Among the Not So Great

Kalyan-Da

(A Sparkling Vintage Wine)

Whatever a man’s age, he can reduce it several years by putting a bright coloured flower in his button hole.

Mark Twain

Kalyan Chaudhury or simply Kalyan-da was a man in a class by himself. Born into an aristocratic family — father a well known shikari (hunter) of those early years of the last century, another of his kinsmen an ex-Chief of the Army Staff of the Indian army, Gen. J.N. Chaudhury, and another a well known writer, Pramatha Chaudhury. Kalyan-da seemed to have inherited some of these traits in good measure. Top these up with a flair for sports and spinning yarns — and what you have is a matchless man with a charm all his own, loved by all and a man who loved all. The tiger and leopard skins in Sri Aurobindo’s room were all from Kalyan-da’s or his father’s hunting trophy collection. The elephant skull in our science laboratory was of the household elephant’s. His name was Mohanlal. When he died they buried the body in their vast garden, as was usually done. Later the bones would be dug out and sold off or given away. As for the skull, I gather that the Mother was told about it, and She said it could be brought over here — it landed up in our laboratory.

Kalyan-da was born on the 28th of March of 1909. He was in his youth a bright student and later was sent to Europe to study engineering. I think he could already build tall stories — all in good fun, no serious implications.

Not much did I know about him, prior to his life here in the Ashram. He came here way back in 1938 and was at once captured by the Mother and Sri Aurobindo. He did have a heavy tilt (like the leaning tower of Pisa, for which he did have a remedy long, long decades ago. But there were no takers) towards this life (for which he had no remedy). He had two or three experiences, before he arrived here, when in England and elsewhere in India. I came to know of them only recently, and will speak of them anon.

I shall now go forward in time to 1945 and onwards, when I actually set my eyes on him, the “ordinary” Kalyan-da. The first impressions were also the last (so to say). Kalyan-da was an athletic-looking man — good height, wiry well-defined muscles, yet smooth and supple. His movements had a felineness. A kindly smile ever played on his lips. The nose — oh! the nose — was ever so lightly turned up and pointed, with a slight bump below the bridge. He dressed himself up smartly, always in white shorts, a white T-shirt or shirt with collar turned up to lend to the smartness. He changed to white trousers for cricket — a legacy of the Empire. There never was a hint of dandyism, only smartness. I spoke of ‘first and last impressions being the same’, for he was ever young physically and mentally (he often wore a rose in his button-hole), and his heart too was always ebullient, warm and generous. But (always there is a ‘but’), his ire could easily be roused, but as easily doused. On occasions I happened to raise it to its full flaring. Later (even to this day) it is only I who seem to remember the happening. He, the victim, seemed, not only to have forgiven me, but also forgotten the episode the very next day! We could sum up Kalyan-da as a ‘cavalier’ — colourful with a bit of dash, ever ready to fight but as ready to succour.

Kalyan-da was a good sportsman. He played good enough tennis and cricket. He was a stylist and played his strokes (tennis, cricket and verbal) correctly and gracefully.

Kalyan-da was an ‘Ashram renowned’ spin bowler — leg spin — if my cricket vocabulary is correct, and a correct and elegant batsman. He considered the game to be a gentleman’s game (this was before the era of match-fixing) and frowned upon any departure from the accepted norms and decorum of dress and behaviour — be it in player or spectator. As both, I rubbed him the wrong way, on occasions. Once as a spectator, I with the help of Alain (a French boy, an ex-student), was rooting, rather vociferously, for no one in particular. Kalyan-da was more than a bit annoyed, and exclaimed ‘Joto din e duto borbor ache, ami khelbona’ (as long as these two barbarians are there, I will not play). He soon forgot all about it. Again, when I, as a player, hit 3-4 consecutive balls of his famous leg-spin to the boundary, he said with some disgust and / or exasperation ‘E to spiner mormo bojhena’ (He does not even understand the value / intricacy of spin). Again once I was keeping the wicket and he was batting. He turned round (is it leg-side?) and hit the ball hard. I instinctively closed my eyes but put out my hands and caught him out. He was speechless, but soon recovered and said ‘Shala, Oldfieldo dhorte partona’ (even Oldfield could not have caught that ball). But for these small, insignificant, spicy eruptions, he was a great player and coach. He was a good tennis coach too. He helped many an upcoming youngster by coaching him and even giving a racket, shoes, etc.

Kalyan-da played some football too. There was a friendly match between the Ashram Veterans Team and the J.S.A.S.A. Team to mark the opening of our Football Field (Sportsground) in 1952. The Mother “kicked off” the match. Nolinida, Tejenda, Anilda (Jhumur’s father), Udaisingh, Vishwanathda (Drawing Office), Kalyan-da, etc. were of the Veteran’s Team. On the JSASA (Ashram 1st Team) team were Sunilda, Kanakda, Ranjuda, Mona... and I too was there. It was great fun, but for an incident — Kalyan-da tripped or was charged and fell, broke an arm! So, sadly, this was the first and last time we saw Kalyan-da play football.

One evening, in a corner of the Playground, there was a lively debate going on, on the merits and demerits of Games vis-à-vis Gymnastics. Kalyan-da entered, and spoke up (he was a champion of Games) “What is there in Gymnastics? Even a monkey can be taught to do gymnastics.” So that was Kalyan-da of the flashy bat and sharp and ready tongue.

Kalyan-da took some classes too, for a few years. Physics and general science were his subjects (Sciences Appliquées). They (the classes) had a special air about them, for you could expect the unexpected. Once when a student, whose answers were marked ‘wrong’, pointed out that the text book we were studying supported him, Kalyan-da from his chair declared ‘Boi Bhool!’ (the book is wrong) — and that was that. Later he changed his occupation from culturing us to agriculture.

Kalyan-da took up the New Paddy Land, a paddy field acquired by him for the Ashram. He then called himself a ‘chasha’, developed it and produced a good amount of paddy to supply the Ashram. He often took us along in his jeep and showed off his fields and the bounty they produced. On one of these outings when I asked why the Ashram could not have a banana plantation of its own, he offered to buy some land and put me up as in-charge, with all the amenities like scooter, house, etc. He would have done it immediately had I said “Yes”. But I did not, as I was already working at the Swimming Pool. I told him I wouldn’t mind taking up the job, if he could relieve me of the job I was at. This was not possible. The idea fizzled out.

In the early “chasha” days Kalyan-da did have one or two helpers at the New Paddy Land. They were there each for short periods. So Kalyan-da would go in a jeep and supervise the work himself. Some of the workers resided on our land and worked in the fields. Later Kamal, a young man from Bengal, landed up in Pondicherry and fortuitously, was put to work under Kalyan-da. He continues to reside there and run the show. He enjoyed his initiation and tutelage under Kalyan-da and has a great regard for him. He told me that Kalyan-da used to come to the fields, make a short inspection tour and then sit in the room. He sat there silent and pensive and some sort of serenity would pervade the place. He, Kamal, could not and dared not speak and break that pervasion.

One old and aged worker resided on the premises. He, on an occasion, for some (misguided) reason, took 4 or 5 casuarina poles, without asking (either one of the K’s) and kept them in his hut. This, we would normally term as ‘theft’. Kamal ferretted them out and removed them and informed Kalyan-da. Kalyan-da did not show any great appreciation for the piece of sleuthing. He smiled and was silent for a while. Then, in a quiet and kindly tone asked Kamal: “Tumi oke ato lojja dile keno?” (Why did you shame him so?) He continued in the same tone: “Kamal, think well and quietly, and tell me who amongst us is not a thief?” Kamal was nonplussed, but took time out to ponder over the matter. He finally came to the embarrassing conclusion that he could not think of a “non-thief”.

Kamal’s awe and admiration only increased in later days when he went to visit Kalyan-da in his house. Kalyan-da was then recuperating from an accident. He had a rib broken which would not permit him to lie down. He did not permit himself any medicines. So, he was sitting on a reclining chair for 3 days! There seemed to be no signs of fatigue on his face or body or any strain on his mind. He seemed cheerful and smiling — his usual self. When asked he said: “Oh! such things happen. One has to take them in one’s stride.”

Kalyan-da had another love — apart from teaching, sports and agriculture. He liked, owned and drove some good cars. He had a Jeep, a Jaguar and a vintage flashy red M.G. Sports. As all else he did, he drove too with élan and elegance. He did drive well, often steering with one hand. The other hand may be holding a bouquet of flowers as he once did and nudged a three wheeler. Fortunately for Kalyanda, the three wheeler happened to be moving on the wrong side of the road and so had to bear the blame. The bouquet went unnoticed. I happened to see it, but kept mum. He also happened to back his car into a lamp-post. He cursed the Régie d’Electricité saying ‘Shalara post kothay putte hoï janena’ (they don’t even know where to place a post).

Kalyan-da by his own account could smoke like a chimney. He had given it up in his earlier days here, but resumed it later — at least occasionally. He even asserted that the ensuing smoke would keep away mosquitoes and other insects (so it would — if dense enough). He went through the Sundarbans, without hosting mosquitoes, by this simple (pleasant) ruse.

This was the Kalyan-da we actually saw, talked to and played with. At 80 he moved and drove around like a man half his age. The smile too never left his face, nor the mind and heart their warmth and ebullience. One may wonder why and how he was all that he was. Let us now go back in time to delve a little deeper into his life. The answer may lie there.

(Much of what follows about his experiences is in his own language. He speaks about himself in the third person. I have quoted him from the book ‘Breath of Grace’, his words indicated by quotation marks.)

Kalyan-da was for a short time in England, engaged professionally. One day as he was sitting by a window reading and looking out at a nearby cathedral: “A clear command came from somewhere he knew nothing about, a gentle but firm voice told him: ‘Why linger here any longer, go home.’ The more he turned it in his mind, the command he had received, the more insistent it became.” Kalyan-da arranged a release from the firm he was working with and “within a week he turned his steps homeward.”

“Back home he directed his steps towards his boyhood love — the forests. Once again the solitude he had missed for so many years was his. One day while waiting to go out, sitting close to the fringe of a dense jungle, all on a sudden he found the entire forest of trees, shrubs and the few persons moving about, including himself, were all merged in a vibrating dance of life, everything was a-throb with an inner pulsation that filled his heart with a joy he had never tasted before.”

The third experience was as follows: “As he was walking alone, by and by he came to a small hill, a sudden impulse made him climb to the top. It was just before sunset and as he sat on the top and looked at the sun, the surroundings seemed to be blotted out and he saw only the setting sun, as he kept gazing on it there came out of the sun millions of suns and they all rushed towards him entering into his heart in an unending stream.”

Kalyan-da later recounted the last experience to Sri Aurobindo who explained it thus: “The Sun represents the Divine Truth, the same truth in infinite forms resides in the heart of man. Man in his heart has to find the infinite Truth hidden there. It is a clear indication to the seeker of the Truth.”

Kalyan-da’s father died in an accident — “The only person who could have checked his heart’s bent.”

“Then as soon as the family affairs were settled he began journeying from one religious centre to another — Dakshineshwar, Benaras and others.” “He felt the chosen haven still eluding him. This went on for three years, till one day he learnt that his cousin Dilip Kumar Roy was coming on a visit to his home town. Dilip had left his home nine years earlier, and was residing at Sri Aurobindo Ashram, Pondicherry, having taken up a life of yoga.”

Kalyan-da, from his childhood, admired Dilip very much. Dilip was there for 5 months, during which Kalyan-da gleaned as much as he could about life in the Ashram. “A study of books by Sri Aurobindo began, heaping wonder upon wonder as he read, not only flooding his mind but his heart too began to stir and respond to the light of discovery rendering him very happy indeed. It seemed to him at that time a wonder why he had missed reading Sri Aurobindo’s books so far. Probably the hour had not yet struck, the striking being in the hands of Him who decides all.”

Kalyan-da’s first Darshan of the Mother and Sri Aurobindo was on 15th August 1938: “...Gladly and joyfully his head lowered at the beautiful feet of the Mother, feet like white lotuses, sans pareil, were they, and he felt a gentle touch as if reassuring him that to bow down next to the Master would not be such an ordeal. Then he turned to look straight into the eyes of the Master, with a mixed feeling of joy and reverence he placed his head on the feet of the Lord, beautiful and soft they were and his whole face sank into the very softness. Then a hand of great weight pressed his head deeper still into that softness. Lingering there for a while, a short while, he raised his head and once more looked into his eyes. What he saw there words cannot describe, even an infinitesimal part of it — the entire universe was there, his universe.”

No more may one wonder that Kalyan-da seemed happy and smiling — as would one who had “merged into a vibrating dance of his heart with a joy he had never tasted before.” He himself concludes thus: “Since that day many years have gone by as he trod and is still treading the path, which is unending, resolved to go through, cost what it may, certain of reaching the goal to-day, tomorrow or perhaps after many lives, whenever the Master would choose to crown his efforts, if at all they were his. His days in the Ashram are wonderfully joyful, merged in the atmosphere pervading there; grateful, eternally grateful from the very bottom of his heart for the benedictions showered on him by the all-compassionate Gurus, the Mother and Sri Aurobindo — to him the Supreme incarnated in dual form.”

This is the life-story of Kalyan-da — a long, eventful and satisfyingly full one — starting off in a good, well-to-do family, youthful years hunting in the old teeming jungles, studentship in Europe (engineer), and finally life in the Ashram as a teacher, sportsman and farmer. A long innings indeed of 84 years when on 2nd of October 1993 he was “caught” (gathered) by the Great Wicket-keeper of Worlds.

The vintage wine bubbled over, when the cork popped, and lost itself into the heart of that “Sun from which a million suns rushed out to enter his heart” — so long ago on that small hill.

For when the One Great Scorer comes to write against your name,
He marks — not that you won or lost — but how you played the game.

Grantland Rice