Among the Not So Great

Bula-Da (Charu Chandra Mukherjee)

(Thunderer with a Song)

The inside of every cloud
Is bright and shining;
I therefore turn my clouds about,
And always wear them inside out,
To show the lining.

Ellen T. Fowler

There was a time in the Ashram when everyone knew everyone. There is some truth (not all the truth) in the saying “Small is beautiful”. That was the time when we referred to the Ashram Departments as Khirod-da’s, Mani’s or Udar’s. One such was Bula-da’s. I am glad to note that some still call it Bula-da’s. Surely Bula-da’s is more homely, has more an old-time charm, than “Régie d’Électricité” or “the Plumbers”. Who does not know Bula-da? Most Ashramites surely do — anyone who switched on an electric light or used a tap should remember him.

On the 9th of September this year (9.9.99), Bula-da would have been a hundred years old. This is a delayed tribute to a great grand old man whose eyes were ever so crossed, yet the vision straight, the views straighter and the strength of purpose, the unwavering devotion, the straightest and most constant.

Bula-da was born a hundred years ago on the ninth day of the ninth month of the 99th year of the 19th century. This number 9 seems to have dogged his footsteps through much of his life. He first arrived here in the ninth month of 1930. He did go back, but came and settled here in the July of 1934 — since then he never went out of Pondicherry, even for a day. In the olden days the Mother distributed soup to sadhaks in numbered cups — his was numbered 9.

Bula-da did not intend to stay in the Ashram. He had ideas about doing some business to earn money for the Mother. He did do some business in jute. But the Mother had other ideas. She gave him the flower “Aspiration in the Physical”, saying this flower would bring him back. And so it happened. Sahana-di, his aunt — well-known in Bengal as the Nightingale of Bengal — was already here. Then others of the family, mother Amiya, aunts Nolina and Aruna and brother Kunal followed. It seems Nolina-di’s husband, Dr. Ghosh, sent Bulada to the Ashram to bring her back to Calcutta. Bula-da came and never went back, nor did Nolina-di. I wouldn’t know what Dr. Ghosh did about it.

Bula-da was a big man, with a well built body (must have been very strong in his youth). Biggish cheeks, but slightly hanging. The eyes held a squint and a crease ran from between the eyebrows up the forehead. Not the handsomest person one can come across, not in the least. But he had a charm of his own (specially when he smiled or laughed) that could only be felt by a closer acquaintance. Let us make a closer acquaintance. Bula-da had his education at Shantiniketan, was quite close to Rabindranath Tagore. It seems he sang quite well too — nothing surprising if his aunt Sahana-di was anything to go by.

Bula-da like many of the old sadhaks was uncompromising in quality of work. A straight line was a straight line for him. Any kink or deviation in thought, speech or action had to be immediately straightened out. This was usually done by heat-treatment. All in his Department knew this. Be it a paid worker, sadhak, or even some government official, he had to suffer this very democratic treatment. None could oppose him or challenge him. His sincerity and strength of purpose made him irreproachable. But he was not all fire. He never retained the heat he generated. One moment he may scorch you, and the next, reach out to you all smiles and sympathy.

Bula-da lived (except the first 2-3 years) in the main Ashram Building, in the room next to the stairs near the cashier’s office (Mansukh lives there now). It may interest people to know that the original cashier was Satyakarma (Pavan and Varun Reddy’s great grandfather). He lived there (in the Cashier’s Office) contendedly all his Ashram life, in one corner of that office, just an area of 20 sq. ft. or so, curtained off from the rest of the room. A small story — to better know what it takes to be contented. Alexander the Great, conqueror of half the known world, found the world too small. Diogenes, his contemporary and an ascetic philosopher, lived in a bath-tub and found it enough. Alexander once went to visit Diogenes. He stood in front of the tub and asked Diogenes if he needed anything. The old man replied from the tub, “Just get out of the way, let the sun fall on me — nothing more.”

Bula-da led an extremely simple life. His room contained practically nothing; the impression one got was emptiness. That’s because it held not one bit of anything but the barest necessities — a small table, chair, cot and a kuja of water. Later one almirah was added to keep some things not belonging to him. A ceiling fan came much later (maybe in the 70s), hung there by his staff and his well-wishers. They forced it on him. I wonder if he used it much — if at all. He had for decades a hand-fan made from a section of a palm leaf. Chandubhai has inherited it and uses it even now in his Golconde room, in preference to a table-fan. Incidentally, it may be thought-provoking to note that Golconde has no ceiling fans, nor are any contemplated. It is the Ashram’s most “exclusive” guest house, also the oldest and most famous. (Except for Guest House where Sri Aurobindo and the Mother resided in the early days.) Fortunately Golconde is excluded from our usual list of guest houses.

There were many hurricane lanterns in Bula-da’s room, well maintained and ready for use. A ladder too was there or close by, also ready for instant use. He needed it very often for electrical repairs. In his younger days (even when not so young) one might have seen him rushing with the ladder, to restore some light or power. He said, only he knew how to navigate it through a crowd, so it was risky offering to help him. It was best not to ask where, why, or why not. If you cared, just follow him and wait.

Bula-da’s unchanging dress was a white dhoti, worn in Bengali working class style (not the Bengali Babu’s) and a white half shirt. I don’t think anyone has seen him differently dressed. It could be minus the shirt late at night.

Bula-da took his work as his sadhana, his lifetime offering to his Gurus. His devotion to it, through it to his Gurus, knew no bounds of time, weather or mood. He could not tolerate anything, be it a person, an event or a personal feeling, to come between him and its accomplishment. One may think all this to be a bit of an overstatement. Read on, then, draw your own conclusions.

Once the Mother was slightly indisposed. She had to go frequently to the WC. Sometime in the evening Amrita-da (or Pavitra-da?) informed Bula-da about the Mother’s condition and added that the flush was stuck and water was constantly gushing out. It had to be repaired. Bula-da was in a fix. At that time of the evening, none could enter Her room, leave alone repairing a flush. Bula-da thought — and acted. The night passed uneventfully. Next morning the flush was repaired and Amrita-da (or Pavitra-da?) informed Bula-da that all went off well the previous night — so he thought. But how did it all go so well the night through? No one probably gave it serious thought. The fact (found out much later) was that while others slept, Bula-da was awake on duty. He had gone up, onto the terrace of the Mother’s room. He sat near the overhead tank and kept watching the bathroom window. He closed the control valve on the pipe leading to the WC. When the Mother switched on the light he would open the valve. When the Mother put off the light, he would again close the valve. Thus he passed the night, hand on the valve and eye on the window for the tell-tale light. Who knows, some other Light may have shone on Bula-da, for She surely Knew. The incident may well be a measure of Bula-da’s devotion and loving concern for the Mother.

Once even Bula-da disobeyed the Mother!! We do it often enough for our sake. Bula-da did it for Her or Sri Aurobindo’s sake. Even then it would seem actions will have reactions and consequences. It is probably a responsibility God has assumed, to absorb and mitigate some of the unpleasant consequences. (Else what buffetting would we be subjected to?)

The episode was of a long time back. There happened to be a strike or some such trouble (possibility of violence) brewing up in town. All Ashramites were forbidden to venture out into the market area. But, Bula-da needed urgently to buy (needed by the Mother) some part of an appliance. He, with his usual fervour, thought he would (or should) quickly sneak out, make the needed purchase, and return before any friend or foe, could take notice of his moves. But some One was vigilant — the Mother came to know. When Bula-da went up She pulled him into the bathroom, out of others’ gaze. She was in an angry mood — raised Her hand to strike! Bula-da was paralysed stiff in front of what he saw — Mahakali. Sweat poured out of every pore. Then as sudden as the Mahakali appearance, the “Mother” aspect returned and the raised hand was lowered gently. Bula-da was shaken and pleaded “Ma — I will never do it again.”

Dyuman-bhai and Bula-da were doing some heavy work in the store. They were quite tired. A strange but very logical thought crossed Bula-da’s mind, “Mother resides in all of us. So if I am tired, She too should be feeling so.” After the work he went up to Her and was wonderstruck — for She, was on the point of dropping Herself into a nearby chair, with deep intake of breath, as would an exhausted person!

Another touching scene was when Bula-da felt a child’s hurt pride towards the Mother (for some childish reason). He had not given expression to his feelings, but when he did go to Her, She looked at him, took his hands in Hers, and pulled him into Her embrace — a soothing balm to the hurt as soothing as you ever get them.

Bula-da was a man of single and straight thought process. The following is puzzling or enlightening. I wonder which. The story in itself is rather simple. A bulb (light) went kaput in his room and there sat Bula-da for a time wondering “Who should I report to, about the bulb?” Then it suddenly occured to him, “Oh, I should tell Bula!”

Such men like Bula-da seem at times to forget who they are, lose their identity, — or have they merged their individuality into a greater ONE?

Just listen to this and draw your own conclusions. The famous Anandamoyee (a great guru in her Ashram) from Bengal, once visited our Ashram with a few of her disciples. Bula-da had a great wish to see her (meet her). He could not, due to his duties. He hurried through his work, and would have made it just before she was scheduled to leave — so he thought. Suddenly there was a call from the Mother. He rushed up to the Mother, saw Her pacing the room. He stood by, awaiting Her command or wish — they never came. After quite a while She looked up, smiled and said, “O, you can go now.” Bulada hurried out, a bit puzzled, but knowing somewhat Her ways, he thought no more about it — until he discovered that Anandamoyee had just left. He then re-aligned his thoughts.

The following episode gives an insight into another aspect of Bula-da. His room’s window opens on to the road in front of our Dispensary. I have seen or heard of people calling him, waking him up in the dead of the night for some urgent reason or other. On one such night, one of the Ganguli brothers (Manoranjan Ganguli’s son, probably Barin) woke up Bula-da. He seemed quite desperate. He requested Bula-da to go and report at once to the Mother about his sister’s condition. She was very ill. The others of the family were very anxious and nervous. Bula-da would have been justified had he said, “No, not possible — maybe tomorrow I can do it.” For indeed it was not possible for anyone to meet the Mother at that time of the night. But Bula-da could not just turn him away disappointed. He told him, “OK, now don’t worry. Go home and sleep well.” Bula-da’s thoughts ran on wider tracks than the usual — maybe they ran on Faith and Devotion. He went to the Samadhi and actually “reported” the sick girl’s condition — to the Samadhi! Thereafter he gave no more thought to the matter, and resumed his sleep.

The next morning one of the Gangulis went up to the Mother to tell Her about their sick sister — and before he could proceed, She said: “Oh yes, I know. Bula had informed me.”

Then there is this little story of Devendra’s (Electric Workshop). He was fortunate enough to work under Bula-da and so receive the “hot and cold” treatment. It has, I believe, had some effect in shaping and tempering him to some extent.

The day was Devendra’s birthday. There was a call for duty in the Ashram. Devendra went and Bula-da acted as his assistant-cumsupervisor. Bula-da kept pouring a constant stream of strong advice and comments on the working man. Fortunately Devendra knew what was good for him, kept quiet, and absorbed what he could. The work over, he left — a bit punch drunk but richer by the experience. Later Bula-da came to know that it was Devendra’s birthday. Bula-da found him, gave him some sweets, patted him on the back with a big smile and said, “Bhai, tomar jonmodine tomay khatiye, boke dilam. Kichchhu mone korona.” (On your birthday I made you work and scolded you. Don’t take it to heart.) Devendra was moved and embarassed by Bula-da’s gesture — genuine and loving.

Devendra was recipient of some more lessons from Bula-da of which two from the early days of his coming to the Ashram may be interesting and enlightening.

Sunday is, as we all know, taken for granted, and some even claim as a “right”, a holiday. Well, Devendra too was one who thought so. On Sundays he spent morning hours in the Library, reading. On one such Sunday, Bula-da had an urgent job for Devendra. He looked for him, naturally could not get him in the usual haunts, which for Bula-da were the 2 or 3 electrical deptartments, D.R. or the Ashram. When he heard that Devendra was in the Library, he was not very impressed. He rather in no uncertain terms impressed on Devendra that on such leave days he had more responsibility to attend to. Bulada told Devendra to sit in his office upto 11.30 a.m. on Sundays, etc. I think Devendra still follows that directive.

A more interesting, with more connotations than the above episode, is the following one — again with Devendra as the “hero” under Bula-da’s hammer shaping. Devendra was newer. He had, he thought, some spare time early in the morning. He watched two old sadhaks, namely Khirod-da and Biren-da (both late, one of the Building Service and the latter the Garden Service) sweeping the Ashram courtyard. Nowadays there are many such privileged sweepers — with some difference. Devendra approached one of them and asked, “Dada, I too want to sweep. I am free at this time and can help you.” Biren-da looked up and asked: “Bhai, tumi parbe ki...” (Bhai, will you be able to do this work...) and continued, “It is a difficult job. You see, Nolinibabu walks up and down, from the Meditation Hall to the Samadhi — and how can anyone sweep when he is passing by? You have to wait until he is out of sight and sweep the Meditation Hall side, stop when he comes round the corner, go sweep the Samadhi side, stop before he comes round again and go to the Meditation Hall side... can you do it?” Devendra said he could try. Then Khirod-da said: “All right, but I have to refer your case to the Mother. You may write down your name, your work and other details and give it to me. I will send it Up.” Devendra did so as early as he could. Khirod-da warned him thus: “I am sending this Up through Nolinibabu. I cannot say, nor can I ask Nolinibabu as to when the answer will come. I cannot even remind him, you too should not ask me about it.” Devendra was a bit deflated and mystified, but agreed to abide by these rules. A month passed by — no reply. Another fifteen days went by — same silence. I would sidetrack here with another short story.

Devendra used to go to Bula-da’s room usually at 11.30 a.m. and accompany him to the D.R. Bula-da usually occupied the same place for his meals. He took from the counter only what he could eat and always ate all he took with great relish. He cleaned up the plate with a piece of bread saved for the purpose (a habit of many old sadhaks, not much seen nowadays. I too had picked it up from them, but dropped it somewhere on the way). He took the empty dish to the washing place and to the first person he met there, he would remark, “Ah, ki ranna! Pet bhore kheyechi!” (Ah, what cuisine! I have eaten my fill!) He really meant it and this was a daily unfailing programme.

Now to continue on the main track. After about one and a half months of imposed silence Devendra as usual went to Bula-da’s room at 11.30 to move on to D.R. No sooner than they came out of the Ashram, Bula-da’s salvo caught Devendra absolutely unawares, pants down. He for a few seconds did not know what hit him or why. He was the only one within range, so he knew he was the intended target. Bula-da opened up with: “What cheek you have. What emboldened you?” Devendra was still wondering, and Bula-da continued: “How could you write to the Mother asking permission to sweep in the Ashram? Nolini-da asked me about you. Have you not been given a big responsibility by the Mother? You have to look after water and electricity supplies. So, stick to these — you should have no other considerations.” That settled it — quiet again. Normal conversation resumed — D.R. and eating as if nothing had happened.

I too was within Bula-da’s firing range on an occasion or two. I had by then learned to duck under cover (mentally) and wait it out until the ammo was spent. The storm over, fine weather was sure to follow. Moreover, I had seen people much older and more important than I, cowed to silence by Bula-da’s wrath. So nothing to feel belittled about. Also the cleansing was usually deserved and good — a bit rough though it was.

There was a railing to be erected at the swimming pool. I thought of saving some money — so took some “once-used” GI pipes (a spot of rust here and there). I and some others around thought the pipes would serve the purpose. In came Bula-da. He asked: “What for are the pipes?” I told him, unsuspecting and relaxed — when the blast came. “Tumi ki pagol? Buddhi, shuddhi nai?” (Are you mad? Have you lost your sense?) He went on: “Who taught you this false economy? What if the railing breaks, and a child falls, who will be responsible?” I did not offer any explanation. He cooled down as suddenly as he had burst out and said: “Why don’t you take some new pipes?” So a good job was done — the railing still stands and serves.

Years ago two Government officials came to settle a dispute as to what tariff should be paid by us on power consumption in the Swimming Pool. One was from the Centre, the other from the State, both of high standing. Bula-da was our representative. The higher one, from the Centre, had visited the place the previous day, when only I was present. He, like me, assumed the role of a passive onlooker. Bula-da had only the officer from the State to deal with. The gentleman had hardly set the ball rolling when Bula-da came down heavily on him and pinned him down — not on any technical point but on some common ethical points, that the gentleman had failed to observe. We, the officer from the Centre and I, enjoyed the 20-minute one-sided battle. The “victim” too kept quiet, for he knew Bula-da was right, not just for that occasion, but as far back as he could recollect.

One may be led to think that Bula-da was nothing but a bundle of tinder, ready to catch fire at the least spark. True, to a certain extent — from a certain point of view. But one should also try to find out what sort of fire it was, what the fire burned and why the fire flared up at all. I suppose those singed by him could give better and truer answers. I for one would opine the fire was necessary to burn away some useless accoutrements that we let cling to us.

I read somewhere that a measure of a people’s culture is their attitude and feeling towards their children. Bula-da went all soft and weak, overcome, when he saw or talked to any small child. There were three little children on whom he doted like a grandfather — Hema, Prema and Mahi. His three “grandchildren” may have more to tell. He had another very human penchant — Tea. Bula-da, one fine morning, came to Parul’s room. He was passing by and just peeped in. He sat awhile and talked of old times. He then got up to leave. Parul and I pleaded with him to dally a while longer. He said, “No, no, I have to go — another day.” We then suggested: “Bula-da, ek cup cha kheye jan.” (Have a cup of tea and go.) A half guilty smile broke across his face and he said, “Achcha — a cup of tea — maybe I can linger a little longer!” He sat down and we sipped a long slow cup of memories.

Bula-da was keenly aware of the difficulties of others too. He did not shut himself up in his “tower” (ivory was out of the question). It was on his insistence that the Matrisharanam was built, for he felt that the visitors must have a place with no charges levied to at least wash off the grime and weariness of their travel. (I leave to each one’s imagination the pleasure felt when one can answer one’s “call of Nature”, that too decently and discreetly. Moreover, what relief to the public.) During meditations he allowed people to occupy his room as sitting place was always scarce on such occasions. He did not even mind people leaving their chappals in his room. It seems he even promoted the cause of our students who wanted to stay back and join the Ashram after their studies. He wished they be given full facilities. Albeit these are small matters, they take birth from deeper feelings — so I mention them.

Bula-da was not only in-charge of “Bula-da’s”. He was, as importantly, one of the three-member “Commando Force” within the Ashram (Dyuman-bhai and Haradhan-da being the other two). Dyuman-bhai and Bula-da had no day or night duties. They were on 24 hours alert. To us now those early days seem like some “Frontier days”, with hardly any amenities and back-up systems (fridge, generator, etc.), no regular services, no transport except an old bicycle. A shoestring budget completed the picture.

Bula-da was also a caretaker of the Ashram Main Building. Closing gates, doors, putting off lights, seeing to the orderliness of the Darshan crowds, shifting furniture, cleaning, polishing, fixing of curtains, replacing fused bulbs (sometimes, at odd hours, when no one was available or permitted — the Mother would hold the ladder while he climbed up), and keeping numerous hurricane lanterns filled (kerosene), cleaned and trimmed (in case of power failure) etc., etc., all these and more, came under the purview of Bula-da’s duty.

With so much to do he found it impractical to join in any function or programme outside the Ashram or, later, the Playground activities. On one occasion, long ago, Bula-da entertained a wish to go to witness a dance programme in Dilip-da’s (Dilip Kumar Roy) house (now the Tresor Nursing Home). He went to ask the Mother who was busy on the Meditation Hall stairs. She told him to wait and went upstairs. He waited and waited — the Mother did not come — the dance was naturally over. (It was like the Vindhya mountains waiting for Agastyamuni’s return from the South.) Bula-da took the hint. It was the last time he let such a wish enter him.

But a more exacting and satisfying duty Bula-da, Dyuman-bhai and Chinmayee had, and that was being the Mother’s personal “servants”. (Another team of equally dedicated “servants” for Sri Aurobindo was Champaklal-ji, Purani-ji, Nirod-da, Pujalal-ji, Moolshankar, Lallubhai, etc.) They had to be nimble-minded, nimble-footed and nimble-handed. Their jobs, small or big, were fixed to the minutest detail — as to how, who and when to do it. They took great joy and pride in satisfying their Masters. So the jobs, specially the cleaning and repairing, were to be done without disturbing Them — so quick — get in when They are out, and get out when They come in!

Bula-da, one of our old, old sadhaks, re-lives in us — a century old yet young in our minds and hearts. He was, and is, a path-pointer, one of those who trod the Path before us. For years, when down here, he showed the way — lantern in one hand and ladder in the other.

Bula-da was always optimistic. He was even quite sure he would reach a hundred years. But that was not to be. After a brief illness he left his body on the 28th of April 1986. On this Earth, when the Mother needed him he was always ready, Her willing servitor. If it was an electric or water problem, She depended entirely on Her Bula. His touch would set things right. The Mother once remarked: “Bula, they obey you, they listen to you.” One day during the War, when Sri Aurobindo had to have the news of the War, the speaker went dead. (The radio was kept in Pavitra-da’s room. A long wire connected the speaker in Sri Aurobindo’s room to the radio.) Pavitra-da was not around. Mother summoned Bula-da. He came running and said: “Mother, I don’t know anything about radio engineering.” She said: “Does not matter — go try.” He went and, maybe his hand was guided — he touched a wire joint — the speaker came alive! No wonder then, he left us earlier than expected. She must have called him urgently, held the Ladder — maybe some “light connection” problem, if not Up-there, maybe up-to-down-here. She may have set him waiting on the Path Beyond, to help us with another “lantern” and another “ladder” without a “last rung”. Not to be startled, if perchance a shout is heard — it is but an exhortation to move on.

I would end this saga of Bula-da with a final Hurrah! — a saga of devotion and dedication, of sincerity and simplicity, and an undemanding self-giving. He was a beautiful person — if we had the eyes to see! His Thunder was his song — had we the ears to hear!