The Story of A Patriotic Pratibad:
The Story of Patriotic Pratibad :
The topic of Patriotism cropped up when Pratibad’s sister, Minatidi, a Lecturer at MAC, Kolkata was teaching them Indian History. Minatidi concluded the lesson by telling them in the class, “Our motherland, known for her rich cultural heritage and unity in diversity, is the best country in the world. You know what, in her recorded history of over 2000 years, India is the only country never to have attacked any other country. Therefore, you should be proud of her as a true patriot.”
“What are the characteristics of a true patriot, Ma’am?” Sushnata, Minatidi’s favourite, a bearded and bespectacled boy got up just then to ask her this question .
“Patriotism, in simple words, is love for one’s motherland. When you are born in a country, you are supposed to have a great deal of love, admiration for and pride in the country with the dream of serving your country to the best of your abilities. Now, I know you are dying to ask me, Sushnata, how can you serve your motherland, right? You don’t have to sacrifice yourself to prove your love for your motherland. You can very well do so by being courageous; honest and truthful. These qualities will help you develop a great deal of pride in your country. To come back to your question – Patriotism, in short, is the desire to serve your motherland in the best way possible by practising some basic values expected of all loyal, dutiful, responsible citizens.”
The gong for the Interval rang just then as Minatidi picked up her books from the table and the students rose and scampered near the door for her to leave the classroom first.
As a student Pratibad’s heart swelled at such times. How proud he felt of his sister, of being an Indian. “No matter what, I’ll always keep the tricolour soaring high and higher,” he often thought to himself. But then he thought, “What can a someone like me do to keep the image of my country in tact? To raise it higher? Who would heed my words?”
He was neither a brilliant student nor was he courageous like Sushnata. College elections were going on. There were two candidates mainly for the post of the GS (General Secretary) representing two parties with different ideologies. The junior wings of the ruling party and the party that was in power not so long ago. On the day of the election, Pratibad was surprised to see some of his school friends who had their allegiance to the former ruling party near the college gates.
He felt uneasy. He liked Sushnata, his class mate quite a lot. The boy was a marvel of modern times. Once he heard him telling others that he wanted to serve his country by being a politician. He being such a passionate orator, such a knowledgeable fellow, seemed suited for the role! He would do well, thought Pratibad, to be elected to the post of the GS.
On the election day, Sushnata unfortunately, was cornered near the college canteen by those goons from nearby areas. Pratibad was one of the friends who took to his heels when they came charging. Sushnata, least perturbed by their arrival, went on speaking about the students’ requirements.
They beat him up mercilessly and left him a pulp there. Pratibad, quaking in his boots in the adjacent Table Tennis Room, fled and hid in between the mid rows of the gallery room upstairs, wishing he hadn’t turned up at college that day.
The matter made headlines in all the newspapers the next day. That night, sitting on the rooftop, back home, Pratibad knew how timid, powerless, helpless he was. He was too gentle, too meek, too mild-mannered ever to raise his voice against any injustice for the matter. As he looked up to the dark sky overhead, the words of Tagore, something his late Ma was fond of quoting often, came to his mind :
Annyai je kare ar annyai je sahe,
Tabo ghrina tare jeno trinosamo dahe.
(One who sins and one who puts up with it,
Ought to be burnt like the haystack on fire by Your hatred.)
Though Sushnata had to be hospitalized. He came back to college in the afternoon, all bruised and bandaged. Pratibad, emboldened by the sight of returning Sushnata confided in a close friend that regardless of the results, a courageous guy like Sushnata deserved to be the GS. When the results were announced the next day, people having resorted to muscle power, were summarily rejected and Sushnata won a landslide majority!
Back home, there was brewing a problem as well. Among the four siblings, all supported an elder brother without a job. But their attitude to Jay, the other brother, was pathetic. They wanted Jay, who had recently married to a rich family, out of their father’s home!
Pratibad couldn’t believe it! So, he dropped in his eldest sibling’s house. Minati was the most revered and pragmatic of all his siblings.
“You people haven’t been fair to Jay, Di. You want him out because he is earning and married to the daughter of a rich family, don’t you? Had I been in your place, I’d have treated both the brothers equally. You’ll have to justify this partiality on your part to posterity.”
Minati, a reticent woman, kept quiet. She didn’t want to get into an argument with her youngest brother. But his message got conveyed and when Jay was not forced into leaving the house, Pratibad knew that you did not have to raise your voice always to bring about the desired changes. Sometimes, getting the message across to the right people, might do the job.
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“She’s lying! Do you want me to believe that I don’t know my own Ma?” Pratibad, livid by the turn of events, raising his head from his newly-wedded wife’s lap, asked his wife in bed.
“I don’t know. Jhuma told me that’s what your mother had told Aunt Tanushree. She told a lot of bad things about my parents.” Sumita replied.
“This’s all rubbish. I can’t believe your sister would cook up such stories! Okay, there is no way I can find out the truth. But let me warn you that that sister of yours, Jhuma, is trying to create a misunderstanding between my Ma and me. And for that, mind you my words, she’ll pay a high price ….. Let God forgive her..” Pratibad retorted, still fuming.
God did not though. A year after his marriage, he and his wife were on their way to Murshidabad on their delayed honeymoon. He had also applied for a teaching post to St. Xavier’s School at Baharampur, thinking that as he couldn’t take his wife to anyplace for honeymoon, Murshidabad would help him kill two birds with the same stone.
It was 6.10 in the evening. Bhagirathi was about to leave from Sealdah Station. Pratibad was talking to a group of tourists on their way to the former, historical capital of India before the British decided to shift the capital to Calcutta. The guard had blown his whistle. Kneeling down on the space between the berths, he had a final look under the lower berths to make sure that both the suitcases were there along with the plastic packet containing home-cooked dinner.
The few passengers waiting on the platform, chatting with the relatives who had come to see them off, were leisurely getting back inside when his mobile rang. It was his mother-in-law, calling. Amidst the din, he held the phone close to his ear.
“Pratibad,” his mother-in-law moaned from the other end, “Jhuma’s gone.”
“Jhuma’s gone!” He repeated after his in-law, incomprehensively. “Where is she gone?”
There was a silence on the other end. Sumita, in the meantime, having sensed something amiss, stretched out her hand and snatched the phone away from his. The next few seconds were like a nightmare. He found his wife mumbling something incomprehensible into the phone, weeping and hurrying to the door like someone had lit a bunch of firecrackers to her sari from behind. He ran after her.
“Tell me what happened. Where are you going?”
“Jhuma…Jhuma’s committed suicide. I’m off to my parents’. I don’t want you to come. There’s no time for that. Besides, I know how important this interview is for you. Go ahead. I’ll join you later, once everything is taken care of …..”
What was the matter with him? Why was he acting so clumsy like the world had come to a halt all on a sudden? Pratibad thought to himself when he heard his wife’s choked voice again. “Can you get me my suitcase real quick, please?”
She was crying, talking through it and climbing down the steps, all at the same time as the train started jerked back to life. Pratibad, transfixed at first, ran back to the compartment and pulled her suitcase out from under the berth and the dozens of feet of the tourists hindering his movements. The train, in the meantime, started trooping out of the station. Fortunately, his wife had already alighted on the platform, he flung the suitcase out from the door of the running train and was relieved to find her gathering it and turning back.
It was later that night, she called him from his in-laws’. She told him there were still policemen all over the place. Relatives, doctor, fingerprint expert and her stupefied parents.
No one knew why her sister had taken such a drastic step in the first place!
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In his early seventies now, the man Pratibad, still loves reading the evening newspaper, sitting out on the terrace listening to Dwijejendral Roy’s very popular poem-turned-song:
Bhayer-mayer eto sheho, kothai gele pabe keho,
O, Ma, tomar charan duti bokshe amar dhori,
Amar ei deshetei janmo jeno, ei deshetei mori.
Emon deshti kothao khunje pabe nako tumi,
Sakol desher Rani se je amar janmobhumi,
Se je amar janamobhumi …
(Where can one find the affection of his mother-brother like this? Let me, in my heart, Mother, embrace your feet. In the country I was born in, let me die. Such a country nowhere can anyone find. The Queen of all countries, my motherland is.)
“Baba, what are you doing sitting outside long after the sundown, pressurising your eyesight like this? Do you want to be blind in the other eye as well? Let me help you get inside now.” His daughter admonishes him endearingly, reminding him of the days when finding her still in bed, he would urge her to get up and get ready for school.
Life has come full circle for him. It couldn’t have been any better, he thinks reflectively. Across the front page of the Times of India on the table, there is a picture of the striking shooter, Manu Bhaker waving the tricolour, having won a bronze medal at the Paris Olympics. Pratibad breaks into a smile and cleans his glasses before grasping his daughter’s hand. His motherland, India is growing from strength to strength, asserting herself in every field in the process. His sense of pride knows no bounds.
As long as India keeps glowing, who cares about his meek, mild-mannered, gutless nature anyway? Because in the final analysis, it is your love for your motherland that matters and keeps you going, isn’t it?
The end
