Among the Not So Great

Nishikanto Roy Chowdhury (Kobi)

(A man who walked in his shadow)

He ceas’d; but left so pleasing on the ear
His voice, that list’ning still they seemed to hear.

Homer (Odyssey; Translation: Pope)

He is an exception to the series of “Among the Not So Great”. For, long before I thought of writing on him, he was great and well-known. He was commented upon by our Lord Himself. He called Kobi (Poet) a “Brahmaputra of Inspiration”! I was and am overawed and I nearly shied away from writing on this giant of a river, I, who may just be a trickle privileged to run for a short while along the banks of this Brahmaputra. A fond hope or wish that something may rub off led me on. Moreover did I think of a rarer part of him not much discussed or written about? I cannot say anything about his poetry. You could find out about that from Bengali literateurs like Nirod-da, Jugal-da etc. — or better still find out what our Master said of him. The part of him I speak about is not so well-known, more down to earth business, where we met and enjoyed each other’s close encounters.

Nishikanto was just Kobi for us (no “da”-appendage). Kobi was not an inspiring figure to behold. The head seemed too narrow towards the top. It was covered with long hair hanging in curly locks, well-oiled. The nose too long and straight to enhance anything but itself — it even tilted ever so slightly upward. He sniffed in a bit of snuff — that didn’t help matters. Round cheeks that gave him a “baby” look. Mouth usually ajar — to help intake of oxygen. This help was needed to combat a chronic cold, a nasal blockage. Narrow sloping shoulders atop an immense pot-belly completed the picture. No redeeming feature it would seem. But what of the eyes? They were large, dreamy, benign and smiled at all he saw. And what did he see? Certainly more than what most of us see. He was a poet, a seer, a visionary. He often walked down to the “old Balcony” (Ashram) at an hour when for us the Mother was apparently not there. Surely he did not go just to see the Balcony. It is said he could see the Mother there.

Let us now travel back down the corridors of Time to Shantiniketan. Kobi spent a few years there. Rabindranath Tagore was there. They could have revelled in each other’s poetry (if they would). Kobi was at that young age (and till the end) not only a great poet. He was also an excellent painter and a good cook and lover of good food and plenty of it. Many of the escapades then and later, and their effects on his body, had their cause and beginnings in the cooking pot. The earliest exploits I know of were at Shantiniketan. He had an able companion and conspirer in his brother Sudhakanto.

The first story starts with the Shantals of the area. They had killed a tiger. The two Kantos heard of it and hurried to the Shantal village. They bargained, pleaded, coaxed and got one of the hind-quarters of the tiger, smuggled it home, set about cooking this choice piece of meat. They boiled it a long time, yet it was tough, sort of chewy. By then the news got around — the Kanto brothers were eating a tiger — “tiger-eating men”! All were horrified. Some tried to dissuade them from this ultimate “carnivorism”. But the two would not let such a bargain go waste merely because of the queasiness of a few mere men. Finally the Guru himself — Rabindranath Tagore — had to intervene.

The next gastric outing was at the expense of one of their neighbours. That young man planted a coconut seedling, tended it lovingly. The plant grew into a tree. First the flowers, then the fruit appeared. The care doubled. He planned to offer the first fruit to Gurudev. The nut grew, and grew, under the doting eye of the owner. Then, one day he noticed that the fruit seemed to be shrinking. The next day showed a further wasting away. The third day the alarmed man went up the tree and to his dismay found a hole on top of the fruit — all the water gone! I leave you to guess who drained the fruit (from the top) — certainly not gravity — though the episode had some gravity (for the owner).

Nishikanto broke on the Ashram scene in 1934. I say “broke on”, but it was nothing of the sort. No one broke on the Ashram scene then or now. There was no fanfare or garlands. The contrary was nearer the truth — at least in those days. Kobi arrived and had to stay a few days on the footpath in front of the Ashram, awaiting Sri Aurobindo’s permission to enter for Darshan or for joining the Ashram. He sent word “Up” through Dilip-da (Dilip Kumar Roy) about himself and his intentions. A few days later Nolini-da came out, and talked to him. The following is a gist of their conversation.

Nolini-da: So you want to stay in this Ashram?

Kobi: Yes, Sir.

N: But do you know this Ashram is not like other Ashrams you have been to. Here great and equal freedom is given to all — boys and girls, men and women alike. You have not seen the like before. It may go against your sensibilities and moral standards. That will not do.

Kobi: (Just heard and digested — no comments, no answer. Then slowly) Yet I would like to stay here.

He gave me the above conversation to counter and silence some remarks I had made on his sense of morals — all this half in jest — a dig and counter dig we often had.

I knew Kobi from the early days i.e. 1945-46, just as an elder, who was a friend of my uncle. He dropped in, at our house, when invited for lunch on some special occasions. We had heard Kobi was a great poet and a great cook. My uncle too was a good cook and scholar. They got along well. To my aunt he was just “Nidra Moham” — sleepy face — because of his dreamy eyes. What interested us children was his eating. He ate with deep-felt delight. Once he was served hot vadas (what the Bengalis call bada) on his banana leaf. He liked them well as they slipped down his gullet. Thinking of reliving the experience later he quietly slipped some into his kurta pocket. My sharp-eyed uncle caught him in the act and, “Hey, you fool, they are oily. They will ruin your kurta.” Kobi smiled sheepishly and reluctantly stopped filling his pocket. My aunt brought him a can to fill and take home. He was so glad.

He had, as most of us do, several photos of the Mother and Sri Aurobindo in his room. But, unlike most of us, one of the Mother’s photos was always smudged with a patch of oil. It was called “MechoMa” — Mother of Fish. The oil patch was from his well-oiled hair, where his head touched in pranam as he prayed to her: “May good and big fish be caught today. I am going to the market to buy some.”

He was inducted into our group (now ‘group D’, at that time ‘group C’) sometime in the late fifties — for his abilities as a cook. (No sports for him, his body couldn’t and his mind probably wouldn’t.) It all started like this. Our group went to the Lake for a daylong picnic. In those days the Lake was considered a beautiful enough, far enough and rare enough place to go for a day’s picnic! Times and values have changed. Kobi was taken along. He naturally took charge of the kitchen. Breakfast was simple and frugal — a round bun with condensed milk or butter and tea. Tea was made in a big — very big brass vessel. Some miscalculation — and quite a quantity was left over. It would be a pity pouring it to the plants — what to do? A problem? — Not with Kobi around. He just cooked the “Dal” for lunch in it. We were none the worse for it. Kobi was then and there adopted by our group as an honorary member. He wore grey shorts, sleeveless banian, attended the Mother’s distribution (ground-nuts etc.) standing in our line. All the groups stood in a line, each in its place along the perimeter of the Playground. The Mother walked in front of the lined groups and with a wooden ladle gave the ground-nuts into our cupped hands. We had to tell Her “plein”, “moitié” or “très peu” (full, half or very little) and She would give accordingly. Kobi was not keeping well (we will see later about his health). He had not to specify. She gave “très peu” every day as “prasad” only. Kobi wanted more than just “prasad”. He went about the procurement very methodically. He stitched himself a bag from a “Kurta” sleeve. Then contacted some sympathetic children (mostly girls — they always were afraid to eat well) who would normally ask for “très peu” or “moitié” and told them, “Ay — tora roj ‘plein’ nibi” (ask for full every day). He then stood with his bag at a pre-arranged spot. His suppliers would drop into his bag the extra they got from the Mother. This well-knit network served him well — for some time. The Mother came to know of it and quietly put an end to it. Later Kobi’s health deteriorated, his quota was further reduced to just ONE nut. It is said “prasad” should be in such quantity as not to even reach the stomach. It should be absorbed before that! Kobi now realised how true the saying was. From that deprived stomach welled up a couplet: “Play Grounder Madam — aar dayna badam” (“Playground’s Madam, no longer gives groundnuts”). Such was the situation, not going Kobi’s way at all, when one day a rare treat was in the offing for Distribution. Instead of the usual paper were piled up on the Distribution tray. That day the Mother was in a hurry, so the groups formed two parallel rows facing each other. The Mother walked in between giving away alternately left then right. Kobi’s sixth sense warned him of the approaching events — so he planned ahead. He asked two of us boys to close up. He himself stood a step behind stretching out only his joined palms through the gap between us, his two conspirators. He hoped thus to elude divine detection. On came the Mother. She came fast not looking left or right, gaze more turned down, only placing the chocolate on our joined palms. Kobi shrunk himself as much as possible. He stood a very good chance it seemed. The Mother picked up a chocolate, was about to place it on these disembodied outstretched hands. All on a sudden She stopped — in mid-action — , looked up. Oh Goddess! it was complete disaster. Kobi got all muddled up, his mind was, for once, benumbed. All he could blurt out, in desperate tones was, “Mother, Mother, I will take it in milk.” The Mother broke into a beatific smile — and all was saved — She placed the chocolate in Kobi’s eager palms.

Of Kobi’s kobita (poetry) I can’t say anything but of his paintings I could venture an opinion. To me he was one of our best artists. I have rarely seen him paint, (maybe only once) but I have seen his paintings, mostly of Nature. He used to walk to the Lake, long before we ever did, and roam around the countryside in those days when much of it existed — it in fact started right from the Boulevards’ (North, West and South) outer edges. He was slow, slow as can be and, with those large ‘seer’ eyes of his, must have drunk in slowly and deeply all that beauty, come home and transferred it onto canvas. His paintings were heavy. He painted layer on layer and took a long time over them. They had to be kept on heavy stands and so they were. They would be ruined if dismantled from the stands. (Wonder where they are all now?) Later he stopped painting. I asked him: “Why don’t you paint? You are not too well and can’t roam around. You have time on your hands. I will help you gather the materials.” He said: “Aar na!!” (“No more.”) I asked why. He replied, “It takes a great amount of concentration, thus energy, and I have not much energy.” He was already suffering from quite a few ailments.

1956 — Kobi never was in full, good physical shape. He suffered constantly. Only the degree of suffering varied every few days. When he first arrived he was told by Nolini-da that if he stayed here, he would have to undergo great physical suffering. Fame too would not come his way. But if he chose to go into the wide world, he could achieve fame (as a poet). He chose to stay here. Later even in great pain, he would say that it did not matter (the pain), for it is the Mother’s word coming true! We could only admire him, helpless, unable to do much to alleviate his pain. Some time in 1956 or 1958 his diabetes became acute. He went into diabetic coma. Dr. Sanyal pronounced that the end was near — maybe a few days! Everyone had given him up. But some spark which did not register on the doctor’s instruments nor on his “know-how” was there. That took over where the doctor left off. He came out of the coma and improved. Bed-ridden he needed constant help. His sister, Aparna, arrived and looked after him during the day. Some of us boys were called in for the nights. We talked deep into the night. He told us tales, tall ones and true ones. He told of his escapades, hilarious encounters with other men, ghosts and doctors — often heavily spiced with unmentionable comments. He could bowl us, young men, over on our own ‘home-ground’ (of speech and thought). He did not modulate his voice, raise it in excitement, no gesticulating — nothing. All would flow, slow and steady in a husky monotonous drone! Yet he held us captivated, as he did all who came into contact with him. He held us, but himself, eluded us. His sister protested, saying, “The doctor has forbidden so much talking.” He replied “Dactar ki jané? (“What does the doctor know?”) I am talking with my group boys,” and continued. He recovered enough to move about indoors, and later to come outdoors.

One morning after the Balcony Darshan I noted Kobi standing at the back edge of the crowd that was funnelling itself into the Ashram. He was smiling, I noticed, at someone in front of him. I approached and asked “What’s so funny?” He pointed in front of him — Khoda-bhai and Mr. Wellinkar were having a tête-à tête. Their “têtes” often shaking in the negative. Their talk was audible to us. The topic was the general condition of their diabetes and the hard time coping with it (diet restrictions etc.). Kobi said: “Hear them. A simple diabetes and so much palavering. What if they had, like me, a whole catalogue of problems?” He was amused by their negative head-shaking and the mutual concern evinced on their faces.

Once when he was ill again, again seriously enough to cause concern, he asked to be taken to see the Mother. He was taken on a stretcher to the Meditation Hall and laid at the foot of the stairs. The Mother came down and looked long at him. He could not rise but prayed to Her to press Her foot on his chest, and She did so. What a sight it must have been! What a feeling for Kobi to lie under Her foot! Again he recovered, was up and about (at his same old speed i.e. 2-3 km/h).

Kobi had to undergo the group medical check-up. He was already playing host to various illnesses. A new doctor happened to be checking us. The gentleman looked Kobi up and down and asked, “What have you got?” Kobi in his slow, somnambulist tone started reciting, “Diabetes, high B.P. …” then thought better of it and said, “Doctor, ask me what I haven’t got. I am a zoological garden of bacteria.” Kobi had in fact high B.P., acute diabetes (ants would swarm to wherever a drop of his urine chanced to fall. His night-pot had to be islanded by a ring of DDT), TB, thrombosis (leg or somewhere else), ulcers, the usual cold. The doctor was completely lost. Mona (Captain) or someone stopped him before he ran out to consult his big books, reassured him: “It is OK to give a cursory check-up, for the rest is already taken care of.” Now, who took care of the rest? Many a doctor can claim to have been Kobi’s caretaker — rightly so — from their point of view and level. But what Kobi himself knew and most of us believed was a bit different. Why did we think so? The following should justify these thoughts.

Jipmer came up and many of our more serious cases were taken there. The doctors, who came to know Kobi, loved and respected him, but could hardly fathom him. He was admitted in his now habitual condition — flat on his back. He was x-rayed, probed and percussed — the usual reception you get in a hospital. He joked and talked with all around him, doctor, nurse, me, etc. as if it was someone else undergoing all this. He was finally wheeled into his ward. The condition was not very good. The high B.P. and diabetes were taking their toll. Darshan was a few days away. The Mother would appear on the new Balcony. Kobi wished to have the Darshan. The doctor gave a firm “No” and said, “You can’t be moved in this condition.” Kobi persisted. The doctor was friendly but would not budge. Then Kobi struck on one of his “hallowed” plans. He told the doctor, “You sit in the car with me and hold my wrist, feel the pulse. We start for the Ashram. If you feel any deterioration (in the pulse) we turn around and back to bed. But, if no change, then we both have the Darshan of Mother.” The doctor gave in to this simple, strange solution to the impasse. He probably thought it an easy way out — he was in for a surprise. The car was brought and off they went, a strange duo — a smiling sick man and an anxious doctor, holding hands it seemed. As the car approached the Ashram, Kobi’s smile grew broader, the doctor’s eyes wider, amazed. The pulse got better and better. The Mother appeared and both had Darshan. Their hearts were full, the doc’s mind felt empty. Both went back (to Jipmer) the richer by the experience. Such was Kobi — always down, never out!

We have seen now Kobi the poet, the painter and the cook. He relished cooking and relished too what he cooked. But may none make it out that his main occupation was cooking and eating. These were only two of his outward activities — most visible to most of us (and understood by most). Probably the greater part of his activities were inward oriented, not suspected, not felt by the casual onlooker. (Like the writer who had a hard time convincing his wife that he was actually working when just looking out of the upstairs window!) Maybe my story shows much of Kobi’s outer and more surface facets. Those who would, could look elsewhere for a deeper look into Kobi-da.

He carried on for nearly four decades with the same sleepy smile, slow of pace and speech. The ups and downs (mostly downs) didn’t seem to affect him greatly. He seemed much the same in 1945 as in 1970. Yet his playing host to so many illnesses had a telling effect on him. The decline was slow but steady. The body was giving way, but not the spirit. He quipped even in the presence of Yamaraj. He used to say, “Bujli Batti, Jom niyé gechhilo. Dékhé bollo — é niyé ki hobé — aar phirod niyeshché!” (“Batti, Yama took me, had one look and said what to do with this wreck and returned me.”) Does this sound a sad and discouraged Kobi? Not when you heard it from Kobi. You rather felt he was patting Yama in sympathy. Having lived so close for so long with Death, there was no room for fear. Yama came when he wanted, and Kobi quietly slipped away with him. This was on 20th May 1973. Someone called me to his room. He was having breathing difficulty. Some others were there, a doctor too. We tried to ease his pain by giving an oxygen (or air) bag (much like a bag-piper’s bellows. You put a nozzle into your mouth and gently squeezed the bag to pump air into your lungs). Feeling better he told me to go have dinner and come. When I returned he was gone — to lay himself down again under the Mother’s feet — to a greater awakening!

He used to say, “Batti, I am going to die, but I will come back here. Do find me a nice, young, healthy couple who can bring me forth here.” Suggestions were given, maybe he has taken one. “Look out,” he said, “for a boy with big eyes and a penchant for sweets.”

Twenty years or more have passed — yet can we measure our Kobi? His mind dwelt in and drew inspiration from some higher world. The light he lived in we could not see, but he threw a shadow, we saw the shadow. I suspect now, that he never stepped down from his heights to meet us, just stooped to conquer. So lives Kobi, a seer, in our minds, a dreamer in our dreams. The mighty Brahmaputra flows yet along the little streams.