Among the Not So Great

Kiran Chowdhury

A simpleton, a pundit

There is more simplicity in a man who eats caviar on impulse than in a man who eats grape fruit in principle.

G. K. Chesterton

Kiran Chowdhury was born in Chottogram (Bangladesh) in 1912. He was a dear friend of mine. He was known to many and many more have heard of him (many anecdotes are orally passed on). He was a legend even in his lifetime. I write about this friend just to perpetuate (so to say) the memory of an interesting simple man. I could not ignore this old man. I cannot categorise him as “great” nor as “not great” so he fits in as “a not so great”. I was one of his favourites. He had other favourites too, amongst whom should be included cows and goats.

A “pundit” it is said is one who knows something of everything and everything of something. Kiran-da knew something of everything or at least of many things but of nothing did he know everything. Because of the first trait he could have been and was a useful man. But somewhere in his makeup a complex, a mixture of oversensitivity, oversimplicity bordering on childishness got him into trouble. Not all (most) could be charitable to his shortcomings.

Kiran-da was not an impressive figure physically. He was short and compact, of dark complexion — a darkness enhanced by an abundance of dark body hair. The growth on top, where it mattered, grew sparse, but elsewhere the abundance persisted. A round face, nothing remarkable except for the eyes and eyebrows. He held his eyes wide-open as if staring and blinked less than is usual. It gave him a “surprised” look. The eyebrows were thick, bushy with no gap in between, seemed like only one, stretched from temple to temple. His voice was effeminate and seemed permanently hoarse. He liked to sing and went always for the classical. He floated off into a rapture by his own singing. He knew something about classical music of the North and practised it. (Some more about music later.)

Kiran-da joined the Ashram in 1938. In the early 40s he lived in the old Bakery House (now the North Block of our School). He was an enterprising man, strong and energetic, willing to work, with ideas crowding each other too fast for him to work them out. His ideas were not just fancy bubbles. They were backed by quite some working knowledge. He could and did put them into practice… but… we can conclude later. Let us first trace Kiran-da’s career through the 45+ years I knew him, with many ups and downs, but always interesting. I always wondered (still do) how he could gather all the knowledge into his not-so-bright a brain. I am led to wonder too — What is knowledge? What is intelligence? What in our cranium enables one or disables another.

Whatever my wondering Kiran-da too seemed to be dogged by these complexities and contraries. Luckily for him, I think he looked for the fault outside him (anyway most of us take umbrage similarly for what befalls us).

Kiran-da, as mentioned, lived in the “Old Bakery”. There was a very noisy milling machine in a common room of the building (hence the name). Kiran-da was the miller (in 1945-1946). He had some time and much energy left over, and many an idea clamouring to be let out. He and Sailen (Anil Baran Roy’s brother) joined hands and heads — they wanted to make some Hand Made Paper (HMP). This we might say was the great-grand-father of our present HMP. They collected old paper and soaked it to near rotting state. They laid their hands on an old pestle and mortar. The soaked paper was then pounded by hand in that mortar. It was heavy work. They then added some more water, spread the mess on some tray, drained the water and dried it. And lo — you got your HMP. Very soon the venture ran into trouble — not technical but “social”. The duo were free from their work only at night, so their pounding started then. One can imagine the plight of the co-dwellers who were trying to sleep, meditate or whatever else — they could not take this thumping. Moreover the town (at night) was silent — no traffic, no radio or TV. And people were more sensitive to noise — not, as now, deaf to it or benumbed by it. It was but a matter of days before they were asked to stop. But soon enough a solution was found. Jyotinda was incharge of Laundry (present location). He allowed the pounding to be done there. It was a more “away” place. They shifted. I have no idea of the quality or quantity of paper they produced. But soon for the same old reason they had to shift again. They resettled at the place that is now our House Maintenance Dept. on Aurobindo Street. That is where I saw it in 1945. Sailenda had left the job by then. He had gone on to become a teacher in our school. Sudhirda (Sirkar — Mona’s father) had stepped in. (Sudhirda cannot be dealt with so easily or offhand in this article. He is too great from all our points of view. Suffice it to say that he was a close collaborator of Sri Aurobindo and more, His personal attendant, friend and “son” in His political days in Bengal. Sudhirda was deported to the Andamans by the British and returned unbroken with the “fire” unquenched. He settled here to again serve his “father” and guru as before.)

Sudhirda and Kiran-da brought in some improvements in the HMP. The paper was now pulped by footwork (not arm strength). There was a thatched hut in front of their work place (now appropriately Sudhirda’s son Kalu has built his house on the spot). A cement cistern served as a mortar. A seesaw-like apparatus made of a beam (wood) with a vertically downward round wooden pestle fixed at one end, — was the new machinery. The seesaw went up and thumped down as a man/woman stepped back or forward on it. The pestle descended into the cistern with the seesaw’s movement and pulped the paper. The pulp was taken across the road and made into paper. No rollers or hydraulic presses were around. So, we got soft, thickish, roughish papers. These were made into notebooks. We used only pencils in our school. We had to write very lightly, else the impression went on to the next one, two or three pages. It was like an etching. It was very difficult to read under a 25w bulb at night. Not that we read much.

Along with the paper-making the two friends expanded and diversified — into dyeing. That was the undoing. The smoke etc. brought some protests from the increasing neighbourhood population. By now Sudhirda had quit to take up pottery. Again Kiran-da got a reprieve. A new place was offered him, a big one — the present location of HMP.

This new place was bought by the late Khodabhai, I am told, and offered to the Mother. It was a coconut grove with just a front wall (South) and a gate. (There are some such gardens and groves outside town. They are fast disappearing, swallowed by the city. It is often said that cities are the graveyards of villages — buried too is the silence and serenity.) Kiran-da shifted to the new place. A tin-roof shed was built. Kiran-da lived in one corner, the rest was his working place. He started off in right earnest on several fronts. Many a night did we (some of us boys) spend there, and after many cups of tea came to know of Kiran-da’s works and his dreams and his troubles.

He started to build a wall to surround the whole area (no New Creation’s Blocks existed then) The job was big and he was alone. He went ahead — he would watch the workers, count the bricks being unloaded at night. Everything else, and other works, were then forgotten. At about that time he planned to prepare some essence of rose (attar). He needed, he said, 100,000 country roses. He could procure may be a few dozens per day. He spread them out on the floor, daily adding more. But the first lot would not wait (fresh) for the 100,000! They started to dry or rot. The project was, as far as I know, abandoned. Then there were ideas to start ceramics, dyeing and what more I don’t know. All started but none developed to any great extent. The surprising fact was he did have the needful knowhow for all these projects.

There were two sitar boxes in a corner of his room. When we asked him about them he drew out one and played us a raga or two, regardless one or more missing strings. He even showed us a notebook where he had some notations given by the grand old man of Indian Music — Allauddin Khan (who had come to the Ashram and gave two concerts, one in Mridudi’s house i.e. Prasad House and at night in Arogya House).

Such was Kiran-da’s multisided genius, a bit erratic and muddled up. One can well imagine that a cloud or two would appear over Kiran-da’s uneven horizon. There could be many reasons for someone to rub him the wrong way — and it inevitably happened (I do not know the details). Kiran-da was disturbed. He went to see the Mother, in the evening to talk to Her. It so happened she was indisposed and was not seeing anybody. So Amritada told Kiran-da that it was not possible to see the Mother. Kiran-da was angry, desperate and puzzled. He thought: “Why stay here, when the Mother is not solving my problem?” He went back to HMP, handed the keys of the place to the watchmen and walked away.

Kiran-da of many skills worked his way South, Trichy, Dindigul, Coimbatore etc. He took contracts from police for dyeing, and some other works and carried on for some time. He was used to hard times and hard work, but somewhere a dissatisfaction lurked. He was drawn back to this place — his Home. So one day he turned up. Things had changed here. HMP was a real factory with a different head and setup. So started a new chapter for Kiran-da — the same with a different diversity and setting.

Kiran-da’s mind was ever casting about for new fields of action. He tried dairy farming (cows and goats), soap or shampoo making, growing seaweed or algae as food products and he tried too once again a steady job in Corner House which Pranabda tried to fix up for him, to give him a chance to settle down. He was given a room in Sports Ground. (Pranabda was one of those who understood and befriended him and whom he admired, respected and loved.) I cannot recount all these events in their chronological order but that is of no consideration.

Dairy & Corner House (CH) — These two go together for some of the feed for the cows went from CH. Kiran-da had some good friends. I think they often helped him financially. He got a piece of land about 3-4 km down the ECR (East Coast Road). He also got 4-5 cows. He treated the cows almost as humans. If he got a bar of chocolate, the cows had the first go at them. He also had a few theories about what to feed them. He fed the food rejects and peels from C.H. but supplemented that with some news or other paper! He soaked these in water and fed the cows this slurpy concoction. 5 cows gave 5 litres of milk. I have never visited his dairy. He lost the cows. I think some were stolen or he sold them and got cheated too in the transaction.

He carried all the food rejects in a gunny on the carrier of his cycle. He could not ride the cycle (too old, both he and cycle) but he pushed it all the way. Some miscreant even made off with the sack when he parked the cycle to answer “a call”. Kiran-da tried to shout to the man that it was not worth his while to steal that sack, but the man ran. When he did realise the truth he dumped the sack but landed a slap on poor Kiran-da — probably angry at being cheated!

Kiran-da was ready for any common product — be it ink (for the fountain-pen days) boot-polish, shampoo, soap, ceramics etc. etc.

The factory that supplied the swimming pool with liquid soap had shut down. Kiran-da was at hand — he was ready to make it, if I gave him the raw materials. He had it ready in 2-3 days’ time. One of the best we ever had.

Some girls wheedled him to make them some shampoo. How could he refuse? It was easy to flatter Kiran-da. So the girls had their shampoo at a fraction of the market price. He also made some ink for our Prosperity distribution, for fountain pens.

Diet & Nature — Kiran-da worked in C.H. but I don’t think his heart was in it. He longed for open air and an open road in front where he could run freely his oft changing ideas. He left C.H. and consequently Sports Ground. His next interest and venue shifted to “Laundry Land” — what was till recently Autocare. His mind now was all for Nature Cure. Natural way of life, of eating and of everything. He got interested in that new fad of seaweed diet, algae (spirulina) powder and what else I wouldn’t know. He wrote to Sweden and got the seed or spore for their culture in sterilised & packed test tubes. He even sounded me to get him a certain sea-bird from Andamans that carries some sea-weed spores from its feeding grounds on the open sea to its nest on shore. I couldn’t and wouldn’t fulfil his wish. Following Nature’s way he discarded footwear, went in for dew-bath, sand or mudbath, sunbath and, fortunately, a simple bath (did he use soap? — I can’t be sure). Walking along, talking to me on our football field he suddenly stooped down and picked two or three mushrooms and popped them into his mouth. I asked him “What if they are poisonous?” He smiled at my ignorance and said “Don’t worry. I know.” He was getting older all these many years — he was still healthy enough. He took no medicines. One popular belief is that bacteria avoided him. Yet the inevitable was happening. He lost one, then two and more teeth. He would not take dentures — it was not natural. Moreover they were false teeth, so more the reason to avoid them. During some of the conversations we had he said he was convinced he would live 100-125 years. Maybe he saw a shadow of doubt in my eyes, he remarked very matter of factly but innocently: “Jāninā tumi thākbe ki nā” (I don’t know if you will be there or not). He also believed that after 100, new teeth would grow to replace those falling off. He showed me his skin yet quite shiny and wrinkle-free. He asserted that his hair too would reappear in abundance. I peered over his bald pate and remarked that there was not much evidence of new hair. He said in reply: “As of now, I am not losing any hair.” I had to content myself with that.

Music — I spoke of Kiran-da’s two sitars — they were long neglected, so lost more wires and much else. He brought them over to Matriprasad and wanted him to get one ready by cannibalising and repairs. I don’t think Matri could do it.

Kiran-da possessed a harmonium too (when living in Sports Ground). He wanted to give vent to his voice. Being an early riser, and 4.30 or 5 am a good time to sing, he opened up at that hour. His co-dwellers were non-appreciative and even non-co-operative, intolerant. Kiran-da could not understand them. He came to me. I told him it is difficult to get people to change. It would be much easier and nicer if he did his singing out in the open. He could get on one of the galleries. He did so and was content. Sang for himself, his god and the sky.

Later — In spite of all he did, Kiran-da’s health was giving way. He gradually weakened. His step shortened, barely went beyond the length of his foot. Yet he made his painful way to his land. But it had to stop. Then his speech slurred, and the hands started to shake. He was afflicted by Parkinson’s. He was put in our Nursing Home and I visited him every 10-14 days and saw the slow decline. Yet he believed he would go home and work. He wanted me to look up his books, a few belongings and a microscope. The room was taken over by white ants. The books were half eaten up. Even the microscope was covered by them. I did gently break the news to him.

Kiran-da sank slowly and on 19.7.2001, in the evening, I was informed that he had quietly passed away. I was the nearest next of kin and had the dubious honour of anointing him before consigning him to the flames.

So lived amongst us Kiran-da — an interesting man, honest, guileless and too simple. He started but never ended anything — i.e. to our ways of thinking. He, for one, felt he had achieved much — so now where do we go? I would, we rather dwell on his honesty, simplicity and wonder at his ability to move from one thirst to another without quenching any. There lies his claim on me not to ignore him. So again I anoint him before consigning him to our collective memory.