were exempted from attending classes) during those 3-4 days of harvesting. It is not that we bunked classes.

Tinkori-da continued his old profession of teaching grammar and English here in the Ashram School. He also worked in the Granary and I think in the Dining Room too. We met, back in 1947 or 1948 as teacher and student across the classroom. He was one of the very rare persons who saw poetry in grammar — in English grammar at that. He seemed to relish it like we would a bestselling novel. To us it was dry as dust and as unpalatable. Fifty minutes of it gave us “pins and needles” of the brain. Oh! But how he tried and how we resisted. He was too good, simple and kind-hearted for us. We arrived late, either playing games before the class started, or going out to pluck some mangoes to be distributed and eaten during the class (he didn’t know about it). Sometimes he saw us going out when he was entering the classroom. He would chide us, but to no effect — we went out. Once in a while as a desperate measure he would threaten to leave the class and go away. He did it once, but we ran after him and pleaded and said we would fall at his feet. Then he went all soft and felt embarrassed and quickly came back, sat on his chair and all was forgotten. I don’t remember how far past the front cover of that thick red grammar book we ever got — not very far one would suspect. But all this was just from “bell to bell” of that class. We met in the Ashram, Playground, harvesting, etc. — neither he nor we let the “grammar” come between us.

Tinkori-da was neither a sportsman nor a sports lover in his preashram days. He considered football a game for savages. But here he did join the group activities (not games), just the marching and exercises in the body-building gym. He was naturally endowed with some strength. (He did heavy physical work in the Granary. It gave him quite some exercise and strength.) He and I had struck a deal. We all went to the Dining Room after the Mother’s Distribution in the Playground. The agreement was that he would carry me piggyback half the way and I would carry him rest of the way. I would jump on to his back outside the Playground and get down only at the crossing of Jawaharlal Nehru Street and François Martin Street. Then I would try to pick him up. But he felt very embarrassed and pleaded not to be picked up. I think only once did I forcibly give him a lift — that too only part of the way. He was a great worker and more — he was a nice, gentle and a sincere person. His mind was ever a clean slate — nothing of the past, even of the previous one hour, was carried over. Once someone in a jocular vein asked him, pointing a finger at me: “Tinda, he was very naughty, and troubled you, did he not?” Tinkori-da cut him short saying: “Is that any of your business?” Actually we were great friends. He would ask me almost everyday in the Gym: “Tomaké èk chaud débo?” (Shall I give you a slap?) I would turn my bare back to him and say: “Yes, please give me one.” He would swing his hand, and gently lay it on my back.

Tinkori-da retired from school, I think, due to old age. Later he took ill, and his mind too wandered a bit. One evening someone told me, “Tinkori-da is missing.” It was around 8 p.m. I hopped onto my bicycle and went zigzag down one road and up the next. By good fortune or chance, I found him near the Railway Station. He was stopped by an open drain a foot wide. It appeared too wide for him to cross over. When I approached him, he asked me: “Dèkho to bhai, ami par hoté parbo ki?” (can you tell me if I will be able to cross over?) I asked him, “Tinda, where are you headed?” He pointed South (the wrong, the opposite direction) and said: “Home — but I can’t cross the water.” I got him to sit at a nearby tea-stall, called a rickshaw and brought him home. Not long after that I heard that he had crossed that last River — that was on 13th of June in 1978.

I can well imagine what might have happened on that 13th of June:

A knock at Tin-da’s door.

Tin-da: Who is there?

Yamaraj: It is me, Yamaraj.

Tin-da: O God! Come in — but you should have replied, “I

Yamaraj” and not “me, Yamaraj”.

Yamaraj: I am sorry — but it was so long ago.

Then he slipped in with a smile and helped Tin-da up, and off they rode into the silent, soft sky.