Sunil Bhattacharya

Sunil-Da

(A Snowy High Kanchenjunga)

“Saints and poets are hills touched with the dawn whilst the valley is in darkness.”

Austin O’Malley

I may add to the above saints and poets a third category, that of musicians and composers — for Sunil-da was both, with a good bit of “saint” thrown in.

Here is a great man, in the true sense of the word, whom I reluctantly bring under the heading of “Not so Great”. He for one, I am sure, would just have smiled and not let it ruffle the quiet deep waters of his greatness. He was one of the most self-effacing men one comes across.

With that assurance backing me, I would start this, an eulogy of the great man who wouldn’t be “so great”.

Jhumur has already written about him in Mother India (June 1998). She being his niece had a close view of him, yet I would pen my views, also close, with often a clash (physical — in football). In my opinion he was a genius and what is my opinion worth — for the Mother herself said of Sunil-da: “He is a genius.”

Sunil-da was born in Krishnanagar, Bengal, on the 3 of November 1920. Father a doctor (Homoeopath), mother, Anil the elder brother, Minnie the elder sister and Sunil formed a close and well-knit family. The father loved young Sunil and Sunil was very attached to the father. As a boy, he did what boys did — played, studied, fought with sister (only 15 months older, so did not deserve his respect). He was a bit short tempered — would shy anything handy if roused. He must have tamed this temper in later years, for I have never heard him raise his voice in anger — except once — in all the 50 years I have known him. I can’t even recollect his showing any signs of impatience. What stood him out from the other boys was that he showed glimpses of his future brilliance even in those early years. Whatever he took up, he did better than most. Maths was already his forte. He even picked up a knowledge of horoscope reading (don’t know from where or from whom). Chess came naturally to him (he excelled in it). He acquired a working knowledge of Homeopathy (like Eklavya — guru being his father). He would go to the slum area behind the house, diagnose, prescribe and administer — all free. He earned the honorary title of “choto Dactar”. His father did keep a close watch, and checked on him (called him ‘master’).

The family later shifted to Calcutta and Sunil-da got admission into the prestigious St. Xavier’s College. He shone out there too, took honours in chemistry, played some football and learned to play the sitar from Ardhenduda’s brother who himself was a student of one of the Ustads (may be Mustaq Ali Khan).

Ardhenduda was Sunil-da’s cousin, much older than him. He too was quite a genius — a good musician and also a good chemist. He came to the Ashram in the early 40s, lived on the 1st floor of our old Dental Clinic. He led a very retired or secluded sort of life. Rarely did he participate or attend any function. Only once did I hear him play on the surbahar. He did consent to teach one or two students for a short period. He had great wit and humour — that is when and if he talked. All his genius and talents were well corked and hidden. The last few years of his life — he was overwhelmed by a horde of cats.

Cats remind me of Sunil-da’s cats. He was not overwhelmed, but did, I suspect, reserve a soft corner of his heart for at least two of them — Tutu and her son Bañtul. I recount all this and digress, for Tutu was no ordinary cat, and she and Ardhenduda were close enough to Sunil-da. To make our aquaintances with them is quite worth the while.

Tutu was picked up as a tiny kitten near the Samadhi. She was brought to Sunil-da’s house. She grew up to be “the lady” of not only their house but the whole block — Playground and the Mother’s Room included. She came and went as and when and where it pleased her. She would come walking regally and lie in the middle of the Playground just as the daily March Past was about to start. In those days all the groups (A to H) took part everyday, as the Mother stood in front of the map of India. Tutu stretched her legs and lay relaxed. The files of hundreds of us had to make a detour of her. She was unperturbed, not an inch did she give. Sometimes she would take her cat-nap on the Mother’s sofa (in the Room). The Mother would not have anyone disturb Tutu. If there is a “Feline-Divine-world” Tutu must have come down from there — what for, is hard to guess! Bañtul took no such liberties — he was more like an ordinary cat. Now back to Sunil-da.

Sunil-da took honours in chemistry. This information is quite irrelevant, for he could have shone in any subject he chose to and also in the sports he took up, and of course in the music he composed (that poured out through him).

Sunil-da was of a solid and proportionate build, with enough weight and strength to make his presence felt — especially in the play field. He could build up enough speed for added effect. He was of good height, and a neat figure, but for a slight hunching of the shoulders. A well shaped head sat atop the shoulders, fronted by a handsome face with healthy cheeks, cheerful large eyes that shone and smiled along with the generous mouth. A faint trace of the smile never left the eyes and lips. On the whole he impressed us as a man in a state of solid calm of body and mind and deeper within.

Sunil-da came to the Ashram for a short visit and went back. That was in 1940 or 41. He had no plans to settle down here. He was still studying. He came back with the family (elder brother Anilda and family, elder sister and her daughter and mother) in 1942. He would probably have gone back to continue his scholastic life. An idea that he could go in for the I.C.S. was also mooted. Applications were made which reached 3 days too late. He could have tried for the next year. It was discovered, he would be over age. He was painted into a corner — so — no I.C.S. Some subtle forces seemed to scuttle his plans (they, the forces, may not have been much evident then, but now, seen from a greater distance in time and the perspective of later events, they seem almost obvious). Then events got so arranged that Sunil-da and Gauridi got married. The Mother said that they both could stay in the Ashram. I suspect this, that both should be able to stay here, was althrough what the Mother wanted. Thus was the drama made to happen. The gods moved the human pawns.

Came December 1943 and our School was opened. Sunil-da was one of the first teachers. Through the years that he taught, we never felt that he was teaching. He soaked us, we either imbibed or we didn’t. Sunil-da had an unique system of keeping a tag on us. (This was in the lower classes only.) It helped us to mark ourselves and it had an element of competitive fun and game. The system was much like “Snakes and Ladders”, with the healthy difference that the ladders were dominant and could be long or short, whereas the snakes were of just one square or one step downward. The system worked thus: the students sat in an order 1,2,3... No. 2 may be asked a question. He answers correctly — all is status quo. If he fails, the next i.e. No. 3 has to try. If he succeeds he goes up to No. 2 and No. 2 steps down to No. 3. Supposing now 3,4,5 fail and No. 6 succeeds. Then No. 6 climbs up to No. 2 and all the others i.e. 2, 3, 4 & 5 slide down one step each (only the last No. could afford to be complacent — if he chose to be). I don’t know if any other teacher imitated this system.

Sunil-da taught many subjects. He taught Mathematics, Botany, Zoology, Geology, Geography, Astronomy and last, for some of us — Football. I dare say, he could have taken some music classes — IF one had the ear and inclination and IF he himself was willing. He did teach 3-4 youngsters, but no classes as far as I know (quite intriguing, considering the fact he was a great musician and a great teacher). It seemed he had all the subjects at his fingertips. He hardly needed a textbook, and that made his classes all the more interesting. Keeping the textbook in the background we could meander away, in and out of the subject. Long before the School’s lab was, we had botany practicals at his residence, where we sliced cross sections and peered at the inner workings of flowers through a microscope (incidentally that was the first microscope we had ever seen). Under his guidance we even charted the heavens. To do so, we devised an apparatus.

A large piece of glass was held on two heavy stands by adjustable clamps. The glass was held parallel to the constellation to be mapped. Lying behind or below the glass, we put an ink spot on it, in line with the eye and the wanted star. We got fairly good results! It was also Sunil-da’s idea and backing that got us to build a big Sundial in the school. It stood on the (present) lawn, a few metres to the South-East of the stage. Come to think of it, it was a nice monument (in more than one meaning of the word) and also could have been educative. It had a beauty and an imposing presence of its own. Without shedding too many tears over “spilt milk”, I wish it were still there today (some blame me for not opposing its demolition when renovations were in the offing).

The Sundial

(This is again an aside story.) Before constructing the sundial, there was the question of design. It was not meant to be a ‘carry-around’ clock. It stood about 2.50m or more high. A cube of 1m (of concrete slabs) set on a square pillar of about 0.60m/side (of brick work) with a pair of circular steps for base. On the top was the gnomon as also on all the four vertical sides (a gnomon is the pointer on a sundial, the length and position of its shadow indicates the time of the day at that place). I made a simple drawing of it, while some one of us approached Sanjibanda for a design. He made a drawing of an elaborate, intricately designed one. Both were shown to the Mother. She chose mine — the simpler one. I, for one, was naturally glad.

Sunil-da took our higher Maths class and may be the higher next to ours. These were some of the last classes he took. It was about the time the great mathematician, Dr. Venkataraman, delivered a few lectures on higher or pure Mathematics (higher than what we were grappling with). (Dr. Venkataraman was a very fine human being, He later settled in the Ashram. He dressed, looked and was a simple south Indian Brahmin, complete with a small knotted tuft of hair hanging on to a shaven head. Ever smiling and absent minded, well-versed in Sanskrit and Tamil he lived his last days here in the Mother’s service. His wife continues to live here as simple and inconspicuous as he. Dr. Venkataraman and Sunil-da were great friends, of a kind, they developed a great kinship). Now Sunil-da wanted us (the class) to attend these lectures. He said it would do our brains some good. He sent me to seek Pavitrada’s permission for our class to attend. Pavitrada said “No, no, it will be too difficult for you.” But Sunil-da was insistent, he said, “No, no, go ask him again, insist.” So back I went, and badgered Pavitrada who finally gave in. We attended. I hope it did some good to some. To me it was soporific.

Sunil-da stopped teaching some time in the late 60s. Perhaps by now music was pouring down in a torrent from above or gushing up from within, deafening or swamping his old ardour for teaching Mathematics, Zoology, etc. When he came to the class he hardly sat on his chair. He paced about with his hands held behind, palm in palm. Then we saw his thumb incessantly moving from one fingertip to the next as if counting or giving rhythm in accompaniment to some music, unheard by us, but churning his mind and heart. I will come back to his music — now back to school.

Once long back, there was a teacher’s meeting, held on the landing of the East block of our School. Not that such meetings were not held at other times than this once. But it was one that Sunil-da happened to attend and I too was there. Many aired many ideas and opinions, some longish rallies of points and counter points enlivened the proceedings. Suddenly after some discussions, Pavitrada looked at Sunil-da and asked, “Et, Sunil, que dites-vous?” (And Sunil what have you to say?) Sunil-da smiled and: “Oh! moi?...moi?” (Oh! Me? Me?)... smiled some more, got up and just walked down the stairs and away! I was quite amused — of the other’s reactions, your guess is as good as mine.

This was the ‘mental’ Sunil-da. There was a metal one, i.e. hard and strong — the football player. (He also played some volley-ball.) He captained the Ashram football team for a few years. His speed and solid build were both used with telling effect, earning him the nickname of “Le Tigre”. His play was more of the dashing, direct kind. No fancy foot-work, but good positioning, a break-through run with the ball and a powerful shot made up his game. He broke his wrist in one of the games towards the end of his playing days. He stopped playing but coached and managed the team for some more time. It was the hey-day of Ashram football. Then there was no “Ashram Team” to be managed, as all matches with other teams was stopped. Sunil-da moved on to other fields.

Sunil-da — The Musician

He was always a musician, he was born into a family of musicians. Elder brother Anilda played on the sarod. Cousin Ardhenduda and brother played on surbahar and sitar. Sister could sing well.

In the early days, 1945-1953 or 54, he composed music for our Programmes of 1st Dec. He even composed a music for a “Junglee-dance” for the physical demonstration of Dec. 2nd. But this was a one time effort only. The music for the dances and dramas was beautiful, catching, not too classical, in tune with us and the times. It went well with the occasion. It was great fun watching him and his orchestra (elder brother Anil and Harit on sarod. Harit also filled in as tabalchi. Ashok and Runu on clarionette and flute and Debou and Manoj on sitar). Kanak played on the electric guitar and played an important role in Sunil-da’s orchestra. This guitar was to us, at that time (in the early 50s) a new unheard of instrument of music. It seems (to me) that Kanak and his guitar fitted in well into Sunil-da’s later music, whereas other instruments disappeared from the scene?! Sunil-da would even want Kanak around when he composed. Then there were the vocals. Most noteworthy being his own sister Minniedi and Tarit Chowdhury. A third voice, one that Sunil-da had a high regard for was Ravibala’s. Her participation unfortunately was very rare. But rare too was the pure timbre of her voice. Sunil-da played on the harmonium or piano, both of which he played with just one finger. We watched with admiration and un-understanding. To me it seemed miraculous how he just watched the dancer and produced the right, suitable music. (Sunil-da was a maestro on the sitar but did not play on it. The wrist, ill-set after the football accident, pained and swelled up if he played for any length of time.)

All these activities were (as I perceive) slowly eased out of his life. I don’t recall when exactly he stopped teaching — but why did he stop teaching?

All the years of teaching and composing told on Sunil-da. But, what really was the last straw was a mathematical problem. Its solution eluded many a mathematician. He too was wrestling with the problem. He had a feeling he was close to pinning it down — but it kept wriggling itself out, teasing his mind to near breaking point, his nerves tensed. The Mother then intervened. She told him to stop all mental activity — no maths, no chess even. She, as part of the cure, told him to come to pick up balls when she played tennis. She also told him to relax, go sit under a big tree. She said that a tree emanates a great deal of energy and it would help him recover. He used to, for a short period, go out for long walks to one of the Ashram gardens. Start was after lunch — 2 or 2.30 p.m. (Why he chose this unearthly hot time is beyond me). He, along with Gauridi and her sister, carried some tea and some eats, sat in some shady spot, had the tea and returned home with the dusk (godhuli) — an enchanting time in any Indian countryside. These short trysts with nature soothed his mind and nerves.

The Mother also gave Sunil-da some work in Le Faucheur, the garden by the river Ariankuppam. His botanical genius came in handy. He set to experiment. It seems he worked some wonders — produced seedless lady’s fingers, and some wheat, enough to make bread for the Mother. (At present Maheshwari working there has repeated the wheat growing in just a small patch.)

“One man’s loss is another man’s gain.” We lost a good teacher, but the world at large gained a great musician. As time passed Sunil-da seemed to retreat more and more from much of the outer happenings, drawn into some higher regions of music and maybe into other regions. He was all music and barely anything else.

What was his music? How and from where did it come? Who can answer these questions better than he himself. Better still the one who revealed to him the source, nay was the source, that swept him off in its deluge. Hearken to what he says about how his music was revealed to him. (The following is reproduced from Mother India June 1998 from Jhumur’s article):

Some twenty years ago I heard for the first time the Mother of our Ashram improvising on the organ. In the beginning the music seemed strange to me. It was neither Indian nor Western, or shall I say it sounded like both? The theme She was playing came very close to what we know as bhairon, the whole closely knit musical structure expanding melodiously. Then suddenly, notes came surging up in battalions, piled one on top of another, deep, insistent, coming as if from a long way down and welling up inevitably the magnificent body of sound formed and gathered volume till it burst into an illumination that made the music an experience.

Thus She revealed to me the secret of a magic world of music where harmonies meet and blend to make melodies richer, wider, profounder and infinitely more powerful. I have tried to take my music from Her.

My music is my labour and my aspiration for the Divine and what I try to convey through it are the voices of my inner experience.

My grateful thoughts are with Her who has been my Guide, Guru, Mentor and Mother. One day it was Her Light that sparked my heart, it is Her Light that has sustained its glow, it is Her Light that I seek through my music. If this music brings some comfort, some delight or some message to someone, I have achieved that for which She has placed Her trust in me.

Sunil-da was now solely preoccupied with music. He thought and lived music in exclusion of all else — but for his love for the Mother and Her’s for him. It was this two-way flow that buoyed and carried him through his life’s endeavour — to compose Her music or rather be a channel for Her music. For that he was grateful and full of humility towards the Mother. These feelings are amply reflected and come through to us, when we hear of such touching happenings as the four or five I recount, as I came to know of them.

Sunil-da’s studio where he recorded his music was just one of the rooms of his house. In the early days they just shut the doors and windows to keep out extra noises, and recorded. As time passed, a little more sophistication was added (equipment, instruments, etc.). But the room remained the room. When an idea to improve the acoustics was mooted, Chamanlalji was consulted. He, with some help and expertise, fitted up some blanketing for the walls and some other gadgetry, to improve the sound of recording. The floor was bare — so a suggestion was made, and his able assistant Victor wrote to the Mother. She was eager to help, and gave one of Her carpets. Now Sunil-da was in a quandary! He was reluctant to step on that carpet. He quietly changed the position of his organ so that he could circumvent the carpet and put his stool on a bare part of the floor.

Next came the question of cooling the room, at least to keep the musicians from sweating. Chamanlalji suggested installing an airconditioner. Then Sunil-da said: “Oh! what is a little sweat? But Mother has to pay for the electricity.” I don’t know if they could get round him.

In 1972, Sunil-da had the New Year’s music ready. The Mother had entrusted him with this work (some more details are given later). The Mother was to hear it in Her room. Sunil-da was there. Maggi and Nata too were called. After hearing the music the Mother was very happy and was showering Sunil-da profusely with praises. He was full of joy, but felt quite embarrassed. He looked this way and that and finally fell at Her feet — it seemed just to stem the flow of Her praises.

A few years back, a gentleman arrived at the Ashram. He went to the Samadhi. He knelt and bowed, prayed, but got up weeping silently. He looked around and spied Chamanlalji. He was a stranger to Chamanlalji, but somehow felt free enough to approach and introduce himself as a sculptor — by name Parasara (of some repute in the artistic circles). His tears were (it transpired) of a feeling of frustration and depression. He had heard and believed that Sri Aurobindo was an Avatar. Furthermore, he believed that along with the Avatar,

there came down artists (painters, sculptors, musicians, etc.) and he had not seen any as yet. The resulting frustration was too deep for him to bear. Could Chamanlalji help? Chamanlalji was on unfamiliar ground, but took him along to one of our artists, who was quite pessimistic and said: “There is not much art here.” Mr. Parasara grew gloomier than ever. Chamanlalji then took Mr. Parasara to Sunil-da the composer. Sunil-da, typically, said: “I am not a composer — I am just a receiver.” Mr. Parasara got to hear some of Sunil-da’s music. Then the two had a long talk (musician and sculptor). By the end of their talk, Mr. Parasara was overjoyed. He said: “At last my faith is restored. This (Sunil-da) is a great man, he is unique. He has saved my life.” Mr. Parasara was floored by Sunil-da’s music and also by his humility.

What did Sunil-da most cherish, strive for? A plausible and intelligent guess could be “Music.” A revisal of our thinking may not go amiss after the following. Once, some of his instruments went out of order, repairs were delayed and the date for the completion of the music was fast approaching. He (Sunil-da) in a moment of desperation and supplication wrote to the Mother: “Mother what do you want me to do? Things are not as they should be. As for me, I want you. This music and all else is yours. I don’t want any of these things. All I want is You.” Fortunately, the instruments got repaired soon after and the music got ready. (Sunil-da’s prayer given above in quotes is NOT the one he wrote. I have taken the liberty to write it, in my words, after having heard it from an admirer of his.)

Here is an exchange quoted from Sunil-da’s correspondence with the Mother.

J’ai une question à Te poser (I have a question to ask you):

J’ai souvent une sensation ces jours-ci, que c’est Toi qui a fait de moi un musicien — est-ce vrai? (I have often a feeling, these days, that it is You who has made of me a musician — is it true?)

Peut-être... (Could be...)

Si c’est vrai, est-ce que c’était prédestiné? (If it is true, was it predestined?)

Très certainement. (Most certainly.)

The following is the reply to a letter to the Mother, Sunil-da had written. I could not get to see the letter, but the reply is interesting and meaningful by itself. This is a free rendering into English of the reply written in French. I have tried to keep as close as possible to the meaning.

It is possible, that in a previous birth (life) you were my physical child (son). But, it is not that that has given rise to the deep emotion in you. It is your soul that has inspired your music. It is with your soul that I connect you when I talk of your music and that gets you in touch with your soul and also with me where I am always there at the centre of your being.

It is the intensity of this consciousness that makes you weep with emotion; they are tears of the psychic which dissolve obstacles and difficulties of the being.

The Mother

The Mother used to play on her organ on New Years at 0.00 hours. That was long, long ago. She continued playing until the late 50s, though not at 0.00 hours. In 1959 she asked Sunil-da to orchestrate Her New Year Music. Thus I believe She opened a new door, and he stepped into newer, higher regions. Later she gave him the theme and left him to compose the New Year Music around the theme. Then She wanted him to compose music to accompany Her readings of Savitri. He was thus gradually drawn deeper and deeper into the realms of Music.

How much the Mother relied on him, and to what extent She could work in him, and his response, i.e. receiving what She gave and his reliance on her, his surrender to let her mould him — are all beyond our normal concepts and values. To know and appreciate Sunil-da and his music, one may read some of the letters the Mother wrote to him, ponder over them, let the import of them sink in, and then the understanding of the man that was Sunil-da may dawn on the reader. To this purpose I quote (again from the same source as above) the Mother’s letters:

Sunil, my dear child,

We need music to accompany and frame my readings of passages from Savitri illustrated in Meditations on Savitri.

You alone can make this music the way it should be done.

Would you be interested in this work? It would make me very happy.

On another occasion, She wrote to him:

Sunil, this is genius! It is magnificent, with a deep and true emotion. It has made me very happy.

With my blessings.

29.12.64

Sunil, my dear child,

I would be very happy if you composed the music for the 1st of December, Anu’s dance-drama. Because you alone can do it the way it should be done. Your music is, according to me, the music of the future and it opens the ways to the new world. Blessings.

13.8.65

My child,

Yesterday, at a quarter past twelve and (again) today, at the same time, I have heard your music with deep emotion and I can tell you that I have never heard anything more beautiful, in music, of aspiration and spiritual invocation.

This letter was written in English:

I heard the music — it is wonderful! Music itself pure and high and strong — It is delightful and leaves you waiting and wanting to hear more....

After listening to another composition, She sent him the following letter:

I heard it with deep emotion as something exceptionally beautiful... I want to repeat again here that this music opens the doors of the future and reproduces admirably the musical vibrations of the higher regions.

8.12.65

Sunil, my dear child,

I have just heard what you have recorded. It is beautiful, very beautiful. It is the first time that I have heard music express true power, the power of Mahakali, the power of the Mahashakti. It is formidable and at the same time, so deeply sweet...

And specially, while listening to it, I had the impression of a door opening on to a still more beautiful future realisation.

Sunil, my dear child,

It was with impatience that I was waiting to listen to your music and I am so happy to have heard it today....

30.12.1965

This is recounted by Sunil-da in French — the English rendering is mine:

1967 — The music was composed and taped, ready for the Mother’s hearing, somehow Sunil-da did not like it. He found it to be ‘banal’. He said, “I would not listen to it then, but straightaway hear it along with the Mother.” So it was taken up to Her room. There, in Her presence, the tape was started. Curiously enough he says, “even I started to appreciate the music.” The Mother seemed to have gone into trance, eyes closed. Then eyes still closed, her lips trembling, she seemed to want to say something, but could not formulate it into words. Finally she exclaimed: “This is wonderful. It is the first time I have heard music coming down direct from the World of Harmony, without the intervention of the mind and vital.” Sunil-da approached the Mother. She asked him how he liked the music. He shook his head. She said, “What! you did not like it? Oh, you want that something new should take birth?”

Sunil-da was a man, who, we may say, embodied too very noble virtues, so needed and so seldom seen, to tread this and his chosen path — which is to follow and be of the Mother and Sri Aurobindo. They are Humility and Gratitude. I think it is these two that teased him to often recite the following lines of Rabindranath Tagore (in a slightly modified form) during his last days.

যাবার সময় এই কথাটি বলে শধু যাই
যা দেখেছি, যা পেয়েছি তুলনা তার নাই।

(At the time of departing I have but one thing to say:
There is no way to match what I have seen, what received.)

I believe too that these two (virtues) would help cleanse our inner corridors of thoughts and feelings to let in nobler and higher ones. May I then suggest that Sunil-da was “an empty vessel that sounded much”. But what a Vessel and what Sound — a veritable cataract of Heavenly Music.

After this what is there to say of the man. Better watch and wait in silence for the Dawn that touched the hilltops, to descend into our valley — or — climb the hill to meet the Dawn.